Blood of the Delphi (The Harmatia Cycle Book 2) Page 11

  Never before had he allowed himself to be used in such a way. Never had he given himself to another’s lust out of necessity instead of love. And yet twice now, in the last few days, he’d been taken advantage of—first by Morrigan with the toxic lust which she’d left smeared on his body, and now the halfling. The whole affair left Rufus with a sour taste in his mouth as he’d tried both to please the halfling and keep himself from gagging.

  Now that it was finished, Rufus felt empty and altogether heavy, as if he were floating above the bed, but couldn’t move any of his limbs. He was conscious of pain—the halfling had made no attempt to be gentle, and Rufus hadn’t dared to complain, conscious of Joshua sleeping in the room opposite. The boy could never know what Rufus had done to secure him that bed. Rufus wouldn’t let his brother bear that burden.

  “It’s a shame about the…” The halfling went on, gesturing to Rufus’s semi-clothed body. The Magi curled around himself tighter, ashamed. “Still, keep your clothes and I suppose most people won’t mind.” The half-ling sniffed thoughtfully. “Might even be that some folks like it. Tell me, would you let yourself be whipped? There’s a market for that.”

  Rufus didn’t speak. The halfling’s words were muffled to his ears and he didn’t have the energy to concentrate on them. Faint and distant memories of Howell floated into his mind. Rufus forced them down. He didn’t want those sacred memories to be tainted by his encounter with the halfling. He didn’t want there to be any association.

  “Pity.” The halfling took the silence in his own way. “If you were mine, I’d fatten you up a bit, too—bit bony for my usual taste. But the performance made up for it. Don’t look so ashen, outlaw—it’s a compliment.”

  Rufus’s skin crawled. He cast his eyes to the window close by. Through the curtains, he could see it was dark. Joshua would probably be fast asleep by now. Rufus wanted him to remain so as long as he could.

  “Would you like to go again?” he asked, pushing himself up, a weak smile on his face. The halfling’s eyes flashed.

  “I would.” He stood. “But we don’t have time.”

  Rufus’s breath hitched. “Why not?”

  “The magistrate’ll be here soon, I reckon.” The halfling turned toward the door instead, and Rufus rose from the bed, stumbling under his own weight. He pulled his trousers up, his fingers trembling.

  “What?”

  “I sent for the town guard. Knew it’d take the oafs almost an hour to get here. Thought I’d amuse myself in the meantime.”

  Rufus almost lost his stomach.

  “You,” he gasped, “you promised—”

  “To give your boy a room,” the halfling tutted. “Never said anythin’ about keepin’ your secret, outlaw. And why would I? I may not remember your name or your crime, but have you seen the bounty on your head? I wasn’t likely to forget that.” He gave Rufus a pitying once-over. “Don’t worry. They’ll be here soon enough. So long as you don’t fight, it’ll be painless. I won’t tell them about your son—he can stay here. If he has anythin’ of his father’s blood in him, then he may turn out to be very profitable.”

  Rufus trembled from head to foot, his vision turning white.

  “Don’t you go anywhere near him.” He advanced, but his legs wouldn’t function properly and he almost tumbled into the wall, head spinning. His skin burned like it might catch fire.

  “I’ll wait ’til he’s older—we have laws, you know. Sixteen. ’Til then, I’ll have some of the others train him up a little. Nothin’ too indecent. He’s a sweet-faced lad. Wouldn’t want to hollow out those eyes and cheeks too quickly now, would we?”

  “You son of…you son of a bitch,” Rufus gasped.

  The halfling shrugged. Somewhere far below came a loud knocking.

  “Ah, that’ll be them. Remember now—go peacefully and it’ll all be over soon.” The halfling turned back and unlocked the door. “And don’t worry—I’ll take good care of the boy. He’ll never want for food or warmth again, so long as he plays his part.”

  “No!” Rufus screamed and drew his knife. He lurched toward the halfling, who turned, surprised by the Magi’s sudden speed. Rufus collided with the man and wrestled him to the floor. The halfling was stronger, but in his sudden rage and desperation, Rufus won out and with a howl, planted the knife into the soft tissue of the halfling’s neck. The halfling gave a gurgled scream. Rufus drew the blade out and did it again, stabbing him over and over as blood sprayed out onto his hands and face. “I won’t let you!” Rufus cried. “I won’t let you!”

