The Lumatere Chronicles

by Melina Marchetta

  Grijio, Olivier, and Satch stayed for the first two days, but Grijio was desperate to return to his father.

  “He’ll tear himself apart with worry,” the last born said. “I will speak on Quintana’s behalf and pray that he’ll give her sanctuary.”

  They looked over to where she lay on the bed, facing the wall.

  “And you?” Olivier asked Froi.

  “I’ll return home.”

  “Then at least travel with us part of the way,” Grijio said.

  Froi shook his head. “My weapons are hidden in a cave near the bottom of the gravina. They’re all I own.”

  Grijio nodded and held out a hand. Froi shook it. He turned to Olivier.

  “Were you treated well in captivity?”

  Olivier was silent a moment. Then he nodded.

  “I’m going to join Lascow’s army,” Olivier said. “I know they are gathering one for Tariq.”

  “B-b-but you don’t know how to fight,” Satch said.

  “The days of keeping the last borns weak and safe are over,” Olivier said fiercely. “I’m going to be the best fighter they’ve ever seen.”

  Froi held out his hand to Olivier, and the last born shook it firmly. Then Satch’s.

  “If Gr-Gr-Grij’s father does not t-t-take her to P-P-Paladozza, I’ll speak to my people in Desantos.”

  “If not, keep her safe, Froi,” Grijio said solemnly.

  He missed them the moment they left, and the days that followed were long. Froi spent his time playing silent card games with Perabo and listening to the wind howl. It was a sound he had not heard before, and at times he felt as though the gods were wailing with fury. Perabo said more than once that it was as though they were heralding the end of time.

  Quintana’s silence was the most frightening. It had been four weeks since the king’s death and she had experienced more during that time than another would in an entire life.

  “Where will you take her?” Perabo asked quietly one night.

  Froi had no idea how to answer the question.

  “I need to find Arjuro of Abroi first. And Lirah of Serker. I think they’re both staying at an inn near the bridge. I need to get them all out of the Citavita.”

  Perabo looked down to where Quintana lay.

  “I don’t care what you’ve done to save her,” he said bitterly. “I would have had her halfway across this kingdom if not for your deceit.”

  Days later, when the winds finally died, Froi shook her out of her stupor and helped her up.

  Without a word, Perabo went to a basket beneath his cot, pulled out some clothes, and handed them to Froi. Froi helped Quintana dress in the man’s garments. He grabbed the knotted mass of her hair and stuffed it inside his cap. He took the coat Perabo held out and placed it around her, fastening it all the way to her bruised throat.

  “Head down,” Froi ordered gently.

  Perabo stood on a stool and pushed the stone away from the ceiling. When he gave the signal and stood aside, Froi lifted himself out, holding a hand down to Quintana. She grasped it. Froi pulled her out of the cave house, and not letting go of her hand, he led her across the roofs of the caves.

  When they reached the center of the Citavita, he felt her shudder, saw the hanging gale perched high on its platform. The moment the winds had died, it seemed as though every Citavitan was determined to leave. Froi had never seen so many people in the one place, shoving their way through to the road that led down toward the bridge. He placed an arm around Quintana, holding her close to him, tenderly pressing a kiss to her capped head. They were jostled, elbows shoving against them, their bodies wedged in the crowd. And then Quintana looked up at him, and Froi would remember that look for a long time to come. Betrayal. Hurt. Sadness.

  And before he knew it, before he could stop her, Quintana let go of his hand, and suddenly the crowd swallowed her. He went to shout her name but knew that it would alert those around him to discover who was in their midst. He shoved his way through the crowd, trying to catch a glimpse of her, but everyone looked the same in their grays and their browns, and he wished for the awful pink dress so he could find her, protect her. But the crowd surged forward, down the Citavita walls, and Quintana disappeared with it, leaving an emptiness inside Froi that he could barely comprehend.

  He went searching for Lirah at the inn by the bridge but found only Arjuro.

  Arjuro ushered him into the minuscule chamber. It was almost as if they were charging for broom closets these days.

