The Sianian Wolf

by Y. K. Willemse

  Sherwin shoved Francisco past his parents and along their way. The shadows around them were cool, and the night birds cooed and hooted as they traveled. Evening breezes blew, balmy compared to the winter chills Sherwin had grown used to, and the velvety purple sky was studded with stars.

  “’e’s not so bad, Roger,” Sherwin said in a low voice to Francisco. “I didn’t know ’im before or anything, but he seems pretty protective of Raf. Ironic, seein’ as he tried to kill ’im before.”

  Francisco’s only response was to tumble headlong in front of Sherwin. He rose quickly, looking dazed. Melting snow stuck to the front of the old Tarhian coat he wore.

  “Yeah, yeh’ve had a head injury,” Sherwin said.

  Francisco gave a dry sob.

  “It’s all right, yer know,” Sherwin said, throwing an arm around him and helping him walk. “I know yer dead tired, but speed is sort of important if we’re to get to Raf in time.”

  Sherwin’s eyes moved to the palace. Somewhere within those giant walls, Rafen was some kind of prisoner. Had Talmon discovered the truth yet? Sherwin shivered. Their mission had to be successful, a seamless trade of two very different Franciscos.

  The rest of their journey took another hour, and it drained the remainder of Sherwin’s energy. Unspeaking, Francisco leaned heavily on him, and Sherwin wondered sometimes if he were dozing on his shoulder.

  Once the fringe of trees ran out, Sherwin forced Francisco onto his hands and knees, and they crawled cautiously up the slope leading to the palace. At this point, Francisco woke up a little and took the lead. Sherwin assumed he knew a side door to go through.

  Sure enough, when they reached the top of the slope and concealed themselves behind some beautyberry bushes and basswood trees, Francisco indicated an arched door on the outer wall. Five guards surrounded it.

  “Tha’s the easiest way to enter?” Sherwin asked.

  Francisco nodded.

  “Well, tha’s just great,” Sherwin hissed sarcastically. “Should be a walk in the park, getting past five guards. Maybe messaging Raf would be better. What do yer think?”

  “They will let me in, for a surety,” Francisco said huskily, making a move to rise.

  Sherwin jerked him to the ground sharply. “Are yer insane? Raf’ll get killed, and yeh’ll get punished.”

  “Ah, yes,” Francisco said. “A message then.”

  “Okay,” Sherwin said, “and ’ow is that done?”

  “I have doves in the palace for carrying messages.”

  Sherwin rolled his eyes. “How ’bout outside?” he said.

  “There is a dove I once lost near this spot. It settled in these trees when I released it from the outer wall.”

  Sherwin glanced at Francisco’s wan face. As quietly as possible, he started shimmying up a basswood near them.

  “What are you doing?” Francisco said, staring at him with wonder. “We only need some berries.”

  Feeling stupid for looking for a nest, Sherwin quickly descended again. Across from them, the Tarhian guards were muttering to one another. Sherwin’s muscles tensed. Maybe they had heard him climbing.

  “Here,” Francisco said.

  He had a handful of tiny, unripe berries from the beautyberry bushes he sat amongst.

  Frustration was mounting in Sherwin. “Oh, tha’s great, tha’ is,” he said. “Where’s the dove?”

  “For a surety, we will have to wait. Scatter the berries, comrade.”

  Sherwin growled to himself and did as he was told. Francisco’s dark blue eyes were wide and earnest. Moving away from the little pattern of berries on the moist ground, Sherwin settled down amidst the leaves with Francisco, who kept instructing him to be absolutely quiet and not to touch the bait. Sherwin wanted to snap that he did know something about bird watching, but the guards were too close, and he had made enough noise. His drumming heart wouldn’t let him sleep.

  It was going to be a long wait.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The

  Astronomy Tower

  Rafen stirred. It was past midnight. His hand on his phoenix feather, he sat up in Francisco’s canopy bed, surrounded by pillows. Scratching noises were coming from the floor.

  His heart started fluttering. Something was in his room. Fighting his way through pillows as silently as possible, he came to the edge of his bed. Perhaps it was Asiel. Somehow, Rafen knew this play-acting wasn’t going to last much longer. Indeed, it might already be over.

