“I was only two,” Rafen persisted, shoving Sherwin toward the fire. Sherwin thrust his wet fingers out before the flames, sighing in satisfaction.
“Jus’ goes to show ’ow much raw power yer must ’ave. Slavery knocked it of yer, but I guess bein’ free an’ wild in these Woods brought it back.”
Rafen shook his head. The Fledgling and the Sianian Wolf were not prophesied to be skilled in traveling between the worlds. If Sherwin was right, it pointed to a deeper secret about Rafen that he himself did not understand.
“Raf,” Sherwin said, “if it’s yer – if yer can do this – imagine! Yer could get people from there to fight for Siana or yer could send Talmon into Southwark—”
Rafen stepped away from him.
“No,” he said. “Sherwin, you obviously knew something about this place. But imagine if you hadn’t, and you came here. Would you be likely to fight for me? I doubt it. Anyone with half a brain would fight with the winning side, anyway, and that’s the Lashki and Talmon and their lot.” Rafen paused, breathing heavily. “And as for Talmon,” he said in a low voice, “he doesn’t deserve to get away with what he’s done. He deserves to die.” He met Sherwin’s eyes reluctantly. “I think you’re right. I think it was me somehow, only I have no idea how to control it. It’s unpredictable and dangerous. I’m not going to use it again, Sherwin. I belong here. This is my world and my fight. The other humans belong in their world.”
“Except me,” Sherwin pointed out.
“Except you.”
*
Huddled near a heap of smoldering branches, Elizabeth started at the sound of stirring behind her. She sprang up, turning her back to what remained of the fire in the middle of her and Roger’s rectangular clearing.
Their camp consisted of a makeshift shelter constructed of broken cottonwood boughs and grass, and a small collection of oddments next to it. Roger and Elizabeth had bowls, utensils, water pouches, and one very dirty pillow to share between themselves. To Rafen, it looked ridiculously impractical. How on the Pilamùr could they flee from Tarhians quickly if they had all that to move? Besides, any Tarhian seeing the shelter would surely track the man who had made it. Sherwin and Rafen were never this stupid.
Seeing Rafen, Elizabeth’s face broke into a blissful smile that she checked only slightly at the sight of Ahain at Rafen’s heels. “You have come back,” she said.
“Not for long,” Rafen said. “Roger is gone, isn’t he?”
Rafen had been watching the camp for two hours, waiting until Roger left to hunt again. But he wanted Elizabeth to know he didn’t want Roger there.
“Yes. He’s looking for food.”
Two days had passed since Rafen had observed Roger’s “hunting” by the river. Rafen had spent the time fencing with Sherwin and searching for Wynne (the fencing was more successful). Earlier that day, he had remembered Elizabeth and decided to do something about her lack of food.
Shivering with cold, Rafen reached behind himself into the snow-covered hawthorn and retrieved his over large jacket, which was filled with an assortment of edible roots. With gloved fingers, he pulled from the grass the rabbit he had killed and brought it all to Elizabeth. Ahain trotted behind him, panting and looking hopeful.
Elizabeth gasped. “What is this?”
“Something for you,” Rafen said compassionately. Her face was gaunter than he remembered.
“Ah, Rafen,” Elizabeth said, “how did you find this?”
“I know the Woods.”
“Roger and I don’t. We don’t know which roots aren’t poisonous, and we haven’t had meat in weeks.” Bowing her head, she said, “You have done well. Thank you.”
Blushing, Rafen said, “It was nothing. You shouldn’t look so skinny.”
Elizabeth threw back her head and laughed. It was a delicious, playful laugh, the laugh of a young woman. Rafen couldn’t help smiling.
“I don’t look skinny because I want to,” she said, shaking the roots from the jacket and passing it to Rafen. “Ah, but I’ll try not to look skinny for you, my son.”
Pulling on the smelly jacket, Rafen felt an odd twinge in his stomach. King Robert had always called him that: “my son”.
“I hope you enjoy it,” he said, backing away toward the hawthorn and motioning to Ahain. A shadow passed over Elizabeth’s face. “Does Roger know how to skin a rabbit?” he asked.
