As they entered the exile camp the following day, Sir Topher was speechless. But it was the look on his father’s face that stayed in Finnikin’s mind for days to come. He knew Trevanion had never seen a camp before, had never imagined the way their people lived these past years, so nothing could prepare him for such desolation. His father understood punishment, imprisonment, and retribution. But this? What crime against the gods had these people committed to condemn them to this life?

“It is worse farther on,” Finnikin warned. The cramped conditions, pools of mud, and stinking puddles made movement through the camp slow. Yet unlike the previous day, there was a slight buzz around them as whispers began to fill the air. And then Finnikin saw it for the first time in the eyes of the man closest to them: a glimmer of hope.

“It’s Trevanion of the River,” he heard a woman say. “And the king’s First Man.”

As they went deeper into the camp, more and more exiles emerged from their makeshift homes. By the time they reached the divide between the tent city and the fever camp, they were squeezing their way through crowds of people, children watching hopefully from the shoulders of their fathers, the hunger in their eyes haunting.

A man, his hair white and his eyes the color of milk and sky, pushed his way to the front, searching Sir Topher’s face for recognition.

“Kristopher of the Flatlands?”

Sir Topher’s body shook as he embraced his kinsman. It now seemed as if every man, woman, and child had left their shelter to jostle around them.

“This is Micah, a farmer from the village of Sennington,” Sir Topher said.

Finnikin looked at his father. Sennington was Lady Beatriss’s village.

“Who is in charge here?” Trevanion said.

“We have no one in charge,” the old man replied.

“Then appoint someone and bring them to us.”

In the stretch of land between the tent city and the fever camp was the priest-king’s shanty. As they approached, a woman clutching her child came from the direction of the fever camp and pushed the boy into Evanjalin’s arms. Finnikin pulled Evanjalin toward him and away from the woman, who looked riddled with fever.

“There’s nothing you can do,” he said firmly.

Evanjalin shook free of him. “It’s against the rules of humanity to believe there is nothing we can do, Finnikin,” she said, walking away with the mother and child.

Inside the priest-king’s tent, Finnikin watched as Trevanion and Sir Topher solemnly bent and kissed the holy man’s hand, an action that seemed to embarrass him. The old farmer from the Flatlands entered hesitantly with two men and a woman, their eyes moving between the priest-king and Finnikin’s party.

“You need to separate these people from the fever camp,” Trevanion told them firmly, “and I do not mean a tiny strip of earth in between. You take the healthy away from here. Now.”

“Take them where?” the woman asked. “There are too many of us, and each time we have attempted to move, we have been threatened with swords. At least in this corner of hell they do not bother us.”

“To cross the land, we need the protection of the King’s Guard,” the older man said boldly.

“Can you provide that?” the youngest asked.

Finnikin looked at his father. He had not spoken of his men, but Finnikin knew that finding them was never far from Trevanion’s mind.

Trevanion shook his head. “Not for the moment. But you leave all the same. You keep to the river along the Charyn and then the Osterian border until you reach Belegonia. There, we will call on the patronage of Lord August of the Flatlands.”

“We can’t —”

“There is no hope for you here!” Trevanion said. “You travel to Belegonia and you will be provided for. That is my pledge.”

He and Sir Topher stepped outside with the four exiles, and Finnikin found himself alone with the priest-king.

“Do not underestimate the girl,” the priest-king said quietly.

Finnikin gave a humorless laugh. “I am with the king’s First Man, the captain of the King’s Guard, and the priest-king of Lumatere. The most powerful men in our kingdom, apart from the king himself. All brought together by her. At what point have I led you to believe that I have underestimated her?”

“You contemplate a different path from hers,” the priest-king pointed out.

“And you?” Finnikin asked.

“That is not important.”

“You are the priest-king,” Finnikin said. “Chosen to guide.”

“You have expectations of me?” the holy man said bitterly. “When I gave a blessing to that impostor as he walked through our gates, knowing that his hands were soaked with the blood of our beloveds? Do you know where I was when they burned the five Forest Dwellers at the stake? Safe in the Valley of Tranquillity, knowing that I could have given them protection in my home. I had the power of sanction, but I was ruled by my fear.”

“Lord August said you had a death wish and it was for this reason that you travel from fever camp to fever camp,” Finnikin said. “But the goddess has cursed you, blessed Barakah, and refuses to allow you to die.”

“So the answer to your earlier question is that I take these people north to Lumatere,” the priest-king responded. “With the girl. While you go west, to Belegonia. In search of a second homeland. Or has your course altered, Finnikin?”

Finnikin did not respond.

“What is it you fear?” the priest-king asked.

“What makes you think I fear anything?”

The old man sighed. “When I was a young man, I was chosen to be the spiritual advisor of our kingdom. They do not choose you to be Barakah, Finnikin, just because you can sing the Song of Lumatere at the right pitch.”

“Then you have the power to sense things? Is it Balthazar?” Finnikin asked.

“I do not know, but whoever I sense is powerful. ‘Dark will lead the light, and our resurdus will rise.’ Are they not the words of the prophecy?”

