She sighed and shook her head. "How long will you wait, Trevanion? A man like you?"
"A man like me will wait for as long as it takes."
They stood and watched the child sprinkle seeds around the grave, humming a sweet tune to herself. When she dropped the little cup that held the seeds, Trevanion walked over to where she stood by the headstone and read the words inscribed upon it: Evanjalin. Beloved child of Trevanion and Beatriss.
He bent to pick up the cup, placing it into the child's hand. On the earth beside the grave was a stray seed. As he laid it on the rich mound of dirt, he felt tiny fingers press into his.
"Like this," Vestie said, patting his hand. "So the seed can take."
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***
CHapteR 50
That night, Finnikin of the Rock dreamed he was to sacrifice the rest of his life for the royal house of Lumatere. The message came to him in a dream from Balthazar and his sisters as he slept in the cottage of the queen's yata in the mountains. Yata did not seem surprised the next morning. "They visit me often, my babies do," she said, pressing a kiss to his temple. "It's time for you to go home, Finnikin. You do not belong in these mountains. You have other places to be."
Five days past, he had returned from Sarnak and somehow found himself traveling to the Monts. He stayed, completing the census and the trade agreements with several of their neighboring kingdoms. As he left Yata's home that morning, he knew that a part of his life was complete and that whatever path he chose, he would experience the ache of unfulfilled dreams. For a moment he allowed himself to feel regret at the thought of never building a cottage by the river with Trevanion. Or living the life of a simple farmer connected to the earth. Or traveling his kingdom, satisfying the nomad he had become. To be Finnikin of the Rock and the Monts and the River
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and the Flatlands and the Forest. To be none of those at all.
Yet he also knew that to lose the queen to another man would be a slow torture every day for the rest of his life.
Lucian walked with him down the mountain. "I will meet with her this evening," Lucian told him, "when we celebrate her return to the palace."
Finnikin did not respond.
"She said it's cruel that everyone she loves is together while she is miserably alone. I could have told her you were turning into a miserable bastard yourself, but instead I told her how much time you've spent working on the archives, flirting with your scribe. Your sweet and passive scribe who lets you be in charge."
Finnikin shook his head, amused in spite of himself.
"I think she was jealous, you know," Lucian continued, waving to a family of Monts who had settled further down the mountain. "Said she would have me beheaded if I said another word."
"We don't behead people in Lumatere," Finnikin said dryly.
"Ah, Finnikin, in Lumatere we do whatever our queen wants."
At the base of the mountain, Lucian embraced him and handed him a package. "Yata wants you to give this to Lady Beatriss of the Flatlands. Can you find time to pass by today before the celebrations?"
Celebrations indeed, Finnikin thought bitterly. It would be a long time before the kingdom remembered how to celebrate.
Finnikin knocked on the front door of the manor house in Sennington, the package under his arm. When there was no response, he entered the house and walked toward the kitchen.
"Finnikin?" he heard Lady Beatriss call, her tone warm and welcoming. He reached the doorway but stopped when he saw Tesadora standing by the stove, her arms folded, an expression of
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disapproval and hostility on her face. Lady Abian sat with Lady Beatriss at the table.
"I'm sorry' he muttered, cursing himself for his bad timing. "But Yata of the Monts requested that I pass by this way to give you a package." He placed it on the table as the three women stared at him.
"Stay, Finnikin," Lady Beatriss said. "Drink tea with us. You must be exhausted after your travels, and you'll need to rest before tonight."
"Your appearance is a disgrace," Tesadora said sharply.
He touched his hair self-consciously. It resembled tufts of lamb's wool. Yata had managed to braid it, although she had found it difficult to separate the knotted strands. The color had dulled to a murky shade.
"I will have it taken care of tomorrow," he conceded.
"Sit," Tesadora said firmly. "You are fortunate that I have time today."
Fortunate indeed, he thought. He reluctantly sat, and Lady Beatriss handed Tesadora a cloth to place around his neck.
Tesadora tugged at his hair as she cut at it with a knife. It was easy to hate her. There was no gentleness in her hands, no softness in her eyes, despite the beauty of her face. He watched the thick clumps of his hair carpet the floor. Already he felt naked with half of it gone. As he went to feel the bristles of his hair, Tesadora slapped his hand away.
He stared at the package on the table and then at Lady Beatriss. He realized too late that she had expressed no interest in it. She looked at him solemnly.
"What is it that you fear, Little Finch?" she asked gently.
"I fear that the queen accuses me of running the kingdom from my rock village, yet she runs it from the hearts of you women,
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along with her yata," he said, anger in his voice. "Is this where you planned the poisoning of the impostor king?" There was silence.
"No," Lady Abian said finally. "But if such a thing were to be spoken about, Finnikin, it would have been in my parlor. Next to the room where my three sons play. Oh, to think of a world where I would have to give them up to a futile war."
"Why is it that you keep our queen waiting?" Tesadora demanded.
Finnikin longed to leave, but Tesadora had the knife against his scalp.
"I believe I know what it is, Finnikin," Lady Beatriss said. "To be king would mean your father would one day lie prostrate at your feet."
