Saraid and Kathel both grew very still, as taken back by this declaration as Fae. Then, the pair gave each other a knowing look.
“Yes, we are.” Kathel reached over and squeezed Fae’s hand, his bright green eyes sparkling. He winked at her, and then he and Saraid both bowed their goodbyes, and moved off, hand in hand.
Rufus waited until they were gone before sinking back onto the bench with a ragged huff.
Fae flopped down beside him. “You didn’t have to say that,” she muttered, her face flushed. “…thank you.”
Rufus gazed off into the garden. “Our relationships with our parents can be complicated. Sometimes they can have ideas about what’s right for you and who you ought to be, without consulting you about it first.”
Fae gave a shaky laugh. “Yes, that’s a good summary of it.”
“If it in any way comforts you,” Rufus kept his attention focused on the other side of the garden, “I think the person you are is more impressive than anything they might have conceived.”
“You don’t know what they conceived.”
“I don’t need to,” Rufus said. “I know you.”
It had taken some argument and a few bribes before Isaac was allowed into the dungeons to see him, but with Embarr Reagon’s assistance, they’d managed between them. What greeted the young Magi was worse than he’d imagined.
Isaac had known Varyn for well over seventeen years. They were the firmest of friends despite their differences, and the sight of the Hunter slumped against the dungeon walls, soiled and half-starved, was almost too much to bear. The servants said Varyn hadn’t eaten or drunk anything for days, and he was slowly wasting away. Isaac knelt at his side, unmindful of the filth, and held a cup to his friend’s lips.
“Come. Drink something, my friend,” he begged. He tipped the wooden goblet against Varyn’s mouth, cool water dribbling down the sides of his slacked face. “You need to regain your strength, you’re not well.”
Isaac clamped the Hunter’s chin between his fingers and forced the water into Varyn’s mouth in small, considerate sips. Varyn choked and spluttered, his head rocking backward as he was released. Isaac propped him gently against the wall again, scanning his face desperately. Finally, unable to bear the silence, Isaac seized the dried bread left for Varyn that morning.
“You haven’t eaten. Is it too hard? I can soften if you like, I can chew it for you—please, Varyn, tell me what you need.”
Varyn shifted and groaned.
“Varyn? Varyn, what? What is it?” Isaac leant in as the Hunter exhaled, shuddering with the effort. “What? What are you trying to say?” Isaac whispered. He put his ear to Varyn’s mouth and strained to hear the words. Unable to discern anything from the muffled breaths and pants, he drew back and concentrated on Varyn’s lips, trying to distinguish their twitches into a coherent movement. The rasping continued, singular and painful.
Isaac drew back with dismay. A cold sweat erupted down his body as Varyn’s head, once more unsupported, dropped forward again. Isaac stared at him, his own breathing stifled. He couldn’t make out words through the breathy gasps, not because they were unintelligible, but because Varyn wasn’t trying to speak.
He was screaming.
“Is this really necessary, Arlen?” Belphegore exhaled wearily, as Zachary drew his blade.
“Yes. Draw.” Zachary moved into a fighting stance, his left hand behind his back, sword extended.
“You have bested me three times already. I sense the outcome of this next match is already fairly conclusive.” Belphegore complied all the same, raising his sword.
“Nothing is certain.” Zachary lunged forward, striking at his master’s chest. Belphegore parried the blow, their weapons meeting with a familiar clash. But even as Belphegore fought, there was no enthusiasm, and after a brief exchange, Zachary was able to move around and slide his steel below his master’s guard.
“Another victory,” Belphegore congratulated.
“You let me win,” Zachary said.
“Arlen,” Belphegore chuckled, “your skills with the sword have long outmatched mine. By the might of Penthar, you defeated the Royal Master-at-Arms when you were only twenty.”
“That was an accident,” Zachary muttered, throwing the training sword to the side with a grunt. “And did you never duel with your master, even when you surpassed him?”
Belphegore paused, and something strange flickered over his expression. “Only once,” he said, mysteriously. Zachary should have known better than to expect a real response.
