"Say no, Evanjalin," Froi blurted.
"Answer him, Evanjalin," Trevanion said.
Finnikin saw it in her eyes before she responded. He saw it because she chose to look directly at him. There was no plea for understanding.
"Balthazar is dead."
He felt his stomach revolt, his knees buckling beneath him. But still she refused to look away.
"You would never have come this far if you thought he was dead," she said calmly. "All of you. The exiles. The Guard. No one."
"You lied all this time?" He could hardly recognize his own voice.
"You wanted a king," she said quietly.
"You lied."
"I gave you a king. I gave you what you wanted."
"You. Lied."
"Stop saying that!" she shouted, and the others flinched at the fury in her voice. "There are worse things than a lie and there are better things than the truth!"
He stared at her in bewilderment. "Who are you?"
"Who do you want me to be, Finnikin?" There were tears in her eyes, and he wanted to tear at his own so he didn't have to see her. Didn't have to witness her deceit.
"I once asked you to trust me."
He shook his head with disbelief. "Do you belong to the Charynites?" She clenched her fists as he stepped forward. "Or are you one of Sagrami's dark worshippers, bent on more destruction?"
"If I am, then burn me at the stake, Finnikin," she cried. "As they did the last time they found out a king was dead in Lumatere. Someone had to be blamed. Someone had to die. Because that's what happens when logical men can't explain why an old woman has the blood of an innocent on her hands, or why another can walk through the sleep of our people. What you can't understand, you destroy."
Perri made a sound of disgust, and she turned to stare at him. "It's what your kin did to Tesadora and her people all those years, Perri. How your people taught you to hate. Your father made you watch. Made you take her hand and place it in that furnace and watch it burn. And you did, with tears in your eyes because you were a child and you believed what your father had to say. It's what made you a savage."
"You lied about the king!" Finnikin shouted. "What is there to understand? We have people waiting outside the kingdom. For their king."
Trevanion placed a hand on his arm to calm him, but Finnikin pulled away, his eyes wild. "If harm comes to those people, with the power appointed to me as Sir Topher's First Man, I will charge you with sedition," Finnikin threatened bitterly, swinging onto his horse. "Curse your existence if we've led the entire kingdom-in-exile to a mass grave in the Valley."
When they reached the crossroads, Finnikin felt Froi tremble as the thief held on to him. Perri and Trevanion drew up alongside, and he saw the grief and hopelessness on their faces. North pointed to Lumatere, the word he had rewritten not five days past. But five days past the world had been different and a prophecy promising the return of the king had been possible to fulfill.
He had sensed Evanjalin's stare for the length of their journey as she rode behind him on Trevanion's mount. He turned to look at her now, and she held his gaze as she slipped off the horse and untied her bedroll. She looked small and vulnerable where she stood, surrounded by all five of them, and then she pointed east, her hand shaking.
"Get back on the horse, Evanjalin," Trevanion said wearily.
She shook her head. "I go east," she said.
No one moved or spoke.
"We go north to the Valley," Finnikin said firmly. "And you don't have a choice. Get on the horse, Evanjalin."
She shook her head again. "If it's sedition you accuse me of, stop me with a dagger. If not, I go east. The gods whisper words to me as I sleep, telling us to take a path that makes sense only to them. But I trust it."
"Ah, the privilege of the gods whispering in your ears," he mocked. "Did you have to bleed for that, Evanjalin?"
The pain in her eyes was real. "The gods whispered to you once, Finnikin. And you listened. But they are proud and refuse to speak to those who do not believe that there is something out there mightier than the minds and intellect of mortals."
But his heart could not be moved, and he turned his back on her. He could hear the crunch of the leaves as she walked and he dared not move until the sound faded away.
Froi slipped off Finnikin's horse, quietly looking up at him and then the others before turning in the direction Evanjalin had taken. He removed his bedroll from the saddle and placed it on his shoulder.
