Servant of the King (The Fledgling Account Book 3)

by Y. K. Willemse

  “It would mean benefits and possibly provisions for you,” Alexander shrugged. “However, if that is what you wish, so be it.”

  Robert spoke up from near the hole in the banisters. “May I ask who your new Pirate King is?”

  Concern had furrowed his brow, and Sherwin knew that Robert was thinking the same thing as him: was there a new threat now that Sirius was gone?

  Stalim glanced at him. Then he said clearly, with resentful respect: “Rafen is the new Pirate King.”

  Sherwin stared at him in shock.

  *

  Her father had remained with her, and Etana was glad of it. He was not fit for fighting. They sat in the darkness together.

  She was still massaging Rafen beneath his ribs, keeping him breathing whenever his diaphragm became tight. Her mind kept returning to the Lashki’s appearance – out of Rafen’s mouth. She felt like vomiting every time she thought of it, but it was the only clue she had as to what the Lashki had done to him.

  “I was greatly afraid for you when you left the Hideout,” her father said. “I forbade you because I didn’t want to lose you. But, my dear, I’m not angry at you. I couldn’t be if I tried. You must tell me everything that ha—”

  “Not now, Father,” she said softly. “I am sorry. I don’t think I’m in the mood… you understand, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” he said, watching her with a parent’s thirst. “You say the Lashki was wounded?”

  He had cleared a spot on the floor near Rafen’s side, sitting down in the middle of the glass.

  “He was,” she said. “He was… oh, it was disgusting, Father.”

  “He could not fight?”

  “No. He tried it, but couldn’t.”

  King Robert inhaled deeply. “The Lashki wounded. I never thought I’d live to see it.”

  His eyes moved to Rafen’s still face, and his mouth fell.

  “He will wake again,” Etana said, trying to reassure herself. “But, Father, I’m worried about you. Are you all right?”

  King Robert made a wry face. “Let’s not talk about that now, dear,” he said. “It wouldn’t be good for, ah, your stomach.”

  “Good Zion,” Etana whispered.

  A voice from the side door said, “I can tell you what happened, little Etana. Yes. The Lashki’s torture is painful, isn’t it, Robert?”

  Etana started and turned from where she was massaging Rafen’s diaphragm. Her blood went cold.

  Her Uncle Frankston was standing by the side door in his usual knee-length purple coat, his pebble-like head shining with perspiration. Since the time Etana had last seen him, he had lost most of his remaining grayish-brown hair. He stepped closer on those extremely long legs.

  “Stay back,” King Robert said harshly.

  At the sight of her uncle, a million memories had risen in Etana. She remembered visiting his mansion east of New Isles as a little girl. She had always gotten lost in the corridors, which had great hairy spiders in the corners. Frankston and her father had talked about boring things while servants had escorted the children outside, where they could “play” in a garden that had only sterile, square bushes. Etana should have known from those days, when she had seen Frankston’s large, dog-like brown eyes rove King Robert’s face with palpable envy, that something was wrong. Then, a year ago, Frankston had given the kingdom to the Lashki and betrayed the entire family into his hand, hoping for some reward when they were dead. Bambi had not escaped. In her mind, Etana saw her little black-haired sister frolicking around Frankston’s long legs when they had arrived.

  She rose from Rafen’s side, allowing her father to mimic her kesmalic massage.

  Frankston was watching her, playing with his elongated fingers.

  “The Lashki’s kesmal,” he said. “A wonderful thing. Yes. He kept your family just so that he could entice the Fledgling, if he refused to come.” He pointed at her father. “I watched him when the Lashki made the fits. He knocked his own teeth out, vomited out his bile, bit trenches into his arms. And then he begged—”

  “SHUT UP!” Etana shrieked.

  Her father was still sitting in a trembling heap at Rafen’s side, kneading his fingers into his diaphragm, and Etana didn’t want to hear more. For the first time in her life, she wanted to kill. She stretched her ring into a scepter in a heartbeat. Frankston did nothing to stop her, only watched with large, mocking eyes.

  “A fight. Yes,” he said. “Just what I wanted.”