  The halfling gazed up emptily as the Magi continued to drive the knife into whatever flesh he could reach. The sound was obscene and Rufus was half-blind for the blood in his eyes, running down his face like tears. His heart roared from the exertion of the kill. Finally, he let up, straddled over the murdered man, his whole body shaking. He couldn’t count how many times he’d stabbed the halfling but there was little to be recognised of him now.

  Rufus stared down at his victim. His stomach summersaulted. With a horrified sob, he pushed himself off and away, dropping the knife and scrabbling into the corner of the room. He left a trail of blood in his wake.

  Had he done that? Had he just murdered a man?

  Down below, the knocking grew louder and Rufus remembered himself, rising giddily to his feet before doubling over and throwing up, his insides turning. It felt like someone had struck him hard in the stomach. It was a struggle to draw breath. With a determined growl, Rufus pressed himself against the wall and pushed on toward the door.

  Throwing himself into the corridor, he heard someone answer the door far below and knew he had no time. He burst into the room where Joshua was sleeping.

  His little brother sat up sharply in the bed, ejected from slumber by the loud noise. The Prince took in Rufus’s long form, from his wide panicked eyes to his blood spattered front, and began to shake.

  “Rufus,” Joshua wheezed as heavy footsteps began up the stairs behind them. “Rufus, what’s going on?”

  “We have to go.”

  “There’s blood on you,” Joshua said in horror, and Rufus reached forward and took the boy’s hand, pulling him up out of the bed. “Rufus, what have you done?” the Prince choked.

  Rufus didn’t reply.

  “Good evening my lords,” Sverrin greeted the assembly from his throne. A hush fell over the gathered Magi. “I appreciate you all coming, especially at such short notice. I’ve received some excellent news and thought it best to share it with you all as soon as possible. Lord DuGilles, if you please.” The King gestured to a Kathrak who stood in front of him, occupying the space of honour.

  Zachary recognised the man—Brandt DuGilles, an alchemist who’d been put in charge of the hunt for Rufus. Zachary wasn’t sure of his power but was certain at least of his cunning. DuGilles had an impeccable record and his being here didn’t bode well.

  DuGilles regarded them with a superior air. From beside Zachary, Emeric glared openly back at the alchemist with obvious contempt. Marcel wordlessly put a hand on his apprentice’s shoulder, as if to calm him. Emeric tamed his expression, though his eyes remained dark with anger. With a Kathrak father, Emeric perhaps felt the most betrayed and angered by the misdeeds of the alchemists.

  “My friends,” DuGilles began, addressing them far too easily, “I bring you much anticipated news.” He paused. “As you’re all aware, I was tasked with pursuing the rogue traitor, Rufus Merle, and for years I’ve hunted him diligently. Time after time, I got close, only to have him slip from my fingers. He refused all offers for peaceful negotiation and retaliated with force, killing many of my men.”

  Zachary didn’t believe him. Rufus was no killer by nature and would never attack a man unless absolutely provoked—Zachary himself was a testament to that.

  DuGilles continued, “Following his disappearance from the cliff-top, we used a source to track where he might go next, warning the citizens of Bethean that he was dangerous, and distributing his likene
ss on a poster. With the promise of the reward, many joined our noble hunt, just as King Sverrin predicted, and to that we owe our victory. I’ve just received a message from my men in Lemra. An assassin discovered Merle’s location and dispatched him.” DuGilles surveyed the room which had grown still. He extended his arms to the congregation. “Celebrate, my friends,” he said. “The traitor is dead.”

  The statement was met with shock, the words tumbling with a dull resonance. DuGilles didn’t seem to mind this muffled reception, a satisfied look on his bold face. And then, from amidst the crowd, came the sharp sound of a clap, as one of the young Magi began to applaud. He was joined by another in this unsteady rhythm, and like a fire it ignited the whole room, applause breaking out. The sound grew, the younger men even beginning to cheer.

