The Lumatere Chronicles
Page 35
“Never presume to know my needs or who warms my bed! And if you believe it is men I hate, you are wrong. I despise those who use force and greed as a means of control. Unfortunately for your gender, such traits are found more often in the hearts of men than women. But place me in a room with those women who aligned themselves with the bastard king and I promise there will be a bloodbath I would relish soaking in.” She grabbed him by the chin. “What is it about you that stirs the blood of the strongest in our land? For she is the strongest, make no doubt of that.”
“Do not underestimate her vulnerabilities,” Finnikin said, fuming. “I’ve seen them. They can destroy her.”
“Do you see my hair?” Tesadora asked, tugging at the white strands. “It is this color because I walked some of those sleeps to protect Vestie from the horror of what she would see. This is what the darkness and the terror of the human soul did to me. But the queen? It is not her youth that keeps her hair from going white at such images of horror, Finnikin. It is her strength.”
He was silent for a moment. “Then why was she almost lost to me . . . to us,” he corrected himself, “when we entered the kingdom?”
“Because your grief at what you saw in those moments was too much for her to bear. Your pain made her weak. Her pain made you strong. Light and dark. Dark and light.” Her ice-blue eyes stared into him. “I wonder what it was that my mother saw in you that time in the forest. To look at a boy of eight and see such strength in his character. Enough strength for our beloved girl who would one day rule. Do you remember what Seranonna said to you? Because I remember clearly what she told me that very night when I was no more than your age now.”
“Her blood will be shed for you to be king,” he said quietly.
“No.” Tesadora shook her head. “For you to be her king. There’s more than one way for you to shed her blood, fool!”
The women stared at him, and he felt his face redden. Lady Beatriss smiled and it embarrassed him even more.
“It’s why my mother cursed you with Isaboe’s memories as you entered our kingdom. Not as a punishment. ‘His pain shall never cease.’ How can it, Finnikin, when your empathy for her is so strong? It’s so our beloved will never feel alone. Have you not seen her in those moments, Finnikin? When she disappears inside herself and almost lets the darkness consume her. I saw it in the cloister when she was with us. It chilled me to the bone. Your power lies in never allowing her to get lost in those voices.”
He remembered a morning the week before, when he was passing the royal entourage on one of their visits to the River people. He watched her from a distance, the distance he had carved out between them since he had discovered her true identity. For one moment, she seemed removed from what was taking place around her. She stood completely still, her gaze fixed on a distant point. She had gone inside herself, as she’d done many times on their journey back to Lumatere. And now he knew what it was that weighed her body down. The agony of those voices he heard as they entered the main gate. The ones she had lived with for years. So he whistled from where he stood and her body stiffened with awareness and slowly she turned in his direction. He held her gaze, knowing her moment of despair had already passed.
And there it was, he thought, as he looked at the women in Beatriss’s kitchen. The memory of a look that spoke to him of power. His. A look that made him want to kneel at the feet of his queen and worship her.
Because it made him feel like a king.
“I must go,” he said huskily.
“Not in those clothes,” Lady Abian said, unwrapping Yata’s package.
He walked toward the palace, wearing perfectly cut trousers, a crisp white shirt, and a soft leather cape, his hair cropped to his crown. Many Lumaterans traveled with him, talking quietly, shyly greeting strangers whose paths they crossed on their way to the celebration. He heard them speak of their weariness, but stronger was the desire to be there for their beloved Isaboe, so she could feel the presence of a mother who loved and a father who doted and sisters who cared and a brother who teased. No one was more an orphan to the land than their queen.
He hurried past the priest-king’s home, where the holy man sat with Froi, greeting those who were traveling to the palace.
“Finnikin?” the priest-king called out.
“I can’t stop, blessed Barakah. Can we speak later?” He could see turrets in the near distance, and his pulse quickened.
“Do not approach her unless you have something worthwhile to say,” the priest-king advised.
Finnikin returned to where the priest-king sat, and knelt before him. “And if you hear word that I have said something worthwhile, blessed Barakah, will you sing the Song of Lumatere at first light?” he asked.
The holy man broke into a grin. “On my oath to the goddess complete.”
Finnikin nodded and sprang back to his feet.
“Finnikin?” Froi said.
“Yes, Froi.”
“You must give her somefing.” The boy’s eyes were bright.
“If you offer the ruby ring, you die, my friend.”
Froi laughed and shook his head. “Not offering the ruby ring to no one.”
“Then I have nothing to give but myself.”
He reached the outer edge of town where the bridge marked the end of the Flatlands and the beginning of the palace village. Trevanion was there with some of his men, watching one of the lads training. Finnikin knew that tonight the area around the palace and the queen would be heavily guarded, three circles of guards who would slow him down.
He was suddenly conscious of his appearance. He mumbled a greeting to his father, then called out over his shoulder, “I’ll come by later.” He crossed the bridge where the river flowed at great speed, as if its life force had not been extinguished for ten long years.
“Finnikin?” he heard his father say. Just his name. But the emotion in that one word made him turn and walk back to where Trevanion stood. He took his father’s face in both his hands and kissed him. Like a blessing.
