Blood of the Delphi (The Harmatia Cycle Book 2)

by M. E. Vaughan

  “On the last hunt, only a handful of the alchemists came back—they said that he ate the men he killed,” a third boy chimed in. There was a spatter of muttered agreement and nodding. Zachary choked on his smoke and snorted.

  “That still doesn’t make him a faerie—just barbaric.”

  “Not all of them are born faeries—you can turn into one, you know,” another said conspiratorially. “My father says he’s renounced the True Gods and given his allegiance to the Dark. It’s the Fomorii who grant him power now.”

  Several of the boys hissed, licking their thumbs and drawing a quick line across their foreheads in the Mark of Notameer. Zachary struggled to stifle his laughter.

  Renounce the True Gods? Preposterous. A Magi didn’t renounce the True Gods. They couldn’t—they were born of them, a living part of them. To renounce the Gods was to renounce life.

  “Does he really? Does he worship them now?”

  “He pays monthly tribute in human sacrifice and in return they teach him dark magic. He gains his power by bathing in his victim’s blood. One month no one came after him. To appease the gods for his lack of sacrifice, he had to hack away at his own body instead—that’s why he’s only got one leg.”

  Zachary’s laughter burst out of him in short, sharp pants as Emeric pulled a face of mock-horror. Marcel lifted his own leg and shook it, as if it were hurting him.

  “Is it true he can control the weather? Make storms and torrents of rain by doing some sort of faerie dance?”

  “Of course—why do you think the crops were destroyed by floods last year? It was him.”

  More and more of the students began to join in the conversation.

  “They say he gave his eye to the Queen of the Unseelie Court for that power.”

  Zachary collapsed against the wall behind him, his body in spasm as he imagined it—a legless, bloodied, one-eyed man dancing a storm in to ruin a few crops. It was farcical at best. Emeric gave Zachary a consoling pat on the back as Zachary sucked in a huge lungful of air, trying to calm himself.

  “It doesn’t matter what power he has—when I am a Magi I shall join the hunt and bring him down myself in the name of the King!” the first boy announced grandly.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, you’re no match for him.”

  “My father knew him,” the first boy insisted. “Said he was nothing but a theorist, strange and bookish with no great powers of combat.”

  “That’s not true,” his companion snorted. “Otherwise how could he have done what he did?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When he turned.” The second boy rolled his eyes. “Or don’t you remember? That he attacked a woman and child, and battled through over thirty Magi?”

  “Thirty?” Zachary’s voice exploded and the boys all jumped, noticing him for the first time. “Thirty!” Zachary repeated. “Oh for the love of Malak’s jade-tipped nipples, this has got to stop! You hear that, Fold? Hathely? Thirty, they said—thirty!”

  “I heard sixty the other day.” Emeric shrugged. “And that he summoned an army of the dead.”

  “He performed necromancy?” Marcel muttered, blowing a few strands of his long blond hair out of his eyes. “I must have dropped off.”

  “Thirty?” Zachary groaned. “Sons of the gods, the author of these stories ought to be proud.”

  “Correct them, if it pains you.” Marcel took a long drag of his pipe only to realise his tobacco was spent. He narrowed his pale, golden eyes, glaring at the pipe as if it were the one at fault.

  “You know we can’t…That’s one unwritten rule that might as well be law,” Zachary snarled. He gave the boys who watched him a feral grin. “He eats rodents live, you know, my former brother. He likes the way they feel wriggling in his teeth.”

  “Zachary…” Emeric’s voice was half-hearted.

  “But it isn’t just rodents—hah! You think he waits until his victims are dead? No boys, he’s got venom on his tongue strong enough to paralyse a horse. He’ll rip into you alive, and let you live long to watch him feasting.”

  “Zachary, really,” Emeric said with more conviction this time.

  “Oh what’s the matter?” Zachary barked, his temper flaring. “Their mouths are already foaming with the shit—what’s one more lie going to do? Thirty—thirty they say! A half-crazed, one-legged necromancer with a single eye and a renounced religion battling through thirty Magi? I am disgusted by the lack of common sense in this room.”

