Blood of the Delphi (The Harmatia Cycle Book 2) Page 8

  Emeric wasn’t deterred.

  “You can’t scare me away,” he said softly. “Not by playing ghost or monster.”

  “And I used to be so frightening.” Zachary sighed.

  “You still are,” Emeric said, patting him lightly on the knee. “Why, I don’t know a single apprentice who isn’t a little intimidated by you.”

  “Small blessings,” Zachary grunted. “I am not yet a dog without teeth.”

  “Give it time.” Emeric patted his arm consolingly. “Zachary, about this evening—”

  “Oh please Fold, don’t be dull.”

  “No, I simply…Thank you.” Emeric sat straighter. “Thank you, Zachary. And please—try not to get yourself executed.”

  “Me? You were the one who corrected those students.”

  “And yet you so hastily took the fall.”

  Zachary grinned. “It’s as you said—some habits are not so easily shaken. Come,” he rose, “let’s go and find Hathely, and—”

  Zachary cut himself off and abruptly pulled Emeric to his feet, dragging him behind the pillars, out of sight. Emeric made to object but Zachary shushed him.

  From outside the holy chamber, the sound of footsteps grew and Emeric went quiet. Both of them recognised the footfall. Beyond the doorway, Sverrin appeared, striding with a purposeful gait. He came into the room, passed all the altars, and moved toward the far side. There, he laid his hands upon the detailed mosaic that decorated the wall, and pressing his fingers into two of the pieces, released a mechanism that revealed a hidden door. Zachary, who’d already known about the door, looked on, but Emeric’s mouth dropped.

  The door slid back and from beyond it a staircase appeared, leading into the bowels of the castle crypts. Sverrin descended and Zachary and Emeric stepped out from their hiding place.

  “Where does it lead?” Emeric asked faintly.

  Zachary frowned.

  “To where the Delphi is laid,” he replied and made to follow his King.

  “What are you doing?” Emeric hissed, grabbing at him. “Zachary, leave it! You’re already out of his favour.”

  Zachary shook Emeric’s hand off and started down the stairs. He felt like he was being drawn after Sverrin. He heard a small grunt of anger and glanced back to see that Emeric had followed him.

  “Oh, are you joining me?” he whispered.

  “You’re going to get us killed.”

  “I would never get you killed—Hathely would curse my soul to damnation.”

  Emeric scowled. “If you get me killed, I will curse your soul to damnation.” He wrung his hands in frustration. “Never mind Hathely.”

  “I shall hold you to that.”

  They continued in silence, creeping slowly down. Below them, a strange blue light crept up from the end of the tunnel. As they reached the bottom, they both stopped, peering cautiously out. Sverrin, far ahead, hadn’t noticed them and was walking steadily toward the source of the light, bathed in the blue glow. Zachary and Emeric darted behind one of the pillars in the chamber and watched.

  Sverrin came to the centre of the room, where an altar was carved from the rock. A figure lay upon it, hands clasped together like a corpse. Jionathan of the Delphi breathed still, his chest-fall so slight he might have been sleeping. His face was peaceful, light flickering over it from the blue faerie-lantern that glowed high above him, the strange blue hue shifting like rippling water, trapped in a crystalline cage. Zachary wasn’t sure as to its exact purpose, but the Korrigans had presented it as part of their spell, insisting that Jionathan remain beneath its glow. Zachary didn’t like it—it was far too pretty, just like the Korrigans themselves—forever concealing something beneath their ethereal faces.

  Sverrin went and stood beside his brother, stepping boldly over the Korrigans’ intricate array which was carved into the floor all around the altar. It wasn’t uncommon for Sverrin to come down here but something was different today. The King’s usually powerful demeanour seemed strangely disturbed, his expression twisted. He looked anxious.

  “Brother,” Sverrin whispered. “Brother, I don’t understand.” He circled the altar, forcing Emeric and Zachary to retreat around the pillar before they were spotted. “You’re the source of my life, and yet I live yours. Eat, drink, sleep, feel—everything that it is to be alive, I do in your stead.” He grew still and Zachary peeked out just in time to see the King swoop down and clutch his brother’s face. “But the dreams!” Sverrin whispered intensely. “They’re yours, I know they are. What do they mean? What are you trying to tell me, Jionathan? This image of a dragon you haunt me with, this Hunter—are they fantasies? Or are they truth—a vision, like a migraine in my head? I can’t bear them.” Sverrin stared intently into his brother’s face, as if willing the Prince to answer.

