“How could he do such a thing?” Rufus breathed. “To cast you out like that on your own?”
“I was already alone, Rufus. The morning I left, I removed my wedding band, and I never wore it again. Any semblance of the marriage I envisioned was gone, and I didn’t know how to repair it.”
“Mothering Prospan, Fae. I’m so sorry.” Rufus kept hold of her hand, and she covered his with cold fingers.
“I was lost to my anger and my despair. Matters worsened when I discovered that my childhood friend, Embarr Reagon, had apparently kidnapped the Betheanian Princess. And so then started a chapter of my life where I was forced to rebuild myself, and grow into the person I am today.”
“It sounds incredibly troublesome.”
“You have no idea. But I would be a very different person now, if I hadn’t met you and Jionat.”
“I’d be a very dead person, if I hadn’t met you.” Rufus moved closer to her. The night was cool, so he put his arm around her shoulder, drawing her in. She rested her head against his collar.
“You’re a wonderful listener,” she sighed. “I feel as if I could tell you anything.”
“You can.” He interlocked his fingers with hers. “Now and forever. You can tell me anything in the world.”
Marcel was smoking heavily, staring intently at the door. In the chair beside the fire, which only a few days ago Zachary had occupied, Daniel was now slumped similarly, fast asleep.
It had been a trying few days for the boy. He’d appeared several nights ago, face drawn and eyes stained with tears, breaking in through the garden. The poor boy had been so frail that it had taken half an hour of care and comfort from Emeric before Daniel was able to speak. What he’d reported disturbed them all.
Marcel had gone straight to the Zachary household to investigate, but any evidence of Heather Benson’s murder and Zachary’s abduction had been cleaned away. None of the servants could confirm Daniel’s story, and there was no word of where Zachary had gone.
To protect Daniel, Marcel hadn’t aggravated the situation with any more questions, though with each passing day, he grew more agitated by his lack of knowledge.
In the chair, Daniel woke with a start. He’d been sleeping fitfully over the last few days, shouting in the night, and looking gaunt come morning.
He sat up straight and composed himself, covering his mouth and shooting Marcel an apologetic look.
From where she’d been playing in the corner, Morelle rose and went to Daniel, carrying him a lemon biscuit. Daniel took it wordlessly and gave her a wan smile of thanks. He rose shakily from his chair and joined Marcel at the table.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
“You needed it.” Marcel emptied the spent tobacco from his pipe and refilled it. Morelle wrinkled her nose.
“Maman says it is bad to smoke so much,” she said and Marcel raised a golden eyebrow at his niece.
“Go to your room.” He nodded toward the door, and Morelle narrowed her black eyes. She knew that, should she choose to defy him, there would be no reprimand, but quietly she obeyed regardless. She was sensitive to the mood in the house, and knew when best to sink in and out of the shadows—an inherited skill. She gave Daniel a small pat on the arm as she passed him, and leant up on her tip-toes to kiss Marcel softly on the cheek. The gesture was sweet, but there was a mercenary glint in her eye, and something told Marcel that this obedience would need to be rewarded later, or there would be hell to pay.
Daniel leant forward over the table. Despite his rest, he still looked drained. “Have you had any more news?”
“I would have woken you.”
Daniel sagged, “I can’t abide this waiting. Not knowing.”
“You should leave the capital.”
“I’m not leaving until I know where he is,” Daniel said.
Emeric had made the same proposition twice in the last few days, but Daniel had been adamant. Marcel was happy to offer him shelter as long as was required, but he feared for Daniel’s wellbeing.
From behind them, another door opened and Béatrice stepped into the room. She’d returned to Harmatia the night before, after a long journey from Sigel’eg, and had immediately taken responsibility of Daniel.
“My dear,” she moved to the boy, “you are still in here? Staying in one place so long is not good for your health. I have had a bath drawn for you. Go and wash. You will feel better for being clean. No excuses. And do no fret—I know how private you Zacharys are. The servants will not intrude. You have the washroom to yourself.”
