The Fourth Runi (The Fledgling Account Book 4)

by Y. K. Willemse

  Richard laughed contemptuously. “And her son? He believes he is the Fledgling?”

  “He does,” King Robert said, “though I have not yet passed onto him the information his mother gave me.”

  “Oh. That drivel about the Phoenix visiting her?”

  “Yes,” King Robert said gravely. “In fact, Elizabeth confided in me that she felt Rafen was more than the Fledgling, that the Fledgling was merely one of his roles, or a manifestation of a greater role he had not discovered.”

  “Ha,” Richard said, striding over to the windows.

  “If I may be so bold,” Lord Harte interjected, bowing to them both, “My Liege and Your Majesty, I think I sum up the opinion of the nobility when I say that while the human Rafen is dear to the peasants and respected by the nobles, he would be pushing things to style himself as something greater than what he is. There is, of course, his reported connection with the Pirate King Sirius Jones and his victory in Rusem; and after that, the little episode of him leaving the nobles in their time of need in Fritz’s Hideout, following the burning of New Isles.”

  “Rafen himself did not want it publicly known why he left and what happened at that time,” King Robert said. Even as he spoke, he again doubted the wisdom of Rafen’s choice in this matter. “Rest assured, Lord Harte, he made a great sacrifice for Siana that day, and it is no accident the Lashki Mirah left the palace when he did. Even if Rafen was not the Fledgling, which is not possible, I suppose there are greater crimes than pretending to be that.”

  “I cannot think of any,” Richard said, staring with ardor down into the gardens. Etana was walking amid the trees, deep in conversation with Bertilde.

  “I don’t suppose there have been any before who have styled themselves as Runi,” King Robert said. Richard’s eyes left Etana; they now stared ahead of himself mutinously. “That would be the ultimate treason, I believe.”

  “It is ridiculous even to think of such things,” Richard said in a clear voice to the throne room in general. “However, if someone ever tried that, I should personally hang him.”

  “There have been rumors,” King Robert proceeded cautiously, “that have reached my ears, that My Liege does not currently possess a phoenix feather. May My Liege recognize this is not my opinion, but there have been rumors that there are more likely candidates for the Runiship. And therefore, may I tentatively suggest to My Liege, that he lay such whisperings to rest?”

  “I do not need to prove anything!” Richard spat, rounding on King Robert, who flinched. “My name is in the ancient prophecies.”

  Lord Harte fell to his knees before Richard. “My Liege is undoubtedly the Runi,” he said. “And yet, I must confess my undying desire to see a phoenix feather – My Liege said that no challenge was too much – the Festival in three months will be the opportune time to silence any rumors.” The sweat beaded on Lord Harte’s forehead; his nostrils were dilated with excitement.

  “Lord Harte speaks wisely,” King Robert said, nodding once. Excitement caused his face to flush slightly. “We have all heard the risks involved in revealing a phoenix feather, but My Liege, I believe, can withstand the temptations and whispers of Nazt. It would be an assertion of My Liege’s strength, the ultimate silencing of your enemies.”

  Richard had gone very pale. He nodded, licking his lips.

  “Of course,” he murmured. “Of course. My Lord Harte is most wise.”

  “I speak for the nobles and advisors, of course, My Liege,” Lord Harte said, quivering beneath Richard. “They have often voiced the desire—”

  “You mean they have voiced doubt,” Richard snarled. “And what other candidates are there for the Runiship, Robert? Rafen, I suppose?” Richard’s eyes were bulging. “You have given me a challenge, and I accept,” he hissed. “The people will see, and no one will have doubts again.”

  A servant appeared at the side door, and Richard whirled around.

  “I should think it was about time I had something to drink,” he demanded.

  *

  A jolt of kesmal shook Rafen awake, and he pulled himself to his feet, his bruises screeching at him.

  Demus was standing at the other side of the clearing of red cedars and fiddlewoods. His thick black eyebrows were raised.

  “That was not impressive,” he said.

  “What am I supposed to do?” Rafen burst out, losing patience.