  “Is it true? About Tariq of Lascow?” Arjuro asked, his voice ragged with emotion.

  Froi nodded. “Where’s Lirah?”

  “Next door.”

  Froi left the room and knocked on the adjacent door, but there was no answer.

  “Lirah,” he whispered, not wanting anyone to make the link between their guest and Lirah, the king’s Serker whore.

  “It’s Froi,” he said. “I need to speak to you.”

  But there was no answer.

  “She’s not there.”

  Froi spun around to see Gargarin leaning on the banister, holding his staff in one hand and a crutch under his other arm. His face was so drawn that it made Froi want to look away.

  “What do you mean she’s not here?”

  “She’s left. Gone. Don’t ask me where.”

  Froi was stunned. “Gone?” he asked. “I need to speak to her. Gone where?”

  “I said I don’t know. According to the innkeeper, she left not even an hour ago. For all I know, she’s probably halfway across the bridge by now.”

  “No,” Froi said, pushing past Gargarin. “It’s too crowded. She would never have gotten across this last hour.”

  Froi ran down the stairs and outside, to where the stream of people passed the entrance of the inn. He tried to push through toward the bridge but was shoved back.

  “Wait your turn,” a man shouted.

  Froi was desperate. He looked around and up to the roof. The stone of the inn was too flat to climb, so he pushed his way back inside and took the steps, two at a time. Gargarin was still there, and Froi ignored him, grabbing a stool to stand on and reaching up to where there was a ceiling hatch. He shoved the stone away and climbed onto the roof, where he spent the rest of the day searching the crowd below for any sign of Lirah. He could see the queue all the way up the Citavita wall to the palace, but he was determined not to move until every last one of them passed him by. Arjuro joined him and they sat in silence, and then they heard Gargarin struggling through the hatch to join them. After hearing him suffer for some time, Arjuro stood and walked to the opening and dragged Gargarin up through the hole.

  “They’re idiots for leaving,” Froi said, pointing to the people below, when Gargarin was settled beside them. “Do they think it’s any better out there?”

  Neither of the brothers spoke. Froi leaped to his feet when he thought he saw a woman with Lirah’s rich long hair, but sat down again when he realized he was mistaken.

  “They’re leaving,” Gargarin said, “because they know it will be a bloodbath.”

  “With the street lords?”

  Gargarin shook his head.

  “If there is one thing a king and heir is able to do, it is to create agreement across the kingdom that the right person is on the throne, no matter how bad their blood might be. We no longer have that ugly luxury. So mark my words. Bestiano will return. He’ll come at a time when the people of the Citavita will be desperate for stability and peace. He’ll take up residence in the palace, kill a street lord or two for show. But then the provincari will send their armies. The provincari will never abide Bestiano or another provincaro on the throne. So a battle will be fought here,” he said, pointing to the people. “In their blood.”

  “Nice to see that you are still a regular prophet of doom,” Arjuro muttered.

  “Nice to see that you didn’t heed my instruction to cross the bridge with the Paladozza people!” Gargarin snapped.

  “Maybe Lirah did,” Froi s
aid. “Travel with De Lancey, I mean.”

  Gargarin shook his head. “I was there to see the Paladozza compound off.”

  “And why didn’t you go with the mighty De Lancey?” Arjuro asked.

  “Because I had unfinished business.”

  “Of course,” Arjuro said. “You decided to stay around so the street lords could finish off their business with you? Because from what I can see, there’s still an arm or bone in your body that they didn’t break!”

  A head appeared through the hole in the roof, and Froi recognized the innkeeper’s wife.

  “We’re shuttin’, so come inside, Priestling, and tell your friends to pay for a room or go elsewhere,” she said.

  “Did the woman in the fourth room leave a message?” Froi asked her. “Say where she was going?”

  “She didn’t need to say where she was going. Out of the Citavita, that’s where she was going.”

  She disappeared inside.

  Gargarin struggled to his feet and looked down at Froi. “Join the line tonight and get out of this kingdom by morning.”

  “I’m not going anywhere!”

