She searched his face carefully. “And here you are, having learned the languages of the land and been taught the politics of the surrounding kingdoms by Sir Topher.” She stared at him intently. “Is that what you fear?” she pressed. “That you’ve stolen his life?”
“You don’t understand,” he said. “I would make vows every night when I was a child. That if I were king, I’d change the plight of the Forest Dwellers. If I were king, I wouldn’t be so soft on our Charynite neighbors. And Sagrami heard my dark desires.”
“Sweet goddess,” she cursed. “You think you were responsible for what happened to Lumatere!”
“Go to sleep,” he snapped, turning away from her.
“If the heir does not survive what takes place at the main gate, the kingdom must be run by a civilian for the first time in the history of our kingdom,” she went on.
“Balthazar will survive,” he said flatly.
“All I’m saying, Finnikin, is prepare yourself for the inevitable. The king left the crown to his wife and children and their children’s children, but if they were to die, the king’s First Man would take the throne. Sir Topher is the king’s First Man and you are his apprentice. Jehr may be right. Has it ever occurred to you that one day you could be king?”
He swung back to face her. “Never say those words again,” he hissed. “Never!”
She covered his mouth with her hand, but he pushed her away. “Quiet!” she said. “Is that why you’ve been reluctant to return?”
“Sleep,” he repeated. “And pray that the son of our king will lead us to salvation.”
That night, he dreamed of Balthazar and Lucian and the silver wolf. The Forest of Lumatere turned into the Field of Celebration as the people danced alongside the king and queen and the priest-king sang the Song of Lumatere. But the words were wrong and Finnikin tried to tell everyone around him, yet no one would listen. Except for Seranonna, who beckoned him with a finger. And Finnikin was back in the Forest of Lumatere, where the matriarch stood gripping Isaboe’s face with one hand and Finnikin’s with another, her ice-cold breath on his cheeks as she forced him to look at the giggling princess.
Her blood will be shed for you to be king.
Finnikin woke, perspiration drenching his face. He saw the dark shape of his father keeping watch on the rock face and went to join him. For the rest of the night, they sat mostly in silence.
“Do you think they’re out there?” Finnikin asked as the sun began to rise.
“They have to be, Finn. This isn’t just about what I want anymore. This is about Lumatere, and I can’t make things right without my Guard.”
In the half-light Finnikin saw the anguish on his father’s face.
“I owe it to our people, Finn. The five days of the unspeakable happened under my watch as captain of the Guard. I owe it to our people.”
For the next few days, they traveled along the river, searching the rock villages for any trace of Trevanion’s men. Each attempt ended in failure. Finnikin knew they would soon reach the border of Yutlind Nord, where their search would become futile. Trevanion’s informant, a Sorelian thief imprisoned for a time in the mines of Sorel, had claimed that the Lumateran Guard was in hiding in Yutlind Sud. They had taken refuge there after an incident in Osteria five years ago that cost the lives of three of their men. An ambush, the thief had said.
“Perhaps the Sorelian thief lied?” Sir Topher said as they left the last of the rock villages.
“What would be his motive?” Trevanion asked. “Perri pays him to commit a minor crime and get himself arrested so he can pass on to me the location of the Guard. He collects the other half of his money when he is released. Where is the profit in lying?”
“There’s not much left between here and the border,” Evanjalin said. The landscape was beginning to look like the forested region of the north, and Finnikin felt Trevanion’s frustration and despair.
“Perhaps they were forced to move on and had no means of getting the information to you,” Sir Topher suggested.
Trevanion nodded. Ahead was a sign for the border town of Stophe, and one for the town of Pietrodore, which was perched high above them. They knew little about either. Pietrodore was a neutral town, visited by few travelers. The border town would be their best option for a meal and lodgings. Finnikin had been so sure they would find Trevanion’s men and make plans to travel to the Valley outside the main gate of Lumatere. Now all they seemed to be doing was walking aimlessly north. Eleven days in Yutlind, he thought bitterly, and all they had to show for it was an arrow wound in his side and an ache in Trevanion’s heart.
