“My brother,” King Robert said to himself, driving it from Rafen’s mind. “I wish I could have seen him. Why was he invisible to me?”
Rafen shook his head sadly. “Where is Jacob? He fought Roger last night.”
“Ah,” King Robert said, his gaze shifting to Rafen. “He seems none the worse, despite a minimal wound. Roger gave him a terrific fight and still fled like a coward at the end of it.” A shadow passed across King Robert’s face. “Rafen, I’ve been a bad father,” he went on, bowing his head and staring at the charred silken covers at the end of his bed. “I’ve been a very bad father. I didn’t help Annette when she needed me, when she tried to fight Nazt. I didn’t speak with her enough. Perhaps I didn’t love her enough.”
Rafen sat up straighter in the bed. “That is not true,” he said savagely. “You’re a good father – the best. I wish…” His voice broke when he remembered the Lashki almost killing King Robert. “I wish you were mine.”
King Robert looked up, a faint, painful smile spreading over his features. Rising, he moved over to the head of the bed where Rafen lay and wrapped his arms around him. In an action entirely unfamiliar to him but filled with sacred meaning, Rafen hugged King Robert back, his eyes blurred.
At length, King Robert drew back, brushing tears from his eyes. He stared out the windows Rafen had shattered. Rafen’s eyes were drawn to something gleaming on the bed: the gold circlet that bore the Sianian amethyst. The Lashki had not had time to snatch it up again before his departure.
“Your Majesty.” Rafen reached over and picked it up.
King Robert turned to see Rafen holding it out to him. Wordlessly, he received the circlet and placed it on his head, one finger brushing the gem set in the gold. Some of the color returned to his pale face.
“You know,” he said, “today is the sixteenth Ki Zion, your thirteenth birthday as Bertilde told me, and the day King Fritz triumphed against the Lashki when he was a mortal. Usually we have a celebration in the city. I was hoping you could come. I plan to announce you as the Fledgling of the Phoenix.”
“Of course I’ll come,” Rafen said.
“Are you well enough?”
Anxious to show him, Rafen threw the covers back and slid off the edge of the bed, rising painfully. His chest and head still pounded. He didn’t care.
“Let’s see it.” King Robert indicated Rafen’s chest.
Rafen opened his shirt partially, careful not to dislodge the phoenix feather from the hem. Beneath the place where the feather had been last night, a black bruise the size of a fist was swelling across Rafen’s sternum.
King Robert gazed at it with curiosity. “It’s a big bruise. Normally that would have killed someone. It’s as if something was shielding you in that precise spot.”
“I suppose so,” Rafen said quietly, closing his shirt.
*
“I swear I’m about to swoon.” Richard shaded his eyes dramatically from where he sat in a large emerald armchair.
To Rafen’s gratification, nobody responded except King Albert, who merely glanced his son’s way. Since the Lashki’s attack the night before, Richard was receiving no attention. Rafen smiled, his hand over his phoenix feather. He was sitting on a settee along the back wall of the room with Bertilde, Kasper, and Robert. His chest still ached, and after a long day, he felt dizzy. Yet somehow, unbelievably, everything was better after last night.
The royal family and their two Sartian visitors were gathered in an expansive sitting room for some announcements King Robert had to make. In the center of the room, an ornamental desk stood, an ink well and several sheets of parchment on top of it. The back wall was comprised mostly of paneled windows looking out on the dark western side of the palace gardens. Everyone was seated – or sprawled, in Kasper’s case – on the various settees about the room.
It was past eleven at night. Everyone had attended the traditional Sianian festivities that morning. The celebrations had included a colorful royal procession, numerous speeches, offerings of doves and incense to Zion in the temple, and various kesmalic displays by some of Siana’s most revered philosophers. The firework-like explosions had jarred King Robert’s nerves all day after the previous night. Now looking rather shattered, he was slumped on a dusky red settee against the left wall. Queen Arlene and Etana sat close to him. Rafen had spent most of the day staring at Etana, trying to remember the vision he had had last night. His memory seemed determined to keep it from him.
