Saro of the Monts held his hand out to her, and she took it calmly. Finnikin watched as she walked alongside her uncle. The higher they climbed, the more hurried her footsteps, her fingers clenching and unclenching by her side. Saro looked down at her, and the Mont leader’s shoulders shook, overcome with the strength of his feelings.
But when they reached the settlement, she stopped and turned, and her eyes found Finnikin’s. He wanted desperately to protect her. To hide her. To take her away to a place where he could pretend she was a novice named Evanjalin. And there they both stood for a moment. Until she turned and walked toward Yata, who stood in the distance laughing at something with Sir Topher as they went about their morning chores. And then the queen of Lumatere broke free of her uncle’s hand, a sob escaping her throat as she sprang toward her grandmother, who stared like she’d seen an apparition.
“Yata!” Isaboe’s cry of anguish rang through the hills. Her body pressed against her yata, collapsing under the weight of her memories and grief as the names poured out of her mouth. Names of her sisters and brother, mother and father, echoing with a sorrow that seemed as if it would never end.
Yata’s tent, where the queen stayed, was heavily guarded that night. Out of respect for the family and a need to be alone, Finnikin had kept his distance. But his desire to see her was strong. The need to lie by her side and gather her to him was so fierce that it made him weak.
As he went to enter the tent, four of the queen’s cousins stepped in front of him, swords in their hands.
“I’m with the queen,” he said firmly.
The Mont who seemed to be in charge shook his head. “She’s with her family and the queen’s First Man,” he was told. “Who are you to her?”
Who was he to the queen of Lumatere?
Lucian appeared before he could answer. “He’s with us, lads,” he said, stepping back to allow Finnikin to enter.
He could not see her from where he stood. Saro and his brothers and wives and their children were clustered around the middle of the tent. He could see Sir Topher, his head bent close to Saro as the two men spoke.
“They trapped the silver wolf,” Lucian whispered as they sat at the edge of the tent. “In the hole we dug and covered with foliage.”
“Who?”
“Balthazar and Isaboe. That night. And when the assassin gave chase, Balthazar hid Isaboe in a burrow and led him to the trap.”
Finnikin stared, horrified.
“Isaboe later returned to the main gate,” Lucian continued, watching the scene around Yata’s bed, “but the bodies of the royal family had already been discovered and the gate was closed. She knew something terrible must have happened in the palace as it had in the forest. So she returned to the Forest and went searching for Seranonna and led her to where . . . Balthazar” — Lucian shuddered — “lay dead alongside the assassin in the dugout. Torn to pieces. The wolf still lived.”
“They buried the wolf alive with Balthazar and the assassin?” Finnikin asked hoarsely.
Lucian shook his head. “Isaboe would not allow her brother to be buried beside the assassin. She was afraid it would keep the gods from taking Balthazar to his rightful place in the afterlife. She killed the wolf with Balthazar’s crossbow. She said Finnikin of the Rock had taught her how to shoot as a child. Seranonna retrieved the bodies of both the animal and Balthazar and buried them together. Then the death bells from the palace began to sound. Seranonna knew that Isaboe might be the only surviving member of the royal family. She made sure that whoever the assassins were, they would be led to believe that Isaboe had died, not Balthazar. So they would never search for a girl child.”
“The clothes . . . hair . . .” Finnikin swallowed, not able to continue.
“Belonged to Isaboe. But the fingers . . . ears . . .”
“Mercy.”
The queen was sleeping, her head resting on Yata’s lap, as if the ten years of journeying had finally exhausted her. Yata caught Finnikin’s eye among the crowds of people, and she beckoned him with her hand.
“She asks for you each time she wakes,” she said, smiling as he approached.
Who are you to her?
He knelt beside the bed, wanting to reach out and touch the smooth flushed skin. “All this time she wanted to get home to you,” he said quietly.
