They entered Belegonia through neighboring Osteria to reach the crossroads of the north. The palaces of Osteria and Lumatere and the border of Sendecane were all a day’s ride from the crossroads. As they prepared to follow the arrow south to the Belegonian capital, Finnikin stared at the arrow pointing north. The name LUMATERE had been scratched out.

For a moment he allowed his memory to take him down a road lined with vineyards and olive trees. It was one he had traveled often with his father. Each time, he would climb the ridge overlooking the Valley of Tranquillity and see the kingdom of Lumatere spread out before him. Villages of cobblestoned roads that rang with the sound of hooves, meadows lush with flowers, huts lined up along a river that snaked through the kingdom and pulsed with life. In his mind he followed the river to its port, where barges loaded with crates would depart, taking the richness of the kingdom’s produce as far south as Yutlind and to the farthest reaches of Sarnak. He could see his village in the Rock, his uncle’s smokehouse, where meat and fish hung from the ceiling, and the quarry where he would take Balthazar and Isaboe, who would thrill the villagers with their eagerness to join in with the digging and extracting. Lucian of the Monts had said it was unnatural to live in caves. Trogs, he called them, and although at times Finnikin felt the limits of the Rock Village, nothing could take away the view over the rest of the land, where he would see a farmer knock acorns out of an oak tree for his pigs, or families working together, cutting wheat with sickles and bringing in the harvest. And there in the distance, the king’s palace, perched up high, overlooking their beloved people inside the kingdom walls and those outside in the Forest of Lumatere.

The only time Finnikin and Sir Topher had returned to the Valley of Tranquillity was in their fifth year of exile. By then the dark mist that had once stopped at the walls of the kingdom had spread to consume a third of the valley, including the Forest of Lumatere. But just as Finnikin despaired that there was nothing of their homeland to see or feel, without warning, the scar on his thigh from his pledge with Balthazar and Lucian had begun to flow with blood, leaving him with a heady sense of euphoria and his body a boneless heap. He had lost all sense of the normal world that day, but in his delirium he dreamed of a moment so perfect that to put it into words seemed futile. When he woke, Sir Topher was there, his face white with worry and fear, and Finnikin had sobbed with a joy that he knew Sir Topher could not understand. He had experienced a phenomenon beyond their world, where he felt the beat not just of his own heart but of another as well, as if some great spirit had crawled into him and planted a seed of hope. As if perhaps Balthazar was alive and one day soon the curse would lift and Lumatere would be free again.

Yet when they had descended from the ridge and tried to push through the dark mist, a great force had driven them back. Still, Finnikin would not give up. He had felt something on that ridge, and despite Sir Topher’s gentle urging to walk away, he tried again and again, forcing himself against the whirlpool of malevolence spinning across the valley, needing to push through as if there was someone on the other side waiting to grasp his hand. Sometimes he swore he felt fingertips against his but always beyond his grasp, and his sobs of frustration turned into grunts of fatigue. Until day became dusk. The sun disappeared. Then darkness.

“We will not return here, Finnikin,” Sir Topher had said sadly. “There is nothing left for us. For our people.”

Overcome with fatigue, Finnikin had known that his mentor was right. It was foolish to think that Balthazar had lived. From that day, Finnikin had not dared to entertain the hope of a return to Lumatere, and he cursed anyone who allowed themselves to think otherwise.

Three days after their arrival in Charyn, Finnikin and Evanjalin set up camp on the outskirts of the Belegonian capital. As they had traveled toward the city, Finnikin felt his mood lift. There was a magic to this kingdom. Belegonia was a center for learning, and over the years, Sir Topher had made sure that Finnikin experienced everything it had to offer. He liked the way that just when he thought he knew every part of the city, he would find another snakelike alley. He liked how they argued in these alleys. What they argued about. Not just taxes and death, but the quality of a building, the theory of the latest philosopher, the histories according to Will the baker as opposed to Jark the butcher. Throughout the rest of the land, people worked and slept and existed. In Belegonia, as they once did in Lumatere, the people truly lived.