  “Etana, no!” her father cried, but Frankston had stretched out his arms like some conjuror. A wave rushed through the air toward her, and her breath caught in her chest. It was closing in around her, like an invisible hand, crushing her lungs. She struck out with her scepter, with all the effort she could muster. It was enough; she heard the shattering of the kesmal, even though she couldn’t see it. Suddenly she could breathe again.

  Feathery purple laced the air around her, and the darkness was abruptly lost in its flurry. It was going straight for her eyes. She screamed, swinging her scepter around. The golden trail disintegrated the purple. Frankston’s hand shot out and grabbed the front of her ragged dress. He jerked her closer, and a purple blade flashed straight for her head. Etana was dimly aware her father was on his feet, even though he had no weapon. She threw herself back against Frankston’s grasp and broke free, falling onto the tiled floor of the throne room. The kesmalic dagger dived sharply in the air, still going for the area between her eyes. Shrieking, Etana flicked the scepter desperately, but it wasn’t going to be enough…

  The purple knife splintered against the flat golden shield she had constructed a hairsbreadth from her face.

  Frankston leaned over her, breathing shallowly, his nostrils dilated. His hands clawed above as he anticipated breaking her shield.

  King Robert hurled into Frankston’s flank, knocking him sideways. Frankston spun around and seized her father’s throat.

  Casting the shield aside, Etana leapt up so quickly she almost didn’t believe she’d done it. The scepter was raised in an instant, and the spear of light that exploded from its end was the most focused kesmal she had ever produced. Frankston’s gaze slid sideways in the second it took to reach him. He released his brother’s throat too late. The spear passed right through his torso beneath his ribs. With a gleam like the breaking of day, it paused a foot behind Frankston and vanished.

  Frankston stared at Etana, as if waiting for something to happen. Then his eyes rolled up in his head, and he crumpled to the ground, his purple coat askew. It was all so theatrical Etana was sure he was feinting. Shaking, she rushed back to Rafen, forcing him with persuasive hands to keep breathing.

  King Robert stooped and felt his brother’s chest.

  “Don’t!” Etana said shrilly, but her father had already finished.

  He straightened, some of the weariness gone from his eyes. “I do believe you’ve killed him,” he said.

  *

  They had spent an unbelievable twenty minutes searching, or at least, that was what Francisco was hoping they were doing. Mainte and Talmon seemed purposeful, though were leading him well away from the battling Sianians.

  “I do not think this is the right way,” Francisco said, halting in a wide, shadowy hall.

  He realized he should have spoken long ago. Even now, the sudden silence at the edge of his mind reminded him of his brother’s fading consciousness. Francisco’s blood burned urgently.

  “It is the right way,” Talmon said.

  Mainte had dropped behind Francisco, who glanced back nervously, his hand dropping to the pistol at his belt.

  “Can you not see?” Talmon whispered, drawing closer to Francisco and cupping his face in his hand. “You will come back to Tarhia with us. Do you really think Siana will be welcoming to a Tarhian like you?”

  When Francisco pulled back, Mainte’s heavy hand fell on his shoulder. He writhed as Mainte tore the pistol from his holster, threw it away, and wrapped an arm around his torso. Talmon looked on s
erenely.

  “Let me go!” Francisco shouted. “My brother is dying and I need to get help for him! You cannot force me to—”

  Talmon clapped a hand to his mouth. “Shhh. You will come with us, Francisco. You will have your future again.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Living Death

  Francisco struggled desperately, tears springing to his eyes. A thump sounded behind him, and he momentarily wondered if he had been knocked on the head and was about to become unconscious. Yet Mainte’s grip abruptly slackened, and he slumped to the floor behind Francisco. Talmon tore his hand from Francisco’s mouth, stumbling backward, reaching for the pistol in his holster. Faster than the Tarhian king, Jacob rushed past Francisco, and in a leap, he had his sword at Talmon’s throat.

  “The Tarhian king is off his guard.” His crisp Sianian accent carried obvious satisfaction.

  Sweat glistened on Talmon’s forehead. His brown eyes met Francisco’s.