  He had spent the whole day training with Demus. Both Rafen and Etana had contacted Demus, and Demus took every opportunity he got to escape the palace and come and train Rafen out in the Woods. Roger frequently asked where Rafen was, and he was becoming very nettled.

  Rafen had taken him aside one day and said frankly, “I’m only doing what I have to do as Fledgling. I’m not a child that you can control anymore. If you don’t step aside, I will make you do so.”

  Roger had been horrified. After trying several times to emotionally manipulate Rafen, even blaming him for Elizabeth’s death, he had given up in disgust. Yet Rafen was certain he hadn’t heard the last of it.

  Still, Rafen would rather face Roger’s wrath than Demus’ disappointment. Demus had actually believed Etana and Rafen when they had said Rafen was the Runi.

  “I’ve told you a hundred times, Rafen,” Demus said sharply, “you are meant to resist unconsciousness. If anyone can knock you out with a little beam of kesmal, how in Zion’s name are you to escape death?”

  Rafen opened his mouth again and Demus motioned for silence.

  “You might be the Runi,” Demus said, “but you’re not above being a corpse. This is your chance, Rafen, to be the Runi who survived.”

  Gripping his gnarled black stick, Demus moved closer to Rafen, his back hunched as always. He touched Rafen’s left arm lightly.

  “You must let your kesmal fill your body,” he said. “Your kesmal normally channels itself down the left arm, which is your fighting arm. All the Runi were left-handed like this. That is fine, we can’t change that. Yet once the kesmal has reached your fingertips, absorb it again before it has a chance to escape your body. Then it will course through your entire being. If you do this repeatedly, you’ll be able to resist unconsciousness, as long as multiple people don’t hit you in the head at once.”

  Rafen forced himself to breathe deeply and nodded. He could feel his anger pulsing through him, and he fought to control it as Erasmus had taught him so long ago.

  For the millionth time, he wished no one had found out his parents were human. Demus wouldn’t have to teach Rafen secretly. Rafen would have had a chance to stand in government and to receive full training. From there, he would be able to gradually convince people he was the Runi. As a result, his own safety wouldn’t be so tenuous.

  He hadn’t told Francisco or Roger. He was palpably ashamed of how pathetic he was as a Runi. The Lashki had easily overcome him in kesmalic battle the last time they had fought.

  “Prepare yourself, Rafen,” Demus said, stepping back and raising his gnarled stick. “We’re going to try again.”

  Several black beams flashed through the air, and Rafen deliberately allowed them to hit him. His world rocked, and darkness surged up in his vision. Wildly, desperately, he sent kesmal down to his fingertips and then retracted it with a strong movement from his upper arm. It leapt back into his body and thrummed through him, keeping him warm. The shadows receded. Demus hit him again and again, and Rafen kept performing the same routine, his limbs shaking out of weariness. At last Demus relented.

  Rafen dropped to his knees, exhausted. Black rippled through the ground beneath him and shot into his body, stabbing him with growing pain. He shook horribly in the grip of Demus’ kesmal as he tried to fight it off, drawing more of his own flame from his fingers into his body. The agony diminished. He could see again. His eyes were watering, and his left arm was becoming cold.

  “Get up.”

  Demus swung the stick into Rafen’s head.

  Rafen forced himself to stand up, sending a torrent of flame toward Dem
us’ skull. Demus absorbed it with an easy movement.

  “Focused flame!” he screamed at Rafen.

  He hit Rafen with another of his black rays, and Rafen felt the kesmal clench his insides, making it impossible to breathe. With a bellow, he threw off the overwhelming pain and attacked again. This time a very faint, short beam was the response to his efforts. It flicked into nothingness.

  “Pathetic!” Demus shouted. “What kind of a Runi are you? Fight like a man, not a child.”

  More black kesmal, more searing. Rafen vomited and raised his sword with a quaking left hand. A single focused rope of fire burst from its tip. Demus flung himself out of the way. Dimly, Rafen heard a nearby tree swing to the ground.

  He was panting, his mouth filled with a nasty taste. Demus moved over to him and helped him sit down on the ground, leaning hard against a tree.

