The Sianian Wolf

by Y. K. Willemse

  Talmon’s hand fell heavily on Francisco’s shoulder. Francisco looked up despairingly at him.

  “You will come with me,” Talmon said. “You must not stay here a moment longer. I would send you away from here… but I would forfeit my life. You return to the palace, and face what comes to you.”

  Francisco blinked away tears. It was only to be expected. After all those years Talmon had pretended to be his father, he would never sacrifice himself for his foster son.

  *

  “I’ve done my best,” Elizabeth said. “The rest is in Zion’s hands.”

  She offered Rafen a portion of cooked rabbit. Rafen declined it, shaking his head. Ahain nestling beside him, he was leaning against a laurel oak, staring across the fire in the clearing. Opposite him, an unconscious Roger was propped against a boxelder tree, his face white. Next to Roger, Wynne looked at the dying man with intrigue, almost spite. Rafen imagined she was wishing Rafen’s father would perish like hers had.

  They had been here since late afternoon. After the clear spring sky, the night was mercilessly cold, with no clouds to insulate the world.

  Francisco had arranged for them to have four horses. They had raced through a maze of alleys, closely pursued by Tarhian horsemen. But Francisco had kept his word. When they had returned to the marketplace, it was deserted. The only remaining Tarhians guarded the walls or the gates. Rafen had ridden up to the gates alone, pretending to be Francisco. Even though the guards had seen Francisco leave, they were appropriately confused at Rafen’s appearance. Rafen had instructed them to check the security of the barracks on the eastern wall. When he discovered they wouldn’t listen to him, he claimed that he had seen a wolf there. All except two had gone. With a stolen pistol, Wynne had shot one while Rafen slayed the other. Sherwin was too concussed

  to help. He was heavy-lidded, and a huge, smoky black bruise was spreading across his forehead. They had departed before the guards on the walls had realized what had happened.

  They had spent the rest of the day following the river deeper into the Woods. A contingent of Talmon’s men had pursued them closely, only to lose their quarry after two hours. Rafen knew the Woods far better than any of them. Once they reached an area where the undergrowth was too thick for riding, Rafen released the horses. Inexplicably, at this point Rafen was weakened by a terrible pain that lingered. He tried to pretend it had never happened, because he knew it was connected with Francisco. After settling down in the clearing, Wynne had cooked rabbit while Elizabeth tried to assuage Roger’s bleeding with various herbs Erasmus had taught Rafen about. Though she did manage to staunch the flow, no one could replace the blood Roger had already lost.

  Despite his weariness, Rafen couldn’t sleep. He watched Wynne ravenously eat her portion of rabbit. She licked the juices off her fingers in peasant fashion. Despite her earlier emotions in the day, despite the day’s events, she showed no sign of grief. Flat finality had descended on her father’s death. She had seen him disappear in the air, and he was gone. She accepted it and understood all she could do was survive.

  Rafen couldn’t help himself. Perhaps it was because he was human, Roger’s son. For him, it wasn’t over. He knew he should have waited for Alexander before attempting this madness. Yet he had wanted his training with Erasmus, as well as Erasmus’ death, not to have been in vain. The massacre was the result of Rafen’s foolishness. His mind accused him endlessly. He had had the chance to slay Talmon unawares many a time in the palace. However, he had not done so because he was being precious about his conscience.

  He stared through the fire to where Sherwin sat cross-legged next to Roger, his head in his trembling hands. If only King Robert were back on the throne! All would be right again.

  Rafen knew all the Selsons weren’t dead. Yet, how many had survived? He had to know. His thoughts tumbling over each other, he was still as his eyes followed Elizabeth, who ran a cool hand over Roger’s forehead. Etana was still alive, and that meant there was a rightful heir for the Sianian throne. Perhaps Alexander was already planning her ascent to the monarchy, backed by his army. Where was he?

  Etana was so young. Rafen remembered her at his side in Tarhia, very small and vulnerable. The fighting for the throne would be left to him and any supporters Alexander had scraped together. If he had managed to do so.

