Sherwin’s disappearance a month ago still ate away at Rafen. He couldn’t forgive himself for the things that he had said. Though he had been angry at Sherwin for a while, as time had passed, he had realized how wrong he was. And Sherwin was right. He was obsessed with training, because he knew the Lashki would be back. Rafen would have to fight him again, and next time, he didn’t want to fail. Rather than falling prey to another Soul Breaker’s Curse or another trip to Nazt, he yearned to destroy his mother’s murderer for good. Secondly, Rafen was obsessed with Etana. He couldn’t help it. Part of him was glad that Sherwin was gone, and no longer interfering. However, Rafen sensed that now more than ever, his friend needed him.
Ignoring the white spirits that now permanently floated across his vision, he inhaled the fragrance of the creepers on the surrounding courtyard walls and gave a few experimental swings with his sword.
Along with the horrible experience of the Soul Breaker’s Curse, Sirius’ death had nearly put Rafen off fighting for good. After recovering his health, Rafen had struggled with himself, deciding whether or not to continue training. The fact that he was training in order to take lives, which Sirius’ death had so dramatically demonstrated, was abhorrent to him. He frequently dreamed about Sirius in his last moments. Yet without the Pirate King’s death, Siana would never have been free.
We’re all murderers at heart, Sirius had said.
Rafen believed it with everything in him. He paused, momentarily chilled. Yes, his hands and heart were already dirty. As for the horrors of the Lashki and Nazt, Rafen knew he would have to face them again whether he trained or not. He might as well be prepared and do what he was born to do: fight for Siana. There was no one better suited to killing in Zion’s name than he.
At first, when he had lost part of the fifth finger of his left hand, he felt it had changed the delicate balance involved in fencing. Now he was used to it. Thrusting twice more, he hoped Etana was watching. He had pulled off his coat and rolled his sleeves high, deliberately trying to show his middling muscles, even though he knew it was hopeless.
He had been malnourished in his childhood, and was now at least a head shorter than the average sixteen-year-old, and unlikely to grow any more. Even his brother, who had been well fed in his early years, was taller than him, and certainly better groomed. Rafen’s hair was a disheveled mass of black curls, and his skin was the olive tone of his mother’s. His dark blue eyes were perhaps the only mildly interesting part of him, simply because he had seen far too much for his own good. They looked too old for the rest of him.
Etana appeared in the doorframe at the opposite end of the courtyard, and he lowered his sword as she stepped into the sunlight.
“Practicing?” she asked, smiling.
The Sixth Secra and heir to the throne, Etana had an unearthly beauty about her. Her dark red hair, streaked with gold, fell past her shoulders in glowing waves, and her piercing blue eyes gleamed with a zest for life. She had high cheek bones and ivory skin, and in the past six months, she had grown tall and willowy. Her mannerisms, both opinionated and vivacious at the same time, held a constant fascination for Rafen.
He inclined his head. “Demus is a hard task master.”
They had been learning together with Demus ever since Halamiërii, the fifth month, when Rafen had recovered sufficiently from the Soul Breaker’s Curse. Demus was an eccentric philosopher whom Etana had purposely adopted as her tutor, simply to infuriate the nobility.
“He’s terribly unconventional,” she often told Rafen with delight.
Demus had ideas about kesmal that defied the rules in the oldest books. Strangely enough, he was seldom wrong, and Etana called him “progressive”.
Still, Rafen had hoped and even asked the king and queen for a more thorough education. King Robert had great hopes of “bringing old Arlene ’round”. Rafen knew the king’s powers of persuasion with his wife… he would not be installed in government any time soon. In the meantime, King Robert was supplying him with numerous books on warfare, Sianian government procedures, and kesmal. He had arranged these lessons with Demus behind his wife’s back and was constantly struggling to keep them secret. Even General Jacob had refused to teach Rafen further fencing.
