The Sianian Wolf

by Y. K. Willemse

  “You don’t understand. I should have been in the room with you.”

  “I’m very glad you were not in the room with me,” Etana burst out. She turned away and started to move back over the rocks.

  “I am to blame for Bambi’s death,” Rafen said, “and next time I’ll be there with you.”

  “You are being a fool, Rafen,” Etana said tearfully, whirling around. “You don’t understand what these months without you have been to me. Agony! I blame you for nothing, nothing.”

  Rafen didn’t know what to say.

  Epilogue

  “Father is not a warrior,” Etana said shrilly to Robert and Kasper. “You heard him this morning. We are never to go out again without his permission, which he will never give. We will die like rabbits in a hole! Father continues dreaming Annette will not betray us.”

  “Perhaps Father has lost confidence,” Kasper said.

  “Perhaps,” Robert said contemptuously, “you are understating the case.”

  “He can’t forget Bambi,” Etana whispered. “When the Lashki forced—”

  “Don’t,” Robert said.

  “Rafen knew,” Etana said. “I wish we’d listened.”

  Sherwin gasped from behind Rafen. Rafen was too busy listening to motion to him to hold in his sneeze, but Francisco hissed from behind, “Breathe in.”

  Sherwin contorted his face, trying to control himself. They were all eavesdropping against the outer wall of the round room the three Selsons were in. While they were exploring passages, Rafen had heard what sounded like an important conversation. Now he stood nearest the open doorway, breathing as quietly as possible. He had at last heard the story he had tried to wring from Etana.

  The Admiral Alexander had pressed King Robert to accept kesmalic protection on the way to the palace and even within it. King Robert had put him off, saying there was no need – his brother was trustworthy, and this was Siana they were talking about. Kasper, Etana, and King Robert had been critically wounded that day, and Bambi had been murdered immediately. Escorted by guards, Alexander had come into the palace with a number of groups of sailors and philosophers from the ship, just after King Robert had entered. The philosophers’ kesmal had been more than a match for the Tarhian guards. Before reinforcements could be summoned, Alexander had broken through the throne room doors. Queen Arlene, the philosophers, and the sailors had protected the Selsons when they ran from the Lashki and Frankston, who had begun to fight too. Alexander had had to force King Robert to leave Bambi’s corpse. The Lashki had killed all the philosophers and sailors when pursuing the Selsons. Once the king and his family had reached the Hideout, Alexander had bid them goodbye and gone to raise support for the riot in New Isles.

  He had never returned.

  “It’s all right, remember?” Bambi had told Rafen. Well, it wasn’t.

  “Father will never sit on the throne again,” Etana said bleakly.

  Rafen gritted his teeth. He wouldn’t hear her this way. Erasmus had had faith in Zion, and so did he. He appeared in the doorway of the room just as Sherwin sneezed violently. Francisco gave him a black look, wiping spit off his face with the back of his hand.

  “Your father will get the throne back,” Rafen said.

  Sitting on one of the benches against the walls, Etana looked up. Her two brothers, standing before her, turned around. Robert’s face darkened with indignation at discovering they had been overheard.

  “How?” Etana asked.

  “He won’t fight for it himself,” Robert said.

  “I know,” Rafen said, stepping into the room. “We can fight for him.”

  “Brilliant!” Kasper exclaimed.

  “Are you out of your mind?” Robert said. “There are only four of us, some still children.”

  His meaningful gaze rested on Rafen, who flushed.

  “There are six of us,” Francisco said, walking into the room with a red-nosed Sherwin.

  “Yeah,” Sherwin said. “We’ll beat the heck out of them.”

  Robert looked at him as if he were speaking a foreign dialect. “This is too ridiculous to speak of,” he said, his pale eyes roving the bruises on both Sherwin’s and Francisco’s foreheads. “Are you all suicidal?”

  “It isn’t about winning, Robert,” Etana said, rising. She was red-eyed, though determined. “It doesn’t matter if we die. At least we’ve tried. It’s worth dying for, isn’t it?” She looked fiercely at her two brothers.