Yata shook her head. “No. She is mine for these few precious moments, Finnikin, and I will be selfish and take every opportunity to hold her to me. But all this time she needed to get home to her people of Lumatere.” She took his hand and placed it alongside the queen’s cheek. “Is she not the image of my precious girl?” she asked, tears in her eyes. “My other sweet lovelies were the image of their good father, the king, who treated my daughter like a queen from the moment he first saw her. But this one? This one was our little Mont girl.”
Finnikin looked up at Saro. “If I could be so bold, Saro. Please send your people ahead to the Valley tonight and allow us to keep our traveling party small. It will be dangerous to draw attention to ourselves this close to Lumatere, and the protection of the queen is paramount. We must inform Trevanion that Queen Isaboe is returning to the Valley to take her people home.”
Saro nodded. “We will send word through my brothers.”
“We leave at first light,” Finnikin said.
They left the hills of Osteria the next morning with the last of the Monts. The queen rode in the middle of the group with Finnikin. At times he felt her tears against his back, and he knew they were for him as much as for her. What was about to take place in the Valley outside the kingdom was a mystery to them all, and he sensed her fear as her hands clutched him tight. Strong hands, he had once observed when they stole the horse in Sarnak. They would need to be to lead a kingdom. Heal a people. On either side of them rode Saro and Lucian, and in front Yata, Sir Topher, and Froi. They were quiet. They knew too much not to be. The entry into Lumatere would cost the Monts dearly, if not through the loss of their queen then through the loss of their men. After ten years of keeping their people safe from harm, Saro and his men would be the first to enter the gate after the Guard.
Before they reached the Valley, Finnikin stopped. They were traveling along a narrow path between wheat fields that shimmered on either side.
“I need you to come with me,” he said quietly to Lucian. “Saro, can you take care of the queen? We will not be long.”
She gripped his hand. “Let me come, Finnikin.”
“You’ll be safer here,” he said gently.
Lucian followed him to a place among the crops, and Finnikin wasted no time in speaking. “I need you to pledge,” he told the Mont when he was sure no one could hear them.
“Definitely not from my upper thigh.”
“We don’t have time to argue. Just bleed and pledge to the goddess.”
“Lagrami or Sagrami?”
“Goddess complete.” Finnikin held out his dagger, and Lucian stared at it for a moment before taking it and making an incision across his arm. He handed the dagger back to Finnikin and waited for him to repeat the action, but Finnikin shook his head.
“Just you.”
“Whatever it is, we pledge together, Finnikin,” Lucian said firmly.
“Pledge that you will kill me —”
Lucian stepped away from him in fury. “You go too far.”
Finnikin grabbed the Mont by his shirt. “Pledge that you will kill me if I am ever a threat to the queen.”
Lucian shrugged free. “I will kill anyone who is a threat to my queen,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Pledge, Lucian. Please.”
“A blind man can see what she feels for you and you for her. Your souls are not merely entwined; they are fused. There is your threat, Finnikin. Why can’t you just tell her you love her and pretend you live normal lives like the rest of us damned mortals?”
“Pledge it! I beg you as my blood brother.”
Lucian traced a line across Finnikin’s arm with his dagger. “Balthaz
ar’s pledge,” he said forcefully. “That I protect the royal house of Lumatere. The queen.” He looked at Finnikin. “And the one she chooses to be her king.”
Froi leaned his head on Finnikin’s horse beside where the queen sat, desperate to see the captain and Perri and Moss. Then everyone would start scowling and yelling orders again and he would know that things were back to normal. The night before, he had overheard the Mont lads talking about Finnikin and the queen. He hated the way they called Evanjalin the queen, as if she wasn’t a person anymore. The Mont lads were whispering about the force needed to break the curse at the main gate and one of them called Finnikin a skinny trog and Froi wanted to tell them that he had seen Finnikin fight and that he was better than all of them. Then the other Mont lad whispered that Finnikin or the queen would probably die at the gate because the curse was so strong, and it would probably be Finnikin because he wasn’t used to the darkness. Froi knew the captain wouldn’t let Finnikin or Evanjalin do anything that would cause them harm, so he was glad when Finnikin and Lucian returned so they could get down to the Valley and the captain could take charge and forbid Finnikin from doing anything that could end in his death.