Belphegore very rarely spoke about his master, Horatio of the Delphi. Once, Zachary had asked what Horatio had been like. Belphegore hadn’t been particularly forthcoming, rattling off a list of facts about how Horatio had built the Great Library, and founded the first Magi academy. When Zachary asked after his character, Belphegore had grown quiet and then simply said:
“It was the way, back then, to apprentice us as children. The Magi were not only masters in teaching, but in life. I did his bidding, day and night, for years, and in exchange I learnt everything I needed to surpass him.”
Zachary had never raised the subject again. Needless to say, he’d sensed the relationship hadn’t been a good one.
“I cannot think what has put you in such an aggressive mood.” Belphegore took a towel from the table nearby and wiped his face.
“I only wanted to train—my sword has been neglected,” Zachary muttered.
Belphegore raised an eyebrow, catching the lie. The day Zachary neglected his sword was the day he neglected to breathe. “I do sometimes wish,” he said, with a sigh, “that you would be more forthcoming with me. I cannot read your mind, Arlen, but something is clearly troubling you.”
Zachary wiped his face with a towel. A part of him had been desperate to tell Belphegore about DuGilles’s experiments. Another part had been too terrified by the possibility that Belphegore already knew. Either way, Zachary kept his peace, bound by the unspoken threat. He turned his back on his master.
“It’s almost noon, I must go.”
“You have a duty?”
“Not for another hour. I am accompanying Béatrice to Helena’s Fort. She is going to Sigel’eg to see King Bozidar.”
“I have not heard anything about this.” Belphegore frowned.
“Sverrin has been talking of finding a Kathrak wife. Béatrice suggested going as his envoy to scout for plausible candidates…” Zachary trailed off. “Apparently.”
Belphegore narrowed his eyes. “You think she may her own objective?”
“I think Béatrice always has her own objective,” Zachary admitted, shrugging. “But it doesn’t matter. I am merely her guard for the first leg of the journey. Before I left, however, I felt it prudent to meet with my men.”
“The Night Patrol?” Belphegore lowered his voice. Zachary could have told him not to bother with the secrecy—after the incident in the Southern Quarters, everyone in the capital knew who and what he was.
“There were a few matters I wanted to discuss with them, before I left,” Zachary said.
“Of what nature?”
“Oh, the mundane.”
“You are being very secretive, Arlen.”
“It’s become the general theme in the city.” Zachary reached across the table and poured himself a glass of water from the earthenware jug.
Belphegore watched him steadily.
“What would you do?” Zachary eventually asked, putting down the glass. “In my position?”
“What exactly is your position?” Belphegore folded his arms.
Zachary shook off the question, unwilling to divulge any more.
“Arlen,” his master began carefully, “do you owe money to somebody?”
“Excuse me?”
“I recognise that expression—men who have played one too many hands at the card table and found their pockets to be shallower than they anticipated.”
Zachary laughed. “Yes, I suppose I have, in a manner of spea
king.”
He’d brought a man back from the dead—if that wasn’t a dangerous wager against the gods, Zachary didn’t know what to call it.
“If you require financial aid from me, I can lend.” Belphegore frowned. “Though I never pictured you as a gambling man.”
“And yet you’re so quick to assume…” Zachary grinned tightly. “No, I am possessed of more riches than sense. It’s not the card table that I lost my fortune to—at least not the literal one.” He leant back against the table.
“That tiredness you spoke of before,” Belphegore said, and Zachary winced, drawn back to the rooftop and their discussion. “Does it persist?”
“I am getting too old to go to bed at sunrise.”
“Perhaps you should speak with the head of the Healing sector?”
“Edwin’s apprentice? No.”
“Arlen,” Belphegore tsked.
“I don’t like him, and I don’t trust him,” Zachary snubbed. “By the by, I need to be off. Thank you for the training, Master.” He bowed, and then, seizing his robe, threw it over his shoulders and left before Belphegore could object.
