“Arlen, stop!” Belphegore roared, and out and around the grounds, people turned to look at them. Belphegore quickly calmed himself, Zachary putting several strides between them and flopping back against the wall. “How dare you question my love for you?” Belphegore continued in a soft voice. “How dare you use Rufus’s name in such a way? You are my apprentice. Have I failed you so badly that you think I do not still honour that?”
“I think that very soon, any semblance of me that you’re proud of will be gone. And you’ll never hear my voice again, or see my eyes, or know me. My only request is that you don’t hurry that process.”
“Arlen, what are you talking about?”
“You really don’t know, do you?” Zachary pushed himself away from the wall. “Would you do anything if you did?” He shook his head before Belphegore could answer, drawing in a ragged breath. “It doesn’t matter. You’d better go—the King isn’t a patient man. I will lead an envoy to Bethean if that’s your wish, but spare me the politics. From here, I only want to live in peace.”
Belphegore called after him, but Zachary stalked away, unwilling to expose any more of himself. Their display had been too public—Zachary would have to control himself before rumours began to fly that he was running mad. If he maintained his behaviour, they would confine him to his chambers, and the physicians would start clucking around him, throwing about their remedies. And then DuGilles would arrive, with his magical cure.
Zachary made it home without incident, people quickly moving out of his path, wary of his dark expression. There was one good thing to be said about having severe features—they were an excellent deterrent when Zachary wanted to be alone.
He threw open the doors and almost collided with woman on the other side. Zachary corrected himself, made to apologise and then, for the second time in so many minutes, grew very still.
Isolde stared back at him, her own eyes wide. Amidst the chaos of the dragon attack, Zachary had forgotten that Daniel had invited her, and now here she was, like something out of a nightmare.
She’d changed over the last nineteen years. Her face was still as lovely as the day he’d met her, but it seemed drained of something, somehow. Where once she’d toiled in the kitchen and around the house as a servant, she was now well-dressed and pampered. And yet, she looked as if she hadn’t slept a full night in ten years. There were no lines of laughter around her eyes and mouth, where Zachary had expected them to form. Her dark eyes were dull, and her full lips somehow seemed thinner, though that was perhaps because she was pursing her mouth.
Neither of them spoke as they studied each other in stunned silence. Daniel came in from the dining hall and stopping short. The boy had no idea of the history that lay between them, and as the silence stretched, it grew heavier. Finally, Isolde seemed to remember herself.
“Milord.” She curtsied deeply, tearing her eyes away from Zachary.
“Isolde,” he forced back stiffly, and then, feeling his duty as host done, he pushed past her and made his way up to his bedroom. Only when the door was closed and locked, did he allow himself to slide to the floor, helpless.
“Korrick has returned from the border—it’s as Joshua says,” Fae said, throwing open Boyd’s doors and stepping into the physician’s chambers. Inside, Boyd, Rufus and Joshua were gathered waiting for news. The Prince looked up from where he was resting, exhausted, in Rufus’s arms.
Since the first vision of the dragon attack, they’d come again in waves. Korrick had excused Joshua from training, and had departed solemnly for Bethean to confirm whether the visions were true. The Prince had spent most of the days since out of sunlight, flittering between consciousness under Boyd’s care.
Never before had his visions come so strongly and with such force. Yet, try as Joshua might to connect with Varyn again, he’d been unable since the woman named Béatrice had pushed him out of the dream.
“Sigel’eg is under attack from the largest dragon in written history.”
“Is the city lost?” Boyd chewed his thumb, glancing nervously at Joshua, who closed his eyes.
“It’s uncertain. The dragon has already caused considerable damage however, and the armies of Kathra have not been able to bring it down. The death toll continues to rise.” Fae sat on the bed where Joshua was laid, cradled in his brother’s lap. He felt her hand brush his arm in quiet comfort.
“How is he?” she asked Rufus.
“The visions are getting stronger. Whatever is drawing him to Sigel’eg must be very important.”
“Have you seen any of it?” Fae asked.
“Flashes,” Rufus admitted. “Sometimes when I’m near him, I share the burden. But I’ve never seen them come so frequently and so strong.”
