Free Finnikin of the Rock by Melina Marchetta

Forest Dwellers. There seem to have been others with the gift, especially among the Flatlanders and the Monts. I believe it's why Saro of the Monts keeps his people well hidden."
    Sir Topher walked over to where the girl was sitting. Feathers were stuck to her fingers and parts of her shift.
    "Pick a language," Finnikin said stiffly. "She seems to know a few."
    The novice stood, her eyes moving from Finnikin to Sir Topher. "I only know the language of my parents and Belegonian," she said quietly in Belegonian. "And I can speak a little Sarnak."
    Sir Topher's breath caught. "Is there anything else you need to tell us, Evanjalin?"
    She shook her head, and her bottom lip began to quiver.
    "There's no need to be afraid," Sir Topher continued gently. "Where did you hear about Charyn's plan for Belegonia?"
    She leaned close, whispering into his ear, "Balthazar."
    Finnikin saw confusion on Sir Topher's face.
    "Please don't be angry, Sir Topher," she said. "Please take me to the Monts. They will know what to do, I promise you. On my life, I promise you."
    "And you believe them to be in Sorel?"
    She hesitated for a moment and then nodded.
    The thief was cackling with laughter. "Crying," he mimicked. "So sad. Want someone to cut my froat open and feed it to the dogs."
    The girl did not respond, and after a moment Sir Topher walked away. "Come, Finnikin. Practice."
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    But Finnikin stayed. "Why is it that you choose silence, Evanjalin?" he said. "Something to hide?"
    Her eyes met his. "Why speak when I can respond to your whistle like a dog?"
    He gave a humorless laugh. There was nothing simple about this one.
    "And anyway, I was so enjoying the discussions about fragile Lady Zarah."
    He and Sir Topher had discussed Lord Tascan's daughter in Osterian. Finnikin's eyes narrowed as he tried to bite back his anger. What they didn't know about this girl could fill the Book of Lumatere.
    "Is that jealousy I hear in your voice?" he asked.
    "Jealousy? Of a vacuous member of the nobility who trills like a bird, according to Sir Topher?"
    "Your voice could do with a bit more of a trill," he said.
    "Really? Because yours could do with a bit more refinement. For someone who's supposed to be the future king's First Man, you sound like a fishmonger."
    "First," he seethed, "I belong to the future King's Guard and second, my father was the son of a fishmonger, so I would choose my insults more carefully if I were you."
    "Finnikin! Practice," Sir Topher called out again.
    Evanjalin returned to the task with the pheasant as if Finnikin were no longer there.
    "You have a very dark heart," he accused.
    "It's good of you to recognize, Finnikin," she said without looking up. "There's hope for you yet."
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    ***
    CHaPteR 6
    The road to Sorel from Belegonia ran through ancient caverns said to be the dwelling place of the darkest gods in the land. Travelers preferred the ocean route between the two kingdoms despite the piracy on the open seas, and Finnikin could understand why. The journey through the caverns took most of the day. He was forced to stoop for the entire time and felt hounded by the carvings of grotesque forms, half-human, half-animal, on the walls around them. Yellow painted eyes tracked him, while outstretched clawlike fingers traced an icy line along his arm whenever he brushed against the jagged rock.
    There was little reprieve when they reached the capital. Sorel was a kingdom of stone and rubble, its terrain as unrelenting as Sendecane. The dryness in the air caused them to choke each time they tried to speak, and rough pieces of stone cut into Finnikin's thin leather boots. He could not help but notice the bloodied feet of the novice, and he cursed her for whatever it was that drove her on. Lately she had taken the lead, though when he thought back, he realized that she had done so since Sendecane.
    Sorel had a darkness to its core, much like Charyn. But if
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    Charyn was a knife that could slice its victim with quick and deadly precision,