“Athea have mercy,” Belphegore choked.
In the centre, Zachary stood with his back to them.
His robes were stained with blood, his hair matted, fingers still dripping. Slowly he turned, black eyes the last evidence of a transformation. His mouth was red from feasting, and his expression totally empty, so far beyond human kindness or understanding. Emeric could only stare, for though the man before them shared all of the common features, there was nothing of Arlen Zachary in him.
“Dear me, Zachary,” Sverrin chortled, breaking the hush with the garish sound of his voice. “You needn’t have made such a mess!”
“My apologies, your Majesty.” It wasn’t Zachary who spoke, but DuGilles who, in the horror of the mounded bodies, Emeric hadn’t noticed stood in the corner of the room. “I told him to enjoy himself. Isn’t that right, Zachary?”
Zachary didn’t reply, swaying his weight from one leg to the other. A faint, gurgling sound came up from his throat, like a growl, but there was no hostility in his expression. He was empty of anything.
“Arlen…” Belphegore moved forward, stepping straight into a puddle of blood. He recoiled. A woman’s arm lay close by, a dainty engagement ring on her finger, nails all broken as if she’d tried to scratch her way free. “What have you done to him?” Belphegore whirled around to DuGilles, who gave a giddy chuckle.
“Nothing.” DuGilles raised his hands. “Nothing that wasn’t asked of me. Your apprentice was clouded and troubled, Lord Odin, and I gave him clarity. He’s in perfect condition.” DuGilles’s eyes rolled over to Zachary. “Absolutely perfect.”
Sverrin gave a good-natured chuckle. “Was it a fine show?”
“Oh, Your Majesty, I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. Not even animals can create such elegance in a kill.”
Emeric realised he’d stopped breathing, his throat squeezed closed to stop the rise of bile. Elegance? There was nothing elegant in the room. It was an unspeakable chaos—worse than a battle-ground.
“Arlen, how have you done this?” Marcel dared to speak, but got no acknowledgement.
“Isaac was right,” Emeric choked, too softly for anyone else to hear.
“This is,” Belphegore’s voice was strained with disbelief, “this is an atrocity!”
“No, Lord Odin.” Sverrin’s docile tone was gone in an instant. “This was my will.”
Belphegore inhaled sharply, on the verge of fury, but before any more could be said, Zachary suddenly doubled over and vomited. The room grew still, everybody fixated on the grim display, as chunks of chewed flesh and blood pouring violently out of his mouth onto the floor.
Zachary’s legs gave way, and he dropped to his knees into the mess. He gave a faint hiccup, retching again, and then simply stared at the floor, mouth parted and dripping. His expression didn’t change at all.
“Oh gods,” Emeric begun to sob, his body juddering. “Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods.”
“Come now, Lord Fold,” DuGilles laughed, as if Emeric were a frightened girl leaping onto her chair to avoid a mouse. “No need to be so squeamish.”
“DuGilles,” Sverrin snapped sharply, “what is the meaning of this? You told me he was fit to work.”
“He is, Your Majesty, of course.” DuGilles raised his hands submissively. “But this was his first meal in some time, and he was only half transformed. So much raw flesh at once—anyone’s stomach would turn. There’s no need for alarm.”
“Oh gods,” Emeric was still saying, though he didn’t know why. Even Athea would turn her head away at this unholy display. “Oh gods, oh gods.”
“Lord Fold, follow your master’s example and try to be quiet.” Sverrin rolled his eyes. “It’s unsavoury, but that is the flavour of war. It’ll be easier when you join the slaughter.”
“Join?” Belphegore said.
“The Night Patrol are being deployed to Bethean,” Sverrin said pleasantly. “Zachary wasn’t keen on the commission before, but I think I’ll find him much more compliant on the matter now.” Sverrin glanced at DuGilles for confirmation.
The Kathrak nodded. “A few days’ rest, and he’ll be battle-worthy.”
“Excellent.” Sverrin clapped his hands, the sharp sound ringing in the vast room. “You had best prepare your things, Lords Fold, Hathely—you will shortly be going to war.”
