The Fourth Runi (The Fledgling Account Book 4)

by Y. K. Willemse

  “That’s impossible,” Etana said, shaking her head.

  Rafen hoped fervently that she was right.

  *

  Sherwin could have flogged himself. What good was it to share souls with the representative of Nazt when he couldn’t even read his mind? Sherwin had been able to make several predictions in the Mountains, based on what he knew of Alakil. Despite what he had said to Rafen, he had guessed there would be a trap in the Ravine; he had also known he was losing his mind after journeying even a little way toward the Den Nyolam; and he had been able to calculate where Fritz, Francisco, and he should flee in the Ashurite Palace after Kasper’s death. Yet he hadn’t fathomed the Lashki’s plans completely. He had known Rafen was morbidly attracted to the Ravine. However, he hadn’t seen what the Lashki would do when Rafen defied his own temptations.

  So much had happened that should not have happened. If he had taken Etana and Rafen back to Cyril Earl’s immediately, and returned later to the Ravine to rescue Francisco, he might have prevented this captivity in the shabbily rebuilt hovel on Roger’s land. At most, he would have enabled Rafen to have men and crucial training so that he might survive the life he was doomed to. But Sherwin had resisted – he had had enough. That moment in the Ravine, when he had attacked the Lashki to stop him transporting Rafen to Nazt, had frightened him. Before he had known it, it had become a struggle for the copper rod. His hands had felt as if they were glued to it, bound to it through a searing, electrical force. Nazt had been before his eyes then, and all he had seen was how far he had fallen from power. It was time to regain the strength he had had as a spirit. It was time to turn it against Zion and his Eleven and assert the dominance he had always deserved.

  The Lashki had thrown him back violently. Seeing the manic gleam in his opponent’s black eyes, Sherwin had let go and fallen back onto that cursed Ravine floor, losing consciousness for a short time.

  And that was why, in the end, he hadn’t again used the Connection between the Ravine and the slope near Parith to get them to Cyril Earl’s. That was why he had taken so long to fight back after General Jacob had captured them – so long to choose to escape with Francisco and Rafen. He was afraid. It had cost him enough to tap into the Lashki’s mind to transport them to the Ravine and control the Naztwai. There had been moments when he had felt his hands trembling with desperate energy as he looked at Etana, and the cool, collected killer’s mind had taken over for an instant.

  And now he couldn’t help Rafen return to Cyril Earl if he wanted to. It was only possible to construct a proper Connection by using the rules of ancient kesmal. First, one had to visit both ends of the Connection specifically for the purpose of casting kesmal to prepare the places for rapid travel. The kesmal was maintained through mental energy. Sherwin had left the Ravine, so he couldn’t use the Lashki’s Connection to transport them from the Ravine to the slope anymore. And the Lashki had probably broken that Connection by now anyway. Nor could Sherwin create his own Connection without visiting Lord Cyril Earl’s again and doing extensive kesmal there. By that time, he might as well have taken Rafen with him and attempted an escape, which would have been rapidly checked by both members of the Sianian public and by hundreds of philosophers and soldiers who were stationed at various points on the landscape nearby. Secondly, even if he’d attempted this, Rafen wouldn’t come. He wanted Siana to hear the truth at his trial before he built an army.

  And finally, Sherwin had decided he wouldn’t risk losing himself. Nor would he risk the Lashki discovering their bond and controlling him through it. It was crucial he had as little to do with this as possible.

  So here they were: still in Richard’s clutches. And Etana would likely never forgive Sherwin. He had already felt her increasing coldness toward him after his betrayal of Rafen near the Den Nyolam and after the death of her brother. Now the barrier between them was insurmountable.

  He stood at the rudely-crafted door of the one room shack. On the snowy grasslands outside the Cursed Woods, he watched Rafen’s form recede into the distance. The philosophers within the house knew Sherwin was standing there, making sure his friend was not denied the opportunity to get firewood. Sherwin couldn’t bring himself to tell Rafen the truth – something that would have pleased Adelphia – although he had told the men Richard had employed to guard Rafen. They didn’t even dare risk sending an urgent message to the palace.

