Chapter 33
Froi heard the words often that day.
‘We’re going to battle.’
They were said with uncertainty most of the time. Although the lads understood that they were going to war for Quintana of Charyn, there was still no guarantee that she would be found in the valley between Lumatere and Charyn. It was where they were heading. But first they had to get through the three hills and Bestiano’s army.
That night, they all gathered in the keep to listen to final commands, shuffling for room wherever they could. Froi was on the ground. He looked up at each archway, all the way to the top, and he felt the flatness of everyone’s mood. It wasn’t the way he wanted these men fighting for Quintana’s place in the palace. From the third-floor balcony, Gargarin spoke to them all. He called the next few days the most important hours in Charyn’s history. Said that they would be spoken about in years to come. As impassioned as his words were, the men still seemed lost. Froi remembered what Fekra had said. That the Nebian army Bestiano commanded didn’t know what they were fighting for anymore. Nor did these men.
They were about to leave when Dolyn’s voice was heard.
‘Priestling, can you sing Charyn’s ballad?’
Froi watched Arjuro look up to where Dolyn stood. The leader of Lascow was beside Gargarin and De Lancey.
‘I heard you once,’ Dolyn continued. ‘It was many, many years ago. Your voice rang clear in the crowd. More powerful than any other Priestling.’
‘No,’ Arjuro said bluntly.
His voice echoed strangely in the quiet space.
‘Arjuro –’ De Lancey called out.
‘My answer is no! It’s a song for a Charyn that no longer exists.’
‘We go to war tomorrow for a Charyn Tariq believed in, sir,’ one of the Lasconians shouted out boldly from one of the upper balconies.
Arjuro shook his head, his expression weary. ‘I miss my sisters and brothers in the godshouse,’ he called back in response. ‘I don’t care whose voice rang clear in the crowd. I sang Charyn’s ballad alongside them … and now they’re gone. I don’t sing … except for the dead.’
‘Then perhaps we can speak it out loud,’ a Turlan lad said. ’As a blessing before battle.’
There was a half-hearted mumble and then words were spoken, disjointed and feeble.
‘… the stone we shaped with hands of hope to build a kingdom of might … the roads we paved with the blood of our toil …’
Something inside Froi’s head jolted. He knew this song. The Priestking had taught him. The old man had taught him everything about Charyn. ‘It’s a song of their hubris … a song to show off their talents,’ the Priestking had murmured, but he made Froi listen to it each time they were together. ‘Sing with me, Froi,’ he would say. But Froi had refused. He sang for no man. Not since his days on the streets of the Sarnak capital. But now he understood. Had the Priestking guessed who Froi was all along and taught him this song, not to conquer an enemy, but to find his own people? Clever, wicked man. Froi had never loved the Priestking more.
‘I’ll sing it with you, Arjuro,’ Froi called out, and everyone searched for him in the crowded keep.
‘I know it … I was taught by the blessed
A silence came over the room as they waited for Arjuro’s reaction. But somewhere in the crowd Arjuro and Froi found each other and stood side by side. Men crouched around them. From above, Gargarin’s eyes seemed to pierce into Froi’s. As long as he lived, Froi would never be able to determine his father’s thoughts.
He waited for the cue from Arjuro. It was a song for more than one to sing and Arjuro began alone, his voice robust, his warble perfect, a sound still so youthful despite the years. Froi felt a catch in his throat thinking of the young gods’ blessed Arjuro, who would have bewitched the hardest of spirits. He was still bewitching De Lancey of Paladozza now. The love on the Provincaro’s face was potent. Catching. Froi waited, ready to commence with the second stanza. His voice had been deep for some years now. Not as a boy. Back then it was high and pure and it fetched him a price. Back then he didn’t understand the words he sang. All he understood was an empty stomach that needed to be filled. But now, as he started his song, he knew exactly what he was singing, and his voice reached depths that he hadn’t known existed. And when Arjuro’s voice joined in, it was a communion, a blood tie, and Froi felt the strength that both their voices gave to those listening. He watched men place clenched hands to their chests; he saw tears spring to surprised eyes. He saw Lirah push her way through the men on the balcony above, transfixed. Froi’s voice felt like a caress for his battered soul. Because he sang for Quintana of Charyn. He sang for the misery of her life, the poison in her body, the scars on her skin and the courage in her character. And he sang for the child he would never call his own. He sang for the Charyn he would leave behind and he felt his hand clench in a fist at the thought of such a kingdom. It made his voice soar with Arjuro’s, to a height that matched its earlier depth. And when it was over and he pushed through the crowd, he felt hands clap his back, ruffle his cap, shake his hand as he moved between them. He felt their euphoria.
He returned to his post on the wall, looking out into the darkness and wondering what the next day would bring. Death. Of course there’d be death. Would it be him? Grij? Who would live and who would die?
Perabo joined him with Gargarin.
‘Your lad here is lethal,’ Perabo said. ‘Let’s hope a bit of that blood runs through the little King.’
‘Say it louder and I’ll cut out your tongue,’ Gargarin snapped.
Perabo gripped Gargarin to him and Froi stepped between them.
‘Your secrets, whatever I may believe they are, die with me,’ Perabo said through clenched teeth. ‘Doubt me or threaten me again and you’ll have to find yourself another constable.’
Gargarin cupped the man’s shoulder, his hand shaking. Froi could see that something wasn’t right, but to Perabo, at least, Gargarin seemed contrite.
‘You’re the only constable I want, Perabo. No more doubts or threats. Make sure the names of the lads going into battle are recorded.’
Perabo nodded, glancing at Froi. ‘This one needs to rest. Ariston is going to want Froi by his side.’
‘He won’t be going with Ariston and his men,’ Gargarin said.
Froi stared at him, stunned.
‘What are you saying?’ he shouted. ‘You know I’m as good as a Turlan. You’re only doing this because …’
‘Because what?’ Gargarin hissed. ‘Because you’re my son? You’re mistaking me for someone with choices, Froi. I don’t have choices.’
Froi waited, looking to Perabo for answers.
‘I can’t have you riding into battle,’ Gargarin said. ‘We need you for something else.’
Gargarin’s stare was deadly.
‘You’re going to steal into that camp and put him down, Froi.’
Froi heard Perabo’s hiss of satisfaction.
‘We want Bestiano dead.’
When the sun rose and every soldier in the fortress was in place, Froi found Grijio in the bailey. The lastborn was with the Turlans, sitting on his horse, waiting for word.
‘Are you frightened?’ Froi asked.
‘Of course I’m frightened,’ Grij said, looking over Froi’s shoulder to where De Lancey was watching them from the entrance of the keep.
‘Gargarin won’t let my father come along,’ he said. ‘Dolyn and Ariston agree.’
‘Well, he’s injured.’
‘It’s not that. They can’t afford to lose a Provincaro who will favour the palace in the future. Father ordered that I stay, too, but I told him I couldn’t. I made these plans with Tariq and Satch … and even Olivier. That we’d save her. I can’t do that hiding behind my father’s title. And I may not be good with a sword, but I’m fast with a
