Servant of the King (The Fledgling Account Book 3)

by Y. K. Willemse

  She leapt to her feet, staring around at her family, counting: Bertilde, Robert, Kasper, her parents. That made five. All of them were there. Tears filled her eyes.

  “Thank Zion,” she whispered.

  “My daughter,” King Robert said huskily, coming toward her with open arms.

  “No, no, wait,” Etana said, glancing down quickly at Rafen. He was not breathing again. She fell to her knees beside him, performing the necessary actions. “Mother? What happened to Mother?”

  She could barely get the words out past her own sobbing.

  “The Lashki,” King Robert said, leaning over her and staring at Rafen with horror. “When he was chasing Francisco, Arlene let the boy out. She thought he was Rafen. The Lashki was furious – blasted her arm off. Dear Zion.”

  Tears streaming down her cheeks, Etana looked up at her mother, who approached her.

  “I could not watch the Lashki kill Rafen,” Queen Arlene said. “Siana’s last chance would have been gone.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Etana said.

  Queen Arlene’s lip trembled. She stooped and wrapped Etana in a one-armed hug. Etana wept against her shoulder for only a moment before returning to Rafen.

  “I love you,” she gasped. “I really do.”

  For a moment, there was silence. Then Queen Arlene said, almost inarticulately,

  “I too.” She stepped away quickly, as if afraid of her emotions.

  “How did you survive?” Etana asked, looking first at her father and then her mother. “How in Zion’s name?”

  “Oh, he wouldn’t kill us,” King Robert said. “Not while Rafen was around, and we were his possible bait. He was doing everything possible to lure him here, and I wish to the Phoenix it hadn’t worked. He used us. Tortured us. Not all of us, mind. Some more than others.”

  A sharp lump in Etana’s throat stopped her from speaking as she looked at her beaten, haggard father. Bits of his hair were missing, exposing bald spots, and his eyes were bloodshot.

  “Tell us how you have been, my daughter,” he pressed.

  The other Selsons had crowded around. Sherwin stood near Robert and Kasper, unable to tear his eyes off Rafen.

  “For Zion’s sake,” Etana snapped. “Nobody’s going to do any good staying here, are they? There’s a battle for the New Isles palace going on.”

  “I’m not leavin’,” Sherwin said staunchly, stooping to retrieve his sword.

  “Don’t be stupid, old chap,” Kasper said, grabbing his shoulder and pulling him away.

  Sherwin threw his hand off.

  “You can’t help Rafen by staying here,” Robert said. “If we don’t fight, we may never win back this palace. Now is the time. Alexander’s men have probably moved from Prisoner’s Column, but if we progress to the edge of the keep, we may catch up with them.”

  So that’s how they found us, Etana thought.

  Alexander had survived. He had probably followed Sirius’ men into the palace when he had seen them on the move.

  *

  Still swallowed in the blinding white horror of his twin’s experience, Francisco was miserably lost. He kept ducking behind tapestries along the corridors when enemies and other people he didn’t know rushed past. Some looked distinctly Sianian, but other times there were oddly dressed men whom he took to be pirates: someone like a court jester in brilliant yellow pants; someone dressed in a stained and tattered Sartian uniform; a very tall, hunted looking Zaldian. The strangest thing was that they appeared to be fighting with the Sianians.

  There had been philosophers among Jacob’s men, but they were easily lost amid the hundreds of other people who surged through the corridors, knocking paintings and tapestries off the walls, and igniting the long blue carpets running through the halls.

  Francisco peeked out from behind his tapestry after the latest invasion. A chandelier had come down, and a door across from him hung off its hinges. Many of the torches had been snatched from the walls by passers-by, so that it was hard to see in the nighttime black. Creeping out, he gingerly moved down the corridor.

  His brother’s face was imprinted on his mind. He had to find a philosopher. His aching head was spinning, and he couldn’t forget the numbing pain he had felt when the Lashki must have first attacked Rafen. He did not know specifically what had hurt. Everything and nothing had been in agony at the same time. And then the whisperings of Nazt had begun, pale and distant compared to what Rafen must hear, Francisco knew. It made his skin crawl, as if someone were constantly fingering him.

