Servant of the King (The Fledgling Account Book 3)

by Y. K. Willemse

  Sherwin’s face was frozen, grim.

  *

  Sherwin poked the meat on the stone above the fire, listening with a gratified expression to its sizzling. He was doing his best to forget about Rafen’s dream last night. Rafen wished he could be as successful.

  They had been in the Cursed Woods for two days now. It had taken them two weeks to reach the forest, which meant the battle for Parith would have already been going on for some time now. Rafen supposed Sirius would have found it almost impossible to give his signal. Additionally, because Parith had expected him, the authorities would likely have gathered together a large band of philosophers to fight Sirius, possibly even meeting him and his army from Rusem on the grasslands. What Rafen had seen in the city last night was likely the culmination of over a week’s conflict already.

  Passing time was telling on Francisco. He was beginning to look like he had after arriving at Cyril Earl’s keep: haggard, pale, and in vague shock.

  In contrast, Etana, Sherwin, and Rafen seemed to gain more energy as they traveled further. Some nights, Rafen was so feverish he couldn’t sleep.

  Sitting by the fire’s edge, he said, “We’ll travel east without breaks this morning.”

  Etana rose near him, stretching luxuriously. He didn’t meet her gaze.

  “Something is wrong,” Etana said, “isn’t it? I can tell by the look on your face.”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” Rafen said, but Sherwin said simultaneously, “Actually, yeah.”

  Rafen gave him a black look.

  “Sorry,” Sherwin said, still cooking his fish. Etana had created a very small invisible shield around all of them so that they could have a warm meal in peace. “Yer told me about what yer saw when yer were with Etana and when Annette attacked yer and all that. Etana ought to know.”

  “There’s nothing we can do about it,” Rafen said.

  “Alexander’s in some trouble,” Sherwin said, “tha’s all I can get out of ’im.”

  Etana paled. She sat down next Rafen and stared at him imploringly.

  “He’s not… not… dead, is he?”

  Not yet, Rafen thought.

  “No,” he quickly said aloud. His hand crept to his phoenix feather, as he prayed with words he couldn’t find.

  “If there’s nothing we can do, then we won’t say any more about it,” Etana said resolutely.

  “Agreed,” Rafen said.

  “Get up.” Sherwin kicked the still form next to him.

  Francisco groaned and lifted his head. “It is not time,” he mumbled, his Tarhian accent and his drowsiness confusing his words.

  He looked as if he hadn’t slept at all. Dark rings circled his eyes, and his mouth was turned down. Rafen looked at him with pity and realized it would be good for him to rest at the Hideout.

  “Now, my question is,” Sherwin said, flopping the fish over on the rock, “why would the Lashki build a ruddy great army on the other side of the Woods?”

  “Are you finished with that fish, Sherwin?” Etana asked.

  Rafen rose, drew his sword from his sheath, and started cutting the fish into segments for each of them to eat.

  “I don’t know, Sherwin,” he said, answering his question.

  “My assumption is that he is worried,” Etana said, accepting her portion of fish on a leaf and taking a small bite.

  “Worried about wha’?” Sherwin asked, serving Francisco his fish.

  Francisco sat up, his forehead furrowed. Without any apparent appetite, he sniffed at the pale meat.

  “Worried about how sure his conquest of Siana is,” Rafen said. “He might have had word of Sirius’ whereabouts. That’s likely. Or he might have some of King Robert’s old supporters he wants to get rid of.”

  “Or,” Etana said, “he might want to make sure he can get rid of Rafen.”

  Francisco choked on his piece of fish.

  “An entire army,” Sherwin said, “just to get rid of Raf. Tha’s intense.”

  “Thanks, Etana,” Rafen said, putting some fish in his mouth. “What a great thought.”

  Sherwin’s face went red as he tried to suppress his laughter.

  “What on the Pilamùr are you laughing about?” Etana said, indignant.

  “Look,” Sherwin said, “yer have to laugh. Otherwise yeh’ll crumble.”

  Rafen privately agreed.

