THE SIANIAN WOLF By Y.K. Willemse
Published by Burnett Young Fiction
P.O. Box 1
Clarklake, MI 49234
ISBN: 978-1-64071-003-0
Copyright © 2015 by Y.K. Willemse
Cover design by Ruth Germon
Interior design by Donato Toledo Jr.
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Brought to you by the creative team at Burnett Young Books:
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Willemse, Y.K.
The Sianian Wolf / Y.K. Willemse 1st ed.
When my heart was grieved
And my spirit embittered,
I was senseless and ignorant;
I was a brute beast before you.
Yet I am always with you;
You hold me by my right hand.
You guide me with your counsel,
And afterward you will take me into glory.
Whom have I in heaven but you?
And earth has nothing I desire besides you.
My flesh and heart may fail,
But God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever ~
Psalm 73: 21-26.
But now, this is what the Lord says –
He who created you, O Jacob,
He who formed you, O Israel:
“Fear not, for I have redeemed you;
I have summoned you by name; you are mine…
When you walk through the fire,
you will not be burned;
the flames will not set you ablaze.
For I am the Lord, your God,
the Holy One of Israel, your Savior –
Isaiah 43:1, 2b-3a.
For my wonderful Mum, who says epics are like life;
For my beautiful grandparents, who had faith in me.
Acknowledgements to Peter Rose,
who donated the laptop on which I typed this novel.
Pronunciation Guide
Rafen – RAH-fen
Lashki Mirah – lash-KIE MIE-rah
Alakil – AH-lah-kile
Etana – e-TAH-nyah
Talmon – TELL-mohn
Torius – taw-REEAS
Philippe – FEE-lip
Carn – CAHR-ryn
Nhanya – NAHN-yah
Parith – Pa-REETH
Rusem – ROOH-sehm
Sarient – SAHR-ree-ahnt
Tarhia – TAHR-reeah
Siana – SIE-ah-nyah
Zal Ricio ’el Nria – zahl ri-KIE-oh ahl n-REEAH
Ruya – ROOH-yah
Renegald – ren-e-GAH-layd
Ranian – RAH-nyian
Darai – DAHR-ay
Crutia – CROOH-tee-ah
Mio Pilamùr – MIE-oh PIE-lah-myur
Mio Urmeea – MIE-oh er-MEE-ah
Nazt – NAHZT
Zion – ZIE-ohn
Secra – seh-CRAH
Setarsia – SEE-TAHR-seeah
Runi – ROOH-NIE
Kesmal – kehs-MAHL
Erasmus – AIR-ras-muhs
Wynne – WIN
Asiel – AH-see-ahl
Chapter One
Siana Again
“The Selsons approach, Your Graces,” the Tarhian messenger said from within the throne room.
Annette could hear the cringe in his voice. She lingered near the open double doors, waiting for who knew what. A cold sweat drenched her body beneath her fitting, shadowy dress. The spirits that she been able to see since childhood danced in her vision, wraiths that taunted her with echoing voices.
“There will be no more updates from this moment,” the Lashki’s low, accented voice answered in Tarhian. “We await them… in state.”
He said the last two words with a strange, disconnected menace. The messenger shuffled in response.
“Dismissed now. Yes,” Frankston added.
The messenger ducked out of the room and glanced at Annette where she stood near the door’s two guards. Annette did not meet his eyes. She watched his skinny figure scuttle away down the corridor.
How does one feel when one’s family is about to be killed? she thought. The question revolved in her brain, and she really couldn’t tell, except that such an awful dread was weighing on her, suffocating her, crushing her limbs, and forcing her eyes back into their swallowing sockets.
“Rafen died too quickly,” the Lashki said. “I would have liked him to see this.”
Frankston gave a nervous snigger. “Yes,” he said. “Yes. An awe-inspiring spectacle, Master.”
Annette knew at that point that her uncle experienced nothing of what she felt. Frankston had told her, not long after he had come to “protect the throne” in his brother’s absence, that he had waited for this moment. The Lashki had impressed her uncle when he was a youth – when the three brothers Thomas, Robert, and Frankston had come to Siana and met the Ashurite her grandfather Fritz had taken in and trained. Though the Lashki had only been teenaged then, Frankston had recognized greatness immediately. In the last two years, he had professed his undying loyalty to the Lashki, and finally the moment had come when he had seen no sense in serving such a leader in the shadows any longer.
Yet Annette was weak; and the rebuke of Nazt, which eclipsed the murmurings of the spirits around her momentarily, was telling her so.
She made a sudden move and started down the corridor to her right, deliberately avoiding passing before the throne room doorframe. She would go to her tower and see her little apprentice. She would tell the sickly girl that she missed her.
After all, Annette really had nothing else in all the world.
*
“Land ahoy!”
Hearing the cry, Rafen ran onto the deck, hurled himself at the ship’s railings, and hungrily watched the country unfurl on the horizon. After twelve months away, they had finally returned to fertile, Zion-blessed Siana. It was far too good to be true.
