The captain of the Myrinhall watched them as they filed on board, shaking his head. "You sign your death sentence, my friends. Indeed you do."
Finnikin sat by himself for the first half of the journey. His only consolation was that Evanjalin spent most of her time with her head over the side, emptying the contents of her stomach into the sea. After so many hours, he wondered that there was anything left inside her. He watched as she staggered to her bedroll on the deck, but each time she attempted to sit down, she would begin to retch again and rush to the side. Froi joined her for much of the time, a sight that brought Finnikin even more satisfaction.
In all his travels, he had never been on the open seas and he found it both frightening and exhilarating. If it wasn't the swelling waves that suddenly dropped in height and jolted them forward, it was the storms that churned the seawater into a mass of boiling foam. L'essoupi, the sailors called this stretch of ocean. The swallower.
Later, Trevanion joined him, and they sat side by side with their backs against the hull. As usual with his father, there was silence, but this time it suited him. After the scene on the pier, there was nothing to say.
They spent that night lying under a sky crowded with light, as though every star were fighting to be seen. The sea was still, and Evanjalin had at last stopped throwing up. Although he had no desire to be in her presence, Finnikin found himself keeping watch over her, fearing that a crew member would venture too close.
"Get some sleep," Trevanion murmured in the dark. "I'm watching them."
Sir Topher wiped Evanjalin's brow. She was weak from her sickness and almost sobbing from exhaustion, but he knew there was something else. He could sense her anxiety each time she raised her head to search for Finnikin.
"Your words were harsh," he said softly.
"He cannot complete this journey without me by his side."
"But still your words were harsh. No one gives anything for nothing. Not in this land. But that's what Finnikin decided we were called to do. To travel from exile camp to exile camp, kingdom to kingdom, and make sure our godsforsaken people were fed and taken care of. But Finnikin's thought every day was to secure the release of his father. I think it was a sorry day for him indeed when he realized that he was not just someone's son. That he had a responsibility to our people."
She closed her eyes. "Our people have never been godsforsaken," she corrected, "and he is the apprentice of the king's First Man. You. You insisted on furthering his education in the languages and politics of this land. Not just so he can feed the exiles, but because one day, as your apprentice, he may have to help lead them." She looked across to where Finnikin sat by his father's side. "He was born for greater things than belonging to the King's Guard, and his father knows it. Make sure, Sir Topher, that Finnikin accepts his role before we get to the main gate of Lumatere."
Trevanion watched Finnikin as he slept. Unlike the nights in the prison mine, he could see his sleeping son clearly under this illuminated sky and it was a luxury to stare so intently. Finnikin had his mother's face. Her coloring. "One kingdom, so many shades," Bartolina would say, holding her hand against Trevanion's. Then she was gone, and there were the numb days that followed Finnikin's birth. A motherless boy surviving in the world of men. Trevanion thought of his Guard and wondered how close they were. He had known most of them since he was Finnikin's age. When he handpicked them almost twenty years ago, he chose only those he could trust with the lives of every Lumateran. Especially his newborn son. At first his choices had been questioned, especially when it came to Perri the Savage. It was rumored that Perri had made his first kill by the time he was twelve. Poverty had bred malice. Bred the need to blame someone for the bleakness of their lives, and Perri the Savage suckled the sour milk of malice from his mother's breast. Younger than Trevanion by a year or two, he had seemed to resent the return of the river's favorite son and cared little for the cause of protecting their people. The river people had never lifted a hand to help Perri the Savage, and he owed them nothing in return.
"Join us," a twenty-year-old Trevanion had offered during a hostile encounter with Perri near the banks of his river swamp hut.
"Think I'm the one issuing orders here," Perri threatened, pressing the point of a sword to Trevanion's chest. There was a scar running from one ear to the other across his forehead. Eyes dark like Trevanion's, but skin milk-white.
"My wife is still warm in her grave," Trevanion said quietly. "Not even five days gone. If you try to stop me from getting home to my newborn son, I will kill you." And with that he walked away to where his men stood with August of the Flatlands.
