The Lumatere Chronicles

by Melina Marchetta

  “She’s going to get your father,” the giant scorned. “Should I be scared?”

  “Probably. Lumateran, aren’t you?” Finnikin asked in Yut, trying to sound as if he had the breath to fight and talk.

  A dark look crossed the man’s face. “You ask too many questions, skinny boy.”

  “Skinny boy? That’s the best you can do?”

  The giant’s eyes narrowed, and his fighting pace quickened until Finnikin’s arm began to ache and his legs buckled.

  “You look like you’re from the River,” Finnikin taunted. “Second to those of the Lumateran Rock, I hear.”

  The giant clenched his teeth, and Finnikin wanted to laugh at how easily he was provoked.

  Moss of the River.

  The Guard had always mocked him because of his name. He was the biggest scoundrel among the king’s men, but Balthazar and Isaboe had adored him and he in turn loved the royal children as if they were his own. His anguish at the discovery of Isaboe’s blood-soaked hair and clothing in the Forest that morning had been so great that Trevanion had to hold him down to prevent him from pounding his own body with stones.

  “You talk too much,” Moss snapped. “And from what I know about Lumatere, the River men come first.”

  “Do they?” With a grunt, Finnikin shoved him back and then threw his own weapon to the side.

  Moss of the River stared at him in confusion, the sword still clasped in his hands.

  Finnikin held up one finger at a time. “Rock. River. Monts. Flatlands. Forest. In order of strength,” he goaded.

  “You have a death wish, my friend. My father would say that anyone fool enough to think they can better a Lumateran River man does not deserve to live.”

  “And my father would say that very few men look good with a broken nose.”

  With that, Finnikin twisted around and sent a flying kick to Moss’s face. The big man stumbled back in shock, and then a glint of some kind of satisfaction appeared in his eyes. Throwing his sword to the side, he lunged toward Finnikin.

  “Hand to hand,” he said, nodding with approval. “Try not to scream like a girl.”

  Trevanion sprinted into the courtyard, trailed by Sir Topher, Evanjalin, and Froi. They were just in time to see Finnikin trapped in a headlock by a man who was twice his size.

  “What are they doing?” Sir Topher asked in alarm.

  “They’re proving their manhood,” Evanjalin said in a bored voice. “One of yours, I presume, Captain Trevanion?”

  Evanjalin and Sir Topher turned to look at him, and Trevanion could not hold back his joy. He felt his lips twitch into a smile. “Yes,” he said. “Both mine.”

  Finnikin came flying through the air and landed at their feet with a groan.

  “Moss has a weak left,” Trevanion managed to tell him before Finnikin was back on his feet.

  “Sweet goddess, it’s Moss of the River,” Sir Topher said, hitting Trevanion on the shoulder with glee. “He’s a lot bigger than Finnikin,” he added. “He could hurt him.”

  “He says he’s only playing with Finnikin,” Evanjalin advised them, as some of the villagers came out to their balconies to watch the fighting below.

  Finnikin danced and ducked around the giant, throwing punches at any opportunity he could take. “My father says you have a weak left,” he said, his head aching from the constant movement.

  Moss led with his left, and Finnikin ducked again and then leaped onto the big man’s back, yanking at his ears. “And my father would know.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Evanjalin approach. “Stand back, Evanjalin. You’ll get hurt!”

  “How long is this going to take, Finnikin? Ask him if they have food. You promised me roast pork.”

  Finnikin rolled his eyes as Moss swung from side to side, trying to dislodge him from his back. “Woman, I’m trying to fight here! Or has that escaped your attention?”

  Moss reached over his shoulder, grabbed Finnikin by his jerkin, and swung him over his head. But then he stopped suddenly, sliding Finnikin back onto the ground, staring at him.

  “Finnikin? Did she say Finnikin?”

  Finnikin felt dizzy, the world spinning out of control.

  “Finn?” Moss asked again, and then something else seemed to occur to him. “Did you tell her to go get your . . .” He swung around to where the others stood.

