Finnikin of the Rock

ocean. The swallower.

Later, Trevanion joined him, and they sat side by side with their backs against the hull. As usual with his father, there was silence, but this time it suited him. After the scene on the pier, there was nothing to say.

They spent that night lying under a sky crowded with light, as though every star were fighting to be seen. The sea was still, and Evanjalin had at last stopped throwing up. Although he had no desire to be in her presence, Finnikin found himself keeping watch over her, fearing that a crew member would venture too close.

'Get some sleep,' Trevanion murmured in the dark. 'I'm watching them.'

Sir Topher wiped Evanjalin's brow. She was weak from her sickness and almost sobbing from exhaustion, but he knew there was something else. He could sense her anxiety each time she raised her head to search for Finnikin.

'Your words were harsh,' he said softly.

'He cannot complete this journey without me by his side.'

'But still your words were harsh. No one gives anything for nothing. Not in this land. But that's what Finnikin decided we were called to do. To travel from exile camp to exile camp, kingdom to kingdom, and make sure our godsforsaken people were fed and taken care of. But Finnikin's thought every day was to secure the release of his father. I think it was a sorry day for him indeed when he realized that he was not just someone's son. That he had a responsibility to our people.'

She closed her eyes. 'Our people have never been godsforsaken,' she corrected, 'and he is the apprentice of the king's First Man. You. You insisted on furthering his education in the languages and politics of this land. Not just so he can feed the exiles, but because one day, as your apprentice, he may have to help lead them.' She looked across to where Finnikin sat by his father's side. 'He was born for greater things than belonging to the King's Guard, and his father knows it. Make sure, Sir Topher, that Finnikin accepts his role before we get to the main gate of Lumatere.'

Trevanion watched Finnikin as he slept. Unlike the nights in the prison mine, he could see his sleeping son clearly under this illuminated sky and it was a luxury to stare so intently. Finnikin had his mother's face. Her coloring. 'One kingdom, so many shades,' Bartolina would say, holding her hand against Trevanion's. Then she was gone, and there were the numb days that followed Finnikin's birth. A motherless boy surviving in the world of men. Trevanion thought of his Guard and wondered how close they were. He had known most of them since he was Finnikin's age. When he handpicked them almost twenty years ago, he chose only those he could trust with the lives of every Lumateran. Especially his newborn son. At first his choices had been questioned, especially when it came to Perri the Savage. It was rumored that Perri had made his first kill by the time he was twelve. Poverty had bred malice. Bred the need to blame someone for the bleakness of their lives, and Perri the Savage suckled the sour milk of malice from his mother's breast. Younger than Trevanion by a year or two, he had seemed to resent the return of the river's favorite son and cared little for the cause of protecting their people. The river people had never lifted a hand to help Perri the Savage, and he owed them nothing in return.

'Join us,' a twenty-year-old Trevanion had offered during a hostile encounter with Perri near the banks of his river swamp hut.

'Think I'm the one issuing orders here,' Perri threatened, pressing the point of a sword to Trevanion's chest. There was a scar running from one ear to the other across his forehead. Eyes dark like Trevanion's, but skin milk- white.

'My wife is still warm in her grave,' Trevanion said quietly. 'Not even five days gone. If you try to stop me from getting home to my newborn son, I will kill you.' And with that he walked away to where his men stood with August of the Flatlands.

'I will follow just to see where you live,' Perri the Savage spat.

When they entered Trevanion's cottage farther up the river, a girl, the high-spirited daughter of a fishmonger, was caring for the baby.

'Have you taken leave of your senses, Trevanion?' she shouted, clutching the babe to her. 'You bring Perri the Savage into your home when you have this precious boy to care for? His father is a drunkard! A rapist! A murderer!'

Trevanion took the child from her, holding the tiny form in his massive hands. He saw the bitterness in Perri's eyes, the defeat that came from not being able to escape his roots. Trevanion pointed to August of the Flatlands. 'And his father is weak and deceitful and lazy, but I would trust him with my life.'

She looked at August with disgust. 'This? A fine army you will build, Trevanion.'

'Go home, Abie. Before it is dark. It is not safe for you to be traveling alone,' Trevanion said wearily.

'Perhaps I could escort her,' August suggested.

'You?' she scoffed. 'You fit under my arm, little man.' And with that, she kissed the baby and slammed out the door.

'Pity the one who ends up in her marriage bed,' August muttered.

But Trevanion was staring at Perri. 'You,' he said. 'If anything happens to me, protect my boy.'

'Trevanion,' August protested, 'I will protect Finnikin. He will always have a place in my home.'

'No,' Trevanion said firmly. 'You make sure my son gets whatever privilege allows the king's boy, Augie. The son of Bartolina of the Rock deserves nothing less. But you,' he said, pointing to Perri, 'you make sure he is protected.'

'You have the wrong man,' Perri snapped.

'No,' Trevanion said, walking to the window to peer outside. 'In you, I have the best marksman in this kingdom, and if you think that it was by chance I walked through your swamp today, think again. We rid this kingdom of those who try to invade through our waters and we rid Lumatere of a weak, corrupt Guard.'

'What has the king promised you, Trevanion?' August asked.

'The highest honor for a warrior in this kingdom. And today I choose my Guard.' He returned the baby to his basket. 'Open the door.'

Outside stood a group of young men. Not just from the River, but from the Rock and the Mountains and a few from the Flatlands. The room seemed full with their presence, and they spoke through the night, their voices hushed but strong with conviction.

'Where's Trevanion?' one of them asked later as the early light of morning began to seep under the door.

August of the Flatlands looked around. 'Probably at the grave. He'd sleep there if not for the child.'

One of the lads walked toward the baby's basket and pulled aside the blanket, only to find himself pinned to the wall with a dagger to his neck. He stared into the obsidian eyes of Perri the Savage, who snarled close to his ear, 'Touch him again and you lose a hand.'

At daybreak, they reached the mouth of the Yack River. Yutlind was a land of four rivers, lush and fertile, with woodland in the north and jungle in the south. The land mass of the north and south was the size of Lumatere and Osteria together, but they had lost more people in internal wars than the rest of the land combined. The ancient stories told that the god of Yutlind had created his people by mixing his blood with the earth of the jungle and the woods. The war over which soil was superior had been fought for thousands of years until a warlord built his palace in the north, his reign recognized by the leaders of Skuldenore who had grown tired of centuries of unrest. It was a reign the south refused to acknowledge.

There was a stillness surrounding them, a deliberate calm. The crew was edgy, apprehensive. The captain of the Myrinhall put a finger to his lips, signaling silence. Finnikin peered over the hull, but the jungle lining the serpentine river seemed mysterious, as if there were secrets hidden behind the dense foliage. It seemed impossible that human life could exist in such a place, and Finnikin was anxious for them to arrive at the dock farther down the river. There, the Myrinhall would offload her passengers and load the merchandise. Trevanion's plan was to find a guide among the traders to take them through the grasslands and into the rock villages.

Finnikin watched the captain. He used sign language with his crew, which must have seen them through similar dangerous experiences. It comforted Finnikin to know that these men had sailed this river before. He watched as the captain chuckled quietly at what one of his men had signaled, and for the first time since they had entered the Yack, Finnikin relaxed.

The first arrow struck the captain between the eyes.