They continued soberly along the forest road. Evanjalin lagged behind, her brow creased in concentration. Sir Topher and Trevanion were silent.
“Captain Trevanion!” Evanjalin called out. “Captain! Stop!”
The four of them turned to see Evanjalin pointing up, a smile lighting her face.
“Pietrodore?” Finnikin asked.
“Did you have a dream that told you to take us there?” Sir Topher said.
She shook her head in amusement. “How could I have possibly had a dream while I’ve been awake and walking, Sir Topher?”
“Magic?” Froi asked, frowning.
This time she was annoyed. “I don’t know any magic. I’ve told you that!”
“It is a long way up, girl,” Trevanion said with a sigh. “Too long to waste on chance. They are not here.”
Finnikin met her eyes, wanting desperately to make sense of her request. Why Pietrodore? But in a moment the realization hit, and he smiled in wonder.
“It’s not chance, Trevanion,” he said, kicking the golden carpet of leaves at his feet. He ran back toward her, sliding part of the way until he could grab her by the waist and swing her around. “You are a goddess, Evanjalin of the Monts.”
Evanjalin was grinning from ear to ear as she tried to break free. She faced the others, who stood watching, confused. “Pietrodore. It’s the common Yut word for ‘rock village.’”
The track leading up to the town of Pietrodore was bordered by dense forest on one side and a perilous drop plunging all the way to the road below on the other. The stones underfoot became more hazardous the higher they climbed. It was clear Pietrodore was a town that did not want to be reached with ease, and despite their earlier excitement Finnikin could not shake the possibility of failure. He tried to shut out Froi’s endless whining about being hungry and the heavy breathing that signaled Sir Topher’s fatigue. Instead he found himself drawn to Trevanion’s hope; it was as if his father was willing his men to be at this last post before the border. Despite his love for Finnikin and Beatriss, Trevanion was never complete without his Guard, and Finnikin knew his father would not be fully at ease until he was among them again.
Like many places they had seen in Yutlind, the town was heavily guarded. Yet Pietrodore was aligned to neither the north nor the south and was hostile to foreigners and Yuts alike. It had been free of war for decades, due to its location and lack of strategic worth. Finnikin could hear the soldiers at the gate speaking common Yut, and he welcomed the sound of the language with relief. After his helplessness with the spirit warriors and those in the rock village, it returned to him a small measure of pride.
But the two soldiers standing guard refused to let them enter. Their hostility was palpable and their decision final. Finnikin stepped forward to try reasoning with them, but their hands went instantly to their swords. He dared not ask about the Lumateran Guard and realized with a sinking feeling that they had wasted their journey. Then he felt Evanjalin by his side.
“This is my love,” she told the stony-faced soldiers. “We are to be joined.”
There was no response.
“By our spiritual guide,” Evanjalin continued, gesturing to Sir Topher. “My betrothed’s younger brother and father are to be our witnesses.”
One of the soldiers looked over to Froi, Trevanion, and Sir Topher, who all nodded, despite having no idea what was
being said.
“We have been persecuted for our union in all other regions of this kingdom.” Evanjalin turned to Finnikin and gently lifted his shirt, pointing out the red wound on his side. The soldiers stared at the wound, their expressions unchanged. She looked at Finnikin with such sadness that he almost believed her pitiful tale.
“We’ll find a way,” he said gently.
“We come to you for refuge,” she continued, turning back to the men. “For we have heard that no one in this town would call me the scum of the land.” She revealed her right shoulder. “Or brand me like an animal.”
Finnikin fought to hide his shock. The branding was indeed one found on cattle, numbers burnt into her skin. He saw Trevanion flinch and tears of rage well up in Sir Topher’s eyes. Oh, Evanjalin, what else have you kept from us?
“We have been told that no other town can equal Pietrodore in its purity and integrity,” Finnikin continued. “Any other is tainted by blood and sorrow, but for the love of this woman I would travel the land . . . nay, the earth, to find a place where she will never be marked again.”
