“Because he threatened to kill you,” Elizabeth said simply. “I had to believe him. I never saw you since that day, not until last night. Even five weeks ago, we had a narrow escape from Talmon, and he told us as we fled that you were dead.”
Her voice was choked as she spoke.
“Then what happened?” Rafen murmured. “After Talmon—”
“Some very regrettable things,” Roger said, his face softening. “When the guards practiced their fencing skills on me, they discovered that I could fight. Talmon promoted me until eventually I became a general.”
Rafen’s muscles hardened. “You knew,” he said, his voice rising. “You knew from the time they captured Elizabeth what they were like. So why—”
“God knows,” Roger said quickly.
“You know,” Rafen snarled. “You just won’t say you were a coward.”
Roger fell silent. He looked away from Rafen, his brows knitted. Rafen wanted to hit him.
“I know what came after,” he said harshly. “You wanted to stay in Talmon’s favor. So you betrayed Phil and me. After I blamed Etana’s escape on you, you promised to kill me in Siana. When you failed you were too scared to return to Talmon.”
Shifting restlessly, Roger opened his mouth to respond. Elizabeth grasped his hand, looking at Rafen imploringly.
“Then you hid in Siana,” Rafen said, louder now, accusing. “When Talmon came here, Elizabeth probably escaped and found you, and gave you the second chance you didn’t deserve. That’s what happened, isn’t it?”
“Rafen,” Roger beseeched, “your mother and I love y—”
“You don’t love me!” Rafen bellowed. “That’s a lie. YOU TRIED TO KILL ME, REMEMBER?”
Roger’s face fell, and tears formed in Elizabeth’s eyes.
“Rafen, we want peace with you,” he said.
“I DON’T WANT PEACE WITH YOU!” Rafen shouted at Roger. He paused, his chest heaving. Voices in his thumping head
were screaming.
“Rafen,” Elizabeth said, breaking free from Roger’s embrace and reaching for him.
“Come on, Sherwin,” Rafen muttered.
His wolf senses told him there was a path through the leaves behind him and his friend. Rafen walked backward toward it, afraid he’d get a sword in his back if he turned it to Roger. Reaching the gap in the sharp beech branches, he whirled around, transformed, and flew down the narrow path on fleet paws, Sherwin frantically trying to keep up in the silvery cold. Bluebirds and sparrows scattered before them.
“Rafen!” Elizabeth cried after him. The name sounded so desolate…
*
Sherwin sighed and flopped onto the ground. With a frustrated
yell, he leapt to his feet again, revealing a spearheaded stone embedded where his backside had been.
“It’s true, yer know,” he told Rafen. “No rest for the wicked, as they say.”
His teeth were chattering, even though he and Rafen had stolen two more jackets, some large leather gloves, and some black mufflers that smelt like old ale from three unwary Tarhians. Though Rafen still refused to wear the jackets, he had donned the gloves and muffler. Sherwin wore the two extra jackets and kept saying with concern that Rafen was going to freeze. The coldest part
of winter was coming, and privately, Rafen worried about their chances of survival. It wasn’t necessarily warmth that concerned him – he could make fires that were beautifully warm, and lie in them if he needed to. However, food was becoming scarce.
Rafen seated himself at the foot of a holly tree, legs folded. He laid his sword across his knees and gazed at it, wishing he had had it earlier. He would never have had to hear Roger out. Retracing their steps that morning, Rafen and Sherwin had found their supplies at the bottom of the fatal slope of the previous night.
Sherwin retrieved his own sheathed sword from beside a tree across from Rafen. “Well, I suppose training’s worth something. Right?”
Rafen continued staring at the blade Erasmus had given him. After gathering all their current possessions, he and Sherwin had trained in this circle of trees all day. There was still no sign of Alexander, or an army, and Rafen was tense with impatience. He wanted the admiral to arrive and dominate his mind.
After the pointless clangor of sword against sword, Rafen was tired. Sherwin had been tired before that, he just hadn’t wanted to tell Rafen. Rafen’s forehead still hurt badly. When fetching water from the frozen river earlier, Rafen had glimpsed his reflection in the hole he had smashed in the ice. Decorated with little scratches and grazes, a large green lump was swelling on Rafen’s forehead. Rafen had gazed at it with intrigue.
