Froi of the Exiles: The Lumatere Chronicles

by Melina Marchetta

  And here in this infertile field with two broken people, Froi remembered his dream.

  Hamlyn’s wife, Arna, returned and gave a bowl of water to each of them and Froi drank thirstily.

  ‘I need to travel to the Citavita,’ he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘Not a good idea,’ Hamlyn said.

  ‘I need to be with my family,’ he said quietly. ‘They are hiding in the caves at the base of the gravina.’

  ‘Why would they be hiding in the same place as the King’s riders?’ Hamlyn asked.

  ‘For reasons that could get you killed if you knew the truth.’

  The next morning Froi woke to find Hamlyn and his wife standing before him. He had dreamt again. This time it was of Arna, a she-wolf guarding her young. Except the teeth and snarl were those of Quintana. Arna crouched and handed him a pack and he smelt fresh bread and cheese and smoked meats. Hamlyn gave him a map.

  ‘Have you heard of the stairs to Jidia?’ Hamlyn asked.

  ‘They say there’s no such thing,’ Froi said.

  ‘Who says?’ Hamlyn said with a smile.

  Froi dressed quickly and placed the food and map in his pack. He looked at Arna, placed his arms around her and she held on tight as though she was holding the son who would never return and he was holding the mother Lirah would never be to him.

  ‘You’re hiding something, Froi,’ Hamlyn said, handing him a crossbow with the letter J etched into the wood.

  ‘Everyone is hiding something, Hamlyn,’ Froi said. He shook the man’s hand. It was a Charynite’s gesture. ‘But it’s best you do not know what it is.’

  He walked away, but turned back once.

  ‘What was the name of your son?’ he asked, his finger tracing the groove in the weapon they had given him.

  ‘John,’ the man said. ‘John, son of Hamlyn and Arna of Charyn.’

  Chapter 28

  Froi had been on his own now for the better part of the day, travelling through a labyrinth of caves as he followed Hamlyn’s map, which was peppered with a series of twists and turns and strange markings. He marvelled each time he came face to face with a matching symbol carved into a crevice, or the image of a bison scratched onto the ground, its hump pointing him in the direction of the people he needed to be with. Hamlyn had explained that the underground caves were built thousands upon thousands of years ago when those of Sendecane had taken on the worship of the goddess Lagrami. They had been persecuted by their godless king and escaped across two kingdoms to hide in Charyn, preferring to burrow their way into the earth rather than give up their faith. In later years their descendants settled above ground in the kingdoms of Charyn, Lumatere and Sarnak. The rock people of Lumatere were fair in skin and gold of hair, much like Grijio of Paladozza and Hamlyn and Arna of Jidia. Froi had grown up amongst those in the Sarnak capital with the same colouring. Had they come from the same Sendecanese who had hidden in these caves in the past? Was it why Finnikin’s people settled themselves on a rock and not the Flatlands or mountains? He thought of Quintana who looked different from everyone Froi had come across. She was every colour of Charyn stone. Flecks of browns and greys and golds.

  Outside the caves and back at the base of the gravina, Froi couldn’t help but marvel at how it had taken him half the time to travel back to where he had begun his journey. He wondered what else the caves could offer those who were desperate not to be found. He waited until early morning to make his way to the others, praying they would still be there. He was more than half a mile upstream and could see only three of Bestiano’s riders. He figured they would have had no clue about where he was this last week. Perhaps they had become lazy. But not too lazy. They wanted Quintana. Bestiano wanted her. She was his only way back into the palace and to power. Bestiano’s capture of the King’s true assassin, the King’s own treacherous daughter, would bring him some kind of credibility amongst some of the Provincari. Despite everything that had taken place between them, Froi was her only chance of survival. If Quintana, Gargarin, Arjuro and Lirah had left the cave or been caught by the riders, Froi would search for them and not return to Lumatere until he knew they were safe.

  Later that morning he crept through the entrance of their cave. When he was satisfied that the branches and bracken were back in place, he turned, only to see Lirah wielding Gargarin’s staff at his head. Froi ducked and something flashed in her eyes. Was it relief that he wasn’t a rider? Or relief that he had returned?

  ‘You got lost, did you?’ she asked coldly.

  They stared at each other for a long time and Froi felt the anger return.

  ‘Not what you wanted, am I, Lirah?’ he spat out. ‘Not what you dreamed of?’

  ‘I never wanted and I never dreamed,’ she said quietly, taking the pack from his hand. ‘So don’t presume you know what passes through my head.’

  She walked away, but turned when he didn’t follow.

  ‘I think it frightens her more when you’re not around than when you are,’ she said. ‘Come.’

  There were no hugs or tears on Froi’s return. Only hostility. Quintana was cold and Arjuro plain grunting rude. Gargarin refused to look at him, his head bent over his wretched sketches of water troughs and whatnot. In the centre of their cave, Froi emptied his pack. He saw their eyes widen when the bread and cheese and bacon appeared before them and wondered how long it had been since they last ate.

