The Lumatere Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy

by Melina Marchetta

  As they walked down the stairs, Lord August hammered on every door he passed. They reached the parlor, and the duke motioned for them to sit down. A few moments later, Lord August’s sister and family and at least fifty others entered, filling the room to capacity. Finnikin stared around in shock. Suddenly he understood why Lady Celie’s bedroom was so tiny. It was indeed a closet, as he had first thought. Every room in the house, including the storerooms, cellars, and even the pantry, must have to be used as living quarters to accommodate so many people.

  “Who are these people?” Finnikin asked.

  “Why, it’s my village of Sayles, Finnikin,” Lord August replied. “A duke is afforded the wealth of a city, and his home the right of sanctuary.”

  Finnikin’s eyes met the duke’s. It shamed him to think of all the times he had expressed his disdain for the luxuries enjoyed by the Lumateran nobility in exile, especially Lord August.

  Fear and excitement lit the faces of those around him. There was a hushed celebration when the people of Sayles recognized the newcomers, the women sobbing, the men brushing quick tears from their eyes and muffling their emotions in handshakes that trembled.

  When Lady Abian and the girls joined them, Evanjalin was scrubbed clean and dressed in a crisp white gown identical to Lady Celie’s. Finnikin could smell sandalwood, and Evanjalin’s olive complexion was as smooth and clear as honey. There was little room in the parlor, and Lady Abian sat on her husband’s lap.

  “Abian,” her sister-in-law chided, “remember your place!”

  “I am a fishmonger’s daughter,” Lady Abian said. “What do you expect?”

  There was much joy that night. Finnikin loved watching them all. Here was a generation of men and women who had suffered greatly; the loss of their world had happened in the prime of their lives.

  In the corner, Froi sat with the younger boys engaged in a competition of knuckle thumping. He who drew blood first was declared the winner. Finnikin noticed the viciousness of Froi’s play and saw the younger boys wince even as they tried not to react. He reached over and boxed Froi’s ears as a warning.

  They spent the night arguing passionately about all things Lumateran, opinions flying, voices hushed and angry, others wavering with emotion.

  “Could it have been avoided? Should the king have forbidden anyone entering Lumatere? Should he have cut off ties with the Charynites?”

  “No one knew such a thing would happen, Matin,” Trevanion said firmly. “No one could predict that the assassins would enter the palace. Every entrance was guarded.”

  “Then it was one of the Guard. A traitor working for Charyn,” Lord August said.

  Finnikin watched for the reaction. He had waited all week for one of Trevanion’s men to make such a suggestion.

  “Never,” Perri said flatly. “Never .”

  “Then how?” Lord August pressed.

  “The men guarding the palace drawbridge were attacked from behind. We could tell by the location of the wounds on their bodies. There had to be another entrance that not even the king knew about,” Trevanion said.

  “How could there be an entrance the assassins knew about when the king did not?” Lord August’s brother-in-law asked.

  “Perhaps because the impostor king was the former captain of the Guard and cousin to the king. He may have found it,” Finnikin suggested.

  His father shook his head. “I knew every inch of that palace. Unless a tunnel was built from inside, I would have known.”

  The most bitter arguments centered around the circumstances leading up to the slaughter of the Forest Dwellers.

  “The king should have provided more protection for the worshippers of Sagrami. They were a minority,” Lady Abian said firmly.

  “Abie!” a chorus of voices reprimanded her. “It is wrong to speak ill of the dead.”

  “I loved our king as much as the rest of you, but he used poor judgment when it came to the Forest Dwellers. If the king had been more open in his approval of the ways and practices of those who worshipped Sagrami, our part in the days of the unspeakable would never have occurred.”

  “The king was not to know his people would turn on the Forest Dwellers the moment he died. As far as he was concerned, Lumaterans were living in peace,” one of the women said.

  “It’s what the king wanted to believe. What we all wanted to believe,” Lady Abian maintained.

  They were silent for a moment.

  “There is no proof it was the Charynites,” Lord August’s brother-in-law said, speaking to an earlier argument.