  He saw several of the students draw back, their faces pinched in indignation at these insults. Zachary didn’t care.

  “In fairness, they were only claiming the necromancer part to be true of the time,” Emeric defended lightly.

  “Oh, that’s right. He was only controlling the dead that day—he still had both of his legs. My mistake,” Zachary snapped and Marcel raised his eyebrows.

  “Correct them, if it pains you,” he repeated monotonously.

  “Were that it was so easy,” Zachary lamented and Emeric rolled his eyes.

  “Oh Hexias give me strength.” Emeric turned to the students, who’d now all been drawn into the spectacle, whispering. “There were never thirty Magi. There were only three. They were not protecting anyone, but were sent to stop Prince Jionathan from crossing into Avalon. In doing so, they started a fight with the Prince’s Sidhe companion. Rufus Merle interceded at great risk to himself, before anyone got hurt. Because of him, nobody died that day. That’s the truth.”

  A stunned silence filled the room and Emeric turned back to his friends. Zachary was wide-eyed, and Marcel had dropped his pipe from his mouth in veiled surprise.

  “That was excruciating,” Emeric said sarcastically and Zachary barked a laugh, smacking him across the arm.

  “Madman,” he whispered. “Never mind a new apprentice—you need to keep your fair cousin on a tighter leash, Hathely. He’s growing bold.”

  “Bold and rebellious—just as my sister warned me.” Marcel’s face twisted in an unusual display of horror and Emeric and Zachary roared with laughter.

  “By Notameer’s Light.” A voice interrupted them as from the head of the room. Tall and upright, with bright white hair, the familiar figure of Belphegore Odin appeared at the door. “I cannot think what has put you three in such high-spirits at this gloomy hour of the morning.”

  The men and students alike rose to their feet and bowed respectfully as the leader of the Magi swept into the room.

  “Come, share the joke then,” Belphegore said, “unless you deem it to be too inappropriate for my sensitive constitution?”

  “They were talking about Rufus Merle, Lord Odin,” one of the students blurted, and all of the good humour was immediately gone from Belphegore’s face. For Zachary, the rumours of Rufus were a mere agitation, but for Belphegore, to hear his favourite being so carelessly slandered, was an infinite torture. Even in that second, Belphegore seemed to wither and age under a heavy fatigue.

  “Rufus…?” he glanced up at Zachary, and there was almost a look of betrayal in his pale blue eyes. “I see. Yes, a new hunt was sent after him. I forget how swiftly dead conversations can be revived.”

  “They said,” the student continued, eyeing Emeric dubiously, “they said that he only attacked three Magi when he turned. That he didn’t kill anybody.”

  The students looked between each other, confused. No one had ever corrected the speculation before—nobody dared portray Rufus as a victim, not when he was a traitor. “Is it true?”

  “Are you accusing me of lying?” Emeric asked sternly. Zachary knew that, in his own way, Emeric was giving Belphegore a chance to dispel his gloom and take control of the situation.

  “No…that’s not…” the student stuttered.

  “My apprentice—” Belphegore started, and then corrected himself, “my former apprentice was never a violent man. That he is a traitor now is a sad reality, but during his time serving this kingdom, he never hurt anyone.”

  “That’s open for deb
ate,” Zachary muttered. His voice carried further than he intended, and Belphegore narrowed his eyes. Zachary quickly expanded. “With an intellect like that, he moderated the pride of quite few established Magi—present company included. That’s the danger of associating with a genius, I suppose.”

  “So, he really wasn’t a faerie?” The students’ voices had dropped to a whisper.

  “No,” Zachary dismissed. “Just a tenacious little shit.”

  “Arlen,” Belphegore said sharply.

  “Oh what?” Zachary pushed back. “You’re as tired of this as I am. Make no mistake, I have no lingering affection for the man, but the truth is, compared to the rest of us, Merle’s as guiltless as a child and should be left to his misery. And yet these,” he gestured angrily to the students, “these mindless, gaudy puppets are raised on the idea that it would actually be an honour to drive a sword through his heart. As if Merle would know which end of a sword to hold,” Zachary scoffed. “What an honourable ambition. You’ll excuse me Master, but I fear I made a mistake coming to this address.” He strode toward the door.

