Zachary cackled. It was true that on several occasions he’d transformed into his Night Patrol form up here and been spotted by walkers in the courtyard below. Rather than call him for what he was however, they’d mistaken him for living stone, and tales of Harmatia’s cursed gargoyles quickly spread among the students. Zachary was so delighted by the rebirth of the stories that, on occasion, he would even swap the heavy gargoyles at night just to give the tale more gravity. It was one of the few treats he allowed himself and one of the few things that could draw him from his drained stupor.
His laughter died down and he felt immediately drained again. He sat and stretched out his legs, sticking them over the ledge.
“How do you do it, Master?” he sighed deeply.
Belphegore considered his question a long while.
“That’s a rather ambiguous question, Arlen. But I suppose I can tell you that, for the best performance, the key lies in the correct rotation of the wrist.”
Again Zachary sniggered.
“I have no idea what you’re referring to, Master, and I am perfectly sure I don’t wish to.”
“No?” Belphegore asked innocently. “I speak of sword play.”
“Of course you do.”
“I am not sure I like what you’re implying, Arlen.” Belphegore scowled but there was relief in his voice as Zachary chuckled again. “It’s good to hear you laugh,” Belphegore said and Zachary sobered, hunching a little. He felt like a boy who’d been freshly apprenticed again, and he pressed his face into his hands. They were cold from the stone.
“If I may ask a more pertinent question, what are you doing up here?” Belphegore asked, and Zachary grunted, shaking his head. “Speak to me, Arlen, please. I am worried.”
For a minute Zachary struggled to find the words.
“I feel so tired,” was all he could summon. He saw Belphegore frown. His master shifted closer so their shoulders touched lightly.
“You are a quarter my age, Arlen, and less than a fifth of the way through your potential life. You should not be tired.”
“But I am.” Zachary pressed a fist into his chest, almost desperately. “In here, I am tired. I feel lifeless, listless.”
“Arlen…”
“Am I sick, Master?” Zachary asked, almost hopefully.
Belphegore pursed his lips, his eyes cast over the city before them.
“Perhaps,” he eventually whispered and Zachary exhaled, shutting his eyes. “You argued with the King, did you not?”
Zachary huffed.
“Argued implies there was a fair exchange of words. I was scolded for speaking out of turn.”
“Is that so bad?”
Zachary couldn’t explain that threats, which would have been laughable coming from anyone else, held a more sincere gravity from Sverrin’s lips. His King knew almost all the horrors about Zachary, had seen his scars and known a truth that very few were privy to. A truth that made Zachary vulnerable. For those he loved, he was a slave.
"I would rather he had me whipped."
"Do not say that so lightly."
“I say it with the greatest consideration,” Zachary grumbled, bringing his legs up against the cold. A great portion of the Magi believed he had some advantageous ailment whereby he couldn’t feel pain at all. It wasn’t true—Zachary felt everything very keenly, but he knew how to prioritise pain and when to bite his tongue.
Belphegore made a sound of discomfort.
“You and I have had our differences Arlen,” he almost seemed to apologise, “but I do not want to see you hurt.” He turned to his apprentice. “And I do not like to see you in this state either.”
“Apologies.” Zachary bowed dutifully.
“None are required—least of all to me. But I think that Lord Fold and Lord Hathely would not be pleased to see you out here alone like this. Indeed, I believe they would be very frightened.”
“Frightened? For what reason?” Zachary couldn’t mask his surprise, and the lines on Belphegore’s brow deepened.
“As any friend would be,” Belphegore said, “when another looks down with despondence to the courtyard hundreds of strides below—and considers it.”
Zachary’s whole body clenched sharply. He refused to meet Belphegore’s eye as the older man stood and began to make his way back toward the corner.
“Master,” Zachary called, before Belphegore could leave. “Do you think he’s dead? Merle, that is?”
Belphegore contemplated the darkness before speaking. When he did, his voice was firm and almost angry.
“Rufus—an apprentice of mine—die in such a way? Never,” he said confidently. “Absolutely not.”
“Oh, the ever unwavering faith in the favourite,” Zachary replied snidely but there was no real malice in his words.