As they approached the city center, Finnikin heard music. A girl with pipes, a man with a drum, counting the beat one, two, three, four in a way that had Finnikin’s blood pumping a rhythm of mayhem to his heart. For a moment he lost sight of Evanjalin as those around them began to dance. But then she was there before him, her eyes blazing. As drum beats rang through the street, she slowly raised her arms and clapped her hands above her left shoulder. Eyes fixed on hers, Finnikin instinctively clapped his hands above his right shoulder. Then, just as slowly, Evanjalin tapped her feet and he mirrored the movement. It was the beginning of their kingdom’s Harvest Moon dance, and as the rhythm quickened and those around them stamped and twirled, every part of him belonged to this hypnotic dance with Evanjalin. But then the rhythm changed, and Finnikin came to his senses. He took her hand and gently led her away.

As they made their way toward the houses overlooking the main square, Finnikin’s frustration returned. He was still annoyed that they had responded to Lord August’s request. August of the Flatlands was the son of the duke Trevanion had been assigned to protect as a young foot soldier. When Trevanion left to fight the invaders, Lord August followed, wanting to prove that he was more than just a privileged man’s son. Finnikin knew that what had developed over the years was a fierce friendship between his father and the nobleman. Yet he could not forget that since the five days of the unspeakable, he and Sir Topher had not encountered any of Lord August’s people from the village of Sayles. He knew that most of them escaped to the Valley, but he suspected that somewhere in their journey they had been abandoned by the duke and were most likely suffering in the fever camps. Or worse.

Lord August’s residence was tall and narrow, with no doors on the ground level. Finnikin assumed the family entered through one of the buildings alongside, though he had no idea why Lord August felt the need for such protection. Nobility were protected by foreign courts, despite their Lumateran heritage.

A carriage pulled up outside the house, and Finnikin watched a woman and four children step out. He recognized Lady Abian, looking every bit the duchess in her silks and jewels. She was followed by Lady Celie and her three younger brothers. He had not seen Lady Celie since they were children, and she had changed little. Always fragile, she had been a strange, quiet child who was bullied by Lucian of the Monts but much loved by the royal children.

The family paid no attention to Finnikin and Evanjalin until Lady Celie dropped a bundle of cloth. Evanjalin bent to retrieve it, and the other girl stifled a scream that made Finnikin dislike her instantly. The two girls faced each other, one dainty and refined in her dress, the other plain and coarse. He saw an emotion flash through Evanjalin’s eyes before the family disappeared into the building next door.

When Lord August finally appeared through the same entrance, his face was impassive but he gripped Finnikin’s shoulder tightly. He was dressed in the wealthy silks of a king’s court and Finnikin dismissed him, as he did most dukes in exile, as one with a meaningless title. He led them to the courtyard of the building alongside his residence. It wasn’t until they were standing in a small room, bare except for the frescoes on the walls, that Lord August stopped to look at Finnikin closely.

“You’re not a boy anymore.”

“How does one tell, my lord?”

“By the ache in the heart of a father who understands how Trevanion would feel if he were to see how much has been taken from him.”

Finnikin looked away, then mumbled an introduction to the novice. “And Sir Topher sends his apologies. There has been talk that the priest-king is in these parts, and he is keen to see if it’s true.”

“I have heard such talk. But I doubt he is here. The priest-king has developed a death wish over the past ten years and spends much of his time in the fever camps.”

“You promised us a meeting with the king, Lord August,” Finnikin reminded him.

“No,” the man said firmly. “There was never a promise. Just an invitation to discuss Lumatere.”

“And what is it that you’d like to discuss, my lord? As we have mentioned each time we return here, the only hope for Lumatere is land for our exiles.”

“And as I have said to Sir Topher year after year, why would the king of Belegonia be interested in carving up his land?”

“You contacted us,” Finnikin said, not hiding the anger in his voice. “We came here because you invited us. Why waste our time, my lord? Our people are dying, and you make us travel all the way here to see you.”

“Give me information I don’t already have, Finnikin. Tell me that you’re attempting to return home and I will ask for the king’s assistance.”

“We don’t have a home,” Finnikin snapped. “Push for land, Lord August. That is all we want. A piece of Belegonian land by the river. We will settle there and fend for ourselves, and the Belegonians need not worry.”

“If we have our Guard, I will bet my life that Balthazar comes out of hiding,” Lord August said in a low tone.

“The Lumateran Guard no longer exists.”

“As long as Trevanion lives, it exists.”

Finnikin pushed back his hair in frustration. “Are you trying to trap me, my lord? Has my father escaped from one of the land’s prisons and are you trying to locate him?”

