Finnikin of the Rock Read Online Free PDF Page A

Shout. Rage. Rage!
    "I think I may have frightened her," Sir Topher murmured in Belegonian.
    "You frightened me," said Finnikin.
    The fire crackled. Beyond it, the novice Evanjalin continued with her task.
    "This year will be our last traveling, Finnikin. If he is alive, Balthazar will have come of age these past two 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."
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    "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.
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    ***
    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