“Willingly,” Alexander said, but Etana opened her mouth indignantly.
“He has only recently arrived! He’ll be tired.”
“Your Highness, I am aware,” Cyril said, bowing. “Yet Sirius will likely take several more days to get here. The admiral will have some time to rest.”
Alexander smiled. “Your concern is gratifying, Little Highness,” he told her, “but war is in my veins, and I want to fight.”
“So do I,” Rafen said quickly. He shifted on the settee at Etana’s side, and Etana grasped his hand tightly again.
“I wish he would stay out of it,” she said.
Alexander looked thoughtfully at Rafen. “I too think it is best,” he said as Henry returned with a tray carrying several chalices of wine, three slices of buttered bread, and three bowls of thick lentil soup.
Rafen’s eyes flashed disbelief.
“Why?” he demanded.
“Rafen, you are our key to ultimate victory,” Alexander said.
Rafen shook his head. “I want to fight now,” he said, a sick feeling in his stomach. He knew what Alexander wanted him to do. “Alexander, I’m not strong enough to go back, not yet.”
“Go back where?” Alexander said.
“To Nazt, I think,” Sherwin said, his eyes meeting Rafen’s. Their sky blue was penetrating, and Rafen thought with relief: He understands.
“I don’t think anyone would want to replay tha’,” Sherwin said.
“Whatever do you mean?” Alexander said, taking the chalice Henry offered him and slopping a little wine on the carpet. Henry looked mortally offended.
“Rafen has seen Nazt,” Etana said, moving closer to him as she spoke.
It was the first time Rafen had seen either Alexander or Cyril blanch.
“Impossible,” Cyril whispered.
“It is true,” Francisco said, shivering. “I know it, in my heart, I was there too.” He gratefully took a chalice of wine, though couldn’t bring himself to drink it. Warm affection for his twin washed over Rafen.
“The copper rod took me there,” Rafen said.
Alexander steeled himself as he took a long pull at his chalice. “Rafen,” he said, his voice trembling a little, “it is terrible. A terrible thing. But we must accept Zion is stronger. I hate to say these things to you,” he said, stooping to look him in the face, “but this battle for Siana is one in which we must be ready to lose everything we have. We all must give—”
Rafen sprang to his feet, despite Etana’s restraint. “You do realize what you’re asking of me, don’t you?” he hissed. “You’re not asking me to give my life. You’re asking me to give my soul.”
He remembered saying to Sirius that he would give “everything” for Siana. What had he really meant? Rafen shook at the memory of the hands, the naked churning bodies. Yet in his heart, he had made his decision. The foray with Sirius had shown Rafen there was no easy way to win Siana back. He had been set apart for this task, he thought, his heart thundering. He alone could do it, and when he did, it would make up for all the wrong he had done by joining forces with Sirius. Etana had risen too, holding his hand in both of hers.
“I will fight with you,” she said tearfully. “We will do it together.”
“No,” Alexander said with force, straightening. “You are Siana’s future, Your Highness.” He thrust his chalice back angrily at Henry.
“And he is Siana’s sacrifice?” Etana shouted. “Once I fled and left him to die, because I thought myself more important. But that is over. The Fledgling is as much a leader as I am. I know the key to final victory must not be lost in an early battle. Then we will not fight this battle. But we will fight, in the end, together.”
She squeezed his hand.
Rafen stared at Etana half in wonder, half in horror. Everything in him screamed that she must stay safe. Yet memories that rose to his mind, as he clasped his phoenix feather with his free hand, contradicted him. Etana and he had been together before they were born. And they were meant to run together, fight together, live together, and die together, and then soar together again in the after-life as they had done before they had worn flesh.
Alexander looked helplessly at Etana. He bent to whisper in her ear, and Rafen knew what he was going to say even before the faint words reached him: “What would I ever say to my king if you would die, Highness?”
Etana met Alexander’s gaze with fire in her eyes. “Tell him I was never one to die in a hole.”
Alexander rose to his full height again, looking tortured.
