Quintana of Charyn

Each morning, a group of young men and women, a little older than Froi, came to visit their quarters. Although not lastborns, some were in hiding because they were believed to be gods’ blessed. Others were the children of the Priests and Priestesses who had hidden their families all those years ago when the Oracle’s godshouse was attacked. That a school for the brightest minds in Charyn existed in the bowels of a province didn’t surprise Froi. In the nook of any given cave in this kingdom were a people refusing to give up.

‘The way they grovel to you makes me sick to my stomach,’ Froi said as he watched Arjuro arrange his tools of healing. Froi thought of them more as tools of torture. When he had first awoken from his injuries, one of the collegiati had told Froi how excited all in the compound had been when Arjuro returned to them.

‘He was considered the greatest young surgeon in Charyn before the attack on the Oracle’s godshouse,’ the girl, Marte, had explained to Froi. ‘My mother was one of his teachers in Paladozza and said that even as a boy he showed brilliance.’

Marte and her fellow collegiati were hungry for any type of learning and they hovered around the entrance of Arjuro’s chamber all day long, just for a chance to spend more time with the Priestling.

Arjuro found them as annoying as he found most people and would tell them exactly where he would prefer they go. But they returned each day while he treated Froi’s wounds, which they analysed and discussed, poking at Froi as if he was nothing but a slab of mutton. Froi would see their eyes blaze with excitement each time they saw his scars.

Whoever had taken him to these caves had tried to yank out the arrows, but once the shafts were pulled, they had come unstuck from their stems and Froi was left with eight arrowheads lodged inside his body.

‘Cat gut goes a long way, blessed Arjuro,’ Marte said that morning when they all shuffled in. ‘The stitching is perfect.’

‘But how did you remove the barbs, Brother Arjuro?’ a collegiato asked in awe.

‘An arrow spoon,’ Arjuro said, showing them the instrument.

There was much oohing and aahing.

‘The spoon is inserted into the wound and latches onto the arrowhead,’ Arjuro said, looking at Froi. ‘You might want to close your ears for this next bit, Froi.’ Arjuro turned back to the others. ‘Next moment, the barb is ripped out and look what we have?’ Arjuro said. ‘Beautiful.’

This was what produced joy for Arjuro. Inflicting pain.

‘It’s a work of art, Brother Arjuro,’ an annoyingly fawning collegiata said. ‘You’re a genius.’

‘Yes, I’m going to have to agree,’ Arjuro said, pleased with himself. ‘See how clean this one is,’ he said, pointing to Froi’s shoulderblade. ‘But I think it could have been a tighter stitch. I only wish I had a chance to do it again. If I could get myself some bronzed wire, rather than using sheep bone, I think I could have done a neater job of this sewing.’

He caught Froi’s eye, a smile crossing his lips. Froi knew he was enjoying himself.

Someone ran a finger alongside the dent at the back of Froi’s head and Arjuro slapped the hand away. Froi had received an arrow to the head and they had been forced to crop his hair. Although not completely bare, it felt strange under his fingers. But what was even stranger was the collegiati’s reaction to it. Not a day went by without a hand attempting to feel its way across the cleft at the back of Froi’s skull.

‘Are you going to tell me what’s there?’ he demanded of Arjuro.

‘A hard head,’ Arjuro responded and Froi saw the warning look he sent to the others. ‘It’s a good thing you have no brains and the arrowhead pierced nothing but empty space.’

It was the same joke each time and Froi rolled his eyes when the others laughed at it again.

‘Can I put on my trousers now?’ he asked. Never one to be bashful about his naked self, it felt different when the collegiati scrutinised every part of his body. The topic of foreskin was the most difficult to endure.

‘He grew up in Sarnak. It’s what they do to their male young. A snip and then it’s gone,’ Arjuro explained.

The men had flinched. The women were intrigued.

Arjuro ushered them all out.

‘Brother Arjuro, what of warts?’ one of the lads asked at the entrance of the cave. Nothing gods’ blessed about that one. Some were quite delusional when it came to the degree of their talents.

Arjuro stared at the young man.

‘I don’t heal warts. If you want to learn how to heal warts, go to the soothsayer and she’ll feed you with an old wives’ tale or two.’

When they were all gone, Froi pulled on his trousers.

‘They’re all half in love with you,’ he said. ‘Men and women.’

‘Yes, it’s a pity you didn’t inherit our looks,’ Arjuro said. ‘You too could be as popular.’

Froi hid a smile.

‘Gargarin was even more sought after,’ Arjuro explained, sketching today’s image of Froi’s gut wound into his journal. ‘It’s because he ignored the world and, in turn, the world believed he was playing games.’

‘Were you jealous of him?’

‘Gargarin?’ Arjuro looked up, surprised by the question. ‘Never. I told you. I was jealous of anyone who took him from me.’

‘He could be happy with Lirah in Paladozza,’ Froi said softly.

Arjuro sighed. ‘I can’t see my brother staying put while all this is happening.’

Froi imagined that ‘all this’ was the question of Quintana’s whereabouts. He watched Arjuro carefully. ‘You know I’m ready.’

‘I’ll tell you when you’re ready. Sit.’ Arjuro pressed hard on the puckered skin across Froi’s gut.

‘Does that hurt?’

Froi pressed two fingers against Arjuro’s shoulder with the same force.

‘Does that?’ he snapped in return.

‘Oh, so we’re bad-tempered this morning, as well. Always good to see the Abroi spirit living on in our sprog.’

This time Froi couldn’t resist a smile, but then he grabbed Arjuro’s hand and pressed it against the back of his skull.

‘What’s there, Arjuro? What are you hiding from me?’

Arjuro pulled his hand away with a grimace.

‘Nothing we don’t already know, Froi. It was just hidden for so long. You were born with a mop of hair. Did you know that? It’s probably been there your whole life and no one ever saw it.’

‘But what is it?’

‘It’s the same style of lettering as Quintana’s,’ Arjuro said finally. ‘We didn’t realise all this time that both of you were scorched by the gods or whoever it was.’

‘If not the gods, who else?’ Froi asked.

Arjuro shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I wish I did. I wish I knew what it meant.’

He placed a blue woollen cap over Froi’s head, almost covering his eyes and ears.

‘Make sure no one outside these caves see it. Charynites are used to the sign belonging to lastborn women,’ Arjuro said. ‘I don’t know what would happen if they knew the very last male born was walking amongst us.’

Arjuro put his journal away under his cot. Froi saw a note poking out from one of the pages. He watched for signs of news all the time, and during the past day, Arjuro had received new correspondence.

‘What’s in the letter?’ he asked.

Arjuro didn’t respond.

‘Tell me,’ Froi begged.

Arjuro sat on the cot and thought for a minute. ‘We’ve received word back from the Turlans. Quintana never reached them, Froi. She’s not in the Lascow Mountains either. We’ve sent out word to the Provincari. She may have gone back to Jidia.’