The Sianian Wolf

by Y. K. Willemse

  After another five minutes of jolting, the wagon ground to a halt. A Tarhian voice called out to the driver in terrible Vernacular, “Papers, I must see papers!”

  “Papers,” the driver said scornfully in equally bad Tongue. “With good face, need no papers.”

  “I understand nothing,” the Tarhian said, which seemed to mean he couldn’t understand the driver’s thick Ruyan accent. “I see papers, and I search wagon.”

  A thud on packed dirt sounded outside the wagon. From the wagon’s rocking, Rafen guessed the driver had descended from his perch. The next few sentences were whispered, and Rafen heard the clink of money.

  The driver mounted his bench again. The swish and smack of his reins sounded on his horses’ backs, and the wagon rattled through the New Isles gates.

  “Tha’ was easy,” Sherwin’s muffled voice said from beneath the sheet.

  The roar of a crowd reached Rafen’s ears. Footsteps tramped outside the wagon, which rocked along slower now. Other wheels creaked around them, and children shouted. The smart clip-clop of hooves against cobbled stone resounded amid the braying of donkeys and the clamoring of chickens and turkeys.

  Rafen felt lightheaded. He leaned against his dusty chest, his face in his hands. What was he doing? And what was the point of doing it? Even if he succeeded today – and that was impossible in itself – it wouldn’t bring him any closer to anything worth achieving. Erasmus was still dead; his brother was with Talmon; the Lashki ruled Siana; Roger was still his father; Alexander had not turned up, and perhaps was even dead; and some of the Selsons, at least, were dead, if not all.

  Rafen inexplicably wondered what Erasmus’ corpse looked like. Though he’d seen many corpses, he wondered if he would balk at this one.

  Erasmus stood in his mind, sword sheathed, his green eyes with zigzags like cracked glass focused on Rafen. Breezes stirred his hair, and the flowering moss and asters nearby gave a fragrance to the clearing in which he stood. His voice came to Rafen from a deep hole that had temporarily swallowed it.

  “There have been thousands of leaders in history. There will always be a hero. And everyone dies the same... Zion is the special One.”

  Rafen’s hand moved to his phoenix feather. Zion. When had Rafen last thought properly about Him? The news about his parents and brother right after Erasmus’ death had obliterated everything else from his mind.

  Zion, please, he prayed. I’ve fought alone long enough.

  He was answered by a warm expansion of his mind. The walls fell away, revealing a Presence he breathed like oxygen. In its immensity, Rafen remembered the smoldering eyes of the phoenix. Vague snippets of the vision he had seen after receiving his phoenix feather floated back to him… something about sacrifice… a heavy blackness… an adult Etana at his side.

  Rafen’s breath caught in his chest just as it had when he had realized Francisco was alive. If any Selsons still lived, Etana was certainly one of them. His blood warmed, and the Presence was very strong now. It drove strength into him, sending the kesmal dancing with tingling steps up and down his arms.

  “Raf?” Sherwin had emerged from his sheet and fixed him with a funny look. “I said yer name five times,” he said.

  The wagon halted.

  “Come on,” Rafen said, pulling back the gray covers of the entrance. Cool shade checked by sunshine poured in. Sherwin scampered to the opening and lowered himself out. Rafen followed. Overwhelmed by the sunlight and spring breezes after the wagon’s stuffy interior, Rafen stood there stupidly, knocked about by bodies in the feverish crowd. The wagon driver, a dark-skinned man in a long white robe, had leapt down from his bench and was motioning to a thickset man with a crate containing two squawking chickens.

  Grabbing Sherwin’s arm, Rafen ducked behind two barrels near a seller’s stand. Above them, the huge clock tower pointed to the sky like a monumental arrow.

  “Do you remember the plan?” Rafen asked urgently.

  On the way to the New Isles road, Rafen had explained his plan to Sherwin, who had listened with a vaguely manic gleam in his eyes. Although Sherwin had great faith in him, Rafen was certain his friend had been biting back a scream for help at the time.

  “Oh, I remember,” Sherwin said now, licking dry lips.

  “Then let’s get started.”

  *

  “Are you certain you are well enough for this, my son?” Talmon asked, riding alongside Francisco.

  He laid special emphasis on the word “son” today. Francisco glanced across at him.

