“My Love’s got the sky, in bonny blue eyes, a pocket of wit and mind of fire. And still fresh as lily, he stains my breast plate, with wayward promises to keep my heart safe,” Howell sang.
Rufus relented in his stride, stopping by a group of flowering hawthorn trees. He bowed his head. “That’s not fair.”
“What’s that?” Howell asked innocently.
“That song.” Rufus closed his eyes. He was drawn back into distant memories, to a time when the possibility of a life beyond his care for Joshua had seemed feasible. A future born from tiny, insignificant moments of love. Rufus recalled it all—the way Howell’s hair smelled when he’d been out on a voyage; how his voice would carry through the house from outside as he worked, singing with the birds; how sometimes Howell would laugh so hard, tears would spring to his eyes and make them shine like horse-chestnuts. Rufus hadn’t loved him straight away, but with each passing day, something had stirred within him, and Rufus knew they could be happy together. It wasn’t like Mielane, who’d captivated his every waking and sleeping hour, but it had been good and honest, and Rufus had been ready for it.
“If only you were as ready for DuGilles and his alchemists,” Howell spoke Rufus’s thoughts. Rufus turned back to him, his hand automatically covering the spot on his stomach where the brand was burnt into his flesh.
“Why are you here as Howell?”
“I think you know,” Howell said.
Rufus combed his fingers through his hair, sniffing. “You want me to tell Fae. Tell her what happened.”
“Aye, I do.”
“And what would that serve other than to distance me even more from her?” Rufus took off again, his feet guiding him toward the ravine where Korrick had tested Joshua. Howell meandered after him, picking another flower, his expression peaceful.
“You ’onestly think that what DuGilles did to you drove me away?”
“You’re not Howell,” Rufus said fiercely. “Howell is probably hauled in a tavern somewhere in Killian, smuggling another shipment of Sverrin’s copper out to Réne, and guzzling his fifth tankard with a better man than me sat opposite him.”
“Paint your fine details if you will, but I’d not be ’ere arguin’ with you, if a part of you weren’t privy to the pissin’ truth—that you came ’ome to me, mauled and ’alf-mad, but it weren’t your scars that drove me away.”
Rufus reached the ravine and stopped at its edge, peering over into the turbulent water below. He closed his eyes, vertigo making his head spin as he tipped, enjoying the freedom of the potential fall. Opening his eyes, he saw a black kite circling up in the sky, dipping in and out of the air as agile as a fish.
“What we decided was mutual.”
“Aye, because I wasn’t fool enough to fight a decision you’d already made. Not for a man who loved me less than I loved ’im.”
“Not this again.” Rufus took Howell by the lapels. “It’s not true. Our feelings, my feelings, they were different, but not less. I…” Rufus released him. “I cared for him very deeply.”
“But not enough to share your burden.”
“How could I? Mine wasn’t a life to be shared. They’d have caught him too, they’d have killed him or worse.” Rufus pulled the ring from around the chain on his neck. “I’ve caused the death of one lover already—I didn’t need to add him to the list.”
“Aye, very noble.” Howell didn’t raise himself to Rufus’s dramatics, sidling past him and sitting down on the edge of the ravine.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Ach, s’nothin’.” Howell pulled out a hipflask and took a swig. “Just wonderin’ ’ow you plan to use the same excuse on Fae.”
Rufus had no answer for that, and Howell offered him the hipflask. Although Rufus knew it wasn’t real, he accepted and took a swig. The brandy slipped down his throat like it had the day he and Howell had parted ways. It had been an awkward exchange. Rufus had struggled to meet his lover’s eye, and sensing his discomfort, Howell had done what he did best—made a joke of Rufus’s flittering nature, offered him a drink and sang a song.
“My Love’s got the sky, in bonny blue eyes,
A pocket of wit and mind of fire.
And still fresh as lily, he stains my breast plate,
With his wayward promises to keep my heart safe
My lover is turned, and colder than bone,
But I’ll weep for him sweetness, at the turn of the stone.
A warrior am I, who knows my fate yet
The crimson river where I’ll be laid to rest.
