Servant of the King (The Fledgling Account Book 3)

by Y. K. Willemse

  Where was the Lashki? Rafen twisted to see if he were standing close to his ear, but the Lashki’s low laughter echoed around him.

  “I am inside you, Rafen,” the Lashki said. “Now you will take the rod, and you will kill Sherwin.”

  If I can’t find you, I can at least thwart you, Rafen thought.

  As if from the end of a long tunnel, Rafen heard himself hiss in answer to the Lashki, “No.”

  “No what?” Sherwin said. “What are yer holdin’ that for, Raf?”

  Sherwin had been staring at Rafen’s closed left hand with interest. He didn’t seem at all perturbed by the blood. Abruptly, he made a swipe for the rod, and Rafen stepped back, all but staggering into the arms of Nazt.

  “Don’t touch—” he tried to say, and then a sudden burst of pain contracted his muscles. His ribcage was collapsing and he gasped desperately for breath. Nazt screamed in his head; Rafen was still fighting to remain frozen as the world became black around him.

  “So you will not kill Sherwin?” the Lashki said. “Rafen, you are a fool. MOVE.”

  “Raf, are yer dyin’?” Sherwin said. He tilted his head with mild interest, and though Rafen wanted to scream, he couldn’t. He choked as Sherwin made another lunge for the copper rod and lurched into the middle of the circle to avoid him.

  “Now, Rafen,” the Lashki said. “Why resist? You are already a murderer.”

  “Curse you,” Rafen heard his own remote self say, even though his mouth never moved. He collapsed to his knees, his lungs imploding.

  And then Sherwin had the other end of the rod and was pulling violently. Rafen was jerked to his feet again, and the rod moved of its own accord toward Sherwin’s head. Rafen could abruptly breathe again.

  “You will do it, even if I have to make you,” the Lashki spat in his ear.

  When Rafen shouted and threw himself back against the copper rod, an unseen force made him stand upright again. Sherwin’s fist hit his temple, and Rafen stumbled sideways, still trying to release the cold stick of copper. Sherwin aimed a punch at his eye, but the copper rod shot out and hit him across the temple. He fell to the ground, his head making a sickening thud, and rolled onto his back, blood streaming from above his ear. The rod pulled Rafen forward into a low bow, and then it was striking Sherwin across the forehead repeatedly. Rafen gave another cry, working urgently to hold it back. Though Sherwin was attempting to sit up, the force of the blows was too much. Giving a piercing scream in a cracked voice, he raised his arms over his head to shield himself. It was fruitless; the rod only sliced them. Reduced to whimpering, he dropped his arms to the ground and lay there shivering, his eyes half closed, obviously in the pall that comes before death.

  The copper rod rested in Rafen’s inexorable grip. Rafen stared at his red hands and could feel himself descending into insanity, the kind of insanity that turns in on itself. He wanted to throw himself against a tree or a rock repeatedly, until he was a bruised pulp. He wanted to cut his own heart out. And then he saw the sharpened tip of the rod and laughed. Even as he thought of it, however, he dropped to his knees, panting with exertion; the rod had become unbearably heavy in his wet grasp. His shoulder felt like it would be torn from his socket.

  While Sherwin lay there, his temples and forehead bloodied, the transformation came over him. His hair darkened to deep brown from the roots, and it curled around his head and face, which was becoming longer, swarthier, hollow and high-cheeked, with a million little lines deeply ingrained in it. His eyelids lengthened across, and the sky-blue in the partially closed eyes swirled and became dark brown, nearly coal black. His skin color had changed from white to tanned olive. The hands were long-fingered and flexed, and the ears slightly pointed. The body was that of a sixteen-year-old, but the face looked much older: wrinkled and hardened.

  It was the sixteen-year-old from Rafen’s dream in Tarhia, in which they had been running for phoenix feathers. The stranger groaned and raised his hands to his head, rocking side to side for a minute. Then slowly, he sat up.

  “Where is Sherwin?” Rafen croaked, his left hand fixed to the earth with the heaviness of the rod. “What did you do with him?”

  Alakil looked at him in brief confusion. Then he smiled a twisted smile and Rafen realized something: Alakil had a phoenix feather in his shirt.

