There was a brief silence, during which Rafen digested Sherwin’s speech.
“Wha’s that?” Sherwin said.
Rafen glanced around. “What?”
“Tha’ noise.”
Rafen listened. Shadowed by the trees on either bank, the river flowed and churned near him. Thrushes trilled above. Distinctly, a blood-chilling scream rose in the distance. Goosebumps bubbled on Rafen’s skin.
Francisco.
Rafen leapt up and crashed through the beautyberry bushes to his left, pushing toward the voice he’d heard, almost tripping over baldcypress branches and keeling into the icy river. Sherwin plunged into the leaves after him, leaving Ahain to feast on the wriggling fish. Rafen remembered following a cry in the Tarhian mines… it had ended in disaster and blood. The same desperation he had felt when he had thought he had heard King Robert being killed, when he had heard Erasmus was dead, when he had seen Sherwin dying, rose within him. He wanted to vomit. He ran unnaturally fast.
The cry came again, very close.
Rafen flung a hand out behind himself. Going at high speed, Sherwin met it with his diaphragm and doubled over, retching.
Smack. Beyond the screen of bluff oak leaves ahead, something hit the ground. Rafen pulled back the branches as quietly as possible and peered out. Francisco rolled over and scrambled to his feet, panting. The black stallion he had just fallen from reared wildly. Dark kesmal spiraled out of the growth left of the horse and struck its flank with a muffled crack. The horse hit the ground spine first, Francisco darting out of the way barely in time, his eyes dilated.
“Francisco!”
Not recognizing Rafen’s voice, Francisco gave a strangled cry, rushed to the edge of the bank, and threw himself into the freezing river.
“No!” Rafen shouted.
The river flowed fast in this part of the Woods, and Rafen knew there were many submerged rocks. It was also too cold for Francisco to last long. He surged forward.
“Aaah!” he yelled when Sherwin snatched him back by his hair.
“What are yer doing?” Sherwin spat. “Yer not thinkin’ clearly.”
With the rushing of parting leaves and the cantering of hooves, another horse broke into the clearing Francisco had just left. His knotted dreadlocks askew, a thin Ashurite gripped the reins one-handed, his other hand brandishing a curved nhanya blade. Seizing Rafen’s shoulder, Sherwin turned him around and took the lead, running back the way they had come. A raccoon shot up a tree in alarm.
Following the river was their only chance of finding Francisco. Searching for his brother’s form, Rafen scanned the rushing waters while running, his heart pulsing in his throat.
He skidded to a halt, colliding with a screen of dripping holly leaves and twigs that had sprung back into place after Sherwin had run through it. To his left, a black shape was shrinking in the water. His face smarting, Rafen flung himself onto the ground, thrusting his arm into the cruelly cold river, which tossed it and sucked at it. He forced himself to breathe deeply and reach, reach for Zion even as the black shape was being swept away from him.
A rush of warmth ran down his arm, and the freezing water was lit up with a billow of fiery kesmal. Rafen squeezed his eyes shut, funneling his thoughts into a pinprick. The numbing cold was threatening to kill his flame.
Zion, help me.
His eyes flew open. His kesmal had narrowed to a flexible beam. A weight jerked his arm down. His body slid forward on the grass, and Rafen got a face full of icy water. Someone grabbed his leg and heaved him back onto the bank. In his peripheral vision, a white-faced Sherwin was tugging against the weight Rafen was holding. Gripping his left arm with his right, Rafen pulled desperately. Again, he focused on his kesmal, trying to suck it back into his arm. Unbidden, memories of his power thousands of years ago returned to him. The momentarily vanished black shape had reappeared and was rapidly growing. Still grasping Rafen, Sherwin threw rocks with his free hand to distract the philosopher.
Francisco’s head burst from the water just as Rafen’s kesmal was drawn completely back into his arm. Sherwin released Rafen’s leg. Rafen seized his brother’s dripping hair with both hands and dragged him free of the river, laying him on the bank with aching arms. Francisco’s head lolled sideways. He was unconscious, breathing in shuddering gasps. An ugly, bleeding bruise was planted like a kiss on his forehead.
“I can’t – do it,” Sherwin panted in his ear. He grabbed Rafen’s shoulder, helping him rise. “Let’s get out of here… he’s coming.”