  “Of course it was the Charynites,” Finnikin argued. “And the king should have treated Charyn as a threat. Instead he signed treaties with their king and cocooned himself in domestic life.” He looked at Sir Topher. He knew his mentor agreed with him but would never voice his opinions aloud.

  “I should have protected the worshippers of Sagrami,” the priest-king said sadly. “Instead I allowed myself to be flattered by the importance of my title. I blame my hubris for not seeing what was unfolding in front of me.”

  “They should not have been so secretive about their ways,” one of the women said.

  “And that gave us the permission to turn them out of their homes and persecute them?” Lady Abian protested.

  “In other kingdoms they worship more than one god or goddess with few issues about which divine being has superiority,” Finnikin said.

  “It is wrong,” Lady Celie blurted out, her face flushed. It was the first time she had spoken that evening. Perhaps the first time she had ever raised her voice in the company of adults.

  “What is, my sweet?” her father asked.

  “That we persist in speaking about the goddess as if she were two. The fault lies with the men of the ancients.”

  “And not the women? Must men be blamed for all, my sweet?” her father asked gently. “Celie has a great love of history,” he added with pride. “She has taken to recording the stories of our village.”

  “The men are to blame,” Lady Celie continued, her voice wavering, “because they wrote the books. They were frightened by the power of our goddess complete.”

  There was an awkward silence.

  “So they split her in two,” Evanjalin spoke up, placing a hand on Lady Celie’s shoulder. “The goddess Lagrami and the goddess Sagrami: light and dark. But all that did was cause division and a belief that one people was better than the other.”

  “Those who worshipped Sagrami practiced dark magic,” Lord August’s sister argued. “They were instrumental in our exile.”

  “Yet it is the work of those inside the cloisters of Sagrami and Lagrami that will ensure us entry back into our kingdom,” Evanjalin said.

  “Evanjalin can walk through the sleep of our people trapped inside Lumatere,” Lady Celie said boldly.

  At his daughter’s comment, Lord August looked at Evanjalin for the first time since she had spoken to him about the Charynites. He could not forget her voice as she stood beside Finnikin that day. He had described to his wife with wonder the power he felt in the two young people. The voice of Lumatere had come from the sun and the moon, he said. Abie called him a dreamer. “See them together and you will feel a force that will take your breath away,” he had responded.

  “When we return, I would love nothing more than to be part of the cloister,” the duke’s niece said. She was a pretty girl, more confident than her cousin Celie.

  “The cloister of Lagrami?” Lady Abian asked. “Why? All they teach you to be is a rich man’s dutiful wife and a blind worshipper of half a goddess.”

  “Oh, the idea of a dutiful wife,” Lord August said with a sigh. “Why did no one point me in the direction of the cloister?”

  Lady Abian raised her eyebrow. “You were lucky I was not taught by the priestess of Lagrami to bore you to tears, Augie, or by the priestess of Sagrami to poison my husband with the proper herbs. Instead, I prayed to the goddess complete to send me a man who would accept me whole and not as two ha
lves, as men have treated our goddess for the past thousand years.”

  “I was a novice of Lagrami,” Lord August’s sister sniffed. “Do I bore people to tears?”

  “Of course not, my dear,” her husband responded, patting her hand. “Nor are you a dutiful wife.”

  The others laughed.

  “You are harsh on the cloisters of both sides, Abie,” Trevanion said solemnly. “Lady Beatriss was a novice of Lagrami, and she had much strength to offer.”

  “That I know, Trevanion,” she said gently. “But the cloister of Lagrami is there for the daughters of those with wealth, like our Celie and Beatriss the Beloved. But what of the daughters of our dear friends here?”

  “Privilege does not necessarily lead to freedom for our noble young women,” Sir Topher said. “The princesses were always going to be sacrificed for the kingdom. The older girls had already been promised to foreign princes and dukes. Sooner or later, Isaboe would have been sacrificed in the same manner.”

  “Sacrificed?” Finnikin asked.

  “Of course,” one of the women said. “To be taken away from your family, your homeland. To be a foreigner for the rest of your life, with no true right over your children. Did it not happen to the dead king’s aunt? Given to a lesser prince in Charyn, whose seed produced the monster who rules our kingdom?”