Lord August laughed with little humor. “Escape? Not for want of his Guard trying. I’ve told you before, I have no idea where he is. They transferred him in secrecy one night seven years ago. All I know is that they took him to Yutlind Nord, but he no longer seems to be there. I suspect the ambassador knows, but he refuses to speak of Trevanion. He says he honors the wishes of the captain.”

Finnikin dug his fingernails into his palms.

“I remember the times I would visit him in the prison here,” Lord August continued. “He would only ever ask one question: ‘Is my boy safe?’ As long as the answer was yes, he did not care what happened to him. But he could be persuaded by you, Finnikin. If Trevanion was found and freed, his Guard would come out of hiding, and then we would have the most powerful men of Lumatere to lead us home.”

“Even if we had my father and the Guard and the heir, have you forgotten that we’re actually missing a kingdom?” Finnikin said sharply.

“The truth lies with the heir, Finnikin. Balthazar will know how to get us inside. The gifted ones among us are speaking. They sense something. Someone.”

“Let me talk to the king,” Finnikin repeated.

The duke shook his head, a look of angry disappointment on his face, and suddenly Finnikin felt as if he were facing his father.

“The king will want a favor in return,” Lord August said dismissively.

“They can afford to have us here, my lord. It is why we have chosen Belegonia and not Osteria. Look at all the open space in this kingdom. We traveled five days to arrive here, through the most lush and fertile land. All empty. Wasted. While our people live in overcrowded camps.”

“They will say it is not their responsibility, Finnikin.”

“Then whose responsibility are we?”

“They will say that they have done enough! That our people need to help themselves. To integrate. They claim they have no control over the outlaws who harrass some of the camps. No control over their own people, while ours are at the mercy of the oppressed of each land who relish the opportunity to be an oppressor.”

“Is that what you believe?”

Lord August stared at him. “Do you think I don’t continually ask myself if I could have done more? Do you think I don’t visit the people in those camps and want to take every one of them into my home? But whom do I choose, Finnikin? The motherless child? The pregnant woman? The man who has lost his entire family?” He shook his head, and Finnikin knew he was being dismissed. “Tell the king something he might find useful, and he may come to your aid.”

Finnikin stood, hopelessness rendering him speechless.

“Then tell him this.”

The voice came from behind him. A strong voice, yet hoarse as if it were new to speech. She spoke in the Lumateran language, and it sent a shiver through Finnikin’s body.

“Tell him the impostor king did not work alone,” Evanjalin said, making her way across the room toward them. “Tell him that Lumatere was never the objective, just the means.” She stood by Finnikin’s side. With a voice, she looked different. Words put fire in her eyes in the same way music had.

“What better way for cunning Charyn to take control of Belegonia, its most powerful rival, than to place a puppet ruler in the kingdom between them. And when Charyn decides to plunder Belegonia, the bloodshed in Lumatere will pale in comparison.”

Lord August walked toward them until he was eye to eye with Evanjalin. Finnikin could hardly breathe. She brushed up against his arm, and he felt her tremble.

“Who are you to know such things?” the duke whispered in their mother tongue.

“When one is silent, those around speak even more, my lord.”

“And what do you hope to achieve with this information?” He looked at Finnikin. “What’s going on here, Finnikin?”

“You asked for something the king of Belegonia did not already know,” Finnikin said, as if rehearsed. “We have given it. So what can we take away with us in return? An audience with your king, perhaps?”

Lord August’s face was white with fury. He grabbed hold of Finnikin roughly. “My king,” he spat, “is dead. The king of Belegonia is my employer. Never mistake one for the other.”

The girl reached over and released Lord August’s hands from Finnikin. “So if we are to return to Lumatere, you would leave all this?” she asked. “Security. Privilege. In exchange for a kingdom that could be razed to the ground at any moment? Just say your lands are no longer there, my lord? Maybe worked by another who believes that he is entitled to them over you. Would you be so eager to return to Lumatere if you had nothing to go back to?”

He stared at the two standing before him. “Led by Balthazar and his First Man?” he asked. “Protected by the King’s Guard? Blessed by the priest-king? Say the words, and I will be on my knees with my hands in the soil, planting the first seed.”

