Finnikin of the Rock (37 page)

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Lord August nodded. "Abie saw it instantly. She knew our previous queen well. And Evanjalin confirmed who she was to my wife and daughter."

As they approached the main tent, a party of nobles dressed in silks came toward them.

"Lord Castian and his mob. Try not to fall asleep as he speaks," Lord August muttered.

Long days of waiting followed. Two thousand and twelve exiles had returned, and more trickled in each day. Finnikin could not help but think of the Valley as it had been ten years ago on the day of the curse, back when they had no idea what lay ahead but the clearest memory of what they had left behind. Now the years had numbed their people into silence, as again they waited for the unknown, too frightened to hope for anything more than a queen in their midst. But there was no news of when they would attempt to access the main gate and little was seen of her.

Finnikin spent his time with his father and the Guard as they drew up plans for the attack.

"When we get past the main gate," Trevanion informed his men, squeezed into an overcrowded tent, "we attack them on ground with as many as one thousand missiles in the first minute. I want the impostor king and his men decimated with the sheer volume of our arrows, and I want our body count close to nothing. Then the Guard takes the palace, along with the best of the archers and swordsmen among the exiles."

"But how do we get past the main gate?" one of the guards asked.

"The queen will know what to do," Trevanion said firmly, daring anyone to challenge him. He looked over to Saro, who had joined them with Lucian and a number of the Monts. "The

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moment the bastards know we're in, they'll ride to the mountains and attempt to cross the border to Charyn. The Charynites may be waiting there to invade once they see the curse has lifted. They will want the impostor king dead almost as much as we do, for no other reason than to stop him from talking. Saro, you ride to your Mountains the moment we enter. Take all your warriors." Trevanion turned back to his Guard. "Make sure those of you working with a team of exiles explain to them their role before the fighting begins."

"When will we enter the kingdom?" Saro asked.

Trevanion's eyes met Finnikin's across the crowded tent. "It is the queen's decision," he said. "She is waiting for a sign."

Finnikin trained Sefton and the village lads who had been part of the group of exiles taken hostage by the Charynites. They were Finnikin's age, strong and sturdy young men. They had recognized Finnikin when he entered the Valley and trailed around after him, keen to play a part in the upcoming battle. Froi was usually close by. The thief spent his time being a messenger, racing from one end of the Valley to the other, ensuring that communication between the Guard, the nobility, the queen's First Man, the queen and the priest-king stayed open. Not once did the boy utter a word of complaint, and Finnikin felt a fierce protectiveness toward him. He came from strong stock, that was evident. But it was all they would ever know. There were no telltale signs of lineage. No memories of anything Lumateran before his days in Sarnak. Froi was one of the orphans of their land whose life as a Lumateran would begin at the age he was now.

On the fifth afternoon, while handpicking the swiftest archers from a group of exiles, Finnikin found himself being watched by Sir Topher and the priest-king. He had kept his distance from his

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mentor since the day they entered the Valley The knowledge that Sir Topher had been aware of Evanjalin's identity stung Finnikin like a betrayal.

"Sir," Finnikin said politely. "Blessed Barakah." He felt the sharp gaze of the priest-king on him.

"I'll answer your question, Finnikin," Sir Topher said.

"I haven't asked one," Finnikin said gruffly.

"But you've wanted to," Sir Topher said gently, "from the moment it was revealed to you who she was."

Finnikin sighed. He gazed around the Valley, where many of the exiles were reacquainting themselves with their neighbors as they had their names recorded in the
Book of Lumatere.

"Sefton, can you take over?" he called out. He led Sir Topher and the priest-king away from the training ground, toward the camp.

"Did she tell you, or did you work it out yourself?" he asked bluntly as they approached the secured area where the queen was staying.

"She suspected I knew," Sir Topher said truthfully, "but I never imagined that the youngest child of the king and queen would survive. That the tiny creature overshadowed by such brilliant and fearless siblings would be the one to live. Who would have thought?"

"Was it the ring?"

Sir Topher shook his head. "No. The ring was stolen in Lumatere years before the unspeakable. At first I thought her father must have been the thief. Trevanion explained the story she told about winning it back in Sarnak." He paused. "I began to suspect from the moment I truly looked at her face in Sprie. I was there, you see, when the king brought home the queen as a young woman, and each day for the next twenty years I looked

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across at both their very dear faces. I knew the queen's mannerisms, the king's expressions, the other children's traits. But then in Sorel, when you were imprisoned, she said something to me that I'd heard the king say more than once to each of his children. 'Be prepared for the worst, my love, for it lives next door to the best.'"

"You never questioned me about the messenger who directed us to the cloister in Sendecane," Finnikin said.

"Because there was such conviction in your voice. I trusted you, and look where that trust has brought our people. We have achieved what we always wanted, Finnikin. Our exiles together on a piece of land. That itself is enough to give thanks for."

"But you didn't trust me enough to tell me what you suspected." Finnikin could not keep the hurt and anger out of his voice.

"Because I needed you to choose our path, Finnikin, and I was certain that the moment you knew that one of our beloveds lived, guilt would force you into retreat. A childhood delusion makes you believe that somehow your ambition and desires caused their slaughter. Whereas I always believed you were born with the heart of a king. A warrior. The true
resurdus."

Finnikin shook his head.

"But I do doubt you," Sir Topher went on. "Because you doubt yourself. Isaboe isn't just a queen, Finnikin. She is a valuable asset. A tool to use, and she knows that more than anyone in this kingdom. She was born with the knowledge, as were her sisters. If you choose not to be her king, then we will need to make the throne secure through alliances with Osteria or Belegonia."

Finnikin clenched his fist, and the arrow in his hand snapped in half. Sir Topher looked at him with such concern that it made Finnikin's eyes sting with tears.

