Melina Marchetta - Quintana of Charyn

Froi looked at him, dumbfounded. ‘Those were done in our time? They look as though the ancients drew them.’

‘My grandson’s work replicating the ancients’ manuscripts is humbling. I can only take responsibility for providing the seed that created his mother.’

Simeon emptied the broad beans into the water.

‘But we’re not here to talk about Rothen and the lads in the valley. We’re here to talk about the two people born last in this kingdom.’

Simeon lowered his voice. ‘Or more importantly, the King and the cursebreaker they may have created.’

Simeon’s knowledge of events may have had little to do with Arjuro. So Froi waited. Trevanion always said that silence from one party always resulted in information from another.

‘Apart from the Oracle’s godshouse, the one here in Sebastabol was the largest and the most political of all in Charyn,’ Simeon said. ‘It sits on a cliff overlooking the vast Ocean of Skuldenore and has not been used since we heard of the attack on the godshouse and Oracle in the capital. For centuries the godshouses of Charyn have sent their most brilliant scholars to the Citavita. Those men and women chronicled our lives, studying the stars and designing the structures that have kept us in awe. The godshouse produced physicians and alchemists and nurtured genius. Always guided by an Oracle sent by the gods.’

‘But the Oracle wasn’t sent by the gods,’ Froi said bluntly. ‘She was taken from a goatherd’s family in the Turlan Mountains.’

Simeon looked away. ‘Regardless of how she was found, lad, she was still sent to us by the gods.’

‘But why lie to the people about her origins?’

‘Because people aren’t interested in the truth, Dafar. They’re interested in what keeps them safe. They’re interested in being looked after. They’re interested in a tale being spun. Do you know the story they tell now in Charyn about the Lumateran Priestking? That he sang his song, and from across the land his people heard his voice and followed him home to Lumatere after ten wretched years. A better story than the truth. That he was found wallowing in a death camp with no hope.’

‘He is a mighty man,’ Froi said, catching his breath at the thought of the Priestking. ‘Don’t you forget that.’

‘But mighty men have moments of great despair that common people do not want to know about.’

Simeon’s eyes were full of regret.

‘The Provincari, the Priests and the Palace are rivals, and in the new Charyn it is best that we do away with that rivalry. So we’re going to chronicle a different tale. The people of Charyn won’t enjoy the real one. The one Arjuro told me, anyway.’

Froi and Quintana were the real story. So were Gargarin, Lirah and Arjuro.

‘And what story is that?’ Froi asked, trying hard to obey Arjuro’s command to behave.

‘The story of the lastborn lad who was left on our doorstep eighteen-and-a-half years ago. Of the Priests of Trist, who decided to keep the babe safe by taking him to Sarnak. Charyn is not going to enjoy the story of their failure. That the Priests of Trist lost the lastborn; lost him for all those years, and that he was brought up on the filthy streets of the Sarnak capital. They’re going to hate the part about the King raping the Oracle and that she gave birth to the Princess. So we’re going to have to make up a story everyone will love, Dafar. One befitting a king.’

Froi felt the tears stinging at his eyes.

‘Tell me that story, then,’ he said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

‘Oh, it’s a beautiful one,’ Simeon said. ‘In which the King’s daughter found love with the heir to the throne, Tariq of Lascow, despite having Lirah, the Serker whore, as a mother. Where he planned her rescue from the gallows and married her in their underground home. And he gave up his life to keep the future mother of his child safe. It’s a love story, Dafar. Everyone wants to believe in one. And if we manage to keep Quintana of Charyn alive, do you know why the people will love her? Because the heir, Tariq of Lascow, loved her. The little King will mean even more to us.’

Froi turned away. ‘I was never one for stories,’ he said, staring up at the frescoes.

‘Do you want me to tell you another one?’

Froi didn’t respond. His eyes focused on the larger-than-life image of a warrior aiming a longbow on the wall of the cave. He searched the ceiling for whatever it was the marksman was aiming at. Simeon pointed to the image of a tree whose roots stretched across all corners, as if reading his thoughts. Painted onto the trunk was a decree pinned with a bronze arrow. It was the same word written three times in faint gold. Hope. Hope. Hope.

‘I’ve never heard that story,’ Froi said softly. ‘About a warrior shooting messages of hope.’

Simeon smiled ruefully. ‘Because it doesn’t exist.’ He pointed to his bedroll, which lay directly under the three words. ‘My grandson’s first work at the age of thirteen. He said I was a pessimist and he wanted me to stare up at it to remind me not to be. In the darkness, the gold letters are illuminated and all I can see are the words.’

Charyn needed more men like Rothen, Froi thought.

‘Did you know it was Arjuro who first took you to Sarnak as a babe?’ Simeon asked.

Froi was stunned to hear the words. He shook his head because he could hardly speak. There were so many secrets hidden inside Gargarin and Arjuro and he wondered if they would all ever be revealed.

‘Arjuro was a broken man on the night he escaped from the palace eighteen years ago. He said there was a darkness tainting his spirit and he had to make something right. It was his idea that we smuggle the abandoned babe out of the kingdom. He volunteered to be the one.’

Simeon’s stern face softened. ‘You spent the first month of your life in the safety of his arms. I’ve seen you both together these past weeks and it is clear the ties that bind you are still strong.’

The bond was strong because Arjuro was blood kin. Froi knew that more than anything else.

‘Arjuro returned from Sarnak and lived here with us. He was as wild as ever and full of rage at the world. At himself. Over the next few years we would hear news about you from the Priestess of the Sarnak godshouse. You were Our Dafar ,’ he added. ‘If any of us ever experienced hardship, we would say, “At least Our Dafar is safe.”

‘But four years after we sent you to Sarnak, we received word that the godshouse of the Sarnak capital was destroyed by fire. All we knew at the time were the names of those who had perished. And that there was no child among the dead. So we sent a messenger to bring you home … but the messenger never reached Sarnak. Your fate was lost to us until Rafuel of Sebastabol sent word three years past that he believed he had found you in the woods on the Charyn–Osteria border.’

‘Rafuel was there?’ Froi asked. ‘In the barracks when I was taken by the Charynites?’

Simeon nodded. ‘Rafuel ran away from his father and the palace when he was fourteen years old. When he returned to the Citavita years later to find out what he could about the lastborn, he was rounded up with a group of lads and put to use in the army. And as fate had it, Rafuel was at the right place at the right time. And here you are, Dafar of Abroi.’

There was something about the way Simeon said his name this time that made Froi uneasy.

‘What do you want from me?’ Froi asked, because he knew he hadn’t been summoned to listen to Simeon’s stories.

‘Find us the girl.’

The Priest’s eyes were ice-cold.

‘And then go back to being Froi of Lumatere. And no one need get hurt.’

That night, Froi sat opposite Arjuro in silence for the most part.