Finnikin of the Rock

Chapter 11

The flooding rains of Sorel pounded the earth for days, forcing them to spend the week lodging in a barn when the road to the south became impassable. It was a painstakingly slow beginning to a search that would take them into the most war-ravaged kingdom in the land. While Sir Topher taught Froi the language of Lumatere, the others pored over their maps, searching for alternative routes to reach Trevanion's men, who he believed were hiding in one of the rock villages of Yutlind Sud. The most common route was to cross back into Belegonia, which bordered Yutlind from the north. But Trevanion was an outlaw in every kingdom of the land, and the road into Belegonia was too dangerous. If they traveled west through Sorel to its port, they risked having to pass through the mines as well as deal with a treacherous waterway, the Gulf of Skuldenore.

"Pirate ships," Finnikin said. "Tipped off by corrupt port officials who take a cut of anything plundered."

"Corruption in Sorel? Surely you jest," Sir Topher said, walking over to join them.

"Even if we manage to land in Yutlind," Finnikin continued, "the heaviest fighting is in the north and the Yuts always attack first and ask questions later. I say we cross the mountains. To get here," he said, pointing to the independent coastal province of Sif, south of Sorel. "We pay passage on a merchant cog that travels south. There is a small port on the Yack River in Yutlind Sud. From there we travel up-country."

"The south is a mess, Finnikin," Sir Topher argued. "No one knows who is in charge or who is to blame or who is an ally or an enemy."

"So the last thing on their minds will be a party of Lumateran exiles and an escaped prisoner."

"Then we travel to Sif," Trevanion decided.

After the dark world of the mines and the fever camp and the dampness of the overcrowded barn where the stench of body odor permeated every one of his senses, Finnikin was relieved to see the snowcapped mountains in the distance. Though the mountains looked invigorating from afar, he never imagined how terrible their beauty would become as they ascended. Nights were bitterly cold, the icy wind numbing their faces, cloth swaddling their mouths and noses, where saliva and mucus feasted together.

They spoke little during the day. The wind was too severe and the trail too backbreaking to waste energy on talk. Sometimes, when his fingers ached from the stinging cold and his skin felt torn to shreds from the bluster, Finnikin imagined the life he would have had if he'd settled for a role as an advisor to a foreign king. Instead, he was trekking across the land for a Guard that may not want to be found, on his way home to a kingdom that no longer existed.

On the fourth night, they camped inside a cave, their bodies convulsing, their bedrolls packed tight against one another. They rotated every few hours to ensure that everyone would have a chance to sleep in the warmth. Finnikin dreamed that he was nestled in a womb, speaking to Beatriss's baby. When he woke, he found himself in the arms of his father and his own wrapped around Evanjalin. He knew she had been walking the sleep over the last few nights and wondered, as she twitched in his arms, if she was again. Her hair was now a thin dark cap on her scalp, and a strange kind of beauty had begun to appear in her face, despite the grime. Every feature was strong, strangely put together. Although she was thin from their journey, nothing about her seemed delicate. Yet Finnikin had seen brief moments of fragility. A look on her face as if she had just remembered something painful, her breath catching. At times it was as if she could barely raise her head from the demons that weighed her down.

"Sir Topher! Sir Topher!"

Finnikin heard her voice. He hadn't realized he had fallen asleep again.

"I think I've worked it out," she said.

Sir Topher woke with a start. "Goddess of Sorrow, Evanjalin! Can it not wait till morning?"

"Worked what out?" Trevanion demanded. Finnikin sat up, yawning. The last embers of the fire were glowing, and the dampness was back in his bones.

"They may not be dead," she said dreamily. "The baker dreamed of cherry blossoms. He lit a candle and made a sacrifice to the goddess Sagrami."

"Evanjalin, you need to sleep," Finnikin said. "You're not making sense."

But she shook her head. "No, I need to stay awake and put the pieces of all the sleeps together."

Sir Topher rubbed his eyes. "Froi, make yourself useful and get this fire going."

Froi grunted, not wanting to leave the comfort of the bedrolls, but was nudged out by Sir Topher. They wrapped themselves in every bit of clothing they had and drew their bedrolls closer to the fire, while Froi stoked the embers, muttering.

"Three nights ago I walked through the sleep of the baker, who was laughing," Evanjalin said.

"I cannot imagine any Lumateran inside or outside the gate doing such a thing," Finnikin said flatly.

"Yet the cook's apprentice mourned the death of the baker's daughter not three weeks earlier." Evanjalin's forehead was creased with lines of confusion, and Finnikin felt an urge to smooth them out.

"Evanjalin, you're not making sense."

"What kind of man would be laughing three weeks after he had laid his child to rest?" she asked.

"Get to the part where you claim to have worked something out," Trevanion said gruffly.

"I need to go back, then. About a year. When the child and I walked through the sleep of one of the impostor's men who was thinking of a girl from the Flatlands who had died that day. He did not share the grief of the mother and father, but her death was enough to make him think. He was doing his sums and he worked out that twenty young girls had died over the past four years."

"Twenty?" Sir Topher gasped.

Evanjalin nodded. "But I need to go back even further."

Finnikin made a sound of disbelief, but she held up her hand. "Listen. Eighteen years past, the queen of Osteria presented the queen of Lumatere with a cherry blossom plant. It was a peace offering after decades of mistrust between both kingdoms."

"Evanjalin, you are not making—"

"But I will. My mother told me the story often. About the queen deciding where to plant the tree."

"She searched the kingdom high and low for the perfect spot," Sir Topher said, smiling at the memory. "Drove us all insane. But she was with child. Her youngest, Isaboe. The child was never meant to be and the pregnancy was cursed with illness from the beginning. The queen was sure that if she planted the cherry blossom and made a dedication to both the goddess Lagrami and the goddess Sagrami, then the child would live."

Evanjalin nodded. "And although many Lumaterans were not happy with her decision to sacrifice to Sagrami, the queen found the perfect spot."

"A beautiful story, but I cannot see the connection," Trevanion said.

"There is only one cherry blossom tree in Lumatere. At least a day's ride from the palace, at the old cloister of Sagrami near the Sendecane border."

"But that cloister hasn't been used for centuries," Sir Topher said. "What are you suggesting, Evanjalin?"

"That during the five days of the unspeakable, the novices of Sagrami who lived at the edge of the Forest were taken to safety inside the kingdom walls through the east gate."

Sir Topher was shaking his head. "You are wrong, Evanjalin. The priestess of Sagrami was the first to be burned at the stake. She was captured along with Seranonna and three other mystics and healers."

"Then the novices would have been on their own," Finnikin said. "Surely the impostor's men would have attacked the cloister in the Forest first?"

"It would have been a slaughter," Trevanion said. "The oldest of the girls was no more than seventeen."

"And they had no one to turn to?" Finnikin asked.

Sir Topher opened his mouth to reply and then stopped.

"Sir Topher?" Finnikin asked urgently.

"There may have been one," he said in a hushed tone. "Someone who had lived in the Forest cloister as a child. Tell me about the other who walks the sleep with you, Evanjalin. The one who is there for the child."

"Whoever it is, they have a great knowledge of the dark arts. I sense their connection with the dead. With spirits."

"Only Seranonna had such knowledge," Trevanion said.

"No, there was another," Sir Topher said. "One who was under Seranonna's instruction."

Trevanion frowned and then realization dawned on his face. "Tesadora? Seranonna's daughter?"

Sir Topher nodded. "Did you know her?"

"No, but Perri did. They were mortal enemies. It was one of the few stories Perri would tell me of his childhood in the River swamp. From a young age, his father taught him to inflict as much pain as possible on those they considered inferior."

"Was Perri ashamed?"

Trevanion sighed. "It was not a confession, just a fact. I remember his words. 'How different our childhoods, Trevanion. You sailed your raft down the River and collected tadpoles and eels, and I held down the heads of Forest Dwellers in swamp water to see how long they could stay under without breathing.'

"Perri told me Tesadora once stayed under for five minutes," Trevanion continued, "and still had enough breath inside her to spit in his face when it was over. His father thrashed him for allowing a Forest Dweller to get the better of him. So next time Perri made sure she didn't have enough strength to even stand. They were both twelve at the time. On opposing sides, but both victims of hate."

"By the time Tesadora was little older than you, Finnikin, she lived the life of a hermit in the Forest," Sir Topher said. "But she spent her childhood in the cloister of Sagrami, and apart from her mother, the novices were her only contact with the world."

"Were the Sagrami novices mystics?" Finnikin asked.

"Healers," Sir Topher answered. "The best apothecaries I have ever encountered. The herbs and plants they grew in the Forest cloister were spectacular. If the priest-king had them in the fever camps, half our people would still be alive."

Evanjalin leaned closer, her eyes alight. "The novices are now inside the kingdom walls, and they are hiding the young girls of Lumatere in the old cloister. And three days ago, the baker traveled in secret to see his daughter and picked cherry blossoms along the way."

"You have no proof of that," Finnikin said. "Even if Tesadora did survive and save the novices, do you think the impostor and his men would be so ignorant as to not work it out? Would they not have found their hiding place by now?"

"Perhaps they don't need to hide. No matter what the impostor king decreed when he put the Forest Dwellers to death, he would fear the wrath of the gods if he stormed a temple of Sagrami," Evanjalin said. "Remember, the novices worship a goddess that has cursed Lumatere, and the impostor king is just as much a prisoner of the curse as everyone else inside," she argued.

"And if the novices are the apothecaries I think they are, they could easily find a way of sending the girls close to death," Sir Topher said.

"These Lumaterans you speak of—the baker, the other fathers and mothers of the girls—are they worshippers of Sagrami?" Trevanion asked.

Evanjalin shook her head. "They worship Lagrami. Yet somehow both cloisters, Lagrami and Sagrami, are working together to protect the young girls of Lumatere."

"How?"

She looked at them for a moment. "There are parts of this story ... all of you might find... difficult."

Finnikin stared at her in disbelief. "Evanjalin, Trevanion has spent seven years in the mines of Sorel. Sir Topher and I have seen everything there is to see in our travels."

"But there are some things ..."

"Evanjalin," Sir Topher said firmly. "Finnikin is right. There is nothing we cannot endure."

Evanjalin sighed. "The cook's apprentice who mourned his friend had blood on his mind the night she died. The impostor's guard dreamed of blood. Each time these girls 'die,' there are dreams or memories of blood. I believe they 'die' of the bleeding. They supposedly bleed to death. That's what the impostor's men and the rest of the kingdom think happens to the girls. Imagine. The impostor's men come to the home of a family who has just lost their daughter. They demand to see the dead child. There she lies. Still. Perhaps in the way Sir Topher has suggested, due to the cleverest apothecaries in the kingdom. The impostor's men demand to know what has taken place. They do not care for the dead girls or their families, but smell a conspiracy among the people. The women are clever. They begin to speak of the curse that visits young girls each month, for they know that the impostor and his men would pale with such talk of blood flowing from the loins of young girls like torrents of—"

Finnikin cleared his throat loudly. "I think I hear something... outside the cave," he mumbled, getting to his feet. But the look on Evanjalin's face stopped him from leaving.

"Blood!" Froi said, horrified. "Loins? Same loins you stick—"

"Froi!" Trevanion snapped.

"Flowing at times like a gutted pig," Evanjalin said.

"Evanjalin!"

Evanjalin looked at Sir Topher and Trevanion, who suddenly seemed very interested in the contours of the cave walls.

"Did I not say that there would be parts of this story that might cause discomfort?" she said.

"It is not right for a young woman to speak of such things in the presence of men, Evanjalin," Sir Topher said firmly. "And perhaps you are clutching at straws, making such a connection."

"Am I?" she asked. "And what if I told you that I only walk the sleep during my own... time?"

Despite the flush in Sir Topher's cheeks, he held her gaze and after a moment nodded for her to continue.

"Perhaps the impostor king's men are led to believe that when a young girl experiences her first bleeding, she is also struck by a curse and bleeds to death. An unnatural occurrence, of course. But maybe they've been told that Seranonna's curse is responsible. Her way of punishing the children of Lagrami. In truth, the young girls live inside the old cloister of Sagrami in the northwest of the kingdom. One of the few places the impostor king and his men will not enter for fear of Seranonna's legacy."

"Do you believe all our people know that the girls live?" Trevanion asked.

She shook her head. "I cannot be sure who knows the truth. If we go by the baker's sleep, it is clear that the parents of the girls know. But I cannot be sure of the others. The cook's apprentice certainly grieved."

"But still we cannot be sure that Tesadora survived the days of the unspeakable or the impostor's punishment," Trevanion insisted.

She stared at him. "I have walked the sleep of one of the Sagrami novices, and her thoughts were on the day when one with a crown came to hide them."

"Balthazar?"

"One with a crown is all I know."

"Could it be..." Trevanion began, but he stopped himself and shook his head.

"Someone smuggled Tesadora and the novices into the kingdom prior to the curse."

"Someone with a crown?" Sir Topher said. "It does not make sense."

"And a blood curse does?" Trevanion asked.

"It makes all the sense in the world that the other who walks the sleep with us, who may be able to break the curse, is a blood relative of the very person who created it," Evanjalin said. "Seranonna's daughter."

"But Tesadora? Perri used to call her the serpent's handmaiden," Trevanion said.

"Coming from Perri the Savage, that is not good," Sir Topher mused.

"Perhaps she is exactly what is needed," Finnikin argued.

"Seranonna sent her to the north of the Forest as a child to live with the novices," Sir Topher explained. "To keep her out of harm's way from the other Forest Dwellers, who feared her. The Forest Dwellers claimed Tesadora was evil because her Forest blood was mixed with a Charynite's."

"Yet you don't communicate with Tesadora?" Trevanion asked Evanjalin.

She shook her head. "Only the child. The first time was when I was twelve years old and had a strange, wondrous dream. Now I believe it was the birth of the child. Somehow when my"—she hesitated and looked at Sir Topher—"first blood began to flow, the child's heart began to beat. I felt her in my arms."

"And you never walk the sleep at...other times?" Finnikin asked awkwardly.

"Only once," she said, swallowing hard.

"Your blood flowed another way?" Sir Topher asked.

She nodded. "Two springs ago. And that night, I walked the sleep of Lady Beatriss and she whispered the words, 'The cloister of Sendecane.'"

"Why was your—" Then Finnikin realized and the word came out in a strangled tone. "Sarnak! Your blood was shed at the massacre of the exiles?"

She nodded.

"But how did you escape death, Evanjalin?" Sir Topher asked gently.

"Do you have a wound?" Trevanion said.

She opened up her shirt to reveal a patch of puckered tissue above her breast. It was an ugly scar, the wound poorly inflicted.

"They didn't even know how to deliver a clean kill," Finnikin muttered, unable to take his eyes off it.

"No, they were perfectionists," she said. "They were hunters. I could tell. I watched them. Their arrows went straight to the heart, their daggers in and out. Precise. Our people were on their knees, begging, and were cut down with their hands still raised and clenched together in prayer. Others ran. And got an arrow in the back. The hunters made sure that those shot in the back were turned around, and then they'd plunge a dagger into the heart."

"Yet your wound is the work of an amateur," Sir Topher said.

"Because I did not run and I did not beg. Wherever there was movement, the hunters attacked. Those were the exiles killed first. But I was a coward, you see. I couldn't turn my back. Could not bear the idea of the unknown. Of an arrow catching me by surprise. When those around me fell with an arrow to the heart, I knew the hunters would not return to check for their breathing. They returned only for those with an arrow in their back. So when one of our own collapsed at my feet with an arrow in his heart, I knew what I had to do."

"Sweet goddess of sorrow," Sir Topher gasped.

"Did you not play that game as a child?" she asked quietly. "Pretend death? It's what you do to survive. You play the games of make-believe."

Finnikin had played those games daily with the royal children. But there had been no pretending to take an arrow and plunge it into himself an inch above his heart. And no pretending to bite his tongue to keep his cries from piercing the air that was filled only with the grunts of satisfaction and retreating footsteps of men who had forgotten what it meant to be human. There was no pretending to grip the object embedded in his flesh with both hands, to tear it out of skin that was meant for soft kisses and caresses. There was no pretending to pick his way through family, searching the place for survivors. And no playing at walking two weeks barefoot to the cloister of Lagrami in godsforsaken Sendecane because a woman in his sleep whispered the command like a prayer.

What needs to be done.

"I was fortunate enough to be born under the star of luck," Evanjalin said softly. "So I lived while others died."

Sir Topher was the first to turn away. Huddled in his bedroll, his shoulders shook with a sorrow that he fought hard to hide.

"Sleep, Evanjalin," Finnikin said gently. Dream of cherry blossoms and the laughter of the young girls who you want so desperately to believe live under the protection of the goddess of night.

When at last Finnikin heard the sounds of labored breathing, he turned in his bedroll and saw that Trevanion was still awake.

"What?" Finnikin asked. "If you discredit her story, I will be forced to challenge you," he added gruffly.

Trevanion shook his head. "The girl does not lie, Finnikin. She just omits information. It's the other part of the story, the young girls of Lumatere." Trevanion leaned closer to whisper. "What could have possibly happened to force the mothers and fathers to feign the death of their daughters? What are those monsters doing to our people?"

Chapter 12

The harbor town of Sif was the last port of civilization on the mainland of Skuldenore, accessed mostly by merchants, mercenaries, and reckless explorers. It was a departure point for those who wanted to disappear from the face of the earth. Trevanion's informant in the mines had told him that his Guard could be found in one of the rock villages of Yutlind Sud. To reach the territory from Sif, they would need to travel by cog down the coast and around the cape, which would take them to the mouth of the Yack River and into the war-torn kingdom.

"No one travels to Yutlind Sud," the captain of the Myrinhall muttered, eyeing Trevanion and Finnikin and spitting orange pips into the water below.

They were standing on the deck of the merchant cog, which boasted a crew of twenty men. It was a flat-bottomed vessel with a central mast carrying a square-rigged sail, sturdy enough to sail the open seas and compact enough to be steered down a river, ideal for navigating among the Yack's shallow reed beds.

"We have been told you travel south today," Trevanion said, "to collect produce and merchandise from Yutlind Sud."

"If we get paid enough, we collect goods from the traders on the river's edge, but we don't take passengers. Could hardly convince my men to come along today. Foreigners don't survive the Yack."

"We need to travel to the rock villages close to the north-south border."

The captain sent them a look of disbelief. "You come all the way south to travel north? You'd be better off going over the mountains and through Belegonia."

"Ye gods, really?" Finnikin said sarcastically. "Why didn't anyone tell us?"

Trevanion silenced him with a frown. "Take our silver and let us board," he said to the captain.

The merchant looked beyond Trevanion to where the others of their party were sitting on the pier, waiting. "Want advice?"

"No!" Finnikin said, only to receive another glare from his father.

"Give it to you anyway," the man said, spitting out another pip. "Leave the young and the old behind. Especially the girl."

Neither Finnikin nor his father responded.

"Won't be responsible for what my men or the Yuts want from the girl. Money up front. We leave the moment my men are on board."

The captain walked away. Finnikin saw the hint of a smile on Trevanion's face as he looked toward the horizon. He had read stories from the books in royal courts about the port town of Sif, where brave men set off for the undiscovered world beyond their land. Some believed the mythical stories of fire-breathing dragons and oceans tipping into an abyss, which kept the fainthearted away.

"Have you ever wondered what lies beyond?" Finnikin asked his father.

"A kinder world than this, I would hope," Trevanion murmured.

"I say the merchant is right," Finnikin said, looking toward the pier. "It'll be safer if we leave them here. Yutlind's a bloodbath and if anything happens to her ... to them ..."

Trevanion nodded as they walked toward the others. Evanjalin was instantly on her feet, picking up her bedroll and pointing to the provisions. "Make yourself useful, Froi," they heard her order.

"You can do the honors of telling her she's staying behind, Finn," Trevanion said under his breath.

Mercy. Finnikin cleared his throat, trying to avoid her eyes. "We will be back in ten days," he announced.

"Back?" Evanjalin asked, confused. She gave Froi another shove. "By the time we find the Guard, it will be safer and closer to cross over the Belegonian border. Why return here?"

"For you. For all of you."

The crew of the Myrinhall jostled past. By the looks of them, they had been out all night. They appeared disheveled and somewhat sinister, especially when they caught sight of Evanjalin. Sir Topher glanced at them uneasily.

"It is safer for all," Finnikin said firmly.

"You are leaving us behind?" Evanjalin asked in disbelief. "To return here would be a waste," she hissed. "If we travel to the rock villages, then we are halfway to Belegonia heading north."

"Why would I not know that, Evanjalin?" Finnikin asked, trying to curb his growing frustration at her inability to take orders. "It's too dangerous. They say the spirit warriors guard the Yack River and could be a threat to foreigners."

Froi sat himself back down, but Evanjalin pulled him to his feet. "We are not staying," she said. "Sir Topher, tell him we are not staying."

"We don't know enough about these people, Evanjalin," Sir Topher said. "The southerners may be Yuts, but they have different ways from the north and do not speak the same language. The south belongs to tribes of natives, and their king is in hiding. They are not going to take too kindly to foreigners in their land."

"This is the only way," Finnikin said. "It will be easier to hide if there are only two of us. It will be quicker. If we find Trevanion's men, they can travel farther north to Belegonia and we will return for you. On my oath, we will, Evanjalin."

Fury crossed Evanjalin's face. "You will be dead the moment one of the clans has you in its possession," she said, pointing at Finnikin. "You look like a foreigner. Like one from the north." She looked at Trevanion pleadingly. "No matter how superior you are as fighters, Captain, they will outnumber you and you will have nothing to bargain with."

"And with you, we will?" Finnikin said angrily. "Or do you suggest we sell Froi again? Personally I wouldn't mind in the slightest, except I know you'll drag me off to some godsforsaken place in order to steal him back."

"That's enough," Trevanion said.

Froi grunted. "Staying."

"It would be wrong to separate," she said, pushing past Finnikin with her bedroll. "Froi! I said to make yourself useful."

"You are not coming!" Finnikin grabbed her arm. "You stay here. Safe."

"That's enough, both of you," Trevanion said.

"Safe for who?" she shouted. "What happens when they capture you, Finnikin? Do we stay here waiting for eternity?"

"What makes you think we'll be caught?" he asked. "The only time that's ever happened to me, Evanjalin, is when you gave me up to the Sorelians."

There was silence, except for the sound of Evanjalin's breathing.

"We are wasting time," Trevanion said, grabbing the provisions from a relieved Froi.

Evanjalin shook free of Finnikin. "What is it?" she asked him coldly. "Really? What bothers you? That I found a way of getting your father out of the mines while you left him there to rot for years?"

The sound of blood rushing in his ears was almost deafening, yet Finnikin heard the sharp intake of Trevanion's breath and saw Froi's look of spiteful glee.

"Enough!" Sir Topher shouted. His cheeks were flushed with anger. "Vow of silence," he ordered, pointing his finger at Evanjalin. "You do not speak until you are given permission. Can you see that being a problem, Evanjalin? Because if it is, I will be the first to leave you behind at the mouth of the Yack. We stay together," he added more calmly, looking at Finnikin. "There are risks both ways, but we need to stay together."

Evanjalin pushed past Froi and walked up the plank before anyone could say another word. Finnikin caught the looks on the faces of the crew on board. Predators, like the prisoners of Sorel. But he didn't care what they did to her. His ears still rang from the brutality of her words. Is that what Trevanion thought and was not able to say? That his son was a coward who left him languishing in the bowels of hell?

The captain of the Myrinhall watched them as they filed on board, shaking his head. "You sign your death sentence, my friends. Indeed you do."

Finnikin sat by himself for the first half of the journey. His only consolation was that Evanjalin spent most of her time with her head over the side, emptying the contents of her stomach into the sea. After so many hours, he wondered that there was anything left inside her. He watched as she staggered to her bedroll on the deck, but each time she attempted to sit down, she would begin to retch again and rush to the side. Froi joined her for much of the time, a sight that brought Finnikin even more satisfaction.

In all his travels, he had never been on the open seas and he found it both frightening and exhilarating. If it wasn't the swelling waves that suddenly dropped in height and jolted them forward, it was the storms that churned the seawater into a mass of boiling foam. L'essoupi, the sailors called this stretch of ocean. The swallower.

Later, Trevanion joined him, and they sat side by side with their backs against the hull. As usual with his father, there was silence, but this time it suited him. After the scene on the pier, there was nothing to say.

They spent that night lying under a sky crowded with light, as though every star were fighting to be seen. The sea was still, and Evanjalin had at last stopped throwing up. Although he had no desire to be in her presence, Finnikin found himself keeping watch over her, fearing that a crew member would venture too close.

"Get some sleep," Trevanion murmured in the dark. "I'm watching them."

Sir Topher wiped Evanjalin's brow. She was weak from her sickness and almost sobbing from exhaustion, but he knew there was something else. He could sense her anxiety each time she raised her head to search for Finnikin.

"Your words were harsh," he said softly.

"He cannot complete this journey without me by his side."

"But still your words were harsh. No one gives anything for nothing. Not in this land. But that's what Finnikin decided we were called to do. To travel from exile camp to exile camp, kingdom to kingdom, and make sure our godsforsaken people were fed and taken care of. But Finnikin's thought every day was to secure the release of his father. I think it was a sorry day for him indeed when he realized that he was not just someone's son. That he had a responsibility to our people."

She closed her eyes. "Our people have never been godsforsaken," she corrected, "and he is the apprentice of the king's First Man. You. You insisted on furthering his education in the languages and politics of this land. Not just so he can feed the exiles, but because one day, as your apprentice, he may have to help lead them." She looked across to where Finnikin sat by his father's side. "He was born for greater things than belonging to the King's Guard, and his father knows it. Make sure, Sir Topher, that Finnikin accepts his role before we get to the main gate of Lumatere."

Trevanion watched Finnikin as he slept. Unlike the nights in the prison mine, he could see his sleeping son clearly under this illuminated sky and it was a luxury to stare so intently. Finnikin had his mother's face. Her coloring. "One kingdom, so many shades," Bartolina would say, holding her hand against Trevanion's. Then she was gone, and there were the numb days that followed Finnikin's birth. A motherless boy surviving in the world of men. Trevanion thought of his Guard and wondered how close they were. He had known most of them since he was Finnikin's age. When he handpicked them almost twenty years ago, he chose only those he could trust with the lives of every Lumateran. Especially his newborn son. At first his choices had been questioned, especially when it came to Perri the Savage. It was rumored that Perri had made his first kill by the time he was twelve. Poverty had bred malice. Bred the need to blame someone for the bleakness of their lives, and Perri the Savage suckled the sour milk of malice from his mother's breast. Younger than Trevanion by a year or two, he had seemed to resent the return of the river's favorite son and cared little for the cause of protecting their people. The river people had never lifted a hand to help Perri the Savage, and he owed them nothing in return.

"Join us," a twenty-year-old Trevanion had offered during a hostile encounter with Perri near the banks of his river swamp hut.

"Think I'm the one issuing orders here," Perri threatened, pressing the point of a sword to Trevanion's chest. There was a scar running from one ear to the other across his forehead. Eyes dark like Trevanion's, but skin milk-white.

"My wife is still warm in her grave," Trevanion said quietly. "Not even five days gone. If you try to stop me from getting home to my newborn son, I will kill you." And with that he walked away to where his men stood with August of the Flatlands.

"I will follow just to see where you live," Perri the Savage spat.

When they entered Trevanion's cottage farther up the river, a girl, the high-spirited daughter of a fishmonger, was caring for the baby.

"Have you taken leave of your senses, Trevanion?" she shouted, clutching the babe to her. "You bring Perri the Savage into your home when you have this precious boy to care for? His father is a drunkard! A rapist! A murderer!"

Trevanion took the child from her, holding the tiny form in his massive hands. He saw the bitterness in Perri's eyes, the defeat that came from not being able to escape his roots. Trevanion pointed to August of the Flatlands. "And his father is weak and deceitful and lazy, but I would trust him with my life."

She looked at August with disgust. "This? A fine army you will build, Trevanion."

"Go home, Abie. Before it is dark. It is not safe for you to be traveling alone," Trevanion said wearily.

"Perhaps I could escort her," August suggested.

"You?" she scoffed. "You fit under my arm, little man." And with that, she kissed the baby and slammed out the door.

"Pity the one who ends up in her marriage bed," August muttered.

But Trevanion was staring at Perri. "You," he said. "If anything happens to me, protect my boy."

"Trevanion," August protested, "I will protect Finnikin. He will always have a place in my home."

"No," Trevanion said firmly. "You make sure my son gets whatever privilege allows the king's boy, Augie. The son of Bartolina of the Rock deserves nothing less. But you," he said, pointing to Perri, "you make sure he is protected."

"You have the wrong man," Perri snapped.

"No," Trevanion said, walking to the window to peer outside. "In you, I have the best marksman in this kingdom, and if you think that it was by chance I walked through your swamp today, think again. We rid this kingdom of those who try to invade through our waters and we rid Lumatere of a weak, corrupt Guard."

"What has the king promised you, Trevanion?" August asked.

"The highest honor for a warrior in this kingdom. And today I choose my Guard." He returned the baby to his basket. "Open the door."

Outside stood a group of young men. Not just from the River, but from the Rock and the Mountains and a few from the Flatlands. The room seemed full with their presence, and they spoke through the night, their voices hushed but strong with conviction.

"Where's Trevanion?" one of them asked later as the early light of morning began to seep under the door.

August of the Flatlands looked around. "Probably at the grave. He'd sleep there if not for the child."

One of the lads walked toward the baby's basket and pulled aside the blanket, only to find himself pinned to the wall with a dagger to his neck. He stared into the obsidian eyes of Perri the Savage, who snarled close to his ear, "Touch him again and you lose a hand."

At daybreak, they reached the mouth of the Yack River. Yutlind was a land of four rivers, lush and fertile, with woodland in the north and jungle in the south. The land mass of the north and south was the size of Lumatere and Osteria together, but they had lost more people in internal wars than the rest of the land combined. The ancient stories told that the god of Yutlind had created his people by mixing his blood with the earth of the jungle and the woods. The war over which soil was superior had been fought for thousands of years until a warlord built his palace in the north, his reign recognized by the leaders of Skuldenore who had grown tired of centuries of unrest. It was a reign the south refused to acknowledge.

There was a stillness surrounding them, a deliberate calm. The crew was edgy, apprehensive. The captain of the Myrinhall put a finger to his lips, signaling silence. Finnikin peered over the hull, but the jungle lining the serpentine river seemed mysterious, as if there were secrets hidden behind the dense foliage. It seemed impossible that human life could exist in such a place, and Finnikin was anxious for them to arrive at the dock farther down the river. There, the Myrinhall would offload her passengers and load the merchandise. Trevanion's plan was to find a guide among the traders to take them through the grasslands and into the rock villages.

Finnikin watched the captain. He used sign language with his crew, which must have seen them through similar dangerous experiences. It comforted Finnikin to know that these men had sailed this river before. He watched as the captain chuckled quietly at what one of his men had signaled, and for the first time since they had entered the Yack, Finnikin relaxed.

The first arrow struck the captain between the eyes.

He was dead by the time he hit the ground at Finnikin's feet, the shock stamped on his face for eternity. Then an onslaught of arrows flew overhead as Trevanion dived on top of Finnikin.

"Don't let them take the Myrinhall!" one of the crewmen shouted, and Finnikin felt the boat lurch as the oarsmen began their work. Trevanion was already on his feet as Finnikin grabbed his longbow. He heard the whistling of arrows flying past and ducked again and again before standing to take aim toward the west bank. He fired ten missiles into the thick of the jungle and then dropped to the deck. As the arrows continued to fly, he crawled to where Evanjalin was huddled on the other side of the boat, her face still sickly in the morning light. He dragged her behind the crates, securing her next to Froi in a cocoon of merchandise boxes and barrels of ale.

"Stay!" he managed to gasp. He crawled back to where Trevanion and Sir Topher were crouched against the hull, ready for the next onslaught. Trevanion stood, lobbing a round of arrows in the direction of the Yuts before diving back down again.

"The crew is turning the boat around," he said, trying to regain his breath. "You stay with them, Sir Topher. Try to make your way back to the port at Sif. Finnikin and I will swim to the bank and then travel north by foot to find my men."

Sir Topher nodded. From all corners of the Myrinhall they could hear moans from the injured, while the oarsmen grunted and arrows whistled overhead. The Yut natives hidden beyond the bank maintained a disciplined silence, and it was moments before Trevanion could mark them.

"Up above! In the trees!" one of the crew holding on to the mast yelled out.

Trevanion loosed another volley of arrows, then pushed Sir Topher and Finnikin farther along the side of the cog, away from the next onslaught, which hit their previous hiding spot with deadly accuracy.

"We go overboard on the other side, Finnikin," Trevanion yelled above the noise. "When it turns, we stay hidden by the Myrinhall until it reaches the mouth of the river again and then we make our way to land. Do you hear me?"

"Sweet goddess, they are swimming toward us," Sir Topher muttered. "This boat will not reach the mouth, Trevanion. They will take the Myrinhall with all of us in it!"

An oarsman was hit with an arrow from behind and slumped forward.

