Blood of the Delphi (The Harmatia Cycle Book 2)

by M. E. Vaughan

  The same eerie, beautiful blue and green light filled the chamber, and then, very suddenly, there he was, lying like a marble effigy on a tomb.

  He’d grown, his face somehow more mature. Jionat—a living corpse that aged with time. His breath came out so soft and slow it was barely there, but the steady rise and fall of his chest made it almost seem like sleep.

  Almost.

  Sverrin went to Jionat’s side and took his hand, as if comforting a sickly friend. “Jionathan,” he said fondly, “I have brought you a visitor. It’s the Princess Aurora. Do you remember her? She has grown into a fine and beautiful woman.”

  Aurora’s heart ached. Slowly, and with more sadness now than fear, she came to Jionat’s other side. “Can he hear us?”

  “I like to think so,” Sverrin said softly and he didn’t release his brother’s hand. “You know, I’ve never been able to share my visits with anyone before. Of course my advisors will come down with me to pay their respects, but my mother surrounded us with loyalists who had no love for the Delphi. It is sometimes very difficult to grieve alone. It is good to be with another who knew him fondly.”

  Aurora tentatively took Jionat’s other hand but couldn’t find the right words. She had so few memories of him, and yet the memories she did have were so strong, she could still see them vividly in her mind’s eye—the first look she ever had of the Prince, as he squatted, smiling, in the cell beside her. His hand firmly holding hers, his steady voice and then his tears when they met again. How could one boy have borne so much pain and then returned to such a fate knowingly? For he must have known, Aurora was sure of that.

  “I am glad to see you again,” she confessed, and kissed the back of Jionat’s knuckle. His hands weren’t cold, as she’d expected, but warm.

  Aurora wanted to tell him that she was sorry, that she wished she could have done something for him, that she wished they’d had more time between them. But it would be unwise to confess such things in front of Sverrin, so she thought them as loud as she dared, holding Jionat’s hand tightly.

  “I’ve upset you,” Sverrin said, with something close to concern.

  “No.” Aurora tore her eyes from Jionat. “No, Your Majesty, I am eternally grateful that you thought to share this with me.”

  Sverrin released Jionat’s hand and laid it carefully down again, just as a loud commotion came from one of the doorways. A Magi strode boldly in. Aurora suspected he’d purposefully made the noise, in order to announce his arrival and give them a chance to compose themselves.

  Sverrin, who’d scowled at the interruption, brightened immediately as he saw who the man was. “Ah, Rothschild—good evening.”

  “Your Majesty, Princess.” Rothschild bowed deeply. He was an unremarkable man, with a heavy build and strong, Betheanian features. Something of his smile, though pleasant enough, made Aurora cautious. This one smiled too much—and for the wrong reasons. “I am sorry for the intrusion, but was told to deliver this to you directly. It comes from your grandfather, King Bozidar.”

  The Magi produced a small note, which Sverrin took keenly. Aurora caught Rothschild smirking at her from the corner of her eyes, as if she were the line at the end of a cruel joke. When she tried to catch his gaze, however, he seemed to find interest elsewhere.

  “As timely as ever.” Sverrin unfolded the note and began to read. Aurora watched him carefully for his reaction. She could decipher nothing from the King, which frustrated her.

  Finally, Sverrin finished. “Thank you Rothschild, this was exactly what I needed. Tomorrow, I would like you to relay the orders we discussed to Zachary. Everything has come into play. Our plan is in motion.”

  Rothschild’s eyes brightened with an excitement. Aurora knew the expression well, she’d seen it before in men green to battle, commissioned into their first war. That expression never lasted, once the horrors began.

  “Of course, Your Majesty. Zachary will be pleased.”

  “I do rather keep you all cooped in, don’t I?” Sverrin laughed, folding the letter and placing it in his pocket. Rothschild bowed, and then left the way he’d come, his step light with excitement. Sverrin seemed strangely pleased, smiling secretively, though Aurora couldn’t conceive what good news could have come out of Sigel’eg at this time.

  “I apologise for that, Princess. My kingdom is a greedy child, who demands my attention all hours of the day.”

