“What more is there to tell?” Rufus sighed, lying back. “You’ve heard it a thousand times. Fae fought her way through the bandits, delaying them enough for my uncle to prepare his men. And when they captured her, Jionathan sprung from hiding and saved her.”
“By threatening to cut out his own eyes!” Joshua exclaimed.
“Yes. And he’d have done it, too.”
“And then you freed Fae, and Luca saved you from Bruatar.”
“I don’t know why I bother—you know the story better than I do,” Rufus huffed, looking up at the shimmering foliage above. In recent years the Myrithian forest had become a sort of home to them, a sanctuary away from people. Of course, Rufus wasn’t foolish enough to forget the dangers that lurked in the dark—he was still rightfully afraid of those—but it seemed to him that the forest welcomed them, even protected them. In return, he and Joshua had shared their fire with many creatures of the Myrithian.
Joshua coughed, interrupting Rufus’s thoughts. The boy had always been prone to sickness of the lungs and throat, despite being in good form. The cold often aggravated the tightness in his chest, but then so did heavy pollen, and fear. In recent years, Joshua’s ailment had calmed and become less frequent. But exposed to the elements as they were, and with the added pressure of the looming Kathraks, Rufus was worried that his brother might fall prey to his old sickness.
“Do you think I’ll ever meet Fae?” Joshua asked wistfully.
Rufus sat up, extending his hands into the fire which rose up to meet him. “Someday, yes, I’m sure,” he said. “She was too fond of Jionat to miss meeting his brother.”
“And yours,” Joshua reminded him.
“And mine,” Rufus smiled, “though we hardly look alike, so no one would know.”
“We look a little alike,” Joshua insisted. “Otherwise nobody would believe I was your son.”
“Hm.” Rufus cupped a flame in his hand and watched it dance. When Joshua was young, they’d dyed his hair black to match Rufus’s. Certainly at that time, they’d made a convincing father and son, but the dye had been one of the things that agitated Joshua’s lungs, so they’d stopped using it. “We have the same eyes, and maybe a similar smile,” Rufus conceded, “but you’ve always looked more like your father, and I like mine.”
Rufus watched fondly as Joshua’s face creased, small, thoughtful lines appearing between his brows.
“What was he like? My father?” Joshua finally said. He’d asked many times before, but never seemed to tire of the question.
“Wise, strong, authoritative—a man of great foresight.” Rufus threw some more wood on the fire, reaching in to adjust it carefully. The flames licked harmlessly across his fingers.
“Not great enough.”
“Joshua, no one could have foreseen what the Queen would do.”
“Jionat did.”
“Jionat had the gift of Sight and even that didn’t save him,” Rufus said. Joshua loved to talk about Jionat but even after all this time, it still made Rufus’s heart ache. Joshua too seemed to dampen at the conversation, looking miserably into the fire. Rufus knew he missed the parents and brother he hadn’t known.
Eager to dispel Joshua’s gloom, Rufus rolled away and, reaching into a bag, opened a hard leather case which was strapped carefully among his meagre clothes. Inside lay a fiddle. Rufus pulled it out, twirling the bow in his hands. At the sight of the instrument, Joshua sat up. Rufus carefully tuned the fiddle before standing.
“And for His Highness’s pleasure tonight, this talentless minstrel will perform an assortment of music he’s heard all before.”
Joshua sat forward, eager. It didn’t matter to him that Rufus’s repertoire was limited to a few choice favourites—the music always seemed to brighten the Prince’s complexion. Joshua laughed as Rufus gave an exaggerated bow, tossing his fringe to the side as he placed his chin against the violin. “To begin then,” Rufus allowed his voice to grow pompous, “a soft melody composed by Galamorth Forthright in the last century, written to soothe the troubled mind and calm the spirit.” He started up a lively Betheanian jig. Joshua clapped his hands as Rufus raked the strings for a minute before stopping, his nose up-turned. “Hmm…I recalled it somewhat mellower.” He continued in the act, Joshua giggling. “No matter. The next is a tragic lament, written to commemorate the death of Lady Ariad, commissioned by her husband.”
