The Lumatere Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy

  Finnikin crooked an elbow around Lucian’s neck and pressed the Mont’s forehead against his face. Then Trevanion stood by his son as they watched Lucian tenderly lift his father’s body and carry him away.

  “Will you come with me to the river?” Trevanion asked. Most of the Monts, except those tending the dying, had left.

  Finnikin nodded listlessly. He was numb as he followed his father. In the morning light, villagers had appeared as if from nowhere. It was eerie to see so many faces, yet hear no sound. They looked different from the exiles. No better or worse, but damaged all the same. He wanted to feel a sense of home, as he had always dreamed he would. Lumaterans were connected to the land, yet he feared the dislocation for him would last forever. He had once read in a book from the ancients that one could never truly return home after years of absence. Was he cursed with such a fate?

  He swung onto the back of Trevanion’s horse, and they rode through their smoldering land, following the waterway that wound through the Flatlands, where the blackened stumps and leafless trees looked like skeletons, specters of death. Cottages were burned to the ground, and the barges on the river were nothing more than black pieces of timber floating on stagnant water. Finnikin sat on the banks with his father. Above them in the Rock Village, Lumaterans emerged in the hundreds.

  “Tell me,” Trevanion said, his face blackened with ash and streaked with blood. “At the gate with Evanjalin? What took place?”

  “Isaboe,” Finnikin corrected quietly. He rubbed his eyes, wondering when everything would stop looking blurred. “She lied.”

  There was silence before his father spoke. “The queen omits rather than lies, Finnikin. For a purpose. One that will humble us each time. I feel shame that I can hardly remember the child who grew up to be the novice Evanjalin. I remember the older princesses and Balthazar, but not the little girl.”

  “She omitted. Walking the sleep was not the only part of the gift. Or curse.” Finnikin laughed bitterly. “Oh, to have such a gift. To sense the pain every single time a Lumateran suffers. She feels every death, every torture, every moment of grief. And when she walked the sleep of those inside, it was not just that of our helpless people.” He looked at his father. “She walked the sleep of the assassins,” he whispered, his voice catching. “Those of the impostor King’s Guard who were Lumateran.”

  Trevanion cursed.

  “The king died last. They made him watch, and what they did to those princesses and his queen I will never repeat as long as I live. But Isaboe knows, for she walked the sleep of a monster who was witness to it, and if I could have one wish in my life,” he said through gritted teeth, “it would be that I could tear from her mind the memory of such depravity. Sweet goddess, that I would have such a gift. I would give my life for it.” And then he was sobbing, despairing at his uselessness.

  Trevanion watched Finnikin, unable to offer any hope. That men could conquer kingdoms and fight armies of such power and might, yet not be able to offer comfort to one so beloved. Where Finnikin’s wish was to have the power to remove the ugliness of memory, Trevanion’s was to have the gift of words needed to bring solace to his son.

  “Finn, look,” he said after a while. “The river’s beginning to flow.”

  As Trevanion and Finnikin rode back into the palace village, the first exiles from the Valley entered Lumatere through the main gate. Froi was leading the priest-king, and the silence of those walking into the kingdom seemed strained.

  Lumaterans stared at each other as strangers. Those who had tended the injured within the palace grounds walked to a nearby hill and watched the procession of exiles coming toward them. Finnikin and Trevanion swung off their horse and made their way between the villagers. Finnikin could hear Trevanion’s name being whispered. And his. They must have looked frightening with their knotted hair and blood-soaked clothing. Beside him, he heard a sharp cry, and a moment later he was jostled out of the way by one of the women. She stood on her toes, her neck outstretched as she searched through the exiles coming their way.

  “Asbrey, my brother,” she said quietly. She spun around to look at the older man standing behind her. “Fa? It’s Asbrey, your son, with a babe in his hands.” Her eyes stayed on the group behind Froi and the priest-king, and then she placed a hand over her mouth as if to hold back a sob. “And my ma.”

