“No,” Rafen said savagely. “No. I won’t believe it. That’s what Nazt would tell me. Fritz, I won’t live like that. And you shouldn’t either.”
He forced himself to breathe deeply. Whatever Fritz had said, it didn’t form any excuse for Rafen’s ridiculous behavior the moment after the king had brought them all life-saving food.
“Please forgive me for attacking you,” he said. “I do want you with us. We need you.”
“You are forgiven,” Fritz said coldly. “Although I trust, Rafen, that someday you will start acting like the Fourth Runi.”
Smarting, Rafen had turned away.
Over the next few days, Etana regained her feet, and Rafen and Sherwin often supported her between them. Rafen frequently asked Etana how the baby was growing, and whether she could feel it moving. Though he would ply her with food, Etana told him she was certain she had passed a stillborn. It was over.
This, like Kasper’s death, was Rafen’s fault. Somehow, he would make up for the pain he had caused her. Rafen imagined their daughter in hundreds of situations. She was old enough to walk, and she would run to him with open arms. He would kneel to receive her, tears in his eyes.
Then she was five, and a Sianian tutor was teaching her to read in the vast libraries of the New Isles palace. She was quick. She looked at him with eager, bright eyes and pronounced words in the clearest Sianian accent. From a distant point, he stared at her black curls and dark blue eyes framed by thick lashes, and thought how much she looked like his mother. No wonder she had died.
One image haunted him more than all the rest. The child was seven, and Etana had stooped to clasp her in her arms. From within her mother’s embrace, she looked at him with dark, suspicious eyes, and Etana gazed at him also, her face pale and watchful. Neither of them spoke, but Rafen knew what they were thinking of.
He had treated Etana abysmally, the way he imagined Talmon had treated his mother when he had claimed to be married to her.
“Sherwin,” he said once, staring into the snow as Fritz urged the stallion carrying Francisco up a slow ascent, “I wish I’d never been born.”
“Raf, tha’s nonsense.”
“It is,” Rafen admitted. “It doesn’t help anything.” He stared at the heap of garments on the back of the stallion. “Francisco’s not to blame for anything. I envy him.”
“Yeh’re bein’ ridiculous,” Sherwin snapped. “Okay, maybe yeh’re to blame. That means we jus’ gotta try harder, work harder, Raf, and then we’ll be doin’ what Zion wants. We can’t keep lookin’ back.”
“You are right,” Rafen managed. “I can’t wait until we are in Parith.”
Sherwin put a hand on his shoulder. “Then we’ll get yer an army and get Fritz and yer to the royal court.”
“I need a lot more advice and wisdom before I go anywhere near the government,” Rafen said. “I just want Francisco well again—”
He broke off, his throat thick.
Etana shuffled through the snow behind them.
“Rafen,” she said innocently. “I found some sagebrush for us to eat. Have some now. We’re almost at Parith. We will make it in time.”
Two days later, Etana woke him in the night. He had been forcing himself to stay awake lately, even though it was driving him to distraction. Nazt was stronger in his slumber, and it had gotten a hold of him since he had revealed his phoenix feather. Rafen’s weariness was often insurmountable, and sometimes as they were traveling and he was trying to help Etana, he would stumble headlong, having fallen asleep on his feet. Tonight, he had not succeeded in staying awake.
Etana cupped his face with her hand, and Rafen blinked blearily at her. Earlier, he had lit a small fire in the little circle of rocks they had camped in. The Mountains were thinning, and sometimes when they were especially high up, he glimpsed Parith. Elks, moose, and bighorn sheep were starting to reappear, indicating their party was on lower ground. It gave Rafen hope and an endless vexation that pounded behind his temples and eyes. He should be going to Parith. He should be in the Ravine.
He shook himself. “I slept,” he apologized. “I didn’t mean to. I am sorry.”
Sherwin, who was keeping the watch, turned questioningly to them both from where he was standing in a gap between the jagged rocks.
“It’s not that,” Etana whispered, and her face was flushed pink with excitement, despite the cold.
She seized his hand and thrust it within the depths of the clothes she was wearing. Rafen felt her swollen belly and pressed his hand against it, rasping. A flicker of movement passed between his fingers.
