The Lumatere Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy

by Melina Marchetta

  “I remember the times I would visit him in the prison here,” Lord August continued. “He would only ever ask one question: ‘Is my boy safe?’ As long as the answer was yes, he did not care what happened to him. But he could be persuaded by you, Finnikin. If Trevanion was found and freed, his Guard would come out of hiding, and then we would have the most powerful men of Lumatere to lead us home.”

  “Even if we had my father and the Guard and the heir, have you forgotten that we’re actually missing a kingdom?” Finnikin said sharply.

  “The truth lies with the heir, Finnikin. Balthazar will know how to get us inside. The gifted ones among us are speaking. They sense something. Someone.”

  “Let me talk to the king,” Finnikin repeated.

  The duke shook his head, a look of angry disappointment on his face, and suddenly Finnikin felt as if he were facing his father.

  “The king will want a favor in return,” Lord August said dismissively.

  “They can afford to have us here, my lord. It is why we have chosen Belegonia and not Osteria. Look at all the open space in this kingdom. We traveled five days to arrive here, through the most lush and fertile land. All empty. Wasted. While our people live in overcrowded camps.”

  “They will say it is not their responsibility, Finnikin.”

  “Then whose responsibility are we?”

  “They will say that they have done enough! That our people need to help themselves. To integrate. They claim they have no control over the outlaws who harrass some of the camps. No control over their own people, while ours are at the mercy of the oppressed of each land who relish the opportunity to be an oppressor.”

  “Is that what you believe?”

  Lord August stared at him. “Do you think I don’t continually ask myself if I could have done more? Do you think I don’t visit the people in those camps and want to take every one of them into my home? But whom do I choose, Finnikin? The motherless child? The pregnant woman? The man who has lost his entire family?” He shook his head, and Finnikin knew he was being dismissed. “Tell the king something he might find useful, and he may come to your aid.”

  Finnikin stood, hopelessness rendering him speechless.

  “Then tell him this.”

  The voice came from behind him. A strong voice, yet hoarse as if it were new to speech. She spoke in the Lumateran language, and it sent a shiver through Finnikin’s body.

  “Tell him the impostor king did not work alone,” Evanjalin said, making her way across the room toward them. “Tell him that Lumatere was never the objective, just the means.” She stood by Finnikin’s side. With a voice, she looked different. Words put fire in her eyes in the same way music had.

  “What better way for cunning Charyn to take control of Belegonia, its most powerful rival, than to place a puppet ruler in the kingdom between them. And when Charyn decides to plunder Belegonia, the bloodshed in Lumatere will pale in comparison.”

  Lord August walked toward them until he was eye to eye with Evanjalin. Finnikin could hardly breathe. She brushed up against his arm, and he felt her tremble.

  “Who are you to know such things?” the duke whispered in their mother tongue.

  “When one is silent, those around speak even more, my lord.”

  “And what do you hope to achieve with this information?” He looked at Finnikin. “What’s going on here, Finnikin?”

  “You asked for something the king of Belegonia did not already know,” Finnikin said, as if rehearsed. “We have given it. So what can we take away with us in return? An audience with your king, perhaps?”

  Lord August’s face was white with fury. He grabbed hold of Finnikin roughly. “My king,” he spat, “is dead. The king of Belegonia is my employer. Never mistake one for the other.”

  The girl reached over and released Lord August’s hands from Finnikin. “So if we are to return to Lumatere, you would leave all this?” she asked. “Security. Privilege. In exchange for a kingdom that could be razed to the ground at any moment? Just say your lands are no longer there, my lord? Maybe worked by another who believes that he is entitled to them over you. Would you be so eager to return to Lumatere if you had nothing to go back to?”

  He stared at the two standing before him. “Led by Balthazar and his First Man?” he asked. “Protected by the King’s Guard? Blessed by the priest-king? Say the words, and I will be on my knees with my hands in the soil, planting the first seed.”

  Neither Finnikin nor Evanjalin spoke until they were outside the duke’s residence. Finnikin grabbed her arm.“Explain to me your vow of silence!” he demanded in Lumateran.

