“They can’t remove you from the throne!” Etana cried.
“I’m afraid they can,” King Robert said.
“How can you prove Talmon captured me then? Surely there’s some way.”
Her insides were churning, and it wasn’t because she was at sea. She realized that if it was unlikely they could prove Talmon’s guilt, Alexander wouldn’t attack the Tarhian ships either, in case he got Siana into trouble with Sarient.
Before King Robert could respond, she exclaimed, “I know! I know what to do, Father!”
She glanced over her shoulder at the distant Tarhian coast to starboard. They were now sailing past a jagged line of pale gray cliffs. Alexander followed her gaze with worry; he seemed to know what she was planning.
“What is it?” King Robert said eagerly.
“Do you remember the boy I told you about, who rescued me?” Etana turned back to her father.
“Rafen. How could I forget?” he said. “What a name to find in the East!”
“He could be the witness,” Etana said. “He saw me in Tarhia. He helped me get away.”
“We need at least two witnesses,” Alexander said. “That’s what the Old Law of the Phoenix says.”
“Surely the word of the Secra counts for something.” Etana drew herself up.
“Of course it does,” King Robert said. “And if Rafen gives a satisfactory report, King Albert of Sarient will certainly contact people within the Tarhian palace to confirm the truth.”
“What if King Talmon makes them all lie?” Alexander asked.
“You are an eternal pessimist, Alexander,” King Robert said. “There is sure to be one Tarhian that does not support Talmon. Every king has his opponents.”
“I understand,” Alexander said, his words dripping sarcasm. “Now all we need to do is find Rafen. Where did you say he was, Little Highness? In Talmon’s palace?”
“Zion will bring him to us,” King Robert said confidently.
“And if only we could find Curtis too,” Etana said.
“Definitely not, Little Highness,” Alexander said. “Finding Rafen would be one thing. We could not afford to wander around trying to find Curtis too.”
“Nevertheless, it is a pity,” King Robert said gently.
“Oh, it is more than a pity,” Etana burst out. “Much, much more. Neither of you have any idea what Tarhia is like, do you?”
They looked uncomfortable.
“Do you?” she demanded.
King Robert laid a hand on her shoulder.
“What are we to do about those two warships, Sire?” Alexander inquired.
King Robert turned painfully to gaze at them. Alexander was obviously awaiting instructions. He was out of luck. One of Etana’s tutors had once said King Robert wasn’t a warrior, he was a diplomat. And there was no negotiating with Talmon.
Etana turned away from the railing and looked over the pristine teak deck, a thought occurring to her.
“Father.” She tugged his slashed shirt sleeve. “Why didn’t you bring a fleet with you? You took a fleet with you when we traveled together around Siana.”
King Robert laughed in grim amusement. “Zion’s sacred ashes, my darling daughter thinks I am stupid enough to sail without a fleet. Alexander, please.”
“Little Highness,” Alexander explained, “your father sailed with three of his best warships in tow. They carried extravagant gifts to appease King Talmon in case your father accused him falsely of kidnapping you. As it was, we discovered you on the coast before we could disembark to visit Talmon, and thank Zion we did.”
“Tell her about the storm off Pavel,” King Robert said, waving a hand impatiently.
Alexander’s face grew pained. “Little Highness, if you must know, a terrible storm came up, much worse than any I’ve seen in years. We lost one of our ships, and only managed to save thirty men from it.”
“But Ageron,” Etana said, shaking. Ageron was a well-known Sianian captain and war commander. Etana thought of him as an uncle.
“Ageron survived and is on the Sianian Crest, my dear,” King Robert said gently. Etana relaxed. “The other ship was terribly damaged and had to stop at Pavel immediately. Harold, the commander, will try to join us when he can. We will recover Rafen anyway,” King Robert said, a smile spreading across his face. “The only thing to do now is sail along the coast and keep ahead of them. We’ll make for Setarsia harbor, stay there for an hour, and see if Alexander can’t find the boy.”
