“Now let’s wait,” Sherwin said.
Freezing blasts of white were swept in every now and again, and Etana already had a little pool of snow on her skirts and coats. Rafen stared at her with vague curiosity. She was like a monument.
Sherwin feebly moved to flick the snow off her with shaking hands.
“Yer married her, yer know,” he said. “She’s got a baby inside somewhere.”
Rafen could scarcely feel the bump through Etana’s numerous garments.
“There’s nothing in there but a corpse,” he said, and as the words slipped out, something within him fluttered like a small, panicking bird.
His eyes widened, and he turned away from the snow. Before him, he could see the forms of Nazt. Their hands were much closer to him now, and it would not be long at all before he was one of them.
He gasped at the cold. He, as an individual, didn’t matter. Yet the idea the entire world could be swallowed up because of his perishing caused his abdominals to clench. He struggled to breathe.
“Sherwin, we’ve got to get out of here,” he said.
“Could yer help me make Etana comfortable?” Sherwin said.
Rafen stared at him.
Sherwin was having difficulty digging snow out of Etana’s clothes. Seeing his friend touching her reminded him of something: someone else touching her, kissing her fiercely before a crowded room when she was already Rafen’s own.
Rafen seized one of Sherwin’s hands in a vice-like grip. Sherwin looked up at him wanly, his eyes hollow in his pinched face.
“What?” he said stupidly.
“She’s my wife. Don’t touch her.”
“Yeh’re listenin’ to Nazt again, Raf. I can tell.”
Rafen shoved Sherwin’s hand back at him and started shoveling the snow off Etana. To his horror, he discovered her hands weren’t covered. They were cold, like marble.
“No,” he whispered. “She can’t be dead.”
He stared into her face and shook her roughly; her head flopped forward.
“Etana!” he screamed in a cracked voice.
“Rafen,” she said faintly, one hand moving slightly to stop him. Her breathing was high and shallow.
“You’ve miscarried,” Rafen said, terror rolling over him. He had quite forgotten everything for one blissful moment. “You’ve lost the baby.”
“I think so,” she whispered. “It’s all right, Rafen. We’ll all be together again soon.”
“No,” Rafen panted, “you told me—”
“It’s all right, Raf,” Sherwin said. “Zion isn’ tha’ mean.”
“You don’t understand,” Rafen said hoarsely. “I don’t deserve any better – none of us do.”
The thought made him sick to his stomach.
He turned to the snow again, desperately imagining it was icing sugar, wafer fragments, flakes of white bread, and they could eat, be satisfied, get out of this place that was driving him insane, and find shelter for Etana, so that she might have the baby.
The baby she had miscarried…
“It was going to be a girl,” he said thickly, his hand finding Etana’s cold, limp one and stroking it. Then he stopped and put on her gloves for her. “She was going to be called Amari. We would have called her that.”
“Mari” was Mio Urmeean for “beauty”.
Etana’s breathing had become very faint. Rafen clutched her hand.
“You’re not allowed to die,” he stated. “I don’t want you to.”
“Kasper and Bambi died,” Etana said, her lips scarcely moving.
Little puffs of mist escaped her mouth as she spoke; the cold took form here.
Torius, Mary, Erasmus, Elizabeth… Kasper and Bambi. The names floated through Rafen’s mind. They had truly gone where he could not follow.
The sweat broke out on his hands. Etana sensed it.
“Don’t be afraid,” she said in a cracked voice.
“Don’t leave me,” Rafen choked, “and I won’t be.”
Sherwin steadfastly looked at the back wall of their little cave. His frame was stiff with the determination not to give into death.
“Rafen.”
Rafen shrank back against the wall, not daring to look at the cave mouth. He had heard a voice he had not expected to hear again. It was his mind playing tricks on him.
“Rafen, I have brought food.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Madness
on the Heights
Sherwin’s head snapped round, and his pale face turned jaundiced yellow in his delight. Rafen for once believed his senses and turned to see Fritz leaning over him, clutching a cloth bundle.