  “Of course it is,” Kasper said, straightening.

  “It’s all very well saying that now,” Robert said. His gaze flicked to Rafen. “None of us have faced Nazt. Annette failed. How many others will?”

  “Yer optimistic,” Sherwin muttered.

  “I’ve faced Nazt,” Rafen said.

  Robert laughed. Then he stopped. “What did you say?”

  “I have faced Nazt.”

  “When did you do that, old fellow?” Kasper said hoarsely.

  “That night you all rescued me,” he said. “Annette had the copper rod, but she couldn’t control it. It took us to Nazt.”

  Looking very white, Etana broke the silence. “Then one of us knows what they are talking about.”

  Kasper and Robert opened their mouths to ask questions. Rafen shook his head.

  “I’m not going to talk about it. If we gather support and fight this battle, we will be fighting Nazt. And we must fight sooner, rather than later. Robert is right,” Rafen continued, looking at everyone. “We can’t do it alone. Zion is with us, and we must go in his strength.”

  “I do agree,” Etana said soberly. “But promise me we will find Alexander.”

  “We will,” Rafen said. And this time, he was ready to prove himself to the admiral by fighting wholeheartedly for Siana. He wanted to find the general too, yet months ago he had already accepted Jacob was likely to be dead. The Lashki wouldn’t have kept King Robert’s previous general.

  “A few questions at this point, my dear fruit,” Kasper said. While Sherwin gaped at him, Rafen was used to Kasper’s endearing terms. “How are we going to find him? When are we going to find him? Where are we going to find him?”

  “Francisco, Sherwin, and I leave in a month and a half,” Rafen said.

  “Father will be furious,” Etana said.

  “Stay then,” Francisco said, with an expansive movement.

  “I won’t.”

  Though Etana glowered at him, Francisco didn’t flinch. He was carrying himself royally again, and Etana sensed the competition.

  “That still doesn’t answer my other questions,” Kasper said.

  “We have a month and a half to plan,” Rafen said.

  “It’s only six of us against the world, you know,” Robert said. “The Lashki will have the Woods full of armed forces, philosophers and all that. He won’t leave any patch of grass untouched.”

  “We could take Bertilde too,” Kasper said.

  Robert stared at him. “Do you honestly think she would be much help? She can’t fight and can scarcely hold her emotions in check during a family quarrel, let alone a fight over the country.”

  “Then yer right, there’s jus’ six of us,” Sherwin said. “But we ’ave to start somewhere.”

  “If we have nothing else, we have spirit,” Francisco observed quietly.

  Etana smiled. It was like the sun coming out. “I think I shall look forward to this,” she said. “I am glad we have you with us, Rafen. You too, Francisco and Sherwin.”

  Rafen returned her smile, although he was really looking at her tear-stained face. He hated to see her like this. His thoughts returned to Annette. Etana had hinted Annette knew where they were hiding. It was, doubtless, true. As a member of the family, she would have borne all the royal secrets, including the whereabouts of important places of refuge. This was the first place King Robert had thought of. It would have been just like him to continue trusting, hoping beyond hope, in his renegade daughter. A knot tightened in Rafen’s stomach as he remembered how lon
g Annette had lasted in her battle against Nazt.

  Despite the marks on Francisco’s arm, Rafen tried convincing himself Annette would last the Lashki’s interrogations until Siana was free once more. Their lives depended on it.

  Still… he reminded himself the freedom of their country and the salvation of the people were worth everything they could pay.

  About the author

  Y.K. Willemse grew up dreaming of the day when she would become an author. But she didn’t just dream. At age ten, she began writing seriously. She was published for the first time at age sixteen and saw her first novel release when she was twenty-two years old. When she’s not writing, Yvette is walking her Yorkshire Terrier, drinking large amounts of coffee, singing loudly, and teaching music at various schools and studios. She owns a real Norman sword, a very small but sharp axe, and a large collection of books. Together with her husband Michael, she resides in Canterbury, New Zealand.

