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.”
They entered Belegonia through neighboring Osteria to reach the crossroads of the north. The palaces of Osteria and Lumatere and the border of Sendecane were all a day’s ride from the crossroads. As they prepared to follow the arrow south to the Belegonian capital, Finnikin stared at the arrow pointing
north. The name LUMATERE had been scratched out.
For a moment he allowed his memory to take him down a road lined with vineyards and olive trees. It was one he had traveled often with his father. Each time, he would climb the ridge overlooking the Valley of Tranquillity and see the kingdom of Lumatere spread out before him. Villages of cobblestoned roads that rang with the sound of hooves, meadows lush with flowers, huts lined up along a river that snaked through the kingdom and pulsed with life. In his mind he followed the river to its port, where barges loaded with crates would depart, taking the richness of the kingdom’s produce as far south as Yutlind and to the farthest reaches of Sarnak. He could see his village in the Rock, his uncle’s smokehouse, where meat and fish hung from the ceiling, and the quarry where he would take Balthazar and Isaboe, who would thrill the villagers with their eagerness to join in with the digging and extracting. Lucian of the Monts had said it was unnatural to live in caves. Trogs, he called them, and although at times Finnikin felt the limits of the Rock Village, nothing could take away the view over the rest of the land, where he would see a farmer knock acorns out of an oak tree for his pigs, or families working together, cutting wheat with sickles and bringing in the harvest. And there in the distance, the king’s palace, perched up high, overlooking their beloved people inside the kingdom walls and those outside in the Forest of Lumatere.
The only time Finnikin and Sir Topher had returned to the Valley of Tranquillity was in their fifth year of exile. By then the dark mist that had once stopped at the walls of the kingdom had spread to consume a third of the valley, including the Forest of Lumatere. But just as Finnikin despaired that there was nothing of their homeland to see or feel, without warning, the scar on his thigh from his pledge with Balthazar and Lucian had begun to flow with blood, leaving him with a heady sense of euphoria and his body a boneless heap. He had lost all sense of the normal world that day, but in his delirium he dreamed of a moment so perfect that to put it into words seemed futile. When he woke, Sir Topher was there, his face white with worry and fear, and Finnikin had sobbed with a joy that he knew Sir Topher could not understand. He had experienced a phenomenon beyond their world, where he felt the beat not just of his own heart but of another as well, as if some great spirit had crawled into him and planted a seed of hope. As if perhaps Balthazar was alive and one day soon the curse would lift and Lumatere would be free again.
Yet when they had descended from the ridge and tried to push through the dark mist, a great force had driven them back. Still, Finnikin would not give up. He had felt something on that ridge, and despite Sir Topher’s gentle urging to walk away, he tried again and again, forcing himself against the whirlpool of malevolence spinning across the valley, needing to push through as if there was someone on the other side waiting to grasp his hand. Sometimes he swore he felt fingertips against his but always beyond his grasp, and his sobs of frustration turned into grunts of fatigue. Until day became dusk. The sun disappeared. Then darkness.
“We will not return here, Finnikin,” Sir Topher had said sadly. “There is nothing left for us. For our people.”
Overcome with fatigue, Finnikin had known that his mentor was right. It was foolish to think that Balthazar had lived. From that day, Finnikin had not dared to entertain the hope of a return to Lumatere, and he cursed anyone who allowed themselves to think otherwise.
Three days after their arrival in Charyn, Finnikin and Evanjalin set up camp on the outskirts of the Belegonian capital. As they had traveled toward the city, Finnikin felt his mood lift. There was a magic to this kingdom. Belegonia was a center for learning, and over the years, Sir Topher had made sure that Finnikin experienced everything it had to offer. He liked the way that just when he thought he knew every part of the city, he would find another snakelike alley. He liked how they argued in these alleys. What they argued about. Not just taxes and death, but the quality of a building, the theory of the latest philosopher, the histories according to Will the baker as opposed to Jark the butcher. Throughout the rest of the land, people worked and slept and existed. In Belegonia, as they once did in Lumatere, the people truly lived.
As they approached the city center, Finnikin heard music. A girl with pipes, a man with a drum, counting the beat one, two, three, four in a way that had Finnikin’s blood pumping a rhythm of mayhem to his heart. For a moment he lost sight of Evanjalin as those around them began to dance. But then she was there before him, her eyes blazing. As drum beats rang through the street, she slowly raised her arms and clapped her hands above her left shoulder. Eyes fixed on hers, Finnikin instinctively clapped his hands above his right shoulder. Then, just as slowly, Evanjalin tapped her feet and he mirrored the movement. It was the beginning of their kingdom’s Harvest Moon dance, and as the rhythm quickened and those around them stamped and twirled, every part of him belonged to this hypnotic dance with Evanjalin. But then the rhythm changed, and Finnikin came to his senses. He took her hand and gently led her away.