To war is my call, my sword is my pride
But I ne’er can forget, my lover’s blue eyes.
My lover is far, and I, long from home,
But I’ll weep for him sweetness, at the turn of the stone.
My lover is gone, and I to my death,
But I’ll weep for him sweetness, ’til my final breath.”
“I’d never heard that song before or since,” Rufus recalled. “He wrote it on the spot, I think. He always promised to write me a song…It shouldn’t have been that one.”
“Hmm,” Howell hummed in agreement, reclaiming his brandy. “We punish those who break our ’earts in the softest ways.”
Rufus came and sat beside him. “Better to break his heart than kill him.”
“You think that’s ’onestly what it’d come to?”
Rufus turned his hands over. “If you’re to be believed, and Morrigan is right…then I’m going to kill a lot of people.”
“Have you submitted to that now?”
“I don’t want to be. But my hands are already bloodstained.” Rufus chucked sadly. “What waters could clean that away now?”
“Athea if I know, you morose bastard.” Howell clapped him on the back and stood. “But the Rufus I knew, ’e wouldn’t give up scrubbin’ all the same. And if not for me, or you, then for your lad, and the next lover you invite into more than just your bed.”
Rufus laughed. “I don’t think I have to worry about another lover—” He turned to Howell, but the man had disappeared, and Rufus was alone. “…Howell?” he called faintly. His voice echoed faintly, through the empty ravine.
“You caught him?” Embarr Reagon tried to keep the surprise from his voice as he straddled the young Lieutenant beneath him. “Varyn the Hunter?”
“I did,” the Lieutenant replied, the scar down his face pale in the candle light. He caressed Embarr’s thighs.
Embarr forced a loving smile easily onto his face, choosing his words carefully. “I heard he was as fierce as a dragon—how did you bring him to justice?”
The Gancanagh stroked his victim’s chest. The Lieutenant coughed—a painful sound. He wouldn’t last much longer—Embarr had been feeding on him for some time now, using him to spy on the Kathrak court. The Gancanagh didn’t take any pleasure killing the man in this way, but he couldn’t move on until the Lieutenant was dead. The less people who knew Embarr was in the castle, the longer he would be able to operate before he was discovered.
“There was nothing fierce about the Hunter,” the Lieutenant spat.
“No?”
“No. I followed him for days on horseback, chased him down—I was ready for a fight,” the Lieutenant said. “But he just surrendered. Made up some cock-an-bull story about being hunted by a dragon. Kept saying we couldn’t bring him to the capital, because it was too dangerous…Well he’s rotting in the dungeons now.”
This news worried Embarr. He knew Varyn—the Hunter wasn’t easy prey. That the Lieutenant and his meagre soldiers had succeeded in bringing him down could only mean the worse. The curse was starting to take effect. Embarr tried to keep the concern from his face.
“And what is to be his sentence? As your quarry, surely you will be honoured with claiming his head?”
The Lieutenant coughed again. “No, my beloved,” he said. “The King wants to sell him back to the Shin, if the Hunter lasts that long. We cannot get a price until the snow has cleare
d—the mountains are impenetrable.”
Embarr repressed his grimace. Varyn had spent years a slave to the Shin and had sacrificed a great deal in order to buy his freedom. Embarr wouldn’t let him be returned to those tyrants, not now.
“What did you mean—if he lasts that long? Is the Hunter unwell?”
The Lieutenant’s face soured. “Who knows? They say he does nothing but writhe in pain and cry out like he has poison in his belly…This so called great Hunter.”
Embarr nodded, and the Lieutenant coughed again. Embarr leant over to the table, and picked up the tankard that was placed there. He pressed it he made the Lieutenant hands.
“Drink, my darling,” he said sweetly. Drink, and let me think a moment.
The Lieutenant did as instructed, and Embarr settled back, trying to decide how best to proceed. Isaac Thornton was already on his way to Sigel’eg. Embarr would have to catch him on his arrival and convey the news in secret. Isaac, with his authority as a Magi, might have the power to assist Varyn where Embarr couldn’t.
“I feel wretched,” the Lieutenant mumbled, finishing his drink. Embarr leant down and kissed him.