“Your mother walks that path with you,” Trevanion said. “With such pride that as I speak . . . it fills my senses with things I can’t put into words. Go,” he added gruffly, “or you’ll have my Guard thinking I’m soft.”
Finnikin broke into a run through the village square, weaving his way among the Lumaterans before him. As the path leading up to the palace became steeper, he could see over the roofs of the cottages on either side, all the way to the land where the Rock Village stood to the west and the mountains to the north.
At least ten guards were stationed at the portcullis of the palace, and Finnikin’s arrival was met with a chorus of jeers and laughter. He expected nothing less from his father’s men. Kisses were blown his way, accompanied by mock whistles of appreciation. He thanked the gods that Aldron was not among them, for his ridicule would have been the loudest. There were taunts and high-pitched declarations of love as Moss grabbed Finnikin, rubbing his knuckles over Finnikin’s short berry-colored hair.
In the palace grounds Finnikin heard some of the villagers call out his name in greeting, while others whispered it with feverish excitement. The courtyard on the northwest corner was set up with trestle tables, and palace staff placed huge wooden casks of wine alongside platters of roast peacocks, wood pigeons, and rabbits. Another table was covered with pastries and sweet breads. In the corner by the rosebushes, minstrels played their tunes. The beat of the drum and the twang of the lute caused those around Finnikin to begin to sway, as if their bodies had not forgotten the beauty of music.
“Finnikin?” he heard Sir Topher call out from above. He looked up to where his mentor was standing on the balconette of the first floor, adjusting the cuffs on his sleeve.
“Sir Topher, I need to do something. I promise we’ll speak later this night.”
Finnikin felt his anxiety take over, his desperation to get to where he knew she stood beyond the cluster of people in the courtyard. He jumped onto one of the empty trestle tables and
leaped up to the latticework of the balconette. From up high he could see her in the middle of the courtyard, elevated on a makeshift platform and surrounded by Lady Celie and the young novices of both Lagrami and Sagrami. The Guard formed a circle around them, and he could see Perri allowing people to pay their respects one or two at a time. There was gaiety in the air. She was a giggler, the queen was. He remembered that about Isaboe as a child. Her giggles back then would turn into snorts and then laughter. He saw traces of it in these girls, their eyes closed, their hands covering their mouths as they laughed at what she had said. There was no restraint in their mirth, despite the clucking of the overprotective hens of the royal court, who seemed to be battling the Guard to take control of the girls. He remembered what Beatriss had said to him one afternoon. “What was it about those beloved, spirited princesses?” she had asked, tears in her eyes. “I will miss them for the rest of my life. You know how it is with Isaboe, Finnikin? The way she intoxicates you with her hope and her capacity to love.”
From his vantage point he could only stare. At the one who intoxicated him. There was a suppleness to her now that showed good health, curves that were lovingly outlined by the ivory silk dress she wore, its wide sleeves pinned to her side. In her thick dark curls she wore flower buds, and on her head was her mother’s crown, sparkling with rubies.
She was gracious in her attention to her people. He could tell by the gestures of those who got close that they were complimenting her, and she was accepting the compliments with a poise and charm that had them beaming. She leaned forward to hear their stories, gently asking her guard, Aldron, to move back when he held up a hand of restraint to one who dared to step too close. Beatriss’s child was clinging to her sleeve, jumping up for attention. He watched the way the queen gathered the child to her, letting Vestie cling to her waist as she swung the girl from side to side.
“Do not allow her to lead the negotiations, Finnikin. You know how stubborn she is.”
Finnikin looked at the queen’s First Man with irritation. “This is a private matter, Sir Topher,” he said, perspiring from the effort it took to grip the lattice.
Sir Topher laughed, shaking his head. “Privacy? Finnikin, climb down that trellis, and this moment between you and me will be the last private moment you will ever experience.”
But Finnikin no longer cared. Amid shouts of reprimand from the palace staff, he jumped onto the trestle table and then to the ground.
His seed will issue kings, but he will never reign.
For she would be Queen of Lumatere.
But he would be king to her.
He saw Lucian as he approached, standing with two of the Mont lads and Sefton, leaning against the northern wall and watching the throng before them.
“They are beautiful,” Sefton said with a sigh. “But very haughty.”
“What are the others doing?” one asked, trying to catch a glimpse of the platform through the crowd.
“Preening,” Sefton said. “Lucy, the stonemason’s daughter, won’t even look my way these days, and we were neighbors as children.”
“Patience,” Finnikin said. “And it’s not haughtiness or preening. They have suffered greatly, and if any of you hurt them in any way, you will have me to reckon with.”
“I have no idea what Lady Celie’s problem is,” Lucian muttered. “We used to play together as children, and the other day I heard her refer to me with disdain as ‘the Mont cousin.’”
Finnikin stared at him. “Lucian, you sat on her head when we were children. And wouldn’t move until Balthazar counted to one hundred.”
Lucian shrugged arrogantly. “A Mont girl would never carry such a grudge.” He took in Finnikin’s appearance, his dark eyes growing serious. “Wish our boy luck, lads,” he said. “When the time is right, I will stand by your side to display her kin’s support and approval. It’s the Mont way, Cousin.”