  “Of course, I understand Your Majesty.”

  “Come, it has grown late.” Sverrin smiled. “We ought to return.”

  Aurora didn’t want to, but to refuse would arouse suspicion. She followed Sverrin’s example, laying down Jionat’s hand. “Thank you for bringing me here, Your Majesty.” She curtsied low, and Sverrin reached toward her, putting two fingers beneath her chin and tipping her face back. He brushed her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, and then released her, offering his arm.

  Aurora took it, and they left together, the Princess carefully marking the path back. Later, she would return, alone, and she would further examine the altar on which Jionat was laid. One way or another, Aurora would discover the truths of the spell which kept Sverrin alive.

  “Frankly, I don’t know how you do it,” Rufus huffed, lying flat on his back in the grass. He’d cushioned his head upright under his doublet, so that he could still see the apple he was levitating a few strides away. Over the past days, he’d progressed from grapes to larger fruits, and was expanding the distance in which he could control the objects.

  He made the apple loop and dance like a demented bird, and Joshua, at his side, took aim, drawing his arrow back.

  “You don’t train nearly as many hours as I do,” Joshua said, with a tone of concentration, his focus on his target as it dipped and weaved.

  “Exactly, and yet I’m exhausted.” Rufus twisted his hand to make the apple fly up, and Joshua shot his arrow. It struck the apple perfectly, splitting it into two. Joshua, quick as darting fish, loosed another arrow and caught one of the tumbling halves.

  Rufus whistled. “Etheus blind me, you’re getting even quicker—near an arrow a second.”

  “Fae can shoot three in less,” Joshua grumbled, and Rufus marvelled at his ambition. He summoned the apple parts and arrows to him, concentrating as they slid slowly along the ground and then up into the air, flying into his hands one by one. He returned the arrows to his brother, and ate what remained of the apple.

  “You have time.” He licked his fingers clean. “Fae’s been using a bow three times as long as you. I’m sure one day you’ll rival her in skill.”

  “I doubt that,” Joshua said glumly. “Can you levitate two apples?”

  “I’m not sure.” Rufus sat up. “That was my last one, either way.”

  “Then can you make one of the targets move?” Joshua pointed down the bottom of the field, where a line of straw targets sat thirty strides away.

  Rufus frowned. “I haven’t tried to move anything that large,” he admitted, “but I suppose.” He reached out his hand, trying to concentrate. The target remained firmly where it was. Rufus pushed himself to his feet, extending his will. The size and the distance worked against him, but he persisted, honing his concentration into a fine point.

  His vision tunnelled from the force of his intention, and in the back of his mind, he became conscious of a rushing sound. He blinked, trying to shake it away. It persisted, growing louder, until it enveloped him, colours exploding behind his eyes.

  Harmatia lay below him. From the vantage point he could see the whole capital, the forum out in front, the city laid out like an eccentric maze of houses and roads. The courtyard was far below him.

  Rufus realised the rushing sound was the wind, and that he was stood high up, on what must have been the roof of the Great Library.

  He turned, confused, and spotted a man a little way from him. It had been some time, but Rufus immediately recognised the grim figure of Arlen Zachary. Rufus’s brothering apprentice had aged little, though he seemed thinne
r now, grey in the face, and older in the slump of his shoulders.

  Zachary stood, balanced precariously on the edge, anchored back by only his heels, his arms held loosely at his side.

  The wind was getting higher, making Zachary rock, and Rufus’s heart dropped to the bottom of his stomach. Zachary was staring down intently, his objective clear.

  Rufus tried to call out to him, but his voice was spirited away by the wind. He tried to move, stepping over the precarious ledge, a set of gargoyles between them. Again, he called out, but his brothering apprentice couldn’t hear him.

  Something seemed to settle over Zachary, and quietly he closed his eyes. Rufus reached out in one last attempt to grab him, but with a bone-weary sigh, Zachary tipped himself forward over the edge, his arms spread.

  “NO!” Rufus shouted, lunging forward only to stop dead, returned to the training grounds.