  “Until when?” Gargarin snapped. “Until Lirah comes back and leaves you a message? She’s gone. She’s been a prisoner on this godsforsaken rock since she was thirteen, Olivier. She’s not coming back.”

  “Froi,” he shouted. “My name is Froi.”

  He leaped to his feet, wanting to hurt Gargarin for not even getting that right. “And I’m not pining for Lirah. You are. I just wanted to see her face so I could tell her that I hate her!” Froi grabbed Gargarin by the coarse cloth of his tunic. “I had a life with people who I would die for! You’ve all ruined everything. I despise you,” he spat.

  “You’re supposed to despise him,” Arjuro muttered. “He’s your father.”

  “Shut up!” both Froi and Gargarin shouted.

  The innkeeper’s wife appeared again. “Out,” she hissed. “I want you out.”

  Scowling darkly, the three of them made their way to the opening. Froi grudgingly shoved Gargarin down, holding him by the back of his undershirt until Gargarin’s feet touched the ground inside. Froi followed, and the innkeeper’s wife stood before them, a broom in her hand.

  “The priestling can stay only because I don’t want another curse befalling this house,” she continued in her furious tone. “But you two, go. That beautiful woman and her precious boy must be grateful to be halfway across this land rather than putting up with any of you.”

  The three of them exchanged looks as the innkeeper’s wife walked away. “What boy?” Froi asked.

  “Out,” she ordered over her shoulder.

  Arjuro went to follow, a question on his lips, but Froi dragged him back, waiting for the woman to be out of earshot. Suddenly, he understood the truth.

  “We dressed Quintana in Perabo’s clothes,” he said quietly. “So she would be mistaken for a lad.” His eyes met Gargarin’s. “She came to Lirah, and now they’re both somewhere out there.”

  Gargarin’s eyes were cold.

  “A good thing. It’s best we all go our separate ways. There’s nothing left for us here. Nothing left for you.”

  Froi nodded, bitterness in his heart.

  “You’ve made your thoughts clear, Father,” he spat.

  Gargarin flinched.

  “You have no place here, Dafar of Abroi,” he said. “It’s time for you to return to your people.”

  Six weeks after Froi arrived in the capital to kill the king of Charyn, he crossed the bridge that would mark his journey home to Lumatere. As he turned back to look just once, the Citavita seemed ghostly in the morning mist, half concealing the strange cluster of rocks with their secret worlds beneath. He couldn’t help but think what would happen to Perabo and all the cave dwellers who had intrigued Quintana that day they spent together. Or those in the castle who were too unimportant to be counted on the death list. Did the cook and the servants and the farriers survive? Did the street lords take their bloody revenge on the soothsayer, aligned to the king for so long? How long would the soulless cutthroats control the lives of all those innocent people? He had heard news that one of the street lords had run off with the ransom of three hundred pieces of gold and the ruby ring, leaving his companions with not a penny. Froi had learned early in life that there was no honor among thieves, and judging from the thirst for blood of those who had murdered the palace dwellers, he could only imagine the fate of the traitorous thief when his former companions caught up with him.

  Before Froi on the bridge were the last of those who had decided to leave the capital, including Gargarin and Arjuro. Arjuro kept a distance between himself and his brother, and Froi easily caught up with the priestling.

  “Where will you go?” he asked Arjuro quietly. Gargarin had made it abundantly clear that he was going to join De Lancey in Paladozza and that Arjuro and Froi were not invited.

  “Osteria is said to be beautiful at this time of the year.”

  Froi knew the priestling was lying.

  The bridge ended and the crowd traveled north on the road that ran alongside the edge of the gravina. Most of the day, the people were silent, and Froi knew their bodies were hunched under the weight of knowing that they were leaving their home and had nowhere to go. He couldn’t help turning to look back, time and time again, until the rock of the Citavita was a blur.

  They reached the three roads that crossed in Upper Charyn, and most took the path east to Sebastabol or Paladozza. A handful continued on the road north that would lead them to the provinces of Jidia or Desantos. Froi’s path was back down the wall of the gravina to collect his weapons.

