He stood with perfect control, his lone, powerful figure regal as he raised his chin and met the Grand Divinus’s gaze, every bit a monarch. “Thank you for your hospitality, Most High.”
The Grand Divinus gave the slightest of nods. “As for your request, you are aware the Magister Trials are about to begin in four days?”
“I was among those honored to hear your introduction, Most High.”
“It is our tradition that a magister may ask a boon,” she said. “Our resources are not infinite. This year’s candidates will have chosen various boons to ask should they emerge victorious.”
The Grand Divinus paused—an opportunity to argue, to plead, but Jon simply stood, tight-lipped.
Surely the Grand Divinus wouldn’t turn him away? Deny all of Emaurria the aid she was bound by treaty to deliver?
“Our treaty ensures aid against invasions by foreign powers, but the Immortals, as we understand the Rift, are domestic. We are not bound to comply.” The Grand Divinus rested her chin on her hand.
Jon kept his gaze fixed on the floor.
That answer was unacceptable! The Immortals had come through the Veil to ravage the land and its people. That wasn’t foreign? And the treaty’s drafters might not have conceived of such an invasive force, but the spirit of what they’d written had been to bind the Divinity to grant aid to countries suffering invasions, which this surely was, even if it wasn’t by a human power.
The Grand Divinus wanted to abuse that elasticity to let a party to the treaty be destroyed? Fall to ruin?
She took a step forward, but Brennan’s hold on her arm kept her from advancing.
“However… You are familiar with Emaurria’s candidate, are you not?” the Grand Divinus asked Jon.
“If she has not chosen to withdraw.”
Withdraw? Rielle straightened.
“Master Mage Favrielle Amadour Lothaire,” the Grand Divinus called, her voice echoing throughout the hall.
With a deep breath, she stepped forward, removed her phoenix half-mask, and bowed. “You have asked for me, Most High?”
“Have you chosen to withdraw from the Magister Trials, Magos?”
“I have not, Most High,” she answered, rising, “nor do I have any such intention.”
The Grand Divinus turned back to Jon. “Are you confident in Emaurria’s candidate, King Jonathan? Do you believe she will emerge victorious?”
He stepped forward, meeting her eyes for a moment before looking back to the Grand Divinus. “With all my heart.”
“Then hereinafter, your fates are tied,” the Grand Divinus declared. “If she does emerge victorious, you will have your aid. If she fails, you will not.”
What? She moved forward, but Brennan caught her before she could go anywhere and hushed her.
Why? The Grand Divinus was being ridiculous. How could she tie a competition for a promotion to the fate of millions of people?
If the Magister Trials even were about promotion anymore.
For a long moment, Jon didn’t move, then he swept a bow. “My thanks, Most High.”
“Enjoy the trials, King Jonathan, and all Magehold has to offer.” With that, the Grand Divinus gestured to the musicians, who immediately began a tune.
Jon took three receding steps, turned on his heel, and strode across the hall, offering his arm to Olivia as he passed her by. Together, they headed for the doors, past her and Brennan.
“Wait,” she called after them, and Olivia looked over her shoulder, but Jon didn’t stop.
He’d agreed to hinge the fate of the entire kingdom on her performance at the trials. Trials they knew nothing about. Couldn’t he have fought more? Refused the offer? Madke an argument?
She was skilled at magic, but there were eight other candidates competing who were the best of the best.
If she failed… there would be no aid for Emaurria. The Grand Divinus would grant nothing. And the world had just watched Emaurria’s king kneel before another power and beg for aid.
If he didn’t receive it, the kingdom would fall. To Immortals, to other powers, to lawlessness. So many innocent people would die. So many.
If she failed, there might be wide scale devastation. If she withdrew, there certainly would be.
He had to have a contingency plan. He had to.
“Let’s go,” she snapped to Brennan, and he nodded, leading her after them.
