Rafen pushed his sword fully back into its sheath, agonizingly slowly. “I want to kill. I’ve never wanted to kill before, not like this.”
“You’re not ready,” Etana insisted. “Please, Rafen. Please forget it. Let’s go. Alexander said we were going to Parith. So why don’t we start?”
Despite Etana’s protestations, Rafen had managed to speak quickly with Alexander before she tended his wounds. He had briefly outlined Sirius’ plans to him. Alexander had altered their course accordingly, so that they were now aiming for this city, southeast of Smitton.
Unless Alexander ran him through first, Rafen would meet Sirius again in Parith, he realized. And now he knew the Pirate King was vulnerable.
“Yes,” he said to her. “We will go.”
He transformed once more, to Etana’s delight, and she ran at his side, her footsteps fleet. The experience gradually drove Rafen’s worries from his head. He remembered something like this – a soaring, a plunging, a whirling at the beginning of time. And he remembered Etana’s zest, energy, bright compassion, and easy love.
Stop that, he told himself. You’re not even fifteen. You know nothing about these things.
Etana had overtaken him now, and she laughed a ringing peal before dropping to the buffalo grass lithely and shooting forward like a snake, her legs entwined. Rafen had never seen this kesmal before. She was getting ahead.
He redoubled his efforts, rushing to keep up, aiming ever and always for the north.
*
They stopped at midday. Rafen realized they had traveled much longer and faster without the others. The thought didn’t give him much joy. Alexander, Sherwin, and Francisco would take a while to catch up.
They paused because they had reached a small pond amid ragged goldenrods. The landscape had become rougher as they neared the belt of shrubbery and weeds that led to the Quidon marshes. This change meant they were nearer Parith.
“I don’t understand,” Rafen said, after drinking the bitter pond waters. “It took us weeks to get to Rusem. But we’re not far from Parith already.”
“Easy to explain,” Etana said. “Sirius took the long way round, and kept doubling back and so on, to shake Sherwin, Francisco, and I off.”
“He must have done a good job, because he let me wander from his camp regularly. I practiced kesmal by myself numerous times, and I couldn’t even smell you.”
“He was rather thorough,” Etana said. “We tired to find you, Rafen, we really did! Except with no one to carry Francisco so he could keep up, we went slowly, and we stopped to find Alexander as well. Sirius took horses and wagons and all the rest, and his was also a slow journey. But you and me together – we are fast, Rafen. Very much so.”
She smiled wisely and a little conspiratorially at him. Rafen remembered her telling him about her escape from the Tarhians near the Setarsia palace, the day they had first met. She had used kesmal to hasten her journey, quite unintentionally, and outstripped horsemen by days of travel.
Rafen returned her smile, his thoughts were far away.
“The Lashki knows where you are, doesn’t he?” Etana said.
She said it without fear, her eyes meeting his.
“I think so,” Rafen said softly.
“I knew from your behavior. Sherwin’s right; you are a nervous rack.”
“Wreck.”
“Wreck. My apologies. What will we do in Parith?”
“We’ll warn Lord Cyril Earl,” Rafen said. “He’s kept on good terms with the Tarhians, but Alexander knows for a fact he would rally to us anytime he is asked. If we warn him, he’ll put together some men to fight Sirius.”
“Excellent,” Etana said, as if this could be easily done.
Rafen’s thoughts had grown dark again at the idea of Sirius. He wondered how Sirius’ sword arm would be faring when he got to Parith.
“We don’t have anything to eat,” he remembered. “I’ll catch something for us.”
“It will take too long to cook,” Etana told him. Rafen raised an eyebrow. He had actually been thinking of eating a rabbit raw. However, Etana couldn’t do that, and it wasn’t fair – or genteel – of him to do it in her presence.
She rose and beckoned him to follow. Rafen trailed behind her as she uprooted the small, flowering Plintred plants and tore the roots off. Shaking dirt from them, she nibbled the ends and said, “See? This is easier.”
