The Sianian Wolf

by Y. K. Willemse

  “You are certain this is Francisco?” the Lashki said. His words were heavily accented with Ashurite vowels.

  “Yes, yes, Master,” Talmon said hurriedly. “How could it be anyone else? You remember that—”

  The Lashki moved his copper rod fractionally, and Talmon fell silent.

  “I remember,” the Lashki said, “everything.”

  “Yes, Master,” Talmon said.

  Asiel continued dabbing his wound unconcernedly, yet his eyes were lit with interest, like those of a child who is about to witness his siblings’ punishment. Frankston smoothed out his purple tunic perpetually. The Lashki stepped forward, and Frankston staggered back toward the skinny windows, all in a rush. Asiel serenely moved away to Annette’s side. The Lashki paused. His eyes slid to Annette’s face.

  Annette quivered.

  “Perhaps you have more information for me,” the Lashki said.

  Annette bowed once again, her hand over her mouth as if she might cry. She said through her fingers, “I have nothing. Master, I am sorry.”

  “Nothing?” the Lashki said. The question hung in the air like a vulgar swearword.

  “Master, I promise you—” Annette began, falling on her knees. The Lashki’s free hand shot out and grabbed her throat, jerking her to her feet. Asiel delicately stepped sideways.

  “Many times have I waited for you,” the Lashki hissed in Annette’s face, his foul spittle settling on her powdered nose, “many times have I been patient. But you have not done a cursed thing for me. You have not told me one place of refuge. Now you ask me to wait again? You fool. You have the information I seek.”

  The air in the room was heavy, oppressive. Francisco had unconsciously stepped closer to the windows. Frankston’s long-fingered hand fell on his shoulder, clenching it tightly to prevent his running. The lord’s sweating face turned back to Annette and the Lashki.

  A horrible squeaking came from Annette’s throat as she tried to breathe. The Lashki’s eyes glittered.

  “Whose side are you really on?” he asked.

  He shoved Annette back by the throat, raising his copper rod. A jet of blue struck Annette’s upper chest, sending her sprawling on her back. Momentarily, she lay as if dead, her eyes glazed. Then, like a marionette raised by an invisible cord, she was jerked upward, her feet leaving the ground entirely. The room darkened for an instant, and her hair whipped around her head at the touch of an abrupt wind. Her skin had grayed and become unnaturally smooth, her eyes hollow. Clapping her hands over her ears, she screamed in a voice resonant and piercing, a tingling, spinal sensation rather than a noise; the dogs exploded into furious barking. The Lashki stood before her, his copper rod directed at her. A yellow-toothed grin had crept onto his face. He raised the rod, and the room became light again. Annette’s body landed heavily on the floor with a smack. Once more her old self, she lay on her side, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

  “Pain is persuasive,” the Lashki said. “Maybe you will remember more the next time we speak. But first, Francisco.”

  Francisco’s insides melted. The Lashki turned now.

  “I heard about the rebellion,” he said, louder. His audience stiffened. “The Wolf must be finished immediately, otherwise there will be much punishment. Talmon, a trap in the woods. Ravish a peasant woman.”

  He said the word “peasant” with a contemptuously hard “t”.

  “Have philosophers surround the Wolf. He is a mediocre charlatan. He will fall quickly.”

  The twisted smile appeared again. “Francisco,” the Lashki said very quietly.

  Francisco was almost crying. He clenched his teeth.

  “Forgive me,” the Lashki sneered. “Did I scare you?”

  Francisco bit his lip so hard he could taste his own metallic blood.

  “Why did you not bow, Francisco?” the Lashki asked, stepping closer.

  When Francisco tried to step back, Frankston held him firmly, whispering, “Stay. Yes.”

  The Lashki was right before him now. His slimy hand cupped Francisco’s chin. Francisco shuddered, staring into his eyes.

  “I expect an answer, Francisco,” the Lashki said.

  Francisco’s mouth was dry.

  “No?” The Lashki’s eyes dropped to Francisco’s boot. Francisco remembered his brother showing him some little white scars on his right ankle. The Lashki, apparently, couldn’t believe it was Francisco doing this.

