The Fourth Runi (The Fledgling Account Book 4)

by Y. K. Willemse

  “Three months to recover is what his Runiship stipulated. You will be treated here until you are… somewhat better. His Runiship wants no one to feel pity for you. No one deserves it less, you understand. He is going to put you on trial for styling yourself as Runi, for abducting the Secra, and trying to claim her as your own. The people will understand the Lashki only destroyed your house because you did not hand the Secra over for annihilation. At which point, you fled to the Mountains to do what you wished with her. Notable people believe this already. General Jacob-Aneurin has perfect faith in our word. His Runiship wants you to have a fair trial, so that he can condemn you and execute you the very next day, with the people’s full approval. This sort of proceeding will prevent anything like this ever happening again in Siana. So his Runiship says.

  “If you are wondering about the state of your wounds,” the man intoned, as if this were some kind of lesson, “you are likely to gain some strength in the next weeks, but it will only be temporary. You are living your last days, human.”

  When Rafen ventured to speak, he found his lips and tongue would not obey him. He was dribbling stupidly, lying propped up on many pillows and staring into the philosopher’s face. The man filled his whole world. Rafen wondered how he could ever have mistrusted him, hated him, tried to hurt him. This man was his friend. He was helping him through this confusion, through the uncertainty that buzzed in Rafen’s mind. His body was completely helpless, his limbs beyond the reach of his mental commands.

  He listened intently, waiting for the man to speak again. The man said simply, “We have bathed you and changed your sheets, human. You are clean again, and your arm is bandaged. You will rest now, and we will feed you again in the morning. We changed your clothes and—”

  Rafen nearly screamed at the sudden realization. His chest was quite cold. His phoenix feather was gone. He fought to rise and found again that his body wouldn’t move. His limbs quivered against the sheets, unwilling to obey his demand to punch this man between the eyes, to leap up, to search frantically for one of the only comforts he had in the world.

  Was Zion still with him if he didn’t have his phoenix feather? How had Fritz managed?

  He opened his mouth, but all that came out was a low groan. It was after this that he knew he had been drugged somehow.

  The philosopher watched him intently, with clear intrigue.

  *

  Rafen forced himself to wake early the next morning. His body was buzzing, and he experimentally tried to move his right arm. A slither under the sheets was the response. The world still seemed strangely bubble-like. He hadn’t noticed this effect on his vision before, but everything was stretched and indistinct. Though he was still under the influence of the drug, its hold on him was less secure.

  As quietly as possible, he forced himself to get up, gently moving the sheets so nothing rustled.

  His breath caught in his chest as he looked at the tall philosopher leaning against the wall. His breathing told Rafen that he was indeed asleep in that position, even though Rafen’s pitiful sight – complete with spirits – wasn’t enough to tell him the man’s eyes were closed. Rafen glanced across at the yellow-haired philosopher who was seated in a chair on the right side of the bed, head bowed.

  He made a move toward the door he had spied at the foot of the bed, even though the tall philosopher was standing to its left. And then as the cold brushed his skin, he realized something.

  His phoenix feather wasn’t the only thing to have vanished when they had bathed him. He was sweating, as much out of humiliation as out of fear. Perhaps they had thought this would stop him attempting anything.

  He remained frozen for a minute before deciding it was better to have a phoenix feather and no clothes, than to have clothes and no phoenix feather. Perhaps he could transform.

  He stared down at his bandaged left arm, the hand blackened all the way to the maimed fifth finger. Stubbornly, he jammed his eyes shut and attempted to turn into the Wolf. Very faint warmth, along with searing, was the only response to his efforts. The drug dulled his kesmal as well. He opened his eyes angrily. Then he noticed the tall philosopher had left his cloak lying on the floor at his feet.

  Rafen stooped, retrieved it, and managed to fix it around himself so that it was tied quite securely. It was obviously huge for him, and therefore worked quite well for his purposes. Once decently robed in the coarse brown cloth, he turned the curving handle. To his surprise, the door was unlocked. He lurched out into the corridor beyond, shutting it as quietly as he possibly could behind himself.