Trevanion stood to catch a glimpse of the Yuts approaching. "Change of plans. Get them off the boat and onto the east bank, Finn!" he ordered. "Make sure they are not seen. You too, Sir Topher. All of us."

Finnikin crawled back to the crates, grabbing Froi out first. "Can you swim?" he shouted.

"No!" The thief looked horrified.

Finnikin glanced up at the crewman working on the square sail. "You need to do this quickly before they turn the boat around. Try to keep underwater the whole way. Don't let them see you!"

"Can't swim!" Froi said, crawling back behind the crates.

Finnikin grabbed him by the hair and pulled him out to see what was happening around them. Bodies littered the cog, while those crewmen who were still alive moaned and writhed in pain.

"Would you prefer to stay?" Finnikin growled. Froi growled back as Finnikin helped him over the side, holding the boy by the scruff of his neck before letting go. He turned his attention to Evanjalin, who looked gray, a film of perspiration covering her face.

"I can't swim," she whispered.

"Hold your breath and act as if you're pushing the water out of the way with your hands. Like this," he said, showing her. "And gently kick your feet. Don't put your head above water, Evanjalin. Don't let them see you. Once you get to the bank, keep hidden. Do you understand?"

She nodded, looking miserable.

"Just do as I say for once," he said, feeling the tremble of her hands as they touched his face. He grabbed one and pressed his mouth to her palm, and then Sir Topher was there, helping her over the side.

"Take care of them," Finnikin said as Sir Topher's head disappeared underwater.

He turned to find Trevanion, just as the crewman from the mast dropped out of the sky and landed at his feet, an arrow through his chest, blood already seeping from his mouth.

"Turn it around," the man croaked. "Climb the mast and turn it around or you'll never get them to safety."

Finnikin looked up at the mast and back in the direction of the Yuts, and then began climbing. At least half a dozen Yuts had reached the boat, and Trevanion and the crew were fighting them off. One who had managed to make it on board went flying back into the water with a kick to his head. Trevanion stood, aimed, shot, and then ducked, issuing orders, dividing the crew into three: those who rowed, those who lobbed arrows, and those who fought the Yuts in the water. From his vantage point, Finnikin could see what they had missed earlier. The skulls in the trees.

On the west bank, more Yuts descended from the foliage, their bodies large and powerful.

He kept climbing, not stopping until he reached the top, his legs straddling the pole, his fingers working quickly to loosen the sails. He could see that Evanjalin, Froi, and Sir Topher had reached the east bank of the river and were hiding among the long reeds and bracken. Trevanion and three of the crewmen finished off the last of the Yuts on board, and Finnikin watched as his father crawled to the edge of the boat and went over the side. He stood attached to the mast, feeling the arrows graze his arms as they flew past. He watched as Trevanion's head emerged from the water and he dragged himself to where the others were huddled, and for the first time since the captain dropped dead at his feet, Finnikin breathed with relief.

Trevanion spat out foul water as he held his side to ease the pain. The others were concealed by a cluster of reeds in the swamp water. They were shivering but safe, and for now that was enough. He knew he needed to keep them moving down the river, no matter how dangerous it was.

"Let's go. Now! There's no time ... Finn?" he swung around. "Where's Finnikin?" He looked at the girl, certain that she would know. The girl and Finnikin never seemed to lose track of each other. She stared over his shoulder, her dark eyes wide, her hand shaking as she pointed up. He swung around to see the Myrinhall starting to turn, with its sail primed to take it back toward the mouth of the river. What was left of the crew was slinging arrows toward the Yut natives on the opposite bank. He could see two or more Yuts hovering around the hull of the boat, but then his eyes were transfixed by the image of Finnikin clinging to the mast, his red-gold hair twisted and knotted as the sun lit up its strands.

The movements of the Yuts on the other side showed that they too were transfixed by the sight, as if Finnikin were some wild sun god hanging from the heavens.

And then, to his horror, the Yuts took aim and Finnikin went falling out of the sky.

Trevanion prayed that the crew of the Myrinhall would grab the boy. Pull him out of the water and tend to him. But there was no movement toward where Finnikin lay facedown in the river, an arrow jutting from his side. The girl lurched forward, and Trevanion grabbed her, his hand stifling her scream as she struggled against him. When she finally broke free, Trevanion could hear her softly weeping, the sound more pitiful because she had seemed unbreakable.

"We wait until they leave," Sir Topher whispered as the Myrinhall inched further upstream, blocking their view of the Yuts but not of Finnikin's body.

"No," the girl said. "Now. They worship the sun god here. They'll take Finnikin the first opportunity they have."

Trevanion hit the water instantly, pounding it with his body, punishing it for placing a barrier between him and his son. The Myrinhall had just sailed past where Finnikin lay, and with any luck the vessel would block the Yuts' view of both their bodies. He knew he had little time. The moment the Yuts worked out where they were hidden, they would cross the river and come for them all.

When he reached his son, Trevanion turned the boy's body over and heard him splutter and gasp for air. There was no time for relief. No time to lessen the weight on Finnikin's body by removing his quiver and daggers. Trevanion dragged him back to the bank. Sir Topher, the girl, and the thief pulled them into the long reeds. Rather than take the chance to move farther into the jungle, they stayed crouched in the ankle-deep water, shivering as the sun disappeared behind the clouds. Trevanion placed his fist against Finnikin's mouth to hold back the boy's grunts of agony. The arrow had struck him in the side, just above the hip. It had to come out soon, but inflicting more pain on his son was unthinkable. He knew what type of barb was lodged in Finnikin's body; he had seen them scattered on the deck of the cog. Broad iron arrowheads meant for hunting animals. Difficult to extract.

The air rang with strange voices from both sides of the river. Bloodcurdling wails. Some seemed like taunts. As if the Yuts were playing cat and mouse with them. Not even in his ten years of captivity had Trevanion felt so trapped. He despised his own helplessness in not being able to move his party to safety and away from this muddy, insect-infested circle of swamp.

The thief looked away from Finnikin's shuddering body, his hands covering his ears to block out the taunts around them. "Don't you know magic?" he asked Evanjalin accusingly.

But Trevanion knew that their only hope was to wait.

"Do you think they've given up?" Sir Topher asked.

The voices had stopped, but the silence that followed was more alarming than Trevanion could have imagined. He shook his head and pointed to a copse of trees in the distance. The scraps of metal the Yut natives wore around their wrists and ankles flashed and winked in the sunlight.

"They want us to know we are surrounded," he said quietly, pointing to another group to the left and then another across the river.

"I can speak to them in Yut, Sir Topher," Finnikin murmured feverishly. "Tell them... we come in peace... acknowledge their right to Yutlind Sud ..."

Sir Topher hushed him. "You'll tire yourself out, Finnikin."

Trevanion watched his son's labored breathing. Finnikin sat half-upright, supported by Sir Topher. Crouching had become too painful, so they now sat in the shallow water, at the mercy of mosquitoes and water rats that bit with vicious frequency.

"These people are not speaking common Yut," Evanjalin said. She was staring at the arrow in Finnikin's side. Her eyes met Trevanion's, and he placed his hand against the stem.

"When they visited Lumatere in the past," Finnikin gasped, refusing to surrender to the pain, "for an audience with the king ... you said ... you said he promised to recognize ..."

"But these were not the people who visited us, Finnikin," Sir Topher said. "These men are spirit warriors. They speak the old language of the first inhabitants."

"They belong to one of the tribes that guard the entrance into the kingdom from the south," Evanjalin acknowledged. Her face was chalk-white and strained. "They have done so since the time of the gods. Their customs and language are different, but they consider themselves kin to Yutlind Sud and mortal enemies of those in the north. They have lost many of their tribe to the merchant ships that enter the river and capture their people, selling them as slaves up north in Sorel."

"What do ... they want from us?" Finnikin croaked.

Trevanion stared at her, shaking his head in case she dared reveal the answer to the question. What they wanted was his boy, with hair the color of the sun as it set.

"Do you trust me?" she whispered.

Finnikin's eyes rolled back. Trevanion had no idea whether it was from the pain of the arrow or the nausea from the filthy water he had swallowed. The girl placed her arms around Finnikin as her eyes issued a silent order to Trevanion.

"Talk to me," Finnikin slurred. "Don't let me sleep, Evanjalin."

"Perhaps I should tell you a story. So you can record it in the Book of Lumatere when you recover from your theatrics."

He chuckled, and Trevanion chose that moment to wrench the arrow out of his son's body.

Finnikin bit so hard into Evanjalin's flesh that he tasted her blood on his lips. And for a while the flames of fever chased him into dreams and memories. Where he saw the stake. Wood piled around its base. Set alight. And he was nine years old again, watching with horror the executions of the Forest Dwellers. Children of Sagrami. Around him people were sobbing. They had already taken his father, but he needed to be here for Beatriss. So that he, the son of her beloved, would be the last thing she saw. But Seranonna was there instead, her hands drenched with blood, flames crawling up her body as she cursed. And then he was in the tree. The one he had sat in with Balthazar and Lucian and made plans to trap the silver wolf. The tree of his childhood. That day, hidden in its branches, he pulled out his dagger. He aimed as his father had taught him.

And caught Seranonna in the heart.

Chapter 13

Trevanion watched the tremors wrack Finnikin's body as he slept. It was dark now, but he still felt the presence of the Yuts. Voices rang through the night sky sporadically, and he could hear the girl muttering as if in prayer. "Sir Topher," he said quietly.

"Take them." Sir Topher leaned forward.

"Is he..." He could not bring himself to finish the question.

"Take them," Trevanion repeated. "Continue on the east bank and head toward the grasslands. Hopefully, they will not follow, for you have nothing they want. You know where to find my men. Tell Perri that his captain has passed on the greatest honor a guard of Lumatere can be given."

"Trevanion—"

"Tell him the girl will lead you to our king and our people." Trevanion looked at Evanjalin but could not read her expression. "If my boy dies, I die protecting him."

There was silence for a long moment.

"It's not right," Sir Topher said. "That it happens in this order. That a man should outlive his—" Sir Topher's breath caught in his throat. "Don't let them take him alive. Promise me that."

"Why do the men of Lumatere always speak of dying for the kingdom and for each other?" Evanjalin asked, irritated.

In the dim light of the moon, Trevanion could see her face. Her body had taken a battering on the boat, and she looked weak from fatigue. Yet there was still a glint in her eyes. She tried to rise, but he pulled her back down. "Where are you going?"

"I cannot promise that I will make sense to them, but I know enough of their language to get by."

"You have nothing to offer them," he said. "They will kill you the moment you step out in the open."

She shrugged free of him. "Never underestimate the value of knowing another's language. It can be far more powerful than swords and arrows, Captain. I've listened to them long enough to understand a little. Among them is their leader and his son. One has been on this side of the river, one on the other. And do you know what the father has promised the son? The honor of lighting the pyre to sacrifice Finnikin."

"There is nothing you can do," Sir Topher said. "You will only put your life in danger."

She looked at him sadly. "Sir Topher, do you honestly believe we are not all marked for death anyway? We entered their land illegally on a cog that has taken away their people in the past. But I may know how to convince them to trust us."

"How?"

"When the slave traders steal the young in Yutlind Sud, they sell them to the mines of Sorel." Her eyes met Trevanion's. "I knew a slave girl there who told me stories of her people."

Trevanion held her stare. He had heard about what happened to the children forced to work in the mines, tales so gut-wrenching that even the most hardened prisoners would shudder at hearing them. If Evanjalin had been in the mines, it would explain why she knew the terrain of Sorel so well, although he suspected that she was not telling them the full truth.

"When I heard their voices over our heads, it was clear to me, Captain. The chieftain is a father. There was such love and pride in his voice when he called out to his son."

"I didn't hear that love in the voices taunting us, Evanjalin," Trevanion said harshly.

"Because you don't understand the nuances of their language. We hear the grunts and the guttural sounds, and we believe them to be something worse than hate," she said.

Finnikin stirred beside them. Trevanion watched as his son reached out and gripped the girl's hand, trying to stop her from leaving. The girl gently untangled her hand and crawled away, but Finnikin grabbed the cloth of her shirt, pulling her back against him.

"Take me with you," Finnikin whispered, his breathing shallow. "We can do this together."

"Your wound is infected. You should rest rather than fight it." She turned to Trevanion. "What a stubborn nature the mixing of blood from our rock and our river produces, Captain." It was almost an accusation.

She managed to pull free of Finnikin, but this time Trevanion gripped her. "You risk his life by holding me back, Captain!" She said. "I know how to rid him of the poisons in his blood, but only if you let me convince them to allow us to remove him from this swamp." She looked to Sir Topher, her eyes pleading. "You are the king's First Man, Sir Topher. Order your captain to let me go."

Sir Topher looked torn. He knew that sending her out to the clearing meant she could be dead from hundreds of arrows before she spoke her first word.

"Let her go, Trevanion," he said at last.

His words were met with silence.

"Promise them that Lumatere will acknowledge the south's rightful claim to the throne of Yutlind Sud, but not of Yutlind Nord," Sir Topher said quietly. "It may help. Our king made no secret of the fact that he believed the claim on Yutlind Sud was illegal, and in time he would have made this view public. It may not be enough to keep them from attacking, but it's something."

Trevanion stood and pulled Evanjalin to her feet, holding her close to his side. "You don't step away me from me," he ordered. "Is that clear?"

"Captain, you don't understand. I know their language—" Trevanion cut her off.

"All I need to understand is the unwritten law of warriors," he said firmly. "And women and children are never sent to do our work without our protection." He pointed to the trees, emphatically. "That's the language I share with them."

As Evanjalin and Trevanion walked into the clearing, Finnikin heard her shout out a word, loud and clear. In their filthy hiding place, he tried to sit up, watching her flinch as if she expected an arrow to come flying toward her at any moment. His father's eyes were like a hawk's as they searched the trees around them.

After a brief pause she stood facing east. Each time Trevanion tried to protect her body, she stepped around him, and when finally he gave up and stood by her side, she began to speak.

Sometimes her lone voice in the jungle suggested she was retelling a story, a history that seemed to have no end. Other times there was vehemence in her tone, husky in its broken delivery of an epistle to those who had guarded the entrance of this land for so long. But she continued speaking through the night until Finnikin heard her voice slur from fatigue and watched her body slump against Trevanion's.

Evanjalin was hardly recognizable in the morning light. Mud caked her shirt, and her face was swollen from the mosquitoes that had feasted on her during the long hours squatting in the river. She had scratched some of the bites to their bloody core, and even her scalp looked raw from the ordeal. Then Finnikin saw her body stiffen, her eyes on the figures that began to appear through the trees. They were like ghosts: their eyes pale and their faces and torsos so white that at first he thought they were painted. They came from every direction of the jungle. Too many to count.

The chieftain stared at Evanjalin, his face expressionless. The two men who stood before her were indeed father and son, yet unlike Finnikin and Trevanion, they were almost replicas of each other. When the chieftain gripped Evanjalin's arm, Trevanion made a move forward but she gently held him back. And then the chieftain spoke, the words blunt and almost hostile, but Finnikin knew enough about the rhythms of language to understand that she was not in danger.

The chieftain barked out an instruction, and Finnikin watched as two of the warriors walked toward their hiding place in the reeds. They pushed past Froi and Sir Topher and grabbed Finnikin's face. While one of the warriors forced open his mouth, the other brought a flask to his lips. He drank the water in great gulps, almost choking with relief, his head rolling back. And then the warriors picked him up and carried him away.

"Evanjalin?" he heard Sir Topher ask in alarm.

Suddenly Finnikin was in his father's arms. Trevanion placed him gently on the ground. Evanjalin's face appeared above him, and then the chieftain's.

"They mean you no harm," she said quietly.

One of the warriors handed her the flask of water. The chieftain continued to watch them all, though his gaze kept returning to Trevanion and Finnikin.

"The slave girl told me the southern Yuts have always been criticized by the northerners for their weakness," Evanjalin said. "You see, the northerners would kidnap the warriors' sons and keep them as hostages, and instead of defending the kingdom and fighting for the crown, the southerners always went searching for their sons. Some see it as a weakness to give up the security of your kingdom and throne for the sake of your child. I told them the story of the captain of the King's Guard who confessed to treason and was imprisoned in the mines of Sorel to save his son, who ten years later freed him."

"You said a word over and over again. 'Majorontai'." Finnikin gasped as she cooled his brow with some of the water.

"The slave girl," she responded quietly.

"She belonged to them?" Trevanion said.

"No. Perhaps another tribe," Evanjalin replied. "But she was from these parts and was stolen by the merchant ships and taken to Sorel by the traders."

The chieftain spoke, and Evanjalin nodded. "They want us to follow them and get some rest," she said.

"Can we trust him?" Trevanion asked.

"If they wanted to kill us, they would have done so by now."

"What did you tell them, Evanjalin?" Finnikin asked.

"I told them the truth," she said quietly, turning to Sir Topher. "Make sure we honor Lumatere's recognition of autonomy in the south, sir."

"But who's in charge in the south?" Sir Topher asked.

"I have a feeling we will find out soon," she said.

Finnikin fought hard to keep his eyes open. The face of a young spirit warrior appeared above him, beside Evanjalin. The warrior spoke and handed her another flask, and she nodded before turning her eyes away from Finnikin's.

"Hold him down. Don't let him go," he heard her say quietly.

He couldn't keep count of how many hands held him down as Evanjalin poured a thick substance into his mouth. It gurgled as his body thrashed and convulsed, wanting to reject it. Then one of the warriors reached over and pressed his fingers hard into the wound at his side until finally he slipped into unconsciousness.

When he woke, it was dark. Finnikin knew he was no longer lying in the clearing. He could hear the sounds of the nocturnal world combined with the spirits of the past as they screeched and moaned and possessed the night. They were not the familiar noises of the woods of the north. This was old country. Finnikin felt the icy breath of its ancestors on his face.

"Evanjalin," he whispered, his lips dry. He heard a rustle, and then she held a flask of water to his mouth.

"Are you in pain?" she asked.

"More nauseous than anything," he murmured. "How long have I slept?"

"All day and half of this night. Sir Topher and Froi are sleeping."

"My father?"

"Pacing."

"And the spirit warriors?"

"Watching you. This is their settlement. Their women and children are upriver."

Finnikin raised himself and saw the faint glow of hundreds of pale bodies surrounding them.

"They guard you until your body has rid itself of the evil spirits you consumed in the river."

"So the evil didn't come from the arrow in my side?" he asked dryly.

"Your wound is superficial. The infection, however, would have killed you within a day."

She wiped his brow, and he found himself fighting the urge to slip back into sleep. "Tell me about the slave girl," he said drowsily.

Evanjalin was silent, and for a moment he thought she was not going to repond.

"When I was ten," she said finally, "I was separated from my people and spent more than a year shackled to her under the floorboards of a house. We were the slaves of a rich merchant who bought and sold people as if they were grain or trinkets. By day we worked in the mines, and at night we were returned to him. But she kept me safe. 'Little sister of the light earth,' she called me. It was as if goddess had sent her to protect me. At night she taught me her language and I taught her mine. Her skin was strangely pale, like these people, and so were her eyes. It's why they are fascinated by the red-gold of your hair, Finnikin.

"She told me about many of the Yut traditions. That when one died away from Yutlind Sud, the person's name was to be taken back to the kingdom by the last person to hear the deceased's voice. To be shouted out for the ghosts to capture in their mouths and blow back into the land. Their spirit would never truly rest until that happened. We knew we would never see our homes again, so the Yut girl decided that if we could not plan for life, we would plan for death."

In the silence he heard her breath catch.

"One day Majorontai placed a flower in my hand. It was so rare to see something of beauty in that place that it brought a tear to my eye. But it was a highly poisonous plant, procured by one of the household guards in exchange for things she would not discuss with me. 'Tonight we see our kingdoms, little sister,' she said. 'Promise me you will put it to use this night, for I cannot leave you behind in such a place. Promise.' And so I did."

"And last night you returned her name to her kingdom for the ghosts to capture?" he asked.

She nodded, and they fell silent for a while.

"I'm relieved that you didn't honor your promise to take the poison," he said quietly, "but did you ever feel guilty?"

"I have no guilt to reckon with," she said, and he could hear the steel in her voice. "I honored my promise. Oh, I made sure the poison was taken, Finnikin. By someone who deserved it."

Chapter 14

When Trevanion shook Finnikin awake, it was morning and the spirit warriors were gone, all except one.

"When did they go?" he croaked, holding a hand to his eyes to block out the blinding sunlight.

"Two days ago."

"Two days? I slept for two days?"

"And you look no better for it," Trevanion said. "But we need to move on."

Finnikin stumbled to his feet, but the quick movement caused a shooting pain through his side and then Evanjalin was there holding out a hand to him. Although he felt weak, he ignored the gesture, watching as her hand dropped to her side.

"It's best you eat something, Finnikin," Sir Topher said, filling Froi's pack with berries and salted fish.

Finnikin caught the spirit warrior staring at him. "Are we his prisoners?" he said.

"You'll have to ask Evanjalin."

But he could not look at her. In the harsh light of day he had seen the strain on her face and the way exhaustion had bruised her eyes. All from risking her life for him.

"The spirit warrior stays with us as far as the first sentinel beyond the grasslands," she said quietly. "As our guide." She walked over to where Froi was lazing against a tree, eating berries from one of the packs at his feet.

Trevanion handed Finnikin a bowl of cold stew, and he wolfed it down hungrily, watching as his father gathered up his pack. "We are three days' walk from the first rock village. The guide will take us through the grasslands rather than up the river. Too many rebel tribes to contend with otherwise."

Three days' walk from Trevanion's men. Finnikin wondered how he would feel if he were only days away from seeing Balthazar or Lucian. Most times he couldn't remember what his friends looked like, but he heard their voices now more than ever. Snatches of their conversations haunted his sleep.

He tried to take his pack from his father, who refused to hand it over. "I can carry it," Finnikin argued.

Trevanion sighed. "She was right about the stubbornness of one whose blood is a mix from the River and the Rock."

Finnikin glanced over to where Evanjalin was reprimanding Froi by the tree. "No Mont has the right to accuse anyone of bullheadedness."

They made their way out of the jungle, sweat causing their clothes to cling to their bodies in the humidity. Finnikin could hear the rasping breath of Sir Topher behind him. Tiny insects mingled with the perspiration pouring down Finnikin's face as he tried to keep up with their guide, a young man covered in decorations made from human teeth. The spirit warrior had promised them they would reach the Yut leader's rock village by the next afternoon.

"The leader of Yutlind Sud, you say?" Sir Topher asked, stopping to catch his breath.

"I believe we are being taken to the southern king's troglodyte fort," Evanjalin explained, tipping water from her flask into her hands and patting Sir Topher's face. She had not spoken to Finnikin since his rejection that morning. Each time he looked at her, he could only see her standing in the clearing at the mercy of the spirit warriors. Begging for his life.

"He says there are only four rock villages in Yutlind Sud. All are fighting posts. The captain's men could be working for the south's cause," she continued.

"Excellent idea to involve ourselves in a ten-thousand-year-old war that makes no sense even to those fighting it," Trevanion muttered.

Their exit from the thick vegetation provided little relief. Beyond the jungle the vast expanse of grassland, which would take them to the center of Yutlind Sud, was empty of any trees or shade. Finnikin remembered little of the journey except for the blinding heat and the fever that came and went and came again, until he feared that whatever infection had crawled inside him would never leave.

Late in the afternoon they stopped at a village of nomads. Finnikin couldn't help but think how different this tent city was from those built by the Lumateran exiles. Perfectly rounded canvases dyed the colors of the rainbow were scattered across the grassland. Women sat sewing pieces of horsehide together and cast shy glances at their visitors.

Trevanion walked toward the men of the village, who circled the settlement on horseback. Their horses were fine specimens, powerful and beautiful. Trevanion's admiration was clear, and after a moment, one of the patriarchs issued an order to a younger man, who dismounted and handed Trevanion the reins. The patriarch hit the flanks of his horse, and it took off at great speed, with Trevanion's mount close behind.

In the evening, they were fed yak milk and maize cake. As they ate, a young girl with a bronzed face and eyes the color of honey cooed at the sunburn appearing on Finnikin's skin. She touched his hair, running it between her fingers, speaking to him in the guttural language of the southern Yuts.

"What is she saying?" he asked Evanjalin.

"That real men don't have hair your color," she said, walking toward Froi. She snatched a cake out of the thief's hand and gave it back to Sir Topher.

When Trevanion returned, he helped Finnikin to his feet. "They have allowed us the use of one tent, Finn. It's no use traveling farther if you are still weak and in pain."

Finnikin did not argue. It was a relief to lie on a woven mat out of the glare of the sun. The tent was tiny, and when Sir Topher and his father entered, they were forced to crouch down beside him.

"Try to get some sleep," Trevanion said, checking the cloth around Finnikin's wound. "We'll see what we can do for the pain. It's the fever that weakens you."

"Evanjalin will know what to do," Finnikin said in a low voice.

"She is resting, but was kind enough to make up this paste for your aches and pains," Sir Topher said cheerfully, crouching beside him. "Can you sit up?"

Finnikin found it impossible to rest, with the steady flow of visitors to his tent. If it wasn't his father or Sir Topher, it was their guide, the spirit warrior, who insisted on speaking to Finnikin in a language he could not understand. Everyone but Evanjalin. The Yut girl came to administer oil to his sunburned skin. Her fingers were gentle and her smile warm.

When Froi entered, Finnikin knew that the thief had only volunteered to bring him food so he could enjoy a reprieve from the sun. "Make yourself useful and bring Evanjalin to me," Finnikin said firmly.

"Not moving," Froi muttered.

"Who's in charge here?" Finnikin asked. "Me or you?"

There was a sneer on the thief's face as he made himself comfortable. "I fink she is."

Finnikin dozed and awoke to see Evanjalin kneeling beside him, unwrapping the gauze from around his wound. There was an unbearable stench from the secretion, but she worked quietly. He could feel the warmth of her hand as she pressed the balm into his side, and although it stung, it was the type of pain he felt he could endure for as long as he had to.

But still there was not a word from her.

She spread the oil on his burned skin, but this time did so roughly, unlike the gentle Yut girl. Finnikin tried not to flinch, but inwardly he cursed her. When she went to stand, he gripped her wrist and pulled her back to him.

Her eyes met his for the first time since she had entered the tent, and he saw her fury. "Let go of my arm!"

"Why are you angry?" he asked. "It is not my fault that I'm wounded."

"I'm angry because you are stupid."

"Stupid?"

"Do you not understand the word?" she asked, and then repeated it in Sendecanese, Sarnak, Charyn, Osterian, Belegonian, Yut, and Sorelian, with a few dialects thrown in.

Now he was furious. "Be careful who you call stupid. I wasn't the one who stood out in that clearing and put my life at risk! And by the way, you speak Sendecanese like an amateur. Everyone knows that the c is pronounced with a th sound."

"Stupid," she seethed slowly in Sendecanese, "is when you climb the mast of a worthless cog when your father has told you to swim to the bank." She pulled her arm away. "It's not heroics we need, Finnikin. It's courage."

"Stay," he insisted.

"Perhaps the Yut girl can keep you company," she said coldly. "Sir Topher is eager for me to play the game of kings with him tonight, and I do not want to keep him waiting."

"Sir Topher has always conceded that when it comes to the game of kings, there is no one better than me," Finnikin boasted.

She stood, her expression haughty. "I suggest you ask him if he feels the same way tomorrow."

The next day, they continued their travels across the grasslands toward the first of the rock villages. Once or twice Evanjalin checked Finnikin's wound, and despite her aloofness, he found himself telling her stories of his own rock village. Although she said nothing, she stayed by his side, and a few times he caught her smiling. The Rock people were the most eccentric of Lumatere, and their close proximity to each other meant there were no secrets among them, although inside their homes, they hissed and muttered about their neighbors. When he relayed the story of his great-aunt Celestina's feud with the pig man over a recipe for pork pie, Evanjalin laughed openly. She, however, told no stories.

"Have you forgotten your childhood in Lumatere?" Finnikin asked quietly when the guide signaled they were close to the fort.

"No," she said. "I remember every single moment and will until the day I die."

They entered the village early that evening. The fort had been built high on a rock face in an attempt to protect it from northern invasion. It was linked to four other villages that stretched for twenty miles along the Skuldenore River.

From the foot of the rock, between two village huts, a stone stairway ascended to the fort. They climbed until they reached a retractable bridge that led to the entrance, a large iron gate. As they walked single file along the bridge, Finnikin took in the lookout post above them, where two men stood, their bows trained on the group. Directly in front of him, he could see arrows protruding from rectangular slits in the gate. If they had been the enemy, he knew they would have been shot down before the first arrow was pulled from their quivers.

Their guide spoke, and the iron gate opened. They walked through the entrance and were led up more stairs of stone. Flies, thick and large, buzzed around their heads.

When they were face-to-face with the true king of Yutlind Sud and his son, Jehr, Finnikin was surprised by how ordinary they looked. There was always such worthless pomp and ceremony in the royal courts of other foreign kingdoms. The Belegonians and Osterians were the worst for pageantry. The boy smiled at him, his teeth startlingly white. Finnikin felt a sudden kinship and returned the smile. Jehr beckoned him to follow and Finnikin held out his hand to Evanjalin.

From the lookout post, Finnikin could see a cave at the far end of the rock face on the other side of the valley. Jehr began to speak.

"From that cave a watchman with a horn can hear the other watchman stationed in a lookout farther downstream," Evanjalin translated. "It's how they warn each other of danger."

Jehr pointed to Finnikin's bow and arrow and then pointed to his own. He grunted something, and Finnikin looked at Evanjalin for an explanation.

"He wants to compete."

Jehr muttered something else to her, and she rolled her eyes. "Who can cast ten arrows first," she said. "Remember your wound, Finnikin."

Finnikin nodded at Jehr, and despite his injury, they spent the rest of the evening competing, almost equal in their speed and skill. It came to an end when their fathers arrived and the king bellowed and knocked their heads together for wasting ammunition.

Finnikin and Jehr continued their rivalry by comparing the scars on their bodies.

"Turn the other way," Finnikin said to Evanjalin, showing Jehr and Froi the scar on his thigh from his pledge with Balthazar and Lucian.

Evanjalin spent the rest of the evening refusing to translate.

Talk of rebels farther down the river forced them to stay in the rock village for a few nights. Throughout the day, Finnikin watched his father pace like a caged animal, prowling around the parameters of the village as if he were unable to get enough air. Finnikin spent his time with Jehr, Froi, and Evanjalin, perched on a flat wedge of rock jutting out over the river. Jehr taught Froi how to shoot an arrow, and among them all they chose a mark to see who could hit it first.

"I'll be king one day," Evanjalin translated for Jehr. "Of Yutlind Sud. I'll live down in that castle and your king will come to visit."

Jehr looked at Finnikin and said something to Evanjalin, but she shook her head.

"What did he want to know?" Finnikin asked.

"If you were the heir. He thinks you are and that we're keeping it from them."

The boy spoke again, and this time her face turned pink and she looked down and shook her head, again with no explanation.

"What did he say?" Finnikin asked.

"It is not important."

Finnikin looked at Jehr, who was staring at her, watchful interest in his eyes.

"Did you tell him you belong to our king?" Finnikin snapped.

"I belong to no one!"

The anger simmered between them as Jehr glanced from one to the other.

"Ahh," the boy said, nodding as if he had worked something out.

Evanjalin yelled a few words to the boy's father, who was leaning over the parapet nearby. Jehr groaned and failed to duck as the king grabbed both his head and Finnikin's and knocked them together. Jehr muttered something to Finnikin, and, whatever it was, Finnikin glared at Evanjalin and agreed wholeheartedly.

"Teach me their language," he asked later as they lay in the dark cave alongside the others except Trevanion, who slept outside on the rock face. Finnikin could smell the mixture of cow dung and dirt that covered the ground near their heads.

She started with a few simple words and phrases, and he repeated them. Sometimes she laughed at his pronunciation and he made sure he did not make the same mistake again.

"How come you're so smart?" he asked quietly.

"Because I had to be," she said. Sir Topher began to snore in harmony with Froi. Finnikin feigned his own exaggerated snore, and she shook with laugher against him.

"Jehr has never been off this rock," she said after a long moment of silence. "They won't allow it. They need to keep him safe."

"It's not a way to live," Finnikin murmured. "Should we be worried that our heir hasn't seen enough of the world? That Balthazar's locked up for protection somewhere?"

She stared at him gravely. "Have you ever wondered ... if he'll survive?"

"Balthazar? Being king?"

"No. Actually entering Lumatere."

He was stunned. "Why would you say such a thing when you've always been so certain?"

"We do not know what will happen in the Valley of Tranquillity. There's never been a promise that the heir will survive. Just that he is needed at the main gate to break the curse."

Finnikin swallowed hard. He had just gotten used to the hope of Balthazar being alive. She had given him that hope.

"What are you thinking?" she asked quietly.

"I was envious of him as a child, you know."

"Balthazar?"

"Every day he would go off with Sir Topher to learn the languages of the land and be instructed on the politics of the surrounding kingdoms. I used to spend afternoons having to play with the youngest princess. Balthazar learned the secrets of our royal courts, and I learned the names of each of Isaboe's dolls."