  “I am surprised,” the Lashki said, his eyes back on Francisco’s face. “Has Talmon taught you nothing?”

  “Master, please,” Talmon said from near Annette.

  The Lashki’s expression became knowing. “That is what he always says, isn’t it, Francisco?” he said, and Francisco wanted to jerk his chin out of that tightening moist grasp. “‘Master, please.’ But you are clever enough not to beg. Your brother never begged. Not even when I killed him.”

  Within Francisco, a flame of anger burned at this lie. He realized the Lashki really meant to finish him; he had mentioned Rafen without a qualm, willing to shatter the deception of Francisco’s childhood.

  Now a grim light glowed in his eyes at Francisco’s expression. One wet finger stroked Francisco’s jaw. Francisco thought he might scream. Instead, he gritted his teeth, his pulse throbbing.

  The Lashki’s smile had become fixed. “This is going to feel very familiar,” he said. “Come, Francisco.”

  The Lashki released Francisco’s chin and snaked his arm tightly around him, almost as Talmon had done before. Very quickly, and nearly lifting Francisco from the ground with that terribly strong arm of his, he steered Francisco through the double doorframe and into the corridor beyond.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Francisco’s Punishment

  Annette lay on the cold floor, her muscles tingling and tensing. Everyone – the Lashki, Francisco, Frankston, Asiel, and Talmon – had left. Talmon had even ordered some guards to exercise his dogs. Still, she kept hearing those voices in her head: the deafening voices of Nazt, so much louder than she was accustomed to hearing them. Annette had been capable of seeing spirits for as long as she could remember, and Nazt had always been with her. However, in that moment, it had roared at her, shaken her, possessed her body, and she had been powerless. Amid the tumbled clamor, she had deciphered two things: a desire for Etana and a desire for Rafen. The desire for Rafen was consuming.

  Her mind was so foggy that she could barely register how strange it was. Her body was bruised from her fall to the floor, and she listened to its complaints briefly.

  No one doubted Rafen was dead. Her father wasn’t clever enough to lie about such things. Annette could believe the boy had died of wounds from the Lashki. She was dying now, her thighs woefully bare below her ridden up dress. But she had strength enough to torture herself with life. Every time the Lashki punished her, the pain was so loud, so permeating, like the sound of a gong, that she thought she would perish. The Lashki knew how to bring someone to the brink of death and then hold them there, wavering in anguish until they gave him what he wanted. This time, he had transformed her somehow, only she hadn’t felt very different, and that made her wonder if she had always been like this. She had screamed out of fear at her own hideousness.

  Did Nazt want Rafen’s corpse? The boy had died at sea and had probably been given to it. Which meant Rafen’s corpse would be impossible to find.

  Her mind was starting to clear. As they all did when the Lashki was away, Annette had sorely underestimated him in those ten weeks. Behind his back, everyone said he was mad. He’d won a country and left it, rebels rose, and they were all inadequate without his revolting presence. When he returned, they all worshipped him, the god of pain and death. This time though, the Lashki had had a good reason to be absent. Nazt had demanded Rafen, and the Lashki had gone to find him, as well as her family. He had returned empty-handed, believing Rafen was still alive. After all, the Lashki had wanted clarification Francisco was not Rafen himself.

  If Rafen was
alive, why hadn’t he been in the palace when the Lashki had attacked her family?

  It was a riddle.

  Annette rolled onto her back, her aching body protesting. She groaned involuntarily.

  “You will not tell him then?” someone said.

  Annette’s heart gave a little jump. Talmon was in the room. She stared up at the arching ceiling, which was flecked with the gray spirits she saw. His Tarhian accent irritated her.

  The Lashki had wanted this information for so long, and Annette had hidden it for seven months. She didn’t know why she couldn’t tell him where her family might be hiding. She hated the benighted fools. What idiot, knowing the reality of death and the strength of Nazt, would remain on the losing side? Even her Uncle Frankston nagged her endlessly. He had never received the secret of the royal place of refuge, because he was a mere lord. Believing he would receive greater rewards of leadership once his brother and remaining children (excepting Annette) were dead, he often sought Annette out and tormented her.

