“Then why did you come here?”
Belphegore hesitated, drawing his hand up to his mouth as if sickened.
“For guidance, perhaps,” he replied. “I am no longer sure. My heart is full of uncertainty. I know the truth, yet I am not prepared to believe it. Rufus dead? No—not after all this time. Not like this. I do not dare…I cannot believe it—it’s inconceivable.” He hesitated. “You are my only remaining apprentice, Arlen.”
“I know.”
“Perhaps you’re the only one who will mourn with me.”
“I doubt that.” Zachary’s voice was barely above a whisper.
Belphegore seemed strangely comforted by the words.
“When will the King announce the news?” he asked.
“Tomorrow. There are to be several executions in the forum, men charged with conspiracy against the throne. The King will address the public then, cut any conspiratorial hope at the bud.”
Belphegore’s expression didn’t change but Zachary got the impression that he winced.
“At dawn?” he asked in a quiet murmur.
“No—in the eve.” Zachary paused. “The news has excited him. With Merle gone, those who oppose Sverrin’s rule have lost their figurehead. Sverrin is tactical—he’ll try to use that to his advantage.”
“Yes, I can see that.” Belphegore paused, and then cursed beneath his breath. “I must go and convey the news to the Merle family tomorrow. No parent deserves to discover their son is dead through gossip.”
Zachary’s raised his eyebrows. “You mean they’re still in Harmatia?”
“Of course. It is their home.”
“Sons of the gods,” Zachary choked. “How are they still alive?”
“Torin and Nora Merle are good, charitable people, beloved by their neighbours. They protect each other in the Southern Quarters—they take care of their own.”
“If Sverrin learns they’re here, he’ll send for them. He’ll start a purge.”
“All the more reason for us to warn the Merle family.” Belphegore cast his eyes down, his face stern. “They must leave Harmatia or they could spark a revolution.”
“A revolution is coming, regardless.” Zachary glanced over his shoulder warily, his chest tight and heart heavy. “I can feel it—this unrest. Merle’s death is just the beginning. Sverrin thinks it will weaken the rebels, I fear they’ll rally instead.”
“I fear you may be right.”
“What do we do?” Zachary asked helplessly.
“For now, we must keep the peace—that is our duty as Magi.”
Zachary turned back to Aramathea, a lump rising in his throat. He was no traitor—he’d sworn himself to Sverrin and had done so willingly, regardless of everything. But he also loved his people. And it was for them he tried to have a voice.
“What if,” he forced out, “what if the peace can’t be maintained. What if the people we swore to protect rise up against Sverrin?”
The silence that Belphegore held was like an eternity, and Zachary suffered each second of the quiet thought. Finally his master turned to him.
“In that instance,” Belphegore whispered, “you must choose who it is you serve, Arlen.” He rested a hand on his apprentice’s shoulder and then rose. “I will go to the Merles’ house tomorrow at dawn. Will you come with me?”
Zachary wanted to say no but knew it wasn’t really a request.
“Yes, Master,” he said dutifully and Belphegore bowed his head in thanks.
“Do not stay at your prayers too long, Arlen,” he bid and left the room. Zachary remained, lost in thought, before he too rose. As he went to the door, he paused and, looking back at the statue of Athea, lit the candles below her with a wave of his hand, lest someone realise that they’d been extinguished on purpose.
“Even in death, you’re still a pain in my arse,” he said softly and departed.
Heather Benson was waiting for him at the door when Zachary got home. His nursemaid from childhood, the stern-faced woman now ran his entire household like the captain of a ship, keeping it spotless, warm and always welcoming. Zachary was certain he wouldn’t have come through his lonely childhood in Harmatia were it not for the kindly woman, with her deceptively strict voice.
She was in the entrance hall to remove his cloak as soon as he opened the door, her arm outstretched. He unfastened it slowly and looked around the darkened walls. It was well past midnight—he hadn’t expected her to be up.
“You should be in bed.”
“You left instructions for me to expect you back this evening, so I did.”
“It’s late.”