She searched his face carefully. "And here you are, having learned the languages of the land and been taught the politics of the surrounding kingdoms by Sir Topher." She stared at him intently. "Is that what you fear?" she pressed. "That you've stolen his life?"

"You don't understand," he said. "I would make vows every night when I was a child. That if I were king, I'd change the plight of the Forest Dwellers. If I were king, I wouldn't be so soft on our Charynite neighbors. And Sagrami heard my dark desires."

"Sweet goddess," she cursed. "You think you were responsible for what happened to Lumatere!"

"Go to sleep," he snapped, turning away from her.

"If the heir does not survive what takes place at the main gate, the kingdom must be run by a civilian for the first time in the history of our kingdom," she went on.

"Balthazar will survive," he said flatly.

"All I'm saying, Finnikin, is prepare yourself for the inevitable. The king left the crown to his wife and children and their children's children, but if they were to die, the king's First Man would take the throne. Sir Topher is the king's First Man and you are his apprentice. Jehr may be right. Has it ever occurred to you that one day you could be king?"

He swung back to face her. "Never say those words again," he hissed. "Never!"

She covered his mouth with her hand, but he pushed her away. "Quiet!" she said. "Is that why you've been reluctant to return?"

"Sleep," he repeated. "And pray that the son of our king will lead us to salvation."

That night, he dreamed of Balthazar and Lucian and the silver wolf. The Forest of Lumatere turned into the Field of Celebration as the people danced alongside the king and queen and the priest-king sang the Song of Lumatere. But the words were wrong and Finnikin tried to tell everyone around him, yet no one would listen. Except for Seranonna, who beckoned him with a finger. And Finnikin was back in the Forest of Lumatere, where the matriarch stood gripping Isaboe's face with one hand and Finnikin's with another, her ice-cold breath on his cheeks as she forced him to look at the giggling princess.

Her blood will be shed for you to be king.

Finnikin woke, perspiration drenching his face. He saw the dark shape of his father keeping watch on the rock face and went to join him. For the rest of the night, they sat mostly in silence.

"Do you think they're out there?" Finnikin asked as the sun began to rise.

"They have to be, Finn. This isn't just about what I want anymore. This is about Lumatere, and I can't make things right without my Guard."

In the half-light Finnikin saw the anguish on his father's face.

"I owe it to our people, Finn. The five days of the unspeakable happened under my watch as captain of the Guard. I owe it to our people."

For the next few days, they traveled along the river, searching the rock villages for any trace of Trevanion's men. Each attempt ended in failure. Finnikin knew they would soon reach the border of Yutlind Nord, where their search would become futile. Trevanion's informant, a Sorelian thief imprisoned for a time in the mines of Sorel, had claimed that the Lumateran Guard was in hiding in Yutlind Sud. They had taken refuge there after an incident in Osteria five years ago that cost the lives of three of their men. An ambush, the thief had said.

"Perhaps the Sorelian thief lied?" Sir Topher said as they left the last of the rock villages.

"What would be his motive?" Trevanion asked. "Perri pays him to commit a minor crime and get himself arrested so he can pass on to me the location of the Guard. He collects the other half of his money when he is released. Where is the profit in lying?"

"There's not much left between here and the border," Evanjalin said. The landscape was beginning to look like the forested region of the north, and Finnikin felt Trevanion's frustration and despair.

"Perhaps they were forced to move on and had no means of getting the information to you," Sir Topher suggested.

Trevanion nodded. Ahead was a sign for the border town of Stophe, and one for the town of Pietrodore, which was perched high above them. They knew little about either. Pietrodore was a neutral town, visited by few travelers. The border town would be their best option for a meal and lodgings. Finnikin had been so sure they would find Trevanion's men and make plans to travel to the Valley outside the main gate of Lumatere. Now all they seemed to be doing was walking aimlessly north. Eleven days in Yutlind, he thought bitterly, and all they had to show for it was an arrow wound in his side and an ache in Trevanion's heart.

They continued soberly along the forest road. Evanjalin lagged behind, her brow creased in concentration. Sir Topher and Trevanion were silent.

"Captain Trevanion!" Evanjalin called out. "Captain! Stop!"

The four of them turned to see Evanjalin pointing up, a smile lighting her face.

"Pietrodore?" Finnikin asked.

"Did you have a dream that told you to take us there?" Sir Topher said.

She shook her head in amusement. "How could I have possibly had a dream while I've been awake and walking, Sir Topher?"

"Magic?" Froi asked, frowning.

This time she was annoyed. "I don't know any magic. I've told you that!"

"It is a long way up, girl," Trevanion said with a sigh. "Too long to waste on chance. They are not here."

Finnikin met her eyes, wanting desperately to make sense of her request. Why Pietrodore? But in a moment the realization hit, and he smiled in wonder.

"It's not chance, Trevanion," he said, kicking the golden carpet of leaves at his feet. He ran back toward her, sliding part of the way until he could grab her by the waist and swing her around. "You are a goddess, Evanjalin of the Monts."

Evanjalin was grinning from ear to ear as she tried to break free. She faced the others, who stood watching, confused. "Pietrodore. It's the common Yut word for 'rock village.'"

Chapter 15

The track leading up to the town of Pietrodore was bordered by dense forest on one side and a perilous drop plunging all the way to the road below on the other. The stones underfoot became more hazardous the higher they climbed. It was clear Pietrodore was a town that did not want to be reached with ease, and despite their earlier excitement Finnikin could not shake the possibility of failure. He tried to shut out Froi's endless whining about being hungry and the heavy breathing that signaled Sir Topher's fatigue. Instead he found himself drawn to Trevanion's hope; it was as if his father was willing his men to be at this last post before the border. Despite his love for Finnikin and Beatriss, Trevanion was never complete without his Guard, and Finnikin knew his father would not be fully at ease until he was among them again.

Like many places they had seen in Yutlind, the town was heavily guarded. Yet Pietrodore was aligned to neither the north nor the south and was hostile to foreigners and Yuts alike. It had been free of war for decades, due to its location and lack of strategic worth.

Finnikin could hear the soldiers at the gate speaking common Yut, and he welcomed the sound of the language with relief. After his helplessness with the spirit warriors and those in the rock village, it returned to him a small measure of pride.

But the two soldiers standing guard refused to let them enter. Their hostility was palpable and their decision final. Finnikin stepped forward to try reasoning with them, but their hands went instantly to their swords. He dared not ask about the Lumateran Guard and realized with a sinking feeling that they had wasted their journey. Then he felt Evanjalin by his side.

"This is my love," she told the stony-faced soldiers. "We are to be joined."

There was no response.

"By our spiritual guide," Evanjalin continued, gesturing to Sir Topher. "My betrothed's younger brother and father are to be our witnesses."

One of the soldiers looked over to Froi, Trevanion, and Sir Topher, who all nodded, despite having no idea what was being said.

"We have been persecuted for our union in all other regions of this kingdom." Evanjalin turned to Finnikin and gently lifted his shirt, pointing out the red wound on his side. The soldiers stared at the wound, their expressions unchanged. She looked at Finnikin with such sadness that he almost believed her pitiful tale.

"We'll find a way," he said gently.

"We come to you for refuge," she continued, turning back to the men. "For we have heard that no one in this town would call me the scum of the land." She revealed her right shoulder. "Or brand me like an animal."

Finnikin fought to hide his shock. The branding was indeed one found on cattle, numbers burnt into her skin. He saw Trevanion flinch and tears of rage well up in Sir Topher's eyes. Oh, Evanjalin, what else have you kept from us?

"We have been told that no other town can equal Pietrodore in its purity and integrity," Finnikin continued. "Any other is tainted by blood and sorrow, but for the love of this woman I would travel the land... nay, the earth, to find a place where she will never be marked again."

Evanjalin knelt at the foot of the largest soldier, who shifted uncomfortably. Finnikin did not know the history of these people. Perhaps they had endured thousands of years of persecution for their position on a war-ravaged border. Perhaps these soldiers had inherited the grief of their ancestors. But kneeling at their feet was someone who had been branded as a slave, and no other kingdom had lost as many of their children to slavery as Yutlind. The burly man extended his hand to cover Evanjalin's shoulder, and then helped her to her feet. With a flick of his head in the direction of the town, he allowed them to enter.

They passed through the gates solemnly. Finnikin stared at Evanjalin as she walked ahead of him between Sir Topher and Froi. When she stumbled, Trevanion's hand reached out to steady her, gently cradling the back of her head in his palm for a moment before letting go.

The main street was wide enough for a horse and cart, and lined with stores full of boots and armor and with colorful guilds. Tiny lanes to the left and right led to cottages decorated with flowers. From every direction, Finnikin caught glimpses of the low stone wall that surrounded the town and of the sweeping views of Yutlind beyond.

At the end of the street, they reached the town square. Here, the sandstone walls of houses were covered with climbing rosebushes overflowing with color and fragrance. Finnikin watched as Evanjalin stopped and stared at the roses in awe. He had become used to the plainness of her dress and appearance. That she would marvel at the color around them surprised him, and he wondered about the girl she had once been. Would she have dreamed of placing flowers in her hair or scenting her skin with the delicate fragrance of honeysuckle?

They continued on to the town's highest point, from where they could see the four rock villages of Yutlind Sud. Directly below was the river encircling the flatlands, and in the distance another rock village. The landscape was lush: ten different shades of green, some the color of rich moss, others the color of leaves in sunlight, all contrasting with the dark soil of the plowed earth.

"They are here," Trevanion murmured. "I know it."

"Because it is almost a replica of Lumatere?" Sir Topher asked.

"As close to it." There was a hint of a smile on Trevanion's face. "They were a sentimental lot, my Guard. I never pictured them in a tent city."

"Maybe we should secure this town for our exiles," Finnikin joked. "Add more color to the war in this kingdom."

Trevanion took one more look at the little Lumatere in the distance below.

"Your plan?" Sir Topher asked.

"Finnikin and I will secure rooms for the night," Trevanion said. "Evanjalin, go with Sir Topher to find food and provisions. Speak Yut, not Lumateran. Froi, stay here and keep out of trouble. We will return soon."

"I pray to Lagrami for good news of your men, Trevanion," Sir Topher said.

Finnikin followed his father into the inn. The few men who sat around drinking stared at them long and hard. From the kitchen, Finnikin could smell roasting meat, and his stomach responded hungrily.

"We are looking for friends of ours who have settled here," Finnikin said in Yut, watching the innkeeper polish glasses behind the bar. "Foreigners."

"Not here," the man said without an upward glance.

Finnikin exchanged a look with Trevanion, who did not seem to need a translation.

"Then perhaps a place to rest," Finnikin continued. "We have traveled far."

One of the cardplayers from the back tables made his way to the bar, standing so close to Finnikin that he received a glowering stare from Trevanion.

"We are full," the innkeeper said.

"Full, you say?" Finnikin looked around the mostly empty room and then back at the innkeeper. "We are not a threat to you," he said quietly.

The innkeeper leaned over the counter, his face a hair's breadth from Finnikin's. There was something unpleasant in his smile, and as he spoke, he poked Finnikin for effect. "And we are still full."

In an instant, Trevanion had the man by the collar and slammed his face against the counter between them. His murderous stare remained until Finnikin placed a hand on his arm to restrain him. The cardplayer who had joined them inched away as Trevanion shoved the innkeeper back behind the bar.

Outside, Evanjalin and Sir Topher were waiting for them in the waning afternoon sun. There was anticipation on Evanjalin's face and disappointment on Sir Topher's.

"The shutters came down the moment we approached," Sir Topher complained. "Any success on your part?"

Trevanion didn't speak as they walked toward the edge of the square.

"No," Finnikin muttered, exchanging a glance with Evanjalin. "I think I need to do this with my betrothed and not my father," he mumbled to her in Yut.

Trevanion sent him a furious look. "We speak Lumateran among ourselves!" he said. "What you have to say to Evanjalin, you say to all of us."

"Most unfair, Finnikin," Sir Topher said.

Finnikin shook his head in frustration. "Sometimes it's easier for me to stick to one language," he lied.

Froi was on his feet the moment they approached, searching to see what they had brought. "Where food?" he demanded.

"It's lovely to know that you are picking up the language, Froi," Evanjalin sniped. "But I do not recall the authority to command being part of your bond."

"Hungry," Froi muttered.

"And we're not?" Finnikin snapped back.

"He's a boy," Sir Topher admonished, "who needs to eat. You were the same at his age, Finnikin."

"No, I was not."

Sir Topher snorted with disbelief.

"All of you stay here," Finnikin ordered. "I will get us food." He pointed a finger at his father. "No fighting with the locals!"

Trevanion was scowling. "Take my sword and the girl."

As they walked away he heard Sir Topher say, "There were times I thought he'd eat me in my sleep, I tell you."

Finnikin strode ahead of Evanjalin until she placed a hand on his arm. She pointed down one of the wider alleys to a courtyard where an outdoor spring was built into the town wall. "Let's at least fill up our water flasks," she said.

As they walked toward the courtyard, the cooking aromas from nearby cottages caused Finnikin's stomach to rumble loudly again, and he clutched at it.

"I think that was actually my stomach," Evanjalin said with a laugh. "Tonight they dine on roast pork. I would give my right arm for roast pork."

But Finnikin did not want to think of Evanjalin's right arm, branding her a slave. "Then tonight you will eat roast pork," he announced.

The courtyard was a smaller version of the main square, with houses facing the west. It stood empty, and Finnikin suspected that the town had a curfew, which meant they had little time to organize food and lodgings. He filled up both their flasks and then splashed cold water on his face.

"Of course, we'll have to steal it," he said, still thinking about their dinner.

"You're asking me to commit a crime?" she said in mock horror.

He laughed. "Not a good way to start our married life, but roast pork is my gift to you."

"And what would you like in return?"

"A goose would be nice," he said. "But then again, I don't care if it's pottage. Even stale bread would work for me. Anything to shut Froi up." He was about to put his head under the spring to wash away the grime, when the cold touch of a sword on his neck stopped him from moving. Evanjalin stiffened beside him.

"Turn around," the assailant said. The sound was more like a rumble than a voice.

He saw Evanjalin's sideways glance, but before he could speak, the assailant pushed her away and she fell.

"Let this fight be between us!" Finnikin said, swinging around.

Mercy. He was facing a giant of a man. Massive in height and bulky in width, the giant had dark hair and a beard that were cropped close to his skin. He clutched two swords. His fists were thick, double the size even of Trevanion's, and he defended Finnikin's first blow with great skill.

Evanjalin was back on her feet, hurling her water flask at the giant, but it made little impact against him as his sword clashed with Finnikin's.

"I'm playing with him," the giant said, his tone unkind. "Do that again, little girl, and I'll kill him."

"Push her, threaten her, or even look at her again, and I'll kill you!" Finnikin said, sending the man into momentary retreat.

"I'll make this easier for you." The giant dropped the sword he was holding in his left hand and held up his right hand, indicating who was in charge.

Finnikin caught his first clear look at the man and fought to suppress a grin. "Go get my father, Evanjalin," he said, blowing hair out of his face. He heard her retreating footsteps as she broke into a run.

"She's going to get your father," the giant scorned. "Should I be scared?"

"Probably. Lumateran, aren't you?" Finnikin asked in Yut, trying to sound as if he had the breath to fight and talk.

A dark look crossed the man's face. "You ask too many questions, skinny boy."

"Skinny boy? That's the best you can do?"

The giant's eyes narrowed, and his fighting pace quickened until Finnikin's arm began to ache and his legs buckled.

"You look like you're from the River," Finnikin taunted. "Second to those of the Lumateran Rock, I hear."

The giant clenched his teeth, and Finnikin wanted to laugh at how easily he was provoked.

Moss of the River.

The Guard had always mocked him because of his name. He was the biggest scoundrel among the king's men, but Balthazar and Isaboe had adored him and he in turn loved the royal children as if they were his own. His anguish at the discovery of Isaboe's blood-soaked hair and clothing in the Forest that morning had been so great that Trevanion had to hold him down to prevent him from pounding his own body with stones.

"You talk too much," Moss snapped. "And from what I know about Lumatere, the River men come first."

"Do they?" With a grunt, Finnikin shoved him back and then threw his own weapon to the side.

Moss of the River stared at him in confusion, the sword still clasped in his hands.

Finnikin held up one finger at a time. "Rock. River. Monts. Flatlands. Forest. In order of strength," he goaded.

"You have a death wish, my friend. My father would say that anyone fool enough to think they can better a Lumateran River man does not deserve to live."

"And my father would say that very few men look good with a broken nose."

With that, Finnikin twisted around and sent a flying kick to Moss's face. The big man stumbled back in shock, and then a glint of some kind of satisfaction appeared in his eyes. Throwing his sword to the side, he lunged toward Finnikin.

"Hand to hand," he said, nodding with approval. "Try not to scream like a girl."

Trevanion sprinted into the courtyard, trailed by Sir Topher, Evanjalin, and Froi. They were just in time to see Finnikin trapped in a headlock by a man who was twice his size.

"What are they doing?" Sir Topher asked in alarm.

"They're proving their manhood," Evanjalin said in a bored voice. "One of yours, I presume, Captain Trevanion?"

Evanjalin and Sir Topher turned to look at him, and Trevanion could not hold back his joy. He felt his lips twitch into a smile. "Yes," he said. "Both mine."

Finnikin came flying through the air and landed at their feet with a groan.

"Moss has a weak left," Trevanion managed to tell him before Finnikin was back on his feet.

"Sweet goddess, it's Moss of the River," Sir Topher said, hitting Trevanion on the shoulder with glee. "He's a lot bigger than Finnikin," he added. "He could hurt him."

"He says he's only playing with Finnikin," Evanjalin advised them, as some of the villagers came out to their balconies to watch the fighting below.

Finnikin danced and ducked around the giant, throwing punches at any opportunity he could take. "My father says you have a weak left," he said, his head aching from the constant movement.

Moss led with his left, and Finnikin ducked again and then leaped onto the big man's back, yanking at his ears. "And my father would know." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Evanjalin approach. "Stand back, Evanjalin. You'll get hurt!"

"How long is this going to take, Finnikin? Ask him if they have food. You promised me roast pork."

Finnikin rolled his eyes as Moss swung from side to side, trying to dislodge him from his back. "Woman, I'm trying to fight here! Or has that escaped your attention?"

Moss reached over his shoulder, grabbed Finnikin by his jerkin, and swung him over his head. But then he stopped suddenly, sliding Finnikin back onto the ground, staring at him.

"Finnikin? Did she say Finnikin?"

Finnikin felt dizzy, the world spinning out of control.

"Finn?" Moss asked again, and then something else seemed to occur to him. "Did you tell her to go get your ..." He swung around to where the others stood.

"Blessed day," he murmured. "Oh, blessed day." He stepped toward Trevanion, a look of wonder on his face, and then gave a huge roar of laughter. If Finnikin's left ear hadn't already been ringing from a blow, it would have been deafened by the volume. Moss grabbed Trevanion and lifted him from the ground, both of them laughing with a joy that had their balcony spectators clapping.

"The innkeeper said there were foreigners asking after us. We thought you might be Charynite spies." Moss wiped tears from his eyes. "Never imagined this." He looked at Sir Topher and caught him in a bear hug. "A day blessed by Lagrami, Sir Topher."

Finnikin staggered to his feet beside them. Moss clapped him on the back with his huge hand before looking at Evanjalin. "Food you say, my beauty?"

Evanjalin's face beamed at the compliment.

"Tonight we feast, my friends."

The King's Guard of Lumatere was lodged in an inn at the far end of town. It had been their home for the past five years. They spent their days training Pietrodore soldiers and working out battle tactics for a strike on the palace if they were ever able to enter Lumatere. Each year, Perri and Moss had returned to the the Valley of Tranquillity to see if there was any change.

"Too dark to describe," Moss said quietly as he led the way up a flight of crumbling stone steps to the inn's flat roof. "The mist of malevolence surrounds the whole kingdom, as well as the Forest of Lumatere."

From the rooftop, Finnikin could see down into a large internal courtyard surrounded by high walls.

"It's where we train the lads of Pietrodore," Moss explained as he unlocked the rooftop door. They went down a set of narrow wooden steps until they reached a large rectangular hall, three floors down. Despite the dimness of the light, there was a great deal of activity in the room. It was full of the former King's Guard, fierce men who looked much the same to Finnikin as they had in the days when they defended Lumatere. They wore their hair cropped short, and their body language spoke of readiness. Some played cards, while others sat with their heads bent together.

Moss grinned at Finnikin. "Gentlemen," he called out, "and I hear there are some ladies present too, Aldron."

The men laughed without looking up.

"Last lady I saw was your woman as I left her this morning, Moss," the man Finnikin presumed was Aldron said from the back of the hall.

"We have guests."

Several of the men stopped what they were doing and gave Moss their attention. They squinted in the half-light, and Finnikin realized that, like the town of Pietrodore, visitors rarely entered this domain.

"Courtesy of a foreign King's Guard," Moss continued.

This time, every man in the room came to his feet. They pulled their swords from their scabbards in unison.

"Moss, where is the humor in this?" one man asked, making his way toward them.

Finnikin recognized him instantly. Perri. Trevanion's second-in-charge. The man who had placed him in Sir Topher's care during the nightmare days after the unspeakable, the man who had given him Trevanion's sword.

Perri stopped in front of them. He was lean and lacked the height of Moss and Trevanion, but there was no weakness in his body. As he had often done as a child, Finnikin trembled at the sight of men so powerful.

Finnikin saw the recognition flash in Perri's eyes. He stood before his captain, their faces twitching with suppressed emotion. They clasped each other's arms, their fists straining from the strength of their feelings. Curious, others in the room stepped forward and suddenly a roar of men's voices shouted Trevanion's name.

"Crying?" Froi scorned.

For a moment the room was silent. Finnikin watched the men turn and stare at Froi as if he were a gnat they could crush in a moment. Froi, at least, had the good sense to look frightened.

"Did he just mock us?" one of the younger guards asked.

Trevanion grabbed hold of another guard, clapping him on the shoulder. "You were half the size when I saw you last, Aldron."

"I was fifteen, Captain," Aldron protested. "And you swore you would never allow a guard so young. But you said I had the heart of a lion."

"As does your little pup." Moss grinned, looking at Finnikin.

Finnikin felt Perri's dark stare. But the look was one of pride.

"Little Finch," Perri murmured. Suddenly he grabbed Finnikin in a headlock as the others cheered. "And where is Sir Topher?" Perri asked, swinging around.

"Feeling like the shortest man in the kingdom," Sir Topher said with a laugh, lost in the middle of the group. There were three cheers for the king's First Man.

After the initial excitement, the Guard seemed overcome. Finnikin could see it in their expressions, as if they had no idea how to comprehend who had just walked into their hall. There were questions in their eyes. Trevanion sensed it and held up his hand for silence. He took in the face of every person in the room and then his gaze settled on Froi and Evanjalin, who looked overwhelmed by all the celebration. Gently Trevanion drew them toward him and turned them to face his men, brushing the back of his hands across their faces.

"Gentlemen," he said quietly, "I present to you the future of our kingdom. The lifeblood. We take back Lumatere. For them."

The guards hoisted the two into the air, and Finnikin saw joy and fear on Evanjalin's face.

But Froi looked around with wonder.

As if he had never seen the world from up so high before.

Chapter 16

There was little rest to be had in the week that followed. Trevanion wasted no time in preparing his men, yet there was a spirit and energy among the Guard that not even the most backbreaking training could crush. These were men of wisdom and experience, but no one could deny the need for youth and stamina, especially if the battle to reclaim Lumatere was a long one. In the courtyard of the inn, Trevanion and Perri barked out instructions, pushing the men to the limits of their endurance, and at times their tempers.

"Protect your wrist, Callum!"

"Your feet are your first line of defense, Finnikin!"

"If he had an ax, you'd be standing on stumps by now, Aldron!"

"Oi! Froi! Make yourself useful and get some bindings!"

Finnikin fought hard for their approval, something he had not needed to work for during the past ten years. Sir Topher's admiration had always been quick, from his wonder at Finnikin's ability to remember every detail of a conversation to praise for his pupil's hunger for learning. But now Finnikin felt the need to convince the Guard that he was worthy to be part of them. He longed for their acceptance, not just because his father was captain but because they saw him as a warrior in his own right.

And so he trained long before the others arrived at dawn, his fingers bleeding from the constant use of his bow and arrow. During the day, he rarely stopped to eat or drink, his practice sword always ready for the next opponent, despite the pain in his joints. He worked hardest and longest with the glaive, knowing it was his weakness, ignoring his opponents as they winced each time the pole connected. He listened intently to every criticism and afterward worked twice as hard to make sure he did not repeat his mistakes.

By the end of the first week, his whole body ached and he wanted nothing more than to collapse onto his bedroll and sleep. Beside him, Froi picked up the practice swords, grumbling with every movement. "Make yourself useful, Froi!" he mimicked. "Fetch, Froi! Slave!"

Finnikin was beginning to regret the boy's language lessons, which now included every curse under the sun, courtesy of the Guard. He looked up to where Evanjalin sat on the balcony, her legs folded under her, head on the rails.

"Use more than the weapon to fight," Trevanion ordered. "Fight from the heart, lads."

"Train your body to do the moving," Perri shouted.

"Finnikin, too tight," Moss said. "Hold the sword like you'd want a woman holding your—"

Finnikin heard one of the men clearing his throat as he indicated toward the balcony with his head.

"Sorry, Evanjalin," Moss said meekly, waving up to her.

She spent most days watching, not permitted to participate. Despite the resourcefulness she had displayed over the last few months, Sir Topher had ordered that she keep out of harm's way.

At times Finnikin felt Sir Topher treated her as if she were some prized possession and not just Evanjalin who could take care of herself. He had noticed that whenever she watched from the balcony, the aggression of the men intensified and the competition became more fierce, especially among the younger guards. Finnikin had received great satisfaction that morning beating Aldron of the River in front of her, catching him across the ears with the buckler. When the fourth serious injury of the day occurred, Trevanion intervened.

"Froi, go make yourself useful and tell Evanjalin that Sir Topher would like her to join him for a walk. A very long one."

But she was back again that evening after the rest of the Guard had left. Finnikin felt her eyes on him and caught her look of displeasure. Exasperated, he finally dropped the practice sword in his hand and leaped up to the trellis, climbing his way toward the balcony, where she sat under the light of the moon. When he reached the railing, the sight of her robbed him of breath; her golden skin glowed in the pale light.

With his feet balanced on the trellis, he propped both arms on the timber rail. "What?" he asked.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Beg all you like. Just tell me what the problem is."

She stared at him and sighed. "What do you want me to say, Finnikin? You are as good as them. Perhaps in time you will be the best fighter in Lumatere. But you are not meant to be in the King's Guard. You are meant to be in the king's court."

He shook his head. "You are wrong. When we were children, Balthazar always dreamed of the same future. He would be king and I would be captain of the Guard. Like our fathers before us."

She looked at him sadly. She was only inches away from him, and he fought the urge to take her face in his hands.

"But that was a time when Balthazar thought he would live forever," she said. "Before they slayed his parents and sisters. When he still believed silver wolves and unicorns existed in the Forest of Lumatere and there was no difference between him and a peasant. But there was. Just like there is a difference between a great warrior and a great king's First Man. And your father is one, Finnikin, and you are the other."

"You think I can't be a great warrior?" he asked.

"Today this courtyard was filled with great warriors. What is one more? But it was not filled with great men who have the heart to rule a kingdom. Any man can kill, Finnikin. It is a stroke, an action with one's hand. But not every man knows how to lead. For that you need what's here," she said, pointing to his head, "and what's here." She laid a hand on his chest. He heard a door open below them.

"Finnikin!" Trevanion strode into the courtyard. "Where are you? We're off to the bathhouse. Are you with us?"

Finnikin's gaze was locked on Evanjalin's.

"Are you with them?" she asked softly.

"Always."

"Then go." She sniffed dramatically. "Leave me in my gilded cage."

He grinned. "You are just put out because we're treating you like a girl."

"I am a girl. And if I am put out, it is because a bunch of men who don't care for keeping clean are afforded the luxury of a bathhouse, and those who crave it are stuck with ten layers of grime on their face."

He reached out his hand and traced the backs of his fingers across her face. "You lie. I can only feel eight."

"Finnikin!" his father called again.

"Off you go, Little Finch," she mocked. "To the bathhouse, where you can all sit around and compare the skills and attributes of the warrior class."

Finnikin watched Aldron of the River strut around the bathhouse before making himself comfortable next to Trevanion. The young guard reminded Finnikin too much of Lucian. Unlike Finnikin's pale, lean frame, Aldron had the coloring of the River people and had lost his leanness years before. Finnikin tried hard not to compare himself with any of the Guard in their nakedness.

"I hear we are to split up to travel to Lumatere, Captain Trevanion," Aldron said.

Trevanion nodded. "We have exiles to collect from other kingdoms," he explained. "I will speak of it tonight."

"And, of course, Aldron will be the first to volunteer to escort our younger visitors," one of the older guards joked.

Finnikin turned to Aldron. "Evanjalin and the boy travel with me," he said coldly. "It's best to keep things simple."

"Simplicity would have you traveling with Perri and Moss, and a few of the older men who can teach you a thing or two about defense, Finnikin," Aldron said.

"It takes great character to handle Evanjalin and Froi," Finnikin went on. "You would have much to fear."

"What is the worst that can happen?" Aldron scoffed.

"She could have you imprisoned in the mines. Or sell you to the slave traders of Sorel," Finnikin said with a shrug.

"You are trying to scare me off. Does she belong to you, Finnikin? If she does, say the word and I will bite my tongue and look the other way."

The men turned toward Finnikin, waiting for a response.

Did Evanjalin belong to him? No, he wanted to say, she belonged to their future king, his boyhood companion whom he had loved like a brother. But there were moments, as he lay beside her deep in the night, when he hated beloved Balthazar. When he wished to covet it all.

"I think you need to find yourselves wives," Finnikin said.

The men chuckled.

"Well, here is our dilemma," Moss began. "There are those who refuse to betray their bonding vows and consider themselves still joined to their women in Lumatere, and those who are free to come and go as they please. Except the first rule of Pietrodore is that their young women are off-limits."

"Tomas and I are bonded to each other," Bosco said from a lower step.

"Which we are forced to be reminded of each night."

"While the rest of us go with nothing," Aldron sulked.

"You're most welcome to join us any time, Aldron," Tomas joked.

The others laughed.

"Anyway, each month we enjoy a day or two in Bilson," Moss said with a grin. His face instantly reddened when he found Sir Topher's gaze on him.

"And what is it you do there, Moss?" Sir Topher asked politely.

Finnikin exchanged a look with his mentor, who was trying to hide a smile.

"Ah, of course," Sir Topher said, as if a thought had just occurred to him. "With such diverse places of worship and the tastiest delicacies, it would be hard to keep away."

"Not to mention the reading rooms," Finnikin said, catching Sir Topher's grin. "I once spent a whole week there reading about the sixth-century fighting techniques of the Leticians. I can understand what drew you to the town, Moss."

Aldron snorted. "What an exciting life you lead, Finnikin."

"Thank you, Aldron. I do enjoy the philosophical discussions I have with Evanjalin. Reading and languages are her passion. Yours?"

"Oh yes, Aldron and Moss are great readers," Perri said dryly. "And as for languages, I do believe they know how to curse in at least six."

After dinner that evening, they sat hunched over maps of Skuldenore, combining their knowledge of the past ten years. Perri pointed to a landmass on his map in Yutlind Nord near the Sendecane border. "Exile camp. Forty-seven men, women, and children. Mostly from the Flatlands."

Sir Topher shook his head. "We thought we knew them all."

"They stayed hidden in the north. If there is one kingdom where they do not care if you're Lumateran, it's Yutlind. The Yuts have enough of their own misery."

"How do our exiles survive in these parts?" Finnikin asked.

"We send a guard each week. Lexor is with them at the moment. But we struggle to keep them fed. Thankfully some have found work on the land over the years, yet they refuse to become part of the village, which would have made life easier for them. They are firm in their belief that if they stray too far from the other Lumaterans, they will be left behind."

"A problem with most Lumateran exiles," Sir Topher said softly.

Finnikin finished the work on his own map, and the men whistled in surprise when they saw the markings.

"So many camps," Perri said with regret.

"Have you seen my father and mother in your travels, Sir Topher?" Ced of the Flatlands asked. There was a hopeful look on his face. "They escaped up the River to Sarnak during the five days of the unspeakable, but I have not come across them since or met anyone who has."

Trevanion did not speak. Finnikin knew his father had recruited the young Ced from his own river town. There was no doubt about the fate of his parents.

"I fear they may have perished in Sarnak or the fever camps," Ced continued in a quiet voice. "We have seen many die from famine over the years."

Trevanion's eyes were downcast.

"As have we," Sir Topher said, clearing his throat. "Finnikin's Book of Lumatere is full of the names of the dead."

"Yet we could do little," Perri said. "Each time we made our presence known, lo and behold, there was an attack on our inn or camp."

"Charynites?" Trevanion asked.

Perri nodded. "It is what you have always suspected, Trevanion."

Finnikin looked from one to the other in confusion. "How do you know of my father's suspicions, Perri?"

