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see his features were beginning to display a blunt cruelty, a mouth forever in a sneer. He had the build of one who would thicken with age, evident by the size of his fists. But he was young, at least five years their junior. Finnikin wondered how many more of his kind were roaming these streets.
    "They come hunting," the thief said. "Hunt you people down."
    He spoke like a foreigner, and it was in that moment Finnikin realized where the boy came from. There was a glassy look in his eyes that Finnikin had not seen since he was separated briefly from Sir Topher at the age of twelve and placed in a prison in the Osterian capital. There had been Lumateran exiles with him, children whose parents had either been killed during the five days of the unspeakable or died of the fever. Some of the children did not know their own names and couldn't speak a word of any language. A shared origin meant nothing in that prison, and he could tell it meant nothing to this boy, who would have been no more than three or four when his family escaped from Lumatere.
    Finnikin didn't need to ask who would be hunting them. In Sarnak there was always someone. Perhaps a pack of youths. Or bitter men, no longer able to put food on the table for their families. Finnikin was certain the thief would betray them to the
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    first person who would listen, for any price. When the novice caught his eye, he knew what they had to do.
    Sir Topher stared at the three of them with his usual aplomb. "So now our little party has a horse and a thief?"
    Finnikin secured the rope around the boy's hands. "It's either him or a pack of Sarnaks he will send in our direction."
    Sir Topher looked at the thief. "What's your name, boy?"
    The thief spat.
    "It's his favorite response," Finnikin said dryly. "We can dump him in Charyn."
    "Not if we find exiles there, and I suspect we will. Perhaps Sorel."
    "I think he'd like Sorel," Finnikin said. He turned to the thief. "Heard of the prison mines there?"
    The boy paled, and Finnikin looked at Sir Topher, pleased. "Good. He seems familiar with them." He glanced over to where the novice was huddled under the tree, her hands covering her head. "He sold her ring."
    Sir Topher sighed. "As soon as we're in Sorel, we won't have to worry anymore."
    A fortnight, Finnikin calculated as Sir Topher began loading up the horse. That was all they needed before the thief from Sarnak and the novice Evanjalin were out of their lives forever.
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    ***
    CHaPteR 4
    It was always their eyes that gave away their Lumateran heritage, and this time was no different. As they entered the gates of Charyn, the two guards snickered and Finnikin heard one of them mutter, "Dogs." Whether from the Rock or the River or the Flatlands, whether dark or fair, Lumaterans all had eyes that were set deep in their sockets. Finnikin had heard that the king of Charyn had once ordered his guards to measure the distance of a Lumateran prisoner's eyes from his nose, deeming them too close and therefore not human. He hated this kingdom. The one time he and Sir Topher had visited the Charyn court in the early years of their exile, he had feared for their lives. There were strange and sinister occurrences in the palace that week, bloodcurdling screams in the night and shouts of rage. Many claimed that the royal blood was tainted and that the king and his offspring were all half-mad.
    The path that led to the capital was lined with stone houses. They were bare except for their doorways, which were crowned with rosebushes that had not yet bloomed. Although it would take them at least ten days, they planned to travel along one of the
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    three rivers in Charyn that ran into Sorel. If there were exiles to be found, the river was the place to find them. Lumaterans were nothing if not sentimental, drawn to any place that resembled the physical landscape of their lost world.
    Four days later, they found a camp. From where they stood at the top of a ridge, they could see a small settlement