The Fourth Runi (The Fledgling Account Book 4)

by Y. K. Willemse

He and Etana sat amid the blue grama grass, listening to the squeaking of pocket gophers. The sky was blackened with clouds that were bloated with spring rain. Etana had arrived half an hour ago on horseback with a sizable escort. She had demanded a moment with Rafen, despite Roger’s fretting. Roger couldn’t stand Etana spending so much time with Rafen; he felt Rafen was pushing his connections, aiming for something that could never be. He harassed Rafen endlessly every time he returned from a lesson with Etana.

  “Yes,” Etana said, brushing some dark red hair from her face. “You, Roger, and Francisco are all invited, because of your services to the kingdom, Rafen.”

  “What is the purpose of the ball?” Rafen asked, tearing grass up as he spoke. He couldn’t stand the idea of trying to dance in a stuffy hall crammed with lords and ladies and odd, sickly sweet food. And he would likely be isolated from Etana during the evening anyway, simply because of his bloodline.

  “That is a worthy question,” Etana said, “as balls are not a Sianian custom at all. It is Sartian tradition to have balls in honor of certain nobility or notable guests. And we are about to have a very notable guest in Siana.”

  “Who?” Rafen asked, turning to Etana. In the distance, a bison snorted loudly.

  For the first time, he noticed she was wan. The corners of Etana’s mouth were turned down, and she steadily avoided his gaze. Her hands were balled into fists at her sides.

  “It’s Richard,” Etana said. “He’s coming back.”

  “Your father wasn’t going to hand the throne over to Sarient,” Rafen said.

  “No, he wasn’t… at that time. There is nothing anyone can do about this. This was planned a long time ago. The Sartians and the Sianians agreed that when Richard was nineteen, Father would groom him for the throne in Siana. Only… we’re beginning to realize that Richard will often act on his father King Albert’s orders and is able to overrule my father in many things because he is a representative of our sovereign Sarient, and because he is the Fourth Runi. In resisting him, we’d be going against Zion Himself, Rafen. As Runi, Richard has been chosen by Zion to lead His people in the battle against Nazt. His preexistent spirit was incarnated for that purpose.”

  “Why was I never told this?” Rafen demanded, ripping his hands from the grass beneath him. He remembered Queen Arlene mentioning to him that the Runi were men born to be kings. If only Richard’s Runiship was some mistake…

  Zion, let it be a mistake.

  “Oh Rafen,” Etana said, “no one wanted to tell you. But we did the right thing in telling Father to keep the throne. Nearly a year of peace has resulted, and even now we are not giving away the throne entirely.”

  Rafen clenched his teeth. “Why does he have to rule Siana?” he said, rising. “Why so soon? Isn’t there some fairer province for him to control?”

  The spiraling spirits in his vision were bothering him again; he could hear their whispers in his ears. He faced the Woods. Etana scrambled to her feet, smoothing out her silk dress and brushing grass from it.

  “Rafen,” she said, “Siana is a critical country. It is positioned closely to Fritz’s Current, so that he who rules it can travel quickly to other countries in the southwest and raise support for himself. It is also one of the world’s most fertile countries. I don’t know if Mother told you this when she taught you, but—”

  “—Siana provides the majority of the world with its grains and wheat,” Rafen cut across her. “I know.”

  “Good, you understand!” Etana exclaimed, straining to be enthusiastic. “Siana is one of Sarient’s greatest provinces, as a result. It’s natural the Fourth Runi would want to protect her. And lastly, according to prophecies, Siana is where the battle for the world will begin. Besides, all the Runi discovered their identities in Siana. It does make sense. I’m in Siana partially for those reasons.”

  Rafen felt Etana was purposely avoiding the point. “You were born here.”

  “Yes, and I’m a Secra, the female equivalent of a Runi. You see, I meant what I said about the Selsons not giving away the throne entirely. I’m supposed to help Richard fight the Lashki and Nazt. I will be joint ruler with him.”

  Rafen started to walk purposefully toward the Woods, his hands deep in his tattered pants’ pockets.

  Etana hurried after him. “Rafen, please don’t,” she implored.

  Waving a hand before his face to dispel spirits, Rafen broke through the first screen of leaves and plowed through the cottonwoods. Etana pursued him, sobbing. “You knew it wasn’t forever, didn’t you? I know I never told you, but everyone in Siana knew it.”

