words. Rafuel’s excitement that day in his prison.
When no one had spoken for a while, he turned to them, giving up the pretence of anyone getting sleep.
‘The man whose farm I worked dreamt that his son warned him about someone coming their way with the words of the gods written all over him.’
Now he truly had everyone’s attention. Gargarin stood and walked to where Lirah was studying Froi’s sketch.
‘What is it?’ Froi asked.
‘You’ve never seen this?’ Lirah asked, surprised.
He shook his head, frightened by their scrutiny. Lirah looked at Quintana. ‘Can we show him?’ she asked with a gruff gentleness.
Quintana studied Froi a moment or two before gathering her hair in her fist and turning to reveal her neck. The sign of the lastborn girls. Identical to the lettering he had sketched on the parchment. In his dream she had painted the strange word on his back with strokes that had made his skin feel alive. He had awoken, aroused. Had some kind of sorcery helped her creep into his dream like Isaboe was able to do with Vestie of the Flatlands?
‘What does it mean?’ Froi asked, his throat feeling as if he had swallowed sand.
Gargarin was studying his face. ‘It means that perhaps something good came out of Abroi after all,’ he said quietly.
Froi was shaken awake. In an instant, his hand snaked out and caught the throat of whoever loomed over him. When he saw Gargarin’s pale face, he let go, shoving him away. ‘I could have killed you, idiot!’
‘What is it?’ Arjuro murmured from his bedroll.
‘Come with me,’ Gargarin said. ‘Both of you.’
Froi looked over to where Quintana sat watching them, the lids of her eyes heavy with fatigue.
Gargarin led Froi and Arjuro to the small entrance and began to crawl through the tunnel into the first cave. They followed him out into the dark.
‘The sun is about to rise,’ Gargarin whispered. ‘Humour me. Please.’
Gargarin’s eyes flashed with a fervour that Froi hadn’t seen in them before. There was too much strangeness in the air and he wanted to run from it all. He wanted to follow bonds and plough land. Not believe in a grieving father’s dream and a mad girl’s ranting.
‘Those who are gods’ blessed can read the words of the gods when the sun appears.’ Gargarin said. ‘It’s why Arjuro wakes early and why he sat on the godshouse balcony each morning. He was waiting for a sign to appear on the palace walls.’
Arjuro looked away, a bitter expression on his face.
‘But perhaps you’ve been looking in the wrong place, Arjuro. On the night Froi was left with them, the Priests of Trist dreamt that the words of a prophecy would appear in the palace. True? I never believed that. I thought they’d appear in any one of the thousands of caves in Charyn and when I was released, I searched for years and years.’
Arjuro’s eyes finally met his brother’s.
‘You should have gone to Paladozza,’ he said sadly. ‘At least De Lancey would have given you an easy life.’
‘Some men aren’t born for an easy life, Arjuro. And I’m not out here for regrets and what-ifs.’
‘Then what are we doing out here?’ Arjuro asked.
‘Remember the readings of Carapasio?’
‘Who?’ Froi asked.
‘A first-century gossip,’ Arjuro said. ‘He bored us to death with his ramblings about life a thousand years ago. I had to read them as part of my godshouse education when I was sixteen.’
‘He means I read them for him and recited them to the Priests who thought I was Arjuro,’ Gargarin said.
Arjuro looked sheepish. ‘But I did end up reading them later.’
‘Where were the words of the gods first written in Charyn?’ Gargarin asked his brother.
Arjuro was confused for a moment. ‘Why do you ask –’
Arjuro stopped, some kind of realisation on his face.
‘What?’ Froi asked, now looking from Arjuro to Gargarin. ‘Can one of you explain instead of doing that frightening nodding thing where you look too alike?’
‘The gods wrote their words on the body of the first Oracle. She had pitched her tent, drawing crowds from all over the Citavita with her ability to foretell the future. She had no past and no name, but written all over her were the names of provinces and the rules for living and dying. It’s how they find the Oracle each generation. An Oracle dies and soon after a young girl arrives on the doorstep of the godshouse after travelling for days and weeks. No family. No past. Sent by the gods, they say. Except for these last eighteen years.’
‘And you believe that?’ Froi asked.
‘Get undressed, Froi,’ Gargarin said.
‘No!’ he said, horrified. It was freezing and if the riders came across them, he’d be unarmed.
The sun began to appear in the sky and Gargarin clicked his fingers, impatiently. Froi grunted, annoyed.
‘Trust me,’ Gargarin hissed.
Froi removed his clothing, grumbling.
‘Be careful,’ Gargarin said and Froi realised he was speaking to Arjuro. ‘Don’t look straight away, Ari. Remember what it would do to your eyes when we were children.’
Froi had no idea what he was speaking about. He tried to twist his body so he could look over his shoulder to his back. But he saw nothing.
‘What’s there?’ Froi asked, half-believing that perhaps words would magically appear. Gargarin forced him still, cold hands on his shoulders. Froi waited, felt the moment the sun entered the cave, welcomed the way the light crept in, caressed his arm, his shoulder and then all over his body. And still he waited, wanting to believe, not realising how desperate he was to.
Then he heard the sound. Of pure unadulterated pain. Froi swung around and Arjuro was bent over, palms to his eyes, writhing in agony. Gargarin was beside him in an instant, but Arjuro pushed him away.
‘I can do it. I can do it.’
‘What’s happened?’ Froi asked.
‘Turn. Turn,’ Arjuro whispered hoarsely, his eyes weeping blood. Froi shook his head again.
‘Turn, I say.’
Froi swung around, his heart hammering, sweat pouring from a body that seemed on fire and still he heard the gasps coming from Arjuro.
‘He’s in pain,’ Froi argued. ‘This isn’t right.’
‘If I speak it aloud, are you still able to write it down?’ Arjuro asked Gargarin, his voice broken.
Gargarin was staring at Froi, stunned. It was as though he was seeing him for the first time. ‘Stay still,’ Gargarin said, almost reverently. ‘Speak it, Arjuro. We will decipher it together later.’
Arjuro spoke and Froi heard words from a strange tongue. Not of Sarnak or Lumatere or Charyn. A tongue, not quite human, spoken from a voice so torn that it made him sick to think of the pain. Gargarin scribbled down his words with twisted fingers, sometimes asking Arjuro to repeat a word.
When Arjuro was finished, Froi dressed quickly while Gargarin pulled Arjuro to his feet, trying to hold his brother up with his own feeble body. Froi pushed him gently out of the way, placing Arjuro’s arm around his shoulder.
A startled Lirah was on her feet the moment they entered their nook.
‘What happened?’ she asked, helping Froi lay Arjuro down. His eyes were red raw and still weeping blood.
Gargarin tipped the mead into the cloth of his shirt and wiped Arjuro’s face clean and Froi saw tears in the Priestling’s eyes.
‘I thought they had forsaken me,’ Arjuro whispered.
And Froi could see that Arjuro was crying with joy.
For the next two days Gargarin and Arjuro sat with their heads together, scribbling, arguing, writing. Froi