"She and me? We the same in some fings. We live. The others, those orphan kids, they dead. Because she and me, we want to live and we do anyfing to make that happen. That's the difference between us and others. I seen them. I seen Lumaterans die, and you know what I do to live? Anyfing. Do you hear me? I do anyfing. Just like her."
Froi turned and followed Evanjalin, and this time it seemed he understood exactly which path he was taking.
One mile from their homeland, Finnikin stopped. In front of him stood the ridge. From there, it would be possible to see the Valley of Tranquillity, which had once seemed like a carpet of lushness leading to Lumatere's main gate. He imagined what it would be like to see inside the kingdom, all the way to the rock of three wonders, where once he made a pledge with his two friends, believing in their omnipotence. That they could save their world. His scar throbbed with pain as if the blood they had sacrificed ten years ago had seeped into the earth and was welcoming him home. Home.
"Finn? It's just over the ridge," Trevanion said.
Finnikin swung off his horse and stared up at the last place he had ever worshipped his goddess. "Take the priest-king," he said quietly. "Our people need him in the Valley."
"And you?" Trevanion asked.
Finnikin shook his head. "I just want to sit for a while."
Trevanion walked up beside him. "I'll sit with you."
"No." He shook his head emphatically. "The people will want to see the captain of the Guard. They need that hope if they have already returned."
Finnikin turned to the priest-king, who sat astride Perri's horse. There was a look of intense sadness on the old man's face. "Blessed Barakah, what does the word resurdus mean in the ancient language?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
"King," the old man replied.
Finnikin nodded.
Trevanion mounted his horse again. "Climb your rock, Finn," he said firmly. "When you return, I'll be waiting here."
Finnikin walked toward the ridge, then stopped as Perri spoke.
"Warrior. Guide."
Finnikin turned and met Perri's eyes.
"I had a... friend once who knew the language of the ancients," he said, his face impassive. "I asked her what the word for 'warrior' was. It was the only word I cared to learn. Resurdus. In the time when the gods walked the earth, a king was a warrior. But in other dialects it meant guide."
Finnikin stared after them as they rode away. Then he began to climb. He had promised the goddess a sacrifice if she allowed Evanjalin to live, and there on the ridge he pierced his old wound and watched it bleed, his mind growing light.
Dark will guide the light, and our resurdus will rise.
He made a pledge to honor the prophecy that may have always been meant for him.
But there were no visions, and no sense of peace or euphoria.
The goddess was angry.
Her message was clear.
It was not enough.
It was almost dark when he climbed down from the ridge. Waiting with his father were Perri and Moss and Sir Topher. Finnikin swung onto his horse. Without speaking, he turned its head away from the Valley of Tranquillity and took the path the priest-king had said would be their salvation paved with blood. The path to the novice Evanjalin.
And without questioning his decision, the others followed.
Chapter 21
They traveled through the night and by sunrise reached the tunnel that separated Belegonia from neighboring Osteria. It was a pass carved inside one of the mountai
ns, hacked out of the granite over the centuries. Finnikin was the first to lead his horse through the low narrow entrance, placing his hands on the stone around his head to guide him. The ground was littered with fallen rocks, and his ankle twisted continuously on its awkward angles. When the light hit his eyes on the other side, the pain was intense, but he gulped the air with a hunger that came from a profound sense of relief.
The Osterian capital was the closest to Lumatere. The two kingdoms were the smallest in the land and less than a day's ride from each other. As they rode over the hills from the west, Finnikin caught sight of the turrets of the Osterian palace in the distance. The small palace lay in a valley in the center of the kingdom, encircled by sixteen hills, which served to protect it from Belegonia to its west, Sorel to its south, and Charyn to its north and east. Finnikin knew the Osterian hills were home to several ethnic communities that had enjoyed autonomy since the time of the gods. They were watched over by a number of sentinels whose job it was to keep peace within the land, but Finnikin suspected that the sentinels were also there to keep an eye on Charyn, which lay beyond a narrow river to the north.