Rafen grimaced, but followed her example. They foraged for ten minutes before renewing their run. Rafen led this time, because unlike Etana, he could sniff out any danger. It was he who would lead them to Parith.
They journeyed until evening, stopping at the group of rocks and crags that overlooked the last leg of their journey. The rocks were all but dry of vegetation, so Etana gathered some roots before they reached them.
“We can spend the night here,” Rafen told her.
“Good,” she said, walking across a flat pad of stone on which the faintest traces of spoon moss grew. “I have some food for us.”
“Delicious,” Rafen said.
Etana screwed up her nose, detecting his sarcasm as she scrambled onto a higher rock.
“You don’t have to have anything,” she said haughtily.
“I am hungry.”
“Yes. For meat. How are your bruises?”
“Much better. Thank you.” They were now merely a dull ache.
Etana found a smooth area of the rock and lowered herself into a cross-legged position, smoothing her now ragged dress across her knees.
“Just when we’ve got time to cook something, there are no rabbits or pocket gophers around,” Rafen lamented.
“You look better,” Etana said. “The swelling around your eye and lips has gone down. You just look, well, colorful.”
“Wouldn’t want to look boring,” Rafen said, squatting beside her.
The haloed sun was sinking down and the sky above was a diagonal panel in which the clouds hung like upside-down boats, tinged with shadow on one side and stained with pink and purple on the other.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t,” Etana laughed. “You never really have looked boring.”
“What do you mean?”
He looked at her dirt-streaked face. The wind had blown a strand of hair like flame into her mouth, and she brushed it away impatiently. “You’ve looked rather extraordinary,” Etana said, “ever since I first saw you.”
Rafen wasn’t sure what to make of this. The cold evening wind was reminding him of the Lashki. He put his hand to his phoenix feather.
“You see,” Etana explained, “you look different…”
“Francisco and I look much the same,” Rafen said.
“Hmm, not really. Identical, yes. But your eyes and facial expressions aren’t the same. Let’s say you reminded me of certain things.”
“What sort of things?”
Etana passed him a root, and Rafen started chewing idly. It had no flavor.
“My grandfather and my uncle,” Etana said, sucking thoughtfully on another root. “And other things too. Dreams I’ve had. They say that you can see many things in dreams.”
Rafen thought uncomfortably that she was right.
“You look like the Fledgling,” Etana said. “You are the real Rafen after all, the one that has fire for kesmal and can harm the Lashki. And you’ve helped the Sianian people as the Wolf.”
“Not really,” Rafen said bitterly. “I caused a hanging, started a massacre, and drove Wynne to—” He stopped.
“To what?” Etana said. “Despair?”
“She only ever had her father.”
“She’s safe in the Hideout, and she and Bertilde are good friends. You mustn’t punish yourself, Rafen.”
“She’s Zion knows where,” Rafen blurted. “She betrayed us to Sirius, and he killed her.”
Rafen hadn’t wanted to tell Etana this, but somehow it had come out.
“Killed her?”
Etana blanched, the root hanging from her mouth. She removed it
and stared at the darkening sky.
“How horrible,” she said.
Rafen had expected her to react much worse than this.
“Are you sure this is true?” she said.
“Certain. The evidence was all there. Sirius and his jester, Stalim, both confessed to it.”
“Ugh,” Etana said.
She laid a cool hand on his shoulder. Rafen’s guilt was still in his mouth, like vomit.
“Rafen,” Etana said, “Sirius will get justice. You have to believe it. Zion doesn’t let men get away with these things forever.”
“No,” Rafen said, “because I will kill Sirius.”
“Zion doesn’t need you to mete out his justice, Rafen,” Etana said. “You don’t have to do this because you feel guilty. Please put aside these thoughts. They’re only going to poison you. I thought you said once in the Hideout that you hated killing.”
Rafen lowered himself into a sitting position silently. He abruptly realized how Etana must see him when he said such things.
“I wish I could stop,” he said. “I started killing in self defense when I was on my own. And now… you’re right, I hate. I wish I could stop that too.”