  Despite the rod, Rafen threw his weight against Alakil, hitting his chest with his soiled right hand and knocking him back on the ground. Alakil’s red and dripping arms shoved him back from his hem, his strength immense. Rafen fell backward onto the ground as Alakil rose to his full height, unnaturally tall for a sixteen-year-old, and pulled the feather from the hem of his shirt, snarling.

  “You want it, Rafen?” he said. His voice was exactly the same as the Lashki’s. Goosebumps bubbled on Rafen’s skin. “Have it then, and be cursed.”

  He ground it in his fist and released its ash remains. They fell on Rafen’s torso and burned through his shirt like acid. He screamed and clutched at the ash spots, leaving bloodstains on the material.

  “Where is it?”

  Pulling him into a kneeling position, Alakil grabbed his head and turned it to look at Francisco’s bloodied corpse. Rafen battled his strength desperately.

  “Look what you have done,” Alakil said. “Look what you have become. There is no going back now, Rafen. You have acted in the service of Nazt.”

  In his horror, Rafen scarcely felt the burning pinpricks on his skin. “No,” he panted. “SHUT UP! I NEVER DID IT! YOU DID IT!”

  “No, Rafen,” Alakil said. “It was your own hands that did it. It was you.”

  He had rounded on Rafen and now jabbed his chest with a long finger.

  “You remember,” Alakil said. “It was you.”

  “I’LL NEVER GIVE IN!” Rafen bellowed. “THIS ISN’T REAL! IT ISN’T!”

  “Ah, Rafen,” Alakil said, still bleeding profusely from his head wounds, “you cannot tell me you have ever had a vision as vivid as this before. Can you deny the evidence of even your own senses?”

  Rafen opened his mouth to speak, only to discover his voice was gone. A hoarse rasping was the lone response to his efforts. He shook his head violently, gasping. Then he leapt up and lunged toward Alakil, closing his right hand on the wrinkled throat and squeezing. Alakil wrenched himself free, coughing.

  “This is your reality now,” he said. “There is no turning back.”

  He seized Rafen’s right hand, and though Rafen fought frantically against his force, Alakil slammed his moist palm against the copper rod. As soon as Rafen’s skin touched it, the hand melded with the metal, a cold bonding taking place. Rafen tried wildly to pull free, but both his hands were stuck to the rod.

  And then Alakil was dragging him toward the gray arms, and the screaming of Nazt was unstoppable, insurmountable in Rafen’s head as he struggled.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The Battle

  with the Pirates

  The guards outside the throne room had fled long ago, and Sherwin threw the double doors open for Etana. Clutching her silver scepter, she rushed into the room with Francisco and Sherwin following.

  It was dark now, perhaps ten o’clock at night, and the throne room was enveloped in heavy blackness. A blue glow lit the red and white checked floor in the center of the room, where Rafen lay in a twitching heap, his eyes open and glazed. A little from him, a black-handled dagger gleamed.

  “Sirius,” Francisco gasped, and in a flash, Etana raised the scepter. A knife of gold struck the dagger in the blade’s center and shivered it into four pieces.

  The room abruptly shook, and Sherwin fell to his knees behind her with a yell. Rafen’s frame had shuddered still as a form exploded from his mouth, like a giant bubble he was blowing.

  The Lashki hovered in midair for a minute, his moth-eaten brown robe billowing around him in an unnatural wind. Then he fell, like a rag-doll, onto Rafen’s unmoving, white-faced body. Etana screamed and the Lashki raised his head.

  The
side of his temple had collapsed, and his decayed forehead was gashed. Instead of blood, a sticky, black-purple liquid bubbled out. The Lashki flung out the left arm holding the copper rod, and blue kesmal detached itself from it. Again Etana screamed, throwing up a gold shield to defend herself and the others. But the blue beam never reached her; it flicked halfway there before blinking into nonexistence.

  Supporting himself with spider-like hands that gripped Rafen’s legs, the Lashki managed to attain first a stooping position and then an upright one, swaying. He looked astonished at his own weakness. Then a glint appeared in his black eyes, and he rose into the air and snapped into invisibility.

  Sherwin and Francisco glanced wildly around the room. Etana remained frozen near the glowing golden shield, her mind whirring. A flame of hope flared within her. If the Lashki was maimed, they could win this battle.

  “Where is ’e?” Sherwin said behind her, panicked.

  “I think,” Etana said slowly, with confidence she didn’t feel, “he is gone.”

