THE SERVANT OF THE KING By Y.K. Willemse
Published by Burnett Young Fiction
P.O. Box 1
Clarklake, MI 49234
ISBN: 978-1-64071-005-4
Copyright © 2015 by Y.K. Willemse
Cover design by Ruth Germon
Interior design by Donato Toledo Jr.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Willemse, Y.K.
The Servant Of The King / Y.K. Willemse 1st ed.
O Lord, the God who saves me,
Day and night I cry out before you.
May my prayer come before you;
Turn your ear to my cry.
For my soul is full of trouble
And my life draws near the grave.
I am counted among those who go down to the pit;
I am like a man without strength.
I am set apart with the dead,
Like the slain who lie in the grave,
Whom you remember no more,
Who are cut off from your care.
You have put me in the lowest pit,
In the darkest depths.
Your wrath lies heavily upon me;
You have overwhelmed me with all your waves.
You have taken from me my closest friends
And have made me repulsive to them.
I am confined and cannot escape;
My eyes are dim with grief …
You have taken my companions and loved ones from me;
The darkness is my closest friend –
Psalm 88:1-9a, 18.
Do not fret because of evil men
Or be envious of those who do wrong;
For like the grass they will soon wither,
Like green plants they will soon die away …
Commit your way to the Lord;
Trust in him and he will do this:
He will make your righteousness shine like the dawn,
The justice of your cause like the noonday sun ~
Psalm 37: 1-2, 5-6.
To the Lord of Heaven and Earth.
To Hannah, Abby, and Zipporah, my beautiful sisters.
To William, my cousin: evil can be overcome.
Pronunciation Guide
Rafen – RAH-fen
Lashki Mirah – lash-KIE MIE-rah
Alakil – AH-lah-kile
Aronis – a-ROHN-iss
Asiel – AH-syahl
Etana – e-TAH-nyah
Talmon – TELL-mohn
Torius – taw-REEAS
Erasmus – eh-RAS-mahs
Harlam – HAHR-lahm
Oram – OH-rahm
Stalim – STAH-leem
Wynne – WIN
Vladimiēr – vlood-di-MEE-air
Sarient – SAHR-ree-ahnt
Hara – ha-RAH
Tarhia – TAHR-reeah
Siana – SIE-ah-nyah
Zal Ricio ’el Nria – zahl ri-KIE-oh ahl n-REEAH
Ruya – ROOH-yah
Burrek – BURR-reck
Parith – Pa-REETH
Quidon – CYOOH-dohn
Rusem – ROOH-sehm
Setarsia – SEE-TAHR-seeah
Leginis – LEH-gi-niss
Carn – CAHR-ryn
Mio Pilamùr – MIE-oh PIE-lah-myur
Mio Urmeea – MIE-oh er-MEE-ah
Nazt – NAHZT
Naztwai – NAHZT-way
Zion – ZIE-ohn
Secra – seh-CRAH
Runi – ROOH-NIE
Kesmal – kehs-MAHL
Nhanya – NAHN-yah
Chapter One
The
Pain of Wynne
“You forget blood!” Roger roared. “You forget what is in his veins is in mine!”
Rafen’s face flushed, but he remained flattened against the earthen wall outside the round room in which Roger and King Robert were again arguing.
King Robert spoke, his voice like the rumble preceding an earthquake. “There have been none who have dared—”
“You are king no longer, Robert,” Roger hissed. “You don’t have power over me. The only reason I remain in this hellhole with you—”
“Is because I granted you safety!” King Robert bellowed.
Rafen dared to look around the edge of the rough doorframe. Within the dirt room, torches flamed in holders on the back wall. In their garish light, Roger’s white face was taut with rage, and King Robert was florid.
That dinnertime, Rafen had sat next to King Robert in the long, dark underground row that served as the royal banquet hall now. King Robert had specially requested it so that he could speak to Rafen about Wynne’s increasingly erratic behavior. Rafen had never thought Roger would mind. Yet when Roger had seen the two of them speaking in low voices, he had assumed King Robert was discussing him with Rafen. This was not out of the question, because in recent times King Robert had purposely raised the issue that Rafen had been adopted unconditionally. This grated on Roger like nothing else, not necessarily because he loved Rafen, but because, as Rafen had discovered, he was possessive: a man who liked to point at something and say with childlike authority “mine”.
“The only reason we – my family – are here,” Roger said, his words precise even at their agitated pitch, “is because of my son, my son, whom you are intent on stealing from me.”
King Robert’s tone dropped to gain its sonority but none of its accustomed warmth. “How can I steal what is already mine?”
At Roger’s sudden indignant howl, Rafen glanced around the doorframe again, fearing for King Robert. Roger remained frozen in place, pinioned by his fear of power, his tall, slender form tense. His pinhead, with its slick brown hair, was reared against the torchlight.
Rafen had heard enough. He slipped away, and once out of hearing, broke into an angry, thumping run.
