Froi of the Exiles (22 page)

‘How could he do that if two lived?’

‘By hiding us in a hovel underneath the cottage. When we were four and old enough to work the farm, he would take us out to work one day at a time.’

Froi could not understand what Arjuro was saying. He placed a hand over the cup to stop the Priestling from pouring another drink. Arjuro looked at him and flinched. ‘You have the face of a cruel man, Olivier of Sebastabol.’

‘But it’s in me to be kind,’ Froi said. ‘Talk.’

Arjuro pointed to the cup and Froi removed his hand.

‘We had one name. The word for nothing in the Abroin dialect. Dafar. Nothing. One day I was Dafar and my brother stayed in the hole. The next day he was Dafar and I stayed in the hole.’

Froi was breathless. ‘Madness,’ he whispered.

Arjuro nodded. ‘We named each other. Gargarin is not a Charynite name. I liked Arjuro. Gar and Ari.’ Arjuro smiled for a moment. ‘They were two adventurers in the year one hundred who wrote tales claiming they had gone beyond the Ocean of Skuldenore.’

Arjuro swallowed a cupful of wine, soaking his beard.

‘There was never a time when my brother wasn’t taking care of me. It was Gar who always had the plans to protect us from our father. I received the gift of godspeak when I was six years old, and Gar and I clutched onto each other with such joy that day. The walls of our hovel were filled with words of wonder. Blessings from the gods, wisdom from the Ancients. Gargarin’s time would come soon, we’d tell each other. We could not imagine a gift bestowed on one and not the other. What it took others months to learn, I could do in a moment. Read. Write. Translate for the gods. I wrote the symbols and taught Gargarin, for only the gods’ touched could read the raw words written by the gods themselves, and in Abroi we had the oldest caves in the kingdom. And we waited for his gift and waited, telling ourselves we would escape from the swamp of Abroi the moment it came. But it didn’t. Gargarin had not been chosen.’

Froi saw tears in Arjuro’s eyes, as though the moment he remembered had taken place just the day before.

‘Our father, being an ignorant man, was frightened by intellect and reason. And he was even more frightened by what could not be explained. He believed he could thrash it out of me, this gift that had others in awe.’ A flash of pain crossed Arjuro’s face.

‘Gargarin always had a solution. “If we can take turns being Dafar, then we can take turns being you,” he’d say. So we would share the beating.’

Arjuro’s eyes were fierce with self-disgust. ‘I let him.’

All Froi’s young life he had prayed to the gods that someone would share the beatings and his pain. If anyone understood Arjuro, he did.

‘One day, when we were ten years old,’ Arjuro continued, ‘Gar packed a saddlebag. He took my hand and we walked four days to Paladozza. People stood agog by the side of the road, for they had never seen our two faces together. But Paladozza was a dream. The second capital, they called it. The godshouse was full of learned men and women and Gar demanded a meeting with the Priestess. “My brother is gods’ touched,” he said. “Take care of him.” He then walked all the way back to Abroi.’

‘You lived apart?’

Arjuro nodded. ‘Every night I spent away from home I dreamt of three babes. I knew I was dreaming of my brothers, one dead and one alive, until I could no longer stand being away from Gar. I walked four days back to Abroi to be with him. I told him about the dream and he had dreamt the same.

‘Finally, the Provincaro of Paladozza came to Abroi and took us both. The Priests were desperate to have me in their godshouse school. Despite the fact that our father tried time and time again to drag us back to Abroi, we found peace in Paladozza. Gar was the Provincaro’s servant boy and I went to school, but we still managed to see each other every day. We were treated with the same respect as the Provincaro’s son, De Lancey. Everything I learnt, I taught Gargarin. At sixteen I was sent to the Citavita to begin my time as a Priestling in the godshouse. Gargarin gave up the Provincaro’s offer of land and prosperity to stay close to me and he found himself work in the palace that once sat at the entrance of the Citavita where the bridge ends. Gar was the King’s errand boy.’

‘How does an errand boy end up being one of the King’s trusted few?’ Froi asked.

‘Because whether it was the Provincaro of Paladozza or the King of Charyn, Gargarin of Abroi was not easy to ignore. Within a year at the palace, he had drawn designs that everyone he met marvelled at. They said that one day this lad would be the King’s First Advisor.’ Arjuro’s words were slurred. ‘They began building the palace across the rock, the most impenetrable royal dwelling in the whole of the land. Years later when it was complete, the palace made the King feel like a god until he believed he had the status of one. And then this godshouse was raped.’