  She passed through the shield, and it began fading. And then she was running as fast as she could to the center of the room, toward Rafen, her heart sick within her. The others clattered after her. She fell to her knees at his side, lowering her head to his chest.

  He still breathed shallowly.

  “It is all right, Rafen,” she said, touching his chilly forehead. “You will be all right.”

  His eyes were still open, unseeing. Etana waved a hand across them, and he didn’t even blink.

  “’e’ll dry out his eyeballs like that,” Sherwin said, trembling.

  Etana placed a finger on each of Rafen’s eyelids and closed them gently, shivering as if she had touched a corpse. At the same moment, Rafen’s muscles relaxed.

  “What did ’e do to ’im?” Sherwin whispered.

  “I don’t know,” Etana said.

  “He was inside him,” Francisco choked. “Why?”

  He looked like he was about to vomit, and Etana could only guess how much of Rafen’s experience he had shared.

  “I suppose this was Raf’s way of distractin’,” Sherwin said, and Etana wished he would stop, because she was suffocating. “I suppose ’e didn’t know Jacob planned to take some men through that other passage leadin’ to a well in a courtyard ’ere.”

  “No one knew,” Etana said. “Jacob only told us after Rafen left… Jacob only thought of it after.”

  Actually, Etana had told a lie. The moment Jacob had told her about Rafen’s actions, she had begun desperately hunting for more grids or graphs on the walls of the Hideout. They were hard to find, and even harder to decode. Yet, she had discovered one about the critical passage they had used today.

  After she alerted Jacob, all the men who could fight had been smuggled into the palace through the passage leading to the old well in the inner wall. By penetrating this wall, they were in the heart of the Lashki’s security.

  Still, two hundred men could not do much, and they had the pirates to fend off once they had won the inner wall and the keep. Sherwin had heard a Tarhian saying that Sirius’ men were attacking the outer wall. It had filled them all with dread.

  “Please wake up,” Etana said softly to Rafen. Her eyes blurred momentarily.

  “What can we do now?” Francisco said, trying to steady his voice. “We cannot search for your family as planned because we cannot leave him.”

  “My family will be in the outer wall anyway,” Etana said. “In Prisoner’s Column.”

  If they’re still alive.

  She couldn’t bring herself to say those words, even though they blotted out all other reality.

  “I could bear it if you were awake,” she said to Rafen through clenched teeth. She still had a hand on his chest, and suddenly noticed he was becoming rigid. Moving her fingers down, she felt his contracted ribcage.

  “He’s having trouble breathing!” she gasped. “Francisco, find help now. A philosopher, anyone!”

  Francisco rushed out of the room through a side door on the right wall, his face pale. Sherwin dropped to his knees beside Etana, looking helpless. Etana massaged the area below Rafen’s ribs forcefully, putting all the kesmal she could muster into her finger pads to make the tight muscles relax. He had turned ivory.

  Then he drew a shallow breath. She continued massaging as if she would do it till she died.

  “What did the Lashki do to ’im?” Sherwin murmured.

  “I don’t know,” Etana said. “This is kesmal beyond my reckoning, Sherwin. I don’t know what to do.” Her voice cracked with a sob. She glanced up. “Are you all right? You look terrible.”

  Sherwin had become pale green, and the black around his eyes from nights of not sleeping was accentuated.

  “Just a ’orrible ’eadache, tha’s all,” Sherwin said. “Don’ worry, Etana.”

  He froze, his eyes looking past her. Etana turned in the direction of his gaze. Asiel and Annette were standing before the side door Francisco had departed through. His brown dreadlocks askew from running and his white-blue eyes deeply satisfied, Asiel had his nhanya blade pointed at Etana’s head. He flicked his arm, and lurid green kesmal spiraled up its length with a burst of smoke.

  In the darkness, Annette flew forward and knocked the blade aside, sending the kesmal flying into the windows on the opposite side of the throne room. A couple of glass panels shattered with a deafening explosion; sparkling shards fell to the floor.

  “I will deal with her,” Annette said in a low voice.

  Her nostrils flared, she breathed quickly as she walked up to Etana and Sherwin. Etana leapt to her feet, clutching her silver scepter in her right hand.

  “I would not try it,” Annette sneered. “My kesmal was always superior to yours… sister.”

