*
Erasmus spent the next few days with Rafen. The arrangement, though uncomfortable, was a necessity. Rafen needed someone to steady him when he walked on two feet, and he found speaking hard. His digestive system took forty-eight hours to come right, and even after that, Rafen didn’t want to eat. Meat made him nauseous. Bread, roots, air potatoes, blackberries – anything relatively normal – tasted foreign and were hard to swallow. He was very lean. His head still thundered as if he had an army of miners picking away in it. All this told Rafen he had been a wolf for far longer than ever before. When Erasmus mentioned the date, Rafen realized it had been a little over three months – something he had suspected from the crisp, windy weather, which was cooler than he remembered. The four month summer was over and the long winter had begun. It was Rinar, the sixth month. As the leaves fell from the trees in fits and gusts, Rafen’s spirits plummeted. It had been a mistake to return to his normal form. All he wanted was to run with the wolves again, allowing his mind to spin into oblivion. While his conscience pricked him for not trying to find Alexander – for the admiral would be sure to fight for Siana despite all that had happened – Rafen knew in his heart he could never face the man again, not after failing the Selsons like this.
At fifty, Erasmus was fitter and healthier than Rafen. He had served in the Sianian army for twenty years in his youth. His movements were quick and watchful, and he always carried a weapon. Rafen only had to stir for Erasmus’ attention to be nailed to him.
Erasmus didn’t seem to mind taking care of Rafen rather than his own daughter, Wynne. He provided Rafen with everything – food, water, and even some new, baggy clothes, which Rafen changed into himself in order to keep his phoenix feather concealed. Rafen decided Erasmus wanted something from him. Why would a man help someone who had mauled his leg so badly that he had permanent limp?
Rafen received a hint eventually. They were by the river, where Erasmus was poking the swirling waters with a long stick. Rafen stooped to fill the water pouch, his legs aching as he bent them. He glanced at the opposite bank, remembering Roger. A wild turkey stared back at him.
Rafen rose, holding the dripping water pouch. He drank and passed it to Erasmus, who stared at it as if it reminded him of something. Rafen seated himself on a flat rock to Erasmus’ right. Erasmus leaned back against a shaggy bluff oak, scratching surface dirt off the ground with his wet stick.
“You’re mending now,” he said.
“Yes,” Rafen said.
“I wanted to speak to you of something,” Erasmus said. “It’s a black topic. Still, I thought you might know something of it.”
Despite his background in slavery, Rafen had spent time amid the royalty and nobles of Siana, and found it hard to understand Erasmus’ peasant’s brogue. He rubbed his sore head.
“Perhaps you knew the Selsons,” Erasmus said.
Rafen tensed. He had tried to think positively over the last few days, since he had been unable to transform and forget everything. He had tried convincing himself that maybe some Selsons were still alive, that maybe Zion was kind.
“You probably haven’t thought about this,” Erasmus continued, “but I don’t know your name. Still.”
Rafen obstinately held his tongue, staring at the river. The trees above rustled in the soft breezes that wafted off the water.
“Yet because you do kesmal and are in hiding makes me wonder if you were connected with the Selsons. Do you know what has become of them?”
Rafen relaxed. Erasmus had no more notion of the Selsons’ fate than he did. He shook his head. Erasmus turned the water pouch over in his hands. He stared at it, absorbed by the strange patterns in the old leather.
“The Selsons are dead,” he said shortly.
Then Rafen was on his feet, grabbing Erasmus’ arm with unrelenting fingers.
“You don’t know,” he hissed. “You don’t know. Where did you hear this? What did you see?”
His voice had risen to a scream.
Erasmus dropped the water pouch, staring at Rafen’s wild face.
“I don’t have the proof of corpses, if that’s what you mean,” he said in a low voice. “And I saw noth—”
“Who told you?” Rafen shouted, tightening his grip. Erasmus had his calico sleeve rolled up, and the sight of his skin turning white beneath Rafen’s fingers gratified him.
“No one told me,” Erasmus said tersely. “I heard through an announcement Talmon had made. Before this, the Lashki wouldn’t declare himself king, even though he wanted the throne badly. It was only after the news of the death of the royal—”
Rafen let out an unintelligible yell. “They’re not—they’re not—” he was gasping “—you don’t know, you don’t have proof—”
Erasmus pulled his arm free from Rafen’s clawing fingers, disgusted. “If the Selsons were still alive, the Lashki would be hunting them now,” he said.
