The penetration was easy. He fingered the shield, pouring some of his own kesmal into it and passing through. It was not a strong structure. An inferior had made it.
Now he stood behind a tree at the edge of their midst, the breath from his nostrils humid and hurried in his anticipation. He had glimpsed the rebels as he had slipped through the shield. There were four hundred men, encamped beneath a great number of oaks. Their women and children were with them, and the odd tent sheltered the weaker ones of the community. If the Forest of Fritz were not so large, the Lashki would have located such a number immediately.
“If we cannot find him, we are lost,” one of the men said in almost unintelligible peasant brogue. He was probably a smithy, a dimwitted, Sianian dolt.
“He vanished a week ago now. How can we go on planning without him?”
“We are safe for the moment,” another man replied. “Aye, and this message we have received gives me hope.”
The two leaders had isolated themselves from the rest so they could converse without being heard. Alakil thought they needn’t have bothered. The mewling of the children and the conversation of the other men and women almost drowned them out entirely.
“Simon picked it up in the settlement then?” the dolt asked.
“Aye. We have not ventured out so long, and we have been so secret that it’s a miracle we heard it at all. The farmer who received word said he had the news almost a whole season ago.”
“How will he help us?” the dolt whispered.
“We have everything but a leader,” the second man murmured. “We have weapons, and some of the admiral’s old plans. We have food enough for a while yet. The Fledgling will lead us into battle. We will send men into the Cursed Woods to find him. Zion willing, he’ll still be there, and we can arrange a place to meet him.”
The Lashki ground his teeth. Was this what he had searched for? He too had known Rafen had been in the Woods a season ago. He was already around the other side of the tree, and the two men had sighted him. They gaped stupidly, the thicker-set of the two gabbling nonsense. The Lashki flicked the rod, and they were blasted back into the crowd, their eyes rolling up in their heads.
People were screaming, and it aggravated him. He breathed deeply to calm himself as the women and children started running into the Woods. The men armed themselves, and the philosophers sent kesmal lacing through the air. It was so pointless that he actually laughed.
He scarcely had to move the rod, and the tree roots were already seething, snaking around bodies like giant earth-colored eels, rearing up and crushing others, pulling them underground. Tents collapsed, falling into the opening earth. Children screamed sharply and vanished. They were like insects. It reminded him of disturbing an anthill when he was younger.
He brought down a tree, and its huge bole squashed twenty of them. Glazed eyes stared at him from under the tree trunk, limp fingers sometimes the only free part of a body. The philosophers were constructing feeble shields that popped like bubbles as his kesmal touched them. His black eyes swept the churning mass, and he estimated there were thirty philosophers at most, aiming at random.
Alexander could have done better than this. If the philosophers had been more skilled at their craft, they would have protected the people from the trees, prevented the Lashki from ever using them by making thick barriers or shields.
His lip curling, he created a pulsating blue wall. It swallowed his attackers’ kesmal and then regurgitated it in balls that shot into their chests, their mouths, their throats. They fell like stones, turning blue when his kesmal sucked the air from their lungs. The Lashki flicked his own shield aside and jabbed the copper rod at two more trees. They swung to the ground, squelching other ridiculous victims.
It was over almost before it had begun. He stood there, staring at the upset ground, the felled trees, the sprawling, mangled bodies, and he felt cheated. He had searched all this time and found nothing except rodents.
He clutched the vibrating rod, the voices of Nazt bellowing at him, insensitive to his plight. He decided it was not so pleasurable to kill a mass. Individuals were much more enjoyable. The details were more evident. It was a study, a science, seeing how long he could make a death last.
One lone figure scrambled crazily over the corpses, fleeing belatedly after those of his fellows who had escaped. The Lashki could hear his fevered panting from where he stood. He pointed the rod at him, willing the tendril of blue to drag the man over to him for some entertainment.
