The Sianian Wolf

by Y. K. Willemse

  Sherwin had stripped the unconscious Francisco to his undergarments the day before, because his wet clothes would give him a chill, and be too heavy and impractical for the Woods besides. Then Sherwin had dressed Francisco, washed the blood off his bruise with river water, and warmed the princeling by a fire. Francisco had woken by this time, and complained constantly throughout the process, just as he was doing now.

  Sherwin sighed eloquently. He certainly knew which brother he preferred; Francisco was impossible. In the tunnel beneath the tree, Sherwin had heard Rafen’s and Talmon’s conversation. However, it had made no sense to him because it was in Tarhian. Francisco wasn’t awake to translate for him either. When Sherwin had seen Rafen’s, Talmon’s, and the horse’s tracks, he had figured out what had happened. He didn’t know why he had ever thought Rafen was going to attack Talmon.

  What mattered now was to get him back, at all costs. After twenty-four hours of consuming roots, Sherwin’s digestive system was complaining, and so was Francisco. Permanently dining on raw vegetation gave them the most exquisite gas problems. Sherwin felt like he was floating on a bubble.

  They had already traveled through the Woods for a day and part of the night.

  “Some decent meat would be good,” Sherwin told Francisco as they pushed through endless shrubbery and holly leaves. Rafen could catch rabbits like no one Sherwin knew.

  Francisco narrowed his eyes as he did when he tried to understand Sherwin’s heavy English accent. He gave up with a sniff of disdain.

  Sherwin paused and looked ahead of them, disillusioned. He had always followed Rafen, never really observing their path unless there was a big rock ahead. He kicked himself for it now. He was trying to aim west, because this would bring them to New Isles. When they had started, Sherwin had recalled some of the paths. Now they seemed to be circling the same spot of wood.

  “Yer know,” Sherwin said, looking at a large brack tree with a knothole halfway down the trunk, “I’m sure I saw this tree before. The knothole reminds me of an eyeball.”

  Francisco slumped down against an oak two steps from Sherwin. Eyes closed, he let out a soft, feminine moan. A bobwhite nearby looked at him curiously.

  “Ah, shut up,” Sherwin said.

  “It is much too cold out here,” Francisco grumbled.

  Sherwin looked around at the disappearing snow, remembered bitter winter, and thought Francisco didn’t know anything about cold.

  “And, ah, my head pains me.” Francisco’s great bruise from the previous day had now turned purple and black. In Sherwin’s opinion, it was a brilliant bruise: the kind he would have bragged about at school.

  “Naw, there’s nothing wrong with it,” Sherwin said. “Yer could say yer got mugged by a giant albino or somethin’ like that.”

  Francisco groaned again.

  “Well, I guess I’ll be seein’ yer,” Sherwin said, leaving Francisco and walking forward through the oaks. “I’ve no great need of yer anyway. It’s Raf I’ve got to find.”

  Sherwin walked for two minutes, pushing through branches and wading through slush. It was all very tedious, particularly because he was lost. A wild turkey scuttled away before him and Sherwin’s mouth watered. Eventually, he heard what he hoped to hear: a halfhearted shuffling behind him. Francisco staggered through the unfurling spring leaves Sherwin had just passed through.

  “Ah, I am sickening for my grave,” he complained. “Come, let us find a physician. I am weary.”

  “Come, let us find New Isles,” Sherwin said, shading his eyes and imitating Francisco’s accent. “I weary of yer repining.”

  Francisco’s face darkened. He folded his arms. “By the stars,” he said sourly, “I know you do not know your way. You lead us into unneeded peril. Find a map, for Carn’s sake.”

  “Carn?” Sherwin echoed.

  “Carn.”

  “Tha’s what I thought yer said.”

  “Carn, the great moon, for sakes!” Francisco shouted shrilly.

  Sherwin grinned. “Ah, well, forgive me,” Sherwin said, “I ’ardly know the name of this world, let alone its moons.”

  “You bonehead,” Francisco retorted.

  Sherwin roared with laughter.

  “Never ’eard that one before. Bonehead. Tha’s a good one. Now, yer right, I don’t have a Scooby where we’re going. But I jus’ ’ad an idea which might work.”

