Servant of the King (The Fledgling Account Book 3)

by Y. K. Willemse

  Standing in the doorway, Rafen flinched. King Robert had managed to touch on nearly everything about Roger that annoyed him. Worse still, King Robert was more aware of it than Rafen. The first two weeks, Rafen had seen it as affection, concern. The losses of freedom aggravated him, but he’d endured them. Now, it was veritable slavery, and Rafen would never have endured it in the Woods. Yet here in the darkness, it was different. Rafen had little to eat each day, and he didn’t feel like arguing. Besides, there was nothing else to do apart from humoring his father. Was it such a little thing to make him happy?

  Still, he couldn’t keep them both happy. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized King Robert was controlling him too – holding on tightly to the Fledgling, the last remnant of a healthy Siana. Rafen had to get out of here. Once King Robert was back on the throne, he would remember who he was. He would be restored to his former self. At least, Rafen fervently hoped so.

  “Mend your own fathering before you try to mend mine,” Roger spat. “I’m not the one who has a daughter serving Nazt.”

  King Robert leapt to his feet. “Rafen steals because of your influence,” he howled. “I’m not the one who served Nazt!”

  Rafen opened his mouth, but Elizabeth shook her head at him.

  “Naïvety!” Roger said. “I knew nothing about—”

  “And still know nothing,” King Robert shouted. “I ADOPTED RAFEN!”

  Elizabeth silently rose from the bench and approached the doorway.

  “HOW MANY CHILDREN MUST YOU HAVE BEFORE YOU ARE SATISFIED?” Roger roared. “Go, ask your wife to bear you another child! I’ve had enough of kings stealing my children!”

  Where he stood, Rafen made a sudden move, the blood ringing in his ears. “Stop it. Both of you act as if one of you owns me. I belong to nobody but Zion. You argue over what you can only be near, and then you spoil even those times.”

  Breathing shallowly, King Robert stared at Rafen with palpable hurt, and Rafen wished he had never spoken at all. Elizabeth laid a hand on his shoulder and drew him from the room, while Roger said in an undertone: “Don’t you see that you upset my son?” In the light of the torches on the walls, Elizabeth and Rafen rounded a corner, Roger’s whining still humming in the distance.

  He doesn’t listen, Rafen thought. When these arguments had first begun, Roger had tried manipulating Rafen into saying what he had wanted in King Robert’s presence.

  “I am certain Rafen feels the terms of his ‘unconditional adoption’ have changed,” he had said.

  “I’m sure the king of Siana will do whatever is right.”

  Rafen’s reply had given Roger only momentary pause.

  “He can hardly be a king in a country that no longer recognizes him as one.”

  Rafen had fixed him with a glare. “He’s still king as far as I’m concerned.”

  His words hadn’t made any difference.

  “I know Roger,” Elizabeth said now. As usual, the lilt and rhythm of her voice soothed Rafen. “Unfortunately, nothing makes him stop. When will you leave? It has been six weeks and two days.”

  “I want to go soon,” Rafen answered grimly. “I’m surprised Roger hasn’t reported me to King Robert in this time.”

  “Roger likes to think his presence will stop you going,” Elizabeth said. “I believe he thinks you have forgotten all about leaving… and if you haven’t, he means to watch you closely. I doubt anything would make him confide in King Robert.”

  For the first time, Rafen was mildly grateful for the tensions between his blood father and the king.

  “Prince Robert is still planning our route. I wish he had started earlier. We could have left by now.”

  “You do not need a route,” Elizabeth said quietly. “You can lead them. You can pick up a scent.”

  Marveling at her faith in him, Rafen looked up. Elizabeth smiled, the skin at the corners of her eyes crinkling.

  “Robert is the leader,” Rafen said. “He’s the oldest.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “Rafen, why is Robert really the leader?”

  Rafen lowered his head. “He’s the oldest. I told you. He’s wiser, he’s royal, he’s an adult – he’s better. Better blood,” he spat abruptly.

  “Blood makes no difference where the Fledgling is concerned, Rafen. You must accept your name someday.”

  “But I have!” Rafen protested.

  “Rafen.” Elizabeth took his shoulders and turned him to face her. “You are a leader, unlike any other. You are the Fledgling, guided by the Phoenix Himself.”