He found he was angrier than he had thought. The blue rope wound itself around the man in a lightning quick movement, binding the limbs and then contracting itself. The man screamed sharply, dropping, his movements truncated and feeble.
“Such a fruitless death,” the Lashki murmured. “If you were someone else, some advancement might have been made.”
The rod jerked violently again. The search was not over; he could not give up. There was one last person who might have the secret he so desperately sought.
Blood ran deep. Despite Talmon’s sheltering, perhaps the twin knew something.
*
“Am I dreaming yet?” Francisco said in Tarhian, his feminine voice significantly higher than Rafen’s.
Rafen stared at him, suddenly tongue-tied.
“Or is it real?” Francisco said. “I have much wanted this. I knew you were alive. Father told me you died in infancy, but I knew… I felt your presence.”
Rafen swallowed. There was something elegant, yet foreign, about Francisco’s speech. He certainly carried himself like a prince.
“Come, speak to me. You are my brother, are you not? You are Pedro.”
“No,” Rafen said in Tarhian, finding his voice.
“Then I am dreaming,” Francisco stated, his dark blue eyes narrowing. They were identical to Rafen’s except in what they revealed of his personality.
“You aren’t dreaming,” Rafen said. “Talmon told you about me?”
“My father, yes, and yours too. I asked him. I had dreams. Dreams can tell much.”
Dreams? Rafen had never suspected he had had a brother, unlike Francisco. Perhaps it was because Rafen’s own life had been so demanding of his attention, so accursedly eventful, while Francisco’s was one of peace. He met his brother’s gaze evenly. “Talmon is not my father.”
Francisco laughed lightly. It reminded Rafen of how noblemen showed their merriment at a joke they didn’t think funny.
“Then he is not mine either,” Francisco said, smiling.
“You’re right,” Rafen said. He stepped closer to the bed, still holding the book about constellations.
Alarm flickered in Francisco’s eyes. He quickly rearranged his face into another smile, and laughed again. “You jest,” he said.
“I don’t,” Rafen said.
“Where have you been all these years?”
“Where you have been?”
“With my father.”
“He is not your father.”
“This is nonsense,” Francisco snapped, and the whip crack in his voice reminded Rafen of Talmon. He clenched his teeth.
“This is your book,” he said.
Francisco swung his legs out of his bed. He wore a white nightgown with lace at the hems, reminiscent of some of Bertilde’s dresses. He held out his hand for the book, and Rafen shoved it at him. Clutching it to his chest, Francisco stared at Rafen, wearing a funny expression.
“I’m sorry I interrupted your sleep,” Rafen said, bowing slightly as the Sianians did. He moved toward the mullioned windows, meaning to raise a pane and climb down the uneven wall below.
Seeing his intent, Francisco flew to the window. He stood with his back to it, his arms spread. “You are not leaving,” he said. “You must tell me your name. You must explain everything. I want to know.”
“You don’t believe me when I tell the truth,” Rafen hissed.
“What is your name?”
“I don’t trust you.”
“Tell me
your name.”
“Get out of my way,” Rafen said, starting toward him.
“STOP!” Francisco shouted in Tarhian. He was breathing heavily, and his eyes dilated. “Try to leave now and I will scream, I will tell them you attacked me, and I will sound the alarm.”
“You’ll have me killed,” Rafen said helplessly.
“For a surety,” Francisco said, his eyes glinting. Rafen observed how easily he gave a threat. “Sit down,” he commanded, motioning to one of the plush-cushioned chairs left of the chest of drawers.
Uneasily, Rafen moved over to the chair, and Francisco said, “Draw it closer to the window. I want to look into your face.”
Rafen was horribly reminded of interviews with the Tarhian guards when he was a slave. He did as he was told, his arms shaking with anger.
“Good,” Francisco said when Rafen sat down. “Now, what is your name?”
Rafen met Francisco’s gaze with blazing eyes. “I am Rafen Pedro.” He spoke Vernacular, wondering if Francisco could speak it too.
