“Get on the horse, Francisco,” he said.
Adelphia had wanted Rafen to use the horse mostly, as a symbol of his leadership and in case there was a need to flee. Yet Rafen could turn into a wolf, and he wasn’t used to riding anyway. He supposed Adelphia didn’t realize how fast he was as a wolf. He could easily outstrip a cumbersome horse.
They had been descending the steep rocky path for about forty-five minutes when Francisco said, “My brother, I am too cold.”
Rafen looked back at him. He was cringing down on the saddle, dark circles around his eyes visible through the balaclava. He trembled convulsively.
“I am s-sorry,” he said.
Rafen pulled Francisco down to his level, where a slight opening of the rocky walls revealed a circle of stone floor. Removing his glove, he flicked tired fingers at the ground. A fire leapt up, feeble at first, though soon lively.
Francisco sank down near it, holding his vibrating arms out.
A shadow appeared on the stone incline behind them, and Rafen leapt up, whipping out his sword.
Chapter Fifteen
The
Ghost of Fritz
With a scraping sound, Sherwin’s boot slipped out from beneath him, and he slid down the slope on his side, careening into Francisco’s back. Francisco groaned eloquently, turning around.
“Sherwin,” he said, beaming through weariness.
“Sherwin,” Rafen said, and he laughed. “Thank Zion!”
“Yeah,” Sherwin said, “they couldn’ keep me out of this ’appy party for long, Raf. I see yeh’ve lit a Jeremiah.”
Stretching out his hands, Sherwin lay down to one side of the fire as if he were on a beach. The horse drew near too, whickering. Rafen smiled, his relief warming him.
“Did Adelphia protect you?” he said. “I wanted to go back to—”
“Yer did the right thing,” Sherwin said. “Findin’ someone in a blizzard is almos’ impossible. Besides, I was all righ’. Took care of meself well enough.”
“I’m glad you’re back,” Rafen said. “But we can’t stay here long.”
*
They journeyed until daybreak, only stopping for two rests, largely for Francisco’s benefit. The passage began to ascend sharply again, and Rafen and Sherwin took turns looking at the map Adelphia had given them. The occasional mountain goat or wolverine on the rocks made them start numerous times, and they all glanced skyward at the cry of a peregrine falcon. Yet no sounds of actual pursuit were audible. While it made Rafen nervous, Sherwin was becoming lighthearted.
Along their way up this new slope, the snow-capped and lichen-matted rock opened out around them, revealing a panorama of northern Siana. Surrounded by its new stone walls and towers, New Isles was visible, along with the clock tower and the palace. The trees of the Cursed Woods bristled to the west of these, and across the strip of grasslands before the forest, Rafen could even see the occasional house.
“Perhaps Roger’s house can be seen from this higher plane,” Francisco said.
Sherwin raised an eyebrow. “Roger’s cat an’ mouse is likely that bit o’ smoke over there,” he said, pointing.
Rafen stared at the plume of smoke rising and noticed something like a black puddle on the landscape there. It was possible Sherwin was right, and the blotch he was observing was either part of the Lashki’s group left to guard the house in case anyone useful to them came along, or a division of the Sartians’ forces examining the place.
“I don’t think they will have left the house intact, Franny,” Rafen told him.
Francisco’s shoulders sagged, but it honestly didn’t bother Rafen, whose eyes were drawn to the palace. He kept imagining Etana’s face.
“What are you going to do when you reach Parith, brother?” Francisco asked.
“Lord Cyril Earl will help me further my education,” Rafen said, looking at the passage behind him. “He’ll provide me with some men and protection. From there, the best thing I can do is gather more support from other Sianians, so that I can either fight Richard or force the royal court to—”
He broke off, remembering how he had shoved Richard into the path of the Lashki’s kesmal. Regret chewed his insides.
“We have to survive this trip first,” he said.
He shivered when a golden eagle circled the sky above, looking for carrion. He didn’t trust any signs of life anymore, and he tugged at the horse’s halter. Francisco was riding today.