He replaced the bow against the strings and almost immediately the jig returned, doubling in speed as Rufus added trills, the exultant sound pouring into the woodland. He ceased again, exhaling dramatically. “I…I do apologise, I do not know what has come over me,” he stammered, bowing to Joshua. “Forgive me, my Prince. This one will be of a more appropriate nature, I assure you. The Lover’s Lament from the Kathrak Opera The Death of Sensibility.”
Once more the bow was replaced across the strings and once more, the jig returned, Rufus’s eyes widening in false panic. “No, that’s not it! No! The fiddle! It’s controlling me! It’s turning my mind to sordid things!” He gave a cry of distress, pretending to struggle against the violin. “No, No! I am possessed—I cannot stop!” He blinked rapidly as if his mind were being taken over, and then abruptly grinned, leering like some villain in a play as Joshua whooped.
He performed a set of rowdy Lemra’n and Killian port songs, which were always popular in the taverns they passed, not least for the vulgar lyrics that no twelve-year-old should have been subjected to.
Rufus played them anyway, Joshua singing merrily along until, at last, Rufus finished with a flourish and bowed deeply. His brother applauded him, and he wasn’t the only one.
From beside the Prince came the sound of titters and cheers. Rufus realised that they’d attracted a small audience of a dozen feeorin. Rufus bowed to them in turn and they chittered excitedly to one another. Of all the characters Rufus and Joshua had met in the forest, the feeorin were their most common companions. Slight, miniscule figures, they had large leafy-yellow eyes and greenish skin. Flowers, mushrooms and grass grew wherever they trod. Supposedly some of the shiest of all the faerie, Rufus had come to learn that the sound of music never failed to draw them out, and that to share a fire with them was to have a blessing from the forest itself. Rufus was always sure to be kind to them—they were generous hosts, after all.
“Another,” Joshua demanded, and the feeorin chittered in agreement, their tiny dragonfly wings quivering in pleasure. Rufus complied, though his fingers were already starting to ache. Luca would beat him if she knew how little he practised.
As Rufus played, the faeries danced below him. Joshua dropped down onto his chin so that he was at eye level with them. Some clambered into his hair and hung from his ears.
Finally, when his fingers felt like they might bleed, Rufus stopped, sitting down heavily with a gasp. “Enough, no more—my hands will fall off,” he heaved, his chest rising and falling. Joshua moaned, pleading with him, but he shook his head. “No—you can’t buy me with those begging eyes! I shan’t!” Rufus insisted playfully, only to see that the tiny feeorin were similarly prostrated, large, slanted eyes wide in longing. Rufus groaned. “One more,” he finally allowed and his audience cheered. “Only one, mind! What would you like?”
“Swallows,” Joshua ordered without hesitation and Rufus paused.
“Swallows…” he said a little doubtfully. “Isn’t that a little sad? Surely something more upbeat?”
“Please, Rufus?” That look again, Joshua’s blue eyes bright. During Joshua’s youth, Rufus had become very aware that the boy possessed a talent for manipulation, a talent that went deeper than his sweet face and disposition. Much like Jionat with his visions, and Rufus with his talent for finding his brothers, Joshua possessed an ability that allowed him to read and influence the mood of those around him. As of yet, Rufus didn’t think the boy capable of suggesting new thoughts, but he was quickly becoming more adept at bringing buried ones to the surface.
For Rufus, who’d been the target
of such mental abuse in Joshua’s younger, more demanding years, the technique no longer worked so well, but tonight the Prince needn’t have bothered at all. Rufus couldn’t deny him.
“As you wish. I’ll play it.”
“And sing.”
“My throat is run raw—I’ve no voice for this.”
“Please?”
One word and Rufus had the fiddle to his shoulder again and was retuning the strings. He placed the bow gently onto them and slowly drew the horse-hair across. To the soft melody, he sang.
“Sweetness, don’t you fret now, I’m right beside you dear.
No need to think what’s coming next, no reason left to fear.
You’ll wake again, I promise love, in a better place,
You’ll have yourself a new life, yourself a new face.
And swallows dance at windowsills, they dance, they dance for you.
The Nightingale does sing his song, lamenting his heart too.
The Blackbird cries, the Falcon bows,
The Lark does sing his due,
And Swallows dance at window sills, they dance, they dance for you.