“I was sure I had miscarried,” she said in tearful joy. “I must have had a dream or something, when I didn’t have enough food in me to tell what was real and what wasn’t. I thought I was still swollen because, well, you still are a little, after miscarrying. And you get bloated with hunger, you know, Rafen. I dreamed I left you and Sherwin while you were sleeping, and gave birth to a tiny stillborn. But the child is alive. She is alive.”
Rafen was finding it hard to breathe. “Don’t ever let me near her, Etana.”
“Whatever do you mean?” She reached out to stroke his face, and he pushed her hand away gently.
“We will reach Parith,” he said, “and my brother will be saved. And then, your father is going to take care of you. We’re going to separate. No, don’t say anyth—”
“Rafen, you—”
“I love you, but not enough,” Rafen said. “I can’t be with you. I’m much, much worse than Richard. I don’t want you to get hurt, and I don’t want to hurt you.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Rafen saw Sherwin open his mouth and then think better of it. His friend was staring on in blank disbelief.
Etana gripped her husband’s hand hard. “Rafen,” she said shakily, like a woman desperately trying to hold onto her sanity, “you have to let go of your pride. If I can forgive you – if Zion can forgive you, and Kasper can, and Fritz can, and everyone else – why can’t you forgive yourself? I know you feel you’ve failed me, but—”
“I have failed you.”
“—you must forgive yourself, Rafen,” Etana implored. “Please. Face up to yourself. Accept that you’ve done something wrong and try again. Please don’t walk away from me. You vowed to love me.”
“Etana,” Rafen said, his mouth dry, “I do love you. This is the best fulfillment of those vows.”
“No, it’s not,” Etana said. “It’s not, Rafen. You have to stand by me. Do you never get tired of trying to do the right thing on your own? Why don’t you rely on Zion for a change? Ask Him to help you, and try again. Rafen, I forgive you,” she wept, pressing her face against his chest. “Forgive yourself. Ask for strength from someone bigger than you, and move on. But whatever you do, move on with me.”
Rafen wrapped his arms around her, weeping as well. His heart burned within him.
She was right, he realized.
“Zion, help me love her better,” he said hoarsely. “Etana, I will. I will forgive myself.”
Chapter Thirty
Cyril Earl’s Estate
Parith was in sight now, and they were barely a day’s travel from there. Yet Rafen feared it would be too late.
“Breathe in, Francisco. Breathe in,” Fritz encouraged.
Francisco lay on the cold ground near their campfire, his frame seizing as he coughed. He had one hand before his mouth, retaining a sense of decorum even now. His infrequent inhalations were a throat-tearing gasp. Rafen was leaning over him, digging his hands into his brother’s hard abdominals, trying to massage them into relaxation. Francisco’s cough became a wet, retching now. He shuddered to a still, his hand lying on his chest, slimy with blood and black gore.
“What is he coughing up?” Rafen asked Fritz hoarsely.
“I am not sure,” Fritz said. “Perhaps something this particular curse secretes in the body of its victim. You will notice his neck is stained entirely black now, and it is moving to his face. The curse has t
aken those parts of his body. It will continue to spread.”
“What do you mean – taken?” Rafen whispered.
Nearby, Sherwin stamped out their fire and buried the ash in the thinning snow. The expression on his face betrayed that he was listening intently.
“What I mean is that I tried to give Francisco a drink this morning, and he can no longer swallow,” Fritz said grimly, cleaning Francisco’s hands with a rag wet with snow.
Rafen’s eyes flicked to his brother. Francisco was quite still now, staring at the gray sky above him with glazed eyes. Fritz moved away to prepare the horse for the descent down the last mountain.
Rafen leaned over Francisco. “Franny,” he said.
Francisco turned his head slightly, his eyes dropping closed.
“Francisco, can you hear me?”
Francisco’s shallow, rasping breath was the only response. Rafen supposed he couldn’t talk anymore now either. Perhaps he wasn’t even aware he was dying.