“Varyn,” Joshua moaned. “He’s…Varyn is…” he drew off and slumped. “He needs to live.”
“Who is Varyn?” Boyd asked softly, as if Joshua might not hear him if he spoke low enough.
“I don’t know, but he’s clearly someone significant to our future.” Rufus kissed the crown of Joshua’s head. “Did Korrick bring any more news, Fae?”
“Rumours are spreading in Bethean that Harmatia has not yet sent aid. Many believe they don’t intend to.”
“So Sverrin is content to watch Sigel’eg burn?” Rufus cursed. “Those poor people.”
“King Markus is sending relief and aid for the villages around Sigel’eg that can be reached, but the situation is dire.” Fae wrapped her fingers around Joshua’s, and he could feel her fear strumming through her. She was worried about him, worried what the continuous destruction would do for his visions. Joshua pushed himself up.
“I need to see,” he said weakly. “I need to reach Varyn.”
“What you need is to rest.” Boyd moved around from his desk. “These visions are putting your body under extreme stress. You shouldn’t encourage them.”
“The visions won’t stop until it’s over. And if my visions won’t show me what I need, then I have to get my own answers.” Joshua pushed himself up and away from Rufus, and struggled down onto the floor. He wobbled dangerously but steadied himself, stumbling slowly across to Boyd’s shelves. Fae stayed close behind him, shadowing Joshua in-case he fell. “I need an opiate. Some colour-leaf seeds, or poppy maybe.”
Rufus inhaled sharply. “You mean to reach Varyn as you did me?” he realised, and Joshua nodded. “Will it work? Our ability is usually limited within the Delphi.”
“What exactly is he trying to do?” Boyd demanded.
“We have a certain skill,” Rufus explained, “of finding each other. I used it often to track Jionat when he ran away, and Éliane used it to find us in Sarrin after the munity. It allows us to sense each other’s presence, and follow the shadow of their journey until we find them.”
“And what exactly does that have to do with opiates?” Boyd was rapidly losing his temper, snatching a bottle of dried herbs from Joshua’s hands as he examined it.
“When DuGilles took Rufus,” Joshua said calmly, “I couldn’t follow his trail. I had visions, but couldn’t see where they were keeping him. Finally, Howell found a book that said certain medicinal herbs could be used to direct powers like mine. If I couldn’t follow Rufus physically, I could do it mentally. I took some opiates, and was able to project myself to Rufus’s location. I want to try the same for Varyn—if I could speak with him, if I could just see what’s happening—”
“That is absolute madness!” Boyd gabbled.
“Joshua,” Fae said, “are you even sure it would work? Varyn is not of your blood.”
“No, but we’re connected. I’ve spoken with him before, in dreams. Somehow, he and I are tied. Fae, please—if I don’t do this, I think these visions are going to kill me,” Joshua admitted, his legs shaking.
Fae exchanged a dismayed look with Boyd, and then turned to Rufus, who gave a solemn nod.
“I don’t like the risk, but I fear the alternative would be worse. Let’s try.”
Joshua almost sank
to the floor with relief. His brother came and fetched him from the shelves, bringing him back to the bed. He was laid down gently, while Boyd mixed a concoction, muttering angrily as he did.
Rufus helped Joshua drink it down, resuming his position behind the boy, so that Joshua could rest against his chest.
As Joshua swallowed the bitter potion, he was seized with a sudden fear. “Don’t let go of me,” he begged Rufus. “I don’t want to go alone.”
“I’ve got you, I promise.”
The drugs worked quickly, to Boyd’s credit, and they didn’t bring with them the rush of nausea that Joshua had suffered last time.
As his mind grew lax, he felt himself begin to drift from the room. It was the first moment of relief he’d had since the visions had started and he was tempted to simply float in the in between state and rest. But Joshua knew he didn’t have time. The effects of the drug wouldn’t last for long—he had to find Varyn.
The Prince forced himself to focus, casting his mind out to the Hunter, searching desperately for any sense of him. Everything felt clouded, but Joshua pushed himself further, wading through the haze. There had to be something he could use, the tail end of a memory he could grip onto—anything to drag himself toward Varyn…
Something moved through the mist ahead. Joshua jolted, surprised. It was a young girl, around his age, with dark hair and deep black eyes. She stood in the swirling darkness, and extended her hand toward him.