  “I do not know where he is,” Talmon’s voice said from a distance.

  Francisco froze, glancing around himself.

  “That is what, ah, concerns me.”

  The Tarhian king swung around the corner at the end of the corridor, in conversation with his large-headed general Mainte, who bore a torch. Seeing Francisco, Mainte whipped a pistol from its holster. Talmon seized his arm with a vice-like grip, looking uncertainly at Francisco. Francisco stared back at the man he had once called father. Though he recoiled, Talmon was taking careful note of him, scanning his clothes, his expressions, and the marks of old bruises on his face. He forced Mainte’s arm down.

  “Francisco,” he said softly. “It is you, yes? You are in trouble. Come with me.”

  Francisco shook his head.

  “The others will not have to know,” Talmon said. He was speaking Tongue so that Mainte could not understand him. “We will take a ship and go now. Come, Francisco.”

  Explosions, shouts, and the clatter of swords sounded in the nearby corridors. Francisco continued staring at Talmon, unable to speak. The last time he had seen Talmon, the king had risked everything to save his life. Once in the Hideout, Francisco had confessed to Rafen how much he missed Talmon. Rafen had been surprisingly understanding, despite his palpable hate for the Tarhian king. After all, Rafen too knew what it was like to be suddenly severed from a foster father. He too understood what it was like to go from being a prince to the low scum of a filthy bloodline. Once, Francisco had mattered. Now he was a human.

  “You have no future with them,” Talmon said, stepping closer with the hesitance of a man trying to tame a wild horse. “With me, you will be the heir to a kingdom. You will never go hungry. You will never be hurt.”

  He was close now, and he raised a hand to touch Francisco’s blackened eye. Francisco breathed shallowly. What would be wrong with giving in to Talmon? If Elizabeth was dead, and his brother was going the same way, what more did he have? He had once loved Talmon. He could do so again…

  Flinching, he stepped back. “No.”

  Talmon’s face fell.

  “I do not want you to be hurt,” Francisco said. “Please believe me. I still remember you and think of you. You would try to show me love. But I cannot be bound to a future with the Lashki. I must help my brother.”

  Part of him longed to know if Talmon had been punished for helping him. He wanted to show sympathy, show he cared, yet his tongue was thick in his throat.

  “You were once my son,” Talmon said softly, although with venom, “before you accepted the trifling affection of that worm Roger. Where is he now? Did he let this happen to you?” He indicated Francisco’s bruises and filthy, ragged clothes. “He has no loyalties except those to his own skin,” Talmon said. “He will betray you and serve the Lashki again, should his life depend on it. And then you will wish you listened to me.”

  “I’m not on this side because of Roger,” Francisco said shrilly. Mainte hovered behind Talmon, curious. “I serve the Phoenix and his Fledgling.”

  Panic lit Talmon’s eyes momentarily. “Shhshh,” he said, motioning silence. “You must not let that be heard by—”

  “I do not care if the world knows it,” Francisco said, urgency building in his veins. “I must go. I have something to do.”

  “You are lost, my son. Let me show you the way.”

  Francisco’s eyes widened. “Why would you do this?”

  “Must you ask?” Ta
lmon told him. “I do not want you to die in this place. Come. What do you seek?”

  “A philosopher from among Jacob Aneurin’s men.”

  Talmon’s eyes narrowed. “I will guide you to within a corridor of them, and no further. Have you seen Master?”

  “Gone,” Francisco said quietly. “I do not know where. He was very hurt… he vanished.”

  Talmon muttered a curse under his breath. “Do not tell me what this errand is for,” he said. “I do not want to know.”

  He turned on his heel, and Francisco hurried after him and Mainte.

  *

  A bullet whizzed over Sherwin’s head and he ducked. He thought he might black out with the pain of his unexpected headache. He couldn’t even do the kesmal that had come so easily to him before.

  Robert grabbed his arm and pulled him down behind the shadowy banisters running along the gallery.

