was used to their silence together, but not this. There were times when he saw the power of the brothers combined and understood what it was that made them so desired in the godshouse and the palace. He came to understand the difference between the gods’ blessed and a smart man. His uncle was one. His father the other.
Later that night, Gargarin shook him awake. ‘We’ve got to remove her from danger,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t know what she is … what you both are, but if I’m going to believe anything in this damned life of mine, it’s that the gods sent you to cure this wretched kingdom.’
Froi sat up and retrieved the map from his pack.
‘Then we do this my way,’ he said. ‘We take the steps to Jidia.’
Early the next morning, before the sun rose, they left their hiding place and travelled upstream to the cave that would lead them to Jidia. As they passed the camp of riders, Froi could see two on guard. He made a signal towards the others and they stayed low behind two fallen logs while Froi stealthily climbed the closest tree. Once up high, he shot three bolts from the crossbow into undergrowth on the other side of the stream. Alerted to the sound, the two riders made their way across the water. The moment the men were out of sight, Froi leapt down and led the others away.
Inside the caves, they travelled for most of the day, Froi forced to stop time and time again, searching for the next instruction on the map. When he stopped for the umpteenth time, Arjuro took the map from his hands and studied it a moment before handing it back and leading the way. At first Froi was irritated. There were no secret symbols or ancient words that needed to be deciphered. But then he realised Arjuro had an extraordinary ability to recall what he had studied only once. The Priestling never looked at the map again.
‘Don’t ask me to explain it,’ Gargarin said quietly. The cave had narrowed and they were now walking one behind the other.
‘Perhaps it comes with being gods’ blessed,’ Gargarin said. ‘When we were younger, he could read a book and memorise every page, regardless of its size.’
‘Then why did you sit for Arjuro’s exam when he would have had a better chance of remembering every detail?’ Froi asked.
‘The gods’ blessed might have genius,’ Gargarin said, ‘but that doesn’t stop them from being lazy.’
In front of him, Quintana stumbled. With no sleep, little food and fatigue beyond anything he had seen in her yet, she had trudged most of the day.
‘Not long now,’ Lirah reassured, despite the fact they had no idea how long it would be.
‘I can carry you,’ Froi said quietly.
He heard a low growl come from Quintana.
‘I think that means no,’ Arjuro said.
There were one thousand, three hundred and twenty-three steps to Jidia. They were narrow and steep with nothing but dents in the stone, moulded by shoulders pressed into the smothering walls over thousands of years. Arjuro’s oil lamp extinguished and it was pure darkness, the type of darkness to conjure up evil. On the steps of Jidia, there was no place to rest. No space above their heads. No room for one foot to stand alongside another. No end in sight. Three years training to be the most powerful warrior in the kingdom and nothing had prepared Froi for this.
But it was Arjuro who stopped, trapping all of them behind him. His breath was ragged. Not the sound of weariness, but of being choked of air, because hideous memories could swallow a man whole. And suddenly Froi was trapped someplace else. In a past so painful. A hand pressing his head down into the folds of a filthy straw mattress. He wanted to fight whoever it was. Had always tried, but he wasn’t strong enough.
‘Blessed Arjuro, I’m very tired,’ Quintana said indignantly, with only the sound of their ragged gasps surrounding them. Froi thought he would beat the others out of the way, if only he could move and breathe. So he counted in every language he knew, took gulps of air that was still and stale, attempted everything he could to crush the thoughts that ran through his head. That he would die on these steps. He’d die, because he was weak and pathetic and too scrawny to protect anyone, let alone himself. He was nothing.
‘Arjuro!’
Lirah’s voice was loud and firm. On Froi’s shoulder, he felt a gentle hand. Gargarin’s. As though he knew that it was not only Arjuro who was suffering in this darkness.
‘You’re not there, Arjuro,’ Lirah said. ‘You’re here. Where he can’t hurt you. You’re safe!’
And all Froi could feel was Gargarin’s hand and all he could hear was Arjuro’s breath begin to even and all he could see was Lirah two steps before him. Lirah who knew Gargarin’s worst nightmares and in knowing his, she knew Arjuro’s.
And they continued to climb.
The steps to Jidia didn’t quite lead to Jidia. They led to another cave where they chose to rest for the night. Gargarin lay out the last of the twigs and reeds and they huddled around the meagre fire, sharing what was left of their bread crust and cheese rind. It was some time before anyone spoke.
Later, Gargarin and Arjuro sat apart from the others, deciphering the words from the gods. Gargarin would show Arjuro the parchment and most times Arjuro would disagree.
‘I think that’s the language of the godshouse of Ariadinay and this comes from the godshouse of Trist,’ Arjuro said, pointing to the words. ‘Different gods trying to break the curse.’
Quintana would look up from where her head lay on Lirah’s lap. Tonight she was pure Aunt Mawfa. Froi could have sworn he saw her place the back of her hand across her brow.
‘Why don’t they just ask me, Lirah?’ she asked. ‘I can tell them what it says.’
‘Because they’re idiots,’ Lirah replied.
Arjuro scribbled down more words and showed Gargarin, who shook his head. They had been secretive in their work and Froi knew they would reveal little until they were confident.
‘You’re wrong,’ Gargarin said.
Froi sighed. It meant another exchange. The last had almost resulted in a slapping sort of fight over parchment and quill that was horrifying. Froi tried not to imagine the humiliation of Trevanion and Perri witnessing it.
‘Who’s gods’ blessed,’ Arjuro snapped. ‘You or I?’
‘Oh, that is stooping low,’ Gargarin retorted. ‘Being able to read the words written by the gods themselves means nothing if you haven’t studied the different interpretations. If you hadn’t wasted most of your youth inhaling the reed of retribution and swiving De Lancey, you’d probably know a thing or two today.’
‘I’m quite intrigued by the reed of retribution,’ Froi murmured from his bedroll.
‘It made them both stupid,’ Lirah said. ‘They loved nothing more than stripping naked and reciting very bad poetry with an adoring De Lancey watching on.’
Arjuro and Gargarin exchanged stares of such incredulity that it almost had Froi laughing. Even Quintana lifted herself to see their reaction.
‘Artesimist? Bad poetry?’ Arjuro asked.
‘You’re a disgrace to Serker, Lirah,’ Gargarin muttered. ‘Artesimist was the greatest poet of all time.’
It was hours later that Froi sensed they were finished. It was in their hushed whispering and stolen glances at Quintana. Their expressions were slightly manic and strangely euphoric, despite the day’s harrowing journey.
Quintana watched them watch her and all three waited for another to speak.
‘What is it you want to know?’ she finally asked.
‘What you saw written?’
‘On the assassin?’ she asked.
Gargarin glanced over to Froi, a ghost of a smile on his face. Froi bit back his anger.
‘You’ve worked it all out?’ she asked.
Gargarin nodded. ‘Well, not just me, of course. Arjuro helped.’
‘Then why do you ask what I see written on the assassin’s back when Arjuro has witnessed the words himself?’