'No.' Tesadora shook her head. 'For you to be
The women stared at him, and he felt his face redden. Lady Beatriss smiled and it embarrassed him even more.
'It's why my mother cursed you with Isaboe's memories as you entered our kingdom. Not as a punishment.
He remembered a morning the week before, when he was passing the royal entourage on one of their visits to the River people. He watched her from a distance, the distance he had carved out between them since he had discovered her true identity. For one moment, she seemed removed from what was taking place around her. She stood completely still, her gaze fixed on a distant point. She had gone inside herself, as she'd done many times on their journey back to Lumatere. And now he knew what it was that weighed her body down. The agony of those voices he heard as they entered the main gate. The ones she had lived with for years. So he whistled from where he stood and her body stiffened with awareness and slowly she turned in his direction. He held her gaze, knowing her moment of despair had already passed.
And there it was, he thought, as he looked at the women in Beatriss's kitchen. The memory of a look that spoke to him of power. His. A look that made him want to kneel at the feet of his queen and worship her.
Because it made him feel like a king. 'I must go,' he said huskily.
'Not in those clothes,' Lady Abian said, unwrapping Yata's package.
He walked toward the palace, wearing perfectly cut trousers, a crisp white shirt, and a soft leather cape, his hair cropped to his crown. Many Lumaterans traveled with him, talking quietly, shyly greeting strangers whose paths they crossed on their way to the celebration. He heard them speak of their weariness, but stronger was the desire to be there for their beloved Isaboe, so she could feel the presence of a mother who loved and a father who doted and sisters who cared and a brother who teased. No one was more an orphan to the land than their queen.
He hurried past the priest-king's home, where the holy man sat with Froi, greeting those who were traveling to the palace.
'Finnikin?' the priest-king called out.
'I can't stop, blessed Barakah. Can we speak later?' He could see turrets in the near distance, and his pulse quickened.
'Do not approach her unless you have something worthwhile to say,' the priest-king advised.
Finnikin returned to where the priest-king sat, and knelt before him. 'And if you hear word that I have said something worthwhile, blessed Barakah, will you sing the Song of Lumatere at first light?' he asked.
The holy man broke into a grin. 'On my oath to the goddess complete.'
Finnikin nodded and sprang back to his feet. 'Finnikin?' Froi said.
'Yes, Froi.'
'You must give her somefing.' The boy's eyes were bright.
'If you offer the ruby ring, you die, my friend.'
Froi laughed and shook his head. 'Not offering the ruby ring to no one.'
'Then I have nothing to give but myself.'
He reached the outer edge of town where the bridge marked the end of the Flatlands and the beginning of the palace village. Trevanion was there with some of his men, watching one of the lads training. Finnikin knew that tonight the area around the palace and the queen would be heavily guarded, three circles of guards who would slow him down.
He was suddenly conscious of his appearance. He mumbled a greeting to his father, then called out over his shoulder, 'I'll come by later.' He crossed the bridge where the river flowed at great speed, as if its life force had not been extinguished for ten long years.
'Finnikin?' he heard his father say. Just his name. But the emotion in that one word made him turn and walk back to where Trevanion stood. He took his father's face in both his hands and kissed him. Like a blessing.
'Your mother walks that path with you,' Trevanion said. 'With such pride that as I speak... it fills my senses with things I can't put into words. Go,' he added gruffly, 'or you'll have my Guard thinking I'm soft.'
Finnikin broke into a run through the village square, weaving his way among the Lumaterans before him. As the path leading up to the palace became steeper, he could see over the roofs of the cottages on either side, all the way to the land where the Rock Village stood to the west and the mountains to the north.
At least ten guards were stationed at the portcullis of the palace, and Finnikin's arrival was met with a chorus of jeers and laughter. He expected nothing less from his father's men. Kisses were blown his way, accompanied by mock whistles of appreciation. He thanked the gods that Aldron was not among them, for his ridicule would have been the loudest. There were taunts and high-pitched declarations of love as Moss grabbed Finnikin, rubbing his knuckles over Finnikin's short berry-colored hair.
In the palace grounds Finnikin heard some of the villagers call out his name in greeting, while others whispered it with feverish excitement. The courtyard on the northwest corner was set up with trestle tables, and palace staff placed huge wooden casks of wine alongside platters of roast peacocks, wood pigeons, and rabbits. Another table was covered with pastries and sweet breads. In the corner by the rosebushes, minstrels played their tunes. The beat of the drum and the twang of the lute caused those around Finnikin to begin to sway, as if their bodies had not forgotten the beauty of music.
'Finnikin?' he heard Sir Topher call out from above. He looked up to where his mentor was standing on the balconette of the first floor, adjusting the cuffs on his sleeve.
'Sir Topher, I need to do something. I promise we'll speak later this night.'
Finnikin felt his anxiety take over, his desperation to get to where he knew she stood beyond the cluster of people in the courtyard. He jumped onto one of the empty trestle tables and leaped up to the latticework of the balconette. From up high he could see her in the middle of the courtyard, elevated on a makeshift platform and surrounded by Lady Celie and the young novices of both Lagrami and Sagrami. The Guard formed a circle around them, and he could see Perri allowing people to pay their respects one or two at a time. There was gaiety in the air. She was a giggler, the queen was. He remembered that about Isaboe as a child. Her giggles back then would turn into snorts and then laughter. He saw traces of it in these girls, their eyes closed, their hands covering their mouths as they laughed at what she had said. There was no restraint in their mirth, despite the clucking of the overprotective hens of the royal court, who seemed to be battling the Guard to take control of the girls. He remembered what Beatriss had said to him one afternoon. 'What was it about those beloved, spirited princesses?' she had asked, tears in her eyes. 'I will miss them for the rest of my life. You know how it is with Isaboe, Finnikin? The way she intoxicates you with her hope and her capacity to love.'
From his vantage point he could only stare. At the one who intoxicated him. There was a suppleness to her now that showed good health, curves that were lovingly outlined by the ivory silk dress she wore, its wide sleeves pinned to her side. In her thick dark curls she wore flower buds, and on her head was her mother's crown, sparkling with rubies.
She was gracious in her attention to her people. He could tell by the gestures of those who got close that they were complimenting her, and she was accepting the compliments with a poise and charm that had them beaming. She leaned forward to hear their stories, gently asking her guard, Aldron, to move back when he held up a hand of restraint to one who dared to step too close. Beatriss's child was clinging to her sleeve, jumping up for attention. He watched the way the queen gathered the child to her, letting Vestie cling to her waist as she swung the girl from side to side.
'Do not allow her to lead the negotiations, Finnikin. You know how stubborn she is.'
Finnikin looked at the queen's First Man with irritation. 'This is a private matter, Sir Topher,' he said, perspiring from the effort it took to grip the lattice.
Sir Topher laughed, shaking his head. 'Privacy? Finnikin, climb down that trellis, and this moment between you and me will be the last private moment you will ever experience.'
But Finnikin no longer cared. Amid shouts of reprimand from the palace staff, he jumped onto the trestle table and then to the ground.
