“But that’s impossible, Rufus doesn’t…” Fae drew off in horror. “Boyd, this is…All of this…”
“I know.” Boyd replaced the shirt, his fingers nervous. “He’s been tortured, Fae,” he whispered. “Repeatedly.”
Joshua stirred at the soft sound of the door opening and blinked his eyes open sleepily. Sunlight danced across the alabaster ceiling above him, bright and promising, and he huffed, blowing his hair away from where it was tickling his brow.
He was lying in a large, comfortable bed, engulfed in the centre of a nest of blankets and cushions so soft it felt like he was being cradled by clouds. Joshua couldn’t remember such comfort in his life and he luxuriated in it before turning his attention to the newcomer in the room.
She stood to the side, a small pile of clothes folded over her arm. Her smile was warm and she was as dazzling as the sunlight, though the side of her face was dark with bruising.
“Good morning, Joshua,” she greeted. “How do you feel?”
Joshua considered the question. The last thing he could remember was the heaviness of his lungs, terror and the unrelenting cold of the snow.
“I feel much better,” he eventually said, eyeing her. “Where am I?”
“You are in my home, in the Neve. Do you know who I am?”
It came back to Joshua suddenly.
“Fae.” He sat up, his heart bursting with joy. “Fae! I remember—you saved us. I remember now.”
“It’s nice to finally meet you.” Fae came and sat on the edge of the bed, depositing the clothes she carried and covering his hands with her own. “I fear our first introduction wasn’t in the best circumstances. But you seem to recognise me readily enough.”
“Rufus told me all about you,” Joshua gabbled excitedly. “I grew up on the stories of Sarrin. You’re exactly as I imagined.”
“Is that a good thing, or bad?” Fae teased.
“Good. Very good,” he assured. “Where’s my brother?”
“Your brother?” Fae tensed.
“Rufus,” Joshua said. The haunted look in Fae’s eye told him that her mind had flown to Jionat. “I meant Rufus.”
“He’s still in the physician’s quarters, down the hall. You were recovering, so we thought it best to move you in here where you could rest more comfortably. Rufus needs a little more time.”
“Why?”
“Some hurts take longer to heal. You understand, don’t you?” She brushed the hair out of his eyes. “He’ll be fine. Now, about you calling him brother—is that a term of endearment, or…?”
“Rufus raised me,” Joshua said, with a shake of his head. “He’s more father than anything else, but…No—he’s my brother by blood. Rufus is a Delphi.”
Fae grew impossibly still. Rufus had often described how she was able to do this—pause as if caught in time, barely drawing breath. “Then Lady Éliane was—”
“His mother. And Jionat…Jionat was our brother.”
Fae’s expression fell ever so slightly, as if her chest were tightening, then she masked the grief of the news.
“When did he find out?”
“The night he discovered I was still alive.”
“That must have been very difficult.”
“He doesn’t talk about it. He doesn’t talk much about anything like that.” Joshua brought his knees up, feeling strangely defensive.
Fae laughed softly, “Yes, Rufus hordes his pain like treasure and buries himself in it. Joshua, what happened to him? His body…” Fae drew off as Joshua shook his head again. “I see. I will have to extract that truth from him. For now, young Princeling, you have been almost two days without eating. So put on these clothes and you and I shall go to the kitchens.”
The thought of food hadn’t occurred to Joshua but at Fae’s suggestion, he realised precisely how hungry he was. It wasn’t so much a feeling in his belly, as a numbed sensation throughout his body. He felt gutted of energy and was eager to replenish it. He got out of the bed, wobbling on shaky legs. Fae steadied him, stepping back to give him room as he straightened.
“Don’t rush,” she berated. “We have all the time in the world—the kitchen isn’t going to disappear.” She paused and then took his hands, turning them over curiously as she spotted something. “These calluses…”
“I lost my bow in the woods,” Joshua said. “It was getting a little small for me anyway.”
Fae broke into a smile.
“Rufus raised an archer?”
“He said it was for catching food and protecting myself.” Joshua took the clothes, looking over them. “Archery is easier than the sword to practise alone and on the move.” A thought occurred to him and he peered over at Fae. “Wait, I can learn it here. The sword, that is.”