"I will follow just to see where you live," Perri the Savage spat.
When they entered Trevanion's cottage farther up the river, a girl, the high-spirited daughter of a fishmonger, was caring for the baby.
"Have you taken leave of your senses, Trevanion?" she shouted, clutching the babe to her. "You bring Perri the Savage into your home when you have this precious boy to care for? His father is a drunkard! A rapist! A murderer!"
Trevanion took the child from her, holding the tiny form in his massive hands. He saw the bitterness in Perri's eyes, the defeat that came from not being able to escape his roots. Trevanion pointed to August of the Flatlands. "And his father is weak and deceitful and lazy, but I would trust him with my life."
She looked at August with disgust. "This? A fine army you will build, Trevanion."
"Go home, Abie. Before it is dark. It is not safe for you to be traveling alone," Trevanion said wearily.
"Perhaps I could escort her," August suggested.
"You?" she scoffed. "You fit under my arm, little man." And with that, she kissed the baby and slammed out the door.
"Pity the one who ends up in her marriage bed," August muttered.
But Trevanion was staring at Perri. "You," he said. "If anything happens to me, protect my boy."
"Trevanion," August protested, "I will protect Finnikin. He will always have a place in my home."
"No," Trevanion said firmly. "You make sure my son gets whatever privilege allows the king's boy, Augie. The son of Bartolina of the Rock deserves nothing less. But you," he said, pointing to Perri, "you make sure he is protected."
"You have the wrong man," Perri snapped.
"No," Trevanion said, walking to the window to peer outside. "In you, I have the best marksman in this kingdom, and if you think that it was by chance I walked through your swamp today, think again. We rid this kingdom of those who try to invade through our waters and we rid Lumatere of a weak, corrupt Guard."
"What has the king promised you, Trevanion?" August asked.
"The highest honor for a warrior in this kingdom. And today I choose my Guard." He returned the baby to his basket. "Open the door."
Outside stood a group of young men. Not just from the River, but from the Rock and the Mountains and a few from the Flatlands. The room seemed full with their presence, and they spoke through the night, their voices hushed but strong with conviction.
"Where's Trevanion?" one of them asked later as the early light of morning began to seep under the door.
August of the Flatlands looked around. "Probably at the grave. He'd sleep there if not for the child."
One of the lads walked toward the baby's basket and pulled aside the blanket, only to find himself pinned to the wall with a dagger to his neck. He stared into the obsidian eyes of Perri the Savage, who snarled close to his ear, "Touch him again and you lose a hand."
At daybreak, they reached the mouth of the Yack River. Yutlind was a land of four rivers, lush and fertile, with woodland in the north and jungle in the south. The land mass of the north and south was the size of Lumatere and Osteria together, but they had lost more people in internal wars than the rest of the land combined. The ancient stories told that the god of Yutlind had created his people by mixing his blood with the earth of the jungle and the woods. The war over which soil was superior had been fought for thousands of years u
ntil a warlord built his palace in the north, his reign recognized by the leaders of Skuldenore who had grown tired of centuries of unrest. It was a reign the south refused to acknowledge.
There was a stillness surrounding them, a deliberate calm. The crew was edgy, apprehensive. The captain of the Myrinhall put a finger to his lips, signaling silence. Finnikin peered over the hull, but the jungle lining the serpentine river seemed mysterious, as if there were secrets hidden behind the dense foliage. It seemed impossible that human life could exist in such a place, and Finnikin was anxious for them to arrive at the dock farther down the river. There, the Myrinhall would offload her passengers and load the merchandise. Trevanion's plan was to find a guide among the traders to take them through the grasslands and into the rock villages.
Finnikin watched the captain. He used sign language with his crew, which must have seen them through similar dangerous experiences. It comforted Finnikin to know that these men had sailed this river before. He watched as the captain chuckled quietly at what one of his men had signaled, and for the first time since they had entered the Yack, Finnikin relaxed.
The first arrow struck the captain between the eyes.
