Rafen rose and drew the gold circlet set with the royal amethyst from his traveling clothes. Holding it out to the king, he said, “I found this on the wrong head.”
“Ah,” King Robert murmured. His fingers closed on it, and he smiled.
Epilogue
Alakil had not forgotten what it was like to hurt. Pain, a memory connected with Rafen, was too recent a thing. However, this was unbearable. Two months after the Curse, and it still had not healed. He had been surprised he had even managed to leave the New Isles palace as a spirit. Because part of him had been determined not to let Siana go so easily, he had traveled in this mode in order to be free to attack should his kesmal regain its vitality. It had been a mistake; he should have used the rod to take him to Nazt immediately. He had been forced to collapse on a rocky island close to the Sianian coast, waiting until he had the strength to travel to Esin, the cliff where his beloved Voices resided.
He lay on the dusty, grassless ground in a heap, listening to the screeching reproof of Nazt. He was now abruptly unable to rest in this part of the East that had become his refuge in his first years of service to the Voices. His anger could destroy mountains, if only he weren’t so terribly weak…
He had calculated incorrectly. He raised his bleeding, pulverized head and stared into the eyeless faces of Nazt as he thought back over that moment.
He had planned it as carefully as he had planned the creating of his new body after he had deliberately killed himself. Just as he had felt every angle of bone; every dreadlock, symbolic of Ashurite leadership; every muscle and drop of moisture that slid from the gray skin that both decayed and breathed with beautiful humidity – just as he had felt all these things were perfect and unsurpassable, so he had felt his plan for Rafen’s death had been flawless. The lure of the New Isles had proved too much for the Fledgling, and the killing of his mother had been a perfect stroke. The Lashki hadn’t even had to threaten killing the king. Even though he had discovered it was Francisco there in the Hideout that day, and not Rafen, the second brother had eventually come to the Lashki Mirah, king and representative of Nazt. And this time, the Lashki wanted not to merely kill him, but to break his soul so that even after death Rafen could not oppose him. He had almost succeeded.
In the world of illusions he had created, he had stripped Rafen of his kesmal and selected imaginary victims for him. Yet perhaps Alakil had chosen the wrong people. Should he have conjured up Robert Selson? Or Roger Ridding? He had feared if he had brought back Elizabeth, everything would have come to pieces. As it was, Rafen was a tough victim. But by the end of the ordeal, he was so confused that perhaps it would never have mattered.
It was with the introduction of Sherwin that it had all fallen apart.
The Lashki stretched long gray fingers ahead of himself on the cliff, grasping at the powdery earth as if it would help him heal himself.
He forced himself to relive the moment. He had been within Rafen, deep within him, creating illusions, ushering Nazt into a soul deeply opposed to it. He had created the mirror image of Sherwin, and as Rafen had been beating him to death, the Lashki had realized he had made a mistake. He was feeling the blows, and they went so much deeper than the skin. They barraged his kesmal and knocked away at his perfect conception of himself, creating a pain that was nowhere and everywhere at once: an explosion of flame that cracked open his head.
That was when he had found himself in Sherwin’s place.
Impossible! How could two filthy-blooded humans be his undoing?
He pulled himself into a half sitting position, his long body sprawling in the dust as he stared at Nazt. It was telling him something… The mouths opened and the bodies swayed, and the music was easily intelligible to him. Nazt was willing to forgive him, if he would only understand the truth.
If he was honest, and he must be honest to solve this impermissible problem, he had been in pain before that. Even before he had made that fatal mistake, it had been such a struggle to silence Rafen’s voice! And it had been such a struggle to speak: he had fought with a gale force just to form the words in Rafen’s consciousness. The opening of Rafen’s soul had also been inordinately difficult. It had required all his available strength. Once he had descended through the mouth and been within him, he had felt the smooth gossamer strand of his spirit was on fire, was being consumed, as if he had dipped himself into acid. All his concentration had shattered. He had felt his control over the Naztwai slip, and he had known then that he couldn’t hope for victory over Aronis this time. He would have been fortunate to beat Rafen.