  Silence rang out, and something in Sverrin’s posture grew taut. He gently released his brother and stepped back. Zachary retreated behind the pillar again, heart in his mouth. He knew the set of those shoulders—Sverrin had sensed he was being watched.

  “Show yourself.” The King’s voice chilled Zachary to the bone, cold and commanding. When neither Magi stepped out in surrender, Sverrin spoke louder, the sound ricocheting across the room. “I said, show yourself, Athea damn you!”

  Zachary and Emeric pressed their backs into the pillar, trying to squeeze themselves further into the dark. Footsteps clattered toward them as Sverrin advanced in their direction. Zachary could scarcely hear for the sound of his own heartbeat. His stomach twisted, his knees growing weak. In an instant, he wished desperately that he hadn’t been so curious—so utterly foolish. But gods—let it be any other man and Zachary’s mouth wouldn’t have tasted like bile. Any other man and he would have stepped out instantly and presented himself. The Magi clamped his eyes closed and prayed to Athea that he was having a nightmare.

  A doorway from across the room slammed shut. Zachary jumped and heard Sverrin whirl around and start quickly toward it. As the King’s footsteps retreated, a hand clamped hard over Zachary’s mouth and dragged him back. Zachary panicked. He lashed out at his attacker, only to be met by the disgruntled sight of Marcel. The blond Magi pulled Zachary and Emeric into a little alcove, out of sight. Zachary fell on his back against the stairs. Emeric dropped beside him.

  Alone and safe, Marcel finally spoke.

  “Enjoying yourselves?”

  “Oh gods. Oh gods, thank you.” Emeric’s voice quivered.

  Zachary sat up slowly. He felt dizzy, his head reeling. He hadn’t realised he’d been holding his breath. It came back to him now in heaves and he fought to control it.

  “You used magic to slam the door on the other side,” Zachary said, his arm clamped against his chest.

  Marcel grunted an affirmative.

  “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  Marcel didn’t respond. Leaning across he pulled Zachary to his feet, before the pair of them gently manoeuvred Emeric to his own.

  “He will come this way next,” Marcel said. “We must go.” He nodded toward a tunnel to the left, which Zachary knew led up and outside the castle. It was narrow and cramped, and Zachary’s stomach tightened at the prospect of it. But Marcel was right, the King would return this way, and if he found them in the main tunnel or near the chapel, they would be in trouble.

  Swallowing his apprehension, Zachary moved toward the tunnel. He stopped briefly at its mouth, his stomach churning as he looked up into its narrow depths. A fresh sheen of sweat appeared on his brow and his courage wavered. He felt Marcel close to his back and, reminding himself that there was no time, pushed himself in.

  The entrance, whilst narrow, opened up a few strides in, allowing Zachary to pace forward. The rock either side was cold, but he felt hot and flushed and moved as quickly as he dared. He realised he was holding his breath again. He forced himself to breathe long and deeply. The weight of the castle high above didn’t comfort him but he knew it was ridiculous to think on it. With each step they moved closer to the surfa
ce.

  Neither Marcel nor Emeric spoke as they climbed and Zachary was glad. He couldn’t afford the concentration or distraction of their words. Despite his regulated breathing, he felt starved of air, the heat rising around them in an uncomfortable wave.

  Seeing the end of the tunnel ahead, it took all his control not to break into a run, his head pounding. The walls grew tight again, forcing them all to edge along on their sides, their heads stooped.

  And then Zachary was free, breaking out into the open and almost falling into the stable courtyard in his haste. He stopped short, teetering on his heels as the cold air struck him. It was an instant bliss. With a breathless gasp he sagged against the wall, unable to support his weight. For a terrible moment he thought he was going to be sick, but the heady feeling passed.

  “Zachary?” Emeric approached worriedly. Zachary shook his head, gulping in deep lungfuls of air and exhaling slowly. He pushed himself from the wall and straightened, pressing a cold hand to his now clammy face. He knew he’d gone grey but he tried to keep his expression neutral. “Are you alright?” Emeric asked.