  She placed a finger across his lips. “Sir Topher would be furious to know that you’re speaking our mother tongue in public,” she said quietly, surprising him even more by speaking Belegonian.

  When they returned to the camp, the thief from Sarnak was tied to a tree. The boy let out a string of expletives, spittle flying, hatred in his eyes. Still filled with his own anger, Finnikin walked over and grabbed him by the hair.

  “My mother, unlike yours, never exchanged sexual favors for a piece of silver,” he said, addressing the first insult by banging the boy’s head against the trunk of the tree. “And,” he said with another resounding thump, “although I’m very familiar with that part of the female body, I take offense at being labeled one.”

  “I’m presuming by your mood that things did not go well with the duke,” Sir Topher called from where he sat by the fire.

  Finnikin joined him. “She spoke.”

  “Evanjalin?” Sir Topher was on his feet in an instant. “What did she say to you?”

  “She spoke Lumateran in the presence of the Duke. And later she spoke to me in Belegonian.”

  Sir Topher glanced over to where Evanjalin was preparing their supper. “Finnikin, what did she tell you?” he asked urgently.

  “What you have always suspected about the impostor king and the attack on Lumatere.”

  Sir Topher paled. “Puppet king to the Charynites?”

  Finnikin nodded.

  “And Lord August?”

  “He will take it to the king of Belegonia, but only if we return to Lumatere with my father’s Guard. More talk about Balthazar as well.”

  “Empaths,” Sir Topher said, his eyes still on the novice as she busied herself plucking a pheasant. “It’s the empaths who are sensing something.”

  “I thought they were all put to death.”

  “No, only those who belonged to the Forest Dwellers. There seem to have been others with the gift, especially among the Flatlanders and the Monts. I believe it’s why Saro of the Monts keeps his people well hidden.”

  Sir Topher walked over to where the girl was sitting. Feathers were stuck to her fingers and parts of her shift.

  “Pick a language,” Finnikin said stiffly. “She seems to know a few.”

  The novice stood, her eyes moving from Finnikin to Sir Topher. “I only know the language of my parents and Belegonian,” she said quietly in Belegonian. “And I can speak a little Sarnak.”

  Sir Topher’s breath caught. “Is there anything else you need to tell us, Evanjalin?”

  She shook her head, and her bottom lip began to quiver.

  “There’s no need to be afraid,” Sir Topher continued gently. “Where did you hear about Charyn’s plan for Belegonia?”

  She leaned close, whispering into his ear, “Balthazar.”

  Finnikin saw confusion on Sir Topher’s face.

  “Please don’t be angry, Sir Topher,” she said. “Please take me to the Monts. They will know what to do, I promise you. On my life, I promise you.”

  “And you believe them to be in Sorel?”

  She hesitated for a moment and then nodded.

  The thief was cackling with laughter. “Crying,” he mimicked. “So sad. Want someone to cut my froat open and feed it to the dogs.”

  The girl did not respond, and after a moment Sir Topher walked away. “Come, Finnikin. Practice.”

/>   But Finnikin stayed. “Why is it that you choose silence, Evanjalin?” he said. “Something to hide?”

  Her eyes met his. “Why speak when I can respond to your whistle like a dog?”

  He gave a humorless laugh. There was nothing simple about this one.

  “And anyway, I was so enjoying the discussions about fragile Lady Zarah.”

  He and Sir Topher had discussed Lord Tascan’s daughter in Osterian. Finnikin’s eyes narrowed as he tried to bite back his anger. What they didn’t know about this girl could fill the Book of Lumatere.

  “Is that jealousy I hear in your voice?” he asked.

  “Jealousy? Of a vacuous member of the nobility who trills like a bird, according to Sir Topher?”

  “Your voice could do with a bit more of a trill,” he said.

  “Really? Because yours could do with a bit more refinement. For someone who’s supposed to be the future king’s First Man, you sound like a fishmonger.”

  “First,” he seethed, “I belong to the future King’s Guard and second, my father was the son of a fishmonger, so I would choose my insults more carefully if I were you.”