“Par ici,” she said.
“What?” Joshua blinked, and she grabbed his hand.
There was a rushing sound. The girl disappeared, swallowed up in the darkness, and Joshua was dragged forward. A strange mix of noises and sensations flooded over him, like he was being pierced with needles, dangled upside down and twisted all at once. And then the smell of smoke filled his nostrils and he coughed hard, the world clearing around him.
A pair of blazing yellow eyes stared hard into his, and Joshua grew still, petrified, as he looked directly into the face of the black-scaled dragon.
It was crouched barely a few strides from him, neck elongated, head resting on the ground. Fire curled from its nostrils, which were bleeding—someone had slashed it across the snout.
Fear, anger and confusion descended over Joshua, like a heavy fall of snow. It took him a moment to realise that the emotions weren’t his own. He choked and gasped, and the dragon seemed to whine, its voice reverberating through the stone.
Joshua looked up and around, and saw the reason for its discomfort. Dragons were creatures of the air, but this one had been lured down into the streets of Sigel’eg. It had squeezed its vast body between the buildings in pursuit of its prey, and now it couldn’t spread its wings or move.
Somehow, it had allowed itself to be trapped in a way that no intelligent creature should have. Joshua, terrified as he was, found himself extending his hand, and tremulously he rested it against the monster’s torn snout. As he looked, he realised that the hand wasn’t his own.
“This your power, Joshua? To look into the hearts of others?” Varyn’s voice came from his mouth. No—it was the other way around, it was Varyn’s mouth, his body. Joshua had slipped into the Hunter’s mind, the two suddenly unified. He could feel everything that Varyn did, just as Varyn could feel him. Their minds collided, and mixed.
The waves of intelligible emotion shifted into a concise line as Varyn’s fingers stroked the Dragon’s snout. Joshua felt himself fading, disintegrating into Varyn. All at once he was the Hunter, and he knew things, his head pooling with memories and sensations that weren’t his own
This wasn’t the first dragon he’d killed. That had been when he was eight years old. The dragon too had been nothing but a baby, hunting on its own for the first time, barely bigger than the house it attacked. Varyn’s house—no, not Varyn, his name had been Marek then. That was what all the little boys from Mont’aria were called, until they earned their names.
His father was a blacksmith, whose fine work had earned him general favour in the community, and with the Shin, allowing them a comfortable life. They could afford a meal a day—two sometimes on occasions, and had a house that had two rooms. His mother had been a descendent of one of the Elves—a Fomorii, as they called themselves. Black-eyed, beautiful, impossibly strong.
Her strength didn’t save her however, when the dragon ripped through the thatched roof of their home, and doused the room below in flames. She was dead before she had the chance to fight, and Marek’s father burnt so badly he could do nothing more than scream until the young dragon ate him.
Feasting on its quarry, the monster hadn’t noticed Marek sneaking over to it, his father’s knife in his hand. The foolish creature hadn’t learnt to be wary—had not yet met an adversary worthy of it. Marek got it in the eye, and then in the other, and in the snout, and everywhere he could reach. The dragon’s scales, not yet fully developed, would have still been a hard armour to break through for another man—but Marek had inherited his mother’s strength.
Marek remembered little of the fight. He knew only the white blankness of a hunter fighting for his life. No fear, no sadness really—not yet, at least. Only determination, his focus entirely on the task at hand, until the baby dragon was dead, and Marek collapsed beneath it, bleeding and half-dead himself.
What happened next, the herb-witches described as a blood-binding. The dragon’s blood had flowed over him, into his wounds and mouth. It would have killed a normal man, toxic and poisonous as it were, but Marek had a drop of Fomorii blood in him—a tiny shred of ancient magic that bound itself with the invading blood.
The Shin found him like this, screaming and writhing, and their alchemists took him in for observation, keen to see what the result of this strange mutation would be.