He was dead by the time he hit the ground at Finnikin's feet, the shock stamped on his face for eternity. Then an onslaught of arrows flew overhead as Trevanion dived on top of Finnikin.
"Don't let them take the Myrinhall!" one of the crewmen shouted, and Finnikin felt the boat lurch as the oarsmen began their work. Trevanion was already on his feet as Finnikin grabbed his longbow. He heard the whistling of arrows flying past and ducked again and again before standing to take aim toward the west bank. He fired ten missiles into the thick of the jungle and then dropped to the deck. As the arrows continued to fly, he crawled to where Evanjalin was huddled on the other side of the boat, her face still sickly in the morning light. He dragged her behind the crates, securing her next to Froi in a cocoon of merchandise boxes and barrels of ale.
"Stay!" he managed to gasp. He crawled back to where Trevanion and Sir Topher were crouched against the hull, ready for the next onslaught. Trevanion stood, lobbing a round of arrows in the direction of the Yuts before diving back down again.
"The crew is turning the boat around," he said, trying to regain his breath. "You stay with them, Sir Topher. Try to make your way back to the port at Sif. Finnikin and I will swim to the bank and then travel north by foot to find my men."
Sir Topher nodded. From all corners of the Myrinhall they could hear moans from the injured, while the oarsmen grunted and arrows whistled overhead. The Yut natives hidden beyond the bank maintained a disciplined silence, and it was moments before Trevanion could mark them.
"Up above! In the trees!" one of the crew holding on to the mast yelled out.
Trevanion loosed another volley of arrows, then pushed Sir Topher and Finnikin farther along the side of the cog, away from the next onslaught, which hit their previous hiding spot with deadly accuracy.
"We go overboard on the other side, Finnikin," Trevanion yelled above the noise. "When it turns, we stay hidden by the Myrinhall until it reaches the mouth of the river again and then we make our way to land. Do you hear me?"
"Sweet goddess, they are swimming toward us," Sir Topher muttered. "This boat will not reach the mouth, Trevanion. They will take the Myrinhall with all of us in it!"
An oarsman was hit with an arrow from behind and slumped forward.
Trevanion stood to catch a glimpse of the Yuts approaching. "Change of plans. Get them off the boat and onto the east bank, Finn!" he ordered. "Make sure they are not seen. You too, Sir Topher. All of us."
Finnikin crawled back to the crates, grabbing Froi out first. "Can you swim?" he shouted.
"No!" The thief looked horrified.
Finnikin glanced up at the crewman working on the square sail. "You need to do this quickly before they turn the boat around. Try to keep underwater the whole way. Don't let them see you!"
"Can't swim!" Froi said, crawling back behind the crates.
Finnikin grabbed him by the hair and pulled him out to see what was happening around them. Bodies littered the cog, while those crewmen who were still alive moaned and writhed in pain.
"Would you prefer to stay?" Finnikin growled. Froi growled back as Finnikin helped him over the side, holding the boy by the scruff of his neck before letting go. He turned his attention to Evanjalin, who looked gray, a film of perspiration covering her face.
"I can't swim," she whispered.
"Hold your breath and act as if you're pushing the water out of the way with your hands. Like this," he said, showing her. "And gently kick your feet. Don't put your head above water, Evanjalin. Don't let them see you. Once you get to the bank, keep hidden. Do you understand?"
She nodded, looking miserable.
"Just do as I say for once," he said, feeling the tremble of her hands as they touched his face. He grabbed one and pressed his mouth to her palm, and then Sir Topher was there, helping her over the side.
"Take care of them," Finnikin said as Sir Topher's head disappeared underwater.
He turned to find Trevanion, just as the crewman from the mast dropped out of the sky and landed at his feet, an arrow through his chest, blood already seeping from his mouth.
"Turn it around," the man croaked. "Climb the mast and turn it around or you'll never get them to safety."
Finnikin looked up at the mast and back in the direction of the Yuts, and then began climbing. At least half a dozen Yuts had reached the boat, and Trevanion and the crew were fighting them off. One who had managed to make it on board went flying back into the water with a kick to his head. Trevanion stood, aimed, shot, and then ducked, issuing orders, dividing the crew into three: those who rowed, those who lobbed arrows, and those who fought the Yuts in the water. From his vantage point, Finnikin could see what they had missed earlier. The skulls in the trees.