He watched as Finnikin swung onto the horse, his sleeve stained with blood. Froi liked the way Finnikin reached behind him and took Evanjalin’s hand, placing it around his waist. It made everything seem normal because Finnikin always wanted to touch her.
“Let’s go,” Finnikin said quietly, and like each time he had spoken on this day, everyone listened and followed.
When they reached the hill overlooking the Valley of Tranquillity, Finnikin saw the tempest. It was impossible to approach the Valley and not see the dark clouds shrouding the kingdom beyond. But it was what lay just ahead of them that took his breath away. Not a valley, but a sea. Of people. Tens of hundreds of them waiting to go home. Finnikin heard the queen’s sob behind him.
“I want to walk,” she said urgently, slipping off the horse. He followed, trailing her, his hand resting on the handle of his sword, ready for anything that might go wrong. There were too many people, any one of them a threat to her. He was used to small camps of exiles, but not half the kingdom.
As they reached the edge of the crowd, he became aware of the energy around them. At the other end of the settlement was a training camp where weapons were being made and men were taking target practice. In other areas, people stood in clusters talking and arguing, and he recognized Lord August and Lady Abian with those from the Flatlands, distributing food among their group.
Finnikin caught a glimpse of Trevanion and the Guard patrolling the boundaries on horseback, and for the first time in days he felt relief. As if Trevanion sensed them, he turned to face the slope where Finnikin and Evanjalin stood. He exchanged a word with his men, and then the Guard was making its way toward them and Finnikin was nine years old again, his chest bursting with pride because he would never see anything as grand as his father astride a horse leading his men.
Trevanion dismounted, his hand coming out to grip Finnikin’s shoulder. Finnikin knew this was not just a greeting. It was an acknowledgment of what would take place in the next few days beyond the main gate. Trevanion’s men dismounted, and all around them groups of exiles stopped to see what was taking place.
And then the captain of the Guard reached the queen. He knelt and then lay prostrate on the path before her, his men following his lead as a hush came over the settlement.
Finnikin saw the tears in her eyes as she stared down at her men. She looked small and vulnerable and he feared for her, but then he remembered that Isaboe, the youngest daughter of the king and queen of Lumatere, had walked thousands of miles over ten years to get to this place. And it was this, he knew, that caused his father to bow down to her more than her royal bloodline. The Lumateran royal family truly came from the gods. Never had Finnikin believed it more than in this moment watching his father lie before their queen.
After some time, Trevanion stood. Finnikin held out his hand to her. Quietly, hesitantly, she walked the path among the exiles. There was silence, but Finnikin knew that these people were stunned. A hand snaked out toward the queen, and in an instant Finnikin had stepped in front of her, sword in hand. But she gently touched his arm and moved around him. Despite Finnikin’s hold on her, she was swallowed by the crowd, yet she pushed through them, becoming a part of them.
“Don’t let go of her, Finnikin,” he heard Trevanion say.
They were jostled from side to side, hands reaching out, wanting to touch the queen, to see if she was real, to convince themselves they were truly going home. Yet the queen seemed to take it in her stride, as if she had been born for this. Born to it. And at last Finnikin understood why he had felt so sorrowful and silent these last few days.
He knew how to be Finnikin of the Rock to Evanjalin of the Monts. But he had no idea who to be to Queen Isaboe.
Finnikin watched Lord August and his family come toward them, and then the queen was engulfed by the women. Behind Lord August, he could see Ambassador Corden and his entourage approaching, looking flustered. Instinctively, Finnikin pulled the queen toward him.