One of the first speeches King Robert had made concerned Rafen. Before a huge, churning crowd in the marketplace, King Robert had announced that Rafen had saved his life in the night. Even King Albert didn’t object when King Robert formally proclaimed Rafen the Fledgling of the Phoenix. Rafen had been frightened of the stormy applause from the crowd. Everyone had been trying to get a look at him where he stood on the platform with King Robert.
“Don’t you care that I’m feeling faint?” Richard snapped, straightening, his cheeks pale pink with anger.
“I do care,” King Robert said. “If you swooned, it would save us all a headache.” He turned to King Albert. “As I was saying earlier, Your Majesty, I expect to go on sabbatical, somewhere nice, something like Zal Ricio ’el Nria, for a good year. I’ve reigned twenty-four years, and with your blessing, I should like some respite. The last year has been rather harrowing. I have vague memories of some Tarhians chasing me across the ocean, my daughter looking half-starved, and a ghoul on my bed in the night. The steward was not reliable while I was voyaging to Tarhia. I really think my younger brother should have the job this time. He will be trustworthy.”
King Albert inclined his head. He sat on a brocaded couch against the right wall, near his son. “I will arrange for better protection for you and your family, and this castle,” he said in his booming, indifferent tone, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “More military support would be helpful. And some Sartian philosophers… much better.”
“Trustworthy Sartian philosophers, Your Majesty,” King Robert clarified.
“Of course.” King Albert looked indignant.
Beside Rafen, Kasper and Robert were grim. While the rest of the Selson family had been shocked to hear of the previous night’s events, Annette’s absence struck them the hardest. Bertilde had been red-eyed all day. For once, Bambi had been wordless. Kasper and Robert took the news like men. Now Robert clasped Bertilde in a rather fierce grip, occasionally whispering a soothing word to her. Everyone wanted the sabbatical after this, and King Robert had said Rafen was coming along. Rafen’s mind kept drifting to the sea.
“What will you do about him?” King Albert said, his eyes sliding from the window to where Rafen sat.
“Ah, Rafen.” King Robert gazed at him. “Yes. The Lashki’s focus has now shifted from the monarchy and its heirs to you. He will be back. He took fright last night, but the Lashki will be back. I mentioned Rafen was wounded this morning, and shortly after we’ve left I will write to my brother and tell him Rafen has died unexpectedly of ongoing pain since the Lashki’s attack. I realize the people will be upset. Matters can always be explained on my return. It was good to tell them about the Fledgling today, as it is just what the Lashki would expect and makes our story all the more believable to him. Rafen’s supposed death will mean that at least for a year we might have some peace. Rafen needs safety while he can have it. On sabbatical, I will have his fencing training continue, and he will be taught how to develop his kesmalic abilities. When we return to Siana, his training will be intensified. In his adulthood, he will likely have a position in the Sianian government. For now, he is still young, Your Majesty. Very young.”
Rafen listened silently. He supposed he had chosen this when receiving the phoenix feather.
“Indeed,” King Albert said condescendingly. “We shall expect great things of the Fledgling, nevertheless. I and my son will be leaving when you leave, Robert. I will have everything arranged.”
King Albert didn’t admit to it, but he had been terrif
ied during the attack last night.
“And now one thing remains,” King Robert said with a weary smile. He glanced around at his family. “Last night… we lost a family member to the Lashki.”
He paused, taking a deep breath. His watery blue eyes were more watery than usual.
“She is not dead,” he said in a constricted voice. “She is worse than dead. She has been ensnared by Nazt and will never live a day without paying the price.”
Rafen swallowed. Queen Arlene looked white. Bertilde broke into sobs, and Etana slipped her one healthy hand into her father’s. Beside Rafen, Kasper cleared his throat huskily. King Albert’s eyes slid sideways, as if he were already anticipating the scandal.
“While this is… most heart-rending,” King Robert said, “I have some happy news to impart.”