“Let’s jus’ say,” Sherwin said, “tha’ wherever Raf’s goin’, tha’s where I’m goin’ too, and no princess is goin’ to show me up.”
“No,” Rafen said. “You are not coming to fight the Lashki.”
“’ey,” Sherwin said, “yer two are very nice an’ all that, but I’m figurin’ yeh’ll need all the ’elp yer can get.”
“I will come too,” Francisco said with sudden conviction.
Though Rafen resolved not to say anything, he did not mean for either Sherwin or Francisco to be present in that final conflict.
“Before you go anywhere,” Alexander said to him, “we need someone to deliver a message. We’ll talk more of it later.”
“I will stop my ears if you do not want me to hear anything loose lips will betray,” Cyril said, and he accordingly stepped outside the sitting room and into his garden, where he sat on the stone bench and covered his ears.
“Not a bad pot, tha’ old chap,” said Sherwin.
Henry hovered nearby, rattling the tray purposefully. Ripples appeared in the wine in Sherwin’s and Alexander’s chalices.
“If you will give us some privacy,” Alexander said. He opened the door, ushered Henry into the hall, and then slammed it. “Now,” he said in a lower voice, “either Sherwin or Francisco should return to the Hideout temporarily to communicate with His Majesty and Her Highness.”
“An’ what are we communicatin’?” Sherwin said, looking around for the tray with buttered bread before realizing it had been ushered out of the room along with Henry. His face fell.
“Why, we’re communicating only everything, Sherwin,” Alexander said incredulously. “All Sirius is planning, all we are planning in response, that we desire His Majesty to join us as an encouragement to the people, and that Etana is alive and well.”
At his last words, he faltered.
“You are quite fixed on your purpose?” he asked her.
“Well, they’re still attached,” Sherwin said, disgruntled.
Etana removed her hands from Rafen’s quickly and said something under her breath about “sisterly affection”.
“You must promise me not to do anything until Parith is won, and I am able to join you and advise you again,” Alexander said, glancing at Rafen. “This confrontation with the Lashki must be planned with strategy, if you intend to do it.”
“I do,” Rafen said, despite the hopeless swilling of his stomach.
“And you mustn’t say a word to Father about Rafen and I fighting the Lashki, Francisco,” Etana said.
“Who says it is me?” Francisco said, bewildered.
“Francisco does have a right to be with his brother, Your Highness,” Alexander said.
“Francisco is slow,” Etana said, smoothing out the fresh white dress Cyril had provided her with. “We must face the facts. If Rafen, Sherwin, and I all leave Parith before the battle begins, we will be able to drop Francisco off at the Hideout while we pass through the Cursed Woods.”
“And why would you pass through the Cursed Woods?” Alexander said. “Cyril has sent a messenger out to Quidon and to New Isles with a warning, so you will not need to go there. I would prefer all of you waited at the Hideout for me to meet you.”
“Etana wasn’t thinking about warnings,” Rafen said. He and Etana had discussed this earlier, and Rafen was determined. “We’re investigating something in the Woods that I’ve – er – seen, and afterward we will return to the Hide
out until the battle at Parith is over.”
“Passing through the Cursed Woods is not safe anymore,” Alexander said in frustration. “You should all go to the Hideout straightaway until King Robert is ready to make his appearance. There would be no need drop Francisco off anywhere.”
“There is something we must check,” Rafen said, meeting Etana’s eyes.
“I hope to Zion it is safe,” Alexander said sharply, “and I trust that I might be informed of Your Highness’ plans, as your father would inform me of his.”
“Nothing is safe,” Rafen said, lowering himself back onto the settee. Etana joined him, and Sherwin tried in vain to wedge himself between them before giving up and settling on Rafen’s other side. Etana gave him a withering look.
“We think – I think – that the Lashki might be building an army of Naztwai on the other side of the Woods,” Rafen continued.
“What fer?” Sherwin asked with vague curiosity.
“Fighting,” Rafen said through clenched teeth.
“There is some sinister and specific purpose though,” Etana said. “I am sure of it.”