“Rafen?” Francisco said. His eyes widened. He looked innocent again, like a little boy. “No. You are not Rafen. Rafen was a man, and he is dead now.”
Francisco switched to Vernacular as if the language were natural to him.
“They told you I was a man?” Rafen asked.
“Rafen was an adult slave in my father’s coal mine,” Francisco said. “He did kesmal and escaped Tarhia. He came to Siana, where he became the king’s protector, and he died after a battle with my father’s Master.”
Rafen raised an eyebrow. “How did Rafen look?”
“He was tall,” Francisco said, his brow furrowed. “Tall and musclebound, my father said. But his greatest strength was kesmal.
He could destroy walls with kesmal.”
“Ha!” Rafen burst out, and Francisco drew himself up indignantly. “Don’t you see it’s all lies?” Rafen said, more softly. “I’m shorter than you; I was malnourished. I don’t have any muscles except those that keep my body hanging together, and I don’t even move pebbles with kesmal.”
Francisco looked incredulous. “Father would not lie to me,” he said.
“I think I know what my own name is,” Rafen said.
Francisco narrowed his eyes.
“I’ll tell you something,” Rafen said, staring at Francisco. “I escaped Tarhia because Talmon made several huge mistakes. Talmon told you those things so my escape wouldn’t seem ridiculous, and so you wouldn’t find out we’re brothers.”
Francisco’s outstretched arms lowered and he looked more perplexed. “I do not believe you,” he said unconvincingly.
“What did Talmon tell you about your mother? And about Pedro?”
“My mother was Elizabeth,” Francisco said. “I was told she was mad. She went mad after the death of Pedro, my twin brother. I was never allowed to see her.”
“So she wouldn’t tell you the truth.”
“I know the truth.”
“You won’t believe it.”
“Where have you been all this time?”
“Talmon made me a slave,” Rafen said. “I worked in his coal mine for eight years before I escaped. I was twelve then. I went to
the Selsons, and they adopted me after I saved King Robert’s life.”
“King Robert is dead now.”
“I know that,” Rafen spat. What he really meant was that he knew what everyone thought. In his own heart, the matter was not solved – could not be solved until he found out from Alexander if any Selsons remained alive. He hoped feverishly.
“You were a slave in Tarhia?”
“Yes. Do you know Talmon keeps slaves?”
“Oh, hundreds. Yes, I know that.”
“Then you know he’s cruel,” Rafen said simply.
“No. They are of the peasant class. How can one be cruel to those who are scarcely animals? Father elevates them by involving
them in industry.”
Rafen clutched the armrests of his chair, his teeth grinding. “So I am scarcely an animal?”
“You were never a slave. You are Pedro, the brother my father grieved to lose.”
Rafen felt like hitting Francisco. “I am Rafen,” he said, “and I was made a slave and beaten and nearly killed because I’m the Fledgling of the Phoenix.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Francisco’s words were sounding like a morbid chorus, and Rafen forced himself to take a deep breath.
“It’s true whether you believe it or not,” he said, pulling off his right boot and rolling down the foul smelling sock to the ankle.
Francisco clapped a hand to his nose. “What is the meaning of this?”
Rafen indicated the white brand on his ankle: 237. “My slave number,” he said. “I’ll show you something else.”
He pulled his boot back on and rose from the chair. When Francisco’s face hardened with suspicion, Rafen turned around so that his back was to his brother. He slipped his jacket off.
“Pull up my shirt,” he told Francisco.
“I am not doing it,” Francisco said.
“Why?”
“If it smells as bad as your sock, I will not do it.”
“If you have faith in your ‘father’, you have nothing to fear from this.”
Slowly, Francisco moved over to him and pulled up his shirt. Heavy silence enveloped them both. Then Francisco whispered, “My father did not do this.”
He still hadn’t released the shirt. Rafen’s whip scars, from the week before he had escaped Tarhia, transfixed him.