“It is,” Heather agreed, taking his cloak and draping it over her arm. Zachary studied her closely. Her smile was thinner than usual.
“What is it?” he asked her, reaching for her hand. “What’s troubling you?”
Heather pursed her lips, reluctant to speak, before inhaling sharply.
“The young master has not come home yet,” she said. Zachary scowled and released her, stepping back.
“Why should it matter? The brat can do as he pleases.” He began to mount the stairs, Heather close on his tail.
“Three nights now he’s not come home until the small hours.”
“He’s twenty years old—”
“Nineteen, Arlen.”
Zachary battered away the correction, grabbing a jug of wine which had been put out for him at the top of the stairway—part of his nightly ritual. He poured himself a glass and took a liberal swig.
“You never fussed about me staying out so late when I was his age.”
“I have worried about you every night you were late for thirty-one years.”
“Then I must be growing old, because I am going to bed now.” Zachary turned but she caught his arm with surprising speed for a woman of her age.
“Arlen.” She didn’t beg, but rather told, “He is in the training grounds. Go and get him before he is carried here with a physician. He is not like you—he is not a warrior. Please, if not for his sake, then for my own peace of mind.”
Zachary considered his choices and then with a scowl pushed his empty goblet into her hand and took back his cloak. He threw it over himself in a graceful arc, jumping down the stairs.
“The things I do for you, woman,” he grumbled. Heather nodded gratefully.
Leaving the house, he walked back out into the castle grounds, crossing the courtyard toward the academy. The moon made the snow glow, giving the castle a dreamlike appearance, spoilt only by the wet crawl that seeped into his trousers. He crossed the grass, wrapping the cloak tighter around him.
He was in a bad mood. Longing for his bed, the day’s events had amounted to a gargantuan headache that had him seeing stars out of the corners of his eyes. But Heather asked very little of him, so he couldn’t deny her, even if all he wanted was to see an end to this appalling day.
Entering the training grounds, he stopped at the entrance to observe what was going on inside. There were five of them, one in the centre as the others attacked from all angles, throwing magic carelessly against their victim’s withering shield. Zachary recognised a few of the aggressors—candidates for the Warriors’ Assessment and favoured by many of his fellow Magi for apprenticeship. Zachary wondered idly what those same Magi would think if they saw the students’ behaviour now.
The bullies continued their abuse, jeering as the boy in the centre finally grew exhausted. His shield disintegrated and he dropped to his knees, curling protectively into a ball, arms over his head and knees up to his stomach. The bullies, delighted by this submission, forgot their magic and began to kick the fallen boy instead, like common thugs. Zachary decided he’d seen enough.
He struck out his hand and released a highly concentrated blast of air in the centre of the group. The boy huddled on the ground didn’t feel its effects, but the other four were thrown backward off their feet.
Zachary clapped his hands, advancing on them.
“I think, boys,” he
said, drawing their attention to him, “that will be quite enough, thank you.”
The bullies mounted to their feet and bowed as they recognised him. From the floor, the fallen victim didn’t move, lying very still, as if he expected the onslaught to start again.
“Lord Zachary,” one of the gang began, “we were training for the Assessment.”
“Oh I am sure you were,” Zachary agreed darkly. “Unfortunately it may pain you to know you don’t receive extra points for kicking other students to death.” Zachary’s scanned each of their faces. “In future, I advise you stick to sparring with each other. Are we clear?”
They exchanged a spatter of nods and mumbled agreement between them, before retreating out of the training ground. Zachary waited until they were out of sight before addressing the fallen boy.
“Did they break anything?” he asked.
The boy shook his head.
“No? Then get up,” Zachary barked, folding his arms around his chest. The boy stood, a scowl on his face that pleased Zachary. For some reason, it was a comfort to know that he wasn’t the only unhappy one. “Why aren’t you at home?”
“Is there a curfew?” the boy replied obstinately, his brow pinched. Like Zachary, the set of his face was severe, and the pair shared in their father’s hazel-green eyes. Beyond that, their resemblance was fleeting, the boy taking after his mother, with warmer, darker skin, thick brown hair and a more elfin build.
