“May I sit with you? I’d like to talk to you about something.” He put his hand on a chair beside her. There was a looseness about him now, his once rigid shoulders low and relaxed. Though he’d clearly washed, the smell of the sea clung to him. It was pleasant.
Fae closed her book. “Please.”
Rufus sat, and breathing deeply he clasped his hands together and set his eyes out into darkened library. “I’m not sure where to start.” He tipped back his chair, so that it balanced precariously on two legs. “Harmatia,” he decided. “In a few months, it’ll have been thirteen years since I left. Most of the story, you know—it was a dark time for me. I’d lost my best friend, and I was angry and vengeful. Joshua and I travelled between the homes of Knights of the Delphi, who housed and hid us.” Rufus gave a wry smile. “When my absence, after several months, became too noticeable, the Magi began to send patrols after me. They were merely curious inquisitions—my master was being lenient. After a year, it became apparent I wasn’t returning however, and the searches became more serious.
“We lived in various places in Harmatia for another few years, moving frequently. Eventually those searches stopped as well. After no word or sighting, perhaps they presumed me dead. I thought I was safe. We settled in Corhlam, in a small mining village in the south, and I met a Knight there. His name was Howell.”
“And you fell in love with him?”
“He fell in love with me.” Rufus allowed his chair to drop onto all four legs, “And I…I did. I loved him too. More every day. We lived together peacefully for some time. Then, someone passing through the village happened to recognise me, and the searches began again. Bigger, this time—worse. After eight years of absence, I was most definitely classed as a traitor. Worse than that, it wasn’t my brethren searching for me anymore. The King hired alchemists, trained in the hunt. Among them was a man named Brandt DuGilles…”
Something of Rufus’s composure seemed to darken. It was an unpleasant sight. They’d had a wonderful day, full of laughter and joy. Rufus hadn’t stopped smiling throughout. To see his face turn now made Fae ache, but she didn’t interrupt.
“We fled to Bethean, Howell coming with us. I was careful to cover my trail—we always used false names, and I passed Joshua off as my son. Despite this, DuGilles found me. I managed to escape, but it was very close.” Rufus reached up to the scar around his eye, stroking it absentmindedly. “I knew then that we were in danger. DuGilles was ruthless, he was clever and he was obsessed with catching me…” Rufus drew off again, his eyes unseeing. Fae knew, inevitably, how the story would end.
“Joshua was eleven years old when they finally succeeded.” Rufus exhaled. “Honestly Fae, I thought they were only going to drag me back to Harmatia. I planned to beg the King for forgiveness. I’d tell them that I’d lost myself to my grief, and that by the time I came to my senses, I was too frightened to step forward…They all knew me to be a coward—I was certain I could buy forgiveness.
“But DuGilles didn’t take me to Harmatia. He brought me to a dungeon and he—” Rufus broke off, and ran his hands aggressively through his hair, gripping his fringe tightly.
“He tortured you,” Fae finished for him.
“For days,” Rufus said. “Weeks, maybe. I lost count. They…they did things, Fae. Things I don’t want to describe…They found ways to drain me of power—I never thought it possible. Even my ability not to burn…They suppressed it, and DuGilles branded me. Like I belonged to him. They tore everything away from me, Fae. And then…and then they…” Rufus hid his face in his hands. The slick smell of sweat and fear was suddenly heavy in the air.
Fae put a hand to Rufus’s shoulder. “Rufus, it’s alright. You don’t need to say it, if you aren’t ready.”
“But I do,” Rufus moaned. “I have to say it…”
Fae watched, helplessly, her whole chest aching. “You’re safe with me,” she said, unable to offer anything else. The gods knew Fae couldn’t say the words for Rufus.
“There was a box,” Rufus whispered. “It was a…a lightless, soundless box, barely long enough to lie in. And they shut me inside and buried me in it.”
Of all the things Fae had expected, that wasn’t it. She sat in horrified silence, Rufus shaking beneath her hands. “Oh Rufus,” she eventually forced out, but there were no words of comfort. “They buried you alive?”