  “Finnikin! Practice,” Sir Topher called out again.

  Evanjalin returned to the task with the pheasant as if Finnikin were no longer there.

  “You have a very dark heart,” he accused.

  “It’s good of you to recognize, Finnikin,” she said without looking up. “There’s hope for you yet.”

  The road to Sorel from Belegonia ran through ancient caverns said to be the dwelling place of the darkest gods in the land. Travelers preferred the ocean route between the two kingdoms despite the piracy on the open seas, and Finnikin could understand why. The journey through the caverns took most of the day. He was forced to stoop for the entire time and felt hounded by the carvings of grotesque forms, half-human, half-animal, on the walls around them. Yellow painted eyes tracked him, while outstretched clawlike fingers traced an icy line along his arm whenever he brushed against the jagged rock.

  There was little reprieve when they reached the capital. Sorel was a kingdom of stone and rubble, its terrain as unrelenting as Sendecane. The dryness in the air caused them to choke each time they tried to speak, and rough pieces of stone cut into Finnikin’s thin leather boots. He could not help but notice the bloodied feet of the novice, and he cursed her for whatever it was that drove her on. Lately she had taken the lead, though when he thought back, he realized that she had done so since Sendecane.

  Sorel had a darkness to its core, much like Charyn. But if Charyn was a knife that could slice its victim with quick and deadly precision, justice in Sorel was a blunt blade that dug and tunneled into the flesh, leaving its victim to die a long and painful death. Sorel had been Lumatere’s only competitor in the export of ore from its mines and had reveled in the catastrophe of the unspeakable, tripling export fees and bleeding the surrounding kingdoms dry. The king used the mines as a prison, and it was rumored that some inmates had not seen light of day for as long as Finnikin had been alive. Worse still were the stories of the slave children, forced to work in the mines during the day and locked up underground at night. For once Finnikin was grateful that he and Sir Topher and the thief were fair in coloring and even more grateful that the novice’s hair was shorn.

  “Keep your head down,” he warned her at the heavily guarded border town. “They distrust those with dark eyes, and this is one place we do not want attention drawn to us.”

  Finnikin passed through safely; not even the quiver of arrows he wore on his back and the bow that hung from his side drew the attention of the guards. But the novice did. They grabbed her by the coarse cloth of her shift, almost choking her. Finnikin lunged toward them, but she held out her hand to stop him. He watched as one soldier forced her to her knees, checking behind her ears for any marks of the phlux, which the people of Sorel believed the exiles of Lumatere carried in their bodies and spread across the land.

  The soldier showed no emotion. Unlike in Sarnak, there was no hatred caused by hunger and poverty. There was nothing but a sense of superiority taught from an early age and a strong aversion to foreigners. When the same soldier forced Evanjalin’s mouth open and shoved his fingers inside, Finnikin’s fury returned and he made a grab for Trevanion’s sword, only to be pinned back by Sir Topher.

  “You will make things worse!” his mentor hissed in his ear. “You’re putting her life at risk.”

  The thief of Sarnak snickered with glee.

  In the village, Evanjalin was sick at his feet. Finnikin suspected it came from the memory of the soldier’s filthy fingers inside her mouth. Without thinking, he held her up and wiped her face with the hem of his shirt. Their eyes met, and he saw a bleakness there that made him choke. Suddenly he wanted the power to wipe such hopelessness away. That moment in front of the guards, he had allowed emotion to cloud his reason. Yet he felt no regret. He understood, with a clarity that confused him, that if anyone dared touch her again, his sword would not stay in its scabbard.

  She pulled away and gestured to an inn at the edge of the main square. “I want to wash my face,” she mumbled, walking toward it.

  He went to follow, but Sir Topher’s voice stopped him.

  “Finnikin. Give her a moment.”

  Later, they set up camp at the base of an escarpment. While Sir Topher dozed and the thief from Sarnak swore from his shackles, Evanjalin began to climb the rock face.

