Finnikin smiled at the lad’s eagerness. “Then they’ll need you in the Valley, Sefton. The Guard is training there. Tell them I sent you.”
A woman Trevanion’s age held a hand to Finnikin’s face. “Ask of us anything, lad.”
“The claimant in their barracks?”
She nodded. “I heard the Charynites speak. They arrested a boy in the woods and believed him to belong to our community. Whatever it was about this boy, he was the reason they came to arrest us.”
“Did they mention a girl? Evanjalin?” Finnikin asked.
She shook her head. “Just the boy.”
He squeezed her hand in thanks and stood in the middle of the chaos. Some of the exiles were still close to tears. Moss dealt with them calmly as Saro instructed his people. The decision was made to rest for the night under the guard of the Monts in the foothills, then go to the Valley of Tranquillity at dawn. Finnikin tried to breathe normally, but breathing made his chest ache, and the sight of Lucian approaching with Sir Topher, an expression of superiority on the Mont’s face, made him want to lunge at his childhood nemesis.
“Where’s my father, Sir Topher?”
“Go with the Monts, Finnikin,” Sir Topher said evenly. “Saro wants you to speak with Yata, who will be keen to hear of Evanjalin.”
Yata. Balthazar and Lucian’s grandmother, matriarch of the Monts, mother of the dead queen.
“We need to find them,” Finnikin insisted. “We need to cross the river. Don’t ask me to stand here and do nothing.”
“You’ve done enough, Finnikin. Your father and Perri will take care of locating Evanjalin and Froi. Rest. In the next few days, you are going to need everything inside of you. Everything.”
Lucian of the Monts stood by, arms folded, waiting. He pointed up the hill, and when Finnikin didn’t move, he grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him along.
They said little to each other as they walked through the trees and began to climb. The day had turned cold and blustery, and Finnikin envied Lucian his long fleeced coat. He pulled his own coat tighter around him as they traveled up the hillside toward where he imagined the rest of the Monts were hidden.
“Sheep shit,” Lucian warned a second after Finnikin stepped in it.
The Mont sauntered ahead. Finnikin followed him, muttering. The path had become narrow and steep. When they passed a water trough on the track, Finnikin smelled the sheep instantly. Although the valley behind them was bathed in sunlight, there was little protection from the elements up on the hill. But the Monts had never been interested in creature comforts. In the mountains they had been sentinels for the Charyn border. Mont children were born to defend from the moment they could walk. It was what Balthazar had adored and envied about his cousin. Although Balthazar was the prince, more often Lucian was their leader. The better hunter. The better fighter. The fiercest and most loyal of allies. He had once carried Finnikin all day on his back when Finnikin was bitten by a snake. He had sucked the venom out himself and held Finnikin until help came. Like he would a brother.
“But they can’t control their emotions,” Balthazar would whisper to Finnikin, who had no idea, like the prince, what that meant.
Until he witnessed the grieving of the Monts on the first day of exile. Unabashed, unashamed. Sometimes he envied it, wanted to rage at the world, bite his knuckles, gnash his teeth. Spray the air with his fury. But Finnikin belonged to the Rock people, contained, like those of the Flatlands.
“Sheep shit.”
Bastard.
Finally they reached a wide summit. Scattered across the grass was an assortment of tents, beautifully colored, each one bordered with flowers and pebbles. Children ran among the tents, and women sat in circles, their heads close, their fingers busily sewing. Goats, cows, horses, donkeys, pigs, chickens, and perfectly aligned vegetable gardens dotted the hill settlement. The Monts had found their little corner of the world, one day’s ride from their homeland.
“Tents?” Finnikin scoffed. “You’ve been here ten years and you’ve never built homes?”
“So?” Lucian asked.
“Well, wouldn’t this be a home to settle in?”
“These are hills, fool. We’re mountain people. This is nothing like home.”
“Balthazar always said —”
Lucian shoved him. “And here we don’t talk about Balthazar or the princesses or the queen or the king. Do you understand?”
Finnikin shook his head in disgust. “You live in tents; you don’t talk about the past. You exiles are all alike,” he said. “Pretending it didn’t happen.”
