Melina Marchetta - Finnikin of the Rock

As they drew closer to the rock, the terrain beneath their feet began to change. What Finnikin had thought was sand turned out to be a thick claylike substance that tested his balance. They were walking on a seabed, and by nightfall the waters would return and there would be no hope of leaving this place until the next low tide.

At the entrance of the rock of Lagrami, they followed the wide stone steps that circled up to the summit, passing the pilgrims kneeling at the shrine of welcome. The leather of Finnikin's boots gave little protection from the cold hard surface, and he found himself looking back to where the pilgrims knelt, knowing that some would make their way up on their knees as a display of devotion to their goddess. He had witnessed the ignorance that came from blind faith time and time again over the years, and he wondered how many of these pilgrims were Lumateran exiles searching for some kind of salvation.

Higher, the steps became stones to climb. Finnikin suspected that sooner or later they would be forced to crawl their way to the top, where the messenger of the High Priestess was surely waiting. Yet not even halfway up, the stones gave way to a smooth cliff face, leaving them nothing to grip except tiny metal bars embedded in the rock. Finnikin stared, confused. He looked down at his oversize feet and wondered how it would be possible to balance them on so narrow a ledge.

"Not for our feet, my boy," Sir Topher said with a sigh. He wiggled his fingers in front of Finnikin's face.

Mercy.

"Do not look down," he warned.

Sir Topher began to climb, and Finnikin felt a shower of grains from the rocks above as they crumbled under his mentor's weight. One caught him in the eye, and he resisted the urge to wipe it free, preferring to be blinded rather than lose his grip.

"I said, do not look down," Sir Topher grunted, as if reading his thoughts.

"If I look up, I'll lose my dinner," Finnikin gasped.

"And what a pity that would be. All those lovely goose gizzards. All that rabbit pie you insisted on wolfing down despite my warning. All gone to waste."

Finnikin paused, his head spinning and his mouth beginning to taste of a sickly substance. The dull stench of pigeon filled his nostrils and turned the contents of his belly. His hands ached from gripping the metal bars, and he longed to be able to place his feet flat against the rock. Yet this journey up the cliff face had to be worth it. Somehow the High Priestess had located him and Sir Topher in the kingdom of Belegonia. Not an easy feat when most of the time they chose not to be found.

For the past ten years, Sir Topher and Finnikin had worked to improve the conditions of Lumaterans living in overcrowded camps rife with fever, fear, and despair. Former dukes of Lumatere, now employed in foreign courts, had often requested their presence, eager to fund their efforts to bring a reprieve to their people. Less welcome were the approaches from foreign kings and queens, who always seemed to have a price for their goodwill. Often it was information about what was taking place in a neighboring kingdom in exchange for palace protection for the exiles camped along their riverbanks and valleys. While protocol ensured that the king's First Man and his apprentice were granted access to any court in the land, Sir Topher had learned to be cautious when it came to accepting invitations.

But this one had been different. It began with a name whispered to Finnikin deep in the night as he lay sleeping among the exiles in Belegonia. Balthazar.

Finnikin had dragged Sir Topher from his sleep in an instant. He could hardly describe the messenger to his mentor. He could only remember the voice in his ear and the disappearing robes of one who spoke of the isolated cloister of Sendecane. The moment Finnikin had finished speaking, Sir Topher rose from his bedroll and packed it without a word.

Finnikin reached the summit of the cliff first and stayed draped over the stone, trying to regain his breath before leaning across to help Sir Topher, who was wheezing and hungering for air. Hearing a sound behind them, they turned to where a wizened old novice stood before an opening in the wall. When she shuffled around and disappeared into the confines of the cloister, they understood that they were to follow.

Finnikin's lanky frame meant he was forced to crouch through the damp tunnel, which led to a set of narrow spiral stairs. When they reached the top, they followed the old woman along a hallway, past rooms where other novices knelt in prayer. They crossed the cloister and entered a large chamber with high windows that let in the light. This room interested Finnikin greatly. There were rows and rows of tables where novices sat, absorbed in their work. Some were poring over bound manuscripts, copying their contents, while others read. Finnikin had seen a room like this before, at the palace of Osteria. The manuscripts there held records of each kingdom of the land: their gods and goddesses, their wars, their origins, their landscape, their language, their art, their food, their lives.

As a child in exile, Finnikin had worried that his kingdom would have no further record of existence, so he began his own work on the Book of Lumatere. He wondered if these scholars felt the same way he did about the scent of parchment and the feel of a quill in their hands. But their faces revealed little, and the old novice's pace began to quicken, leading them into a dimly lit room full of columns. And there, in the middle of the room, stood the High Priestess.

"Blessed Kiria." Sir Topher bowed and kissed her hand.

"You have come a long way, Sir Topher."

Finnikin heard the note of surprise in her voice, almost wonder. Like all priestesses of Lagrami, her hair was worn long, almost to her knees, marking her years of devotion to her goddess. Upon her death, the braid would be cut and offered as a sacrifice, while somewhere else in the land a novice would enter the cloister, her hair shorn and her journey begun.

"The Lumateran pilgrims who have made their way to us over the years have taken courage in the existence of the king's First Man and his young apprentice," she said, looking at them both.

"It is good of you to acknowledge our cursed people, blessed Kiria," Sir Topher said.

She smiled warmly. "We are neighbors, despite the distance. I feel anguish for your beloved priest-king, to have lost his people in such a way, and I am here as a servant to your people as much as to mine. It is the wish of our goddess."

"Do you have the good fortune to know of our priest-king's whereabouts?" Sir Topher asked.

The High Priestess shook her head sadly. Then her expression changed and she walked farther into the room, beckoning them to follow. "You have come for the girl?" she asked.

Girl Finnikin's heart dropped. He had hoped; stupidly he had hoped. The fury he felt for harboring such a dream made him sway on his feet.

"We have little time before the tide rises, so I will speak quickly," she said in a low voice. "Two springs past, a girl came to us. Her name, Evanjalin. Unlike many of our Lumateran novices, she was not orphaned during the five days of the unspeakable but belonged to the exiles in Sarnak."

Finnikin flinched and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he saw that Sir Topher had paled. The High Priestess nodded. "I see that you are well aware of the ill-fated exiles in Sarnak."

"We have petitioned the king of Sarnak to have those responsible for the massacre brought to justice," Sir Topher said.

Finnikin wondered why they had wasted their time. The slaughter of a group of Lumateran exiles, two years past, was of little concern to an apathetic king.

The High Priestess leaned forward to whisper. "The novice Evanjalin has a gift, and I promise you this: in my time I have come across many who claim to have extraordinary gifts, but I know this girl speaks the truth. She professes to have walked through the sleep, not only of your beloved heir, but of your people trapped inside Lumatere."