"So where can you be, Evanjalin?" Sir Topher asked as they rested their horses in one of the valleys. Finnikin had been surprised to find his mentor waiting with Trevanion, Perri, and Moss the previous evening. As the new leader of Lumatere, he would be better protected in the Valley under the watch of the Guard. But Sir Topher had been determined to find Evanjalin and Froi, and at times during their short journey to Osteria, Finnikin had seen the censure in his mentor's eyes.
"She lied about the king," Finnikin said quietly as the other men separated to see what they could discover beyond the northern hills.
Sir Topher did not speak for a moment. So much had changed since they climbed the rock to the cloister in Sendecane months before. Too much had happened, more emotions than they had felt between them in the last ten years.
"You wanted Balthazar to be alive, Finnikin," he said gently. "He was a beloved friend, and in the mind of the child you were at the time, he seemed a mighty warrior who could conquer anything."
Finnikin felt naive and foolish. "I know it doesn't seem possible that one so young could have lived through such terrible events, Sir Topher. But Evanjalin and Froi and even I have been in situations of grave danger, and we lived. So I believed that he would too. That somehow he endured what took place in the Forest of Lumatere that night."
"Do you know what I think?" Sir Topher asked, tears in his eyes. "I think Prince Balthazar made a decision that night. I think he was a warrior of the gods. You wanted him to live for all the right reasons, my boy. But more than anything, you needed him to live because you feared the inevitable."
Finnikin was silent as Trevanion and his men returned. He could tell from the grimness of his father's expression that their surveillance from the top of the hills had provided them with more than just a scenic view of Osteria.
"Tell us good news, Trevanion," Sir Topher implored.
Trevanion shook his head, his mouth a straight line. "From our vantage point we had a clear view of the river and into Charyn. There are soldiers there. At least fifteen. Swords in hand. Exiles at their feet."
"Sweet goddess," Sir Topher said.
"I counted at least forty," Moss said.
"Why are you so sure the captives are Lumaterans?" Finnikin asked. "Might they not just be Charynites camped by the river?"
"They're exiles," Moss said firmly.
"Evanjalin? Froi?" Sir Topher asked.
Trevanion shook his head.
"Do they move freely?" Sir Topher asked. "Are you sure they are under guard?"
"They have separated the men from the women," Perri said bitterly. "Never a good sign."
"Since when have exile camps been under guard?" Sir Topher asked.
"Since the rumor of the return of a king," Trevanion said. "If there is one thing that will threaten the royal house of Charyn, it is talk of the curse on Lumatere being broken and the impostor king revealing the truth. Charyn would consider any group of exiles a threat."
"I say we cross the river. We can take them by surprise," Perri said. "They are weakened by ale and boredom. I can see it in their sluggish movements."
"Except we have a guest. Remember?" Moss said, pointing up to the peak of one of the smaller hills to the east of them. Finnikin followed his line of sight and made out a figure crouching.
"He may belong to one of the autonomous communities," Finnikin said. "It wouldn't be rare for them to be traveling the hills."
"Not a traveler, Finnikin. He is spying. On the Charynites and the exile camp. He cares little if we are aware of his location but does not want to be seen by the soldiers on the other side of the river."
Finnikin sighed, shading his eyes with his hand, trying to think. He looked at the figure again. The youth was standing now. He was almost Finnikin's height but much broader, dressed in clothing cut from the fur of animals. There was an aggression in his stance, an arrogance that instantly made Finnikin bristle. As if sensing Finnikin's anger, the youth removed an arrow from the quiver strapped to his back and cocked his longbow, holding the arrow at eye level and pointing it straight toward Finnikin.
"Provoke him, Finn," Trevanion instructed, aiming his crossbow in the direction of their intruder. "Let's see what he does."
Finnikin grabbed a blunt-tipped bolt from his quiver. "Do you want me to discharge?"
"No, leave that to us if he chooses to attack. He seems focused on you. Find another way to provoke him."
