It had been a bright afternoon, but as the monster unleashed its fiery breath, the sky had darkened into a red and black inferno. They’d not seen the day-light since.
Of course, a city built in a country of dragons, rare as they were, had taken some precautions. The buildings were designed to withstand a bestial siege, though it had been near a century since any such creature had descended from the mountains and attacked. Some people even believed that dragons were long extinct.
“We won’t hold much longer!” Isaac bellowed, turning furiously to the line of Kathrak soldiers behind him. The Generals and their Lieutenants had gone to hide within the castle walls, letting Isaac take charge of their frightened men. The Magi was the only one brave enough to do it. He pointed to the columns of fire, rising out of the lower town, obstructing the sky and silhouetting the humongous beast that soared through it. “In another two days everything will be gone!”
“It’s already destroyed all of our defences,” a Kathrak soldier wailed helplessly. The dragon had removed all of the siege weaponry on the battlements. The monster was clever and methodical, and the soldiers had no training against it.
“Not all of them.” Isaac whirled around. “You have one thing left—the prisoner it seeks. You have to release him! Release Varyn!”
“And then what?” Béatrice stepped out onto the battlement. Even in the midst of fire and death, she managed to look elegant. Isaac was half-tempted to shake her until the jewels flew off her ears and neck. Did nothing frighten the woman? Was there no pain or anguish that could stammer her velvet voice? Isaac had always admired her, but in that moment, he hated her too.
“The dragon’s after his blood. Damn me for not believing him, but Varyn said this would happen. It won’t stop until it has him.”
“How very unlike you, Isaac.” Béatrice stepped over a gap in the stone, where an entire section of the battlement had crumbled away. “To hear you propose sacrificing your friend to quail the dragon’s rage.”
Isaac grimaced. “I don’t mean for Varyn to be taken by it. He’s the only one who can fight it.”
“How?” Béatrice looked out over the burning city. There might have been regret in her gaze, but Isaac couldn’t say for sure. “He will be dead before sunrise.”
“But not like this!” another voice cried, and both turned to see Embarr, stood in the doorway of the battlement, his handsome face smeared already with soot and sweat.
“Embarr?” Isaac gasped. The Gancanagh wasn’t supposed to be out of his new General’s chambers. With this black eyes and alluring toxicity, he stood out all too much to be walking idly about on the battlements. All it would take was for someone to recognise him for what he was, and his work as a spy would be exposed. “Embarr, you shouldn’t be here—get back inside,” Isaac whispered urgently. The Gancanagh, Isaac knew, was vulnerable to smoke and fire, and looked decidedly unwell, leaning heavily against the wall. Still, he forced himself forward, his mouth hidden in the crook of his elbow.
“Béatrice,” Embarr called in a hoarse voice. “I swore I would not take sides, but I cannot abide this any longer. You have to break these chains.”
Embarr stepped to the side. From behind him, a set of guards came, carrying the huge form of Varyn between them. Isaac stared hard into the face of the Hunter, and tried to find anything of the man he knew in there. Even Béatrice, with all her fortitude, stilled at the sight of Varyn.
“This man is supposed to be locked in his chamber,” one of the Kathrak soldiers objected, but nobody heeded him. Béatrice took an uncertain step toward Varyn, who was laid unceremoniously on the floor. Isaac couldn’t even see if the Hunter was still breathing.
“It would seem, Embarr, that you have done a fine job of removing his chains yourself.” Béatrice gestured to the Hunter’s wrists, rubbed raw from shackles, but now bare. “Or do you mean the chains of this curse?”
Embarr, usually so playful, looked like he meant to slap Béatrice around the face, his hand raised. The smoke and fire had brought out the worst in the Gancanagh, and he wasted no time with pretty words. “I mean the chains that hold you to Cyryl! That bind you to this ludicrous punishment.”
“Varyn murdered Cyryl. Do you expect me to choose him still?”
“Yes, you foolish woman!” Embarr bellowed, and the dragon roared in the distance, a flash of flames casting its shadow against the murk and smoke. “Because you love him. And he loves you. And you cannot break those feelings through sheer force of will, however strong you are! I should know—I have tried!”