  “Stay here,” Finnikin ordered, but if he had learned anything about the novice, it was that she did as she pleased, and so he found himself climbing after her. Though cursing her inwardly, he could not help marveling at her fearlessness and the ease with which she ascended the rock in her bare feet.

  When he reached the top, she was standing on a narrow ledge of granite that protruded over the camp below. But it was the view to the west that took his breath away, a last glimpse of Belegonia in the evening light.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said, speaking in their mother tongue.

  He stood silently, struggling with the pleasure he felt as she spoke their language.

  “Say something,” she said as the sun began to disappear and the air chilled. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  With Sir Topher he spoke of strategies and dividing land between exiles and the best crops to grow and the politics of the country they found themselves in. They trained with practice swords, dealt with disappointing dukes, and quarreled with an ambassador obsessed with protocol. But in ten years, no one had ever asked what he was thinking. And he knew that the novice Evanjalin was asking for more than just his thoughts. She wanted the part of him he fought to keep hidden. The part that held his foolish hopes and aching memories.

  “I miss hearing our mother tongue,” he found himself saying. “Speaking it. Sir Topher has always been strict about using only the language of the country we are in, but when I dream, it’s in Lumateran. Don’t you love it? The way it comes from the throat, guttural and forced. Speaks to me of hard work. So different from the romance of the Belegonian and Osterian tongues.”

  There was a soft smile on her face and for a moment he forgot they were on this cliff, staring across at the stone and rubble of Sorel. “I miss the music of the voices in the crowded marketplace in my Rock Village, or in the king’s court, where everyone talked over the top of one another. I can’t tell you how many times I heard the king bellow, ‘Quiet! Too much talking!’ And that was just at the dinner table with his wife and children.”

  She laughed, and the sound soothed him.

  “I swear it’s true. The queen, she was the loudest. ‘Is it my curse to have the worst behaved children in the land? Vestie, you are to apologize to Nurse, or I will have you cleaning the privy for the rest of the week! Balthazar, you are not the ruler of this kingdom yet, and even when you are, you will eat at the table like a human being.’”

  Evanjalin’s laughter was infectious, and he continued with the mimicry. He had loved his life in the Roc
k Village, but not as much as life in the king’s court. In the palace, there were Balthazar and the beautiful spirited princesses, and most of all Trevanion. His heart would burst with pride whenever he witnessed his father’s importance. Sometimes, deep in the night when on watch, Trevanion would take him from his bed and they would sit on the keep and stare out at the world below. Often Lady Beatriss would join them, shivering in the night air, and Trevanion would gather them both in his embrace to keep them warm.

  He could feel Evanjalin’s eyes on him as the sun before them disappeared at a speed beyond reckoning. “Then I will demand that you speak Lumateran when we are alone,” Evanjalin said, interrupting his thoughts.

  “Will you?” he mocked. “And why is that?”

  “Because without our language, we have lost ourselves. Who are we without our words?”

  “Scum of the earth,” he said bitterly. “In some kingdoms, they have removed all traces of Lumatere from the exiles. We are in their land now and will speak their tongue or none at all. Our punishment for the pathetic course of our lives.”

  “So men cease to speak,” she said softly.

  Men who in Lumatere had voices loud and passionate, who provided for their families and were respected in their villages. Now they sat in silence and relied on their children to translate for them as if they were helpless babes. Finnikin wondered what it did to a man who once stood proud. How could he pass on his stories without a language?

  “And how Lumaterans loved to speak,” Finnikin said. “Shout from hilltops, bellow in the marketplace, sing from the barges on the river. I had a favorite place, the rock of three wonders at the crest of my village. I would climb it with Balthazar and Lucian of the Monts. You would have known him, of course, being a Mont.”

  She nodded. “Son of Saro.”

  “We had a healthy dislike for each other. He would call me ‘trog boy.’ Repeatedly.”

  “And how would you respond?” she asked with a laugh.

  “By calling him ‘son of an inbred.’ Repeatedly. Balthazar would judge who could come up with the worst insult. I would win, of course. Monts are such easy targets.”