  “Rufus?” Joshua cried, his eyes wide.

  Rufus looked out in time to see that, not only was Joshua’s target floating in the air, but the entire line of targets was too. They drifted spookily for a moment, like straw phantoms, and then dropped simultaneously. Rufus drew back, gasping.

  “D-did you see that?” he demanded. “Not the targets,” he corrected immediately, “the roof! Harmatia! Did you see that?”

  “No.” Joshua ran to him worriedly. Rufus dragged a hand through hair. “Rufus, what is it?”

  “I think…” Rufus sat down heavily. “I think I had a vision.”

  “You?” Joshua knelt down in-front of him. “A vision?”

  “Yes, I think. But I’ve never seen anything outside of my dreams.”

  Joshua’s frown deepened, “Perhaps sharing my visions, and all this magic training has opened up your potential. What did you see? Rufus?”

  Rufus ran his hands up his face, and then once more through his hair, tugging his fringe. “It was Zachary,” he muttered. “Why would I have a vision about Zachary?”

  “I don’t know.” Joshua seemed deep in thought. “What was he doing?”

  Rufus released his hair, his mind in turmoil. He stared his brother hard in the face. “Killing himself.”

  Once again, Zachary disobeyed Heather’s orders, and left his bed. He’d slept the night through with a heaviness achieved only through sheer exhaustion, and woke feeling clearer than he had in days. His body still ached in the aftermath of his sickness, and he couldn’t drive out the perpetual chill which clung to him, but he felt sufficiently well enough to dress, descend and eat at the table.

  Heather joined him, clucking and fussing around him. He let her, quietly enjoying the concerned affection. She brought him hot soup, and then sat beside him, watching him shrewdly as he ate it all.

  “You will be the death of me, Arlen,” she sighed, and he gave her a weak grin.

  From beyond the dining room, there came a firm knock on the door. Heather made to go, but Zachary caught her hand, suddenly cautious. He rose in her stead, and going to the entrance hall, beat the other servants to the door. He opened it, and then stepped back.

  “Rothschild?” He frowned, and gestured for the man to come in, though he had no energy for sycophants that morning.

  “Zachary, how do you feel? You seem recovered.”

  “I will be, soon.” Zachary folded his arms. “What can I do for you?”

  “I have orders from the King,” Rothschild said with an undisguised excitement, and Zachary’s already meagre appetite for the day crumbled away. He grew quiet and stiff.

  “What orders?”

  Rothschild looked around, as if to ensure nobody was listening, and leant in. “We are to be deployed—the Night Patrol. At last, after so long, our purpose has been recognised.”

  “I don’t understand,” Zachary said. “Deployed where?”

  “To Bethean. We’re going into the capital.” Rothschild gabbled with excitement, and with a slowly gathering dread Zachary understood exactly what was happening.

  It all made sense: the invitation to the Princess, the rebuking of Kathra, the slow gathering of alchemists in Bethean—Sverrin had been preparing for war for months, and his declaration was to be bloody.

  It was almost clever. Sverrin hadn’t sent his forces to Sigel’eg, because he needed them for battle, and wanted to create the illusion of a growing distance between himself and Kathra.

  He’d invited the Princess under the pretence of a growing alignment, and now he planned to destroy the Betheanian seat of power, leaving Aurora as the only true heir and his hostage. She would have no choice but to marry him, or live as his prisoner. And the Night Patrol would be forever remembered as the instigators of an unholy massacre.

  “No,” Zachary said plainly, and Rothschild frowned, drawing himself up.

  “Zachary?”

  “No,” he repeated, firm. “Tell the King, as the captain of the Night Patrol and according to the book of Law, I am within my lawful rights to refuse orders in the case of an illegal war. I won’t lead my men into Bethean.”

  “Zachary,” Rothschild gaped. “You mean to refuse the King?”

  “The city of Bethean is home to hundreds. Men, women, children—we are soldiers, not murderers. The King may send another army if he wishes, but the Night Patrol will have no part in this.”