Heads snapped up to meet King Robert’s eyes. However, King Robert was looking only at Rafen, radiance suffusing his face.
“With your consent and signature, Rafen,” he said, “Arlene and I have decided to offer you a place in our family. What do you say to that?”
Shock expanded in Rafen’s throbbing chest. A sharp pain entered his throat.
“I think,” King Robert said, turning to address a servant at the sitting room door, “we had better have the documents right away.”
The servant hurried from the room. Rafen became aware Kasper and Robert were cheering lustily, and Bambi and Bertilde had begun to clap – Bertilde rather hysterically. Etana threw her uninjured arm around her father’s neck. Queen Arlene was actually smiling through thin lips. King Albert and Richard sat there disapprovingly, looking like they had been admitted into an asylum against their own wills. They would probably have left the room but for the events of last night, which meant they didn’t want to go anywhere alone.
When Etana had permitted him to breathe, King Robert beamed at Rafen and held out his arms. “Come here, Rafen.”
He was on his feet before he knew it, and suddenly he was before King Robert, dizzy, bewildered, and crazily happy. King Robert had risen, and was embracing Rafen tightly.
“My son,” he whispered.
Epilogue
In his hall near the guard’s rows, Talmon shivered on the rickety chair before his crude table. He gritted his teeth as he checked the slave records in his hands. Roger hadn’t communicated with him through Annette yet. Talmon had waited a week since the time the previous general had probably arrived. Surely something had happened by now. That bonehead. Talmon would bet his dogs that Roger hadn’t come anywhere near Rafen. And Talmon was still no closer to finding out who had really taught the boy his name, who had taught him the Tongue, who had told him the way out of the palace so he could free the Sianian princess, or who had unlocked the door to freedom. He remembered instructing a man to care for Rafen until he was four. The entire interview had been in Tarhian. Still, there was a slight possibility this could be the culprit he was looking for. He had located Philippe with difficulty. Very few people actually remembered his face, because he was merely a boot-shiner and horse-tender. Talmon spoke to him, and Philippe, though he had doubtless known how to speak the Tongue when he had been brought to the palace at seven, no longer had any memory of the language, and even less of the boy. The king had kept a close eye on his other guards, occasionally questioning them about the boot-shiner, whom all of them disdained. He failed to remember anyone else among them who could speak Tongue. Could it have been one of the servants?
One thing was certain: only Philippe or Roger could have slipped the boy his name, for they were the sole ones apart from Talmon (and the wife he kept locked up) who knew it. Perhaps they had mentioned it to someone else who came into contact with Rafen.
Talmon shook his head as if worried by flies. Letting Roger go had been a mistake. Talmon had given into his begging. All the idiot had wanted was to prove his loyalty, to prove he could make up for his mistakes. Talmon had figured he didn’t have much more to lose.
“I was wrong,” he said aloud, rising from the chair and tapping a finger on his table. The five dogs beneath the wood started up with excited yelps. Talmon waved his foot in their direction, and they quieted.
He had lost a general. Despite his alacrity to obey, Mainte possessed none of Roger’s instincts, and wasn’t half his equal. Chances were, along with the general, Talmon had lost valuable secrets. What would that spineless man say when threatened? Talmon hated to think.
The hall was too cold. He would have one of those murky soups his cooks made. If the taste was vulgar, at least it was warm. Talmon turned to the solitary guard across the room at the double doors. Since that nasty incident with his Master, he had never sent all the guards out of the hall again. Surely, the fools would be no help to him, but it was horrible to suffer such things alone.
“Soup,” he said. “Call another man to take your post while you are gone.”
“Your Grace.” The guard left the hall.
Then the room turned even colder than before. The familiar putrid smell washed over everything. Whining, the dogs scampered away toward the right wall, their tails between their legs.
“Aach!” Talmon yelled in sheer frustration, dropping his records. When his dripping Master stepped out of the accustomed left corner, Talmon snatched the rickety chair to himself and clutched it like a much-needed friend.