The whole thing made Rafen furious. How could two people he had loved and trusted – Queen Arlene and the General Jacob – ruin everything now? After all he had done? Yet, now was not the time to give up. Demus had high standards. Rafen kept up with all his reading and practiced kesmal at home, knowing Demus would notice if he hadn’t.
“Demus is hard because he is good,” Etana said. “I daresay, you must be cold without your coat.”
Rafen glanced up at the vibrant blue sky above their courtyard between the inner and outer walls of the New Isles palace. “I’m fine,” he said.
“Very well.” She moved closer in her sweeping scarlet dress. Her servants had lathered her in perfume; she smelled intoxicating. “Don’t damage your health though. Have you had any more of those, ah, horrid seizures of yours?”
Since the Soul Breaker’s Curse, Rafen had had one seizure. He had known it was somehow related to the Curse, because when he had woken, he found it hard to hear other people above the spirits in his head.
“I haven’t had any more,” Rafen said. “I expect it was a rarity.”
Demus passed through the doorframe, and Rafen’s heart plunged at the introduction of a third party.
Demus was a hunchbacked man who gratified Rafen by being his height. His face was prematurely wrinkled, and graying strands of hair hung about it. His eyes were flecked with amber. He carried his usual gnarled stick with the black-billed bird’s head.
“I am glad to find my pupils practicing,” he said sarcastically.
Etana laughed lightly. “Now, Demus, we need some joy in life.”
“I will humor you this once, Your Highness,” Demus said, with a wry smile.
He moved over to the stone bench against the courtyard’s left wall. Rafen took the hint and followed him, sitting down. Etana sat on Rafen’s left, and the courtyard seemed to become much hotter suddenly. He couldn’t help feeling like a traitor when this sort of thing happened. Sherwin was right: he had completely lost his head over Etana.
“I felt today that we should review the differences between daniit kesmal and jarl, mostly for My Lord Rafen’s sake.” Without waiting for a response, Demus continued. “Daniit kesmal is the ability to affect the physical, and jarl is…?” He paused and looked at Rafen.
“The ability to influence the spiritual,” Rafen said, staring at the contours of Etana’s face.
Demus caught his look and raised his eyebrows. “My Lord is concentrating very hard.”
“Yes,” Rafen said, wrenching himself back to his studies.
Demus snorted. “We have ascertained that Etana’s kesmal is largely daniit, or blood kesmal,” he said, “barring perhaps her ability to speak Mio Urmeea spontaneously, an ability that My Lord shares. However, My Lord Rafen also possesses the abilities to see spirits and transform into a wolf, which are both characteristics of jarl, or spirit kesmal.”
“Wait,” Etana said excitedly. “You must explain why you believe the ability to transform into a wolf is a form of spirit kesmal rather than blood kesmal. It has never been traditionally regarded that way.”
“Your Highness is correct,” Demus said. “It is my belief that we each have a spirit form that some of us can assume more naturally than others. In Rafen’s case, this would be the form of a wolf. This theory can be confirmed by the fact that those who have Spirit Awareness observe that souls come in a startling variety of forms. However, the ability to transform into the spirit form is something that is thought to be unique to Secrai, from which we can only assume that this particular skill of Rafen’s has come about from extended contact with you, Your Highness. Now My Lord Rafen must explain something to me.”
Rafen dragged his eyes from Etana to Demus, with some misgivings.
“Explai
n your ability to perform kesmal when it is conventionally accepted that humans have none,” Demus said. He stared ahead of himself now, as if he saw some distant pinprick of light he desired to reach. “When Zion created the world, he created two kinds of people: those who had to rely on their natural abilities and those who were able to perform kesmal. The main difference between humans and the Higher Beings is the humans’ inability to perform kesmal. Along with other minor points of comparison, humans have a tendency to be more mathematically minded, better architects, smiths, and so on. And while their eyesight is inferior to that of the Higher Beings, their voices not so clear, and their appearances more mundane, they are physically stronger than those who use kesmal to enhance their abilities. The false assumption about humans is that they are all shrewd and traitorous, which is a suspicion arising from the idea that they were somehow responsible for the advent of Nazt.” Demus rose and leaned heavily on his stick, gesturing to Rafen. “Excluding my last sentence, you seem very human.”