“Yes, yes,” Elizabeth said. “I sometimes wonder if he knows how to kill one though. Rafen, when will I see you again?”
Rafen struggled with himself. Her enchanting voice and pleading eyes kept calling to something deep within him.
“When you look too skinny again,” Rafen said, smiling painfully, “I will come and tell you off.”
Elizabeth looked at him with tears in her eyes. Rafen knew she thought she might not see him again.
“Then I will always been skinny,” she vowed.
*
“NO! BAMBI!” King Robert cried hoarsely.
The doors to the throne room were thick glass that wouldn’t give, no matter how hard Rafen threw himself against them. On the other side, the Lashki held a struggling Bambi up to his slimy face, hissing his triumph with moist breath. King Robert rushed toward the Lashki, his flabby arms thrown out. The Lashki glanced at him with complacent black eyes and jerked Bambi closer by the throat. He closed his jaws on the tender flesh of her left cheek, and her piercing scream came to a sudden end, like someone had turned off the sound. The Lashki was chewing. Rafen beat the glass doors with his fists and banged his head against them, screaming in desperation.
The scene faded, and an even voice sounded in his ear, “Francisco, you should not be here. I told you Master was in this part of the palace. You didn’t believe me?”
Rafen felt himself spinning; he flew away, and the voice came to him from the end of a long tunnel, echoing around him unceasingly. “Francisco! Come back!”
His eyes flew open. He pulled himself into a sitting position on the forest floor. Sherwin slumbered peacefully near him. Ahain raised his head slightly from by the fire before letting it fall again.
Despite the cold, Rafen’s body was slick with sweat.
“Zion, why?”
This wasn’t the first time he had had dreams like this. As the pounding of his heart slowed, he heard again that voice in his head. “Francisco, you should not be here…”
As a contradiction, he heard Elizabeth say, “Francisco is dead.”
For weeks, Rafen had been trying to figure out where he had heard his brother’s name before. However, what with his months as a wolf and his grief as a man, he had intentionally suppressed memories of that day in the palace, and hence had not remembered Talmon’s words. Now Rafen leapt to his feet, a thunderclap sounding within his skull. His twin was alive… and he and Rafen were identical.
Chapter Seventeen
Back to
the Palace
Casting off his Tarhian jacket, Rafen gazed at Sherwin and Ahain. Though he only intended to be gone a night, he didn’t like to leave them. Yet he had to. For the past month, Rafen had spent every moment wrestling with his lineage. The facts seemed undeniable: Roger and Elizabeth were his parents.
Still, he had to see the proof. And now he knew where to find it.
The fire in the center of his and Sherwin’s new clearing was burning low. Rafen flicked his fingers in its direction, sending sparks onto the smoldering twigs, and the flames leapt up with new energy.
Rafen had been sick the past two weeks – a savage cold, a barking cough, and a fever that made him snap at Sherwin when he at last managed to clothe Rafen with an extra Tarhian coat. The winter was finally over, and though the snow still covered the ground, it would melt within the first fortnight of Azwa, the tenth month. Alexander had still not come, and Rafen’s impatience ate him up.
By the positions of the three moons through the leaves above, Rafen knew it was midnight. If he hurried, he could reach his destination a few hours before dawn. A
horseman would take five hours to get to New Isles from where Rafen was. However, Rafen knew the secret paths, and he could run as a wolf.
Moving into the beautyberry bushes ahead of him, Rafen fell to the ground in the now familiar transformation and shot ahead, paws pounding. A possum scampered out of his way. Despite Rafen’s animal body, he had again retained his human senses. At the sound of Ahain loping behind, Rafen turned his head and barked furiously, causing the smaller wolf to pause uncertainly. Ahain couldn’t follow him this time.
In Rafen’s mind, one picture was frozen in time: the New Isles palace on the slope, the flags fluttering from its tall turrets in the deep purple silence a few hours from dawn.
*
By four o’clock in the morning, Rafen was trudging up the moist snowy path leading to one of the side entrances of the New Isles palace, which adjoined a corridor passing through the outer wall. Rafen had escaped the palace through this route the night Roger had thrown him from his chamber window. He shivered when his thoughts again turned to his blood father.
