“Take courage, my friend,” Embarr tried to ease. “I have had word from Béatrice—she travels today.”
This didn’t improve Isaac’s mood in the slightest. He dropped his hands and glared at Embarr. “Why would I take courage from that? It was her curse that did this. She’s killing him!”
“You and I both know it’s a great deal more complicated than that,” Embarr said, his voice distant. “She loves him.”
Isaac laughed bitterly. “But does she love him enough?”
“Time will tell.” Embarr shrugged, his black eyes cast over Varyn. “Her habit is to take pause at Helena’s Fort, before crossing into Kathra. My wager is that she will be with us before the week is out.”
“Does he have that long?” Isaac turned back to Varyn, concentrating on the unsteady rise and fall of Varyn’s chest.
“Dragons,” Embarr suddenly said.
“Pardon?”
“He said he was being hunted by a dragon. Do you have any idea what he meant by that, Isaac? Because Varyn has never been one for fanciful exclamations, but that one certainly borders close.”
Isaac actually laughed. “He told me about it long that—that a dragon from the Sickle Mountains was hunting him and that’s why he couldn’t stay in one place too long. I used to think it was just an excuse for his rambling nature, but…it’s as you say—it’s not in his character. He really believed it, trained every day in preparation. He told me he would either defeat the dragon, or die by it.”
Embarr looked over Isaac’s shoulder out of the window. “I see no dragons here.”
“No,” Isaac agreed. “Perhaps Varyn was wrong. The dragon isn’t from the Sickle—she’s from Harmatia, and she takes a human form.”
“Now, Isaac,” Embarr pretended to gasp, “I am frankly shocked you would even speak of Béatrice in that way. It’s very unlike you. I know—your optimistic heart has been solemn for too long. Come and lay your head upon my breast a while, I will sooth your troubles away.”
“I’ve seen what you do to the men who ‘lay their heads upon your breast’, so if you don’t mind, I’ll respectfully decline.”
“You wound me, but I will forgive you that.” Embarr fanned himself woefully.
“I heard that your Lieutenant’s dying. They’re calling it consumption. Shouldn’t you be at his bedside in his final hours?”
“Only if you want him to die quicker.” Embarr waved his hand. “By the by, the room is full of people. I can only function within this court if I prey on its individuals. A paragon of sensuality I may be, but my allure will not work against a mob.”
“Isn’t it dangerous for you to be here?”
“Hardly. Nobody wants to come in and see Varyn. They are all too afraid of him,” Embarr said. “But if I mean to be any use to anybody, I have to find a new victim. I want to go deeper into the court. Find someone with more influence, more power. Unfortunately, the higher I go, the more guarded they become, and the harder it is to slip my way in.”
“I might have the man for you,” Isaac said. “There’s a General who’s quite close to Bozidar—his brother in law.”
“Consider me intrigued. Tell me more—what can I expect?”
“He’s corrupt, boastful and lecherous, and they say his sexual tastes are…indecent.”
“All the qualities I look for in a man.” Embarr clapped a hand to his chest, as if swooning. “I thank you Isaac. I shall pay this General a little visit tonight, and see if I cannot establish myself more permanently in his chambers.”
Isaac laughed faintly. “At least one of us is amusing ourselves in this damned castle.” He looked mournfully back at Varyn, and Embarr grew sombre.
“Isaac,” he said softly, “you understand that it would be easier for Varyn if he died.”
Isaac groaned, hunching around himself a little tighter. “Don’t say that.”
“Death is better than the alternative. The King plans to sell him to the Shin.”
“They can’t banish him back, he hasn’t committed any crime!” Isaac cried. “He saved that lord’s family. He wouldn’t have killed him unless he had too. Varyn doesn’t murder innocents. But if the Shin get hold of him again, he’ll…” he couldn’t finish.
“In reality,” Embarr muttered, “Varyn’s crime is that he has the strength and power of a small army. That makes him valuable.”