  There were two people in these woods that were sort of friendly to Rafen. And one might know his way around better than Sherwin. Sherwin’s face split into a smile. The easiest way to find a fugitive would be shouting his name near where he was hiding.

  The person in question would likely make a hasty appearance to shut whoever was yelling up.

  “I’ve no idea if this feller is nearby,” Sherwin said, “but we can try this anyway.”

  Francisco leaned against a gray beech tree, making an expansive movement with his hands, as if to say: “Do what you must”. Sherwin opened his mouth and filled his lungs.

  “ROGER!” he bellowed.

  Francisco exclaimed something in Tarhian and clutched his chest, his face twisted as if he had suffered a heart attack.

  “ROGER! ROGER! ROGER! Come on, Franny, let’s go. Jus’ keep walkin’ and yellin’, and who knows? ROGER!”

  Sherwin proceeded through the trees, Francisco following with his mouth clamped shut and his eyes dark. Although Sherwin knew this din would attract any Tarhians in the wood, it was his only chance. If Rafen were with Talmon for too long, he’d be killed. Francisco had confessed yesterday that Asiel suspected Rafen was alive, even had proof in the form of Wynne. It was only a matter of time before the Lashki Mirah knew the truth.

  Urgency crept into Sherwin’s voice. “ROGER! ROGERRR!”

  Behind him, Francisco gasped. A man swept past him, his heavy hand falling on Sherwin’s shoulder. When Sherwin tried to pull away, another hand was clapped over his mouth.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” a voice hissed in his ear.

  Sherwin’s muscles relaxed. It was Rafen’s no-good father.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Plans

  “Your Vernacular vowels have greatly improved, Your Majesty,” the sixty-year-old tutor said in his clipped Sianian accent.

  This had been Rafen’s favorite lesson. All morning, in Francisco’s other set of chambers, Rafen had stared at books, struggling to recite lessons and name herbs. His various Tarhian tutors were intolerably obnoxious. They flattered him, fidgeted nervously, and kept slobbering over his long navy coat, despite his numerous mistakes. Rafen sighed with relief when two guards

  escorted in a Sianian tutor, who had been captured to improve Francisco’s Tongue.

  Francisco’s daytime chambers consisted of a great wing of six rooms, once belonging to Queen Arlene. One room was filled entirely with Francisco’s fine clothes. Another room was a library. The last four led into each other through wide arched doorways. They were furnished with gray floral drapes, straight-backed wooden chairs, ornate writing desks, and shelves decorated with ugly busts. Besides his obsession with the stars, Francisco enjoyed chess. Ten chessboards were scattered through these four rooms, each missing a few checkers.

  Flanked by his two tall guards, the Sianian tutor stood across from Rafen, forbidden to sit in his presence. He leaned forward.

  “Your attention seems to wander, Your Majesty,” he said. “Might I direct Your Majesty to—”

  “My vowels, yes,” Rafen said, straightening. To Rafen’s relief, this whole lesson had been in Tongue. While speaking Tarhian reminded Rafen of slavery, hearing this man’s beautiful Vernacular recalled bittersweet memories of King Robert’s speeches, or Prince

  Kasper’s crisp accent. Already, Rafen had probed several servants about the Selsons. Yet it seemed that they either knew no more than he did or were forbidden to tell him anything concerning the Sianian royal family. Rafen didn’t dare ask Talmon, for fear that it might spoil his deception.

  Even if th
e Selsons were alive, would they ever be on friendly terms with Rafen again? His bloodline would likely ruin his previous relations with them. Rafen was no longer a prince of the royal family. He was a filthy human.

  “Yes, Your Majesty. You have been practicing. Your vowels are markedly better than last week. They sound… natural.”

  “Thank you,” Rafen said, unthinkingly.

  The tutor’s eyes widened. Tarhian nobility never thanked their minions.

  Realizing his mistake, Rafen tried to look complacently out of

  the arched windows to his right, as if nothing had happened.

  “Your Majesty seems a different person this morning,” the tutor said tentatively. He glanced with misgiving at the guards next to him. They did not understand Tongue, but once during the lesson, the taller one had deemed the tutor’s tone disrespectful and slapped him across the face. Rafen had felt himself grow very hot.

  Now he smiled faintly at the tutor’s words.

  “Well, that concludes our lesson,” the tutor said, turning to the guards expectantly.

