Finnikin of the Rock lc-1

by Melina Marchetta

  "There's not much left between here and the border," Evanjalin said. The landscape was beginning to look like the forested region of the north, and Finnikin felt Trevanion's frustration and despair.

  "Perhaps they were forced to move on and had no means of getting the information to you," Sir Topher suggested.

  Trevanion nodded. Ahead was a sign for the border town of Stophe, and one for the town of Pietrodore, which was perched high above them. They knew little about either. Pietrodore was a neutral town, visited by few travelers. The border town would be their best option for a meal and lodgings. Finnikin had been so sure they would find Trevanion's men and make plans to travel to the Valley outside the main gate of Lumatere. Now all they seemed to be doing was walking aimlessly north. Eleven days in Yutlind, he thought bitterly, and all they had to show for it was an arrow wound in his side and an ache in Trevanion's heart.

  They continued soberly along the forest road. Evanjalin lagged behind, her brow creased in concentration. Sir Topher and Trevanion were silent.

  "Captain Trevanion!" Evanjalin called out. "Captain! Stop!"

  The four of them turned to see Evanjalin pointing up, a smile lighting her face.

  "Pietrodore?" Finnikin asked.

  "Did you have a dream that told you to take us there?" Sir Topher said.

  She shook her head in amusement. "How could I have possibly had a dream while I've been awake and walking, Sir Topher?"

  "Magic?" Froi asked, frowning.

  This time she was annoyed. "I don't know any magic. I've told you that!"

  "It is a long way up, girl," Trevanion said with a sigh. "Too long to waste on chance. They are not here."

  Finnikin met her eyes, wanting desperately to make sense of her request. Why Pietrodore? But in a moment the realization hit, and he smiled in wonder.

  "It's not chance, Trevanion," he said, kicking the golden carpet of leaves at his feet. He ran back toward her, sliding part of the way until he could grab her by the waist and swing her around. "You are a goddess, Evanjalin of the Monts."

  Evanjalin was grinning from ear to ear as she tried to break free. She faced the others, who stood watching, confused. "Pietrodore. It's the common Yut word for 'rock village.'"

  Chapter 15

  The track leading up to the town of Pietrodore was bordered by dense forest on one side and a perilous drop plunging all the way to the road below on the other. The stones underfoot became more hazardous the higher they climbed. It was clear Pietrodore was a town that did not want to be reached with ease, and despite their earlier excitement Finnikin could not shake the possibility of failure. He tried to shut out Froi's endless whining about being hungry and the heavy breathing that signaled Sir Topher's fatigue. Instead he found himself drawn to Trevanion's hope; it was as if his father was willing his men to be at this last post before the border. Despite his love for Finnikin and Beatriss, Trevanion was never complete without his Guard, and Finnikin knew his father would not be fully at ease until he was among them again.

  Like many places they had seen in Yutlind, the town was heavily guarded. Yet Pietrodore was aligned to neither the north nor the south and was hostile to foreigners and Yuts alike. It had been free of war for decades, due to its location and lack of strategic worth.

  Finnikin could hear the soldiers at the gate speaking common Yut, and he welcomed the sound of the language with relief. After his helplessness with the spirit warriors and those in the rock village, it returned to him a small measure of pride.

  But the two soldiers standing guard refused to let them enter. Their hostility was palpable and their decision final. Finnikin stepped forward to try reasoning with them, but their hands went instantly to their swords. He dared not ask about the Lumateran Guard and realized with a sinking feeling that they had wasted their journey. Then he felt Evanjalin by his side.

  "This is my love," she told the stony-faced soldiers. "We are to be joined."

  There was no response.

  "By our spiritual guide," Evanjalin continued, gesturing to Sir Topher. "My betrothed's younger brother and father are to be our witnesses."

  One of the soldiers looked over to Froi, Trevanion, and Sir Topher, who all nodded, despite having no idea what was being said.

  "We have been persecuted for our union in all other regions of this kingdom." Evanjalin turned to Finnikin and gently lifted his shirt, pointing out the red wound on his side. The soldiers stared at the wound, their expressions unchanged. She looked at Finnikin with such sadness that he almost believed her pitiful tale.

  "We'll find a way," he said gently.