  Rafen shoved through greenery and sent clouds of painted bruntings into the air, hearing Etana’s voice in his head, years younger, yet as distressed as it was now: “I’m tired of it, Richard, tired, tired, tired. I didn’t realize what they’d betrothed me to.”

  At twelve, Rafen had overhead her arguing with Richard one day in the palace armory. He had never forgotten she was joint heir. However, some irrational, hopelessly hopeful side of him had thought that maybe that was over. Maybe after they had re-won Siana together, something had changed. Perhaps Richard would decide he didn’t want to be in Siana anymore, because the Lashki frequented it (not that he had been seen after Rafen had wounded him over six months ago). It had seemed so logical to Rafen when they had been fleeing through Siana together, mud-streaked and hungry and in and out of hiding.

  In helping win back his country, Rafen had lost the only woman, besides his mother, whom he had really loved.

  Etana caught up to him in a little clearing, where he had startled a deer. She grabbed his shoulder and halted behind him.

  “Please, Rafen,” she said. “We can still be friends. I thought that was all you wanted.”

  “No,” Rafen panted. He threw off her hand and pressed his shoulder against an oak trunk next to him, glaring unseeingly at the foliage ahead. “You knew that wasn’t all I wanted. You wanted it too. I would never have thought it was possible if you hadn’t.”

  “I know,” Etana said tearfully.

  Rafen inhaled and moved away from her.

  “Rafen, don’t you understand?” she said, wringing her hands. Something in her voice paralyzed him. He stood with his back to her, a reluctant listener. “It’s worse for me than for you. I never had any choice. My parents and his betrothed me to him when I was four. And because of someone else’s choice, I shall have to live with him for the rest of my life. He was unbearable back then. What do you suppose he will be like now?”

  She leaned against a tree and sank into a sitting position, her hands over her face.

  “You have a choice of who you will wed,” she said. “I have no choice… in anything. My life has always been planned for me. As a Secra, I must rule. I must help him fight the Lashki and heal him when he is hurt, and wouldn’t I rather leave him to die! I must face Nazt and follow him to death – and Zion knows what kind of decisions a fool like that is going to make. I have to support the Sartian rule, which I’d much rather resist. Oh Zion..!”

  Head bowed, she shook uncontrollably. Rafen had turned around, trembling to see her cry. He stooped and sat before her, one hand on her shoulder.

  “I’m not angry at you, Etana,” he whispered. “Zion knows I’m not. Can’t you break the betrothal?”

  “No,” Etana said, her head snapping up. “It was sealed with kesmal and with both my blood and the blood of the previous Secra, my grandmother. In fact, according to Father, it means I should never be tormented so. I should naturally fall for Richard, because of the kesmal… But I never have. I never have.”

  “Then it must be wrong,” Rafen murmured, reaching out gently to brush away her tears.

  “Of course it’s wrong,” Etana choked. “I know it’s wrong. There’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “You can run away.”

  “Rafen,” Etana said, raising her brimming eyes to his. “I couldn’t run from my responsibilities.”

  That thought gave him pause. �
�Don’t run away then,” Rafen said. “Tell him you won’t marry him. Tell Sarient you won’t. Stand up to them! Why should they have everything? Why shouldn’t Siana be independent? Surely someone can do some negotiations. We could boycott Sarient until they give you your way.”

  Etana shook her head. “No, it would be wrong. It’s wrong to even be talking with you.”

  She got up abruptly, and Rafen sprung to his feet too.

  “I have to go,” she said, turning to head back through the trees.

  “Etana, wait,” Rafen said, bursting through leaves behind her, overtaking her, and blocking her way. “Do you really think Zion wants you to marry Richard?”

  Etana stared at him, lost in dismay. “Yes, Rafen. I really think He does. Richard needs me.”

  “And I don’t?”

  “Not as much, Rafen,” Etana said tenderly. “You’re not as much of an idiot.”

  When she made to walk past him, Rafen caught her in his arms and kissed her fully on the lips. She broke away gasping.

  “Rafen, you mustn’t, you really mustn’t!” she cried. “Let go of me. I have to go back. The escort will wonder where I am.”

