“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 her, despite the fact that 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, molded 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. Because he’s just a boy and he’s so small and when he grows up, he’ll learn how to fight and he’ll learn how to kill, but for now he just wants to breathe!
“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.
You’re not there, Froi. You’re here. You’re safe.
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 meager 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 that 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 me?”
“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 looking 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 when Froi sensed that 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 at 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?”
Gargarin was silent.
“Ah,” she said, nodding, “You’re testing me. You want to hear it from me first, in case you think I’m influenced by your words.”
“Perhaps we’re testing ourselves,” Arjuro said. Even after a day or two, his eyes were bloodshot and swollen from having read the words of the gods in their purest form.
Quintana tilted her head, studying Arjuro’s face.
“It doesn’t hurt so much to read if you go like this,” she explained, squinting fiercely. Froi heard Arjuro chuckle.
“Wish I had been told that long ago,” he said.
This time it was Quintana who was silent.
“What did you see written, Princess?” Gargarin asked again.
She looked up at Lirah, who nodded with encouragement.
“The one who reigns must die
At the hands of she born last,
And the last will make the first
When the bastard twins are one,
And blessed be the newborn king,
For Charyn will be barren no more.”
Arjuro and Gargarin let out ragged breaths in unison. Gargarin placed his head in his hands.
“I didn’t know you were bastard twins,” Froi said, confused.
“We’re not,” Arjuro said. “You are.”
“What?” Froi was on his feet, staring at Quintana, horrified. “We’re twins?”
“Calm yourself,” Arjuro said condescendingly. “The princess is the bastard child of the oracle and the king. You’re the bastard child of these two. Born almost at the same moment in the same palace.”
Froi was still confused. “I don’t understand what it means by ‘when the bastard twins are one.’”
“And if you don’t understand it, fool, I’m not explaining it to you,” Arjuro said.
“Joined,” Gargarin explained instead. “Joined,” he added, for emphasis.
“Oh,” Froi said, his face flaming again. “You mean when we . . .”
“Swived,” Quintana said. “I do remember the exact moment when we became on
e, because I —”
“No need for detail, Quintana,” Lirah said. “Remember what I told you. If you talk of such things, you’ll only be judged by strangers.”
The atmosphere in the cave changed the moment Quintana did. Her stare toward Lirah was bitter. Froi could see that the others were uncomfortable with this Quintana. They liked the indignant princess, and she knew it.
“We’re judged by strangers now, Lirah,” Quintana said coldly.
Arjuro moved closer to her. “May I?” he asked. She nodded, and he sat before her. “Do you know where she is?” he asked quietly.
He was speaking of his beloved oracle.
“When I was a child, I told Lirah that I knew a way to see my mother and for Lirah to see her beloved boy waiting for us in the lake of the half dead. So I ordered Lirah to cut our wrists in the tub.”
“Gods,” Gargarin muttered. Lirah looked away, the memory so painful.
“But Lirah saw nothing and came back half mad, so they placed her in the tower.”
“And you?” Arjuro asked, hopeful. “You saw the oracle?”
Quintana looked up at him and shook her head.
“No. She never reached the other side. Sir Gargarin told us that he didn’t know her name, so how could she find her way?”
Her eyes stayed on Arjuro. “But we sensed a part of her across the gravina, blessed Arjuro.”
“Is that why you wanted to throw yourself in?” Arjuro asked. “So you could be with her?”
“Throw ourselves in?” she asked, astonished. “Why would you think such a thing? We wanted to enter the godshouse. We sensed our mother’s happiness there. Her scent. Her voice. It’s where she dreamed, and those dreams still hovered in the air. We tried over and over again to speak to you about allowing us in, but you didn’t seem to hear us. Sometimes, we’d try to get as close as possible to the godshouse across the gravina, but we were afraid to leap.”
Arjuro looked down, shamed.
“But when I visited the lake of the half dead that time with Lirah, we did return with a spirit. I didn’t realize who that was until you told us the story of our day of weeping, Sir Gargarin.”
She didn’t speak, and they all waited, desperate for more answers.
“Princess?” Gargarin prodded gently.
Froi recognized it clearly. There was talk in her head. He recognized it in the way her face twitched and flinched. She mouthed words, but they heard nothing.
Lirah reached out a hand to touch Quintana’s mouth.
“Don’t let this kingdom turn you into a voiceless fool, brave girl,” she said. “Speak.”
Quintana’s eyes refused to meet any of theirs. Was it her madness that she was trying to conceal?
“One of us returned,” she whispered, “with the spirit of the sister who died.”
Froi saw his own confusion reflected on Gargarin’s and Lirah’s faces. But not Arjuro’s.
“Which of you is Quintana, and which one is the sister?” the priestling asked.
She shook her head.
“I don’t know anymore,” she said. “I don’t know who I am without her, and she doesn’t know who she is without me. We don’t know who came first. All we know is that we share . . . we share . . .” She leaned forward to whisper. “We share the one who may have cursed the kingdom. Lirah says they called us the little savage in the years before she drowned us and that everyone approved of who came back from the dead, because we were tamed.”
Arjuro was entranced with the story. “Go on,” he said, with a reverence Froi had never imagined he would possess for anyone, let alone the daughter of a hated king.
Quintana thought for a moment. “We came back with the words I wrote on the chamber wall. That the last will make the first. And I waited all these years for the one to plant the seed and sire the curse breaker and future king.” Her eyes met Froi’s over Arjuro’s shoulder. “He arrived in the form of an assassin from an enemy kingdom. When I woke up that next morning after he had planted the seed, I knew that the king had to die.”
