Sirius had enjoyed strangling her. It had been sport.
The least Rafen could have done after Erasmus’ death was care for Wynne properly, but he’d let both Asiel and Sirius capture her.
Twice a fool. And a fool for the last time.
Rafen clenched his hands on the cold, ace-tipped railings of the balcony. His chest tight, he gritted his teeth. His eyes were blurred, but he wasn’t going to waste time grieving.
He gazed down on the city laid out beneath the dead ruler’s mansion. Balustrades surrounded the house and the curve of the main road that wended to it. Beyond the balustrades, the next terrace was visible beneath a considerable drop. Rafen could even glimpse the squat, middle class houses of the third terrace down below that. Roofs had caved in; fences and railings were mangled; wagons were smashed; and still the confused dead lay in the streets like animal skins.
He could smell the stench.
“I will kill you, Sirius,” Rafen whispered, even though Sirius was within the room adjoining the balcony and couldn’t hear him. “I will.”
By his side, Pebble, who had sat stiffly for some time, now shifted and gurgled in his throat.
Rafen turned, looking through the arched glass door into Rusem’s great hall. The revelers had vanished, excepting Sirius, who stared at his bare toes visible beneath the hem of his coffee-colored robe. He looked weary. He had found himself another pipe, and a trail of smoke drifted lazily from it.
The jester, in flaming pants, was behind him, a hand on Sirius’ shoulder. He leaned into Sirius’ neck, whispering encouragement.
Rafen moved closer to the door, which was slightly ajar. His hand slipped over his phoenix feather. Sirius himself had shoved Rafen out here, and had been keeping a close watch on him from within. He had told Rafen that if he tried anything, the hunt on his friends would begin. Perhaps Rafen would have a chance to attack the Pirate King again shortly. He would have to wait until afterward to get a drink and write to the others about all that had happened.
“It’s just that I’ve lost my luck, Stalim,” Sirius was saying, barely audible. “She said it would happen. Gor, I trusted her word my whole life.”
Rafen stared through the glass.
“Your wife’s?” Stalim said.
“Ah, yes. Poor wench. She’s dead now. Murdered by some of you lot.”
“That’s what happens,” Stalim said, in a quiet but high voice, “when you wed bad fortune. A woman on board a ship in a mad storm – it’s bad luck.”
“A sequence of it,” Sirius said. “Yes. I couldn’t agree more. She had to die sometime, I suppose.” He raised his head, laughing unexpectedly. The smoke came in fits and bursts from his pipe. “But she said some things. And I believed her, because she had the Way. You know, Prophecy. She foretold Ivan’s birth, and she foretold our finding Wilkins. But she said… when Wilkins dies a second death, it’s over. Gor, Stalim, can’t you see? Wilkins is the symbol: my power, my luck, my life. And now he’s lost the features that made him Wilkins, well, then I’m not Sirius.”
“You’re not actually,” Stalim said, mildly amused.
He had released Sirius’ shoulder and retrieved his lute. Stalim fingered the lute too dexterously to be drunk at present. Three hours’ sleep must have done him good, more good than three more hours’ thirst had done Rafen.
“Welll,” Sirius said slowly, blowing a long strand of smoke, “Aronis Hured didn’t sound good enough. On the islands, Stalim, I was a fisherman. A bit more, a thief. When I killed the last Pirate King, I won the Kingdom, the whole Kingdom of pirates over the Pillar. Then I needed a name. That’s where Evanlyn helped.”
“Pretty name she gave you.”
“Good name, Stalim. Better than yours.”
“Aye, your honor.”
“Stop twanging that thing. Gor, I’m nervous enough.” Sirius breathed deeply, staring at the red tapestry at the back of the room.
“It makes me think of him,” he said, turning to the glass door. Rafen looked away quickly, and Sirius gradually returned to staring at the tapestry. “He is the color red. On the inside, he is the fire of that bird, come to purge everything. Stalim, he’ll be the death of me.”
Stalim whistled sharply between his teeth and shook his head. “Nay, your honor,” he said. “Not the boy. He can’t match your kesmal.”
“I need more luck, Stalim. Another skull.”
“There’s no other Wilkins, your honor. Evanlyn only foretold one skull.”