  “You have lost the palace,” Jacob said, and hope thrilled within Francisco. “You have most probably lost Siana. I cannot understand why you did not leave when you could have.”

  His grip on his broadsword tightened when he pressed it against the skin of Talmon’s neck. A bubble of blood appeared.

  “Wait!”

  Francisco surged forward, snatching his arm.

  Jacob stared down at him with disbelief. Talmon’s breathing was a rapid rasp.

  “What am I waiting for, Francisco?” Jacob said.

  “Let him go,” Francisco said softly. “He may change.”

  Talmon laughed bitterly.

  “If I do not kill him now,” Jacob said, “I will have to explain it to the king.”

  A footstep sounded behind them; Francisco turned too late. Mainte drunkenly hurled himself into Jacob’s back. Talmon leapt out of the way gracefully as Jacob fell forward, his sword clattering from his hand. The Tarhian king rushed a few steps down the hall before whirling around with his pistol free and pointing it at Jacob, who jumped up and threw Mainte against a wall. His arms spread, Francisco flew in front of Jacob before Talmon could shoot. Talmon stared at him for a second, his eyes wearing that softness that would become rarer as his years in the Lashki’s service continued.

  He turned and vanished around the corner of the darkened hall. Jacob lunged after him. Mainte scrambled to his feet and sped down the hall in the opposite direction, leaving Francisco entirely alone.

  And his brother was somewhere else in the palace, his life seeping into the cracks between the tiles in the throne room.

  *

  Alakil had vanished after the sudden earthquake that had shaken the Woods around Rafen. He had given a cry of pain, perhaps surrender, his face showing the anguish he had been biting back for a time now. As the basswoods and rocks and pebbles had jumped up and down, Rafen had fallen face forward, but Alakil rose into the air, his toes pointed like those of a dancer. He ascended rapidly and vanished into the seas of black-green leaves.

  Rafen tried once more, wildly, to tear his hands from the rod, and discovered it had turned to a red-brown liquid between his fingers. It slid away along with the blood that had been on his hands.

  The forms of Nazt swooped down upon Rafen, and he clapped dirty hands to his head, trying to hide, like someone who has discovered he is naked. He screamed his desperation in unison with theirs and realized his voice had returned. Then Nazt convulsed abruptly, and when Rafen opened his eyes, wreaths of smoke in the air curled away toward the East. He glanced around, his eyes blurry. Francisco’s corpse was gone too. He gave a shout of fear.

  Had someone stolen his twin? Or had he risen to life again, vindictive, ready to spear him through when his back was turned?

  He leapt to his feet, but the ground was still shaking, and its hardness gave way, becoming a bubbling mire beneath him. He shrieked. It was sucking at his limbs, gurgling; the world about his head narrowed and the trees stretched as the soft ground ate first his lower legs and then his thighs. He threw out frantic arms to grab at anything he could pull himself up by. Shriveled weeds snapped at his touch, and rocks crumbled. The trees were so unrealistically thin now that they looked like elongated needles. Trying kesmal, he discovered this was still denied him. His airways felt blocked when he slid down into the sludgy earth, the tube-like world above him closed from sight.

  At the last moment, he closed his eyes, and felt the muck between his lids and eyeballs. Then he was in the dark, crushed by the sticky mud that was a terrible weight around him. Though he tried pushing out against it, his arms wouldn’t move; they were still far above him somewhere, reaching, reaching. Without thinking, he had opened his mouth to cry out, and now he choked.

  He couldn’t breathe… he couldn’t breathe… he couldn’t breathe…

  “Rafen – lur uki lii,” someone said from above.

  His ears tingled. He hadn’t heard a voice like that in such a long time. The spiraling gray figures and misty white forms that filled his vision seemed to part as the earth about him expanded.

  Etana’s red-gold hair flashed about her white face while she dived, her hands straining for Rafen. A white halo surrounded her, even in the slimy environment. Rafen stretched out filthy hands, his legs still entrenched in the mud. He didn’t know what he had done to deserve such grace.

  “Rafen, you have fallen too far,” Etana said, gripping his arms and pulling with all her might. “I can’t keep helping you to breathe. You must come back to the top and do it yourself.”