  Rafen’s eyes ached with unshed tears. He remembered how the Sianians had been slain and tossed aside onto the cobbles like animal skins. They would be avenged with the blood of Tarhians, he vowed. His heart pounded in his ears and his mind whirred back to his brother. He would never forget Francisco. He would avenge his brother too – and his father Roger.

  Blood was a strong bond. Although Roger shouldn’t have even been in the city, he had come the moment Talmon had fired that shot. He would have fought for Rafen. Rafen looked at the man leaning against the tree, his sweating face grimacing in pain; and he loved him as a father, as he had first loved King Robert, the man who showed all his weakness and greatness at once.

  Rafen pulled himself up, his muscles all protesting. With blurred eyes, he exploded from the clearing into the beeches and oaks, making for the river. Ahain raised his head and followed at a trot.

  “Rafen!” Elizabeth called from the clearing.

  Her voice was thin in the trees and darkness. Rafen kept walking. Possums scrabbled above and new spring leaves were feathery moths against his arms. He pushed through them impatiently, as if he would see something wonderful when he reached the waters… bright glory beyond the fires of pain… people he missed… Erasmus, who would understand that nasty business about the body… King Robert, robustly and childishly happy as he had been when showing Rafen the sea against the Phoenix Wing… Roger, conscious and healthy, ready to listen to all Rafen had to say.

  Rafen broke through baldcypresses and stared at the silver river that gurgled placidly. Owls hooted above, and the stars seemed very far away.

  He seated himself on a flat rock near the river’s edge. Erasmus had said Zion was the special One. He had said with Zion they could beat the Lashki. In that moment before they heaved him into the air, he probably had still been expecting Zion to appear in a flurry of golden wings.

  Rafen gripped his phoenix feather and wanted to wrench it from his shirt and throw it in the river. How could the Phoenix, who had saved him from Tarhia through others, who had saved King Robert through Rafen, his fledgling, let all this idiocy come to pass? It didn’t matter. The question didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except fighting. He would never stop fighting. He was going to destroy those who kept killing Siana and battering his loved ones. Justice would burn like a very bright torch. He would never give up.

  Ahain lowered his head to drink, and Rafen stared at the little ripples forming on the river’s shore. They slid in blue lines over sandy pebbles. Something about them was terribly sad. He bowed

  his head and allowed his tears to fall.

  A crash in the baldcypresses and bluff oaks behind alerted him. He leapt to his feet, his hand going automatically to his sword hilt.

  Sherwin lurched through the leaves, clutching his side. Anguished, he looked at Rafen before reeling over to the river and retching into its depths, quivering. Rafen turned away and waited. A moment later, there was stretched silence.

  He glanced back. Sherwin had sunk to the ground in a squat. He too watched the ripples in the water, as if they were immensely interesting.

  “How bad is it?” Rafen said.

  “I have no idea,” Sherwin said. “It’s just… ugh. I don’t know. I got this horrible headache, my eyesight’s all funny and everything’s spinning.”

  “Do you want to go back to your world now?” Rafen said bitterly.

  “No,” Sherwin choked. “And yer better not keep suggestin’ tha’, Raf. Seriously. I know wha’ I’m meant to do and where I’m meant to be. No one ever said it were goin’ to be easy.” He looked at Rafen, his black forehead furrowed. “Are yer all right?”

  Rafen did
n’t meet his eyes. He couldn’t speak.

  “I… see,” Sherwin said. “I know. Today was…” His voice trailed off. His eyes were red. “I can’t… yeah. Nothin’ makes sense. It doesn’t.”

  “It keeps getting worse,” Rafen said.

  “Yer right,” Sherwin sobbed.

  “Asiel—”

  “Oh, it’s fine,” Sherwin said quickly. “I don’ mind. Francisco shot Asiel when he attacked me, so Asiel didn’t put his all into it, I s’pose.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Rafen rasped. “I should never have asked you to help.”

  “It weren’t yer fault, Raf,” Sherwin said. “Yer tried to do something good, yer duty in fact, but it went wrong, and that weren’t in our hands.”

  “I keep wondering if we should have gone. But I would do it all again in a heartbeat.”

