“What were you doing?” Emeric demanded. “Athea, you were going to jump—you were going to jump!”
Behind Zachary, Marcel was still gripping him firmly around the chest, as if he feared Zachary would bolt at the first opportunity and dive for the ledge again.
Zachary struggled to register what was happening. How had Marcel and Emeric found him? Had they spotted him, by chance, from the courtyard below? Or seen him from one of the windows, and realised what he was about to do?
“How…?” he managed to mumble. His feverish shaking had returned—he hadn’t realised how cold it was on the roof. He could barely move his lips, they were so numb.
“We came to see you. Found the letters. We searched everywhere.” Marcel was panting. “Arlen, why have you done this? Why did you not come to me?”
Zachary couldn’t speak. The absolute terror in his friends’ faces was of his doing. They didn’t know the injustice they’d served by saving him, especially now that he knew he couldn’t go through with his suicide, knew how much it would hurt them.
“Zachary.” Emeric’s grip was so tight it was painful, and Zachary understood his punishment. Athea had chosen Zachary’s fate. He’d raised a man from the dead and now would face the direct consequences. Death was too sweet a release.
“Get off,” Zachary said between gritted teeth. “Sons of the gods, get off me!”
He elbowed Marcel hard and his second in command loosed his grip with a grunt, allowing Zachary to rip himself free. He landed hard on his side and scrabbled away. He could hear Emeric and Marcel both breathing heavily from the exertion. He couldn’t bear to face them. His chest heaved.
“Why?” Zachary hid his face in his hands, struggling against a sob. “Why couldn’t you just let me die?”
“You’re not well,” Emeric moaned.
“You don’t know what you’ve done!” Zachary rocked. “Sons of the gods, if you did—” he broke off. “Damn the pair of you!”
He rose to his feet, both his men doing the same. They moved between him and the ledge, their hands raised and stances low, as if they were trying to catch a bolting rabbit. It only served to make Zachary angrier.
“Get out of my way.”
“I will not let you do this,” Marcel said firmly. The fear in his eyes had been replaced with something firm that Zachary had only seen once before, many years ago, in the academy. Back then, he and Marcel had been fairly indifferent to each other. One night, however, Marcel had stepped out into the training grounds to find Zachary being aggressively beaten by a group of bullies. Outnumbered and too exhausted to fight back, Zachary had been curled on the floor, hands over his head, laughing maniacally. Zachary could still remember it clearly. He had spotted Marcel stood, watching from the side, and Zachary had grinned up at him, his two front teeth already missing from a kick to the mouth. That moment had defined their friendship forever, Marcel immediately wading into the fight to save the reckless little fool who would one day be his captain.
He’s still trying to save me, Zachary thought sadly. Always trying to save me.
“Oh, my friend,” Zachary breathed, “there’s nothing you can do.”
“You cannot know that,” Marcel insisted, and Zachary wished the pair of them wouldn’t fight so hard for him. He wished they weren’t so ferociously loyal.
They will follow me to death. I have to release them from that obligation, Zachary realised. In the moment of his death, leadership would have passed on, but now it would remain with him—a man soon to be DuGilles’s puppet.
He breathed in deeply, “I excuse you both.”
His friends looked between each other.
“Excuse us?” Emeric asked.
“From the Night Patrol,” Zachary said. “I am casting you out. From this day onward, you’ll have no part in our activities, receive no commissions or take any orders. You’re hereby excused from the sect, effective immediately.”
The pair were struck dumb, their mouths slack. “Zachary,” Emeric whispered, “you can’t be serious.”
“I assure you,” Zachary summoned his wings to him, “I am. Goodbye Marcel, Emeric. The gods forgive you. I love you both.”
And with that, he took to the air before either of them could say another word.
Aurora slipped away whilst Sverrin was busy with his council. Under the guise of going for a walk in the gardens, she retraced her steps of the previous night and found her way back into the crypts, to Jionat’s side.
Her pencil glided carefully across the pages of the small, leather-bound journal she usually kept concealed within her skirts. She knew she had precious little time before she would be missed, but it had been impossible to commit the entirety of the Korrigans’ spell to memory. Even one error in her recollection, one detail missed, could make all the difference in her understanding it.
