“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 baby, 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.
“On behalf of the government of Lumatere, we order you to release our people,” Sir Topher said in the Charyn language. Finnikin heard the tremble of rage in his voice.
The Charynite laughed, but with little amusement. “The government of Lumatere? Old man, if you were on this side of the river, you would be imprisoned for treason against our neighbor’s king for such a statement.” He spoke to them as if he were reprimanding disobedient children. Finnikin translated for Trevanion, Moss, and Perri.
“Translate for me word for word, Finnikin,” his father instructed, his eyes never leaving the Charynite. “Tell him that if we were on his side of the river, we would be the only ones standing. Tell him the present king of Lumatere is an impostor and a murderer falsely placed on the throne by the ignorant.”
Finnikin relayed his father’s message.
“To call the Lu
materan king an impostor is an offense against every kingdom of the land,” the Charynite snapped, his anger growing.
“There have been worse offenses perpetrated against Lumatere by its neighboring kingdoms,” Finnikin translated for his father.
“And you are?” the Charyn soldier asked. The question was directed at Trevanion.
Finnikin translated the question, knowing the inevitable. The Charynite soldier would be assured a promotion to the Charyn palace with the capture of Trevanion, but Finnikin knew his father had no choice. The exiles would either live if Trevanion succeeded, or die if they failed. Nothing in between.
“Captain of the Lumateran King’s Guard,” Trevanion answered, looking the man square in the eye.
The head of every Lumateran lad shot up, their expressions astonished, and the flickers of hope that appeared in their eyes made Finnikin feel like a god. One or two of the lads extended their fists in a show of solidarity. Moss and Perri held theirs up in response, and the Charynite soldiers began to look uneasy, waiting for the translation. With great satisfaction, Finnikin watched the beads of sweat appear on their faces when he spoke.
“What is your purpose with these people?” Finnikin asked on Trevanion’s behalf.
“We have in our barracks a youth who claims to be the heir to the throne of Lumatere,” the Charynite said. “A throne belonging to another. Approved by our king ten years ago. Imagine what an insult it is to us when one takes it upon himself to render our king’s decision null and void. It is obvious that these people were harboring the claimant, and the moment we ascertain the truth, we will let these people go, Captain.”
“And the moment you let our people go,” Trevanion said after hearing Finnikin’s translation, “I will convince my men here to let you live, squad leader.”
“Lieutenant,” the man corrected. “You think we are frightened to cross to your side? You think the Osterians will go to war with us if we do? You think they won’t turn a blind eye to anything we choose to do at the arse-end of their kingdom to a bunch of dirty Lumateran scum? There are five of you, Captain, and many more of us. You have made a mistake today.”
The lieutenant grabbed one of the Lumateran lads by his hair and jerked him to his feet, holding a sword to his throat. There was a whimper from one of the women — the mother, Finnikin suspected — but his attention was drawn back to the face of the lad standing before him. All that separated them was a narrow body of water. Over the years Finnikin had seen many Lumaterans his age lying in unmarked graves or dying from fever or weighed down by the apathy of exile. But this lad was living and had a fire in his eyes, a fury.
“What needs to be done,” Trevanion murmured. Then he was in the river, less than a foot away from the Charynite, his bow pointed directly between the man’s eyes. Within seconds Finnikin had removed a bolt from his quiver, cocked his longbow, and was beside his father, his arrow pointed in the same spot. He could feel the breath of the Charynite and Lumateran lad before him. Around him every sword was drawn and behind him every arrow.
“Perhaps there are only five of us, Lieutenant,” Finnikin acknowledged, not taking his eyes off the Charynite, “but know this. Before any of your men raise their weapons, any one of us will have released at least five bolts. You will be my first hit,” he said. “Second, third, fourth, and fifth go to those guarding my peers. My father will aim for those with swords pointed at the women of Lumatere and my friends will finish off the rest with time to spare. So today you decide whether you live or die.”
The Lieutenant met Finnikin’s stare. Then his eyes flicked away for a brief moment, and suddenly Finnikin felt someone by his side. He did not look away from the Charynite but saw the tip of a longbow as the person beside him adopted the same stance as his and his father’s.
“Are we speaking Charyn?” Finnikin heard a gruff voice ask. “Mine’s a bit weak, although it is one of the rules of my father to learn the language of your neighbor. It could come in handy when you live at the arse-end of a country beside the biggest arseholes in the land.”
Finnikin heard Sir Topher choke back a laugh.
“So please excuse my poor accent,” the voice continued. “And may I draw your attention to the hills behind me?”
Finnikin watched the lieutenant raise his eyes and grow noticeably pale.
“May I remind you that Osterian goatherds cannot declare war on Charyn,” the lieutenant said snidely.
“Certainly, and I will inform you in return that we’re not Osterian,” the voice continued. “We’re Monts. Lucian of the Monts, if you please, and when it comes to speed and accuracy with an arrow, my father’s better than his,” he said, gesturing to Finnikin. “So if that is fear I read on your face, I commend you for being smart enough to recognize a threat.”