  The stairs were crowded with Tarhians, Ashurites, pirates, and Sianians. Amid the turmoil, one thing was clear: the pirates were fighting for them. Kasper squatted next to Robert and Sherwin with Stalim, one of Sirius’ men. Stalim glanced at them with disgust, but if he wanted to see their heads cracked open, he made no attempt to do it himself.

  “Why are you helping us again, old fruit?” Kasper asked.

  Stalim gritted his teeth. “The old Pirate King is dead. According to Vagabond Law, Sirius’ murderer now has the Pirate Kingdom. If we fail to obey him, we will be eternally damned.”

  “By what?” Kasper asked curiously.

  The clamor from the people on the stairs swallowed his voice. The Tarhians were trying to get down the steps so that they could escape the keep and eventually get out of the castle. They had been surprised by the Sianians and the pirates, who had sent climbers into the keep ahead of time to open the way for the rest of the warriors fighting to free the New Isles’ palace.

  “The gods,” Stalim answered. “But I’m also told the new Pirate King has threatened to kill those of us players who disobey him.”

  Kasper raised his eyebrows and tried to look knowledgeable.

  “Tarhians from behind!” Robert yelled, leaping to his feet and whirling around.

  He swung his sword into the blade of one of the twenty, whose group had descended some stairs leading to their gallery. Stalim sprang up, slicing an attacker with his cutlass. A Tarhian threw Kasper back against the banister, an ominous cracking of wood sounding as kesmal from below hit it to his left. Kasper struggled to regain his balance, swaying for a minute, but the Tarhian pulled back his fist and threw it into Kasper’s eye. Kasper toppled out of sight over the edge of the gallery, landing with a dull thump below.

  “Kasper!” Sherwin yelled in panic, clashing swords with a short Tarhian.

  An Ashurite on the stairs had spotted Robert, Sherwin, and Stalim, and he swung his polearm around to point at the Sianian prince. Having killed his attacker, Stalim had a moment to shoot at the philosopher with a stolen pistol before he was forced to move onto another foe.

  “Robert, stay out of fire!” Sherwin yelled, striking his opponent on the head with the flat of his blade.

  The Tarhian collapsed, and another surged forward to take his place, his sword tip coming dangerously close to Sherwin’s ribs. Sherwin leapt back and found he was teetering on the edge of the gallery where the banisters had been broken. A writhing, snake-like explosion of florid pink filled the air briefly. Robert ducked, and the Tarhians cursed and screamed as the kesmal blasted a hole through the wall behind them, taking two blue coats with it.

  A sudden burst of pain in Sherwin’s shoulder drew his attention. Fighting absentmindedly, he had let his guard down. Blood soaked his left sleeve, and along with his pounding head, it was enough. The impact of the blow sent him reeling, and he lost his balance completely and fell backward over the edge of the gallery.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Frankston’s

  Final Fight

  His headache was agony, even more painful than his wound. For a minute, he saw a world of comfortable white within the Mountains. He was lying on the snow, drinking in the moisture as he had in the days of his youth.

  Landing on two fighters, he rolled over, discovering with relief that he had not broken any bones. The Tarhian beneath him barked something he didn’t understand and kicked him between the legs. Sherwin howled in pain, managing to scramble off with disjointed movements.

  The Tarhian struggled upright behind him, but even as he did so, the Sianian he had been fighting – who had recovered from the shock of being hit on the shoulder by Sherwin’s foot – ran him through between the ribs. The Tarhian grunted with the blow and fell backward onto the floor when the Sianian jerked his sword free.

  From the darkened end of the hallway, a tall, broad-shouldered man rushed into view bearing a torch and shouting:

  “Victory! Victory! The palace is won! Victory!”

  Behind him, a horde of men dashed forward, Sianians and pirates united. Alexander stepped sideways to allow the living juggernaut to rush up the stairs. A woman with waist-length white hair halted at his side, holding a glass scepter that gleamed with brilliant, colorless light. The Tarhians on the stairs were trying to get back up now, and Sherwin could barely see the top of Robert’s head. He was engulfed and cried out in pain as a blade flashed near him.