All throughout the morning, Rafen forced himself to keep King Fritz before his mind’s eye. At the moment, when Rafen thought of Fritz, he felt something he could only describe as someone else’s consciousness. It brushed up against his own, filling him with memories: images of Queen Arlene when she was young; images of the Sianian throne room over forty years ago; images of the royal library; images of a young Ashurite boy in a courtyard, training furiously in kesmal while eight different tutors encouraged him. Fritz’s wild hope filled his heart – maybe this was the one. Maybe this Ashurite boy, who had been given a phoenix feather first, was intended to destroy Nazt. For while there had been prophecies about Zion’s Eleven forty years ago, no one had yet seen the extent of the Phoenix’s plan: no one knew how many Secrai and Runi there were to be and who was to lead them in the final battle. No one, at least, until Adelphia had prophesied. Fritz’s disappointment was a blow to Rafen. Alakil was not the one. Much had been revealed.
“Much will yet be revealed,” someone with a crisp accent said in Rafen’s head. The voice was low, broad, and warm, and Rafen tried desperately to define it even more, to make the pictures and the words in his mind clearer. If he could bring Fritz here, Rafen would be restored to the royal courts without a needless battle against Richard. He would be treated as a Runi, and he would have the help and advice of the former king himself.
Halfway into the day, he stumbled, his head whirling so badly that he could barely see. The walls of stone had closed in around them once more, and the air was biting them and nipping at their elbows.
“Raf?” Sherwin said. “Are yer all right?”
The ring on Rafen’s finger burned white hot. He tore off his glove, and Sherwin stared at him wonderingly. Rafen turned over his hand and struggled to pull the ring off; the silver had turned molten. Sherwin froze near the stone wall, watching with his mouth open. Embedded in Rafen’s skin, the ring felt like it was shrinking. This was the same hand on which Rafen had lost part of a finger, and he didn’t want to repeat the incident. Gasping with pain, he pulled at it desperately.
Francisco said from the horse behind them, “Is something
wrong?”
“Zion is, after all, protecting us,” Fritz said.
Rafen looked around, staring past Francisco and the horse. By now he could tell the difference between the whisperings of spirits and the words of real mortals. A stone’s throw from Francisco, King Fritz was guiding his own gray steed through the mountain passage. Another middle-aged, strong-built man – his face furrowed and scarred from serving in previous wars – was following him on his own beast, which was broader than Fritz’s.
The man gazed ahead, his eyes meeting Rafen’s.
“You have seen our fellow travelers, sire?” the man said.
Fritz looked up, his eyes falling on Francisco, Sherwin, and lastly Rafen, where they lingered.
“Fritz,” Rafen called, because he felt as though a mist was separating them.
Sherwin and Francisco looked around sharply.
“Wha’?” Sherwin said. “Raf, there’s nothin’ there.”
He looked at Rafen’s hand with concern. Rafen’s gaze flicked back to it. Although the skin of his index finger was inflamed around the ring, the pain was gradually dulling. He looked up again quickly. Both men had vanished.
“What is it, Rafen?” Francisco whispered.
Sherwin’s face darkened. “Raf, I know yer and I were tryin’ to get Fritz back when we were trainin’ in the Woods,” he said, “but I really think yer should drop it
now. Yeh’ve gotta be all ’ere if yer want to survive this trip. No offense, but I reckon all this messin’ around with Fritz is making yer Spirit Awareness worse.”
“It’s not,” Rafen said hotly. “Didn’t you see him?”
“I did not see anything there,” Francisco said, gazing behind himself again.
“He was there,” Rafen protested. “Sherwin, I’ll keep doing this if I want to. We need Fritz. I need Fritz.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Sherwin said. “Education, royal court, throne later, all tha’ stuff. I’ve ’eard it before. Raf, yeh’re a nobody like the rest of us when yeh’re in these Mountains. Stop acting big-headed and jus’ get us out of ’ere.”
Rafen couldn’t believe he was hearing this.