“Jealous, Arlen?” Belphegore didn’t deny the accusation. Zachary grinned.
“Jealous? Of Rufus Merle? The man who will be hunted now for the rest of his life? No, there’s pity owed to the poor bastard.”
“The point is to watch the sunset.” Jionat’s elbow met his ribs and Rufus squirmed. He cracked an eye open, almost suspiciously. Jionat stared at him pointedly.
“I’ve seen a hundred sunsets from this spot,” Rufus said, looking out over Sarrin town which lay below them. “It was the peace I was enjoying. Until you spoke, of course, and spoiled it.”
Jionat grumbled but didn’t reply. The pair sat and admired the golden, autumnal hue that blazed over the town. Jionat began to hum softy to the tune of ‘Swallows’, kicking his legs. Further along the wall, a nightingale hopped along the stones, singing in short, sweet verse.
She wasn’t alone either. A shadow passed over them, a large falcon circling overhead, dropping steadily in height. The nightingale didn’t seem deterred by his presence and sang her chorus louder.
“This is a dream,” Rufus realised.
“How do you know?”
“I just thought of how much Joshua would like it here…”
“Then imagine him up. He can enjoy himself while we talk.”
“You’re not real,” Rufus said softly. Jionat laughed.
“I’m as real as you are.”
“No,” Rufus murmured. “This is a fantasy—a fiction. You’re not Jionat.”
“I never said I was.”
Rufus frowned. An uneasy darkness spread from the corner of his peripheral, almost like he was waking up slowly. The nightingale disappeared into the shadow, her cries shrill, but the falcon swooped lower, steady in his circles. Jionat continued to laugh—he sounded nothing like he was supposed to.
“Honestly,” he said, “you summon me here to collect your thoughts and then waste your time arguing with me, when all I am is you answering yourself.”
Rufus’s mind stirred with the confusing words. This was a nightmare—he needed to wake up. Rufus turned sharply, but he couldn’t escape Jionat. The rest of the world blurred into a dark streak of intelligible colours. They swirled nauseatingly.
“You can’t run from me, I’m as trapped here as you are. You conjured me for a reason.”
“You’re not real!” Rufus felt himself grow tight with agitation, trying to cast away the unwanted phantom.
“Then neither are you.”
Rufus growled, throwing his hands in the air. “If you’re truly a manifestation of mine,” he said, “and I’m arguing with myself, than why in Athea’s name would you appear as Jionat?”
“We both know the answer to that.” Jionat raised his eyebrows, as if Rufus had said something stupid. “You’re obsessed by your loss. Do you recall another man like that?”
“Stop it.” Rufus pressed his hands to his ears, but couldn’t drown out the voice.
“Obsession drains a man of life by giving him a reason to live,” Jionat said. “Frankly, if I could change faces, I would. But it’s not up to me.”
“Leave me alone.”
“Alone, you die. I’m your instincts—ignore me at your peril.”
> “I don’t want you here.”
“It’s not about want anymore, it’s need. I’m here because you need me. So you’d better start paying attention to what I tell you.”
“You haven’t told me anything.”
“Now that’s simply not true.” Jionat tsked as the shadows finally reached him and swallowed him up, the world turning black. “Pay attention, Rufus.”
He woke to the sound of someone being silent. Rufus had always been a light sleeper by nature but his recent circumstances had accentuated that to the point where even the lightest shift in the room could wake him. Nothing seemed to move at all in the dark. The room was paralysed. Rufus knew he’d already betrayed himself. It was impossible to pretend to still be asleep. His heart was racing, and the natural state of slumber had left his muscles.
“Ah, sensitive as always. Figured I’d let you sloth some more, but now you’re goin’ to piss your pot.”
The voice was thickly accented, and gravelly from sea-air. Betheanian—port town, probably Lemra’n. Rufus shuddered and then rolled from the bed. He dove to the other side of the room, his back against the wall as he faced his enemy. In the dim light, the figure that greeted him wasn’t a reassuring one.