“I know. Maybe if I have columbine above my head when I sleep—”
“Evanlyn told you that?”
“No… a beggar in Sarient. What’s good for beggars is good for beggars, Stalim.” Sirius gave a cracked, hoarse laugh. “That’s all I’ve been,” he said, dragging his eyes from the tapestry and staring wildly at Stalim. “And yet, Evanlyn said one other thing. She told me not to die with the bird angry at me, Stalim. Otherwise something after death will get me. Nazt, maybe. The Lashki, maybe. Or demons. Not that I’m worried.” Sirius grimaced, revealing his gold tooth. “But it does pay. To have things right before you go. Eh, Stalim?”
Stalim leaned heavily on his lute. He shook his head at Sirius. “Your honor, you’re not going anywhere. You’ve won.”
“I’ve won this city, Stalim,” Sirius said. “I haven’t won Siana yet. And, by Gor, something tells me that boy isn’t going to help me fight the Lashki.”
Chapter Fourteen
Sherwin’s
News
It was evening, and Rafen was thirsty enough to muster up any saliva he had and swallow it again, giving himself the impression of drinking. He still stood on the balcony, and Sirius still paced in the hall, prepared to stop Rafen from bolting if he decided to.
Rafen tried to steady his shaking legs. His bruises still ached, but he had forgotten them, forgotten his puffy face and red eyes. Once Sirius became drunk or fell asleep, all Rafen needed was water and a sword, and then it would be the Pirate King or him.
Sirius was less confident than Rafen had thought.
Hours had passed. Pebble had left Rafen, actually managed to take off and fly away, his long legs skimming first the railing, then the balustrades, then the ground. He had been gone half an hour, and Rafen missed his rasping, steaming breath.
Stalim and Sirius had talked a little longer, keeping their voices low. But Rafen’s wolf senses were sharp, and his desperation to hear sharper. Sirius had mentioned taking an army to Parith to overrun that small city. Then he would aim for the town of Quidon, and then New Isles itself, having gathered strength as he conquered.
Rafen leaned against the balcony railing, allowing the ace-shaped tips to dig into his diaphragm. If he leaned much further, he would overbalance and drop two stories. Maybe he could kill himself. Sirius couldn’t stop him doing that.
He stared at distant death with disinterest. He didn’t want to die, unless in battle with Sirius. Enough people had died. It was time to live, for unless he did so, he couldn’t change the innumerable injustices he saw.
An irregular flapping disturbed the air above and Rafen started.
Pebble plummeted to the balcony floor beside him, hitting his elongated blue-gray head against the railing. He raised piteous, glassy eyes to Rafen. Opening his mouth, he started gagging.
Rafen’s hand shot out and grabbed the dragon’s neck, giving it two quick, violent squeezes. The dragon gurgled and spewed out an old horseshoe and a water pouch in a pool of saliva.
Rafen trembled with excitement, even though he was certain the leather pouch contained nothing. The outside was sticky, but it was certainly swollen with some kind of liquid, despite Pebble’s teeth. Without bothering to clean it, Rafen unstoppered the pouch and raised it to his lips. Though the water within was warm and bitter, the sensation of it on Rafen’s tongue loosened his muscles. He gulped madly, his body buzzing with new energy. Saving some for tomorrow was pointless. Sirius would find it before then and get rid of it. Rafen drained the water pouch.
>
Pebble kept watching Rafen curiously, as if he thought the boy might teach him a better way to consume a water pouch.
“Thank you,” Rafen whispered through moistened lips.
*
Rafen woke so stiff he could scarcely move. It had rained in the night, and his sodden clothes stuck to him. The air was unusually humid for a Sianian spring, and the sky above was black, glowering at the world beneath.
Rafen stroked the cold concrete of the balcony beneath him with outstretched fingers. He hadn’t meant to sleep. He had meant to watch, hoping to steal a sword when Sirius was not alert. However, without food, Rafen’s bruised body had gradually succumbed to weakness.
I’m full of nothing but empty desires, he realized, thinking of his ambitions to kill Sirius.