Daniel, who looked like he hadn’t had a further thought from his mind, stood and thanked Béatrice. “If you hear anything,” he began to Marcel.
“I shall send for you,” Marcel said solemnly and the boy gave that same, limp smile and left the room. Béatrice took his seat, opposite Marcel.
“How many is that?” she asked, taking the pipe from his mouth. “Three? Take pause, my sweet thing. This is one Réneian habit I would rather you did not indulge in so frequently. You have seen the state of the chimney after a fire, I cannot imagine what it does to your throat and lungs, Magi or not.”
Marcel snatched the pipe back, but did as she wished, emptying the tobacco. Béatrice looked at of the door which Daniel had just passed through.
“Poor boy. We ought to be making arrangements to send him home. Though Corhlam will not be safe for long. There are rumours that Sverrin attacked Princess Aurora. I cannot imagine that Bethean will sit idle and allow such an affront to go unpunished. Isaac will be here soon, he will take Daniel, I think.”
“Daniel will not leave, until he knows.”
“Then he may become a permanent resident,” Béatrice snipped, a little too sharply. Marcel studied her sister’s familiar features. Her maroon eyes shone plainly back at him, the same colour as their mother’s, with the same ability to lie. Marcel stood slowly, an uncomfortable thought settling at the top of his mind.
Conscious that Daniel might still be lingering outside the room, or that there might be other ears, he spoke in their mother tongue instead, leaning forward.
“Tu sais où il est.”
Béatrice didn’t move, but her silence confirmed it—she knew where Zachary was, and what had befallen him. Marcel felt something urgent rise up in his throat, but he kept it down, perplexed. Béatrice maintained her silence.
“Parle, s’il te plait,” he begged her, coming around the table.
“Tu me donnes trop d’importance,” Béatrice dismissed, feigning ignorance, but Marcel wouldn’t be shaken. He knew what his sister was capable of.
“Je sais de quoi tu es capable.” He gripped the back of her chair, his arm reached over her shoulder. He’d missed something, something she’d noticed. “Béatrice, qu’est-ce que tu as remarque que je n’ai pas vu?”
Béatrice merely gave an elegant shrug, brushing her hair over her sculpted collarbone, as if what she knew wasn’t in the least bit relevant.
“Cela n’a aucune importance.”
Marcel’s grip tightened. Béatrice’s expression turned vicious and she stood, pushing him back.
“En fait cette affaire—ne te regarde pas,” she ordered him, and Marcel stepped back, disbelieving. She wanted him to stop looking into it? Either Béatrice was mad, or she’d forgotten who he was. At his incredulous snort, she took him by the shoulders, as she had in their childhood, her fingers angry, nails biting into his skin. For a moment, he saw a flash of fear in her face, and he knew that she was trying to protect him. Even so…
“Comment?” How could she expect him to let it go? Béatrice came close to grimacing, and then her expression returned to tranquil and she sat down. She’d reserved herself to give him nothing, but Marcel wasn’t deterred. He asked again. “Dis-moi ce que tu sais.”
“Rien,” Béatrice almost moaned, like a child being interrogated, denying all knowledge or responsibility. Marcel was now sure she was lying.
“Tu mens.”
She didn�
�t flicker at the accusation. “Laisse tomber, Marcel,” she ordered, her voice slightly raised. Again, he saw the flash of fear in her eyes—she wanted him to leave it. But for Zachary—who’d flown all the way to Sigel’eg just to ensure she was safe—Marcel couldn’t understand why she would abandon him.
“Pourquoi ne veux-tu pas m’aider?”
Béatrice sighed heavily, and stood, moving past him to the window. “Je suis vraiment désolée,” she apologised softly.
“Do not say you are sorry!” Marcel lost his temper, and his Réneian tongue—no longer caring if anyone heard, almost hoping that someone did. “Tell me!”
Béatrice took several long, deep breaths. “I do not know where he is,” she finally said. “But I know what has happened to him.”
Marcel could barely breathe. “Tell me.”
“It will not comfort you.”
“Tell me!” Marcel repeated. “Is he…dead?”
Béatrice exhaled. “Yes.”
