The Sianian Wolf

by Y. K. Willemse

  Anxious over Rafen’s current muteness, Talmon breathed quickly and looked pale. The Tarhian king’s pacing movements before the table were nervous flickers in the purple gloom while he awaited the philosopher.

  Rafen didn’t know how to escape this. Erasmus had given him no tutelage that would help in this area. What was Sherwin going to say the next time they met? Rafen could hear his voice already.

  “’ey, I thought yer said yer wouldn’t leave me.”

  Sherwin knew little about the Woods. He wouldn’t manage without Rafen. Worse still, he had a princeling to care for. Francisco would be very unimpressed at waking up in a tunnel under a tree with no food.

  Rafen couldn’t help them dead though. Right now, he had to be the best Francisco he could.

  “Where did Asiel take you this afternoon?” Talmon asked, halting. He leaned across the large table.

  Rafen tried to look concussed, and prayed to Zion he was convincing. “Out… I don’t remember.”

  “What do you mean, you do not remember? Where did he take you?”

  “My head hurts,” Rafen moaned in Tarhian, in a perfect imitation of Francisco.

  Talmon twitched. “It is all right, my son. The physician is coming.” In an undertone, Talmon added, “I will kill that man. He is late.”

  The threat was probably not an idle one. Shaking, Rafen lay back in his chair, thinking about water. Talmon might at least have had the presence of mind to get him that. Rafen hadn’t drunk for the whole ride here, and it was now early evening. His mouth was dry, and his stomach grumbled.

  “No, fool,” Talmon said, “set it down here. This table.”

  A servant hurried over and feverishly arranged a tray before Rafen. So Talmon hadn’t overlooked his sustenance after all. When the servant made to rush past Talmon with a cursory kiss to his coat, Talmon grabbed his shoulder and struck his face before he departed. Rafen felt the blood rush to his own cheeks.

  His tray bore a large white plate carrying what looked like an entire pheasant soaking in its juices and garnished with herbs. Alongside it sat parsley and other greenery Tarhians usually treated as ornamental. A tureen was filled with pale red soup, and a little jug brimmed with greasy gravy. Another plate carried three thick slices of rye bread and a dish with a cooked gray duck’s egg. A murky-colored flagon and a heavy, studded goblet had been set alongside the tray. Talmon poured Rafen some wine.

  Rafen looked with distaste at the Tarhian food, before swiftly reminding himself Talmon would expect him to eat it without complaint. The tray held a nearly useless two-tined fork and a large knife that looked like it could be used to carve a turkey. Rafen wielded them awkwardly, doing his best to cut the pheasant. If it looked odd, it could be blamed on the head injury.

  He gulped some pheasant down, feeling sick. Talmon handed him the now full goblet. Rafen hurriedly dropped his utensils and swallowed some wine. His muscles loosened at the feel of liquid in his throat. The wine reminded him of supping with the Selsons. Except this was Tarhian wine… flatter and weaker than the robust Sianian equivalent.

  A man in a long blue robe swept into the banquet hall from the opposite end and approached the Tarhian king. Talmon hissed something in his ear, sparing a concerned look for Rafen. Rafen lowered his goblet, trembling. What if Talmon knew who he really

  was? What if he was setting him up?

  Talmon gave the philosopher a shove, and he stumbled over to Rafen.

  “My prince,” the philosopher said, “if you will turn your chair sideways…”

  Rafen did so, allowing the philosopher to check his pulse, his forehead, his eyesight, and several other things. The dogs drooled not far behind him. Every moment, Rafen was terrified the man would lift his shirt, revealing his lash scars. The philosopher asked him twice if the scar on his forehead was really from that day. Though it was really the faint mark of an injury from two weeks ago, Rafen lied feverishly each time. At last the philosopher finished.

  “His Grace needs rest and sustenance,” the philosopher announced. “He has had a hard day, and taken a severe blow to the head. Your Grace, this escaped my notice this morning,” the philosopher said, turning to Talmon, “but the boy is too skinny. I was a fool not to see it before. He should be fed more.”

  “He will be,” Talmon said, his eyes flicking to the steaming pheasant on Rafen’s plate.