Neither Finnikin nor Evanjalin spoke until they were outside the duke’s residence. Finnikin grabbed her arm.“Explain to me your vow of silence!” he demanded in Lumateran.

She placed a finger across his lips. “Sir Topher would be furious to know that you’re speaking our mother tongue in public,” she said quietly, surprising him even more by speaking Belegonian.

When they returned to the camp, the thief from Sarnak was tied to a tree. The boy let out a string of expletives, spittle flying, hatred in his eyes. Still filled with his own anger, Finnikin walked over and grabbed him by the hair.

“My mother, unlike yours, never exchanged sexual favors for a piece of silver,” he said, addressing the first insult by banging the boy’s head against the trunk of the tree. “And,” he said with another resounding thump, “although I’m very familiar with that part of the female body, I take offense at being labeled one.”

“I’m presuming by your mood that things did not go well with the duke,” Sir Topher called from where he sat by the fire.

Finnikin joined him. “She spoke.”

“Evanjalin?” Sir Topher was on his feet in an instant. “What did she say to you?”

“She spoke Lumateran in the presence of the Duke. And later she spoke to me in Belegonian.”

Sir Topher glanced over to where Evanjalin was preparing their supper. “Finnikin, what did she tell you?” he asked urgently.

“What you have always suspected about the impostor king and the attack on Lumatere.”

Sir Topher paled. “Puppet king to the Charynites?”

Finnikin nodded.

“And Lord August?”

“He will take it to the king of Belegonia, but only if we return to Lumatere with my father’s Guard. More talk about Balthazar as well.”

“Empaths,” Sir Topher said, his eyes still on the novice as she busied herself plucking a pheasant. “It’s the empaths who are sensing something.”

“I thought they were all put to death.”

“No, only those who belonged to the Forest Dwellers. There seem to have been others with the gift, especially among the Flatlanders and the Monts. I believe it’s why Saro of the Monts keeps his people well hidden.”

Sir Topher walked over to where the girl was sitting. Feathers were stuck to her fingers and parts of her shift.

“Pick a language,” Finnikin said stiffly. “She seems to know a few.”

The novice stood, her eyes moving from Finnikin to Sir Topher. “I only know the language of my parents and Belegonian,” she said quietly in Belegonian. “And I can speak a little Sarnak.”

Sir Topher’s breath caught. “Is there anything else you need to tell us, Evanjalin?”

She shook her head, and her bottom lip began to quiver.

“There’s no need to be afraid,” Sir Topher continued gently. “Where did you hear about Charyn’s plan for Belegonia?”

She leaned close, whispering into his ear, “Balthazar.”

Finnikin saw confusion on Sir Topher’s face.

“Please don’t be angry, Sir Topher,” she said. “Please take me to the Monts. They will know what to do, I promise you. On my life, I promise you.”

“And you believe them to be in Sorel?”

She hesitated for a moment and then nodded.

The thief was cackling with laughter. “Crying,” he mimicked. “So sad. Want someone to cut my froat open and feed it to the dogs.”

The girl did not respond, and after a moment Sir Topher walked away. “Come, Finnikin. Practice.”

But Finnikin stayed. “Why is it that you choose silence, Evanjalin?” he said. “Something to hide?”

Her eyes met his. “Why speak when I can respond to your whistle like a dog?”

He gave a humorless laugh. There was nothing simple about this one.

“And anyway, I was so enjoying the discussions about fragile Lady Zarah.”

He and Sir Topher had discussed Lord Tascan’s daughter in Osterian. Finnikin’s eyes narrowed as he tried to bite back his anger. What they didn’t know about this girl could fill the Book of Lumatere.

“Is that jealousy I hear in your voice?” he asked.

“Jealousy? Of a vacuous member of the nobility who trills like a bird, according to Sir Topher?”

“Your voice could do with a bit more of a trill,” he said.

“Really? Because yours could do with a bit more refinement. For someone who’s supposed to be the future king’s First Man, you sound like a fishmonger.”

“First,” he seethed, “I belong to the future King’s Guard and second, my father was the son of a fishmonger, so I would choose my insults more carefully if I were you.”

“Finnikin! Practice,” Sir Topher called out again.

Evanjalin returned to the task with the pheasant as if Finnikin were no longer there.

“You have a very dark heart,” he accused.

“It’s good of you to recognize, Finnikin,” she said without looking up. “There’s hope for you yet.”