“How did they find us last night?” he asked.
“Roger and Elizabeth? Yer were lying there unconscious, and the Tarhians were trying to find a safe way down the slope. Then I heard them passing by, quickly, mind, because they didn’t want to get caught either. I begged them for help, so Roger picked yer up—”
Rafen sprang to his feet, grasping his sword. Seeing the wild look in his eyes, Sherwin swiftly said, “Well, I didn’t know, Raf! I had no idea what he looked like. And they did save us. I couldn’t ’ave dragged yer very far. Did yer see his boat race when yer went wolf? Couldn’t believe it, poor fellow.”
Rafen was breathing heavily. The thought of Roger carrying him made him feel sick.
“I’m sorry,” Sherwin said. “I wouldn’t ’ave asked them if I’d known. But then we would have been caught. He got a real shock when he lit a Jeremiah and saw yer properly. Went completely white. Strangest thing. Then she was huggin’ yer like anything.”
Giving him a filthy look, Rafen convulsively gripped his sword as if he were about to run someone through.
“Sorry,” Sherwin said, subsiding. He leaned against a tree, muttering about “bein’ an idiot tha’ talks too much”.
A million thoughts raced through Rafen’s mind. If his father – King Robert – had been around, none of this would have happened. Rafen would have been with him and wouldn’t have met Roger and Elizabeth again. King Robert had adopted Rafen unconditionally, making no provision regarding the emergence of
his blood parents. If he hadn’t vanished – or died – Rafen would have been able to live with the only man he had ever loved as a father, safe from Elizabeth’s entreaties and Roger’s excuses. He had to find King Robert… but he had to fight because of Erasmus. The struggle was like trying to breathe underwater.
The truth about Rafen’s parentage destroyed all his foolish subconscious hopes that he had been well-born, that his mother had been a seer, that he wasn’t Tarhian, that he wasn’t from a despised race from the other world, that his father had been a good man who had died fighting for his family. He had thought he was the Fledgling, the Sianian Wolf – a prince of this country! – and had discovered that he was really just the son of a human traitor. He remembered Queen Arlene speaking of humans with contempt; the Tarhians, pirates, and vassals of Vladimiēr were descended from them. If he ever returned to the Selsons, they would despise him. Etana would never speak to him again, if she were alive. Alexander would probably scorn him too.
Rafen’s stomach twisted. What if Roger and Elizabeth wanted Rafen to stay with them? His thoughts returned to Erasmus, who would have stopped this nonsense long ago. Erasmus would have saved him from the Tarhians last night. And if Roger had tried to touch Rafen, well, Erasmus was an excellent warrior.
Or he had been.
Rafen stared at the snow-laden hollies and elms, the black hair rising along his hands as he anticipated flying through the Woods. Then he checked himself savagely. He knew the conviction he had felt when he had received the phoenix feather. Roger and Elizabeth didn’t matter; he was the Fledgling. He had to fight for Siana until he died. His eyes wandered to Sherwin, who had moved away from his tree, watching Rafen with concern.
Rafen remembered the night Sherwin had almost perished. He would not be risking that again.
“I know yer feel alone,” Sherw
in said. “Yer don’t ’ave to, yer know. I know everyone yer loved ’as died, and yer hate Roger, but, Raf, I’d go wherever yer asked me, even if it were Hell.”
Rafen slowly sheathed his sword. His very blood was warmed. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “You’re more than I deserve.”
Chapter Sixteen
The
Revelation
The trees around him were thick and gray in the silver twilight. The tracks told him he was close. Alakil raised the rod and traced a blue circle around himself. He nodded fractionally and watched it ripple outward into the trees. After waiting for a minute, a shimmer of blue returned to him and dissipated in the air.
Inhaling sharply, he moved in the direction from which the kesmal had returned. There was a camp nearby, as the hasty footprints he had found indicated. His kesmal had bounced back off some sort of supernatural protection around the band of rebels
he pursued. He would destroy their shield effortlessly, and then he would break Rafen.
