“How do the Tarhians treat their prisoners?” he asked.
Rafen began to sweat.
Looking sour, King Albert said, “Perhaps you cannot answer for Etana. But what about you? How did they treat you?”
“I think it is in the letter, Your Majesty,” Rafen said, dry-mouthed. “I must hear it from your own lips.”
Rafen glanced at King Robert, who met his eyes, his sagging face imploring. Etana was playing with her long red-gold hair. Her eyes betrayed her anxiety. If Rafen didn’t speak, then King Robert’s accusations of King Talmon would be deemed unfounded.
Rafen fixed his eyes on a crack in the wooden desk and softly began. Richard Patrick sat sipping a chalice of wine. Occasionally he yawned. King Robert was scratching notes for King Albert on some blank parchment while the Sartian emperor listened without interest, gazing into the air.
Rafen found it easier this time, more like talking to a great, ugly gargoyle than anything else. He spoke in a flat voice, taking care not to leave out any details: Mary’s death, Etana’s starved appearance during the escape, Torius’ death, his own lashing, the massacre in the mine, and then his own near execution. It was only when Rafen got to the lashing that someone reacted. He looked up from the crack on the table to see King Robert writing furiously for King Albert while Etana buried her face in his side, her little form shaking. Rafen wanted to hug her.
Richard gazed with regret into the depths of his now empty chalice.
Rafen finished. As if waking from a nap, King Albert drew in a deep breath.
“I see,” he said. “Is this all written down, Robert?”
“Indeed it is, Your Majesty,” King Robert rumbled, wrapping an arm around Etana and passing a small pile of parchment to King Albert with his free hand.
“Good.” King Albert rose from the throne to skim pages. “It seems then, that King Talmon’s guilt is confirmed.”
King Robert let out a noisy sigh of relief. Etana still had her head hidden in his side, and Rafen wondered if she’d heard anything.
“A penalty will be duly considered,” King Albert announced. “However, I have another matter I wish to discuss before we close this interview.” He placed the parchment on the desk and rested a great, black-haired hand on top of it. “Are your parents dead, Rafen?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Rafen replied, wondering where this was going. He looked at the smug Richard, who now expectantly tapped his chalice with one fingernail, looking around to see if anyone was going to materialize and refill it.
“Do you know who they were, Rafen?”
“No, Your Majesty,” he answered. “Perhaps noble.”
He added this because Phil had once mentioned it. The idea held nothing for Rafen. He didn’t care. Still, he did like to imagine his parents as fighters, adult forms of Torius, who had defied Talmon and died without surrendering.
“Then no one knows how Rafen got his name,” King Albert said to no one in particular.
“No, Your Majesty,” King Robert answered, his forehead furrowed behind the amethyst that proclaimed him a Sianian monarch.
“A small dilemma,” King Albert said, “but easily solved.”
“Not execution, Your Majesty!” King Robert burst out, his whole face trembling.
Rafen flinched. Uncomprehendingly, he stumbled backward, his hand moving to his sword hilt.
Etana tore her face from her father’s side. “Nobody’s touching him!” she shouted.
Richard looked mildly interested.
“No, no, no,” King Albert said with a laugh like a bark, “we mustn’t do that now. It would be no good to execute a witness, and besides which, I do have respect for anyone who comes out of the East bearing that name.”
Rafen’s hand tightened on his sword hilt. Heart drumming, he glanced over his shoulder at the guarded double doors he’d entered by. It was all frighteningly familiar. He remembered Talmon’s Master speaking about whether he should live or die.
“It’s all right, Rafen,” King Robert reassured him.
Rafen shot him a filthy look, and Richard actually laughed.
“His name must not be promulgated,” King Albert said.
Gritting his teeth, Rafen wished King Albert would use words he understood.
“To others he must be known as… as…” King Albert struggled to find a suitable name.
“Pedro,” King Robert said. “Pedro is his second name. Your Majesty, perhaps you might, er, explain to the boy why we would not announce his name to the Sianian public.”
“That is quite unnecessary,” King Albert said.
“It is entirely necessary,” Etana began sharply. “Rafen—”
“Stay your tongue!” King Albert growled at her, swelling with indignation. “Your daughter is impudent, Robert.”
Etana looked as if she might cry again.
Pointing a thick finger at Rafen, King Albert said, “You bear a sacred name, which is why it must not be promulgated. It is Sianian law that unless a person named Rafen is the fulfillment of certain prophecies, he is to be executed for high blasphemy because he has claimed a name not his own. However, so far by an absurd collection of coincidences, you fit the prophecies. No one knows why your parents named you Rafen. They were probably mad.”
Rafen narrowed his eyes. He had mental images of his parents, and they had not been mad. They had been more than laborers, though less than nobility. Foreign, they had been from a land far away from Tarhia and were terribly, fiercely good. His father had been a lot like King Robert. Rafen liked to think they were watching him with pride.
“Because we don’t know what your parents were thinking, we shall not execute you. Yet your name isn’t to be announced to the public because it is not confirmed you are the true Fledgling of the Phoenix, which is what your name means.”