  “Blessed day,” he murmured. “Oh, blessed day.” He stepped toward Trevanion, a look of wonder on his face, and then gave a huge roar of laughter. If Finnikin’s left ear hadn’t already been ringing from a blow, it would have been deafened by the volume. Moss grabbed Trevanion and lifted him from the ground, both of them laughing with a joy that had their balcony spectators clapping.

  “The innkeeper said there were foreigners asking after us. We thought you might be Charynite spies.” Moss wiped tears from his eyes. “Never imagined this.” He looked at Sir Topher and caught him in a bear hug. “A day blessed by Lagrami, Sir Topher.”

  Finnikin staggered to his feet beside them. Moss clapped him on the back with his huge hand before looking at Evanjalin. “Food you say, my beauty?”

  Evanjalin’s face beamed at the compliment.

  “Tonight we feast, my friends.”

  The King’s Guard of Lumatere was lodged in an inn at the far end of town. It had been their home for the past five years. They spent their days training Pietrodore soldiers and working out battle tactics for a strike on the palace if they were ever able to enter Lumatere. Each year, Perri and Moss had returned to the the Valley of Tranquillity to see if there was any change.

  “Too dark to describe,” Moss said quietly as he led the way up a flight of crumbling stone steps to the inn’s flat roof. “The mist of malevolence surrounds the whole kingdom, as well as the Forest of Lumatere.”

  From the rooftop, Finnikin could see down into a large internal courtyard surrounded by high walls.

  “It’s where we train the lads of Pietrodore,” Moss explained as he unlocked the rooftop door. They went down a set of narrow wooden steps until they reached a large rectangular hall, three floors down. Despite the dimness of the light, there was a great deal of activity in the room. It was full of the former King’s Guard, fierce men who looked much the same to Finnikin as they had in the days when they defended Lumatere. They wore their hair cropped short, and their body language spoke of readiness. Some played cards, while others sat with their heads bent together.

  Moss grinned at Finnikin. “Gentlemen,” he called out, “and I hear there are some ladies present too, Aldron.”

  The men laughed without looking up.

  “Last lady I saw was your woman as I left her this morning, Moss,” the man Finnikin presumed was Aldron said from the back of the hall.

  “We have guests.”

  Several of the men stopped what they were doing and gave Moss their attention. They squinted in the half-light, and Finnikin realized that, like the town of Pietrodore, visitors rarely entered this domain.

  “Courtesy of a foreign King’s Guard,” Moss continued.

  This time, every man in the room came to his feet. They pulled their swords from their scabbards in unison.

  “Moss, where is the humor in this?” one man asked, making his way toward them.

  Finnikin recognized him instantly. Perri. Trevanion’s second-in-charge. The man who had placed him in Sir Topher’s care during the nightmare days after the unspeakable, the man who had given him Trevanion’s sword.

  Perri stopped in front of them. He was lean and lacked the height of Moss and Trevanion, but there was no weakness in his body. As he had often done as a child, Finnikin trembled at the sight of men so powerful.

  Finnikin saw the recognition flash in Perri’s eyes. He stood before his captain, their faces twitching with suppressed emotion. They clasped each other’s arms, their fists straining from the strength of their feelings. Curious, others in the room stepped forward and suddenly a roar of men’s voices shouted Trevanion’s name.

 
“Crying?” Froi scorned.

  For a moment the room was silent. Finnikin watched the men turn and stare at Froi as if he were a gnat they could crush in a moment. Froi, at least, had the good sense to look frightened.

  “Did he just mock us?” one of the younger guards asked.

  Trevanion grabbed hold of another guard, clapping him on the shoulder. “You were half the size when I saw you last, Aldron.”

  “I was fifteen, Captain,” Aldron protested. “And you swore you would never allow a guard so young. But you said I had the heart of a lion.”

  “As does your little pup.” Moss grinned, looking at Finnikin.

  Finnikin felt Perri’s dark stare. But the look was one of pride.

  “Little Finch,” Perri murmured. Suddenly he grabbed Finnikin in a headlock as the others cheered. “And where is Sir Topher?” Perri asked, swinging around.