Evanjalin knelt at the foot of the largest soldier, who shifted uncomfortably. Finnikin did not know the history of these people. Perhaps they had endured thousands of years of persecution for their position on a war-ravaged border. Perhaps these soldiers had inherited the grief of their ancestors. But kneeling at their feet was someone who had been branded as a slave, and no other kingdom had lost as many of their children to slavery as Yutlind. The burly man extended his hand to cover Evanjalin’s shoulder, and then helped her to her feet. With a flick of his head in the direction of the town, he allowed them to enter.
They passed through the gates solemnly. Finnikin stared at Evanjalin as she walked ahead of him between Sir Topher and Froi. When she stumbled, Trevanion’s hand reached out to steady her, gently cradling the back of her head in his palm for a moment before letting go.
The main street was wide enough for a horse and cart, and lined with stores full of boots and armor and with colorful guilds. Tiny lanes to the left and right led to cottages decorated with flowers. From every direction, Finnikin caught glimpses of the low stone wall that surrounded the town and of the sweeping views of Yutlind beyond.
At the end of the street, they reached the town square. Here, the sandstone walls of houses were covered with climbing rosebushes overflowing with color and fragrance. Finnikin watched as Evanjalin stopped and stared at the roses in awe. He had become used to the plainness of her dress and appearance. That she would marvel at the color around them surprised him, and he wondered about the girl she had once been. Would she have dreamed of placing flowers in her hair or scenting her skin with the delicate fragrance of honeysuckle?
They continued on to the town’s highest point, from where they could see the four rock villages of Yutlind Sud. Directly below was the river encircling the flatlands, and in the distance another rock village. The landscape was lush: ten different shades of green, some the color of rich moss, others the color of leaves in sunlight, all contrasting with the dark soil of the plowed earth.
“They are here,” Trevanion murmured. “I know it.”
“Because it is almost a replica of Lumatere?” Sir Topher asked.
“As close to it.” There was a hint of a smile on Trevanion’s face. “They were a sentimental lot, my Guard. I never pictured them in a tent city.”
“Maybe we should secure this town for our exiles,” Finnikin joked. “Add more color to the war in this kingdom.”
Trevanion took one more look at the little Lumatere in the distance below.
“Your plan?” Sir Topher asked.
“Finnikin and I will secure rooms for the night,” Trevanion said. “Evanjalin, go with Sir Topher to find food and provisions. Speak Yut, not Lumateran. Froi, stay here and keep out of trouble. We will return soon.”
“I pray to Lagrami for good news of your men, Trevanion,” Sir Topher said.
Finnikin followed his father into the inn. The few men who sat around drinking stared at them long and hard. From the kitchen, Finnikin could smell roasting meat, and his stomach responded hungrily.
“We are looking for friends of ours who have settled here,” Finnikin said in Yut, watching the innkeeper polish glasses behind the bar. “Foreigners.”
“Not here,” the man said without an upward glance.
Finnikin exchanged a look with Trevanion, who did not seem to need a translation.
“Then perhaps a place to rest,” Finnikin continued. “We have traveled far.”
One of the cardplayers from the back tables made his way to the bar, standing so close to Finnikin that he received a glowering stare from Trevanion.
“We are full,” the innkeeper said.
“Full, you say?” Finnikin looked around the mostly empty room and then back at the innkeeper. “We are not a threat to you,” he said quietly.
The innkeeper leaned over the counter, his face a hair’s breadth from Finnikin’s. There was something unpleasant in his smile, and as he spoke, he poked Finnikin for effect. “And we are still full.”
In an instant, Trevanion had the man by the collar and slammed his face against the counter between them. His murderous stare remained until Finnikin placed a hand on his arm to restrain him. The cardplayer who had joined them inched away as Trevanion shoved the innkeeper back behind the bar.
Outside, Evanjalin and Sir Topher were waiting for them in the waning afternoon sun. There was anticipation on Evanjalin’s face and disappointment on Sir Topher’s.