Exiting the castle, he took off toward the Magi academy and was so deep in thought that, as he turned a corner, he almost collided with Daniel coming the other way.
“Damn it, Daniel,” Zachary barked, and his little brother jumped back, surprised.
“Arlen.”
It was the first time Zachary had ever heard the boy call him by name. What was more, he was smiling—something Zachary had never seen at all.
“I was looking for you.” Daniel beamed. “Our father has replied.” He held up the letter, Zachary’s stomach plummeting.
“What does Rivalen say?” he asked wearily. “And summarise—I have somewhere to be.”
“He’s agreed to let my mother visit,” Daniel said brightly.
Zachary slumped. “Of course he did.”
Daniel deflated, frowning. “You suggested it,” he reminded defensively. “Insisted, in fact.”
“Because I thought he would deny me,” Zachary grunted.
“I don’t understand.” All of the glow in Daniel’s cheeks seeped away, and Zachary was almost sorry to have chased it off. “You don’t want my mother to visit, so you agreed to it under the assumption our father would refuse?”
“Oh, good, you understand. Small blessings.” Zachary pushed past his brother. “Summon your mother then. If I revoke the invitation now, Rivalen will only take it as his victory. Better I see this through.”
“What are you talking about?” Daniel demanded, his smile now gone.
“I am leaving Harmatia.” Zachary stalked away, waving behind him. “Tell Mrs Benson I may be some time. Goodbye forever, Daniel.”
“Wait, Arlen—what?” Daniel shouted after him as Zachary dodged all responsibility and stepped into the academy. His mood was now even worse. He felt appalling enough without having to face Isolde for the first time in twenty years, but there was no point worrying about that now. He would just have to take it in his stride, cursing loudly as he went.
Lord Rothschild, ever eager to please, was the first to greet Zachary as he stepped into the meeting room. Zachary gave him a cheerless nod and looked around. He was the last to arrive.
Emeric sat in the corner, still bandaged, with Marcel, who was for once without his pipe. The pair looked utterly forlorn, and as tired as Zachary felt. In fact, the energy of the whole room was sombre, the men now watching him with tense expressions, a hush falling over them.
Zachary cleared his throat. “My friends,” he began, “it is with regret that I come today to inform you, that as of now I will be stepping down from my duties as captain of the Night Patrol.” He clasped his hands and looked down to his feet, trying to keep a straight face at the sounds of inhalation. “I have done everything in my power to delay this, but I am afraid that the yearning within me is too strong. I will shortly be retiring to the Myrithian forest to follow my brother’s example, and become a half-blind, one-legged necromancer.”
There was pause and in the corner, Marcel settled back into his seat with a quiet huff. A small spatter of laughter spread through the room. Zachary continued, his expression serious.
“In my absence, my housekeeper Heather Benson will fulfil my role as captain. She's near enough seventy, but energetic for her age so I am sure she will do nicely.”
This earned a few more laughs, and the mood relaxed.
Zachary folded his arms, sniffing. “In other news, Merle’s headless corpse is somehow still causing concern among our Kathrak guests, so be warned—they may try to set something on-fire. For some reason it puts them at ease.”
The laughter was louder this time, and Zachary shrugged, ignoring Emeric’s wince. He knew his subordinate thought it too early to joke in good humour about Rufus, but Zachary couldn’t afford to mourn.
“To prevent further panic, the King, in his wisdom, has taken special precautions to ensure that Merle’s body is inaccessible in its complete form—just in-case he tries to reanimate himself. Incidentally,” Zachary mused, “has anyone figured out what exactly they’ve been serving at the banquet these last few nights?”
The laughter this time was genuine, and again Zachary shrugged, as if oblivious to what he’d just implied. He caught Emeric’s eye, and his friend looked away, gritting his teeth. He was upset, but the general unease had been expelled from the room, granting Zachary the chance to turn to graver matters.
“Regardless, gentlemen, I didn’t call you here to amuse you. So, before any of you get ambitions toward my station, allow me to assure you it is not yet vacated. Now, you will, no doubt, have already heard about the incident in the Southern Quarters.”