He paused, his heart throbbing. His hand moved to the sword on his right hip. He had reached the top of the slope and discovered five Tarhian soldiers clustered about the door he’d been aiming for. They were guffawing at each other’s jokes. Then, by common instinct, they all turned in his direction.
Rafen made to draw his sword with a gloved hand. Then he halted. If he made a false move, this game was over. From this point onward, he had to be Francisco, the brother he didn’t know.
“So this is how you greet your prince?” he inquired imperiously in Tarhian.
The Tarhians clamored their apologies. The tallest of the group, obviously an officer, hurried over to Rafen and bowed low. He looked confusedly for the normal hem of the long coat Tarhian nobility often wore. Giving up, he straightened a little and kissed the hem of Rafen’s ragged jacket from Erasmus. Rafen had hoped for this, even expected it. Nevertheless, his heart gave a jolt as the men played his game along with him. Yes, Rafen really did have an identical brother.
“Your grace must not be angry,” the tall guard said in rapid Tarhian. “We were confused. We did not expect your grace to be out alone.”
Rafen’s brain whirred feverishly. Talmon would doubtless never let Francisco out of the palace without an escort. In fact, he might never let Francisco out at all. Talmon knew Roger was still in Siana and probably figured a fugitive familiar with only Tarhian geography would stick to places he knew, such as the Sianian capital and the surrounding areas. Talmon wouldn’t want Francisco to meet his father.
“Two were with me,” Rafen lied, “but we had a desperate time. Do not question me about my griefs.”
He turned his head, giving the soldiers a sidelong, contemptuous look in Tarhian fashion.
“Forgiveness, Your Grace,” the Tarhian said. “We will escort you inside. You wish to see your father, no doubt.”
My father? Rafen stalled. Then he realized King Talmon had taken his brother for an heir.
“No, no. I am much wearied and wearing indecent garb,” Rafen said, thinking particularly of his wet and hole-filled muffler. “I wish to visit my chambers.”
“Your sleeping chambers, Your Grace?”
Francisco had multiple sets of chambers? This was unbelievable.
“Yes, fool,” Rafen said. “Isn’t it nighttime?”
The Tarhian bowed low, checked himself, straightened a little, and kissed Rafen’s jacket again. He stood back, allowing Rafen to go first. The four remaining soldiers at the door threw themselves out of the way as Rafen passed through it, holding his head high.
The journey through the palace and its gardens was the strangest he had ever had. He remembered wandering freely among the various rooms, often with Bertilde chattering by his side. The palace had been different then. Passing through the halls, he noticed many of the old paintings were gone. The Sianian tapestries had been removed. The walls were either bare or bore ugly, ornamental Tarhian cudgels or blades. Nothing seemed to be furnished in Frankston’s tastes, and though the Lashki Mirah ruled, his closest servant was clearly making the most of a new palace.
They met no one else except other guards outside various doors, who made their obeisance to Rafen. Most of the palace’s occupants were either busy in the keep, or in bed. It was deadly quiet.
Leading the escort, Rafen only hesitated when they came to the keep. He had no idea where Francisco’s sleeping chambers were likely to be. The officer stepped to his side, bowing and kissing the jacket again.
“Your Grace is much wearied. You take the right here. Your Grace has not far to go now.”
It was the first time Rafen had felt grateful to a Tarhian. He followed the tall man as he hurried down various corridors, flattering Rafen and walking backward so he was always facing “his prince”. Rafen felt feverish, inwardly praying to Zion that he wouldn’t bump into Talmon, or worse – the Lashki. He regretted nothing. He wanted to see his brother, to see the proof of his lineage before his eyes, to know the Fledgling was the son of a human, and to show he didn’t care anyway.
However, Rafen realized his excitement wasn’t entirely to do with this. He wanted to meet his brother. He was insane: his brother would probably hate him, betray him, see him killed – but he wanted to meet him.
By the time the Tarhian halted outside some double doors in a wide corridor, Rafen was trembling.
“Your chambers, Sweetest Grace,” the Tarhian said, bowing over and over.
“Enough,” Rafen said, raising his hand as he had seen Talmon do countless times before ingratiating men. “You are dismissed.”
