It was always their eyes that gave away their Lumateran heritage, and this time was no different. As they entered the gates of Charyn, the two guards snickered and Finnikin heard one of them mutter, “Dogs.” Whether from the Rock or the River or the Flatlands, whether dark or fair, Lumaterans all had eyes that were set deep in their sockets. Finnikin had heard that the king of Charyn had once ordered his guards to measure the distance of a Lumateran prisoner’s eyes from his nose, deeming them too close and therefore not human. He hated this kingdom. The one time he and Sir Topher had visited the Charyn court in the early years of their exile, he had feared for their lives. There were strange and sinister occurrences in the palace that week, bloodcurdling screams in the night and shouts of rage. Many claimed that the royal blood was tainted and that the king and his offspring were all half-mad.
The path that led to the capital was lined with stone houses. They were bare except for their doorways, which were crowned with rosebushes that had not yet bloomed. Although it would take them at least ten days, they planned to travel along one of the three rivers in Charyn that ran into Sorel. If there were exiles to be found, the river was the place to find them. Lumaterans were nothing if not sentimental, drawn to any place that resembled the physical landscape of their lost world.
Four days later, they found a camp. From where they stood at the top of a ridge, they could see a small settlement of about fifty exiles. Finnikin led the way down, clutching onto branches as he slid toward the flat narrow bank where the tents were pitched.
Two of the exiles, a man and a woman, came forward to meet them. As usual, there was a moment’s distrust in their eyes. Despite the distance between camps, the exiles had heard stories of what had taken place in other kingdoms and were aware of their own vulnerability. In their travels, Finnikin and Sir Topher had often come across the same exiles year after year, but these people were unfamiliar. They had obviously kept themselves well hidden.
Sir Topher made his introductions, and the man stared at Finnikin. Then he nodded and extended his arm, bent at the elbow, fist clenched. The greeting of Lumateran River people.
“Son of Trevanion,” the man acknowledged.
Finnikin raised his arm in a similar way and clasped the other man’s hand.
“We lived on the river as children, when Trevanion returned to defend it,” the woman explained. “My name is Emmian, and this is my husband, Cibrian.”
It did not surprise Finnikin that the Lumateran River people had taken charge of the exiles here, as they had in many of the other camps. Along with the Monts, they had been the toughest of their people.
“Your mother’s kin were from the Rock, Finnikin,” Cibrian said.
Finnikin nodded. “I spent most of my childhood there, with my great-aunt, except when my father was on leave.”
“Have you crossed their paths on your travels? I have a sister wed to the shoemaker of the Rock.”
“I remember him well,” Finnikin said with a smile. “But we have encountered few from the Rock Village. We think that most stayed when the elders gave the order. I doubt that any of them left the kingdom unless they were in the square that day.”
“It is hard to say whether that is a blessing or a curse,” Emmian said quietly.
Cibrian led them to the rest of his people, and Finnikin exchanged nods of acknowledgment with a group of exiles his own age. Seeing them made him think of Balthazar and Lucian, imagining the lads they would have grown up to be.
A sprinkle of rain began to fall, and they followed Cibrian to his dwelling. The exiles were well equipped. Their tents were made of tough horse hide; there were plenty of provisions and even a few goats. Finnikin suspected that some of the exiles had found work in the nearest village. The children seemed healthier than most camp children, and he wondered if there was a healer among them.
“We have been lucky this spring to have received the benevolence of Lord August of the Flatlands, an acquaintance of yours, I hear,” Cibrian said to Sir Topher. “He requested that we look out for the son of Trevanion and the king’s First Man.”
Sir Topher exchanged a glance with Finnikin. “Why is it that Lord August finds himself in Charyn when he belongs to the Belegonian court?” he asked.
“Palace business. He was on his way home when he paid us a visit. He asked that you pass through the Belegonian capital if you were in these parts.”
“It is our intention to travel south into Sorel,” Sir Topher said.
“He was very definite in his request, sir.”
Emmian and Cibrian’s tent was large. Two children, no more than eight or ten, lay in the corner. They soon scampered across the space to join their parents. Finnikin watched Emmian gather them against her, her fingers lingering on their arms. These children were loved. He looked over to where the thief of Sarnak sat in a huddle of hate alongside the novice and could not help but make a comparison.
The little girl was looking at him with wide eyes. “Can you tell us the story of Lady Beatriss and Captain Trevanion?” she asked.