  Swinging his legs out of bed, Rafen made to lunge out from the misty, partially transparent curtains surrounding him. Becoming entangled, he desperately fought through them, imagining that at any moment someone’s sword might pierce his abdomen. Breaking free with a gasp, Rafen balled his hands into fists. Two steps from him, a dove pattered along the floor.

  Rafen breathed again, feeling foolish.

  Thank Zion.

  He remembered leaving the window open. Even in early spring, he found the room close after his time in the Woods. Stooping, he held out his hands and the dove waddled over to him. A tiny roll of parchment was tied to its leg. He freed the parchment and unrolled it.

  The handwriting was tiny, and his room was in shadow. Rising, Rafen waved his hand at the candle on the chest of drawers across from his bed. He approached the now ignited wick, holding the parchment up to it and reading his brother’s immaculate handwriting:

  Change places soon, please. Bushes opposite astronomy tower. With Sherwin.

  Rafen had been in Talmon’s company long enough to know what the Tarhians called the “astronomy tower”. It was a tall watchtower along the western wall of the New Isles palace. Talmon and Francisco often observed the nighttime skies there.

  Hope rose in Rafen. Sherwin and Francisco had not disappointed him. His mind was dragged back to what Talmon had said about his Master. He had to leave before the Lashki returned.

  Apparently it was normal for the Lashki to leave his followers uncertain. After Erasmus’ execution, he hadn’t visited the palace for ten weeks, according to Talmon and Asiel. Talmon had mentioned the Lashki had “other concerns”. The Lashki was after Rafen again, and it was only a matter of time before he found out where he was.

  However, Rafen couldn’t escape tonight, because Talmon now posted guards outside his chamber door and below his window, supposedly for “Francisco’s” protection.

  Tomorrow Rafen would swap with Francisco. The timing was perfect, because Talmon had promised he would ride into New Isles with his foster son. With Francisco’s and Sherwin’s help, Rafen would free Wynne and claim Erasmus’ body, using his kesmal as both the Fledgling and the Wolf. Alexander had not yet arrived at the Cursed Woods, so there was no reason why the plan shouldn’t go ahead. After that, Rafen would persuade his brother to come with him, and he, Francisco, and Sherwin would look for the admiral themselves.

  Rummaging among the clothes on top of the chest of drawers, Rafen discovered a quill and an inkwell. On the other side of the message, he penned an answer to Francisco:

  Nine tomorrow morning. Watch for signal on eastern wall. Explain my plan then.

  Rafen gritted his teeth grimly. He needed Francisco to help him this time; he was determined there would be no reluctance.

  Behind him, the dove cooed from amidst the blankets on the bed. Rafen turned to find it, the message rolled in his hand.

  *

  “Where is he?” Sherwin said. “I heard the Dickory strike nine ages ago.”

  “He is in trouble,” Francisco said.

  Sherwin pursed his lips sullenly. They were still crouched amidst the same bushes, and Sherwin was thoroughly sick of having velvety leaves in his eyes and nostrils. Last night, he and Francisco had waited two hours just for the dove to discover the berries. It came eventually, though not before Sherwin had silently lost his temper several times. When the dove appeared, Francisco deftly caught it, revealing his usefulness for the first time. He had salvaged a few things from his sodden clothes a day before, and now
made some medicinal powder into ink with water from their water pouch. Sherwin had fashioned a crude quill with one of the dove’s feathers, and Francisco had managed a surprisingly neat message on a scrap of parchment.

  Yet, somehow Rafen had been detained.

  “This is painful,” Sherwin told Francisco.

  They struggled into a more upright position to see over the beautyberry bushes. The five guards by the side door in the western wall were walking in circles, muttering. They were in a foul mood because the air was thick, and the clouds above threatened a spring downpour.

  “Where are yer, Raf?” Sherwin muttered, scanning the wall and the astronomy tower adjoined to it.