“Everyone must step back,” Ambassador Corden said, full of self-importance. “Finnikin, is that you behind all that hair? It is not right to touch the queen. Step away! Lady Celie, would you be kind enough to find some proper attire for Her Majesty?”
Lord August looked unimpressed. He fell in step beside Finnikin as they followed the entourage to the main tent.
“I’m presuming you knew about this the whole time as well,” Finnikin said, watching the ease with which the women conversed.
“Of course I didn’t,” the duke snapped, irritated. “Because I’m not married to an obedient novice of Lagrami, am I? I’m married to one who chose to tell me about the queen only as we entered this valley.”
“Do you suppose the queen told them while we were in your home last month?”
Lord August nodded. “Abie saw it instantly. She knew our previous queen well. And Evanjalin confirmed who she was to my wife and daughter.”
As they approached the main tent, a party of nobles dressed in silks came toward them.
“Lord Castian and his mob. Try not to fall asleep as he speaks,” Lord August muttered.
Long days of waiting followed. Two thousand and twelve exiles had returned, and more trickled in each day. Finnikin could not help but think of the Valley as it had been ten years ago on the day of the curse, back when they had no idea what lay ahead but the clearest memory of what they had left behind. Now the years had numbed their people into silence, as again they waited for the unknown, too frightened to hope for anything more than a queen in their midst. But there was no news of when they would attempt to access the main gate and little was seen of her.
Finnikin spent his time with his father and the Guard as they drew up plans for the attack.
“When we get past the main gate,” Trevanion informed his men, squeezed into an overcrowded tent, “we attack them on ground with as many as one thousand missiles in the first minute. I want the impostor king and his men decimated with the sheer volume of our arrows, and I want our body count close to nothing. Then the Guard takes the palace, along with the best of the archers and swordsmen among the exiles.”
“But how do we get past the main gate?” one of the guards asked.
“The queen will know what to do,” Trevanion said firmly, daring anyone to challenge him. He looked over to Saro, who had joined them with Lucian and a number of the Monts. “The moment the bastards know we’re in, they’ll ride to the mountains and attempt to cross the border to Charyn. The Charynites may be waiting there to invade once they see the curse has lifted. They will want the impostor king dead almost as much as we do, for no other reason than to stop him from talking. Saro, you ride to your Mountains the moment we enter. Take all your warriors.” Trevanion turned back to his Guard. “Make sure those of you working with a team of exiles explain to them their role before the
fighting begins.”
“When will we enter the kingdom?” Saro asked.
Trevanion’s eyes met Finnikin’s across the crowded tent. “It is the queen’s decision,” he said. “She is waiting for a sign.”
Finnikin trained Sefton and the village lads who had been part of the group of exiles taken hostage by the Charynites. They were Finnikin’s age, strong and sturdy young men. They had recognized Finnikin when he entered the Valley and trailed around after him, keen to play a part in the upcoming battle. Froi was usually close by. The thief spent his time being a messenger, racing from one end of the Valley to the other, ensuring that communication between the Guard, the nobility, the queen’s First Man, the queen and the priest-king stayed open. Not once did the boy utter a word of complaint, and Finnikin felt a fierce protectiveness toward him. He came from strong stock, that was evident. But it was all they would ever know. There were no telltale signs of lineage. No memories of anything Lumateran before his days in Sarnak. Froi was one of the orphans of their land whose life as a Lumateran would begin at the age he was now.
On the fifth afternoon, while handpicking the swiftest archers from a group of exiles, Finnikin found himself being watched by Sir Topher and the priest-king. He had kept his distance from his mentor since the day they entered the Valley. The knowledge that Sir Topher had been aware of Evanjalin’s identity stung Finnikin like a betrayal.
“Sir,” Finnikin said politely. “Blessed Barakah.” He felt the sharp gaze of the priest-king on him.
“I’ll answer your question, Finnikin,” Sir Topher said.
The Lumatere Chronicles Page 27