"We spoke about them during the early days of my imprisonment in Belegonia," Trevanion said.

"You were there?" Sir Topher asked Perri in surprise.

Perri looked quickly at Trevanion, who nodded.

"For the first three years of my captivity in Belegonia, they managed to get themselves arrested at different intervals to join me," Trevanion said flatly.

"You would have done the same. You would never have left any of us to rot in a foreign prison," Perri muttered.

"We almost broke him out once or twice," Moss said.

Trevanion looked at them, his expression softening. "It did help," he admitted. "During those early days, nothing except your news that my son was being taken care of by one of the noblest men in our kingdom made things bearable."

Sir Topher smiled humbly.

"In Belegonia we received a warning that Trevanion was to be transferred and we followed him south and then six months later to the mines," Perri said.

"Did any of you manage to get yourselves arrested in Sorel?" Finnikin asked.

The men fell silent.

"We thought it would be as easy as Belegonia," Perri said finally, a pained look on his face. "Disorderly behavior. Sent to the mines. Released within a week. Except we underestimated the prison mines and lost two men in the first two weeks. Then Trevanion forbade it. Made us promise. The hardest decision I have ever made was to honor that promise. Your father must have stopped breathing from fear when he saw you there, Finnikin."

"Who were the men?" Finnikin asked quietly. "The two you lost?"

No one spoke for a moment.

"Angas and Dorling," Kintosh of the Rock answered.

Finnikin paled. The brothers from the Rock Village. The two lads had been inseparable. They were among the youngest of the Guard, and the girls of the Rock would swoon when speaking of them. Some even said that the princesses blushed in their presence. They would have been only a few years older than Finnikin now. So similar to him in coloring. As children, when they were not pretending to be king and captain of the Guard, he and Balthazar would pretend to be Angas and Dorling of the Rock.

"We were talking about the Charynites," Perri said quietly.

Finnikin nodded, needing a moment to find his voice again. "The impostor king is weak, has always been weak, especially in his capacity as captain of the King's Guard before my father. There was no possible way that he could mastermind such a well-executed plan as the takeover of Lumatere. Just deliver it."

"But that was all we knew until Evanjalin," Sir Topher said.

"Is she friend or foe?" Moss asked. "Because she is a beast at cards, and at times I feel as if the power of the mightiest of gods is in her eyes."

"Or the darkest of spirits," Perri said.

Finnikin glanced at him. Perri knew darkness. "Evanjalin is a survivor of the Sarnak massacre."

"Sweet precious child," Moss sighed.

"And she can walk through the sleep of those trapped inside Lumatere," Finnikin added.

"And that of our heir," Sir Topher said.

Moss whistled, and Aldron squeezed in next to them, a look of disbelief on his face. "She's a mystic? A Forest Dweller?"

Trevanion shook his head. "A Mont."

"She was with me when I visited Lord August in Belegonia," Finnikin said. "And she confirmed our theory that the Charynites were involved in the deaths of our beloveds. But she had an explanation. Lumatere was just a way for the Charynites to invade Belegonia."

"She claims to have known this through Balthazar," Trevanion said.

"And you believe her?" Perri asked incredulously.

Trevanion sighed. "I think I do."

"It makes sense," Sir Topher said. "Place a puppet king in Lumatere and you get a clear path into Belegonia, the most powerful kingdom in the land."

"They could have used Osteria for that," Aldron said.

"Osteria has Sorel as an ally. Not even the Charynites would be that stupid."

"I'm not questioning her theory," Perri said. "I'm questioning her delusion that she can walk through the sleep of our heir."

"Then let's focus on her theory and not her delusion," Trevanion said. "The Charynites fear us. If we free Lumatere, we will have the impostor king and his men as political prisoners, weak bastards who can easily be broken to reveal the truth behind the palace murders, which will implicate the king of Charyn. The Belegonians will be eager for the evidence."

"And instigate a war between two of the most powerful nations of Skuldenore?" Sir Topher said bleakly. "A war that could affect every kingdom surrounding Lumatere?"

There was an uneasy silence.

"A war of the land?"

The men swung around to where Evanjalin stood.

"Is that what we achieve by returning? The annihilation of the whole land of Skuldenore?"

Most of the Guard seemed suddenly wary of her. Finnikin made room on the bench, and she squeezed in beside him.

"We've just been told the most fascinating story, Evanjalin," Perri said, his tone cool.

"Do you believe in the gods, sir?" she asked.

"I believe in him," he said, pointing to Trevanion. "And where he goes, the Guard follows. Don't ask me to believe in anything else."

She stared at him for a moment, understanding in her eyes. "Your family lived close to some of the Forest Dwellers, did they not?" she asked.

Finnikin could tell Perri was surprised by her knowledge, but he revealed little.

"I prefer not to refer to them as family."

"But you witnessed the gifts of some of the Forest Dwellers?"

His stare was cold. "I knew little of their mystic practices. Whatever contact I had with the Forest Dwellers had less to do with sharing our skills than with shedding blood. Theirs."

"Then it will be hard for me to explain what I can do in the sleep," she said.

"Try," Trevanion urged, giving Evanjalin a quick nod of encouragement.

"It's a blood spell," Finnikin said.

"Ah, I see. Now everything makes sense." Perri's tone was dry.

"And Seranonna's spell was a blood curse," Sir Topher continued.

"And the young girls of Lumatere are protected because the impostor's men think they have a blood disease," Trevanion added.

"Can you explain the blood spell that has given you this... gift, Evanjalin?" Moss asked.

Evanjalin looked at Sir Topher, as if seeking his permission.

"Maybe without so much detail, Evanjalin," he said, a flush in his cheeks. "I will explain the rest later if necessary."

She nodded. "I was twelve years old. I remember it clearly because a wondrous feeling came over me. As if I was melting into the souls of others, and I felt a wave of such peace that I truly believed I was in the heavens with our goddess. That night, I walked my first sleep with a bundle in my arms. A baby."

"The baby spoke to you?" one of the men asked.

Evanjalin looked confused. "How can a baby speak?"

"The same way someone can walk through another's sleep. With very little credibility," Perri said.

"I would have preferred if the goddess had given me a more credible gift, sir. Perhaps the ability to heal or talk to the animals or hold a sword the way a man would like his sword to be held, but alas I am stuck with walking through the sleep of others."

Perri had the good grace to look apologetic, and Finnikin heard a few chuckles around them. By now every member of the Guard had surrounded their table.

"Do you walk through the child's sleep?" Moss asked.

Evanjalin shook her head. "Yet I know every single time when we walk through the sleep of the child's mother, although we never walk the sleep of the other who sometimes joins us."

"The other?" Perri asked.

"How do you know where to go?" This came from Ced.

"I don't know. It is as if we are both lost in this dreamscape together and then suddenly we are in someone's sleep thoughts. At times it is wonderful, and other times ... I cannot begin to tell you of the demons that visit humans as they sleep. Guilt is the greatest monster. Remorse, a killer. But the worst are the memories. Yet sometimes, they are the only things that keep our people alive."

"You must dread sleep," Aldron said.

"Not at all. When the sleep first began, it was beautiful. I felt pure joy. I think I was experiencing the euphoria of a woman of great courage holding her newborn." She looked meaningfully at Trevanion. "A woman whose sleep I had walked before."

"It was Beatriss?" he asked quietly. "Beatriss gave birth to a child five years ago?"

"Beatriss?" There were murmurs around them. "Trevanion, what are you saying?" Moss asked. "That Lady Beatriss is... she's..."

"Perhaps alive. Perhaps helping those responsible for the weakening of Seranonna's spell," Trevanion said firmly.

"Who would that be?" one of the older guards asked. "Very few of those who worshipped the goddess Sagrami were spared during the five days of the unspeakable."

"The cloister of Sagrami," Perri said quietly. "It can only be the novices."

"The novices would have been put to death with the rest," Moss insisted.

Evanjalin's gaze returned to Perri. "The other who walks the sleep with us is very strong in her power. The child is drawn to her as she is drawn to her own mother. I believe she has both light and dark in her."

"Tesadora," Perri said under his breath.

"You seem certain that Tesadora and the novices lived, sir," Evanjalin said.

Perri did not respond.

"Is that good or bad?" another of the guards asked. "That this Tesadora takes charge within Lumatere?"

"Her mother was Seranonna," Trevanion said.

Finnikin saw the looks pass among the guards at the mention of Seranonna's name.

"Tesadora was as mistrusted among her own people as she was by the rest of Lumatere, so let's just say that she was not raised in the bosom of her people. She is cunning and has a very dark soul," Perri said.

"Just the person we need to break the very dark spell cast by her mother," Evanjalin said.

"But you must be wrong about Lady Beatriss aiding her," Perri argued. "One would have been a novice of Lagrami, the other Sagrami. There is no way that Tesadora of the Forest Dwellers and Beatriss of the Flatlands would be acquainted. No possible way that Beatriss would trust her child with someone so dark of spirit. Do not underestimate Tesadora's hatred of the world."

"You trust your children with those who have the power to protect them," Trevanion said.

"The other... I mean, Tesadora walks the sleep with us only sometimes," Evanjalin said. "But I do not sense her evil. Just a forceful will. I know she is there for the child. It is when the sleep is dark and fearful that she is there. Last night we walked the sleep and there was much grief, but Tesadora's powers ensure the child sees or hears nothing that will damage her. The child has been kept innocent. I cannot begin to think of the effect that has on Tesadora."

"And you?" Finnikin asked. "Who protects you?"

"Faith in my goddess, of course."

There was a mixture of intrigue and skepticism on the faces of the guards around her.

Perri turned to Trevanion. "So what is our plan?"

"We split up, each group traveling to a different kingdom to collect our exiles. We meet in the Valley of Tranquillity as soon as possible. Moss and Aldron, I want you to leave for Lastaria tonight. The priest-king is there."

There was an intake of breath from the guards. "Blessed Barakah?" one said in a hushed tone.

Trevanion nodded. "He travels with a large number of exiles. Take them to the Valley of Tranquillity. The rest of you will travel in groups of four or five. If you come across any exiles, do your best to convince them to join you, but under no circumstances do you stay with them in their camps or tent cities. Too many of them are plagued by fever or fear. The moment you reach the Valley, I want every strong man and woman trained to use a longbow. The attack on the impostor and his men needs to be fast and accurate, or else we will never take the palace."

There were murmurs among the Guard.

"How many of them do you believe there are?"

"The impostor king rode into Lumatere with six hundred men. Our own people could have been recruited as part of his army. Who can say?"

"But how do we get in?" one of the guards asked. They were all looking at Evanjalin.

"We need to find the Monts," Trevanion said. "They may hold the key."

Perri shook his head. "Not a sighting in ten years. I return to the Valley with Moss each year at the time of the harvest moon, and we have not seen hide nor hair of them."

Evanjalin stood, and the men instantly rose with her. She acknowledged them with a nod. "Our king will get us through the main gate," she said. "That has been promised in the curse."

And then she left and all Finnikin could hear was the name Balthazar whispered around the room.

Chapter 17

Three days later, the King's Guard separated for the first time in ten years. Trevanion ordered that along with Perri the original party would stay together until Belegonia. They had acquired more horses, which would ensure that the journey along the coastal road was swift. As he mounted his horse, Finnikin sensed the mood of excitement and uncertainty among the Guard. He saw the look of hope on their faces. And doubt. But they had enough faith in their captain to trust his decision. And his decision was to allow this strange girl to lead them home to Lumatere.

They rode for the better part of the day, until they reached the coastal road, where the gulf divided Belegonia from Sorel. As the ill-fated captain of the Myrinhall had suggested, it would have been the quicker route between Sorel and Yutlind. Yet piracy in the Gulf of Skuldenore had claimed many lives, and despite their perilous journey up the Yack, Finnikin knew they had taken the right course.

Late in the afternoon, they rested their horses and sat on the dunes, watching the ocean. Nothing reminded Finnikin so much of the insignificance of humans as when he stood before the ocean's pounding waves. For a moment, he caught his father's eye. They both knew there was no turning back from the path they were about to take. Although they were gathering their fragmented people together, Finnikin could not help thinking they were also leading them to war. Taking back Lumatere would not be easy. And if they succeeded, they had no idea to what they would return. Would their land of five peoples become a kingdom split in two: those who were exiled and those trapped inside? Suddenly he missed the life they had left behind in Pietrodore. There, he had everyone he wanted in one place. Going back to Lumatere could mean the loss of them all.

Back on the road, Finnikin swung onto his horse and then turned to help Evanjalin up behind him. But Perri was already there, his hands cupped to assist her. Evanjalin leaned over and traced the scar on Perri's face, and he flinched at her touch.

"It was you," she said in wonder. "You wear a permanent crown. She placed it there." Evanjalin kept her fingers on Perri's forehead. "She doesn't regret what she did to you that day when you were children, Perri. The savagery your kin showed toward her will never be forgotten. But regardless of what you believe, I think Tesadora is forever grateful that you kept Sagrami's novices hidden that night."

Perri looked stunned. His eyes met Finnikin's, and Finnikin saw a myriad of emotions on the guard's face. But only for an instant. What had his father's second-in-command done during the five days of the unspeakable to make him feel such love and pride, but also shame? How many stories were missing from Finnikin's Book of Lumatere?

Early that evening they came to a signpost for Lastaria, a half-day's ride from the capital of Belegonia. Moss was sitting there astride his horse, waiting for them.

"We have a problem," he said soberly as his mount danced around Trevanion's.

"The priest-king?" Evanjalin asked.

"He is safe," Moss assured them. "But the journey was harrowing and they lost at least ten people to fever along the way."

Finnikin felt Evanjalin shudder as she held on to his waist.

"It gets worse. When they arrived here last week, they came across a small camp of exiles."

"How could we not have known?" Sir Topher said.

"They did not want to be found. There are at least thirty of them, and they refuse to journey with us to the Valley."

"Then we go without them," Trevanion said bluntly.

"That's where we have our problem. The priest-king will not leave them."

"And the rest?" Evanjalin asked. "The exiles from Sorel?"

"With Aldron, on their way to the Valley."

Trevanion cursed and exchanged looks with Perri. The sun was beginning to set and Finnikin knew their plan was to reach the capital before midnight.

"We cannot leave him behind, Captain," Evanjalin argued.

Trevanion turned his horse around reluctantly. "No, but we will have to convince him to leave the others."

They rode into Lastaria under the light of a half moon. Moss paid a stable boy a piece of silver to take care of their horses, with the promise of another when they returned. Then he led them down sloping, cobbled streets toward the town center. Finnikin could hear the sounds of the night bazaar before they saw it. The air was full of raised voices and music, the streets strung with lanterns.

Lastaria seemed to lack the intellect and culture of the Belegonian capital, but there was an unleashed gaiety about the town that assaulted their senses.

In the square, the minstrels played their fiddles and pipes, delighting the audience, who danced with abandon. Lovers embraced. A vendor juggled fruit. But there was heaviness in Finnikin's heart as they followed Moss to a paddock beyond the square, at the edge of town. On the way, they passed a cluster of tents selling decorated daggers and swords. Froi's eyes lit up at the sight of them, but he was pulled along by Perri.

The camp was made up of three large carts. At least thirty men, women, and children stood by a campfire. Finnikin could see the distress in the faces of the exiles at the sight of Trevanion and his party, but his eyes searched for the priest-king. The holy man looked thinner and frailer than when they had last seen him. Perri knelt before him, and the priest-king's hands trembled as he held a thumb to Perri's forehead.

"I can't leave them behind," he whispered when the blessings were complete. "They have no goddess, no kingdom, no people but their own."

"Perhaps that is enough for them," Finnikin said.

The priest-king shook his head. "Have you seen their eyes?" He looked past Finnikin to Evanjalin. "There is nothing there."

"Blessed Barakah, our people are waiting for us in the Valley," Evanjalin argued. "Waiting for you to lead them with the captain and Sir Topher and Prince Balthazar."

"What are their reasons for staying?" Finnikin asked.

The priest-king followed his gaze to where the exiles stood. "They once lived in the village of Ignatoe, close to the east gate of Lumatere. During the five days of the unspeakable, when the Forest Dwellers began to pour into their village, the people of Ignatoe turned them away, forcing them back outside the kingdom walls." The priest-king sighed. "These people listened as the Forest Dwellers burned to death in their cottages. It's their guilt that holds them back, and no amount of pleading will move them."

Finnikin stayed with Evanjalin as she walked toward the fire, where a young girl stood holding a skillet, her expression frozen with fear. Finnikin guessed she would have been no older than five when the days of the unspeakable took place. As Evanjalin approached, her path was blocked by an older man and woman, a child clutching the woman's skirt. Up close they looked younger than Finnikin had first thought, and he realized that life rather than years had aged these people.

Evanjalin stooped to hold out her hand to the child. She looked about two or three, with brown skin and pale blond hair. "What's your name, little one?" Evanjalin asked, her voice husky. She spoke in Lumateran, but the child stared back at her blankly. She was as vacant as the children they had seen in the fever camp, yet there was no hint of malnutrition or illness. Evanjalin tried to take the little girl into her arms, but she was pushed away by the man, causing her to stumble.

Finnikin drew his sword as a warning. He was not quick enough to stop Froi from spitting in the man's face, but Perri stepped forward and dragged the thief back by his hair. In the next instant the man grabbed the child and Finnikin found himself holding his weapon an inch away from the little girl's face. Evanjalin reached out and gently lowered the sword in his hand.

"We mean no harm," Finnikin said quietly in Lumateran. He watched the exiles flinch at the sound of their mother tongue.

Evanjalin took a step toward the campfire and then another. When she stood before the young girl with the skillet, she extended a hand.

"May I?" she asked, reaching over to take one of the small pieces of meat that sat on the skillet. Before the girl could respond, Evanjalin put the meat in her mouth as if it were the most natural thing, grunting with approval as she swallowed. The girl seemed to soften slightly.

"What is your name?" Evanjalin asked.

The girl looked past them to where her father stood, then looked down again. "My name doesn't matter," she said, speaking in broken Belegonian.

"Oh, but it does," Evanjalin said quietly.

Finnikin saw the girl tremble. After a life of exile with these people, the hope shining from Evanjalin's eyes must have been mesmerizing.

"We're on our way home," Finnikin said, looking around at the rest of the group. "To Lumatere. Hoping that all our people will return with us."

There was no response.

"All we suggest is that you travel with us to the Valley of Tranquillity. With the King's Guard. The captain. Our blessed Barakah. The king's First Man," Finnikin continued.

"And what will you offer us if we return?" the man asked. "A prison cell? A life of persecution?"

"There will be no arrests," Trevanion called out. "Have we not all suffered enough?"

"We offer what is owed to your children. Our kingdom," Finnikin said.

"This is enough for them," the man said bitterly.

"This is a stretch of muddy grass," Finnikin snapped. "That," he said, pointing to one of the carts, "was built to transport cattle and horses, not to shelter humans."

"We will do what we always do," the woman said. "Send your Guard away, we beg of you."

"They are your Guard," Finnikin corrected. "There to protect you and your children."

"Our children are protected," she said. "We keep them fed."

Finnikin saw the rage in the eyes of some of the younger men. Where would it all go? he wondered. The man took a threatening step toward him.

"Turn around and don't look back," he said, his voice ugly. "I suggest you take care of your own and leave us to take care of ours, or there will be a reckoning."

"You have many suggestions, sir." Evanjalin's voice rang out through the night air. "Well, here are mine. I suggest you give your people words, not silence. I suggest you all turn to your wife, to your husband, to your children, and you speak of those days. Of the little you did when your neighbors were taken from their houses and slaughtered. Of the sorrow you have felt all these years. And I suggest you forgive yourself. But more than anything, I suggest you beg the one true goddess to forgive the legacy that you have passed on to your children. For they wear your coat of dissatisfaction and grief tightly over their bodies, and this bloodless patch of grass you have chosen to live on will be where they die with nothing but rage in their hearts. I suggest, sir, that you find no joy in being an exile. Do not make it a badge to wear with honor."

She turned and walked toward the priest-king. "You belong with us, blessed Barakah," she said firmly. "You must travel with us to your people. Now."

The holy man began to shed tears. Finnikin could not help wondering what felt worse for him. Watching his people die, or feeling as if he had abandoned them? But when Evanjalin held out her hand, the priest-king did not hesitate to take it.

They walked away, and the tiny kingdom of three carts and nameless children was swallowed by the sounds of the night bazaar. Finnikin watched Evanjalin turn back once. Twice. Three times.

Later, as they traveled along the coastal road in the dead of night, the priest-king riding ahead with Trevanion, Finnikin thought he heard Evanjalin whisper the same words over and over again.

"Take me home, Finnikin. I beg of you, take me home."

Chapter 18

"Can I trust you, Lord August?" Lord August of the Lumateran Flatlands woke to find a hand covering his mouth and a dagger to his throat. The face that appeared above him looked half-wild, with none of the softness that once gave Finnikin of the Rock a youthful innocence. With regret, he knew that if Trevanion's son dared lay a finger on his family, he would kill him in an instant. But then he realized he wasn't just at the mercy of Finnikin's dagger. In the pale moonlight that shone into the adjoining chamber, he could distinguish the outline of at least three more men. Beside him, his wife slept, unaware.

"Ah, Finnikin," he muttered. "What have you done?"

"Nothing yet. Answer my question."

Lord August grabbed Finnikin by the knotted wildness of his hair, forcing him close. "You bring these animals into my house," he said through clenched teeth, "and place a dagger at my throat as I lie beside my wife, while my beloved children sleep in the next room, and you ask me to trust you?"

"Can I take that as a yes?" Finnikin asked, shrugging free.

Lord August climbed out of bed, trying to keep an eye on the men in the adjoining chamber. "I curse myself for failing your father and not taking you into my own home. If the captain were to see you now, it would be a blunt dagger carving him up."

Lord August was a small man, but he did not let that get in his way. He would take these men down, any way he could. Images raced through his mind of what they would do to his family if he were to die first. He had always believed that if harm came to them, it would be from the Charynites or Belegonians. Not from a son of Lumatere.

"What have you done to Sir Topher?" he asked, seeing new scars and an older spirit in the boy's gray eyes.

"Aged him slightly," Finnikin murmured, walking to the window and peering out into the night. "We need a place to stay for a night or two. And food. That means you'll have to send your servants and people away. When we leave, we'll need more horses, and, if we could be so bold, a few silver coins would not go astray."

"Anything else?" Lord August said, glancing again at the three men in the next chamber. "My firstborn?"

There was a noise outside, and then a hand appeared over the rail of the balcony. Lord August watched as Finnikin stepped outside and came to the fourth man's assistance. As soon as he saw the man's face, Lord August relaxed.

"Good evening, Lord Augie," Sir Topher wheezed, looking up for a moment before doubling over with pain. Finnikin kept a hand on the older man's shoulder until he recovered. "Did you ask him about weapons?" Sir Topher managed between gasps.

"No. He offered me his firstborn and it distracted me slightly," Finnikin said. "Now that you have seen that Sir Topher is safe, can we trust you? We need to be sure. Be honest and send us away if you cannot help us."

"Is my family's life in danger?" the duke asked, with another sideways glance at the giants in the next chamber.

Finnikin stepped in front of him, blocking his vision. Lord August saw a look of vague apology on the lad's face, as if he considered using his height a sign of disrespect.

"If they are, Finnikin, I will kill you."

"Stop threatening my son, Augie," he heard a voice behind Finnikin say, as one of the men stepped out from the shadows. "Or I will have to kill you, and Lumatere cannot afford to have any more fatherless children."

"Sweet Lagrami," August swore under his breath. His eyes moved from Trevanion to Perri and Moss, who had also stepped forward, and back to Trevanion. Astounded, he burst into quiet laughter. He grabbed Trevanion in a bear hug, pounding his back and steering them all into the adjoining chamber. He pointed to Finnikin, grinning. "I knew you would listen to reason last time we spoke."

"Try not to take credit for it," Finnikin replied.

"There will be hell to pay when it is discovered that a political prisoner of the land is missing."

"Are we safe here, sir?" Finnikin asked.

"The last thing we want to do is place you and your family's lives in danger," Trevanion said quietly.

"The fewer people who know, the better it will be," Sir Topher advised.

"Augie?"

The five men swung around. Lady Abian stood at the door, clutching her night shawl, a look of terror on her face. When she saw Trevanion, she swallowed a scream, the next moment throwing herself into his arms.

"Abie," her husband chided gently. "Remember your place. You're going to make a cuckold out of me."

When she saw Finnikin, she burst into tears, covering her mouth with her hand.

"Do I look that frightening?" he asked.

She shook her head, overwhelmed by her emotion, and then she took him into her arms. "Apart from my own, I never held a prettier babe."

"A flattering compliment for any man," Trevanion said with a laugh.

"Where are you all bound for?" she asked. No one responded, and Lady Abian looked from Trevanion to her husband. "We're going home," she whispered. "Oh sweet goddess, we're going home."

"Lady Abian, there may be nothing to go back to," Finnikin said gently.

A scream, high and piercing, echoed through the house, and Lord August sped to the door, followed closely by the others. They ran down the stairs and into what at first appeared to be a closet, but instead was a tiny bedroom. Finnikin saw Evanjalin instantly. At her side Lady Celie screamed again, the sight of Trevanion and Perri causing her fear this time. In the small confines of the room, she pushed Evanjalin behind her.

Lady Abian was last in the room, and she took her daughter in her arms, her body growing still when she saw Evanjalin. "Augie," she ordered quietly, "go wake the rest of the children and our people, if they aren't already awake, and take everyone down to the parlor."

She stepped forward and cupped Evanjalin's face in the palm of her hand, as if mesmerized by the filth and scruffiness that stood before her. "Celie, go wake Sebastina and ask her to run a bath."

"Abie," Trevanion said, "we cannot have your Belegonian servants knowing we're here."

"Sebastina's one of ours. Everyone in this compound belongs to Lumatere."

Finnikin's eyes were on Evanjalin, remembering Lady Celie's reaction to her when they had first visited the house. But Evanjalin's gaze was fixed on both mother and daughter. Outside of the exile camps, he had rarely seen her in the presence of women, and at this moment he knew she would not have cared if he and the other men disappeared forever.

Lord August was staring at the two who stood half-concealed in the corner. "Blessed Barakah?" he asked, stunned, walking toward him, then kneeling on one knee.

Lady Abian seemed mortified and sent the men a scathing look. "How could you leave the priest-king to climb the trellis outside our home?" She kissed the holy man. "Blessings later," she said gently. "You look well worn and I want you all comfortable. Everyone down in the parlor, please. I will take care of the girls."

As they walked down the stairs, Lord August hammered on every door he passed. They reached the parlor, and the duke motioned for them to sit down. A few moments later, Lord August's sister and family and at least fifty others entered, filling the room to capacity. Finnikin stared around in shock. Suddenly he understood why Lady Celie's bedroom was so tiny. It was indeed a closet, as he had first thought. Every room in the house, including the storerooms, cellars, and even the pantry, must have to be used as living quarters to accommodate so many people.

"Who are these people?" Finnikin asked.

"Why, it's my village of Sayles, Finnikin," Lord August replied. "A duke is afforded the wealth of a city, and his home the right of sanctuary."

Finnikin's eyes met the duke's. It shamed him to think of all the times he had expressed his disdain for the luxuries enjoyed by the Lumateran nobility in exile, especially Lord August.

Fear and excitement lit the faces of those around him. There was a hushed celebration when the people of Sayles recognized the newcomers, the women sobbing, the men brushing quick tears from their eyes and muffling their emotions in handshakes that trembled.

When Lady Abian and the girls joined them, Evanjalin was scrubbed clean and dressed in a crisp white gown identical to Lady Celie's. Finnikin could smell sandalwood, and Evanjalin's olive complexion was as smooth and clear as honey. There was little room in the parlor, and Lady Abian sat on her husband's lap.

"Abian," her sister-in-law chided, "remember your place!"

"I am a fishmonger's daughter," Lady Abian said. "What do you expect?"

There was much joy that night. Finnikin loved watching them all. Here was a generation of men and women who had suffered greatly; the loss of their world had happened in the prime of their lives.

In the corner, Froi sat with the younger boys engaged in a competition of knuckle thumping. He who drew blood first was declared the winner. Finnikin noticed the viciousness of Froi's play and saw the younger boys wince even as they tried not to react. He reached over and boxed Froi's ears as a warning.

They spent the night arguing passionately about all things Lumateran, opinions flying, voices hushed and angry, others wavering with emotion.

"Could it have been avoided? Should the king have forbidden anyone entering Lumatere? Should he have cut off ties with the Charynites?"

"No one knew such a thing would happen, Matin," Trevanion said firmly. "No one could predict that the assassins would enter the palace. Every entrance was guarded."

"Then it was one of the Guard. A traitor working for Charyn," Lord August said.

Finnikin watched for the reaction. He had waited all week for one of Trevanion's men to make such a suggestion.

"Never," Perri said flatly. "Never."

"Then how?" Lord August pressed.

"The men guarding the palace drawbridge were attacked from behind. We could tell by the location of the wounds on their bodies. There had to be another entrance that not even the king knew about," Trevanion said.

"How could there be an entrance the assassins knew about when the king did not?" Lord August's brother-in-law asked.

"Perhaps because the impostor king was the former captain of the Guard and cousin to the king. He may have found it," Finnikin suggested.

His father shook his head. "I knew every inch of that palace. Unless a tunnel was built from inside, I would have known."

The most bitter arguments centered around the circumstances leading up to the slaughter of the Forest Dwellers.

"The king should have provided more protection for the worshippers of Sagrami. They were a minority," Lady Abian said firmly.

"Abie!" a chorus of voices reprimanded her. "It is wrong to speak ill of the dead."

"I loved our king as much as the rest of you, but he used poor judgment when it came to the Forest Dwellers. If the king had been more open in his approval of the ways and practices of those who worshipped Sagrami, our part in the days of the unspeakable would never have occurred."

"The king was not to know his people would turn on the Forest Dwellers the moment he died. As far as he was concerned, Lumaterans were living in peace," one of the women said.

"It's what the king wanted to believe. What we all wanted to believe," Lady Abian maintained. They were silent for a moment.

"There is no proof it was the Charynites," Lord August's brother-in-law said, speaking to an earlier argument.

"Of course it was the Charynites," Finnikin argued. "And the king should have treated Charyn as a threat. Instead he signed treaties with their king and cocooned himself in domestic life." He looked at Sir Topher. He knew his mentor agreed with him but would never voice his opinions aloud.

"I should have protected the worshippers of Sagrami," the priest-king said sadly. "Instead I allowed myself to be flattered by the importance of my title. I blame my hubris for not seeing what was unfolding in front of me."

"They should not have been so secretive about their ways," one of the women said.

"And that gave us the permission to turn them out of their homes and persecute them?" Lady Abian protested.

"In other kingdoms they worship more than one god or goddess with few issues about which divine being has superiority," Finnikin said.

"It is wrong," Lady Celie blurted out, her face flushed. It was the first time she had spoken that evening. Perhaps the first time she had ever raised her voice in the company of adults.

"What is, my sweet?" her father asked.

"That we persist in speaking about the goddess as if she were two. The fault lies with the men of the ancients."

"And not the women? Must men be blamed for all, my sweet?" her father asked gently. "Celie has a great love of history," he added with pride. "She has taken to recording the stories of our village."

"The men are to blame," Lady Celie continued, her voice wavering, "because they wrote the books. They were frightened by the power of our goddess complete." There was an awkward silence.

"So they split her in two," Evanjalin spoke up, placing a hand on Lady Celie's shoulder. "The goddess Lagrami and the goddess Sagrami: light and dark. But all that did was cause division and a belief that one people was better than the other."

"Those who worshipped Sagrami practiced dark magic," Lord August's sister argued. "They were instrumental in our exile."

"Yet it is the work of those inside the cloisters of Sagrami and Lagrami that will ensure us entry back into our kingdom," Evanjalin said.

"Evanjalin can walk through the sleep of our people trapped inside Lumatere," Lady Celie said boldly.

At his daughter's comment, Lord August looked at Evanjalin for the first time since she had spoken to him about the Charynites. He could not forget her voice as she stood beside Finnikin that day. He had described to his wife with wonder the power he felt in the two young people. The voice of Lumatere had come from the sun and the moon, he said. Abie called him a dreamer. "See them together and you will feel a force that will take your breath away," he had responded.

"When we return, I would love nothing more than to be part of the cloister," the duke's niece said. She was a pretty girl, more confident than her cousin Celie.

"The cloister of Lagrami?" Lady Abian asked. "Why? All they teach you to be is a rich man's dutiful wife and a blind worshipper of half a goddess."

"Oh, the idea of a dutiful wife," Lord August said with a sigh. "Why did no one point me in the direction of the cloister?"

Lady Abian raised her eyebrow. "You were lucky I was not taught by the priestess of Lagrami to bore you to tears, Augie, or by the priestess of Sagrami to poison my husband with the proper herbs. Instead, I prayed to the goddess complete to send me a man who would accept me whole and not as two halves, as men have treated our goddess for the past thousand years."

"I was a novice of Lagrami," Lord August's sister sniffed. "Do I bore people to tears?"

"Of course not, my dear," her husband responded, patting her hand. "Nor are you a dutiful wife."