The clouds above smoked and swelled. Did the dead go up there? Queen Arlene had once said the dead went to stay with Zion, and Rafen was sure that somehow, King Fritz, Prince Thomas, Mary, Torius, Bambi, and Erasmus were all there, along with numerous others from the marketplace massacre in New Isles. Was Wynne there? She had had every right to plot against the Fledgling of the Phoenix. But Rafen wasn’t sure Zion would understand. He remembered Zion’s flaming eyes, and knew he decided what was right and what was wrong.
However, the thought that Wynne’s fleeing spirit had been prey for Nazt was too much. The clouds above reformed themselves into naked, hideous shapes. Rafen sat up, aching, gasping.
“Raf?”
An odd twinge near Rafen’s heart kept him still, listening. He was hearing things.
“’ey, Raf, it’s me,” the voice said. “Sherwin.”
Rafen turned his head slowly. Sherwin was climbing carefully over the balcony’s railing. Pebble reared up and hissed at him, and Sherwin stumbled backward, nearly falling over the railing again. Rafen leapt up and grabbed the front of his shirt, rebalancing him.
“Yer look terrible,” Sherwin said. “Like some drunkard attacked yer.”
“What are you doing here?” Rafen said hoarsely.
“What do yer think?”
“Go,” Rafen breathed, shoving him back toward the balcony railing. “Just go.”
“What fer?”
Rafen glanced back through the misted door to Rusem’s great hall. Several figures lay on the glass floor, breathing heavily. A naked sword lay tantalizingly in the middle of the room. Sirius sat cross-legged at the head of the huddled men, his eyes fixed ahead of him, his head erect, and his breathing irregular. Sirius had once told Rafen proudly that he had learned to sleep like this when he was last at war. The open eyes sent a chill down Rafen’s spine.
“Sherwin,” he said, facing him and trying to stare him down, “get out of here.”
Sherwin stared back without comprehension.
“What do you want me for?” Rafen said with venom. “You and the others never found me again.”
“I’m not going,” Sherwin said firmly. “Not fer anything, not until you come with me. And fer your information, Sirius warped you out of there, vanished, and we tried to get to yer on time, but couldn’. So then we went lookin’ fer you, and had no luck until now.”
Rafen stared at him, speechless.
“So come,” Sherwin said.
“I can’t. Not until he’s dead.”
Rafen couldn’t watch Sherwin and the others die. It was better he stayed here and tried to kill the Pirate King. He backed away toward the glass door, and Sherwin stared at him disbelievingly.
“Fine,” he said. “Yer do that, while I quietly kill myself.”
Rafen again gazed through the door to make sure Sirius was not moving.
The sound of a sword being unsheathed drew his attention. Rafen whirled around to see Sherwin pointing the blade at his own heart, steely determination in his eyes. Rafen surged forward, seizing Sherwin’s arm and jerking the sword away from his chest.
“What are you doing?”
“I told yer,” Sherwin said through clenched teeth. “Don’t come with me, and I’ll kill myself. I mean that.”
Rafen looked at him helplessly.
“There’s naught fer yer to do but climb over the railing,” Sherwin said.
He grabbed Rafen’s shoulder and pulled him toward the balcony edge. “There’s a way down the wall. I’ll show yer. They won’t be stirring fer another ’alf hour yet. That’ll give us time.”
“Sheath your sword,” Rafen begged softly.
“Not till yer got both legs over that railing.”
He had to obey. Mentally, he vowed never to think ill of Sherwin – or Etana and Francisco – ever again.
*
Rafen couldn’t believe their luck. They had escaped the city and were now toiling across the grasslands outside Rusem. It had been easier than he had expected, because Sirius’ men were not organized. Many were sleeping, drunk, or out eating and hunting. A vigil was voluntary, and there had been but one sentinel at the gate, whom Sherwin had beguiled with a stolen wineskin while Rafen crept out of the city in wolf’s form.
He knew it wouldn’t be long before Sirius would find him. Rafen had outrun Annette, but it was impossible to outrun Sirius. There would be a fight. Rafen had stolen a sword on the way out of the city in preparation.
Rafen’s eyes kept flicking to Sherwin. If Sirius found them together and overpowered Rafen, he would kill Sherwin before his eyes. In his mind, Rafen saw Wynne dying. He imagined he knew how it had happened; she had been writhing violently before being reduced to squirming, then to feeble stirring, and the final stiffening of the muscles. Sirius would have looked mildly interested.