  “Understand, Rafen,” he said softly in Rafen’s ear, “the Lashki will hurt you far worse than this if he gets hold of you. You must be able to fight back, even when wounded, even when in incredible pain.”

  Rafen nodded again, meeting Demus’ amber eyes. Demus pointed the gnarled stick at Rafen again, and Rafen flicked his sword up. It blazed with orange.

  “I’m healing you,” Demus said.

  “Oh.”

  Rafen lowered his sword, still suspicious. He closed his eyes. Faint warmth pervaded his aching body as Demus eased the pain from his bruises and quickened his body’s natural healing process.

  “Has Etana spoken to her father about me?” Rafen asked.

  It had been two months since Rafen had married Etana. They had neither seen each other nor written, in case their letters were intercepted. Rafen had refrained from questioning Demus about her actions for some time, unwilling to give away anything about their relationship. However, he was becoming desperate. She had made him promise not to take matters into his own hands until she had found out what her father thought.

  “I no longer train Her Highness, Etana,” Demus said.

  Rafen’s eyes flew open.

  “What? You’re her favorite tutor.”

  “Richard decided I was too unconventional. Perhaps he thought I might have dangerous ideas. He stirred up members of the court against me. Queen Arlene knew that I was teaching Etana, although she did not realize I was teaching you as well. When she heard Richard’s opinion, she revealed she had thought the same way for a long time. His Majesty Robert stood up for me, but he was outnumbered. Hence, it is considerably easier for me to come to train you than it used to be.”

  Rafen straightened abruptly, his head whirling.

  “That’s just wrong,” he said loudly. “Didn’t Etana protest?”

  “Yes. Her mother and Richard claim they know what’s best for her.”

  “So you have no idea whether she has spoken to King Robert.”

  “I do not know if she has or hasn’t. At any rate, in the current environment, it will take some time for King Robert to arrange anything on your behalf. Rafen, I wouldn’t hang onto hope that you will be restored to the Sianian courts anytime soon.”

  Rafen clenched his fists. “I should go and speak to King Robert and the court myself.”

  “No,” Demus said sharply. “Rafen, you mean to do the right thing, but you cannot be impulsive about this. You are in danger. Don’t underestimate Richard’s influence. If you give him any excuse, he will turn Siana against you. And the Lashki will not be long in taking advantage of that.”

  “It would take a lot to turn Siana against me.”

  Demus smiled and pressed his gnarled stick to Rafen’s neck. A blast shook his head, and Rafen gasped. His sight became clearer.

  “Hopefully rectifying your concussion will help you think straight,” Demus said. “People are fickle, Rafen. Richard only needs a few choice facts to stir up a crowd. You must be very careful. I heard from King Robert once that you saw Fritz and Thomas.”

  “Yes. I saw them.”

  “How did you summon them?”

  “I didn’t. They came when I touched my phoenix feather.”

  Demus laughed. “Don’t talk nonsense, Rafen. It is said the Fourth Runi can summon the other two Runi, or shades of them at least. You realize that it is your task to resurrect them, of course.”

  “I know,” Rafen said numbly.

  “Well, why don’t you try? If you brought them to your aid once, surely you can do it again?”

  “I did it right after I saw the Phoenix. I didn’t think it was possible a second time.”

  “Have you never thought what an advantage you would have if you could bring even Fritz back for good?” Demus said. “It would authenticate your Runiship. The people would rally to you, and it would open the way for you to return to the royal courts. It will have to be possible a second time if you are to survive and destroy Nazt.”

  Rafen realized grimly that Demus was right.

  *

  Glancing up from where he was grooming the roan mare, Rafen dropped the brush and climbed over the rickety fence that Roger had recently finished. Three horsemen approached the house, scattering a few prairie dogs before them.

  “Another ball?” Francisco guessed brightly from where he was trying to burnish his own boots with an old cloth.

  He was sitting on the grass near the house door. Roger was somewhere inside, dozing on their only bed.

  “We still never found out where you went that night, my brother,” Francisco went on, casting aside the cloth. “You say you relieved yourself and never found your way back, but I do not think so.”