  Rothschild’s excitement had been replaced with dismay. He opened and closed his mouth, gobsmacked. “Zachary,” he implored, “think carefully on this. Refusal to obey will reflect very gravely upon you.”

  “Yes,” Zachary said in a small, but sure voice. “It will.”

  “I must insist that you—”

  “Don’t insist. Relay my message.” Zachary turned away from him. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to sort my affairs. Goodbye, Rothschild.”

  Rothschild stuttered after him, but Zachary marched up the stairs back toward his bedroom. Lawfully or not, he’d just disobeyed Sverrin for the last time, which meant there was only one thing left to do.

  He wasn’t quite sure what drew him back to the roof. Zachary reasoned it might have been quicker to open his wrists, and be done with it, but he couldn’t bear the idea that it might be Heather, or Daniel who came upon him. He’d left letters on his desk for them to find later—his apologies to everyone.

  Of course, the cowardly part of him had considered just fleeing, but there was nowhere Zachary could go that Sverrin could not call him back from. The King knew his weaknesses. If Zachary ran, Sverrin would target those closest to him, until he returned. So long as Zachary lived, he would be Sverrin’s pawn.

  The wind was high up on the ledge and Zachary breathed in deeply. It felt right to die in the open air—to taste even a semblance of the fleeting freedom he had. He gazed steadily at the ground below, his heart pounding.

  For the first time in years, Zachary allowed himself to think about what he’d done. In the name of good intention, he’d driven himself into an irredeemable darkness, all to save the boy he’d failed to protect. Zachary had loved and mourned Sverrin with such an astounding guilt, he’d convinced himself, and everyone else, that he was happy to walk the path of a villain to set it right.

  Deep down, however, he’d maintained a foolish hope. That one day Rufus would return to Harmatia, that Zachary would be forgiven his blood-lust, and that Sverrin’s revival would bring a new age of prosperity and peace to Harmatia. None of these had come to pass. Zachary was feared and rightfully hated, Rufus was dead, and Sverrin had slowly drained the country of life and hope.

  Zachary had never wanted to be an instrument of tyranny. He’d never wanted to be a monster. His design had always been to protect—that was his purpose. How miserably he’d failed.

  He took a step closer to the edge and the wind made him rock on his feet. What would Katrina say? His eldest and most beloved sister, who’d raised him when his own mother, unable to abide the baby inside her, had forced Zachary out from her womb at only eight months. Elizabeth DuMorne had refused even to hold her son, claiming to have fulfilled her marital du
ty. The first and last words she ever spoke to Zachary were a curse—his name; Tristus DuMorne.

  Yes, death had been put upon him from birth, but Katrina had whisked him away, raised him on goat’s milk, and given him a new name. Not a curse, a promise: Arlen. And he’d taken the surname Zachary and worn it with pride, not because it was his father’s or even his grandfather’s, but because it was hers.

  Heather Benson was Katrina’s maternal aunt. Zachary could only hope they would band together, as women were so capable of doing, and share their grief. If they grieved him at all—he’d turned out to be no great brother or son to either. Nor any great friend.

  Athea, permit me this one thing, before you pass your judgement: Let me see Rufus, and the Delphi boy that I murdered, he prayed. There were few wrongs he could now right, but perhaps it would bring peace to these restless souls to know his grief and regret. Perhaps it would only anger them more, but Zachary was happy to face their wrath.

  He closed his eyes, heaving a sigh. Now—it was time. The wind had risen to a peak, the clouds were moving fast above him, as if in a gathering storm. His courage mounted, forcing back the sick feelings of fear. He was ready.

  He opened his arms to embrace death and tipped forward, rushed with feelings of relief and release. It wasn’t so bad to die, he decided.

  “STOP!”

  A set of arms seized him by the waist, and then another across his chest, and Zachary found himself being dragged backward. Panic took him, and he began to fight furiously, thrashing and shouting.

  His captors were strong, however, and held onto him fast. Zachary, still weak from the sickness, couldn’t break free. Drained of energy, he slumped, dropping his full weight, and was pulled back further onto the roof. He was lowered to his knees, and in the next second, Emeric was in front of him, shaking him by the shoulders.