  “I love you,” Rafen told her in a hopeless voice. “Etana, I can’t let you go.”

  “You have been a wonderful friend, Rafen,” Etana said, almost unintelligibly, “but I really think we shouldn’t be together anymore. It’s for your own good. Richard would have your head if he knew about this.”

  She pulled free of his grasp and ran through the trees, her kesmal making her unnaturally fast.

  Rafen stood between the fiddlewoods, his hands sweaty and his eyes burning. How could Zion do this? The spirits were motioning to him, crowding the color out of his vision; he fought them as best as he could.

  The sound of hoofbeats caught his attention. He broke through the trees and onto the small stretch of grassland in time to see her departing with the escort, her white horse leading the train of ten men. He imagined she looked back at him, yet it was really too far away to see.

  Chapter Three

  The Ball

  They had driven him from all society. They had called him murderer, deceiver, rebel, and even lecher, after his associations with Adelphia. Alakil had always known that this rupturing of ties had to come sooner or later. Nazt revealed many things to him, and he alone was in possession of the truth. They, and every other Sianian, were deluded.

  Nazt had promised to help him win Siana back. It had told him he alone was truly equipped to be its king. He alone was the king of progress; he would teach his people to harness the power of Nazt and their untapped kesmal. He would lead them against the Monster of the East, that fatal power called Sarient.

  However, two things prevented him.

  He leaned against the cold rock of the ravine he had found in the mountains, shivering, abominably hungry, thirsty, and weary. It was this body. It was the feather he carried in the hem of his shirt – the feather that often blistered the skin of his chest. It kept the connection between him and Zion so strong. Often, by its very presence, it inhibited his ability to communicate fully with Nazt. It caused him unbearable physical and mental agony when he killed. By destroying the feather, he would be rid of the pain.

  He had tried losing it a year back, shortly after his first murder. Though he had dropped it on the forest paths and run fifteen leginis, he had woken the next morning with it in his shirt hem. He had tried losing it at the bottom of a river, and the same thing had happened.

  This time he had a foolproof method.

  He stared at the stone ground beneath his battered boots and scuffed it with his soles more and more feverishly. The rapier-length copper rod lay at his side. He almost didn’t dare touch it after failing Nazt. Losing the battle on the Plain ki Naag was bad enough, but being driven away from his own throne after killing Fritz was worse. Though he had fought his very best, the sheer number of philosophers had overpowered him.

  The voices from the rod populated his head, and he closed his eyes, listening to them. His scolding was justly deserved. There must have been something he could have done against the philosophers. Perhaps he could have effected mass destruction through some new form of kesmal.

  It was his connection to Zion that kept him from progressing, making it hard for him to access his kesmal when fighting the Phoenix’s people.

  He stretched out his shaking hand and grasped the stem of the copper rod. The screaming in his head reached an agonizing pitch, and he thought he might vomit. The rod vibrated violently in his grasp as he tried to tame it. He pointed it at the stony ground before him, and a small torrent of blue flame exploded from its tip and became a pulsating ball on the rock. Dropping the rod as if it were a poisonous spider, he whipped the phoenix feather from his shirt hem, a scream tearing his throat as he did so. The feather was boiling; it stuck to the searing flesh of his palm when he tried to drop it into the venomous flames.

  A wild desire within him to keep the phoenix feather, to cherish it, to cling to this connection with Zion, reared up abruptly. He saw himself running through the Woods alone, confused, his kesmal so strong that it defied his own wishes. He saw himself among the other Runi, blushing as if he were naked. He saw himself sleeping, stirring fitfully, dream after dream of having a phoenix feather floating tantalizingly before his eyes – and then they were snatched away from him, and he was nameless, faceless, purposeless – a power without direction.

  An explosion of pain wrenched him back to his current reality. He gasped, his eyes watering furiously. Before the feather could burn a permanent place for itself in his skin, he thrust his whole hand into the flames, screeching as he did so. He could feel the feather slowly disintegrating on his palm; its ash dropped to the ground behind the curtain of blue.

