The Fourth Runi (The Fledgling Account Book 4)

by Y. K. Willemse

  He stood still, awaiting her reply.

  “I have an address I must make,” Etana said weakly. “You will admit me.”

  “Your Highness will need clothes. I will send for maidserv—”

  “I’m wearing clothes, you dolt,” Etana snapped. “These are certainly good enough. I have a warning, and it cannot wait.”

  “Your Highness is ill. Perhaps a philosopher is better to—”

  “You will let me in,” Etana said. “Do it.”

  The Sartian official bowed fractionally and moved back to his men, giving some instructions in a low voice. Very slowly, the panel in the gates slid up. The beams glided back, and the chains attached to the city walls were employed to drag the gates open. Their magnified creaking drew the crowd’s attention. The people had been silent during a blessing one of the temple priests had been giving. Now, all heads swivelled around as Etana guided her horse through the gates. The horse held his head high, but Etana looked like a heap of misguided, homespun garb on the saddle.

  At the head of the crowd, a blond-haired individual, fawned on by his numerous bodyguards, made a disgusted movement. Etana raised her head, struggling to remove her cloak. The Sartian official appeared and did what Etana had hoped he would have done much sooner. He announced her in a loud, sarcastic tone, gaining resonance only as he appended the titles on the end.

  “The Sixth Secra, Etana Calista Selson, Melinar of the West, heir to the throne, betrothed to his Runiship Richard Patrick, future king and divine royalty from the mother country Sarient; Emperor of Urain; Grand Imperial of the Pasturelands of Rill; future Monarch of Siana, Ranian, Darai, and Crutia; future Sovereign of all the West; Runi ki Hafa in the highest degree, and all other titles deserving of richest honor.”

  An audible ripple ran through the crowd. Richard Patrick descended the temple steps slowly and painfully, supported by two Sartian officers. He proceeded through the throng of people, which was divided into exactly two halves, as they had been the other day. His bodyguards, who had been tripled in number, followed him, flapping in idle panic.

  Etana rode forward to meet him, despite her growing terror at the thought of the imminent wedding he was planning. She hoped that the people’s support in response to her message would prevent Richard from doing anything unfair. While Richard’s injuries were not readily visible beneath his royal garb, his breathing was a painful rasping, and his face looked pale and blotchy. He owed his survival chiefly to the prowess of the Sartian philosophers who were healing him, and to the fact he had been struck beneath the ribs rather than between his lungs or in his heart. He paused before her horse, grabbing its halter and hissing, “What is the meaning of this?”

  “I will give it to you and to all the people.”

  “You have disgraced me,” Richard whispered, his words labored. “You have vanished – with your father’s consent, encouragement, and aid, may I add – and I have searched for you with growing fear. And now you appear in this state, ready to begin prating some foolery?”

  Etana could see she would never reach the temple dais. Gathering her strength, she touched a warm hand to her throat. She lowered her arm, confident her voice would now be magnified through kesmal.

  “Richard and the Lashki have turned you against him,” she called in a ringing tone, “but Rafen is the true Runi. A day ago he lost his home because our supposed Runi removed the protection surrounding it—”

  Richard seized her arm and dragged her down from the horse abruptly, wincing at the burst of pain beneath his ribs.

  Etana staggered, continuing in desperation. “He is surrounded by hundreds of the Lashki’s servants in the Mountains, and it is our last chance to save the only one—”

  Richard clapped a hand to her mouth before she could say “who can save us”.

  “What is this disrespect?” he screamed in a cracked voice. “People of Siana, do not be deceived; she is ill, deranged!”

  Though Etana tried to pull away, he had already wrapped another arm around her back so that she remained within his grip, his hand firmly over her mouth. He was strong, despite his injury. She writhed, removing her silver ring from her finger. Richard caught her movement and dashed it from her hands before she could lengthen it into the scepter she used to perform kesmal. He had partially released her, and she stumbled forward, gasping, his eyes drilling holes in her back as she scrabbled for the ring. One of his bodyguards stamped on it. Etana shoved him backward before three other bodyguards seized her and at least five philosophers pointed various weapons at her.