Aurora drew as quickly as she could, copying everything down and trying hard not to be distracted by the slumbering Prince at her side. She couldn’t afford the time to mourn Jionat now—there was nothing she could do for him.
“You should not be down here,” Sverrin’s voice broke out from behind her.
Aurora leapt a foot in the air and swung around. She hadn’t heard him approaching at all, his step as light as a shadow. He leaned over her and Aurora felt her throat tighten, alarmed by his proximity.
“Your Majesty.” She slipped the journal away, dropping it into the deep pocket of her skirt as she curtsied. “You surprised me.”
Sverrin wore a peculiar expression, like a teacher who’d caught their student doing something perplexingly stupid. There was no hospitality in his gaze, no sign of kindness or any of the affection which he’d doted on her so thickly in the last few days. His lightless eyes were all-consuming and there was a hungry lurk about his posture, which made him look oddly feral.
“Did you think nobody would know you were here?” Sverrin didn’t move, but Aurora doubted she could get by him now. If she tried to dart away, he’d be on her faster than wolf on a bleeding lamb. “I’ve had you watched since you arrived.”
Aurora gripped her pencil. She knew exactly where to plant it, if he got too close. “I wanted to see him,” she said, refusing to show her fear. “There’s no crime in that. I didn’t think it forbidden.”
“I doubt that,” Sverrin chuckled, and it was a low, rumbling sound like distant thunder. Aurora usually liked the rain, but this settled a deep foreboding on her shoulders. There was nothing human about that laugh. “I can feel it, you know. When someone enters this chamber. When they approach him.” Sverrin nodded toward his brother. “He and I are connected. When he is under threat, I feel it. No man can come down here without my knowing…Or did you think you were the first to try and assassinate me by means of my brother?”
The thought had crossed Aurora’s mind. It would be easy to slit Jionat’s throat and thereby seep away the life-energy that revived the King, but Aurora didn’t have the stomach for the task. Besides, there was another destined to kill Sverrin—a boy, prophesised to come, who would be the death of Jionat and save Bethean from destruction.
“I am not here to kill anyone. I am here to mourn.” Aurora pressed her back against the altar, and again Sverrin gave that chuckle which chilled her to the bone. There was a dooming finality to it.
“I find that unlikely, Princess.” He moved toward her, seeping through the darkness like an eel. Aurora could feel the cold of the stone behind her. She was no warrior, and had no illusions about that. If Sverrin chose to hurt her, she could lash out, but she doubted it would do much to stop him. His hands were vast and powerful, and she knew that he could easily shatter her with only a few choice blows. “You came here for your own purpose. Be honest, little Princess.”
“I came to Harmatia to meet you, and I came here to grieve someone, who, for the kindness he did me once, I cared for deeply. Call me a girlish fool, but I missed him, and wanted to be alone.”
Sverrin gave a sudden, irate sigh. “Why?” he
groaned, agitated. “Why does everyone in Harmatia insist on lying to me? Is it so hard to be truthful? Must you all disappoint me, time and time again?”
“I am not lying.” Aurora had expected anger, but Sverrin seemed desperate, his eyes rolling madly, breath hard and heavy. “Your Majesty, please. I am not here to assassinate you.”
“I thought to wed you.” Sverrin wasn’t calmed, his teeth barred. “Truly, I did. I think you and I have shared a similar burden. We know what it is, to be captured in darkness. But you cannot hide your revulsion from me, woman. I smell your fear. I smell your intent.”
Aurora grew more frightened, her lungs constricting. The pencil dropped from her stiff hand, and she forgot everything but her terror. It was easy to think how she might defend herself when she was safe, but with Sverrin looming over her, she lost all sensible thought.
“Please,” she whimpered and then shuddered as he leant down to kiss her. He pressed his mouth to hers and it was like being bitten. She shrieked at the feel of his lips—icy cold and smelling of death—and tried to tear herself away. Sverrin took her by the wrist.