  Yet the memory of her father’s face stopped her tongue. He had always been so proud of her.

  Fool, she thought, feeling like cutting herself. Did it matter what a fat old man thought of her?

  “He will kill you,” Talmon said, his voice shaking.

  “And Talmon would weep,” Annette croaked from the floor, watching the white flickers of spirits in her vision with halfhearted interest.

  “No,” Talmon said with a laugh. “I care not. I am surprised at you. Are you not on our side?”

  Annette pressed her palms against the floor, pushing her body into a sitting position, her eyelids drooping. Talmon looked at her with the watchful expression of someone who has been punished by the Lashki before.

  “I am surprised at you,” Annette said hoarsely. “You have fathered Francisco so long, yet when master takes him away to kill him, you remain here taunting me. Clearly you never truly cared about the boy.”

  “It is no secret,” Talmon said. “Servants of Nazt are supposed to care about… Nazt.”

  The smile on his face was strange, twisted. Talmon knew nothing about Nazt. He only heard the force when his Master’s rod was near. He had not been reared to know everything about Nazt and despise it.

  “I see,” Annette said, smiling grimly. Talmon looked at her with distaste, as if she were somehow grotesque. “Well, Talmon, I would never surrender my little apprentice to Master. Surely, we all care about Nazt, very deeply. However, we are more than servants. We are philosophers, kings… fathers.” She gave a cracked laugh. “Poor Talmon. We all make great sacrifices for Nazt. Imagine, though, not having ever loved from the heart!”

  “Enough!” Talmon snarled. He stood before the tall, narrow windows, his face livid. “You say these things because you have never been on our side.”

  “Oh, believe me,” Annette said, pulling her stiff dress down to her knees, “I live and die for this side. You think I do not serve Nazt because I do not give my family up? No, Talmon. Every servant to Nazt has been a slave to love in some way. Ask Frankston; he would have married. Ask Asiel about his brother.” She lowered her voice. “Master saw his father murdered before his eyes.”

  Talmon flinched.

  “You never knew this? All who have a Sianian education know Master’s past, how he watched the Sartians slit his father’s throat. And to this day, he oft deals the last blow as a cut across the throat. Master remembers. Ah, Talmon, only you have no heart.”

  Annette sighed as if genuinely moved. She scrutinized Talmon’s face, and shock twanged within her. There were tears in his eyes. Talmon turned away. With hurried steps, he strode across the throne room and through the double doors.

  Annette regretted it. It had been entertaining while it lasted.

  Still on the frigid floor, Annette knew she had to escape the palace before the Lashki returned to kill her. Years ago, she would have prayed to Zion halfheartedly, hoping fate would make something of her words. Then she remembered the terrible power of Nazt in her head.

  Nazt could save her. All that nonsense about Nazt fulfilling her desires had long ceased to enchant her. Nazt was a hungry machine, desiring only destruction. One day, when it had finished the Runi and Secrai, it would sweep across the world and consume everything – green grass, singing brooks, blue sky, serene stars – all blotted out by the absolute black of spirits never at rest.

  Perhaps if Annette sold herself to Nazt again, promised it something it desired, it would save her life this afternoon.

  *

  The door closed behind them both with a soft click. The Lashki threw Francisco forward into the darkened sitting room. Francisco stumbled against a covered couch on the back wall. A thick purple tapestry, stirring in the breeze, veiled the open arched window above the couch.

  Francisco turned around quickly, his heart thundering. He gripped the armrest of the couch with one hand. The Lashki stood before the closed door, his copper rod raised. His black eyes looked disinterested, but the little blue speck at the tip of the rod told Francisco he was terribly interested.

  “Why would you not bow, Francisco?” the Lashki asked quietly in his throaty voice.

  Francisco was breathing heavily, like he had run a marathon. He knew if it weren’t for his hand supporting him on the couch, he would have fallen to his knees by now. He wished the copper rod was pointed at his head, and he could see that blast of blue and be gone.

  “I will not be ignored, Francisco,” the Lashki said, stepping forward.

  Francisco didn’t even know what he was scared of. Nothing had happened yet, except that sticky patch on his chin that marked him out as one the Lashki was going to “deal with”.

