Zachary stared at his brother long and hard. Then, drawing the sword back, swift as an avenging god, he beheaded Rufus without a word. Because Béatrice was wrong—Zachary was good at disguising his heart but in this instance there was nothing to hide. He had to believe that. The alternative was too frightening. He was loyal to Sverrin.
Zachary held the head up for the crowd and didn’t shy away from the cheers as they applauded and rejoiced. He did a full circle and then threw the head to the foot of Sverrin’s throne.
“Long live the King,” he said and the chant rose up into the roof as Zachary descended back into the mass and disappeared from sight.
The water tickled his feet as the waves breathed in and out, the bone-dust sand warm against his back. Rufus had no idea where he was and he lay puzzling over it for a long time before finally driving himself to his feet. He was on a beach of some kind, an endless stretch of white sand, water and horizon.
Jionat sat a few strides away, his stormy eyes cast over the ocean, arm rested on his knee, which was drawn up to his chest.
“You,” Rufus said, by way of greeting, and Jionat huffed, blowing a curl from his line of vision.
“Yes, yes,” he replied. “It’s me. Your sadistic subconscious, come back to haunt you with the face of your biggest regret.” Jionat paused and rolled his head toward Rufus. “You’ve had a lot of voices whispering in your head recently, haven’t you? It’s not turned out so well. Are you ready to listen to what I have to say yet?”
“Do I have any choice?”
“Not if you want to survive…” Jionat drew off. “But before we begin, here’s a question for you—have you ever even been to the beach?”
“No,” Rufus said, sitting beside him. “Why—is it significant?”
“Is it significant? Athea have mercy, do you think I’m the only part of your subconscious you’ve conjured?” Jionat said. “This is your mind, Rufus. I’m only one layer of it—the part that keeps you alive when you’re under threat. But this—this is all you. Now last time we met, we were in Sarrin. That, I understand—good memories are an excellent place to hide. But the beach?” He smirked, looking menacing. “Now there has to be a meaning behind that, something very important.”
“I have no idea,” Rufus admitted.
“Come on, Rufus!” Jionat snapped, making him jump. “You’re the captain of this ship. If you’ve never been to a beach, then you must have imagined it.” Jionat pointed down to the sand. “There’s a reason we’re here. A reason you brought us here—so what’s the significance of the beach?”
“I don’t know. Why can’t you tell me?”
“You’re not listening.” Jionat gesticulated angrily. “I’m a part of you—a courier between your conscious and unconscious mind.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I have access to everything you’ve ever learned. Every memory. Every sensation. An archive of everything that makes you who you are. But my usefulness is dictated entirely by you and what you know! So for Notameer’s sake—ask yourself why are we here?”
“I told you—I don’t know!” Rufus tore his hands through his hair. He heard Jionat inhale sharply and braced himself for an outpour of shouting, but there was nothing. Instead Jionat exhaled over a long count, as if expelling his temper, and when he spoke next he was calm.
“Clearly you’re not ready to face that yet. Fine. There are other things we can discuss. Other ways I can make myself useful.”
“Useful?” Rufus spat, his face buried into his hands. His whole head was aching. “You’re just a riddle that’s answer is another riddle.”
“Would you stop your self-pitying and start using your brain?” Jionat groaned. “You’ve read a thousand books, you have all the knowledge you need to solve this. So take your head out of your arse and start asking the right questions.”
Rufus gritted his teeth and stood, running his hands through his hair.
“The dream I had before this—with Zachary in Harmatia…Was that a vision?”
“Of sorts,” Jionat replied. “The Delphi get their powers through a connection between the different realms. The problem with your unconscious mind, Rufus, is that it isn’t only full of old memories, it also contains memories of events yet to pass. For some, like Jionat and Joshua, these are clear—they rise to the surface undisturbed. You haven’t developed that ability yet, so the messages are interpreted by your subconscious into dreams instead.”
“He talked about the Wild Hunt.” Rufus tugged his fringe. “What do I know about the Wild Hunt?”