  “If that were yer on the gibbet – and God forbid it – I would do exactly what yer did, Raf. We can only try to do the right thing, see?”

  Rafen nodded, his brain still screaming at him.

  Sherwin rummaged in his pants pockets. With trembling hands, he brought out something and stared at it as if it were a remnant of a former life. It was a scrap of clothing. Rafen turned his head, looking at it from another angle. It looked vaguely familiar. Sherwin blew the dust off it, revealing coarse brown calico. Erasmus had had two shirts. One he had saved for special occasions, but he had worn the calico every other day. It had smelt like sweat, chickens, and bitter ale.

  “Where did you get that?”

  Sherwin stared at it disbelievingly. “I found it somewhere, I guess,” he said. “I dunno where… can’t remember.”

  Rafen held out his hand, and Sherwin placed it in his palm. “It’s… it’s… Erasmus’,” Rafen finished lamely.

  A stupid idea was forming in his head. Although he hadn’t been able to bury Erasmus, he could bury this, along with the peasant’s jacket he had been given.

  “Come, Ahain,” he said.

  Back at the clearing, Wynne turned the scrap of cloth over in her hands. Her fingers shook, and she gnashed her teeth at her own grief.

  “Ay, it is his,” she said, staring at it as if it were the last piece of a god. “His shirt…”

  Elizabeth watched them intently from beside Roger.

  “Let’s take it to the river,” Rafen said to Wynne.

  Rubbing her eyes, Wynne nodded.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The

  Lashki’s Return

  Rafen stooped near the river bank and scooped moist dirt away with his hands. To his left, Ahain watched curiously. Rafen worked, sweating a little, for twenty minutes. He hadn’t wanted to transform for this. He had felt the sobriety of his own human experience was appropriate.

  Rising, he held out his hand to Wynne. She stubbornly laid the scrap of cloth in the hole herself. Rafen smoothed out the filthy material, removed his jacket, and placed it on top.

  Her eyes fixed on the hole, Wynne put two fingers to her forehead, pressed them against her lips, and said, “Zion’s blessings.”

  It was the peasant style of sending loved ones to the afterlife. While nobles eulogized over a grave, peasants were so used to it that their goodbyes were to the point.

  Rafen followed her example, murmuring, “Zion’s blessings to the dead.”

  Together they heaped dirt on the spot to fill it. Once they had finished, Wynne stood before the little mound. Holding her fist to her mouth, she clenched her teeth, shaking silently. Rafen rose and walked away. Ahain loped ahead of him.

  Rafen paused amid the baldcypresses near the bank, the squeaking of bats in his ears. He remembered Erasmus’ weathered face. Erasmus would have scorned this burial. He would have scorned their tears over his unexpected cremation. He had never cried over disaster; he had gritted his teeth and moved on. After the Selsons had vanished, he had tried to help Rafen do the same.

  Rafen’s hand moved to his phoenix feather again. Erasmus would want them to forget him and keep fighting anyway. Rafen stared at the sky, as if Erasmus had risen up there, rather than falling to the ground in ashes earlier that day.

  “I will fight,” he vowed. “I will.”

  Tomorrow, I will search for Alexander…

  *

  “He will not return today,” Annette said in a low voice. “Has this not happened three times? Frankston is losing his mind.”

  Her pale green eyes narrowed as she faced her uncle. Frankston smoothed out his purple tunic, ignoring Annette. His bald head glistened in the candlelight from the chandelier above.

  They all stood in the throne room: Asiel, dabbing his bleeding shoulder with a stained cloth; Annette, her hand clenched on the edge of a little table in the center of the room; Frankston across from her, now staring out of the thin windows on the left wall; and Talmon close to the gilded oak throne, his arm clamped around Francisco. His dogs were panting in the right corner, and Asiel eyed them with disgust.

  Francisco gazed through the windows at the lush gardens beyond. A swallow swooped in whirling, dancing flight. Francisco wished he were a bird, shooting through an open window and into the sky far away. He had expected he would be locked up until Talmon’s master returned. He had not expected it would happen today – that he would die today! He fought back frantic nausea.