  The people murmured discontentedly. King Robert rushed toward her through them, shouting hoarsely, “Release her, Richard! Now!”

  Richard turned to him with feigned calm, even though his face was livid. “I have tried to explain to you so many times before,” he said crisply, but with venom, “that it is ‘My Liege’.”

  Etana struggled wildly in the arms of the men behind her. She imagined that Rafen was at her side again, flaming with anger, the wolf in his eyes spelling refuge for her alone. Yet he was with her grandmother in the Mountains, preparing to face certain death along with Sherwin and Francisco. Adelphia would suffer before the end too. Going limp momentarily, Etana stared with hopeless longing at the people, who were watching their three leaders with hunger for the truth. If only she could make them understand!

  “Take her back to the palace,” Richard instructed some of his men nearby. He was reeling from his exertions, and two bodyguards leapt forward to help him. “Make sure her maidservants see her bathed and properly clothed.”

  “No!” Etana said. “Father, please.”

  She turned to King Robert, who was staring with hatred at Richard Patrick. Arrested by her gaze, he said, “Dear child, what is it? What happened to Rafen?”

  “Not here,” Richard said through gritted teeth. “Take her away.”

  The bodyguards holding her made to move. The philosophers turned to mirror their action.

  “You will not go wandering again so easily,” Richard said in a sinister voice. “I will have you well guarded in the future… my bride.”

  “Father, please!” Etana cried as two soldiers gripped her forearms. Kesmal was futile, as there were too many philosophers present. Only authority could save her now.

  Her father merely looked at her, his face doughy white with fear beneath the glittering circlet on his brow. He was likely thinking of the size of Sarient’s armies.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Into

  the Blizzard

  Rafen felt like he was being eaten alive by cotton and wool as he stood in the smoky starlight outside, barely listening to Adelphia’s admonishments. His heart was sick within him. Etana still had not returned after four days. Adelphia had told him it was only to be expected she would take another day to return. Once Rafen, Francisco, and Sherwin had departed, Adelphia would leave her shack, travel undercover to meet her granddaughter, and direct her to where they were in the Mountains – something that sounded altogether too risky to Rafen. His instincts told him something was wrong. Richard had likely imprisoned her, and she was either too weak or too scared for the wellbeing of her family to fight her Sartian guards and be free. While she was captured, Richard would make a hasty wedding to her before she could protest. Or perhaps she had never made it down the mountain. Perhaps a kesmalic attack had caused the passageway to collapse around her, and she had fallen, and her horse had fallen, and she and their little child had been crushed to death. Every fiber of him twitched and trembled with nervousness. He had never known what fear was really like until he married. Though Francisco and Sherwin tried to comfort him, they didn’t understand. He hadn’t told them Etana was pregnant.

  Adelphia had given them her one remaining horse, which Rafen had discovered was kept in a stable at the end of the hallway when one was inside the house. It was a shaggy, black-haired, tower of an animal, bearing all their various provisions in saddlebags and pouches.

  “You must ride him,
” Adelphia told Rafen, “because you are the Runi.”

  “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “Well,” Adelphia said, indicating Sherwin and Francisco, who were also standing within the shield, “these are not Runi, are they? Rafen, in all things, count your life more important than theirs.”

  “That is what Talmon would think,” Rafen said in disbelief.

  Francisco raised his eyebrows, a shadow passing across his face. Rafen realized he should have bitten his tongue. Francisco had been raised by Talmon and still regarded him very differently than the way Rafen did.

  “Rafen, for you, selfishness is a different brand,” Adelphia said. “You would rather share life with your companions than have it alone, and that is the reason that you have frequently sacrificed yourself for their sakes. Now it is time for you to think differently. From this point onward, your life will be in even more danger than it was when Siana was overrun by the Lashki and the Tarhians. You must realize that no matter what happens to your friends and family, even if they should die, you must continue, because with your death, the Mio Pilamùr dies. Your being content to leave the lost companion will be your ultimate sacrifice.”

  Rafen felt a shudder run down his spine.

  “Always remember Nazt’s desire to have you,” Adelphia said. “If Nazt would eventually kill you, it would swallow up the rest of mortality in itself.”