  When the last of the Citavitans had disappeared, Froi still waited with Gargarin and Arjuro. Perhaps a part of him was waiting for something more.

  But Gargarin’s stare was cold. “You deserve all the calamities of this world and the next if you ever return to this cesspit of a kingdom,” he said, before leaving in the direction of the crowd and not looking back once.

  “Thank you for your time,” Froi shouted after him. “It’s put to rest some idiotic romantic notions!”

  Gargarin didn’t stop, nor did he turn around.

  “Bastard!” Froi shouted. “Curse the day you were both born,” he shouted at Arjuro as well.

  “Someone’s already beaten you to that one, whelp,” the priestling said, taking the road south.

  He was going home. Home, he thought for the tenth time that day, traveling down the mountain of rock. Home, where foreign blood had become family to him and where men were strong and virile, not all twisted and broken without a clue of how to defend themselves, or reeking of ale or wine or whatever it was that helped Arjuro endure a day. Home, where no one judged him. Not even the queen, who had every reason in the world to judge him. Lumatere was everything Froi wanted to be, while Charyn was a reminder of everything he despised about himself. That unwanted pathetic street urchin who had begged for food, the surly boy who had sung his song for the rich street pigs of Sarnak and allowed himself to endure so much depravity just to survive. Weak boy. Stupid, useless boy. Froi wanted to kill that boy he had been. If not for Lumatere, he would be nothing and have no one.

  Except it was only when Froi had come to Charyn that he realized there had been nights in Lumatere when he felt loneliness beyond imagining. Not once had he felt its intensity here in Charyn. Because you were busy in Charyn. You had too much to do. But he knew he was fooling himself. And now, under this full moon, on his way back to his beloved home, Froi felt the ache of loneliness return. But he fought back the feeling, making plans for the morning instead. He would retrieve his weapons, and then he’d travel to the province of Jidia and pick up a horse. He’d ride two days, he told himself, not even stopping for rest. The sooner he returned to Lumatere, the better for him. He knew the excitement would return the moment he left the outer region of Alonso. There, Lucian’s mountains would appear in the distance and Froi would understand what it meant to be home.<
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  After a moment or two of lying down and staring at the stars, he allowed thoughts of Quintana to enter his head. No matter how hard he tried to fight it, she seemed to be there all the time. Usually she was asking a question of him in her indignant tone. Sometimes he would feel her cold stare of annoyance. Other times the savage would growl low in his ear, a sound from a place so primitive that it thrilled him each time.

  He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but then he heard a sound. Not just of the nocturnal world, but something human. A humming. He had seen the last of those from the Citavita head east and knew it couldn’t possibly be any of them. Twigs crackled and he stood, listening before following the sound and then his nose. The strong smell of roasting meat — a gamey smell, hare perhaps — permeated the air.

  Up ahead was a small incline off the main path. Froi climbed toward it. He heard a soft song being sung, a prayerlike warble so beautiful in pitch that it made him stop a moment. For, despite all the horror he had endured on the streets of the Sarnak capital, because he knew how to carry a tune, the sound of this song made him want to weep from the pure beauty of it. He climbed farther up and looked over the incline, into a cave where he saw a man hunched over the small fire.

  Arjuro.

  “I was told that the Osterian border lay south,” Froi called out.

  Arjuro jerked in surprise, but after a moment, the priestling went back to stoking the fire, not even bothering to turn.

  “This is south,” Arjuro said, pointing to where he sat. “South of that cave. South of that rock.”

  “You’re a fool not to have gone, Arjuro.”

  “Then come and join me, Abroi’s youngest fool.”

  Froi couldn’t help smiling.

  He sat before the fire, and Arjuro held out a morsel. Not hare, but some kind of rodent.

  “I heard Gargarin tell you to pack some food,” Froi said, trying to keep Gargarin’s reprimanding tone out of his voice.

  Arjuro feigned a moment’s thought, his fingers at his chin for emphasis. “Hmm, what was I doing when he told me that? Ah, yes, I think I was too busy ignoring him.”