A horse whinnied nearby, accompanied by the cracks and whizzes of kesmal. Rafen and Sherwin each gripped one end of Francisco and struggled with him through the trees, Rafen going backwards. A spinning gray beam shot through the greenery behind Sherwin, straight toward his head. Sherwin stumbled and fell, dropping Francisco. As gray filled Rafen’s vision, a flaming wall burst into view. With a final smack, the enemy kesmal hit Rafen’s shield and vanished in smoke. Rafen dropped to his knees. His left arm burned from his involuntary kesmal. Sherwin lay face down, his body covering Francisco’s.
“Sherwin!” Rafen cried.
Sherwin lifted his head nervously. “Wha’? Is it over now?”
Another bang came from behind.
“Get up!” Rafen shouted. “Take Francisco now!”
Rafen transformed with another burst of energy, and his back sagged slightly as Sherwin shoved Francisco onto him. Together, they ran. Another gray beam flew through the air and struck a nearby elm, cracks running through the scaly bark. Paws and feet pounded the ground. The growth around them thickened, and the attack became irregular as the enemy struggled to reach them.
Rafen reached a slope. As they descended, he and Sherwin paced themselves to avoid another accident with a rock. At the bottom was a clearing covered with melting snow. Inclining walls of dirt and slush rose on all sides of it, making it look like a crater. Spying a tunnel through some gnarled tree roots to their right, Rafen scampered over to it and squeezed himself through the entrance, Francisco still half on his back. Dirt showered him as he entered the narrow, underground passage. Sherwin slid down after him, saying “blimey”, “darn”, and other nonsense words frustrated people who don’t swear say.
Above, kesmal whirred through the air distantly. Rafen and Sherwin lay on the dirt floor, panting. Three mice skittered further away into the dark. Rafen had transformed again, and he shifted, uncomfortable because his unconscious, dripping brother lay on his back.
“Wow. Yer really are identical,” Sherwin said. “How on Earth did ’e get to this part of the Woods? Why do yer think that feller was chasing him?”
“Don’t know,” Rafen said uneasily. Anxiety clenched his insides. Francisco was probably in trouble because of his hasty escape last night.
Voices rang out above. Sherwin pulled Francisco off Rafen’s back and rested him against the tunnel’s earthen wall. Rafen rolled onto his back and sat up as best he could in the confined space, removing his wet jacket. He recognized Talmon’s voice.
“You would attack my son, Asiel? Have you no loyalty to our side?”
“Loyalty,” a smooth voice scoffed. “Talmon calls keeping another man’s son loyalty. Talmon calls keeping the brother of Rafen loyalty.”
“Silence!” Talmon barked in his customary way.
Asiel laughed.
“I know whose ears your fear,” he said. “I am sure Roger is in these Woods; perhaps even close. I think it will be better for more people to learn about your ‘son’. In fact, Talmon, I had a little revelation today when I showed the princeling to the peasant’s daughter. You should have seen her reaction!”
“I will not listen to your woman’s gossip,” Talmon snapped in accented Tongue. “Where have you chased him? If you try to kill him, Master will have your blood. He values the boy.”
“Values him?” Another laugh. “Of course, Francisco is the only bait Master can use on Roger, if need be. Perhaps he is bait for another father-like figure as well. I thi
nk you know of whom I speak.”
“Francisco!” Talmon called loudly.
Rafen’s heartbeat accelerated. He had applied Asiel’s last two sentences to himself, and realized exactly who the Ashurite was referring to. Asiel, at least, believed King Robert was alive. Hope flooded him.
“My son!”
Talmon was still shouting. Retreating hoof beats told Rafen that Asiel had given up conversing with the Tarhian king.
Talmon approached on another horse. The muffled clip-clop sounded on loose earth. He was now alone. Rafen stiffened.
“Sherwin,” he whispered, “move from the tunnel entrance.”
Sherwin did his best. He exposed a narrow aperture by flattening himself against the tunnel wall, and Rafen was skinny enough to slip through it. He fingered the hilt of his sword.
“That’s Talmon,” he said. “Take care of Francisco, won’t you?”
Sherwin’s breathing quickened. “Yer not going to attack him, are yer?”
“He can’t do kesmal. I’m safe.”
“Yeah, but when are yer coming back?”