  “Wait,” Rafen said from amid the oily gray cushions on his settee. “I would question you about something.”

  “Your Majesty?”

  “You know the Wolf was executed in New Isles.”

  The tutor became watchful, as if expecting Rafen to trip him up in his words.

  “He hangs there still, does he not?” Rafen inquired.

  “Yes.”

  “Where in the marketplace?”

  “I am told before the temple, Your Majesty.”

  “And he does not decay?”

  This was somehow important to Rafen.

  “He doesn’t decay,” the tutor said.

  Rafen tried to picture it in his mind. He couldn’t. “Tell me how busy this market would be tomorrow, for my father and I are going out.”

  “The marketplace is always full, Your Majesty, excepting for a lull on the fourth day of the week.”

  “And the number of my father’s men there does not change from day to day?”

  “Not that I have heard, Your Majesty,” the tutor said slowly.

  “Ah, good. I must be fully protected against this Wolf’s minions.”

  He fell silent. If Rafen knew anything about his friend, Sherwin would have journeyed through the Woods to find him. With Sherwin, perhaps Rafen could escape the city with Erasmus’ corpse and Wynne. Tomorrow was the sixth day of the week, and according to the tutor, this meant the marketplace would be full. This sounded promising. More people with only the usual number of guards meant an easier getaway. If Sherwin wasn’t there, Rafen decided he would have to operate on his own. He wouldn’t risk revealing his friend to Talmon by sending a message.

  “Does Your Majesty have any other questions?” the tutor asked.

  “You are dismissed,” Rafen said, nodding to the guards.

  Steering the tutor by the shoulders, the guards escorted him out.

  *

  “You do not seem well,” Roger said to Francisco. “Perhaps you should rest, Rafen.”

  “Oh no,” Sherwin said hurriedly as Francisco’s face lit up, “no time for tha’. No delays, have to get to New Isles. It’s urgent.”

  “Why is it so urgent?” Roger said for the seventh time that day.

  He was striding through the boxelders ahead, with Elizabeth walking briskly in his wake. The spring air was delicious: crisp and fragrant. Roger kept looking over his shoulder, scrutinizing Sherwin’s face. At the back of their party, Francisco trudged along, whimpering and even crying when he thought Roger wasn’t looking. Earlier that day, Sherwin had firmly told Francisco not to betray his identity.

  “Roger will want to keep yer as his currant bun, er, son,” he had said. Francisco had paled. “Best to pretend to be Raf if yer want to get back to Talmon. Yer want to do this swap, don’t yer?”

  Francisco had nodded fervently.

  “Good,” Sherwin had said, “because with any luck, and with yer playing the right part, we can get yer back to your pseudo-father tonight.”

  Looking Roger in the eye now, Sherwin said, “I’m telling yer for the millionth time, it’s our own business. We jus’ need to get there, tha’s all.”

  Elizabeth glanced concernedly at Francisco. “It was a bad blow,” she said. “And so soon after his last one…”

  “Yes,” Sherwin said, grinning unsympathetically through his fabrication, “it was a sore blow, ma’am, and no mistakin’. When he came out of that river, all sore concussed, ’e didn’t even know ’is own name. A bad business, but he’ll come into his own yet. Yer can’t expect any more rabbits of him, meantime.”

  It was telling, Sherwin thought, how one twin was so useful he had to pass the other one off as brain-damaged to get anyone to believe it was the first. His stomach clenching with anxiety, he wondered how Rafen was doing at the palace. What if the Lashki was there at the moment?

  Staggering along behind Sherwin, Francisco whined, “How far is it now?”

  Sherwin was surprised Roger believed this sort of behavior was Rafen’s. “Not far, Rafen,” Roger replied compassionately. “It is almost sundown, and we will be at New Isles in two hours.”

  Francisco looked sour and kept walking.

  Elizabeth leaned over to Roger for the umpteenth time, to whisper something in his ear. The direction of her gaze betrayed her. Sherwin bit his lip nervously; she certainly suspected something. Her eyes seldom left Francisco.

  In response to her communication, Roger looked scornfully

  incredulous.