“Your Grace.” The Tarhian bowed once more then skittered backward down the corridor, hardly daring to take his eyes off Rafen. When he had finally vanished, Rafen reached for one of the door handles. He remembered these chambers. Beyond the doors had once been a spacious sitting room furnished with elegant settees and decorated with large paintings. The back wall had two parallel sets of mullioned windows.
If Rafen were fortunate, behind these doors Francisco would be lying fast asleep. Rafen only wanted a glimpse. Well, no, that wasn’t entirely true. He wanted, more than anything, to talk to his brother, to hear his voice. Yet Francisco would be too close to Talmon to be amiable. He would be more like that brat Richard Patrick. If Rafen woke his brother, Talmon would hear about his continued existence, and the Tarhian king would pass that information to his Master.
It was better to let Francisco sleep.
Rafen turned the handles breathtakingly slowly and stole into the room. It was even warmer than the corridors. Rafen was so used to living outside that he was actually sweating. Silently, he closed the doors behind him and glanced about. While the room was as he remembered, its furnishings were different. In the middle, a huge canopy bed stood with its head between the two parallel rows of windows, gray-purple curtains hanging down about it. To the left, a chest of drawers stood against the wall, a large oval mirror with an ornate frame on top of it. Various wooden chairs were scattered about the room, each with a plush blue cushion. A settee stood against the wall to Rafen’s right, and next to it was a locked door, leading into further chambers. The settee was piled with various tomes, some of which were open and bore handwriting.
Rafen moved over to them, holding his breath as he stared at the pages blotted with Francisco’s ink. Francisco had immaculate, flowing handwriting. He wrote fluent Tarhian.
Near the settee stood another large couch. It was covered with sumptuous brocaded clothes, most of which were various shades of blue. Rafen counted eight pairs of boots lying on the floor. He gave up counting the leather gloves.
It was so ironic. Rafen had been raised as a slave while his identical brother had lived in luxury. Talmon had hated Rafen, but loved Francisco. The corner of Rafen’s mouth twitched. It was because of his name, of course. If it had been the other way round… no, it couldn’t have been, because the souls were different, and the whole thing had been mysteriously, clev
erly predestined.
Above his heartbeat, Rafen could hear gentle breathing behind
the curtains of the canopy bed. He tiptoed to the left of the bed and, with a quivering hand, drew back the curtains ever so slightly.
Francisco’s head was cushioned by plush white pillows. He slept with a contented smile on his face, the thick, shiny gray covers pulled up to his neck. One hand, drooping off the bed, was visible from beneath the great duvet.
Rafen needed no further confirmation. Francisco was his mirror image. Pressed against the pillows, his black curly hair – though better cut and kept than Rafen’s – was just the same. His skin had the olive tint of Elizabeth’s and Rafen’s. He had Rafen’s thin mouth. And Rafen knew that behind his closed eyelids, his eyes were exactly the same dark blue as his.
Yet… there was something different about Francisco’s face. The lines in it were softer; the expression girlish and gentle. Rafen imagined his voice and mannerisms were different too. He wondered how convincing a Francisco he had really been. One thing was certain: Talmon would be able to tell them apart without any trouble.
Shifting his feet, Rafen started at a scraping noise. His boots had
moved an open book lying on the floor. Its yellowed pages bore depictions of constellations. Releasing the curtain and stooping, Rafen glanced at the pages. He’d heard Tarhian nobles were very
preoccupied with the formations and movements of the stars. He wondered if Francisco was interested in astronomy.
Rafen turned back to the bed. His blood ran cold.
Francisco was sitting up, holding the curtain back, staring at Rafen with dreamlike shock.
Chapter Eighteen
The
Prince of Tarhia
He still had not found any rebels in the Forest of Fritz, excepting
the infernal admiral that had raised all that trouble directly after Robert had slipped through the Lashki’s fingers. Alexander’s corpse was now likely decaying in the river somewhere. After the Lashki had seen him, he had returned to search for the camp again, only to discover Alexander had been the distraction that had given the rebels a chance to move. At last, after another week of hunting, the Lashki had found a kesmalic shield that signified a camp.
The Sianian Wolf Page 14