Tesadora held him down by his remaining hair as he tried to leap to his feet. "I will never allow my father to lie prostrate at my feet!"
She kept a firm hold on his hair. "Then you are not the man for our queen. So let her go, Finnikin. Go to her now and tell her that she must choose a king. When she hears it from you, she will know there is no future between you. She will not listen to anyone else. The prince of Osteria will have no problem with your father lying prostrate at his feet and in time she will find happiness with him. I hear he's a strapping boy."
Finnikin snorted.
"Nothing will make Lumaterans happier than to know our beloved queen is being taken care of by one who loves her," she continued, pulling viciously at his hair. "Waking each day in the arms of a man who will keep her marriage bed warm and fertile."
He realized he did not hate Tesadora. He despised her. "What
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would a novice of Sagrami know about a bed being kept warm and fertile, Tesadora?" he sneered. "It seems to me that you hate all men."
"Never presume to know my needs or who warms my bed! And if you believe it is men I hate, you are wrong. I despise those who use force and greed as a means of control. Unfortunately for your gender, such traits are found more often in the hearts of men than women. But place me in a room with those women who aligned themselves with the bastard king and I promise there will be a bloodbath I would relish soaking in." She grabbed him by the chin. "What is it about you that stirs the blood of the strongest in our land? For she is the strongest, make no doubt of that."
"Do not underestimate her vulnerabilities," Finnikin said, fuming. "I've seen them. They can destroy her."
"Do you see my hair?" Tesadora asked, tugging at the white strands. "It is this color because I walked some of those sleeps to protect Vestie from the horror of what she would see. This is what the darkness and the terror of the human soul did to me. But the queen? It is not her youth that keeps her hair from going white at such images of horror, Finnikin. It is her strength."
He was silent for a moment.
"Then why was she almost lost to me ... to us," he corrected himself, "when we entered the kingdom?"
"Because your grief at what you saw in those moments was too much for her to bear. Your pain made her weak. Her pain made you strong. Light and dark. Dark and light." Her ice-blue eyes stared into him. "I wonder what it was that my mother saw in you that time in the forest. To look at a boy of eight and see such strength in his character. Enough strength for our beloved girl who would one day rule. Do you remember what Seranonna said to you? Because I remember clearly what she told
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me that very night when I was no more than your age now."
"Her blood will be shed for you to be king," he said quietly.
"No." Tesadora shook her head. "For you to be her king. There's more than one way for you to shed her blood, fool!"
The women stared at him, and he felt his face redden. Lady Beatriss smiled and it embarrassed him even more.
"It's why my mother cursed you with Isaboe's memories as you entered our kingdom. Not as a punishment. 'His pain shall never cease.' How can it, Finnikin, when your empathy for her is so strong? It's so our beloved will never feel alone. Have you not seen her in those moments, Finnikin? When she disappears inside herself and almost lets the darkness consume her. I saw it in the cloister when she was with us. It chilled me to the bone. Your power lies in never allowing her to get lost in those voices."
He remembered a morning the week before, when he was passing the royal entourage on one of their visits to the River people. He watched her from a distance, the distance he had carved out between them since he had discovered her true identity. For one moment, she seemed removed from what was taking place around her. She stood completely still, her gaze fixed on a distant point. She had gone inside herself, as she'd done many times on their journey back to Lumatere. And now he knew what it was that weighed her body down. The agony of those voices he heard as they entered the main gate. The ones she had lived with for years. So he whistled from where he stood and her body stiffened with awareness and slowly she turned in his direction. He held her gaze, knowing her moment of despair had already passed.
And there it was, he thought, as he looked at the women in Beatriss's kitchen. The memory of a look that spoke to him of power. His. A look that made him want to kneel at the feet of his queen and worship her.
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Because it made him feel like a king. "I must go," he said huskily.
"Not in those clothes," Lady Abian said, unwrapping Yata's package.
He walked toward the palace, wearing perfectly cut trousers, a crisp white shirt, and a soft leather cape, his hair cropped to his crown. Many Lumaterans traveled with him, talking quietly, shyly greeting strangers whose paths they crossed on their way to the celebration. He heard them speak of their weariness, but stronger was the desire to be there for their beloved Isaboe, so she could feel the presence of a mother who loved and a father who doted and sisters who cared and a brother who teased. No one was more an orphan to the land than their queen.
He hurried past the priest-king's home, where the holy man sat with Froi, greeting those who were traveling to the palace.
"Finnikin?" the priest-king called out.
"I can't stop, blessed Barakah. Can we speak later?" He could see turrets in the near distance, and his pulse quickened.
"Do not approach her unless you have something worthwhile to say," the priest-king advised.
Finnikin returned to where the priest-king sat, and knelt before him. "And if you hear word that I have said something worthwhile, blessed Barakah, will you sing the Song of Lumatere at first light?" he asked.
The holy man broke into a grin. "On my oath to the goddess complete."
Finnikin nodded and sprang back to his feet. "Finnikin?" Froi said. "Yes, Froi."
"You must give her somefing." The boy's eyes were bright. "If you offer the ruby ring, you die, my friend."