“Sire,” Alexander said through clenched teeth, “are you out your mind? You simply can’t go and moor in Setarsia harbor for an hour. Have you forgotten King Talmon is your enemy?”
“It will be the last thing he expects,” King Robert said, very blasé.
Alexander’s face was pallid. Etana couldn’t help thinking he was right, and her father was being a little careless, considering the Lashki Mirah’s likely presence in Tarhia. Yet in her head, Rafen again cried out her name as he was dragged back into the courtyard and her insides twisted.
“I agree with Father.” She nodded wisely to Alexander.
Chapter Seventeen
The
Execution
Four days they kept ahead of the gradually gaining ships. King Robert continually asked Alexander why the Tarhians didn’t shoot. Alexander had the morbid idea they were driving them into a trap. He even suggested Setarsia harbor, where King Robert was obstinately heading. King Robert pretended not to hear this.
They followed the coast, Etana becoming more and more incredulous that she had fled so far from Setarsia in one night.
“Your kesmal certainly helped you travel quicker,” King Robert said, “but the coast is, undoubtedly, the long way to Setarsia. I’m afraid there are many submerged rocks Captain Argus has to avoid.”
He had scarcely finished speaking when a sailor in the crow’s nest screamed out, “Astern, two more ships ahoy!”
“I hope he’s mistaken,” King Robert said.
He wasn’t. Two large ships had definitely appeared from the northwest and were rapidly heading toward the Tarhian ships. Though they were too far away for the sailor to see their flags, Alexander assumed they were Tarhian. King Robert told him he was a pessimist and prayed out loud to the Phoenix that they would be two Sartian ships. They waited the rest of the day in tense silence, until the two new ships were alongside the Tarhian ones.
The sailor in the crow’s nest called out, “The green flag!”
Etana had no idea what this meant until King Robert explained it was the flag of the Pirate King’s ship. The Pirate King, Sirius Jones, had wrested a huge portion of Vladimiēr off the Sartians, and he possessed the Darlos Archipelago, the Isle of Abaddon, and the Vagabond Islands. According to hearsay, he was the second worst person to meet in the world, the worst being the Lashki.
A strained atmosphere settled over the ship. Etana visited her mother’s cabin, just for something to do.
“No visitors.” Queen Arlene rose from her chair near her desk, staring at Etana with globelike blue eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Etana said, “I thought you could have done with the company, Mother.”
“I don’t think so,” Queen Arlene said.
That was the end of that.
The fifth day proved the best of their travels. In the morning, Alexander gave an exultant yell from where he stood against the rails. King Robert and Etana rushed to his side to see a huge puff of smoke unfurling behind them, partially obscuring one of the Tarhian ships. Sirius Jones, obviously, hadn’t been intending to attack the Sianians. While they watched, the two pirate ships now fired at the second Tarhian one.
“How ironic.” Alexander smiled smugly. “Talmon once made a pact with the pirates. So in this case, the Tarhians didn’t fire first.”
“What’s ironic about that?” Etana asked.
“What is ironic,” Alexander said, “is that like us, King Talmon thought somebody was on his side and discovered to his misfortune that they weren’
t.”
King Robert chuckled.
For half an hour, Alexander, King Robert, and Etana watched in rapt silence while the sea battle took place to their stern. The Tarhians fired too late at Sirius Jones’ ships. The steady volley of cannonballs sank first one Tarhian ship and then the other. Though King Robert voiced the worry that perhaps Sirius Jones intended to treat them likewise, the pirate ships gradually dropped back, and a promontory hid them from view.
A concave curve in the coast, Setarsia harbor became visible. Bleak limestone that stretched into the sea protected it. The inlet was large enough for two ships to pass through abreast.
“Almost there,” Etana said softly.
“We’ve still two hours’ journey,” Alexander told her. He was strangely sullen after the excitement of the morning. “We’ll only be there midday.”
King Robert waddled over and put his arm around Etana, clamping her to his side as if afraid some unseen force would tear her away. Etana continued staring at the harbor, her mind now buzzing.
“What are you thinking about, my daughter?” King Robert questioned.