  They had returned from the marketplace an hour ago. It was late afternoon. Frankston had mysteriously summoned them to the throne room, where he had said the Lashki had communicated with him that he was returning today.

  Asiel had looked at Annette, smiling smugly even through his pain.

  Talmon looked white-faced and sickly. For as long as Francisco could remember, his foster father had behaved this way when he was going to see his master. Sometimes he even cried.

  “Talmon will have much to answer for,” Asiel said silkily, as if he read Francisco’s mind.

  “I have done nothing wrong,” Talmon said.

  “Nevertheless, we have a traitor in our midst.”

  Asiel leered at Francisco as he pressed the cloth hard against his shoulder. Though he had healed the pistol wound with kesmal, it still bled a little. If Frankston had not announced the Lashki’s return, Asiel probably would have attacked Francisco by now.

  “What traitor?” Annette said sharply.

  “Our little prince.”

  Annette’s eyes flicked to Francisco.

  “How has Your Majesty betrayed us?” she asked.

  Francisco shook his head.

  “He has served the Wolf,” Asiel said.

  “Ah. Yes,” Frankston said, as if Francisco’s treachery was expected. “The little one. He could not be trusted. He is not one of us. No.”

  Talmon’s arm tightened around Francisco.

  “Why would Francisco serve the Wolf?” Annette said, searching Francisco’s eyes.

  Francisco lowered his head. Though he hadn’t felt scared in the marketplace, now he trembled uncontrollably. His body sensed it was almost over, and it was desperately trying to fit fifty years of activity into the next hour. All Francisco wanted from life now was courage. He wanted to stay whole and pure until his last breath: true to his brother, true to the truth, true even to the strange Phoenix who had sent Rafen.

  “Perhaps the Wolf came to him,” Frankston said with hungry curiosity. “Perhaps. He has seen the Wolf’s face, doubtless.”

  “The prince scorns conversation,” Asiel sneered.

  “Asiel, you were wounded in the marketplace?” Annette said in mock surprise, as if noticing it for the first time.

  Asiel fell silent.

  “Ah, but who did this? I should like to embrace them.”

  Asiel’s look turned sour.

  “Some peasant child attacked me to stop me killing the Wolf,” he said. “I was going to finish the little worm, before my prince shot my shoulder. I trust he was aiming for something else.” Asiel flashed an unpleasant smile in Francisco’s direction.

  With charmed benevolence, Annette turned to Fr
ancisco. “I will not wish you any ill then.”

  Francisco didn’t meet her eyes.

  “Well,” she said, “I shall leave this pretty party. This room is cold, and Master has not returned. I trust many of us are better for it.”

  “Not so, Annette,” a voice said from behind. The dogs in the corner stirred and started whining.

  The Lashki stood in the double doorframe of the throne room, his copper rod – gleaming faint blue at the tip – in his hand.

  Francisco recoiled against Talmon despite himself.

  The Lashki’s towering form was clad in a moth-eaten brown robe reaching the throne room’s red and white checked floor. The deeply lined gray skin of his gaunt face dripped decay. His eyes were bottomless black, and they gave the deceptive impression they saw little. Long black dreadlocks, streaked with green mold, slid down his angular shoulders. On top of his head, a thin gold circlet was visible, tarnished and dull. The amethyst in the center glittered obstinately.

  The Lashki’s eyes roved over them all disinterestedly. Talmon’s arm was painfully tight around Francisco now. Annette had blanched. With the cloth still pressed against his shoulder, Asiel coolly turned and bowed low before the Lashki. The rest remembered themselves, and with a great rustling movement, Annette, Frankston, and Talmon all bowed. Francisco tore himself free from Talmon and remained upright. He stared at the floor, knowing the Lashki was watching him. His heart leapt frantically in his chest.

  “Francisco!” Talmon hissed from where he stooped.

  Francisco remained rigid. He almost closed his eyes with the horror of what he was doing.

  “Rise,” the Lashki said.

  Everyone straightened. Talmon recoiled from Francisco as if he had a deadly illness. Francisco dared to raise his eyes. He flinched. The Lashki stared straight at him as if no one else were in the room. His expression was of mild disgust.