“Stay Princess.” He twisted her around, draping an arm over her chest and pulling her back into him. His body was hard as stone. “Tell me of this love you have for my brother?” He pinned her front against the altar. “Does he stir feelings of desire within you? Or is it true what they say—that you prefer female company?”
“I should not have come down.” Her voice shook desperately. “Please, Your Majesty, I see now, I was foolish.”
“Yes, you were.” He kissed her ear and she sobbed. “I had every intention of being civil with you whilst I took your kingdom, but I see now that was never meant to be. My mother warned me against the little witch of Bethean. She spoke words of wisdom.”
Through her fear, Sverrin’s words ignited a fire within Aurora, the fire of her people. “Take my kingdom?” she spat, fighting back sobs.
“Yes,” Sverrin said, almost dreamily. “I have seen it—armies gathering, a great battle between Harmatia and Bethean. Jionathan showed it to me. He shows me things—things that only a Delphi could see. Like a Dragon attacking Sigel’eg.” Sverrin hummed, Aurora whimpering. “Yes. I knew all about the attack, weeks before, and I was shown how it would end. I sent word to my grandfather, and together we plotted. He captured the Hunter he needed, and we made it appear that Kathra and Harmatia were divided, all to lure you here and take your kingdom.”
Aurora’s head spun. Sverrin had known about the Dragon? Bozidar had allowed his own city to be torched, and his people die, all so that they could start a war? Aurora shook her head. “Bethean will not fall to the hands of you, Puppet King.”
“Ah, yes,” Sverrin hissed, “I heard that’s what they call me. Tell me, who’s pulling the strings, little witch? Who am I a puppet of?”
Aurora knew the insult was meant to instigate Kathra’s control over Harmatia, but now she understood that Sverrin was no more controlled by King Bozidar than Thestian had been.
“Madness and death,” Aurora said. She could feel him grinning, his teeth against her skin.
“Madness? Perhaps. But death I’ve already conquered.”
She closed her eyes. “No,” she forced out, “you have not. Death is coming for you, Sverrin. It lurks in every shadow and you know it. Those disappointments you spoke of, people betraying you—already you can feel the net closing in.”
He seized her by the hair and threw her hard to the floor. She turned, her voice shaking, but strong.
“Worse than that, you feel it growing within you. You’re rotting. Losing any semblance of self. You can feel your mind slipping, everything decaying away. Not a King. Not human.”
“Be quiet,” Sverrin growled, standing over her.
“You cannot even remember what colour your brother’s eyes were. You’re missing parts. Piece by piece, Sverrin is disappearing, and you have no idea who you are. So yes—we call you Puppet King, because soon that’s all you’ll be.”
Sverrin threw himself on her, tearing at her clothes and pulling at her hair. He didn’t speak, but gave angry grunts and cries as he tore open her bodice, pushing back her frightened hands as she slapped at him, clawing at his eyes and throat.
“Help me!” Aurora howled. “Somebody, please! Help me!”
Sverrin pushed his arm against her delicate throat, crushing the sound of her desperate cries. Aurora was blinded by tears, her skirts ripped and pulled up to her waist. She could suddenly hear her heart-beat in her ears, loud and fast. He held both her wrists in a powerful hand, his elbow across her neck as he reached down to his belt. Aurora gave another strangled scream, only to find the pressure over her body relieved. The pounding, which she’d mistaken for her heart, was actually someone running toward them, and Aurora watched as Sverrin was ripped away by tall shadow.
“Run, Princess! Run!” It was the Magi, Arlen Zachary, his eyes wild with fear. “Go! Get out!” he commanded desperately, barely maintaining his grip as Sverrin thrashed and fought.
“Release me, Zachary!” Sverrin roared. “By the gods, I will kill you! I’ll kill you!”
“Aurora, now!” Zachary shouted.
Aurora gathered what was left her skirts, fumbled to her feet and ran for the door. Behind her, she could hear Sverrin swearing and shrieking, but she didn’t dare look back.
She made it into the stairway back toward the castle, just as a whirl of wind burst down through the tunnel, and she ran headlong into Embarr Reagon, who appeared before her.
“Aurora?” Embarr was panic-stricken, his blue-skin icy as he gripped her shoulders. “I sensed you were in danger!”