  Perhaps they had given his phoenix feather to Richard, who had none. After all, Richard had most probably lost Fritz’s somehow that day in the marketplace. In which case, it was best to ask Etana. She would know.

  Her name was like cool water in his mouth on a scorching day. She needed him too. What had he been thinking when he had said they were going to separate?

  Even Francisco had Sherwin to look after him, so Rafen didn’t fear for him. But Etana! Who knew what had happened to her? He leaned against a wall. Two servants meandered past, staring at him and muttering. Rafen started and stared back suspiciously, as if they were both duplications of the Lashki. He cursed his lack of caution. Next time he heard footsteps, he would have to hide. If only his senses weren’t so fogged by that infernal drug…

  He moved forward and found himself at a crossroads. Should he turn right or left into the next corridor? He decided left would be best. He staggered onward, clutching at the wall – occasionally bedecked with a tapestry – for support.

  Footsteps sounded behind him: more servants, most likely. He whirled around savagely, and an arm wrapped itself around his throat.

  Rafen yelled and threw himself forward against its grasp. A manservant appeared ahead, bearing a tray with an empty goblet on it. He stared as the tall philosopher dragged Rafen backward.

  “LET ME GO!” Rafen bellowed. “MY WIFE – LET ME GO! HELP ME! PLEASE!”

  Rooted to the spot where he stood, the manservant regarded Rafen as if he were a madman. Rafen flung himself forward desperately, and the yellow-haired philosopher appeared before him with a small vial.

  “No,” Rafen gasped. “LET ME GO!”

  Though he tried frantically to do kesmal, nothing happened besides a little flush of heat. Then he writhed, kicking the philosopher behind him, who remained as unrelenting as a statue.

  “Come, human,” the yellow-haired man said with a smile. “This will soothe your sufferings.”

  Rafen struggled even more desperately, pulling at the arm about his throat.

  “YOU HAVE TO HELP ME!” he screamed at the manservant. “THEY’RE DRUGGING M—”

  The yellow-haired man grabbed his jaw with an iron-like hand and began administering the contents of the vial. Rafen spat them out wildly, but the man held his mouth open and forced more in while the towering philosopher holding him tilted his head backward. Something ran down Rafen’s throat. He glugged and then choked, “My phoenix feather! You took – I need…”

  His limbs were going limp, and he relaxed in the tall man’s embrace.

  “I need to see my wife,” he sobbed. “My phoenix feather is—”

  “What wife?” the yellow-haired philosopher said.

  Rafen stared at him, perplexed. What did he mean? Rafen had a wife. Her name was… was…

  Oh Zion, help me.

  “I can’t remember,” Rafen said in a slurred voice. “My feather… I need…”

  He felt himself falling, and the manservant was still staring disapprovingly.

  “Thus will all of Siana look on your last days,” the yellow-haired philosopher said.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Retrieving

  the Feather

  Though time passed, Rafen hardly noticed. His world was a sequence of bloated, colored images, punctuated by the occasional spirit. At times, his arm would pain him, and the yellow-haired man would rub the ointment in. While his skin burned furiou
sly, he would struggle, even though he knew it was for his own good. Then the yellow-haired man would bind his arm, and Rafen would look on his blurred face gratefully. He had grown to love him.

  One day, Rafen woke to feel the full aches and pains of a seizure, his head throbbing.

  “The vial,” he whispered drunkenly to the yellow-haired man, who was busy unfolding a coarse white shirt.

  “His Runiship has summoned you to appear before him this morning,” the yellow-haired man said, “so you will be getting nothing from the vial.”

  Rafen digested this silently.

  “Sit up.”

  Rafen managed to do so. Everything was painfully clear around him. It hurt his eyes. The yellow-haired man pulled the shirt over Rafen’s head and told him to button it. Rafen fumbled with the buttons, failing five times over to do the first one. A ringing smack sounded, and his cheek smarted belatedly from where the yellow-haired man had slapped it. He blushed at his own ineptitude and tried harder.

  Eventually, he was fully dressed, under the yellow-haired man’s supervision. The yellow-haired man led him from the room, and Rafen found he was not able to walk without him. He leaned heavily on him the whole way to a set of large double doors.