Jon stormed out of the castle’s great hall and through a grand corridor toward the exit with Olivia on his arm. He passed painting after painting, sculpture after sculpture, and looked at none of it, would stop for none of it. There was no way he could face Rielle after what he’d heard, and no way he should face Brennan.
“That could’ve gone better,” Olivia said, trotting to keep up.
It wasn’t her fault. With a deep breath, he slowed down. He kept breathing slowly, mindfully.
He’d just asked the Grand Divinus for aid, been rejected—and then had been maneuvered into tying the kingdom’s fate to Rielle’s performance in the trials.
If she won, he’d have the Divinity’s dubious support but collapse the alliance Leigh was building with the Covens.
If she lost, he’d have the alliance with the Covens, but what would happen to her?
“The Grand Divinus interpreted foreign powers in the treaty to exclude the Immortals,” he thought aloud to Olivia. “By accepting her unconventional deal, did I agree with that interpretation publicly?”
She let out an exasperated breath. “It could mean that allying with… others,” she said quietly, waggling her eyebrows at him, “would still be considered first breach of the treaty, by Emaurria, and not the Divinity.”
“But to remain in compliance, then,” he hissed, “I’d have no recourse but to forego magical help entirely… and allow the kingdom to fall to ruin. Unpopular publicly, for obvious reasons.”
“Between a choice of lawful-but-unpopular compliance and ruin or unlawful-but-popular non-compliance and salvation, there’s a clear winner,” Olivia whispered.
He couldn’t agree more. Even in the worst case, their course was set.
Footsteps clicked behind them in rapid succession. Terra have mercy, the last thing he wanted was to speak to her after she and Brennan had done… whatever they’d done in that hallway.
Terra help him, but he couldn’t face her. Not yet.
“Your Majesty,” Brennan’s voice boomed from behind them.
Brennan, intentional and vindictive Brennan.
His knuckles cracked—he’d clenched a fist too tight. This was the last thing he needed right now, but there was no evading Brennan and Rielle.
He froze, that tautness weaving up his arms from his fists. Taking deep, slow breaths, he forced a placid smile and glanced at Olivia, who nodded to him. Together, they turned.
Once again, that voluminous, boldright red dress, drawing in to her hourglass waist, leaving her shoulders and arms bare but for the golden ringlets cascading from her elaborately pinned hair. She had removed her phoenix half-mask, revealing her beautiful face—those sky-blue eyes that locked with his in memories and dreams, and long, dense lashes framing their power. Provocatively painted red lips, full, slightly kiss-smudged. And there, just beneath her jaw, the violet mark of a love bite. Brennan’s.
Brennan covered her hand on his arm, claiming her, possessing her, gaze locked on his.
He knew what it meant. He needed no reminder.
Brennan and Rielle bowed, and Jon inclined his head in turn.
“What a surprise to see you here, Your Majesty,” Brennan said sardonically, by way of greeting.
They both knew that Brennan was never surprised by anyone. But Jon held that placid smile in place.
“Equal to mine,” he replied, his gaze sliding to Rielle, who stared at him with all the ferocity of a tigress.
“You might have told your best friend you were competing,” Olivia interjected, releasing his arm to approach Rielle.
“I didn’t know u
ntil you’d left Laurentine.” Rielle shook her head while Olivia mouthed something to her.
“May we speak?” Rielle bit out to him.
“We’re speaking now,” he said, straightening and clearing his throat.
“In private,” she said, enunciating each word through clenched teeth.
She glanced at Brennan, who released her and gestured her forward with a placid smile.
“Hope you’re wearing armor under there,” Brennan murmured to him, then turned away to chat with a frowning Olivia.
Rielle strode past him to a door, opened it, and stormed inside. With a defeated sigh, he followed, entering what appeared to be a small library, utterly dark but for the ambient light of the evening pouring in through the open drapes.
As soon as he shut the door, she turned on him, hands on her hips. “What were you thinking?”
“About what?”
She closed her eyes, biting her lip as she took slow, deep breaths.
