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.”