“Might we not go together?” Alexander said.
“This is where people like you are aggravating,” Etana said. “I’m sorry, Alexander, but you are leading men here. You have to accept this is something we must do alone. We did things alone before we found you.”
“You did them because you were looking for me,” Alexander said, glancing out at Lord Cyril Earl, who was staring with boredom at the old well, his hands still over his ears. “And they went terribly wrong, Highness.”
“Etana is the Secra, Alexander,” Rafen said. “And I’m the Fledgling. I will lead Sherwin, Etana, and my brother. I will be responsible for their lives.”
Alexander met Rafen’s eyes. “That’s a very kind offer, Rafen.”
“It’s not an offer. I’m doing it.”
He was surprised at his own tone, one that brooked no disagreement.
Cyril Earl rose outside, and Alexander immediately glanced his way.
“I am not listening,” Cyril said loudly, his hands still clapped to his ears. “Just taking a short stroll.”
“It is much against my will, Rafen,” Alexander insisted.
“It is all decided then,” Etana announced, her hands laid gently over each other in her lap. “You are leading men in the city. Cyril is speaking to the Tarhians about it, and once Sirius has been beaten, you and he will bring down the Tarhians, and have a bit of an army to go on fighting with into the bargain.”
Though Rafen thought this sounded painfully optimistic, he couldn’t bring himself to contradict her.
“While you’re fighting, I will lead the others through the Cursed Woods, where we’ll drop Francisco off,” he said. “Once we’re certain of what’s happening with the Naztwai, we’ll send you a message, Alexander.”
Alexander’s mouth was a tense line. “You two have summarized all the plans we have to date,” he said as Cyril Earl reopened the paneled glass door at the back of his sitting room.
“May I come back in now?” he asked, tentatively taking one hand from his ear.
Chapter Twenty
Francisco’s
Departure
Alexander was determined that they all leave the next day. Rafen protested in vain that he could help prepare for battle.
“Promise me,” Alexander said in a low voice to Rafen, at the back of Cyril’s banquet hall after breakfast, “that you will protect Her Highness. Promise me you will make sure no harm comes to her.”
“As long as I live, I swear it,” Rafen whispered back fervently.
They had said goodbye to Alexander, Rafen feeling rather like he hadn’t seen much of him at all. He had grasped the admiral’s large, rough hand and wondered if he would see him alive again.
They packed light, Rafen ensuring they had some other food besides roots. Etana took a spare dress this time, even though Rafen tried persuading her that pants were more practical. They took two changes of clothes to share between the boys – clothes that would fit Francisco perfectly, look too small on Sherwin, and much too large on Rafen.
While they were escorted through the city in a closed carriage, Etana lay back against the padded seats, occasionally giving instructions from behind a linen veil Cyril had gifted her. Sherwin ate bread the whole way out of the city, while their coachman showed acceptable papers at the gate.
The coachman journeyed with them half a day, along the main road from Parith. Once they were sufficiently far away from the city and there was no one on the road, they clambered out of the carriage, Sherwin clutching a map.
The sticky rains had stopped, and the summery sun was blisteringly hot. Sherwin wrapped the map around the top of his head like a nun’s wimple and panted theatrically.
“Will we follow the main road?” Francisco asked. “We will we have to be careful.”
“I don’t think we will need to,” Etana said, removing her linen veil and stuffing it into a pouch at Rafen’s belt. “We’ll simply follow Rafen. He knows the way.”
“Nice,” Sherwin said. “Are yer on his jumping jack then, Franny?”
“His back?” Francisco said. “Ah, yes, I suppose so.”
His shoulders sagged as he remembered his slowness.
“You can go on foot for a while, if you would like,” Rafen said gently.
“No,” Francisco said. “I would not like. I wish I was not a burden, a thing to be carried around. But I cannot be like you others.”
Rafen’s face burned in embarrassment for his brother, and he suddenly hated the idea of “dropping him off” at the Hideout.
“You aren’t a burden,” he said. “Don’t be stupid.”
He met his brother’s eyes. Francisco held his gaze, trembling a little.
