Finnikin of the Rock

Priestess at the cloister of Lagrami in Sendecane. Somehow she has led us here... with the belief that Balthazar was among you.'

'Balthazar?' Saro whispered. 'My beloved nephew?'

'Balthazar's dead,' Lucian said sharply. He stood behind his father, glaring at Finnikin. 'It was fool's talk that said he lived. And fool's talk that these men claim to have him.'

'But they do have at least one of ours,' Finnikin insisted, searching the area for his father. There was a sea of faces around him but no one familiar. 'We have been traveling with two young Lumaterans, a youth named Froi and a girl called Evanjalin. A Mont,' he said firmly, looking at Saro. 'We separated two days ago and held great hope that Evanjalin made her way to you. She claims she walks through the sleep of those inside Lumatere, accompanied by a child,' he added.

Lucian and Saro looked shocked, and Finnikin felt frustrated that he would have to explain the sleep yet again.

'So far away?' Saro asked.

'What do you mean, 'so far away'?' Finnikin asked.

'Some of our women have the gift of the walk,' Saro explained. 'But they can only walk the sleep of those in our community. In close proximity. Here on the hill, or on the mountain when we lived back home. We have never had anyone who is able to walk through the sleep of those so far away.'

'Your women walk through people's sleep?' Finnikin asked.

'Some of our gifted ones,' Saro replied.

'It's called the 'gift of the walk,'' Lucian said, glowering at Finnikin. 'I feel you disrespect it.'

'Lucian,' his father instructed, 'take Finnikin up to your yata. She will want to know about this girl. I need to organize these people. Trevanion and Sir Topher want them taken to the Valley of Tranquillity at first light.'

Lucian grabbed hold of Finnikin but he pulled away. He needed Trevanion and Perri. They would have to cross the river to find Evanjalin and Froi, and they could not afford to waste a moment. Finnikin walked over to the lad who had been the Charynite's prisoner.

'Sefton,' the lad introduced himself, clasping Finnikin's arm.

'Tell me what they said about the claimant, Sefton,' Finnikin said.

'I understood nothing of their language,' Sefton said, 'but my aunt worked in the village and speaks some Charyn. Esta!' he called out to one of the women. 'Esta! Finnikin needs your help.' He turned back to Finnikin. 'Let me come along. I am fast with a longbow.'

Finnikin smiled at the lad's eagerness. 'Then they'll need you in the Valley, Sefton. The Guard is training there. Tell them I sent you.'

A woman Trevanion's age held a hand to Finnikin's face. 'Ask of us anything, lad.'

'The claimant in their barracks?'

She nodded. 'I heard the Charynites speak. They arrested a boy in the woods and believed him to belong to our community. Whatever it was about this boy, he was the reason they came to arrest us.'

'Did they mention a girl? Evanjalin?' Finnikin asked. She shook her head. 'Just the boy.'

He squeezed her hand in thanks and stood in the middle of the chaos. Some of the exiles were still close to tears. Moss dealt with them calmly as Saro instructed his people. The decision was made to rest for the night under the guard of the Monts in the foothills, then go to the Valley of Tranquillity at dawn. Finnikin tried to breathe normally, but breathing made his chest ache, and the sight of Lucian approaching with Sir Topher, an expression of superiority on the Mont's face, made him want to lunge at his childhood nemesis.

'Where's my father, Sir Topher?'

'Go with the Monts, Finnikin,' Sir Topher said evenly. 'Saro wants you to speak with Yata, who will be keen to hear of Evanjalin.'

Yata. Balthazar and Lucian's grandmother, matriarch of the Monts, mother of the dead queen.

'We need to find them,' Finnikin insisted. 'We need to cross the river. Don't ask me to stand here and do nothing.'

'You've done enough, Finnikin. Your father and Perri will take care of locating Evanjalin and Froi. Rest. In the next few days, you are going to need everything inside of you. Everything.'

Lucian of the Monts stood by, arms folded, waiting. He pointed up the hill, and when Finnikin didn't move, he grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him along.

They said little to each other as they walked through the trees and began to climb. The day had turned cold and blustery, and Finnikin envied Lucian his long fleeced coat. He pulled his own coat tighter around him as they traveled up the hillside toward where he imagined the rest of the Monts were hidden.

'Sheep shit,' Lucian warned a second after Finnikin stepped in it.

The Mont sauntered ahead. Finnikin followed him, muttering. The path had become narrow and steep. When they passed a water trough on the track, Finnikin smelled the sheep instantly. Although the valley behind them was bathed in sunlight, there was little protection from the elements up on the hill. But the Monts had never been interested in creature comforts. In the mountains they had been sentinels for the Charyn border. Mont children were born to defend from the moment they could walk. It was what Balthazar had adored and envied about his cousin. Although Balthazar was the prince, more often Lucian was their leader. The better hunter. The better fighter. The fiercest and most loyal of allies. He had once carried Finnikin all day on his back when Finnikin was bitten by a snake. He had sucked the venom out himself and held Finnikin until help came. Like he would a brother.

'But they can't control their emotions,' Balthazar would whisper to Finnikin, who had no idea, like the prince, what that meant.

Until he witnessed the grieving of the Monts on the first day of exile. Unabashed, unashamed. Sometimes he envied it, wanted to rage at the world, bite his knuckles, gnash his teeth. Spray the air with his fury. But Finnikin belonged to the Rock people, contained, like those of the Flatlands.

'Sheep shit.'

Bastard.

Finally they reached a wide summit. Scattered across the grass was an assortment of tents, beautifully colored, each one bordered with flowers and pebbles. Children ran among the tents, and women sat in circles, their heads close, their fingers busily sewing. Goats, cows, horses, donkeys, pigs, chickens, and perfectly aligned vegetable gardens dotted the hill settlement. The Monts had found their little corner of the world, one day's ride from their homeland.

'Tents?' Finnikin scoffed. 'You've been here ten years and you've never built homes?'

'So?' Lucian asked.

'Well, wouldn't this be a home to settle in?'

'These are hills, fool. We're mountain people. This is nothing like home.'

'Balthazar always said—'

Lucian shoved him. 'And here we don't talk about Balthazar or the princesses or the queen or the king. Do you understand?'

Finnikin shook his head in disgust. 'You live in tents; you don't talk about the past. You exiles are all alike,' he said. 'Pretending it didn't happen.'

'We are no exiles!'

Lucian's fist connected with Finnikin's cheek. The blow unleashed something in Finnikin, a need to cause as much pain as possible, to destroy. He pounded into Lucian with the full force of the rage that had built up inside of him. Each punch he delivered to the Mont's face or body lessened the numbness he had felt since Perri's revelation in the meadow. But Finnikin knew that something more than rage was driving him. He sensed the same emotion from Lucian, who now had him trapped with an elbow to the throat and a knee on the thigh, exactly where his pledge-wound lay.

'We've been with our people from the very beginning,' Lucian spat, 'so we're exiled from no one. And our yata lost five grandchildren and her daughter that night. It's heartbreak, trog boy. Not pretense.'

And then both of them were at it again, hammering fists into each other until at last they exhausted their anger and, clutching on to each other, collapsed onto the ground.