“Rafen,” Etana said, her hand moving to his, “you can. Let Zion fill your heart and mind. He can cleanse all things. Be as you were when I first met you. If He means for you to kill Sirius, that moment will come. Don’t let it consume you now.”
Rafen smiled at her and allowed his thoughts to reach for Zion again. He placed his hand on his phoenix feather, closing his eyes as if in prayer.
“I know Zion can give you peace,” Etana said softly. “I’ve seen Him.”
Rafen’s eyes flew open. “When?” he said, hushed.
The sun had sunk completely down now, and the clouds smoked beneath the stars that opened like eyes, one by one. In the distance, bison grunted to each other.
“Oh,” Etana said, flushing. Rafen could see her redden even in the darkness. “It’s a rather private thing, you know, Rafen… but I have seen Him. The night the Lashki attacked Father in his bedchamber, Zion came to me, and…”
She stopped, unsure. Rafen breathed as quietly as possible, not even looking at her, waiting for her to continue.
“Well, He came in sort of a halo and looked at me. And I knew Father was in trouble. I got Richard because I thought he would be some help…”
She wrinkled her nose in disgust. Rafen’s mind was swimming. Etana had seen Zion the same night Rafen had received his phoenix feather – possibly even the same hour.
“Can Zion be in two places at once, Etana?”
“Oh, yes,” Etana said reverently. “He can be everywhere, Rafen. Absolutely everywhere. The air we breathe. For instance, you and I could see Him at the same time, if He wanted us to.”
Rafen’s heart skipped a beat. Etana had come fearfully close to the truth.
“Have you seen Him another time?” he asked, settling down into a cross-legged position like hers. His root was all gone now, and Etana passed him another from the little pouch at her side.
“The night we left the Hideout,” Etana volunteered. “I heard His voice in my head. I had to go with you.”
Rafen smiled. “I guess,” he said, and it was the first time he had admitted it, “He knows best.”
Etana met his eyes and smiled gently. “Yes. So grieve, if you must. But don’t blame yourself for Wynne.”
She rested her back against a sloping rock behind herself and half-closed her eyes. The night air was cold. Rafen flicked his fingers, and a little circular fire leapt up near their feet. He shielded it from unfriendly eyes with his body.
“Mmm,” said Etana contentedly. “I can’t say I liked her much after that night with the knife.”
Rafen, who had been leaning back too, froze. His pity for Wynne welled up again, like a flood in which he could drown. However, Rafen knew he too had always disliked Wynne. His guilt persecuted him for it. He glanced at Etana’s face. Her eyes were closed, and her expression was softened with rest.
Rafen’s hands became sweaty. He was inexplicably driven to kiss her still lips. He was oddly excited and sickened at the same time, particularly with the death of Wynne still in his mind. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was only almost fifteen, and she fourteen. They were like brother and sister. And yet, the unbidden thought drifted into his mind that many women in Siana were married at fifteen, and that a sixteen-year-old male was valued as a man according to Sianian culture.
He bit his lip hard, causing a burst of pain as punishment to himself as he lay back against the rock near Etana and prepared to keep watch while she slept.
In repose, Etana was smiling as if she knew exactly what was going through his head.
Chapter Seventeen
The
Never-Ending
Search
On a fringe of the Cursed Woods, the Naztwai were herded, leaping and gamboling like savage apes. The philosophers at their head eyed them with cold fascination. Rafen stood under a tree nearby, in plain view, yet unseen. He held his breath, because the still tightness of the air and the shallowness of the sky told him something terrible was going forward.
A space in the elongated, black hairy heads of the Naztwai told Rafen they were crowded around something. His wolf’s senses scented food… blood.
His perspective changed, and he could now see between the navy, black-haired bodies, the long pod-like skulls. The Naztwai jostled, banging heads and grabbing each other with sinewy, heavily-knuckled hands. Some sank stained, terribly sharp teeth into the rock-like flesh of their fellows. Their long, whistle-like shrieks were piercing. In the center of the mad mash of bodies, a peasant in tanned, mud-stained clothes stood, clutching a cracked axe, thus far unharmed but for a long gash down his left calf. The Naztwai pressed closer, grappling each other.
