Francisco paled visibly.
The messenger’s face darkened. “I will be sure to tell him,” he said, inclining his head.
He mounted again and wheeled his horse around. His escort followed him.
“Rafen, why did you say that?” Francisco groaned, gripping his arm. “His Runiship might even execute you for it.”
“He can do what he likes,” Rafen spat. “He knows it’s true.”
It didn’t matter what the edict said. It had been three months since his marriage, and Rafen wasn’t waiting any longer for the miracles Etana had talked about. He was going to the festival to tear his wife away from Richard.
Chapter Seven
The Road
to New Isles
“I’ll be gone these next five days,” Roger said, “so you and your brother must be sure not to starve the horses or burn down the house.”
Rafen clenched his teeth. Roger always acted as if Rafen had never fended for himself.
“Are you certain that protection is still around the property, Rafen?” Roger asked, gathering up a wrapped loaf for himself before making for the front door.
The protection Roger was referring to was that of the philosophers and sentinels that King Robert had placed around the house when the Riddings had first settled in it. King Robert had commanded that twenty different philosophers make their homes in a large circle, with a diameter of two leginis, around the Riddings’ house. He had then instructed them to create numerous shields around the Riddings’ abode and to be constantly on guard in case of unwelcome visitors. The shields were renewed every hour. Rafen was grateful for it: for once in his life, he wouldn’t have to worry about changing camps or keeping on the run.
“Of course the protection is still around the house,” Rafen said, crossing the kitchen and closing the dilapidated pantry’s door.
“Good. That way I can be sure you two won’t both go to be with your mother while I’m gone,” Roger said, pursing his lips tightly. “Don’t let any guests come while I’m away. Feed the horses. Don’t go anywhere while I’m away either. And Rafen, I forbid you to do kesmal in my absence – you might damage the house.”
“I’ll do kesmal if I like,” Rafen said.
Roger pretended not to hear.
“Find yourselves food as best as you can. I will back in five days, my sons.”
He left the house. Rafen heard him untying his horse from the nearby post. A minute later, the sound of receding hoofbeats reached his ears.
“Finally,” Francisco said, “I was sure he would never go. And I will not have to sleep in the same room as him.”
Even though there were two other rooms in the house, Roger insisted that Francisco and Rafen sleep on the floor in his room. Rafen refused and often slept outside. However, Francisco was more obliging. He felt sorry for Roger.
Roger was always controlling things. He never stopped telling Rafen exactly how he was to eat or how he was to dress. Besides this, Rafen was not to relieve himself anywhere nearer to the house than one and a half leginis (which meant he had to walk for thirty to forty minutes); and Roger had even tried to escort him some three months ago. Rafen’s reaction had been such that Roger had never tried it again. Roger could not stand Rafen transforming in his presence and forbade him to do it. This, too, was a habit Rafen was endeavoring to cure his father of. Lastly, Rafen and Francisco were always supposed to sit one on either side of Roger for meals.
“Of course you won’t sleep in his room,” Rafen agreed. “You’re not going to sleep here at all.”
“I am not sleeping in the Woods, comrade. I am not one for such a life. I think one day I will settle down for a subdued existence.”
“I see,” Rafen said, pouring himself a mug of water from the pitcher on the table. “Like marrying a princess.”
Which, Rafen thought, was not really a quiet life at all. In fact, his marriage had fairly sealed his fate. He could not hide from the Runiship or pretend he didn’t know about it. And every time he tried to ignore it, the phoenix feather would start giving him a rash. He sank down on a chair near the table while spirits, along with Nazt, clamored for their place in his head. He tried to drown them out with memories of the Phoenix.
“Nay, my friend,” Francisco said, his equilibrium undisturbed. “I would not marry a princess. For I and my kin, that would be disastrous.”
“Then why were you kissing her?” Rafen said, looking up at Francisco with a mischievous smile.
“Kissing? Who?” Francisco said, but his eyes spoke for him. He breathed out a long sigh. “You must never tell Roger. I did not know you saw.”