The man wasn’t as tall as Rufus but nearly twice his width with firm muscles and a heavy build. He was bearded, supporting a thick mane of full brown hair, and similar coloured eyes. His features were unremarkable but there was a terrifying sense of dexterity about him. If he hunched his shoulders and pulled a cloak over his toned arms, he could fade into a crowd. Rufus shook, edging along the wall as the man took another step toward him, eyes never leaving Rufus’s face.
“Who are you?” Rufus’s voice came out horribly weak. “How did you get in here?”
“Don’t snivel now—I’m not some second-rate slit-throat. I’m from the Faucon. You can relax.”
“Oh, you’re a professional assassin. That’s infinitely better.” The snide retort didn’t cover the tremor in his voice. “What do you want?”
“What any man wants—not to be pocketless. But only beggars choose which purses they cut. I’ve been landed with you. Still—and you can mark me on this—havin’ to be a trained ejaculator for those Kathrak bastards really buggers me up sideways. It’s the sweet talk, you know? It rots the mouth.” He bared his teeth proudly. They were strangely sharp and gleaming white. “Still, I’m here for now. Lesser of two evils, if you will. What Cethin says goes, so no point questionin’.”
“I understood about a quarter of that,” Rufus admitted, despite his fear.
“You’ve clearly never been to Lemra,” the assassin almost purred. “I’m here to resolve that. So be a good ’ti kitten and get in the bag.”
Rufus remained where he was and the assassin gave a dramatic sigh.
“Or I can la’man you like the high-pitcher you are, if that’ll take your fancy somewhat more. And if you’re unplucked, all the sweeter for me, accord?”
Rufus tried to translate the words. He had a feeling that whatever the assassin was proposing, Rufus wouldn’t enjoy it. Alternatively, he was almost certain that when kittens were put into a bag, the general design was to drown them. He edged along the wall slowly.
“And if I were to refuse both kind offers?”
The assassin seemed surprised.
“Now that never crossed my mind,” he admitted. “Didn’t brain you’d be so difficult…Bollocks on ice—now you’ve put me in the corner.” He paused, deep in thought. “Alternatively, I might remind you that you don’t have a choice.”
“Ah.” Rufus’s hands touched wood behind him as he found the door.
“I don’t like to use force in these situations,” the assassin said with a careless shrug, “unless it’s part of the routine. I’m no shine-grabber per say—wouldn’t be glazed-eyed about nobody else’s job. But in cases like this I’d prefer it if I could just play it fast and calm-like. I can be a real thumb-screw if I want, so don’t be a fire-eater about it—”
He didn’t get the chance to finish. Rufus threw his back against the door raised his hands and summoned a ball of flames large enough to suck the very air from his lungs. He launched it at the assassin, throwing himself back out of the room.
Rufus hit the floor as the assassin bellowed in surprise. Rufus scrabbled back and found his feet. Beyond the wall of fire the assassin was still standing, his arms raised up around his head. The fire had not touched him.
Rufus’s stomach plummeted. A magical shield had appeared around assassin—he could use elemental magic then, and was a level four at least. Rufus didn’t wait, diving backward through the corridor toward Joshua’s room. As he did, he threw his own mental shield back toward the assassin. As long as the Lemra’n used a mental shield to protect himself from the flames, he couldn’t cross Rufus’s.
Throwing Joshua’s door open, Rufus came face to face with the sharp point of a drawn arrow. He threw his hands in the air in immediate surrender. His little brother drew away, letting the bowstring back as he lowered his weapon. Rufus didn’t need to say anything. One look at his face, bathed in the dying light of the fire, and Joshua turned and gathered his things, throwing a cloak over his shoulders. Rufus praised their luck that they’d been too exhausted to unpack their saddlebags properly.
Together, the pair hurried down the stairs. Rufus snatched his shoes from the doorway in passing. He didn’t bother to put them on, running bare-foot and half-naked into the streets. It was cold and raining, a light mist hanging in the air. In the back of his mind, Rufus felt the assassin’s shield drop. Either it had failed or the Lemra’n had found another means of escape. Rufus immediately let his own fall, dispelling the flames he’d summoned before they caught in the house and spread to the surrounding buildings. Rufus wouldn’t be responsible for burning the entire town to the ground.