Froi leaned forward to stare the man in his eyes. ‘I don’t think for a moment that Gargarin believes you betrayed the Priestlings, Arjuro,’ Froi said. ‘You can’t possibly believe that.’

‘You don’t want to know what I saw,’ the Priestling said, his voice hoarse.

‘Was it the slaughter?’ Froi asked.

Arjuro shook his head, stumbled to his feet and pushed Froi away.

‘If I could tear out my eyes to stop what I saw on the day of weeping, I’d do it over and over again.’

‘Quintana’s birth?’ Froi asked, confused. ‘But you were imprisoned, Arjuro. You couldn’t have seen anything.’

‘I saw everything,’ Arjuro said, his voice hoarse. ‘But ask me nothing of that night.’

Froi followed him down the dark passage. ‘Then I ask why Lirah is imprisoned.’

The Priestling’s shoulders collapsed. Froi could tell he didn’t want to answer that question either.

‘For an attempted murder,’ Arjuro said, quietly.

‘Who?’ Froi demanded.

‘Her daughter.’

P
haedra watched her Mont husband carefully. She had been sitting on his side of the stream a while now. It was unnerving not to have her people around, especially in the presence of the white witch.

‘So answer the question,’ the white witch said. ‘Are your people not coming to see me about their ailments because they think they will be banished from the valley if I find something wrong with them?’

‘They’re frightened of you,’ Phaedra blurted out. ‘Curses frighten my people and so do Charynites of mixed blood.’

‘Well I’m glad I didn’t have to beat that out of her,’ Tesadora muttered to Lucian.

Phaedra had never met a more frightening woman. She noticed that even the Mont lads feared her and only ventured near when they knew the white witch was further downstream.

‘We need to know about whether Rafuel’s rebels have heard from their messenger,’ her Mont husband said. He didn’t seem worried about the ailments of her people and was impatient with the white witch’s questions.

‘I beg your pardon, my lord,’ Phaedra said, her eyes studying the patterns of dirt on the ground inside the tent.

‘I’ve told you before, I’m not your anything,’ the Mont said coldly.

She nodded. ‘I beg your pardon, Luci-en.’ She winced, knowing she said it wrong. ‘But if I did know something, I’m not certain why you think I’d tell you.’

She caught Tesadora and the three other girls exchanging surprised expressions.

‘What I’m trying to say … is that my allegiance is not with you. It’s with them. It’s why they don’t tell me anything. They fear that you and your Guard and the white witch, and perhaps the Charynite King’s riders if they come to the valley, will attempt to torture it out of me.’

‘The white witch?’ one of the novices asked. ‘Is that what they call you, Tesadora?’

Tesadora shot Phaedra a look that narrowed her eyes even more. ‘I’ve been referred to as worse.’

‘We don’t torture,’ Lucian snapped. ‘You mistake us for Charynites.’

The white witch made a strange sound of disbelief. ‘Of course we torture.’

Lucian looked at the white witch and then at Phaedra with irritation.

‘We would never torture
her
,’ he said. ‘That’s what I’m trying to explain.’

‘I’d torture her in a moment.’ The white witch spoke as though Phaedra was not standing before her. ‘If she knew the fate of Froi and was holding it from us, I’d relish the torture.’

Phaedra dared not look at the older woman. When she had lived in the mountains during her marriage to the Mont, she had heard stories of what this white witch had done to a man who had been taken to the cloisters where she once lived with the novices. The man had been in pain, complaining of stomach cramps, and the witch had sliced him from chest to navel and left him open to die while his family watched. Worse still was the story that it was the mother of the white witch who had cursed Lumatere whilst burning at the stake.

‘But if I was to know that your kinsman Froi was safe,’ Phaedra said, ‘I would tell you. Without torture.’

Phaedra chanced a look at the Mont. She imagined that once, when his father lived, he would have been a kinder lad and full of warmth. But she had not seen that side of him and when he insisted that she return to her father earlier in the year she had been relieved to be far from him.

‘I need to go back up the mountain,’ he said, getting to his feet, and she could hear weariness in his voice.