  “It’s none of your business,” Rafen said tersely.

  “Ach. Tell me none of your secrets then, comrade; you will hear none of mine. Yet remember: a twin knows what he knows.”

  Rafen shrugged.

  It had now been three months since his marriage. He often went over the vows in his head. After saying them, the warmth that had passed through his and Etana’s joined hands had confirmed for him that the promises really were kesmalic. He had no intention of breaking them, of course. The true comfort of such vows was that if Etana died (and the thought made him sick to his stomach), he had the ability to communicate with her even when she was in the afterlife.

  Sherwin kept to the Woods mostly. Roger was aware he had returned, and he complained about it incessantly, even though Sherwin never came near the house. At Rafen’s deadly looks, however, he quieted down. Rafen and Francisco visited Sherwin frequently, most often at night. Sherwin traveled to the palace several times to see if he could get some message from Rafen to Etana, but without success. Security around the palace was being tightened increasingly now that Richard was in Siana. Everyone seemed to be expecting a visit from the Lashki.

  When visiting Sherwin by himself, Rafen would often practice kesmal for hours. Sherwin would tell him whenever his aim was off or his control was waning, and he proved to be the harshest of critics, acting as if he were as masterful with kesmal as the Lashki himself. During these times, Rafen also tried desperately to drag King Fritz into his own reality. Rafen was drawn more to the idea of Fritz than Thomas. Fritz had been Siana’s strongest king, and he would garner more respect in court.

  Yet Rafen had no idea how to go about bringing him back. He tried using his Spirit Awareness to hunt for Fritz’s spirit, which proved disastrous. Other times, he tried imagining every angle of Fritz’s appearance and casting kesmal directly afterward. The usual flame was the only response.

  “These are messengers from the palace,” Francisco said, rising. “Ah, brother, I hope it is another ball.”

  The messengers pulled up on their horses, and Rafen noted with distaste that they were in Sartian livery. The tallest of the three dismounted, bearing a rolled parchment that reminded Rafen with a jolt of his and Etana’s marriage certificate.

  “Which of you is the boy Rafen?” the Sartian said condescendingly.

  His accent was markedly more rounded and refined than the crisp accents of Kasper or Robert.

 
; “I am Rafen.”

  “Rafen, son of Roger Ridding the human,” the Sartian announced to everyone in general, “in the name of His Majesty, Richard Patrick, divine royalty from the mother country Sarient; Emperor of Urain; Grand Imperial of the Pasturelands of Rill; future Monarch of Siana, Ranian, Darai, and Crutia; future Sovereign of all the West; and Runi ki Hafa in the highest degree, you and your brother are forbidden to attend the Festival of Zion held in New Isles fourteen days from now, for the following reason: your presence may aggravate the outcast and pariah Alakil, banished from Siana in the years of Adelphia and Joseph. Likewise, you are forbidden to attend his Runiship’s wedding to the Secra a week after the Festival.”

  The other two Sartians on horseback conversed quietly in the background, pointing out to each other some particularly handsome pronghorns near the Cursed Woods. Rafen could taste his own panic, a desperate, inward appeal to Zion. Had King Robert not succeeded in putting this marriage off?

  “You mean I’m a Lashki magnet,” he said.

  The Sartian rolled up his order, looking at Rafen with the disgust a refined man has for a large spider. “I mean exactly what his Runiship said. If you wish to object to this order, you will have to travel to court within the next three days to take up the matter with him.”

  “He said that?” Rafen asked.

  “His Runiship remembers you from some time back,” the Sartian said, now adjusting his decorated coat, “and I personally would not risk his wrath. He is not kindly disposed to you because of previous impudence.”

  “So Richard thinks he has the right to prevent the Fledgling from attending the Festival of Zion?” Rafen clarified, steely.

  The Sartian’s head snapped up. “Bear in mind, young reprobate, that every word you speak in this interchange will be taken directly to his Runiship when we return.”

  “That’s fine,” Rafen said, stepping forward. Francisco moved between him and the messenger, shaking his head at Rafen. “You tell Richard that he’s as much of a dictator as he was before, but more of a lecher.”