The brothers broke into the stable. The stable boy jumped up in surprise from where he’d been slumbering in the corner. Without the time to explain their predicament, Rufus grabbed him and threw him into one of the unoccupied stalls, bolting the stall door shut after.
“Rufus!” Joshua cried in horror, but Rufus pushed his brother on. He spotted their two horses stalled in the far corner. They didn’t have the time to tack the pair, and neither would take the weight of them both. Without hesitation, Rufus found the strongest, healthiest horse he could see and began to tack him instead. Joshua objected but Rufus ignored him, throwing his bags over the horse’s back. He dumped everything but the bare essentials.
Hoisting Joshua onto the horse, Rufus climbed up behind, his body quaking as his bare feet met the cold metal of the stirrups. He urged the horse on, one hand gripping the reins whilst the other held his boots pinned against the saddle. His legs caught painfully on the stirrup straps through the soft cotton of his night clothes, but he ignored them.
From in-front of him, Joshua shifted uncomfortably.
“This might be someone’s only livelihood, Rufus,” Joshua whispered. Rufus felt the words rather then heard them.
With the cold biting his skin and his heart hammering, he snarled, “I don’t care.”
They came out of the stable, the horses’ hooves loud on the cobbles. The hair on the back of Rufus’s neck rose and his senses prickled in warning.
Before he had time to think, Rufus pushed Joshua down against the horse’s neck just as a blast of air came flying out from the gloom and struck them. Rufus didn’t have time to raise his shield properly and was sent tumbling down onto the hard, icy cobbles below. He landed directly in a puddle.
“Papa!” The horse reared in panic as Joshua screamed. The Prince had managed to stay on. Rufus gasped, pain searing down his body—something had cracked in his ribcage.
“Go!” Rufus dragged himself to his feet, cotton trousers clinging to his legs. Already his teeth had begun to chatter from the cold. “Go!” he choked again and struck the horse along the hindquarters, sending it galloping off toward the forest.
Rufus st
aggered, trying to find his boots which he’d dropped in the fall. Fat, heavy droplets of rain blurred the hazy outline of the houses as Rufus squinted, raising a weak shield around himself. It was hard to breath, and the pain made his magic waver.
Another attack came from his left. Although the shield dispelled most of the force, Rufus still found himself flat on his back. His body cried out at this mistreatment but Rufus didn’t have the time to indulge it. Wheezing, he struggled to his feet again, trying to spot his attacker. The rain made it difficult to summon anything but a substantial flame, and that ran the risk of getting out of control. In an environment where he couldn’t see well and was surrounded by houses, the risks were too high for Rufus to blithely throw about his chosen element.
Fortunately for Rufus, his assassin was a confident man.
He emerged through a curtain of rain like death itself, hair dripping and face twisted in disturbed amusement. “Now that was unnecessary—fire-ballin’ me in the face like that. I might’ve died.”
“That was the general idea.”
“Bastard,” the assassin chuckled. “But you took my surprise, I’ll give you that. Wasn’t very professional of me. I’m no gold-licker per say but if anyone found out you nearly cooked my balls, I’d be sure to lose some grain. Lucky then that you and I are the only whoopsies who’ll ever know.”
“You talk in a distressingly odd way,” Rufus replied. He needed to buy Joshua as much time as he could to flee. “Is it all Lemra’n slang or do you put an extra effort into it?”
“You know what?” The Lemra’n grinned. “I’ve decided I like you, Rufus Torinson Merle.”
Rufus winced. His full name was hardly a secret but Rufus didn’t appreciate hearing it rolling off this stranger’s tongue.
“Who sent you?”
“Hah—who didn’t?” the assassin laughed. “Honest to Notameer, everyone wants to suckle from your teat. What d’you do?”
“You know my name, you know what I am. I’ve killed dozens of men.” Rufus circled slowly, putting himself between the assassin and the path Joshua had taken.
Blood of the Delphi (The Harmatia Cycle Book 2) Page 6