  Finnikin turned to look at the man. His eyes were dull with shock, but his daughter began running, stumbling toward her family as she called out their names. Finnikin saw an expression of annoyance cross Froi’s face when he sensed the commotion around him. The thief stood in front of the priest-king while the exiles behind him began to push past, trying to get to the young woman. But one of them tripped at Froi’s feet, the one holding the baby, and the priest-king managed to catch the child and thrust it into Froi’s hands to keep it from being smothered. So Froi held it high above their heads as it proclaimed its freedom, the cries heard all across the village and the square beyond and the palace up above.

  And it was this image that was stamped on the hearts and minds of all who were present that day.

  Of Froi of the Exiles holding the future of Lumatere in his hands.

  From where Trevanion stood, he could see nothing but burnt stumps and acrid smoke. It had been a week since they had entered Lumatere. Longer since the deposed impostor king heard the strange whispers from those inside the kingdom that spoke of the return of the heir. As a punishment, the impostor’s men had set fire to the kingdom, destroying most of the cottages and the arable land of the Flatlands. In this village, only the manor house had survived. Unlike other parts of Lumatere, where plowing and rebuilding had begun, the fields here would need to be cleared before they were fit to plow, a task that seemed backbreaking. Yet each day as he rode by, resisting the urge to stop, Trevanion watched them as they worked. This village of Sennington. Beatriss’s village.

  He dismounted at the road and walked his horse down the long narrow path that led to the house. Several men were loading carts with rubble and bits of timber, the charred remains of a village. The workers stopped as he passed, exchanging glances and nodding in his direction.

  He reached the front door and knocked. When there was no response, he entered tentatively, following the noise of chatter into the parlor. It seemed as if most of the village of Sennington was in the room. He recognized exiles among them. Some stood, but most sat around a long table, chewing on corn cobs and drinking soup. He guessed there was not much in their bowls but water and flavoring, yet their talk was cheerful.

  And then they noticed him.

  The room grew silent, and suddenly she was there, standing by the stove. She stared at him, pot in hand. Her hair, once long fine waves of copper, was short, framing a face darkened by the sun’s rays. She was thinner than he remembered, but neither the exiles nor those trapped inside had much flesh on their bodies. He felt uncomfortable under her gaze, like an intruder.

  “Lady Beatriss.”

  Still no one spoke and then one of the men stood. Trevanion remembered him as Beatriss’s cousin, a wealthy merchant who had spent much of his time traveling the land. Except in the last ten years.

  “Captain Trevanion. Welcome home.” The older man bowed.

  “Excuse my rudeness, Captain Trevanion,” Beatriss said finally as she came forward with a hand extended. Part of him wanted to laugh at the idea of them shaking each other’s hand. Strangers and acquaintances shook hands. Not a man and a woman who had created a child. Not lovers who had cried out their pleasure in unison during those early hours of the morning when the rest of the world was asleep, their bodies speaking silently of never letting go.

  Her voice was the same, if stronger and firmer. But her eyes had changed. He could only remember them looking up at him with trust, or at one of the princesses and the younger children with laughter and affection. During the past week, he had seen from a distance her tenderness with her child, but her innocence and openness were gone.

  The silence
became uncomfortable. Trevanion desperately wished Finnikin were by his side. His son would know what to say. He would charm them all with his honesty, and impress them with his earnestness and knowledge. No one made a move to accommodate him, but Trevanion could not blame them. Lady Beatriss of the Flatlands would never have been arrested and tortured, would never have been subjected to such horror if she had not been his lover.

  The child appeared at the door. Trevanion had seen her frequently during the past week, in the palace village where members of his Guard handed out provisions and instructions. Each time, the sight of this other man’s child was like a blunt ax carving up his insides.

  She clung to her mother, staring up at him. He was suddenly aware of his appearance. He touched his hair, clumped in knots. There had been more pressing things to attend to during the past week, although Lady Abian had ordered him to stop by that very afternoon so she could attend to his hair and beard. He felt as he had when he was back in the mines of Sorel and Finnikin had first set eyes on him. Ashamed.