  “I’m not wise enough,” Rafen said, gazing at the floor.

  “You will gain wisdom as you do what you were born to do.”

  Elizabeth bent and kissed his forehead.

  “I understand,” Rafen whispered. “I will go. But Robert isn’t going to listen if I tell him that.”

  “Sherwin and Francisco will,” Elizabeth said with a smile. Releasing him, she vanished around the corner of the hall.

  And then Rafen realized: she meant he would have to go without Robert.

  *

  “Well,” Sherwin said, “’e’s not goin’ to like it. Tha’s all.”

  They sat on the dirt floor of an open room off a corridor. With two low-slung beds and one torch burning dimly on the wall, this place served as the Riddings’ sleeping quarters. Roger had chosen it because he always remembered how to find it. Though Rafen didn’t understand why four people had to share one room, Roger had decreed it, wanting them to be “all together again” for as long as possible. Sometimes Rafen felt this was a threat to keep them imprisoned underground forever.

  “We have no choice,” Rafen said quietly, his eyes on the nearby corridor. Any minute now, Roger would appear and Sherwin would be unwelcome. Then he would have to slink away and sleep out of sight down the corridor as usual.

  “It is Robert’s own fault,” Francisco said softly, drinking from one of the water pouches that lay at the foot of Roger’s bed. “He decided he would plan the whole thing. For sakes, you cannot plan where to find a man you have lost! He said perhaps we could go to his Grandmother Adelphia for help, but he has tried to communicate with her and thinks she is overseas. So we cannot plan to find her either.”

  “Exactly,” Sherwin said. “It’s a matter of improvisation, tha’s all. The old Rob Roy’s lost his down the drains.”

  Francisco looked puzzled briefly, before giving up translating Sherwin’s words. Rafen was used to it however, and he grinned thinly.

  “Then it is tonight?” Francisco said in a low voice.

  For the hundredth time, Rafen was amazed at his brother. Once the heir to the Tarhian throne, Francisco had had everything: rich clothing, excellent food, a superior education, protection, safety, and the promise of power and influence. Though he had given it all up after meeting his twin, Rafen knew Francisco missed much of his old life. He had little connection to Roger, and while he enjoyed Elizabeth’s company, she remained an enigma to him. He became painfully hungry in the Hideout, and not merely for food: he was always searching for books to further his education with. Boredom was a kind of anguish for Francisco. When idle, he missed Talmon terribly. Rafen felt it, even though Francisco only spoke of it with reluctance, knowing the enmity between Rafen and the Tarhian king.

  “Yes,” he said. “We go tonight – if you’re happy to risk—”

  “Of course,” Francisco said impatiently. They had had this conversation at least twelve times already.

  “I’ll bet fifty dollars Roger will kick up some trouble,” Sherwin said. “If King Robert finds out, the whole thing’s busted.”

  “Bus-ted?” Francisco said.

  “Doomed,” Rafen said.

  “Oh happy thought.”

  “Yer could jus’ ’elp us fight our way out, Raf.”

  Rafen stirred. The same thought had occurred to him. “I’d much rather not fight King Robert,” he said. “Besides, if Etana joins her parents in trying to stop us, they’ll overpower me
. Queen Arlene and Etana together would be enough, I think. Their kesmal is incredible.”

  “Let’s just get to Etana first then,” Sherwin said. “Are we takin’ ’er and Kasper?”

  “No,” Rafen said. “We’d have to enter the Selsons’ sleeping quarters. Remember, Robert always shares with Etana to keep her safe. And I think Kasper sometimes shares with King Robert. It’s impossible.”

  “Darn,” Sherwin said. “Could’ve done with Etana’s kesmal.” After a pause, he continued, his face paling. “’ey, Raf, yer mentioned tha’ if we fought for Siana, we’d be fightin’ Nazt. Did yer mean tha’ the lot of us are goin’ to see Nazt and fight it?”

  “What? No,” Rafen said quickly. “Of course not. I meant that in fighting for Siana, we’re fighting the will of Nazt. We don’t have to actually see it to do that.”

  “Ah. Queen Arlene keeps talkin’ abou’ yer fightin’ the Lashki though. Are yer plannin’ to?”

  Rafen didn’t respond.