  “Robert!” Sherwin hollered, staggering to his feet.

  Stalim was still fighting furiously, three Tarhians at a time. The philosopher on the stairs vanished beneath an explosion of light from the glass scepter. The white-haired woman, whom Sherwin was certain he had seen before, was moving swiftly toward the churning crowd, the glass scepter flashing in startling kesmalic sequences.

  “Retreat!” a Tarhian in an adorned coat screamed. “Retreat!”

  He was backing away toward the stairs ascending from the gallery, his face gleaming with sweat.

  The original flight of stairs that had been a battle scene for so long was now won. The Tarhians and Ashurites on it had been cut or blasted down, and bodies were being hurled over the banisters as the Sianians and pirates ran up toward the blue coats on the gallery, of which there were about a dozen.

  His shoulder still bleeding, Sherwin raced up after them, trying to forget about his head and bruises. Though Kasper was nowhere to be seen, he could at least help Robert.

  Seven Tarhians had fallen, and the remaining five were now surrounded. They fell on their knees, begging in both Tarhian and Tongue. Robert lurched into view on the edge of the Sianian crowd near the gallery’s banisters. He clutched a shallow wound in the upper chest, white-faced.

  “Where is Kasper?” he shouted to Sherwin.

  “I don’ know,” Sherwin said, shaking his head.

  He felt sick to his stomach as he climbed over the numerous bodies to reach the top of the stairs.

  “There you are, old fruit,” a familiar voice said behind.

  Kasper laid a hand on Sherwin’s bleeding shoulder gently and felt around the injury.

  “I think you’ll live,” he said with a wink when they reached the top of the stairs.

  “What abou’ yer?” Sherwin said. “Are yer all right after that fall?”

  “Of course, old fellow,” Kasper said. “Broken wrist, I think.” He wriggled his right arm gingerly. “Couldn’t fight at all. Went into a side room to find something to throw with my left hand, and two Tarhians came along to keep me company. I got them with the table. Say, I think it’s midnight. And Grandmother’s back from Sarient!”

  “Glad yer okay,” Sherwin said. “Robert? Are yer all right?”

  “It’s not deep,” Robert called back, looking faintly sick.

  The white-haired woman pushed through the people behind Sherwin and grasped Kasper’s hand.

  “Grandmother Adelphia,” Kasper said in relief.

  “Well done,” she said. “I have been beguiled by false letters and by that idiot King Albert, who never let on what was happening in this province. And unfortunately, my Si
ght is seldom accurate over a long distance, with the result that I never guessed how terrible things really were here. I wish to Zion I could have come sooner. Sherwin, well done.”

  She squeezed his hand with a light, but meaningful pressure. Sherwin met her eyes, amazed enough to triple his current headache. She knew his name somehow.

  Below, Alexander stood in the middle of the stairs leading to the gallery. A crowd had gathered around him, and it stretched into the hallway behind, Sianians and pirates mixed. Alexander eyed them with the faintest traces of suspicion. While many of the Sianians were cheering and embracing each other, at least half were silent, thinking about wounds and lost friends and family members. The pirates around them remained grim-faced and mute.

  “I want to know,” Alexander called in a ringing voice, “why you vagabonds have decided to fight with us. Who commanded you to lay siege to the palace, and what reward do you expect? Is there a spokesman I can see?”

  On the gallery, Stalim shoved through the Sianians and his fellow pirates until he was also at the top of the stairs with Adelphia, Kasper, and Sherwin, in plain view.

  “I am the spokesman,” he said. “The new Pirate King, killer of Sirius, commanded us to attack the palace and win it back. He mentioned no reward except returning to our islands.”

  “And you will listen?” Alexander asked, incredulous.

  “Unless he is dead, we are bound to obey what he said,” Stalim answered. “He killed Sirius in a fair fight.” His face was not that of a liar.

  “I see,” Alexander said slowly. “Once the old king of Siana is restored, we may sign a pact with you pirates, if—”

  “No,” Stalim said loudly. “We don’t want your pacts.” He spat the last word.