  It was the one piece of good he could do for Rafen now. Watching some white-tailed deer slip back into the fold of the Woods, he leaned heavily against the fragile, slanting wall of the house. The snow gradually thickened. He wanted to feel the cold, but couldn’t. He couldn’t make the choice he had made in the Mountains, when he had selected to freeze with the others, starve with the others, even though his abilities meant he didn’t have to. At this moment, his sympathies were with Alakil, because he had realized something that shook him to the core. He put his hand to the button hem of his shirt.

  Rafen, he was sure, would recover from this latest blow. Sherwin knew this because he feared Zion; he often saw the Phoenix in his waking dreams now. And when Rafen did, he was going to finish the Lashki. It would happen within the next few years.

  And it would be the death of Sherwin too.

  Epilogue

  Rafen stood on the very path on which he had run for his phoenix feather. The crags rose sheerly on one side of him, and on the other side, a rocky slope descended to a group of makeshift shelters surrounded by trees.

  He glanced down at himself. He was attired simply in the linen and breeches that nobles wore under all their finery, and he was shod with polished boots. He moved his left hand toward his phoenix feather and then froze.

  It had been a while since he could move his left hand that easily.

  He raised it to eye level and turned it slowly once or twice. It was completely healthy, and the skin was pure and so clean that it looked luminous. His fifth finger was whole and healthy, as if the Naztwai in New Isles had never touched it, never existed. He slid his hand up his shirt to feel his lash scars. They were gone too. Already knowing what he would not find, he stooped to tear off his right boot. The white digits 237 weren’t there. There was nothing to indicate he’d ever been branded.

  This was impossible. He was hallucinating. His body hadn’t been this perfect for a while. He pulled back on his boot as if he were in a dream.

  And then he felt the Presence.

  Rafen had desired to see the Phoenix after discovering he was the Runi. He had wanted an audience with him. Yet now he trembled uncontrollably, struggling to breathe as he stumbled backward on the path.

  “Ma rafien ki mwah?” a quiet voice said. What are you afraid of?

  Rafen stood still, paralyzed by the tiny stream of air that had tickled his ear. He licked his lips, unable to speak. At last, he managed, “Ma.” You.

  “Al ma rafien bou mwah?” And why are you afraid?

  “I’ve failed you,” Rafen whispered back in Mio Urmeean. “I have given into Nazt so many times…”

  The stones on the path before him were beginning to vibrate and skitter.

  “Nazt has asked for you, and you have refused,” the Voice said softly.

  “It will ask again!” Rafen cried, now gripping the crags to his left for support. The earthquake was escalating.

  “And it will not be any stronger than before. But you – you will be stronger.”

  The sound of the loose stones and pebbles jumping was like a drumroll of rain around him. His hands sweating, Rafen said, “Why did you choose me to be Runi?”

  The Voice crescendoed now, gathering strength.

  “I did not choose you to be Runi, Rafen. I created you as Runi. You have everything you need for the coming battles. And I will be with you.”

  Rafen leaned heavily against the crags, his doubts threatening to close on him like a trap. “Am I everything you expected me to be?” he shouted into the roaring of the earthquake.

  A huge jolt threw him onto his ha
nds and knees, but he felt no pain. The ground was cracking and splitting before him, and small showers of disintegrating rock fell from above.

  “Yes,” came the resounding reply.

  From within a large chasm in the path before Rafen, a great figure arose. Dust and ash slid from its tumultuous, shimmering wings of charcoal and gold, and its blood-red spine, neck, and crest. The head reared high, and the wings exploded outward into their full span. Light burst on the air, too brilliant for Rafen’s eyes. He ducked his head and passed a hand over his face.

  “So too will you rise from the ashes, Fledgling.”

  The words echoed within his head and his body, making him one humming instrument.

  Then the world around him flashed and was blotted white, and a hand reached down to draw him out of the thick snow. Rafen felt the heavy powder cascade from his cloak as the stranger pulled him up and flung an arm around his shoulders to steady him. The blizzard caged them in white walls all around, and the wind and snow pressed against their clothes and the exposed flesh of their faces. The man with him screamed something inarticulate and forced him to stagger forward. Rafen’s body felt numb and heavy. It was difficult to move his legs.