“He’s a human being,” Isaac snapped his head up, “not some bundle of silks to be sold. Bozidar doesn’t understand Varyn’s worth. He’s saved hundreds of lives in the last twenty years…But in the hands of the Shin, he could kill thousands.” Isaac wilted. “Varyn would rather die than return to that life, I know…but all the same, I have to hope that there’s an alternative.”
“Isaac Thornton!” Embarr gasped, and Isaac jumped, looking around. Embarr was staring directly at Isaac, his black eyes wide and mouth split into a large smile. “You have just given me the spark of a brilliant idea!”
Isaac stared. “I have?”
“You have! That alternative you wish so desperately for—I may have it!” Embarr stood, speaking rapidly. “If I can get my hooks into that General you spoke of, than I may be able to save Varyn from the Shin.”
“Do you think your influence will really be enough to cheat King Bozidar out of that much gold?”
“There is something that Bozidar loves more than gold.” Embarr was pacing, his bluish skin catching the fire-light, giving it a translucent quality. “War.”
“You think there will be one?”
“All the stars are aligning, and the cards are falling prettily on the table. The Knights of the Delphi have their Prince, and they are angered by the death of Rufus Merle. I cannot imagine it will be long before they ride against Harmatia, and Bethean will follow.”
“How does that help us?”
“Because it will be all too sweet an opportunity for Bozidar to miss. By the laws of their alliance, Bozidar would send reinforcements to his grandson Sverrin. Should the war go in their favour, Bozidar could pillage Bethean to his heart’s content. But should the power tip against Harmatia, Bozidar would take the opportunity to seize control of it instead—something he has been craving since he sent his daughter off to marry Thestian.” Embarr stopped his pacing and clapped his hands together. “Bethean and Harmatia are worth more gold than Varyn.”
“But how does Varyn come into it?” Isaac asked.
“Simple. I could have it whispered into the King’s ear what an asset Varyn would be in his conquest. There are two things which stand in Bozidar’s way. Harmatia have their Night Patrol, and the Faerie alliance with Bethean means that they had the aid of the Seelie Court. But Varyn has fought monsters for years—they are his speciality. Put him at the head of an Isny army and he could be unstoppable.”
“Octania’s spark—that may just work! But…” Isaac shook his head. “Varyn won’t want anything to do with it.”
“Varyn may not live the night out,” Embarr said. “Should he somehow survive this trial, he would like the Shin even less. I am sorry, my friend, but unpleasant situations call for unpleasant solutions. I cannot simply whisk him away, as I have done with others. He is too notorious, and I could never convince him to stay away from Kathra. So he must earn his own freedom.”
Isaac frowned. “If he was enlisted in the army, he’ll be riding against the Knights of the Delphi, and the Seelie Court…”
“Most likely, yes.”
Isaac laughed humourlessly. “Then whose side are you on, Embarr?”
“Where I have always been,” Embarr said. “On the side of my friends.”
“Are you measuring me up for a portrait?” Zachary asked dully, not bothering to look up from his book.
Marcel didn’t reply, continuing his strict vigil. Zachary snapped the book closed. He felt queasy under Marcel’s gaze. All the other Night Patrol had long since left, including Emeric who hadn’t bothered to bid Zachary farewell. Marcel might have stayed behind to see his sister safely of
f, but by his intent stare, Zachary suspected there was another, more prominent reason.
“Oh, what?” he eventually demanded. “What do you want me to say? That I am sorry for rambling like a drunkard? That what I said made no sense? That today is my last day on earth? What do you want me to say, Hathely?”
“Are you demented?” Marcel responded, and Zachary threw back his head with a hard laugh, his eyes squeezed shut. For a horrifying moment, he thought he might cry. He dropped his face into his hands and took several long, shuddering breaths. It felt like so long since he’d slept.
Marcel touched his shoulder. He’d seen Zachary through many emotions—rage, joy, absolute despair, but he’d never witnessed this particular brand of fear. He pried Zachary’s hands away and looked him hard in the eye. “What are you doing?” he asked in a hard whisper. “You are our captain—pull yourself together.”
Again, Zachary wanted to laugh, but a quick look from Marcel told him it wouldn’t be wise. His second in command had gone from his usual monotone to very serious, his golden eyes narrowed.