Rafen’s hand dropped to his brother’s now clean one, and he gripped it momentarily before rising with burning eyes. It was all a terrible dream. First his mother’s death, then Kasper’s, and now his brother’s. Well, he was not going to be next, no matter what his father had predicted in the Hideout.
Nazt was eager to claim him. He stared at the spruces and whitebark pines around him as if they were attackers.
Moving back, he helped Sherwin lift Francisco onto the horse. The snow was already sweeping down thicker than ever. Very soon, it would be coming in a solid sheet. They were more exposed on this side of the mountain, and the wind was very bitter.
Fritz led this time, taking the stallion’s halter, and Sherwin trailed behind him. Rafen dropped even further back to be with his wife, who was staggering on, her shoulders hunched with cold. Despite the cloak and thick clothes she wore, her pregnancy was clearly visible. She was a now a week over seven months, and she clutched her bloated abdomen with both shaking, gloved hands. As she edged her way down the steep slope, one of her feet slipped, and she swung forward.
Rafen seized her shoulder from behind and jerked her upright.
“Thank you,” she panted.
He clasped her hand and stepped ahead, helping her down any difficult places.
“If yer fall, Etana,” Sherwin said from ahead, “yeh’re goin’ to go rollin’ away down the slope.”
Etana shot him an indignant look. “I’m not a pig,” she snapped.
“Never said tha’,” Sherwin said in offended tones.
“Of course he didn’t,” Rafen murmured to her. “You’re beautiful.”
“I’m huge.”
“You’re still beautiful.”
For the next two hours, they continued a sharp, downward descent, finding themselves amid spruces, furs, and aspens. The falling snow became thicker and thicker, but as they descended, it morphed into an icy rain on their shoulders. Clover and catsfoot appeared amid the slush on the ground. Sodden and shivering, Etana turned a pale, luminous gray as they kept going. Rafen feared she would go into labor on the mountain.
The worry was the perfect thing to keep him from falling asleep or giving into Nazt.
“What’re yer wavin’ away, Raf?” Sherwin said suspiciously.
“Nothing,” Rafen lied.
His vision was filling with spirits, and he was finding it difficult to see. Forward progress was nearly impossible, even though they were going downhill. He felt like something was constantly buffeting him backward.
A light to his left caught his attention. He grabbed Etana and shoved her forward into a bent position. The kesmal swept over them and exploded the crag to their right. Sherwin dropped to a crouch in the snow, staring wildly around himself as he waited for another lightning bolt to hit.
Footsteps thudded behind them, and the whistling of Naztwai burst on the air. Seizing Etana’s hand, Rafen broke into a run in the freezing rain. He flung a thin beam behind them, and something crumpled with a scream. Fritz had deliberately stopped the horse to wait for Rafen to catch up, and Rafen redoubled his efforts, dragging Etana through the slush to the stallion. A kaleidoscope of color filled the air around them. Etana’s and Rafen’s shields were simultaneous. Rafen hurled himself left, to get on the other side of Etana, where the majority of the attack came from.
They had reached the stallion. Etana was doubled over, gasping, and Rafen, together with Fritz, heaved her into the saddle behind the semi-recumbent Francisco.
“No,” she panted, turning to reach for Rafen.
Rafen had already slapped the horse’s rump, kesmal in his touch. It sprang forward and galloped down the remaining part of the slope, which was peppered with dwarf-like rocks and twisted trees.
“Run!” Fritz said, propelling him forward.
Rafen reeled into a blue wall that had instantly appeared before him. His body seared and vibrated with pain. It was another seizure. When he threw himself backward with an effort, the wall sprang tentacles that reached for him, sticking to his legs and trying to bind him. Though he desperately snapped his fingers at them, his kesmal wouldn’t work, because Nazt was a sluggish, stupefying force in his blood. The copper rod was near. He clenched his teeth in determination to fight its force.
Fritz snatched his shoulders and dragged him back, flinging a shiver of gold into the wall. The blue disintegrated and landed in steaming, acid-like puddles on the ground, revealing the Lashki.