The adults stiffened, their expressions a mixture of alarm and guilt. Finnikin remembered how much Lumaterans enjoyed a romance. He had grown up hearing over and over again the story of the young king who went riding through the mountains and encountered a wild Mont girl who captured his heart. He had not realized that Beatriss and Trevanion’s story had ignited the same interest.
“They are tired, Jenna. They don’t have time for telling stories,” her father said abruptly.
Finnikin watched as every adult in the tent looked away or busied themselves with the nothingness of their lives. It was as if the child’s request had never been made. Even Sir Topher was focusing on the river outside, and suddenly Finnikin felt lonely for his father, a luxury he rarely allowed himself.
But Evanjalin was staring at him, refusing to look away. There was something in her expression, a question in her eyes, that made him clear his throat.
“It was a fierce love,” he said gruffly. “Very fierce.”
The little girl’s cheeks flushed with pleasure, while the shoulders of the boy slumped with disappointment. The same way Finnikin’s would whenever he had to sit through his great-aunt Celestina’s ramblings about the wedding vows spoken by the king to his Mont girl. Finnikin would have much preferred to hear about the jousting and fencing entertainment provided by the King’s Guard as a part of the celebrations.
“But I need to go back further, if you will let me,” he said to the boy. “To the time when Trevanion of the River defended his people with just one mighty sword and forty dedicated men!”
Evanjalin bit her lip as if holding back a laugh, and he found himself grinning. The young boy sat up, a look of excitement on his face. He nodded, willing Finnikin to continue.
“My father was once a lowly foot soldier. As a young man, he watched each year as the barbarians, who lived far beyond the borders of Skuldenore, came down his beloved river with dragonships that seemed to appear from out of the sky. First they would raid Sarnak to our north, and then Lumatere. They were brutal, these foreigners, plunderers of the worst kind.”
“Did they take their tents and food?” the boy asked eagerly, and for a moment Finnikin saw a glimpse of Balthazar’s face in his expression. It made him numb with sadness and he failed to find the words to continue.
He heard a small sound, like the clearing of a throat, and glanced up to see Evanjalin. She had a look in her eye as if she somehow understood, and he found his voice once more.
“They took gold, of course,” he said, swallowing the lump in his throat. “And silver. Lumatere had the best mines in the land and became the barbarian invaders’ dream. Unfortunately the king had inherited a lazy, cowardly Guard headed by his cousin, who made it easy for the foreigners to do what they liked.”
“Where was Trevanion?” the little girl asked.
“He was protecting a worthless duke on the Flatlands. But things changed in his twentieth year. The barbarians returned and decided that gold and silver were not enough. They would take the young people of the river to work as slaves in their land. The older ones who tried to stop them died in battle. That’s how Trevanion lost his parents and sisters. During the same time, my mother died in childbirth, so you can imagine his fury and sadness.
“One day when the king was visiting the worthless duke, Trevanion pushed past the Guard and stood face-to-face with the leader of the kingdom. He demanded to know what the king was going to do about protecting his people. Little did he know, the king would toss and turn each night, feeling helpless in his palace while his river was plundered and his people were taken. But what could a king with a weak Guard do? He had Trevanion arrested, of course.”
“Did they torture him?” the boy asked in a hushed tone.
“No. The king had a plan. Each night, while pretending to demand an apology, he would speak to Trevanion about the barbarian invaders and his lazy Guard. Trevanion made him a promise. If the king released him, he would choose forty of the best fighters in Lumatere and put an end to the annual plundering, and the king agreed.
“Trevanion was ruthless in training his men, but it was worth it. One year later, when the barbarians returned, they failed to conquer Trevanion’s river. By the time he was twenty-one, he was made captain of the Guard. His men were fearless warriors, and the country stayed safe. No one dared to challenge Trevanion’s Guard. Even the Monts kept quiet and out of trouble, and everyone knows how hard it is to keep the Monts under control.”
“But what happened to the other captain of the Guard? The king’s cousin?” the boy asked.
Finnikin heard an intake of breath, and he knew it was not right to mention the impostor king to these children. But the adults knew the rest of the story. The cousin of the king had been offered a place in the Charyn royal court, where he waited for the next ten years for a chance to take the throne of Lumatere.
“Don’t you want to hear about Trevanion and Lady Beatriss?”