Now hush my dear, no need to cry, the heavens love you so.
Your body’s weak, but mind is strong, you’re pure and that they know.
And if you fear, just hold my hand, I’ll stay throughout the night.
And when the dreams do lull you there, I’ll pray with all my might.
And Swallows dance at windows sill, they dance, they dance for you.
The Blue-tit nestles in his home, quiet and subdued.
The Hawk won’t hunt, nor Sparrow fly,
The Dove cannot construe,
And Swallows dance at windowsills, they dance, they dance for you.
So quiet now, your breath is dead, but still I won’t let go
The birds have gone, the Swallows flown, left in their place a crow.
Your sweet face shows your peace of mind, I’ll weep ’til dawn will break.
A solemn pyre of wild flowers, for you, love, I will make
And Swallows danced at window sills, they danced, they danced for you.
The Nightingale has sung his song, lamented his heart too,
The Blackbird cried, the Falcon bowed,
The Lark has sung his due,
And Swallows danced at window sills, they danced, they danced for you.”
Slowly, Rufus opened his eyes, allowing the bow to drop. Across from him the faeries had gathered in a semi-circle and were watching him solemnly, eyes brimming with tears. One by one they stood and bowed to him, as if he’d bestowed on them a great gift, and then trailed off back into the forest.
Joshua had settled back against the saddle-bags and drifted asleep mid-song. Rufus had sung it as a lullaby when his brother was a baby, and it had had a sedative effect ever since. The Magi replaced his instrument. Fetching a blanket, he covered the Prince and placed a gentle kiss on his brow. Joshua stirred and, with a quiet murmur, buried himself deeper beneath the blanket. Rufus threw some more wood onto the fire. Alone now with his thoughts, he gave a worried sigh, tugging at his fringe.
Athea, he hoped the alchemists had lost their trail.
“We have received a report regarding the latest hunt for the traitor, Rufus Merle.” Sverrin was to the point. He’d always been a blunt child and age hadn’t changed this quality about him.
None of the Magi dared say a word as Sverrin went on. They kept their gazes down, fearful of catching the eyes of their peers. The only two men who might have spoken kept their peace—Zachary because he was too weary to care, and Belphegore because he was too diplomatic to stir trouble. Especially when Sverrin already knew he was speaking to a room full of men who’d once known and respected Rufus.
“The report states,” Sverrin continued, “that my alchemists were able to locate Merle in the woods. Despite their best efforts to calm and placate him however, he chose to leap from a cliff rather than surrender himself. The fall was long and the local authorities believe Merle to be dead.”
Zachary felt his master stiffen at his side. His own jaw tightened. They kept their tongues locked.
“A body has yet to be recovered.” Sverrin glanced down the parchment. Zachary doubted he was reading from it. The King would have already studied the report at great length. “Until such time as it is, the search will continue under the assumption he lives. A reward has been set for anyone who can bring back his head. It has been made clear to all Harmatian and Betheanian authorities that he is too dangerous for custody and is to be killed on sight.”
“Killed on sight?” The news was too much for Belphegore. Zachary kept his gaze on the King’s feet. He didn’t have the courage to meet Sverrin’s eyes as Belphegore spoke. “Your Majesty, I must protest.”
“And it is your right to do so,” Sverrin said lightly. “My decision, however, is final. It has been twelve years. Merle has had ample time to overcome his grief and return to us peacefully.”
“There was no peace. He’s been hunted like a dog.” The words left Zachary’s mouth before he knew it. From behind he felt Emeric’s fingers snag the back of his robe and give a tug of warning. Sverrin kept his attention locked challengingly on Belphegore.
“I made it clear to him he would be welcomed back if he returned. Even so, he has continued to run,” Sverrin said patiently, almost kindly. “Now he has killed too many of my men. His power is too great and he is a liability to our whole kingdom. I know how fondly you thought of him but let me assure you, Lord Odin…Belphegore,” his voice dripped with sincerity, “there is nothing left of the man you knew. His grief transformed him. He is an enemy of Harmatia and an enemy of Bethean.”