Fae raised an eyebrow. “Is that a question, or a demand?”
Joshua righted his tone, extending his senses toward Fae as he tried to read her. She was already warm to him and a great deal more amicable to the idea of battle than Rufus would ever be. Joshua also knew, from the stories alone, that Fae had a will of iron and making demands of her would in no way win him favour.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I don’t mean to get ahead of myself. We’ve only just arrived and I’m asking for favours. I don’t want you to think I’m ungrateful.”
Fae raised a knowing eyebrow—she knew he was playing to her goodwill but the effort seemed to please her.
“You don’t need to be sly with me, Joshua. Jionat was stark in what he wanted and bold too. I will allow it of you. You look so much like him…” she trailed off sadly. “I have no intention of uprooting you within the foreseeable future. The Neve is safe and so long as you need such a place, you are welcome here. If you want to learn the sword in that time, you will. Great Danu knows we have the facilities. I will ask my brother Korrick if he would be willing. He was my mentor and, for all his faults, he is a good teacher.”
Joshua felt excitement well up through him. “You would do that? For me?”
“I wouldn’t have offered it otherwise. As for the bow,” Fae continued, “I will see to it you have another to replace the one you lost. I am an archer myself, you know.”
“I know.” Joshua grinned. “Everything I learnt about shooting, I learnt from stories about you. I guess in some ways, you were my teacher.”
Fae, for the second time, appeared a little stunned. She righted herself.
“In which case, little Prince,” she patted his hair, “I expect nothing less than perfection from you.”
Zachary didn’t knock before entering and Marcel didn’t bother to greet him, neither in the mood for courtesy. Marcel was bent over the desk, drawing up a diagram with a patient precision e that would have driven Zachary mad. He strode over to his second in command.
“Where’s Fold?”
Marcel nodded toward the next room. There was a stiffness in his plain expression—he was worried.
Zachary lowered his voice. “How is he?”
Marcel shot Zachary a ‘how do you think?’ look, his eyebrows cocked. Zachary threw his hands in the air and leant back against the table.
“There’s been word of a sickness in Bethean—a relapse of a winter infection that affects the lungs. They think it was brought on by the snow. A fever, coughing, delirium—even the strong are falling prey. Do you think Emeric might have taken ill with it?”
“I think he is too sick to be here today,” Marcel replied stiffly.
“The King noted his absence last time. Any more and he’ll be suspicious,” Zachary said.
Opposite them the door opened and Emeric came back in. He looked awful—gaunt, shaken by weakness and pale as a ghost. Dark lines marked his eyes and his lips were grey. Zachary twitched a half smile in greeting. Emeric tried to return it.
“How long?” he asked, taking small shaky steps toward them.
“Oh, we’ll go in another fifteen minutes.” Zachary moved forward to steady him, “Sit—you look ready to drop.”
“I’m
fine,” Emeric sighed. “Only tired—sleep has been evading me as of late.”
“Then you must drink.” Zachary peered into his wax-coloured face, trying to make light of the situation. “Drink until you can’t remember the problems that keep you up.”
“Would that I could keep enough wine down.” Emeric wilted a little and Zachary tightened his grip on the younger Magi’s arm. Marcel came and joined them.
“It will be over soon,” he reassured tenderly.
A knock from the door made them all jump—hardened warriors leaping like frightened kittens at the slightest provocation. Zachary eyed the door.
“Come in,” he called in Marcel’s place. Even before the door opened, Zachary saw his second in command relax knowingly, recognising the foot-fall. A woman entered the room, sweeping in grandly.
“Béatrice,” Marcel greeted.
“My sweet little brother, my darling cousin,” the woman, Béatrice purred, her voice deep and throaty. Zachary smiled to himself. Marcel’s sister, older by only a few years, couldn’t have been a more contrary person to her brother. For all Marcel’s Harmatian-born fair features, she’d inherited in full their mother’s Réneian looks. With thick, luscious hair, streaked now with silver, she had dark, sunny skin and a pair of Réneian ‘yeux garnet’—deep, almost maroon eyes, the colour of garnets. Unable, unlike her brother, to do magic and retain her youthfulness, Béatrice had aged beautifully into her mid-forties and was an enviably handsome woman, not least for her charisma.