The others laughed.

"You are harsh on the cloisters of both sides, Abie," Trevanion said solemnly. "Lady Beatriss was a novice of Lagrami, and she had much strength to offer."

"That I know, Trevanion," she said gently. "But the cloister of Lagrami is there for the daughters of those with wealth, like our Celie and Beatriss the Beloved. But what of the daughters of our dear friends here?"

"Privilege does not necessarily lead to freedom for our noble young women," Sir Topher said. "The princesses were always going to be sacrificed for the kingdom. The older girls had already been promised to foreign princes and dukes. Sooner or later, Isaboe would have been sacrificed in the same manner."

"Sacrificed?" Finnikin asked.

"Of course," one of the women said. "To be taken away from your family, your homeland. To be a foreigner for the rest of your life, with no true right over your children. Did it not happen to the dead king's aunt? Given to a lesser prince in Charyn, whose seed produced the monster who rules our kingdom?"

"Regardless, we must concern ourselves with what takes place inside Lumatere now. If the novices have united, as we believe they have, then those of Sagrami will teach us to be healers. Physicians," Evanjalin said. "And those of Lagrami will teach us the ways of the ancients and the beauty of goodwill. Perhaps because of the most dire of situations, daughters of peasants are secure in one of the old cloisters in Lumatere as we speak."

"When will we return to Lumatere?" one of her younger boys asked. "When Balthazar is found?"

Sir Topher nodded, but Finnikin recognized the look of uncertainty that always crossed his mentor's face whenever the heir's name was mentioned.

"How do we know that for sure?" the boy piped up.

"Because Seranonna decreed it," Lord August said.

"I fort she damned the kingdom," Froi said.

The others looked at him, uncomfortable.

"We do not consider the kingdom damned," Lord August said politely. "We prefer not to use that word."

"What would you call it, Lord August?" Finnikin asked. "A little magic? A slight curse? A bit of bad luck?"

"Finn," his father warned in a low tone.

"For the sake of the children—" Lord August's brother-in-law began.

"Only a chosen few have been privileged enough to have a childhood," Finnikin interrupted. "There have been few children since the days of the unspeakable. Were you ever a child, Evanjalin? Or Froi? Or half the orphans of Lumatere? Or even me? Was I ever a child, Sir Topher?"

"I applaud any of you who have been able to preserve innocence for your children," Evanjalin said, turning to the younger ones. "But our kingdom was cursed. Damned. Taken away from us, because good people stood by while evil took place. Let that be our lesson."

"Has it been revealed?" Lady Abian asked. "What was said that day? When Seranonna ... cursed us?"

Sir Topher nodded. "It was difficult to decipher, for we heard the words spoken only once, in an ancient language, and there are many interpretations of each word. At every camp, we searched for those who had been in the square the day of Seranonna's death and we gathered more words, poring over the books of the ancients, until four years ago Finnikin made sense of it."

Everyone's attention was directed at Finnikin. Opposite him, he watched Evanjalin take a breath, as if in anticipation.

"Finn?" his father urged.

Finnikin's eyes met the priest-king's." 'Dark will lead the light and our resurdus will rise. And he will hold two hands of the one he pledged to save. And then the gate will fall, but his pain shall never cease. His seed will issue kings, but he will never reign.'"

"Balthazar," Lord August confirmed.

" 'Our resurdus, " Finnikin said, nodding. "King."

"I think the exact words were 'her resurdus will rise,'" Sir Topher said.

The priest-king nodded. "'Her' being our kingdom of Lumatere."

"I don't understand the two hands," Perri said.

"And you believe Balthazar can ... survive such an entrance of damnation? 'Pain shall never cease'?" Lady Abian said. "And 'he will never reign'?"

"Regardless of whether he lives or dies," the priest-king said, "the main gate of the kingdom will open."

There was silence until Lord August stood. "Then we must make a decree. Here. This night. In the presence of the priest-king and Trevanion, Captain of the King's Guard, and myself, Lord August, Duke of Sayles." He turned to the king's First Man. "That Sir Kristopher of the Flatlands, as regent of our dead king, is to rule if our beloved heir does not survive."

He took in the faces of all present. "We enter Lumatere with a king," he continued forcefully. "We will never allow the leaders of other kingdoms to crown a king for Lumatere again."

Finnikin felt the weight of his father's stare. He shifted his gaze to Sir Topher, and saw that the king's First Man was looking at him with the same intensity. He was a son blessed by two fathers, one a warrior, the other a leader.

"We enter Lumatere with a king," Trevanion acknowledged.

"Sir Topher?" the priest-king said.

Sir Topher stood, looking from Finnikin to the priest-king. "I pray to the goddess ... the goddess complete, that our heir will live to see the new day in Lumatere, but if that is not to be, our kingdom will have a leader and that leader will have a First Man." His eyes rested on Finnikin. "I accept."

There was a cheer in the room as people began to chant Balthazar's name. Finnikin felt as if his breath had been wrenched from his body.

Her blood will be shed for you to be king.

He had not prayed since that day in the Valley of Tranquillity, but as the others celebrated, he began his mantra. Be alive, Balthazar. Live forever, Sir Topher. He looked over to where his father was speaking to one of Lord August's men, Matin. The steward was showing Trevanion something he had retrieved from his pocket, and Trevanion, in a rare show of emotion, drew the man toward him in an embrace.

On shaking legs, Finnikin made his way across the room to where Evanjalin stood, tears in her eyes.

"Resurdus," she whispered to him. Her lips trembled and she held his face between her hands. Suddenly Sir Topher stood between them.

"Evanjalin is tired, Finnikin," he said firmly. "She needs to sleep. Let Lady Abian take her."

Later, the sounds of Lord August making love to his wife echoed through the house. Their cries were earthy and raw, and the paper-thin walls ensured that their guests heard each murmur and groan.

"What is it with the nobility?" Sir Topher muttered, putting a pillow over his face. "The queen and king were always at it like rabbits."

Moss groaned. "If they do this every night, I'd rather give myself up to the king's prison."

Froi shuffled where he lay under the window.

"Froi, if I hear one sound coming from you," Trevanion warned.

"Must I remind you that we have the priest-king of Lumatere among us?" Sir Topher said.

The priest-king chuckled. "I'm used to hearing people dying, Sir Topher. Why would I be threatened by the sounds of people living?"

But all Finnikin could think of was the scent of sandalwood soap and a golden face scrubbed clean, and with every thrust he heard, he imagined himself inside her until his body ached for release. And the evil within him that wished for the death of Balthazar, and the realization of the prophecy spoken to him in the forest alongside a doomed princess, rejoiced that if he were to be king, he would make her his queen.

Chapter 19

Sometimes Froi of the Exiles thought he dreamed it, what happened at the crossroads. That it seemed like forever, not just a few days, and that the difference between left and right and north and west meant everything and nothing.

It began with tears when they left the home of the duke. His daughter was the worst, sobbing like a baby as she held on to Evanjalin, as if they had known each other forever rather than just two nights. She cried even more when Finnikin gave her the Book of Lumatere to keep safe. They were stupid like that, these Lumaterans. Not that he minded the duke's house. The fireplace always seemed to be working, and there was lots of food. But too much touching and kissing. Sometimes the duke's wife hugged Froi and he would try hard not to growl and shove her away, because when her arms were around him and her chuckles were in his ear, he felt calm. As if his blood wasn't beating hard all the time, urging him to fight.

Then they left and traveled north. To the crossroads. Nobody grumbled, because soon they would reach the valley outside the kingdom of Lumatere, which meant nothing to him really, because they still said, "Froi, make yourself useful!" and Evanjalin still made him practice his words with that look on her face that said she was in charge. Sometimes he would dare to look at the captain and his face didn't seem angry or hard like it usually did. It looked the way it did when he was looking at Finnikin, and it always made Froi feel strange in the stomach when he saw the captain look at Finnikin. It made him wonder if anyone had ever looked at him that way.

But things changed when they found one of the exile camps they were searching for and met one of the Guard who had been traveling with Ced. He was waiting for them, and he wasn't smiling like they had smiled when they were with the others in Pietrodore. Froi couldn't hear much about what was going on, but he saw the look on everyone's faces and he heard words like Moss's grave, which was strange because Moss was with them. And then he heard it again and maybe it was mass grave, but they were speaking too fast for him to understand. The captain, he walked away with his hands on the back of his head and he crouched by the river after that, and he kept his hands over his head for a real long time. When he stood up, there weren't tears on his face, because the captain wasn't one of the crybabies, but he looked like he wanted to kill someone, so Froi stayed out of the way and just made himself useful and looked after the priest-king. He could tell the old man wasn't traveling too well, and he was glad when Sir Topher said that they needed to find a safe place for the priest-king. Froi liked the priest-king because he treated him like he was as important as everyone else and when he taught him words in Lumatere he didn't laugh at the way he said them. He just showed him the right way.

And then they moved on, all quietlike, and reached a clearing with at least ten tracks heading in different directions, and Froi remembered looking up from the back of Perri's horse to see the sign. He knew this was the crossroads, and Finnikin explained that the border of Lumatere was one day's ride from here. There were so many arrows on that one signpost and so many words and Sir Topher read them out because they were written in Belegonian: east to Charyn/Osterian border; south to Belegonia; west to Sendecane; north to Lumatere, except someone had scratched out Lumatere as if it didn't exist, but Finnikin took the stick out of his pack and wrote the word again. The captain picked one of the arrows to follow that didn't have any words near it and Froi couldn't understand why he would pick an arrow to follow that hardly had a track, but nobody ever questioned the captain.

They traveled for what seemed hours and Froi truly thought it was night because it was so thick with trees and no light crept in. But then he saw the shine in the distance and the forest turned into a meadow, that was the word Sir Topher used, and the meadow had the tallest grass with so many yellow flowers that it hurt Froi's eyes to look at. But he didn't look away because it was a different kind of hurt, one he hadn't felt before and he found himself walking through the long grass and yellow flowers just to see what they felt like against his skin. Behind the meadow, there was a barn with shutters hanging, deadlike, from its room in the roof. Inside it smelled of every animal that had ever been there and it was where they put the priest-king, in the barn, and then the captain spoke, deciding that this was a safe place for them, that nobody would find them here. And that Froi and Evanjalin would stay behind with the priest-king while the others traveled to where Ced was at an inn waiting for them on the western road to Sendecane where there was the grave that belonged to Moss or Mass. And everyone pretended everything was all right.

They did a lot of pretending, these people.

So when Evanjalin didn't complain about being left behind, Froi watched Finnikin pretend that he wasn't going to be bothered by the fact that Evanjalin looked tired and pale, and Froi got irritated and wished that someone would tell him to make himself useful so he didn't have to stand around through the good-byes.

Finnikin kept on saying that all they needed was a bit of rest, pretending there was nothing wrong with the priest-king, and Froi tried to tell them that it looked like fever and he had seen enough fever to know, but then Perri told him to make himself useful and fetch water from the stream, so Froi got his wish and was almost saved from watching Finnikin pretend he was leaning in to tell Evanjalin something important and then forgot what it was he had to say. Which meant that they both stood close to each other, their heads almost touching for a long long while.

And then the others were gone and things got worse.

On the first night they lay in the barn listening to the priest-king talk about Lumatere as if he wanted them to remember everything because he knew he was going to die soon. The priest-king told him about the Song of Lumatere and how he would sing it at the Harvest Moon Festival when everyone in Lumatere would sleep out in the open and they'd dance and sing and laugh and how it was bad luck to sing it outside the kingdom. Froi didn't see anything wrong with the priest-king singing it now because it wasn't as if they weren't used to bad luck. And during the night Froi stayed awake and tried to hold the priest-king down in that barn because his body was shuddering and jumping and Froi was scared he'd crack one of the priest-king's ribs because the priest-king was skinnier than him. And Evanjalin sat and watched with her arms around her body to keep it warm and he knew by her shivers that she would be next. And when she looked at Froi's face she didn't pretend. She just bit her fist to keep herself from crying and then the priest-king stopped breathing for a moment and something inside Froi hurt in a way he couldn't explain. "I fink you should use magic."

Evanjalin's lips were dry and flaking and her skin looked a funny gray color and there was sweat all over her forehead that made it shiny. She looked almost dead, but she could still send him a look so evil that it made him flinch.

"I've told you before, Froi. I don't have magic!"

She coughed and it sounded like there was all this vomit in her throat and it made him sick to listen to it and more scared than he had ever been in his life.

"You're cursed," he said. "Him too. Survives the camps for years and years and survive everyfink else between. But it's fever you die from. Two days' ride from homeland."

And she cried. He had seen her shout with rage and had seen tears in her eyes over and over again, but he had never seen her cry properly and it made her look pathetic and helpless as she bent and put her head in her hands, all the while coughing stuff out of her mouth.

"In Lumatere, the novices of Sagrami would mix herbs found in the Forest and bring people back from near death with the fever," she told him.

"Then do somefink."

"I don't know how," she cried. And he didn't know what to say to make her feel right so he walked to the other part of the barn. And began to pretend.

Later, they both sat by the priest-king who grabbed Froi's hand in his, all oldlike, with its veins and scratchy skin.

"I dreamed last night, Froi," he whispered through dried-up lips, "that you were holding the future of Lumatere in your hands."

"Only saying that 'cause you dying." Froi scowled.

Evanjalin elbowed him to be silent. Then the priest-king closed his eyes, and she dragged Froi away to the corner of the barn where he could smell horse shit and he knew that if the captain or Finnikin or Perri were around they'd tell him to make himself useful and clean it up.

"When people are dying, you don't tell them," she hissed angrily.

"What about the truf Finnikin always goes on about?"

"There are different types of truth, Froi. Let the priest-king tell you whatever he wants. So when he says you'll hold the future of Lumatere in your hands, nod. Agree."

"We all be dead soon."

She looked at him long and hard. Sometimes he thought he hated her the most because it was as if she could read inside his head. The others pretended that deep down he wasn't bad. That he didn't come from evil. But she knew. She saw the badness. She saw it now and she shivered. He didn't know whether it was because of the fever or because she knew what he would do, but there was an understanding in her look.

"Go," she said tiredly. "Save yourself. It's what you want to do. And if you have any heart, find Finnikin and Captain Trevanion and Sir Topher. Walk to the crossroads and wait for someone to come riding by to take you west to the inn on the main road to Sendecane. There's not much else out there, so you will find them. Tell them we have the fever." She reached into her pocket and held out the ring. "To save you the trouble of stealing it from me."

He hated her for knowing he would.

"I have a plan. But if I fail, the priest-king and I will be dead by the time you return. Make sure we are buried. By Finnikin. At an altar made to the goddess complete. With his blood sprinkled on the rocks, which will guard me in death. Do you hear me, Froi? It's all I ask of you."

She stumbled back to the priest-king and put her hand on his forehead. "Hold him up," she ordered as he moved behind the priest-king's head.

"A joy," the old man murmured. "To die in the arms of the future of Lumatere."

Froi nodded. "I agree." He looked at Evanjalin to see if he had said it right, but she just whispered to the priest-king that she had a plan and the priest-king would need to stay alive.

Later, he watched from the window as she stumbled into the woods with a dagger in her hand and then he looked back at the priest-king as he slept, the death rattling his breath.

"Fink I would have liked to hear you sing that song," he said, leaning over the old man.

Then he walked away. And as he went through that meadow where the grass grew to his armpits, he felt a strange feeling inside of him that he had never felt before. Like someone had punched him in the stomach and he was all mashed up in there.

He didn't believe in fate and destiny and gods and guides. He didn't believe in people or goodness or love or what was right. But he understood survival, and at the crossroads, where he thought he saw the sign to Belegonia he knew he could return to the towns they had passed, full of rich people careless with their coin purses and their goods. His life would go back to the way it was before he saw Evanjalin in that alley in Sarnak what seemed like a lifetime ago. But no one had ever taught Froi the difference between left and right and south and west, and later when he rode with the toothless man in his two-horse cart and realized he had taken the wrong turn, he tried to convince himself that maybe he would have made that decision to find the others along the western road. And when fate had the toothless man stopping at the inn where the captain and Finnikin and Sir Topher and Moss and Perri and three others sat, staring at one another as if they had seen things that made them dead inside, he blurted out the words. "She ask me to come fetch you. To bury them."

Perri stared at him as if he knew the badness that lurked in Froi because Perri was dark himself. But it was Finnikin he tried not to look at, except he heard something come from him that sounded like some wild animal and then Finnikin said her name and as long as Froi was alive he had never heard a word said with such pain and he knew he never would again. The captain told Moss and Sir Topher and the two other guards that they would meet in the valley where their people waited, while Perri and Finnikin and Froi traveled with him to bury the priest-king and Evanjalin. Froi liked the way the captain included him, so he did more pretending. Evanjalin said there were different types of truth, so he showed them the truth of what he could have been rather than what he was. He climbed onto Finnikin's horse and he clung on to him and sometimes he thought Finnikin would tumble off dead because it was as if he had stopped breathing for all that time. He heard Finnikin pray to the goddess that if she spared Evanjalin's life, he would always ask her for guidance. Never doubt her again. Lead Lumatere wherever she believed it had to be led. Finnikin's head was bent low over the horse and he kicked its flanks hard and Froi had never clutched the body of one who felt so much but it reminded him of the time when he had tried to take Evanjalin in the barn. Both times the touch of their bodies had burned him, but this time something entered his bloodstream.

Planted a seed.

And this is the way Froi of the Exiles remembered that moment they entered the golden meadow that hurt his eyes but made him dream of all things good. On one side of the path was a stone fence half-covered with overgrown weeds. On the other, olive groves with pomegranate and apple trees mixed. And there in the middle stood the priest-king like one of those ghosts who appear in dreams and Froi saw Evanjalin in the high grass, her face pale but not with death or fever. She wore flowers in her hair and Froi liked the way their stems fit into the bunch of hair beginning to stick out of her head. And when Finnikin grabbed her to him and buried his face in her neck and then bent down and placed his mouth on hers, the others pretended that there was something very interesting happening in the meadow. The priest-king even pointed at the nothing they were pretending to see. But Froi didn't. He just watched the way Finnikin's hands rested on Evanjalin's neck and he rubbed his thumb along her jaw and the way his tongue seemed to disappear inside her mouth as if he needed a part of her to breathe himself. And Froi wondered what Evanjalin was saying against Finnikin's lips when they stopped because whatever the words were it made them start all over again and this time their hunger for each other was so frightening to watch that it made Froi look away.

When Evanjalin almost fell down with weakness, Finnikin picked her up and carried her to the barn and he lay her down, all gentle-like, and then they listened to the soft tone of the priest-king's voice, which always made Froi feel dreamy and warm, and Evanjalin slept. Froi bit into a pomegranate and felt the juice soak his chin as the priest-king told them that one day he would sing a new Song of Lumatere. Her song. Of the one named Evanjalin who walked the sleep and took the child's hand in hers. Knowing she and the child could not hear each other speak, Evanjalin prayed that she could read as she wrote two words on the walls of the chamber they walked. Fever cure? But the child could not read and the words on the wall disappeared.

And so she used her nails to scratch the words on the arm of the child, who cried from the betrayal of the pain, and she waited one whole day to walk the sleep that night, praying for an answer. But for a moment she lost hope. There were no words alongside those on the child's arm and Evanjalin's heart sank because she knew it was the end. For the priest-king had already begun his walk to the land between theirs and that of the gods. But as the child turned her back, Evanjalin saw markings above the crisp nightdress and slowly she lifted it to reveal a world painted with instructions and names and drawings of plants. And one question. Three words.

Is hope coming?

And Evanjalin did a last cruel thing to the child who did not deserve so much pain. She scratched one more word on the child's arm.

A name that would bring hope.

Sometimes Froi thought it never happened and the way he said it was all wrong and dreamlike. But Lumaterans had enough of their curse stories so he asked Finnikin of the Rock to write it down exactly the way he remembered it.

So he could one day place it in the Book of Lumatere.

Far away from the pages of the dead.

Chapter 20

Resurdus.

Finnikin woke in the loft of the barn with the word on his lips. Beside him, Evanjalin slept quietly, her skin paler than usual but her breathing even. He would never forget Froi's words in the inn. Never ever forget the sight of her standing in the meadow breathing life back into his dead heart.

He and Evanjalin slept away from the others, who tossed and snored, except for Perri, who lay with his eyes wide open, forever on the alert. Finnikin knew that if Sir Topher were there, he would have insisted that he not lie beside the girl, deemed it unacceptable in a way the priest-king didn't seem to question. Finnikin cradled her, shuddering at the confused images that came into his head. Of the mass grave he had seen the night before on the border of Sendecane. Of her body among the dead. Evanjalin pulled his arm tighter around her, holding it to stop the shaking. "It's only a nightmare," she murmured gently.

"Do you belong to the king?" he asked, his voice husky.

She gently placed his hand against the beating pulse of her heart. Always, always it beat out of control, and he held his hand to it until he felt it perfectly match his.

"Yes, Finnikin," she said. "I belong to the king. I will always belong to him."

And there lay the bittersweet despair of what awaited them in the Valley.

Beloved rival. Cursed friend.

He wondered what they'd say to each other after all these years. If he would recognize him in a crowd. Balthazar looked like his father. The Flatlanders claimed the king was descended from their people. "Hair like chestnuts, eyes like the heavens," they would say. He even heard Trevanion whisper it lovingly to Beatriss. They were the queen's favorite words to her older daughters and son, although Balthazar would be mortified when she said it in the presence of Finnikin and Lucian. "And me?" Isaboe would ask, hating not to be the center of their world. "You're our precious little Mont girl," the queen would say.

He wondered if the cousins had been together all this time. A streak of envy washed through him at the thought of the prince staying with Lucian and the Monts. They had been a trio, despite the fierce competition between Lucian and Finnikin. They had fought like brothers and made pledge after pledge from the moment they could talk. He missed them both. But here in the meadow, so close to his homeland, he felt the presence of Balthazar and Lucian so strongly that he knew with certainty he would see them soon.

The next morning, Trevanion announced they would leave by midday. Finnikin and Evanjalin stole away and lay in the meadow, forehead to forehead, musing and hypothesizing.

"Do you remember the main village in Lumatere? There was a bridge that took you to the smithy, where the Flatlands began?" Finnikin said. "My father would have his horse shod there and I'd hang over the side waiting, watching the water and following it in my mind downriver. I used to imagine going beyond the kingdom where the river would flow out to the lands beyond ours."

"Imagine if someone was standing there right now. What would they be doing?" she wondered. "At this very moment? Do they know we're so close?"

"Perhaps they are living in total tranquillity," he said. "Do you think we could have had it all wrong? Do you think they've been happy and will not care about our return?"

She shook her head. "I know they suffer," she said quietly.

"More than the exiles?"

"How does one measure it, Finnikin? Does a man who's lost his family to famine suffer less than one who's lost them to an assassin's knife? Is it worse to die of drowning than be trampled under the feet of others? If you lose your wife in childbirth, is it better than watching her burn at the stake? Death is death and loss is loss. I have sensed as much despair in the sleep of those inside as I have seen in the exiles. When I saw the words painted on the child's body, I sensed their urgency, their anguish. 'Is hope coming?'"

"They will have the question answered soon."

"If there is a future in Lumatere and you weren't called upon to be Balthazar's First Man," she asked, her mood lightening, "what would you want to do with the rest of your life?"

"First," he said, brushing a fly off her nose, "if there is a future in Lumatere, I will be in my father's Guard. And second, Sir Topher will be Balthazar's First Man."

"First, it is not your father's Guard. It belongs to the king. And secondly, Sir Topher would want you with him, advising Balthazar."

He imitated the cross expression on her face, and she giggled.

"So if I were a mere mortal in Lumatere?" He looked around the meadow, pondering. "I would put my name down for ten acres on the Flatlands. I would build a cottage there, and with my bride I would—"

"Where would you find this bride?" she interrupted.

"A novice from the cloister of Lagrami would do me fine," he said in a pompous tone. "Obedient. Biddable."

"And with the ability to bore you to tears, according to Lady Abian."

"Not a problem. I will be so tired by the end of the day that sleep will be the only thing on my mind."

She gave a snort. "You?"

He laughed at her expression. "Your meaning?"

"Last night you lay pressed against me, Finnikin. I could ... feel that sleep was the last thing on your mind."

"How unladylike of you to mention such a thing," he said.

She touched the lines around his mouth. "You look lovely when you laugh."

"Lovely? Just the way a man wants to be described." He grinned. "I hope for the day that someone describes me the way they do my father."

"All right, silent dark bear with angry frown, tell me more about your land."

He settled back down, picturing it. "I would tend to our land from the moment the sun rose to when it set and then you ... she would tend to me."

He laughed at her expression again. The world of exile camps and the Valley felt very far away, and he wanted to lie there forever.

"Let me tell you about your bride," she said, propping herself up on her elbows. "Both of you would cultivate the land. You would hold the plow, and she would walk alongside you with the ox, coaxing and singing it forward. A stick in her hand, of course, for she would need to keep both the ox and you in line."

"What would we ... that is, my bride and I, grow?"

"Wheat and barley."

"And marigolds."

Her nose crinkled questioningly.

"I would pick them when they bloomed," he said. "And when she called me home for supper, I'd place them in her hair and the contrast would take my breath away."

"How would she call you? From your cottage? Would she bellow, 'Finnikin!'?"

"I'd teach her the whistle. One for day and one for night."

"Ah, the whistle, of course. I'd forgotten the whistle."

He practiced it with her, laughing at her early attempts until she could mimic it perfectly. Froi came running up to them, a frown on his face.

"Captain said to fetch you. We leave."

"Speak Lumateran, Froi. You're not from Sarnak!" Evanjalin ordered, getting to her feet. "And you haven't returned my father's ring."

He scowled. "Fort you said it was mine."

"Don't be ridiculous," she said, vexed. "Only because I thought I would die. You'll have to give it back." She ran ahead of them, jumping over the tall grass and daffodils, her legs tangling at times, causing her to stumble.

"Hope she falls," Froi muttered. "Meanest girl I ever know."

"I've met meaner," Finnikin mused. "The Lumateran girls from the Rock are quite frightening, and you never turn your back on a girl from the River. And Princess Isaboe? Used to tell everyone she could mend her cat's broken limbs, which she could, of course. But no one knew that she'd break them first."

When they reached the barn, they joined the others in preparing their horses.

"Perri? Is there something wrong?" Finnikin heard Evanjalin ask in a quiet voice.

Perri was silent, and the question seemed to be forgotten. Or so Finnikin thought until he glanced over to Evanjalin and found her eyes locked on Perri's.

"Perri?" Finnikin prompted.

Perri's stare was loaded with controlled hostility. "She lied," he said curtly.

There was confusion on Evanjalin's face.

"Perri, leave the girl alone," Trevanion murmured, grabbing the leg of his horse by the fetlock and holding the weight of its hoof on his knee.

There was no malice in Perri's face. Just cold certainty.

"She could not have walked the sleep two nights past. She spoke of walking the sleep in Pietrodore. It's not her time to bleed again."

Suddenly everyone turned in her direction. Evanjalin's face flushed with color.

"It's not important how—" she began.

"What else have you lied about?" Perri interrupted.

This time she stayed silent.

"Did you lie about Lady Beatriss?" Perri persisted. "And Tesadora? Did you lie about the young girls of Lumatere?" The priest-king and Froi looked on anxiously. Trevanion put his horse's leg to the ground and walked over.

"Answer him," Finnikin said quietly, wanting her to put an end to Perri's suspicions.

But she refused to speak, not taking her eyes off Finnikin.

"Answer him," he said more forcefully.

She shook her head sadly. "There's always doubt in your eyes, Finnikin. How can you lead us home with so much doubt?"

"I'm not here to lead us home. Balthazar is," he replied.

The fear that ran through his body when she cast her eyes down chilled him.

"Did you lie about Balthazar, Evanjalin?" he said, his throat dry. It was strange how calmly he asked the question. But he knew that if he shouted at her, it would only mean he believed she was capable of such deception. So he waited for her to deny it, to explain the sleep to them again so he could tell Perri to shut his mouth and then convince her that there was no doubt in his eyes. Just a desperate need for answers.

But there was no denial from Evanjalin.

"Did you lie about the return of the king?" Perri asked, his tone level. Finnikin realized that he had never heard Perri shout. Never seen him lose control. Froi and the priest-king stood waiting quietly, as if willing Evanjalin to provide the right answer.

"Say no, Evanjalin," Froi blurted.

"Answer him, Evanjalin," Trevanion said.

Finnikin saw it in her eyes before she responded. He saw it because she chose to look directly at him. There was no plea for understanding.

"Balthazar is dead."

He felt his stomach revolt, his knees buckling beneath him. But still she refused to look away.

"You would never have come this far if you thought he was dead," she said calmly. "All of you. The exiles. The Guard. No one."

"You lied all this time?" He could hardly recognize his own voice.

"You wanted a king," she said quietly.

"You lied."

"I gave you a king. I gave you what you wanted."

"You. Lied."

"Stop saying that!" she shouted, and the others flinched at the fury in her voice. "There are worse things than a lie and there are better things than the truth!"

He stared at her in bewilderment. "Who are you?"

"Who do you want me to be, Finnikin?" There were tears in her eyes, and he wanted to tear at his own so he didn't have to see her. Didn't have to witness her deceit.

"I once asked you to trust me."

He shook his head with disbelief. "Do you belong to the Charynites?" She clenched her fists as he stepped forward. "Or are you one of Sagrami's dark worshippers, bent on more destruction?"

"If I am, then burn me at the stake, Finnikin," she cried. "As they did the last time they found out a king was dead in Lumatere. Someone had to be blamed. Someone had to die. Because that's what happens when logical men can't explain why an old woman has the blood of an innocent on her hands, or why another can walk through the sleep of our people. What you can't understand, you destroy."

Perri made a sound of disgust, and she turned to stare at him. "It's what your kin did to Tesadora and her people all those years, Perri. How your people taught you to hate. Your father made you watch. Made you take her hand and place it in that furnace and watch it burn. And you did, with tears in your eyes because you were a child and you believed what your father had to say. It's what made you a savage."

"You lied about the king!" Finnikin shouted. "What is there to understand? We have people waiting outside the kingdom. For their king."

Trevanion placed a hand on his arm to calm him, but Finnikin pulled away, his eyes wild. "If harm comes to those people, with the power appointed to me as Sir Topher's First Man, I will charge you with sedition," Finnikin threatened bitterly, swinging onto his horse. "Curse your existence if we've led the entire kingdom-in-exile to a mass grave in the Valley."

When they reached the crossroads, Finnikin felt Froi tremble as the thief held on to him. Perri and Trevanion drew up alongside, and he saw the grief and hopelessness on their faces. North pointed to Lumatere, the word he had rewritten not five days past. But five days past the world had been different and a prophecy promising the return of the king had been possible to fulfill.

He had sensed Evanjalin's stare for the length of their journey as she rode behind him on Trevanion's mount. He turned to look at her now, and she held his gaze as she slipped off the horse and untied her bedroll. She looked small and vulnerable where she stood, surrounded by all five of them, and then she pointed east, her hand shaking.

"Get back on the horse, Evanjalin," Trevanion said wearily.

She shook her head. "I go east," she said.

No one moved or spoke.

"We go north to the Valley," Finnikin said firmly. "And you don't have a choice. Get on the horse, Evanjalin."

She shook her head again. "If it's sedition you accuse me of, stop me with a dagger. If not, I go east. The gods whisper words to me as I sleep, telling us to take a path that makes sense only to them. But I trust it."

"Ah, the privilege of the gods whispering in your ears," he mocked. "Did you have to bleed for that, Evanjalin?"

The pain in her eyes was real. "The gods whispered to you once, Finnikin. And you listened. But they are proud and refuse to speak to those who do not believe that there is something out there mightier than the minds and intellect of mortals."

But his heart could not be moved, and he turned his back on her. He could hear the crunch of the leaves as she walked and he dared not move until the sound faded away.

Froi slipped off Finnikin's horse, quietly looking up at him and then the others before turning in the direction Evanjalin had taken. He removed his bedroll from the saddle and placed it on his shoulder.

"She and me? We the same in some fings. We live. The others, those orphan kids, they dead. Because she and me, we want to live and we do anyfing to make that happen. That's the difference between us and others. I seen them. I seen Lumaterans die, and you know what I do to live? Anyfing. Do you hear me? I do anyfing. Just like her."

Froi turned and followed Evanjalin, and this time it seemed he understood exactly which path he was taking.

One mile from their homeland, Finnikin stopped. In front of him stood the ridge. From there, it would be possible to see the Valley of Tranquillity, which had once seemed like a carpet of lushness leading to Lumatere's main gate. He imagined what it would be like to see inside the kingdom, all the way to the rock of three wonders, where once he made a pledge with his two friends, believing in their omnipotence. That they could save their world. His scar throbbed with pain as if the blood they had sacrificed ten years ago had seeped into the earth and was welcoming him home. Home.

"Finn? It's just over the ridge," Trevanion said.

Finnikin swung off his horse and stared up at the last place he had ever worshipped his goddess. "Take the priest-king," he said quietly. "Our people need him in the Valley."

"And you?" Trevanion asked.

Finnikin shook his head. "I just want to sit for a while."

