A great bruise was already swelling beneath his right eye.
Etana’s grip on Rafen’s arm tightened while she searched his face with her gaze.
“I’m fine,” Rafen told her.
“No small wonder, that,” Sherwin said. “Everyone grabbin’ yer. Looked like they wanted to tear yer apart.”
Fritz had already pushed past him and taken the lead.
“Straight on, Rafen?” he said. “We must take this at a run. I did not finish them by any means.”
“We could have fought the Lashki,” Rafen said through his teeth. “We had the chance to finish—”
“Rafen, you must wait until you have men,” Fritz said curtly. “You are rash and proud, and you underestimate him.”
“You underestimated him,” Rafen said, watching the color drain from Fritz’s face.
That’s why you’re going to die, he thought.
Fritz seemed to guess what he didn’t say. “We need to keep moving,” he said hoarsely.
In another minute, they were all running down the corridor. Rafen freed himself from Etana to direct Fritz through another two adjoining tunnels, which descended into a small chamber with a high ceiling. He spotted a number of footholds and handholds on the back wall, leading to a narrow hole in the ceiling from which pale, white light fell. Relief expanded within him at the thought of escaping the underground.
“I shall go first,” Fritz said, “and if there is any danger, I will warn those below. Come, Francisco, we will check the outer world together.”
Wearily, Francisco nodded, and he followed Fritz up the wall.
“It is fine,” Fritz called down a moment later.
“Go ahead of me, Etana,” Rafen said. “I’ll help you from behind.”
Etana climbed slowly and fearfully, even though not a year back, she had led Rafen, Francisco, and Sherwin up the New Isles wall. Rafen followed promptly, with Sherwin bringing up the rear and muttering to himself.
Once clear of the hole, Rafen breathed deeply. The air was so much cleaner up here. They were within a wide enclosure of rock, with some scant spoon moss along the ground. The wind was bitter, and the sky above was swirling gray.
Francisco gave a startled cry as a rope of black kesmal dragged him forward by the neck. He stumbled and fell headlong, five steps from the others, just as Annette destroyed her own invisible shield and twenty Ashurites materialized out of the air. Annette lunged forward to seize Francisco’s hair. Fritz was already at Francisco’s side with his sword drawn, hesitation in his eyes.
“Step BACK!” Etana cried.
Whipping his own blade clean of its sheath, Rafen rushed forward as the kesmal from their foes laced the air. His knife of fiery light sped toward Annette’s chest – he was attacking her at last, because he couldn’t bear to see anyone harm Francisco again. Before Rafen’s kesmal could hit her, Annette reached out and touched Fritz’s shoulder, seemingly out of affection. She snapped her head erect, and the other philosophers all raised their right hands and blinked into empty space.
Rafen’s beam hit a rock behind where she had been. It exploded, sending stony splinters everywhere. The enemy kesmal fell around Rafen like multi-colored rain, and he flung up a protective wall that moved with him as he staggered to the spot where Francisco and Fritz had been, his mind whirling numbly.
“What happened?” he whispered. Then, “WHERE HAVE THEY GONE?” he shouted, rounding on Etana.
“Don’t shout at me!” she shrieked back. Amid sobs, she said, “It’s an old sort of kesmal. You visit a place and establish a Connection with it through your own mental energy, and then you can go back there whenever you choose with whoever you want, as long as the people who are willing all raise their right hands at the same time, and the people who aren’t are in physical contact with you.”
Rafen’s shoulders sagged. It was all sounding very familiar. Sirius had spoken to him in vague terms about that sort of kesmal too. The Pirate King had been very good at it. He had used it after capturing Rafen the first time, to take himself and his men to the grasslands beyond Smitton.
“The Lashki pretty much invented Connections, twenty years ago,” Etana said.
Twenty years ago: two decades before Fritz’s time. Hence, the king had been fooled. Rafen turned around several times rapidly, as if he could somehow spy Francisco and Fritz traveling through the air.
“We must find them,” he told Etana, laying his hands on her shoulders, but Etana bowed her head, shaking.