“Oh, yes, please,” the little girl begged.
“Are you sure? Because perhaps the story about Trevanion working at the palace as the new captain will bore you.” He directed his remark to the young boy, who shook his head solemnly. “This is where Lady Beatriss comes into it. From the outside, she seemed fragile. She was a novice of Lagrami, as most of the privileged girls were. They were taught to be good wives. To be accomplished. I’ve heard some say it was a weakness for the captain to fall in love with such an indulged child of Lumatere. But Trevanion saw more in her than most.”
“She was almost as beautiful as the princesses,” Emmian murmured.
“No one was as beautiful as the princesses.” The voice came from one of the exiles standing outside. Finnikin saw that, despite the drizzle of rain, he had acquired an audience.
“Trevanion would disagree. But that wasn’t always the case. You see, Lady Beatriss was the nursemaid of Balthazar and Isaboe, as well as being a loyal friend to the three older princesses. Now, I will be the first to admit that the royal children, and me included, did not make Beatriss’s task easy. Balthazar and Isaboe were very … shall we say, high-spirited at times? They had little fear of anything and spent many a day hanging out of the tower of the palace, calling out, ‘You, there!’ to the children of the villagers, while poor Beatriss would hold them back, begging them to behave.
“But Balthazar loved the villagers. He used to call them ‘the neighbors,’ and as he’d make his way down to the palace village, he would call out to them one by one. ‘Your rose beds are a vision, Esmine. I will have to take one for my mother.’ Or ‘I hope you will be sharing that wine with my father once your grapes are ripened, Mr Ward.’ The queen raised her children to see no difference between themselves and the poorest villagers. Although there was many a time she boxed our ears for teaching the village boys how to shoot arrows from the roofs of their cottages.
“One day, Balthazar was hanging precariously out of the tower when the captain of the King’s Guard happened to be walking across the moat, into the palace grounds. I can remember an almighty roar and Trevanion ordering us down from the tower. ‘Including you!’ he shouted, pointing a finger at Lady Beatriss.”
The younger ones in the tent laughed, and even Sir Topher chuckled. “I remember that bellow well,” Cibrian said, nodding.
“A trembling Lady Beatriss made her way down to the moat, trailed by the rest of us, to receive the biggest blasting of our lives. Poor Beatriss was sobbing, but Trevanion shouted, ‘Stop your blubbering! They are the royal children! They need to be kept safe. Be functional, woman. Are you nothing but a doll with a pretty face and a powerful father?’ ”
There were gasps from both inside and outside the tent.
“Well, of course, he was ordered to apologize, but he refused. It was his job to protect the royal family, he told the king, and he should be able to do and say whatever it took to ensure their safety. Meanwhile Beatriss was sent back home to her father’s manor until the fuss died down. The three older princesses refused to speak to the king until Trevanion apologized, and Balthazar and Isaboe were full of woe because their new nursemaid was the meanest woman in the whole of Lumatere. And that’s how things stayed.”
Finnikin paused, almost hypnotized by the look of anticipation in the eyes of the children and adults around him. Some from outside the tent had squeezed their way in to sit beside Cibrian and his family. Evanjalin’s hands were wrapped around her knees, and she rested her head against them. There was a faraway look on her face, but her smile remained and it stirred something within him.
“Everything changed one day when my father was returning me to my mother’s people in the Rock Village. Balthazar and Isaboe begged to come along, and who better to look after the royal children but the captain of the King’s Guard? Even the meanest woman in the whole of Lumatere agreed.
“On the way, we stopped in the Flatlands to deliver some documents to the duke of Sennington, who was Beatriss’s father. Trevanion told us to stay with our horses while he walked down the path to the manor house. We became restless after a while and wandered into a nearby paddock, not realizing that it contained one very angry bull. A huge one, glaring straight at us. As Trevanion approached and saw the danger, his first reaction was to race down the path toward the paddock. That day was one of the only times I have seen fear in my father’s eyes. He was the captain of the King’s Guard, the best swordsmen in the land, but what did a river boy know about bulls?”
“What do you river people know about anything?” one of the Flatlanders teased.
“More than a yokel farmer,” a river exile tossed back, and there was more laughter. Finnikin could tell that teasing and laughter were new to these people.