Béatrice came as close to flinching as Isaac had ever seen. “What would you have me do?”
“You cannot see it, can you?” Embarr almost laughed, looking slightly manic, his eyes wide. “I have stood by for months, waiting for you to piece it together. The curse was meant to teach you. That’s what curses are—lessons! You had the ability to break it all along, both of you did, but you were so tethered by the death that bound you, neither of you ever dared try.”
Béatrice closed her eyes. Her porcelain mask was breaking. For as long as Isaac had known her, she’d worn it but at last the cracks were giving way.
“I do not understand,” she lied, unconvincingly, her voice uneven. She was afraid. Afraid to hope.
“Let go of your resentment, your fear and your anger. Embrace what you have been given. Admit that you forgave him long ago.” Embarr broke out into coughs, his arm raised around his head if he were trying to shield himself from the invasive heat. He collapsed a little more against the wall, breathing hard. “Must a whole city burn for your broken heart? At least, if you mean for him to die, let him do so on his own two feet!”
Béatrice stared down at Varyn, and drew her hand across her eyes where tears had sprung, perhaps for the first time in thirty years. “Yes,” she agreed, soft as snow. “Yes.” She knelt down, stroking Varyn’s face as she cried. “I can do that.”
She pressed her lips against his.
The dragon rose up from beneath them with a terrible shriek. Isaac spun on the spot, his sword raised. “LOOK OUT!”
Varyn opened his eyes with a start.
“You want me to send an army to Kathra?” Sverrin drawled, a disbelieving smile on his face. Zachary looked helplessly across to Belphegore, who gave a small shake of his head.
The news of the dragon attack had followed Zachary’s return by a few days, and had sent the capital in Harmatia into a flurry of whispers.
Marcel was beside himself. It took all of Zachary and Emeric’s persuasion to stop the man charging off to Sigel’eg, in rescue of his sister. Such a venture would be suicide, though if Marcel had insisted, both friends would have followed him to death.
“I should not have let her go,” Marcel had muttered repeatedly, to which Emeric and Zachary had reminded him that there was no power in all of Mag Mell that could stop Béatrice Hathely doing what she wanted. In the end, despite his worry, Marcel had conceded that the sensible thing was to remain in Harmatia.
“You can ask,” Zachary had invited him, as Marcel’s options dwindled. “Ask me.”
“Speak with the King. Please. Implore him to send an army to Sigel’eg,” Marcel had said with difficulty, his voice hesitant, knowing his captain wouldn’t refuse him, despite the weight of his appeal. It was difficult enough for Zachary to address Sverrin these days, let alone offer political advice or ask favours. Even so, Zachary had agreed, and with Belphegore beside him, had begged an audience with the King to make their plea.
Sverrin didn’t welcome it. “What exactly would a Harmatian army do against a dragon? Kathra have forces especially designed for this sort of attack, don’t they, Mother?”
At his side, the King’s mother sat, her face pale and drawn. The years had long ago sapped the colour from her hair, but it was the first time Zachary really saw how old she’d become. Her bronze eyes were wide and helpless—Sigel’eg was her home, the kingdom of her father, and it was burning. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
&n
bsp; Zachary couldn’t believe his ears. He’d never heard Reine sound so defeated. Clearly there had been an exchange already on the subject, and Sverrin hadn’t spoken kindly.
“There—Kathra will be fine.” Sverrin bit into a ripe plum, which he’d been tossing idly between his hands. The sticky juice ran down the side of his lips like blood and for some reason it turned Zachary’s stomach.
You used to gorge men alive, and savour the flavour in Sverrin’s name, he reminded himself, and only felt sicker.
“I know why you’re here.” Sverrin pointed a finger at Zachary, smiling like he’d caught a boy in the middle of a wrong-doing. He slouched back in his throne, taking another bite of the plum. “But Marcel Hathely isn’t to leave the city, do you understand? None of the Night Patrol are. There’s nothing you can do—Béatrice will have to depend on my grandfather’s defences. Though,” he mused, waggling his finger as if Zachary, in his mortified silence, had given him an idea. “If Sigel’eg is destroyed—and we must all consider that possibility—it would leave Harmatia in a terrible position, politically.”