  Zachary didn’t clap, and he didn’t clap on principle. You didn’t applaud the death of a fellow brother. Rogue or not—Rufus was a Magi. His desertion was a tragedy and Zachary refused to celebrate his death.

  Emeric, too, had his arms limp at his sides, his mouth parted as if he couldn’t breathe. Zachary scoured the room, watching some of his oldest companions join the sacrilege of this rejoicing. Some were candid in their applause, whilst others darted their eyes fretfully, as if afraid to be caught mourning. They remembered Belphegore’s apprentice—little Rufus Merle, with his big thoughts, and his abundant heart.

  Below the sound of clapping, Zachary heard the door open and saw Belphegore slip out, shoulders hunched. Zachary’s heart sank and he turned back to his King.

  “What have we become?” Emeric’s voice was barely audible over the thundering applause.

  “What we’ve always been,” Zachary replied. His eyes met Sverrin’s. “Monsters.”

  They’d returned to the forest. It was cold and dark, but protected, at least, by its fierce reputation. Rufus built a fire and burned his clothes, changing into his last set. Then he huddled with Joshua beneath a blanket, letting his natural body heat keep the boy warm.

  They’d escaped the brothel by the window and had managed to collect the horse and what remained of their meagre belongings. Up above them, the branches were weighed down with the first fall of snow. When Rufus breathed, it came out in curls of mist. He held Joshua close to him, conscious of the cold air and how easy it would be to submit to it.

  Joshua peeked his head up from beneath the blanket. “Rufus?”

  Rufus gave him the most reassuring smile he could muster. Joshua curled his hands around Rufus’s shirt.

  “It’s alright,” Joshua said and Rufus almost cried. “It’s alright, Rufus.”

  “I know.” He kissed Joshua’s brow. He was being comforted by a child—his child. “Don’t fret.”

  “Where will we go now?” Joshua whispered.

  Rufus gazed into the fire. “I’m not sure.” He felt numb to the core, as if the cold was inside him, even though he knew he was burning hot. “It may be time to leave Mag Mell. We could take a boat from Killian, or Lemra, cross the channel.” Rufus paused. “How’s your Réneian?” he teased and Joshua sniffed.

  “Not as good as my Betheanian.”

  “It could improve, given time. Mine too, I’m sure.” Rufus closed his eyes. “It would be warm there, the ‘Sunny Island’.”

  “You could find me a Réneian swordsman—to train me,” Joshua said

  Rufus raised his eyebrows. Réneian swordsmen were considered some of the finest in the mortal lands. Rufus remembered that Zachary had trained under one, and was remarked for his skills because of it. “We’ll see,” Rufus murmured.

  “I’ll need a sword for that,” Joshua muttered sleepily. “One of my own.”

  “I said we’ll see.” Rufus kissed him again and then grew still, letting his brother fall asleep. In the quiet of the night, it felt like the world didn’t exist beyond the light of the fire. Snow had a way of silencing everything.

  Rufus breathed out and closed his eyes, resting his head back against the tree they’d taken shelter beneath. Tired as he was, Rufus couldn’t bring himself to sleep, and he lulled his head and opened his eyes, looking back over their camp.

  In the snow, a few feet away, the man he’d murdered lay, face and neck mutilated. Rufus jolted in horror, and then looked again. There was nothing there. Rufus held his breath, searching all around him for any more sight of the dead-man, but there was none. He settled back again, breathing out shakily.

  “Your heart is crying again, mo chuisle.”

  Rufus nearly leapt out of his skin. Snapping his head around, he caught sight of a familiar figure stood in the darkness, her eyes glowing.

  “M-Morrigan?”

  She stepped into the light, her clothes rustling, though they’d not done so until now. Rufus pushed himself a little straighter.

  She’d changed—but then Rufus gathered that was rather her nature. Where once her mane had been fiery red, it was now long, bone-straight and flaxen, and her eyes were golden in colour. Gone was the ferocious lust that had seeped from her, replaced instead by a nurturing calm that settled over Rufus like soothing music.

  “Leave me alone,” he said. “I don’t want anything from you,”

  Morrigan sat beside him. “Perhaps not, but what do you need?”