Jionat’s expression became blank, as if he were recalling something. When he spoke it seemed to be in verbatim. “The Wild Hunt. They were formed from an ancient hunting tribe of Fomorii, who were sworn enemy of the Sidhe. They learnt to use magic to change their physical forms, a technique which inspired the Night Patrol. These beasts scoured the land, destroying everything in their wake, an unstoppable force of darkness that threatened to eradicate all life. Story tells that the Soldier God, Penthar, in order to protect the balance, had six mighty swords forged with the powers of his brothers and sisters, and met the Wild Hunt in battle, defeating them. Though slain, they say the Wild Hunt remain in spirit, dormant and waiting to be called to the hunt again by their Queen Nicnivin, Ruler of the Unseelie.”
“I thought it was only a story,” Rufus said weakly. He remembered his mother’s tales now, her warnings about the Unseelie, those faeries who didn’t adhere to the Betheanian treaty and had formed their own malevolent court. Things like the Wild Hunt had seemed like a hellish nightmare but Rufus had never forged any strong belief in them. “Zachary said I led them,” Rufus continued, uneasily. “He said that I destroyed Harmatia. Why would I do that?”
“Of course, because what have you got against Harmatia?” Jionat drawled, and Rufus’s mouth dropped.
“I don’t hate them enough to destroy an entire city!” he choked. “To be capable of that, just for revenge—how far gone would I have to be?”
“When you’re part of the Wild Hunt, you lose the parts that make you vulnerable—your kindness, your pain, your sense of right and wrong. Actually, I think that’s the point,” Jionat replied starkly and Rufus began to pace.
“But why would I even be part of the Wild Hunt to begin with? I’m not a Fomorii.”
“It’s not about that, it’s about power.”
Rufus pushed his fringe away from his forehead, running his fingers through his hair as he paced back and forth, Jionat watching him.
“You could, you know,” Jionat eventually said.
“Could what?”
“Lead the Wild Hunt.”
Rufus stopped short. “Why would you say that?”
“Why would you?”
“Would you give me a clear answer for once, Athea damn you!” Rufus snapped, and Jionat raised an eyebrow. In an instant he was in front of Rufus, uncomfortably close. A dangerous aura rose from his body, his eyes boasting an impossible depth, his face dark with anger.
“There’s your answer,” he hissed, and Rufus trembled at the change, jerking back. “Your anger. You have so much of it—so much fear and resentment which you try to bury. But you forget that beneath the civil layers of your bookish charm and morals, you’re a being of power and emotion. You’re part of Athea.” Jionat snapped out his hand, catching Rufus by the wrist and drawing him in. “You can’t run from me,” he said, his eyes burning red, “I’m in you, I am you.” He thrust his hand forward, slamming it against Rufus’s stomach. Beneath Jionat’s cold fingers, a brand began to burn into his flesh and the shock and pain of it brought Rufus to his knees. Jionat didn’t relent.
“Stop…please s-stop!” Rufus begged.
Jionat seized his face. “You don’t burn, yet they did this to you—they hurt you and you’re reminded of it every day. Every day on the run, giving in further to instinct in order to survive. Is it really so far-fetched that you might succumb to your worst nature? That the anger wou
ld grow too large for you to contain any more? After all, it’s already slipping out.” Jionat stepped to the side and on the sand behind him lay the murdered halfling.
Rufus covered his eyes, turning away, but it did him no good. “I had to protect Joshua.”
“You could have incapacitated him. You didn’t have to stab him over and over.”
“He used me—blackmailed me!”
“You offered yourself—you were willing.”
“I didn’t want to kill him!” Rufus gabbled, heaving for air.
“So why did you?”
Rufus shook his head, clawing at his eyes. A moment later, strong fingers were pulling his hands away from his face.
Jionat’s eyes were sympathetic. “I know why you did it,” he said in a quiet, calm voice. “And the guilt you feel now should relieve you—because you’re still capable of feeling it. You’re still fighting to be a good man—that’s why I’m in here, and you’re in charge.” He sat back in the sand, looking up at Rufus. “But be careful Rufus—that little voice that has weaponised your anger is tipping the balance in my favour. If you give in to that carnal oblivious, then I’ll lead the Wild Hunt into Harmatia myself.” His eyes flashed. “So before that happens, I suggest you really start thinking about how to take back control.”