  *

  Annette crashed through the undergrowth, twigs snapping beneath her feet as she ran. No matter how fast kesmal made her, she couldn’t outrun him. She had evaded him for three weeks, confusing the sentinels in the Woods, protecting herself with kesmal, and starving herself deep in caves and holes. He had even checked whether she was outside Parith, an area of the countryside she had long used as a favorite haunt, traveling there by kesmal simply because it was some distance from New Isles, and consequently some distance from Asiel. She knew the Lashki had gone there because for a few days, she had felt the burden of his presence lift from her. Now he was closing in. Her heartbeat bubbled within her chest, and her panting was hoarse.

  He wasn’t on foot, and seldom ran like that since Rafen had bitten his leg some months back. The Lashki had abandoned his preferred method for a kind of gliding in spirit form, and Annette found it worse.

  She burst through a screen of greenery and then felt something like a giant hand grab her from behind, spin her around, and throw her, back first, onto the ground. She screamed and struggled to rise, but the Lashki’s face thrust itself into hers. Her father’s gold circlet bearing the Sianian amethyst was placed on top of the putrid dreadlocks, and it twinkled maliciously in her eyes.

  “Afraid, are we, Annette?” he said, his foul breath filling her nostrils. “Perhaps it is time to tell all you know.”

  “I told you all I knew,” Annette gasped as the copper rod found her throat. “Please! They may have moved!”

  “For too long you have resisted me. Too long has this been permitted. Nazt wants Rafen, and I mean to have a double trap prepared for him when the time comes. Do you think you know what suffering is? You will know all.”

  Annette felt her throat constrict of its own accord, her windpipe slowly collapsing as she battled for air. It was the old torture. Her fingers scrabbled at her neck, trying to push the copper rod away. The world was gradually turning black, and the spirits she normally saw filled her vision with a flurry of white. As the voices from the rod clamored in her head, she knew even when she was dead and woke to another life, the Lashki would still be there, staring at her, his black eyes her whole world. He would not let her go this time.

  She worked her jaw frantically; no sound was coming. The world faded…

  *

  She passed in and out of a dream and woke to fresh pain: her head felt like it was imploding. The pressure against her temples was unbelievable; black pressed against her optic nerves, and stars were dancing in the air. When she screamed and then vomited, the pressure only increased. Her margin of vision was squeezed to a slit: she was certain her eyeballs were being crushed. In that slit, the Lashki leaned over her, peering at her with fascination, the copper rod pointed at her head and blazing blue.

  Her sight was closing off forever, becoming a smaller and smaller slice. Despite the spirits she normally saw, she couldn’t bear it; her head was becoming like a shriveled raisin. A shriek rent the air. It was her own voice, saying over and over:

  “The Hideout! Fritz’s Hideout, Fritz’s Hideout, please, Fritz’s

  hideout.”

  The pressure relented abruptly, and the colors of the world rushed back into her widening vision. Her head throbbed so hard she could scarcely speak; she was fighting back nausea. The Lashki blotted out the swimming greenery above her. His smile showed rotten teeth. Annette had betrayed only one of the many options, but she knew in her heart it was the first place her father would have gone to.

  “Fritz’s Hideout,” he said. “Excellent, Annette. And where is this Hideout? Fritz would have protected it with kesmal… would h
ave created a password.”

  The copper rod flicked to her forehead, but Annette screamed, “No!”

  She was breathing shallowly. Pictures of her father contested with everything else in her mind. She could hear the fat old man saying, “Now, Arlene, Annette is an honor to us all. A truly elegant, upstanding woman.”

  Even as Annette heard the words, she was sobbing, “It is disguised as a marsh in the centre of the Woods, protected by a permanent kesmalic structure, marked by two bracks, the chorus of the Phoenix Paean is the password.”

  The Lashki raised his head, looking thoughtful. “Nazt will favor you for this, Annette,” he said. “Now some progress can be made. Tell me how to get past this kesmalic structure.”

  *

  Summer had come, and it was unbearably humid amid the thick trees and leaves. The Woods were still fretted with their enemies, and as they moved further in, it only got worse. After traveling ten days, they were nearly reduced to “nervous racks” as Etana said, even though they had only seen an enemy once or twice in that time. Avoiding the sentinels was the anxious part. Etana, who had a knack for finding the invisible barriers, was constantly grabbing one of the boys seconds before they touched one. Rafen would often sniff someone in the holly or oaks ahead and force everyone to retrace their steps and come back round in a circle, avoiding the unknown entirely.