“About what,” she repeated under her breath. When she opened her eyes, she charged up to him and crossed her arms, so close that her rose scent embraced him. “You’re betting the fate of the kingdom on me? Tell me you have a contingency plan.”
He took a cursory glance around the library, then leaned in close to her ear.
“This isn’t our only hope,” he whispered, breathing her in for a fleeting moment. “Your conscience is clear.”
And he never would have humiliated her by withholding his faith. He didn’t want her to lay her life on the line, but she was strong, capable, and he’d swear it with the world watching.
As he drew away, her eyes slowly opened, and she gazed at him with slightly parted lips and heavy-lidded eyes that blinked wider, wider.
Terra have mercy, his mind was playing tricks on him, showing things as he wished they were, not as they truly were. False. A dream. He needed to get out of this room. Now.
And yet, his feet wouldn’t move as he looked her over, his eyes taking far greater liberties than they were allowed. Her breasts swelled over the neckline of her gown, heaving, and she looked him over, too, with wide, intense eyes that took him back to Courdeval and the night of Veris.
Her fingertips brushed the brocade of his overcoat, and he realized he was holding her arm. He let her go, and she took a step back and cleared her throat.
“Rielle,” he said quietly, “it’s not Emaurria you should be worried about.”
She wrapped her arms around herself, looking everywhere but at him, those bare shoulders curled inward.
“We questioned Sincuore in Laurentine,” he whispered, “and he suggested the Grand Divinus was involved in the regicide. Given everything with the Crag Company and… Shadow… this invitation could be a trap.”
Her eyebrows rose. “What?”
So she hadn’t known. Brennan hadn’t told her.
And it seemed not only had he not told her about the Grand Divinus’s possible complicity, but he’d also neglected to mention questioning Sincuore altogether.
Her gaze slowly dropped, and she worried her lower lip, her brow creasing. “Motive?” she whispered.
He shrugged.
“And who’s ‘we’?”
The we he’d mentioned questioning Sincuore? He cleared his throat. “My guards were there.”
As much as he hated to omit Brennan’s involvement, he wasn’t about to cause trouble between them. Not over something like this. Let Brennan figure it out with her.
She blew out a breath through her nose with an air of finality. “It doesn’t matter. I’m still doing this.”
Becoming a magister had been important to her for as long as he’d known her. If, despite everything, she still wanted to pursue that, then at least she was pursuing it with her eyes open. And he would do his all to support her. “Tell me how to help.”
Her features softened, relaxed. She reached for his hand, then covered it with her other, her heat flowing into him, her skin smooth against his.
“Thank you,” she whispered, smiling up at him warmly for a moment, her misty eyes taking him back weeks, months. “I’ll come to you when I need your help.”
Whenever she had need, he wanted to be there for her. Help her.
She gave his hand a gentle squeeze, then slowly let it go, and watching her pull back was the slow twist of a knife in his heart.
He couldn’t be there for her, and this was why. This would always be why. This… whatever this was between them, this lost dream, this unwanted echo, when she was in love with another man. Marrying another man.
He’d promised himself he’d leave her alone, but when she was around, his body didn’t know how to do it. His heart didn’t know how to do it.
He’d stay away from her. He’d have to try.
“I…” she began softly, resting her hand on the table next to her. “I’m sorry we missed your coronation. I really wanted to be there, but this…”
He pressed his palm to the same table. “I realize that now. I got Brennan’s note, but now I understand why you couldn’t come.”
She frowned. “He didn’t mention why?”
No trouble. Not on his account. “Perhaps he did. It’s been a busy month.”
Her eyebrows knitted together, she finally nodded. “Things are getting worse at home, aren’t they?”
Worse. Bad enough to warrant begging the Grand Divinus for assistance, she meant?
Not here, he mouthed to her, and she looked around the library, rubbing her arm, and nodded.
“I’ll call on you at the Marcels’ mansion.” Presumably where she was staying.
At last, she nodded and moved to walk past him.
