The Charynite laughed, but with little amusement. 'The government of Lumatere? Old man, if you were on this side of the river, you would be imprisoned for treason against our neighbor's king for such a statement.' He spoke to them as if he were reprimanding disobedient children. Finnikin translated for Trevanion, Moss, and Perri.
'Translate for me word for word, Finnikin,' his father instructed, his eyes never leaving the Charynite. 'Tell him that if we were on his side of the river, we would be the only ones standing. Tell him the present king of Lumatere is an impostor and a murderer falsely placed on the throne by the ignorant.' Finnikin relayed his father's message.
'To call the Lumateran king an impostor is an offense against every kingdom of the land,' the Charynite snapped, his anger growing.
'There have been worse offenses perpetrated against Lumatere by its neighboring kingdoms,' Finnikin translated for his father.
'And you are?' the Charyn soldier asked. The question was directed at Trevanion.
Finnikin translated the question, knowing the inevitable. The Charynite soldier would be assured a promotion to the Charyn palace with the capture of Trevanion, but Finnikin knew his father had no choice. The exiles would either live if Trevanion succeeded, or die if they failed. Nothing in between.
'Captain of the Lumateran King's Guard,' Trevanion answered, looking the man square in the eye.
The head of every Lumateran lad shot up, their expressions astonished, and the flickers of hope that appeared in their eyes made Finnikin feel like a god. One or two of the lads extended their fists in a show of solidarity. Moss and Perri held theirs up in response, and the Charynite soldiers began to look uneasy, waiting for the translation. With great satisfaction, Finnikin watched the beads of sweat appear on their faces when he spoke.
'What is your purpose with these people?' Finnikin asked on Trevanion's behalf.
'We have in our barracks a youth who claims to be the heir to the throne of Lumatere,' the Charynite said. 'A throne belonging to another. Approved by our king ten years ago. Imagine what an insult it is to us when one takes it upon himself to render our king's decision null and void. It is obvious that these people were harboring the claimant, and the moment we ascertain the truth, we will let these people go,
'And the moment you let our people go,' Trevanion said after hearing Finnikin's translation, 'I will convince my men here to let you live,
The lieutenant grabbed one of the Lumateran lads by his hair and jerked him to his feet, holding a sword to his throat. There was a whimper from one of the women—the mother, Finnikin suspected—but his attention was drawn back to the face of the lad standing before him. All that separated them was a narrow body of water. Over the years Finnikin had seen many Lumaterans his age lying in unmarked graves or dying from fever or weighed down by the apathy of exile. But this lad was living and had a fire in his eyes, a fury.
'What needs to be done,' Trevanion murmured. Then he was in the river, less than a foot away from the Charynite, his bow pointed directly between the man's eyes. Within seconds Finnikin had removed a bolt from his quiver, cocked his longbow, and was beside his father, his arrow pointed in the same spot. He could feel the breath of the Charynite and Lumateran lad before him. Around him every sword was drawn and behind him every arrow.
'Perhaps there are only five of us, Lieutenant,' Finnikin acknowledged, not taking his eyes off the Charynite, 'but know this. Before any of your men raise their weapons, any one of us will have released at least five bolts. You will be my first hit,' he said. 'Second, third, fourth, and fifth go to those guarding my peers. My father will aim for those with swords pointed at the women of Lumatere and my friends will finish off the rest with time to spare. So today you decide whether you live or die.'
The Lieutenant met Finnikin's stare. Then his eyes flicked away for a brief moment, and suddenly Finnikin felt someone by his side. He did not look away from the Charynite but saw the tip of a longbow as the person beside him adopted the same stance as his and his father's.
'Are we speaking Charyn?' Finnikin heard a gruff voice ask. 'Mine's a bit weak, although it is one of the rules of my father to learn the language of your neighbor. It could come in handy when you live at the arse-end of a country beside the biggest arseholes in the land.'
Finnikin heard Sir Topher choke back a laugh.
'So please excuse my poor accent,' the voice continued. 'And may I draw your attention to the hills behind me?'
Finnikin watched the lieutenant raise his eyes and grow noticeably pale.
'May I remind you that Osterian goatherds cannot declare war on Charyn,' the lieutenant said snidely.
'Certainly, and I will inform you in return that we're not Osterian,' the voice continued. 'We're Monts. Lucian of the Monts, if you please, and when it comes to speed and accuracy with an arrow, my father's better than his,' he said, gesturing to Finnikin. 'So if that is fear I read on your face, I commend you for being smart enough to recognize a threat.'
Finnikin felt weak with relief. His childhood rival and friend stood beside him. He was filled with a sense of hope. If the Monts were in the hills, then Evanjalin would be among her people. But the feeling did not last. The lieutenant had begun to loosen his grip on the lad, and when he raised his left hand, Finnikin caught sight of a ruby ring on his finger.
He shuddered as he realized that the Charynite had crossed paths with Froi. He tried to recall what the soldier had said. That in their barracks they had a claimant to the throne.
'Sir Topher?' he said quietly.
'I see it, Finnikin.'
'Do not react,' Trevanion said.
The Charynite watched the exchange.
'Lieutenant?' one of the other soldiers called out to him, fear in his voice. 'They're coming down the hill. Hundreds.'
He watched as the lieutenant swallowed, his eyes still on Trevanion.
'Let our people go unharmed and we will spare you,' Sir Topher said.
As more Monts appeared with their weapons raised, Trevanion lowered his longbow and moved closer to the bank, careful not to place his foot on Charyn land. He held out a hand to the women. One stepped forward with a sob, placing her two children in Trevanion's arms. Slowly the business of crossing the river took place. Finnikin stayed in position beside Lucian, their bows trained on the lieutenant, who still held on to his prisoner. It was not until half of the exiles had crossed the river that the Charynite shoved the boy forward and then retreated.
They had little time to spare, but Lucian of the Monts took a moment to size up his old childhood friend. Finnikin thought there was more than a touch of arrogance in the way the Mont swaggered about as if he had single-handedly saved the day. But he was too sick with worry to respond.
'Do you have Evanjalin?' he asked Lucian, pulling him away from where he was shamelessly charming one of the exile girls.
'Who?' Lucian asked.
'She's a Mont,' Finnikin pressed.
'We have no Monts named Evanjalin,' he said dismissively.
Finnikin gave up on Lucian and went searching for Saro, the leader of the Monts and Lucian's father. The man embraced him. Older than Trevanion by at least ten years, his build was intimidating but he had a gentle smile. 'How proud your father must be, Finnikin.'
'Thank you, sir. But we're looking for a friend who has been traveling with us. A Mont girl named Evanjalin. Has she made contact with you these past two days?'
Saro shook his head, a look of confusion on his face. 'You can't possibly have traveled with a Mont, Finnikin. We have all our people. We accounted for every single one in the Valley that terrible day.'
'Her name is Evanjalin,' Finnikin repeated. 'She claims to be a Mont. She was entrusted to us by the High