  At last, they came to a part of the Woods Rafen was more familiar with. They were near the Hideout.

  Rafen slipped through the lancewood and holly leaves ahead of the others, still as a Wolf, but thinking like a man. He had hoped the next time they saw the Hideout they would have achieved more. Alexander would have raised an army; perhaps they would have discovered to their joy that the General Jacob was alive after all, waiting to help the admiral; and there would have been no Sirius, no third party to get rid of, only the Tarhians and Sianians. Rafen felt a fondness for the familiarity of the old tensions.

  However, he and his company had done nothing, and now they would have to save Siana twice over: once from pirates and once from Tarhians.

  If King Robert had known the situation, he would have thought them lunatics to be trying anything. Though the support of Cyril Earl was something, Rafen still felt like they were a handful against the world.

  It brought home to him with frightening surety how critical it was that he did fight the Lashki. They could not hope to move the Tarhians otherwise. After checking to see whether there was an army of Naztwai near the Woods, Rafen would contact Alexander and await him, like he had asked. Rafen kept telling himself the admiral would plan the whole confrontation with the Lashki so that he would not be significantly harmed. This same delusion had kept Rafen working with Sirius for so long. Sirius had been a kind of security, someone who would prevent the Lashki from taking Rafen to see Nazt while he fought. Would Alexander plan something similar? In Rafen’s heart, the imminent combat felt like a death sentence. His greatest fear was that his courage would fail him when he saw the Lashki next. He realized his desire to kill Sirius had been merely a distraction from what he was meant to do.

  He wove through the holly to the well-remembered little grove. Etana flitted close by, signaling the whereabouts of an invisible barrier. Rafen sniffed the air, terrified someone would discover them at the last minute. The previous time they had been near this grove, they had collided with enemies immediately.

  They reached the perfectly green grass and the deep, comfortable boxelder shadows without trouble. He nosed his way toward the crumbling hole leading into the Hideout. It was small enough, and Rafen remembered that Sherwin had found it a squeeze. Still, it looked glaringly obvious in the midst of the grass.

  Rafen transformed and leaned over it, staring down into the cool blackness. His chest felt tight and painful. His mother was down there. Along with King Robert, and the other Selson children, Queen Arlene, and Roger – if nothing had happened to them by now.

  He remembered Annette’s unbridled malice in Rusem. She had been healthy and vigorous, definitely not a victim of the Lashki’s torture. Had she told all?

  “Is it time?” Francisco asked, stepping forward.

  Rafen breathed hard against the pain in his chest. Wynne had once been down there too… Why had he never had the sense to follow her during her nighttime escapades?

  He wasn’t sure he wanted Francisco to go. Still, even if the Lashki had been there – a thought that turned his blood to ice – he wasn’t likely to stay longer than necessary.

  “I suppose it is time,” Rafen said.

  “My message,” Francisco said softly. “I must remember.” He murmured to himself: “Sirius, his plans, our plans. Sirius, his plans, our plans. And Alexander’s communication.”

  “What did he have to say?” Rafen whispered sharply, springing to his feet.

  “Some personal regards for the king,” Francisco told him.

  Rafen was impressed. Francisco had attempted lying to his face, and even managed to come across as convincing. Clearly, his travels and adventures had impacted him.

  “As long as it’s no more than that,” Rafen told his brother

  pointedly.

  “If he’s telling Father what we’re planning, you’re to keep your mouth shut,” Etana hissed from behind.

  Francisco’s eyes widened.

  “Ah. Yes,” he said.

  “And tell Father to come out here,” Etana said. “You know what Alexander wanted. The people will rally around a king.”

  “Stay safe,” Rafen said, looking into his brother’s eyes.

  “I will, my brother,” Francisco replied.

  “We’re going further East now,” Rafen said, with some bravado. “We hope Alexander has won Parith and moved onto Quidon. Once we’ve checked the Eastern Woods, we may well return here to await Alexander. We’ll help you, King Robert, Kasper, and Prince Robert to prepare for battle.”