“You’re lying!” Rafen shouted, even though the logic of Erasmus’ words was defeating him. The Lashki had waited for an opportunity to kill the Selsons for years, and would have wanted to do it completely before he proclaimed himself king. And hadn’t Rafen heard what had happened? Seen his father fall? Zion, why did he have to remember? He clutched his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking with tears. King Robert’s face appeared in his mind, cheerfully disbelieving as he said to a concerned Alexander on board the Phoenix Wing: “But nobody wants to kill me, Alexander.”
And then, Etana’s voice echoed in Rafen’s head: “For Zion’s sake, Rafen – nothing is wrong!”
Erasmus was still talking, and Rafen heard only some of what he said.
“…Lashki was waiting for this. He held off from claiming the throne for a year, ruling behind Frankston. Everyone knew right enough what was going on though. They knew it when the Tarhians came to Siana to—”
“Stop!” Rafen shouted. His chest hurt. He turned to stare madly at the river, as if a tidal wave might sweep all this away.
“You knew them then?”
Breathlessly, Rafen dashed the tears from his eyes. “Leave me alone,” he said.
“I can’t do that.”
“Why?” Rafen snarled, turning on Erasmus.
Now at Rafen’s shoulder, Erasmus didn’t so much as flinch, even though his thigh bore Rafen’s teeth marks.
“If I leave you,” he said, “you’ll transform and run again – never come back.”
And what would be wrong with that? Rafen thought. It was precisely the opportunity he had been looking for.
“Leave now,” he said shakily, “or I’ll kill you.”
“I’d kill you first,” Erasmus said. He had retrieved the water pouch and was turning it over in his hands again. Watching its flip-flopping motion, Rafen snapped. Yelling insanely, he threw himself into Erasmus’ side and pounded his chest with his fists. Erasmus dropped the water pouch and seized Rafen’s wrists, gripping them firmly.
“Let me go!” Rafen growled through gritted teeth, kicking Erasmus’ legs.
Erasmus turned on the spot, swinging Rafen around and slamming his back against a tree. Still holding Rafen’s wrists, he planted his elbow against Rafen’s chest, above the phoenix feather. When Rafen tried lunging forward again, Erasmus’ elbow jabbed him. Panting, Rafen fell back against the bald cypress trunk.
“Why don’t you use kesmal?” Erasmus asked calmly. “Do you always fight like this?”
“Let me go!”
“A Tarhian soldier would never listen to that,” Erasmus said. “Nor an enemy philosopher.”
Sweat dripping down his forehead and into his eyes, Rafen tried to tear his wrists free.
“Breathe deeply,” Erasmus said. “Be calm now.”
Rafen found himself obeying. He felt weak. The muscles along his back relaxed against the bole of the tree. Erasmus’ grip gradually slackened, as Rafen became quieter. At last he released Rafen. Still breathing heavily, Rafen leaned against the brown tree streaked with pink and stared into nothingne
ss, trying to remember why he had attacked Erasmus. He was trembling.
“What kin were you to the Selsons?” Erasmus asked.
“They adopted me,” Rafen said passionlessly.
“Where did they find you?”
“Tarhia.”
“I thought so. You are Rafen, who saved the king fifteen months ago. He said you were dead. Penned a letter. Perhaps that was Frankston’s notion.”
“No,” Rafen said. He slid down the length of the trunk into a sitting position, his knees pulled up against his chest. The sound of the river running was somehow comforting. Above, a brunting called to its mate. “Father – King Robert – decided to do it. To stop the Lashki following us.”
“Ah,” Erasmus said, squatting before him. “Yet he didn’t tell the people on returning.”
“He had a feeling.”
“So that’s why you’re still alive.”
“No,” Rafen said, clasping his knees tightly. He stared at Erasmus’ red finger marks around his wrists as if they were the only things in the world. “I’m alive because the guards dragged me out of the throne room before I could fight, and I couldn’t stop them. I was weak.”
The word “weak” hung in the air momentarily.