  At the last moment, he retracted his hand… and then he couldn’t breathe. Everything whirled around him, and colors burst and faded behind his closed eyelids. Images darted across his mind: himself as a child, squatting in a loincloth by the side of an icy stream in the Mountains; then another child, far away on the edge of a hard black road, pieces of crumpled paper in his long-fingered hands, a look of deepest longing on his face – the feather! He had destroyed the feather. His chest felt like ice, and he thought his own kesmal would consume him. His eyes flying open, he shrieked as his vision flowered and split, so that he could see two realities at once: the blue flames still flickering before him; and then the Ravine from above, with his skinny Ashurite body huddled against a stone wall, his face so pale that he could be dead. The second sight was fading, becoming farther and farther away. There was a dizzying glimpse of the Woods, of thinning clouds, of the piercing blue sky – and it was gone. He could breathe again. The rebellious thoughts had vanished. He straightened, wearing a faint smile of triumph. Those idiot desires for the phoenix feather! He had destroyed them. He had mastered himself.

  Turning his hand over, he discovered that while the flames had not damaged it, ugly red welts already swelled there from where the phoenix feather had burned him. He had long avoided this simple, yet necessary action. He had felt his kesmal would not be strong enough. He had feared Zion would appear.

  And Nazt was not yet satisfied with him. Its intolerable voices roared in his head, and he knew what he must do next. It was a jump into the black, a challenge for his faith. He had to trust he could come back somehow, as Nazt had promised him. Yet who knew how strong death’s clutches were?

  He sobbed to himself, cold and miserable. The rocky wall cast a great black shadow over him, and he wondered if he had already died.

  He could not resist Nazt. It was unwise to do so – a shirking of his responsibilities. Still whimpering, he reached for the rod again, and it jerked crazily in his grip. The voices were clearly intelligible to him now. He knew the sacrifice he had to make. A mortal body that felt the pangs of physical existence was no good for the demands of Nazt.

  He raised the sharpened tip to his own throat, and of its own accord, the rod m
ade the neat slice, and the blood tumbled forth, instantly soaking his shirt, rolling down his chest. His head lolled back against the rocky wall. The pain was distant and inconsequential. He barely felt it. The only thing he was aware of was that he had so much blood…

  *

  Rafen had never missed Sherwin so much as he had those past two weeks. He wrote to Etana, sending his messages by dove, but she never replied. Richard had arrived in the country, and Rafen had seen long lines of merchants, farmers, peasants, and noblemen in their coaches making for New Isles, to be part of the crowd that greeted him at the harbor. Roger himself went on horseback, instructing Francisco and Rafen to feed the horses he left behind. He had been making a feeble attempt to breed horses for a living. So far no one had bought a colt from him. He owed his survival mainly to Rafen, who hunted for the meat that kept them alive.

  Richard’s arrival had signaled the end of Rafen’s friendly interactions with Etana, including their lessons together. Besides missing the valuable instruction, Rafen ached painfully each time he thought of the gap that had now opened up between them. His prayers to the Phoenix consisted largely of: “Zion, don’t let Richard arrive” and, when he did, “Zion, let him discover he’s not a Runi”. For if Richard wasn’t a Runi, he had no right to marry a Secra.

  Every spare moment Rafen had, he read the books from King Robert that he had not returned, and he practiced kesmal. He practiced and practiced, absorbing and re-absorbing his flames, and focusing his fire into thin lines over and over again. If he behaved like the Fledgling, perhaps he would still receive his place in government one day. And if he received his place in government, he would be near Etana.

  Despite his misgivings, Rafen had come with Francisco and Roger to the ball that night. They put on their best clothes, and they still looked like farmhands compared to everyone else in the huge, shiny-floored hall. Although Rafen hated it, he wouldn’t have missed it even if it had meant he had to face the Pirate King Sirius again. He wanted to see Etana.

  She had come in early in the evening, and in the light of the hundreds of candles supported by chandeliers above, she had been dazzling. Richard had made some irrelevant announcement in a pompous voice, and numerous lords had surged forward to kiss his hand. Rafen had eyes only for Etana. Her ivory skin had a translucent quality about it, all except the rose red in her upper cheeks. Her eyes were a brilliant, incomparable blue. She was wearing her hair up in a wreath of braids exactly like her mother’s, except that hers was a deep red, burnished with gold. Her dress was crimson. The bodice was laced and the skirt of her dress was hooped, but not overdone. He had never been so observant in his life. She was on Richard’s arm, and while her smile was gracious, the look in her eyes cut him to the heart.