Finnikin clasped Lucian’s hand tightly. Then he turned to make his way to the queen. As he pushed past the crowds of people, he heard Balthazar’s chuckles and Isaboe’s giggles and Lucian’s snorts. He felt the love of his mother, who had died giving life to him, and took heart in the strength his father had shown during his darkest moments in the mines of Sorel. He heard the voices that had drowned his mind as he entered the kingdom, and within all the cries of anguish, he heard the songs of hope. He sensed the first babe of Beatriss and Trevanion and the presence of Vestie, the child who had walked with the queen and whose arm bore the answer to the question, “Is hope coming?” His name.
When he reached the circle of guards, Perri gestured for him to enter, but then grabbed him by the back of his cloak.
“I must confess that I dropped you on your head once or twice as a babe,” Perri said, “and if you walk out of the palace grounds tonight without a title, I’ll do it again.”
Finnikin shrugged free. “My father will hear about this.”
Perri chuckled and swiped him affectionately across the back of the head before propelling him toward the platform.
She saw him instantly, surprise on her face at his appearance. They faced each other in silence.
“My queen.”
“Finnikin.”
Aldron stood between them, his expression impassive. Lady Celie and the novices looked on solemnly. The crowd behind pushed forward, and he found himself shoulder to shoulder with the young guard.
“I can take over from here, Aldron,” Finnikin said.
“Not your decision, Finnikin,” Aldron said arrogantly. “Nor is it the queen’s. I take my orders from Trevanion or Perri.”
Isaboe stared at Finnikin, waiting. But the smirking Aldron stood in the way, and anger welled up inside of Finnikin. Everything he wanted to say was stuck at the back of his throat. “If I agree to become king,” he began, “you . . .”
She gasped with fury. “If you become king, I would prefer that you see it as something you want, rather than something you have to agree to.”
He took a moment to regain his composure. He heard the hiss of whispering around him. “Finnikin of the Rock is speaking to the queen.”
“If I become king,” he began again, “will you promise me no more impromptu visits throughout the kingdom until the borders are secure?”
“If you become king, perhaps I will invite you along on one of my impromptu visits,” she said airily, turning toward the novices, who looked at him as only novices trained by Tesadora could.
He shoved past Aldron and took hold of her arm to swing her back to face him. The music had begun to play again, and he could hardly hear himself. “Your security is not a laughing matter, Isaboe!”
“Do you see me laughing, Finnikin?”
Aldron yanked him away and the circle of girls closed around her, but he pushed through as gently as he could. “Excuse me,” he said politely to Lady Celie before moving her aside. “If I become king, do I have to ask your guards and your ladies permission each time I want to touch you in my marriage bed?”
Her eyes blazed. “When you become my king, Finnikin, you can touch me whenever you want. Wherever you want.”
He had the satisfaction of watching Aldron gulp. The novices gasped. Lady Celie giggled behind her hand.
He drew as close to Isaboe as he could, but still Aldron refused to move, and he could sense every pair of eyes in the kingdom watching them. “If I become king, will you sometimes humor me and allow me to win?”
“Isn’t it enough that you have won me if you become king?”
A hint of a smile appeared on his lips.
“If you become king,” she said, pushing Aldron’s head to the side so she could have a better view of Finnikin, “you will work on the archives without the help of a sweet Mont girl as your scribe.”
Finnikin’s smile broadened. “If I become king, I will continue my work on the archives with my scribe, who happens to be Lucian’s great-aunt, on his mother’s side. Lots of hair on her chin. Looks like Trevanion in those days after the mines.”
“Pity. I hear he’s a strapping boy.”
“Strapping boys are overrated. Sometime there’s nothing up here,” he said, pointing to Aldron’s head.
“And sometimes there’s too much up there,” she replied.
“If I become king, we declare war on Charyn,” he said soberly.
“Without involving Belegonia.”
He nodded. Suddenly he seemed to have more space. The girls had stepped back, but not Aldron. He reached over the guard’s shoulder. “This I like,” he said, touching her hair.
“I knew myself better without it,” she said honestly. “I miss yours. It made you look softer. Kinder.”
“Soft and kind will happen when you get rid of this between us,” he said, shoving Aldron, “and allow me to guard you. Do you think you should warn him that I’m going to kiss you?”
He loved the flush that appeared on her face, and there was an intake of breath from the girls.
“Aldron,” she said, clearing her throat, “if he agrees to become king, I’m going to let him kiss me. Please don’t stop him.”
Aldron thought for a moment and sighed, holding up his hand. “Wait there and do not move,” he ordered Finnikin, before calling out to one of the other guards who stood on the platform. “Ask Perri if he’s allowed to touch her if he’s agreed to be king.”
Suddenly a great cheer erupted from the crowd around them, and then another and another as the news spread across the courtyard. The novices formed a circle around Isaboe and Finnikin to keep everyone out, standing with their backs to the couple. For a brief moment they were in their own private cocoon.
“This hand says you spend the rest of your life with me,” he said, holding out his left hand, “and this one says I spend the rest of my life with you. Choose.”