“Keep Francisco warm. I’ll come back when I’ve finished.”
Sherwin didn’t dare ask what Rafen meant to finish. He gulped. “I’ll take care of ’im,” he said shakily. “Yer be careful, all right?”
“Sure.”
Rafen could see Torius dying in his mind; he could feel the lash on his back again; he could see a fatherless Wynne; and he could hear his parents talking about what Talmon had done to his family. This time, he was stronger. He was the Wolf and the Fledgling, and Talmon had killed Erasmus, and he was going to pay. With difficulty, Rafen wormed through the tunnel entrance into the daylight that dazzled his eyes. Above, Talmon circled the slopes surrounding the clearing on his horse. Vibrating with a force he couldn’t name, Rafen squatted close to the tree roots so their tangled mass would block him from sight. He planned to take Talmon by surprise the moment he was close enough.
A joyous barking exploded from across the clearing. With twigs in his wet, matted fur, Ahain panted happily at the sight of Rafen.
“Shut up,” Rafen mouthed. “Ra tc.”
Talmon had reined in his horse. It breathed heavily as he surveyed the clearing below. Ahain barked again. He stepped toward Rafen. Rafen shook his head violently.
A pistol clicked above. Talmon was within range, and aiming. Rafen’s heart throbbed against his ribs when Ahain trotted over to him. Every second, he expected Ahain to drop down dead. He breathed quickly. Ahain reached him and nuzzled his chest with his snout.
“Idiot wolf,” Rafen muttered.
He stayed there for a minute, stroking Ahain and silently listening for Talmon. He was beginning to shake. What was that man doing?
Rafen would betray Sherwin’s hiding place by returning to the tunnel. By waiting, he might put himself at Talmon’s mercy. He inhaled and detected Talmon’s scent close by. Straightening slowly, he dropped a hand to his sword hilt, loosening it in its sheath, his muscles tensed for rapid action.
He froze, his hands sweaty.
Talmon stood on the other side of the bunched roots, his pistol cocked diagonally, ready to shoot Ahain if he emerged. At the sight of Rafen, the muscles in his shoulders and neck relaxed.
“Francisco,” he said. “He tried to kill you, did he not? I will not blame you this time. It was his fault. He will be dealt with. Why are you in rags? I see… they are your undergarments.”
Rafen remained paralyzed where he was. Talmon spoke in Tarhian, and he wore an unfamiliar, even concerned, expression.
“Are you hurt? Perhaps you will need to see the physician.”
“I’m fine,” Rafen said in Tarhian.
“You must not stay here. It is unsafe. Come, Francisco. What has this wolf to do with you? Is he the one that followed you last night?”
Talmon had seen Rafen’s wolf tracks then.
“He is,” Rafen lied. “He always comes to me. I don’t know why.”
He stared at Talmon, his hand hovering near his sword hilt. Didn’t he recognize the boy he’d lashed and tried to shoot? Talmon’s forehead was furrowed, his eyes impossibly moist.
“I was afraid for you,” he said. “That is over now. We must return to the palace. Come, my son. What is this sword?”
His eyes had dropped to Rafen’s belt, and Rafen’s pulse throbbed. He was in danger now. Francisco most likely didn’t carry a sword. The guards at the side door of the palace would not have noticed, not seeing Francisco often. However, Talmon was sure to be suspicious. Rafen would either have to draw his blade now or come up with some convincing lie. It seemed horribly unfair to kill Talmon at this moment though.
He’s a different person, Rafen realized. It would have been far easier if he had been the Talmon of old.
“Asiel gave it to me,” Rafen said. “He meant to teach me to fight like the Ashurites of old, he said—”
Talmon cursed loudly.
“I have kept you away from that man on purpose,” he said, obviously in anguish. “And now, despite my every precaution, here you are in your undergarments, with your wits addled!”
Putting his pistol in its holster, Talmon stepped around the roots, his boots tipped with wet snow. He reached out and touched
Rafen’s face. Rafen heard his own sharp intake of breath; he forced himself to keep calm. Agonizingly, he returned his sword arm to his side. His brother’s face kept appearing in his mind.
“You seem well, but who can tell what Asiel does to those he meets alone?” Talmon said. Lifting Rafen’s thick hair from his forehead, he flinched. “What is this?”