After searching for Rafen in the homes of the lords and even in the woods on the islands around Siana, the Lashki had begun a hunt in the Forest of Fritz. For, all the lords Erasmus had named had confessed, beyond a doubt of the truth, with screams, with gibbers, with cries, that Rafen was not among them, that they thought he had been dead, that they would never betray the Lashki. After that, the Lashki started to suspect he had false information. Still, the Forest of Fritz was a likely place of refuge for Rafen, and the Lashki determined to explore it thoroughly. He had found evidence that suggested there were more people than Rafen here. Chances were that Rafen was hiding with a group of warriors.
A minute later, he felt in the air the hum of the protective kesmal that rendered the Sianian fools invisible. The leaves to his left churned violently.
Alakil whipped around to face the offending bushes. A form vanished into the greenery behind him. The copper rod vibrated in his grasp, and Alakil wondered if this was the time, if this was the one.
He broke into the run that terrified his enemies, and the trees flashed past him. The footsteps ahead became more frantic, yet Alakil was gaining rapidly. Any moment now his quarry would be in view, would be dead.
He broke into a clearing in which the wind howled. The trees around had diminished, and a cliff reared above the opal snake of a river far below. The Sianian Admiral Alexander lurched to a halt on the cliff edge as the Lashki approached, now walking calmly, bitter disappointment eating him from the inside. The admiral glanced over his shoulder with wide eyes, his breath coming in gasps. The Lashki raised the rod with resigned boredom. The voices of Nazt were still calling for Rafen, and it was going to be another torture, another fruitless attempt to wrench the information he needed from some worthless individual.
The sweat on his forehead glistening, Alexander shook his head in horror and jumped, vanishing over the cliff so fast that it seemed like he had never been there.
*
Rafen shifted silently on the baldcypress branch he sat on. It was snowing gently again, and he drew a vestige of comfort from his muffler. Roger was squatting by the riverbed beneath, like an overgrown frog. He clutched his sword, watching the rabbit lope
along in the thick snow, a few steps from himself.
You’ll never get it that way, Rafen thought.
The rabbit paused, sniffing the air. Roger leapt forward, thrusting with his sword, like a grown man attacking another grown man. The rabbit shot into the trees beyond the riverbed, and Roger looked about, momentarily dazed, wondering where his prey had gone. Sighing magnificently, he rose, sheathing his sword. Rafen surmised this was something he frequently attempted. It seemed Elizabeth and Roger had little to eat. Elizabeth’s high-boned face had looked pinched when Rafen had
met her, and Roger moved like a man lacking energy.
After breaking a hole in the ice and refilling his water pouch, Roger pulled his tattered coat closer round himself and hurried into the woods to make a fire, his pale face disillusioned. Rafen smiled smugly. He hoped Roger would be too late with the fire, and his wet hands would freeze. He was furious at himself for no longer having the spirit to attempt attacking Roger. Elizabeth loved the man too dearly, and he provided food for her besides.
Rafen slipped out of the tree onto the ground Roger had just occupied. Somewhere nearby, Sherwin was filling the water pouches they had stolen from some Tarhians recently. Rafen had sensed Roger’s scent and crept away from his friend to watch the man attempt hunting.
Two more weeks had passed. Rafen and Sherwin had been occupied training, and searching for Wynne, an action Rafen’s prickling conscience prompted. Though Rafen had known she would have a hard time providing for herself and protecting herself from Tarhian men, he had at first avoided her like she had an infectious disease. His pretext had been that he was waiting for Alexander in the Woods, and if he moved the admiral would miss him. Which was true, although Rafen would not have been moving a worrying distance.
Though he begged Zion for success in his search, Rafen had found Erasmus’ house deserted when he finally visited. His wolf senses meant that he was even better at finding his way around the Woods than before. However, Wynne did not appear to be anywhere there either. He dared to ask around some neighboring farms, only to discover everyone was strangely close-mouthed. Rafen’s questions merely made him conspicuous and frustrated. He had a horrid feeling Wynne had been captured.
Rafen had also inquired where Erasmus’ execution had occurred, and where his body was. To his frustration, these questions were left unanswered as well.