On the west bank, more Yuts descended from the foliage, their bodies large and powerful.
He kept climbing, not stopping until he reached the top, his legs straddling the pole, his fingers working quickly to loosen the sails. He could see that Evanjalin, Froi, and Sir Topher had reached the east bank of the river and were hiding among the long reeds and bracken. Trevanion and three of the crewmen finished off the last of the Yuts on board, and Finnikin watched as his father crawled to the edge of the boat and went over the side. He stood attached to the mast, feeling the arrows graze his arms as they flew past. He watched as Trevanion's head emerged from the water and he dragged himself to where the others were huddled, and for the first time since the captain dropped dead at his feet, Finnikin breathed with relief.
Trevanion spat out foul water as he held his side to ease the pain. The others were concealed by a cluster of reeds in the swamp water. They were shivering but safe, and for now that was enough. He knew he needed to keep them moving down the river, no matter how dangerous it was.
"Let's go. Now! There's no time ... Finn?" he swung around. "Where's Finnikin?" He looked at the girl, certain that she would know. The girl and Finnikin never seemed to lose track of each other. She stared over his shoulder, her dark eyes wide, her hand shaking as she pointed up. He swung around to see the Myrinhall starting to turn, with its sail primed to take it back toward the mouth of the river. What was left of the crew was slinging arrows toward the Yut natives on the opposite bank. He could see two or more Yuts hovering around the hull of the boat, but then his eyes were transfixed by the image of Finnikin clinging to the mast, his red-gold hair twisted and knotted as the sun lit up its strands.
The movements of the Yuts on the other side showed that they too were transfixed by the sight, as if Finnikin were some wild sun god hanging from the heavens.
And then, to his horror, the Yuts took aim and Finnikin went falling out of the sky.
Trevanion prayed that the crew of the Myrinhall would grab the boy. Pull him out of the water and tend to him. But there was no movement toward where Finnikin lay
facedown in the river, an arrow jutting from his side. The girl lurched forward, and Trevanion grabbed her, his hand stifling her scream as she struggled against him. When she finally broke free, Trevanion could hear her softly weeping, the sound more pitiful because she had seemed unbreakable.
"We wait until they leave," Sir Topher whispered as the Myrinhall inched further upstream, blocking their view of the Yuts but not of Finnikin's body.
"No," the girl said. "Now. They worship the sun god here. They'll take Finnikin the first opportunity they have."
Trevanion hit the water instantly, pounding it with his body, punishing it for placing a barrier between him and his son. The Myrinhall had just sailed past where Finnikin lay, and with any luck the vessel would block the Yuts' view of both their bodies. He knew he had little time. The moment the Yuts worked out where they were hidden, they would cross the river and come for them all.
When he reached his son, Trevanion turned the boy's body over and heard him splutter and gasp for air. There was no time for relief. No time to lessen the weight on Finnikin's body by removing his quiver and daggers. Trevanion dragged him back to the bank. Sir Topher, the girl, and the thief pulled them into the long reeds. Rather than take the chance to move farther into the jungle, they stayed crouched in the ankle-deep water, shivering as the sun disappeared behind the clouds. Trevanion placed his fist against Finnikin's mouth to hold back the boy's grunts of agony. The arrow had struck him in the side, just above the hip. It had to come out soon, but inflicting more pain on his son was unthinkable. He knew what type of barb was lodged in Finnikin's body; he had seen them scattered on the deck of the cog. Broad iron arrowheads meant for hunting animals. Difficult to extract.
The air rang with strange voices from both sides of the river. Bloodcurdling wails. Some seemed like taunts. As if the Yuts were playing cat and mouse with them. Not even in his ten years of captivity had Trevanion felt so trapped. He despised his own helplessness in not being able to move his party to safety and away from this muddy, insect-infested circle of swamp.
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