Rafen struggled to think what Talmon might be seeing. At last he recalled the incident with the big rock. The faded red scar was
probably still there.
“I hurt myself,” he said, “on a rock, when I was fleeing in the woods.”
“Asiel,” Talmon said, his voice low. “I will kill him.”
This was an empty threat. Talmon did no kesmal.
“This wolf,” Talmon said, “if he follows us home, I will shoot him. You mustn’t be afraid, Francisco. It is a low cur. I do not trust wolves.”
Rafen’s blood was boiling within him. In his head, a hundred voices were screaming: “Now, now!” Erasmus’ and Torius’ murderer was off his guard. The man who had separated Rafen’s family and abused his mother was right before him, yet Rafen could do nothing. Francisco’s soft, high voice said in his head, “My father cares for me.”
“Francisco, you are dreaming.”
Talmon gently removed Rafen’s belt with his sword and tossed it aside. He laid a hand on Rafen’s shoulder and drew him away from the tree roots. Rafen fought a wild instinct to break away, to scream.
“You are not well… you are not well,” Talmon muttered. “Where is your horse?”
“Lost,” Rafen said. He feared speaking, lest Talmon recognize his voice.
“Ah. That is no trouble. We will ride together. Back,” he barked at Ahain, who had started following. Ahain sunk to the ground, uncertain.
Rafen allowed Talmon to help him up the slippery slope of the clearing.
“Stay,” Talmon said to his horse when they reached the top of the slope. “Francisco, you must be hurt or ill. You are subdued; you are not yourself.”
Francisco must be more talkative than Rafen was.
“I am well,” he said in quick Tarhian.
Talmon’s horse – also a black stallion, though larger than Francisco’s – stood by a tree, snorting uneasily.
“These woods are full of trouble,” Talmon said.
He guided Rafen over to the horse. Rafen’s heart drummed desperately. He had come out here to get revenge on Talmon, and Talmon had overcome him without a blow. The king stared at him quizzically while Rafen stood very still beside the horse. Slowly, he lifted his foot to the stirrup, wondering if he should run. However, Talmon was probably already mistrustful enough after last night.
Rafen now sat in the
horse’s saddle. The thought of escape lingered tantalizingly as Talmon mounted behind him. His arms encircling Rafen, Talmon grasped the reins and flicked them. The stallion trotted forward. Rafen had last ridden a horse on a foxhunt with Kasper and Robert, shortly before the sabbatical. Now he rocked unsteadily, feeling like he sat on top of a building.
“You are not yourself,” Talmon repeated. “Put your weight in the center. Then you will not fall.”
Rafen obeyed without thinking. The horse was now cantering away from the clearing where Sherwin and Francisco were. His mind whirling numbly, Rafen turned to see it recede into the distance, a crater in a circle of basswood trees…
Chapter Twenty-Three
The
Mystery of Talmon
“My son is sick,” Talmon said. “He has taken a blow to the head. Sit, Francisco. The physician is coming. Do not be troubled.”
Rafen slumped in the wooden chair and glanced around the banquet hall. It had changed greatly from the times he had shared meals with the Selsons. The Selsons’ table had been removed, likely because the Lashki found its rune carvings offensive. The large black table before Rafen now replaced it. Around him, little square tables with two chairs each substituted the long benches King Robert had used for banquets. Obviously, Talmon and Frankston didn’t entertain much. The windows that once opened onto the gardens now had great, purple curtains drawn over them. The meager sunshine that filtered through created a violet twilight. This, and the unexpected warmth of indoors and beginning spring, made Rafen sleepy. As Rafen had expected, Talmon’s five dogs were grouped in the left corner of the hall. The biggest pit bull, which Talmon called Rikka, was gnawing a blood-stained bone.
Rafen had ridden to the palace with Talmon in silence and growing panic. He had been waiting for Alexander two months, and now he was going to miss him. Talmon had returned his horse to a palace stable and escorted Rafen to the inner wall, where he had commanded a servant to bathe Rafen and help him change immediately. In horror, Rafen begged to be left alone while he bathed and changed. He was terrified the servant would see his lash wounds or his phoenix feather. Talmon complied unwillingly, and after Rafen had dressed himself in fine Tarhian attire, he brought him to the banquet hall.
The Sianian Wolf Page 18
