“Easy, I’m gettin’ you’re a tad on the hysterical side, but I’m sure we can come to a compromise here.”
“You are here to kill me!” Rufus pulled back, dragging Joshua up to his side, though he wasn’t sure if the boy was fully awake.
“Piss-pox and plagues,” the assassin grumbled. “Listen to me you sugar-powdered prick—if I meant to hurt you, you’d know it!”
Rufus stopped, blinked, then began to laugh hysterically. It grated at his throat and made it difficult to stand but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t control himself any more. He was one man, a man who’d been put through more than any deserved. He’d had temptation thrown at his feet, false hope dangled before his eyes and he was sick of it all. He was sick of the fear and the anger and exploitation of his misery. An assassin saying he didn’t want to hurt Rufus? It was the same damned thing as Morrigan saying she want to help him.
The Faucon gave an exasperated shrug, bewildered. Rufus eyes burned like fire.
“I haven’t slept in years,” his voice dropped in cold-blooded fury. “Years, you son of a bitch!”
“That’s toffee-glazed,” the assassin said bluntly. “You want me to get out the onions?”
Rufus glared, pushing his brother back slowly as Joshua’s eyes flickered open, bleary and confused. The assassin rolled his eyes.
“Where are you goin’ now? Look—we stabbed off on the wrong knife, let’s try again. My name is Aeron Faucon, and I’m not here to kill you—”
“Shut your mouth,” Rufus snapped and the assassin’s mouth dipped.
“We can do this with the oil or I can gut you…figuratively speakin', alright?”
Rufus narrowed his eyes and once more the flames burst up, rearing toward the assassin like wild dogs. Aeron raised a shield, stepping back so the fire spilled around him. The horse, from where it was bound, reared in panic, tugging frantically at its binds. With an almighty crack, the branch it was tied to snapped and the horse was gone, galloping off into the forest with a vast majority of their supplies. Rufus didn’t even have energy to care and instead ducked down to his little brother. He gripped Joshua by the arms, the boy’s eyes glazed but wide. “Run— get to the next clearing. I’m right behind you.”
“But—” Joshua’s began.
“Do it!” Rufus ordered, just as a hand lashed out, snagging him by the leg. Rufus was tugged back and fell, Aeron ducked low on the floor beside him. The Magi landed heavily, his ribs jolting as several gave way.
“GO!” he shouted at Joshua, as Aeron scrabbled up, pinning the Magi down. The Prince bolted and the assassin grunted.
“Metaphorical death then. I’d better get my pockets lined for this shit.”
Rufus gave a roar and, freeing his arm, lurched it around, summoning power to him. Before he could materialise it into magic however, Aeron had caught his arm again, his fingers tight around Rufus’s wrist.
It was like the life was being drained from him—his will, his magic, the very element he wielded, being rejected from his own flesh. A deep fatigue came over Rufus and the anger burning through him diminished. He felt like he slipping off into a frozen sleep. What was the point of struggling? No matter what he did everything kept getting worse and eventually he was going to die—one way or another. Why prolong it and waste energy he didn’t have, when he could just slip away instead?
Up above him Aeron’s face changed. His pupils dilated impossibly, until they extended over his whole eye, making him look like a skull. The assassin’s lips peeled back, quivering with sudden pleasure. Rufus was very aware of how hungry Aeron looked. No, not hungry—the emotion on the assassin’s face exceeded man’s ancient constitution to feed. It was more powerful, darker and older than any mortal being, so old and vast Rufus couldn’t even name it. Suddenly there seemed to be no reality beyond him and Aeron, and though Aeron’s lips didn’t move, Rufus was conscious of a stream of words which emanated, as if they were spoken through the skin. The words possessed him, relaying images and memories he didn’t want to see.