  “Regardless, we must concern ourselves with what takes place inside Lumatere now. If the novices have united, as we believe they have, then those of Sagrami will teach us to be healers. Physicians,” Evanjalin said. “And those of Lagrami will teach us the ways of the ancients and the beauty of goodwill. Perhaps because of the most dire of situations, daughters of peasants are secure in one of the old cloisters in Lumatere as we speak.”

  “When will we return to Lumatere?” one of her younger boys asked. “When Balthazar is found?”

  Sir Topher nodded, but Finnikin recognized the look of uncertainty that always crossed his mentor’s face whenever the heir’s name was mentioned.

  “How do we know that for sure?” the boy piped up.

  “Because Seranonna decreed it,” Lord August said.

  “I fort she damned the kingdom,” Froi said.

  The others looked at him, uncomfortable.

  “We do not consider the kingdom damned,” Lord August said politely. “We prefer not to use that word.”

  “What would you call it, Lord August?” Finnikin asked. “A little magic? A slight curse? A bit of bad luck?”

  “Finn,” his father warned in a low tone.

  “For the sake of the children —” Lord August’s brother-in-law began.

  “Only a chosen few have been privileged enough to have a childhood,” Finnikin interrupted. “There have been few children since the days of the unspeakable. Were you ever a child, Evanjalin? Or Froi? Or half the orphans of Lumatere? Or even me? Was I ever a child, Sir Topher?”

  “I applaud any of you who have been able to preserve innocence for your children,” Evanjalin said, turning to the younger ones. “But our kingdom was cursed. Damned. Taken away from us, because good people stood by while evil took place. Let that be our lesson.”

  “Has it been revealed?” Lady Abian asked. “What was said that day? When Seranonna . . . cursed us?”

  Sir Topher nodded. “It was difficult to decipher, for we heard the words spoken only once, in an ancient language, and there are many interpretations of each word. At every camp, we searched for those who had been in the square the day of Seranonna’s death and we gathered more words, poring over the books of the ancients, until four years ago Finnikin made sense of it.”

  Everyone’s attention was directed at Finnikin. Opposite him, he watched Evanjalin take a breath, as if in anticipation.

  “Finn?” his father urged.

  Finnikin’s eyes met the priest-king’s. “‘Dark will lead the light and our resurdus will rise. And he will hold two hands of the one he pledged to save. And then the gate will fall, but his pain shall never cease. His seed will issue kings, but he will never reign.’”

  “Balthazar,” Lord August confirmed.

  “‘Our resurdus, ’” Finnikin said, nodding. “King.”

  “I think the exact words were ‘her resurdus will rise,’” Sir Topher said.

  The priest-king nodded. “‘Her’ being our kingdom of Lumatere.”

  “I don’t understand the two hands,” Perri said.

  “And you believe Balthazar can . . . survive such an entrance of damnation? ‘Pain shall never cease’?” Lady Abian said. “And ‘he will never reign’?”

  “Regardless of whether he lives or dies,” the priest-king said, “the main gate of the kingdom will open.”

  There was silence until Lord August stood. “Then we must make a decree. Here. This night. In the presence of the priest-king and Trevanion, Captain of the King’s Guard, and myself, Lord August, Duke of Sayles.” He turned to the king’s First Man. “That Sir Kristopher of the Flatlands, as regent of our dead king, is to rule if our beloved heir does not survive.”

  He took in the faces of all present. “We enter Lumatere with a king,” he continued forcefully. “We will never allow the leaders of other kingdoms to crown a king for Lumatere again.”

  Finnikin felt the weight of his father’s stare. He shifted his gaze to Sir Topher, and saw that the king’s First Man was looking at him with the same intensity. He was a son blessed by two fathers, one a warrior, the other a leader.

  “We enter Lumatere with a king,” Trevanion acknowledged.

  “Sir Topher?” the priest-king said.

  Sir Topher stood, looking from Finnikin to the priest-king. “I pray to the goddess . . . the goddess complete, that our heir will live to see the new day in Lumatere, but if that is not to be, our kingdom will have a leader and that leader will have a First Man.” His eyes rested on Finnikin. “I accept.”

  There was a cheer in the room as people began to chant Balthazar’s name. Finnikin felt as if his breath had been wrenched from his body.