Aurora buried herself against him and Embarr wrapped his arms firmly around her shoulders. Aurora felt the winds gather around her.
She didn’t have time to argue that she couldn’t leave without her faithful entourage before Embarr had spirited them both away, with a great rush.
When Aurora opened her eyes next, she was in her father’s court, sobbing and half-naked, and with a heart desperate for vengeance.
He’d gone where he thought no one would look for him. He was sure that Marcel and Emeric would run straight to Belphegore, and Zachary couldn’t bear to face them all. If DuGilles was going to take him, then it would be quietly and without casualty. Besides, the truth was hard on his lips, and Zachary couldn’t hold the secret for much longer—he wasn’t brave enough.
It was at the mouth of the tunnels that he heard Aurora screaming. Even before he sprinted down to save her, he knew what he was going to find. It didn’t lessen the impact of the sick image—Sverrin pinning Aurora down, choking her as he went for his belt.
Even knowing the consequences, Zachary acted. Terrified he may have been, but he wasn’t so selfish to allow this atrocity to happen. Sverrin fought hard against him as the Princess fled, but Zachary had trained with the King for many years and was prepared for his strength.
Or so he thought, until Sverrin managed to slip his leg between Zachary’s and, bending his weight forward, threw the Magi up and over his shoulder onto the ground in-front. Zachary was barely given a chance to recover before Sverrin was sprinting after Aurora. Zachary staggered to his feet and ran after the King. Both reached the mouth of the tunnel in time to see Aurora standing high above, in the embrace of a shrouded, black-eyed man. Then a large howl of wind came tumbling down the stairs toward them, and both Princess and the stranger were gone, like a snuffled flame.
Sverrin and Zachary stood, the King silent in his anger, whilst Zachary wilted in relief.
“Faeries,” Sverrin snarled. “Faeries in my capital!”
“She’s gone, Sverrin. You can’t hurt her,” Zachary replied.
Sverrin turned slowly. Zachary caught his desolate expression and retreated a few clumsy steps. It wasn’t enough. Sverrin lunged at him, throwing the first punch. Zachary felt his jaw crunch and break from the force of the blow and he was sent sprawling to the floor.
Laid out, a
nd dumb with terror, he attempted to scrabble away, but Sverrin stooped, grabbed his ankle and dragged him back. Zachary lashed out but Sverrin dropped forward on-top of him.
He wrestled Zachary down, beating him viciously around the head. He landed a blow, and then another one. Zachary felt his eye socket and cheekbone crack under the heavy barrage, his vision distorting and darkening. His nose broke, blood coating Sverrin’s hands as the King punched and punched again, his own fingers now mangled. Zachary’s lip split all the way down the centre, teeth coming loose and tumbling down the back of his throat.
All the while, Sverrin was screaming, and when he finally stopped hitting Zachary, it was only to rise to his feet and begin stomping and kicking instead. Zachary curled around himself and didn’t fight back. He didn’t know how.
“You think yourself strong, Tristus?” His father sneered at him. Rivalen only called him Tristus when he was angry, otherwise it was ‘Arlen’, or ‘you’, or worse. But the name, the curse, was reserved for moments when Zachary had truly pushed Rivalen over the edge. “You think yourself mighty? Then we will play a game, you and I—see how strong you are.”
Zachary could hear the crop. One day, it would evolve to a whip, but in that moment, the crop was the worse he knew. On some level, Zachary understood that if he submitted, if he apologised and gave in, these tortures would end, but he couldn’t. He was too young to understand pride. All he knew was that, as long as he let his father beat him, Rivalen wouldn’t raise a hand to Zachary’s sisters. It was Zachary’s duty to take the punishment in their place—his obligation, as their brother.
“I am going to strike you. I won’t tell you how many times. But every time you cry out, the number will double. How then, Tristus? Are you still so sure you can bear all of their punishments?”
Zachary didn’t reply. He removed his shirt, knelt on the ground and gritted his teeth together. Rivalen raised the crop and brought it hard onto his son’s back. On the third strike, Zachary cried out.
Blood of the Delphi (The Harmatia Cycle Book 2) Page 47
