Prologue
They call her Quintana the cursemaker. The last female born to Charyn, eighteen years past.
Reginita, she claims to be. The little Queen. Recipient of the words writ on her chamber wall, whispered by the gods themselves. That those born last will make the first, and blessed be the newborn king, for Charyn will be barren no more.
And so it comes to be that each autumn since the fifteenth day of weeping, a lastborn son of Charyn visits the palace in a bid to fulfil the prophecy. But fails each time.
They weep for fear of hurting her. But she has no tears for herself. 'Come along,' she says briskly. 'Be quick. I'll try to think of other things, but if your mouth touches mine, I will cut it out.'
Most nights she concentrates on the contours of the ceiling, where light from the Oracle's godshouse across the gravina shines into her chamber. She holds up a hand and makes shapes in the shadows. And inside of her, in the only place she can hide, Quintana sings her song.
And somewhere beyond the stone that is Charyn, the blood of a lastborn sings back to her.
PART ONE
The Cursemaker
Chapter 1
Froi's head was ringing.
A fist against his jaw, an elbow to his nose, a knee to his face and they kept on coming and coming, these old men, he had called them. They came for him one after the other, and there was no mercy to be had this day. But Froi of the Exiles wasn't born for mercy. Not to receive, nor deliver it.
Behind his attackers was a sycamore tree waiting to die, its limbs half-dragging on the dry ground beneath it, and Froi took his chance, diving high between two of the men, his hands reaching for one of the branches, his body swinging, legs jutting out. A boot to a face, one man down, then he pounded into another before the branch collapsed under his weight. He pulled it free from the tree, swinging the limb high over his head. A third man down and then the fourth. He heard a curse and a muttered threat before the flat of his palm smashed the next man who came forward. Smashed him on the bridge of the nose, and Froi danced with glee.
Until he was left facing Finnikin of Lumatere and Froi felt the feralness of his nature rise to the surface. 'No rules,' they had declared, and the dark Goddess knew that Froi loved to play games with no rules. And so with eyes locked, they circled each other, hands out, waiting to pounce in the way the wolves in the Forest of Lumatere fought for their prey. Froi saw a bead of sweat appear on the brow of the man they called the Queen's Consort, saw the quick fist come his way, and so he ducked, his own fist connecting with precision. But all it took was the thought of the Queen, her head shaking with bemusement and a smile entering her eyes, to make Froi think again about where to land his second blow. In that moment's hesitation, his legs were kicked out from under him and he felt his face pressed into the earth.
'You let me win,' Finnikin growled, and Froi heard anger in his voice.
'Only because she'll kill me if I bruise that lily-white skin,' Froi mocked through gasps.
Finnikin pressed harder, but after a moment Froi could feel that he was shaking from laughter. 'She'll thank you for it, knowing Isaboe.' Finnikin leapt to his feet. They exchanged a grin and Froi took the hand held out to him.
'Old man, did you call me?' Perri, the Captain's second-in-charge, asked behind him. 'Because I'm sure I heard those words come out of your mouth.'
'Not out of my mouth,' Froi said, feigning innocence and spitting blood to the ground from a cut in his lip. 'Must have been someone else.' Around the sycamore, soldiers of the Guard were picking themselves up, curses ringing the air while the lads in training began collecting the