The sabbatical had been as refreshing as his adopted father King Robert had planned. After a three month voyage, they had stayed for six months in Zal Ricio ’el Nria, the land of dragons, where the swarthy, seven foot Zaldians lived. Even the women were tall and musclebound, though lean. And when a Zaldian bled, an almost black substance, tinged with deep green came out. His father explained that people so far in the West grew differently, and were stronger than others.
During their stay, the Zaldian ruler – called a chief – treated them to the best hospitality his culture offered. This took some getting used to. The
stone beds were unbearable, the alcoholic tonic they drank as frequently as water was acrid, and Rafen found himself getting into arguments with the chief’s fifteen-year-old son all too frequently. However, the scantily furnished, granite houses that were open to the elements were somehow reviving to Rafen. To make things even better, they saw no dragons except the Zaldians’ pets.
He owed the peace throughout the sabbatical to his father. Two days into their voyage, King Robert had written to his brother Lord Frankston, telling him Rafen had died of ongoing wounds since the Lashki’s attack, now a year ago. Frankston, who was holding the throne in his brother’s absence, announced Rafen’s death to Siana.
After Rafen had foiled the Lashki’s attempt to murder King Robert, the king had announced him as the Fledgling of the Phoenix, a legendary leader of the Sianian people. Rafen’s name and Eastern origins meant he fitted the numerous ancient prophecies concerning this figure. His kesmal had proved it. He alone was able to harm the Lashki’s body, and this meant that the Lashki – though he had narrowly failed once – would be determined to kill Rafen before the end. For this reason, King Robert had had numerous philosophers protecting his fleet with kesmal. The huge invisible shields around his ships were renewed every hour.
The lie about Rafen’s death meant they had had a Lashki-less sabbatical, during which Rafen’s preparation for his future as a leader in the Sianian government was continued. While Rafen’s fencing kept improving under Alexander, kesmal evaded him except in the most unusual situations. This meant his kesmal tuition with his mother, Queen Arlene, took him nowhere.
On the brighter side, Rafen had survived to enjoy his fourteenth birthday.
However, now as they drew closer to Siana over the Running Ocean, Rafen knew it was not long before his father would reveal to the people that he was not dead after all. The news would reach the Lashki all too soon. Rafen knew he should be worried, but he was remembering the applause of the people when King Robert had revealed the Fledgling to them. A faint smile appeared on his face.
He couldn’t help feeling excited at returning to Siana. It was here his father had adopted him, after the Lashki had stolen his eldest daughter Annette away. It was here that Rafen had understood freedom, family, love.
Footsteps sounded behind him, and Etana and Bertilde joined him. For once, Bertilde was speechless, though as was usual in any dramatic event, she was sniffing noisily. The wind whipped her buttercup hair around her face. She had grown over the year and now at almost fifteen, she was two heads taller than Rafen, and was beginning to lose some of her former plumpness.
Still only Rafen’s height, thirteen-year-old Etana wore a delighted smile. Her deep red hair, streaked with gold, caught the sun and made her appear superior to mortals. Which was true, Rafen remembered. She was a Secra, and with that fierce joy burning in her face, she looked it. Her blazing blue eyes drank in every part of Siana that emerged with time – the clock tower, around which the tall, narrow houses of New Isles were clustered; the bristling woods which Rafen had missed so violently; the purple-capped mountains behind the city; and slightly to the west, the New Isles palace standing on a hill. At the horizon, the vibrant greenery mingled with the brilliant summer sky, and the three silver moons winked in the light, baubles reflecting the radiant sun.
“Too beautiful for words,” Etana breathed.
Rafen nodded. At this, Bertilde burst into noisier sobs than ever. Etana rolled her eyes.
“I hope you at least are happy to be back,” she said to Rafen.
“I couldn’t be happier,” he replied.
“I am so happy I could die,” Etana told him.
“You mustn’t,” Rafen said, his smile fading instantly. “I would miss you terribly.”
*
“I don’t understand why you fuss about my fussing, Arlene dearest. Everything must be perfect for this walk down the gangplank,” Rafen’s father was saying.
He waddled around the deck of the Phoenix Wing, inspecting each of his six children in turn. A stout man, King Robert’s belly rolled over his broad belt. His red hair was stringier than Etana’s, and it hung to his chin. Almost entirely concealed beneath the fiery strands hanging over his forehead, a thin gold circlet gleamed on his brow. An amethyst was set in the center, above the bridge of his nose. A drooping red moustache sat above his pale pink upper lip. He paused before his eldest son Robert, his watery blue eyes sweeping his apparel, while Rafen’s mother watched with a pursed mouth.
The queen of Siana was tall and slender. Her white blonde hair was pulled back in wreaths of braids, and her heart-shaped, powdered face was often disapproving. Even so, Rafen was struggling to understand why his father had thought his wife was fussing. For the past five minutes, Queen Arlene had merely looked on at the proceedings with cold blue eyes.