  He had vague memories of how he had gotten into this situation. He had told the philosophers that he was going to fetch firewood for the poorly rebuilt house, instead of freezing to death. He knew he couldn’t go more than a quarter of a leginis in any direction, as there were guards that would intercept him.

  He wouldn’t have been allowed to go at all if Sherwin and Francisco hadn’t been there. Sherwin had some way of bribing the philosophers that consistently worked. Even Lewis seemed to fear him. This was, Rafen knew, a very bad sign. His suspicions about who Sherwin was connected to seemed confirmed beyond all doubt. Yet Sherwin had helped Rafen escape the palace, and in the time it had taken Rafen to fully recover his kesmalic abilities, Sherwin had protected him from the philosophers, preventing them from drugging him. For these reasons, even after Rafen was well enough to powerfully defend himself, he had put off challenging his friend. Perhaps when he had a chance, he could speak to Sherwin alone and hopefully allay his own fears. Maybe Sherwin’s similarities with the Lashki were all uncanny coincidences. Rafen assumed that Richard didn’t know about this latest development, as Sherwin kept constant watch on Lewis.

  Though Rafen had known an unseasonal blizzard was brewing when he left the house, he had thought he could beat it. He had been mistaken. His weariness had driven him to his knees before the trance had taken him. Impossible warmth seeped through his veins as he thought of what he had seen. His eyes watered, and it was only partially because snow was being blasted into them.

  Zion was still in control.

  A portal of light appeared directly before them, and the man supporting Rafen flung himself toward it. He shoved Rafen through the door ahead of him. In case his savior was Lewis, Rafen recoiled and leaned against the thin wooden wall, flexing his fingers in preparation for kesmal. The interior of the house felt like a localized summer compared to outside. He narrowed his burning eyes and absorbed the heat.

  “You can’t keep going and bringing strangers in, you milksop,” a loud-voiced matron shouted from nearby. “That child you brought in here a month ago cries every hour of day and night. And here’s a funny man to scare my daughters.”

  “Ah, I don’t even know who he is,” Rafen’s companion responded breathlessly. “I picked him up out of the snow. Well-nigh dying, I suppo—”

  “Lemuel?” Rafen gasped, turning to him.

  Removing his balaclava to reveal tousled blond hair, Lemuel stared at Rafen. “Is it you, My Lord?”

  “Yes,” Rafen said, tearing off his own balaclava with his shaking right hand. “Yes, it’s me. My daughter: where is she?” He gripped Lemuel’s arm.

  “Ah, I’m grateful to see you alive, My Lord,” Lemuel said, beaming. “She’s here.”

  Rafen realized then that besides the woman’s and Lemuel’s voice, he had been hearing the crackle of flames, a group of young children, and a baby wailing consistently. He glanced around wildly, and the matron shoved a warm, restless bundle into his icy hands. The child stopped crying the instant Rafen clasped her. He cradled her tightly with both arms and stared.

  “This can’t be her,” Rafen said.

  “Oh, it is,” Lemuel said. “She’s grown.”

  Her eyes were bigger, and a very deep, dark blue, framed by sparse eyelashes. Her forehead had rounded somewhat, and her face had gained a healthy pink color. The little head was covered with unusually thick black hair, and her mouth was pulled into a myriad of expressions at once as she struggled to free her tiny hands from the blanket that imprisoned her.

  “Amari,” Rafen whispered.

  Lemuel seized a wooden chair and upended it to throw its occupant – a young boy – out of it. He shoved it toward Rafen, who sat down pensively, clutching his daughter to his heart.

  “Is she big enough?” he asked, looking up at the buxom, ragged peasant woman, who was watching him with an expression of disgust.

  “Oh, she’s right big enough. Has her fair share of goat’s milk every moment of the day.”

  “Isn’t that very strong?” Rafen said in alarm.

  “She does right enough on it. You’ve come to take her away, then?”

  “I can’t,” Rafen murmured. “I can’t even risk visiting her often.”

  “I have a token for you,” Lemuel said, passing the woman a small, clinking pouch.

  “It better be more than a token,” she said.

  “Lemuel, you mustn’t pay for this,” Rafen said.