“Most would call it a curse, blessed Barakah.”

“Most would not have deciphered the words,” the priest-king replied.

Finnikin’s breath caught in his throat. “Do you know the rest?” he asked.

“‘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,’” Finnikin continued.

“‘His seed will issue kings, but he will never reign,’” they ended together.

After a moment the priest-king smiled. “It has taken me ten years to translate it. Please do not tell me it took you less.”

Finnikin smiled ruefully. “I spent my fifteenth year in the palace library of Osteria,” he confessed. “Not much else to do but listen to excruciating lectures from our ambassador and train with the Osterian Guard.” He felt a strange mixture of emotions under the priest-king’s gaze.

“What is it you fear, Finnikin?” the holy man repeated.

“I was the childhood companion of Prince Balthazar,” he found himself saying. “And many times he said to me, ‘Finnikin, when I am king, you’ll be captain of my Guard. Just as your father is captain of my father’s Guard. But then some days we will swap so you can be king and I can be Captain Trevanion.’”

“Child’s talk.”

Finnikin shook his head. “Each time Balthazar spoke those words, a fire would burn inside of me. I wanted to be king, and I began to envy Balthazar for it.”

“Then your desires were small, Finnikin.”

Finnikin made a sound of disbelief.

“When I was eight years old,” the priest-king confessed, “I wanted to be a god.” The holy man looked around the ragged tent. “Perhaps this is my punishment, but between you and me, I do not believe that the desires of young boys cause catastrophic events. The actions of humans do.”

But Finnikin knew there was more . Her blood will be shed for you to be king.

“Take Evanjalin north to our king, Finnikin,” the priest-king said. “But know that if we follow her, we take a path to salvation paved with blood.”

“There is nothing for us north,” Trevanion said firmly from the entrance. He was standing alongside Sir Topher. “Isn’t that right, Finnikin?”

Finnikin could not reply. He could feel his father’s fierce stare, but his eyes were on Sir Topher. His mentor had been respectfully distant since Trevanion’s return, but Finnikin needed his guidance now.

“She bewitches you,” Trevanion said. “And she is yours for the taking. Any fool can see that. So take her and get whatever needs to be gotten out of your system.”

Still Sir Topher would not meet his eyes, and Finnikin knew he would have to make this decision on his own. That perhaps he already had.

“I stood in a pit of corpses yesterday. Stepped over the body of one just my age. Do you know what went through my mind? Rebuilding Lumatere. And as I watched the lad carrying the dead, I thought the same. I imagined he would be a carpenter. I could see it in these,” he said, his hands outstretched. “In a pit of death I imagined a Lumatere of years to come, rather than of years past.” He was staring at his mentor. “We have never done that, Sir Topher. We collect the names of our dead, we plan our second homeland, and we construct our government, but with nothing more than parchment and ink and sighs of resignation.”

Sir Topher finally looked up. “Because any hope beyond that, my boy, would be too much. I feared we would drown in it.”

“Then I choose to drown,” Finnikin said. “In hope. Rather than float into nothing. Maybe you are right, Trevanion,” he said, turning back to his father. “But it is her hope that bewitches me, and that hope I may never get out of my system, no matter how many times she’s to be gotten. Can you not see it burning in her eyes? Does it not make you want to look away when you have none to give in return? Her hope fills me with . . . something other than this dull weight I wake with each morning.”

Trevanion’s eyes bored into him. Had he found his father only to walk away from him?

“She says the young girls inside Lumatere are dying,” Sir Topher said quietly.

“Why do we hear so little about these walks she takes in her sleep?” Trevanion demanded. “If she has the power, why do we know so little about Lumatere? Because she lies.”

“She has a gift —” the priest-king began.

“A gift for deception, unable to bear my presence for she knows I understand the nature of her vice,” Trevanion snapped. “What of her lies about Sarnak?”

“There was no lie,” Finnikin said.

Trevanion made a sound of frustration. “Finnikin, she could not even tell us where those people came from, let alone what happened.”

Finnikin swallowed hard, remembering the perfect handwriting in the Book of Lumatere. “Most were from the river village of Tressor,” he said quietly.

He watched his father falter. The people of Tressor were Trevanion’s people, the people he had grown up among. He had visited them each time he was on leave from the palace, sat with them at their tables, and listened to their stories with his son on his knees.

“The girl is an empath,” the priest-king said. “She cannot bear your presence, Captain Trevanion, because you feel too much. Hate too much. Love too much. Suffer too much. It is why she was happiest in the cloister. The novices of the goddess Lagrami are trained to keep emotions and feelings to a minimum. There she found peace.”

But Trevanion would not listen. “I travel south,” he said, his voice heavy. “And I will do all I can, Finnikin, to convince you to travel with me rather than take a path that may destroy you.”

“If you travel south, I am already destroyed,” Finnikin said.

Sir Topher’s eyes met his. “Froi!” he called out. The boy came to the entrance. “Make yourself useful and fetch Evanjalin.”