It was like a rock plummeted down through his stomach. Marcel felt weak. He could still feel the echo of Zachary struggling against his grip, as they pulled him away from the edge. If only Marcel had held onto him tighter.
“Non,” he whispered. “Tu mens.”
“No, Marcel—it is the truth. At least, it is the truth that you must embrace…Because in a few weeks Arlen may very well reappear again, as if nothing happened.”
“Then…he is alive?” Marcel didn’t understand. He waited, willing Béatrice to explain herself—to speak plainly.
“I can only hope not.” Béatrice rested her head against the window, as if exhausted. “Death would be kinder—kinder on us all. Then you would never have to know—”
“What are you talking about?” Marcel grabbed her by the shoulders, wrenching her around to face him.
“Control,” she said. “DuGilles is taking control of him—his mind. Arlen knew it would happen. He tried to warn you.”
Marcel’s grip went slack. “Control? He is being reconditioned?” he choked. “Is that all?”
“Is that all?” Béatrice laughed. “Marcel, I have seen what happens to the men DuGilles takes. I have seen what befalls them. They are not reconditioned—they are hollowed out! Their minds are destroyed. Arlen is dead—whether he breathes or not, he is dead! And if you love him, you will pray with me that he does not survive the process.”
Marcel stared at her, disbelieving. “You knew—you knew all along? And you said nothing!”
“Just as he did,” Béatrice said bitterly. “On that Arlen and I agreed—that you and Emeric must never know. Must never get involved. If you tried to save him, they would take you too.” She raised herself to her full height, her lips thin and quivering slightly. “Arlen was my friend, but you are my brother. I will protect you over him every time.”
That night, Rufus found himself on the beach again, lying flat against the warm sand. He stared up at the whitewashed sky and sighed, sitting up. “You again?”
His sadistic alter-ego subconscious—or Saes, as Rufus decided to call him—grinned readily, “Me again.”
“I thought I was rid of you.” Rufus couldn’t keep the venom from his voice.
Saes threw out his arms, in an exaggerated shrug. He was sprawled back in a glorious throne, which stood out on the stark beach. “You may have been happy enough these last days, but these visions have brought questions to the forefront of your mind, and thus, I return. Here again to help you protect yourself.”
“And what a fine job you’ve done so far.” Rufus flopped back into the sand.
“You’re still alive, aren’t you?” Saes quipped dully and Rufus frowned.
“Why have you…why have you take that appearance?”
“Eerie, isn’t it?” Saes resumed his grin and Rufus shuddered. Today, his subconscious was wearing Rufus’s own face, and looking at Saes felt a little like gazing at a disobedient reflection.
“Can you change into something else?”
“Apparently the person you need to confront is yourself.” Saes drummed his fingers and Rufus sat up again, peering suspiciously over at the man.
“What are you doing?” he asked, standing. Seas looked down at the throne he was lounged in, a heavy crown balanced on his head.
“Fantasising,” he said wistfully, and Rufus kicked the throne. As he did, the heavy, black wood dissolved into sand, forcing Saes to jump up as the throne collapsed beneath him.
“I’ve no desire to be King,” Rufus replied.
“Everyone wants to be King.” Saes nudged the sand with the tip of his toe, and removing his crown from his head, he dropped it onto the mound. As the crown touched the sand, it too dissolved away. “Or to lead, at least. You’ve never been very good at conforming, after all. Pacifist or not.”
“Why have you brought me here?” Rufus didn’t feel at all meek. In part, he understood why Saes wore his face—his subconscious moulded itself according to the emotion it wanted to entice. There was an aggression Rufus could feel when he looked at himself, something which hadn’t come naturally to him when faced with any of the other ghosts Saes had impersonated.
“We need to talk about our brother.”
“Joshua’s progressing well.”
“Not that brother.”
“Jionat—”
“Rufus,” Saes tutted, “Joshua is as a son to you, Jionat your best friend. You know to which brother I refer.”
Rufus’s mouth formed into a line. “Are my visions true?”