  “I am sorry to have disturbed you,” he said quietly, and abruptly left the room.

  He was halfway up the path and almost at his horse when he realized he was being trailed by the child. She said nothing, just watched him as she tried to keep up. Her tiny face was framed by thick copper curls, and she stared at him with large blue eyes.

  “Vestie!”

  They both turned and watched as Beatriss hurried toward them. She picked up her skirt to stop herself from tripping, and when she reached them, she took her daughter’s hand. He stared at the child’s arm, saw the scratches inflicted by their queen in her desperation.

  “I’m sorry for her forwardness, Captain Trevanion,” Beatriss said. “There are many new people passing through and it must be overwhelming for our children.”

  Their children. Not his.

  He looked around the village, or what was left of it, for a distraction. “We would recommend that you move your people to Fenton,” he said gruffly. “There is a pocket of fertile land there, the exact size of Sennington.”

  He watched her face pale. “Move my villagers away from their home?” she asked.

  “There is nothing left here, Lady Beatriss.”

  She looked at the blackened earth around her. “Burning my land to the ground, Captain Trevanion, has been a constant these past ten years.”

  But Beatriss the Bold refuses to stop planting.

  The child was looking from one to the other.

  “In the coming week, will you welcome Sir Topher and my son, who is assisting him in the census?” he asked. “I have heard you and your villagers have kept the best records, and we need help in locating names . . . people . . . graves.”

  She nodded and he walked toward his horse.

  Her voice stopped him. “It brings me great joy that you have been reunited with your beloved boy.”

  “Sadly not a boy anymore.” He thought for a moment and nodded. “But a joy all the same.”

  “Finnikin,” the child announced.

  Trevanion stared down at her, and his look seemed to frighten Beatriss. But not the child. She returned the stare, an inquisitive expression on her face as if she were attempting to recognize him. And when the awkwardness and silence became too much, Trevanion climbed on his horse and rode away.

  When Finnikin returned home to the Rock Village, his great-aunt Celestina wept for what seemed an eternity. Although he now felt like a stranger among his mother’s people, he allowed them to fuss over him, though they did so with a certain shyness and hesitation. At first he thought it was because he was one of the few exiles from the Rock, but one night when his great-aunt kissed his forehead, he saw the sparkle in her eyes. “Is it true, Finnikin, that the queen has chosen you to be her king?”

  “Do not speak of such things, Aunt Celestina,” he said quietly. “When there’s so much sadness in our kingdom.”

  Although Sir Topher had sent messengers requesting his presence, Finnikin could not bring himself to walk the road to the palace. Instead he focused on the task the queen’s First Man had assigned him, to account for every one of their citizens based on the last census. It was with a heavy heart that Finnikin began his new role, yet what started as a task of asking heartbreaking questions turned into something that marked the end of years of silence for their people.

  “Talk,” he would suggest gently wherever he went. It had been what the novice Evanjalin had allowed him to do on the rock in Sorel. What the queen feared had happened to her people: nobody had talked these past ten years. They had whispered words to survive. Muttered curses beneath their breath. Murmured plans in the deep of the night. Even exchanged words of love. But nobody had told their stories, until Finnikin asked them to.

  In the days that followed, he listened, sitting at their tables, if they were fortunate enough to have a roof over their heads, or working alongside them harnessed to a plow, baling hay, thatching roofs. He heard tales of anguish from people as fractured as the land they were rebuilding. He saw more tears in that time than he had seen in his lifetime, but he wrote with a steady hand so the lives of these Lumaterans would not be forgotten. Perhaps, he thought, these chronicles would be read in centuries to come. Perhaps they would act as a deterrent. He could not believe anyone who heard such stories of wickedness would allow it to happen again. Never had he loved his fellow Lumaterans more than in those moments when they told their stories of terror.