The door burst open, and Francisco started. Rafen didn’t even turn in his seat. He knew who it was. Sherwin must have sensed something was happening, as he normally disliked venturing near the house.
“’ello there, comrade,” he said to Francisco. “And how are yer, china?” he said to Rafen.
“All right,” Rafen said.
“Yer worry too much,” Sherwin told him, reading Rafen’s body language like a book.
“You would too.”
Francisco stared at Sherwin, who looked rather wild after staying three months in the Woods. His hair was disheveled and knotted, and his clothes were grass-stained and torn in patches. Though Rafen had offered Sherwin some new ones, Sherwin couldn’t fit them even if he tried.
“You look terrible, comrade,” Francisco remarked.
“Thanks,” Sherwin said.
“You seem to know what is on Rafen’s mind,” Francisco said.
There was a long silence. Francisco faced Rafen.
“There is something huge and dark weighing on you, and I will hear what it is.”
“Fine,” Rafen said, rising and passing Sherwin the pitcher. Sherwin drank straight from it, pouring water all over himself. He obviously didn’t imagine for a minute that Rafen was really going to tell everything. “We’re going to New Isles for the festival. And Nazt itself isn’t going to stop us.”
“I’ll saddle the horses,” Sherwin said.
Francisco looked bewildered.
*
“The bottle o’ sauces will be fine without us, Franny,” Sherwin called behind himself as he rode along. Rafen could tell Sherwin was feeling more himself again, because he was speaking cockney.
“Roger said to take care of them,” Francisco said. He was keeping his horse at a mild trot because they were passing a frequented inn on the otherwise deserted road leading to New Isles. Francisco had been fretting the whole way, because the three horses they had left behind had no one to care for them.
Rafen was imagining Etana in his arms… Once he had rescued her from Richard and taken her to a safe place, he planned to return to the New Isles palace and meet with the advisors and lords of court, presenting himself as the Runi. He remembered Etana’s warning about revealing the phoenix feather. Was it really as bad as she said?
The sky was a deep, velvety purple billowing with clouds. To their right, the blue grama grass stretched to one horizon, and to their left, the distant Cursed Woods stretched to the other. The road ahead of them was of packed dirt. The bubbling and chirping of distant bats reached their ears.
Sherwin opened his mouth to reply to Francisco, but whatever he said was entirely obliterated. A flurry of spirits in various dingy colors blurred Rafen’s vision momentarily. The voices of Nazt felt like a physical sensation: a stroking on his skin, a beckoning, a lurching in his stomach that told him he had to follow, had to listen, had to submit at last. Rafen shook his head to clear it. Seconds later, the sound turned back on.
“—furry great beasts that don’ need anyone,” Sherwin was saying.
“You are being foolish, Sherwin,” Francisco told him.
Rafen gripped his reins more tightly. Sherwin and Francisco did not seem to have noticed anything, even though Rafen was in the lead. The fact was, Rafen’s Spirit Awareness was becoming worse.
“Keep riding,” he told the others. “We need
to be there by morning.”
“We will be if Franny ’urries up and stops thinkin’ about his princess twist and twirl.”
“I think of no such thing.”
Their arguing was merely noise around him. He never connected properly with reality now, not since he had heard who he was. Although Etana had told him to remember the past, Nazt filled Rafen’s mind every time he tried. Rafen had long wanted to kill the Lashki, who was already dead, it seemed. This meant even that ambition was dauntingly hard. Yet the Fourth Runi’s full responsibilities were one million times worse. He could as soon destroy the sea as destroy Nazt. He remembered when Annette had taken him to see it, and it had blotted out the entire Eastern horizon.
He wanted to see Etana again, and he wanted to try winning the support of the royal courts. However, it was all appearing insurmountable currently. Perhaps there was a way of demanding an audience with Zion too. Rafen would kneel solemnly before the Phoenix and then simply say he had made a huge mistake, but could Rafen please keep Etana anyway.
“Oi, Raf!” Sherwin yelped, giving him a shove.
Rafen reeled in his saddle, staring at the red cedars that appeared to have sprung up around the road they were on.