“We are no exiles!”
Lucian’s fist connected with Finnikin’s cheek. The blow unleashed something in Finnikin, a need to cause as much pain as possible, to destroy. He pounded into Lucian with the full force of the rage that had built up inside of him. Each punch he delivered to the Mont’s face or body lessened the numbness he had felt since Perri’s revelation in the meadow. But Finnikin knew that something more than rage was driving him. He sensed the same emotion from Lucian, who now had him trapped with an elbow to the throat and a knee on the thigh, exactly where his pledge-wound lay.
“We’ve been with our people from the very beginning,” Lucian spat, “so we’re exiled from no one. And our yata lost five grandchildren and her daughter that night. It’s heartbreak, trog boy. Not pretense.”
And then both of them were at it again, hammering fists into each other until at last they exhausted their anger and, clutching on to each other, collapsed onto the ground.
Finnikin had no idea how long they lay on their backs, staring up at the sky, side by side yet refusing to acknowledge each other’s presence.
“Come,” Lucian said finally, his voice husky. He got to his feet and extended a hand to Finnikin. “We need to clean up. My yata will skin me alive if she sees us this way.”
At the entrance of Yata’s tent, Lucian gave Finnikin a shove and a look of reprimand. “Don’t mention my cousins,” he said gruffly. “She may seem strong, but she will never recover from losing them.”
Finnikin nodded, and when Lucian called out a greeting, they entered the large tent. Candles burned brightly and flowers scented the air. The matriarch of the Monts sat weaving, her hair in long curls of gray, her eyes dark and probing. She was the symbolic yata to all the Monts, but the grandmother of Lucian and his cousins. She smiled up at her grandson and then at Finnikin. He could still see the handsome woman she had been when he was a child. In those days, her hair had been mostly black and there was more flesh on her frame, but the strength in her eyes had not diminished.
“Finnikin of the Rock,” she said, her voice husky. What is it with these Mont women? he thought. Sixty-five years old and he was still blushing at the sound of her voice.
He bent to kiss her cheek three times, following the Mont custom. One for the recipient, one for the giver, and one for the goddess, who was part of their union. “My father and his men and Sir Topher travel with me.”
“So finally we return home?” she asked, breaking a thread with her teeth and putting her work aside. She beckoned them toward her, and they sat on a fleeced blanket, where she poured them cold tea and fed them sweet bread.
“We return to the Valley of Tranquillity first,” Finnikin acknowledged.
“They have found another Mont, Yata,” Lucian said. “Her name is Evanjalin and she walks the sleep of those inside Lumatere. Finnikin has led her to us.”
“No, she has led me,” Finnikin corrected.
Yata’s dark eyes widened with surprise. “Inside Lumatere? Such power,” she said, shaking her head.
“I believe so,” Finnikin said. “She swears that Lady Beatriss of the Flatlands lives, as do the novices of the cloister of Sagrami and Tesadora of the Forest Dwellers.”
Yata placed a trembling hand to her lips. “How were the novices saved? And Lady Beatriss? Her babe?”
“She is certain that my father and Lady Beatriss’s child died,” Finnikin s
aid sadly. “As for the novices of Sagrami, they were hidden during the five days of the unspeakable. I suspect by Perri the Savage.” He watched as Yata shivered, despite the warmth in the tent. “Can you tell me more about walking the sleep?”
“It began with Seranonna of the Forest Dwellers,” she said in a soft voice. “I was giving birth to my fifth child. Seranonna lived far away from the Monts, but she swore she heard my cries of pain and so she made a journey through the Forest, into the village, across the Flatlands, over the River, and into the Mountains. She delivered my daughter, a beautiful girl who would grow up to be queen.” She sighed, and Finnikin saw Lucian sit forward, ready to leap up if she needed him.
“I was ill for a long time after I gave birth, so Seranonna stayed. She had just given birth to a child who had lived only a week and her breasts were full of milk, so my babe suckled from the breast of one who worshipped Lagrami and one who worshipped Sagrami. Every child Seranonna delivered thereafter during her time with us had the gift of walking the sleep.”
