Free Froi of the Exiles by Melina Marchetta Page A

smile on the Priestking’s face. ‘I’ve said it once and I will say it again, there is a song in your heart, Froi. You must unleash it or you will spend your days in regret.’
    ‘I’ll sing for no one,’ Froi said stiffly. ‘And if you don’t want to sing it, you just have to say!’
    The Priestking leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Froi’s brow. A blessing. ‘Stay safe, my young friend.’
    Froi gently placed his hands on the fragile man’s arms. ‘I will see you in less than a fortnight, blessed
Barakah
, and we’ll do something about this garden.’
    In the palace courtyard, Perri fitted him with scabbards for his daggers and short sword.
    ‘This was made especially for you,’ he said, placing one of them across Froi’s shoulder blades. ‘A beautiful hide, indeed. Look.’ Froi saw his own name engraved in the leather and whether it came from Perri or Trevanion, or the King or Queen, it made Froi feel proud. Apart from Isaboe’s ruby ring, Froi had never owned anything in his life.
    ‘You mightn’t be able to get weapons into the capital, but keep it safe.’
    Froi looked up to see Isaboe standing alongside Sir Topher, watching from the parapet. Even from here he saw sadness in his queen’s eyes. A sadness of spirit. He knew Finnikin would be feeling exactly the same.
    Later, Finnikin walked with him until they arrived at the gates of the palace village. ‘Do you ever think of that day with the slave traders of Sorel?’ Finnikin asked quietly.
    ‘I think of it all the time,’ Froi said.
    ‘I was going to kill you,’ Finnikin said, a catch in his voice. ‘You were begging me, remember?’
    Froi couldn’t speak. In his whole existence, it was the only time he had ever lost hope. He would have preferred to die that day rather than be sold as a slave in Sorel. He had counted on Finnikin being accurate with his dagger from a distance. But he had not counted on Isaboe wanting him to live. Not after what he had tried to do to her.
    He sensed Finnikin’s sadness and didn’t want to leave Lumatere with the memory of it.
    ‘Then you both argued,’ Froi grinned. ‘About my name.’
    Finnikin chuckled. ‘Your mouth was split. I was sure you were calling yourself
Boy
.’ He feigned a grimace of displeasure. ‘Did she have to be right?’
    ‘She did have a point. Who’d name a babe a nothing name like
Boy
?’
    Froi looked back up to the palace and then at Finnikin. ‘Why won’t she see me? I can’t leave without her blessing.’
    ‘She’s afraid to bid you farewell. You mean everything to us, Froi.’
    ‘I do this for you and her. I will do anything for my king and my queen.’
    Finnikin smiled sadly. ‘But Isaboe and I are just two people, Froi. You need to want to do it for the kingdom.’
    Froi saw tears in his king’s eyes and they embraced.
    ‘Kill this beast who has brought so much despair and come home to us safe, my friend.’
    It was Perri who accompanied him to the mountain that night. From there, Froi would travel through the valley and pass the province of Alonso where he would meet Rafuel’s contact. They would travel for days and at the foot of the ravine outside the capital, they would be introduced to a man named Gargarin of Abroi, who had answered the request of the Provincaro of Sebastabol to travel to the palace with the lastborn.
    When they began their ascent, Froi heard the beauty of the Priestking’s voice across the land, and the song inside Froi that he refused to sing, ached to be let loose. What had frightened him most about Rafuel of Sebastabol was that his stories had made Froi’s blood dance. They had given him a restlessness. A need to be elsewhere to search for a part of himself that was lost. But what he feared was that the search to find answers would take him away from this land of light. That once he left, he would never find his way back home.
    In the Flatlands of Sennington, Lady Beatriss heard the song and sowed seeds into a dead earth that