  The philosopher gave some more general advice concerning Francisco’s “frail health” before leaving.

  “Now, Francisco,” Talmon said, “you heard the physician. I will bring you more if necessary.”

  Rafen looked at his pheasant with dread. This was going to be a long evening.

  *

  When Rafen had finished his dinner, he knew he would never hunger again. Talmon had watched Rafen the entire time, pouring him more wine and urging him to eat the duck’s egg, which Rafen stared at with disgust. When he had finally finished, Talmon advised him to take an early night. He led Rafen through the palace gardens, talking to him in a friendly way Rafen found unsettling.

  “Ach, the advisors will rant,” he said. “They are afraid to take Siana, stock and stone. But we will in the end, Francisco. We have the throne, and now it is only a spreading of the fingers to touch all that is ours by right. It will not be long before we weed out King Robert’s greatest supporters. Master has plans for that, though he has not revealed them yet. Other things concern him, and I know he is not content.”

  Talmon lowered his voice as they passed across a little white bridge over a stream. “He knows the Wolf is not dead,” he whispered, “and before he left, he often spoke of Rafen. He has not forgotten the touch of his kesmal. I think sometimes Master does not trust he is dead either. He is often away… searching.”

  Rafen felt the color drain from his face, and barely stopped himself from touching his phoenix feather. This was something he had not heard… had not wanted to hear…

  “On to pleasanter topics,” Talmon continued, and he mentioned the latest constellation he had observed at night. He claimed it was an entirely new one, not charted in books, and the expectant spark in his eyes told Rafen he anticipated contradictions and a lively discussion. Though familiar with constellations, Rafen wished he were as learned in them as Francisco was.

  Perhaps he and Talmon often spoke about stars.

  After an age, Rafen was in Francisco’s chambers. He had hoped violently that Talmon would leave him now, however, the king insisted on helping Rafen pick a nightgown from the vast variety within his chest of drawers. All the nightwear looked like ladies’ garments. After changing behind a foldout screen near his canopy bed, Rafen felt like a fool. When he emerged, Talmon admired the nightgown from different angles before guiding him to the window where he discussed constellations with Rafen.

  With the stars more visible now, Rafen was able to remember and name them, much to his relief. Even Talmon was impressed when he mentioned one Francisco obviously hadn’t studied.

  “You have been attending to your lessons,” he said, inclining his head and smiling down on Rafen.

  Rafen tried to smile back. The blood was pounding in his ears. He couldn’t believe he was conversing with Erasmus’ murderer. He had considered stealing a weapon and trying to run the Tarhian king through while he was off his guard. However, he knew he would falter when trying to kill a man in cold blood; his heart wouldn’t let him do it. Secondly, his brother kept appearing in his mind – a plague on Francisco! And lastly, he doubted he would get anywhere close to finishing Talmon, because guards and philosophers filled the corridors. Someone was sure to hear and come and kill Rafen. Then Rafen would never be able to find and rescue Wynne, which was something Erasmus would have far preferred to someone avenging his murder.

  “You are tired,” Talmon said in response to Rafen’s silence. “I will allow you to rest now.”

  Without warning, Talmon grasped Rafen’s shoulder and placed a firm kiss on his forehead. Rafen felt like screaming. He could only imagine what S
herwin would say, let alone what Erasmus would have said. He managed another tight smile and said, “Goodnight, my Father.”

  They moved away from the window and Rafen lowered himself

  onto his bed. It was unbelievably soft and warm after months in the Woods.

  “Goodnight, my son,” Talmon said.

  Crossing the room, he paused by the door. Rafen opened his eyes to see Talmon watching him intently. His insides clenched, and in his head he was screeching curses at Talmon.

  “Is something amiss, my Father?” he asked in Tarhian.

  “Of course not,” Talmon said. “No. And yet…”

  His face had softened with what Rafen had often recognized as

  fatherly affection in King Robert.

  “The stars forbid anything separate us, my son,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Looking

  for Rafen

  Rafen cowered in his chair, wishing he were invisible. Asiel had slipped into the banquet hall, his white-blue eyes drilling into Rafen’s skull.