“Yes, Sire,” Rafen said softly, slowly unwrapping his hand from his sword hilt. He hadn’t realized there were prophecies about his name. He wished he could see them.
King Albert watched him with mistrust. Etana rubbed her eyes.
“So if it is proved I am not the Fledgling of the Phoenix, I will be… executed?” Rafen hissed through his teeth.
King Robert turned fearfully to King Albert. The Sartian emperor’s colorless beady eyes roved Rafen’s face.
“If it was known who your parents were and what their intention was in naming you, yes, then you would probably be executed. If not, your name would be changed. Unless, of course, you claimed to be the Fledgling when you clearly weren’t.”
“I see,” Rafen said. He would cut anyone to pieces before they changed his name. He wasn’t going to be a number again.
“Before we adjourn this little meeting,” King Robert said, hurrying to change the topic, “I would like to know what is going to be done about Talmon.”
“What indeed?” Richard sniffed, looking up from his chalice. “He hasn’t done anything to me.”
“Are we going to fight Talmon?” King Robert asked King Albert. “Is there going to be war against Tarhia?”
“No, no, no.” King Albert rolled up the parchments before him. “That would be unnecessary and would only spend valuable funds.”
“What?” Etana screeched.
“Shouldn’t we stop him while he can be stopped?” King Robert asked. “Didn’t I tell Your Majesty he was not the only one behind Etana’s abduction?”
“Of course,” King Albert said, “which is another reason why we would rather not start a war.”
Etana’s mouth fell open. Rafen stared in disbelief.
“We cannot ignore the Lashki Mirah, Albert,” King Robert said through clenched teeth.
“That is none of your concern, Robert,” King Albert snarled, “and you are to call me ‘Your Majesty’!”
The last sentence was bellowed. Echoes chased each other around the throne room. Richard clapped his hands as if he were at a show.
King Robert swallowed several times. “Will we boycott Talmon then, Your Majesty?”<
br />
Rafen started to mouth “what is boycott?” to Etana. Richard interrupted.
“I’ve run out of wine. Didn’t you hear me tapping?” He tapped his chalice again furiously.
King Albert summoned a guard, who was dispatched for more wine.
“Neither will we boycott him,” the Sartian king continued. “Tarhia’s kesmalic supplies are invaluable. Besides, the world mostly runs off the mineral deposits there. We will instead cast Tarhia out of the Pilmùric Alliance.”
“Is that… all that will be done?” King Robert asked, slowly and deliberately.
“All?” King Albert retorted, slapping the table with the roll of parchments in his hand. “All? Being cast from the Pilamùric Alliance is the supreme disgrace! He will not receive armed aid if he should be attacked, and there will be no treaties or agreements between Tarhia and any other member of the Pilamùric Alliance. Nor will Talmon come to the Urain Moot.”
“Which is only held every twenty years anyway,” Etana said before King Robert could stop her.
King Albert’s face darkened.
“All we are doing,” King Robert rumbled, visibly shaking, “is saying we are no longer allies with Talmon. We are not opposing him as an enemy. We are leaving him in peace while he prepares for his next assault on the worshippers of Zion. And he abducted my daughter!” King Robert was thundering by this time.
“Speak to me that way again,” King Albert said in a deadly tone, glaring at the Sianian king, “and I will reconsider why the Sartian Empire put you on this throne in the first place. I have dealt with Talmon adequately.”
“Your wine, My Liege.” A servant entered and presented Richard with another chalice.
Richard snatched it from his hand and sniffed it. “Ghastly,” he said, wearing a smug smile. “You Sianians have no taste.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Testing Blades
against Richard
Images of Mary, Torius, and the other children who had died in Talmon’s mine kept drifting across Rafen’s mind. Talmon was getting away with everything. Over the next two days, Rafen researched the Pilamùric Alliance in several large tomes Queen Arlene loaned him. It was simply an international society forced on the countries Sarient had conquered. All it did was extend formal pleasantries.
His side of the story was not the only one being ignored. King Albert was treating Etana – a Secra – like she didn’t matter at all, simply because he was more afraid of starting a war with the Lashki Mirah than of what might happen if he didn’t. If Etana’s kesmalic ability was more developed, King Albert might have listened to her and King Robert out of sheer terror. As it was, he was the most powerful man in the world (barring the Lashki), and wouldn’t budge if he didn’t want to.
Rafen had thought he would be happy when this interview was over. It was disappointing. He paused from polishing his sword and glanced over the armory.
Something shifted further off.
Jacob had also been teaching Rafen general self-defense, and now Rafen rose silently to his feet like the general had shown him. He was probably hearing one of his strange spies. Someone clattered into the other end of the hall, and he turned around.
It was Etana, her polished, high-heeled riding boots clicking on the stone floor. In the light from the long, thin windows on the right side of the armory, her hair looked like it was on fire.
“Please, Richard,” she said. “Can’t we just be normal cousins?”
“That is not what you call me,” Richard snapped, stalking into the room behind her in a huge, fur-lined coat with puffed sleeves. “My Liege. That’s what you are to call me.”
“But you’re my cousin.”
“Second cousin, My Liege.”