“Rielle,” he said, taking her hand and turning to her, and she looked over her shoulder, a world of unspoken words shadowed in her eyes. Everything inside of him fought for freedom, to tell her he was dying, that he still loved her and always would, that he thought of her and Sylvie every day, and if she but said the word, he would do anything, give anything, destroy anything for her.
“Congratulations,” was what he allowed himself to say, “on your wedding.”
The smile didn’t reach her eyes as she glanced down to their joined hands, the garnet ring catching a glimmer of moonlight.
He let her go.
Chapter 19
Brennan escorted Rielle out of the castle in silence, only nodding or smiling cordially as expected, and helped her into the carriage. He sat next to her and took her in his arms, holding her close, and still he didn’t speak. Not out of anger or umbrage or hurt, but because he didn’t know which of the things he wanted to say he should choose, and if he did choose one, he didn’t trust his voice to remain as cordial as his actions.
Since that night in Laurentine, he and Rielle had only grown closer. She’d confessed her love for him, taken down her walls, and hungered for him daily and nightly with a vigor only outmatched by his own. Her heart hadn’t been whole yet, but isolated here, just the two of them, it had been well on its way.
He might have even been able to confess some of his sins to her—covering up Father’s schemes, planting Nora’s negligee in Jon’s bed the night of Veris… All the things that once might have hardened her heart to him, but with her love, could have allowed them to be wholly honest with each other.
And then tonight had arrived. And Jon.
The moment he’d caught Jon’s scent, he’d stood straighter, raised his chin higher, the unexpected meeting only coaxing the swell of victory inside him. Rielle loved him, was on his arm, in his bed every day and night, wearing his ring and marrying him. His, wholly and utterly. In such complete possession of her, coming by Jon again would have only been the crown on an already glowing accomplishment.
And then her heart had skipped a beat. Raced. Her breathing had turned erratic. Nervousness, suffering, longing, all tangled together, as her gaze had followed her former lover.
She’d tried to resist, of course. Restraint had been visible in her rigid bearing, her calculated m
ovements, her attempted air of nonchalance as she’d pretended to be unaffected. For her sake? For his? For Jon’s? For them all?
Her hand had tightened on his, and as he’d swept her away into that secluded corridor, in full view of Jon and Olivia, her kisses had only been all the more passionate, her focus on him all the more intense as he’d brought her to pleasure—and then again. And again.
When he’d heard the footsteps, he’d smelled them—Jon and Olivia, in that doorway at the end of the corridor, Jon witnessing the extent to which Rielle gave herself to him, wanted him, loved him.
How the man’s heart had raced, how his blood had coursed—Brennan suppressed a grin—and the retreating footsteps had completed the victory. Jon had witnessed its decisiveness and quit the field in utter defeat.
That hope, that pathetic hope on the beach at Laurentine, had been snuffed out.
But then, after that dramatic plea to the Grand Divinus, stopping him in the hallway, meeting his gaze and that serene mask over a heart beating too irregularly to still be called a heart, that victory had swelled.
For a moment.
He’d stood there, making idle chatter with Olivia, until Rielle had left that room, left Jon, her eyes downcast, frowning, as if she’d left a piece of herself behind.
Perhaps she had.
There was no claiming her, not entirely, while Jon still held influence over her, while he still appeared before her eyes. Perhaps in time, far from him, that influence would fade, but like this? Never. He sighed.
The salt of her tears filled the carriage, and he swept them away with gentle fingers, holding her closer. He should be furious. He should confront her, shout at her, demand she choose, once and for all. He should challenge Jon, duel him, demand he abandon pursuit of her utterly and forever when he lost. He should do all those things, and yet, he wiped her tears and tightened his embrace.
None of those things he should do would elicit more than empty words, no matter how badly he wanted to do them. In her heart, Rielle would feel the same anyway, and that was what he truly needed to move. Hearts did not move with confrontation, shouting, and demands, but with love, patience, and compassion, all mysterious to him and risky, and yet here he was.
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