Let her be a madwoman, Froi prayed. Let her be mad.
“Do you honestly think that I would bring a child into that palace after everything my father allowed to happen to me?”
“Smart girl, my love,” Lirah said.
“I tried to tell the street lords in the Citavita that day of the hanging. But no one would believe me. Except for Tariq and the people of Lascow. It was his idea that we wed. He said it would protect my son’s right to the throne even more.”
She looked up at Gargarin. “I’m the queen of Charyn, sir. A powerless queen except for what I carry in my belly. In less than seven months time, I’ll give birth to the little king. Tariq said you, sir, are to be my son’s First Adviser. Until then, he’s mine to protect, and whatever part I took in cursing Charyn at my birth will not compare to what I’ll do if anyone attempts to destroy me before then.”
She directed those words at Froi with venomous certainty.
He couldn’t think, and he needed to count because Froi’s bond to Lumatere was that he’d destroy anything that was a threat to his kingdom. She was a threat. The child she carried was a threat. His child. His seed.
In an instant, he shoved the others aside and was there before her, dagger in hand.
“Use it!” he hissed, grabbing her hand and closing it around the handle of the dagger. He pressed the blade against his throat. “If I’m a threat, use it the way I taught you.”
“Froi?” Gargarin barked. Lirah and Arjuro tried to drag him away, but he shoved free of them, a wild animal.
“Do it,” he whispered hoarsely, his face close to Quintana’s. “Do it if you fear me!”
She bared her teeth, pressing the blade against his throat, a flicker of victory in her eyes.
“Froi! Enough,” Lirah cried. “She’ll do it. You know she will.”
Both Froi and Quintana pressed harder until he felt the skin tear, the blood trickle. “Do it!”
At that moment, she looked so destroyed that Froi wanted to put her out of her misery and slice his own throat. He had done this to her.
She broke, dropped the dagger, and pushed him with all her might, but Froi held her as she struggled against him, a wild cat in his arms, her hoarse screams muffled against him. He kept his arms trapped around her, his mouth to her ear.
“You will not fear me,” he said, speaking his bond to her. It was the only bond that would count from now on. “If I tell you to run, you run. If I tell you to hide, you hide. If I tell you to kill, you kill.”
And then the fight left Quintana and Froi carried her to his bedroll near the fire, where they wrapped her in blankets, all of them, with hands that trembled with truth.
The last will make the first.
Froi lay against her, and Quintana’s body heaved with fatigue and fear and a desperate need to protect what lay inside of her. She was Hamlyn’s wife Arna, a she-wolf who wanted to protect her babe. His arms were a band around her as she faced away from him, but after a while, he heard the evenness of her breathing and prayed that she slept. Instead, she reached behind and took his hand, holding it up to the dwindling light of the fire, playing with his fingers. On the wall he saw the shape of a rabbit, and he pressed his chin against her shoulder as they watched their fingers dance across the contours of the cave.
And for hours and hours she slept, but no one else could. After so many years of living in a barren kingdom, they could hardly comprehend what this news would bring. Every sound seemed a threat to Quintana. A threat to Charyn.
“Everything changes,” Gargarin said quietly. “Everything.”
And when she woke more than a day later, the crazed stare of sleeplessness removed from her eyes, Froi watched her. Waited to see who they would be facing. But the eyes weren’t cold and they weren’t savage, so he sighed with relief.
“You call me Froi. Not assassin. Do you hear?”
She nodded.
“You may call me Quintana.”
/> The province of Jidia was situated above a deep underground spring with waters said to be warmed by the breath of the sun god thousands of years ago. The spring drew those from all corners of Charyn for the cures it promised and the cleansing it provided. The province also boasted the most amount of rainfall, with fields rich and fertile. Protected by a high stone wall, it had thwarted most attempts by the palace over the centuries to become the kingdom’s capital.
“Arjuro spent a year here studying the water’s healing power,” Gargarin said as they approached the two guards at the province gates.
It was always Gargarin who spoke of Arjuro’s gifts as a physician and healer, while Arjuro made rude sounds.
“No interest to me these days,” the priestling muttered.
“Then why did you grow your herbs and plants on the godshouse roof?” Lirah asked tartly.
“And save the seedlings?” Froi added, remembering their last days in the Citavita, when they had retrieved plant roots and seeds that Arjuro later hid in a cavern at the base of the godshouse.
Arjuro muttered some more. These past days of travel through the caves, Froi had begun to notice that Arjuro’s hands shook at times. Some days he was so bad-tempered it was unbearable. Gargarin usually bore the brunt of his anger and made things worse by being oblivious to Arjuro’s moods. Froi knew the priestling craved the brew that had been a companion to him all these years. He had seen how vicious a man could become without it.
Their plan for Jidia was simple. Too simple, in Froi’s eyes. Gargarin would ask for an audience with Provincara Orlanda and request province protection on the queen’s behalf. Despite its simplicity, Froi did not protest. They were all looking forward to sleeping in proper cots and filling their bellies with whatever the province had to offer.
“The provincara’s kitchen speciality is a lamb stew that is second to none,” Gargarin said.
“And if she refuses to see us?” Lirah asked.
“The provincara will see us for certain, Lirah,” Quintana said. “She fawned all over Sir Gargarin in the palace.”
“She fawned all over Bestiano equally and most probably succeeded in finding a place in his bed that night, so caution is required,” Gargarin said in his usual practical tone.
The Lumatere Chronicles Page 73