  “If we challenged or resisted,” Jorge of the Flatlands told him, “the bastard king’s men would return the next day and say, ‘Pick one.’” The man fought back a sob. “‘Pick one you love to die. If not, you sacrifice your whole family. Your whole village.’”

  “Men were on their knees begging, ‘Take me. Take me instead,’” Roison of the River explained.

  “We would sit and discuss our plan, Finnikin,” Egbert of the Rock whispered. “We would work out, as a family, who we would choose to die alongside us if we were forced to decide. Better to make the choice as a family, rather than in moments where there would be no time for good-byes.”

  “So men would choose their sons?” Finnikin asked, sickened by the idea of Trevanion having to make such a decision.

  The man looked at him with tears running down his face. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “No father would leave his daughter behind to be raped and abused. We chose our daughters. Always our daughters.”

  As Finnikin and Sir Topher had expected, the royal treasury was almost intact; the curse meant that the impostor king and his men had not had opportunity to squander the gold. Horses and oxen purchased from Osteria and Belegonia provided much needed assistance to those plowing the Flatlands, and the construction of cottages became a priority. Both Osteria and Belegonia had volunteered to send workers to help with the rebuilding, but Trevanion refused to allow any foreigners into Lumatere and kept the borders heavily guarded. In the first week, the Guard brought back fruit and vegetables from Osteria and hunted the woods for game and rabbits. By the end of the second week, activity on the river had begun and the first of the barges came upstream from Belegonia. Finnikin stood with Sefton and the lads, watching his father as he supervised the goods being unloaded. Trevanion’s hair and beard had been clipped in the same fashion as the rest of his Guard, which made him seem more like the Trevanion of old. Yet there was still a haunted look in his eyes, and Finnikin knew it would be a long while before songs were sung on the riverbank and laughter rang through the air once more.

  That afternoon Finnikin traveled with Sir Topher to see Lady Beatriss. He had caught a glimpse of her earlier that week in the palace village but was reluctant to approach for fear of not knowing what to say. But when he stood before her in the parlor of the manor house, he realized no words were required. She took his face in her hands and kissed him gently on the forehead, then gestured for them to sit, and began to prepare the tea.

  “Please do not serve me, Lady Beatriss. It humbles me to have you do so,” Finniki
n said.

  “It should humble you to have anyone serve you, Finnikin,” she said without reprimand.

  On the table before them, Sir Topher laid out the pages of their records. “We have already recorded the names of all the exiles. If there is a cross marked next to the name, it means we know they died outside the kingdom,” Sir Topher said. “If there are two strokes, we know they live.”

  She looked at him for a moment. “Exiles? We called you ‘our lost ones.’” She looked at the records in front of her, her fingers brushing gently over the names. A small sound escaped her lips and she covered her mouth with her hand. “Lord Selric and his family?”

  Sir Topher nodded soberly. “There was a plague in Charyn. Three years ago.”

  “All of them?” she asked in a hushed tone. “All those beautiful children?”

  Sir Topher cleared his throat and nodded again.

  She went back to the list on the table. “The family of Sym the potter?”

  “Sarnak,” Finnikin said flatly.

  Her face paled. “Sarnak,” she whispered. “The queen spoke to us about it just yesterday, when I visited the cloister of Sagrami with Lady Abian. I could tell the queen exactly when the massacre had taken place. When my Vestie was three years old, she screamed for days until she had no voice left. I could only sit by and watch over her. Tesadora gave her a tonic that would make her sleep. We had no idea what had happened, only that it must have been catastrophic for our people.”

  “The queen walked your sleep that night and said it was the reason for her journey to the cloister in Sendecane,” Sir Topher said gently.

  “I was never aware of her walking my sleep. It was a shock when the queen spoke of it. For a long time we could not question Vestie, for she began to speak late, and even then it was only a few words. But I always sensed there was something different about my child each month during those days of walking.”