  “Feeling like the shortest man in the kingdom,” Sir Topher said with a laugh, lost in the middle of the group. There were three cheers for the king’s First Man.

  After the initial excitement, the Guard seemed overcome. Finnikin could see it in their expressions, as if they had no idea how to comprehend who had just walked into their hall. There were questions in their eyes. Trevanion sensed it and held up his hand for silence. He took in the face of every person in the room and then his gaze settled on Froi and Evanjalin, who looked overwhelmed by all the celebration. Gently, Trevanion drew them toward him and turned them to face his men, brushing the back of his hands across their faces.

  “Gentlemen,” he said quietly, “I present to you the future of our kingdom. The lifeblood. We take back Lumatere. For them.”

  The guards hoisted the two into the air, and Finnikin saw joy and fear on Evanjalin’s face.

  But Froi looked around with wonder.

  As if he had never seen the world from up so high before.

  There was little rest to be had in the week that followed. Trevanion wasted no time in preparing his men, yet there was a spirit and energy among the Guard that not even the most backbreaking training could crush. These were men of wisdom and experience, but no one could deny the need for youth and stamina, especially if the battle to reclaim Lumatere was a long one. In the courtyard of the inn, Trevanion and Perri barked out instructions, pushing the men to the limits of their endurance, and at times their tempers.

  “Protect your wrist, Callum!”

  “Your feet are your first line of defense, Finnikin!”

  “If he had an ax, you’d be standing on stumps by now, Aldron!”

  “Oi! Froi! Make yourself useful and get some bindings!”

  Finnikin fought hard for their approval, something he had not needed to work for during the past ten years. Sir Topher’s admiration had always been quick, from his wonder at Finnikin’s ability to remember every detail of a conversation to praise for his pupil’s hunger for learning. But now Finnikin felt the need to convince the Guard that he was worthy to be part of them. He longed for their acceptance, not just because his father was captain but because they saw him as a warrior in his own right.

  And so he trained long before the others arrived at dawn, his fingers bleeding from the constant use of his bow and arrow. During the day, he rarely stopped to eat or drink, his practice sword always ready for the next opponent, despite the pain in his joints. He worked hardest and longest with the glaive, knowing it was his weakness, ignoring his opponents as they winced each time the pole connected. He listened intently to every criticism and afterward worked twice as hard to make sure he did not repeat his mistakes.

  By the end of the first week, his whole body ached and he wanted nothing more than to collapse onto his bedroll and sleep. Beside him, Froi picked up the practice swords, grumbling with every movement. “Make yourself useful, Froi!” he mimicked. “Fetch, Froi! Slave!”

  Finnikin was beginning to regret the boy’s language lessons, which now included every curse under the sun, courtesy of the Guard. He looked up to where Evanjalin sat on the balcony, her legs folded under her, head on the rails.

  “Use more than the weapon to fight,” Trevanion ordered. “Fight from the heart, lads.”

  “Train your body to do the moving,” Perri shouted.

  “Finnikin, too tight,” Moss said. “Hold the sword like you’d want a woman holding your —”

  Finnikin heard one of the men clearing his throat as he indicated toward the balcony with his head.

  “Sorry, Evanjalin,” Moss said meekly, waving up to her.

  She spent most days watching, not permitted to participate. Despite the resourcefulness she had displayed over the last few months, Sir Topher had ordered that she keep out of harm’s way. At times Finnikin felt Sir Topher treated her as if she were some prized possession and not just Evanjalin who could take care of herself. He had noticed that whenever she watched from the balcony, the aggression of the men intensified and the competition became more fierce, especially among the younger guards. Finnikin had received great satisfaction that morning beating Aldron of the River in front of her, catching him across the ears with the buckler. When the fourth serious injury of the day occurred, Trevanion intervened.

  “Froi, go make yourself useful and tell Evanjalin that Sir Topher would like her to join him for a walk. A very long one.”