  “Yer hurt him last time. If yer jus’ aim for his ’ead this time—”

  “Sherwin.” Rafen’s mouth was dry. “You do realize that once I’m a wolf, I can’t do any kesmal in that form, don’t you? I can only fight with my teeth and claws. The Lashki will easily be able to take me to Nazt.”

  “Then jus’ fight him hard enough, Raf!” Sherwin said. “So tha’ he doesn’ get the chance—”

  “Comrade,” Francisco said, “I do not think you understand how hard it is to fight the Lashki hard enough.” He looked at Rafen with understanding. “I think Rafen is right. It is wise that he helps lead the people in a fight against the Tarhians. Yet it is not wise that he seeks out the Lashki and fights him, for by the stars, the copper rod and Nazt are terrible things.”

  Relief flooded Rafen. He couldn’t bear the thought of seeing Nazt again.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’ll help lead, and I mean to find Alexander. But I think it’s best someone stronger than me faces the Lashki this time.”

  Even as he said it, he felt a curious sense of betrayal, like he had let down both himself and the mother who had named him.

  Footsteps sounded in the earth corridor. Roger appeared, his face beaded with sweat, probably from the repressed anger he had suffered during the meal with the Selsons. He gave Sherwin a black look.

  “Why are you here?”

  “The usual,” Sherwin said, “a good china plate – er, mate.”

  “Get out,” Roger said through clenched teeth.

  Sherwin looked ruefully at Rafen, who rose, fury bubbling in his veins.

  “Do you have to always do this?” he said to Roger.

  “This is a family area,” Roger said as Sherwin skulked away.

  “Sherwin is family.”

  “Sherwin is some vagrant that you picked up from Lord knows where. He doesn’t even speak proper English or—”

  “Sherwin’s been through life and death with me,” Rafen snapped, cutting Roger off before he could start haranguing Rafen about Sherwin’s bad influence.

  Roger eyes widened with outrage, as they usually did when Rafen showed defiance. Then he fell back on his old tactics.

  “I should never have believed it,” he said.

  “Believed what?” Rafen asked, but Francisco looked knowing. He had probably had this speech earlier in the day.

  “That you ever had a thought for your family.” Roger walked into the room and stood before the flickering torch, his brow creased. “For our family. After all these years, must we be severed forever?”

  “We’re not severed,” Rafen said, uncomprehendingly. “We’re together.”

  “Physically, yes,” Roger said, his eyes aggrieved. “But not in spirit. Just when we are at last able to be family, to be united, other things must always obstruct us.”

  He said “obstruct” with a very hard “t”.

  “Other priorities. Other friends. Desires for our own gratification in these before the welfare of our family. And in times like these…” his shoulders sagged, “…when any of us could be killed, is it such a sacrifice to give us one night together as a family? One night, when we can be undivided?”

  Roger moved over to his bed on long legs, flopped down on it, and held his head in his hands. Rafen watched him with vague disquiet. He didn’t even dare apologize.

  “Rafen,” Roger said quietly after a few minutes had passed.

  “Yes?” Rafen said, his hands balled into fists.

  Francisco sat in the half-light next to him, trying to read a battered book the Selsons had loaned him. He looked suspiciously at Roger. The weary man had stretched out on his thin bed, one hand over his eyes as if the torch’s light pained him. With a free hand, Roger gestured to the ground at his bedside.

  “Remember,” he said to Rafen, “you sleep there. Move the water pouches… my son.”

  *

  Three hours later, Rafen woke. Elizabeth now lay in the other thin bed against the back wall of the room. She and Roger always slept singly; it was some tacit rule of theirs. Their marriage was merely nominal.

  On his low bed, Roger was breathing quietly, his breath gently stirring the hairs on the back of Rafen’s head. It gave him goosebumps. He hated it.

  Sitting up, Rafen held his breath. Roger’s fingers clutched the edge of his mattress; his face wrinkled with concern, then became smooth as a pebble again.

  Releasing his air silently, Rafen glanced over at his brother, who slept near Elizabeth’s bed, which he and Rafen always insisted she used every night, rather than giving that privilege to one of her sons. Rafen knew instinctively that Francisco was awake – waiting.