  Rafen was still in the keep. He had spent most of the morning trying to escape Talmon, who had kept inconveniently appearing, overwhelmed with affection for him. Did his son want to ride sooner than they had arranged? Did he want food? A check with the physician? Wine? Better gloves? Finally Rafen excused himself

  from Talmon to supposedly get changed. Yesterday, he had at last managed to steal a sword, and now he hurried to his chamber, retrieved it from a drawer, and strapped it to his right hip. When he opened the door again, he paused and flattened himself against the wall, breathing hard. Three guards had appeared outside his chambers. Talmon still clearly didn’t trust him.

  “Your Grace, are you unwell?” the tallest guard said, leaning forward so that his face was in the crack of the partially ajar door.

  Rafen fought to keep himself calm, despite the fury building in his veins. He began coughing and wringing his hands.

  “Alas… a sudden illness! My physician—”

  He broke off into wheezing. The towering guard frantically instructed one of the others, who rushed away down the corridor.

  “No – the wrong way,” Rafen gasped. “My physician is in the southern keep.”

  He slid down the wall, his hands over his face.

  “Quick, you idiot,” the towering guard said to the other man, who departed in frenzied haste.

  Rafen waited three minutes before he felt he couldn’t risk it any longer.

  “I must go for some air,” he choked, stumbling out of his chambers.

  “The palace gardens, Your Grace—”

  “No… somewhere higher… the astronomy tower…”

  “Such a great distance, Your Grace!”

  “Please,” Rafen begged. “My physician says the air there is good—”

  He lurched forward, his breathing a rasp.

  “Your Grace’s word is my command,” the towering guard said, his face completely white. Obviously, he was terrified of what Talmon would say should he fail to bring “Francisco” back to health.

  “Allow me to escort Your Grace,” the man said, plucking at the hem of Rafen’s navy coat.

  Rafen bit his lip, restraining a wild “NO!”.

  “Come then,” he said. “But by Carn, hurry.”

  Together, they headed through the keep toward the palace gardens, Rafen’s heart beating at his own plans for the day. The towering guard offered to carry Rafen seven times, and at last Rafen agreed, his blood boiling. He supposed Francisco would have let the man do this five minutes ago.

  Forty minutes later, they had traveled through the gardens, and the inner and outer wall. The guard was nearly stopped by numerous men clustered about various doors Francisco was forbidden to pass through. Rafen’s imploring and gasping breathing eventually won them over. Rafen’s escort chattered on nervously, instructing His Grace to take better care of his health, telling His Grace how useless the other guards were, and how he (the epitome of useless guards, Rafen thought) could scarcely bear them. Rafen’s ears ached.

  Finally, the guard was mounting the stairs of the astronomy

  tower.

  “I must walk,” Rafen said, endeavoring to slide out of his arms. “This cramped posture… I cannot breathe—”

  The guard inhaled sharply and let him go. He lit a torch and bore it before Rafen, revealing the disrepair of the shadowed tower. Rafen narrowly avoided a crumbling stair. Spiders, silverfish, and cockroaches crept along the slimy wall. Brushing something crawling off his shoulder, Rafen thought bitterly that King Robert would never have allowed the tower to become like this. Why wouldn’t Alexander come? Then they would fight for the Selsons, and Rafen would see them again, and they would be so grateful they wouldn’t care he was human.

  “The door leading to the battlements of the western wall – it is close?” Rafen asked the guard in a suffocated voice.

  “It is not more than twelve steps from us, Your Grace,” the guard responded, glancing over his shoulder. “Very close, very close.”

  The guard faced the steps before him again. Rafen silently loosened his sword in its sheath, and the man somehow sensed the movement. He whirled around as Rafen whipped the weapon free. Though Rafen’s sword was long – too long for him – he was short, which made his action easy on the narrow stairs. The guard struggled to clear his own blade from its scabbard as he staggered higher, clutching the torch.

  “Wh-what does Your Grace mean by this?”

  “Merely a friendly spar,” Rafen said.