  Adelphia was smoothing the mane of her horse as she spoke. Now she paused and looked Rafen in the eye. “You understand in part, but not fully, because you have never died.”

  “You haven’t died either,” he said.

  “Nice observation, china,” Sherwin said.

  “I still have some communication with Fritz,” Adelphia said. “And the death of two husbands has been two deaths inside me.”

  She dug into the folds of her thick cloak and brought out a dull ring, holding it out for Rafen to take. Rafen stared at it uncertainly. “This is for your birthday two days back.”

  He took the ring from her, turning it over in his hands. The cold air within the shield swelled noticeably. The ring featured a silver cross with a half-moon beneath, intertwined with the swirling rune for his name. At the apex of the cross, a ruby was set.

  “My husband predicted you would come,” Adelphia whispered. “He wrote a number of prophecies that the Sartians have tried hard to lose.”

  “Thank you,” Rafen said, scarcely audible as he put the ring on the index finger of his left hand. His throat felt tight as he looked at it. Fritz’s death seemed realer than before, a dead weight in his stomach. He pulled his glove on over top of the ring.

  “You must go,” Adelphia said.

  She stared at the darkness beyond the shield. The walls were very thin now, and they could hear the wind whistling beyond them. Cracks were visible in the shield’s smooth surface, and Rafen had been afraid during that day that it would give altogether. A blizzard had come up, and whirling, foamy snow made the world opaque.

  “They will not see you depart,” she said. “Mount, Rafen.”

  Rafen did as he was told, searching Adelphia’s face. They had stayed with her for a week now, and he still knew very little about her. With her permission, in her long hallway, he had continued his training in kesmal, with her teaching him more about how to focus his beams. However, most of her tuition consisted of sitting on the cold floor and meditating, learning to feel other people’s presences and think as they did. When Rafen became impatient with this, he had questioned her about Fritz or Thomas, even asking her how to summon them. She had said little to satisfy him. “You will have to find the answers yourself, Rafen,” she had told him.

  Rafen knew what she was referring to: she wanted him to bring her dead husband back.

  “Always remember the Eleven must be reunited, Rafen,” Adelphia had said. “All the Eleven. Either you will have to force Alakil himself to join you, or you will have to find a fragment of his spirit that would serve Zion. Such a fragment exists, I am sure. It will need delicate handling.”

  Rafen’s spirits had plunged. “What do you mean?” he had said. “I intend to kill Alakil.”

  “You will bear a little more advice,” Adelphia said now as she walked them to the western edge of the shield. “If you ever lose one of your number, continue through the Mountains. You must not go back to search for them.”

  When Rafen opened his mouth to protest, Adelphia shouted, “Do as I say, Fledgling!”

  She inhaled audibly. Collecting herself, she turned to Sherwin and Francisco, who were also wrapped tightly in scarves and balaclavas, and wearing large, ungainly gloves.

  “You must listen to Rafen always,” Adelphia said. “Even if he is wrong. It is your duty to the Runi and to the God who gave him. You must rely on his wisdom to guide you. When you ride out of this shield, progress upward as straight as you possibly can. You will come across a dead tree in the blizzard. You must ride directly to the left of it. There you will find a stone wall. Feel your way along it until you come to the pass.”

  No one said anything about the forces that still surrounded them. Adelphia had mentioned earlier that she had done some kesmal to make things easier for them, and they mustn’t be distracted by it.

  Sherwin was the first to pass through the shield, gripping the halter of Rafen’s horse so they would not lose each other. From the ground, Francisco was holding one of the reins rather more tightly than was warranted. In a second, they were all out in the snow, and the world was entirely lost. The wall of white pressed against their bodies, the wind a physical assault. Sherwin shouted something incoherent. Francisco’s grip became weaker.

  “Hold on!” Rafen roared, his voice swallowed by the gale. Feathery snow flew into his mouth and bit him with cold.

  Looking up, he noticed a shimmering globe in the distance. It was certainly kesmalic, because nothing else could be seen in the blizzard. Within the halo of kesmal, a foggy duplication of the shack stood. While it was not particularly lifelike, it would have been enough to distract the ranks surrounding the actual shack in the few minutes before Rafen stepped out of the shield. Rafen’s mind returned again to Adelphia’s fate now that the shield was going to disintegrate. She had led him to believe she would be completely safe once he, the Lashki’s quarry, left. Rafen doubted it.