Trevanion walked up beside him. "I'll sit with you."

"No." He shook his head emphatically. "The people will want to see the captain of the Guard. They need that hope if they have already returned."

Finnikin turned to the priest-king, who sat astride Perri's horse. There was a look of intense sadness on the old man's face. "Blessed Barakah, what does the word resurdus mean in the ancient language?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"King," the old man replied.

Finnikin nodded.

Trevanion mounted his horse again. "Climb your rock, Finn," he said firmly. "When you return, I'll be waiting here."

Finnikin walked toward the ridge, then stopped as Perri spoke.

"Warrior. Guide."

Finnikin turned and met Perri's eyes.

"I had a... friend once who knew the language of the ancients," he said, his face impassive. "I asked her what the word for 'warrior' was. It was the only word I cared to learn. Resurdus. In the time when the gods walked the earth, a king was a warrior. But in other dialects it meant guide."

Finnikin stared after them as they rode away. Then he began to climb. He had promised the goddess a sacrifice if she allowed Evanjalin to live, and there on the ridge he pierced his old wound and watched it bleed, his mind growing light.

Dark will guide the light, and our resurdus will rise.

He made a pledge to honor the prophecy that may have always been meant for him.

But there were no visions, and no sense of peace or euphoria.

The goddess was angry.

Her message was clear.

It was not enough.

It was almost dark when he climbed down from the ridge. Waiting with his father were Perri and Moss and Sir Topher. Finnikin swung onto his horse. Without speaking, he turned its head away from the Valley of Tranquillity and took the path the priest-king had said would be their salvation paved with blood. The path to the novice Evanjalin.

And without questioning his decision, the others followed.

Chapter 21

They traveled through the night and by sunrise reached the tunnel that separated Belegonia from neighboring Osteria. It was a pass carved inside one of the mountains, hacked out of the granite over the centuries. Finnikin was the first to lead his horse through the low narrow entrance, placing his hands on the stone around his head to guide him. The ground was littered with fallen rocks, and his ankle twisted continuously on its awkward angles. When the light hit his eyes on the other side, the pain was intense, but he gulped the air with a hunger that came from a profound sense of relief.

The Osterian capital was the closest to Lumatere. The two kingdoms were the smallest in the land and less than a day's ride from each other. As they rode over the hills from the west, Finnikin caught sight of the turrets of the Osterian palace in the distance. The small palace lay in a valley in the center of the kingdom, encircled by sixteen hills, which served to protect it from Belegonia to its west, Sorel to its south, and Charyn to its north and east. Finnikin knew the Osterian hills were home to several ethnic communities that had enjoyed autonomy since the time of the gods. They were watched over by a number of sentinels whose job it was to keep peace within the land, but Finnikin suspected that the sentinels were also there to keep an eye on Charyn, which lay beyond a narrow river to the north.

"So where can you be, Evanjalin?" Sir Topher asked as they rested their horses in one of the valleys. Finnikin had been surprised to find his mentor waiting with Trevanion, Perri, and Moss the previous evening. As the new leader of Lumatere, he would be better protected in the Valley under the watch of the Guard. But Sir Topher had been determined to find Evanjalin and Froi, and at times during their short journey to Osteria, Finnikin had seen the censure in his mentor's eyes.

"She lied about the king," Finnikin said quietly as the other men separated to see what they could discover beyond the northern hills.

Sir Topher did not speak for a moment. So much had changed since they climbed the rock to the cloister in Sendecane months before. Too much had happened, more emotions than they had felt between them in the last ten years.

"You wanted Balthazar to be alive, Finnikin," he said gently. "He was a beloved friend, and in the mind of the child you were at the time, he seemed a mighty warrior who could conquer anything."

Finnikin felt naive and foolish. "I know it doesn't seem possible that one so young could have lived through such terrible events, Sir Topher. But Evanjalin and Froi and even I have been in situations of grave danger, and we lived. So I believed that he would too. That somehow he endured what took place in the Forest of Lumatere that night."

"Do you know what I think?" Sir Topher asked, tears in his eyes. "I think Prince Balthazar made a decision that night. I think he was a warrior of the gods. You wanted him to live for all the right reasons, my boy. But more than anything, you needed him to live because you feared the inevitable."

Finnikin was silent as Trevanion and his men returned. He could tell from the grimness of his father's expression that their surveillance from the top of the hills had provided them with more than just a scenic view of Osteria.

"Tell us good news, Trevanion," Sir Topher implored.

Trevanion shook his head, his mouth a straight line. "From our vantage point we had a clear view of the river and into Charyn. There are soldiers there. At least fifteen. Swords in hand. Exiles at their feet."

"Sweet goddess," Sir Topher said.

"I counted at least forty," Moss said.

"Why are you so sure the captives are Lumaterans?" Finnikin asked. "Might they not just be Charynites camped by the river?"

"They're exiles," Moss said firmly.

"Evanjalin? Froi?" Sir Topher asked.

Trevanion shook his head.

"Do they move freely?" Sir Topher asked. "Are you sure they are under guard?"

"They have separated the men from the women," Perri said bitterly. "Never a good sign."

"Since when have exile camps been under guard?" Sir Topher asked.

"Since the rumor of the return of a king," Trevanion said. "If there is one thing that will threaten the royal house of Charyn, it is talk of the curse on Lumatere being broken and the impostor king revealing the truth. Charyn would consider any group of exiles a threat."

"I say we cross the river. We can take them by surprise," Perri said. "They are weakened by ale and boredom. I can see it in their sluggish movements."

"Except we have a guest. Remember?" Moss said, pointing up to the peak of one of the smaller hills to the east of them. Finnikin followed his line of sight and made out a figure crouching.

"He may belong to one of the autonomous communities," Finnikin said. "It wouldn't be rare for them to be traveling the hills."

"Not a traveler, Finnikin. He is spying. On the Charynites and the exile camp. He cares little if we are aware of his location but does not want to be seen by the soldiers on the other side of the river."

Finnikin sighed, shading his eyes with his hand, trying to think. He looked at the figure again. The youth was standing now. He was almost Finnikin's height but much broader, dressed in clothing cut from the fur of animals. There was an aggression in his stance, an arrogance that instantly made Finnikin bristle. As if sensing Finnikin's anger, the youth removed an arrow from the quiver strapped to his back and cocked his longbow, holding the arrow at eye level and pointing it straight toward Finnikin.

"Provoke him, Finn," Trevanion instructed, aiming his crossbow in the direction of their intruder. "Let's see what he does."

Finnikin grabbed a blunt-tipped bolt from his quiver. "Do you want me to discharge?"

"No, leave that to us if he chooses to attack. He seems focused on you. Find another way to provoke him."

Finnikin thought for a moment and then raised his hand and made a gesture with two of his fingers twisted together, pointing them toward the bridge of his nose and then jutting them forward with force.

The others stared at him, amused. Trevanion and Perri even barked out a rare laugh.

"I think that's the River people's way of telling one to do something quite obscene with their mother," Moss mused.

"Just something I used to see you all do when I was a child," Finnikin said with a grin.

"You'll have to try another one," Perri advised. "It won't work as provocation. It's purely a Lumateran insult. Unknown to the rest of the land."

"How proud we must feel," Sir Topher said dryly.

The men laughed again, but when an arrow landed close to Finnikin's feet, they leaped back in alarm, diving for cover behind a cluster of rocks and cocking their weapons.

"Bastard!" Finnikin muttered.

With their backs against the rocks, the realization hit them all at the same time.

"He recognized the gesture."

"An exile, perhaps?"

"But armed?"

Finnikin crawled over to his saddle pack and pulled out an ochre-colored stone, then retrieved an arrow from his quiver and handed it to his father.

"Hold it still while I write."

Across the stem of the arrow he scribbled the words Finnikin of the Rock before stepping into the open and aiming toward the figure on the hill. He followed the arc of his shot, pleased when the youth jumped back, and he could tell by the youth's stance that he was less than happy about the close proximity of the arrow between his legs. He picked up the arrow and then stared at it before disappearing. They were disappointed when he failed to reappear.

"We go to the river," Trevanion said finally, "and ask the Charynites to kindly let the exiles cross."

"Just don't ask me to be kind for too long," Perri muttered as they began to climb the hill.

They stood on the riverbank not five steps away from where the Charynite soldiers held the exiles captive. Finnikin thought it seemed wrong not to wade across and end it all right there. The moment they arrived, the soldiers had casually made their way toward the opposite bank. Huddled behind them were the exiles, divided into three groups: women and children, grown men, and then the youths. While the males were seated, the women and children stood, clutching each other with fear. One of the mothers held a hand over the mouth of her wailing baby, her face stricken with terror at the thought of what would happen if she failed to silence the child. Finnikin knew what the guards planned to do with these people. Worse still, the exiles knew it too. He could tell that most of them came from the main village of Lumatere. The villagers were merchants and craftsmen and had a distinct personality. There was a humility and dignity to them that the queen had encouraged her children to emulate. "If you do not get what you want in life, Balthazar," Finnikin would hear her say, "take it like a villager. Hold your head up and accept the inevitable."

One of the older exiles raised his head from where it rested on his knees and saw them on the bank. Finnikin watched as his expression changed from despair to recognition to elation. He nudged his neighbor, and an excited whisper went through the group. There was no such reaction from the Lumateran lads. Unlike their fathers and uncles, they had no idea who Trevanion and Perri were. As far as they were concerned, the five men standing before them on the Osterian side of the river could easily add more woe to their situation. Death was inevitable. Finnikin could see it in their faces.

A soldier stepped closer, his boot touching the water between them. "Go back to guarding the garbage," he instructed his men. "I'll take care of this."

Finnikin felt Sir Topher stiffen beside him and was relieved that Trevanion, Moss, and Perri did not understand the Charyn language. As Perri had said, these men were bored. It was their job to guard a rarely used crossing two days' ride from the capital. Taking thirty unarmed exiles hostage and doing to them whatever they desired was a way to relieve the boredom. In the prison mines, Finnikin had asked his father how humans could treat each other in such a way. "Because they stop seeing their victims as human," Trevanion had responded quietly.

The soldier with one foot in the river was young; Finnikin smelled his ambition and saw the look of dogmatism in his eyes. He would have preferred to have been dealing with a madman full of anger than someone so blinded by self-importance. The Charyn soldier stared at them. Finnikin imagined what he was thinking. Five men, swords at their sides, longbows in their hands. They had enough bolts in their quivers to create havoc among fifteen restless guards.

"On behalf of the government of Lumatere, we order you to release our people," Sir Topher said in the Charyn language. Finnikin heard the tremble of rage in his voice.

The Charynite laughed, but with little amusement. "The government of Lumatere? Old man, if you were on this side of the river, you would be imprisoned for treason against our neighbor's king for such a statement." He spoke to them as if he were reprimanding disobedient children. Finnikin translated for Trevanion, Moss, and Perri.

"Translate for me word for word, Finnikin," his father instructed, his eyes never leaving the Charynite. "Tell him that if we were on his side of the river, we would be the only ones standing. Tell him the present king of Lumatere is an impostor and a murderer falsely placed on the throne by the ignorant." Finnikin relayed his father's message.

"To call the Lumateran king an impostor is an offense against every kingdom of the land," the Charynite snapped, his anger growing.

"There have been worse offenses perpetrated against Lumatere by its neighboring kingdoms," Finnikin translated for his father.

"And you are?" the Charyn soldier asked. The question was directed at Trevanion.

Finnikin translated the question, knowing the inevitable. The Charynite soldier would be assured a promotion to the Charyn palace with the capture of Trevanion, but Finnikin knew his father had no choice. The exiles would either live if Trevanion succeeded, or die if they failed. Nothing in between.

"Captain of the Lumateran King's Guard," Trevanion answered, looking the man square in the eye.

The head of every Lumateran lad shot up, their expressions astonished, and the flickers of hope that appeared in their eyes made Finnikin feel like a god. One or two of the lads extended their fists in a show of solidarity. Moss and Perri held theirs up in response, and the Charynite soldiers began to look uneasy, waiting for the translation. With great satisfaction, Finnikin watched the beads of sweat appear on their faces when he spoke.

"What is your purpose with these people?" Finnikin asked on Trevanion's behalf.

"We have in our barracks a youth who claims to be the heir to the throne of Lumatere," the Charynite said. "A throne belonging to another. Approved by our king ten years ago. Imagine what an insult it is to us when one takes it upon himself to render our king's decision null and void. It is obvious that these people were harboring the claimant, and the moment we ascertain the truth, we will let these people go, Captain."

"And the moment you let our people go," Trevanion said after hearing Finnikin's translation, "I will convince my men here to let you live, squad leader."

"Lieutenant," the man corrected. "You think we are frightened to cross to your side? You think the Osterians will go to war with us if we do? You think they won't turn a blind eye to anything we choose to do at the arse-end of their kingdom to a bunch of dirty Lumateran scum? There are five of you, Captain, and many more of us. You have made a mistake today."

The lieutenant grabbed one of the Lumateran lads by his hair and jerked him to his feet, holding a sword to his throat. There was a whimper from one of the women—the mother, Finnikin suspected—but his attention was drawn back to the face of the lad standing before him. All that separated them was a narrow body of water. Over the years Finnikin had seen many Lumaterans his age lying in unmarked graves or dying from fever or weighed down by the apathy of exile. But this lad was living and had a fire in his eyes, a fury.

"What needs to be done," Trevanion murmured. Then he was in the river, less than a foot away from the Charynite, his bow pointed directly between the man's eyes. Within seconds Finnikin had removed a bolt from his quiver, cocked his longbow, and was beside his father, his arrow pointed in the same spot. He could feel the breath of the Charynite and Lumateran lad before him. Around him every sword was drawn and behind him every arrow.

"Perhaps there are only five of us, Lieutenant," Finnikin acknowledged, not taking his eyes off the Charynite, "but know this. Before any of your men raise their weapons, any one of us will have released at least five bolts. You will be my first hit," he said. "Second, third, fourth, and fifth go to those guarding my peers. My father will aim for those with swords pointed at the women of Lumatere and my friends will finish off the rest with time to spare. So today you decide whether you live or die."

The Lieutenant met Finnikin's stare. Then his eyes flicked away for a brief moment, and suddenly Finnikin felt someone by his side. He did not look away from the Charynite but saw the tip of a longbow as the person beside him adopted the same stance as his and his father's.

"Are we speaking Charyn?" Finnikin heard a gruff voice ask. "Mine's a bit weak, although it is one of the rules of my father to learn the language of your neighbor. It could come in handy when you live at the arse-end of a country beside the biggest arseholes in the land."

Finnikin heard Sir Topher choke back a laugh.

"So please excuse my poor accent," the voice continued. "And may I draw your attention to the hills behind me?"

Finnikin watched the lieutenant raise his eyes and grow noticeably pale.

"May I remind you that Osterian goatherds cannot declare war on Charyn," the lieutenant said snidely.

"Certainly, and I will inform you in return that we're not Osterian," the voice continued. "We're Monts. Lucian of the Monts, if you please, and when it comes to speed and accuracy with an arrow, my father's better than his," he said, gesturing to Finnikin. "So if that is fear I read on your face, I commend you for being smart enough to recognize a threat."

Finnikin felt weak with relief. His childhood rival and friend stood beside him. He was filled with a sense of hope. If the Monts were in the hills, then Evanjalin would be among her people. But the feeling did not last. The lieutenant had begun to loosen his grip on the lad, and when he raised his left hand, Finnikin caught sight of a ruby ring on his finger.

He shuddered as he realized that the Charynite had crossed paths with Froi. He tried to recall what the soldier had said. That in their barracks they had a claimant to the throne.

"Sir Topher?" he said quietly.

"I see it, Finnikin."

"Do not react," Trevanion said.

The Charynite watched the exchange.

"Lieutenant?" one of the other soldiers called out to him, fear in his voice. "They're coming down the hill. Hundreds."

He watched as the lieutenant swallowed, his eyes still on Trevanion.

"Let our people go unharmed and we will spare you," Sir Topher said.

As more Monts appeared with their weapons raised, Trevanion lowered his longbow and moved closer to the bank, careful not to place his foot on Charyn land. He held out a hand to the women. One stepped forward with a sob, placing her two children in Trevanion's arms. Slowly the business of crossing the river took place. Finnikin stayed in position beside Lucian, their bows trained on the lieutenant, who still held on to his prisoner. It was not until half of the exiles had crossed the river that the Charynite shoved the boy forward and then retreated.

They had little time to spare, but Lucian of the Monts took a moment to size up his old childhood friend. Finnikin thought there was more than a touch of arrogance in the way the Mont swaggered about as if he had single-handedly saved the day. But he was too sick with worry to respond.

"Do you have Evanjalin?" he asked Lucian, pulling him away from where he was shamelessly charming one of the exile girls.

"Who?" Lucian asked.

"She's a Mont," Finnikin pressed.

"We have no Monts named Evanjalin," he said dismissively.

Finnikin gave up on Lucian and went searching for Saro, the leader of the Monts and Lucian's father. The man embraced him. Older than Trevanion by at least ten years, his build was intimidating but he had a gentle smile. "How proud your father must be, Finnikin."

"Thank you, sir. But we're looking for a friend who has been traveling with us. A Mont girl named Evanjalin. Has she made contact with you these past two days?"

Saro shook his head, a look of confusion on his face. "You can't possibly have traveled with a Mont, Finnikin. We have all our people. We accounted for every single one in the Valley that terrible day."

"Her name is Evanjalin," Finnikin repeated. "She claims to be a Mont. She was entrusted to us by the High Priestess at the cloister of Lagrami in Sendecane. Somehow she has led us here... with the belief that Balthazar was among you."

"Balthazar?" Saro whispered. "My beloved nephew?"

"Balthazar's dead," Lucian said sharply. He stood behind his father, glaring at Finnikin. "It was fool's talk that said he lived. And fool's talk that these men claim to have him."

"But they do have at least one of ours," Finnikin insisted, searching the area for his father. There was a sea of faces around him but no one familiar. "We have been traveling with two young Lumaterans, a youth named Froi and a girl called Evanjalin. A Mont," he said firmly, looking at Saro. "We separated two days ago and held great hope that Evanjalin made her way to you. She claims she walks through the sleep of those inside Lumatere, accompanied by a child," he added.

Lucian and Saro looked shocked, and Finnikin felt frustrated that he would have to explain the sleep yet again.

"So far away?" Saro asked.

"What do you mean, 'so far away'?" Finnikin asked.

"Some of our women have the gift of the walk," Saro explained. "But they can only walk the sleep of those in our community. In close proximity. Here on the hill, or on the mountain when we lived back home. We have never had anyone who is able to walk through the sleep of those so far away."

"Your women walk through people's sleep?" Finnikin asked.

"Some of our gifted ones," Saro replied.

"It's called the 'gift of the walk,'" Lucian said, glowering at Finnikin. "I feel you disrespect it."

"Lucian," his father instructed, "take Finnikin up to your yata. She will want to know about this girl. I need to organize these people. Trevanion and Sir Topher want them taken to the Valley of Tranquillity at first light."

Lucian grabbed hold of Finnikin but he pulled away. He needed Trevanion and Perri. They would have to cross the river to find Evanjalin and Froi, and they could not afford to waste a moment. Finnikin walked over to the lad who had been the Charynite's prisoner.

"Sefton," the lad introduced himself, clasping Finnikin's arm.

"Tell me what they said about the claimant, Sefton," Finnikin said.

"I understood nothing of their language," Sefton said, "but my aunt worked in the village and speaks some Charyn. Esta!" he called out to one of the women. "Esta! Finnikin needs your help." He turned back to Finnikin. "Let me come along. I am fast with a longbow."

Finnikin smiled at the lad's eagerness. "Then they'll need you in the Valley, Sefton. The Guard is training there. Tell them I sent you."

A woman Trevanion's age held a hand to Finnikin's face. "Ask of us anything, lad."

"The claimant in their barracks?"

She nodded. "I heard the Charynites speak. They arrested a boy in the woods and believed him to belong to our community. Whatever it was about this boy, he was the reason they came to arrest us."

"Did they mention a girl? Evanjalin?" Finnikin asked. She shook her head. "Just the boy."

He squeezed her hand in thanks and stood in the middle of the chaos. Some of the exiles were still close to tears. Moss dealt with them calmly as Saro instructed his people. The decision was made to rest for the night under the guard of the Monts in the foothills, then go to the Valley of Tranquillity at dawn. Finnikin tried to breathe normally, but breathing made his chest ache, and the sight of Lucian approaching with Sir Topher, an expression of superiority on the Mont's face, made him want to lunge at his childhood nemesis.

"Where's my father, Sir Topher?"

"Go with the Monts, Finnikin," Sir Topher said evenly. "Saro wants you to speak with Yata, who will be keen to hear of Evanjalin."

Yata. Balthazar and Lucian's grandmother, matriarch of the Monts, mother of the dead queen.

"We need to find them," Finnikin insisted. "We need to cross the river. Don't ask me to stand here and do nothing."

"You've done enough, Finnikin. Your father and Perri will take care of locating Evanjalin and Froi. Rest. In the next few days, you are going to need everything inside of you. Everything."

Lucian of the Monts stood by, arms folded, waiting. He pointed up the hill, and when Finnikin didn't move, he grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him along.

They said little to each other as they walked through the trees and began to climb. The day had turned cold and blustery, and Finnikin envied Lucian his long fleeced coat. He pulled his own coat tighter around him as they traveled up the hillside toward where he imagined the rest of the Monts were hidden.

"Sheep shit," Lucian warned a second after Finnikin stepped in it.

The Mont sauntered ahead. Finnikin followed him, muttering. The path had become narrow and steep. When they passed a water trough on the track, Finnikin smelled the sheep instantly. Although the valley behind them was bathed in sunlight, there was little protection from the elements up on the hill. But the Monts had never been interested in creature comforts. In the mountains they had been sentinels for the Charyn border. Mont children were born to defend from the moment they could walk. It was what Balthazar had adored and envied about his cousin. Although Balthazar was the prince, more often Lucian was their leader. The better hunter. The better fighter. The fiercest and most loyal of allies. He had once carried Finnikin all day on his back when Finnikin was bitten by a snake. He had sucked the venom out himself and held Finnikin until help came. Like he would a brother.

"But they can't control their emotions," Balthazar would whisper to Finnikin, who had no idea, like the prince, what that meant.

Until he witnessed the grieving of the Monts on the first day of exile. Unabashed, unashamed. Sometimes he envied it, wanted to rage at the world, bite his knuckles, gnash his teeth. Spray the air with his fury. But Finnikin belonged to the Rock people, contained, like those of the Flatlands.

"Sheep shit."

Bastard.

Finally they reached a wide summit. Scattered across the grass was an assortment of tents, beautifully colored, each one bordered with flowers and pebbles. Children ran among the tents, and women sat in circles, their heads close, their fingers busily sewing. Goats, cows, horses, donkeys, pigs, chickens, and perfectly aligned vegetable gardens dotted the hill settlement. The Monts had found their little corner of the world, one day's ride from their homeland.

"Tents?" Finnikin scoffed. "You've been here ten years and you've never built homes?"

"So?" Lucian asked.

"Well, wouldn't this be a home to settle in?"

"These are hills, fool. We're mountain people. This is nothing like home."

"Balthazar always said—"

Lucian shoved him. "And here we don't talk about Balthazar or the princesses or the queen or the king. Do you understand?"

Finnikin shook his head in disgust. "You live in tents; you don't talk about the past. You exiles are all alike," he said. "Pretending it didn't happen."

"We are no exiles!"

Lucian's fist connected with Finnikin's cheek. The blow unleashed something in Finnikin, a need to cause as much pain as possible, to destroy. He pounded into Lucian with the full force of the rage that had built up inside of him. Each punch he delivered to the Mont's face or body lessened the numbness he had felt since Perri's revelation in the meadow. But Finnikin knew that something more than rage was driving him. He sensed the same emotion from Lucian, who now had him trapped with an elbow to the throat and a knee on the thigh, exactly where his pledge-wound lay.

"We've been with our people from the very beginning," Lucian spat, "so we're exiled from no one. And our yata lost five grandchildren and her daughter that night. It's heartbreak, trog boy. Not pretense."

And then both of them were at it again, hammering fists into each other until at last they exhausted their anger and, clutching on to each other, collapsed onto the ground.

Finnikin had no idea how long they lay on their backs, staring up at the sky, side by side yet refusing to acknowledge each other's presence.

"Come," Lucian said finally, his voice husky. He got to his feet and extended a hand to Finnikin. "We need to clean up. My yata will skin me alive if she sees us this way."

Chapter 22

At the entrance of Yata's tent, Lucian gave Finnikin a shove and a look of reprimand. "Don't mention my cousins," he said gruffly. "She may seem strong, but she will never recover from losing them."

Finnikin nodded, and when Lucian called out a greeting, they entered the large tent. Candles burned brightly and flowers scented the air. The matriarch of the Monts sat weaving, her hair in long curls of gray, her eyes dark and probing. She was the symbolic yata to all the Monts, but the grandmother of Lucian and his cousins. She smiled up at her grandson and then at Finnikin. He could still see the handsome woman she had been when he was a child. In those days, her hair had been mostly black and there was more flesh on her frame, but the strength in her eyes had not diminished.

"Finnikin of the Rock," she said, her voice husky. What is it with these Mont women? he thought. Sixty-five years old and he was still blushing at the sound of her voice.

He bent to kiss her cheek three times, following the Mont custom. One for the recipient, one for the giver, and one for the goddess, who was part of their union. "My father and his men and Sir Topher travel with me."

"So finally we return home?" she asked, breaking a thread with her teeth and putting her work aside. She beckoned them toward her, and they sat on a fleeced blanket, where she poured them cold tea and fed them sweet bread.

"We return to the Valley of Tranquillity first," Finnikin acknowledged.

"They have found another Mont, Yata," Lucian said. "Her name is Evanjalin and she walks the sleep of those inside Lumatere. Finnikin has led her to us."

"No, she has led me," Finnikin corrected.

Yata's dark eyes widened with surprise. "Inside Lumatere? Such power," she said, shaking her head.

"I believe so," Finnikin said. "She swears that Lady Beatriss of the Flatlands lives, as do the novices of the cloister of Sagrami and Tesadora of the Forest Dwellers."

Yata placed a trembling hand to her lips. "How were the novices saved? And Lady Beatriss? Her babe?"

"She is certain that my father and Lady Beatriss's child died," Finnikin said sadly. "As for the novices of Sagrami, they were hidden during the five days of the unspeakable. I suspect by Perri the Savage." He watched as Yata shivered, despite the warmth in the tent. "Can you tell me more about walking the sleep?"

"It began with Seranonna of the Forest Dwellers," she said in a soft voice. "I was giving birth to my fifth child. Seranonna lived far away from the Monts, but she swore she heard my cries of pain and so she made a journey through the Forest, into the village, across the Flatlands, over the River, and into the Mountains. She delivered my daughter, a beautiful girl who would grow up to be queen." She sighed, and Finnikin saw Lucian sit forward, ready to leap up if she needed him.

"I was ill for a long time after I gave birth, so Seranonna stayed. She had just given birth to a child who had lived only a week and her breasts were full of milk, so my babe suckled from the breast of one who worshipped Lagrami and one who worshipped Sagrami. Every child Seranonna delivered thereafter during her time with us had the gift of walking the sleep."

"Perhaps Evanjalin and the child in Lumatere she walks alongside were delivered by Seranonna as well," Lucian said.

"Not possible," Finnikin replied. "The child was born after Seranonna's death."

"Evanjalin travels with another?" Yata asked, intrigued.

"Is that rare?" Finnikin said.

She nodded. "Most of our women who have the gift walk alone. Although sometimes I would walk the sleep with my daughter, the queen. Perhaps there is a strong bloodline between Evanjalin and the child."

She pointed to the jug when she noticed that his cup was empty. "And do not be shy with the sweet bread. Lucian certainly isn't."

Finnikin glanced at Lucian, whose mouth was full but whose dark eyes were alert with interest. "What is she like? Evanjalin of the Monts?" he asked.

Finnikin thought for a moment. "Strong. In here," he said, thumping his chest twice. "Humbling. Ruthless. Cunning. She can love people with a fierceness that I have not seen before." He smiled when he realized he was talking too much. "And she looks like a Mont woman, so of course she's very beautiful."

"Does she belong to you, Finnikin?" Yata asked, her eyes piercing.

"No," he said after a moment. "But she belongs to my heart. I feel her absence strongly and it brings me... sorrow." He looked across at Lucian, who made a pretense of wiping a tear from his eye. Knowing he had said enough, Finnikin stood to politely excuse himself.

"My grandson has missed you all these years," Yata said.

"Balthazar?"

Lucian sent him a scathing look, and Finnikin instantly regretted his stupidity. "I'm sorry..."

"No." She chuckled, holding out a hand to her grandson to help her to her feet. "Lucian has missed you."

"I have not!" Lucian looked horrified.

She tugged his ear. "I walk your sleep, silly boy. Not a place your yata wants to be most of the time, but there are some moments that bring me joy."

Lucian turned red. She kissed them both, and Finnikin found comfort in the feel of her hands on his face. Lucian had lost his mother young but had always had his yata close by. It was what Finnikin missed about his great-aunt Celestina and even Lady Beatriss.

The matriarch of the Monts studied Finnikin's face carefully, as if she saw the things written on his mind and soul. "How you warm my heart, Finnikin of the Rock," she said. "Bring your Evanjalin to us. If she guided you here, she wants to be with her people."

That night, after he heard Sir Topher's heavy snores and the world of the Monts seemed to be asleep, Finnikin crept out of the tent. He wrapped his arms around himself, his teeth chattering uncontrollably as he made his way toward Lucian's tent. He knew what he had to do. He also knew he could not do it alone and that Lucian was his only choice. Although it annoyed him to have to ask the Mont for help, his desire to find Evanjalin was greater.

"Lucian!" he hissed. "Inbred. Get dressed. Get your sword and your bow. You're coming with me. No arguing."

"Already dressed. Sword in hand. You're late, trog boy."

Finnikin hid his surprise as Lucian joined him. The Mont wore a cap over his head, his bulky frame layered with a wool jerkin and trousers of animal hide. He threw Finnikin a fleece coat, and they crouched behind his tent, watching the three Monts on guard. The moon hung low in the sky, and it seemed to Finnikin that he could almost reach out and touch it.

"Are we finding your woman first or saving the boy?"

"She's not my woman, Lucian, and only inbred Monts go around saying 'your woman.'"

"Not your woman? Good. By the sounds of things, I could be very interested in this Mont girl. So now that you've given me permission ... Finnikin? Did you just jab me in the back? If not, and that was something else pressing into me ... really, I'm not interested in trog boys. But I can introduce you to my kinsman, Torin."

"You talk too much, Mont! So shut your mouth and don't ever think of her as yours."

From where they crouched, Finnikin could see the camp fires of the exiles under the guard of Saro and his men in the foothills below. He wondered how they would sleep after a day that had begun in captivity and ended in the comfort and protection of their people.

Lucian took the lead as they half stumbled toward the woods that lead to the river. Finnikin knew the Mont would be familiar with every inch of these hills. After watching Lucian carousing with his cousins earlier that day, he suspected that they spent many a night getting up to no good, far from the watchful eyes of their elders.

They waded through the river, holding their weapons high above their heads. The only noise to break the silence was their breathing and the sound of the lapping water. When they reached the Charyn riverbank, Finnikin indicated for Lucian to follow the trail the soldiers had taken deep into woods. The foliage was so dense that little moonlight penetrated and at times they held on to each other for fear of being separated. Branches scratched their faces and raised tree roots caused them to trip and stumble. Then Lucian seemed to vanish into thin air, and it was only the thud of his body hitting hard earth that stopped Finnikin in his tracks. He knelt and patted the ground before him, feeling the place where the earth fell away to nothing.

"Lucian!" he whispered. "Are you down there?"

"Where else would I be?" Lucian hissed back.

"Shh! What can you see?" Finnikin could barely make out Lucian's form crawling around in the darkness.

"There's nothing down here," Lucian said. "Just a big empty hole. Freshly dug, by the smell of things. Can you see me waving my hand to you?"

Finnikin heard the snap of a twig close by. "Don't speak!" he hissed. He lay facedown, holding his breath, staying alert to the sounds around them.

"Talk," Lucian finally said into the silence. "I'll follow your voice and try to climb up."

Finnikin moved closer to the edge, extending his arm and half his body into the hole for Lucian to grip on to, when suddenly a hand grabbed his leg. He swiveled around, kicking the intruder in the gut with as much force as he could muster. He heard a grunt of surprise and he scrambled for his dagger, only to have it jerked out of his hand. In the next second, he was thrust against the trunk of a tree with a fist at his throat.

"Finn?" his father said.

He shrugged free, shoving Trevanion away, furious that his father would plan the rescue without him. Perri was on his feet beside Trevanion, winded from the kick to his stomach.

"Lucian's down the hole," Finnikin muttered. He moved away and lay flat on the ground again, extending his arm into the empty space. His father held him by the feet, and when they could see Lucian's head, Perri reached over and hauled him out by the scruff of his neck.

There was a moment of tense silence.

"You had no right to leave me behind," Finnikin said tersely.