“You’re not thinking clearly. We have to keep going.”
“No, Etana,” Rafen insisted, his grip tightening. “My brother… this is my brother.”
Etana raised red eyes to his face, and Rafen could already feel the train of her thoughts. He supposed she was somehow gratified he was going to experience part of the hell she had borne so quietly these past two months.
“My brother,” Rafen said through gritted teeth, “is not going to die – not like your brother.”
He shoved her back toward Sherwin and whirled around to survey the little path leading out of the stone enclosure they occupied. He could either take that or climb the rocky walls around them, to get a good view of their surroundings. He wasn’t worried for Fritz. Fritz had already died. What more was there to happen? Certainly, Fritz was living in his own time as much as he was living in theirs, a thought that baffled him, but Rafen didn’t think this would pose any real danger for him. Even though he’d seen Fritz do ordinary things like eat and sleep, he sometimes doubted it was possible to wound him. Francisco, however…
Rafen strode with purpose toward the stone wall across from him. Behind, Etana said something desperately to Sherwin.
“Raf,” Sherwin said. “Yeh’re not goin’. Yeh’re listenin’ to Nazt.”
“And you would know,” Rafen said, rounding on Sherwin.
He was a little horrified to discover Sherwin was right behind him. His friend looked taken aback.
“I guess I would,” he said. “Raf, Nazt wants yer to go to the Ravine.”
Rafen’s blood ran cold. It was like Sherwin could read his thoughts.
“An’ yeh’re not goin’ there. Not if I ’ave anythin’ to do with it.”
“I’m going to find Francisco,” Rafen said fiercely. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to the Ravine.”
“Raf,” Sherwin said, “we ’ave to go on.”
“I’m not letting him die for me.”
Rafen turned around and started to climb.
“Yer should never ’ave used yer phoenix feather for a light,” Sherwin said. “Yeh’re losin’ yer mind now. Fer Zion’s sake!” he yelled. “Do yer ruddy well not know the Lashki has two thousand men after yer? Did yer not see them around Roger’s ’ouse? Zion, Raf – are yer nuts? The Lashki won’t kill Fritz, because ’e’s scared of ruinin’ the times. An’ ’e won’t kill Francisco because ’e knows yer guys ’ave a mental connection, and ’e can’t use somethin’ tha’s obviously a corpse as bait.”
He paused, breathing hard. Rafen had frozen where he was on the stone wall.
“Get some men from Cyril Earl and come back, fer Zion’s sake, and then fight ’im. But don’ do this. Please don’ do this, and ruin everythin’.”
Rafen stared at him, a million retorts on his tongue. He became aware the spirits in his vision had thickened, and Nazt had been roaring in his ears for some time now. The strange thing was that he hadn’t noticed. He supposed he had entered a new phase: the phase where the Voices became an ordinary, imperceptible yet commanding atmosphere in his world.
Zion, no, he thought wildly.
Etana stood behind Sherwin, her face stretched with grief, and Rafen realized for the first time how what he had said must have sounded to her… how he had shoved her.
“Etana,” he appealed, and her look hardened.
“Don’t bother apologizing, Rafen,” she said, her voice sounding clear even though she had been crying.
Rafen saw now that her plea to
Sherwin to stop him going was not so much because she cared for him, but because he was the Fourth Runi, and would waste the Mio Pilamùr’s chances along with his life. A tingling thrill of panic ran through him at her coldness.
“Let’s go,” he said, dropping down from the wall and turning toward the path leading out of the enclosure. His every thought screamed at him.
“Tha’s it, Raf,” Sherwin said, giving him a friendly push.
“Who was carrying the food pack?” Rafen said. “Was it you or Franny?”
“Um…” Sherwin said apologetically.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Days
Without Food
The next two days were his worst nightmare. While his every conscious consideration was with Francisco, Nazt took up the rest of his thoughts. Its voice was so loud he could no longer hear it. Sometimes he found himself leading the others in entirely the opposite direction of where they were meant to go. Most of the time, Sherwin and Etana were ignorant of this, because the mountain paths were so tangled it was impossible to tell. But he would become aware of it hours later and realize that once again, he had wasted time and energy and led them back along the path to the Ravine. Though he kept asking Zion to help him, the Phoenix felt further and further away. He could no longer doubt it now. Revealing the phoenix feather had definitely made him weaker. He wondered how many times the Lashki had done it before he had gone mad.