  Rafen strained upward, struggling to speak with his dry, soil-filled mouth.

  “You must come back!” Etana gasped. “I have good news. Don’t slip away.”

  Good news?

  Though Rafen tried to shape the words, Etana had already heard him in her mind. He had learned to speak as the spirits around him did.

  “I will tell you when we reach the top,” she said. “Hurry now, come with me.”

  The soil above him seemed to close off as he forced himself upward, Etana’s hands clenched in his own even while gravity threatened to pull him down.

  Don’t leave me, Etana.

  The burning fear that she would vanish kept returning to him.

  “Do you know,” she said, “you’re very brave? You probably haven’t thought about it. You’re too humble for that. That’s a good thing, I suppose. You would make a good king. But you’re also stupid, leaving the Hideout like that – oh, I mustn’t say that. You are intelligent, Rafen. You’re just too brave for your own good.”

  Etana spoke to him about the others: Kasper, King Robert, and more people he couldn’t remember. Their names sounded musical, hopeful to him. Only Sherwin and Francisco remained within his memories, and their faces were mingled with the horror of blood. What they had meant to him before this time, he didn’t know.

  He and Etana reached the Woods again. When he surfaced, he was covered in mud, and his clothes stuck to him. It was difficult keeping his eyelids open, because they too were sticky and moist. He was coughing and retching, for the first time realizing how much he had swallowed, how much was in his ears. He rolled onto his back, the gray and white spirits filling his sight as his abdominal muscles hardened with his exertions. The ground beneath him started to give again, and he was so unbelievably weary he couldn’t move. There was nothing beyond this place.

  “Rafen!”

  Etana was hovering over him, also covered from head to foot now, so that Rafen hardly recognized her. Her hair was plastered to her face in great muddy strands.

  “Get up now, and come with me. No! Zion, no, get up!”

  She tugged at his arms as the ground began to engulf him again.

  “No! Rafen, I have news!”

  He steeled his body and sat up slowly. And then unbelievably, he was rising into the air, his feet leaving the ground. It was easier above land, even though he was crazily tired. The spirits were whispering to him, telling him he was a murderer, he was a corpse, he was Nazt prey, he was alread
y lost. Their cold, lightless eyes stared into his, and their forms brushed his body. He felt their spidery fingers beneath his skin.

  No, he told himself. Don’t listen.

  Etana’s petite body strained above him, still suspended upside down. He reached upward with every thought, his leaden body slowly forcing its way higher.

  “Do you remember Zion?” Etana panted. “Or do you not know who He is anymore?”

  At the name, Rafen redoubled his efforts. Zion. A burst of gold appeared in his mind. The Phoenix’s smoldering eye stared at him out of a red haze.

  He found he was flying, the leaves and branches of the basswoods scratching his face, Etana still ahead of him, still talking and calling. It was so familiar, even in this dead world. She had soared with him once before. He looked at her, saw her through the filth, and remembered the soul of another of the Eleven, one of those divinely created for the world’s protection. They had been companions in the most profound sense.

  The sky above them was gray and glassy, and Rafen knew they were going to crack their heads against it. The spirits kept blinding him. Their multifarious forms – bald children with bloated bellies; ancient men with three arms; birds with leathery wings – flew in his face as he shot toward the heavens. Zion, Zion – behind the pallid ceiling, he thought he could see the Phoenix.

  They hit the sky with shuddering impact that nearly sent him plummeting again. His weariness assailed him; he was blacking out. The glass around him had become water, and they were swimming through it, breathless, Rafen unfurling his arms around himself, blindly searching for the surface. The mud was slowly peeling off him in the water, swirling around him.

  His sight cleared momentarily. Now the right way up, Etana had reached their destination first. Her cleansed feet vanished from view, leaving a thick brown trail in the water.

  The surface seemed a million times further away. Whenever he tried to propel himself toward it, he felt like he was going nowhere.

  Zion, please!

  The spirits were clawing at him. He felt them in his flesh, crawling in his veins, fogging his brain. He couldn’t breathe, and the world was going black.