  Agonizingly, Rafen crawled toward the doorway, pausing every moment Roger sniffed in his sleep. Behind Rafen, Francisco made similar movements, though with more rustling. He was not as used to this sort of thing as Rafen.

  “Psst,” someone hissed from the corridor. “Where do yer think yer goin’?”

  Rafen’s body snapped to attention, even though Sherwin wasn’t talking to him. Someone moved outside. The corner of a shadowed dress whipped out of Rafen’s view.

  “Not going anywhere in particular,” Wynne said in her loudest voice. “Ay, only wondering where Rafen was off to in the dead o’ night.”

  Roger sat bolt upright.

  “Rafen, light the torch,” he said in a deadly voice.

  Rafen remained frozen.

  “Light it,” Roger said.

  Dragging himself to his feet, Rafen furiously flicked a finger in the direction of the torch on the wall. A spark flew, and then the torch flamed brightly. It illuminated the faces of Roger and Elizabeth, who were both upright in their beds. Roger was thin-lipped with anger, but Elizabeth was heavy-lidded. Francisco had risen too. He now stood in the middle of the room doubtfully. Rafen wished he had had the sense to curl up on the floor and pretend to be asleep, but Francisco did not deceive instinctively, if at all. In the wide doorway of the room, Sherwin skulked behind Wynne, who stood as tall as him, willowy and smug in the pale pink dress.

  “What is going on here?” Roger hissed.

  “I needed to relieve myself,” Rafen said, almost before Roger finished his sentence.

  “With Sherwin, Francisco, and Wynne,” Roger said, “you needed to relieve yourself. Is that right, Rafen?”

  “Wynne woke me,” Sherwin said. “I think she was lyin’ in wait… fer someone.”

  Roger’s eyebrows lowered as he glanced at Wynne.

  “I was only passing by,” Wynne said.

  “I doubt it very much!” Francisco said shrilly.

  Roger indicated for him to be quiet. “And what are you doing, Francisco?”

  Francisco’s expression became blank as he started slowly concocting a lie.

  “He was woken by the voices, of course, Roger,” Elizabeth put in for him. She rubbed her eyes in a girlish way. “I thought it was nighttime.”

  “So it is,” Roger said. “Francisco, lie down. Sherwin, go back to wherever you came from and—
”

  “’ey,” Sherwin said, “yer not my father.”

  Roger’s face blackened. “And you are not my son,” he snapped, “so stay away from the family area.”

  Sherwin retreated, looking injured. Wynne remained, her eyes calculating.

  “Wynne, your presence is not encouraging my son to relieve himself,” Roger said, rising and laying a long-fingered hand on Rafen’s shoulder. Rafen felt the usual cold tingle run down his back. He still remembered those fingers at his throat.

  “Ay, I’m sorry,” she said unapologetically, before vanishing around the edge of the doorway. Rafen knew she wouldn’t be far away.

  “Lie down, Francisco,” Roger said, “at the foot of your mother’s bed.”

  Francisco lay down, staring up at Roger suspiciously. Neither of the brothers felt particularly safe at Roger’s feet.

  “I will accompany you part of the way, my son,” Roger said to Rafen.

  Chapter Three

  Wynne’s

  Prophecy

  His face flushing, Rafen opened his mouth to say something furious before realizing this wouldn’t help the situation. Roger had already preceded him out into the darkness of the corridor. The torches there had gone out, and a savage hissing argument in the shadows died down at Roger’s appearance. Wynne and Sherwin had still been at war.

  Rafen stomped after Roger, who squinted ahead. Though his hearing wasn’t as acute as Rafen’s wolf senses, he too had caught the whispers.

  “Don’t forget the light,” he said to Rafen.

  His face darkening, Rafen raised his left hand. A flame exploded violently into life on his palm, and Roger jumped forward two steps. Rafen glanced up with dread, but Sherwin and Wynne had vanished.

  The trip to the little underground river felt three times as long as usual. When they reached it, Rafen feared that Roger, as he usually did, would wait while Rafen relieved himself. Rafen whipped a torch from its wall holder and lit it quickly, handing it to Roger.

  “For your journey back,” he said. “I won’t be long. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Roger took the torch slowly. “You wouldn’t rather that I waited? If Wynne is about—”

  Rafen laughed lightly; it sounded as false as it felt. “She can’t hurt me,” he said.