  With his dogs at the foot of his chair, Talmon sat opposite Rafen at the large black table, sipping wine and carving his pheasant. The Tarhian diet disgusted Rafen. Tarhians seemed to eat pheasant all day, with a side of chewy green leaves that proved inedible on attempted consumption. Rafen had learned this lesson about the leaves several times, because the taste of pheasant made him desperate.

  On waking that morning, Rafen had dressed himself, only to discover through a concerned servant’s inquiry that he should have rung a little bronze bell and allowed a valet to dress him. He wouldn’t have done it even if he had known, because he was afraid

  of revealing his lash wounds and his phoenix feather. Though he tried to read books in Francisco’s bedchamber after this, he found himself gnashing his teeth at lost time instead. Instead of sleeping, he had spent all of last night trying to devise a way to escape the palace. Talmon had placed guards outside his door and a long way beneath his window, so that they would see him if he attempted climbing down the wall. He obviously was desperate to hang onto his foster son. While Rafen had considered trying kesmal, he had given up in the end because he knew the palace would be full of philosophers. Besides – and he had felt sick at the thought – the Lashki might be here. Rafen would hardly want to draw attention to himself in that case. While he knew Alexander and Erasmus would have desired him to attack the Lashki, Rafen wanted his kesmal to be better before that happened. If Alexander had a philosopher with him, Rafen meant to train in kesmal further before attempting this huge and impossible task.

  Later, Talmon had personally escorted him to breakfast. Now Rafen sat before more pheasant, his stomach growling but his senses loathing. Asiel paused behind Talmon, who had his back to him.

  “Ah, my prince,” he said smoothly. At his sides, his hands were working furiously in movements reminiscent of strangling. “How pleasant—”

  Talmon leapt up and threw back his chair so violently that it landed sideways on the shimmering marble floor. The dogs scattered, barking wildly as Talmon faced the Ashurite.

  “Asiel,” he hissed in the dangerous tone that preceded bullets and thrown knives, “how dare you come here to torment my son again?”

  “Your son?” Asiel laughed silkily. Fear flickered in Talmon’s murky brown eyes, fear that Asiel would reveal the truth that Francisco already knew. “Ah, Talmon, I have not come to torment Francisco. Yet I would speak to you about something… urgent which occurred yesterday.”

  “I will not believe your lies. Francisco cannot even remember where you took him yesterday,” Talmon spat in accented Tongue. “He had such a blow to the head that he was subdued all day. He even lost his appetite.”

  “How the poor prince suffers,” Asiel said, oozing sarcasm. “Surely His Majesty remembers our trip to the city’s eastern wall?”

  Desperately praying to the Phoenix, Rafen ducked his head and

  pretended to be carving his pheasant, hands trembling. Whatever Asiel was going to say, it boded ill.

  “Clearly, Talmon was not listening yesterday when I mentioned

  I took my prince to visit the Wolf’s daughter,” Asiel said. “And, surprisingly, though His Majesty had never met Wynne before, she recognized him.” He spoke slowly now. “How could that be, Talmon? I think you have much to explain to Master.”

  “I am at no fault,” Talmon said, glancing from Asiel to Rafen. His face had blanched.

  Rafen’s mind was racing. Francisco had gone to Wynne, despite his previous intentions; and she was imprisoned in the eastern wall. Now Rafen knew exactly where to go on the day he rescued her and stole her father’s corpse back.

  “You may be at no fault this time,” Asiel said. His smile never reached his eyes. “However, Master will always remember your former incompetence. He will never forgive you for waiting a week to execute the boy, Talmon.”

  “Silence!” Talmon barked. “We will not speak of that here.”

  Asiel laughed. “You cannot give me orders, Talmon.”

  His eyes slid from Talmon to Rafen, who was desperately trying to swallow a stubborn piece of pheasant. He swilled it around in his mouth nervously as Asiel stepped closer and leaned over the table so his face was in Rafen’s.

  “You may think your father can protect you,” he said, “but Talmon knows as little kesmal as his beloved dogs.”

  Beckoning his dogs to him, Talmon twitched impatiently, waiting for the philosopher to draw back. Asiel was correct; Talmon didn’t dare do anything when he was around.