  “It is well,” Francisco said.

  “If anything goes wrong,” Rafen said earnestly, “please don’t try to be a hero. Just get out.”

  “What if there are others to help?” Francisco asked.

  Etana flinched. Francisco was open to the possibility the Hideout might be a graveyard.

  “You can’t do kesmal,” Rafen said, “so leave it to someone like Queen Arlene, otherwise they’ll have someone else to save. Take care of our mother.”

  Francisco’s face softened, and Rafen saw he remembered her with as much tenderness as he did. “I will,” he said.

  Impulsively, he embraced Rafen, and Rafen almost crushed him in return, telling himself, despite everything in him that said the opposite, that he would do this again. He would feel the lean, unmuscled arms and shoulders, would feel the inferiority of his height compared to Francisco’s, would see himself reflected perfectly in his twin, and would hear the high, gentle, Tarhian accent.

  They broke apart, and Francisco said, “Zion give you all good stars.”

  Sherwin shook hands with him. “Yer not a bad feller, Franny.”

  “My thanks, Sherwin,” Francisco said, regal compared to him. “You are a man apart.”

  Sherwin flushed with the compliment, and Francisco smiled at him through his weariness. Etana grasped Francisco’s hand too.

  “Be careful,” she said, “I don’t want your brother crying on my shoulder.”

  Francisco bit back a laugh. “It has been an honor,” he said, inclining his head in Tarhian fashion.

  It took Etana a while: she had always felt the competition with Francisco, who had been raised as a prince. Grudgingly, she dipped her knees and said, “Indeed, it has.”

  She smiled brightly, and Rafen knew she meant it.

  Francisco glanced around at them all one last time before lowering himself feet first into the hole. He slipped down with ease, demonstrating that he had after all gained some fitness during their travels.

  Rafen wasn’t prepared for the seizing around his heart. He couldn’t block out his thoughts. He wished he could force
himself to see a vision again, this time something reassuring. Putting a hand to his phoenix feather, he squeezed his eyes shut momentarily, trying to find the same airy transportation that led to his Sights.

  Nothing. The small attempt told him it had to be spontaneous

  anyway.

  He opened his eyes. Sherwin and Etana were watching him apprehensively.

  “Just thinking,” Rafen said quietly.

  “Oh,” Etana said. “Yes, that’s the problem. I can’t stop it myself.”

  Her fears showed momentarily in her eyes, and Rafen wished for all their sakes that they could drop in briefly with Francisco. However, King Robert would want them all to stay.

  Etana produced a small handful of roots from behind her back. “Food, anyone?”

  “We can’t stay here longer, Etana,” Rafen said. “Let’s keep going.”

  “Yer can’t call that food anyway,” Sherwin muttered while they moved on.

  “It fills your stomach,” Etana said in a low, indignant voice, trying to make sure nobody else heard her above the wood thrushes.

  “Naw, not even that,” Sherwin said. “But yer might say it’s a method for exercisin’ yer jaw. Not that yer need it or anythin’.”

  He quickly jerked a root from her hand and stuck it in the corner of his mouth, grinning as he waited for Etana to realize what he had said. Etana barely stopped herself from stamping her foot.

  “Here, Rafen,” she said. “Your jaw could do with some more exercising.”

  Rafen complied, masticating slowly as the faint, bitter taste pervaded his mouth. His thoughts had now moved to the East. Focusing on his new task gave him brief comfort.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Death

  at the Hideout

  Francisco groped down the dark tunnel, every minute expecting to bump into Wynne. But Wynne was dead. He had heard it from Sherwin. Rafen didn’t want to talk about it, so Francisco never brought it up with him. He knew what his brother felt anyway. He had experienced enough while Rafen was with Sirius.

  Francisco’s eyes ached with the weariness of constant travel. He remembered Talmon telling him he had “frail health”. Once he had chosen not to believe that. However, he couldn’t deny the others were stronger than him… braver than him. He knew the other reason Etana, Sherwin, and Rafen had dropped him off here: he wouldn’t be able to stand the sight of Naztwai. Francisco had never seen Naztwai when he had been with Talmon. They were some revolting creation of the Lashki’s.