“Don’t be a brat, Daniel,” Zachary snapped, and the pair began to walk.
Daniel favoured his left leg, but did everything in his power to hide his limp.
“So, is this what you’ve been doing then, these last three nights?”
“I’m surprised you even noticed,” Daniel said flippantly, and he wasn’t wrong. Zachary and Daniel spent so little time in each other’s company it hardly felt like they lived together at all. They kept different hours, ate separately and, in truth, Zachary knew very little of the boy, other than the fact he studied meticulously, was secretive in nature and seemed to take sick every month with one ailment or another.
“Mrs. Benson informed me,” Zachary said. “And I can come and go as I please.”
“So can I.”
“You may stay out if you wish—I could even call back your friends to finish the job. But not before Mrs. Benson sees you. I won’t have her poisoning my breakfast with her accusations tomorrow. She seems to think you’re being neglected. Am I neglecting you, Daniel?”
“No, sir.”
“You have everything you need. You don’t want for books or clothes or writing material. You’re housed and fed. You’re educated. There’s nothing you need of me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes?”
“No,” Daniel reaffirmed sharply, “I don’t need anything from you.”
“Ease that tone, brat,” Zachary said and Daniel stared sullenly forward. They reached the house and Zachary held the door open, allowing Daniel in first. Heather was waiting on the other side with two cups of hot wine. She fussed over Daniel as Zachary leant back, sipping his drink.
“You’re black and blue!” she scolded. “You will report those boys in the morning, do you hear? They cannot get away with this.”
“It’s fine, Mrs. Benson. Really.” Daniel’s tone grew softer, embarrassed.
“I’ll fetch some ointment to reduce the swelling.” Heather ignored him. “You go up to bed. There’s a fire lit in your room. Take these soaking clothes off and go and get warm. Off with you.” She herded him toward the stairs and he thanked her earnestly. Praises to the little brat—he was polite to the people that mattered at least.
As Daniel disappeared, Heather turned on Zachary who raised his hands.
“I clean my hands of the affair.” He downed his drink and then took Daniel’s untouched wine for himself. “Let him do as he pleases.”
“Healing Septus, Arlen—can you not see he’s been beaten?”
“There’s nothing I can do unless he asks. Which he won’t. So it has nothing to do with me.”
“He’s your brother.” Heather took back Daniel’s drink before Zachary could finish it. Zachary snorted.
“If I had a gold coin for every bastard my father bore, I would be a rich man. Oh, wait.” He paused. “What am I saying? I am a rich man.”
“Arlen, if this was one of your sisters, you wouldn’t stand for it—”
“Yes, but he’s not my sister.”
Heather’s mouth drew into a tighter line. “You cannot punish him for what your father has done. It isn’t fair.”
“I am not punishing him, I am being kinder by alienating him.” Zachary snatched back the wine and downed it before it could be confiscated again. “You think Rivalen cares about Daniel? He considers me dirt and I am his only heir. He may have legitimised Daniel enough to bear the Zachary name but we both know it wasn’t out of love or kindness. The fact of the matter is that Daniel’s presence—his very conception—was only ever meant to torment me. He’s less than a bastard sibling, and so long as he remembers that and works hard, he might actually make something of his position before my father grows weary of this jest. If Daniel gains a status on the back of his own achievements, our father can’t take it away.”
Heather glowered, but saw the truth in his words. “He works hard,” she eventually said.
“Then he’ll have no problem.” Zachary started up the stairs toward his bedroom. Heather pursued him slowly. “Wake me at five tomorrow. I have an important appointment in the morning. Set out my uniform and the unembroidered robes—it promises to be a sombre day.”
“Are you attending a funeral?”
“There are to be executions in the evening.”
“And your morning appointment?”
Zachary stopped mid-step. “You recall Rufus Merle?” he said.
“Lord Odin’s other apprentice? The academic one.”
Zachary gave a low laugh of surprise. The gods bless the woman for not marking herself at the mere mention of Rufus’s name or replying with ‘the traitor?’ or ‘the one-legged necromancer’.