“I’m wondering how long it will take us to find Rafen,” Etana said. If she were a spirit once more, she could fly over the Tarhian palace and pluck Rafen out. Perhaps if Rafen had known this, he wouldn’t have taken her leaving him so hard.
Alexander’s face grew severe.
“We’ll only be an hour, Little Highness,” he said. “We dare not stay longer.”
*
For the next five days, Rafen was kept locked in his cell. Because of the break in the regular routine of mine work, the guards forgot to bring him food and drink at first. Rafen had lain on his stone floor, dreaming of the taste of water.
While strange colors had popped before his eyes, the phoenix feather floated to the surface of his mind: fiery vermilion with a blood-red spine. It radiated a soft golden light, and Rafen felt its warmth in his hands, sending energy bounding through his veins. Phil’s explanation of his name went round and round in his head. When he came to himself again, his dreams vanished, and he lay on the cold flags with cracked lips and a shrunken stomach. The phoenix feather was the only thing that stopped him thinking about Torius and the massacre in the mine. He kept himself awake, because when he slept he had nightmares about Talmon throwing a knife into Torius. He supposed he was sick. Sometimes he heard Phil’s words in his head: Some day you will understand death is better than surrender.
That was why Torius had died. Rafen did not have Torius’ courage.
Early in the morning on the second day, a key scraped in the lock, and heavy boots sounded on the stone floor. They were not Phil’s footsteps. Bright light burst before Rafen’s eyes, and he rolled onto his left side, covering his face. Someone stooped, throwing a soothing shadow over him. They set down something to his right.
A toe nudged him in the back, and Rafen groaned as razor sharp pain shot through him. His lash wounds had become infected, swollen with stinging pus.
The guard grunted, withdrawing his foot. A moment later, the door swung shut, and the lock clicked. Breathing heavily, Rafen turned over to his other side and struggled to prop himself up on one elbow. His head felt strangely light. He groped with his free hand for whatever the guard had brought.
His hand touched a cool clay bowl, and he dipped a finger in it. Water.
Desperately, Rafen lowered his whole face into the bowl, slurping. The water was gritty and foul. It didn’t matter. It was water, and a whole bowl of it. Rafen had only ever had a ladle at a time, excepting the day in Torius’ alcove.
He paused in his wild lapping to remind himself he must save some for tomorrow. The thought that survival was pointless because of his looming execution flitted across his mind, yet suicide seemed vulgar. The screams in the deeps of the mine returned to him.
Life, any form of life, had taken on a sacred quality.
Rafen lowered himself back onto the stone flags, his throat loosening after his refreshment.
Much later, when he was groping in the darkness again to make sure the water hadn’t vanished like his phoenix feather, he discovered something hard, dry, and crumbling… a crust of bread. His aching stomach welcomed food rapturously.
The guards remembered to feed him over the next three days. At about ten o’clock, they would enter his cell, kick him to see if he was alive, and lay some food and water down beside him.
The fifth day in his cell ended. Rafen had been counting down with a morbid intrigue. Tomorrow was the execution. It felt like years and years, and yet it was too short a time.
He didn’t sleep that night. He sat up in his cell, counting seconds and heartbeats. He practiced breathing and holding his breath. Thoughts of death sprang to his mind, choking him. Mary’s death, Torius’ death, the death of the children of the revolution, and now his own death. He had expected the hours to drag. They flew. He kept lifting up his trouser leg and feeling the branded number above his right ankle. If it vanished, would the cell walls fall away, making him free?
And still Phil didn’t come. Why didn’t Phil come?
“I’m not ready,” he said in Tongue, his throat parched.
What a rare and wonderful thing the Tongue was. It was the language of freedom, the language with which he could communicate with the beautiful world outside Tarhia, the world he would never reach.
Was it morning yet? Rafen’s heart throbbed. He rose shakily, bits of his pathetic straw bed sticking to him. His head whirled and his legs seized. He hadn’t stood for five days. But he would stand up to death.