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Froi laughed and shook his head. "Not offering the ruby ring to no one."
"Then I have nothing to give but myself."
He reached the outer edge of town where the bridge marked the end of the Flatlands and the beginning of the palace village. Trevanion was there with some of his men, watching one of the lads training. Finnikin knew that tonight the area around the palace and the queen would be heavily guarded, three circles of guards who would slow him down.
He was suddenly conscious of his appearance. He mumbled a greeting to his father, then called out over his shoulder, "I'll come by later." He crossed the bridge where the river flowed at great speed, as if its life force had not been extinguished for ten long years.
"Finnikin?" he heard his father say. Just his name. But the emotion in that one word made him turn and walk back to where Trevanion stood. He took his father's face in both his hands and kissed him. Like a blessing.
"Your mother walks that path with you," Trevanion said. "With such pride that as I speak... it fills my senses with things I can't put into words. Go," he added gruffly, "or you'll have my Guard thinking I'm soft."
Finnikin broke into a run through the village square, weaving his way among the Lumaterans before him. As the path leading up to the palace became steeper, he could see over the roofs of the cottages on either side, all the way to the land where the Rock Village stood to the west and the mountains to the north.
At least ten guards were stationed at the portcullis of the palace, and Finnikin's arrival was met with a chorus of jeers and laughter. He expected nothing less from his father's men. Kisses were blown his way, accompanied by mock whistles of
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appreciation. He thanked the gods that Aldron was not among them, for his ridicule would have been the loudest. There were taunts and high-pitched declarations of love as Moss grabbed Finnikin, rubbing his knuckles over Finnikin's short berry-colored hair.
In the palace grounds Finnikin heard some of the villagers call out his name in greeting, while others whispered it with feverish excitement. The courtyard on the northwest corner was set up with trestle tables, and palace staff placed huge wooden casks of wine alongside platters of roast peacocks, wood pigeons, and rabbits. Another table was covered with pastries and sweet breads. In the corner by the rosebushes, minstrels played their tunes. The beat of the drum and the twang of the lute caused those around Finnikin to begin to sway, as if their bodies had not forgotten the beauty of music.
"Finnikin?" he heard Sir Topher call out from above. He looked up to where his mentor was standing on the balconette of the first floor, adjusting the cuffs on his sleeve.
"Sir Topher, I need to do something. I promise we'll speak later this night."
Finnikin felt his anxiety take over, his desperation to get to where he knew she stood beyond the cluster of people in the courtyard. He jumped onto one of the empty trestle tables and leaped up to the latticework of the balconette. From up high he could see her in the middle of the courtyard, elevated on a makeshift platform and surrounded by Lady Celie and the young novices of both Lagrami and Sagrami. The Guard formed a circle around them, and he could see Perri allowing people to pay their respects one or two at a time. There was gaiety in the air. She was a giggler, the queen was. He remembered that about Isaboe as a child. Her giggles back then would turn into snorts and then
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laughter. He saw traces of it in these girls, their eyes closed, their hands covering their mouths as they laughed at what she had said. There was no restraint in their mirth, despite the clucking of the overprotective hens of the royal court, who seemed to be battling the Guard to take control of the girls. He remembered what Beatriss had said to him one afternoon. "What was it about those beloved, spirited princesses?" she had asked, tears in her eyes. "I will miss them for the rest of my life. You know how it is with Isaboe, Finnikin? The way she intoxicates you with her hope and her capacity to love."
From his vantage point he could only stare. At the one who intoxicated him. There was a suppleness to her now tha
t showed good health, curves that were lovingly outlined by the ivory silk dress she wore, its wide sleeves pinned to her side. In her thick dark curls she wore flower buds, and on her head was her mother's crown, sparkling with rubies.
She was gracious in her attention to her people. He could tell by the gestures of those who got close that they were complimenting her, and she was accepting the compliments with a poise and charm that had them beaming. She leaned forward to hear their stories, gently asking her guard, Aldron, to move back when he held up a hand of restraint to one who dared to step too close. Beatriss's child was clinging to her sleeve, jumping up for attention. He watched the way the queen gathered the child to her, letting Vestie cling to her waist as she swung the girl from side to side.
"Do not allow her to lead the negotiations, Finnikin. You know how stubborn she is."
Finnikin looked at the queen's First Man with irritation. "This is a private matter, Sir Topher," he said, perspiring from the effort it took to grip the lattice.
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Sir Topher laughed, shaking his head. "Privacy? Finnikin, climb down that trellis, and this moment between you and me will be the last private moment you will ever experience."
But Finnikin no longer cared. Amid shouts of reprimand from the palace staff, he jumped onto the trestle table and then to the ground.
His seed will issue kings, but he will never reign. For she would be Queen of Lumatere. But he would be king to her.
He saw Lucian as he approached, standing with two of the Mont lads and Sefton, leaning against the northern wall and watching the throng before them.
"They are beautiful," Sefton said with a sigh. "But very haughty."
"What are the others doing?" one asked, trying to catch a glimpse of the platform through the crowd.