Finnikin of the Rock

Froi feel dreamy and warm, and Evanjalin slept. Froi bit into a pomegranate and felt the juice soak his chin as the priest-king told them that one day he would sing a new Song of Lumatere. Her song. Of the one named Evanjalin who walked the sleep and took the child's hand in hers. Knowing she and the child could not hear each other speak, Evanjalin prayed that she could read as she wrote two words on the walls of the chamber they walked. Fever cure? But the child could not read and the words on the wall disappeared.

And so she used her nails to scratch the words on the arm of the child, who cried from the betrayal of the pain, and she waited one whole day to walk the sleep that night, praying for an answer. But for a moment she lost hope. There were no words alongside those on the child's arm and Evanjalin's heart sank because she knew it was the end. For the priest-king had already begun his walk to the land between theirs and that of the gods. But as the child turned her back, Evanjalin saw markings above the crisp nightdress and slowly she lifted it to reveal a world painted with instructions and names and drawings of plants. And one question. Three words.

Is hope coming?

And Evanjalin did a last cruel thing to the child who did not deserve so much pain. She scratched one more word on the child's arm.

A name that would bring hope.

Sometimes Froi thought it never happened and the way he said it was all wrong and dreamlike. But Lumaterans had enough of their curse stories so he asked Finnikin of the Rock to write it down exactly the way he remembered it.

So he could one day place it in the Book of Lumatere.

Far away from the pages of the dead.

Chapter 20

Resurdus.

Finnikin woke in the loft of the barn with the word on his lips. Beside him, Evanjalin slept quietly, her skin paler than usual but her breathing even. He would never forget Froi's words in the inn. Never ever forget the sight of her standing in the meadow breathing life back into his dead heart.

He and Evanjalin slept away from the others, who tossed and snored, except for Perri, who lay with his eyes wide open, forever on the alert. Finnikin knew that if Sir Topher were there, he would have insisted that he not lie beside the girl, deemed it unacceptable in a way the priest-king didn't seem to question. Finnikin cradled her, shuddering at the confused images that came into his head. Of the mass grave he had seen the night before on the border of Sendecane. Of her body among the dead. Evanjalin pulled his arm tighter around her, holding it to stop the shaking. 'It's only a nightmare,' she murmured gently.

'Do you belong to the king?' he asked, his voice husky.

She gently placed his hand against the beating pulse of her heart. Always, always it beat out of control, and he held his hand to it until he felt it perfectly match his.

'Yes, Finnikin,' she said. 'I belong to the king. I will always belong to him.'

And there lay the bittersweet despair of what awaited them in the Valley.

Beloved rival. Cursed friend.

He wondered what they'd say to each other after all these years. If he would recognize him in a crowd. Balthazar looked like his father. The Flatlanders claimed the king was descended from their people. 'Hair like chestnuts, eyes like the heavens,' they would say. He even heard Trevanion whisper it lovingly to Beatriss. They were the queen's favorite words to her older daughters and son, although Balthazar would be mortified when she said it in the presence of Finnikin and Lucian. 'And me?' Isaboe would ask, hating not to be the center of their world. 'You're our precious little Mont girl,' the queen would say.

He wondered if the cousins had been together all this time. A streak of envy washed through him at the thought of the prince staying with Lucian and the Monts. They had been a trio, despite the fierce competition between Lucian and Finnikin. They had fought like brothers and made pledge after pledge from the moment they could talk. He missed them both. But here in the meadow, so close to his homeland, he felt the presence of Balthazar and Lucian so strongly that he knew with certainty he would see them soon.

The next morning, Trevanion announced they would leave by midday. Finnikin and Evanjalin stole away and lay in the meadow, forehead to forehead, musing and hypothesizing.

'Do you remember the main village in Lumatere? There was a bridge that took you to the smithy, where the Flatlands began?' Finnikin said. 'My father would have his horse shod there and I'd hang over the side waiting, watching the water and following it in my mind downriver. I used to imagine going beyond the kingdom where the river would flow out to the lands beyond ours.'

'Imagine if someone was standing there right now. What would they be doing?' she wondered. 'At this very moment? Do they know we're so close?'

'Perhaps they are living in total tranquillity,' he said. 'Do you think we could have had it all wrong? Do you think they've been happy and will not care about our return?'

She shook her head. 'I know they suffer,' she said quietly.

'More than the exiles?'

'How does one measure it, Finnikin? Does a man who's lost his family to famine suffer less than one who's lost them to an assassin's knife? Is it worse to die of drowning than be trampled under the feet of others? If you lose your wife in childbirth, is it better than watching her burn at the stake? Death is death and loss is loss. I have sensed as much despair in the sleep of those inside as I have seen in the exiles. When I saw the words painted on the child's body, I sensed their urgency, their anguish. 'Is hope coming?''

'They will have the question answered soon.'

'If there is a future in Lumatere and you weren't called upon to be Balthazar's First Man,' she asked, her mood lightening, 'what would you want to do with the rest of your life?'

'First,' he said, brushing a fly off her nose, 'if there is a future in Lumatere, I will be in my father's Guard. And second, Sir Topher will be Balthazar's First Man.'

'First, it is not your father's Guard. It belongs to the king. And secondly, Sir Topher would want you with him, advising Balthazar.'

He imitated the cross expression on her face, and she giggled.

'So if I were a mere mortal in Lumatere?' He looked around the meadow, pondering. 'I would put my name down for ten acres on the Flatlands. I would build a cottage there, and with my bride I would—'

'Where would you find this bride?' she interrupted.

'A novice from the cloister of Lagrami would do me fine,' he said in a pompous tone. 'Obedient. Biddable.'

'And with the ability to bore you to tears, according to Lady Abian.'

'Not a problem. I will be so tired by the end of the day that sleep will be the only thing on my mind.'

She gave a snort. 'You?'

He laughed at her expression. 'Your meaning?'

'Last night you lay pressed against me, Finnikin. I could ... feel that sleep was the last thing on your mind.'

'How unladylike of you to mention such a thing,' he said.

She touched the lines around his mouth. 'You look lovely when you laugh.'

'Lovely? Just the way a man wants to be described.' He grinned. 'I hope for the day that someone describes me the way they do my father.'

'All right, silent dark bear with angry frown, tell me more about your land.'

He settled back down, picturing it. 'I would tend to our land from the moment the sun rose to when it set and then you ... she would tend to me.'

He laughed at her expression again. The world of exile camps and the Valley felt very far away, and he wanted to lie there forever.

'Let me tell you about your bride,' she said, propping herself up on her elbows. 'Both of you would cultivate