  “Arlen…” Belphegore tried to reason as Zachary passed him.

  “Do you see your new apprentice amongst them?” Zachary said, shaking his head. “Because if their greatest ambition is to kill a head-sick man then I wonder at what hope there is for our kingdom.”

  Belphegore bowed his head. “You are excused,” he said, and Zachary stalked from the room, leaving Marcel and Emeric to fend for themselves against the fools.

  By the time Rufus pulled himself out of the river, he was three miles down the valley. He lay on the bank, exhausted and gasping, and then hid as the Kathraks came looking. They scoured the area for half an hour or so, then moved on, allowing Rufus to begin the long trek back.

  As he walked, Rufus prayed that the Kathraks would keep following the river south. Most, from the little chatter he’d heard when they passed, believed him dead, or at least too badly injured to keep fleeing. DuGilles wasn’t satisfied with their speculation, persisting with the search.

  “He’s a Magi—he has more tricks up his sleeve than you’ve got thoughts in your head. So keep looking! He’s not dead until I’ve seen his body.”

  In this assessment, DuGilles had been correct. Long ago, Rufus had theorised a technique which could be used if a Magi found himself falling from a great height. The purpose of creating the technique had been for his own peace of mind, as a long sufferer of what the Réneians called ‘l’appel du vide’, an almost instinctual desire to leap from the top of high-places. Paranoid that he may one day fall in with this internal craving, Rufus had theorised a way to survive if he did, and had then tested it by jumping from the top of one of the Magi towers.

  The technique itself involved emitting a highly pressurised ball of air below you just before you struck the ground, thereby cushioning the impact of your fall. Usually the theory relied on having at least a basic understanding of the terrain, but Rufus had been falling blind, and it was only because of his quick estimations and instinct that he’d survived hitting the water.

  Near dawn, exhausted by the river and the chase, Rufus stopped in a glade to rest. When he next opened his eyes, it was to the fullness of the morning.

  Sitting up from where he was slouched against a tree, he groaned, his body stiff and cold. “Oh no, no…” He flumped back. His ribs and back hurt from the fall, and he still felt light-headed and water-logged, though he was mercifully dry.

  “Are you hurt?” a voice asked and Rufus sat bolt upright.

  “Athea—damn it!” he cried, turning furiously on the boy at his side. “Joshua, don’t do that!”

  “Sorry.”

  “You scared me witless!”

  “Sorry,” the boy repeated and the Magi fell back with a grumble, rubbing his chest.

  Joshua scooted closer, peering at Rufus worriedly. “Are you hurt?” he asked again.

  “No,” Rufus said. “Only a little battered.” He leaned across and ruffled the boy’s hair. Joshua slapped his hand away playfully, his expression breaking into a wide smile, which Rufus returned. At twelve and a half years, Joshua looked so astonishingly like Jionat, that were it not for his bright blue eyes, to a faded memory, they might have been the same person. Rufus didn’t bother asking Joshua how he’d found him in the dense wood—the boy had inherited the Delphi skill for finding blood kin, and whilst it wasn’t as strong as Rufus’s ability, Rufus knew he could never stay lost from his little brother for long.

  “What are you doing out here, Joshua? I told you to stay in the house.”

  Joshua huffed grumpily. “It’s morning and you’ve been gone for hours. I thought…I thought they might’ve caught you again.”

  Rufus caught a flash of fear in his brother’s eyes, and his heart squeezed. He forced a laugh. “No, no—never got close. I jumped into the river and led them away.”

  “I know.”

  “What?”

  “I saw.” Joshua didn’t seem amused. His eyes flashed knowingly. “You jumped thirty-three strides down into the river.”

  “Well, yes—”

  “With no guarantee you’d survive.”

  “There’s no guarantee I’ll survive breakfast every time I take it, but that doesn’t stop me eating. The jump was a risk, but it was calculated,” Rufus said firmly. “I’m sorry it took me so long to walk back.”