  “Now, human, remember to submit,” the yellow-haired man said.

  “Yes.”

  “This is a very great man.”

  “Yes.”

  “He is much greater than you. You are nothing compared to him. This is an honor. You are a worm.”

  “Yes,” Rafen confessed obediently, and the yellow-haired man smiled.

  “Very good, human. Now listen to all he tells you.”

  The guards opened the double doors for them, and the yellow-haired man led him into a large hall with a red and white checked floor. A huge chandelier was suspended from the distant ceiling, and in the light of the hundreds of candles it held, everything sparkled. The narrow windows in the left wall overlooked verdant gardens in the dim light of a winter’s morning.

  A slender, blond-haired man in a heavily ornamented scarlet coat stood at the other end of the room, sampling sweetmeats from a tray presented to him by a reverential servant. At their entry, he said in a clear voice, “Come, Lewis.”

  The yellow-haired man supported Rafen, and they both walked closer.

  “Bow, human,” he said, and Rafen bowed low, almost falling on his face. The yellow-haired man caught him just in time.

  The great man clapped his hands.

  “Lewis, you are a marvel,” he said. “Look at him… he appears drunk. Jacob was concerned his kesmal was getting out of control, but he is admirably submissive. Aren’t you submissive, human?”

  “Yes,” Rafen said, and then glanced quickly up at the yellow-haired man to see if he had done right. A slap caused a burst of pain to his cheek.

  “You must call him your liege,” the yellow-haired man hissed.

  “My Liege,” Rafen mumbled.

  The yellow-haired man nodded encouragingly.

  “You will continue administering the same to him when he is installed in his rebuilt hovel again,” the great man said. “Supervise everything – his dressing, his drinking, his eating, his sleeping. We really don’t want another episode of a naked man fleeing down a corridor or some such vulgarity.”

  Another man entered through a side door, bearing a goblet. He, too, was very slender, with dull brown hair smoothed over his pin head. Something about the icy blue eyes was very familiar.

  Though he was speaking to the great man, Rafen only saw his lips move. A million images flashed across his mind: the Tarhian general in the mines, telling him to get up; the Tarhian general in his window, telling him he could never be free; a golden-plumed bird presenting Rafen with a sparkling, ash-laden feather; a duel; a ghoul; Etana, Etana, Etana; Sherwin telling him he was the Runi; climbing up a wall; the Lashki blackening his hand; his daughter in his arms; staggering down a corridor in naught but a poorly fastened cloak, in search of something infinitely precious.

  He tore himself free of Lewis’ grasp and flung himself at Richard, knocking him backward onto the floor. The goblet flew from his clutches, wine exploding into the air. Richard shrieked in rage. Rafen’s right hand had already found the hem of Richard’s shirt, even through all his finery. He seized the phoenix feather in his hand, its warmth flooding him and its light bursting on the air in the throne room briefly. Nazt was bellowing at him, and he didn’t care. Relief was like the spring wind, the foam off waves. Rafen knew this was his own phoenix feather and not Fritz’s the moment he touched it. Richard’s hands had found his throat, squeezing. Rafen choked and tried to pull back, struggling to shove the phoenix feather into his own shirt.

  “The drug!” Richard screeched, one of his maddened hands following Rafen’s into his shirt.

  Lewis rushed forward with the vial in his hand. Rafen tore himself free of Richard and flung his head up, knocking it from Lewis’ shaky grip. The vial soared into the air and landed with a tinkle on the throne room floor. Something prickled Rafen’s throat.

  Richard had managed to draw a small dagger from his belt, and it was now at Rafen’s neck. Having succeeded in putting the phoenix feather in his hem, Rafen placed his right hand protectively over it.

  From beneath Rafen, Richard hissed, “Give it to me.”

  “No,” Rafen growled.

  “Get up, human.”

  “My name,” Rafen said deliberately while he rose, “is Rafen.”

  Lewis seized him from behind by the arms, ripping Rafen’s right hand from his shirt. Pain shuddered through him. When he tried to pull his left arm away convulsively, Lewis twisted it, tearing a howl from Rafen’s throat.