  “I encourage you to think it over, Talmon,” Asiel said, facing the

  king again. “You should find out what is going on before Master does.” He rubbed his bony hands together, his face splitting into a smile. “There will be plenty of punishment when Master finally returns. And I will be the one watching.”

  He turned and left the banquet hall. Overwhelming relief washed over Rafen. It appeared the Lashki was not in Siana after all. Talmon stooped and returned his chair to its former position. Seating himself, he played with his food. Then his hand froze over his pheasant, and his eyes met Rafen’s.

  “I didn’t understand what he was talking about, Father,” Rafen said rapidly in Tarhian. He still hadn’t swallowed that horrible bit of pheasant, and now spat it out on his plate, trying to be discreet.

  “You have lost your appetite?” Talmon’s eyes had an odd light in them.

  “Perhaps. He scares me, Father.”

  “Hrm,” Talmon said, gulping down his wine. Obviously, he wasn’t about to make a similar confession. “Francisco, why did the peasant girl recognize you? Have you seen her before?”

  Feeling hot, Rafen scrambled to concoct some elaborate lie.

  “Answer me!” Talmon shouted, slamming his fist on the table. The nasty, saliva-sodden bit of pheasant leapt off Rafen’s plate and landed in the middle of the table. Rafen contemplated it with a mixture of fear and disgust. Rikka the pit bull started growling and snapping his teeth opposite him.

  “I have met her once before,” he said, lowering his voice. “Father, I…” He lifted his eyes, arranging his face into an expression of remorse. “I have not obeyed you, my Father,” he said so quietly Talmon leaned forward to hear him. “That night I ran from you was not the first. I have such curiosity, Father, such restlessness. I commanded a Tarhian to escort me to the peasant’s daughter. I wanted to know if her father was really the Wolf. She was angry with me. So I left and did not mean to see her again.”

  Talmon’s face softened a little. “Why did Asiel take you there yesterday?”

  “Asiel knows things,” Rafen said. “I do not know how. He wanted to get me into trouble, I fear.”

  “And he wanted to make me anxious.”

  “Perhaps.”

  They both mused, Rafen trying to carve his pheasant again. In his mind’s eye, Erasmus stood in the clearing with his sword drawn, calling out routines. This had been the day Rafen was going to find him, hon
or him. Holding his utensils, his hands shook. He felt like a traitor for being here with his murderer.

  “How many times have you left the palace alone, Francisco?”

  “Twice now.”

  “Once I almost caught you.”

  “Yes.”

  Talmon’s eyes flicked to Rafen’s. “Why would you disobey me, my son?”

  Though Rafen expected Talmon to leap up and raise his hand to beat him, the Tarhian king’s eyes were downcast.

  “My Father, why would you always keep me so close? The stars forbid I should ever leave you… and yet, how I desire to see more than a palace interior! What is the world like? How does the wind blow on the plains? These things I desire, and more.”

  Talmon struggled with himself; his lip was quivering. At last he said, “These are your reasons? What would you have me do?”

  Rafen stared. If, two or three years ago in the mines, Talmon had asked Rafen what he wanted him to do, Rafen would have laughed bitterly. Now, speaking to “Francisco”, Talmon was in earnest.

  “If you will not let me traverse on my own,” Rafen said, “then come with me. Ride out with me to New Isles. I do not want to be parted from you.”

  Rafen had never lied so much in one day. Talmon raised his eyes to Rafen’s. He smiled, the unrelenting lines in his face falling away so he wasn’t the same man Rafen had known in Tarhia.

  “Then that is what I shall do,” he said.

  It will not be long, Erasmus, Rafen told the figure in his mind. I promise…

  *

  “I am sick to die,” Francisco complained.

  As usual, Sherwin struggled to understand the Tarhian accent. When he did, he rolled his eyes.

  “For ’eaven’s sake, yer not sick to die, but I sure am. Sick to die of yer whinin’. ’Ow yer do carry on like an old gooseberry, yer retard.”

  “Your barbaric accent confuses your words,” Francisco said, drawing himself up. He still managed to look condescending in one of Sherwin’s spare changes of clothes.