Trevanion grabbed him. "What do you think we are out here to do, Finn?" he said. "Have a chat with these animals? Do you think I want to drag you along to see what I excel in? Not languages, Finnikin. Killing. That's what I do best, and if we ever want to see the boy again that's what we'll be doing."

"And Evanjalin?"

There was no response. Trevanion motioned for Perri to lead the way, and they followed him to the edge of the woods. In the near distance, they could see flame sticks at the four corners of the soldiers' barracks.

"We wait here," Trevanion said in a low voice, guiding them to the hollow trunk of a tree. They sat huddled together in the small space. An owl hooted, and slowly the sounds of the night creatures, some shuffling and measured, others with scuttling speed, resumed around them.

"If she's—" Finnikin began.

Perri put a finger to his lips. He pointed toward the barracks and then pointed up, indicating that the Charynites may have soldiers posted in the trees close by. Finnikin watched as Perri took out his dagger and put out a hand to stop him.

"If she's out here and not locked up in the barracks, I'll know," he said. He took a deep breath and whistled.

"You share a whistle?" Trevanion said in disbelief.

"Do you have a problem with that?" Finnikin asked.

"I have a few whistles," Lucian murmured. "Very confusing sometimes."

"Whistles are meant for combat," Trevanion said. "Not wooing women. Women do not understand whistles."

"Shh! Shh!" Finnikin jabbed his father with his elbow. "Did you hear that?"

Finnikin whistled again and held up a hand for silence. Even the night creatures seemed to obey. They waited. Nothing.

And then they heard it, faintly but coming toward them, and Finnikin felt as if he could breathe again. He grinned. "Is she not the smartest girl in the land?"

"And the biggest liar and the most unpredictable," Perri muttered. Finnikin crawled out from the tree, but Perri was already on his feet. "Let me do the honors," he said, disappearing.

Finnikin waited, thinking of all the things he had to tell her. That perhaps he was the resurdus of Seranonna's prophecy, the one to break the spell at the main gate. And that she, Evanjalin, was the light of his sometimes very dark heart who would lead him.

Then he heard the crunch of footsteps and she was there and he opened his coat and wrapped her inside, holding her tight until the beat of their hearts slowed to the same pace and her lips were against the base of his throat. When he stepped back, he could see that she was wild-eyed and exhausted.

"Back to the tree," Perri ordered.

Lucian made room for them as they squashed in together. The Mont took off his cap and gently placed it on Evanjalin's head.

She stared at him for a moment, and Finnikin saw her shudder. He sat her in the crook of his body, keeping her warm.

"I watched the barracks from a distance last night and through today and tonight," she whispered. "There's a courtyard with three men guarding it. One dog tied up. High walls. The rest of the men are sleeping inside the barracks. I believe that's where they are keeping Froi."

"What happened, Evanjalin? How was he caught?" Trevanion asked.

"We both were," she said, her voice small. "We'd just arrived, and were walking through the woods early yesterday evening. We crossed the river to catch some food, and the Charynites found us. It was clear that they were going to kill us, for no other reason than we were Lumateran. I heard them say so, but I didn't let on." She stared up at them, shaking her head with anguish. "I told Froi I would make up some lie to create a diversion, and in the confusion, he was to run and not stop running. I ordered him. His bond was to me. To listen to every word I said." She began to shiver again, and Finnikin held her closer to him.

"And he looked at me and told me... told me that people with magic need to live. He told me he was dispensable. He speaks our language like an idiot," she spat out through her tears, "yet he knows the word dispensable. He still had my ruby ring, and before I could stop him, he was shouting out that he was the heir, Balthazar."

"But they would have known he was too young," Perri said.

"Everything happened too quickly. Froi waved the ruby ring in the air and yelled, 'Run! Run!' and then, 'Balthazar, Balthazar, Balthazar,' repeating that he was Balthazar, heir to the throne of Lumatere."

Finnikin felt Lucian flinch each time his dead cousin's name was spoken.

"So I ran and hid in a ditch until it was safe to climb a tree. And I watched them. Today the soldiers went out, and when they returned, they threw punches at each other and kicked the poor dog. Repeatedly."

"That's why they rounded up the exiles," Lucian murmured. "They would have known the boy was lying and probably suspected that the true heir was with the exiles on the river."

Evanjalin turned at the sound of Lucian's voice. "I told you the Monts were here," she said to Finnikin.

"No, you didn't," Finnikin accused gently. "You just pointed and said, 'I'm going east.'"

Lucian stared at her. "Definitely a Mont. Yata and my father will be distraught that we did leave one behind."

Evanjalin reached over and took Lucian's hand in hers. "Yata," she said in a trembling voice.

Finnikin watched as Lucian kept ahold of her hand, and then the Mont's fingers traveled up her arm and Finnikin saw him shudder. "Lucian!" he warned gruffly.

Lucian sighed, not letting go. "My father and Yata will be very angry when they see what you have done, Evanjalin. To have cut yourself to bleed and walk the sleep."

Finnikin could not make out his father's and Perri's reactions, but he felt deep shame as he reached over to reveal the horrific scars that not even the pale light of the moon could hide.

"You humble me, Evanjalin," Perri muttered, and then he was on his feet. "Let's go get our boy."

They made their way to the tree where Evanjalin had spent the night and day hiding.

"Stay," Perri said, disappearing up into its branches.

Trevanion took charge. "Perri and I go over the wall. Finn and Lucian, you climb the tree and cover us. The moment you see that Froi is safe, shoot anything that moves. The moment he's outside the walls of the courtyard, you run at the speed of the gods. Evanjalin, you stay here on the ground." She opened her mouth to speak, but he stopped her. "You stay here on the ground."

Perri dropped quietly in front of them.

"Three guards and one dog tied up?" Trevanion asked.

Perri shook his head. "It's not a dog," he said flatly, and then he and Trevanion were gone.

"Stay," Finnikin repeated to Evanjalin before he scrambled up the tree with Lucian and straddled a branch that gave him a good vantage point and room to move with his bow. He watched Perri and Trevanion scale the wall of the barracks, glance down for a moment, and then disappear over the side. The courtyard was lit with oil lamps, which made it easy to see what was taking place within. Finnikin realized why Trevanion wanted Evanjalin to stay on the ground as soon as he saw the quick movement of a blade against the throat of the first soldier. So effortless. So cold in its execution. Soldiers kill, he reminded himself. It's what they are trained to do. He wondered what was going through his father's and Perri's minds. Was it satisfaction? Did it soothe their blood or make them sick to the stomach?

"Three down. Too easy," Lucian whispered. "Perri is untying the boy she mistook for a dog. Why is your father going inside the barracks?"

Because his father was a soldier, Finnikin thought, and his blood ran hot with the need to avenge every one of their exiles who had died by the sword.

"Don't ask questions. The moment Perri's out with Froi, jump and take Evanjalin. I'll cover the barracks until Trevanion's out."

"That's not what they said," Lucian hissed. "The moment Perri's out with the boy, we both run. I don't go without you."

Finnikin kept his aim on the entrance of the barracks. "Would you follow their orders if Saro was in there?"

Lucian muttered a curse, and they watched as Perri lifted Froi in his arms and raced to the gates.

"They're out!" Lucian began scrambling down the tree. With relief, Finnikin saw his father emerge from the entrance. Whatever Trevanion had done, it had been silent, for nobody followed.

Finnikin waited for his father to leave the courtyard. Waited... waited... waited...and then Trevanion was out and Finnikin climbed down, leaping from the last branch to the ground, and fell at Evanjalin's feet. The three of them grabbed at each other and sprinted through the woods. They were barely aware of Perri's approach, and then Trevanion was upon them and they ran, their boots pounding the earth, their blood pounding in their brains, needing to breathe, needing to get to the river with Froi in their arms and Evanjalin between them. To take them home.

When they had crossed to the Osterian side of the river, they stopped for a moment.

"Sagrami," Perri cursed, dropping to his knees with Froi still in his arms. Finnikin watched Lucian flinch when he saw what the soldiers had done to Froi's face.

"My father has alerted the Osterian soldiers, so I doubt the Charynites will cross, but I know a place to stop and rest before we get to the foothills," Lucian said.

They followed the Mont through the cluster of trees. As Finnikin had suspected, he knew his territory and navigated easily through the wooded gully. Before long, he stopped at an overhanging rock and they crawled underneath it.

"Froi, speak," Evanjalin said firmly.

He seemed to croak. His face was a mass of bruises, and blood was caked around his nose and mouth and ears.

"You never do anything stupid like that again," she whispered with fury. "You could have been killed, you idiot boy. It's part of your bond that I give instructions, not you."

Froi mumbled, and Perri leaned closer to listen. "That's very rude, Froi. And quite impossible for her to do with a bond."

Finnikin and Lucian laughed in relief. Trevanion reached out to Evanjalin and pressed something into her hand. She stared at it for a long while before looking up at him. The ring.

"I lied about it, you know," she said quietly.

"Why, Evanjalin, I can't believe you would ever tell a lie," Trevanion said, almost smiling.

She smiled for him. "It was in the exile camp, more than two years ago. I was watching a card game. There was a thief there, full of remorse now that the king was dead. He had stolen the ring one day while the king and queen and their children traveled from the Mountains to the Flatlands, years before the days of the unspeakable. But despite the remorse, there was a boast in his voice. So I challenged him to a game of cards. The winner kept the ring. I was fifteen years old and a girl, so nobody took me seriously and they let me join."

"What did you have to offer?" Finnikin asked.

"I had been there for almost a year, and each night I would watch one of the women bury twenty silver pieces in a pouch near the trunk of a tree. So I borrowed it for the night."

They heard Froi snort. "And I'm s'pposed to be the feef."

"Wouldn't you have felt guilty if you lost?" Lucian asked.

"I knew I would win," she said pragmatically.

"But—"

"Lucian," Finnikin warned. "Trust me. Her gambles pay off."

"But you did return the twenty silver pieces?" Lucian pushed.

"No," she said, shaking her head.

Lucian looked disappointed. Monts weren't thieves. It was the worst thing to be accused of.

"I didn't have time," she said quietly. "The next morning, a group of Sarnak hunters surrounded our camp."

Lucian swallowed. "Sarnak? My father and a few of his men traveled there, once we heard. To see if there was anyone left alive."

"That night, I walked through the sleep of Lady Beatriss," Evanjalin continued. "She dreamed of the cloister of Lagrami in Sendecane, and I knew it was a sign that I should go there. That after eight years I should stop traveling from one kingdom to another. I was tired and sick at heart, and for the first time since I was eight, I lost hope. But in the cloister of Lagrami, Finnikin came searching for me."

"Because the priestess sent a messenger," Finnikin said. "The messenger woke me and whispered Balthazar's name."

She shook her head. "There was no messenger, Finnikin. Someone whispered your name to me in my sleep. Telling me you would come. I told the High Priestess, 'Finnikin of the Rock will come for me.' To guide me." Evanjalin smiled, and it was a look of pure joy. "To my people."

"Let's keep moving," Perri said.

Finnikin grabbed his father's arm as the others ran ahead. "She's wrong. It was a messenger," he said forcefully. "I know it was. I remember it well. I remember because I was dreaming of Beatriss and I was angry to be woken from such a dream."

"What were you dreaming?" Trevanion asked.

"That you placed your babe in Beatriss's arms and she held her to the breast, feeding her with so much love, and that... that..." Finnikin felt stunned, remembering things he had long forgotten.

Trevanion stopped, gripping his wrist. "Tell me more." It was almost a plea.

"Beatriss had the child to her breast," Finnikin went on, "and you were teasing her about the cloister of Lagrami, and Beatriss said, 'Little Finch, what say you? Will we give her to the cloister of Lagrami to keep her safe? As you pledged? As you pledged?' She kept repeating it." Finnikin shook his head, trying to make sense of his thoughts. "And now it seems that Evanjalin or Beatriss or someone else called me to the cloister of Lagrami in Sendecane that night."

Trevanion was silent for a moment. "Did she... seem happy?" he asked quietly. "In the dream?"

Finnikin knew he was speaking of Beatriss. "As happy as she always was when you were by her side," he said honestly. "So happy that it made me travel to the end of the earth without questioning where it would lead me."

When they stumbled into the foothills where the exiles slept, Trevanion called out an acknowledgment to the Monts who stood guard.

"Stay awhile," he told Finnikin and Lucian. "Sleep first, and then in the morning take Evanjalin and Froi up to your people, Lucian. Perri and I need to return to the Valley tonight. Saro will know to follow soon."

Lucian nodded, and Finnikin waited as Trevanion and Perri mounted their horses.

"Rest, Finn," his father said. "I fear there will be much for you to do when you reach the Valley of Tranquillity."

And with one last look at Finnikin, Trevanion and Perri headed west, where their exiled people waited.

At the edge of the camp, Finnikin and Lucian lay near one of the fires to dry their damp clothing. Evanjalin and Froi were already asleep, and Finnikin covered them with the fleece-lined coats.

"He was my hero. Balthazar," Lucian said quietly, looking at Finnikin over the small blaze.

"I think you were his," Finnikin acknowledged.

"No. I think half of him wanted to be Trevanion of the River and the other half Finnikin of the Rock." Lucian laughed. "I, of course, wanted to be Perri the Savage, although after tonight I'm not sure I have the stomach for it."

"There's more to our Perri."

Lucian leaned forward. "Anyway, I'm not sure Balthazar would have made the finest of kings."

"Why do you say such a thing?" Finnikin asked.

"Perhaps better than his father, but not like his mother. My family says the queen married beneath herself."

Finnikin snorted, careful not to wake Froi and Evanjalin. "Only you mountain goats would believe you're better than royalty."

"It's not conceit," Lucian said. "She had grit. She had a thirst for knowledge and a ruthlessness, passed on to her daughters, that any Mont would envy. The oldest princess, Cousin Vestie, would have been a great leader. Yata always said she had strength much like her mother, the queen. The king was ... soft, especially with his cousin. So it was no shock to us that that scum beneath our boots found his way back into Lumatere as the impostor king."

"The impostor king was a pawn who was placed there by the king of Charyn in an attempt to use Lumatere as a road to invade Belegonia."

Lucian shrugged. "The king was weak with Charyn. He should have sent in the army the moment Charyn first stopped the goods wagons from the north."

He looked over at Froi and Evanjalin. "Do you know why I was certain Balthazar had died that night?" he asked.

Finnikin sighed, wanting to sleep. "Perhaps because you think you know everything?"

Lucian was in no mood for humor. "Does your wound weep? The one from the pledge?"

Finnikin nodded.

"So does mine, and that's how I know he's dead and has been from that night."

Finnikin said nothing.

"The wound lives because the pledge was real. It worked."

"Lucian..."

"What did we pledge that day on the rock of three wonders, Finnikin?" he whispered urgently.

Still Finnikin didn't respond. There was something about Lucian's tone that was causing his heart to hammer against his chest.

"Balthazar pledged to die protecting the royal house of Lumatere," Lucian said. "You pledged to be their guide. I pledged to be their beacon. And ten years later we are all here."

"Not all of us."

Lucian moved closer toward him. "Balthazar's pledge was that he would die protecting the royal house of Lumatere," he repeated, tears in his eyes. "Three witnesses saw him running through the Forest that night." Lucian shook his head in disbelief. "Not possible. Balthazar would never have allowed himself to live that night if Isaboe died. That's the difference between the king's son and the queen's daughters. The king's first priority was the survival of his wife and children. But the queen's? Survival of the people. Because the people were Lumatere."

"What are you saying?" Finnikin asked.

"Balthazar took from his father," Lucian said with force. "We all honored our pledge. And Seranonna of the Forest Dwellers and two others, who had no reason to lie, claimed to have seen a child running from the Forest that night. The child who stamped bloody handprints on the kingdom walls. I saw those handprints. All the Monts saw them that week we stayed in the Valley of Tranquillity. My father and his brothers had to drag my yata away from them."

Finnikin could hardly form words. Lucian looked slightly crazed as he pointed at the figure lying beside Finnikin.

"Balthazar protected her. You were her guide. You brought her here because she sensed her people. I was the beacon."

"Isaboe?" Finnikin said, his voice hoarse with shock. He stared at her sleeping figure as Lucian stood and drew his sword from its scabbard. Instantly the Mont was on guard, but Finnikin could not move. Isaboe. Why would he not have known? How could he not have recognized her? Worse still, he wondered with hurt and rage, why had she not trusted him? After all this time, when they had walked side by side? Yet he leaped to his feet beside Lucian. To do what he was born to do. Protect the royal house of their kingdom.

"You started this when you forced us to cut flesh from our bodies, Finnikin," Lucian whispered. "But I would do it a thousand times over to see our queen lead us back home to Lumatere."

Chapter 23

When the sun appeared in the sky, Finnikin woke her with shaking hands. The exiles had left for the Valley with Saro's men at dawn. Still exhausted, Froi and Evanjalin begged for more sleep, but Finnikin shook his head. There was desperation in him, in Lucian too. To take her to Yata. "It's only a short walk," he said quietly. A few feet away, Saro of the Monts was talking with some of his men. He seemed surprised to see Lucian and Finnikin in the foothills and approached them with a questioning look on his face. Until he saw her.

"This is where it begins," Lucian whispered. A look of intense shock crossed Saro's face. Sensing him, Evanjalin looked up from where she was crouched, tying her boots, then stood and walked toward him. When she reached him, she bent to kneel in respect for the Mont leader. Horrified, Saro pulled her to her feet in the same way Sir Topher had once reacted when Evanjalin tried to kneel at Trevanion's feet. Sir Topher knew, Finnikin realized, had always known. A queen never bent to her people.

Saro of the Monts held his hand out to her, and she took it calmly. Finnikin watched as she walked alongside her uncle. The higher they climbed, the more hurried her footsteps, her fingers clenching and unclenching by her side. Saro looked down at her, and the Mont leader's shoulders shook, overcome with the strength of his feelings.

But when they reached the settlement, she stopped and turned, and her eyes found Finnikin's. He wanted desperately to protect her. To hide her. To take her away to a place where he could pretend she was a novice named Evanjalin. And there they both stood for a moment. Until she turned and walked toward Yata, who stood in the distance laughing at something with Sir Topher as they went about their morning chores. And then the queen of Lumatere broke free of her uncle's hand, a sob escaping her throat as she sprang toward her grandmother, who stared like she'd seen an apparition.

"Yata!" Isaboe's cry of anguish rang through the hills. Her body pressed against her yata, collapsing under the weight of her memories and grief as the names poured out of her mouth. Names of her sisters and brother, mother and father, echoing with a sorrow that seemed as if it would never end.

Yata's tent, where the queen stayed, was heavily guarded that night. Out of respect for the family and a need to be alone, Finnikin had kept his distance. But his desire to see her was strong. The need to lie by her side and gather her to him was so fierce that it made him weak.

As he went to enter the tent, four of the queen's cousins stepped in front of him, swords in their hands.

"I'm with the queen," he said firmly.

The Mont who seemed to be in charge shook his head. "She's with her family and the queen's First Man," he was told. "Who are you to her?"

Who was he to the queen of Lumatere?

Lucian appeared before he could answer. "He's with us, lads," he said, stepping back to allow Finnikin to enter.

He could not see her from where he stood. Saro and his brothers and wives and their children were clustered around the middle of the tent. He could see Sir Topher, his head bent close to Saro as the two men spoke.

"They trapped the silver wolf," Lucian whispered as they sat at the edge of the tent. "In the hole we dug and covered with foliage."

"Who?"

"Balthazar and Isaboe. That night. And when the assassin gave chase, Balthazar hid Isaboe in a burrow and led him to the trap." Finnikin stared, horrified.

"Isaboe later returned to the main gate," Lucian continued, watching the scene around Yata's bed, "but the bodies of the royal family had already been discovered and the gate was closed. She knew something terrible must have happened in the palace as it had in the forest. So she returned to the Forest and went searching for Seranonna and led her to where... Balthazar"—Lucian shuddered —"lay dead alongside the assassin in the dugout. Torn to pieces. The wolf still lived."

"They buried the wolf alive with Balthazar and the assassin?" Finnikin asked hoarsely.

Lucian shook his head. "Isaboe would not allow her brother to be buried beside the assassin. She was afraid it would keep the gods from taking Balthazar to his rightful place in the afterlife. She killed the wolf with Balthazar's crossbow. She said Finnikin of the Rock had taught her how to shoot as a child. Seranonna retrieved the bodies of both the animal and Balthazar and buried them together. Then the death bells from the palace began to sound. Seranonna knew that Isaboe might be the only surviving member of the royal family. She made sure that whoever the assassins were, they would be led to believe that Isaboe had died, not Balthazar. So they would never search for a girl child."

"The clothes... hair ..." Finnikin swallowed, not able to continue.

"Belonged to Isaboe. But the fingers ... ears ..."

"Mercy."

The queen was sleeping, her head resting on Yata's lap, as if the ten years of journeying had finally exhausted her. Yata caught Finnikin's eye among the crowds of people, and she beckoned him with her hand.

"She asks for you each time she wakes," she said, smiling as he approached.

Who are you to her?

He knelt beside the bed, wanting to reach out and touch the smooth flushed skin. "All this time she wanted to get home to you," he said quietly.

Yata shook her head. "No. She is mine for these few precious moments, Finnikin, and I will be selfish and take every opportunity to hold her to me. But all this time she needed to get home to her people of Lumatere." She took his hand and placed it alongside the queen's cheek. "Is she not the image of my precious girl?" she asked, tears in her eyes. "My other sweet lovelies were the image of their good father, the king, who treated my daughter like a queen from the moment he first saw her. But this one? This one was our little Mont girl."

Finnikin looked up at Saro. "If I could be so bold, Saro. Please send your people ahead to the Valley tonight and allow us to keep our traveling party small. It will be dangerous to draw attention to ourselves this close to Lumatere, and the protection of the queen is paramount. We must inform Trevanion that Queen Isaboe is returning to the Valley to take her people home."

Saro nodded. "We will send word through my brothers."

"We leave at first light," Finnikin said.

They left the hills of Osteria the next morning with the last of the Monts. The queen rode in the middle of the group with Finnikin. At times he felt her tears against his back, and he knew they were for him as much as for her. What was about to take place in the Valley outside the kingdom was a mystery to them all, and he sensed her fear as her hands clutched him tight. Strong hands, he had once observed when they stole the horse in Sarnak. They would need to be to lead a kingdom. Heal a people. On either side of them rode Saro and Lucian, and in front Yata, Sir Topher, and Froi. They were quiet. They knew too much not to be. The entry into Lumatere would cost the Monts dearly, if not through the loss of their queen then through the loss of their men. After ten years of keeping their people safe from harm, Saro and his men would be the first to enter the gate after the Guard.

Before they reached the Valley, Finnikin stopped. They were traveling along a narrow path between wheat fields that shimmered on either side.

"I need you to come with me," he said quietly to Lucian. "Saro, can you take care of the queen? We will not be long."

She gripped his hand. "Let me come, Finnikin."

"You'll be safer here," he said gently.

Lucian followed him to a place among the crops, and Finnikin wasted no time in speaking. "I need you to pledge," he told the Mont when he was sure no one could hear them.

"Definitely not from my upper thigh."

"We don't have time to argue. Just bleed and pledge to the goddess."

"Lagrami or Sagrami?"

"Goddess complete." Finnikin held out his dagger, and Lucian stared at it for a moment before taking it and making an incision across his arm. He handed the dagger back to Finnikin and waited for him to repeat the action, but Finnikin shook his head.

"Just you."

"Whatever it is, we pledge together, Finnikin," Lucian said firmly.

"Pledge that you will kill me—"

Lucian stepped away from him in fury. "You go too far."

Finnikin grabbed the Mont by his shirt. "Pledge that you will kill me if I am ever a threat to the queen."

Lucian shrugged free. "I will kill anyone who is a threat to my queen," he said through gritted teeth.

"Pledge, Lucian. Please."

"A blind man can see what she feels for you and you for her. Your souls are not merely entwined; they are fused. There is your threat, Finnikin. Why can't you just tell her you love her and pretend you live normal lives like the rest of us damned mortals?"

"Pledge it! I beg you as my blood brother."

Lucian traced a line across Finnikin's arm with his dagger. "Balthazar's pledge," he said forcefully. "That I protect the royal house of Lumatere. The queen." He looked at Finnikin. "And the one she chooses to be her king."

Froi leaned his head on Finnikin's horse beside where the queen sat, desperate to see the captain and Perri and Moss. Then everyone would start scowling and yelling orders again and he would know that things were back to normal. The night before, he had overheard the Mont lads talking about Finnikin and the queen. He hated the way they called Evanjalin the queen, as if she wasn't a person anymore. The Mont lads were whispering about the force needed to break the curse at the main gate and one of them called Finnikin a skinny trog and Froi wanted to tell them that he had seen Finnikin fight and that he was better than all of them. Then the other Mont lad whispered that Finnikin or the queen would probably die at the gate because the curse was so strong, and it would probably be Finnikin because he wasn't used to the darkness. Froi knew the captain wouldn't let Finnikin or Evanjalin do anything that would cause them harm, so he was glad when Finnikin and Lucian returned so they could get down to the Valley and the captain could take charge and forbid Finnikin from doing anything that could end in his death.

He watched as Finnikin swung onto the horse, his sleeve stained with blood. Froi liked the way Finnikin reached behind him and took Evanjalin's hand, placing it around his waist. It made everything seem normal because Finnikin always wanted to touch her.

"Let's go," Finnikin said quietly, and like each time he had spoken on this day, everyone listened and followed.

Chapter 24

When they reached the hill overlooking the Valley of Tranquillity Finnikin saw the tempest. It was impossible to approach the Valley and not see the dark clouds shrouding the kingdom beyond. But it was what lay just ahead of them that took his breath away. Not a valley, but a sea. Of people. Tens of hundreds of them waiting to go home. Finnikin heard the queen's sob behind him.

"I want to walk," she said urgently, slipping off the horse. He followed, trailing her, his hand resting on the handle of his sword, ready for anything that might go wrong. There were too many people, any one of them a threat to her. He was used to small camps of exiles, but not half the kingdom.

As they reached the edge of the crowd, he became aware of the energy around them. At the other end of the settlement was a training camp where weapons were being made and men were taking target practice. In other areas, people stood in clusters talking and arguing, and he recognized Lord August and Lady Abian with those from the Flatlands, distributing food among their group.

Finnikin caught a glimpse of Trevanion and the Guard patrolling the boundaries on horseback, and for the first time in days he felt relief. As if Trevanion sensed them, he turned to face the slope where Finnikin and Evanjalin stood. He exchanged a word with his men, and then the Guard was making its way toward them and Finnikin was nine years old again, his chest bursting with pride because he would never see anything as grand as his father astride a horse leading his men.

Trevanion dismounted, his hand coming out to grip Finnikin's shoulder. Finnikin knew this was not just a greeting. It was an acknowledgment of what would take place in the next few days beyond the main gate. Trevanion's men dismounted, and all around them groups of exiles stopped to see what was taking place.

And then the captain of the Guard reached the queen. He knelt and then lay prostrate on the path before her, his men following his lead as a hush came over the settlement.

Finnikin saw the tears in her eyes as she stared down at her men. She looked small and vulnerable and he feared for her, but then he remembered that Isaboe, the youngest daughter of the king and queen of Lumatere, had walked thousands of miles over ten years to get to this place. And it was this, he knew, that caused his father to bow down to her more than her royal bloodline. The Lumateran royal family truly came from the gods. Never had Finnikin believed it more than in this moment watching his father lie before their queen.

After some time, Trevanion stood. Finnikin held out his hand to her. Quietly, hesitantly, she walked the path among the exiles. There was silence, but Finnikin knew that these people were stunned. A hand snaked out toward the queen, and in an instant Finnikin had stepped in front of her, sword in hand. But she gently touched his arm and moved around him. Despite Finnikin's hold on her, she was swallowed by the crowd, yet she pushed through them, becoming a part of them.

"Don't let go of her, Finnikin," he heard Trevanion say.

They were jostled from side to side, hands reaching out, wanting to touch the queen, to see if she was real, to convince themselves they were truly going home. Yet the queen seemed to take it in her stride, as if she had been born for this. Born to it. And at last Finnikin understood why he had felt so sorrowful and silent these last few days.

He knew how to be Finnikin of the Rock to Evanjalin of the Monts. But he had no idea who to be to Queen Isaboe.

Finnikin watched Lord August and his family come toward them, and then the queen was engulfed by the women. Behind Lord August, he could see Ambassador Corden and his entourage approaching, looking flustered. Instinctively, Finnikin pulled the queen toward him.

"Everyone must step back," Ambassador Corden said, full of self-importance. "Finnikin, is that you behind all that hair? It is not right to touch the queen. Step away! Lady Celie, would you be kind enough to find some proper attire for Her Majesty?"

Lord August looked unimpressed. He fell in step beside Finnikin as they followed the entourage to the main tent.

"I'm presuming you knew about this the whole time as well," Finnikin said, watching the ease with which the women conversed.

"Of course I didn't," the duke snapped, irritated. "Because I'm not married to an obedient novice of Lagrami, am I? I'm married to one who chose to tell me about the queen only as we entered this valley."

"Do you suppose the queen told them while we were in your home last month?"

Lord August nodded. "Abie saw it instantly. She knew our previous queen well. And Evanjalin confirmed who she was to my wife and daughter."

As they approached the main tent, a party of nobles dressed in silks came toward them.

"Lord Castian and his mob. Try not to fall asleep as he speaks," Lord August muttered.

Long days of waiting followed. Two thousand and twelve exiles had returned, and more trickled in each day. Finnikin could not help but think of the Valley as it had been ten years ago on the day of the curse, back when they had no idea what lay ahead but the clearest memory of what they had left behind. Now the years had numbed their people into silence, as again they waited for the unknown, too frightened to hope for anything more than a queen in their midst. But there was no news of when they would attempt to access the main gate and little was seen of her.

Finnikin spent his time with his father and the Guard as they drew up plans for the attack.

"When we get past the main gate," Trevanion informed his men, squeezed into an overcrowded tent, "we attack them on ground with as many as one thousand missiles in the first minute. I want the impostor king and his men decimated with the sheer volume of our arrows, and I want our body count close to nothing. Then the Guard takes the palace, along with the best of the archers and swordsmen among the exiles."

"But how do we get past the main gate?" one of the guards asked.

"The queen will know what to do," Trevanion said firmly, daring anyone to challenge him. He looked over to Saro, who had joined them with Lucian and a number of the Monts. "The moment the bastards know we're in, they'll ride to the mountains and attempt to cross the border to Charyn. The Charynites may be waiting there to invade once they see the curse has lifted. They will want the impostor king dead almost as much as we do, for no other reason than to stop him from talking. Saro, you ride to your Mountains the moment we enter. Take all your warriors." Trevanion turned back to his Guard. "Make sure those of you working with a team of exiles explain to them their role before the fighting begins."

"When will we enter the kingdom?" Saro asked.

Trevanion's eyes met Finnikin's across the crowded tent. "It is the queen's decision," he said. "She is waiting for a sign."

Finnikin trained Sefton and the village lads who had been part of the group of exiles taken hostage by the Charynites. They were Finnikin's age, strong and sturdy young men. They had recognized Finnikin when he entered the Valley and trailed around after him, keen to play a part in the upcoming battle. Froi was usually close by. The thief spent his time being a messenger, racing from one end of the Valley to the other, ensuring that communication between the Guard, the nobility, the queen's First Man, the queen and the priest-king stayed open. Not once did the boy utter a word of complaint, and Finnikin felt a fierce protectiveness toward him. He came from strong stock, that was evident. But it was all they would ever know. There were no telltale signs of lineage. No memories of anything Lumateran before his days in Sarnak. Froi was one of the orphans of their land whose life as a Lumateran would begin at the age he was now.

On the fifth afternoon, while handpicking the swiftest archers from a group of exiles, Finnikin found himself being watched by Sir Topher and the priest-king. He had kept his distance from his mentor since the day they entered the Valley. The knowledge that Sir Topher had been aware of Evanjalin's identity stung Finnikin like a betrayal.

"Sir," Finnikin said politely. "Blessed Barakah." He felt the sharp gaze of the priest-king on him.

"I'll answer your question, Finnikin," Sir Topher said.

"I haven't asked one," Finnikin said gruffly.

"But you've wanted to," Sir Topher said gently, "from the moment it was revealed to you who she was."

Finnikin sighed. He gazed around the Valley, where many of the exiles were reacquainting themselves with their neighbors as they had their names recorded in the Book of Lumatere.

"Sefton, can you take over?" he called out. He led Sir Topher and the priest-king away from the training ground, toward the camp.

"Did she tell you, or did you work it out yourself?" he asked bluntly as they approached the secured area where the queen was staying.

"She suspected I knew," Sir Topher said truthfully, "but I never imagined that the youngest child of the king and queen would survive. That the tiny creature overshadowed by such brilliant and fearless siblings would be the one to live. Who would have thought?"

"Was it the ring?"