Finnikin thought for a moment and then raised his hand and made a gesture with two of his fingers twisted together, pointing them toward the bridge of his nose and then jutting them forward with force.
The others stared at him, amused. Trevanion and Perri even barked out a rare laugh.
"I think that's the River people's way of telling one to do something quite obscene with their mother," Moss mused.
"Just something I used to see you all do when I was a child," Finnikin said with a grin.
"You'll have to try another one," Perri advised. "It won't work as provocation. It's purely a Lumateran insult. Unknown to the rest of the land."
"How proud we must feel," Sir Topher said dryly.
The men laughed again, but when an arrow landed close to Finnikin's feet, they leaped back in alarm, diving for cover behind a cluster of rocks and cocking their weapons.
"Bastard!" Finnikin muttered.
With their backs against the rocks, the realization hit them all at the same time.
"He recognized the gesture."
"An exile, perhaps?"
"But armed?"
Finnikin crawled over to his saddle pack and pulled out an ochre-colored stone, then retrieved an arrow from his quiver and handed it to his father.
"Hold it still while I write."
Across the stem of the arrow he scribbled the words Finnikin of the Rock before stepping into the open and aiming toward the figure on the hill. He followed the arc of his shot, pleased when the youth jumped back, and he could tell by the youth's stance that he was less than happy about the close proximity of the arrow between his legs. He picked up the arrow and then stared at it before disappearing. They were disappointed when he failed to reappear.
"We go to the river," Trevanion said finally, "and ask the Charynites to kindly let the exiles cross."
"Just don't ask me to be kind for too long," Perri muttered as they began to climb the hill.
They stood on the riverbank not five steps away from where the Charynite soldiers held the exiles captive. Finnikin thought it seemed wrong not to wade across and end it all right there. The moment they arrived, the soldiers had casually made their way toward the opposite bank. Huddled behind them were the exiles, divided into three groups: women and children, grown men, and then the youths. While the males were seated, the women and children stood, clutching each other with fear. One of the mothers held a hand over the mouth of her wailing b
aby, her face stricken with terror at the thought of what would happen if she failed to silence the child. Finnikin knew what the guards planned to do with these people. Worse still, the exiles knew it too. He could tell that most of them came from the main village of Lumatere. The villagers were merchants and craftsmen and had a distinct personality. There was a humility and dignity to them that the queen had encouraged her children to emulate. "If you do not get what you want in life, Balthazar," Finnikin would hear her say, "take it like a villager. Hold your head up and accept the inevitable."
One of the older exiles raised his head from where it rested on his knees and saw them on the bank. Finnikin watched as his expression changed from despair to recognition to elation. He nudged his neighbor, and an excited whisper went through the group. There was no such reaction from the Lumateran lads. Unlike their fathers and uncles, they had no idea who Trevanion and Perri were. As far as they were concerned, the five men standing before them on the Osterian side of the river could easily add more woe to their situation. Death was inevitable. Finnikin could see it in their faces.
A soldier stepped closer, his boot touching the water between them. "Go back to guarding the garbage," he instructed his men. "I'll take care of this."
Finnikin felt Sir Topher stiffen beside him and was relieved that Trevanion, Moss, and Perri did not understand the Charyn language. As Perri had said, these men were bored. It was their job to guard a rarely used crossing two days' ride from the capital. Taking thirty unarmed exiles hostage and doing to them whatever they desired was a way to relieve the boredom. In the prison mines, Finnikin had asked his father how humans could treat each other in such a way. "Because they stop seeing their victims as human," Trevanion had responded quietly.
The soldier with one foot in the river was young; Finnikin smelled his ambition and saw the look of dogmatism in his eyes. He would have preferred to have been dealing with a madman full of anger than someone so blinded by self-importance. The Charyn soldier stared at them. Finnikin imagined what he was thinking. Five men, swords at their sides, longbows in their hands. They had enough bolts in their quivers to create havoc among fifteen restless guards.
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