“Get out of that filthy sack, you stupid girl,” Bestiano grated. Quintana had taken to wandering through the castle wearing the calico shift Froi had stolen for her in the caves. It made her look even more ordinary. Even more human than the peculiar princess in the hideous pink dress.
When Froi heard Bestiano’s footsteps retreat toward where the provincari were dismounting, Froi approached her.
“You’re going tomorrow,” she said quietly. “Without having planted the seed.”
Froi tried to hide his frustration. Deep down he wanted her to be of a sound mind, but each time she mentioned the planting of the seed, he knew she was nothing more than a half-mad girl.
“If you fulfill the prophecy,” she said, “we will let you kiss me.”
“A kiss is the prize?” he asked sadly. “Even more than giving me the rest of you? It should be the other way round, Princess. In the real world, it’s called courting. You let a lad kiss you and then you offer him more.”
“Let me tell you something, Olivier,” she said with tears of sorrow in her eyes, “this is my real world.”
Gargarin approached, returning from greeting the provincari. He was headed to their tower but stopped when he caught Quintana’s expression.
“Has Olivier said something to distress you?” he asked gently, noticing the tears in her eyes.
“He has a wicked tongue, Sir Gargarin.”
“Pity it’s not in our power to cut it out, then,” Gargarin said. “The provincaro of Paladozza would like a word,” he told Froi.
Froi looked back to where the portcullis was still raised and the drawbridge down.
“I’ve someone to meet,” he muttered, walking away from them both.
Froi hammered on the godshouse door for what seemed an eternity. He was always wary on this quiet part of the rock, away from the noise and business of the Citavita.
He stared into the peephole the moment he heard Arjuro slide it across. After a moment, the priestling opened the door and stepped aside. Froi watched him look down toward the palace.
“I suppose the provincari have arrived?”
Froi didn’t answer. Arjuro shut the heavy door, pushing his weight against it before placing a piece of timber across the length of the entrance.
They stood silently in the dark.
“Did you swap places?” Froi asked.
Arjuro met his eyes. He didn’t pretend not to know what Froi was saying.
“In a way.”
“In what way?” Froi demanded.
“In the way where I beat him to a pulp and walked out of a prison as Gargarin of Abroi and the real Gargarin stayed locked up for eight years as the priestling Arjuro.”
“Oh,” Froi said quietly. “That way.”
Arjuro was holding a bottle in his hand. He took a long mouthful. He looked worse than Froi had ever seen him. They both sat on the cold hard stone of the stairs.
“Lirah told me the truth. About what Gargarin did all those years ago.”
Arjuro didn’t respond.
“Is there any chance —?”
“No,” Arjuro said, as though he knew what Froi was asking. “I saw him do it. You’ve seen the distance between the godshouse balconette and yours. They shackled me to the railings outside mine, and they made me watch. First he tossed my beloved oracle, then her child.”
Froi’s heart sank.
“It was Lirah’s child,” he told Arjuro quietly. Respectfully. “They swapped the babes.”
Not even a day’s worth of ale could numb Arjuro from those words.
“Gods,” the priestling muttered, hammering his head against the wall. “Gods. Gods. Gods.”
Froi grabbed him, taking the bottle out of his hand. Suddenly, a thought seemed to cross Arjuro’s mind.
“Then the princess …”
Froi nodded. “… is the oracle’s daughter.”
“Well, that makes sense. There was no one madder than the oracle.”
“Was it quick?” Froi asked. “The way they died, I mean?”
“I could see the oracle was already dead. The struggle had already taken place inside the chamber. Same with the babe.”
Arjuro took the bottle from Froi and was back on his feet, trudging upward. Froi sometimes forgot that the brothers were no older than Trevanion and Perri and Lord August. But they walked like old men, as though the weight of evil stood on their shoulders.