  “Oh, I’m not really paying for it,” Lemuel lied.

  “I’ll pay for—”

  “It is better this way, My Lord. You cannot get the funds.”

  Lost for words, Rafen changed Amari’s position gently. One small hand closed on the hem of his shirt.

  And then he was smiling, despite the fact he was under house arrest, awaiting a biased trial, and possible death. What had the Phoenix meant by that last sentence? Would Rafen die and then come back? He doubted it; Nazt must not be allowed to triumph for one moment. Whatever happened, the Phoenix had promised his Presence would be with Rafen.

  “We will be all right,” he whispered to his daughter.

  He had the feeling the peasant woman was listening closely. Her two older daughters – twelve and fourteen – had come to hang off her skirts now, all the more terrified because they knew in a few short years they would likely be married and pregnant, as was the Sianian tradition.

  His mind shifted to Richard. How was he treating Etana? Since Rafen and she had married, the only time they had really had with each other was in the Mountains. That had been a tortured time: the time of Kasper’s death, of an uncertain pregnancy, of starving, of endless fleeing, and all to no avail. He hadn’t killed the Lashki. He didn’t have a position in government or a throne in his future. He could not stay at Cyril Earl’s and train and gain men – not after what he had heard Jacob say about Rafen defiling Etana. Rafen had not been able to keep Fritz here so that the royal courts accepted him as Runi without question. Therefore, he had to undergo the trial to explain himself to Siana… to attempt winning the people over.

  Despite all his troubles, Rafen couldn’t forget the image of the Phoenix bursting from the ground. He had spent too much time thinking Zion wasn’t as powerful as the forces arrayed against himself.

  There was a purpose for all this, even if it was merely to kill Rafen’s pride and make him a stronger, truer Runi.

  He pressed Amari to his heart. This somehow brought him closer to Etana.

  “Where are we?” Rafen asked.

  “A leginis from Smitton,” Lemuel said.

  “I must have wandered far in the blizzard,” Rafen said.

  “Yes, My Lord.”

  At the continued use of the title, Rafen glanced up at him in wonder.

  “I don’t deserve that, you know,” Rafen said
.

  Lemuel said, “I think you do. I think I understand now. The Lashki chases you, My Lord, not him. Besides I never wanted him anyway. I prefer someone less like a pig.”

  He spoke in the vaguest of terms so as not to arouse suspicion in their host.

  “I am grateful, more than grateful, for your kindnesses,” Rafen said. “Zion be with you, Lemuel.”

  Lemuel flushed in pleasure.

  Amari snuffled at Rafen’s chest, and he planted a kiss like a blessing on her forehead. He wondered if a one month old could understand anything. Just in case, he whispered, “I love you, my daughter.”

  It would probably be the last time they met before his trial.

  *

  “Indeed, he slipped through my grasp, Talmon,” the Lashki said, standing at the balcony railing overlooking the walls of the Tarhian palace.

  In the courtyard beneath, Talmon’s minions scurried like ants. It reminded the Lashki of his men, fleeing in desperation from the savagery of the Naztwai. His mental equilibrium had been sadly disturbed that night. He had felt a hand on his consciousness – not Rafen’s, but someone else’s. The actions of the Naztwai were erratic and immensely damaging to his plans. He blamed the human. Sherwin had, after all, prevented him from taking Rafen to Nazt. The Lashki gripped the rod tighter. What in the world had prevented him from killing Rafen’s companion? He had never realized the worthless carrion could cause so much trouble.

  The trouble had not ended there, he recalled with horror. He had underestimated Rafen. The boy truly was in the league of the other Runi. No – he was in a league of his own. The kesmal he had performed that night had never been done before on the Mio Pilamùr.

  The Lashki gnashed his teeth. The wound should have prevented him! Rafen showed extraordinary resilience that he had never demonstrated previously in conflict. Fritz and his army had proved to be the least of Alakil’s concerns, although they certainly deterred him from attacking Rafen again after his own flight. It was Rafen’s kesmal that kept flashing before Alakil’s mind, its thin orange beams vibrating with terrible potency. The boy had been trained. He had been working hard. He was more dangerous than before.