It had been like this too long. So far, he had stayed in the underground Hideout for six weeks, because nearly ten months ago the Lashki Mirah had stolen King Robert’s throne while he had been on his year-long sabbatical. King Robert’s younger brother Frankston, caretaker of the country in the royal family’s absence, had given Siana over, and even the Tarhians had found a home there. The Ashurites, natives of Siana who dwelt together in tribes, had also rallied under the Lashki, stren
gthening his rule. The Sianian admiral Alexander had tried raising an army, and Rafen’s mentor Erasmus had been in contact with him. But Erasmus had been hung, and Rafen had never met with Alexander in the end. It wasn’t long, however, before Rafen meant to escape this place and find Alexander. Siana could not be left in this state.
It was inevitable that things became tense in Fritz’s Hideout. It was the result of tiny food rations for over fourteen people. It was the result of constantly wondering whether Annette – King Robert’s and Queen Arlene’s eldest daughter – would reveal their hiding place to the Lashki Mirah. To make things worse, Wynne had taken to sleepwalking, and sometimes it took hours to find her. Increasingly, in the close environment where silence and inaction meant her father’s death could sink in, she hated Rafen. At first, she stole his dried meat and nuts when he wasn’t looking. Then one night, when Rafen was sleeping on the floor of a room with Francisco, Roger, and Elizabeth, he woke to see a glitter at the corner of his eye. A dagger had been driven into the ground near his ear. Though King Robert both threatened to turn Wynne out and pleaded with her, she would not confess to it.
Rafen’s flight had taken him to the end of a long corridor where a speck of light gleamed. He had discovered this place accidently under similar circumstances a week earlier. The small exit led into a glade in the Woods. Because Rafen still had not had the growth spurt that would make him look like a fourteen-year-old instead of an eleven-year-old, he could fit through it. Malnourishment from his days as a Tarhian slave had stunted his growth for good.
He paused. Although King Robert would be disappointed if he knew Rafen was about to go outside, there was no reason for him to find out.
Yet King Robert had found out Rafen had been training himself further in kesmal in his spare time. While Rafen wasn’t particularly good at teaching himself, he had made an effort.
Normally, King Robert didn’t let anyone in the Hideout carry a weapon, excepting his son Robert or his daughter Etana. Etana retained her ring, and Robert wore a sword, in case someone untoward broke into the Hideout. The king had gently explained to Rafen that he preferred he was not tempted to leave the Hideout and fight, otherwise he would get killed.
“Do not fear, Rafen,” King Robert had said. “I have sent a message out to Alexander. Robert gave it to a peasant. It is sure to find our admiral. You must not go. If we lost you, we would have no Fledgling.”
Fledgling! Rafen had thought bitterly. How could he be the Fledgling when he was not continuing his training and education? How was he to prepare to be a warrior for Siana and a leader in the government? He had not yet lost faith that Siana would be saved. However, Queen Arlene refused to educate Rafen any further. Yes, King Robert still believed Rafen was the Fledgling. Recently though, Queen Arlene had been expressing doubts. She still maintained Rafen was a necessary ingredient for the redemption of Siana. She had seen with her own eyes that the Lashki feared Rafen’s kesmal. Still, Rafen had noticed when he tried conversing with her that she was colder to him than before, even frigid at times.
He was surprised how much it had hurt. He had grown to rely on Queen Arlene’s opinion of him during their time together. Her approval had meant the world to him. Now it was gone.
It’s because of my birth family, he had realized. She knows I’m a human now. She knows I’m not descended from the Higher Beings of old.
Clearly, blood mattered. Even Prince Robert behaved differently to Rafen. He patronized him, acting like Rafen could not understand him.
Rafen had kept training on his own, practicing his fencing moves without a sword, transforming into a wolf, and creating fires when no one was looking. He would try to send his orange torrents flying about the room, answering his every bidding. Sometimes it worked. Often it didn’t. He discovered he could create shields out of his flame. The main problem was that he could not put them out quickly. While he could stamp on his flames or squeeze them to death with his bare hands, large fires were challenging to put out. Four days ago, he had created a huge shield that completely encircled his body, hoping to flick it into nonexistence afterward. He wasn’t so lucky. At his attempts, the fire had simply grown, filling the entire room he was in.
“Rafen!” Queen Arlene had rushed in, her bun of braided blonde hair disheveled from running, her orb-like blue eyes wide with horror. “What in Zion’s name do you think you are doing?”
It had taken Queen Arlene half an hour to put out the huge, powerful fire. Robert and Etana had frantically used kesmal to keep it from spreading. The room was quite black afterward. An old chair had been reduced to ashes, and part of one wall had crumbled.
“You are never to do kesmal in here again,” Queen Arlene had told him, her tone icy. “Save it for when you confront the Lashki.”