Finnikin felt weak with relief. His childhood rival and friend stood beside him. He was filled with a sense of hope. If the Monts were in the hills, then Evanjalin would be among her people. But the feeling did not last. The lieutenant had begun to loosen his grip on the lad, and when he raised his left hand, Finnikin caught sight of a ruby ring on his finger.
He shuddered as he realized that the Charynite had crossed paths with Froi. He tried to recall what the soldier had said. That in their barracks they had a claimant to the throne.
“Sir Topher?” he said quietly.
“I see it, Finnikin.”
“Do not react,” Trevanion said.
The Charynite watched the exchange.
“Lieutenant?” one of the other soldiers called out to him, fear in his voice. “They’re coming down the hill. Hundreds.”
He watched as the lieutenant swallowed, his eyes still on Trevanion.
“Let our people go unharmed and we will spare you,” Sir Topher said.
As more Monts appeared with their weapons raised, Trevanion lowered his longbow and moved closer to the bank, careful not to place his foot on Charyn land. He held out a hand to the women. One stepped forward with a sob, placing her two children in Trevanion’s arms. Slowly the business of crossing the river took place. Finnikin stayed in position beside Lucian, their bows trained on the lieutenant, who still held on to his prisoner. It was not until half of the exiles had crossed the river that the Charynite shoved the boy forward and then retreated.
They had little time to spare, but Lucian of the Monts took a moment to size up his old childhood friend. Finnikin thought there was more than a touch of arrogance in the way the Mont swaggered about as if he had single-handedly saved the day. But he was too sick with worry to respond.
“Do you have Evanjalin?” he asked Lucian, pulling him away from where he was shamelessly charming one of the exile girls.
“Who?” Lucian asked.
“She’s a Mont,” Finnikin pressed.
“We have no Monts named Evanjalin,” he said dismissively.
Finnikin gave up on Lucian and went searching for Saro, the leader of the Monts and Lucian’s father. The man embraced him. Older than Trevanion by at least ten years, his build was intimidating but he had a gentle smile. “How proud your father must be, Finnikin.”
“Thank you, sir. But we’re looking for a friend who has been traveling with us. A Mont girl named Evanjalin. Has she made contact with you these past two days?”
Saro shook his head, a look of confusion on his face. “You can’t possibly have traveled with a Mont, Finnikin. We have all our people. We accounted for every single one in the Valley that terrible day.”
“Her name is Evanjalin,” Finnikin repeated. “She claims to be a Mont. She was entrusted to us by the High Priestess at the cloister of Lagrami in Sendecane. Somehow she has led us here . . . with the belief that Balthazar was among you.”
“Balthazar?” Saro whispered. “My beloved nephew?”
“Balthazar’s dead,” Lucian said sharply. He stood behind his father, glaring at Finnikin. “It was fool’s talk that said he lived. And fool’s talk that these men claim to have him.”
“But they
do have at least one of ours,” Finnikin insisted, searching the area for his father. There was a sea of faces around him but no one familiar. “We have been traveling with two young Lumaterans, a youth named Froi and a girl called Evanjalin. A Mont,” he said firmly, looking at Saro. “We separated two days ago and held great hope that Evanjalin made her way to you. She claims she walks through the sleep of those inside Lumatere, accompanied by a child,” he added.
Lucian and Saro looked shocked, and Finnikin felt frustrated that he would have to explain the sleep yet again.
“So far away?” Saro asked.
“What do you mean, ‘so far away’?” Finnikin asked.
“Some of our women have the gift of the walk,” Saro explained. “But they can only walk the sleep of those in our community. In close proximity. Here on the hill, or on the mountain when we lived back home. We have never had anyone who is able to walk through the sleep of those so far away.”
“Your women walk through people’s sleep?” Finnikin asked.
“Some of our gifted ones,” Saro replied.
“It’s called the ‘gift of the walk,’” Lucian said, glowering at Finnikin. “I feel you disrespect it.”
“Lucian,” his father instructed, “take Finnikin up to your yata. She will want to know about this girl. I need to organize these people. Trevanion and Sir Topher want them taken to the Valley of Tranquillity at first light.”
Lucian grabbed hold of Finnikin but he pulled away. He needed Trevanion and Perri. They would have to cross the river to find Evanjalin and Froi, and they could not afford to waste a moment. Finnikin walked over to the lad who had been the Charynite’s prisoner.
“Sefton,” the lad introduced himself, clasping Finnikin’s arm.
“Tell me what they said about the claimant, Sefton,” Finnikin said.
“I understood nothing of their language,” Sefton said, “but my aunt worked in the village and speaks some Charyn. Esta!” he called out to one of the women. “Esta! Finnikin needs your help.” He turned back to Finnikin. “Let me come along. I am fast with a longbow.”