Etana stamped her foot. “You think you can tell me what to do because you happen to be the Runi!” she shouted. “I’m tired of it, Richard, tired, tired, tired. I didn’t realize what they’d betrothed me to. Ever since I was four, I had gotten used to thinking you were simply wonderful. But you’re spoiled and arrogant, Richard, and—”
“You would not dare—” Richard roared – or meant to roar. His voice was breaking, and his words cracked and skipped an octave, becoming a strangled shriek.
Rafen’s laugh caught even him off guard. Richard and Etana whirled to face him.
“Sorry,” Rafen said, looking at Etana with pity.
No wonder she had been unhappy the past few days. She could count on being unhappy the rest of her life if she were marrying Richard.
“Get out,” Richard said.
“I was told to polish my sword.”
“I was told to polish my sword, My Liege,” Richard spat.
“Actually, I’m Rafen,” Rafen said.
“What?” Richard said.
Etana tried to hide a smile.
“I know you’re Rafen,” Richard said in a condescending tone. “I don’t care. Get out of here. Who told you to polish your sword? They can’t be more important than me.”
How did Richard know he was a Runi anyway? Was his kesmal that incredible? Rafen had found out from Bertilde that Richard was going to rule Siana someday, and Rafen hoped to heaven he wouldn’t be there when he did. Apart from that, Richard wasn’t any more extraordinary than the other royal children, only a deal more stupid.
The last two days, Richard had succeeded in making every dinner tormenting. He and King Albert had moved a separate and much grander table than the Selsons’ into the banquet hall, and they sat at separate ends each dinnertime. Yet they still interacted with the Selsons, mostly with contemptuous sniffing, coughing, and disdainful remarks. Richard had made it his special responsibility to insult Rafen whenever he could. Each time he found Rafen in a hallway or room he wanted to be in, he sent Rafen out by yelling at him, poking him, slighting him, or pretending to be allergic to him.
It wouldn’t happen this time.
“The general told me to polish my sword,” Rafen said through gritted teeth. “I can stay if I want to.”
Richard’s face paled, a red glint appearing in his eyes. He started breathing fast.
“What?” he panted. “You can stay if you want to? What gives you the right to—”
“Stop it, Richard!” Etana shouted over him. “He can stay. What is wrong with that?”
“He thinks he can tell the Runi when he wants to come and go!” Richard squealed.
Rafen dropped his polishing cloth and leveled his sword.
“Don’t point that thing at me!” Richard yelled. “That’s high treason.”
Rafen had had enough. Richard and his father behaved awfully like Tarhians, as if they owned the world.
“If you think I’m not listening,” he said, “then make me listen.”
Richard stepped back.
“Rafen,” Etana said warningly.
“All right then.” Richard recovered himself. He stalked over to one of the shelves, snatched a rapier from it, and measured it against his leg. It would have been much too long for Rafen, but Richard was three years older than him, and taller. “May the best man win.” A smile curled his pale pink lips.
Richard was faster than he looked. Before Rafen had time to arrange himself into guarde, he had lunged, jabbing at Rafen’s diaphragm. Rafen stumbled backward and parried rather hopelessly. A belated sting at his diaphragm told him Richard’s sword was sharp. Though Richard hadn’t yet drawn blood, it was only a matter of time. Rafen riposted, parried, and parried again, contemplating calling out to Richard to stop, because they were certainly going to kill themselves. He never got the words out, and before he knew it, he had gained the upper hand in the duel and was lunging over and over, driving Richard back toward the sword shelf.
Etana stood in the doorway, moving in little jerks to see better. “Please, please be careful!”
Richard desperately tried to recover the ground he had lost. He threw himself forward, lunging at Rafen’s ribs. Rafen evaded his sword neatly, replying with a blow to Richard’s thigh with the fl
at of his own blade.
Richard howled like he had been slain and staggered backward. When his heel struck the bottom of the shelf, the mad glint returned to his eyes, and his sword glowed bright yellow. A beam of transparent, yet solid light burst from the sword and shot toward Rafen’s forehead. Rafen fell over himself to get out of the way. He landed on his back on the stone floor, his spine aching.
“No kesmal, Richard!” Etana cried. “How could you be so unfair?”
Richard was directly above him, his sword hovering over Rafen’s chest. Rafen swung his blade upward to point at the prince, something like fire rushing up his arm. He remembered throwing a cockroach across his cell in Tarhia and sending sparks flying from his fingers. An answering burst of light erupted from his own sword, and Richard screamed as he was thrown up and backward against the shelf. A thud sounded, following by tremendous clattering. Still clutching his sword with a shaking hand, Rafen sat up.
Two of the boards in the shelf had fallen out, and Richard was nearly buried in rusty scabbards and polishing cloths. One of his puffed sleeves was blackened and smoking. Richard himself had a bleeding nose and sat in the mess sobbing loudly.
“Well, you deserve it.” Etana stood before him now, staring on with disgust.
His back throbbing, Rafen staggered to his feet.
“You—” Richard choked, pointing at Rafen. “You—”
“I don’t know what I did,” Rafen muttered to Etana.
Rafen (The Fledgling Account Book 1) Page 18