“Turn your collar in a little more, boy,” King Robert said.
Several heads taller than King Robert, Prince Robert hastened to obey.
“The people haven’t seen us for an entire year,” Rafen’s father said in his sonorous voice to everyone in general. “We must make a good impression. Kasper.”
A young man, Kasper hastily tried to conceal the earwax he had retrieved from his ear in the pocket of his embroidered tunic. Queen Arlene raised an arched eyebrow as if this was precisely what she had expected to happen.
“Just a little earwax, my love,” Rafen’s father said. “And no one knows where it’s gone except us. Smooth your tunic, Kasper. Dreadful habit of yours, this ear picking.”
“Kasper calls it gold digging,” Bambi piped up from beside Etana.
“Bambi,” Queen Arlene said.
King Robert hastily swallowed a laugh. He gazed around the large oval deck, trying to remember who else he had to examine.
Subdivided into sections by masts, the deck had been scrubbed and swept recently. Sailors, soldiers, philosophers, and the royal family alike peopled the near vicinity. King Robert had brought over two hundred philosophers with him in his fleet of five ships. They were to protect the royal family, Rafen, and the king himself from a possible kesmalic attack. King Robert’s brother Thomas had died at sea.
All watched the king now as he passed from Kasper to Bertilde, who was sobbing with joy at their homecoming.
“Bertilde, you look simply lovely. Only, do keep a dry eye. Etana, stunning.”
King Robert paused before his second youngest daughter, who was pretending to be oblivious to his attentions. Etana was in a vibrant scarlet dress, her ivory skin a striking contrast to her garb and hair.
Ten-year-old Bambi said indignantly, “Don’t I look stunning, father? Don’t I look –”
“Yes, dear. Stand still at the Harbor, won’t you?”
Bambi’s freckled face fell when her father turned away. She sniffed melodramatically, her black hair hanging about her pointy face.
“It’s all right,” Rafen whispered comfortingly to her, before realizing his father was now focused on him. He stiffened.
At fourteen years old, Rafen was still terribly short for his age, due to malnutrition in Tarhia. While his curly black hair was clean and brushed today, some of it still obstinately fell over his forehead. His skin was a healthy olive from much time spent outside, and his dark blue eyes – though a little too old for the rest of him – held a quiet light.
King Robert’s eyes moved over Rafen’s polished black boots, tan breeches, and slashed-sleeve shirt. His gaze lingered on Rafen’s face.
“Quite respectable,” he said, smiling. “My son.”
Rafen’s lips twitched into a smile.
*
“My people.”
It was for all the world like the first time Rafen had stood at the Harbor, listening to King Robert’s speech.
“My people! After a year’s roaming we have gratefully returned to your joyous welcome. Siana could never pass from our minds in our absence, much less her people…”
Standing before the peasants and nobility, who were cluster
ed in a crescent-shaped crowd at the Harbor, King Robert began summarizing his sabbatical and speaking about what he planned to do for Siana now that he had returned. His family stood behind him, surrounded by guards and philosophers. Moored nearby, a collection of towering vessels floated in the sparkling water: black-sailed merchant ships from Vaughān, ragged baleners that the Renegaldian whalers used, the reeking hog boats of Sianian fishermen, and the Phoenix Wing, with the rest of King Robert’s fleet.
As his father continued, Rafen began to feel odd, like he wasn’t getting enough air to breathe. The people’s clapping and cheering sounded somehow false. What rendered clapping hollow and raised voices empty? It was their faces, Rafen decided. His hand drifted to his phoenix feather. One woman at the front of the crowd was bowed and pale, and he felt like he was being sucked toward her by her own inhalations.
He was bodiless again, like in past years! He found himself whirling through the air, disoriented. Behind, his frame stood still and quiet next to Etana and the other Selsons. He felt the presence of more invisible forms flitting through the air around him, realer than the physical beings that filled the Harbor. A whisper filled his consciousness: Zion save the king. They’ve done enough already.
The wind whistled around him. Rafen caught a few more words (took my children) and then he was back in his own body, trying to gulp in enough air to satisfy his lungs, which seemed to have stopped working in his absence.
“What on the Pilamùr are you doing?” Etana hissed in his ear.
“Nothing,” Rafen gasped.
His hand was still on his phoenix feather. Rafen quickly removed it, afraid. Zion was trying to tell him something. Rafen had heard someone’s thoughts, and there was a reason.
“Etana,” he whispered, his chest still heaving, “with kesmal, is it possible—”
“Shh,” Etana said, shoving a finger to Rafen’s lips. Rafen recoiled, taken aback. “I’m trying to listen to father’s speech. Please.”
“Sorry.”
Distracted, Bertilde turned to watch the exchange. Bambi was giggling into a handkerchief while Kasper was saying much too loudly to Robert something about “Rafen’s outlandish behavior”. Rafen’s mother turned to everyone in general and hissed, “Churls.”
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