  “That is not an experience I care to repeat,” was all he said.

  “Then perhaps next time you’ll listen when I tell you to leave well enough alone?” Emeric chuckled queasily.

  “Oh, don’t get smart with me.”

  Marcel came over and stood between them. Zachary eyed him and saw his second in command give him a subtle once-over in turn.

  “I am sorry the pair of you wasted so long in search of me only to be put through that,” Zachary said solemnly. “The hour is late and your beds are yet empty—you ought to return to them.”

  “Your own bed-chamber misses you, too,” Emeric chided.

  Zachary moved away from the wall of the stable, looking up and around to the looming castle.

  “Yes, as yours must surely miss Hathely.”

  Marcel coughed and Emeric hummed in soft agreement. Zachary gave them both a curt smile.

  “Be assured, Fold,” he continued, “I have every intention of returning to my faithful pillows tonight. This adventure has drained me.”

  “You look pale.”

  “Then what a sickly pallor the moon lends us all,” Zachary said, and bidding them both a brief goodnight, he left as quickly as he could, eager to be out from under Marcel’s watchful eye.

  Joshua was wheezing in his sleep. Rufus paced backward and forward to the sound, his body strumming with a nervous energy that forbade his exhausted body sleep. He’d made the biggest fire he dared and wrapped his little brother in all the blankets they had. And yet still Joshua shivered violently, his breathing erratic. The noise was terrible.

  Rufus dropped down by his side and stroked his fingers through his brother’s hair, trying to comfort him. There was nothing else he could do—in his own state he didn’t dare try to use magic to ease his brother’s suffering. The body was far too delicate an instrument to meddle with carelessly. What if Rufus aggravated the condition? Caused the breathing to worsen? Filled Joshua’s lungs with blood? Rufus began to fret, what if by doing nothing he was putting his brother at worse risk? What if the coughing only grew worse anyway? What if—

  “Pull yourself together!” Rufus hissed to himself, rolling onto his back and staring up into the leafy roof. Between the branches, the star of Aramathea, the mother goddess, was visible. “Please,” Rufus whispered to her, “if you know mercy, show it to me now. Please.”

  Joshua stirred and Rufus turned to him in time to see the boy’s eyes open. They glowed in the half-light. “Papa…”

  “I’m here.”

  “Do we need to leave?” Joshua’s voice was a husky whisper, almost lost to the still air.

  “No.”

  “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

  “Adults don’t sleep,” Rufus joked gently and Joshua raised his eyebrows in sleepy doubt before allowing his eyes to fall closed. His breathing softened once more and Rufus stroked his hair soothingly, as he’d done when Joshua was a baby.

  From the outer circle of their camp there was a soft crackle, so quiet it might have been a crow landing among the leaves. All the same, Rufus rolled into a crouch, his eyes wide. He’d learnt to be suspicious of even the most innocent of sounds.

  A shadow moved through the line of trees and Rufus watched it warily, summoning Athea’s power to him in preparation. Faerie, assassin, bandit or Kathrak—Rufus weighed up which would be worse.

  The shadow stopped moving and stood, hidden just beyond the ring of light. A pair of eyes glowed ominously as they peered in. Faerie then. Rufus wasn’t sure whether to be comforted, or frightened. He raised his hand, preparing to attack. “Identify yourself!” he ordered. The faerie didn’t speak, but Rufus saw its eyes flick quickly to Joshua. He stood protectively over his brother.

  “Mo chuisle, mo chroí,” the faerie said in Betheanian, her voice deep and luxurious. Rufus faltered as her words settled over him. My pulse, my heart? It was an intimate endearment for someone he didn’t know.

  “I said—identify yourself or be gone!” he repeated.

  “Peace,” she raised her hand. “I mean neither you, nor your ward harm this night.”

  Rufus was wary. “Say it thrice and the deed will be done,” he ordered. His extended time in the forest had warranted him to learn more about the faeries and the Sidhe. He knew that full-blooded Sidhe couldn’t lie but, above that, any faerie who repeated a promise three times was forever bound to it by honour. An honour they couldn’t defile.