“Arlen?”
“Marcel,” Zachary’s voice cracked a little, “you’re my second in command—Athea, you’re my closest friend. Can’t you see what’s happening? I am not losing control—that would imply I had any. Gods man, you see everything in this city.” He seized his friend and drew him closer, pressing his forehead almost feverishly to Marcel’s, as if willing the information to cross telepathically. “Can’t you see this?”
Marcel grew rigid at this uncharacteristic contact. Slowly he pushed himself away, and Zachary dropped his head. Marcel knelt down, careful to keep a small distance between them.
“You are not well,” he said.
“That’s an understatement,” Zachary spat bitterly, and at Marcel’s perplexed expression, heaved a sigh. “Hathely, I am terrified. And I wish I could tell you what I know, but I can’t involve you.” He closed his eyes. “Before being my friend, I sometimes have to allow you to be my subordinate. If I am compromised, your head must be clear.”
Marcel’s frown remained. It must have been difficult for him—he usually knew everybody’s secrets before they did. To be kept in the dark now, about an affair so close to him, must have been a great frustration.
This is stupid, Zachary thought. He’ll be safer knowing. He’ll be able to prepare.
Safer? Zachary’s more sensible side spoke out. No. If he knew, he’d try to help. He’d get involved. I can’t put him at risk just for the satisfaction of sharing my fear.
Marcel seemed to be in tune with his mental debate and, not for the first time, Zachary wondered whether the Hathelys—for Béatrice was also notoriously good at weaning out secrets—might not have some ability to read minds.
“I think now,” Marcel spoke slowly, “you are in need of a friend before a soldier. You may permit yourself that.”
“Not today.” Zachary gave a strained grin. “One of us needs to sleep at night.”
Marcel growled deeply. He picked himself up and moved away, pulling out his pipe. “Incroyable,” he muttered in Réneian.
Zachary could hear an odd note of disappointment in his friend’s voice. His resolution began to stumble, like a child trying to appease an older sibling. “Have you seen Lord Farthing these days?”
Marcel paused in preparing his pipe. “Isaac Thornton’s master?”
“Have you noticed how…strange, he’s been?”
“He was almost fatally sick,” Marcel said, echoing the lie that had been passed on through the court. “Why?”
Zachary thought on the man. He’d known Lord Farthing only fleetingly through Isaac, but there had always been a mutual respect. Now, whenever Zachary saw him, he was cast back to that encounter in the crypts—Lord Farthing, starved of light and sensation, staring with hungry, empty eyes. Even now, something of his eyes seemed to still be searching for the light. Something of his eyes resembled Sverrin’s.
“Arlen,” Marcel asked softly, “are you taken with what he had?”
“What?” Zachary momentarily forgot the lie. “Oh Healing Septus, no. I am in perfect health.” He watched Marcel’s expression grow tight with frustration. “Peace, my friend—truly, I am well. Only tired. Very, very tired.”
At the very least, Marcel seemed to believe that, though the answer clearly hadn’t satisfied him.
Zachary, feeling himself close to succumbing, steered the conversation. Marcel wanted to know what was wrong, and at the very least, Zachary could answer one aspect of that.
“You remember Daniel?”
“Your brother.”
“Yes.” Zachary looked up at the ceiling. “He invited his mother to come and stay in the house.”
“Isolde?”
“Yes,” Zachary huffed. “May I sleep at yours?”
“No,” Marcel answered flatly.
“Hah. Some sanctuary you are.” Zachary chuckled, and then grew quiet. “Hathely, I can trust you, can’t I?”
“Always.”
The word, said with such fierce sincerity, filled Zachary with great calm. The world stood in disorder—dead men alive, good men dead, friends as traitors and the living buried in stone coffins, but there remained one constant in Marcel’s assurance. One thing on which Zachary could absolutely rely. He stood abruptly.