“And you’ve been a weakling these past three moons,” Erasmus said. “You’ve hidden from the world, done nothing when you could fight back. Still, we will change that.”
Erasmus retrieved the water pouch from the ground. It had been trodden on in the scuffle, and water leaked out over Erasmus’ fingers. He hurled it into the river with impatience and turned back to Rafen.
“I’ll train you to fence better, Rafen,” Erasmus said. “I’m no philosopher, mind you, and I don’t know anything o’ kesmal. But teaching you control in other areas of fighting will help you better master it.”
“I don’t have a weapon.”
It was Rafen’s only excuse.
“I have a sword for you at my home if Wynne hasn’t tossed it into the river by now. Our new king doesn’t want Sianians outside his service to have a weapon.”
Chapter Five
Lessons
Erasmus’ house was a tiny log affair with a thatched roof. Erasmus hadn’t built in many windows, so the interior was dark, much too dark for reading, Rafen thought. However, Erasmus was likely illiterate.
By the hearth, a tall girl about seventeen years old with dirty yellow hair kept staring at Rafen out of the corner of her eye. When he met her gaze, Wynne glanced back at the little cauldron of watery onion soup.
In the center of the kitchen stood a table, one wicker chair thrust up to it. A long, rusty broadsword was laid across the table. The rest of the room was bare.
Rafen knew at first glance the sword was too long and heavy for him. Erasmus lifted it off the table and turned the hilt to Rafen.
“Well?” he said. “Why don’t you try it?”
Reluctantly, Rafen took the sword.
He looked up, and like a tantalizing mirage, his father stood in his mind’s eye, a blade dangling from the fingers that were better wrapped around a quill. He wore a benign smile. Rafen’s first practice duels had been against King Robert. Alexander had tried training them both at the same time.
His eyes clouded, Rafen caressed the hilt, which was rugged and dented from previous fights. He pretended the blade glowed a faint red, reminding him of past times saving his father in his own bedchamber. And yet… it hadn’t been enough.
Rafen lowered the sword. “It’s too long,” he said coldly. In his head, he could see the Phoenix presenting him with the feather, and he twitched.
Erasmus raised an eyebrow. “A sword’s a sword,” he said. “I’ll take you to a clearing where you can use it.”
“There’s no point,” Rafen said, placing it back on the table.
By the cauldron, Wynne snorted in derision. Rafen ignored her.
“Rafen,” Erasmus said, “you can’t wallow forever.”
Rafen’s hands balled into fists. “I’m not wallowing,” he retorted.
“You are.”
They were startled by a shriek. Watching Erasmus and Rafen, Wynne had been stirring the onion soup too vigorously and had splashed her bare foot. Erasmus impatiently indicated a wooden bucket of cold water against the right wall. Wynne flew over to it and plunged her foot in.
“Rafen,” Erasmus said, “you’re not behaving any different than afore. You said you were a coward, and you still are. You’re biding in another world. Zion’s blood, you are the Fledgling!”
He roared the last words in Rafen’s face. Rafen clenched his teeth, breathing hard.
“You are the only one who can harm the Lashki,” Erasmus said. “You have kesmal most philosophers only dream of; but you bide as a wolf in the Cursed Woods, eating starving rabbits! Rafen, you are the only one who can help Siana.”
With mild interest, Wynne looked up from the bucket of water. Rafen stared down at the sword, unable to meet Erasmus’ eyes. In his head, Alexander spoke: “How much would you give for Siana?”
“Now,” Erasmus said, “take this blade, come with me to a clearing, and show me your skills.”
Erasmus strode past him and threw open the door, waiting for Rafen to exit first. Slowly, Rafen came.
*
Barefoot and cross-legged, Wynne clutched a lukewarm mug of onion soup, watching Erasmus and Rafen take positions against each other. They had returned to the clearing Rafen and Erasmus had first met in. To Rafen’s acute, wolfish senses, it smelled of past conflict and Erasmus’ week-old blood. In the center, a blackened patch marked where a fire had once been lit. Wood thrushes trilled above.
Erasmus poised himself, watching Rafen warily. He still limped badly, and when he checked the wound, he revealed a long gash patterned with large black teeth marks. Rafen’s conscience prickled when he saw this, even though he only had vague memories of the encounter.