  You can connect with Y.K. by visiting her

  website at

  http://www.writersanctuary.net/

  Facebook at

  https://www.facebook.com/fledglingaccount

  Twitter at

  https://twitter.com/yvettekatewille

  Or email her at

  yvilor@gmail.com

  We hope you enjoyed Rafen.

  Please continue the journey with

  a preview of book two of

  The Fledgling Account Series

  Chapter One

  The

  Pain of Wynne

  “You forget blood!” Roger roared. “You forget what is in his veins is in mine!”

  Rafen’s face flushed, but he remained flattened against the earthen wall outside the round room in which Roger and King Robert were again arguing.

  King Robert spoke, his voice like the rumble preceding an earthquake. “There have been none who have dared—”

  “You are king no longer, Robert,” Roger hissed. “You don’t have power over me. The only reason I remain in this hellhole with you—”

  “Is because I granted you safety!” King Robert bellowed.

  Rafen dared to look around the edge of the rough doorframe. Within the dirt room, torches flamed in holders on the back wall. In their garish light, Roger’s white face was taut with rage, and King Robert was florid.

  That dinnertime, Rafen had sat next to King Robert in the long, dark underground row that served as the royal banquet hall now. King Robert had specially requested it so that he could speak to Rafen about Wynne’s increasingly erratic behavior. Rafen had never thought Roger would mind. Yet when Roger had seen the two of them speaking in low voices, he had assumed King Robert was discussing him with Rafen. This was not out of the question, because in recent times King Robert had purposely raised the issue that Rafen had been adopted unconditionally. This grated on Roger like nothing else, not necessarily because he loved Rafen, but because, as Rafen had discovered, he was possessive: a man who liked to point at something and say with childlike authority “mine”.

  “The only reason we – my family – are here,” Roger said, his words precise even at their agitated pitch, “is because of my son, my son, whom you are intent on stealing from me.”

  King Robert’s tone dropped to gain its sonority but none of its accustomed warmth. “How can I steal what is already mine?”

  At Roger’s sudden indignant howl, Rafen glanced around the doorframe again, fearing for King Robert. Roger remained frozen in place, pinioned by his fear of power, his tall, slender form tense. His pinhead, with its slick brown hair, was reared against the torchlight.

  Rafen had heard enough. He slipped away, and once out of hearing, broke into an angry, thumping run.

  It had been like this too long. So far, he had stayed in the underground Hideout for six weeks, because nearly ten months ago the Lashki Mirah had stolen King Robert’s throne while he had been on his year-long sabbatical. King Robert’s younger brother Frankston, caretaker of the country in the royal family’s absence, had given Siana over, and even the Tarhians had found a home there. The Ashurites, natives of Siana who dwelt together in tribes, had also rallied under the Lashki, strengthening his rule. The Sianian admiral Alexander had tried raising an army, and Rafen’s mentor Erasmus had been in contact with him. But Erasmus had been hung, and Rafen had never met with Alexander in the end. It wasn’t long, however, before Rafen meant to escape this place and find Alexander. Siana could not be left in this state.

  It was inevitable that things became tense in Fritz’s Hideout. It was the result of tiny food rations for over fourteen people. It was the result of constantly wondering whether Annette – King Robert’s and Queen Arlene’s eldest daughter – would reveal their hiding place to the Lashki Mirah. To make things worse, Wynne had taken to sleepwalking, and sometimes it took hours to find her. Increasingly, in the close environment where silence and inaction meant her father’s death could sink in, she hated Rafen. At first, she stole his dried meat and nuts when he wasn’t looking. Then one night, when Rafen was sleeping on the floor of a room with Francisco, Roger, and Elizabeth, he woke to see a glitter at the corner of his eye. A dagger had been driven into the ground near his ear. Though King Robert both threatened to turn Wynne out and pleaded with her, she would not confess to it.