One of the tallest Naztwai, closest to the man, rested yellowed bloodshot eyes on him. They all abruptly realized what they were fighting about. The tall Naztwai crouched and snapped into a leap, tumbling on top of the farmer. The man screamed as they both came down, and the clawed hand carved into his chest.
The crowd became a blue-black pile, mercifully hiding the gore from Rafen’s sight. Rafen’s heart thundered in his chest. The smell of blood was tremendously strong, and the philosophers gazed on with stony eyes.
*
Glazed with sweat, he awoke shaking uncontrollably and pulled himself to his feet. His legs scarcely held him up. Etana sprang up too, her hand on his forehead. They had exchanged the watch about an hour ago.
“Rafen, Rafen, it’s all right,” she said. “You are finding it hard to rest after fleeing, that is all. All is well.”
“No,” Rafen gasped. “No, it’s not.”
Etana opened her mouth to gainsay him, but stopped. The last time Rafen had contradicted her in this manner, all had not been well, and Bambi had died as testimony to it.
“What is it?” she whispered. “You have seen something. Your eyes were half-open.”
Rafen stared at the sky. The rocks upon which they stood were bathed pale white. The three moons, now forming a “v” in the sky, were completely unclouded.
“I saw - I saw—” Rafen said, his voice slurred “—Naztwai… on the eastern edge of the Cursed Woods.”
Etana stared back, clueless. “What then?”
“A man… they were fighting, eating him…”
Etana closed her eyes, a tremor running down her back.
“There were philosophers with them, watching them like cattle,” Rafen went on.
“Did you know any of them?”
“No. There were six. A couple of Ashurites. I didn’t know them – wait. Asiel was there. He was at their edge.”
Etana shuddered. She had heard about Asiel. “Did you hear them say anything?”
“Nothing. They said nothing.”
“Did the man say anything?”
“Nothing… I could understand,” Rafen said, shivering.
&
nbsp; “Do you need something to eat, to steady you?”
“No. Etana, did it really happen? Or is it the future? Is there something we can do?”
“Have you ever had this happen before?”
“Once… no, twice. In Rusem, I saw Naztwai again, running through the Cursed Woods.”
Etana looked into his eyes intently. “Did you find out anything that proved they were?”
“Nothing.”
“The other time?”
“It was in the future… I know it was. I was eighteen.”
“This might have been the future,” Etana said doubtfully, stroking the ring on the index finger of her left hand.
“How can I know?”
“You can’t, unless we go to the Cursed Woods. But we are leginis away.”
“Then after we’ve warned Parith, we need to go there to find out,” Rafen said. To his surprise, she didn’t contradict him.
His hand moved to his phoenix feather, and her eyes followed the move. Unlike other times, Rafen didn’t feel uncomfortable with her watching him doing this. He forced himself to breathe deeply.
Zion, you can help us, he thought.
“You have warned us before,” Etana said. “And we didn’t listen. I will not forget this, Rafen.”
*
Annette had come to visit the Naztwai camp when she had been sure he was not there. Foolish girl! He spent all his available time there now. Without resting, he ceaselessly created the Naztwai from debris, the carcasses of animals, the remainders of corpses. He fashioned them, always keeping a connection between their unified minds and his. The Naztwai shared one consciousness between them, and it was so much feebler than his. He could have sent them all hurling themselves from a cliff at a whim. But he chose to keep them exercising the majority of the time, running in ceaseless circles, jumping, tramping, champing. Though they ate little, their appetites were tremendous.
She had appeared there one day when he had summoned Asiel. She had passed through the trees, her thin dagger in hand, her expression one of mild intrigue as she watched the thousand Naztwai all jumping. They looked ridiculous, so purposeless, so stupid. It gratified him.
He turned around, and her pale green eyes widened. In a flash, she had vanished through the trees.
Servant of the King (The Fledgling Account Book 3) Page 15