It was always going to be a fight. He shouldn’t have expected anything else.
The Lashki suddenly reared his head, temporarily restored by this one great secret Nazt had imparted to him. They were still chanting, back to the usual refrain: “RAFEN! RAFEN!”
It was ceaseless, and it drove him insane. He reached down to his side and grasped the copper rod, which stirred restlessly. He at last understood.
Long ago, there had been eleven spirits whom Zion had created to be guardians of the Mio Pilamùr. When the world had fallen to Nazt, Zion had sacrificed his own flesh to clothe them with his old attributes and kesmal. Four men and seven women had appeared over a period of time: the Runi and Secrai, equipped with highly unusual powers. Flesh forgets, and the Secrai were given heartstrings to remind them of their identities and their one great task: to destroy Nazt with the Runi. The Runi were given phoenix feathers.
The Lashki had burned his, severing himself from service to Zion. He had even killed himself to be free of the body Zion had given him; he wanted to create something immortal. After that, he had followed Nazt’s instructions and become the greatest living creature of all time as he killed the second Runi Fritz and the third Runi Thomas. There was one left then, and according to the prophecies, he was destined to lead the Eleven in the last battle and discover the secret of destroying Nazt. The Runi were always the ones that had created the most trouble. Focusing on the Secrai was a waste of time by comparison.
The Lashki pulled himself to his unwilling feet, one hand still cradling his wet head as he stared into the faces of Nazt. His lips parted in the smile that terrified the idiots who fought him.
The Sartians were convinced Richard was the one and only Fourth Runi, the possessor of the last phoenix feather. And the Lashki had spent far too much effort on him in the past. Wasn’t it odd that Rafen had instantly tried to snatch Alakil’s feather? How odd that the Lashki should have created an image of Rafen without a feather, and discovered himself with one when Sherwin had transformed!
The Lashki remembered the past, before the Eleven had become mortals. He remembered the spirit life, the limitlessness, the tasks Zion had given them all, and he remembered the souls of his companions. There was one whose leadership they had all generally accepted, even though now he questioned it to the point of fury.
No wonder Rafen’s soul had burned him when he had broken in.
The Lashki clenched the rod, and with an effort, the blue light returned to the tip. He stared at it with black eyes. The last days were coming. He now knew he should have killed Rafen when he was in Tarhia, in that first interview when he was seven. The boy would not have been strong enough to fight then.
Now his kesmal – poor though it was – was developed enough to hurt him. And the Lashki must not be hurt. He must be strong and healthy, at all costs.
It was simple. He raised the rod, mesmerized, as Nazt bellowed encouragement. He would bring a small army to Siana. It did not have to be big, just bigger than Rafen. Even the survivors from this ridiculous battle would do. He would frame Rafen as a fraud, pretending to be the Runi merely because he wanted power (and perhaps the Secra Etana as his bride). Once the Lashki had turned everyone against him and isolated him, he would assault him with their support and feed him to the bodies in the East.
And Nazt would win.
About the author
Y.K. Willemse grew up dreaming of the day when
she would become an author. But she didn’t just dream. At age ten, she began writing seriously. She was published for the first time at age sixteen and saw her first novel release when she was twenty-two years old. When she’s not writing, Yvette is walking her Yorkshire Terrier, drinking large amounts of coffee, singing loudly, and teaching music at various schools and studios. She owns a real Norman sword, a very small but sharp axe, and a large collection of books. Together with her husband Michael, she resides in Canterbury, New Zealand.
You can connect with Y.K. by visiting her
website at
http://www.writersanctuary.net/
Facebook at
https://www.facebook.com/fledglingaccount
Twitter at
https://twitter.com/yvettekatewille
Or email her at
[email protected]
We hope you enjoyed Servant of the King.