Rafen snatched it off him. Sherwin’s eyes were on him, and he knew the fight was about to begin. Little ones were often crushed in a fight for water or food. It had happened all the time in his childhood. He tore the cloth off and discovered dried meat, which he closed both hands over and snapped in pieces. Sherwin’s breathing was heavy, like that of a tiger’s. Rafen pulled Etana’s jaw down, shoved the meat in her mouth, and forced it shut.
He shook her again, this time gently. “Etana, chew.”
Etana made to swallow and started choking. Sherwin shoved her forward and banged her on the back. She retched, the muscles in her neck loosening.
Rafen put some more in her mouth before she could protest. “It’s good for the baby,” he said.
“I don’t have… anymore…” She was chewing feebly and now swallowed.
With Sherwin keeping a watchful eye, Rafen fed Etana every last bit while Fritz rustled around in the cave mouth. Fritz passed Sherwin a larger packet, and Sherwin fumbled to unwrap it, dropping its contents on the ground – some crusts of bread, some half-frozen cheese, more dried meat, a hunk of some chewy substance neither of them recognized, and a tiny wooden canister containing some kind of paste. He shoved it over at Rafen and leaned back against the stone wall, his arms folded.
“Yer eat first,” he said.
Rafen stared at it incredulously. “Thank you.” Then he froze. “Where is my brother?” he asked Fritz.
“He is with me; do not worry,” Fritz said, and his voice was so clear, without doubt, that Rafen believed him.
He forced himself to eat slowly, remembering his days of malnourishment as a slave. If he ate too quickly, he would only make things worse for himself.
Fritz broke apart some bread and continued to feed Etana, while Sherwin, in the gravest and most restrained manner, started to eat. Though his eyes were wild, his hands trembled so badly he couldn’t have eaten any faster if he had wanted to.
It was after Rafen had eaten, something that felt like a wonderful, timeless dream, that he looked up and noticed Francisco leaning against the wall opposite him, his face white and his eyes closed. A large cut was swollen and puckered on his forehead, and foam was crusted on his lip.
“Good Zion,” Rafen whispered. “Franny.” He crawled over to him.
“Be very gentle, Rafen,” Fritz said sharply. “We must get him to Parith before it is too late.”
Rafen unclasped Francisco’s cloak and pulled back his collar. His hands fell to his sides. Francisco’s throat was blackened and blotched, ribbons of purple running through the ever-growing kesmalic bruise.
“He won’t be able to breathe,” Rafen said numbly.
His voice sounded high. Francisco was still warm; he was still alive, but Fritz had said, “before it is too late”. It had been too late for Elizabeth. She had smelled when he had found her.
“Please, Fritz. Not my brother.”
“Rafen, we are taking him to Parith where a philosopher will see to him,” Fritz said, gripping his shoulder with a strong hand. “The Lashki questioned him, and Francisco did not give him the answer he desired. I would have protected him, but there were at least forty philosophers on my side of the post, watching me before their tents.”
“What will the philosopher in Parith do?” Rafen asked. He looked up at Fritz, angry to see him looking as h
ealthy as before, his blue eyes still blazing with that incredible energy that had marked him all through his life.
“I think you were wrong, Rafen,” Fritz said with an unsympathetic smile. “I am not going to die after all.”
But my brother is?
Rafen jumped to his feet, reeling, both hands clutching Fritz’s throat. Fritz threw him sideways out of the cave, and Rafen rolled onto the snow. He leapt to his feet again, his blood burning within him as he lunged toward Fritz, his flaming hands clawing. Fritz’s fist shot out, and a burst of light filled Rafen’s vision as he stumbled backward. He lay spread-eagled on the snow, watching spirits dance tantalizingly in and out of his vision. He could dimly hear Etana crying in a broken voice, “Stop! Leave him alone!”
Aching, he got to his feet again. Fritz had his sword drawn, and it was gleaming with a yellow light.
“I understand now,” the previous Sianian king said. “You were Alakil all along. Perhaps that is why you told me such fables. I will finish you before you try your chances again.”
“No!” Etana shrieked, struggling to get up.
Sherwin rushed toward Fritz from behind, wrapped his arms around his neck, and jerked him backward as the fan of golden light burst from the sword. It was hard to believe anything so innocent, so beautiful in appearance, could be fatal. Rafen watched it, mesmerized, when something like a giant hand threw him forward onto the ground as it swept over him, its warmth singeing his hair. The Phoenix’s eyes flashed before his mind again.