Rufus’s hands moved down to where Fae knew the brand was seared into his flesh, and he held it. “At first, I was calm. After the endless torture, it was almost a relief. But I couldn’t see, or hear, or feel, or smell anything. They gave me water occasionally through a small pipe, like I was an animal. But it was never enough, and it was always drugged with something that set my mind on fire. I began to lose myself, to go mad—can you imagine being separated from everything that lets you know you’re alive? I was hungry, and weak, and sometimes it was so difficult to breathe I’d almost suffocate.
“There was no difference between waking and sleeping. It was just dark…painful…an endless hell. There was no relief. In the end the only thing that kept me alive was this.” Rufus lifted the front of his shirt, showing her the brand again. “DuGilles told me I was one of his experiments—his own work of art. In that lightless, soundless hell I clung to the feeling of the brand burning into me, and I let it fuel my rage. I allowed hatred to fester with my wounds.” Rufus dropped the shirt again, covering the awful burn. “I don’t know how long I was in there before Howell and the other Knights found me. They were able to free me, carry me to safety…I don’t remember it. I was very unwell for many weeks. They tended to me, nursed back to health. But my heart…That wasn’t so easy to mend. When the alchemists found us again, I killed every single one that got close, and I damned well enjoyed it.” Rufus turned away from her, heaving in several sharp, quick breaths, his face hidden in his hand.
Fae took his arm instinctually, trying to anchor him back into the room, away from his memories.
After a few moments, Rufus composed himself and turned back to her. His eyes were glassy, and he spoke very quietly. “I knew, after that day, that I could never be good again. My wrath was too great. My power, my affiliation with Athea—I can rain fire down from the sky, how can I ever be good?”
“Rufus, you know that’s now true. You must know.” Fae ran her hand up his arm to his neck, her thumb brushing against the stubble on his chin. His skin was warm and her hands were cold, but he moved into her touch ever so slightly. His expression was doubtful, as if he’d just caught her telling a lie.
“You know about Morrigan, don’t you?” he asked.
Fae dropped her hand. “You can’t blame Joshua for telling me—he was worried.”
“I don’t blame him. I’m only sorry he had to witness it.” Rufus sighed, looking away again. The candle flickered as he reached over to it, running his hand slowly through the flame, deep in thought. “Morrigan wants me to join her, to embrace that growing part of me—to become what I was when I defeated Zachary on the road to Avalon. I have a feeling she’s been planning it for some time. Until now I felt it was inevitable that I’d give in to her one day. It’s in my nature, this darkness, and it’s an ugly side of me, for which I need to atone if I’m ever to redefine my fate.” Rufus breathed out heavily. “I’ve killed, Fae, and it wasn’t in self-defence.”
“The halfling?” Fae guessed.
Rufus looked up sharply. “Please tell me Joshua doesn’t know about that.”
“He mentioned something.”
Rufus looked away. “I’d hoped he was too delirious to remember.”
“Rufus,” Fae asked cautiously. “Did…did this halfling rape you?”
Rufus didn’t speak for a while. “We made a deal.”
“Was it a deal or was it extortion?” Fae said, unconvinced. Rufus hunched his shoulders, looking uneasy.
“He betrayed me,” was all Rufus said. “He called the magistrate. And I…I lost myself. I killed him…so horrifically. I was like a man posses
sed.”
“That’s exactly what you were.” Fae pursed her lips. “Rufus, regardless of whether he deserved it or not, Morrigan is to blame for the halfling’s death—not you.”
“She wasn’t controlling me.”
“No, I know she wasn’t.” Fae leant in. “But even so, she’s powerful and she’s poisonous. Joshua saw it—her presence has lingered on you since your first encounter. It was her influence that drove you to the act. It’s been her influence feeding your rage and fear all this time. Nothing short of desperation would have led you to it otherwise, I believe that.”