Emeric’s head felt light, the room tilting like the deck of a ship. A part of him wanted to stagger over to Zachary and strike him back to his senses, but the other, more sensible part knew he’d never survive getting close enough. Arlen Zachary was dead—this was some unholy monster with his face.
“Actually,” Belphegore broke through the nightmare, his voice cold but triumphant, “Arlen excused Lord Fold and Lord Hathely from their duties several weeks ago, before he disappeared. They are no longer a part of the Night Patrol.”
Sverrin’s pleased air grew cold with anger, the words settling over him. He opened his mouth to object and then froze as, from within his crater of bodies, Zachary threw his back and began to laugh.
It was a manic sound. Forceful, hysterical, enough to shrink your throat, and send flighty shivers spindling up and down the spine. Every hair on Emeric’s body rose. Nobody dared speak or move, fearful of catching this monster’s attention.
Emeric didn’t know if it was gleeful laughter—whether Zachary had somehow understood, amidst his destruction, that he’d won one small, significant victory in rescuing his friends. Emeric wasn’t even sure Zachary could see or hear them anymore, but somehow he had sensed it—a triumph of his own making.
Sverrin eyes met Zachary’s, and in an instant their roles of the last ten years were reversed. For there was no more fear in Zachary’s gaze, and Sverrin understood the monster he had created.
“Take him away,” Sverrin ordered, and then repeated in a shriek. “Take him away!”
DuGilles came forward and, seizing Zachary under the arms, dragged him to his feet, pulling him back toward the opposite door.
Zachary laughed like madness all the way.
“I am proud of you,” Fae announced grandly, standing over Rufus who had keeled over in exhaustion. “A few more months, and you might even be considered a worthy opponent.”
“I can set everything on fire,” Rufus moaned. “I will set everything on fire. And laugh. Laugh.”
“Yes, yes,” Fae nudged him with her toe. She’d been pushing him harder and harder in his training over the last week. He was not a natural fighter but a quick learner all the same. “And twice a day, you can summon flaming birds from the sky, and harness the power of the cosmos. And yet I have still felled you, and you’re still far from a warrior.”
“I want to read a book,” Rufus sobbed.
“Later. Come—there’s still another hour of training in you.”
Rufus rolled onto his side and curled into a ball, shaking his head. “No more, Fae. No more.”
“Don’t be pathetic.”
“But I am pathetic,” Rufus groaned. “Please.”
Fae sighed. “A short pause then,” she granted, sitting beside him. “For such a hard-working man, you’re really very lazy sometimes.”
Rufus sat up, giving her a doleful look. Fae laughed, and reaching across, she picked some of the grassy debris out of his black hair.
“I’m not lazy,” he huffed. “I’m just not built for this.”
“That’s the excuse Embarr used to make, when I tried to train him.”
“Embarr Reagon?” Rufus sat up with a little more interest. “Did he live in the Neve?”
“For a time, yes.” Fae lay back in the grass, Rufus dropping down beside her, so their heads were lightly touching. “He was Niamh’s ward, but as he’s forbidden from setting foot on Tír na nÓg, he was sent to live here instead.”
“Forbidden? Why.”
“Because he’s a Fomorii. And the son of one of our greatest enemies. He swore his allegiance to Niamh, in return for her protection against his mother, but there are many who
still doubt him.”
Rufus was quiet for a few moment, and Fae could hear him rubbing his chin. “Where is he from?” he asked, after a while. “Who is his mother?”
Fae pursed her lips. Names had power, and even though it was safe to utter this one in the Neve, she still hesitated. “Nicnivin,” she finally said.
“Nicnivin?” Rufus sat bolt upright, “The Queen of the Unseelie Court?” He twisted to look down at her. “You mean Embarr is the son of the Dark?”
“Yes.”
Rufus blinked rapidly. “Embarr?” he repeated, as if sure she was thinking of someone else. “The Gancanagh we met—he’s the heir of the Unseelie Court?”
“He is her son,” Fae said, sitting up slowly. “But he’s not the heir. He’s just a vessel for her power.”
Rufus frowned deeply. “What do you mean?”