Please continue the journey with
a preview of book four of
The Fledgling Account Series
chapter one
Kesmal
It was a shared dream, and Sherwin knew it because Rafen was there on the floor of the Ravine with him, pale in the world of floating snow flecks, resisting an invisible pull on his body that was drawing him closer…
Closer to Sherwin.
It was odd, because normally Sherwin would approach Rafen first, subserviently. For the first time since meeting Rafen, Sherwin resolved to remain where he was. Perhaps it was the bitterly cold air that invigorated him so. He stood on the frigid, unforgiving stone between the wide, craggy walls of the Ravine and felt his power returning to him. He hadn’t known till now who he was. He hadn’t wanted to know.
Now he was ready.
Rafen staggered forward, his fate already sealed, depicted in his drunken eyes. Nazt was too much for him since the Soul Breaker’s Curse. Who could have thought one so defiant, so vehement, would give way so finally at the end?
Sherwin raised his long, distended fingers. The flash of brilliant blue that emanated from him was full of renewed energy, a zest for his revitalized supernatural self. It struck Rafen squarely in the chest, and he fell like a broken puppet. Sherwin reproved himself. He shouldn’t have aimed at the phoenix feather; it was imprudent of him to risk damaging it.
Rafen had landed face down at his feet, his already colorless arms reaching out before him. Sherwin kneeled and shoved a hand under his chest, feeling with scrabbling fingers for the phoenix feather in his friend’s hem.
His friend! It was a lie. He had no friends. He had never had friends.
He withdrew the phoenix feather with a gasp of pleasure, and then he screamed. It was burning him; his flesh was melting, dripping, sliding away from the bone.
With a shout, Sherwin sat up. The air in the Cursed Woods was still, apart from the chirping of distant bats. It had been a dream. He nursed his hand and rocked back and forth in his sitting position, reassuring himself that Rafen didn’t know about this side of him, and never would.
*
“Rafen, you must put these foolish aspirations behind you,” Queen Arlene said, gazing out the windows in her chambers.
In the center of her wing, between two ornately carved pillars, she cut a severe figure: willowy, yet unforgiving; beautiful, but cold. Queen Arlene’s heart-shaped face was powdered, and her hair was pulled into an exquisite wreath of platinum braids at the back of her head. The right sleeve of her misty pearl gown hung empty below the elbow, where she had lost part of her arm to the Lashki.
Catching sight of it, Rafen said, “You saved my brother because you thought he was me. You knew Siana could not be won without me. And yet you refuse to allow me a position in government. You would have even given this country to the Sartians.” Though his body was thrumming with anger, he kept his voice low. “What did your husband say to persuade you to keep ruling?” he pressed. “What threats did he have to make?”
Queen Arlene turned, her cold blue eyes meeting his. The ice in them reminded him of the Lashki’s kesmal.
“My husband made no threats, for your information. And what goes on in the Sianian royal courts is none of your business.”
“Really?” Rafen stepped closer, his warm left hand tingling with kesmal at his side. “Your husband told me when I was twelve that one day I would be given a position in the Sianian government, as the Fledgling of the Phoenix – someone who would reinforce the rule of the monarchy and protect this country. What I’m asking for isn’t presumptuous. It is what I was set apart for from birth.”
Even his title of Sianian Wolf pointed to this! The peasant prophecies made it clear that the Wolf was merely another manifestation of the Fledgling, albeit a more savage one.
“Your mother was a fraud, Rafen.” Queen Arlene’s bitter words had a bite. “You are a mere human. A great disappointment to us all, to be sure. Yet one cannot change blo—”
“My mother was not a fraud!” Rafen shouted. If only Admiral Alexander wasn’t at sea, making sure all the Tarhians and pirates didn’t return. Rafen’s one certain ally in all this had no say.
“I am surprised you dare speak to me this way,” Queen Arlene said, drawing herself up, “and then ask me in the same breath to continue your education. Do you not understand, Rafen, that those days are over? Why do you harass General Jacob to continue your fencing lessons? He will not have any more to do with a human than he needs to. Why do you bother me about kesmal tuition and book learning? A human has no right to be in the New Isles palace, let alone to be asking for such things with a view to being installed in government.”
