The Lumatere Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy

  “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 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.

  “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 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 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. S
eranonna 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 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 of the goddess complete. The same Lord who had left his people behind in Lumatere without a second thought all these years, Finnikin thought bitterly.

  “If the goddess wills that I am to enter the kingdom of the gods and not Lumatere this day, I appoint Sir Kristopher of the Flatlands as my successor to lead my people. In turn, Sir Topher, you are to appoint a leader for each province. My uncle is to govern the Mont people, and Lord August, the Flatlands. But those who are to govern the Rock and the Forest and the River will be chosen with the consideration of our people who have lived within the walls of Lumatere these past ten years.”

  More muttering and this time Finnikin glared at the perpetrators.

  “Sir Ambassador, upon our taking back Lumatere, you will send word to the king and queen of every kingdom of Skuldenore. Tell them that the impostor rules no more and that any nation who chooses not to recognize Lumatere as a sovereignty led by either myself or my successor will be our enemy.

  “You are to ensure Sarnak is notified that no access will be given to our river if they do not bring to justice those responsible for the slaughter of our people on their southern border two years ago. Advise them that I am witness to the massacre that took place. Also ensure it is made clear to the rest of the land that the kingdom of Lumatere recognizes the original inhabitants of Yutlind Sud, and honors the southern king’s right to the throne in the south and the current king’s right to the throne in the north.” She turned to the priest-king. “Blessed Barakah, in time, and with the collaboration of both the worshippers of Lagrami and Sagrami, the goddess is to be worshipped complete.”

  There was silence when she finished speaking, and Finnikin saw her look to Sir Topher for approval. The queen’s First Man stood and held out his hand to help her to her feet.

  “May the blessing of the one goddess be with you all,” she said quietly, before turning to Finnikin. “I am ready.”

  “Should the queen not be dressed . . . more appropriately?” Lady Milla sniffed.

  Isaboe looked down at the shift given to her by her yata.

  “At her coronation, the queen will be dressed appropriately,” Finnikin bit out. “Today, we might approach things from a more practical point of view, Lady Milla. Unless you would like to take her place at the gate and the queen can dress in silks and relax in her tent?”

  There were more mutterings between the dukes and duchesses about “impudence.” Lady Abian gave them a withering look, but Lord Artor spoke up.

  “If the queen enters Lumatere dressed —”

  “The queen enters Lumatere dressed as she is!” Sir Topher said firmly. “There will be no more discussion about the queen’s dress.”

  Isaboe gripped Finnikin’s hand as they left the tent. “Do I not look like a queen?” she asked in a distressed whisper. “Is that what people are saying?”

  He leaned forward to whisper in her ear. “They are saying you look like a goddess.”

  “It’s time,” Trevanion said.

  Moss and Perri waited outside. “We’ve only got as far as the moat. A fierce force holds us back. As it always has,” Moss informed them.

  “All the way around?” Trevanion asked.

  “At every border,” Perri said.

  Trevanion looked toward the tempest and then at Finnikin. “I will see you on the other side of the main gate,” he said. “Do what you have to do, and I will see you within the walls where you will fight by my side. Do you hear me?”

  Finnikin nodded, still gripping the queen’s hand. Her face was pale, and her fear so potent that he felt nausea rise up in his throat.

  “Perri will accompany you as far as he can,” Trevanion said, gently cupping Isaboe’s chin. There was a tsking sound from one of the duchesses, and Finnikin bit his tongue to not lash out at her.

  “Tell them to move away, Sir Topher,” Finnikin said. “They’re upsetting the queen.”

  Accompanied by the Guard, Finnikin and the queen walked toward the tempest, where Lucian and Froi stood waiting. The queen quickly hugged her cousin and then stared at Froi. Finnikin could see the tears of anger in the boy’s eyes.

  “He had the better plan,” Froi said, pointing at Finnikin. “Second Lumatere. No blood curses or spells or not knowing whever you live or die. We can stay here. People like it in the Valley. I heard them say. They just want you here wif them.”

  “Half her people are inside, Froi,” Lucian said quietly. “And this is not a way to live.”

  Froi turned to Trevanion and Perri. “I’ll never do anover evil fing if we stay here. Never. I will do anyfing you want. How can you let them do this, Captain? It’s Finnikin and Evanjalin. I fort you loved him more than anyfing.”

  Trevanion did not respond. His face was pinched and unreadable.

  The queen took Froi’s hand and slipped something into it. He stared down before slowly opening his fingers. The ruby ring.

  “It’s worth everything, Froi. Priceless. Whether I return or not, it belongs to you for the rest of your life. Not because you deserve it, for I do not know how to measure the worth of one so young and I will never forget what you tried to do to me in that loft in Sorel. But when I look at it, I think of how loved I was by the owner of this ring, and by my mother and my precious sisters and my beloved brother. You asked me once what my magic was. That is my magic.”

  Froi held the ring miserably in his hand, clutching his body as if in pain.

  Finnikin looked at his father one last time. Then he took the queen’s hand and walked up to the main gate accompanied by Perri, until the guard was stopped by a force that pushed him back. He watched the queen turn around. The Guard sat on their horses, swords ready. Behind them an army of exiles held bows trained toward the kingdom walls. In the distance he saw Sir Topher and the queen’s yata.

  They took a step together, and suddenly Finnikin felt the path to the main gate beneath his feet.

  On the grassy knoll, Trevanion stood with his men, holding his breath. And then the queen and Finnikin disappeared beyond the tempest and suddenly there was a gasp in unison across
the Valley of Tranquillity.

  “Sagrami,” Perri said in wonder. “We’re going home.”

  Finnikin stared at the gate in front of them. At the intricate beauty of the inscriptions around the edges, written in the language of the ancients. When he turned, the queen took a step back, trembling.

  “I should be brave like the gods,” she said quietly.

  He held out his hand. “Each time the gods have whispered your name to me, their voices have trembled.”

  Her eyes were fixed on the gate. “We would sneak out each night because I wanted to see the unicorn.”

  Finnikin remembered the lies they would tell Isaboe, of the unicorn in the forest that would appear only to a princess.

  “How did you get past my father’s guard at this gate?”

  “One morning Balthazar and I were playing in the garden, along that narrow stretch where the walls of the kingdom and the outer walls of the palace merge into one. Balthazar decided we would scrape our names on one of the stones of the wall so that one day another young prince or princess might know that Balthazar and Isaboe had lived there. As we carved our names, we found that a stone in the wall had become dislodged. Perhaps it happened during the tremor of years before. For months after, deep in the night, we would sneak out of the palace through the cook’s chamber and crawl through the wall into the forest.” She looked at him with sorrow. “Because I wanted to see the unicorn. And all that time the enemy was watching us and that’s how they came into my home and slaughtered my family. Because I wanted to see the unicorn.”

  “No,” he said gently. “Balthazar wanted to trap the silver wolf. It’s all we spoke about.”

  He held both hands out to her, to fulfill the words of the curse. She took his hands and he heaved against the gate, hoping it might miraculously fall open. Nothing.

  “The blood on your hands that night? Do you remember where it came from?” he asked.

  “Here and here,” she said, touching her knuckles and palms. “From knocking at the . . .”

  They both realized at the same moment and he took one of her hands and led her along the wall, his fingers tracing any mark. And then he saw them. So tiny and faded with years. The bloody imprint of Isaboe’s hand.