  ‘You think we’ll forgive you, just like that,’ Arjuro said, keeping his distance.

  Froi retrieved a bottle of mead from his pack. ‘As I don’t believe I did anything that requires forgiveness, I’ll merely hand this over for you to swill in silence.’

  ‘You’ve been gone six days,’ Gargarin shouted, finally looking up and throwing his pages across the cave. ‘Six days! We thought you were dead!’

  Froi was surprised by his outburst. Lirah merely picked up the scattered papers, shuffling them together. Quintana was staring at the food. She looked pale and drawn, the dark circles under her eyes even more pronounced.

  ‘Eat,’ Froi ordered. But still she refused to step closer.

  ‘Who gave you all this?’ Lirah asked, kneeling beside Froi, pages in hand.

  ‘A couple on a farm beyond the gravina,’ he said, breaking some bread and placing a piece of cheese inside. He held it up to Quintana, who gazed at it hungrily. When she refused to take it, he bit into it, chewed, swallowed and held it out to her again. This time she took it.

  ‘I tried to steal a horse and they let me stay a night or two.’ He looked at them, nodding. ‘Good, honest people. They treated me like they would a son,’ he added, his tone emphasising the last part.

  Arjuro took a swig of the mead, wiping his mouth with satisfaction. ‘Who would have guessed? He’s a needy little thing, isn’t he?’

  For a long time there was only the sound of chewing and grunting. Froi watched them all, a strange sort of peace coming over him.

  ‘I know how to get to Jidia without the riders seeing us.’

  Everyone stopped chewing and stared.

  ‘The steps of Jidia,’ he said.

  Gargarin shook his head with disbelief.

  ‘It’s a myth.’

  Froi waved the map in front of his face.

  ‘Not according to this map. We’re going to have to take a chance and leave here. The cave is half a mile downstream. If we travel in the dark in the early hours of the morning, we should be safe.’

  ‘I say it’s a mistake,’ Gargarin said. ‘We could be following a trail that does not exist and end up creating a prison for ourselves in those caves. Starving to death at that.’

  ‘Always the optimist,’ Arjuro muttered.

  Later, Froi and the others lay, trying to sleep. All except for Quintana, who still sat upright, fighting to stay awake.

  ‘I dreamt,’ Quintana said. ‘Two nights past.’

  Whilst the others murmured their acknowledgement, as though they had become used to her ramblings, Froi’s he
art began to hammer in his chest.

  ‘I dream between sleep and wakefulness,’ Quintana continued indignantly.

  ‘I, for one, would like to have the opportunity to sleep now, so I can dream,’ Arjuro said, drowsy from the mead.

  Gargarin made a sound in agreement, but Froi kept his eyes on Quintana, the light from the flames making her look ghostly, even fragile.

  ‘What did you dream about?’ he asked, and he couldn’t keep the gruffness from his voice.

  Quintana held up a thumb and two fingers, a question in her eyes. It was the identical gesture Lirah had captured and painted on the wall of her prison all those years ago.

  Froi crawled out of his bedroll and picked up Gargarin’s quill and papers. He tried to get closer to her, but she hissed like the cats he had seen on the streets of the Sarnak capital, protecting their litter from the daggers of hungry men.

  ‘Froi,’ Lirah warned from her bedroll.

  Froi began to draw. ‘I dreamt of this,’ he said when he finished the sketch, holding it up. ‘I dreamt …’

  He felt his face warming up.

  Suddenly the others were wide awake and looking his way.

  ‘You dreamt what?’ Gargarin asked ‘What have you drawn there?’

  Froi held it up over the light of the fire.

  ‘I dreamt she was drawing these letters on my body,’ he mumbled.

  He felt four sets of eyes on him, three sets looking at him questioningly. ‘Didn’t you say nothing intimate took place between you two?’ Gargarin asked, suspiciously.

  ‘Didn’t say that at all,’ Froi said, on the defensive. ‘What makes you think something did take place between us?’

  Arjuro made a rude sound. ‘It’s in your voice, you little snake.’

  Lirah was looking at Quintana as suspiciously as Gargarin had looked at Froi. ‘I thought you said he pleaded illness and lack of interest each time,' she said.

  ‘Well, he did,’ Quintana said indignantly. ‘But on the final night he was up for swiving and I was reassured once again that the gods had sent him to break the curse.’

  ‘We don’t use that word, Princess,’ Gargarin said politely.

  ‘I use it all the time,’ Arjuro said. ‘One of my favourite words, actually.’

  Froi didn’t think there’d be any sleep tonight, judging from the idiotic conversation.

  ‘What made you so sure he was sent to break the curse, Quintana?’ Lirah asked, patiently. ‘Why not the other lastborns?’

  ‘It’s written all over him. Have I not said that over and over again, Lirah?’ Quintana asked, annoyed.

  Froi shuddered. There were too many signs to ignore now. Hamlyn’s dream of his son. Quintana’s strange 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.