Arjuro stopped at a landing that led to cell after small cell. Froi followed him into one of the rooms and watched the priestling collapse onto the cot, the bottle hitting the ground, shattering into pieces. “They made me watch,” Arjuro repeated over and over again. “They made me watch my brother kill innocence and goodness that day.”
“And what of you, Arjuro? What of your innocence or guilt? Who was it that betrayed this godshouse to the Serkers the year before?”
“There was no betrayal by me and no attack by Serker,” the priestling said.
Froi sat on one of the cots, waiting. If he had to, he would wait all day.
“I had fought with the oracle. I always fought with the oracle. It’s what she loved about me. I was her favorite, you know.”
Froi pushed the shattered glass out of the way and stepped closer.
“I went to meet De Lancey. He was visiting from Paladozza, and one thing led to another and we spent the night together. When I arrived here, I found the horror. All dead, but her. Men and women I adored. Most no older than twenty-five. The oracle couldn’t speak or write because they had cut off her tongue and fingers. I knew that we couldn’t stay, so I took her across the bridge and we traveled down into the gravina to the cave house I shared with Gargarin. I left a message for De Lancey at the inn. He joined us the next day. Told me I was insane for suspecting the palace. In those days the king could do no wrong in his eyes. De Lancey believed that by keeping the oracle away from the protection of the palace, I was placing her life at risk. Said I was to leave her in the cave and that he would send a message to the king to advise him where to find her. He would pretend that the Serkers had left her there on the way back home so I would not be accused.
“But De Lancey was too cowardly to do it himself and sent the farrier from the Citavita. When the farrier’s headless corpse was found in the town square, De Lancey realized the truth and went home to Paladozza. I think he’s been plotting against the palace ever since.”
“Why didn’t you leave her there?”
“Leave her?” Arjuro asked, tears in his eyes. “She was my beloved oracle. I left her once, but not again. If they were going to take us, they’d take us together. But the king had a different plan and locked me up in the godshouse, keeping her in the palace. The only thing that brought me comfort was that they allowed me to see my brother.”
Arjuro shuddered.
“Nine months later, I never wanted to see him again. He came straight to see me after the murder on the balconette. Wanted to explain what I had witnessed. I begged him to remove my shackles because they were cutting into my wrists. He agreed and I took my chance.”
“And you never looked back.”
“You always look back,” Arjuro said bitterly. “Always. And if you don’t, the gods look back for you. But from that day as far as Charyn knew, Arjuro of Abroi was a prisoner of the king for the next eight years.”
“So it was Gargarin who cried for Lirah when she tried to kill herself and Quintana?”
Arjuro nodded.
“He doesn’t love easily, my brother. He loved me and he had a strong affection for De Lancey of Paladozza and De Lancey’s father, who was the provincaro at the time. Women flocked to him, beautiful women. At first I thought he was like me and preferred the company of men in his bed. Men pursued him with the same passion as women. But nothing. It was as though he was in his own world of thoughts and inventions and books.”
“Why Lirah?”
“Who knows why Lirah? Back in the days it was safe to travel between the godshouse and palace, we would
all venture out to a vineyard across the bridge or down to the base of the gravina. De Lancey and I were scathing about Gargarin’s choice of her. It was our jealousy, of course.”
“You were jealous that Gargarin had Lirah?” Froi asked with disbelief.
“No. We were jealous that Lirah had Gargarin. Cold, cold Lirah, who was bitter toward all men, loved my brother with all her heart. It made me hate her even more, because I knew this union was not one of the flesh. She hated the touch of men. He barely tolerated the touch of anyone. I couldn’t bear the idea of him loving someone as much as he loved me.”
Froi could never have imagined that Gargarin, Lirah, and Arjuro had such a fierce capacity to love.
“They waited eight years to release him. The provincari warned the king that as long as the last priestling of the gods house was kept captive, the curse would hold and the kingdom would stay barren. So they released the man they believed to be Arjuro of Abroi ten years ago. The king feared the gods then more than ever.”
Before Froi could question why, Arjuro said the word.