“Yer abou’ fell from yer saddle,” Sherwin told him. “What do yer think yeh’re doin’?”
He was riding alongside Rafen now, his eyes wide. Francisco brought up the rear in shocked silence.
“Nothing,” Rafen said. He realized he had absentmindedly been staring at a white-haired old man hovering in the air before him. “I’m fine. Tired, is all.”
Zion, help me fight this, he begged internally.
“Well, we still got most of the night for travelin’,” Sherwin said. “Yer better get it sorted.”
“I’ve got it sorted,” Rafen said, flushing.
“You can have my water pouch, brother,” Francisco said. “Perhaps it is a faintness.”
Rafen clenched his teeth, infuriated.
*
They arrived at the city before morning, and they all remained on their horses amid the laurel oaks on the slope, uncertain of how to get in.
New Isles had been nearly completely burned down a year ago now. The rebuilding was taking some time. Thus far the pentagon shape had been retained, though the walls were now of stone. At points, they were not fully constructed, and sometimes only a story’s worth of bricks had been laid or occasionally none had been laid at all. These places were guarded meticulously by large groups of guards and philosophers. The clock tower still remained, overshadowing the walls. Its face gleamed palely in the moonlight, its steel arms pointing to quarter to five in the morning. The sky was still deep navy.
“Do yer think they’ll ’ave descriptions of yer at the gate?” Sherwin said.
“It was Richard Patrick’s order,” Rafen said. “He’ll have made sure they know exactly who not to let in.”
Francisco looked uncomfortable.
“Wha’s the matter?” Sherwin said.
“We have always battled the Tarhians or servants of Nazt,” Francisco told him. “But this time we are going against the servant of Zion. I cannot believe it is right.”
“Who’s the servant of Zion?” Sherwin asked in confusion.
“His Runiship Richard Patrick,” Francisco said.
Sherwin looked as if he might explode. “Raf,” he said, “yer gotta tell yer one and the other sometime.”
He started to ride off along the slope.
“Where are you going?” Rafen said.
“I ’ave to pee,” Sherwin said. “Unless yer want me to do it ’ere.”
“Please go,” Rafen said.
“What was he talking about?” Francisco said, his eyes on the city. “Rafen, if you have a good reason for this, I would like to know it.”
“I’ll tell you later,” Rafen said.
He planned to explain things to Francisco with Etana’s help. She would put everything so much better than Rafen could, and Francisco would never think to doubt her. Besides, the less Rafen spoke about it, the less he had to think of it. And if he was honest, the fears of what his Runiship meant were eating him up. Francisco subsided into suspicious silence. He hunched over his horse, and they waited for Sherwin.
When he returned, his horse was hitched to a covered wagon, and he himself was attired in a resplendent, gold-embroidered Sartian uniform.
“What did you do?” Francisco said, aghast.
“Don’ ask stupid questions and yer won’t get stupid answers,” Sherwin said. “I was relievin’ myself.” He looked at Rafen for approval. “I figured seein’ as they were Sartians it didn’ hugely matter. They’ve got about as much right to be in Siana as the Tarhians.”
Rafen grinned. “Well done. I suppose you’re driving and Francisco and I are riding.”
Sherwin inclined his head. “They’ll never question me while I’m wearin’ this fancy all afloat.” He tucked his long hair into the collar to make himself look respectable. “I’ll hitch up yer horse, Raf, and if Franny’s jus’ trots alongside that’ll be fine. There’s not much room for him hitched to the wagon.”
Francisco deplored Sherwin’s actions the entire way to the city, and only fell silent when Sherwin was before the sentinels. Rafen and he were in the back of the covered wagon, out of sight. The Sartians parted before Sherwin and opened the gates without conversation, which was fortunate. Rafen had been worried Sherwin’s accent would give him away. Once within the city Sherwin, who was juggling both the wagon’s reins and the halter of Francisco’s horse, managed to park their wagon close to the marketplace’s eastern wall. He tied Francisco’s horse and joined the others within their vehicle.
“This is completely wrong, comrade,” Francisco said. “I am sorry, but it is.”
