Finnikin of the Rock

Finnikin had no idea how long they lay on their backs, staring up at the sky, side by side yet refusing to acknowledge each other's presence.

'Come,' Lucian said finally, his voice husky. He got to his feet and extended a hand to Finnikin. 'We need to clean up. My yata will skin me alive if she sees us this way.'

Chapter 22

At the entrance of Yata's tent, Lucian gave Finnikin a shove and a look of reprimand. 'Don't mention my cousins,' he said gruffly. 'She may seem strong, but she will never recover from losing them.'

Finnikin nodded, and when Lucian called out a greeting, they entered the large tent. Candles burned brightly and flowers scented the air. The matriarch of the Monts sat weaving, her hair in long curls of gray, her eyes dark and probing. She was the symbolic yata to all the Monts, but the grandmother of Lucian and his cousins. She smiled up at her grandson and then at Finnikin. He could still see the handsome woman she had been when he was a child. In those days, her hair had been mostly black and there was more flesh on her frame, but the strength in her eyes had not diminished.

'Finnikin of the Rock,' she said, her voice husky. What is it with these Mont women? he thought. Sixty-five years old and he was still blushing at the sound of her voice.

He bent to kiss her cheek three times, following the Mont custom. One for the recipient, one for the giver, and one for the goddess, who was part of their union. 'My father and his men and Sir Topher travel with me.'

'So finally we return home?' she asked, breaking a thread with her teeth and putting her work aside. She beckoned them toward her, and they sat on a fleeced blanket, where she poured them cold tea and fed them sweet bread.

'We return to the Valley of Tranquillity first,' Finnikin acknowledged.

'They have found another Mont, Yata,' Lucian said. 'Her name is Evanjalin and she walks the sleep of those inside Lumatere. Finnikin has led her to us.'

'No, she has led me,' Finnikin corrected.

Yata's dark eyes widened with surprise. 'Inside Lumatere? Such power,' she said, shaking her head.

'I believe so,' Finnikin said. 'She swears that Lady Beatriss of the Flatlands lives, as do the novices of the cloister of Sagrami and Tesadora of the Forest Dwellers.'

Yata placed a trembling hand to her lips. 'How were the novices saved? And Lady Beatriss? Her babe?'

'She is certain that my father and Lady Beatriss's child died,' Finnikin said sadly. 'As for the novices of Sagrami, they were hidden during the five days of the unspeakable. I suspect by Perri the Savage.' He watched as Yata shivered, despite the warmth in the tent. 'Can you tell me more about walking the sleep?'

'It began with Seranonna of the Forest Dwellers,' she said in a soft voice. 'I was giving birth to my fifth child. Seranonna lived far away from the Monts, but she swore she heard my cries of pain and so she made a journey through the Forest, into the village, across the Flatlands, over the River, and into the Mountains. She delivered my daughter, a beautiful girl who would grow up to be queen.' She sighed, and Finnikin saw Lucian sit forward, ready to leap up if she needed him.

'I was ill for a long time after I gave birth, so Seranonna stayed. She had just given birth to a child who had lived only a week and her breasts were full of milk, so my babe suckled from the breast of one who worshipped Lagrami and one who worshipped Sagrami. Every child Seranonna delivered thereafter during her time with us had the gift of walking the sleep.'

'Perhaps Evanjalin and the child in Lumatere she walks alongside were delivered by Seranonna as well,' Lucian said.

'Not possible,' Finnikin replied. 'The child was born after Seranonna's death.'

'Evanjalin travels with another?' Yata asked, intrigued.

'Is that rare?' Finnikin said.

She nodded. 'Most of our women who have the gift walk alone. Although sometimes I would walk the sleep with my daughter, the queen. Perhaps there is a strong bloodline between Evanjalin and the child.'

She pointed to the jug when she noticed that his cup was empty. 'And do not be shy with the sweet bread. Lucian certainly isn't.'

Finnikin glanced at Lucian, whose mouth was full but whose dark eyes were alert with interest. 'What is she like? Evanjalin of the Monts?' he asked.

Finnikin thought for a moment. 'Strong. In here,' he said, thumping his chest twice. 'Humbling. Ruthless. Cunning. She can love people with a fierceness that I have not seen before.' He smiled when he realized he was talking too much. 'And she looks like a Mont woman, so of course she's very beautiful.'

'Does she belong to you, Finnikin?' Yata asked, her eyes piercing.

'No,' he said after a moment. 'But she belongs to my heart. I feel her absence strongly and it brings me... sorrow.' He looked across at Lucian, who made a pretense of wiping a tear from his eye. Knowing he had said enough, Finnikin stood to politely excuse himself.

'My grandson has missed you all these years,' Yata said.

'Balthazar?'

Lucian sent him a scathing look, and Finnikin instantly regretted his stupidity. 'I'm sorry...'

'No.' She chuckled, holding out a hand to her grandson to help her to her feet. 'Lucian has missed you.'

'I have not!' Lucian looked horrified.

She tugged his ear. 'I walk your sleep, silly boy. Not a place your yata wants to be most of the time, but there are some moments that bring me joy.'

Lucian turned red. She kissed them both, and Finnikin found comfort in the feel of her hands on his face. Lucian had lost his mother young but had always had his yata close by. It was what Finnikin missed about his great-aunt Celestina and even Lady Beatriss.

The matriarch of the Monts studied Finnikin's face carefully, as if she saw the things written on his mind and soul. 'How you warm my heart, Finnikin of the Rock,' she said. 'Bring your Evanjalin to us. If she guided you here, she wants to be with her people.'

That night, after he heard Sir Topher's heavy snores and the world of the Monts seemed to be asleep, Finnikin crept out of the tent. He wrapped his arms around himself, his teeth chattering uncontrollably as he made his way toward Lucian's tent. He knew what he had to do. He also knew he could not do it alone and that Lucian was his only choice. Although it annoyed him to have to ask the Mont for help, his desire to find Evanjalin was greater.

'Lucian!' he hissed. 'Inbred. Get dressed. Get your sword and your bow. You're coming with me. No arguing.'

'Already dressed. Sword in hand. You're late, trog boy.'

Finnikin hid his surprise as Lucian joined him. The Mont wore a cap over his head, his bulky frame layered with a wool jerkin and trousers of animal hide. He threw Finnikin a fleece coat, and they crouched behind his tent, watching the three Monts on guard. The moon hung low in the sky, and it seemed to Finnikin that he could almost reach out and touch it.

'Are we finding your woman first or saving the boy?'

'She's not my woman, Lucian, and only inbred Monts go around saying 'your woman.''

'Not your woman? Good. By the sounds of things, I could be very interested in this Mont girl. So now that you've given me permission ... Finnikin? Did you just jab me in the back? If not, and that was something else pressing into me ... really, I'm not interested in trog boys. But I can introduce you to my kinsman, Torin.'

'You talk too much, Mont! So shut your mouth and don't ever think of her as yours.'

From where they crouched, Finnikin could see the camp fires of the exiles under the guard of Saro and his men in the foothills below. He wondered how they would sleep after a day that had begun in captivity and ended in the comfort and protection of their people.

Lucian took the lead as they half stumbled toward the woods that lead to the river. Finnikin knew the Mont would be familiar with every inch of these hills. After watching Lucian carousing with his cousins earlier that day, he suspected that they spent many a night getting up to no good, far from the watchful eyes of their elders.