  She drew a long knife from its sheath at her side. Etana couldn’t stop herself from glancing behind, where Sherwin was moving restlessly. He was frantically trying Etana’s massaging movements, to no avail. Rafen’s chest was ominously still.

  “GET AWAY!” Etana shrieked at Annette. “Can’t you leave us alone?”

  Annette laughed and pointed the knife at Etana’s head, the tip of it turning dark.

  “I will make it quick.”

  When she gave her wrist a flick, someone pulled her backward violently. Etana ducked. The kesmal traveled in a diagonal trajectory to the high ceiling, striking a chandelier. It came down with a crash near Sherwin and Rafen. Sherwin yelled, covering his face as glass flew into the air.

  “Get away from her, you whore!” Robert shouted.

  Etana looked up, indescribable relief rolling over her. Kasper and her mother were locked in combat with Asiel, her mother fighting left-handed with a blunt sword she’d probably found in a corridor. With a twang of horrified shock, Etana saw Queen Arlene’s right sleeve swinging emptily at her side. His face a ghastly map of blue and green blotches, King Robert had stumbled into the room, skinnier than before, if that were possible. His mouth hung open slightly, teeth missing.

  Annette had thrown herself forward again with a shout of rage, and Etana raised her silver scepter. Yet her arm had gone cold. She could not use kesmal against her sister. Annette swooped down on Etana, the knife still clasped in her hand, all thought of kesmal gone as she aimed for her sister’s breast. When Etana screamed, Robert hurled himself into Annette’s side, throwing her to the ground. The knife fell from her hand and spun on the floor. Etana dropped her scepter and surged toward Rafen, crashing to her knees, her hands finding his diaphragm again. She knocked Sherwin aside. He sat on the floor with wide, terrified eyes, panting, his hands cut from the glass of the chandelier. Rafen had turned a cold, luminous blue. She ground her fingers into his skin, massaging again with desperation while the air around them was filled with explosions. At last, Rafen’s chest rose minimally again.

  Robert and Annette were wrestling on the floor, Robert trying to keep her from reaching the knife first. Kasper and Queen Arlene had successfully driven Asiel out the side
door. For the first time, Etana noticed Bertilde huddled in the right corner of the room.

  Above Robert’s and Annette’s shouts, King Robert raised his voice. “Enough!”

  Robert rolled sideways away from Annette and sat up, his face glistening with sweat. Annette froze, one arm propping her up and the other groping behind her for her dagger.

  “Do you think you can still command me?” she spat.

  “No,” King Robert said. “But if you do not go, I am sure that some members of your family will kill you.”

  “Oh, I won’t kill her!” Robert yelled. “I’ll hold her and let Sherwin run her through.”

  He laughed a cracked laugh. Sherwin had shakily drawn his sword. He still looked most unwell.

  “That is enough!” King Robert shouted. “I do not want that on this family.”

  “You are a fool,” Annette hissed, rising with the dagger in her hand. Robert’s muscles visibly tensed as he prepared to lunge for her, should she attack. “Do you not know who betrayed you? It was I. At last I came to my senses. Does that not change things?”

  “Nothing could change the way I feel about my children,” King Robert said. “Now go.”

  Annette’s eyes flicked to Robert. Her fingers twitched on the dagger’s hilt, and for a moment she looked as if she were going to try something. Then she raised her head and whirled around, striding past the wreck of the chandelier to the double doors. She kept glancing behind her as if she expected Robert to attack when her back was turned. Before closing the doors behind herself, she spun around, sending a jet of black toward the chandelier. Sherwin gave a cry of warning, and Robert threw himself toward the kesmal as if he wanted to catch it. The black darted past him and struck the chandelier in the center. Tremors roared through the floor, the explosion of glass filling everyone’s ears. Covering Rafen’s face with her hands, Etana threw hers against his chest, which was still oddly, magically warm. Screams punctuated the sound of debris falling again.

  After ten seconds of silence, Etana removed her face from Rafen’s chest. The glass was everywhere. Robert took his hands from his face, and rivulets of blood ran down his cheeks from his many cuts. His lacerated eyelid was already swelling. The others were bleeding too, but minimally compared to him. Sherwin had managed to stuff his head into his shirt. He now tore it free, looking around. Etana took her red-streaked hands from Rafen’s face, which was still unscathed. Feeling beneath his hair for any cuts, she discovered he was badly bruised along the back of his head – likely concussed as well as suffering the affects of kesmal.