“They’re as reliable as any vision might be,” Saes said unhelpfully, and Rufus tore his hand through his hair angrily. Saes mimicked him mockingly, and it only made Rufus angrier.
“Is he dead?”
“No.” Saes said with certainty. “Not yet.”
“But he will be?”
“We all die, Rufus.”
“Will you cease with your riddles and answer me properly?”
“As always, Master,” Saes spat menacingly, “my usefulness lies with you actually asking the right questions.”
“You’re worse than the bloody Sidhe.” Rufus sat on the mound that had been Saes’s seat. It rose up around him to recreate the regal black throne, but Rufus slapped away the arm-rests, turning it back to sand. “DuGilles has him, doesn’t he?”
“You are quick.”
“The dreams…They’ve returned. The red-blackness. DuGilles’s box. But the terror is different—it isn’t mine.” Rufus rubbed the stubble on his face, coarse against his fingers. “Every night for the past week—it gets worse and worse. I fear I’m visiting Zachary in his nightmare, and he’s losing himself.”
Saes leant down and took a shell from his feet. He pulled his arm back and threw it out into the sea. “Good.”
“Good?” Rufus stood. “You know that suffering, how could you wish it on anybody?”
“Easily.” Saes raised his eyebrows, as if shocked Rufus had forgotten. “Because I hate Arlen Zachary with all my body and soul.”
Rufus huffed. “Oh, I see.”
“Oh, I see,” Saes repeated in a mocking tone. “Listen closely Rufus, your decision today will change the fate of Harmatia forever.”
“And what is my choice?”
“Whether you forgive him or not,” Saes said. “The man who murdered Jionat, put Sverrin on the throne and took part in the conspiracy that killed our mother, and almost had Joshua beheaded.”
“I see your thoughts are clear on the matter,” Rufus grunted and Saes laughed sharply, as if in disbelief.
“Athea, you’re actually thinking about this?”
“Apparently it will change the fate of Harmatia forever, so yes, I’m lending some thought to it,” Rufus bit and Saes kicked the sand childishly, muttering curses beneath his breath. “I pity him, if this is his fate. To be taken by DuGilles…I can understand why he’d choose death over that.”
“He deserves it.”
“Nobody deserves it,” Rufus said, though he could see a dark, poetic justice
in Zachary’s punishment. He knew a sick part of him was almost pleased by the sentence.
Saes crept over, peering into Rufus’s face. “You two-faced little saint. I can feel it in your veins. Put away that angelic face, and let the demon come out—you’re as happy as I am.”
“I’m not a demon. You helped to quell that part of me. Why are you trying to entice it out?”
Saes narrowed his eyes. On closer inspection, Rufus could see they weren’t blue like his, but shifting red and blazing gold. The fire burned deeply within Saes, and his skin was marked by red swirls and the patterns of the ancients. Rufus faced him calmly—this manifestation of Athea.
“What if I do forgive him? If DuGilles has his way, there will be nothing left of Zachary soon. There’s no way I can save him—I’d never reach him in time.”
“So why bother?” Saes agreed. “Are you so anxious to forgive him, and add him to your nostalgic list of fallen friends? Would it not be harder for you to face him if you were tainted by feelings of camaraderie? What if you hesitated, and Zachary snatched Joshua from your arms? You know what he’s capable of even without DuGilles’s influence.”
The thought was certainly a disturbing one, and one that Rufus had to consider deeply. He knew how easily he was compromised by sentimentality. What if Saes was right? What if his forgiveness weakened his resolve and Zachary took advantage of it?
“It wouldn’t be the first time he betrayed your trust,” Saes reminded and Rufus gritted his teeth. He felt ancient under the weight of these thoughts. Images flooded over him, Zachary threatening him, Zachary with blood on his mouth, Zachary standing beside the Korrigans’ spell. Each memory was like an arrow piercing him, making his certainty grow.
The fire in Saes’s eyes got brighter, and Rufus found it hard to think through the hard logic of the argument. What had Zachary ever done to deserve his forgiveness?
Blood of the Delphi (The Harmatia Cycle Book 2) Page 49