“Arlen.” She greeted him fondly. His name always sounded a little peculiar on her lips with her accent. She made no effort to pronounce it the Harmatian way, like Marcel did, but said it as ‘Ah-ruh-len’, her ‘r’s deep and throaty.
“Béatrice.” Zachary tipped his head and stood back as she waltzed into the room, coming to Marcel’s side. She kissed him fondly on the cheek and wiped away the lipstick stain with the pad of her thumb. Marcel gave her an exasperated look, but didn’t bat her hand away.
“Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?” He asked, switching to Réneian.
“I have news,” Béatrice said coyly, keeping to the Common Tongue. Whatever she’d come to say, she wanted them all to hear it. “It concerns the King’s meeting, if you would like to hear.” Béatrice turned to look at Zachary and Emeric, her dark, almond eyes cunning. Were she capable of being a Magi, Zachary would have snatched her up for the Night Patrol long ago. It was a blessing that she wasn’t however, because Zachary rather suspected that, given half the chance, she would have overthrown him as captain.
“We’re listening,” he invited.
“The purpose of the King’s summons,” Béatrice said, almost gleefully, “I have discovered its true nature.”
“Is it not about the Merle family’s disappearance?” Emeric asked, looking decidedly unsteady on his feet, his hand against the table.
“Non, non, non—it is much more exciting than that,” Béatrice purred. “Guess what I saw being brought into the throne room only a few minutes ago?”
Marcel exchanged a look with his sister, and his frown deepened. He mouthed something to her, and she nodded.
“Oui, c’est ça,” Béatrice said, her voice lilting. “They have arrived with Rufus Merle’s corpse.”
Any colour left in Emeric’s face drained. He made a quiet choking sound and staggered, his legs buckling. Zachary reached for him but Marcel was quicker, grabbing Emeric around the waist before he toppled over. Béatrice took him by the other arm and they guided Emeric to a chair, lowering him gently down. She scrutinized him, kneeling down at his side.
“Mais mon chéri, you are still not well, are you?”
Marcel clenched Emeric’s shoulders, his knuckles white. Emeric composed himself forcefully, giving a grim smile, though he was utterly grey.
“Forgive me, I’m fine,” he said. “I’m fine,” he repeated to Marcel, who drew back, uncertainty in his step. Zachary realised he’d stopped breathing entirely.
“Je suis vraiment désolé,” Béatrice offered her condolences. “I know that Rufus was a dear friend to you all.”
“Damn him, no!” Zachary burst out before he could check himself, smacking his hand against the wall. Emeric jolted and somehow went even paler, trembling. Zachary inhaled sharply through his nose and let out a shuddering breath. “He was not—” he cut himself off, trying to control his sudden anger. “He wasn’t our friend. Don’t you dare say otherwise. Not now.” He glared at Béatrice who met his gaze without fear. Marcel stepped between them, half-shielding his sister. He stared Zachary down, as if expecting him to spring.
Zachary raised his hands to show he meant no harm and retreated toward the side table. There, a jug of something amber and strong smelling was waiting beside a set of crystal glasses. He poured himself a generous glass and Béatrice stepped out and around Marcel to join him. She poured herself a more modest glass and stood silently in his company.
Behind them, Marcel slowly sat beside Emeric and took his hand, kissing the back of it.
“You cannot change the truths of the past, Arlen,” Béatrice whispered to Zachary.
“If you believe that, then you haven’t been paying attention to our political history,” Zachary said dryly and Béatrice chuckled.
“Lying and changing are different things. I know you are trying to protect them and trying to protect yourself, but we both know you are far too sentimental. For all you say, you grieve as much today as Emeric does. Because Rufus was your friend and you cannot deny yourself that.”
“Watch me,” Zachary said, a little too fiercely. Béatrice gave him a knowing look. It irritated him.
“You are a good man, Arlen, and a greater leader for the diligence you give to your men. But you cannot be loyal to two who call each other enemy—it will tear you apart.”