Pain, it said, pain in here. Dark. Forced into darkness. Wanted you to break. Needed you to break. No escape. Couldn’t breathe. You thought it—kill me! You thought it. Let me die. Let me die. I want to die. Death. Too strong. Too dark. Can’t stop. Can’t stop. Have to feed. Too strong. Feed. FEED. TOO STRONG FEED MUST FEED CAN’T CONTROL FEED FEED FEED—
There was a thump of wood against a skull. The sensation cracked through Rufus as if he were on the receiving end. Aeron’s blackened eyes cleared and then he dropped, limp and heavy on top of the Magi. Rufus lay frozen beneath him and gave out a frightened whimper. His body spasmed with gasps as his fear caught up with him and he shoved the assassin off. Joshua released the branch of wood he’d been wielding and helped drag Rufus to his feet.
“W-w-what was that?” Rufus’s could hardly get his words out. “W-what the hell w-was that?”
“Rufus, let’s go. Let’s go, Rufus. I want to go,” Joshua begged, pulling at Rufus’s hand, his breathing taut. Rufus nodded faintly, shaking so badly he could barely stand. Together, the brothers clung to each other, and taking what was left of their meagre belongings, they retreated into the woods.
Luca Rossignol woke with a start. For a moment she lay huddled in the warm embrace of her bed sheets, her eyes wide. Someone shifted behind her and Luca relaxed, casting away the tension. She rolled over slowly to the person beside her. Oblivious to her, Ivar Epervier slumbered, his jaw slackened and lips parted. Luca stroked her lover’s cheek affectionately, kissing him tenderly on the nose. He made a soft noise and his eyes flickered open briefly, almost black in the faded light. She brushed his golden fringe with gentle fingers and then slipped from his arms and out of the bed. Her bare feet touched the cold stone floor, lit by cracks of moonlight which peered through the shutters.
Her chemise fell just short of her knees and she shivered, crossing silently to the door where a dressing gown hung. She lifted it from the hook and wrapped it around herself, before slipping her feet into a pair of soft, fur-lined boots and lifting the latch of the doorway. The corridor was dark outside but she navigated her way through it easily, passing the children’s bedrooms and gliding down the stairs toward the doorway.
Stepping out into the night air, she yawned. Brexiam was silent and still in slumber, and Luca admired the plain beauty of the town.
Internally, however, something stirred—a deep foreboding that wouldn’t settle. She could taste it—battle. Its red hue lay upon the air like a heavy scent, filling her. She’d felt it once before, the day the bandits attacked Sarrin twelve and a half years ago. At the time she’d dismissed it as nothing. Now, however, she recognised its dark call and stood, waiting silently for any sign that this was more than her imagination.
A sharp rustle made her snap her head to the side and jump back, her hand immediately flying to her back in search of a sword which wasn’t there. Barely a few strides from her, between the trunks of two young trees, a figure lurked, their face concealed by the shadow of their hood. Luca was sure they hadn’t been there a moment before.
She disguised her apprehension with anger. “Who’s there?” she demanded.
There was only silence and then a voice like honey replied, “A friend.”
Luca shivered, her breath catching at the strange beauty the man—for the voice was male—managed to capture with only two words. She composed herself, the wind blowing against her back as she faced him.
“A friend who sneaks through shadows and hides between trees? Aye, that doesn’t strike me as at all suspicious.”
The man chuckled deeply, his laughter like sweet wine. Luca felt as if she could almost taste his lips in that sound.
“Cap your quick-tongued cynicism—I am a friend. That I dwell in the shadows is only because it is my nature, and that I did not wish to startle you.”
“Aye,” Luca’s voice dripped with sarcasm, “because there’s nothing startling about a man appearing from nowhere when you think yo
u’re alone.”
“Let me rephrase,” he laughed, “I did not wish to startle you whilst I was in striking distance.”
Luca snorted, opening her arms. “I’m not even armed.”
“So you say, yet I am reliably informed that the infamous Luca Rossignol can use elemental magic, and I have no defence against that.”
Luca took a step forward but the angle of the shadow ensured that the stranger’s face remained completely obscured from sight. “How do you know my name?”
“I would be no great friend if I didn’t. I know too your title, Delphi Knight, and I know that the blood of Cú Chulainn runs through your veins—it’s why you are awake now under this heavenly sky, when no one else has stirred from their dreams. You can feel it boiling in your blood. Danger. The coming battle.”