“I am here,” she said softly from the flap of the tent. She looked past Sir Topher to Trevanion. “What would you like to know about walking the sleep, Captain Trevanion? That I journey with a child of no more than five? We are as real to each other as you are to me. No illusion or ghosts. Flesh and blood. This child belongs to the living and she has always been the guide, but we have never been able to hear each other or converse. We do not pick and choose who we visit. We hold each other’s hand through our walks; hers is soft and tiny and trusting and strong. Sometimes I sense another who walks with us. I believe they are there not for me but for the child. We see only what our sleepers see and think. They are unaware of us, and most of the time we stumble through a gray mist. Last night I dreamed of the chandler who finds it strange that it’s his work to provide light, yet all he can see is darkness. The armorer despises himself, for he makes weapons for the impostor king and his men, knowing they will be used against his own people. I have walked through the sleep of the plowman and the blacksmith and the tanner and the weaver and the merchant and the nursemaid. But my favorite sleep is that of the young, for they still know how to dream and they dream of the return of their king, believing that the captain of the Guard will guide him home to Lumatere.”

Trevanion shook his head and turned to go.

“Her strength, it comes from you,” she said quietly.

“What?” The question was like a bark, but she did not shrink back.

“Beatriss.”

There was a sharp hiss of breath, and Finnikin found himself in his father’s path as Trevanion advanced toward her furiously.

“Beatriss is —”

“Do not speak her name! Do not dare taint her memory,” he raged.

Evanjalin did not move. “Sometimes when people sleep they agonize about decisions made. Other times they think back on the past. She spends much time doing both. I do believe it is Beatriss who has worked through the dark magic to find me.”

“You lie to taunt me!”

“Enough, Evanjalin,” Sir Topher ordered. “Beatriss is dead.”

Finnikin felt his father flinch at the words, but Evanjalin held Trevanion’s gaze.

“Most nights she is restless. There are too many people to worry about, and she wonders how she will be able to make things right. How can she be someone other than Beatriss the Beautiful or Beatriss the Beloved? But then, just when she’s about to lose hope, she remembers what you would whisper to her, Captain Trevanion. That she was Beatriss the Bold. Beatriss the Brave. To all others she was a fragile flower, but you would not let her be.”

Finnikin’s hand was still against Trevanion’s chest; his father’s heart was beating out of control.

“She remembers the nights you lay with her when she worried about something happening to you. ‘What would I do without you?’ she would cry. Do you remember your response, Captain Trevanion? ‘What needs to be done, Beatriss.’”

Trevanion shook his head with disbelief.

“You ask why I do not talk of the sleep,” Evanjalin said. “Because most days it is dark. Their souls are sad, and our goddess is weeping with despair for her people. However, Beatriss the Beautiful has become a sower, this despite the fact that each time her crops grow, the impostor’s men destroy them. But Beatriss the Bold refuses to stop planting.”

No one dared break the silence until Trevanion pushed Finnikin’s hand away. “You know things that only I could know.”

“No, Captain. You are wrong. I know things beyond what you know. Things that even I cannot understand. But my heart tells me to go north. Every waking hour and every sleeping moment tells me that there is life within Lumatere and that they wait. For us.”

Trevanion took a ragged breath and walked to the entrance of the tent. Finnikin watched, wanting to go to his father and plead with him to join them. Offer him comfort. But he had no idea how.

“There is a village of rocks in Yutlind where I’ve been told my Guard has settled. South,” Trevanion said.

Finnikin’s shoulders slumped. “Father, please . . .”

“I will not return to Lumatere without my men.”

A sob of excitement escaped Evanjalin’s lips. She flew into Trevanion’s arms and then remembered herself and jumped back. She fell to her knees at his feet, but Sir Topher pulled her up.

“You will have no regrets,” she said to them all. “I promise you. On my life.”

Four days later, they began their journey alongside the priest-king and the exiles. A handful of the exiles stayed behind to tend to the fever camp, but Sir Topher and Trevanion had been firm that the priest-king would not be one of them. Their groups would separate when the road diverged. The priest-king would take his people west to Belegonia, and Finnikin and his party would travel south in search of Trevanion’s men. But for a day they walked side by side.

Finnikin found himself looking at his father again and again. When Trevanion caught the look, he frowned.

“What?” he asked gruffly.

Finnikin shrugged. “Nothing. Just that I heard Evanjalin say a family of sparrows has petitioned the king of Sorel to be freed from your hair.”

The priest-king gave a snort of laughter, and after a moment Trevanion joined in and Finnikin’s heart warmed at the sound of it. Trevanion wrapped his arm around his son’s neck like a shepherd’s hook and dragged him along playfully. When he let go, Finnikin thought he would have liked his father to hold on a moment longer.

When the road split in two, Finnikin watched the exiles go, a mixture of fear and hope on their faces.

“Until we meet again in Belegonia,” the priest-king said.

“In the town of Lastaria on the coastal road,” Finnikin reminded him as they embraced. He stood with Sir Topher, watching as Evanjalin led the way south with Froi and Trevanion.

“Salvation paved with blood, you say?” Sir Topher asked the holy man with a sigh.

The priest-king nodded. “But salvation all the same, Sir Topher.”