Worse still, Francisco had the food pack, so every second Rafen wasted was one without food. According to Sherwin and Etana, they had entered the part of the Mountains that was dead, completely devoid of any kind of vegetation. Even when they backtracked for a few hours, there was nothing edible to find.
Once, as Rafen was leading the others, he felt abnormally tired, and his head began to ache. He leaned against a stone wall near him. When he next opened his eyes, he discovered himself on the hard ground, with Sherwin and Etana leaning over him, concern clouding their faces. It instantly aggravated him.
“I’m all right,” he said.
The cramping in his muscles told him he had had a seizure.
“Yeh’re not,” Sherwin said. “Yer look terrible, and tha’ seizure there took twenty minutes. Normally, it’s ten or somethin’.”
“Rafen, I think we should stop and rest for a while,” Etana said. Her face was pale and strained. She was less and less affectionate toward him as she saw Nazt take a hold.
“No,” Rafen insisted, because inwardly he knew if he stopped to sleep now, Nazt would take him. “We have to keep going. We have to find food.”
“There’s none to be had, for leginis and leginis,” Etana told him.
“There must be,” Rafen said. “We’ll kill a bird or something.”
“Haven’t you noticed there is no wildlife here, Rafen?” Etana said, helping him up.
Every one of his muscles screamed.
Etana put a hand under his chin and stared into his eyes. Although her mouth was set with determination, the sadness in her gaze cut him deeply.
“We are going to die, Rafen,” she said quietly. “You may as well rest before hunger takes you.”
Rafen looked at her for a minute and then laughed. “We’re not going to die,” he said with maniacal bravado. “We must keep going. We’ve only just begun our journey.”
Sherwin stared at him from within his balaclava as if he were a lunatic. With profound weariness, Rafen turned to continue the forward march in the bitter cold, Sherwin and Etana trailing behind him and whispering nervously to each other from behind their hands.
*
Asiel threw Francisco on the Ravine floor, in the center of the circle of philosophers and Naztwai. Francisco fell heavily to his knees. The wall of leering faces around him watched his every move. He rose slowly and painfully as Annette thrust herself through the observers. Little white snowflakes swirled in the air around her, but she nevertheless stood uncloaked, in a low cut dress, her arms akimbo in her triumph.
“Well, I said I would bring him,” she said.
“You owe this to me, Annette,” Asiel from behind her in a greasy voice. “Did I not tell you where the boy would come up?”
“I picked him from between the twins,” Annette said, stepping forward to seize a handful of Francisco’s hair.
Francisco’s scalp seared. His heart thundered, and he wondered where Fritz was. They had been separated earlier.
“Make way,” someone barked from amid the crowd. “Move aside. Now.”
Talmon forced his way into the circle. He looked as Francisco remembered him: tall, slender, and muscular; with a pale, sculpted face and square jaw, eyes of muddied brown, and dusty brown hair reaching past his chin. A faint beard edged his face. Yet the creases beneath his eyes and along his adamantine forehead had deepened, and an overall air of nervousness prevailed about him. His eyes instantly met Francisco’s, and his countenance turned gray.
“Are you all fools? This is not the first time this has happened,” he said. “You have made a great mistake.”
“Do not let your pity for Francisco get in the way of recognizing Rafen,” Annette said sharply.
“This is certainly not Rafen,” Talmon spat.
Annette jerked Francisco closer. His height alone caused Talmon to shake his head.
“Which one are you? The Runi or his useless brother?” Asiel asked, stepping forward.
Francisco clenched his teeth. As long as he said nothing, his brother’s safety was assured – temporarily at least.
Asiel gave him a ringing slap for his silence, and Francisco’s left cheek began to swell like a pig’s bladder. Talmon’s face was livid. Yet even though his hand moved to the pistol at his belt, Francisco knew he would never use it against Asiel.