  The figure beyond the trees inclined her head. “I mean neither you, nor your ward any harm this night,” she promised.

  “Again.” Rufus didn’t relax. “Say it three times!”

  “I mean neither you, nor your ward any harm this night,” she repeated dutifully and stepped into the circle, moving cautiously toward him, mindful of his nervousness. Rufus watched her warily. She was cloaked and hooded, so he couldn’t see much of her face, but her hands were long and almost white. And she was very tall, at least his height, if not more. Power radiated off her—a Sidhe, he sensed.

  “I am here,” she said, “to help you.”

  “I don’t need any help,” Rufus said. Offers from the faerie-folk were often a double edged sword.

  She smiled at his cautiousness. “Not a minute ago, you begged Aramathea for mercy.”

  Rufus was surprised. “You speak the goddess’s name like you know it.”

  “You think that only humans know about the True Gods?”

  “The Sidhe have their own,” Rufus said.

  She exhaled. “Yes—the Tuatha de Danaan, the Sidhe forefathers, gods of the earth. Whilst yours are the faceless gods of the sky. It is a rich pantheon, is it not? But Bethean may have a King and still recognise Harmatia’s. I can acknowledge both powers for what they are, because each comes from the same source—the one uniting power Danu. You should not be so surprised. Was it not, after all, the Delphi who taught the humans of the True Gods in the first place? And were they not descendants of Niamh?”

  Rufus’s head spun. He was sapped of energy and it was difficult to both reflect on her words and maintain his distrust at the same time. Finally, he lowered his arms. If she’d meant to attack him, she would have done so already. She inclined her head.

  “Why are you here?” he asked.

  She ignored his question. “An bhfuil Betheania agat?” she asked instead, and it took him a moment to realise she’d changed language back to Betheanian, and was asking him if he could do the same.

  “Tá, beagán,” he replied. Betheanian was his mother’s tongue, one he’d tried nurture. It was an ancient language and in the faerie forest it held power. He could understand why a Sidhe would want to speak it above the Common Tongue, which was so new in comparison.

  “Tá me sásta a bheith anseo in éineacht leat,” she said. “Magicus,” she added, and his heart skipped a beat. Magicus—the old word for Magi.

  “How do you know what I am?” he converte
d to the Common Tongue, his guard raised once more. He wouldn’t give her the power of language if she was his enemy. She reached up and placed a soothing finger against his lips, quietening him.

  “I know a great deal about you, mo chuisle.”

  My pulse she called him again, like they were old lovers or friends.

  “Who are you?” Rufus demanded.

  “You know me.” She moved her hand to gently cup his cheek. “Look deep, I am your destiny.” She tipped her head back so that her hood rose and he caught sight of part of her face. His heart leapt into his throat. She moved in toward him invitingly, and he reached forward and removed the hood.

  Outside the shadow, he saw first her lips—berry-coloured and soft as rose petals, sweet with dew. Her eyes were the colour of aquamarine, shimmering between green and blue like shallow water on a sunny day. And her hair…A curtain of fiery red ringlets, so vibrant everything else seemed dulled around it.

  As the hood dropped, she pulled the waterfall of curls free, allowing them to cascade around her neck, framing her face. Rufus swallowed, his hands automatically moving up to bury themselves in the fine silken strands. They were cold, even though they should have been burning hot. Desire, like a beast stirred from sleep, rose up in his stomach and he pulled himself free of her, searching for a reason to distract himself.

  “I have never met you before,” he said, trying to put conviction into the words.

  “No—but do you deny the feeling of kinship?” She guided his hands back up toward her and rested them against her face.

  “No,” he whispered. “Somehow…somehow I know you.”

  “Yes, you do,” she said. “I have waited a long time to meet you, Rufus.”

  His name on her lips sounded sweet and melancholic. He wasn’t surprised she knew it. He moved into her, like she was an open hearth.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I have come for you,” she said. “But before I can offer you help, I must give you some truths. Truths you will not like, but are a sign of my good will tonight. Sit with me, mo chuisle. And let me say all I must before you cast your judgement.” She beckoned and like a love-struck lamb he followed her to the floor, inching forward, enticed by her scent.