“I don’t know. Tell me, please tell me.” Rufus shook, and Jionat looked up at the sky, and then around to the water and sand.
“You need you work it out,” he said absently, “the significance of the beach.”
They returned to Zachary’s house at his request, Emeric dragging behind. Marcel led him wordlessly and Zachary stalked ahead, calling out to Heather to fetch his strongest brandy and to bring him a bowl of water, so he could wash his hands. She complied without question, sending a servant for the drinks whilst he heated the water in the washing bowl and scrubbed his hands clean of death. Marcel and Emeric finally followed him into the house, and he shook his hands dry and dismissed all the servants, gesturing for his friends to go through a door on the far left.
The three passed through a lavish dining room into the library which was equipped with comfortable seats and four large south facing windows that looked out over the castle gardens. These were shuttered now and a fire had been lit in the large fireplace, cracking and burning brightly, the only source of light in the room. It cast a halo over the chairs that were huddled around it, making them look comfortable and beckoning.
Marcel paused in the doorway and raised his eyebrow, looking across the room.
“You seem to have gained an unlawful tenant,” he noted, nodding toward the slumped figure of Daniel, who was strewn over one of the desks, his head resting in the pages of an open book, quill slack in his hand. Zachary didn’t have the energy to scowl.
He walked to Daniel’s side, scrutinising the boy. Heather entered, carrying the decanter and three glasses on a tray. She faltered at the sight of Daniel, glancing almost fearfully between Zachary and his men. She didn’t know their temperament. Zachary frowned and gently touched a hand to his brother’s shoulder, rousing him.
Daniel’s green eyes were colourless in the firelight, and he blinked lethargically, sitting up, head nodded forward in fatigue.
“I think Daniel has done quite enough studying for the evening, don’t you, Heather?” Zachary said and Heather set down the tray and bustled the boy out of his chair. Daniel looked between the men in confusion. He gave a sluggish bow to Marcel and Emeric, mumbling an apology and goodnight, before allowing himself to be coaxed from the room. Zachary moved to the chairs and poured his friends each a generous glass of brandy.
“I had no idea you were housing a student from the academy,” Emeric said as the door closed behind Heather. “Do you intend to apprentice him?”
“I don’t want an apprentice,” Zachary dismissed. “Even if I did, he’s studying to take the Architect’s Exam soon. Then I believe he intends to study to become an ambassador. I would hardly be appropriate.”
“Ambassador?” Emeric whistled weakly, taking a seat beside Marcel, who was already helping himself to his drink. “He seems very young. Can’t be older than twenty?”
“Nineteen,” Zachary said.
“And he’s hoping to take the Architect’s Exam already? What’s the average age for that? Twenty-five ? Thirty? He’s ambitious.”
“A family trait,” Zachary grunted, dropping into his own chair and sipping his drink. Marcel peered over his glass, his eyes the same colour as the brandy.
“A relation?” he asked. “Cousin?”
“No,” Zachary snorted. “Brother.”
Emeric choked on his drink and Marcel placed his glass down quickly. Zachary chuckled softly at their surprise.
“A brother?” Emeric leant forward. “You never told us you had a brother!”
“Didn’t cross my mind,” Zachary half-lied. “I am rather prone to forgetting myself.”
“Forgetting?” Emeric spluttered. “How do you forget your own brother?”
“Oh please, Fold—I have sixteen known siblings.” Zachary shrugged. “Occasionally I struggle to keep track of them all.”
“Sixteen?” Emeric balked and Marcel reclaimed his drink from the table.
“Bastards,” he guessed.
“As you say. Rivalen’s bedded almost every servant he’s ever employed. I have fifteen sisters and one brother. There may be others, but…” Zachary waved indifferently. “I am the only legitimate one. He’s given the Zachary name to both Daniel and Katrina though.”