Luca paused. The man, whoever he was, seemed to know details which only a few were privy to within their circle. Even Luca hadn’t discovered her heritage until the dreadful day she’d learnt of Jionat’s death. Her parents had imparted the truth of who they were—descendants of the same Delphi Knights who’d come to Harmatia with the Delphi family so many centuries before.
Once, they had served proudly in the open, until a conflict of interest between the Harmatians and the Delphi had broken out. One of the Princes had broken the law and learnt magic. The Delphi Knights had given him an ultimatum—relinquish his claim to the throne or lose his life. The Prince had refused and, as the law required, the Knights had duly executed him.
The outcry in the court had been terrible, people turning their rage on the Delphi family themselves. To protect their sovereigns, the Knights had stripped themselves of their rank and gone into hiding. They’d remained in the shadows since, operating in secret and waiting to one day be called into action again.
“Swallows dance at window sills, they dance, they dance for you…” The stranger sang, as if reading her thoughts. Luca’s breath caught. Either a dangerous foe stood within a few strides of her or he truly was an ally. Luca decided to take the risk.
“Tell me who you are,” she ordered him. “And why I should trust you. And then I’ll consider whether to hear you or not.”
“As you wish.” The figure bowed, a hand across his chest. “My name is Embarr Reagon, if pleases you, and I am an emissary of the great Lady Niamh.”
Luca didn’t need to hear past his name. “You’re the Gancanagh!” she blurted. Embarr paused and raised his head. His hood moved enough for Luca to catch a quick glimpse of pair of shining black eyes.
“I am indeed. How did you know?”
“Fae. Fae spoke of you...” Luca drew off. “You’re her friend, aren’t you?”
“She is as dear to me as the jewelled sky and the brightly moon,” Embarr said and there was no mockery or exaggeration in his voice.
“If that’s true…” Luca frowned. “Alright, I’m listening.” She stepped back and sat on the steps of the house, drawing her clothes around her. Embarr wasted no time.
“Your enemies will be descending upon you in just over twelve hours’ time,” he said. “Alchemists, soldiers, perhaps even a Magi or two—they mean to deal you the first blow.”
Luca sat, stunned. “Where did you hear that?”
“From Harmatia. It was discussed a few hours ago.”
“And I’m to believe you managed to trek all the way to Bethean in that time?”
She saw a flash of white teeth in the moonlight, bared in a grin and a moment later, in a flurry of wind, Embarr was gone. Luca jumped to her feet, only to give a short cry as someone tapped her on the shoulder. She spun around to see him stood there before, with another burst, he was gone again, reappearing back between the tree trunks.
“It’s a talent I have.”
“How did you—”
“Gancanagh,” he responded matter-of-factly, pointing at himself.
“Oh. Right,” Luca said, feeling foolish. “The first blow, you say? Against Bethean?”
“Against potential revolutionists—supporters of the Delphi.”
“What?” Luca felt the blood drain from her face. “Does that mean they know the truth?”
“No. Not as of yet. But they have an informant who seems to be privy to a great deal of information. I cannot say how long our secrets will keep. So far, they are unaware that the Prince lives.”
“Thank the gods,” Luca breathed, and then frowned. “Then why are they attacking? They’ve given us no reason to go to war and we no sign that we plan to. So why now?” Luca stood, already sensing the dark news that weighed on her companion’s tongue.
He was quiet a while, each second of silence drawing out Luca’s fears. Finally he spoke, voice soft with mourning.
“Rufus Merle is dead.”
The words incited the strangest sensation in Luca. They washed over her like hundreds of gallons of water, but left her light, as if she were falling. She found herself sat on the stair again, staring at Embarr in disbelief. For a moment she couldn’t speak, and when she did her voice was faint.
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Rufus…Rufus is dead?”
“He was killed by an assassin in Beshuwa.”
“No…No, no, no.”
“I asked if any children had also been disposed of but none were recorded. I can only assume your correspondents in the area are taking care of the Prince now. Reports are Rufus’s body is being brought back to Harmatia.”
“Athea have mercy, no…!”
“I am sorry.” Embarr sounded it and Luca clamped her hands across her mouth, gasping.