Yes… that was the one use she had for him these days. A chill had passed through Rafen. He knew he could harm the Lashki, and he even desired to. Yet Nazt often appeared in his mind, screaming for him, and all he wanted to do when he next saw the copper rod was run as fast as he could, no matter what Erasmus and Alexander had desired of him.
Etana had been more sympathetic.
“I know how it feels,” she had said, understanding too well the boredom and the desperation it bred.
Even though she too had refused to instruct him further in kesmal (“Rafen, you need a master to teach you, not me!”), her kindness comforted him.
Now moving toward the low, narrow end of the corridor he occupied, Rafen made to pull himself through the hole above.
“Oi, where do yer think yer goin’?”
Rafen jumped and whirled around, flattening himself against the corridor’s dead end.
“Nowhere,” he said.
The sunlight was a bright patch on his black curly hair, a bright light outlining his skinny limbs, illuminating his olive skin, and making his dark blue eyes water.
“Ha.” Sherwin’s long, thin lips formed a grin. “Look at yer, tryin’ to look innocent, all bathed in sunshine.”
Tall and gangly for fourteen, Sherwin stooped over beneath the low ceiling. His chin-length, straw-colored hair hung partially over his pale, freckled face. His large, pointed nose was red at the tip as it usually was when he was excited, or simply warm. Sherwin’s wide, sky blue eyes belied his amusement.
“Don’t tell,” Rafen whispered. “Please.”
“I won’t,” Sherwin said indignantly. “But yeh’ll help me get through too, won’t yer? Lord knows I’ve ’ad enough of this place.”
A smile spread over Rafen’s face.
A minute later, they had both scrambled through the crumbling opening. Rafen was on his hands and knees on glorious grass that he found scratchy after dirt floors and walls. The sunlight was too bright for his unaccustomed eyes; he put his hands up, staring through his fingers at slices of boxelders and holly and beautyberry bushes, all thriving with flowers and the beginnings of fruit, all tremendously vibrant and alive. In the trees, painted bruntings and sparrows chirped. The spring breeze played with his hair.
“Oh, this is loverly.” Sherwin crawled forward with his eyes closed and careened into Rafen.
“Oohmph,” Rafen said, falling over on purpose and rolling onto his back.
He pulled up tufts of grass and stared through the emerald-leaved branches at the bright blue sky that was neither the blue of summer, nor the icy clear of winter, but a perfect aqua promising coming warmth.
“Mmm,” he said softly.
“’ey,” Sherwin said, “’ey.”
A big stick sailed toward Rafen out of nowhere and collided with his pulled up knees.
“Ow!” Rafen yelled, sitting up.
Sherwin stood over him with a big stick and wide grin. “Shh,” he said, one finger to his lips. When he made to hit Rafen again, Rafen sprang to his feet and stumbled back toward a holly bush, giggling helplessly like a girl.
“Stop it,” he said.
The air was infectious. Rafen remembered training Sherwin, hitting him wi
th the flat of his sword as Erasmus had done to him, and as Sherwin was doing with a stick now. Sherwin surged nearer, and Rafen whipped a slightly smaller branch out from beneath a holly bush. Sherwin froze, uncertain.
“Guarde,” Rafen whispered.
Sherwin rearranged himself, putting on a fantastical grimace and screwing his eyes into slits.
“What is that?” Rafen asked him.
“My game face,” Sherwin said.
“Game face?”
“When I’m serious about winnin’ somethin’.”
“What makes yer think yer goin’ to win?” Rafen said in a perfect imitation of Sherwin as he lunged.
Sherwin’s riposte was too slow, and Rafen whacked him on the thigh for it. Sherwin stumbled back and answered with a thrust Rafen knocked aside easily. Rafen’s own thrust came like lightning, and Sherwin parried dubiously. Then suddenly, despite weeks of no practice, the hours of training with Rafen returned, and Sherwin was fencing as well as Rafen. Neither of them would give ground, but Rafen kept hitting back, desperately looking for a gap in Sherwin’s guard. Sherwin’s stick caught Rafen on the hip.
“Ha!” he said, a moment before Rafen knocked his stick from his hand and poked his diaphragm savagely.
Sherwin’s air rushed out, and he staggered back.
Rafen drew himself up and threw out his chest, parading over to Sherwin’s discarded stick and placing his boot on it.
“Yer stinker,” Sherwin said much too loudly.
Something stirred behind the holly bushes and Sherwin blanched. Momentarily paralyzed, Rafen remembered they weren’t supposed to be here at all. They were risking everything and everyone. He ducked down and caught a scent: a rabbit. It scampered out from beneath the tangled branches into the trees behind the glade Sherwin and Rafen occupied.
At its smell, Rafen’s muscles tensed. Beyond the glade, the quiet trees stretched into infinity. It was impossible to believe the spies and servants of the Lashki Mirah inhabited them. The rushing breezes that carried the fragrances of a thousand spring flowers pulled at his skin, whispering to him.
Servant of the King (The Fledgling Account Book 3) Page 1