“Katrina…She’s your eldest sister, isn’t she?”
“The only one he’s ever loved.” Zachary tipped his head back to the ceiling.
“I’ve never understood it,” Emeric finally said, refilling his glass. “You have such a strained relationship with your father, why didn’t you take your mother’s name instead?”
Zachary’s lips twitched into a half-smile and he raised his glass. “A toast,” he proposed. “To our glorious King?”
“To dysfunctional families,” Marcel countered.
“To Rufus,” Emeric suggested quietly, his words met with silence.
“To Rufus,” they finally agreed.
They all drank deeply, Emeric drained his glass. Marcel pulled out and considered his pipe. For once the blond didn’t seem in the mood to smoke. Rufus’s fate weight heavily on all three of them.
“That damned fool.” Zachary stared into the fire. “He should have come home when he had the chance. He didn’t have to die like that—run off the road like a fox.”
“A fox was always his nature,” Marcel murmured. Emeric refilled his glass again. A knock came from the door and Heather stepped into the room, carrying another decanter and a bowl of salted bread crust.
“In case you finish the first.” She held up the alcohol. “And for when you do.” She placed the bread down.
Zachary took a swig of his drink and smiled stupidly up at her. “What would I do without you?”
“Suffer,” she replied matter-of-factly and he cackled.
“To bed with you, it’s late,” he ordered. “You need not wait up for us delinquents.”
Heather bowed to them all, bidding them goodnight. Zachary plucked some bread from the bowl and put it in his mouth. Marcel, after much consideration, began to stuff his pipe with leaf, whilst Emeric took another drink, staring drowsily into nothing.
It was he who eventually broke the silence. “Do you remember our first assignment together?”
“Oh stop it.” Zachary scowled. “We are not old men reminiscing.”
“I feel old,” Emeric whispered. His words echoed through Zachary with a dreary familiarity.
Zachary put his head in his hands. “If I recall,” he relented, “we were asked to investigate a town supposedly overrun with bandits. Merle was there only as our medic but it was he who conned us into their midst. Pretended we were minstrels of all things.”
“You know, I hadn’t known he could play the fiddle until that
day,” Emeric sniggered. “Or that he was a lover by nature, until he started wooing the leader’s chosen bride for information.”
“Wooing you say.” Zachary barked a laugh. “The way she looked at him, you’d have thought he was an incubi. A few minutes more and she’d have stolen him to her bed had the leader not arrived. Oh, but that bastard must have been seven foot tall.”
“Eight,” Marcel corrected.
“Hands made to strangle tree trunks.” Emeric poured himself a new glass. “That had Merle running.”
“Round and round the tavern, flapping uselessly like an inebriated gosling.” Zachary twirled his finger.
The three chuckled at the memory before petering out. Emeric downed his glass and refilled it, and Marcel eyed him. Zachary stood and moved to the fireplace, dusting his hands across it, the heat beat against his legs.
“They searched your homes as well, didn’t they?” he said faintly. Emeric retreated further into his chair.
Marcel didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
“Yes,” Emeric added timidly.
“How comforting it is to know we are loved so equally.” Zachary kept his back to them. “Our King is a fair man.”
“Consistent is the word.” Something akin to anger slipped into Marcel’s words, and it was strange to hear in the usually blank palette of his voice.
“Consistent,” Zachary repeated. He recalled the ride with Sverrin and rested his head against the wall, reminding himself to breathe. Reminding himself of what it had felt like to remove Rufus’s head, the weight of his rotting skull. Zachary wanted to wash his hands again.
“We should have never brought Sverrin back.” The words were so faint Zachary could have pretended Emeric never said them. But he did and Zachary turned on him so sharply he almost felt his neck crack.
“Bite your tongue!” he barked. “Before you give someone an excuse to behead you.”
Emeric shrank back at the venomous tone—but Athea, Zachary didn’t want it to be Emeric’s throat he was ordered to sink his teeth into. He didn’t want to hold up Emeric’s head to the cheer of traitor.
Blood of the Delphi (The Harmatia Cycle Book 2) Page 19