“Rufus,” she sobbed. “Oh gods, Rufus. Oh gods, rest in peace. Athea guide you.” She buried her face in her arms and cried. “Rufus, my dearest, dearest love, oh gods, I’m so sorry.”
“You must rouse the village and gather your weapons—you have no time to spare,” Embarr reminded her, forcing her out of her mourning.
“I understand.” She wiped her eyes, her voice strangled. “Everything’s changed now.”
“And you must be ready for it,” Embarr agreed. “Now, I must leave you, before I am missed.” He paused and then added, “I am truly sorry.”
Luca nodded, wiping her eyes again as she forced herself to her feet. “Thank you…Thank you for delivering this news.”
The faerie nodded solemnly and then, with another burst of air, he was gone. Luca stumbled out into the street toward the village bell. On her approach, the patrolling guards ran out, alarmed by her appearance. She shouted as they reached her.
“Ring the alarm! There’s an approaching army! The Puppet King is coming for us and Rufus Merle is dead! Athea have mercy, Rufus is dead!”
Zachary fingered his collar, tugging it away from his neck. Almost immediately, he drew it back around himself as a blast of cold air reminded him why he’d tightened it in the first place. It was perishing. The whole of Harmatia was cloaked in snow and though the skies had cleared up in the morning, Zachary expected they would have more come nightfall.
If there was one thing that could be said about the whole affair though, it was that snow created unity. As the children played, the adults gathered in a combined effort to clear the streets. If the Magi were put to the task, they could have the city cleared in a number of hours, but Zachary doubted Sverrin would send his forces out for such a menial task. Those commissioned for such jobs would be limited to clearing the main road and forum. Zachary made a note to gather some of his men, once he and Belphegore had completed their grim task, and come and make himself useful.
The Southern Quarters were somehow clearer than their neighbouring districts and Zachary quickly discovered why. Several of the residents were using limited elemental magic to melt away and dispose of the snow. Among them, carefully manipulating a flame, was Torin Merle. From a distance, he was such a spitting image of his son, Zachary had to look twice.
On closer inspection, Zachary could see the grey in the man’s hair and lines across the face.
As Zachary and Belphegore approached, Torin cast a set of keen, green eyes over them, and halloed in greeting.
“Lord Odin, what a pleasure. It’s been a long time,” he said cheerfully, his cheeks bright from the hard work.
“Please, Torin, call me Belphegore. You know my first, I believe? Arlen Zachary.”
“We’ve met before, yes, briefly.” Torin took Zachary’s hand in a strong grip and shook it. Immediately, Zachary was aware that Torin knew what had happened between him and Rufus twelve years ago, on the road to Avalon. Whilst there was no forgiveness in Torin’s eye, however, there was no condemnation either—merely a sort of patience that confused Zachary. “Do come on in. The wife is making stew—come and have a bowl.”
“Thank you but I am afraid we are here on more sombre business,” Belphegore said.
Torin faltered, looking between the pair. Zachary got the impression that Torin was weighing his chances. Finally, he gestured to his door, inviting them in wordlessly. They followed him as he entered, calling to his wife inside.
The front half of the Merle home was a tailor shop, the walls lined with fabrics and items of clothing on display. At the far side, a desk stood in front of an open doorway, with a short corridor beyond. At the back was a little kitchen, where the thick, savoury smell of stew wafted out. Torin slid around the desk and the two Magi followed him silently. Zachary had only been in the Merle household once before, when Rufus invited him in while he fetched some work from his room. It was a small but comfortable place, filled with warmth and memories. The wood was etched with echoes of family life.
For a strange moment Zachary felt as if he was standing at a crossroad. He wasn’t sure what lay on any of the paths ahead and a deep foreboding told him he wasn’t ready to know. The sensation stopped him cold in his tracks and in an instant the truth was on him, like a heavy stone on his chest.
Rufus Merle was dead. Now what was Zachary going to do?
He shivered and Belphegore glanced back at him. “Arlen?” he prompted gently and Zachary came to his senses, following swiftly after his master into the kitchen.
Blood of the Delphi (The Harmatia Cycle Book 2) Page 13