Fritz had whirled around to face Sherwin, and Sherwin staggered backward with his hands up.
“Yer can kill me if yer want to. But don’ touch ’im. I’m the one yer want. I’m Alakil.” He was panting, but not from his exertions.
Rafen stared at him and wondered if this was one of his own fantastic dreams again.
Fritz laughed loudly. “You are not Alakil,” he said. “Alakil would never give up his life as a sacrifice. He would have the whole world sacrifice itself for him.”
“Yeh’re right,” Sherwin allowed. “Though if I’m not Alakil, then Raf definitely isn’t him.”
Fritz spun around again only to realize he had his back to Rafen. Rafen had crawled into the cave and was wrapping Francisco up once more.
“He must be warm,” he said. “If he is warm, he won’t die.”
Fritz looked at him with a combination of a well-bred Sartian’s disgust and warmhearted man’s pity.
“This place is gettin’ to ’im,” Sherwin said.
Rafen looked up at Sherwin. “I’m fine,” he said loudly. “My wife has miscarried, my brother is dying, I’m the Runi, and everyone’s trying to kill me. I’m fine.”
Fritz gripped his sword a little more tightly.
“You will die,” Rafen told him. “Alakil will murder you, not me. He murdered you, before he murdered your nephew Thomas.”
Fritz’s eyes widened. “No one takes me off guard,” he stated. “And certainly not in my own chambers.”
*
The Lashki stood on a lonely crag that was reared against the sky above the Ravine. His sight had improved and matured since he had created a new body for himself, yet he could not see Fritz.
He had not even looked at the Sartian when they had brought him into the Ravine as a prisoner. They had brought a curse. He had wounded Francisco unto death and left him there in his own vomit. Would Fritz react? Would he free the boy? The Lashki only needed a reason, one reason, to kill the Sartian again.
He was never afraid. Aligned with Nazt, perfect and undefeatable in an incomparable body, he was never afraid. He considered things carefully, however, and he had thought about blasting Fritz the moment he had been brought into camp, trussed like a slave, and he had thought the better of it. It was better not to meddle with history. If he killed Fritz now, perhaps he would ruin his own future.
For the Lashki was now certain Fritz had not been resurrected. No; Fritz’s time had been cunningly interwoven with his own, so that the Sartian still believed himself king of Siana. And therein lay the difficulty. If he destroyed Fritz, he destroyed the past as it was being documented. Who knew what balances he might upset? He would not risk his own wellbeing simply because of an anachronism.
However, one necessity had pressed itself upon him. Because Fritz was away from Rafen and they could no longer work as a team, the Lashki had pursued the boy with a choice group of philosophers, planning to immobilize Rafen with the mesmerizing copper rod and seize him also. The moment he had sensed Rafen’s feather was revealed, he had hastened to the boy, because he knew Rafen would be heavily disadvantaged. Some kind of victory could be won. But after Fritz’s capture, the Lashki had been unsuccessful in finding the boy. It appeared the Secra was using her invisible shields to conceal her companions again. Additionally, Rafen was taking the most unpredictable route. The odd time the Lashki had found it, it had made no sense. Then an Ashurite from the camp had contacted him through kesmal, informing him Fritz was gone. There was no point risking things any further. If Fritz journeyed rapidly through kesmal and rejoined Rafen, there was no telling what they would do together. The Lashki returned.
The clouds above billowed and spat out snow, and his thoughts turned to Talmon. The Lashki had not needed evidence. He had simply asked Talmon, and Talmon, like a fool, had confessed with a scream that, yes, he had freed Francisco. The Lashki was not worried about losing the bait for Rafen. The Ravine that haunted his dreams so often now was sufficient. The Lashki had plans for when Rafen and Talmon would next meet. He would not wait for the boy at the Ravine. He had established a mental and kesmalic Connection between the Ravine and the final mountainside before Parith. He would wait there, above the city’s stone walls, with everything in perfect view. Rafen would come, and the Lashki would whisk him away. He would take a few philosophers with him and go within a day. Chances were that his prey would be within the city now, unless they were somehow delayed through illness or injury. However, Rafen would return.