“It is as you say Your Majesty,” Belphegore said. “Therefore I implore you to reconsider. Send an army to aid Sigel’eg in its hour of need. As allies, it is our duty.”
“Allies,” Sverrin chuckled, throwing the pit of the plum over his shoulder, down behind the back of the throne. “Allies only in fortune. There are no benefits to sending aid at this time—Kathra will see to the dragon themselves, I promise you. In the meantime, I must pursue my search for a wife elsewhere.”
Reine grimaced, appalled. “Sverrin, you cannot mean…”
“I hear the Princess of Bethean is quite a beauty. Aurora is her name, I think.”
“You—You cannot—” Reine gabbled, aghast, her mouth opening and closing.
“I can, and I will,” Sverrin snapped. “If it pleases me. Bethean may be a den of drunkards and faerie-lovers, but it’s not without its wealth. Strengthening our alliance with marriage would give me leave to send forces undisturbed into Bethean, and wipe out what remains of the Knights of the Delphi, once and for all. Something you never managed to do,” he reminded spitefully, and Reine withdrew soundlessly. “I can always take a Kathrak Princess as a second wife, when they recover from their affairs, but in this unstable time, I must look to my kingdom and its needs.”
“That is indeed wise, Your Majesty.” Belphegore bowed and Sverrin hummed, pleased with his idea.
“I want it arranged,” he decreed. “Send an invitation to the Princess. She is of marrying age, is she not? Perhaps even beyond. I am sure King Markus would be thrilled at such an offer.”
King Markus, Zachary suspected, would sooner marry his daughter to a pig-farmer, but Zachary kept that to himself.
“It will be done.” Belphegore bowed again, and Zachary was close to furious. If Reine wouldn’t speak, Belphegore was the only one with the political power to stand up to Sverrin. Harmatia didn’t require a sycophant in this hour—it required someone who would challenge the King.
Zachary reeled in his anger. He had no right to judge. He’d kept silent throughout, tethered by his own fear. His true anger was at himself.
“Excellent, and Lord Zachary,” Sverrin sat forward, “I stress again—keep your men in check. None of the Night Patrol are to step out of this city without my direct permission. Are we clear?”
Zachary nodded, unwilling to betray his anger. Both Magi bowed and left as quickly as they could. Only when they’d cleared the throne room did Zachary turn to his master.
“What do we do?”
“As the King requests.”
“Béatrice is in Sigel’eg, Thornton too! Hundreds of lives—women and children are in peril and you want to arrange a marriage proposal?” Zachary saw white.
Belphegore stopped short and looked Zachary firmly in the eye, affronted. He raised himself up to his full height. “What would you have me do?” he demanded softly. “The King has only a waning respect for me now. It was not I who was designed to be his advisor and companion—that was a legacy meant for you.”
Zachary didn’t reply. It had been a long time since his word had held any gravity with Sverrin, though he knew it had always been his duty to be the King’s friend. “My only legacy is to do as I am told. But you…you could still save Sigel’eg.”
“That, I should like to know how.” Belphegore started to walk again, Zachary striding behind him.
“You’re a Child of Aramathea, aren’t you? You’re Notameer’s vessel. You could call on the power of the heavens and destroy the dragon.”
Belphegore chuckled darkly. “The magnitude of your faith in me is a little alarming, Arlen.”
“I saw what Merle was capable of. You’re the same as him.”
“I am not the same. Rufus was a vessel of Athea. The fire lived within him—it was born of his emotion and rage. That is Athea’s nature, after all. But Notameer…Notameer’s power comes from peace and serenity.” Belphegore looked down at his hands, with a rueful smile. “I have not known those virtues in a long time.”
Zachary blinked, and shook his head. “Even so, you’re the strongest Magi in Harmatia. In all of Mag Mell. It was you who taught me how to transform into the Night Patrol form. You could still fight—win—against that dragon, Child of Aramathea or not.”
“I am as bound by the King’s wishes as you are, Arlen. He would never permit me to go.”
“Permit you? You’re the leader of the Magi!”