“Lumatere.”
Froi flinched to hear it. He could only imagine that the king was full of fear because he had sent the impostor king and his soldiers to Lumatere and they had been trapped for three years by Lumatere’s curse.
“What did the palace think happened to Gargarin all those years ago?”
“That he deserted his king on the night of the last borns out of his own fear and shame at his brother’s betrayal of the palace. Gargarin was considered a traitor for years, you know, and there was a bounty on his head. And now he has returned with a plan to save the kingdom, to remind the king of how brilliant he is.”
“Not quite,” Froi said. “I think your brother has plans to kill the king.”
Arjuro shook his head. “Madness,” he muttered. “Madness.”
And there it was. Despite everything the priestling had witnessed, he still cared for a brother capable of such treacherous acts.
“Where did you hide all those years?” Froi asked.
Arjuro looked away, perhaps from shame of his betrayal or the horror of memory.
“You don’t want to know that, lad,” the priestling said hoarsely.
“Yes, I do.”
Arjuro shook his head. “Get out of the Citavita, Olivier of Sebastabol. Take your cruel face and your questions with you and leave me to the misery of this cursed existence.”
Chapter 17
Lucian called together the Monts in the meeting place of Yata’s house. It was the home he grew up in with his father, but three years past, he had decided it was best for Yata and her sisters to live there and for him to find a smaller cottage.
He hadn’t called many meetings in his time as leader, but he had spent too many sleepless nights thinking of what Kasabian had told him by the stream, and he knew it was time to speak to the lads and their families.
“So now the valley is theirs,” his cousin’s wife, Alda, snapped. “That is all it takes. They arrive on our doorstep, and we allow them to restrict our lads from entering land that rightfully belongs to us.”
There were sounds of disgust around the room, and Lucian tried to make eye contact with anyone who might take his side. Perhaps his cousin Yael or his neighbor Raskin.
“They damaged much-needed produce, Alda,” Lucian said with patience. “They pissed in the stream in front of the women.”
Some of the Monts laughed. Alda stood. Now she had an audience, and Lucian knew he was in trouble.
“And you’re telling me,” she said, looking around for support, “that you never once crossed the river from Osteria to Charyn in the ten years we were up in those hills? That you never once destroyed Charynite property or relieved yourself in the river.”
Lucian sighed. “That was different.”
There was a chorus of disapproval at his words.
“How different?” Alda yelled. “How were you different from our lads?”
He thought a moment. “Different in the sense that our Charyn neighbors in the hills of Osteria were part of their army. But our Charyn neighbors now are exiles themselves. Can I remind everyone that we took that hill in Osteria without the permission of the Osterians, yet they allowed us to stay?”
“How dare you compare,” Alda shouted.
“Lucian, our people were in exile!” Miro, his father’s dearest friend, said. “These people aren’t.”
“And may I also add that our lads were not interested in the valley until the Charynites moved there,” Lucian said.
“You started this,” Alda said. “By going to Alonso and returning wed to that idiot Charynite girl. A disgrace to the memory of your mother, Lucian. A disgrace, and it’s made us the laughing-stock of the kingdom. ‘The wife Lucian sent back,’ ” she mimicked. “Do you hear them mocking Lord August of the Flatlands or the elders of the Rock village in such a way?”
Lucian clenched his fists with rage.
“The pact was made between my father and hers, and I honored it in my father’s memory,” he said, fury lacing his words.
“Says who?” his cousin Gwendie called. “Who heard of this pact except for the girl’s father? You’re gullible, Lucian. And weak, and you believe anything the enemy says. Shame on you.”
“Shame,” the others shouted.
“Your father died at the hands of a Charynite,” Alda hissed. “Shame on you.”
She walked out with her sons in tow.
“Give him a chance,” Yael called out. He was Jory’s father, and regardless of what was said tonight, Lucian knew Jory would have his ears boxed by both his ma and fa when he got home.