  But she was back again that evening after the rest of the Guard had left. Finnikin felt her eyes on him and caught her look of displeasure. Exasperated, he finally dropped the practice sword in his hand and leaped up to the trellis, climbing his way toward the balcony, where she sat under the light of the moon. When he reached the railing, the sight of her robbed him of breath; her golden skin glowed in the pale light.

  With his feet balanced on the trellis, he propped both arms on the timber rail. “What?” he asked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Beg all you like. Just tell me what the problem is.”

  She stared at him and sighed. “What do you want me to say, Finnikin? You are as good as them. Perhaps in time you will be the best fighter in Lumatere. But you are not meant to be in the King’s Guard. You are meant to be in the king’s court.”

  He shook his head. “You are wrong. When we were children, Balthazar always dreamed of the same future. He would be king and I would be captain of the Guard. Like our fathers before us.”

  She looked at him sadly. She was only inches away from him, and he fought the urge to take her face in his hands.

  “But that was a time when Balthazar thought he would live forever,” she said. “Before they slayed his parents and sisters. When he still believed silver wolves and unicorns existed in the Forest of Lumatere and there was no difference between him and a peasant. But there was. Just like there is a difference between a great warrior and a great king’s First Man. And your father is one, Finnikin, and you are the other.”

  “You think I can’t be a great warrior?” he asked.

  “Today this courtyard was filled with great warriors. What is one more? But it was not filled with great men who have the heart to rule a kingdom. Any man can kill, Finnikin. It is a stroke, an action with one’s hand. But not every man knows how to lead. For that you need what’s here,” she said, pointing to his head, “and what’s here.” She laid a hand on his chest. He heard a door open below them.

  “Finnikin!” Trevanion strode into the courtyard. “Where are you? We’re off to the bathhouse. Are you with us?”

  Finnikin’s gaze was locked on Evanjalin’s.

  “Are you with them?” she asked softly.

  “Always.”

  “Then go.” She sniffed dramatically. “Leave me in my gilded cage.”

  He grinned. “You are just put out because we’re treating you like a girl.”

  “I am a girl. And if I am put out, it is because a bunch of men who don’t care for keeping clean are afforded the luxury of a bathhouse, and those who crave it are stuck with ten layers of grime on their face.”

  He reached out his hand and t
raced the backs of his fingers across her face. “You lie. I can only feel eight.”

  “Finnikin!” his father called again.

  “Off you go, Little Finch,” she mocked. “To the bathhouse, where you can all sit around and compare the skills and attributes of the warrior class.”

  Finnikin watched Aldron of the River strut around the bathhouse before making himself comfortable next to Trevanion. The young guard reminded Finnikin too much of Lucian. Unlike Finnikin’s pale, lean frame, Aldron had the coloring of the River people and had lost his leanness years before. Finnikin tried hard not to compare himself with any of the Guard in their nakedness.

  “I hear we are to split up to travel to Lumatere, Captain Trevanion,” Aldron said.

  Trevanion nodded. “We have exiles to collect from other kingdoms,” he explained. “I will speak of it tonight.”

  “And, of course, Aldron will be the first to volunteer to escort our younger visitors,” one of the older guards joked.

  Finnikin turned to Aldron. “Evanjalin and the boy travel with me,” he said coldly. “It’s best to keep things simple.”

  “Simplicity would have you traveling with Perri and Moss, and a few of the older men who can teach you a thing or two about defense, Finnikin,” Aldron said.

  “It takes great character to handle Evanjalin and Froi,” Finnikin went on. “You would have much to fear.”

  “What is the worst that can happen?” Aldron scoffed.

  “She could have you imprisoned in the mines. Or sell you to the slave traders of Sorel,” Finnikin said with a shrug.

  “You are trying to scare me off. Does she belong to you, Finnikin? If she does, say the word and I will bite my tongue and look the other way.”

  The men turned toward Finnikin, waiting for a response.

  Did Evanjalin belong to him? No, he wanted to say, she belonged to their future king, his boyhood companion whom he had loved like a brother. But there were moments, as he lay beside her deep in the night, when he hated beloved Balthazar. When he wished to covet it all.

  “I think you need to find yourselves wives,” Finnikin said.