  Her blood will be shed for you to be king.

  He had not prayed since that day in the Valley of Tranquillity, but as the others celebrated, he began his mantra. Be alive, Balthazar. Live forever, Sir Topher. He looked over to where his father was speaking to one of Lord August’s men, Matin. The steward was showing Trevanion something he had retrieved from his pocket, and Trevanion, in a rare show of emotion, drew the man toward him in an embrace.

  On shaking legs, Finnikin made his way across the room to where Evanjalin stood, tears in her eyes.

  “Resurdus,” she whispered to him. Her lips trembled and she held his face between her hands. Suddenly Sir Topher stood between them.

  “Evanjalin is tired, Finnikin,” he said firmly. “She needs to sleep. Let Lady Abian take her.”

  Later, the sounds of Lord August making love to his wife echoed through the house. Their cries were earthy and raw, and the paper-thin walls ensured that their guests heard each murmur and groan.

  “What is it with the nobility?” Sir Topher muttered, putting a pillow over his face. “The queen and king were always at it like rabbits.”

  Moss groaned. “If they do this every night, I’d rather give myself up to the king’s prison.”

  Froi shuffled where he lay under the window.

  “Froi, if I hear one sound coming from you,” Trevanion warned.

  “Must I remind you that we have the priest-king of Lumatere among us?” Sir Topher said.

  The priest-king chuckled. “I’m used to hearing people dying, Sir Topher. Why would I be threatened by the sounds of people living?”

  But all Finnikin could think of was the scent of sandalwood soap and a golden face scrubbed clean, and with every thrust he heard, he imagined himself inside her until his body ached for release. And the evil within him that wished for the death of Balthazar, and the realization of the prophecy spoken to him in the forest alongside a doomed princess, rejoiced that if he were to be king, he would make her his que
en.

  Sometimes Froi of the Exiles thought he dreamed it, what happened at the crossroads. That it seemed like forever, not just a few days, and that the difference between left and right and north and west meant everything and nothing.

  It began with tears when they left the home of the duke. His daughter was the worst, sobbing like a baby as she held on to Evanjalin, as if they had known each other forever rather than just two nights. She cried even more when Finnikin gave her the Book of Lumatere to keep safe. They were stupid like that, these Lumaterans. Not that he minded the duke’s house. The fireplace always seemed to be working, and there was lots of food. But too much touching and kissing. Sometimes the duke’s wife hugged Froi and he would try hard not to growl and shove her away, because when her arms were around him and her chuckles were in his ear, he felt calm. As if his blood wasn’t beating hard all the time, urging him to fight.

  Then they left and traveled north. To the crossroads. Nobody grumbled, because soon they would reach the valley outside the kingdom of Lumatere, which meant nothing to him really, because they still said, “Froi, make yourself useful!” and Evanjalin still made him practice his words with that look on her face that said she was in charge. Sometimes he would dare to look at the captain and his face didn’t seem angry or hard like it usually did. It looked the way it did when he was looking at Finnikin, and it always made Froi feel strange in the stomach when he saw the captain look at Finnikin. It made him wonder if anyone had ever looked at him that way.

  But things changed when they found one of the exile camps they were searching for and met one of the Guard who had been traveling with Ced. He was waiting for them, and he wasn’t smiling like they had smiled when they were with the others in Pietrodore. Froi couldn’t hear much about what was going on, but he saw the look on everyone’s faces and he heard words like Moss’s grave, which was strange because Moss was with them. And then he heard it again and maybe it was mass grave, but they were speaking too fast for him to understand. The captain, he walked away with his hands on the back of his head and he crouched by the river after that, and he kept his hands over his head for a real long time. When he stood up, there weren’t tears on his face, because the captain wasn’t one of the crybabies, but he looked like he wanted to kill someone, so Froi stayed out of the way and just made himself useful and looked after the priest-king. He could tell the old man wasn’t traveling too well, and he was glad when Sir Topher said that they needed to find a safe place for the priest-king. Froi liked the priest-king because he treated him like he was as important as everyone else and when he taught him words in Lumatere he didn’t laugh at the way he said them. He just showed him the right way.