Froi of the Exiles by Melina Marchetta

a long narrow timber bridge. As Rafuel had promised, the walls of the ravine came into view again, mightier in height than Froi had seen on their journey so far. They travelled across the bridge of the Citavita, with its planks swinging and swaying. Through the mist, Froi saw a tower of uneven rock in the distance, but as they travelled closer he realised he was looking at a cluster of dwellings carved out of the stone, perched atop each other precariously as if about to spiral into the chasm below.
    Against the dirty-coloured capital was the white of the castle. Froi saw turrets higher than any he had ever seen before. But looming even higher over the castle battlements was another rock.
    ‘What is that?’ Froi asked.
    ‘The Oracle’s godshouse,’ Gargarin responded.
    ‘What’s keeping it from toppling down?’ Froi asked, trying not to sound aghast, but aghast all the same.
    He heard Gargarin of Abroi’s ragged breath. ‘That would be the gods.’
    After they stepped off the bridge and onto the more solid ground of the Citavita, they began the steep climb up a winding road that wrapped around the rock of dwellings. Froi couldn’t tell where one home began and another ended and realised that the roofs of the houses were the actual path to the palace.
    Lining the winding path, people worked silently selling their wares, but it was a cluster of men, their heads bent low in whispers, their eyes promising malevolence and spite, that Froi noticed the most. These men were no different from the street thugs he had answered to on the streets of the Sarnak capital. In Sarnak, these men had, in turn, answered to no one. Froi could tell that the Citavita’s street thugs were armed and he could have pointed out every concealed weapon. He itched for his own.
    When they finally stood in front of the castle gates he understood why no one had ever entered uninvited. Isaboe’s castle in Lumatere was built to provide a home to the royal family. It was only recently that Finnikin and Sir Topher had sat with Trevanion and an architect from the Lumateran rock village to discuss the extra security measures required for their young family and their kingdom.
    But this castle was built for defence. Froi stared up at the soldiers with their weapons trained on them. They stared down at him. Up close he could see the castle was built on its own rock, a fraction higher and separate from the rest of the Citavita. Although it was a narrow space between the portcullis and where they stood, there was no moat surrounding it, instead there was a drop into the gravina separating them that seemed to go on forever. Rafuel had given him a strange description of how the gravina narrowed in a serpentine fashion past the palace and godshouse of the Citavita.
    ‘Gargarin of Abroi?’ a voice rang out towards them.
    Gargarin raised his hand in acknowledgement. The drawbridge began to descend across the space, stopping short of where Froi and Gargarin stood. Once on the bridge, it was a short but steep climb up to the gate. On each side a thick braided rope provided a place to grip firmly. Gargarin’s staff fell to the steel beneath their feet and he struggled once, then twice, to retrieve it.
    Waiting for them at the gate stood a man of Gargarin’s years, his hair longish around the ears, his mottled skin covered with a coarse, fair beard. He was all forced smile and Froi caught a gleam of pleasure in his eyes as Gargarin continued to struggle for his staff.
    Froi picked it up instead.
    ‘Put your arm around my shoulder,’ Froi ordered, and for the first time since they had met, Gargarin didn’t argue. Froi wondered what it did to a man of Gargarin’s age to be hobbling like an old man.
    ‘Welcome back, Abroi’s Gargarin,’ the man at the portcullis greeted. There was mockery in the way he spoke the words. Froi remembered what Zabat had said. That Abroi had produced nothing of worth but Gargarin and his brother, the Priestling. Perhaps this