Sherwin snatched his shoulder and shoved him forward. “Don’ look that way,” he said.
“You don’t know Sirius,” Rafen said in a low voice.
Sherwin shrugged as they moved further through the blue grama grass, steering clear of six bison nearby. The sky billowed with clouds still, their dark undersides promising rain. The wind whipped through their hair.
“He killed Wynne,” Rafen said.
Sherwin froze and stared at him, mouthing Rafen’s last two words. His face was white. “’ow?” he whispered at last. “She were at the Hideout.”
His insides cold, Rafen explained everything, from Wynne’s treachery to his journey with Sirius, and his part in Rusem’s carnage. He told Sherwin everything that had transpired. They started walking again, at first slowly. But Rafen found himself striding faster and faster.
“’e’s a devil, no mistake,” Sherwin said softly.
Rafen was shocked to see Sherwin’s eyes were moist, even though he had never liked Wynne.
“There must have been something I could have done,” Rafen murmured.
“No,” Sherwin said vehemently. “We did all we could. Wynne was a bad egg.”
“I’m going to fight Sirius,” Rafen began. “He will come after us—”
“Naw, yer not fightin’ ’im,” Sherwin cut in. “Yer need some proper rest before yer try anythin’ like tha’.”
Rafen glanced over his shoulder at the receding terraced city. It still looked much too close. He imagined he could already see a lone rider like a black dot flying out of the gate. Sirius had found him so quickly last night.
“I can’t come with you.” Rafen halted.
“Yer tryin’ that again?” Sherwin said incredulously, his hand dropping to his sword. “I told yer when we met that I’d die without yer.”
Rafen clenched his teeth. “Do you have to do that?”
“Raf, yeh’re a nervous wreck. Yeh’re lettin’ tha’ guy get in yer ’ead.”
“He said he would begin the hunt on you and Etana and Francisco. He has men everywhere, Sherwin.”
“Yeah,” Sherwin said, “but they’re not that organized, in case yer ’aven’t noticed.”
Rafen realized Sherwin was right. Besides, because Rafen had escaped, Sirius was likely to do the hunting himself this time. And Rafen was determined that he wouldn’t get past him.
“Tha’s the spir
it,” Sherwin said when he saw Rafen gaining some color. “We’ve ’ad some good news, even though yer haven’t.”
“What?” Rafen stared at Sherwin.
“We found Alexander,” Sherwin said. “He was hidin’ in the Quidon marshes. I went to bring him out – stinky sort of place, that – and Etana and Franny kept watch.”
“So he’s alive?”
“Er, no, china plate, we brought back a corpse. What do yer think, fer heaven’s sake?”
Rafen’s relief was quickly checked by Sherwin’s next words. “Alexander did have bunch of men… four hundred, and growin’, round about last year. But the Lashki found him, an’ Alexander got separated from them and fell off a cliff or somethin’. ’e landed in a river, did some kesmal to break his fall, and still snapped several bones on some rocks an’ things.” Sherwin paused and made a face. “Once ’e recovered, ’e tried findin’ the camp, but couldn’ because of its kesmalic protection. In the end, the Lashki found it first, and, er, wiped out the whole lot of ’em, so Alexander went into hiding in the Quidon Marshes.”
“Sirius has twenty thousand men,” Rafen said, his mouth dry. “They’re all in fleets. And now he’s won Rusem, he’s got thousands in that city.”
“Shhhhh!” Sherwin said so violently that the word was an explosion of spit. “Blimey, do yer think I want to ’ear tha’ jus’ now? We’ll let Alexander worry abou’ it later. We’re goin’ nowhere standing ’ere, anyway.”
He laid a hand on Rafen’s shoulder and pushed him gently forward. They began walking again. Rafen hurried forward in bursts, panting dryly.
“Goin’ to the camp is one start,” Sherwin said. “We’ll decide what to do when we get there. Besides, Sirius don’t have everything. He hasn’t got the Fledgling.”
Rafen felt like there was a stone in his throat when he realized what he had yet to face. Sirius wasn’t his worst enemy. Before Siana was saved, Rafen would have to confront the Lashki.
Servant of the King (The Fledgling Account Book 3) Page 13