“I am glad you are with us,” Rafen said.
“If it’s a comfort to you,” Etana said, softening, “Rafen could scarcely think of anything but you, Sherwin, and Alexander when we escaped from Sirius. And I think he was thinking particularly of you, Francisco.”
Francisco gave a small smile.
They did not have to run immediately this time. Rafen transformed and went at a moderate trot with Francisco at his side for the first two hours. Francisco did his best to keep up with Sherwin’s quick stride and Etana’s mysterious nimbleness. Eventually, he rode on Rafen’s back, satisfied he had done his bit for the day.
*
In the night, Alexander rushed up the stairs leading to the rampart, his long legs eating the distance between him and his objective. He reached the lord of the city in seconds, seized his shoulders, and thrust him behind his back as the Zaldian came on with a long, blood-tipped spear. Using the little kesmal he had, Alexander sent an earth-colored band toward his enemy’s forehead. The Zaldian stumbled backward, flinging himself against the merlons to his left, and the kesmal flicked past and hit a young man in a leather vest. The young man looked stupidly around before collapsing, stunned for some minutes.
The spear flew toward Alexander with the strength only a Zaldian’s arm could give it. Alexander raised his broadsword and knocked it aside, the impact jarring all the way to his elbow. The spear fell from the rampart into the seething triangular marketplace. A heavy wooden battering ram lay where the gates had been, and peasant rabble who thought they were pirates were crowded around it, swinging blades, throwing rocks, and using crossbows.
“Get back to your keep!” Alexander bellowed to Cyril Earl behind him. “They have breached the city.”
“We will win this, Alexander!” Cyril Earl called back to him, his matter-of-fact voice carrying unbeatable optimism. He turned and clattered away down the stairs. Alexander’s own hope was fading as a figure reared up before the crowd that had just rolled through the gates. The Tarhians had formed an opposing line to the rabble and were fighting using mostly firearms. Sirius lifted a black-handled dagger and flicked it, erecting a shimmering green wall between his men and the Tarhians
and Sianians. Bullets still in midair collided with the shield and ricocheted with bursts of sparks. Two Tarhians fell, their weapons reflecting the stars above.
Sirius’ eyes strayed to the rampart where he saw Alexander, his sword still directed at the Zaldian who was frozen in fear of more kesmal. The Pirate King saluted Alexander mockingly before twisting his dagger in the air and sending cracked kesmal in six different directions through the shield he had created. The shield remained intact, while the Tarhians and Sianians behind it threw themselves aside to avoid Sirius’ kesmal. Six men fell, their bodies writhing as it shuddered through them.
Sirius raised his dagger again, and Alexander felt helplessness sweep over him even as he engaged with the Zaldian, who had retrieved a blade from the wreck of one of the rampart towers. The crack and snap of more kesmal below was punctuated by screams. Alexander turned in time to see two shopfronts crumbling into debris.
Already the Tarhians and Sianians were falling back, and Sirius aimed the black-handled dagger once more.
“STAND YOUR GROUND!” Alexander roared at them, returning to his own fight only to see a sword above his head…
Rafen sat up, bathed in cold sweat. His hand clutching his sword hilt, he leapt up. He turned around several times in the grove of basswoods they were sleeping in.
“Raf!” Sherwin hissed from where he stood in the bushes, keeping watch. “Wha’s the matter?”
“Alexander,” Rafen said.
“Was it a dream?” Sherwin asked.
“No. It was a vision.”
He flushed at the word. It made him sound like some kind of prophet.
“What do yer mean?”
“I saw what was actually happening, right now,” Rafen said, remembering that it had been night in the vision too.
“What are yer goin’ to do about it?”
“I don’t know,” Rafen fumed. Alexander was leginis away.
Rafen sunk to a cross-legged position on the ground, his hand over his face.
“Sirius was winning,” he said. “We just have to do the best we can here, check what that army is doing. And I have to fight the Lashki, otherwise this will never end.”
Servant of the King (The Fledgling Account Book 3) Page 18