“He is not the one you seek,” the Tarhian king said through clenched teeth.
“Speak. Who are you?” Asiel said, raising his hand again.
“He will not speak. There is a way to tell,” Talmon said quickly. “His brother has scars – the number two-three-seven above his right ankle, and lash marks along his back. Master also told me he lost part of a finger last year, on his left hand.”
Before Talmon had even finished, Asiel made a move to tear Francisco’s shirt up. Talmon surged forward to stop him.
“I will do it.”
“Search your foster son then,” Asiel spat.
Talmon moved closer to Francisco, visibly trembling. His hand found the back of Francisco’s shirt and raised it gently. Francisco had already lost his cloak following his capture, so the maneuver was easy for Talmon. He said in a clear voice to everyone in general, “There are no scars.”
“That cannot be,” Annette said. The color had drained from her face.
“There is no cause for alarm,” Asiel drawled, his teeth gritted. “He will be the perfect bait for his brother.”
“Rafen has become too wily to turn back for Francisco,” Talmon said.
Francisco knew he was only saying this because he hated Rafen, but he wished to Zion that it was true.
“Tie him to the prisoner’s post,” Asiel called loudly to those surrounding him. “Master will instruct us on what to do with him.”
Two thickset foreigners Francisco had not observed before seized his arms, and Asiel’s gaze flicked to the craggy walls surrounding the Ravine. He was calculating his chances of escape. Annette had already vanished.
Talmon would be left to face the Lashki’s wrath.
*
They had reached a snowy slope without shelter when Etana panted she could not go further. The hunger was consuming her. It had been another day and a half, and now at evening, she had stumbled headlong. Rafen had caught her, and they settled on the snow with Sherwin. With her remaining strength, she constructed a thin, bubble-like shield to block out some of the cold. After strengthening it somewhat, Rafen drew his cloak closer around himself and pulled Etana to him. Her eyes were closed.
As the situation had become more desperate, he had tried fi
rst drawing Fritz to himself again and then bringing Thomas into his own time. The mental efforts he had expended were huge… and ultimately unrewarded. He had felt irrevocably that Fritz was now his own entity in Rafen’s time. He would have to come to Rafen, but Rafen could not drag him to himself. Worse, Rafen had felt once more that Fritz’s time was running out. An impending doom hung over all Rafen’s efforts, and Fritz was already feeling further away in his mind. Trying to bring Thomas closer had also proved futile, for the reason Rafen had observed earlier: a combining of the times only worked properly with Fritz, who had journeyed through the Mountains in Siana in his own day.
Zion, he thought wildly, are You still here? Or are You gone too?
“I’m too tired, Rafen,” Etana said, piercing his thoughts. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right,” Rafen said, feeling weak as an old woman. He had deliberately not slept the night before, and today they had traveled without breaks, hoping to find a part of the Mountains where edible herbs grew. During the night, a horrible fear had overcome him for Francisco, and he been nauseous and vomited several times. Now he forced himself not to think about it, to believe Fritz would escape with him or to remember that he himself was going to Cyril Earl’s to get men. They would all come back to the Mountains, and Rafen would rescue his brother and finish the Lashki with Fritz’s help.
“Three and a ’alf stinkin’ days,” Sherwin said from where he lay spread-eagled on the snow, allowing the moisture to soak into him. “Raf, I ’ate to say it, but I reckon this is the end.”
Rafen shook his head, despair sweeping over him like a cold wave. Kesmal was so ineffective in the face of hunger.
“We would have been better off going back for Francisco,” he said.
“Well, ’ow would yer rather die? Of ’unger or the Lashki?” Sherwin said.
“The Lashki,” Rafen said.
He wasn’t sure if it were a lie or not.
Sherwin stared up at the sky, which blistered with both clouds and stars. He shrugged.
“I can stand dying,” Rafen whispered. “But not losing my wife and child.”
He hunched over, his arm still round Etana and one hand over his face.
The Fourth Runi (The Fledgling Account Book 4) Page 26