Fae pursed her lips, her stomach clenching. “The relationship between Nicnivin and her children is…unnatural,” she finally said. “She is the most powerful of all of the Fomorii, and she believes that the only person worthy of succeeding her is…herself.”
“…What?”
Fae winced. She really didn’t want to have to explain it. “When a child is born, they are half of each parent. Nicnivin has had many sons. The first child was half of Nicnivin. The next child…Was three quarters.”
Fae saw Rufus puzzling through it. His face twisted with disgust as realisation dawned. “She…procreates with her own children?”
“Yes.” Fae was beginning to feel a little queasy. “And when a new son is born, to ensure the power stays with her, she eats the previous one.”
“I’m going to be sick,” Rufus moaned.
“Through this process, Nicnivin means to eventually dilute any other blood and give birth to a child who is born entirely of her. And that child will be as unequivocally powerful.”
“So she wants to—”
“Yes.”
“With Embarr—”
“Yes.”
Rufus stared. “I’m really going to be sick.”
“Embarr is the first of her sons who has ever run away,” Fae said. “They are so much a part of her, tearing themselves away is almost impossible—Embarr has to fight the urge to return to her every day. It is his very nature to give her what she wants. And she—she cannot abide the idea that any part of her power is out of her control. She will search for Embarr until the end of days.”
“Athea have mercy.” Rufus ran his hands through his hair. “So that day in the forest, when he lured us all together, you thought—”
“That he’d returned to her. Yes. The Myrithian forest is where she lives—it was unwise for him to be there.”
“So where is he now?”
“Sigel’eg, last I heard, deep within the Kathrak Court.” Fae rose to her feet. “Now enough about that. It’s time to get back to work.”
“At this point, I welcome the distraction,” Rufus said, and accepted her hand as she hauled him to his feet.
Morrigan lingered to watch the exchange far below, the young granddaughter of Niamh helping Rufus to his feet and commencing his training again. How little this foolish woman knew. Appealing to the softer side of Rufus wouldn’t bring out the fighter within him, though Morrigan wasn’t so proud as to look down on the Cat Sidhe. Fae Ó Murchadha could prove to be the trickiest opponent of all, if Morrigan didn’t deal with her soon.
The crow on the goddess’s shoulder nipped affectionately at her ear, though she didn’t need it to announce Reilly’s arrival as he came padding through the trees.
“Mac Gearailt.” She ushered him toward her. He obeyed silently, his eyes unseeing. Even now, after so long under her thrall, she sensed a hesitation in his step—a strain. He was strong, but she’d claimed him. “My little pet.” She caressed his face, the crow cawing loudly at Reilly, with something close to jealousy. Reilly blinked rapidly at the sound, frowning, but Morrigan shushed his awakening thoughts, kissing him tenderly. “Calm your mind,” she bid, and he grew still again. “It would seem you failed in your task of rallying the Magi up.”
“Fae intervened,” Reilly said slowly, his voice muffled. He was fighting hard against her control, a small part of him still conscious beneath the layers of glamour she’d sown over him.
It didn’t matter. As always, when she disappeared, he would forget she was there, and the quiet ideas she planted in his mind would grow to fruition. Of course, such intoxication had its limits—she couldn’t change his character too quickly. Reilly wasn’t so easily moulded.
Morrigan had told him to attack Rufus, thinking Reilly’s natural suspicion for the Magi would lend itself to the task. Instead, Reilly had proven to be more honour-bound than she’d anticipated. He’d carried out her orders in the only way he could—trying to trick Rufus into attacking first, so that he could justify his own actions. Yes, subconsciously, Reilly was still fighting her, and this had delayed her plans.
Morrigan had hoped to remove this sanctuary from Rufus quickly, to end the Neve’s hospitality and divide its loyalties. When she’d met Rufus in the forest, his mind had been fragile and almost ready to submit. Now…
“Your wife has proven to be an adept healer.” Morrigan looked back down into the training grounds. “I fear there is little I can do now to drive a wedge between them. His heart is too mended. He is forgetting his hatred and fear.”
Curse Niamh. Morrigan had laid claim on Rufus long ago, but Niamh’s interference had given him a counter to the rage Morrigan needed him to succumb to.