It changed him, snapping and resetting his bones, his muscles and organ-tissue disintegrating away to be replaced with something even stronger, and more resilient. His senses improved to the point where no mortal mind could withstand the wealth of information it was constantly receiving. Marek was a wild thing, confined to a human body. The Shin used that to their advantage. He was their monster, until he broke free, taking his own name—Varyn.
Joshua could feel the difference now. The Hunter’s heart felt three times bigger. His lungs were deeper, his liver stronger. His bones felt light and flexible, capable of withstanding shock and force. And his senses—gods, that was the worst. Joshua could see everything, sound clamping around him like a headache, each frail sensation magnified.
Gently, he felt Varyn reach for him, deep within his own mind, and it was as if the Hunter had covered his ears and eyes, muffling the pulsing world.
“You get used to it,” Varyn said. “You learn to control it.”
Joshua could have wept, he was so relieved. He allowed himself to settle back, a passenger in Varyn’s mind, and watched as the Hunter turned his attention back to the dragon.
She’d hunted him because of the blood that ran through his veins. The blood of her own spawn, which had flown out from the nest one day, and never returned. She was as confused as Varyn by this strange mutation—able to smell her child in his blood, and yet faced with a human.
That was how Varyn had tricked her onto the ground. It was how he’d managed to persuade her to come down among the buildings, where she was at a disadvantage. Her loss had fuelled her fury, and she’d allowed herself to be grounded. From there, it had almost been easy. First, Varyn had slipped his sword into the base of her jaw and pierced the swollen air-pouch, puncturing the gland that dispersed the igniting oil. When she’d tried to douse him in flames, the fire had rolled out over her tongue instead and petered out. Next, Varyn had gone for her legs, piercing the weak joints in the pit and cutting the ligaments, so that she couldn’t stand or fight. Robbed of movement and breath, the dragon crumpled, defeated.
Varyn didn’t remove his hand from her snout. He’d trained every day in preparation for this fight, had learnt about the dragon’s weaknesses—discovered w
here she was vulnerable and how best to bring her down, But he’d never actually expected to defeat her.
He ran his hand up to the centre of her forehead, patting it. The dragon gave a forlorn wail, and Varyn moved around her slowly as she slumped. He stopped at the base of the skull, where the spine began.
No human was capable of wielding a weapon with enough strength to break through dragon scales, but Varyn had never been limited by the same weaknesses as others. He raised his sword, positioning it against the weak point and then, without sentiment, drove it hard through the bottom of the skull, up into the dragon’s brain.
The dragon grew still at last. Varyn drew out his blade, and then turned and sat, resting against her head.
“I’m so sorry,” was all Joshua could manage. He hadn’t anticipated learning so much, he hadn’t anticipated joining with Varyn and stealing the tragedies of his life. Despite this invasion, and the aches of the fight, Varyn seemed happy.
The Hunter breathed deeply, head tipped back against the dragon and laughed. “I have a daughter,” he said. Béatrice had kissed him and whispered it in his ear. A daughter. Their daughter. No such thing should have been possible—the mutation should have neutered Varyn for good, but Béatrice wouldn’t have lied. “I have a daughter…” he repeated, with wonder.
The last restraints that had bound Varyn came loose, and with them Joshua felt himself grow lighter. He slipped back to his own body, content at last.
The battle was over.
“Piss-pox and plagues—has the world gone to shit?” Aeron growled, head resting in one hand, a tankard of ale nurtured in the other. Emerald gave him a look of contemplative glee and turned back to the counter, filling a glass for herself.
“What’s wrong with the baby now?” she asked, and Aeron grumbled.
“What d’you think? Brain-thumpin’ me with news like that. It hardly takes a rack, does it? Sigel’eg has barely stopped humpin’ its reaper, Harmatia pisses into the southern wind and Bethean decides to call it a fountain? What the livin’ piss is Kingship Markus thinkin’? This is all goin’ to end in gut-tears. What’s he goin’ to say to the populous when that Puppet-King rapes his daughter? ‘Well, bugger me with bells for the inevitable betrayal of a shine-grabber, but I’ve whored your heir to Harmatia!’ Piss off.”
Blood of the Delphi (The Harmatia Cycle Book 2) Page 39