“I am going to die, Hathely,” he announced. “I don’t know when, but it is not a distant fate. Don’t talk,” he said as Marcel made to interrupt. “Listen. Don’t argue with me. I am going to die. This is now a fact. But before I do, I need your assurance. My men, our men, require guidance. Promise me that you will—”
“No,” Marcel cut in plainly, and putting his pipe in his mouth he turned away.
“Hathely—”
“No,” Marcel repeated. “I will not lead them.”
“Damn you, there’s no one else to succeed me!”
“Train someone.”
“That could take years!”
“Then do not die,” Marcel said flippantly.
Zachary groaned. “Oh, you’re so incredibly difficult sometimes.”
Marcel didn’t justify that with a response, giving Zachary a pointed look just as the door opened. Béatrice flounced in.
“My darling cousin told me I would find you here.” She beamed at them both, clad in a black and crimson gown, embedded with garnets to match her eyes. “Come Arlen, the carriage is ready and the road awaits.”
Zachary had almost forgotten his duty. He bowed. “Of course. I am ready to leave at your leisure.”
Béatrice looked between the pair, like a mother who’d come across her children squabbling. “Ça alors, the pair of you look utterly morose. Have I interrupted something?”
“No,” Zachary assured. “You brother is simply unforgivably lazy.”
“This we know.” Béatrice leant forward and pinched Marcel’s cheek, as if he were still a baby. He scowled, but didn’t bat her away. “Mon p‘tit bébé paresseux,” she goaded.
“Tais-toi,” he shushed her.
“Maman?” From the door a tiny figure appeared. Béatrice turned with a smile and held out her hand.
“Morelle,” she invited, summoning her daughter to her. The young girl approached, looking between her uncle and Zachary with a carefree curiosity. She curtsied to the latter.
“Good evening, my lord.”
Zachary inclined his head with a smile. He knew very little about Marcel’s niece, but that she was a legitimised bastard from one of Béatrice’s love affairs, and that she’d inherited all of her mother’s grace and beauty, with the same dark hair, Réneian complexion, and curved features. Her eyes, however, must have come from her father, for they were almost black, and hinted to a lineage that should have brought shame down on her. In fact, Morelle’s entire conception should have ruined Béatrice’s reputation in civil society forever, but the woman was clever. She’d formed a quick alliance with Sverrin during the early months of her pregnancy, and then had stopped all slander by merely
giving no room for it. Where others might have retreated to the country in quiet shame, Béatrice had flaunted her pregnancy with boastful pride, as any married woman might. The lords and ladies of the court, bewitched by her charm and charisma, had fallen into step with her whims, and Morelle was born already adored and recognised as a legitimate daughter of the court.
It was the single greatest manipulation Zachary had ever seen, and it made him more wary of the woman than ever. Béatrice could talk the noose away from around her neck, her silver tongue was so smart.
“Ma chérie,” Béatrice clasped her daughter’s face gently. She tipped it down and planted a kiss on top of Morelle’s head. “Il faut que je m’en aille. Your uncles Marcel and Emeric will take care of you until I am home.”
Morelle took her mother’s wrists. “Maman,” her vowels were warm and lightly accented, like her mother, “in your heart, you will know what to do.”
Béatrice laughed softly. “Ah, ma belle, I have known what I was going to do all along.”
Morelle wasn’t deterred, “But in your heart,” she repeated, “you will know what to do now.”
An almost invisible stiffness came over Béatrice, and she smiled and traced her fingers down Morelle’s cheek, mapping her face. “Je l’espère.”
Zachary watched the display with interest. It was as he and Belphegore had thought— Béatrice was going to Sigel’eg for her own reasons.
“Shall we?” Zachary gestured and Béatrice made to follow him, giving her daughter one last kiss goodbye.
As Béatrice passed him however, quick as lightening, Marcel seized her elbow. Béatrice faltered and the two siblings shared a meaningful stare, as if speaking internally.
It was times like this that Marcel and Béatrice, who couldn’t have been more contrary people in features and manner, shared a resemblance with one another so striking they might have been twins. For all their superficial dissimilarities, Zachary knew they couldn’t be more alike.
Blood of the Delphi (The Harmatia Cycle Book 2) Page 36