  Flicking the reins, Rafen dug his heels into the sides of his horse, steering it upward, away from the tantalizing bauble that glittered in the distant snow. It was hard to keep to a straight path, because the wind was unbearably strong. Rafen put out his hand to feel for Sherwin and found his arm. He already knew Francisco’s hand was holding onto the reins. Hunching down in his saddle, he drove the horse onward, even though its hooves were sinking in the deep snow.

  A blue star appeared very close to him. Rafen’s heart missed a beat, and he ducked down in his saddle. The horse lunged forward as the kesmal shot past them. Sherwin yelled inarticulately. A jerk on the halter sent the horse staggering sideways. Amid the whirlwind of snow, a black shape moved in and out of focus.

  “Sherwin!” Rafen yelled.

  The wind tore his voice away from him.

  Francisco poked him in the torso with something. Rafen felt it with his glove.

  It was a twig. They had reached the tree.

  “SHERWIN!”

  Make him find us, he silently pleaded to Zion. Please.

  Francisco was already pulling the horse’s halter around, preparing to go left. Rafen remembered Adelphia’s words and cursed. Additionally, if he left Francisco to find Sherwin, he also endangered his brother’s life.

  “SHERWIN, PLEASE COME!” he shouted.

  An explosion of kesmal hit the ground near them, sending more snow bursting into the air. His stomach sinking, Rafen shook the horse’s reins and dug his heels in again, his eyes narrowed against the steady barrage of white. He was beginning to feel stiff, and his eyelids were dropping. He wanted to do kesmal, but if he did, he would reveal his position entirely.

&n
bsp; The whirling snow became more agitated with the gathering of spirits in his sight. Nazt was screaming, and momentarily, the sound of the blizzard was switched off.

  Rafen slammed his heels into his horse’s flanks repeatedly, urging it on. He felt down again for Francisco, checking he was still there. Even through the shrieking of the wind, he could hear the disorganized shambling of a hundred different figures, trying to reform ranks. Behind them, a whistle rose dimly above the gale.

  The horse could sense the Naztwai and pushed forward faster now. Then it halted, and Rafen roared at it. Francisco grabbed Rafen’s hand and stretched it out before him, planting it on the stone wall before them both.

  Tugging the halter again, Francisco led them along the wall. Another dull crack behind them was more kesmal that had missed. The halter jerked again; Francisco had stumbled. Rafen reached down quickly, but Francisco had already recovered and was leading them into a narrow opening between two walls of rock. The horse gratefully followed him.

  The sounds of the blizzard fell silent. Numbly, Rafen dismounted and collapsed against the erect stone behind him. Francisco was leaning against a rock across from him, rubbing snow from his red eyes.

  “Franny,” Rafen said. His mouth was dry, and as he spoke, he felt even colder than before.

  “Sher-win w-will come,” Francisco chattered, sliding down into a sitting position on the snow peppered floor beneath them.

  “Are you all right?” Rafen asked, crawling in front of the horse to his brother.

  Francisco didn’t reply immediately. His eyes were half closed. Rafen shook him, pulled back his balaclava, and slapped his face. Francisco forced his eyes open again.

  “Very tired, my brother,” he said.

  Rafen stared into Francisco’s wan face. “Do you know what happened to Sherwin?”

  “A Naztwai.” Francisco shuddered. He turned away from Rafen, unable to meet his gaze. “It tears my heart out, brother… but Adelphia—”

  Rafen rose. Dark shapes were moving rapidly closer in the white maelstrom beyond the stone walls. He grabbed the horse’s halter again and tugged it forward from where it had been trying to munch some buried moss. He pulled Francisco up and rushed forward in the descending stone passage they were in. His hands shook uncontrollably. Both spirits and Nazt contended in his head along with his desire to fly back into the blizzard and find Sherwin. Every step he took, he nearly whirled around, and then he remembered his vision and pressed onward. He tried telling himself Adelphia was nearby and would help Sherwin. For now, he had to get Francisco to safety.