The Fourth Runi (The Fledgling Account Book 4)
Page 40
He could have caused appalling damage.
“He must be stamped out,” the Lashki said through rotting lips, clasping the copper rod to his chest. The murmurs of Nazt were still peaceable. The Voices would have punished him severely if it had not been for one thing. “We are not perplexed,” the Lashki added in an undertone. “Rafen’s wound will finish him. And if it does not finish him, it will bring him here out of desperation before the end.”
The Lashki turned his black-eyed gaze on Talmon, who hovered in the sitting room behind him. Talmon had shown no pleasure since that night in the Ravine, even though Rafen had refused to lash his former slave driver. The Tarhian king now regarded his Master nervously and bowed low.
The Lashki laughed. “You are merely grateful it was not you that received his blow.”
“You would have given it to me then, Master?” Talmon whispered, raising his brown eyes, piteous and hungry like those of his five slavering dogs in the room’s back corner.
“Yes,” the Lashki hissed. “I would have. Yet you are faithful to me, in many ways,” he said, facing the palace’s bleak walls again and searching the billowing clouds in the East. “But you have one great failure, and that is your affection for the boy. Next time, I will not punish you, Talmon. You deserve to be cleansed, and I will free you from this ridiculous slavery.”
“How?” Talmon reached for a goblet of wine from the black desk next to him and did not drink.
“I will kill the boy. I thought I did it before, but he survived. I was too subtle in my approach. While a slow, painful death is pleasurable, there is virtue in dealing the quick finish. Next time, I will hold back nothing. He is too close to his brother for my liking.”
Talmon did drink now, yet he did not swallow. The wine collected in a pocket of his mouth, and he held it there, his eyes agonized.
“It will hurt a little,” the Lashki said. “Progress always hurts.”
Talmon gulped his drink down with difficulty and whispered, “The Secra was pregnant.”
“Ha,” the Lashki said softly. “Yes. Annette tells me through her contacts, which increase with Richard’s residence in the palace, that the child survived, yet is hidden. No matter. I will hunt it down and kill it. I did mean to kill the Secra at this time. Unfortunately the protection around the New Isles palace is absurd at present. Most absurd, for a pretentious fool.”
“You like him,” Talmon said, glancing at his panting dogs. He had known his Master long enough to tell certain things about his tone.
“Richard is convenient,” the Lashki said smoothly, running one rotting hand up and down the copper rod.
After all, had he not poisoned King Albert’s and Richard’s men with his own disciples, even while he, the Lashki, had occupied Siana in recent times? His success meant that country would not be out of his grasp for long. He had been right to spare Albert’s life three years ago, when he had come to the New Isles palace to kill Robert, monarch of Siana. For in keeping Albert alive, the Lashki ensured that Sarient rotted from within. The Sartian Empire that he would receive would eventually be entirely compliant to his wishes, because of Albert’s own spirit – one that was becoming more and more in line with the will of Nazt.
As for Rafen, the Lashki had feared he would be the second death of him. No longer! At last the dog would know pain as he had, as the seed he had planted in Rafen’s skin flowered. This triumph was perfect; it was exhilaration. He tasted it, and it made him calmer for the next step after leaving Rafen to his death: the killing of his daughter and the winning of Siana for himself again. Even if Fritz and his army were still in Siana, they would not be able to save Rafen. As Rafen grew weaker and weaker, the Lashki was certain the anachronisms would fade. After all, a weaving together of the times would not last forever. The Lashki had nothing to dread.
“If Rafen survives longer than I anticipate,” he said with a yellow-toothed smile, “the moment his protectors from the past vanish, Richard will hang him – his only hope! – on the gallows before all the people. And then through Richard, I will take over Siana…”
Time alone would tell when he would be crowned King of the country Fritz had torn from him and his people. And once Siana fell, Sarient would be next to benefit from the progress Nazt could bring, and then the rest of the world.
The apple was ripe to fall.
About the author
Y.K. Willemse grew up dreaming of the day when she would become an author. But she didn’t just dream. At age ten, she began writing seriously. She was published for the first time at age sixteen and saw her first novel release when she was twenty-two years old. When she’s not writing, Yvette is walking her Yorkshire Terrier, drinking large amounts of coffee, singing loudly, and teaching music at various schools and studios. She owns a real Norman sword, a very small but sharp axe, and a large collection of books. Together with her husband Michael, she resides in Canterbury, New Zealand.
You can connect with Y.K. by visiting her
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Or email her at
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