  The very cold seemed to be chased away, the extremes of temperature, between his boiling body and the frosty air, nullified. When Rufus looked into Morrigan’s face, he thought of the wheat-fields in Sarrin, the sound of Luca’s fiddle, Howell’s laughter, Fae’s eyes, and it made him want to cry in relief. He was so sick of the sight of corpses.

  “You’re hurt,” she said, as if she could see into his aching heart. “What you did today, you did out of necessity.”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “I have been watching over you.” She ran her hand down his cheek and her touch was so familiar, Rufus was drawn back to his childhood. Faintly, he could hear his mother’s voice, smell her in the air, like a comforting phantom—a promise that she was nearby. It filled him with longing.

  He longed for simplicity. Where the complicated things were only in his head and the pages of the books he poured over. He wanted to be young again, and unwise, and full of wonder. He wanted to forget love, and lust, and hardship. He wanted to forget everything—Mielane, Jionat and, for a guilt-ridden minute, even Joshua.

  And then the feeling was gone, and with it a hardened guilt came tumbling over his shoulders. Yes, once Rufus had been ignorant and happy, and it had cost him dearly. He’d lost one brother having barely gained him. He couldn’t lose Joshua to that same foolishness.

  “You’re not real.” Rufus flung Morrigan’s hand away from him. “You’re a figment of my taxed mind.”

  “Of course I am real. Is it so hard to believe that somebody else cares for you?”

  “You don’t care for me,” Rufus retorted. “You’re here to use me.”

  Morrigan didn’t react as he imagined she would. Instead of anger, he saw a disappointment in her eye. Her patience unnerved him.

  “I do care,” she insisted, “more than you know. So why must you force yourself? Any more and you will die.”

  “What choice do I have?”

  “You do not have to do this alone.” She moved toward him but he flinched back. She grew still, then retreated.

  “Why have the gods forsaken me?” Rufus’s voice trembled. He wanted to chase after her, he wanted her comfort, but he abstained.

  “The gods have not forsaken you Rufus—I am here,” she breathed. “I am here and I will help you. If only you will let me.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “You’re manipulating me—yes, you are!”

  “I offer you an end to your pain, mo chuisle. Whatever your thoughts on that, my intention is true.”

  “I can’t believe that.”

  “And it breaks my heart.”

  “Then why?” Rufus moaned. “Why do you tempt me?”

  Morrigan’s expression became torn. She struggled to find her words.
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  “Because,” she eventually said, “because I have waited a long time for you, and to see you tear yourself apart, when you could so easily be free of all regret…It makes my heart ache.”

  Rufus stared longingly at her and then at the child in his arms. He shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “I have to do what’s best for Joshua. And that isn’t you—it would never be you.”

  Morrigan’s eyes filled with an earnest sadness, but she nodded and stood.

  “Then I shall leave you, for tonight. But know that I have not abandoned you.”

  “I understand,” Rufus said with exhaustion.

  Morrigan sighed, stepping back out into the shadow.

  “No, mo chuisle,” she said, “I do not think you do.”

  Zachary lurked in the doorway of the chapel, leaning against the frame. Belphegore was knelt before the altar, hands clasped together.

  Darkness shrouded the room with conspiratorial shadows and the moonlight, silver and eerie, poured through the open window, bathing the statue of Aramathea. At her left, Athea stood, circled by a ring of red candles which were normally lit and burned brightly at the hem of her stone dress. Zachary suspected that Belphegore had put them out—Athea had been extinguished that night.

  Zachary came into the room, closing the door behind him, though he’d never seen it shut in his life. Carefully, he approached. “Master?”

  “Arlen.” Belphegore didn’t look around, but gestured for Zachary to join him. “Will you pray with me?”

  Zachary deliberated and then nodded. Moving to the altar, he knelt beside his master. Belphegore had aged again, his figure taut, hands frail where his fingers clutched each other in their pious embrace.

  “Praying won’t return him to us, Master,” Zachary said.

  There was a long silence and then Belphegore sighed and allowed his hands to drop. He sat back and stared indignantly at the altar. “I know,” he rasped.