Before Fritz could stop him, Rafen had thrown himself at the Lashki, his hands clawing at his face. A million images leapt up in his mind at once: that of his mother lying sprawled and broken-necked on the floor of Fritz’s Hideout; his brother propped up against the cave wall in the Mountains, his throat blotched and clenched by the Lashki’s kesmal; Kasper, twisted in green smoke and suffocating, ascending into nothingness; Bambi, who had once been his little black-haired sister, skipping around her Uncle Frankston’s ankles not five minutes before her death.
The Lashki’s laugh filled Rafen’s ears while his hand closed on Rafen’s neck. He shoved him backward, holding him at arm’s length, while Rafen struggled for air. Rafen raised his left hand to perform kesmal, and the Lashki’s copper rod found Rafen’s throat. Rafen’s sight darkened… his body was going limp, and he wanted to scream at himself, because the Lashki was going to take him to Nazt – already the air was roaring around him in preparation for kesmalic travel.
Zion, please!
Fritz thrust his sword forward, and the Lashki actually recoiled, pushing Rafen into the path of the blade. Rafen felt it graze his left arm. When Fritz rushed past Rafen to attack the Lashki, he knocked Rafen onto his knees.
“Go!” Sherwin roared, appearing from behind and wrenching Rafen to his feet. “Yer need more men, Raf!”
Sherwin whirled Rafen around and pushed him down the slope. Rafen slipped in the slush and found himself sliding. His feet flew out from beneath him, and he landed heavily on the wet, muddy ground, rolling uncontrollably for a minute or so. The moment the copper rod was further away, he was able to send a focused ray out at where he guessed the Lashki’s head was. His last coherent image was of the Lashki spinning around to create a shield, which threatened to shatter at Rafen’s onslaught.
His vision speckled with popping lights, Rafen staggered to his feet and glanced behind himself. He had slid a long way, and the only sign of the combat above was the occasional burst of gold or blue from behind a group of crags.
Footfalls pounded the ground to his left, and he broke into a desperate run, uncertain whether to turn back or not. Sherwin was right: he needed more men. If he whirled around and fought now, he risked other philosophers catching up with him. The most important thing was to get to the city before someone could intercept him. After obtaining some men, he would return to help the others. White-tailed deer and mountain goats scattered before him. A long whistle sounded behind, answered by another two in close succession nearby. The Naztwai were too fast for him. He was at the bottom of the mountain no
w, and the city gate was in sight, but it was not going to be enough. He shot two rays of kesmal behind himself, and two Naztwai fell, screeching. A jolt at his feet, and he was sprawling on the road of packed dirt he had reached. A stone had tripped him. He glanced frantically behind. The third Naztwai had pounced and was in the air above him, its drooling black mouth open and the bloodstained teeth revealed.
A buzzing above; the Naztwai was thrown fractionally back in the air and landed heavily on Rafen’s calves, crushing them. With an immense kesmalic effort, Rafen heaved the Naztwai off himself.
A Sianian soldier stooped to grip Rafen’s shoulder and pull him to his feet.
“You are one of the party the Secra spoke of?”
“Yes,” Rafen said, grasping the man’s arm. “Where is she? And my brother?”
“I will take you to them,” the Sianian said, looking at Rafen with obvious curiosity. “They were going to a philosopher’s abode before settling in at Lord Cyril Earl’s estate.”
Rafen glanced back at the mountain. He couldn’t see anything indicative of Fritz’s or Sherwin’s presence. He felt like he should be helping them, though he could hardly do so unless he had enough men to corner the Lashki with. Cyril would have to give Rafen a contingent right away. He would go into the city, even though it didn’t feel right.
The gray expanse of the Ravine, flecked with white snow, was a great hole within him.
*
He was half crazy by the time he was within Lord Cyril Earl’s mansion. As the manservant led him down a long corridor, lined with paintings in the precise watercolor style of the Sartians, the spirits in Rafen’s vision snatched at his face and eyes. They were a physical force against his body: a pinching, prodding, and consistent pulling from behind. Rafen reeled, feeling sleep coming on him like a bandit. The manservant kept turning around to look at him with narrowed, suspicious eyes.
“My Lord is not well,” he said.
“No… I’m fine,” Rafen said with an effort.
The Fourth Runi (The Fledgling Account Book 4) Page 29