  Rufus watched as Joshua sorted through this information, his anger and concern melding into a reluctant relief. He sighed.

  “You’ve got to be more careful, Rufus.”

  Rufus sat up, despite his aching body and pulled the boy into a tight embrace. Joshua relaxed against him.

  “The Kathraks?” Rufus asked faintly.

  “Passed through the village, but they’re gone now.” Joshua stood and helped Rufus to his feet, snickering as Rufus gave a long groan, bent forward like an old man.

  “Gods, but I’m sore.” He arched back, trying to loosen his spine. It cracked loudly and he gritted his teeth, massaging the base of his neck. “I wasn’t meant for this life.”

  “And yet it chose you—be honoured,” Joshua quipped, but there was a reservation in his voice. When Rufus turned back, he found his brother deep in thought, face pinched in an expression beyond his years. “How did they find us so quickly? It used to take them months.” His voice was small and uneasy. Rufus slumped, running a hand up through his hair.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But we need to be more on guard.”

  Joshua nodded and gave a stifled cough, covering his mouth. Rufus frowned.

  “Are you coughing again?”

  “No.” Joshua put his hands behind his back.

  “You are. You’re coughing.” Rufus knelt down beside him. Joshua, despite his natural athleticism was still slight for his age, and on his knees Rufus was only a little shorter than the boy. He peered anxiously into his brother’s face. “Let me see.”

  Carefully, he touched one hand to Joshua’s throat, and rested the other over his forehead, running a small current of magic through him. Long ago, Lord Edwin, leader of the Healing sect, had taken both Rufus and Zachary to the side and taught them this technique of diagnosis. It allowed Rufus to feel an echo of his brother’s pain, and though he possessed no great mastery with healing, with this technique, Rufus could at least catch the illness in its infancy.

  Instantly he could feel the slight tightness of his brother’s lungs and throat. Rufus’s stomach sank in worry, but he masked his expression, forcing a smile. “Come on.” He dropped his hands. “Let’s go.”

  Trudging slowly through the forest, they made their way back to the village. It would have been a pleasant walk, but Rufus was unsettled by even the slightest shift in noise, his mind wary.

  “Are we leaving again?” Joshua asked.

  “We have to,” Rufus said. “The townspeople will know who I am now. Loose tongues are too easy to buy. I’m not sure how the alchemists caught my trail but I’d rather they lose it
.”

  “But Sir Hirondelle said he’d teach me to fight with a sword,” Joshua whined. His curls gleamed in the sunlight as the pair approached the village.

  “Fine, you can stay here then,” Rufus said. “I’ll go ahead on my own.”

  Joshua hesitated at this exclamation, his brow lowered, “Really?”

  Rufus coughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re not separating.”

  “But we could—”

  “No, Joshua.”

  “Rufus—”

  “No! We’re leaving and that’s final!”

  “Don’t command me,” Joshua bit, angered by Rufus’s tone. “You’re supposed to follow my orders, remember? I’m the Prince of Harmatia.”

  “You are,” Rufus agreed. “And as far as Harmatia’s concerned you’ve been dead twelve years. Which means that until you’ve got a beard and a dainty little crown on your head you’re under my charge. So don’t get bratty with me, young man.”

  “You’re my brother, not my father.”

  “You’re the one who calls me Papa.”

  Joshua growled and marched ahead. Rufus, regretting his tone, reached for Joshua’s hand and pulled the boy back to his side. He remembered those hands from infancy, so small in his palm.

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have gotten angry with you,” he said, his brother still refusing to look him in the eye. “I’ll tell you what,” Rufus consoled, “when you’re King and we’ve taken back Harmatia, and I’ve become an acerbic, old fool, I promise I’ll do whatever you ask of me.”

  Joshua paused and glanced at him from the corner of his eye. Rufus knew that his brother, however angry, couldn’t refuse such an offer of peace. The boy spoke cautiously, as if he still weren’t sure whether to forgive Rufus. “Anything I want?”

  “Anything,” Rufus said. “You may use me as your personal footstool and I’ll call it an honour.”

  Joshua’s giggle was like running water and Rufus knew he’d redeemed himself.