“We’ve given him enough chances,” Pitts the cobbler said. “What has he done to keep the enemy from the foot of our mountain? Nothing! He can’t even find the culprit behind Orly’s bull going missing every night. How hard is that, Lucian? It’s a bull with more brains than you have.”
Lucian’s eyes met Yata’s, and he saw pain there. Please don’t be disappointed, Yata. Please, he begged silently.
He swallowed hard. “I stand by what I say. I don’t care what you think of them. I didn’t think I cared what I thought of them. I still don’t. But I care what I think of us, and when one of their men gave me a lesson on how they would like their women treated … well, it shamed me. And it made me realize that I did care and that Saro would be horrified?”— his eyes met Jory’s— “and disappointed that our lads would treat the women of any kingdom in such a way. You may say shame on me for believing what the enemy says, but I say shame on all of us if we condone the behavior of our lads.”
There was silence a moment.
“The lads do not enter the valley,” he said firmly. “And if any of you have issue with my ruling, I will send a message to beloved Isaboe and have this mountain put on curfew.”
He pushed past the crowd and left the courtyard.
Phaedra of Alonso sat by the stream that evening and wrote a letter to Lady Beatriss of the Flatlands. It had been a week since a horse and cart had arrived from the village of Sennington with a letter and a gift.
Phaedra had read the letter to Kasabian and Cora as they studied the object at the back of the cart.
“What does it all mean?” Kasabian asked.
“Well, here in her letter, Lady Beatriss writes that she used to cook for her village, but she no longer needs it and I should put it to good use.”
It was an oversize clay pot, which took three men to remove from the cart and place on the ground.
“There,” she said, pointing where a campfire was set up beside the stream.
“What are we going to do with it?” Cora asked.
Phaedra thought a moment. “I think we’ll make pumpkin soup.” She looked up at the caves where some of the camp dwellers were staring down at them. “And invite the whole village.”
Later that day, Phaedra crossed the stream with a bowl of soup in her hands and held it out to Tesadora, who sat with the girls cooking trou
t over an open fire. Tesadora studied it.
“I don’t eat orange food.”
“That’s silly,” Phaedra said, wondering where she got the courage to call Tesadora silly. “You eat green food and red food.”
“Orange is a ridiculous color for food, I say.”
“I’ll have a taste,” the Mont girl named Constance said. Somehow Tesadora had inherited two Mont girls who had come down one day with Phaedra’s Mont husband and never returned home. “I’m sick and tired of fish.”
Phaedra held out the spoon, and the girl slurped it, making a face. “Something is missing.”
Constance jumped up from where she sat and searched around their herb garden before coming back with a small leaf that she began to shred, stirring it into her soup. Constance tasted it again and nodded with approval, handing it to Japhra.
“Strange,” Japhra said. She didn’t speak much. Phaedra had heard someone say she had a gift when it came to cures, but that the Charynite soldiers had broken her inside.
Japhra held it out to Tesadora. “I’ve seen you eat carrots,” she teased. “They’re orange.”
Tesadora took a spoonful of the soup and swallowed. “Tomorrow we’ll show you how a soup is made,” was all she said.
The next night, even Rafuel’s mysterious men had left their cave and Tesadora’s herbs gave a fragrance to the soup that had the more reserved Charynites coming back for seconds.
“You’re sure I’m not poisoning you?” Tesadora called out to one of the camp dwellers who had refused to see her. “Because if I’m not poisoning your food, perhaps you can come and see me about that open sore on your arm.”
The night after that, they made a fish stock that caused much flatulence and even more laughter.
And so it was that Lady Beatriss’s boiling pot became the reason the cave dwellers came out in the open and began to speak to their neighbors. Phaedra drew up a roster, and each night it was a different person’s turn to cook, and sometimes she’d see them venture over the stream to speak to the Lumaterans about recipes. Later, Phaedra completed her letter and showed it to Cora.
“Ask her if she has any need for her bread oven,” Cora demanded.
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