“That doesn’t excuse it.” Rufus tugged at his fringe. “Even if Morrigan affected me, even if I was sick, and driven by fear, I still murdered an unarmed man.” He dropped his hands, looking searchingly into Fae’s eyes. “But that doesn’t mean I’m destined to do it again,” he said, with a quiet intensity. “Today, you showed me that. What I’ve done doesn’t have to mark the beginning of my descent into darkness. I touched something unspeakably evil within me—a desire to reap havoc and revenge on the whole world, but I’m still capable of love. I can still forgive. I can still hope.” He reached forward and tucked a strand of Fae’s hair behind her ear. Fae didn’t move a muscle. “I have to believe that I can be good again. That this doesn’t all end in blood and fire…” Rufus mouth twitched slightly in small, but earnest smile. “Until now, I was too afraid to trust anybody with this truth—afraid they would confirm what I feared. I pushed Howell away, refused to let anybody else get close. But you know me. Somehow, after a decade, you still know me. So if you’re willing to fight for a damned man,” his voice trembled, “I can’t do this alone anymore.”
Fae rose and taking him by the back of the head, she pulled him gently toward her, resting his cheek against her stomach. He wrapped his arms around her waist, and she could hear his heart slow at the touch of her fingers, stroking his hair. Fae realised just how much she’d missed him all those years. “You have endured so much.” She leant down and kissed the top of his head. “But now you’re here, and I promise you, I will do everything in my power to keep you safe. You’re not alone.” She released him and stepped back, kneeling down so that he could see the sincerity in her face. “You’re not alone,” she repeated and Rufus closed his eyes, and dropped his head, resting his forehead against hers.
“Thank you, Fae,” he replied, and their voices echoed in the vast library which lay, long forgotten, beyond the tiny spectrum of candle light.
Getting past the guards proved easy enough, not that Béatrice had anticipated trouble. A little gold, a quick distraction, and she was down in the dankest part of the castle, keys in hand, outside the cell.
“DuGilles has yet to claim you. You are very fortunate,” she purred to the prisoner inside, who jumped, pushing himself against the back wall. He hadn’t heard her approach. Béatrice held up the keys and unlocked the door, stepping back to allow him out. “Be assured, Howell,” she said, “I am here to help.”
He eyed her distrustfully, not moving. His face was slick with sweat, and there was dried blood still around his mouth.
Béatrice was sympathetic, but not particularly patient. She tapped her foot. “You may remain in the cell if you wish,” she turned away, “but unless you come with me in the next minute, I will lock the door again, and leave you to DuGilles. You, I suspect, know just of what he is capable.”
Howell hesitated, then strode out. He tried to speak, but without a tongue, his words were mangled and painful.
“My name is Béatrice Hathely,” Béatrice said, decoding his grunts. “And non—I am not a Knight of the Delphi.” She came forward and unbound the shackles around his wrists. “But I know about the Prince.”
Howell grew still. He was much bigger than Béatrice and could easily overpower her, if he chose. Béatrice wasn’t deterred. She wasn’t frightened of anybody.
“Did you honestly think that all of the Harmatians were happy with their Puppet King?” she tutted, throwing the shackles into the empty cell.
Howell tried to speak again, fighting to make himself understood. Béatrice was able to make out the gist of his question.
“Let us say I have a very informative friend.” Béatrice looked past Howell to a shrouded figure who hid in the shadows.
Howell, sensing the other presence, turned rapidly, raising his arms as if ready for a fight.
“Do not look too closely at him,” Béatrice warned. “He is a frightfully handsome man, and I sense that is rather your flavour of choice.”
The shrouded figure bowed. “Sir Howell,” he greeted, “my name is Embarr Reagon, and if you are willing, I shall be escorting you out of this dark city tonight.”
Howell froze on the spot, Embarr’s luscious tone sinking over them both. The Corlavite uttered something in surprise.
“Yes, he is a Gancanagh,” Béatrice said. “And, so too, the personal spy of the Sidhe goddess, Niamh.” Béatrice gave Howell a small, consoling pat on the arm. “Do not fret your pretty little head—he will not feed on you unless you ask him nicely.”
“My gracious Lady Niamh has heard you have a great gift for weaving songs and tales.” Embarr moved a little more out of the shadows, ignore Béatrice’s teasing. “She would like to extend a most honourable invitation, and offer you a place as her personal bard, should you be willing.”
Howell raised an eyebrow, and then gave a sodden laugh. He pointed to his tongue-less mouth with a shake of his head. For all his bravery in the face of Sverrin’s punishment, there was a defeated slump to Howell’s shoulders now.