As they made their way toward the houses overlooking the main square, Finnikin’s frustration returned. He was still annoyed that they had responded to Lord August’s request. August of the Flatlands was the son of the duke Trevanion had been assigned to protect as a young foot soldier. When Trevanion left to fight the invaders, Lord August followed, wanting to prove that he was more than just a privileged man’s son. Finnikin knew that what had developed over the years was a fierce friendship between his father and the nobleman. Yet he could not forget that since the five days of the unspeakable, he and Sir Topher had not encountered any of Lord August’s people from the village of Sayles. He knew that most of them escaped to the Valley, but he suspected that somewhere in their journey they had been abandoned by the duke and were most likely suffering in the fever camps. Or worse.
Lord August’s residence was tall and narrow, with no doors on the ground level. Finnikin assumed the family entered through one of the buildings alongside, though he had no idea why Lord August felt the need for such protection. Nobility were protected by foreign courts, despite their Lumateran heritage.
A carriage pulled up outside the house, and Finnikin watched a woman and four children step out. He recognized Lady Abian, looking every bit the duchess in her silks and jewels. She was followed by Lady Celie and her three younger brothers. He had not seen Lady Celie since they were children, and she had changed little. Always fragile, she had been a strange, quiet child who was bullied by Lucian of the Monts but much loved by the royal children.
The family paid no attention to Finnikin and Evanjalin until Lady Celie dropped a bundle of cloth. Evanjalin bent to retrieve it, and the other girl stifled a scream that made Finnikin dislike her instantly. The two girls faced each other, one dainty and refined in her dress, the other plain and coarse. He saw an emotion flash through Evanjalin’s eyes before the family disappeared into the building next door.
When Lord August finally appeared through the same entrance, his face was impassive but he gripped Finnikin’s shoulder tightly. He was dressed in the wealthy silks of a king’s court and Finnikin dismissed him, as he did most dukes in exile, as one with a meaningless title. He led them to the courtyard of the building alongside his residence. It wasn’t until they were standing in a small room, bare except for the frescoes on the walls, that Lord August stopped to look at Finnikin closely.
“You’re not a boy anymore.”
“How does one tell, my lord?”
“By the ache in the heart of a father who understands how Trevanion would feel if he were to see how much has been taken from him.”
Finnikin looked away, then mumbled an introduction to the novice. “And Sir Topher sends his apologies. There has been talk that the priest-king is in these parts, and he is keen to see if it’s true.”
“I have heard such talk. But I doubt he is here. The priest-king has developed a death wish over the past ten years and spends much of his time in the fever camps.”
“You promised us a meeting with the king, Lord Augus
t,” Finnikin reminded him.
“No,” the man said firmly. “There was never a promise. Just an invitation to discuss Lumatere.”
“And what is it that you’d like to discuss, my lord? As we have mentioned each time we return here, the only hope for Lumatere is land for our exiles.”
“And as I have said to Sir Topher year after year, why would the king of Belegonia be interested in carving up his land?”
“You contacted us,” Finnikin said, not hiding the anger in his voice. “We came here because you invited us. Why waste our time, my lord? Our people are dying, and you make us travel all the way here to see you.”
“Give me information I don’t already have, Finnikin. Tell me that you’re attempting to return home and I will ask for the king’s assistance.”
“We don’t have a home,” Finnikin snapped. “Push for land, Lord August. That is all we want. A piece of Belegonian land by the river. We will settle there and fend for ourselves, and the Belegonians need not worry.”
“If we have our Guard, I will bet my life that Balthazar comes out of hiding,” Lord August said in a low tone.
“The Lumateran Guard no longer exists.”
“As long as Trevanion lives, it exists.”
Finnikin pushed back his hair in frustration. “Are you trying to trap me, my lord? Has my father escaped from one of the land’s prisons and are you trying to locate him?”
Lord August laughed with little humor. “Escape? Not for want of his Guard trying. I’ve told you before, I have no idea where he is. They transferred him in secrecy one night seven years ago. All I know is that they took him to Yutlind Nord, but he no longer seems to be there. I suspect the ambassador knows, but he refuses to speak of Trevanion. He says he honors the wishes of the captain.”
Finnikin dug his fingernails into his palms.