“The shutters came down the moment we approached,” Sir Topher complained. “Any success on your part?”
Trevanion didn’t speak as they walked toward the edge of the square.
“No,” Finnikin muttered, exchanging a glance with Evanjalin. “I think I need to do this with my betrothed and not my father,” he mumbled to her in Yut.
Trevanion sent him a furious look. “We speak Lumateran among ourselves!” he said. “What you have to say to Evanjalin, you say to all of us.”
“Most unfair, Finnikin,” Sir Topher said.
Finnikin shook his head in frustration. “Sometimes it’s easier for me to stick to one language,” he lied.
Froi was on his feet the moment they approached, searching to see what they had brought. “Where food?” he demanded.
“It’s lovely to know that you are picking up the language, Froi,” Evanjalin sniped. “But I do not recall the authority to command being part of your bond.”
“Hungry,” Froi muttered.
“And we’re not?” Finnikin snapped back.
“He’s a boy,” Sir Topher admonished, “who needs to eat. You were the same at his age, Finnikin.”
“No, I was not.”
Sir Topher snorted with disbelief.
“All of you stay here,” Finnikin ordered. “I will get us food.” He pointed a finger at his father. “No fighting with the locals!”
Trevanion was scowling. “Take my sword and the girl.”
As they walked away he heard Sir Topher say, “There were times I thought he’d eat me in my sleep, I tell you.”
Finnikin strode ahead of Evanjalin until she placed a hand on his arm. She pointed down one of the wider alleys to a courtyard where an outdoor spring was built into the town wall. “Let’s at least fill up our water flasks,” she said.
As they walked toward the courtyard, the cooking aromas from nearby cottages caused Finnikin’s stomach to rumble loudly again, and he clutched at it.
“I think that was actually my stomach,” Evanjalin said with a laugh. “Tonight they dine on roast pork. I would give my right arm for roast pork.”
But Finnikin did not want to think of Evanjalin’s right arm, branding her a slave. “Then tonight you will eat roast pork,” he announced.
The courtyard was a smaller version of the main square, with houses facing the west. It stood empty, and Finnikin suspected that the town had a curfew, which meant they had little
time to organize food and lodgings. He filled up both their flasks and then splashed cold water on his face.
“Of course, we’ll have to steal it,” he said, still thinking about their dinner.
“You’re asking me to commit a crime?” she said in mock horror.
He laughed. “Not a good way to start our married life, but roast pork is my gift to you.”
“And what would you like in return?”
“A goose would be nice,” he said. “But then again, I don’t care if it’s pottage. Even stale bread would work for me. Anything to shut Froi up.” He was about to put his head under the spring to wash away the grime, when the cold touch of a sword on his neck stopped him from moving. Evanjalin stiffened beside him.
“Turn around,” the assailant said. The sound was more like a rumble than a voice.
He saw Evanjalin’s sideways glance, but before he could speak, the assailant pushed her away and she fell.
“Let this fight be between us!” Finnikin said, swinging around.
Mercy. He was facing a giant of a man. Massive in height and bulky in width, the giant had dark hair and a beard that were cropped close to his skin. He clutched two swords. His fists were thick, double the size even of Trevanion’s, and he defended Finnikin’s first blow with great skill.
Evanjalin was back on her feet, hurling her water flask at the giant, but it made little impact against him as his sword clashed with Finnikin’s.
“I’m playing with him,” the giant said, his tone unkind. “Do that again, little girl, and I’ll kill him.”
“Push her, threaten her, or even look at her again, and I’ll kill you!” Finnikin said, sending the man into momentary retreat.
“I’ll make this easier for you.” The giant dropped the sword he was holding in his left hand and held up his right hand, indicating who was in charge.
Finnikin caught his first clear look at the man and fought to suppress a grin. “Go get my father, Evanjalin,” he said, blowing hair out of his face. He heard her retreating footsteps as she broke into a run.