Embarr took another step forward. “Have faith,” he said, in an even softer, more soothing voice. “My Lady Niamh rewards those who serve her. Do so honestly, and you will reclaim all that has been lost to you.”
Howell stared hard at Embarr’s extended hand. When he didn’t immediately take it, Béatrice clasped the Corlavite’s fingers in her own, knocking his elbow.
“There is nothing for you here. The rebellion will survive without you—you have played your part, and you have done it beautifully. Look now to your new life.”
Howell frowned deeply, and then reached across and took the Gancanagh’s extended hand. He attempted to say the faerie’s name.
“Yes, one in the very same,” Embarr said. “Perhaps Rufus Merle spoke of me?”
Howell hung his head, and gave a small nod.
Béatrice turned to where she’d dropped a bundle of clothes and, unravelling it, she passed Howell a cloak and a new chemise to replace the blood spattered one he wore. “You should make yourself presentable. As I understand, Niamh prefers the pretty things in life.”
“Where?” Howell managed to say.
“I shall be spiriting you to a harbour on the fair shores of Avalon, where a silver ship will take you straight to the blessed isle of Tír na nÓg,” Embarr said. “My Lady Niamh is already expecting you.”
Howell nodded in thanks and then turned away to change. Embarr moved back into the shadows, Béatrice watching him curiously. As Howell removed his clothes, she dared to step closer to the Embarr. She liked to push her limitations around him. One day, she hoped to overcome his lustful toxicity entirely, but for now she could tolerate it.
“You must be well fed, to be able to transport yourself and another over such a distance.”
“I am deep within the Kathrak court—they are not short of easy prey.” Embarr didn’t look her in the face, but Béatrice knew this was out of a respect for her, rather than indifference. He sniffed. “They caught him, you know.”
“Who?” Béatrice feigned ignorance.
“Béatrice,” Embarr sounded serious, a rarity onto itself. “He’s dying. Isaac arrived in Sigel’eg today and is doing everything in his meagre power to free him, but you and I both know Varyn is not going last much longer.”
Béatrice kept her expression the same, blinking prettily. Her emotions wouldn’t serve her in this instance, so she pushed them away. “What do you expect me to
do?”
“You should at least come and see him.”
“And why would I do that? The journey to Sigel’eg is long and tiresome, and if you tried to spirit me away, they would take my sudden disappearance as kidnapping or treachery. I am not inclined to either.”
“You have caused this,” Embarr said simply. “It is not my place to judge you on that…But if you insist on killing him, Béatrice, you should look him in the face while you do it.” Embarr examined his bluish hands, turning them over.
“I did,” Béatrice dismissed. “The day I laid the curse on him—I said it directly to him. Looked him straight in the eye.”
Embarr laughed brusquely, causing both Howell and Béatrice to jump, though she suppressed the lightning bolt of pleasure it sent down her spine to the pit of her stomach.
“Of course you did,” Embarr purred, “and even despite that, he still loves you.”
“How does that concern me?”
Embarr made a soft, strangely endearing clucking sound. “At the very least, do you not think you owe it to him to tell him that he has a daughter?”
Béatrice was quiet. In the castle above her, her sweet Morelle would be fast asleep now, in the keep of her disgruntled Uncle Marcel. The thought of Varyn’s daughter—their daughter— made Béatrice take pause and stirred unwanted feelings through her.
Embarr knew he’d struck a chord, but Béatrice maintained her air of indifference.
“I will think on it,” she said.
“I will see you in Sigel’eg.” The corner of Embarr’s smile was just visible from beneath his hood. “Sir Howell, are you ready to flee from this terrible nest?”
Howell nodded.
“Then we shall. Béatrice, be well,” Embarr said, and stepping forward he clasped Howell in a tight embrace.
“Best of luck,” Béatrice said, and Howell managed to smile before an explosion of air informed Béatrice that they were gone. She covered her eyes to avoid the dust, and then stood in the empty dungeon as it settled. Alone, she allowed some of her vivacity to fade, her expression turning to something much more resemblant of her brother Marcel’s.
Blood of the Delphi (The Harmatia Cycle Book 2) Page 33