  “Yes,” he said quietly.

  They were on the road to New Isles. Talmon’s five dogs and twenty armed guards surrounded the king and the supposed prince. An announcer with an ugly feathered hat bounded along on a white palfrey before them. Francisco rode a new black stallion from Talmon. The contrast between this bulky animal and Francisco’s previous sleek companion only highlighted the death of his beloved pet. It was only one of the many things that made everything feel like a nightmare.

  When Talmon had seen Francisco that morning, he had been horrified. To Francisco’s relief, the five guards had been too happy to remember how they had found him. Francisco had been able to convince them of his version of the story: after trying to get some air on the wall-walk near the astronomy tower, he had been discovered by Asiel, who had chased him down another staircase into the courtyard between the inner and outer walls. Francisco had fled outside. After stumbling, he had gotten his spectacular purple bruise. Francisco only discovered after telling this fabrication that a guard had been with Rafen… and he was now dead.

  Believing Asiel had killed the man who had escorted Francisco to the astronomy tower, Talmon doubtfully accepted this tale, while Francisco’s overactive conscience reprimanded him. It was ironic that he now lied because he knew the truth. Looking at Talmon, he could almost see the veil of deception slipping away from between them. He shivered, remembering how the king had grabbed him with cold, hard hands when he had suspected him of being the Sianian Wolf.

  His brother, whom Francisco was certain was the Wolf, was his only friend now. Francisco liked his brother’s manner. It was quiet and assured, with a strength in his eyes. Rafen also had about him an animal quickness that Francisco admired. And he wore a sincerity that he had paid for with his own blood on numerous occasions.

  Talmon had lied to Francisco. However, Rafen would not betray him. And neither would Francisco give away his brother. He swore it to himself.

  As they drew nearer to the city’s large wooden gates, Francisco thought the bond between twins was the strongest in the world.

  His gaze flicked to Talmon again. Talmon’s narrowed brown eyes were focused on the gates of New Isles. He was thinking about the now erased carvings of King Fritz’s last battle. He was remembering the Lashki Mirah. His dogs romped at his horse’s hooves.

  Francisco absorbed Talmon’s passionless, sculptured face. He now understood Talmon was nothing to do with him. Those kisses planted on his forehead at night, those embraces, those glorious beds and rich foods, those lessons, checks with the physician, melting looks, and whispered words that Francisco found so disarming… they could never replace the tie of blood. And no one so close to the Lashki could love him as he desired. Eventually, the Lashki would swallow even Talmon’s pale reflection of love. The faint flame would die, and Francisco would be alone in the dark with the blue light of the Master’s rod.

  He shuddered, reining in his horse outside the arching gateways.

  “Wait there,” Talmon said. “I must instruct my men.”

  He rode through the unusually balmy air to where his announcer had halted in the middle of the gateway, surveying the market mayhem within.

  Rafen’s voice rang in Francisco’s head: “Why don’t you come with us?”

  Hot liquid stung Francisco’s eyes. He gritted his teeth. He should have gone. There was nothing for him with Talmon. With Rafen he could—

  Francisco started, abruptly remembering he had to re
lease Wynne. Inwardly, he thanked the stars that Asiel had not accompanied them today. The Ashurite would have ruined everything.

  Whispers caught Francisco’s attention. Without changing the bored, princely expression on his face, he strained to hear what his pseudo-father was saying to the announcer.

  “…that he does not speak the Tongue?” the announcer said in rapid Tarhian.

  “Yes,” Talmon said in a low voice. Still on his horse, he leaned close to the announcer’s ear. “Before I make my speech, say he speaks Tarhian only. The people may think they know him, otherwise.”

  Francisco realized that the people of New Isles had probably had Rafen presented to them as the Fledgling. Perhaps there were those within the city who would recognize Talmon’s supposed son. The Tarhian king was making sure no one would reveal the lie Francisco had unknowingly lived for years.

  It is too late, Francisco thought with a burst of anger. He knew.

  Talmon stiffened on his horse and turned to Francisco. “Come, my son,” he beckoned.

  Before him lay the febrile city of New Isles. With a burning heart, Francisco flicked his reins and rode toward Talmon.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Freeing Wynne

  “When are we starting this diversion?” Sherwin asked Rafen for the tenth time in five minutes.