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"While you've been fighting the possibility of wearing the crown, perhaps others have been preparing you for it," the priest-king spoke up.

"A stolen crown, blessed Barakah. A dead boy's crown," Finnikin said fiercely. "Is it beyond my control? And hers? Have I meant nothing more to her all this time than the fulfillment of a prophecy?" He shook his head bitterly. "The gods make playthings of us, but I would like to have some control over the events of my life."

"Have you not done things according to your own free will, Finnikin?" the priest-king asked. "Because I heard a tale today. Of a twelve-year-old boy, who on a visit to Osteria, as a guest of our ambassador, came across his first exile camp. Nothing ever prepares you for that, does it, lad? You notice the strangest things. You see children whose thickest part of their body is their knees. I could never understand what kept them standing. This boy turned to his mentor that day and said, 'Tell me how to say,
Feed these people.'
But our ambassador and the boy's mentor would not respond. They were guests of the king of Osteria, and although they felt sorrow for the plight of their people they were unable to make it right. How many times had these grown men said to themselves, 'There is nothing I can do.' But the boy would not give up. So he learned the words from one of the Osterian servants, and that day he made his way up to the king of Osteria as he sat on his horse and shouted the words over and over again, 'Feed these people.' He even threw a rock at the king to get his attention. The King's Guard dragged the boy away, of course, and it took our ambassador thirty days to secure his release. Thirty days shackled to a stone wall in the palace dungeon. The punishment for humiliating a king."

Finnikin cast his eyes down.

"Look at me, lad," the priest-king said firmly. "Those people

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were fed, weren't they, Finnikin? Because grown men, including a king, were shamed by a twelve-year-old boy. And from that day on, the king's First Man taught his apprentice to speak the language of almost every kingdom in the land. True?" Finnikin nodded reluctantly.

"The gods do make playthings of us," the priest-king acknowledged. "But it is we mortals who provide them with the tools."

As Finnikin approached the queen's tent, he saw Aldron standing guard.

"I need to see her," he said coldly.

"You're not on my list of people who are allowed in," Aldron said.

"Then may I ask where this list is?" Aldron tapped his head. "It's up here."

"It's good to know that something is."

Aldron smiled in spite of himself. "I will notify her of your presence and ask if she is interested in seeing you." He turned his back for a moment and Finnikin swung him round, his face an inch from Aldron's, anger in every muscle of his body.

"Don't you
ever
turn your back on one who could be a threat to the queen," he snarled. "Don't you
ever
put her in that kind of danger again."

Suddenly Lord August and Sir Topher were there, pulling him away. "What is going on here?" Lord August demanded.

Aldron stared at Finnikin, shrugging his clothing back into place while the others waited for a response. He nodded to Finnikin as if in acknowledgment.

"Nothing," Aldron said quietly. "My mistake."

Inside the tent, Evanjalin stood in a corner, her body tense. A wife of one of the dukes, a self-appointed chaperone, stared at Finnikin

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with a stony countenance. Evanjalin was dressed in the same plain calico gown her
yata
had sewn for her, and there was almost a hungry relief on her face to see him, to see anyone familiar.

"I will find a way," he said, his voice husky, "to go through the main gate without your having to risk--"

"Finnikin, stop," she said quietly.

Her blood will be shed for you to be king.

"I will find a way," he said angrily, gripping her arms. "To keep you safe."

"This is what I always feared," she said. "That you would put me in an ivory tower and keep me hidden. Thank the goddess I didn't reveal the truth six months ago, Finnikin. I would still be in the cloister of Sendecane, or in some boring foreign court being protected."

"It's not right for you to be in here, young man," the duchess called out. "To be touching the queen in such a way!"

Finnikin ignored the woman and kept his eyes on Evanjalin. She was an asset. An article for trade. A commodity to sacrifice. He remembered Sir Topher's words in Lord August's home.
The princesses were always going to be sacrificed for the kingdom.

"Lady Milla, would you be so kind as to leave us, please," Evanjalin said.

She knew how to be strong as well as polite. It was an order, and with a sniff and a last glare at Finnikin, the woman was gone.

"I have said this before, Finnikin. You cannot complete this journey without me by your side. Seranonna prophesied it. You will hold the two hands of the one you pledged to save. My hands," she said.

He recalled their conversation that night in the rock village in Yutlind Sud. When she had questioned the possibility of Balthazar surviving the reentry into Lumatere. All this time she had been

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frightened of dying at the main gate, yet nothing had stopped her. Her courage and fear tore up his insides.

It seemed a lifetime before he found his voice again. "Who is the dark and who is the light?" he asked.

"Perhaps we are both one and the other."

"And the pain that 'shall never cease'?"

Tears welled in her eyes. "That you should experience any pain because of me is an ache I can't bear."

"But what is the pain the curse speaks of?" he repeated gently.

For a moment she didn't respond. "Mine, Finnikin. And that of the whole of Lumatere."

"Then I'll share that burden with you. Now. This very moment."

She shuddered as if she had held her breath for far too long. It was there on her face. The acceptance of her fate.

"Do you need to speak to the Guard?" he asked. "To give them any instructions before I take you to the main gate?"

She nodded.

"We do this now, Evanjalin."

"Isaboe. My name is Isaboe."

Just before dawn they gathered in her tent. The queen, the queen's First Man, the priest-king, the captain of the Guard, the ambassador, five dukes and duchesses, Saro of the Monts, and Finnikin of the Rock.

There was no room for ceremony in such a small space, and the queen sat on the hard ground with the rest of them. Sir Topher nodded for her to begin, but it took a while before she spoke.

"This is my bequest," she said finally, "witnessed by the court of Lumatere in exile in the presence of the goddess complete."

There was a muttering from Lord Freychinat at the mention