  Rafen’s flight had taken him to the end of a long corridor where a speck of light gleamed. He had discovered this place accidently under similar circumstances a week earlier. The small exit led into a glade in the Woods. Because Rafen still had not had the growth spurt that would make him look like a fourteen-year-old instead of an eleven-year-old, he could fit through it. Malnourishment from his days as a Tarhian slave had stunted his growth for good.

  He paused. Although King Robert would be disappointed if he knew Rafen was about to go outside, there was no reason for him to find out.

  Yet King Robert had found out Rafen had been training himself further in kesmal in his spare time. While Rafen wasn’t particularly good at teaching himself, he had made an effort.

  Normally, King Robert didn’t let anyone in the Hideout carry a weapon, excepting his son Robert or his daughter Etana. Etana retained her ring, and Robert wore a sword, in case someone untoward broke into the Hideout. The king had gently explained to Rafen that he preferred he was not tempted to leave the Hideout and fight, otherwise he would get killed.

  “Do not fear, Rafen,” King Robert had said. “I have sent a message out to Alexander. Robert gave it to a peasant. It is sure to find our admiral. You must not go. If we lost you, we would have no Fledgling.”

  Fledgling! Rafen had thought bitterly. How could he be the Fledgling when he was not continuing his training and education? How was he to prepare to be a warrior for Siana and a leader in the government? He had not yet lost faith that Siana would be saved. However, Queen Arlene refused to educate Rafen any further. Yes, King Robert still believed Rafen was the Fledgling. Recently though, Queen Arlene had been expressing doubts. She still maintained Rafen was a necessary ingredient for the redemption of Siana. She had seen with her own eyes that the Lashki feared Rafen’s kesmal. Still, Rafen had noticed when he tried conversing with her that she was colder to him than before, even frigid at times.

  He was surprised how much it had hurt. He had grown to rely on Queen Arlene’s opinion of him during their time together. Her approval had meant the world to him. Now it was gone.

  It’s because of my birth family, he had realized. She knows I’m a human now. She knows I’m not descended from the Higher Beings of old.

  Clearly, blood mattered. Even Prince Robert behaved differently to Rafen. He patronized him, acting like Rafen could not understand him.

  Rafen had kept training on his own, practicing his fencing moves without a sword, transforming into a wolf, and creating fires when no one was looking. He would try to send his orange torrents flying about the room, answering his every bidding. Sometimes it worked. Often it didn’t. He discovered he could create shields out of his flame. The ma
in problem was that he could not put them out quickly. While he could stamp on his flames or squeeze them to death with his bare hands, large fires were challenging to put out. Four days ago, he had created a huge shield that completely encircled his body, hoping to flick it into nonexistence afterward. He wasn’t so lucky. At his attempts, the fire had simply grown, filling the entire room he was in.

  “Rafen!” Queen Arlene had rushed in, her bun of braided blonde hair disheveled from running, her orb-like blue eyes wide with horror. “What in Zion’s name do you think you are doing?”

  It had taken Queen Arlene half an hour to put out the huge, powerful fire. Robert and Etana had frantically used kesmal to keep it from spreading. The room was quite black afterward. An old chair had been reduced to ashes, and part of one wall had crumbled.

  “You are never to do kesmal in here again,” Queen Arlene had told him, her tone icy. “Save it for when you confront the Lashki.”

  Yes… that was the one use she had for him these days. A chill had passed through Rafen. He knew he could harm the Lashki, and he even desired to. Yet Nazt often appeared in his mind, screaming for him, and all he wanted to do when he next saw the copper rod was run as fast as he could, no matter what Erasmus and Alexander had desired of him.

  Etana had been more sympathetic.

  “I know how it feels,” she had said, understanding too well the boredom and the desperation it bred.

  Even though she too had refused to instruct him further in kesmal (“Rafen, you need a master to teach you, not me!”), her kindness comforted him.

  Now moving toward the low, narrow end of the corridor he occupied, Rafen made to pull himself through the hole above.

  “Oi, where do yer think yer goin’?”

  Rafen jumped and whirled around, flattening himself against the corridor’s dead end.