“I thought yer would ’ave told ’im after I went to pee,” Sherwin said. “Why is ’e still goin’ on about this?”
Rafen leaned against a crate in the wagon interior. The wagon carried mostly weapons and tools, and it was hard to find any space to sit comfortably. He looked at his twin and thought with disquiet that Francisco already knew so much about him. It was a miracle he hadn’t guessed this.
“Get some sleep,” he told his brother. “We’ll get woken soon enough.”
“I cannot believe we are doing this,” Francisco said.
Chapter Eight
The
Festival of Zion
A blasting of horns jerked Rafen awake. Blinking, he straightened. Sherwin was sprawled over a bed of rather uncomfortable looking scabbards, snoring tremendously. Francisco was still awake, sitting with his knees pulled up to his chin, staring disconsolately across from himself.
Rafen crawled over to the opening of the covered wagon, his knees landing on Sherwin’s arm along the way.
“Aarghouch,” Sherwin grumbled.
“Silence,” Francisco whispered.
Rafen parted the canvas and peered out, Francisco looking over his shoulder.
Outside, the world had gone crazy. A stone’s throw from the wagon, the New Isles’ gates were thrown open. A great crowd streamed in, garbed in red – red-coated soldiers; attractive peasant girls in traditional red Sianian dresses; philosophers robed in crimson cloaks that were bordered with black runes. Before them, Sianians blew curving white horns edged with gold, and costumed commoners played long pipes behind them. As the crowd moved forward, a legion of Sartian soldiers dressed in uniforms trimmed with gold became visible. The front row blew silver trumpets. A slender youth at their head bore a gold baton.
All round the wagon, a throng of peasants had gathered, packed so densely that the clucking chickens, clamoring turkeys, and shrieking pigs at their feet could scarcely move. The people were a living, many-headed mass. They compacted themselves still more as they moved to allow the parade access to the re-erected temple at the marketplace’s western end. A series of marble steps led up to the gleaming portico where a number of philosophers in scarlet ceremonial wear already stood. The
peaked roof of the temple bore numerous carvings of the kings of old, the Phoenix himself, and the Mio Urmeean runes. Red carpet had been laid between the pillars within, likely for the royal wedding supposedly to occur within a matter of days.
From behind the Sianians, a herald could dimly be heard above the crowd’s roar.
“His Runiship Richard Patrick and the Secra Etana Calista Selson!”
Rafen’s heart jolted. He leaned a little further out of the wagon, no longer afraid if any Sartians saw him. It scarcely mattered anyway. Amid such a huge crowd, who was to notice his presence?
He gripped the wagon edge, panting with desperation. Was she all right? Had Richard treated her well? Or was she languishing and miserable, as miserable as he was? He was going to take her away with him, no matter what. He had confided in Sherwin, who had agreed they would need some sort of diversion. Rafen was already thinking Sherwin’s Sartian livery could be useful. He could pretend to be an officer and arouse some panic, saying he had sighted servants of the Lashki outside the city.
“Raf,” Sherwin said in a sleepy voice, “wha’s goin’ out there? It sounds like a ruddy great daft and barmy.”
The parade had reached the temple steps and now paused. In a mechanical movement, the procession turned uniformly to face the eastern wall and then parted into exactly two halves.
“It is the Runi,” Francisco murmured as Richard came into view in a vibrant gold tunic.
Two menservants carried the train of his scarlet-trimmed cloak. Richard’s head was held high, and his eyes skimmed the tops of the crowd, never deigning to meet a peasant’s gaze. He breathed shallowly, as if this was a much anticipated moment.
“For Zion’s sake,” Sherwin said, poking Rafen roughly in the back at Francisco’s words.
Rafen ignored him.
Attended by maidservants, Etana walked behind Richard, her carriage perfect. Her dark red hair was a powerful contrast to her flowing white dress. Etana’s face was pallid and strained, and there were dark circles under her eyes, which all the powdering in the world could not erase. She made an effort to wave in a fashionable manner to the peasants that craned to look at her.
The Fourth Runi (The Fledgling Account Book 4) Page 8