“Thanks,” Rafen said limply.
Etana bit back a smile. She was probably thinking about Rafen’s “mundane appearance”.
“And yet, despite all odds you have kesmal in your veins,” Demus said, moving to the center of the courtyard. “Which makes me wonder if our theories have been wrong, Rafen. Maybe humans are able to develop kesmalic abilities over time, when associating with the right people. Or maybe you were the victim of a kesmalic accident, as early as when you were in the womb. Is there any record of this?”
“His family’s appearance in our world, when he was about two, might have been that accident,” Etana said. “You and I agreed about two months back that this could have been because Richard Patrick was voyaging in the seas near where Rafen’s family arrived.”
Allegedly, only the Runi ki Hafa – Richard Patrick – had the ability to transfer people into and out of the other world. Rafen found the proposition that this was special ridiculous, because he knew he had brought Sherwin into the Mio Pilamùr. He had had a long conversation with Sherwin about it once. The whole thing was unnerving. Rafen would have wondered if he were more than the Fledgling but for one thing: the prophecies mentioned many times that Richard Patrick was destined to be the Fourth Runi. Rafen received no such honors. He was a mere human.
“Yes, yet I doubt this world travel would have influenced Rafen’s ability to do kesmal,” Demus answered Etana. “His Runiship was four years old at the time, and the ability to move a whole family from a distance would have been extraordinary alone. Perhaps another demonstration from Rafen will solidify my ideas about the Fledgling’s kesmal.”
He motioned for Rafen to rise. Rafen leapt up, relieved that the talk of kesmalic theory was over. For him, kesmal had no theory. It was an action, an instinct – an expression of his flaming spirit.
“We will do as we did the other day,” Demus said. “Focus on your control. Create a single, narrow beam that nearly reaches the opposite wall and then draw it back into nonexistence. Gently, now.”
Demus’ caution was not unwarranted. One time, Demus had instructed Etana and Rafen to hold hands and pass unseen kesmal between their arms without hurting each other, as an exercise on control. Rafen had managed, but was so hot that the next beam of his fire had been a localized explosion that had caused nearby guards to flee.
Yet, Rafen’s control was improving. Sometimes Demus would give Rafen private classes at night in the palace. He would purposely work Rafen far too hard and, with Rafen’s permission, even hurt him to see what Rafen’s abilities were like when he was under emotional or physical strain. At first, Rafen had performed poorly, as he had the night he had rescued the lords from the burning of New Isles. Gradually, however, he had discovered he could perform decent kesmal even when hurt, even when angry. His mind was his greatest ally. If he controlled it, focused his thoughts, pushed past pain and weakness until he used the muscular coordinations necessary for kesmal, he could perform it, whatever the circumstances.
Rafen breathed once, silently and quickly as Demus had taught him to do. Then he released a pure beam that brushed the wall opposite him before retracting into his extended fingers again. The action was so fast that it looked like a blinking, orange line.
“Yes,” Demus said slowly. “That is the most deadly of kesmal. The most controlled can do anything you would like it to… I cannot help thinking your ability is natural, Rafen. Are you certain your mother and father are humans? It must be hereditary.”
“My father certainly is,” Rafen said, unable to keep the scorn from his voice. “I know my mother was something more.”
“Yes,” Demus said. “Who knows how many of the Higher Beings spend their existence in the other world?” His amber eyes flicked to Rafen’s face. “You are more than you seem, My Lord. Much more.”
Chapter Two
In
the Cold
Sherwin lay face down in the powdery snow and clenched his fists. He hardly felt the cold. The moisture was his native element. On the inside, he was warm. He was raging on the inside.