  Rafen gave him a long, hard look, before returning to watching the city. He had been clutching Erasmus’ old coat, which Sherwin had returned to him, and now he pulled it on. Sherwin had also found the sword Erasmus had given to Rafen, and Rafen had gotten rid of his Tarhian blade, leaving it in the Ruyan merchant’s wagon.

  They were hiding on the southern edge of the marketplace, between a shabby three-storied house and some crumbling, one-storied buildings – perhaps very old bookshops. The ever-warming spring wind whispered around them.

  Rafen sat cross-legged in the shadows, his gaze wandering from the cobbles moist with the last of the melted snow to the vibrant stalls, the thronging people, chickens, and geese, and the lopsidedly laden donkeys. An invisible force dragged his eyes to the market’s western edge, where a scaffold rose before the ruined temple. A swinging form – like a twisted, black stick – was too distant to make out. Rafen felt his breath stick in his throat. It was very out of character for Erasmus to be so idle. Rafen wanted to scream at him, to make him move and do something, free himself from the noose still around his neck.

  “Raf,” Sherwin hissed in his ear, “they’re here.”

  Wrenching his eyes from the corpse, Rafen looked where Sherwin pointed. An announcer cantered ahead of twenty armed guards, screeching in accented Vernacular, “The king and his son, the king and his son!”

  Rafen wryly observed that Siana had too many kings now, and both were the wrong ones. Talmon stayed because the Lashki was nowhere nearby.

  Behind the announcer, the twenty guards fanned out to reveal Talmon riding his thoroughbred stallion, his head aloft and his brown eyes scanning the faces of the crowd with distaste. Behind him, Francisco rode with princely grace, looking straight ahead. Rafen watched him admiringly. Francisco certainly knew how to give nothing away.

  “Do yer think he’s really goin’ to help us?” Sherwin asked, turning to Rafen. His pale eyes were clouded. “Yer didn’t travel with that feller, Raf. He’s useless. Yer definitely my favorite twin.”

  Sherwin’s words sent a stab of fear through Rafen. What if Francisco did betray them?

  “We have to do the best we can,” Rafen said.

  Sherwin’s eyes slid to Francisco, whose bruise had been powdered by one of his attendants so that it was now almost invisible.

  “Right,” Sherwin said uneasily.

  “Repeat those Tarhian words I taught you this morning,” Rafen told him. “You have to say it without your accent.”

  Sherwin hurriedly recited the sentences until Rafen was satisfied.

  “Good,” he said. “And don’t forget to point to someone who looks Tarhian. Don’t pick any of the Sianians. Get Talmon looking to the western edge of the marketplace. Point to someone near the alleys on one side of the temple. All right?”

  “Fine,” Sherwin said. He stood up, rubbing his hands. “I’m actually lookin’ forward to this. And it doesn’t matter tha’ I don’t look Tarhian?”

  “Your Tarhian coat will give the right impression from a distance.”

  Rafen pulled Sherwin’s collar up, stuffing his long yellow hair into it.

  “What the ’eck are yer doing?” Sherwin said indignantly, scrabbling for Rafen’s hands.

  “Your hair isn’t very Tarhian.”

  When Rafen was satisfied that Sherwin could fool the onlookers,

  Sherwin stepped out of the shadows by the wrecked three-story house. He took a lungful of air, then bellowed to the marketplace in general, “CKE TEN TARK. TARK ERG ROGER! CKE TARK! CKE TARK! TARK ERG ROGER!”

  Stop that man! He is Roger!

  Sherwin went on like this for two minutes until most people nearby were looking at him. Now in the center of the marketplace, Talmon reined in his horse, his eyes flashing to where Sherwin pointed at a slender young man at the western end of the marketplace. Calmly clutching a chicken, the oblivious Tarhian trader in question walked toward the alleys behind the temple, his back to everyone. His hair was the perfect shade of dull brown. Rafen almost smiled.

  “CKE TEN TARK!” Talmon roared to his men.

  As one, he, his five dogs, and eighteen of his guards charged on horseback through the marketplace toward the young man. The man gave them one horrified glance that wasn’t long enough to reveal the truth to Talmon, threw his chicken up in the air in a cloud of feathers, and rushed down an alley.

