Finnikin of the Rock

years. If he hasn't appeared by now, he never will.'

'You've never believed that he survived,' Finnikin said. 'She's lying.'

'For what reason?'

'A Charyn spy? A vengeful Forest Dweller? Perhaps she believes we will lead her to the heir, so she can kill him out of revenge for her people.'

Sir Topher placed a finger to his lips. Their tone was too obvious and they knew little of this girl. 'She looks too much like a Mont,' he said, switching to Osterian. 'The Forest Dwellers were as fair as you, Finnikin. Perhaps she just wants to get home to her people and knows that the only way to survive such a journey is under our protection.'

Finnikin felt his agitation rise. 'This is a mistake, Sir Topher. We've never trusted anyone to travel with us. Never.'

'Yet your eyes stray to her frequently, my boy.'

'Out of fury,' Finnikin argued. 'We could be doing something of worth. We were summoned to the cloister believing there was someone of worth.'

Like Balthazar, he wanted to say. Unlike Sir Topher, he had allowed himself to believe that the messenger would lead them to his beloved friend. And now here they were, burdened with this insignificant girl. Finnikin's resentment toward her clawed at him.

'I thought you liked them fragile,' Sir Topher said, smiling. 'I saw how you flirted with Lord Tascan's daughter, Lady Zarah.'

'I prefer them sweet, not simple, and I like to hear their voices,' Finnikin corrected. 'And a little refinement would be nice.'

He looked sideways at the novice. She was removing the entrails of the hare, her tongue resting between her teeth in her deep concentration. A simpleton indeed, Finnikin thought bitterly.

They ate dinner in silence. Later, the girl sat with her arms around her knees, shivering. Perhaps Sir Topher was right and the story she had been told would plague her sleep. In that way they were the same, Finnikin mused, for lately his sleep no longer seemed to belong to him. Usually his dreams were of the river, of traveling down it in a barge with his father. Other times he dreamed of Lady Beatriss and her soft lulling voice and the love he had seen between her and Trevanion. But from the moment the messenger had arrived to summon them to the cloister in Sendecane, Finnikin's dreams had been filled with carnage. And tonight he was consumed with images of the novice Evanjalin, her hands soaked with the blood of the hare, screaming as she was burned alive. Screaming the name that had escaped her lips each night this past week. Balthazar.

Chapter 3

The town of Sprie in Sarnak reeked of rotten berries and boiled cabbage. Filth was embedded between the cobblestones beneath their feet and grime seemed to invade their skin. It was the last town before the Charyn border, and Sir Topher and Finnikin agreed that it was safer to buy provisions here than to stop in any Charyn town. Nevertheless, Finnikin sensed malevolence around him. Apart from Lumatere, Sarnak had suffered the most in the past ten years, and the fury of its people toward Lumateran exiles was boundless. Once, the Skuldenore River had flowed through Lumatere into Belegonia and Yutlind, and each day, the best of Sarnak produce was sent down the busy waterway into the rest of the land. Sarnak's climate was perfect for growing almost anything, from succulent mangoes to sweet plump grapes. Their fresh river trout had graced the tables of kings and queens.

But without a trade route, such produce meant little. After the five days of the unspeakable, the river through Lumatere had disappeared into a whirl of fog, and the only passage now from Sarnak to the rest of the land was west into Sendecane or east into Charyn: one a wasteland, the other an enemy. Outside the exile camps, the poverty in Sarnak was the worst in the land, and two years past, armed Sarnak civilians had unleashed their wrath on Lumaterans camped on their southern border, a slaughter the king of Sarnak refused to acknowledge or condemn. And why would he, Finnikin thought, when there was no one to demand it except the First Man of a slain king and his apprentice from a kingdom that no longer existed?

On their first night in Sarnak, Sir Topher chose a place to set up camp deep in the woods. They would use it merely as a resting point to collect provisions and then move on. There would be no fire to keep them warm. Nothing to draw attention to themselves. Nothing to make them prey to a desperate people who needed someone to blame for their suffering.

Sir Topher and Finnikin made careful plans. They were not like the exiles who huddled in camps, waiting for someone to return them to Lumatere or for the captain of the King's Guard to escape and save the day. Finnikin knew that if they wanted their people to survive, they needed strategies that would push them forward. Despite their detour into Sendecane and the presence of the novice and her extraordinary claim, he and Sir Topher were on a mission to find a piece of land for the exiles. And they always had a plan. Never a dream.

Sir Topher decided that Finnikin would go to the marketplace to purchase enough food to see them through to Sorel.

'Take the girl,' Sir Topher said. 'They worship Lagrami here. They're less likely to bother a novice and her companion. But don't let her out of your sight.'

The town was a labyrinth of stalls and alleyways. More than once the novice seemed to become disoriented and wander in the wrong direction.

'Listen,' Finnikin said firmly. 'Stay close and do not lose sight of me. Do you understand? Nod if you understand.' She nodded, but he wasn't satisfied.

'This whistle, I want you to listen for it in case we do get lost.' He whistled a birdlike tune. Twice. Just to be sure she understood. He watched her for a reaction, but there was none.

'I don't expect you to learn it. But listen for it.'

She nodded again.

The sun was beginning to disappear, and vendors were packing up their wares. Finnikin walked over to purchase their supplies. A few moments later, he heard a furious cry and turned to see a young boy disappear into one of the alleyways. As he turned back to the vendor, he saw the novice stumble to her feet in a daze, but before he could call out to her, she was off in pursuit of the youth.

Stupid, stupid girl. In a moment's frustration, he hesitated. It was a perfect opportunity to leave her behind so he and Sir Topher could continue on their way as planned. His mentor had promised him they would go searching for Trevanion's men this autumn. This was his chance to go south, where a group of exiles had once reported seeing the Guard. But Lumatere had lost enough of its people to Sarnak, and before he could stop himself, he threw down his coins and raced after her.

Within a short distance, the alleyway branched out into a cluster of five others, each already seeped in darkness, indistinguishable from one another. Using instinct, Finnikin took the middle one, a mistake he realized too late when he found himself turning into yet another, which seemed to fork out into more and then more—never- ending high stone walls that seemed to conquer the light of the moon, forcing him to turn back until he lost track of where he had begun.

'Evanjalin!'

He caught sight of a flicker of her robe as she disappeared around a bend. He had smelled her fear when they arrived, had sensed the memory of her family's death in Sarnak in every tremble of her body.

The light was disappearing fast. He called out her name as he ran after her, but there was desperation in her movements as she disappeared again and again. Finally she was brought to a stop by a dead end. But there was someone in the shadows, and before Finnikin could reach her, she was flung to the ground. Her assailant looked no more than fourteen or fifteen. Finnikin pulled Trevanion's sword from its scabbard in an attempt to scare the boy rather than wound him.

Suddenly he felt the cold sharp tip of steel pressed against his neck. He felt little fear. From the moment he was born, Trevanion had taught him to fight, a skill Sir Topher made sure he continued to develop as they traveled from kingdom to kingdom. But when he turned, he could see four of them. Sensing that Evanjalin was no threat, the thieves had made Finnikin their target.

'Drop it!'