“Perhaps Evanjalin and the child in Lumatere she walks alongside were delivered by Seranonna as well,” Lucian said.
“Not possible,” Finnikin replied. “The child was born after Seranonna’s death.”
“Evanjalin travels with another?” Yata asked, intrigued.
“Is that rare?” Finnikin said.
She nodded. “Most of our women who have the gift walk alone. Although sometimes I would walk the sleep with my daughter, the queen. Perhaps there is a strong bloodline between Evanjalin and the child.”
She pointed to the jug when she noticed that his cup was empty. “And do not be shy with the sweet bread. Lucian certainly isn’t.”
Finnikin glanced at Lucian, whose mouth was full but whose dark eyes were alert with interest. “What is she like? Evanjalin of the Monts?” he asked.
Finnikin thought for a moment. “Strong. In here,” he said, thumping his chest twice. “Humbling. Ruthless. Cunning. She can love people with a fierceness that I have not seen before.” He smiled when he realized he was talking too much. “And she looks like a Mont woman, so of course she’s very beautiful.”
“Does she belong to you, Finnikin?” Yata asked, her eyes piercing.
“No,” he said after a moment. “But she belongs to my heart. I feel her absence strongly and it brings me . . . sorrow.” He looked across at Lucian, who made a pretense of wiping a tear from his eye. Knowing he had said enough, Finnikin stood to politely excuse himself.
“My grandson has missed you all these years,” Yata said.
“Balthazar?”
Lucian sent him a scathing look, and Finnikin instantly regretted his stupidity.
“I’m sorry . . .”
“No.” She chuckled, holding out a hand to her grandson to help her to her feet. “Lucian has missed you.”
“I have not!” Lucian looked horrified.
She tugged his ear. “I walk your sleep, silly boy. Not a place your yata wants to be most of the time, but there are some moments that bring me joy.”
Lucian turned red. She kissed them both, and Finnikin found comfort in the feel of her hands on his face. Lucian had lost his mother young but had always had his yata close by. It was what Finnikin missed about his great-aunt Celestina and even Lady Beatriss.
The matriarch of the Monts studied Finnikin’s face carefully, as if she saw the things written on his mind and soul. “How you warm my heart, Finnikin of the Rock,” she said. “Bring your Evanjalin to us. If she guided you here, she wants to be with her people.”
That night, after he heard Sir Topher’s heavy snores and the world of the Monts seemed to be asleep, Finnikin crept out of the tent. He wrapped his arms around himself, his teeth chattering uncontrollably as he made his way toward Lucian’s tent. He knew what he had to do. He also knew he could not do it alone and that Lucian was his only choice. Although it annoyed him to have to ask the Mont for help, his desire to find Evanjalin was greater.
“Lucian!” he hissed. “Inbred. Get dressed. Get your sword and your bow. You’re coming with me. No arguing.”
“Already dressed. Sword in hand. You’re late, trog boy.”
Finnikin hid his surprise as Lucian joined him. The Mont wore a cap over his head, his bulky frame layered with a wool jerkin and trousers of animal hide. He threw Finnikin a fleece coat, and they crouched behind his tent, watching the three Monts on guard. The moon hung low in the sky, and it seemed to Finnikin that he could almost reach out and touch it.
“Are we finding your woman first or saving the boy?”
“She’s not my woman, Lucian, and only inbred Monts go around saying ‘your woman.’”
“Not your woman? Good. By the sounds of things, I could be very interested in this Mont girl. So now that you’ve given me permission . . . Finnikin? Did you just jab me in the back? If not, and that was something else pressing into me . . . really, I’m not interested in trog boys. But I can introduce you to my kinsman, Torin.”
“You talk too much, Mont! So shut your mouth and don’t ever think of her as yours.”
From where they crouched, Finnikin could see the camp fires of the exiles under the guard of Saro and his men in the foothills below. He wondered how they would sleep after a day that had begun in captivity and ended in the comfort and protection of their people.