After they were both in “guarde”, Erasmus waited. Rafen lunged, jabbing with the blunt sword at Erasmus’ lower legs. Wynne shrieked, which distracted Rafen. Erasmus dodged the blow and thrust at Rafen’s ribs. Seeing it just in time, Rafen neatly parried. And then it all sped up. The swords were clashing, meeting, dancing like the tongues of flame Rafen fondled at nighttime. Erasmus had the upper hand momentarily, then Rafen took the advantage, driving Erasmus back toward a green boxelder. He imbued his strokes with calm, deliberate anger. He realized he hated Erasmus, though it was hard to determine why. While Erasmus’ parries were strong, they weren’t as fast as Rafen’s blows. Erasmus’ green eyes registered disbelief at Rafen’s speed. When his heel struck the foot of the boxelder behind him, Erasmus swung his sword into Rafen’s with a parry of doubled strength. A flash of silver in Rafen’s peripheral vision told him his sword had been knocked to the right. It lay at Wynne’s feet.
Erasmus’ sword tip rested against Rafen’s heaving chest. “You have a weak wrist,” Erasmus stated, sweat glistening on his face.
Rafen stared at him. After all he had shown Erasmus, was that all the peasant could say?
“We must work the wrist,” Erasmus said. “Who trained you before?”
“Alexander and Jacob,” Rafen said through clenched teeth.
“Haven’t heard of them,” Erasmus said, sheathing his sword.
At the foot of an oak to Rafen’s right, Wynne smiled smugly and nudged Rafen’s sword with her bare toes.
Rafen raised his eyebrows. “You have not heard of the Admiral Alexander and General Jacob Aneurin?”
Erasmus met his gaze swiftly. “I had not expected you to use their first names,” he replied. “King’s blood, you speak of them as equals.”
“I am the Fledgling,” Rafen said, narrowing his eyes.
Erasmus’ face darkened. “Yes, I reminded you back in my house. You have not proven yourself yet. Perhaps you think you need no further training, Rafen. However, you must learn to control your body better if you wish to control your kesmal.”
“There’s nothing
wrong with my kesmal,” Rafen spat, even as his mind returned to his hopeless lessons, his attempts to do kesmal at the throne room doors, and now his ability to do it when it was useless to him.
“There’s plenty wrong with it,” Erasmus said. Wynne’s accusing eyes moved from Erasmus’ swollen upper leg to Rafen. “Why can you transform into a wolf and kindle a fire here, and yet when the Lashki was killing the Selsons you could do nothing?”
His face flushed, Rafen walked over to Wynne and snatched his sword from near her feet. “I do not know,” he said in a deadly voice, “all right?”
“You said there is nothing wrong with your kesmal,” Erasmus said mildly, moving away from the tree behind him. “I’m correcting you. You use your kesmal to attack me, but cannot fight the blackest murderer on the Pilamùr.”
The growl rose in Rafen’s throat without his volition; Erasmus started. Rafen then remembered mauling him with perfect clarity: the leap; the exploding blow to the jaw; the second leap; and then the delicious giving of flesh and the warm blood coursing through his mouth like the wildest tasting juice. The hairs rose along Rafen’s back, and a black mat rushed over his hands—
Wynne was screaming; perhaps he had already partially transformed. Erasmus had his sword at the ready and was lunging toward him. Colors and sounds returned to Rafen with a reeling, mental bang: blue kesmal, a cracked scream, a thud, his father lying prone.
Rafen stumbled backward, sweeping his sword up to block Erasmus’ blow. The blades crossed before his heart. Rafen’s mind was swirling like the liquid within a water pouch, and his eyesight blurred. His gaze shifted to Erasmus, who stared at him as if he were a mad dog.
Wynne was on her feet, pulling his arm. “Father, please, leave him! You don’t need to help him. He hates you.”
Erasmus’ face had softened. He had seen the wolf depart. Rafen stood there panting, a fourteen-year-old boy.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. A tear trickled down his cheek. “Please help me.”
Wynne’s arms crept around her father’s shoulders. “Come on, Father. Please. Leave him now, you’ve done enough.”
“I will help you,” Erasmus said quietly. “I’ll always help Zion’s Fledgling.”
The Sianian Wolf Page 5
