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.