“Then who happened to be walking by at that moment but Lady Beatriss, who was a farm girl at heart and understood animals. Before we knew it, she was waving her arms, yelling for us to run as soon as the bull turned toward her. We ran for our lives, leaping over a fence that to this day I have no idea how we got over. But we were safe. She wasn’t, of course. I swear that she went flying in the air when the bull charged her. My father had no choice but to maim the animal. Then he carried her out of the paddock and laid her under a tree. Princess Isaboe was sobbing over Beatriss’s body, begging her to open her eyes. Which she did after a moment or two. Seeing us safe, she breathed a sigh of relief and then looked at Trevanion and said, ‘Was that functional enough for you, Captain?’ Then she slapped his face, because his hand was on her thigh, and promptly fainted.”
There was applause from the women and groans from the men, but the children stared at Finnikin, awestruck.
“And from that day on, my father wooed her.”
Finnikin glanced up as he finished. The tent was overflowing with people, young girls with wistful smiles on their faces and young men who looked as if they were imagining themselves as Trevanion. But it was the expressions on the faces of the older ones that caught Finnikin’s attention most, a mixture of joy and sadness as they remembered the world they had lost.
“Ah, Trevanion,” Cibrian murmured later as they sat outside the tent where the children slept. “He should have prostrated himself at the feet of the impostor king.” Cibrian had gutted five large trout and was cooking them over the fire.
“No,” Finnikin said firmly. “The King’s Guard lies prostrate only at the feet of their rightful leader. The impostor king had a hand in the slaughter of the royal family, and my father knew it. He was not to know they would take Lady Beatriss as they did.”
“I pray to the goddess Lagrami for your father’s safe return to guide us home, Finnikin,” Cibrian said.
“If we convince Belegonia to give us a piece of land, will you join us with your people?” Finnikin asked.
Cibrian shook his head sadly. “If we accept a new homeland, it will mean that Lumatere is lost to us for eternity.”
“Maybe it always has been.”
Finnikin regretted his words instantly, but wasn’t that what he had always believed? That if they accepted their loss, they could stay long enough in a place as one people and discover who they were once again?
“I will not betray these people to anyone,” Cibrian said in a low voice, “but we have Lumaterans among us who have … abilities that weren’t just limited to the Forest Dwellers. There is talk of Balthazar returning.”
Beside him, Finnikin felt Evanjalin stiffen.
“Dreams and premonitions,” the man continued. “Could it be that the witch Seranonna is trying to reverse the curse from beyond the grave?”
With a look, Sir Topher warned Finnikin not to react, and instead they turned their attention to eating.
After dinner, Finnikin sat in the tent he shared with his three companions and recorded the names of Cibrian’s people in the Book of Lumatere. So far in their travels, they had located one thousand seven hundred and thirty exiles. In the census taken in Lumatere in the spring before the days of the unspeakable, the population had been six thousand and twelve.
“Can we trust Lord August?” he asked Sir Topher quietly in Belegonian, finishing his entry. “I say we go straight to Sorel.”
“He is our only link to the Belegonian court. He may be ready to make an offer on the king’s behalf, Finnikin.”
“Then why was he in Charyn? We have never trusted the Charynites.”
“And you have never trusted the Lumateran dukes who chose to work for foreign kings,” Sir Topher responded.
“You chose not to rely on the comfort of a foreign court.”
Finnikin moved closer. He could hear the murmur of voices of those in the tents surrounding them. The footsteps of one too restless to sleep.
“It’s different for a king’s First Man. But I understand the Duke’s decision and even the ambassador in Osteria. Have they not worked through us many times to better conditions of the exiles?” Sir Topher sighed, settling back onto his bedroll. “You will visit him.”
“Why me?”
“You’re Trevanion’s son. Your father worked for his.”
“My father hated his father.”
“You will go, Finnikin,” Sir Topher said firmly. “It could be our biggest step toward obtaining land for our people.” He looked over to where the novice and the thief lay. “We’ll take one each. Evanjalin can accompany you. We don’t want the thief causing a disruption in Lord August’s home. There was talk tonight that the priest-king has been seen around these parts, and it is just as important I make contact with him.”
Finnikin closed his book. “All this talk about the return of Balthazar and the need for Trevanion. It will only mean that the exiles will continue to live in the past and sit waiting for a miracle.”
“It is approaching ten years,” Sir Topher said with a sigh. “It is not surprising that people are thinking about it. Leave them to their dreams and superstitions while we make the progress.”