He was angry at both himself and Rafen. He knew he should have stayed. He knew he was meant to follow the Fledgling. He had seen it in dreams, and the idea had possessed him for as long as he could remember, even before meeting Rafen. But to Rafen, Sherwin was just anyone. There was no particular reason why Sherwin should be his companion if Sherwin failed to please him.
Sherwin pulled himself to his knees and stared at the metallic sky above, flecked with dingy-colored moths. Of course, Francisco and Etana mattered far more to Rafen now. That position in government the Fledgling was supposed to have mattered far more now. Rafen was pursuing everything he really wanted these days. Sherwin had merely been a convenience when he was lonely.
He had come here because he was attracted to the place. Although the Haer Mountains had always looked grim, they were really a refuge.
He rose and wandered up the steep ascent through the snow, deliberately shuffling so as to get more moisture into his boots. On either side of him, whitebark pine trees and sagebrushes dwindled beneath the treeline. He hadn’t eaten for a day, and was discovering he could do without food. All he really needed was water. Here, he craved water. He ate snow, even though common sense told him he should have warmed it first, so that he didn’t freeze. Yet inside him, it felt like fire.
Sherwin scanned the white landscape that was blank except for the occasional mountain goat, and he knew he had been here before. It had been a while ago, before meeting Rafen. He struggled to remember. He had come here for escape, shortly after he had tried to do something stupid.
Sherwin froze, his boots deep in snow. In his mind’s eye, sequences played: scenes of a battle on a rocky plain in which Naztwai and Ashurites contended with the Sianians. He was doing it again. He was dreaming about Alakil… the Lashki.
It was all his imagination. He was obsessed with Alakil, the same way that people were obsessed with Hitler or Rasputin. It was simply a fascination with horror, that was all.
He felt the need to move to higher ground and started to run headlong up the slope, past rocks and withered-looking sagebrushes. His feet beat a rapid tattoo on the ground, and he enjoyed his own speed. The wind did nothing to hold him, giving before him as he moved, his agile movements aided by willing, fluid muscles.
He came to an easy halt, his breathing free. Above the treeline, a wooden shack stood five steps from him, creaking in the wind. A great horned owl’s call echoed in the night. The air was more frigid up here, but Sherwin could only tell that by the shape of the clouds, the fog, and the sound of the wind. He scarcely felt it. He had no coat either. Inwardly, he knew that this invincibility of his, the ability to confront the freezing cold and go without food, only came when he was in a particular mindset. It was this mindset that he had taught himself to fear and avoid, especially when he was around Rafen. Without Rafen, he found it overtook him so quickly that it was impossible to fight.
As if at his behest, Eta
na’s grandmother Adelphia appeared in the shack’s open doorway, wrapped thickly in shawls. From between the folds of thick, homespun material, a gleam caught Sherwin’s eye: the phoenix heartstring that marked her identity as Fifth Secra. Her perfectly white hair hung past her unlined face with its high, severe cheekbones and down even to her waist. Her cold blue eyes rested on him.
“Sherwin,” she said.
“Adelphia,” Sherwin whispered, the name slipping over his lips. He remembered seeing her directly after they had won the New Isles palace. She had known his name without having to ask.
“You remember me from other times also,” she said in a voice neither old nor young: the voice of a seer.
“I don’ know,” Sherwin muttered.
He was about to turn away and head back down the slope.
“Wait, Sherwin,” Adelphia said. “We have much talking to do.”
“Abou’ what?” Sherwin said, trying to sound innocent. Then he said loudly: “I didn’t murder yer husband.”
“I know that,” Adelphia said. “But do you? Come inside.”
She stepped back from the doorway, motioning for him to enter. Against every scruple he possessed, Sherwin walked through the door into the dark interior. He had to know. He had to understand. Now was the time.
*
“We’re invited… to a ball?” Rafen clarified.
The Fourth Runi (The Fledgling Account Book 4) Page 2