Lucian took the lead as they half stumbled toward the woods that lead to the river. Finnikin knew the Mont would be familiar with every inch of these hills. After watching Lucian carousing with his cousins earlier that day, he suspected that they spent many a night getting up to no good, far from the watchful eyes of their elders.
They waded through the river, holding their weapons high above their heads. The only noise to break the silence was their breathing and the sound of the lapping water. When they reached the Charyn riverbank, Finnikin indicated for Lucian to follow the trail the soldiers had taken deep into woods. The foliage was so dense that little moonlight penetrated and at times they held on to each other for fear of being separated. Branches scratched their faces and raised tree roots caused them to trip and stumble. Then Lucian seemed to vanish into thin air, and it was only the thud of his body hitting hard earth that stopped Finnikin in his tracks. He knelt and patted the ground before him, feeling the place where the earth fell away to nothing.
“Lucian!” he whispered. “Are you down there?”
“Where else would I be?” Lucian hissed back.
“Shh! What can you see?” Finnikin could barely make out Lucian’s form crawling around in the darkness.
“There’s nothing down here,” Lucian said. “Just a big empty hole. Freshly dug, by the smell of things. Can you see me waving my hand to you?”
Finnikin heard the snap of a twig close by. “Don’t speak!” he hissed. He lay facedown, holding his breath, staying alert to the sounds around them.
“Talk,” Lucian finally said into the silence. “I’ll follow your voice and try to climb up.”
Finnikin moved closer to the edge, extending his arm and half his body into the hole for Lucian to grip on to, when suddenly a hand grabbed his leg. He swiveled around, kicking the intruder in the gut with as much force as he could muster. He heard a grunt of surprise and he scrambled for his dagger, only to have it jerked out of his hand. In the next second, he was thrust against the trunk of a tree with a fist at his throat.
“Finn?” his father said.
He shrugged free, shoving Trevanion away, furious that his father would plan the rescue without him. Perri was on his feet beside Trevanion, winded from the kick to his stomach.
“Lucian’s down the hole,” Finnikin muttered. He moved away and lay flat on the ground again, extending his arm into the empty space. His father held him by the feet, and when they could see Lucian’s head, Perri reached over and hauled him out by the scruff of his neck.
There was a moment of tense silence.
“You had no right to leave me behind,” Finnikin said tersely.
/> Trevanion grabbed him. “What do you think we are out here to do, Finn?” he said. “Have a chat with these animals? Do you think I want to drag you along to see what I excel in? Not languages, Finnikin. Killing. That’s what I do best, and if we ever want to see the boy again that’s what we’ll be doing.”
“And Evanjalin?”
There was no response. Trevanion motioned for Perri to lead the way, and they followed him to the edge of the woods. In the near distance, they could see flame sticks at the four corners of the soldiers” barracks.
“We wait here,” Trevanion said in a low voice, guiding them to the hollow trunk of a tree. They sat huddled together in the small space. An owl hooted, and slowly the sounds of the night creatures, some shuffling and measured, others with scuttling speed, resumed around them.
“If she’s —” Finnikin began.
Perri put a finger to his lips. He pointed toward the barracks and then pointed up, indicating that the Charynites may have soldiers posted in the trees close by. Finnikin watched as Perri took out his dagger and put out a hand to stop him.
“If she’s out here and not locked up in the barracks, I’ll know,” he said. He took a deep breath and whistled.
“You share a whistle?” Trevanion said in disbelief.
“Do you have a problem with that?” Finnikin asked.
“I have a few whistles,” Lucian murmured. “Very confusing sometimes.”
“Whistles are meant for combat,” Trevanion said. “Not wooing women. Women do not understand whistles.”
“Shh! Shh!” Finnikin jabbed his father with his elbow. “Did you hear that?”
Finnikin whistled again and held up a hand for silence. Even the night creatures seemed to obey. They waited. Nothing.
And then they heard it, faintly but coming toward them, and Finnikin felt as if he could breathe again. He grinned. “Is she not the smartest girl in the land?”
“And the biggest liar and the most unpredictable,” Perri muttered. Finnikin crawled out from the tree, but Perri was already on his feet. “Let me do the honors,” he said, disappearing.