There was a quiet murmur of agreement, a few shooting glances in Emeric’s direction. Zachary didn’t allow the silence to hold long.
“Fold protected the city from a group of alchemists who threatened to burn it down. These men have been punished, but at the cost of mine, Hathely’s and Fold’s privacy. We are named Night Patrol now, but the rest of you may be reassured in your anonymity, should you choose to keep it. That’s now your decision—the time of secrecy is over. I won’t enforce it anymore.”
The Night Patrol looked amongst one another. For some, the burden of the truth had been grave, whilst others wanted nothing more than to keep their involvement in the shadows. Zachary respected them either way.
“Oh, try not to look so sullen, my friends—nothing screams suspicious more than a sullen face. Here in Harmatia, the King ensures we are happy, and he has ways of making us happy if we are not. And that is what I mean to speak to you about, in light of certain events.” Zachary heaved a sigh and leant back against the door, blocking it. “You know I handpicked each of you. Your skills, your courage, your character—these are all aspects that I marked before I brought you into the fold. I should hope that, even if you agreed to my terms as nothing more than a formality, you have some sense of loyalty to me and, more importantly, that you have come to appreciate the loyalty I have to all of you.
“I won’t decorate the truth. We are soldiers, I am your captain, and at my whim I could have you face an army of considerable force and be slaughtered. In the event that we are faced with such odds, however, I would rather be at your sides and die fighting with you. I hope you all know me to be that kind of man.” Zachary saw several of the men nod—they knew their captain would never abandon them, and Zachary felt a fierce sense of pride in their trust. “Good. I am glad.” He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “Because should a day arise when something changes and gives you reason to question my words today—and such a day will come, it is a fate carved into my back—then I hope you know that you have no obligation to me. If my loyalty wanes or stands compromised, then so should yours.”
At the look of confusion on their faces, Zachary pushed himself away from the door, trying to offer comfort where none could truthfully be given.
“Don’t let your minds expa
nd on that thought, gentlemen,” he advised. “It is merely speculation for the future, and the future may be a long time from now. But before you meet it—if you meet it—I thought it only fair to warn you.”
The quiet that rung after his words was phenomenal. Never had Zachary known a group of men to stand so still, and he wasn’t sure what had shocked them more—a warning of his own, inevitable betrayal, or the confusion that came with this confession. A part of Zachary wished he’d never spoken at all, but his men deserved some warning. If he became DuGilles’s puppet, as the Kathrak claimed he could make him, Zachary wanted his men to recognise it.
For now, he would rather they put his words down to drunken blather than take them to heart. “Enough now,” he announced, “I have said all I needed to, and perhaps a little too much. Let it be known I am not conspiring here—if any man is an agent of the King, he can report only good things. See how we prepare for a war before it’s even been declared—what organised creatures we are.” Zachary forced a laugh, which was reciprocated uneasily. “Go—away with all of you. Should some incident occur in the next few days during my absence, fall to Hathely for his command. Good-day to you all, and I shall see you, Malak willing, in a few days.”
“He’s going to die, isn’t he?” Isaac murmured disparagingly into his hands. He’d been sat, almost unmoving at Varyn’s bedside for the best part of the day.
From his shadowy corner in the room, Embarr leant forward. “Are you not supposed to be the optimist of our merry circle, Isaac?”
Isaac huffed a bitter laugh. “There’s a limit even to my optimism.”
It had taken much debate and a no short amount of bribery, but Isaac had finally succeeded in having Varyn moved from the dungeons to a bedchamber. Prisoner, Varyn may have been, but he was no use to anybody dead, and Isaac had insisted that if the Hunter remained a day longer in the cold, dank cell, he wouldn’t live to see the night out. Even so, the luxury of a proper bed and medicinal care had done little to improve Varyn’s condition. Isaac was at his wit’s end.
Blood of the Delphi (The Harmatia Cycle Book 2) Page 35