wanting to capture it in his hands.
'Finnikin of the Rock!' he roared, and then turned back to where she stood, her eyes blazing with excitement. 'Son of Trevanion of the Lumateran River people and Bartolina of the Rock!' He beat his chest dramatically.
She laughed and stepped closer to him. 'Mortal enemy of the bastard impostor!' she yelled.
He thought for a moment, then gave a nod of approval. 'Trusted servant of the king's First Man, Sir Topher of the royal court of Lumatere!'
'Follower of our beloved Balthazar!'
'Son of a man who once loved Lady Beatriss of the Lumateran Flatlands!'
'Daughter of those slaughtered in innocence!'
'Brother of one taken away before she drew her first breath!'
'Sister to those who loved her with all their heart!'
She had moved too close to the edge of the rock, and with a sharp intake of breath, he grabbed her around the waist, the strong band of his arm pressing her back into his chest. 'Foolish girl,' he said almost gently, his lips close to her ear. 'You could have gone over the side.'
A shudder passed through her, and then she pulled away. 'We should go,' she murmured.
'Trust me, Evanjalin,' he said, holding out his hand. Trembling, she took it, and they made their way down the rock face in silence. But already he missed her voice, and when he helped her over the last of the stones, he found his finger tracing the bruise around her mouth.
Within the hollow rock he could see the anxious figure of Sir Topher.
'We're here, sir.'
'Don't wander too far. You know how strange a place this is.'
At supper, Finnikin and Evanjalin ate their bread and cheese in silence while Sir Topher watched them carefully. Even the thief seemed subdued. Later, as Finnikin wrote in the
'Join us,' he said quietly. 'Sir Topher is telling stories of his journeys with the king.'
There was a hint of a smile on her face.
'What?' he asked defensively.
'When you speak Lumateran, your accent sings like those of the River.'
'It was either that, or
She laughed, but it turned into a sob and she covered her mouth. He stepped forward and lifted her chin with his finger.
'Bend to their will, Finnikin,' she whispered. 'And keep yourself alive.'
'Whose will?' he murmured, leaning his head toward her.
The anxiousness in Sir Topher's voice snapped him out of his trance at the same time as he heard the horses' hooves. He turned toward the camp and saw five Sorelian soldiers riding toward them, flame sticks in their hands.
'Where is the traitor who claims to be the dead prince of Lumatere?' the one in the lead asked, dismounting.
Finnikin was stunned. Sir Topher turned to him in confusion, and in the dancing firelight Finnikin saw a trace of fear on the older man's face. The thief from Sarnak had paled. Thieves across the land knew to keep out of the mines of Sorel.
Finnikin's first inclination was to protect the girl, and he was relieved that the soldiers were looking for an impostor of Balthazar rather than someone who knew where the heir was.
'There is no impostor among us,' Sir Topher said pleasantly. 'We are Belegonian merchants eager to trade in a kingdom so rich in bounty.'
'Why accuse us of such a thing?' Finnikin asked, but the soldiers looked straight past him to where Evanjalin stood.
'Is this the one?' the soldier asked.
'She is no one,' Finnikin said firmly, blocking his path.
Then the soldier nodded and Finnikin turned, bewildered, his blood running cold.
For the novice Evanjalin had lifted her hand and was pointing a finger.
Straight in his direction.
Chapter 7
Deep in the bowels of the mines of Sorel, the prisoner lay facing the rusted steel bars of the cave he crawled into each night. His bulky frame curled to fit the confines of the space, his body almost folded in half. He despised this witching hour, when he was at the mercy of his thoughts. Sometimes they stirred him into a madness of grief. Most times they made him want to beat his head to a pulp against the stone and end his life once and for all.
At his eye level, he watched feet being dragged along the narrow corridor outside his cage. There were fifty other cages spanning both sides of this stretch of cave. One was the holding cell for newly arrested prisoners, where they spent a week while the Sorelian authorities decided to which prison they would be sent. Most of the time, if they were young, they did not live beyond the third day.
He tried to ignore the fervor that accompanied the arrival of a new prisoner. He could tell this one was young by the heightened excitement of both prisoners and guards. New prisoners broke the monotony and delivered opportunities for the most base of men. If he allowed himself to, he would feel a sick kind of sorrow for the boy. But the prisoner had made a point to do anything but feel.
'They say he's a fighter. Are you going to join in the play?'
The ugly face of the night guard filled his vision as the man peered into his cage. There was a tradition in the mines, where new prisoners were fought over and conquered, owned like some kind of prize, by men who had ceased to be men. Despite his massive bulk, the prisoner had not escaped the degradation of the prison mines' traditions when he first arrived.
Another guard appeared. 'You have a visitor.'
He responded with silence. It was well known among the other inmates that this prisoner did not speak. He ate. He worked. He emptied his bowels. He fought like a demon if anyone chose to make him an enemy, but he never spoke.
'Did you hear, scum from the bottom of a pit of shit? You have a visitor.'
He heard the clatter of keys, and then he was dragged out of his cage by the wild knot of hair that half- shrouded his face. At the end of the tunnel, he was thrown into a larger cell and shoved up against its damp stone wall. But still he refused to react. If there was one weapon he had against these savages, it was not acknowledging their existence.
He heard the clatter of keys again and was hauled around to see a figure enter. The lad was young, that was evident. Hair shorn to the scalp, large dark eyes. And then he realized he was not looking at a boy, but a girl dressed in the dull gray shift worn by the Lagrami novices.
The guard looked at both of them, an ugly smile plastered on his face. The girl waited for him to leave before she spoke.
'I did the minister a favor, and he offered me one in return,' she said quietly. 'I told him I had a perverse interest in infamous traitors.'
It was not her words that made him flinch, but the sound of his mother tongue. It had been some years since he had heard it spoken. Not since the ambassador of Lumatere had visited him during his early days in this prison.
'They say you are the most unguarded inmate in the mines, sir. That there is no more ideal a prisoner than one who is locked up in his own prison.'