The Lashki did not especially want to meet them before they reached the city. Still, if he did, he supposed it was Nazt’s will. He wanted the ultimate triumph to be Rafen’s giving in to Nazt. He would wait on the slope to ensure Rafen didn’t collapse from exposure or starvation before he got to the Ravine. Nazt thrummed in his mind, and the rod sat in his hand, contented. Yes, it was all under control.
He gazed down at the black peaks of tents and the scurrying ants of people in the smoky Ravine far below. There had never been a river running through it in the Lashki’s time, and he supposed it had dried up in the previous age. In his own time, he had filled it with a river of blood, a river of minions, and one day, once the protective charm of the remaining Runi’s existence had been destroyed, the Strength of the East would escape its bounds and there would be a river of Nazt. The Lashki had thought of hunting the remaining Secrai first: Adelphia, who was the Fifth; Etana, the Sixth; and the unknown Seventh that was yet to come. However, the Runi’s death was really all he urgently needed. Then he would rule supreme, with Nazt supporting him, and he would destroy the Secrai at his leisure. The clouds wreathing the Ravine had cleared somewhat today, and he watched his slaves with disinterest. They were always worrying about nothing. It was wonderful. It made him feel so secure.
Rafen’s worthless friend was inexplicably brought to mind. Though he should have died with that blow outside Adelphia’s shack, he had scarcely flinched. There was something odd about the human. If he tried anything the night Rafen came to the Lashki, the Lashki would finish him for good. Nothing was going to interfere with Nazt’s victory this time.
It was strange, but since he had performed the Soul Breaker’s Curse on Rafen, he sometimes still felt the touch of the Fledgling’s soul – a horrible crawling and yet flaming touch. However, as the months passed, it had steadily lost its vigor until finally the Lashki was convinced of one thing: its yearning. Rafen, too, wanted Nazt’s victory. He just didn’t know it yet.
The Lashki not
iced a bird floating in passive flight, an arrowshot away. He raised the copper rod lazily, and the bird twisted in midair, its wings still desperately fluttering. It was some kind of swallow, tiny game. It spiraled down to the Ravine floor, and in the glitter of its dying eyes, he saw both Rafen and Sherwin reflected: Rafen, the primary quarry, entangled in the arms of Nazt, his flesh being peeled away piece by piece; and Sherwin, the interferer, unconscious on the Ravine floor. The Lashki couldn’t imagine what wound Sherwin had died of. It was unusual. It was as if he couldn’t, mentally, injure him.
It was all mind games. He stroked the rod and studied the Naztwai below, meandering as they did when his thoughts were not with them. Despite all, he would win.
*
Francisco was very badly off. Fritz kept him in the saddle of Talmon’s stallion as they journeyed, and Rafen stayed close to him, listening for his labored breathing. The worst by far was not wondering when it was going to stop, but when the coughing was going to start. Francisco would cough for as long as ten minutes, his eyes open and watering as he brought up globules of blood and black bile. Rafen could imagine how badly his ribs must hurt. Each time he had a coughing fit, Rafen didn’t know if he was going to survive it.
One night, Rafen had joined Fritz on watch. He had moved toward Fritz’s erect figure and whispered his name.
Fritz rounded on him, his eyes narrowing.
“I have to apologize,” Rafen said, his head bowed. “I acted like a fool – you’re a gift from Zion himself, and I greatly wanted you here to—”
“Then why do you keep speaking of my death, Rafen?” Fritz asked. “Why is it you act as if this will bring you gratification?” He stepped closer to Rafen, and Rafen recoiled.
“When you as good as mentioned my brother’s death and your survival in the same breath, I doubted your sincerity toward us all,” Rafen said. “I thought you didn’t care about those of us who live in this time. I thought all your previous acts, which looked like self-sacrifice, were really the results of glory hunting and pride.”
Fritz raised an eyebrow. “Rafen, you yourself are aware that the lives of the Runi are more important than those of the lesser mortals around them.”
The Fourth Runi (The Fledgling Account Book 4) Page 28