  "We come to you for refuge," she continued, turning back to the men. "For we have heard that no one in this town would call me the scum of the land." She revealed her right shoulder. "Or brand me like an animal."

  Finnikin fought to hide his shock. The branding was indeed one found on cattle, numbers burnt into her skin. He saw Trevanion flinch and tears of rage well up in Sir Topher's eyes. Oh, Evanjalin, what else have you kept from us?

  "We have been told that no other town can equal Pietrodore in its purity and integrity," Finnikin continued. "Any other is tainted by blood and sorrow, but for the love of this woman I would travel the land... nay, the earth, to find a place where she will never be marked again."

  Evanjalin knelt at the foot of the largest soldier, who shifted uncomfortably. Finnikin did not know the history of these people. Perhaps they had endured thousands of years of persecution for their position on a war-ravaged border. Perhaps these soldiers had inherited the grief of their ancestors. But kneeling at their feet was someone who had been branded as a slave, and no other kingdom had lost as many of their children to slavery as Yutlind. The burly man extended his hand to cover Evanjalin's shoulder, and then helped her to her feet. With a flick of his head in the direction of the town, he allowed them to enter.

  They passed through the gates solemnly. Finnikin stared at Evanjalin as she walked ahead of him between Sir Topher and Froi. When she stumbled, Trevanion's hand reached out to steady her, gently cradling the back of her head in his palm for a moment before letting go.

  The main street was wide enough for a horse and cart, and lined with stores full of boots and armor and with colorful guilds. Tiny lanes to the left and right led to cottages decorated with flowers. From every direction, Finnikin caught glimpses of the low stone wall that surrounded the town and of the sweeping views of Yutlind beyond.

  At the end of the street, they reached the town square. Here, the sandstone walls of houses were covered with climbing rosebushes overflowing with color and fragrance. Finnikin watched as Evanjalin stopped and stared at the roses in awe. He had become used to the plainness of her dress and appearance. That she would marvel at the color around them surprised him, and he wondered about the girl she had once been. Would she have dreamed of placing flowers in her hair or scenting her skin with the delicate fragrance of honeysuckle?

  They continued on to the town's highest point, from where they could see the four rock villages of Yutlind Sud. Directly below was the river encircling the flatlands, and in the distance another rock village. The landscape was lush: ten different shades of green, some the color of rich moss, others the color of leaves in sunlight, all contrasting with the dark soil of the plowed earth.

  "They are here," Trevanion murmured. "I know it."

  "Because it is almost a replica of Lumatere?" Sir Topher asked.

  "As close to it." There was a hint of a smile on Trevanion's face. "They were a sentimental lot, my Guard. I never pictured them in a tent city."

  "Maybe we should secure this town for our exiles," Finnikin joked. "Add more color to the war in this kingdom."

  Trevanion took one more look at the little Lumatere in the distance below.

  "Your plan?" Sir Topher asked.

  "Finnikin and I will secure rooms for the night," Trevanion said. "Evanjalin, go with Sir Topher to find food and provisions. Speak Yut, not Lumateran. Froi, stay here and keep
out of trouble. We will return soon."

  "I pray to Lagrami for good news of your men, Trevanion," Sir Topher said.

  Finnikin followed his father into the inn. The few men who sat around drinking stared at them long and hard. From the kitchen, Finnikin could smell roasting meat, and his stomach responded hungrily.

  "We are looking for friends of ours who have settled here," Finnikin said in Yut, watching the innkeeper polish glasses behind the bar. "Foreigners."

  "Not here," the man said without an upward glance.

  Finnikin exchanged a look with Trevanion, who did not seem to need a translation.

  "Then perhaps a place to rest," Finnikin continued. "We have traveled far."

  One of the cardplayers from the back tables made his way to the bar, standing so close to Finnikin that he received a glowering stare from Trevanion.

  "We are full," the innkeeper said.

  "Full, you say?" Finnikin looked around the mostly empty room and then back at the innkeeper. "We are not a threat to you," he said quietly.

  The innkeeper leaned over the counter, his face a hair's breadth from Finnikin's. There was something unpleasant in his smile, and as he spoke, he poked Finnikin for effect. "And we are still full."