“I’m not. Sverrin is my King.”
“And Rufus Merle was your brother.”
Zachary closed his eyes.
“You have a talent,” Béatrice went on, “for disguising your heart but do not try so hard to be deceived by your own lies. It will make you head-sick.” She glanced over to Emeric. “Be careful, and be kind. It will become a rarity soon, I fear.”
Zachary nodded mutely. Béatrice finished her drink and moved across to the door, stopping to kiss Emeric on the cheek as she passed.
“Good day to you all.” She curtsied. “Et soyez courageux,” she added in Réneian, biding them all courage.
As she left, an uncomfortable silence fell among the men—Emeric with his eyes cast vacantly to the floor and Marcel still hovering tensely. Zachary refilled his glass.
After another five minutes of silence, they all collectively stood, leaving their posts. Marcel and Zachary took positions either side of Emeric, quiet supports as they moved off together.
They made their way through the castle, down the long corridors. Zachary counted the echo of their footfall, which beat and clattered on the stone like a death rhythm as they made their way to the throne room.
Even before they’d reached it, the unholy smell of cold, rotting blood and preserving balms filled the hallways. Emeric retched discreetly again as they entered and they moved to their usual place in the corner of the room, to the left of the King.
In the centre, where the putrid smell originated, a wooden box had been laid out before the throne. Sverrin was staring at it intently, unmindful of the stench, maybe even enjoying it a little, his eyes alight. To the King’s right, DuGilles was sharing a quiet joke with Reine, who had a handkerchief to her face but did nothing to distance herself from the cause of the smell. Belphegore was nowhere in sight. Perhaps he too had been given some advance warning and had chosen to risk Sverrin’s anger and stay away. Zachary felt rather abandoned by that.
When the last of the Magi had entered and were stood among DuGilles’s alchemists, two servants came cordially forward and stood at both ends of the coffin, waiting.
Sverrin stood. “My loyal subjects,” he addressed the cro
wd, “faithful soldiers and courtiers, I present the man who betrayed you all.” He gestured to the servants who dutifully removed the lid of the coffin.
Many of the Magi flinched back as the full weight of the sickly smell filled the air. Zachary wasn’t so weak of stomach—death and gore didn’t frighten him. Looking into the coffin however, he didn’t need more than a few seconds before he was forced to turn his gaze. He’d seen enough. The man inside the box was a wasted mess—bloodied, with a sunken face that seemed strangely inhuman, tipped back and twisted as if he’d been frozen in the midst of a great agony. But below the horror and anguish, there was at least half a man, and it hadn’t been so long that Zachary couldn’t recognise Rufus in those features.
As if Sverrin couldn’t trust the judgement of his court, he gestured to DuGilles, who leapt down excitedly. He began to circle the coffin, examining Rufus keenly, ignorant of the fumes. At last he drew back from his morbid study, bright-faced like a child on his birthday.
“It’s him,” he announced and a cheer rose from the room. That, more than the carcass, was nauseating.
“As a traitor then, his head should be put on display, do you not think, mother?” Sverrin reclaimed his throne, relaxing back. Even from behind her handkerchief, Zachary knew Reine was smiling.
“I quite agree, Your Majesty. You will excuse us, Lord DuGilles, but tradition must have a Harmatian take that trophy,” Reine said.
DuGilles bowed graciously. “And who’ll have that honour?”
Zachary’s heart sank even before Sverrin’s eyes found him. They held each other’s gaze and Zachary nodded shallowly. Sverrin’s face broke into a fresh smile.
“Lord Zachary, in the absence of Lord Odin, the duty should fall to you. Now is your chance to redeem us all for your brother’s sins.”
From the side, Emeric and Marcel both grew taut and Zachary watched as the Magi around him parted, creating a corridor of faces down to Rufus’s coffin. Zachary didn’t allow himself to hesitate, stalking forward.
As he approached, a servant offered him an executioner’s sword, which he took with relief, glad to keep his own in its sheath. The servants removed the sides of the coffin which came off in panels, so that Rufus was fully exposed.
Blood of the Delphi (The Harmatia Cycle Book 2) Page 18