  He clenched his teeth and lunged upward just as the guard freed

  his sword. Though Rafen only intended to knock the guard hard enough so that he wouldn’t remember a thing, the man actually lunged at him with obviously the same intent, making to swing the flat of his sword into Rafen’s head. Rafen threw himself sideways, flinging his right hand out. It connected with the guard’s left arm. The torch’s yellow spot of light danced madly on the wall as the guard stumbled and fell over backward, his belt clattering oddly on the stone. Before the guard could slash at Rafen’s leg, Rafen leapt up another two steps, driving his sword beneath the blade of his opponent. He felt the resistance of flesh, then its giving and the easy sliding motion that followed. The guard choked. It had all been so fast. Trying not to look at the guard’s quivering face, Rafen planted his boot against his abdomen and pulled the sword free. The torch fell from the guard’s limp hand, and Rafen spun around as it rolled past him and down the stairs, its tongue of flame an orange, revolving circle. Dashing after it, Rafen rounded a corner to find himself in darkness.

  Flicking his fingers, Rafen created a flame in his right hand, still clutching his bloodied sword with his left. He wished he could be sure the torch was going to go out. Perhaps the tower was damp enough…

  He didn’t want any traces of his flight to be left.

  That thought reminded him of the guard. He walked around the corner again and stared at the corpse, which was twitching slightly. Rafen’s muscles tensed unbearably; he wanted to vomit. He wished he had transformed this time.

  “Who am I?” he whispered. He had killed again, without a second thought. His very blood ran cold.

  I don’t have time to think about it, he told himself in horror. This Tarhian would not have hesitated to kill Sherwin if he had gotten in his way; nor would he have been troubled to harm Francisco if Francisco had tried the kind of tricks Rafen had this morning. For now, Rafen had to trust he had done the right thing.

  He would have to drag the guard onto the outer wall, from which he could be thrown out of the palace. And then he would have to bury him, conceal him somehow.

  Steeling himself, Rafen wiped his sword on the man’s jacket and sheathed it. He forced his little flame to rise into the air and hover before him.

  “Travel before me,” he said.

  He climbed the stairs beside the corpse, slipped his hands under

  the armpits, and heaved, sweat beading on his forehead. The man was huge. Rafen’s little flame skimmed the air and quivered impatiently two steps ahead of him. He forced himself to focus on its light, because the smell of blood was driving him insane.

  *

  “It’s ten o’ clock,” Sherwin said. “Somethin’s ’appened to him for sure, Franny.”

  Francisco gave him a strange look.

  “My name is Fran
cisco, Sherry,” he said.

  “That’s a type of spirit,” Sherwin retorted. They had just endured a heavy spring downpour, and the air was thick and sticky. Sherwin was in the kind of mood in which he heard heavy metal music in his head. “Yer nicknames don’t work, see? Yer say it Shur-win, not Shear-win.”

  Sherwin shifted in the branches of the bushes, bringing down a shower of raindrops. A painted brunting flew away.

  “Don’t!” Francisco hissed, his eyes widening. “They will hear you, for a surety.”

  “Well, I’m goin’ in there,” Sherwin said, not troubling to keep his voice low.

  Francisco glowered at him.

  “Go and get killed then. My brother knows what he is doing. He will be here soon.”

  Sherwin’s heart was thumping. Rafen wasn’t invincible. He

  raised his eyes from the bush and the knot of guards to the battle-ments above.

  “Thank ’eaven: there he is, Franny,” he said, a blissful smile on his face.

  To the left of the astronomy tower, an unmistakable short figure stood on the battlements between the merlons, its sword drawn. The light reflecting off it was a powerful beam of white. Rafen was

  far away enough from the side door to make an unnoticed descent.

  The angle formed by the astronomy tower and the adjoining wall would make for an easier climb, despite the smooth bricks. Also, the cluster of feathery-branched larches at the bottom of the tower

  would hasten the last leg of the journey.

  “The wall is four stories high,” Francisco said, as if he’d been reading Sherwin’s mind.

  “’e’ll make it,” Sherwin said.

  Francisco nodded, hope flickering in his eyes.

  “He’s signaling,” Sherwin said, stiffening.

  Rafen was motioned toward himself with his sword.

  “He wants me to come to ’im,” Sherwin said.

  He glanced down at the slope behind the bushes. His trip had to be unseen. He would crawl north along the incline until he was beyond the astronomy tower. Then he would double back and approach the larches from behind, praying the guards wouldn’t see him.