  In an instant, Trevanion had the man by the collar and slammed his face against the counter between them. His murderous stare remained until Finnikin placed a hand on his arm to restrain him. The cardplayer who had joined them inched away as Trevanion shoved the innkeeper back behind the bar.

  Outside, Evanjalin and Sir Topher were waiting for them in the waning afternoon sun. There was anticipation on Evanjalin's face and disappointment on Sir Topher's.

  "The shutters came down the moment we approached," Sir Topher complained. "Any success on your part?"

  Trevanion didn't speak as they walked toward the edge of the square.

  "No," Finnikin muttered, exchanging a glance with Evanjalin. "I think I need to do this with my betrothed and not my father," he mumbled to her in Yut.

  Trevanion sent him a furious look. "We speak Lumateran among ourselves!" he said. "What you have to say to Evanjalin, you say to all of us."

  "Most unfair, Finnikin," Sir Topher said.

  Finnikin shook his head in frustration. "Sometimes it's easier for me to stick to one language," he lied.

  Froi was on his feet the moment they approached, searching to see what they had brought. "Where food?" he demanded.

  "It's lovely to know that you are picking up the language, Froi," Evanjalin sniped. "But I do not recall the authority to command being part of your bond."

  "Hungry," Froi muttered.

  "And we're not?" Finnikin snapped back.

  "He's a boy," Sir Topher admonished, "who needs to eat. You were the same at his age, Finnikin."

  "No, I was not."

  Sir Topher snorted with disbelief.

  "All of you stay here," Finnikin ordered. "I will get us food." He pointed a finger at his father. "No fighting with the locals!"

  Trevanion was scowling. "Take my sword and the girl."

  As they walked away he heard Sir Topher say, "There were times I thought he'd eat me in my sleep, I tell you."

  Finnikin strode ahead of Evanjalin until she placed a hand on his arm. She pointed down one of the wider alleys to a courtyard where an outdoor spring was built into the town wall. "Let's at least fill up our water flasks," she said.

  As they walked toward the courtyard, the cooking aromas from nearby cottages caused Finnikin's stomach to rumble loudly again, and he clutched at it.

  "I think that was actually my stomach," Evanjalin said with a laugh. "Tonight they dine on roast pork. I would give my right arm for roast pork."

  But Finnikin did not want to think of Evanjalin's right arm, branding her a slave. "Then tonight you will eat roast pork," he announced.

  The courtyard was a smaller version of the main square, with houses facing the west. It stood empty, and Finnikin suspected that the town had a curfew, which meant they had little time to organize food and lodgings. He filled up both their flasks and then splashed cold water on his face.

  "Of course, we'll have to steal it," he said, still thinking about their dinner.

  "You're asking me to commit a crime?" she said in mock horror.

  He laughed. "Not a good way to start our married life, but roast pork is my gift to you."

  "And what would you like in return?"

  "A goose would be nice," he said. "But then again, I don't care if it's pottage. Even stale bread would work for me. Anything to shut Froi up." He was about to put his head under the spring to wash away the grime, when the cold touch of a sword on his neck stopped him from moving. Evanjalin stiffened beside him.

  "Turn around," the assailant said. The sound was more like a rumble than a voice.

  He saw Evanjalin's sideways glance, but before he could speak, the assailant pushed her away and she fell.

  "Let this fight be between us!" Finnikin said, swinging around.

  Mercy. He was facing a giant of a man. Massive in height and bulky in width, the giant had dark hair and a beard that were cropped close to his skin. He clutched two swords. His fists were thick, double the size even of Trevanion's, and he defended Finnikin's first blow with great skill.

  Evanjalin was back on her feet, hurling her water flask at the giant, but it made little impact against him as his sword clashed with Finnikin's.

  "I'm playing with him," the giant said, his tone unkind. "Do that again, little girl, and I'll kill him."

  "Push her, threaten her, or even look at her again, and I'll kill you!" Finnikin said, sending the man into momentary retreat.

  "I'll make this easier for you." The giant dropped the sword he was holding in his left hand and held up his right hand, indicating who was in charge.

  Finnikin caught his first clear look at the man and fought to suppress a grin. "Go get my father, Evanjalin," he said, blowing hair out of his face. He heard her retreating footsteps as she broke into a run.

  "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.

  "H
and 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.