“Stop.” Belphegore whirled around and Zachary flinched back. His master didn’t seem to notice. “Whatever grand authority you think I have, it is in your head. You ask things of me that I cannot give. Just as Reine asked them of me. Do you think I obey these orders with a light heart? That I forsake the city of the woman I—” He cut himself off, but Zachary knew what he meant to say.
Zachary had always known about the affair between Reine DuBlanche and his master. As close as Belphegore had been to King Thestian—the truest of friends—he’d never approved of Thestian putting Reine to the side for Éliane. The royal marriage had been arranged, and was civil enough, though never passionate. Thestian had been plain in his feelings—he’d respected Reine, but he’d loved Éliane.
It had seemed unfair that the King might marry for love and politics, whilst Reine was left jealous, used only for the wealth she brought with her, her own feelings disregarded. Zachary had once heard her say to Belphegore that she would have married him one hundred times over before Thestian, had she been able to.
Perhaps the whole of Harmatia would have benefitted from that match, but it was too late to linger on that possibility. That Reine and Belphegore had never been able to publicise their feelings, even after Thestian’s death, was all to ensure no suspicion fell on Sverrin’s heritage. After all, it was easy enough to forget the likeness between King and Prince when scandal reared its ugly head.
“The King has made his will known and I must honour it. That is all I can do now.” Belphegore stalked a few more steps and then stopped.
They were stood between the academy and the forum. Out beyond, Zachary could see people gathered around a sad looking market, selling meagre things. During Thestian’s reign, that marketplace would have been filled. Now the stalls barely occupied a quarter of the space. Businesses and families had left the capital by the dozen over the last few years, unable to afford the city tax. Zachary wondered how he’d never noticed how much their capital had shrunk.
“Look at that,” Belphegore said with despair. “Harmatia is crumbling, and I perpetrated it. I betrayed Thestian, stood idle as his infant son was murdered, and Prince Jionathan forced to sacrifice himself. Even after everything I did, the sins I committed, nothing has changed. The Magi were supposed to be a source of inspiration to these people, but we are, as we have always been, the hand of tyranny. Tell me, Arlen—is this the Harmatia you fought for?”
Zachary stood, petrified to the spot. A hot, sick feeling rose up into his face. How was
he supposed to respond? Belphegore already knew the answer—knew the uncertainties that wriggled in Zachary’s stomach. Did his master truly expect Zachary to say it all out loud? To confess that with each strike of doubt and regret, Zachary had already betrayed Sverrin a dozen times in his heart?
Wasn’t it enough that Sverrin could already see the fear in Zachary’s eyes, and that DuGilles had accounts of his dishonesty? Why must Belphegore too demand Zachary to admit it? To speak the words that resonated louder within him each day.
Zachary could suddenly hear Emeric’s voice, echoing in the back of his mind.
“We should have never brought Sverrin back.”
Zachary recoiled from Belphegore with a gasp, betrayed in an instant. Belphegore stared at him, stunned by the sharp movement. “Arlen?”
“Why would you ask such a question?” Zachary felt like someone had thrown a pillow over his face and was holding it down. “Do you want me dead?”
Belphegore shook his head, baffled. “Arlen, what are you talking about?”
“You can’t rush the inevitable,” Zachary clamoured. If he said the words out loud there would be no returning from it. The last, lingering illusion would be severed. Zachary would be breaking the lie he’d woven himself into, and there would be nothing left to protect him. Nothing left to stop DuGilles.
Belphegore wouldn’t even risk disobeying Sverrin to save one hundred people in Sigel’eg. Zachary could hardly expect his master to protect him against Sverrin and DuGilles when the time came. Perhaps Belphegore already knew all about it. Perhaps this was all a trap.
“You can’t do this to me! Do you resent me so much for being the one who lived, instead of Merle? Is he so much your favourite you can’t settle for anything less?”
Belphegore’s face grew red with anger, his pale eyes bulging. “Arlen, I suggest you be quiet.”
“You owe me this, at least!” Zachary cried. “At least one ounce of love! Don’t remove my blindfold now, there’s no way for me to go back.” He was almost hysterical, his heart pounding in his ears. A cold sweat had broken out all over his body. “Praise Harmatia—it is a city of gold and light. Praise it until it crumbles to dust.”
Blood of the Delphi (The Harmatia Cycle Book 2) Page 38