“I was once your son,” Rafen said quietly. “I’m surprised you speak to me this way.”
“Those days are long gone,” Queen Arlene said, her lips white with fury. “How many times must I tell you? You and my husband are both deluded. He would have housed you and your family here in the palace. I cannot imagine a more disgusting scandal – the pure-blooded of Siana mingling with humans, the children of traitors like Roger. Robert was right to put you under that man’s custody until you reach manhood, and with a little advice, he lodged you all in the country away from New Isles, where you belong.”
Rafen’s muscles tensed. “You mean as joint ruler you demanded it was so. I told him numerous times I didn’t want that edict about the custody written.”
It had taken months for him to get this audience with Queen Arlene. In the end, he had waited in New Isles for her to visit the people one day, where he had requested publicly that she speak with the Fledgling and Sianian Wolf in the palace. She could hardly refuse him before her subjects. Appearances mattered too much to her.
“I’m months away from turning sixteen and being counted as a man by Sianian standards,” Rafen said. “King Robert promised me that when I was of age, I would be inaugurated in government. You have to listen to me. I’ve seen Zion. He sent me to fight for the Sianians. I know my father is a worm, but my mother was something more.”
Queen Arlene made a restless move. “Rafen, this interview is over.”
“Just endorse my education. Provide me with tutors so that I can do what I was born to do – so that I can take care of Siana and destroy the Lashki one day.”
“Guards.”
Queen Arlene seldom had to raise her voice to be heard. Six men burst through the double doors leading into her chambers and flanked Rafen.
“Remove this peasant from my sight.”
“I’m more than a human!” Rafen roared at her.
Several strong hands closed on his arms. When the men began dragging him from the room, Rafen threw them off, evading them with the speed that the regular use of kesmal brought. He darted to the door and clutched the frame with a hand so hot that the wood smoked. One guard exclaimed something in terror.
“I will find a way to do what Zion meant me to do,” Rafen said. “You can support me or oppose me, Arlene. Choose wisely.”
Her form stiffened while he transformed and shot down the adjoining co
rridor as a wolf, servants stumbling to make way for him.
*
“Even the king said you would be a fool to stay, Sherwin,” Roger said condescendingly, misquoting King Robert for the hundredth time in his life. “You should most certainly leave. Don’t expect I will have you in my house.”
The house Roger called his was really a three room cottage King Robert had given him. It had belonged to a farmer, and was surrounded by expansive fields that eventually ran into the grasslands outside the Cursed Woods in the south. And the Cursed Woods were where Sherwin stayed, as Roger wouldn’t have him in the house. Rafen had demanded that Sherwin stay indoors with them, but even Sherwin was strangely reluctant about the whole affair. For months, he had slept in the Woods, claiming he didn’t want to cause strife in the Ridding family. Rafen couldn’t shake the feeling that his friend was hiding something from him. Occasionally, he spent the night outside with Sherwin. Yet when he would wake, Sherwin would have left to find food and water without him. That was when Rafen had begun resting in the cottage more, to be near his brother.
King Robert had only given Roger this cottage because of Rafen’s services to the kingdom. While Rafen knew his previous foster father had not wanted to give him up to Roger at first, the king had gradually seen he could not refuse the former Tarhian general. After Elizabeth had died, Roger had insisted that Francisco and Rafen were all he had, even though he had showed little interest in them while Rafen was healing from the Soul Breaker’s Curse. When his wife had also pressed him, the king had housed the Riddings together, asking Rafen to come and see him frequently. Though Rafen submitted to life with Roger, he did so mainly out of respect for King Robert’s wishes and solidarity with his brother. The moment he turned sixteen and became a man by Sianian standards, he would leave his father’s home with Francisco, who had agreed to come then, and there was nothing King Robert could do about it.
Servant of the King (The Fledgling Account Book 3) Page 36