  The two hours passed like two days. Francisco’s complaining lessened as his weariness grew. Sherwin started to realize how unfit Rafen’s twin really was. He shook visibly with fatigue. The roots Sherwin found him failed to boost his energy, and when Sherwin made him drink, Francisco swilled the water around in his mouth as if trying to imagine it were something stronger. His face had gone a peculiar white, accentuated by the black around his glazed eyes. He meandered along drunkenly until Sherwin was

  forced to support him. Although Roger offered to do this for him twelve times, Sherwin insisted he keep leading. He was worried Roger might notice Francisco was a little taller than Rafen.

  Along the way, Elizabeth murmured encouragement to Francisco. Francisco’s sidelong glances of contempt gave way to silent adoration before the journey’s end.

  “Here we are,” Roger said finally, reaching the red cedars and laurel oaks at the fringe of the Cursed Woods. A raccoon stirred above him.

  Down a slight incline, a packed dirt road snaked through the shadowed grass that was patched with snow. It led to the wooden-walled city of New Isles, which sat in a giant pool of moonlight as if the eye of Zion Himself was on her.

  New Isles was shaped like a pentagon, with its gates at its northernmost corner. At each subsequent corner, two watchtowers

  overlooked the country. The few windows in the smooth-faced oaken walls were slits. A huge clock tower rose high above the walls, its orange bricks cemented together so seamlessly that none could climb it. The gray face of the clock had curving iron hands ending in large arrows. In the light of the biggest Pilamùric moon (Carn), Sherwin gratefully read the time: quarter to nine.

  “Well, thank yer,” Sherwin said. “An’ sorry ’bout giving yer a fright this day’s dawnin’.”

  Roger gave Sherwin a black look. After Sherwin’s yelling that morning, it had taken him a long time to flatter Roger into leading them to New Isles. Even then, Roger was so hopeless with directions that they had still gotten lost twice, and if Sherwin had thought he was risking his life running through the Woods bellowing at the top of his lungs, wandering around in circles with Roger and almost running into Tarhians had felt a good deal worse. However, with three somewhat good brains between them

  – Sherwin didn’t count Francisco’s – they had made it in the end.

  “You will keep safe, won’t you?” Roger said, looking at Francisco, who had sunk to his knees in some sort
of trance.

  “Oh, sure,” Sherwin said. “We’ll keep safe.”

  “Are you sure Rafen is all right?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Sherwin said in a blasè voice, “’e’s absolutely fine. Well, goodbye then.”

  Roger stared at Francisco, who now sat cross-legged on the slushy grass, staring into the distance and rocking back and forth disconsolately.

  “Well, er, thanks a lot,” Sherwin said, moving over to Francisco.

  “Goodbye… Rafen,” Elizabeth said. The name sounded hesitant. She stood by Roger, and clasped his hand in hers. “You know we will always be there for you if you need help.”

  Things were getting too maternal for Sherwin’s comfort.

  “Yeah, see yer,” he said, trying to deliver a hint. Crouching beside Francisco, he shook his shoulder. “Yer gotta get up,” he whispered in his ear. “Do yer want to see Talmon again or not?”

  To Sherwin this was a stupid question, but he knew it wasn’t for

  Francisco, who spoke of the Tarhian king with blissful affection. Francisco nodded, still focused on something faraway. Sherwin had

  considered simply trying a rescue mission rather than swapping Francisco for Rafen. He knew without having to think twice that Rafen earnestly wanted his brother with him too, though Sherwin couldn’t tell why. After spending some time with Francisco, he had decided a swap would be best. Francisco was hopeless in every sense of the word, and no good at fighting besides.

  Sherwin helped the princeling to his feet. “Best to stick to this fringe of trees ’til it runs out,” Sherwin muttered.

  Little knots of blue-coated soldiers had appeared on the New Isles road. They wandered up and down it, conversing in loud Tarhian. Sherwin looked at the immense cubic castle of New Isles on another slush-splattered slope northwards. If he followed the fringe until he reached the foot of the slope, he and Francisco could keep safe for most of their journey. The shadows of the laurel oaks and red cedars shielded them from sight.

  Roger was heading back into the trees excruciatingly slowly, beckoning to Elizabeth. She was rooted to the spot, her piercing gaze still resting on Francisco. Sherwin glanced at them suspiciously. Roger would have prevented them from entering the palace if he’d known what they were going to do.