“Look, you told me about the Runiship,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Yeah, I ’oped it would make yer stop actin’ like a jerk,” Sherwin said, his eyes flashing. “But as soon as I mention the throne and Etana, yeh’re even worse than before.” He stepped back and pulled roughly at the horse’s halter. “Come along, Blackie.”
Rafen’s face grew warm. “Sherwin, you have no idea—”
“Please stop!” Francisco cried. “Please. These Mountains are ill fortune for all of us. They do terrible things to your mind. Rafen, do not let your temper get the better of you.”
Sherwin met Rafen’s gaze and nodded, his eyebrows raised. Though Rafen felt kesmal shoot down his arm, he held it in.
“The horse should be named Trinity, not Blackie,” Francisco told Sherwin in a strained voice.
“Why?” Sherwin said.
“Ah,” Francisco said, “there is a constellation, much admired for its powers of protection and—”
“I should have known it were somethin’ to do with tha’,” Sherwin said.
*
At night, they stopped in a small area encircled by fungi-kissed rock. Rafen created the fire, and Francisco was asleep even before they had heated and eaten some of the stew Adelphia had given them. Though Sherwin ate ravenously, Rafen found he wasn’t hungry. Sherwin kept watching him closely, and Rafen wished he would stop. His friend was looking at him as if he had some fatal and infectious disease.
“I’ll keep the first watch,” Rafen said, because secretly he preferred not to sleep. Every night lately, he had odd dreams.
“Suit yerself,” Sherwin said. “Yer should get some rest though. Yer look tired.”
Ignoring him, Rafen finished drinking his stew from a rough, wooden bowl Adelphia had given him and leaned back against the rock. Sherwin took a long time to drift off to sleep. He seemed uneasy and stirred frequently. At last, he slipped away, with a furrowed brow and one hand clutching his cloak near his chest.
Now that all was quiet, Rafen struggled with spirits again. Many-headed men, horn-billed birds, and spindly, knobbly-limbed creatures floated in and out of his vision, climbing on him, stroking his face. Nazt was a palpable drag on his body.
Trying to distract himself, Rafen looked up at the circular space above the towering, rough stone walls that surrounded them. A mountain goat snorted, staring down at him. Snow was spinning slowly to the ground, like falling memories.
Once again, he found himself thinking about Fritz. Now that he had started, he couldn’t stop. It was an obsession. He found the foreign consciousness quickly this time and forced himself into it, accessing more memories. Adelphia had looked so different when she was young. Her hair had been silvery blonde and her face had carried all the youth and softness that Etana’s now possessed. He ached at the thought.
Come to me, Fritz. Join me in my time.
With an incredible effort, he pulled backward with all the muscles in his body, even though he was holding nothing. The consciousness jerked closer, and he glimpsed a brilliant, light blue eye.
He jolted back to reality, panting. Throwing his spinning head back, he tried to get more air into his lungs.
A figure appeared, crouching to stare down over the edge of one of the stone walls. Rafen leapt up, his hand dropping to his sword hilt, even though the figure was at least two stories above.
He squinted to see better… and found himself staring at Fritz again.
Rafen ripped off his glove and felt the ring. It was cold once more, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not remove it.
“Fritz,” Rafen hissed.
Fritz rose to full height on the top of the stone wall and turned away.
“No,” Rafen said. “Fritz!”
He couldn’t shout very loud because he was still gasping in air, his whole body shaking weakly after his latest attempt to bring the king here. Sherwin grunted and rolled over in his sleep.
When Fritz vanished, something brown floated down with the snow.
His heart beating in his ears, Rafen stooped to retrieve the parchment from the ground and undid the thin, scarlet ribbon around it. A meticulous handwriting blackened the inside.
“We, current royalty of Siana, have only suspicions of your name,” it said, “yet whoever you may be, I write to warn you.
“Should you have designs to pass through the Mountains, I urge you not to take the path through the Den Nyolam. Do not consider yourselves strong enough or wise enough. You would surely perish. The alternative path through the Ravine would be better for your purposes.