“Talmon carries a whip at his belt,” Rafen said.
“I know it. It is very thin.”
“Thin, but it has a metal barb.”
“I have never seen the metal barb.”
“Neither did I,” Rafen said. “Yet I felt it.”
“My father did not do this,” Francisco said desperately, his voice rising.
Rafen whirled around, tearing his shirt from his brother’s grasp.
“Your father is not Talmon,” he said, snatching up his jacket.
“He is,” Francisco insisted.
“Do you ever get to leave the palace?”
“I never leave the keep.”
“What about in Tarhia? Did he ever let you out of your chambers?”
“Never. But there was a balcony where I would sit often. I have frail health. He cares for me.”
Rafen smiled grimly.
“You look fine to me,” he said.
Francisco stepped away from the window and lowered himself onto his bed. He was trembling. “Who do you say my father is?”
“Roger Ridding,” Rafen said, actually flushing with shame as he said it.
Then he began to explain all Roger and Elizabeth had told him. Francisco only interrupted to clarify Roger had been the Tarhian general. As Rafen expected, he had never seen Roger. From there on, he listened to the narrative almost disinterestedly.
“I have heard enough,” he said when Rafen started to describe how Roger became general.
“Please believe me,” Rafen said. His voice dropped to a whisper. “You are my brother. I want you to know the truth.”
There was a flicker behind the unreadable eyes. Francisco rose. “You must go now,” he said in Tarhian. Rafen thought he heard a quiver in his voice. “Dawn is here. The men will be stirring. Did you not come here before? With the Selsons?”
Rafen’s breath caught in his chest. “Maybe,” he said.
“Ah. The men posted at the docks suspected nothing, but those who escorted you through the palace were greatly confused by it. They thought I was welcoming the royal family of Siana – ha – because I was curious about them. I let them think it, because I knew it was you. I was curious, yet I would never disobey my fa—” He stopped abruptly. “I was told not to see them, and I did not. And yet many people thought I followed them to the throne room that day, and lingered out of much curiosity. The Tarhian guards that you likely escaped from in the outer wa
ll would not tell it, for they are afraid of what their king would say. So, you must go now. You endanger many.”
“Why don’t you come with me?”
“Come with you?” Francisco suddenly laughed. “Ah, my brother,” he said, “I can never leave this place. My father would miss me like his own soul.”
Rafen’s heart sank. There was a moment of silence. “Please tell me something… do you know where they executed the peasant they called the Wolf?”
“Yes,” Francisco said. “He was not the Wolf though, just a man picked at random to stop the people rallying after a cause. My father had him executed as a warning, in New Isles. He still hangs on the scaffold. Asiel, one of the Master’s men, did kesmal so his corpse does not decay, and instead stays in the same position it died. Most cunningly done.”
Rafen’s insides turned cold.
“Asiel has the peasant’s daughter too,” Francisco mentioned as an afterthought.
“Wynne?” Rafen said quickly. Francisco looked confused. “Do you know where she is, Francisco?”
He shook his head. “Ah, no. I have no interest in her or her father.”
“Could you find her? And send me a message saying where she is?”
Rafen knew the answer already.
“Ha!” Francisco said. “But of course no. Why should I do such a thing?”
Rafen met his brother’s eyes. “I suppose you will tell Talmon everything about tonight as well,” he said.
Francisco looked thoughtful. “I think tonight will be between you and I, comrade.” He snapped his fingers. It all felt a little too whimsical… unconvincing. Rafen faced the window, his heart throbbing as he wondered if he would still be alive in the morning.
“Wait,” Francisco said, coming between the window and Rafen again. Rafen’s hands balled into fists, but then Francisco was embracing him tightly. Rafen felt his brother’s heart fluttering beneath his strange white nightgown. He pulled back and looked Francisco in the eyes, almost unable to speak.
“I think I trust you,” he said.
“You will come again?” Francisco asked softly.
The Sianian Wolf Page 15