  Flushed with triumph, Sherwin dashed back into their hiding place.

  “Now for Wynne,” Rafen murmured to him. He was shaking despite himself, because the deeds of that afternoon had only just begun.

  *

  Francisco was explaining with difficulty to the two remaining guards that Asiel had indeed ordered he release Wynne. “He was emphatic,” he insisted.

  The guards glanced from each other to Francisco.

  “Your Grace,” one said, “would my lord Asiel really order such a thing?”

  Francisco looked desperately at the perplexed crowd that was moving more slowly after Sherwin’s outburst. Talmon and his men had vanished down the alley after the supposed Roger. Yet Francisco knew once Talmon realized he’d been fooled, he would return furious. The Tarhian trader would be more likely to get away unscathed than the trickster.

  “You fear Asiel, then?” Francisco said to the guard.

  The guard stared at his horse’s reins, his face masked.

  “If you are so afraid, you should listen to me,” Francisco said. “I bear his message. You will not want to meet him later if you have not done this thing.”

  The guards’ eyes shifted uneasily to the lost-looking announcer, who rode through the people searching for some ale. Talmon had also instructed this man to watch Francisco. Thankfully, the announcer had a mind of his own. The guards remained still, thinking about what Talmon would say. Although Talmon had had no hand in capturing Wynne, he would certainly be angry if Francisco freed her.

  Calmly, Francisco flicked his reins and directed his horse toward the eastern wall, aiming for the familiar post to tie his steed to.

  The guards hung behind momentarily, probably turning it over in their heads: who was more fearsome, Talmon or Asiel? Francisco didn’t turn to look. Seconds later, he heard the smart clipping of their horses’ hooves on the cobbles. Asiel could do kesmal.

  *

  Roger’s blood turned cold when pounding footfalls met his ears. Elizabeth gripped his arm.

  They stood beneath the dilapidated eaves of a deserted tavern. The alley they hid in was narrow, shadowed, and moist with mud – all that remained of the snow. Its occupants were shut away in slender, three-story homes that consisted mainly of one shaky room stacked on another. Shutters were all clo
sed.

  Roger and Elizabeth had stolen into New Isles yesterday to find out what Sherwin and Rafen were doing. Roger hadn’t trusted Sherwin for a minute. And now there was certainly trouble.

  A harassed-looking Tarhian trader flew past them, chicken feathers sticking to his shirt. A train of horses was filling the alley, and from the voice barking orders, Roger knew exactly who led them.

  With a curse, Roger grabbed Elizabeth and ran with her down the alley after the farmhand.

  *

  “Hold the reins and do not let the horses get away,” the Tarhian said in a thick accent to his son.

  The twelve-year-old was perched on the wagon’s bench behind his father’s team. His eyes flicked to a pretty peasant girl nearby. He straightened and tugged his coat around him in what he hoped was a fetching, masculine manner.

  Grinning, Sherwin decided now was the time. Gathering speed, he lunged along the top step of the shabby building near Rafen’s and his previous hiding place. The height of the steps meant Sherwin was above the boy and his wagon, which were positioned to the building’s right. Sherwin hurled himself off and into the air, flying toward the boy’s alarmed face. Knocked from the bench, the boy landed in the dust of the marketplace with a thud. The horses whinnied wildly and plunged into the churning crowd.

  Rafen had gone to rescue Wynne, so Sherwin was on his own. His friend’s parting words had been, “Get hold of the reins and drive the wagon to the western end of the marketplace near the temple. Don’t let the horses get ahead of you.”

  Sherwin had only directed horses once or twice on Gates’ farm. The horses now had definitely gotten ahead of him, and Sherwin had no idea where the reins were. He flailed for them as the eastern wall loomed before him. He had a wonderful view of its thick, milky oak surface.

  *

  Rafen crouched behind the post Francisco’s stallion was tied to. The fussing of the crowd was more subdued since Talmon had pursued the supposed Roger.

  Francisco had taken five minutes, and Rafen twitched with impatience. Any moment now, Talmon would realize he was not chasing Roger, that he was in fact nowhere near Roger, and he would return to the marketplace to kill the fool who had tricked him. From the doorway near Rafen, Wynne’s wild voice rose.