  He said shakily, “I can’t bow to you.” His voice was choked, almost unintelligible.

  The Lashki’s face was a twisted leer. “Truly, Francisco, I think your body works the same as ever.”

  He was running his right hand up and down his copper rod. The silence went on, and Francisco’s taut nerves were twanging.

  Then the Lashki surged toward him and Francisco was screaming. He made to climb on the couch, aiming for the open window. The Lashki’s hand seized his shoulder with unnatural force, jerking him backward and then pushing him down. Francisco’s legs buckled. He grabbed the Lashki’s hand with both of his own, trying to pull it off, push it back. Now he lay on his back at the foot of the couch, the Lashki sitting astride his legs and the copper rod against his sternum. The Lashki’s weight wasn’t significant, yet a phenomenal pressure stamped Francisco’s legs to the floor.

  Francisco tried to shove the copper rod back, but he found his arms now lay outstretched on either side of him, and he couldn’t move them. Invisible cords bound them to the floor. Helpless, he stared up at the Lashki’s dripping face. Voices from the copper rod crescendoed in his head.

  “Why would you not bow, Francisco?” the Lashki shouted, thrusting his face into Francisco’s. Bared yellow teeth filled Francisco’s vision. The Lashki’s voice resonated eerily outside Francisco’s head and within it.

  “I-I can’t!” he screamed, fighting the overpowering smell of decay.

  “I know why you cannot bow,” the Lashki spat in his face. “You have seen your brother.”

  He withdrew, his grip on the copper rod tightening.

  Francisco tried desperately to move his arms. It was impossible.

  “You know where Rafen is,” the Lashki said unquestioningly. His black eyes bored into Francisco’s. “Where is your brother, Francisco?”

  Francisco breathed fast, the Lashki’s spit still on his face.

  With his free hand, the Lashki pulled the sleeve of Francisco’s left arm up to his shoulder. His copper rod moved from Francisco’s chest to the exposed flesh. Hopelessly, Francisco tried moving again. The copper rod hovered over the middle joint in his left arm. The sharpened tip, a brilliant, dangerous blue, was a hairsbreadth away from his skin.

  “Where is your brother?” the Lashki hissed.

  Voi
ces bellowed in his head. Francisco remembered his brother’s eyes. He swallowed anything he might have said and stared at the rod.

  Painstakingly slowly, the Lashki lowered it that final bit. The instant the cold metal tip touched Francisco’s skin, an explosion of screaming resounded not only in his joint, but in all of his sympathizing body. It was ice with a searing grip, an earthquake jarring all his nerves. The area behind his eyes felt as if it were going to burst, and he would be left in darkness forever. His whole body shuddered beneath the Lashki, and then the copper rod was lifted. Even through his graying sight, Francisco saw a blue blossom the size of his palm had appeared in the crook of his arm. He trembled uncontrollably, sweat moistening his forehead.

  The Lashki’s gaze was as unrelenting as before, yet Francisco kept staring at his arm, tears of pain in his eyes. The Lashki lowered his head and placed a slimy hand on Francisco’s chest, right above his frantic heartbeat. His steaming breath misted Francisco’s turned face as he spoke.

  “Where is your brother, Francisco?”

  The copper rod had moved a little further up his arm. The tip hovered above his pale flesh. Francisco clamped his teeth down on his tongue and tasted blood. He glared at the copper rod, willing it to vanish. Slowly, slowly, it moved that last fraction down. Again, the eruption of pain, the shrieking of his body, the crazy vibrations. The agony was greater this time, and it lasted longer. Nazt was abominably loud within him, a chorus of voices that were heavy on his frame. Francisco heard his own cracked scream above it. The rod lifted again. Francisco’s vision was clouded. He heard himself whimpering, but perceived everything from another world. A strange disconnect between this and his idea of reality kept his mouth glued shut, despite the Lashki’s voice, which whispered so close to his ear that his dripping lips brushed it.

  “Where is your brother, Francisco?”

  Francisco moaned. Another blue flower had appeared on his arm, and the copper rod had moved to his shoulder. Francisco watched it descend with broken dread.