“No matter.” Morrigan didn’t allow herself to linger. “There are yet pieces for me to play, and a new one as of today. Little Embarr Reagon is in Kathra, is he? Nicnivin will certainly be pleased to hear about it.”
Reilly was growing restless again. He shook under the strain of her magic. Morrigan kissed his temple, tasting the sweat on his brow.
“For now, I think it’s time I reintroduced Rufus to his demons. For there is one threat that he will not sit by.”
“On-ly a—a boy,” Reilly forced out, and Morrigan was impressed. His breathing was hard, his hands twitching.
“Yes,” Morrigan agreed sadly, watching the little Delphi Prince run into the training ground to join Rufus and Fae, flanked by another young Cat Sidhe. “But war is coming, and the people need someone to rally to.” Her eyes flashed a deep red, the sun beginning to set far out in the west. “When the armies gather in their thousands against Joshua of the Delphi, I wonder what Rufus will think of my proposition then.”
“Nn—” Reilly was choking on his words, his hand shakily reaching for his sword. The movement was laborious, as if he were trying to drive his arm through rock. Morrigan watched his progress, keen to see how far he would get. His hand touched the hilt, and he drew the weapon, gasping.
The crow gave a sharp cry and flew from Morrigan’s shoulder, straight into Reilly’s face. The Cat Sidhe battered it back, shaking his head violently to spare his eyes from the talons. As the bird flew up, Reilly look back to see Morrigan had disappeared into the trees. He was left, blinking, with no memory of her being there.
Isaac sat with Daniel during the commotion. The Ambassador was a quiet and reassuring companion as raised voices and accusations were thrown across the room.
To Daniel’s surprise it was Marcel who was shouting. The Magi, who spoke the least of anyone Daniel had ever known, couldn’t seem to stop the outpour now, as if all the words had been trapped in for too long. He switched effortlessly between Réneian and the Common Tongue, without seeming to notice, and was cussing and swearing at Béatrice, who answered in kind.
A few things were thrown before Belphegore finally intervened, commanding both to settle down. Marcel, his voice run raw from use, turned away, struggling to light his pipe with trembling hands.
In contrast, Emeric sat silently at the window, staring out into the garden. He was wide-eyed and voiceless. Daniel had seen a similar expression once before, when he was young. A woman in his m
other’s village had lost a foolish son to a Kelpie. She’d watched the lad climb onto the faerie’s back from the other side of a meadow, and only made it across in time to see the monster dive into the water, drowning the shrieking infant.
“You knew this would happen,” Marcel spoke furiously into his pipe, unable to even look at Béatrice who’d proudly turned away. “Why did you not prevent it? Why did you not speak? We could have saved him!”
“Ta gueule!” Béatrice swore. “You think I did not agonise over ways to help him? But who do you think Sverrin would have turned his rage on if Arlen were gone?” She slapped her hand against the wall. “We would have all had to flee! Would you have had me turn traitors of everyone Arlen knew?”
“We should never have let this happen,” Belphegore said grimly. “I should have seen it. I should have. Now he is gone from me. Both of them. Gone.”
Between the high flairs of emotion and despair, Daniel hadn’t found room to express any words of his own. The Magi had all left the room with the confidence that Isaac and Béatrice were exaggerating. They’d returned smelling of blood, Emeric stunned into silence and Marcel into a rage. The message had been clear, though no one had bothered to convey it to Daniel.
His brother was truly gone—stolen away from himself and hollowed out to make room for something else.
Isaac didn’t leave Daniel’s side for even a minute, vigilant in the task Zachary had given him. Daniel wasn’t sure how to feel, his stomach churning.
From where he was sat, silent as a ghost, Emeric finally spoke up, faint and close to feeble. “We’re all responsible. For all of it. Rufus, Zachary, all of those people. We brought Sverrin back and this was the cost. Those deaths, this loss—we are responsible.”
At this, nobody had any response. Their anger turned inwards and Daniel felt a malicious twist of satisfaction. He rose and moved to the door.
“Where are you going?” Béatrice asked.
“To get my things. I have to go home.”
Blood of the Delphi (The Harmatia Cycle Book 2) Page 51