Finnikin of the Rock

'Later,' Finnikin stressed, pushing them toward the tavern entrance.

Trevanion was staring at the thief, who looked like he was about to spit at him.

'You won't survive the consequences,' Finnikin warned.

'His name is Froi,' Evanjalin said. The thief grunted.

'It's boy,' Finnikin argued. 'It's just that his lip is split and it sounded like Froi.'

'Everyone has a name, Finnikin. You can't just be called boy. His name is Froi.' The thief from Sarnak opened his mouth to speak, but Evanjalin raised a finger to silence him. 'I can sell you as easily as I bought you,' she said icily.

'You didn't buy him. You stole him,' Finnikin pointed out.

'I've worked out his bond rules,' she said to Sir Topher, ignoring the others. 'Like you said once. A new set of them.'

Whatever Sir Topher had suggested, Finnikin could tell he was already regretting it.

'There's something else,' Finnikin said, looking at Trevanion, who had not said a word.

'Of course there is,' Sir Topher muttered. 'Can we take another surprise?'

'I think you can take this one. Evanjalin has found the priest-king.'

Chapter 10

As they entered the exile camp the following day, Sir Topher was speechless. But it was the look on his father's face that stayed in Finnikin's mind for days to come. He knew Trevanion had never seen a camp before, had never imagined the way their people lived these past years, so nothing could prepare him for such desolation. His father understood punishment, imprisonment, and retribution. But this? What crime against the gods had these people committed to condemn them to this life?

'It is worse farther on,' Finnikin warned. The cramped conditions, pools of mud, and stinking puddles made movement through the camp slow. Yet unlike the previous day, there was a slight buzz around them as whispers began to fill the air. And then Finnikin saw it for the first time in the eyes of the man closest to them: a glimmer of hope.

'It's Trevanion of the River,' he heard a woman say. 'And the king's First Man.'

As they went deeper into the camp, more and more exiles emerged from their makeshift homes. By the time they reached the divide between the tent city and the fever camp, they were squeezing their way through crowds of people, children watching hopefully from the shoulders of their fathers, the hunger in their eyes haunting.

A man, his hair white and his eyes the color of milk and sky, pushed his way to the front, searching Sir Topher's face for recognition.

'Kristopher of the Flatlands?'

Sir Topher's body shook as he embraced his kinsman. It now seemed as if every man, woman, and child had left their shelter to jostle around them.

'This is Micah, a farmer from the village of Sennington,' Sir Topher said.

Finnikin looked at his father. Sennington was Lady Beatriss's village.

'Who is in charge here?' Trevanion said.

'We have no one in charge,' the old man replied.

'Then appoint someone and bring them to us.'

In the stretch of land between the tent city and the fever camp was the priest-king's shanty. As they approached, a woman clutching her child came from the direction of the fever camp and pushed the boy into Evanjalin's arms. Finnikin pulled Evanjalin toward him and away from the woman, who looked riddled with fever.

'There's nothing you can do,' he said firmly.

Evanjalin shook free of him. 'It's against the rules of humanity to believe there is nothing we can do, Finnikin,' she said, walking away with the mother and child.

Inside the priest-king's tent, Finnikin watched as Trevanion and Sir Topher solemnly bent and kissed the holy man's hand, an action that seemed to embarrass him. The old farmer from the Flatlands entered hesitantly with two men and a woman, their eyes moving between the priest-king and Finnikin's party.

'You need to separate these people from the fever camp,' Trevanion told them firmly, 'and I do not mean a tiny strip of earth in between. You take the healthy away from here. Now.'

'Take them where?' the woman asked. 'There are too many of us, and each time we have attempted to move, we have been threatened with swords. At least in this corner of hell they do not bother us.'

'To cross the land, we need the protection of the King's Guard,' the older man said boldly.

'Can you provide that?' the youngest asked.

Finnikin looked at his father. He had not spoken of his men, but Finnikin knew that finding them was never far from Trevanion's mind.

Trevanion shook his head. 'Not for the moment. But you leave all the same. You keep to the river along the Charyn and then the Osterian border until you reach Belegonia. There, we will call on the patronage of Lord August of the Flatlands.'

'We can't—'

'There is no hope for you here!' Trevanion said. 'You travel to Belegonia and you will be provided for. That is my pledge.'

He and Sir Topher stepped outside with the four exiles, and Finnikin found himself alone with the priest- king.

'Do not underestimate the girl,' the priest-king said quietly.

Finnikin gave a humorless laugh. 'I am with the king's First Man, the captain of the King's Guard, and the priest-king of Lumatere. The most powerful men in our kingdom, apart from the king himself. All brought together by her. At what point have I led you to believe that I have underestimated her?'

'You contemplate a different path from hers,' the priest-king pointed out.

'And you?' Finnikin asked.

'That is not important.'

'You are the priest-king,' Finnikin said. 'Chosen to guide.'

'You have expectations of me?' the holy man said bitterly. 'When I gave a blessing to that impostor as he walked through our gates, knowing that his hands were soaked with the blood of our beloveds? Do you know where I was when they burned the five Forest Dwellers at the stake? Safe in the Valley of Tranquillity, knowing that I could have given them protection in my home. I had the power of sanction, but I was ruled by my fear.'

'Lord August said you had a death wish and it was for this reason that you travel from fever camp to fever camp,' Finnikin said. 'But the goddess has cursed you, blessed Barakah, and refuses to allow you to die.'

'So the answer to your earlier question is that I take these people north to Lumatere,' the priest-king responded. 'With the girl. While you go west, to Belegonia. In search of a second homeland. Or has your course altered, Finnikin?'

Finnikin did not respond.

'What is it you fear?' the priest-king asked.

'What makes you think I fear anything?'

The old man sighed. 'When I was a young man, I was chosen to be the spiritual advisor of our kingdom. They do not choose you to be Barakah, Finnikin, just because you can sing the Song of Lumatere at the right pitch.'

'Then you have the power to sense things? Is it Balthazar?' Finnikin asked.

'I do not know, but whoever I sense is powerful. 'Dark will lead the light, and our resurdus will rise.' Are they not the words of the prophecy?'

'Most would call it a curse, blessed Barakah.'

'Most would not have deciphered the words,' the priest-king replied.

Finnikin's breath caught in his throat. 'Do you know the rest?' he asked.