  Richard was on his feet again, Roger flitting behind him nervously. The Sartian prince rounded on him.

  “Never again,” he spat, “will you look on while I am attacked. Do you understand me?”

  His voice had risen to an agonized scream, and he forced his face into Roger’s.

  “My Liege, yes, of course!” Roger blurted, dipping his knees.

  “If it happens once more,” Richard said, “I will have you killed on the spot. You are dismissed.” He turned to Lewis as Roger backed out of the room. “I thought you said you had tamed him.”

  “I believe the sight of his father might have, ah, broken the illusion. I did not give him the drug this morning, because I thought you might want to see—”

  “See him try to kill me? Again?” Richard put in.

  The area beneath his left eye was swelling visibly where Rafen must have hit him as they had fallen down.

  “My Liege, I am so sorry,” Lewis babbled. “It will not happen again.”

  “By Zion’s blood, it won’t,” Richard said.

  “I will get the feather off him.”

  “Leave it,” Richard said. “I will pick it off his corpse after his execution. I will not deny it has discomforted me,” he said in a lower voice.

  Rafen noticed the angry red rash through Richard’s open collar. Richard strode around Rafen and snatched his left arm off Lewis.

  “You will show me Etana,” Rafen demanded of the prince. “You will give me back my wife.”

  As he spoke, he attempted kesmal, and faint warmth pervaded his aching left arm. If he waited another few minutes, perhaps he would manage a flame…

  “You see your father now understands,” Richard hissed. “He serves me in the palace. Unfortunately, you are irredeemable. Perhaps some more of your favorite drink might put things right.” He shoved Rafen toward the clear puddle on the floor. “Drink it,” he said, increasing the pressure on Rafen’s arm.

  “No,” Rafen said through gritted teeth.

  “Drink it,” Richard demanded, twisting Rafen’s arm behind his back.

  Rafen felt like he was going to be sick. “No!”

  “You will drink it, like the human dog you are,” Richard said, throwing Rafen to the floor and then shoving his head into the puddle and shards of glass.

&nbs
p; Rafen jerked himself free and sprawled on the floor, his nose bleeding from where it had been cut. He scrambled away from Richard and leapt up, his hands balled into fists. Lewis drew a sword from the depths of his robes.

  “I want to see my wife,” Rafen said through his teeth.

  “You do not have a wife,” Richard said, standing tall before Rafen, like a martyr, like a priest. “Etana married me two weeks ago.”

  “No,” Rafen panted. “She didn’t. You can’t break—”

  “Your marriage was never a true one!” Richard shouted over top of him. “Yes, I know there was a certificate, a witness. I had thousands of witnesses. Etana is mine.”

  “YOU WILL NEVER TOUCH HER!” Rafen roared. “LET ME SEE MY WIFE!”

  “I will,” Richard said in a strangely quiet voice.

  Rafen stared at him in disbelief.

  Richard smiled faintly. “You must do what I ask. Bow to me. Call me your liege, your only liege. Say you are a murderer, an imposter, a womanizer.”

  “You’re lying,” Rafen said sharply. “I can see it in your eyes.”

  “Yes,” Richard said, lunging forward to grab Rafen’s face and thrust the dagger to his throat again. “And you are going to your father’s hovel in the country for these two months until your trial, when you will be convicted of treason because of your claiming to be Runi and your abduction and seduction of the Secra. Lewis will guard you with others. You will never see Etana again.”

  “NO!” Rafen bellowed, raising his left hand to do kesmal. Richard pressed the dagger harder against his throat, and Rafen winced.

  “She will not go to your trial, and she will not be at your execution. But I’ll be sure to show her your corpse. Don’t worry about that, human. Guards! Take him away.”

  Richard shoved Rafen back as two men in Sartian livery appeared near Lewis. They seized Rafen from behind, and he threw himself forward, trying to grab part of Richard’s shirt, robe, anything.

  “Richard, YOU CAN’T DO THIS!”

  “She will be bearing my child next,” Richard said smugly.