“Wench,” the Lashki growled, throwing somebody clinging to his moth-eaten garments to the floor.
Intrigued, Talmon lessened his hold on the chair. A woman lay on the stone floor, her already scant dress torn and gaping in places. Sobbing soundlessly, she struggled onto her filthy knees, her black hair falling over her face. Beneath the tangled mass, Talmon glimpsed hooded, pale green eyes, rimmed with red. The left side of her face was black and bloodied, showing where she had been struck countless times.
“Was this not what you wanted?” the Lashki asked, his eyes finding Talmon. “Nazt will punish you for your disloyalty, Annette. Nazt will punish you for not killing him in the Woods.”
The woman didn’t respond. Talmon shivered; his Master didn’t favor the disrespectful. With a glint in his eyes, the Lashki swooped around to face the woman, savagely grabbing her face and holding it up to his. The woman gave a piercing shriek, trying to break loose. The Lashki pointed his copper rod at her breast. With a stinging, slapping noise, the woman was thrown back against the left wall. She slumped onto the floor in a messy ball.
“This is the princess’ sister?” Talmon said.
“The harlot,” the Lashki spat. He turned to Talmon, his rotten teeth bared. Talmon gripped the chair tighter than before, wondering what in the world he was supposed to have done this time.
“Master, please,” he begged.
“Master, please,” the Lashki mimicked in a whining, feminine tone Talmon hadn’t believed him capable of. “Master, please. Master, please. It’s all you say, you bleeding fool.”
Talmon stiffened, preparing to run toward the doors behind the table. The Lashki’s copper rod rose and fell. A scream tore Talmon’s throat, and he was blasted away from his chair, his back slamming onto the stone floor seven steps from where he had been standing. The chair clattered to the ground somewhere nearby. Talmon curled up, cradling his aching head, his breathing fast as he heard his Master’s squelching steps come nearer.
“Annette has told me Jacob is training him to fence,” the Lashki said. “The boy even knocked that sap Richard off his feet in a battle of honor. And his loyalty to Robert increases. You will agree with me this—” here the Lashki paused and Talmon glanced up to see the rod pointed at his heart, “— is entirely unacceptable.”
“Please don’t kill me,” Talmon choked.
His Master’s left hand somehow didn’t look quite right. The index finger, wrapped around the copper rod, was merely blackened bone. Talmon vaguely wondered what had happened. With the force of a thunderclap, he remembered his Master had been planning a four-way murder at the New Isles palace.
“Master,
did you not—”
“Shut up, Talmon,” the Lashki said coldly, still pointing at him with the rod. He appeared transfixed by his own thoughts. “I’m tired of your whining.”
Trembling, Talmon lay there, teeth gritted with the pain of his recent injury. The whimpering of the Selson girl reached his ears from the left wall. Talmon’s dogs scuffled nearby. When he looked up again, he was startled to see his Master was smiling his ghastly smile, his black eyes focused on something he couldn’t see.
“No matter,” he said. “Robert’s brother contacted me today to tell me about the sabbatical. Frankston will hand Siana over to me.”
The Lashki’s decaying gray hands moved up his copper rod, which glowed a faint blue.
“When Robert returns, Siana will be in my hands,” he said, “and I will kill his Fledgling and his family before his eyes.”
By the wall, Annette raised her head, her red-rimmed eyes wide.
About the author
Y.K. Willemse grew up dreaming of the day when she would become an author. But she didn’t just dream. At age ten, she began writing seriously. She was published for the first time at age sixteen and saw her first novel release when she was twenty-two years old. When she’s not writing, Yvette is walking her Yorkshire Terrier, drinking large amounts of coffee, singing loudly, and teaching music at various schools and studios. She owns a real Norman sword, a very small but sharp axe, and a large collection of books. Together with her husband Michael, she resides in Canterbury, New Zealand.
You can connect with Y.K. by visiting her
website at
http://www.writersanctuary.net/
Facebook at
https://www.facebook.com/fledglingaccount
Rafen (The Fledgling Account Book 1) Page 22