“Yes, I can only imagine. You shall not last another week with me.”
The Lieutenant only smiled, the words falling on deaf ears, disguised by their sweet tone.
Let him hear what he wants, Embarr thought, it will be his only comfort now.
When Zachary arrived in the throne room, it was all but empty. Sverrin was lounged in his throne in the company of an unfamiliar dark-haired man, who stood below him, between a set of guards. Zachary, unsure of what to do, stood silently in the doorway until his King looked up. Sverrin smiled broadly.
“Zachary,” he welcomed. “There you are! I am sorry to have disturbed you, I imagine you were still abed. I need your assistance with something. I am dealing with a sensitive matter and need a translator.”
Zachary was so taken aback by Sverrin’s warm tone that he simply stood for a moment, blinking stupidly. “A translator?”
“Yes.” Sverrin gestured down to the man before him.
He was a strong, ruggedly handsome sort, with powerful hands and an amicable air. As Zachary examined him, the prisoner looked back and gave him an inane, cheerful smile.
“This man is from Corhlam—your own county. We picked him up in one of the mining villages, but he seems to only speak Althion. As the matter of our conversation is particular, and you are the only trustworthy man I know who can speak the tongue, I would like you to mediate for me.”
Zachary fumbled with his words. He’d gathered himself on the walk down, preparing to defend Emeric’s actions in the Southern Quarters. It hadn’t occurred to him that his summons might have been for something entirely unrelated.
“I will endeavour to do my best, Your Majesty.” Zachary bowed, and greeted the Corlavite, who smiled widely, glad to hear his own language. Somehow, his enthusiastic expression made Zachary feel more at ease. There was a sense about the man, as if he was happy living by life’s simplest pleasures.
“Ask him if he knows why he’s here,” Sverrin bid, and Zachary obeyed.
“My a with balyow y veuredh.” The Corlavite pointed a thumb at himself. “Lader vyth ny'm tremenas,” he said proudly.
“He guards your mines, Your Majesty.” Zachary’s smile widened. “He claims no thief has ever gotten passed him.”
“That is commendable, and I thank him for his service,” Sverrin said. “I am afraid, however,” Sverrin continued, and Zachary grew cold, “that his summons was on more unfortunate business.”
The Corlavite continued to smile simply. Sverrin had maintained a cordial tone, giving no indication that the air had shifted. He leant forward in his throne.
“You see, there have been reports that this ‘faithful’ man has been heard spreading rebellious ideals. Ask him if this is true.”
Zachary licked his lips, his mouth dry, and obeyed. He reworded the question more politely, asking if the man was conscious of rumours about him raising upheaval.
“My a flows pan evav, mes heb bodh a wul drog,” the Corlavite said with a raucous laugh, like he was sharing a joke. His eyes were a bright and shining brown, but Zachary noticed a flicker of something beneath them.
“He says that he’s prone to rambling after a few drinks, but I don’t think there’s any malicious intent behind it,” Zachary said. “He seems a simple man.”
“Ask him what he thinks of his King?”
Zachary did, and the Corlavite got onto one knee. “Lel vydhav pup-prys dhe Vyghtern a gar y bobel.”
I will always be loyal to a King who loves his people.
Zachary narrowed his eyes at the wording of this statement. “He says that he will always be loyal to you, Your Majesty, for the love you have for your people,” Zachary reiterated, and the Corlavite looked up and caught his eye. It was brief, but Zachary realised the Corlavite had caught the careful rewording of his translation. And if that were so, the man probably understood everything.
This is a façade, Zachary was suddenly sure. He understands exactly what’s happening and what’s being said.
“Nobly spoken,” Sverrin said. “But anyone can speak noble words. Ask him what his thoughts on the traitor are. It is my understanding that Rufus Merle’s desertion made him somewhat of a figure head for rebellious ideals. Oh, and Zachary—be sympathetic with him. Make him feel he has nothing to hide.”
Zachary fought the urge to shudder. He locked eyes with the Corlavite. “A wodhes'ta kewsel Nowydtavas?” he asked. Not Sverrin’s question, but his own.