Belphegore’s expression was unreadable. He nodded stiffly and Sverrin gave a chaste smile. On his right, the King’s mother sat forward in her throne. Regent for two years, Reine had relinquished much of her power to her son but remained an imposing political figure even now.
“As you all know, your duty as Magi is the highest honour in our court.” She clasped her hands together daintily. “You are the pillars of the kingdom and we rely on you all to keep it strong. Rufus Merle was once your brother, but he is a rogue now. When he turned his back on Harmatia, he turned his back on you. I advise you then, not to be saddened by this news but to rejoice that soon justice will be seen. The good he did can be honoured without this taint.” The firelight bathed her face, flickering hungrily over her. Her vicious mouth curled in each corner in a red-lipped smile as Sverrin leant across to her.
“Wise words, Mother,” he congratulated, before addressing the Magi. “I wished only to keep you informed of this development. Thank you for your time. The banquet will be served in the hall for those who have the appetite to join us.”
“Your Majesty.” The Magi all bowed in unison and, led by Belphegore, made their way from the room. Sverrin rose from his seat and went to the fire, deep in thought. As Zachary made for the door, Sverrin called out for him.
“Lord Zachary, Lord Fold, if you could stay—I wish to speak to you in private.”
A cold feeling enveloped Zachary’s stomach and he stopped a few strides from the door, giving it a masked look of longing. Emeric too had gone white. Tentatively, the pair navigated their way back through the tide of Magi, all of whom quickened their step, unwilling to linger. From the corner of his eye, Zachary saw that Marcel had stepped out of the flow of people and was making his way back into the room. Zachary wondered vaguely if, had his master heard the request, Belphegore would have stayed too.
As the room emptied, Zachary put himself half-between Sverrin and Emeric. The King turned back to them and feigned surprise.
“Lord Hathely,” he eyed Marcel, “you seem to have misunderstood the words ‘in private’. Allow me to reiterate that it means ‘alone’.”
Marcel remained unmoved. “Lord Fold is my apprentice. Any fault of his lies with me. I take full responsibility.”
“Marcel,” Emeric hissed, his eyes flashing fearf
ully up to Sverrin.
Sverrin chuckled, a rich and pleasant sound but for the thin streak of malice that weaved through it. “You are quick to assume I’ve found fault in him. Perhaps I meant to praise him?”
“In private?” Marcel cocked a golden eyebrow. Sverrin and his mother both laughed, though the air was heavy and hot with discomfort.
“You are a loyal and dutiful lover, Lord Hathely,” Reine said, scorn on her lips. “One that any woman would be proud to call husband.”
Sverrin joined the jibe. “Or ‘Master’, in Lord Fold’s case.”
Anger filled Zachary at the spiteful nature of these words. There had been no laws in Harmatia against ‘sodomy’ for near a century, but with Kathra’s growing influence in Sverrin’s court, there were quiet considerations to reverse this. Subtle as the pair were in their relationship, people knew both Marcel and Emeric had been dedicated to each other for years. Sverrin’s unspoken blackmail was enough to shake Zachary’s apprehension. He strode forward, blocking his men from the King’s view. He knew what this was really about—he’d been waiting for the reprimand.
“Stop,” he said. “Stop it. It was my fault. I was the one who caused the ruckus with those students last week.” Zachary caught Sverrin’s arm as he attempted to turn. “Sverrin!” He lowered his voice. “It was me.”
Sverrin met his gaze patiently and, for a dreadful minute, Zachary felt his resolve waver. There was something dark brewing beneath the King’s gaze as he smiled again. “Lord Hathely, Lord Fold,” he said, “kindly accompany my mother to the banquet—we will be along shortly.”
Reine stood and walked gracefully by, stopping only to squeeze her son’s hand, as a mother might when reminding her child to play nicely. Reluctantly, Emeric and Marcel followed the King’s mother from the room. The door shut behind them.
Sverrin waited until their distant footfalls ceased to echo in the corridor outside, then returned to his seat, settling back into the wooden throne. He filled it as well as his father had, a muscular figure, powerful and strong. When he spoke however, his voice was gentle. “Zachary.” He lost all formality, beckoning his friend over. “Did I ever tell you what it was like?”
Blood of the Delphi (The Harmatia Cycle Book 2) Page 4