Sir Topher shook his head. "No. The ring was stolen in Lumatere years before the unspeakable. At first I thought her father must have been the thief. Trevanion explained the story she told about winning it back in Sarnak." He paused. "I began to suspect from the moment I truly looked at her face in Sprie. I was there, you see, when the king brought home the queen as a young woman, and each day for the next twenty years I looked across at both their very dear faces. I knew the queen's mannerisms, the king's expressions, the other children's traits. But then in Sorel, when you were imprisoned, she said something to me that I'd heard the king say more than once to each of his children. 'Be prepared for the worst, my love, for it lives next door to the best.'"

"You never questioned me about the messenger who directed us to the cloister in Sendecane," Finnikin said.

"Because there was such conviction in your voice. I trusted you, and look where that trust has brought our people. We have achieved what we always wanted, Finnikin. Our exiles together on a piece of land. That itself is enough to give thanks for."

"But you didn't trust me enough to tell me what you suspected." Finnikin could not keep the hurt and anger out of his voice.

"Because I needed you to choose our path, Finnikin, and I was certain that the moment you knew that one of our beloveds lived, guilt would force you into retreat. A childhood delusion makes you believe that somehow your ambition and desires caused their slaughter. Whereas I always believed you were born with the heart of a king. A warrior. The true resurdus."

Finnikin shook his head.

"But I do doubt you," Sir Topher went on. "Because you doubt yourself. Isaboe isn't just a queen, Finnikin. She is a valuable asset. A tool to use, and she knows that more than anyone in this kingdom. She was born with the knowledge, as were her sisters. If you choose not to be her king, then we will need to make the throne secure through alliances with Osteria or Belegonia."

Finnikin clenched his fist, and the arrow in his hand snapped in half. Sir Topher looked at him with such concern that it made Finnikin's eyes sting with tears.

"While you've been fighting the possibility of wearing the crown, perhaps others have been preparing you for it," the priest-king spoke up.

"A stolen crown, blessed Barakah. A dead boy's crown," Finnikin said fiercely. "Is it beyond my control? And hers? Have I meant nothing more to her all this time than the fulfillment of a prophecy?" He shook his head bitterly. "The gods make playthings of us, but I would like to have some control over the events of my life."

"Have you not done things according to your own free will, Finnikin?" the priest-king asked. "Because I heard a tale today. Of a twelve-year-old boy, who on a visit to Osteria, as a guest of our ambassador, came across his first exile camp. Nothing ever prepares you for that, does it, lad? You notice the strangest things. You see children whose thickest part of their body is their knees. I could never understand what kept them standing. This boy turned to his mentor that day and said, 'Tell me how to say, Feed these people.' But our ambassador and the boy's mentor would not respond. They were guests of the king of Osteria, and although they felt sorrow for the plight of their people they were unable to make it right. How many times had these grown men said to themselves, 'There is nothing I can do.' But the boy would not give up. So he learned the words from one of the Osterian servants, and that day he made his way up to the king of Osteria as he sat on his horse and shouted the words over and over again, 'Feed these people.' He even threw a rock at the king to get his attention. The King's Guard dragged the boy away, of course, and it took our ambassador thirty days to secure his release. Thirty days shackled to a stone wall in the palace dungeon. The punishment for humiliating a king."

Finnikin cast his eyes down.

"Look at me, lad," the priest-king said firmly. "Those people were fed, weren't they, Finnikin? Because grown men, including a king, were shamed by a twelve-year-old boy. And from that day on, the king's First Man taught his apprentice to speak the language of almost every kingdom in the land. True?" Finnikin nodded reluctantly.

"The gods do make playthings of us," the priest-king acknowledged. "But it is we mortals who provide them with the tools."

As Finnikin approached the queen's tent, he saw Aldron standing guard.

"I need to see her," he said coldly.

"You're not on my list of people who are allowed in," Aldron said.

"Then may I ask where this list is?"

Aldron tapped his head. "It's up here."

"It's good to know that something is."

Aldron smiled in spite of himself. "I will notify her of your presence and ask if she is interested in seeing you." He turned his back for a moment and Finnikin swung him round, his face an inch from Aldron's, anger in every muscle of his body.

"Don't you ever turn your back on one who could be a threat to the queen," he snarled. "Don't you ever put her in that kind of danger again."

Suddenly Lord August and Sir Topher were there, pulling him away. "What is going on here?" Lord August demanded.

Aldron stared at Finnikin, shrugging his clothing back into place while the others waited for a response. He nodded to Finnikin as if in acknowledgment.

"Nothing," Aldron said quietly. "My mistake."

Inside the tent, Evanjalin stood in a corner, her body tense. A wife of one of the dukes, a self-appointed chaperone, stared at Finnikin with a stony countenance. Evanjalin was dressed in the same plain calico gown her yata had sewn for her, and there was almost a hungry relief on her face to see him, to see anyone familiar.

"I will find a way," he said, his voice husky, "to go through the main gate without your having to risk—"

"Finnikin, stop," she said quietly.

Her blood will be shed for you to be king.

"I will find a way," he said angrily, gripping her arms. "To keep you safe."

"This is what I always feared," she said. "That you would put me in an ivory tower and keep me hidden. Thank the goddess I didn't reveal the truth six months ago, Finnikin. I would still be in the cloister of Sendecane, or in some boring foreign court being protected."

"It's not right for you to be in here, young man," the duchess called out. "To be touching the queen in such a way!"

Finnikin ignored the woman and kept his eyes on Evanjalin. She was an asset. An article for trade. A commodity to sacrifice. He remembered Sir Topher's words in Lord August's home. The princesses were always going to be sacrificed for the kingdom.

"Lady Milla, would you be so kind as to leave us, please," Evanjalin said.

She knew how to be strong as well as polite. It was an order, and with a sniff and a last glare at Finnikin, the woman was gone.

"I have said this before, Finnikin. You cannot complete this journey without me by your side. Seranonna prophesied it. You will hold the two hands of the one you pledged to save. My hands," she said.

He recalled their conversation that night in the rock village in Yutlind Sud. When she had questioned the possibility of Balthazar surviving the reentry into Lumatere. All this time she had been frightened of dying at the main gate, yet nothing had stopped her. Her courage and fear tore up his insides.

It seemed a lifetime before he found his voice again. "Who is the dark and who is the light?" he asked.

"Perhaps we are both one and the other."

"And the pain that 'shall never cease'?"

Tears welled in her eyes. "That you should experience any pain because of me is an ache I can't bear."

"But what is the pain the curse speaks of?" he repeated gently.

For a moment she didn't respond. "Mine, Finnikin. And that of the whole of Lumatere."

"Then I'll share that burden with you. Now. This very moment."

She shuddered as if she had held her breath for far too long. It was there on her face. The acceptance of her fate.

"Do you need to speak to the Guard?" he asked. "To give them any instructions before I take you to the main gate?"

She nodded.

"We do this now, Evanjalin."

"Isaboe. My name is Isaboe."

Just before dawn they gathered in her tent. The queen, the queen's First Man, the priest-king, the captain of the Guard, the ambassador, five dukes and duchesses, Saro of the Monts, and Finnikin of the Rock.

There was no room for ceremony in such a small space, and the queen sat on the hard ground with the rest of them. Sir Topher nodded for her to begin, but it took a while before she spoke.

"This is my bequest," she said finally, "witnessed by the court of Lumatere in exile in the presence of the goddess complete."

There was a muttering from Lord Freychinat at the mention of the goddess complete. The same Lord who had left his people behind in Lumatere without a second thought all these years, Finnikin thought bitterly.

"If the goddess wills that I am to enter the kingdom of the gods and not Lumatere this day, I appoint Sir Kristopher of the Flatlands as my successor to lead my people. In turn, Sir Topher, you are to appoint a leader for each province. My uncle is to govern the Mont people, and Lord August, the Flatlands. But those who are to govern the Rock and the Forest and the River will be chosen with the consideration of our people who have lived within the walls of Lumatere these past ten years."

More muttering and this time Finnikin glared at the perpetrators.

"Sir Ambassador, upon our taking back Lumatere, you will send word to the king and queen of every kingdom of Skuldenore. Tell them that the impostor rules no more and that any nation who chooses not to recognize Lumatere as a sovereignty led by either myself or my successor will be our enemy.

"You are to ensure Sarnak is notified that no access will be given to our river if they do not bring to justice those responsible for the slaughter of our people on their southern border two years ago. Advise them that I am witness to the massacre that took place. Also ensure it is made clear to the rest of the land that the kingdom of Lumatere recognizes the original inhabitants of Yutlind Sud, and honors the southern king's right to the throne in the south and the current king's right to the throne in the north." She turned to the priest-king. "Blessed Barakah, in time, and with the collaboration of both the worshippers of Lagrami and Sagrami, the goddess is to be worshipped complete."

There was silence when she finished speaking, and Finnikin saw her look to Sir Topher for approval. The queen's First Man stood and held out his hand to help her to her feet.

"May the blessing of the one goddess be with you all," she said quietly, before turning to Finnikin. "I am ready."

"Should the queen not be dressed... more appropriately?" Lady Milla sniffed.

Isaboe looked down at the shift given to her by her yata.

"At her coronation, the queen will be dressed appropriately," Finnikin bit out. "Today, we might approach things from a more practical point of view, Lady Milla. Unless you would like to take her place at the gate and the queen can dress in silks and relax in her tent?"

There were more mutterings between the dukes and duchesses about "impudence." Lady Abian gave them a withering look, but Lord Artor spoke up.

"If the queen enters Lumatere dressed —"

"The queen enters Lumatere dressed as she is!" Sir Topher said firmly. "There will be no more discussion about the queen's dress."

Isaboe gripped Finnikin's hand as they left the tent. "Do I not look like a queen?" she asked in a distressed whisper. "Is that what people are saying?"

He leaned forward to whisper in her ear. "They are saying you look like a goddess."

"It's time," Trevanion said.

Moss and Perri waited outside. "We've only got as far as the moat. A fierce force holds us back. As it always has," Moss informed them.

"All the way around?" Trevanion asked.

"At every border," Perri said.

Trevanion looked toward the tempest and then at Finnikin. "I will see you on the other side of the main gate," he said. "Do what you have to do, and I will see you within the walls where you will fight by my side. Do you hear me?"

Finnikin nodded, still gripping the queen's hand. Her face was pale, and her fear so potent that he felt nausea rise up in his throat.

"Perri will accompany you as far as he can," Trevanion said, gently cupping Isaboe's chin. There was a tsking sound from one of the duchesses, and Finnikin bit his tongue to not lash out at her.

"Tell them to move away, Sir Topher," Finnikin said. "They're upsetting the queen."

Accompanied by the Guard, Finnikin and the queen walked toward the tempest, where Lucian and Froi stood waiting. The queen quickly hugged her cousin and then stared at Froi. Finnikin could see the tears of anger in the boy's eyes.

"He had the better plan," Froi said, pointing at Finnikin. "Second Lumatere. No blood curses or spells or not knowing whever you live or die. We can stay here. People like it in the Valley. I heard them say. They just want you here wif them."

"Half her people are inside, Froi," Lucian said quietly. "And this is not a way to live."

Froi turned to Trevanion and Perri. "I'll never do anover evil fing if we stay here. Never. I will do anyfing you want. How can you let them do this, Captain? It's Finnikin and Evanjalin. I fort you loved him more than anyfing."

Trevanion did not respond. His face was pinched and unreadable.

The queen took Froi's hand and slipped something into it. He stared down before slowly opening his fingers. The ruby ring.

"It's worth everything, Froi. Priceless. Whether I return or not, it belongs to you for the rest of your life. Not because you deserve it, for I do not know how to measure the worth of one so young and I will never forget what you tried to do to me in that loft in Sorel. But when I look at it, I think of how loved I was by the owner of this ring, and by my mother and my precious sisters and my beloved brother. You asked me once what my magic was. That is my magic."

Froi held the ring miserably in his hand, clutching his body as if in pain.

Finnikin looked at his father one last time. Then he took the queen's hand and walked up to the main gate accompanied by Perri, until the guard was stopped by a force that pushed him back. He watched the queen turn around. The Guard sat on their horses, swords ready. Behind them an army of exiles held bows trained toward the kingdom walls. In the distance he saw Sir Topher and the queen's yata.

They took a step together, and suddenly Finnikin felt the path to the main gate beneath his feet.

On the grassy knoll, Trevanion stood with his men, holding his breath. And then the queen and Finnikin disappeared beyond the tempest and suddenly there was a gasp in unison across the Valley of Tranquillity.

"Sagrami," Perri said in wonder. "We're going home."

Finnikin stared at the gate in front of them. At the intricate beauty of the inscriptions around the edges, written in the language of the ancients. When he turned, the queen took a step back, trembling.

"I should be brave like the gods," she said quietly.

He held out his hand. "Each time the gods have whispered your name to me, their voices have trembled."

Her eyes were fixed on the gate. "We would sneak out each night because I wanted to see the unicorn."

Finnikin remembered the lies they would tell Isaboe, of the unicorn in the forest that would appear only to a princess.

"How did you get past my father's guard at this gate?"

"One morning Balthazar and I were playing in the garden, along that narrow stretch where the walls of the kingdom and the outer walls of the palace merge into one. Balthazar decided we would scrape our names on one of the stones of the wall so that one day another young prince or princess might know that Balthazar and Isaboe had lived there. As we carved our names, we found that a stone in the wall had become dislodged. Perhaps it happened during the tremor of years before. For months after, deep in the night, we would sneak out of the palace through the cook's chamber and crawl through the wall into the forest." She looked at him with sorrow. "Because I wanted to see the unicorn. And all that time the enemy was watching us and that's how they came into my home and slaughtered my family. Because I wanted to see the unicorn."

"No," he said gently. "Balthazar wanted to trap the silver wolf. It's all we spoke about."

He held both hands out to her, to fulfill the words of the curse. She took his hands and he heaved against the gate, hoping it might miraculously fall open. Nothing.

"The blood on your hands that night? Do you remember where it came from?" he asked.

"Here and here," she said, touching her knuckles and palms. "From knocking at the ..."

They both realized at the same moment and he took one of her hands and led her along the wall, his fingers tracing any mark. And then he saw them. So tiny and faded with years. The bloody imprint of Isaboe's hand.

She slowly reached out and measured her hand over the imprint, her palm against the cold stone. With shaking hands he removed his knife from its scabbard.

"I'm going to have to cut you here," he said, kissing her palm gently. "Did the blood come from any other wound?"

She shook her head. "I had little blood on me until I returned to bury Balthazar. What kind of a person leaves behind their beloved brother to be mauled by an animal?"

"A smart one, my queen."

She took his face in her hands. "Do you know what Balthazar's last words were? Find Finnikin of the Rock. He'll know what to do. But I couldn't find you, Finnikin. For so long I couldn't find you."

He wiped her tears tenderly. "When it begins, don't look away from me. Keep your eyes fixed on mine. Remember my face when you lie between neither here nor there. Let it be your guide to come back from wherever the goddess chooses to take us."

She nodded. "Let me hear you say my name," she said softly.

"Isaboe." He whispered it, his mouth close to hers. "Isaboe."

"Do not despair in the darkness, Finnikin. It will be my despair you sense, but I have never allowed it to overtake me, so do not let yourself be consumed."

As gently as he could, he pressed the tip of his dagger across both her palms and then his.

"Tell me about the farm," she pleaded as drops of blood began to appear on her hands.

"The farm?"

"The farm that Finnikin the peasant would have lived on with his bride."

"Evanjalin. That was her name. Did I mention that?"

She laughed through a sob. "No, you didn't."

"They would plant rows upon rows of wheat and barley, and each night they would sit under the stars to admire what they owned. Oh, and they would argue. She believes the money made would be better spent on a horse, and he believes they need a new barn. But then later they would forget all their anger and he would hold her fiercely and never let her go."

"And he'd place marigolds in her hair?" she asked.

He clasped her hands against his and watched her blood seep through the lines of his skin. "And he would love her until the day he died," he said. He placed his other bloody hand against those imprinted for eternity on the kingdom walls.

They had never spoken about what would happen at this point. Whether the gate would open and Lumatere would be revealed. If the darkness would disappear in front of their eyes and the bluest of skies welcome them home. But Finnikin only had a moment for such imaginings before the ground began to shake beneath their feet, and the tempest became one with him, its murky cloud entering his body. Polluting him. And so he heard every cry of those who had lost their lives during the five days of the unspeakable and those slaughtered in Sarnak and those who died in the camps. And he walked every one of the sleeps the novice Evanjalin had taken. Not just of the innocent, but of their enemies within the gates: the assassins, the rapists, and the torturers. Until her memories shattered the fragments of his mind, filled it with rage, and when he thought he could bear it no longer, she was there. He felt her. Inside him. Soaking up his darkness until it consumed her and she fell at his feet.

And then the earth stopped moving and the gate lay open and he heard the war cries from the Guard as their horses pounded past him. But Lumatere was already awash with flames. The silence Finnikin had imagined from within was a roar that blasted his senses as he stumbled with her in his arms into a blazing hell.

Chapter 25

Finnikin staggered away from the road that led to the palace, carrying the queen toward the bridge that would take them to a meadow in the Flatlands. He needed to lay her down so he could breathe life back into her. He needed to rid himself of the murky images of horror that were now part of his own memory. But like the rest of Lumatere, the meadow was ablaze.

Falling to his knees, he clutched her, covering her body with his own. The thick smoke smothered and blinded him, and he sobbed with fury at the futility of dying in this meadow in their homeland. If he could have found words, he would have opened his mouth and roared his anger to the gods. His only consolation was that Isaboe was unable to see the ruins of her beloved kingdom, a kingdom that had soaked up too much of her family's blood. Cursed land, Sir Topher had once said. Cursed people.

His head spun as everything turned to white, and the emptiness was so soul-chilling that he almost prayed for the rot inside him to return. If this was death, where was the light he had been promised? Where was his mother, Bartolina of the Rock? From the moment he could understand words he had been promised by Trevanion that his mother would be there at his death. And where was Balthazar, the mightiest of warriors, who hid beloved Isaboe in a burrow and leaped into the mouth of a wolf to save their future queen?

He closed his eyes, wanting to see something that made sense. But he knew Isaboe would have scolded him for doing such a thing, so he stopped waiting for what made sense and instead turned to what brought hope. He staggered to his feet with the queen in his arms and walked forward blindly.

He heard it before he saw it, and prayed it did not belong to the impostor king and his men. And then it was before him, a horse and cart, steered by a white-haired creature. Ghost or witch?

"Lay the queen on the ground and step back!" she screeched, jumping from the cart, holding a double-edged sword above her head.

She was a tiny woman, but there was wildness in her eyes. Up close, he saw a face the age of Lady Abian, yet the woman's hair was prematurely white. Slowly his senses returned and he heard men roar and the sound of arrows flying in the distance, but he refused to let go of the queen, a snarl escaping his lips when the witch stepped closer.

"Lay the queen on the ground I say!"

"You risk your life if you take another step!" he shouted above the noise. He looked over and saw three young novices crouched in the cart, terror on their faces as they looked from him to the woman. The creature came toward him with the sword in her hands.

"Step back or you die," he hissed.

"You cannot hold the queen and kill me at the same time, boy," she jeered, pressing the sword to his throat. "Lay her on the ground."

"She stays with me."

He wanted to hurt this creature. The feeling was so intense that it took everything inside of him to fight against it. He stepped forward with Isaboe in his arms and felt the witch's sword press into the flesh of his throat. But still their eyes stayed locked.

"Stop!"

The word was accompanied by screams from the novices. Perri stood at the rear of the cart. His sword was already stained with blood, and Finnikin could see the battle rage in his eyes as he stared at the strange creature between them. Two of the young girls in the cart scuttled to its corners, while the third stared at Finnikin and Perri. "Demons," she hissed.

"Step away from the cart!" the white-haired woman said. The vehemence in her voice was directed at Perri, but Finnikin saw the sword in her hand tremble.

Perri took a step back, and Finnikin read more in the guard's face than he had ever seen before. "Give Tesadora the queen, Finnikin," he said.

Tesadora of the Forest Dwellers directed her gaze back to Finnikin, slowly lowering her sword. "The boy from the rock with the pledge in his heart. I expected someone mightier in build."

"Your father needs you by his side, Finn," Perri said.

Finnikin refused to move, looking down at Isaboe. She felt cold in his arms, and he shook his head fervently.

"Finnikin, if you lay her in the cart, they will do all they can to help. Tesadora may be the only one who can save her."

There was something in Perri's voice that made him surrender the queen; he knew Perri trusted no one but the Guard and Trevanion. Perri moved toward Finnikin to help him lay her on the cart, but Tesadora hissed and the young novices cried out in fear.

"Not a step closer," Tesadora threatened. "Put her on the ground and move away."

"We will not touch your girls, Tesadora," Perri said impatiently. "Let us place her on the cart."

The novices stared at Finnikin as he settled Isaboe on the cart beside them. Stared as if he was some sort of fiend. Had he turned into one? Could they see the darkness in his eyes? Slowly he bent and placed his lips against Isaboe's cold skin, and then the cart jolted away.

"Do not let the darkness consume you, Finnikin of the Rock." With the reins firmly in her hands, Tesadora disappeared beyond the dark clouds of smoke with Isaboe safely nestled in the arms of the novices.

As Finnikin followed Perri into battle, the lust for killing consumed him. Each time he stared into the eyes of his enemy, he saw a madman responsible for the pain of every one of their people who had burned at the stake, died by the sword, swung from a rope, shuddered with the fever, ached with hunger. Worse, he felt the grief of their loved ones who had stood and watched helplessly. This was the agony that had made the novice Evanjalin stumble after she walked the sleep, her face pinched, her heart black with despair. He could save her from an enemy with a sword, but how could he shield her from her people's suffering?

One thousand arrows had found their target within the first minute. As the enemy began to fall, Trevanion's men and the Monts unleashed a wrath borne of ten years of exile. Axes broke bones. Blades sliced flesh. Men who once were farmers cut down the enemy like crops of wheat.

By early evening they had breached the palace gate and entered the grounds where half the impostor king's men had retreated. Finnikin watched as the area that had been his playground as a child became a slaughterhouse. But there were reports that a mightier battle was raging farther in the kingdom. According to one of the Guard, Saro and the Monts were fighting an enemy group that included the impostor king, at the foot of the mountains. Leaving Perri in charge, Trevanion and Finnikin leaped onto their mounts. As they rode through the kingdom, Finnikin took in the inferno around them. Every Flatland village was on fire. He prayed that the villagers had escaped their burning homes. He could not endure the thought of having to search these cottages for the charred remains of their people in the days to come.

When they reached the foot of the mountains, they were confronted by the sight of a hundred men in fierce combat. The Monts were savage in their attack, and Finnikin knew that no Mont would allow the impostor's men to reach the summit of their mountain. He caught glimpses of Lucian and saw what set him apart from the other lads. Not just sheer bulk, but a perfect symmetry in the swing of his ax, an ability to achieve in seconds what took others minutes. Lucian did not hesitate as he fought alongside his father. It was as if he had waited a lifetime to avenge his cousins, and this was the day of reckoning. But Finnikin wondered when his own need for revenge would be satisfied, whether thrusting his sword into enemy flesh and watching the blank open stare of death could make up for what had been lost these ten years. He had never seen anything as brutal as the battle to reclaim Lumatere. He fought close to his father, at times almost sobbing with fatigue, wanting to beg for a sword to be plunged into his body to end it all. But each time he sensed Trevanion by his side. "Stay with me, Finn. Don't let me bury a son this day."

They had always known they would lose some of their own, and as night descended, Finnikin saw Saro of the Monts fall, a sword through his throat. Where he fought, Lucian stopped for the first time in hours, his face registering the anguish.

"Fa! Fa!"

The Mont stumbled away from his opponent, and Finnikin watched with horror as the impostor's soldier raised his weapon. Finnikin threw his dagger and caught the man between the eyes. "Lucian! Lucian! Protect yourself!"

Then Finnikin was running toward Lucian with his bow. Aiming, shooting, running. Aiming, shooting, running. But the Mont could only think of getting to Saro. He fell at his father's side and gathered him into his arms, his hoarse cry mingling with the clash of steel against steel. Until Finnikin could hear no more sound from Lucian but saw the pure sorrow. And on a day he believed he could feel nothing more, his heart seemed to shatter as he flew onto the Mont's body to shield him.

When he looked up, Finnikin saw the angel of death above him, an ax raised over his head. He knew he would die. The jagged blade would split his head like a watermelon. And in those seconds before death, he kept his eyes on his father fighting less than ten feet away. He wanted his last thoughts to be of this man. And of her.

But the ax, and the hand attached to it, went flying through the air, and the enemy crashed to the ground in front of him. Finnikin stumbled to his feet and stared into the face of the exile from Lastaria. The man held out a hand to him and pulled him to his feet, and then he was gone.

Without hesitation, Finnikin turned back to Lucian and stood guard, lobbing arrows toward anyone who dared to enter the Mont's circle of grief.

Later, those who had lived the horror inside the kingdom for ten long years spoke of vindictive retribution. As if the bastard king, as they called him, had sensed that Lumatere was about to be reclaimed and set their world alight. Those of the Flatlands and the River hid with those of the Rock and watched as their kingdom was razed to the ground, watched from up high as their lost ones entered the gate and fought the bastard king and his men on the path leading up to the palace.

Some said it was the end of days and planned to climb to the highest point of the rock of three wonders, where they would plunge to their deaths.

But a sliver of hope stopped them. Hope created by a promise scratched into the arm of a child.

The promise that Finnikin of the Rock would return with their queen.

Chapter 26

When it was finally over and Trevanion stared into the face of the impostor, he wondered how such a pitiful human being had created such despair in all their lives. It had been his order to keep the impostor and nine of his men alive, but he fought hard against the urge to plunge his sword into this man's heart.

"Trevanion," Finnikin said quietly as one of the guards threw the prisoners into the back of a cart, their mouths gagged, their hands and feet chained. Trevanion knew that every member of his Guard itched to snuff the life out of these bastards.

"Don't worry, Finn. They'll get there alive," he said soberly. "Perhaps just not in one piece."

When he returned to the palace village, the dead and dying had been dragged into the main square. Villagers tended the wounded, and Trevanion suspected they had emerged from their cottages in the darkest part of the night, when the battle had raged at its worst. Now the world was silent, but for the sounds from those who lay dying. This was no place for triumph or celebration.

"Captain, you wounded," Froi said, following Trevanion as he weaved his way toward Perri.

"How many lost?" Trevanion asked Perri.

"Too many," Perri muttered. "The impostor king?"

"Imprisoned in the palace with the rest of his scum," Trevanion said, looking at the wretchedness around him. When he asked about the queen, he could sense Froi's anxiety, almost as if the boy had stopped breathing.

"With those from the cloister of Sagrami," Perri said quietly.

"We need to count them," Trevanion said, gesturing to where the dead had been laid out at the edge of the square.

Froi's expression was one of acceptance. "I know. Make myself useful and count the dead."

Trevanion grabbed his arm. "A sorry task. Mine, not yours. Return to the Valley of Tranquillity and tell Sir Topher that Lumatere is free from the impostor king. Then find the priest-king and bring him home."

Trevanion looked over to where August of the Flatlands sat with his head in his hands, between the body of his sister's husband and Matin, one of Augie's men. He remembered the excitement that night in Augie's home, the bantering and the fierce friendship between these kinsmen. The key Matin had showed him. "It is the key to my house in Lumatere," he said. "I keep it in my pocket at all times as a reminder that I will return one day."

Trevanion had seen Saro fall, as well as Ced, one of the younger guards. Ced had been the first into the palace grounds and the first of his men to die. Ced, the last of a bloodline. Already Trevanion felt their absence from the earth. In the makeshift morgue, he closed the eyes of one of the men they had rescued from the Charynites on the river not even seven days past.

And then Trevanion saw her. When the sun began to appear in the blood-red sky as Lumatere continued to burn. She stood with fresh linens in her arms at the edge of the square. Between them lay rows and rows of corpses and the wounded she had come to tend.

A child was by her side, a miniature Beatriss, with eyes the color of the sky.

He thought of the child they had created together, the child who had died in the palace dungeons where the impostor king was now imprisoned. His face reflected the rage and hatred he felt toward those who had taken so much from him.

And Beatriss of the Flatlands saw the fury as he looked at her child.

Saw the hatred.

And quietly she covered the child's eyes and walked away.

Later, Trevanion returned to the foot of the mountain, where the Monts were collecting their dead. With a sickness in the pit of his stomach, he went searching for Finnikin. He found him with Lucian, sitting alongside Saro's body, their heads bent with exhaustion and grief. Both stood when he reached them, and Trevanion placed his hands on Lucian's shoulders, kissing him in the Mont tradition of respect.

"The last thing we spoke of, Saro and I, was how blessed we were as fathers, and the joy and pride we felt in our sons, Lucian."

Lucian nodded, unable to speak.

"I need to take my father home," he said finally.

"I will have the Guard take care of that, Lucian."

"No. I will carry my father home now. So I can lay his still warm body on our mountain. It's all he spoke of these past ten years. Returning to his mountain."

Finnikin crooked an elbow around Lucian's neck and pressed the Mont's forehead against his face. Then Trevanion stood by his son as they watched Lucian tenderly lift his father's body and carry him away.

"Will you come with me to the river?" Trevanion asked. Most of the Monts, except those tending the dying, had left.

Finnikin nodded listlessly. He was numb as he followed his father. In the morning light, villagers had appeared as if from nowhere. It was eerie to see so many faces, yet hear no sound. They looked different from the exiles. No better or worse, but damaged all the same. He wanted to feel a sense of home, as he had always dreamed he would. Lumaterans were connected to the land, yet he feared the dislocation for him would last forever. He had once read in a book from the ancients that one could never truly return home after years of absence. Was he cursed with such a fate?

He swung onto the back of Trevanion's horse, and they rode through their smoldering land, following the waterway that wound through the Flatlands, where the blackened stumps and leafless trees looked like skeletons, specters of death. Cottages were burned to the ground, and the barges on the river were nothing more than black pieces of timber floating on stagnant water. Finnikin sat on the banks with his father. Above them in the Rock Village, Lumaterans emerged in the hundreds.

"Tell me," Trevanion said, his face blackened with ash and streaked with blood. "At the gate with Evanjalin? What took place?"

"Isaboe," Finnikin corrected quietly. He rubbed his eyes, wondering when everything would stop looking blurred. "She lied."

There was silence before his father spoke. "The queen omits rather than lies, Finnikin. For a purpose. One that will humble us each time. I feel shame that I can hardly remember the child who grew up to be the novice Evanjalin. I remember the older princesses and Balthazar, but not the little girl."

"She omitted. Walking the sleep was not the only part of the gift. Or curse." Finnikin laughed bitterly. "Oh, to have such a gift. To sense the pain every single time a Lumateran suffers. She feels every death, every torture, every moment of grief. And when she walked the sleep of those inside, it was not just that of our helpless people." He looked at his father. "She walked the sleep of the assassins," he whispered, his voice catching. "Those of the impostor King's Guard who were Lumateran."

Trevanion cursed.

"The king died last. They made him watch, and what they did to those princesses and his queen I will never repeat as long as I live. But Isaboe knows, for she walked the sleep of a monster who was witness to it, and if I could have one wish in my life," he said through gritted teeth, "it would be that I could tear from her mind the memory of such depravity. Sweet goddess, that I would have such a gift. I would give my life for it." And then he was sobbing, despairing at his uselessness.

Trevanion watched Finnikin, unable to offer any hope. That men could conquer kingdoms and fight armies of such power and might, yet not be able to offer comfort to one so beloved. Where Finnikin's wish was to have the power to remove the ugliness of memory, Trevanion's was to have the gift of words needed to bring solace to his son.

"Finn, look," he said after a while. "The river's beginning to flow."

As Trevanion and Finnikin rode back into the palace village, the first exiles from the Valley entered Lumatere through the main gate. Froi was leading the priest-king, and the silence of those walking into the kingdom seemed strained.

Lumaterans stared at each other as strangers. Those who had tended the injured within the palace grounds walked to a nearby hill and watched the procession of exiles coming toward them. Finnikin and Trevanion swung off their horse and made their way between the villagers. Finnikin could hear Trevanion's name being whispered. And his. They must have looked frightening with their knotted hair and blood-soaked clothing. Beside him, he heard a sharp cry, and a moment later he was jostled out of the way by one of the women. She stood on her toes, her neck outstretched as she searched through the exiles coming their way.

"Asbrey, my brother," she said quietly. She spun around to look at the older man standing behind her. "Fa? It's Asbrey, your son, with a babe in his hands." Her eyes stayed on the group behind Froi and the priest-king, and then she placed a hand over her mouth as if to hold back a sob. "And my ma."

Finnikin turned to look at the man. His eyes were dull with shock, but his daughter began running, stumbling toward her family as she called out their names. Finnikin saw an expression of annoyance cross Froi's face when he sensed the commotion around him. The thief stood in front of the priest-king while the exiles behind him began to push past, trying to get to the young woman. But one of them tripped at Froi's feet, the one holding the baby, and the priest-king managed to catch the child and thrust it into Froi's hands to keep it from being smothered. So Froi held it high above their heads as it proclaimed its freedom, the cries heard all across the village and the square beyond and the palace up above.

And it was this image that was stamped on the hearts and minds of all who were present that day.

Of Froi of the Exiles holding the future of Lumatere in his hands.