“Kindest wishes, with the regard of our shared guardian the Phoenix:
“His Majesty Fritz under the auspices of Sarient; ruler of Darai, Crutia, and Ranian; Second Runi by the power of Zion.”
A great crimson seal blotted the bottom of the parchment.
Rafen turned it over once and found nothing else. He read the message again and then held it close to his chest.
“A sign from Zion,” he whispered.
He and Sherwin had been considering passing through the Den Nyolam, largely because Sherwin insisted on it. He said he had been in the Haer Mountains recently and knew for a fact the Ravine would be extremely dangerous.
Now, as Rafen looked across at his sleeping friend, he wondered what his exact reasons were.
Chapter Sixteen
Kasper’s Decision
After watching the Lashki construct his own body, Sherwin had opened his eyes and dragged himself out of the dream world, his stomach lurching sickeningly, the colors around him pulsating. He would not watch any more, no matter how the memories teased him.
The Lashki had lived mostly in the Mountains during the next eight years, occasionally visiting Nazt and remaining there for months at a time. It took him a while to master all the secrets of his new body and learn the deepest and most dangerous of kesmalic secrets. Nazt itself had done most of the teaching. The Lashki had stayed in Siana because he was obsessed with the kingship, a desperate dream that had never fully died, even when Nazt’s influence had all but permeated him. The throne had only been the bait with which Nazt had drawn him, Sherwin saw. Nazt really wanted the deaths of the remaining Eleven, and if the Lashki did not please it, it would likely induce him to destroy himself. In particular, it thirsted for the discovery of the Fourth Runi and for his death, so that at last the protective shield that remained over the world, while any hope of joining the Eleven lived, would be removed. And Nazt would overrun the Mio Pilamùr.
However, the Lashki had not understood and still did not fully understand. It was only later that the Lashki allowed himself to create a base in Tarhia, eventually with Talmon, so that he was closer to Nazt. That was when the Lashki had moved from being a localized terror to an international one.
At the time of his return from the dead, the long string of murders he had committed in the Mountains were all aimed at exciting the attention of the royalty and nobility of Siana. At last, Adelphia’s second husband Joseph, whom Adelphia had married five years after Fritz’s death to avoid the continued use of a regent and preserve the Sianian throne, had come out with a hundred men to deal with the Terror of the Mountains. Sherwin had never allowed himself to see this memory, though he had
a good idea of what it contained: the Lashki’s first mass murder, in the Ravine.
“I never knew how the Lashki created his second body,” Adelphia said, staring across the black table at him. “You must tell me.”
She was still sitting there, even though the reliving of this latest memory must have taken close to an hour. Sherwin’s soup had formed a thick skin in its cup, and he stared at it in disgust.
“He asked Nazt, tha’s all,” Sherwin said. “Nazt gave ’im the materials. Drew ’em out of different places so that they appeared in the air in front of ’im. And he sort of shaped them – or thought he did. Nazt chose how ’e was going to look and everything.”
“Alakil must have had some choice in the dreadlocks,” Adelphia said, “which are a sign of Ashurite leadership. The brown robe is also symbolic of the Wise Men among the tribes of the Ashurites.”
“There isn’ much wise about sidin’ with Nazt,” Sherwin said scornfully.
Even as he said it, he felt the Resistance in his mind. Something in him was decrying his own words, distracting him from thinking. Sherwin now identified it as Him, the subconscious of the Lashki, working on his soul.
Though he had known it for a long time, he had never wanted to admit it.
“I am the Lashki, aren’t I?” Sherwin whispered, meeting Adelphia’s eyes.
“No,” Adelphia said firmly. “Why would you think such a thing?”
“Isn’ it obvious?” Sherwin said. “I’ve got his entire past in my ’ead, along with EVERY BLEEDING MURDER. I can run like him, and I can do kesmal like him, and there are times when I feel like him—”
The Fourth Runi (The Fledgling Account Book 4) Page 15