“Raf,” Sherwin said, stepping through some snow-covered broomsedge grass to Rafen’s left. He clutched the dripping water pouches and his gloves with bare blue hands. The snow was falling more thickly now, and his shoulders were covered in white. “Did yer see him?”
“Yes.”
“Wha’ was he up to?”
“Trying to catch a rabbit. Pathetic.”
“Sounds funny. Wha’ do yer think he and Elizabeth eat?”
“Too little,” Rafen said. The thought of Roger suffering the same hunger pangs Rafen had felt in the mine was satisfying. However, Elizabeth was already too skinny. “Maybe I should catch something for them.”
“Do yer know where they’re staying?”
“Yes. Roger stays near the river where he can get water. He’s too scared to stray far from here. I know the exact spot. Come on.”
Rafen hurried Sherwin along the riverbank. “We’ll make a fire. Otherwise your wet hands will fall off.”
“Do yer think Roger knows where we are?”
“No,” Rafen said scornfully. “We camp in a different place most nights. Roger doesn’t know the Woods.”
He stooped and quickly gathered some branches and twigs for a fire.
“I wonder ’ow they really got ’ere,” Sherwin said.
“Roger came across in a merchant ship, and Elizabeth came with Talmon.”
“Naw, I’m not talkin’ abou’ tha’,” Sherwin said. “They’re humans, remember? They were drownin’ in the oceans in my world, and then the Tarhians picked them up somehow. They mus’ ’ave been transported ’ere sometime when they were in the water.”
Rafen’s breath caught in his chest. Sherwin had touched on the
precise topic he had been wondering about for some time now. Since Erasmus’ death, Rafen had had other things to think about besides how he had gotten into Sherwin’s world. Yet, he couldn’t help wondering: had he found the silver flames by mistake? Or had he created them himself? He was very careful when lighting a
fire these days, just in case. He was sure that the fact his family had
appeared in the Mio Pilamùr was no coincidence. According to Roger, Rafen had traveled between the worlds before. The whole thing was, in some weird way, connected to himself. Still, Sherwin had a point. How had the whole thing actually happened? Rafen had tried searching his memories. It had been fruitless.
“There must be a pass
age in the waters of your world or something like that,” Rafen concluded.
“Nah,” Sherwin said. “Tha’s impossible. I’m not stupid, yer
know.”
“You’ve got no proof there’s not a passage,” Rafen said, motioning for Sherwin to follow him into the trees. They made for a new clearing.
“I just know tha’s ’ow it is, Raf. I reckon there was a passage, but somethin’ went really wrong, and it was broken for good. No one can get through it. I’ve felt it for ages, ever since I realized I wanted to get ’ere.”
Rafen’s blood chilled. This wasn’t the first time he had had a strange conversation with Sherwin. Sherwin had also questioned him very closely about Fritz, Thomas, and Alakil after he’d been in Siana for some weeks. Queen Arlene had educated Rafen well, and Sherwin had received the information hungrily, until Rafen mentioned Alakil was now known as the Lashki Mirah. Turning completely white, Sherwin had ended the conversation. However, now he was again bringing up a strange topic. Was it really true that Sherwin had wanted to come here for a long time – had even known things about the Mio Pilamùr from a distance?
“How—” Rafen began.
“Never mind,” Sherwin said, waving a hand while Rafen lit a fire. “The fact is, a passage won’t work. Yer did it, Raf.” Sherwin’s eyes lit up. “Yeh’re the person who can travel between the worlds. I bet yeh’re the only one out there who can.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Rafen said, beginning to sweat despite the cold. “It’s not like you can travel between the worlds without noticing. It’s kind of obvious, when everything goes all tight and you can’t breathe. And didn’t Roger and Elizabeth say I was two at the time we came into this world?”
“Yer can’t breathe properly when yeh’re drownin’ anyway,” Sherwin said. “Travelin’ ’ere probably jus’ felt like almos’ dyin’ to them. And tha’s likely why they can’t remember it too clearly. A flash of light underwater – no air – then unconsciousness. It’s possible, Raf.”
The Sianian Wolf Page 13