One of the girls clicked her tongue with dismay. ‘Whether you reach the mountain tonight or early tomorrow won’t make a difference, Lucian. Stay.’

He shook his head. ‘My father never spent a night away from his people.’

He mounted his horse and then he was gone, leaving Phaedra on the enemy side of the stream with the white witch staring at her in the dark.

‘You’ll never find your dwellings across the stream,’ she said. ‘You’ll sleep here tonight.’

Later, when everyone slept, Phaedra was awoken by the sound of a horse. She had heard the same sound from her side of the stream on other nights and had wondered who would ride down the mountain at such a time. She heard a shuffling at the entrance of the tent and then the flap was pulled back, revealing the Lumateran Guard they referred to as Perri the Savage. In the light of the moon she could see the hideous scar across his crown, saw his cold dark eyes search the room. Phaedra whimpered. She was a fool not to believe that it had been a plot all along. They had sent the most brutal of the Guard to deal with her, after all.

She watched him creep stealthily across the space and she squeezed her eyes shut, praying to Ferja, the goddess of courage.

‘What was that sound?’ she heard the Savage whisper.

‘Probably the wife Lucian sent back,’ the white witch responded sleepily. ‘Thinking you’re going to torture her.’

He gave a snort. ‘After more than a week without a break and a day on the road?’

Phaedra heard the rustle of clothing being removed.

‘You were a fool to come without resting,’ the white witch said quietly.

‘I’ll find time to rest when you come home,’ he murmured, and Phaedra’s face was aflame as she heard sounds that had little to do with torture and more to do with pleasure.

‘We have a home, do we?’ the white witch asked.

‘I’ll build you one.’

This time it was Tesadora who sighed. ‘Sleep. You’re too tired to be of any use to me tonight.’

He chuckled and soon they slept and Phaedra was comforted that such a man would build a woman a home. That such a woman would speak words with tenderness.

She was forced to spend a second night on the Lumateran side of the stream translating her chronicles of the Charynites who arrived each day in the valley for Tesadora and the novices.

‘I hope you’re not promising them anything,’ Tesadora snapped from her bedroll as the others slept.

‘It wouldn’t matter if I did,’ Phaedra said. ‘Charynites don’t trust promises.’

The next morning she woke to a party of people arriving with more soldiers than she had ever seen. They came with women and children and some of the Mont girls she remembered from her time in the mountains. She felt uncomfortable with their stares and would have done anything to be on her side of the stream. The women who sat in the tent were dressed for the cool mountain air. Phaedra could see they were women of wealth. She had no idea how to determine the age of a child after seeing so few in her life, but the smallest was a tiny cherub with the greyest of eyes, her hair covered by an oversized cap. She stared solemnly from her mother’s lap. The other little girl was older and so beautiful it made Phaedra’s heart ache.

‘What a strange way to live,’ one of the younger Monts said, coming into the tent after having observed Phaedra’s people from across the stream.

‘No different to the trogs up on Finnikin’s Rock,’ Tesadora said.

It was a noisy room of talk and giggles and hushed gossip. Tesadora laughed heartily at what the young woman with the grey-eyed child had to say. There was love between these people and, as always, Phaedra felt so far removed and lonely from everyone, even her own.

The conversation between them changed constantly and finally settled on the Charynite camp.

‘They’re so dirty,’ one of the Mont girls spoke. ‘I tell you, I spent a day helping Tesadora and I could barely stand the stench when I stood beside a group of women.’

‘Constance,’ a fair-haired girl warned.

Then there was silence and the Mont girl’s eyes flickered to Phaedra. Phaedra’s face felt as though it was on fire. So many eyes suddenly on her, pity in some. But what shamed her more were the stares from the children.

‘
The wife Lucian sent back
,’ she heard one of them explain in a whisper.

‘
Spent two whole weeks crying when he first brought her to the mountain
,’ another said.

She heard hisses of ‘Shhhh’ and ‘Enough!’ The stares continued and then more silence, so much of it that even the Lumaterans looked uncomfortable.

‘They escaped through the sewers,’ Phaedra said quietly.

Phaedra felt the eyes of every person in the tent on her. Although she had never been called outspoken, she had an awful habit of speaking out of nervousness. ‘Enough now, Phaedra, my sweet,’ her father would say.