Etana had abandoned him. He wanted to see her again. He wanted to curse her, to throw her to the ground, and show her what it was like to be knocked down. She’d lied about freedom.
Everyone lied. Talmon’s Master fed Talmon lies. Talmon fed the barons lies. Roger, and now Mainte, fed the soldiers and guards lies. And Etana, a Sianian, had fed Rafen a lie, because like everyone else, she wanted something and would use people to get it. Phil had told him the world beyond Tarhia was different. Phil had lied. What was the world but an extension of Tarhia, with a lie for a name?
Howling insanely, Rafen grabbed his lopsided bench and hurled it against the back wall where it fell into splinters. Screaming the foulest language Tarhia had taught him, he flung himself against the slimy limestone bricks, pounding them with sweaty hands. Pain from his wounds wracked his body.
The door flew open behind him and Rafen’s arms dropped weakly to his sides. His heart drummed as he turned around.
The guard wore a sneer. “Time.”
It was such an irrelevant word. Rafen had no more time. This was it.
The guard stood back against the open door, waiting for Rafen to walk past. Suspicious of possible abuse, Rafen shuffled hesitantly, then hurried past him and into the corridor beyond, his feet moving by themselves.
His senses were painfully aware of everything: the damp smell that pervaded the corridors he was shoved through; the distant scent of the guard’s breakfast of hot gruel and smoked meat; the muttering of muted conversation; the barking of an official’s orders; the thudding of running feet as guards hastened to obey. The growing light dazzled his eyes, which wanted to absorb everything they could – the familiar gray flagged floors; the dingy tapestries so threadbare they looked like water against the walls; his own feet moving listlessly, black, cut, and crusted with dry blood from his last day in the mine. He saw himself from the outside momentarily and thought he would make a sick looking corpse, merely a different variety of trash.
The journey was over, and light streaming into the roofless courtyard blinded Rafen. It was late morning. When his vision cleared, he saw the sky was overcast as it had been the day of his lashes. Two guards stood with Talmon and Mainte, one at the door to freedom, and the other clutching a pallid, yet furious Roger.
“Get in,” Rafen’s guard growled, kicking his right leg.
“I wanted you to witness this, Roger,” Talmon said in Tongue as Rafen s
tumbled forward, “because Rafen meant so much to you.”
Mainte seized Rafen’s shoulder and jerked him toward the execution post. Rafen lurched forward numbly, his back burning and his legs shaking so that he could barely stand.
He was about to see Torius and Mary again. A horrible thought came to him. What if the afterlife was simply another Tarhia, another animal existence? What if it was lashes over and over again?
His insides turned cold.
An icy prickle at his throat intensified his thrumming pulse. The general had thrust a dagger to his neck. He pushed Rafen’s back against the execution post and Rafen let out an involuntary cry of pain.
A few steps before him, Talmon watched inquisitively.
One hand still keeping the dagger pressed to Rafen’s skin, Mainte stooped to fetch the rope. White-hot tears scalded Rafen’s face. He had lived a slave… and he would die a slave.
“Regretting something?” Roger said coldly from where the guard held him before the well.
Rafen remembered hesitating at the door. He and Etana had spoken, and Talmon had come. That conversation had killed him.
Not far before Roger, Talmon loaded his pistol, bullets rattling. He glanced suspiciously at Roger, then at Rafen.
“Tears, Rafen?” he said in Tongue. “Perhaps you thought your Phoenix Zion might save you?” He shook his head. “I will always win in the end.”
Rafen fought his tears. He didn’t want riddles now.
“Remember, Rafen, when I put this bullet through your head,” Talmon said, “that Zion, and anything and everything out there – the world, the universe – has damned you and damned you thoroughly. You were cursed from the beginning because of your name. Consider death a gift.”
Trembling uncontrollably, Rafen supposed he’d been set aside for this day from his birth. Talmon smiled scornfully as Mainte sheathed his dagger and pulled Rafen’s arms behind the execution post, wrapping the rope around his wrists. Rafen couldn’t breathe.
Rafen (The Fledgling Account Book 1) Page 10