The Corlavite gave him a shallow nod. Zachary almost groaned—so the man could speak Nowydtavas, the Common Tongue. This was just a pretence to play innocent. And it was good pretence. Even as Zachary asked the Corlavite whether he understood just how much danger he was in, the man simply gave a nod, and a wide smile, compromising nothing with his expression. He looked utterly harmless.
Why am I disguising the truth? Zachary demanded himself. Why haven’t I told Sverrin that this man is a liar?
Zachary turned the question on the Corlavite, begging for an excuse. The Corlavite was one of his people, and strange as it was, the Magi wanted to protect him.
Give me a reason, Zachary thought. Give me a reason not to sell you out.
The Corlavite stared deeply into Zachary’s eyes. “Yn despit dhe'th trayturi, Rufus a gewsi gans revrons ahanas.”
Zachary went cold. Because despite your betrayal, Rufus spoke highly of you.
“What did he say?” Sverrin voice rose. “I heard the traitor’s name.”
Zachary swallowed. “He said that he met Merle once, and that…that Merle spoke of me.” He tried to stick to as much of the truth as he could.
“Ask him where? When? Did he offer the traitor shelter?” Sverrin spoke quickly. “Does he know where the traitor’s parents have gone? Whether they’re part of the rebellion?”
Zachary faithfully relayed the question, keen for his own answers. How had the Corlavite known Rufus? When had they been together? What had befallen them?
The Corlavite spoke earnestly with Zachary. Yes, he’d known Rufus for many years. They’d been lovers and had lived together in a small mining village in Corhlam. There, they’d been happy, until the alchemists had started their hunt, and Rufus had been forced to flee. The Corlavite had travelled with him into Bethean, but as the danger mounted, they’d eventually parted ways under Rufus’s insistence. The Corlavite never saw Rufus again, and had no knowledge of the rest of the Merle family. The ‘treacherous words’ the Corlavite had been arrested for saying, had been words of mourning, upon the discovery of Rufus’s death.
Zachary listened weakly, imaging it all too well. Somehow, throughout his story, the Corlavite maintained his innocent expression, never wavering in his smile.
“What did he say?” Sverrin asked impatiently.
Zachary collected his thoughts, weighing his options. The smartest thing would be to sell the Cor
lavite out. Such a show of loyalty on Zachary’s part would please Sverrin, and no doubt endear Zachary further to him, smoothing over any previous unpleasantness. Zachary had a great deal to gain from being truthful, and very little incentive to protect the Corlavite, of whom he knew nothing. And yet...
“He says that he met Merle on the road. They shared shelter in a stable for the night and then parted ways. It was ten years ago, but he recalls it well. He says that it was difficult to learn that Merle was a traitor, as they shared bread and Merle was kind to him. He knows nothing beyond that, about any rebellion or the Merle family.” Zachary clasped his hands behind his back, standing stiff. “Any sympathetic words he might have said in Merle’s defence were called back from a distant impression. He felt betrayed to have such a kindly memory tainted by the reality of who Merle was.”
“I see.” Sverrin settled back in his throne. “Do you believe him, Zachary?”
“I do.” Zachary turned back to his King, who sighed, and gave a forgiving nod.
“In which case, he will be allowed to serve a minimal sentence,” Sverrin said. “Guards, take him down to the paupers’ dungeon, and call the physician to come and remove his tongue. Better to take it out, before he accidentally betrays himself again.”
Sverrin gazed down at the Corlavite, who bowed his head, maintaining his stupid smile. Zachary stood in awe of the man, capable of maintain his façade even in the face of this sentence. A man was free in death—he could curse or praise himself to his own grave and be a martyr for it, but a silenced man was a captured man and Sverrin knew that.
As the guards accompanied the Corlavite away, Zachary couldn’t help but call out. “Pyth yw dha hanow?”
The man looked back at him, and for the first time, a trace of sadness came into his expression. “Howell. Ow hanow yw Howell,” he said and then left the room in silence.
“What did you ask him?” Sverrin asked.
“His name. I thought it was only right to hear it, before he lost the ability to say.”
Blood of the Delphi (The Harmatia Cycle Book 2) Page 29