“Yes, the Master’s favourite.”
“I recall him, yes. Skinny child, clever, kind.”
“Yes. Him.” Zachary paused again. “He’s dead.”
Heather stopped short as he continued up the stairs, his pace even.
“Arlen,” she said, “I am so sorry.”
Zachary faltered at the top step and his grip around the banister tightened.
“Whatever for?” he dismissed and retreated quickly to his room.
“If pathetic had a face, man, he’d pity-kill you for lookin’ worse.”
Rufus woke with a violent start and sat up so quickly stars exploded behind his eyes, the world blackening around him. It cleared with a white, searing flash, and for a moment Rufus was so disorientated he couldn’t breathe. His stomach jumped up, as if he had been punched and he tried to vomit, heaving dryly as he pushed off the heavy weight on top of him.
As the world came into clear focus, Rufus spotted a set of boots close to him, one tapping impatiently. Joshua, now at Rufus’s side, whimpered in his sleep and Rufus scrabbled back, trying to sit up. Above him, the Faucon Assassin stared down, arms folded.
“You paint an entirely new meanin’ to the word tragic,” the Lemra’n slurred.
Rufus tried to breath, wheezing in panic. “Don’t…don’t come any closer,” he rasped, but the assassin ignored him.
“But Athea, leashin’ you was painful—you’re good at hidin’, I’ll give you that. Still, you can’t hide from Death forever. I sniffed out your bread-crumbs eventually.”
“Go away.”
“Half-arsed fluff-looks aren’t goin’ to sucker me, you talentless stage-freak, I’m not a half-pint.” The assassin sighed. “Look—you can’t even dog yourself, how d’you plan on fuellin’ my hair this time, eh?”
Rufus pushed himself back further, trying to stand, the nausea sticking to his constricted throat.<
br />
“I don’t understand you. Just…stop!” His head swam. He wanted to push the assassin out of conscious thought. But the danger was real and Rufus had to face it. With sluggish muscles he raised his arm, his hand outstretched. “What happened…What did you do to Emerald?” Rufus forced himself to his feet, the world tipping dangerous around him. He felt sickly drunk.
“You sound familiar with the lass,” the Lemra’n drawled. “Didn’t take you for the whorin’ sort. Figured you preferred a more masculine hand.” He pushed himself away from the tree he’d been lounged against and stepped closer. As he did, the flames in the fire burst up, rearing angrily, though Rufus hadn’t consciously called for them.
“Stay back,” Rufus ordered, leaning over and shaking Joshua hard. He almost toppled in the action, barely able to stand.
“Woah there—your eyes look like they’re goin’ to bleed.” The assassin eyed him. “Let’s take a pause, sit back and play dead a while. You’re at the edge of your life.”
“Edge or not, alive is where I intend to stay!”
“Bad wordin’ from me there,” the assassin muttered, pulling a face. “What I mean to say—and I’ll speak crystal now, ’cause you’re ears are muffled dumb—is I’m not here to bone-pick you. Are we savvy on that?”
To Rufus’s ears it was nothing but a rush of nauseating sound. He felt faint again and for a second thought he might fall unconscious, his heart pounding loudly in his ears. The assassin took another step toward him.
“Get away from me!” Rufus rasped.
“Oh for the love of—”
“Stay back! Not a step closer!”
“You’re bein’ a fool.”
“You think I’m going to lay down and die? You think I’m going to let you harm my boy—get back, assassin.” He gasped for air, still feeling like his chest was being crushed. “Get back or I’ll s-set this whole d-damned forest ’n f-fire!” he stuttered under the strain, his vision swimming. The flames reared threateningly again, pounding with his emotion. “Back!”
“Alright. Easy—my hands are puppet’ed, look.” The Faucon raised his hands, his expression bemused. “Let’s talk.”
“Talk?” Rufus gasped. “Talk?” he repeated, in a shriek.
Blood of the Delphi (The Harmatia Cycle Book 2) Page 12
