Court of Shadows

by Miranda Honfleur

  A Divine Guard stood near the garderobe, his back to her.

  She hit him with a sleep spell, and he collapsed.

  No longer a member of the Divinity, she didn’t care what the Grand Divinus would have to say about that. After all, the Grand Divinus had let a slaver walk into her court and challenge an escaped slave to a duel. Any respect she may have once commanded was forfeit.

  Where had Brennan gone? Surely it hadn’t been to the garderobe, or he’d have already returned.

  She continued past it, scanning the hallway for anything of interest. Few doors, all closed, and a wall panel—slightly uneven?

  With her fingertips, she pried it open. A secret passage.

  She’d seen them before—in Trèstellan Palace. Go, and then flee, mon rêve. Live, James had once said to her, his last words before he’d disappeared behind a panel just like this.

  So Magehold had them, too.

  If Brennan was missing, this was where he had gone. She slipped inside, shutting the panel behind her, and whispered the incantation to a candlelight spell.

  On the floor, large bootprints headed to the right. Fresh ones. He had to have gone that way. She followed them, rushing down the path they took, through tight, dark corridors with peepholes into castle rooms.

  Finally, the tracks… stopped?

  She shined the candlelight spell in every corner, and there, bundled in an alcove were… clothes. An overcoat, shirt, trousers—Brennan’s clothes. Why would he take off his clothes in a secret passage?

  Her heart skipped a beat. An affair? He was meeting a lover here while Rielle had been fighting for her life in the trial?

  That bastard.

  She threw down his clothes into the dust and, clenching her fists, followed the passage around the corner at a run. If he’d been going right, then perhaps the rendezvous for his tryst was nearby in that direction.

  Tryst or no tryst, it was still his duty to intercede in any duel for Rielle’s sake. At least ones involving swords.

  Hold on a little longer, Jon. Divine willing, nothing would aggravate his heart condition, and she could arrive in time with Brennan.

  And then after the duel, show Brennan what happened to men who betrayed her best friend.

  The corridors widened as she rushed through them, and the lighting brightened, so she dispelled her candlelight spell. Floors shone instead of being caked with dust, and there were even little open chambers tucked among the passages, sitting rooms. Divine help her, if she walked in on Brennan with some harlot—

  A metallic stench dominated the air. Blood. Strong and thick as smoke.

  She slowed, squinting at the dark stain ahead of her. Crimson, shining in the torchlight, pooling in the corridor from an adjacent chamber.

  Great Divine.

  Someone was hurt, needed help. With a winding gesture of her left hand, she cast a protection spell to heal her next injury instantly.

  Her heart thundering, she crept toward the chamber. It widened beneath a pair of feet and a man’s bare body, face-down in his own blood. Tall, muscled, deep-bronze skin, dark hair—

  “Brennan,” she whispered, and darted to him, turned him over with great effort.

  His throat had been cut from ear to ear.

  She gasped, falling back until her shoulders hit a wall.

  He—He was—

  Covering her eyes, she looked away, shaking her head. He couldn’t be. This couldn’t be happening. She’d only just seen him before the trial, and now...

  Now he was dead.

  If only she’d come sooner, maybe she could’ve found him in time, but…

  She lowered her hand and peered at him. His eyes closed, he would have looked serene but for the blood smeared all over his face and the rest of him. His blood.

  Who had done this to him? Why?

  There was no way she could leave him like this. But in this small chamber, there was nothing… two armchairs, and not even a blanket between them to cover him with.

  She approached him again and crouched next to him, brushing his hair away from his face, wiping some of the warm blood off.

  Wait, warm…?

  Frowning, she pressed her fingertips to the gash beneath his chin. The closing gash beneath his chin.

  She cast a probe, but nothing happened. Was he sigiled? Poisoned with arcanir?

  No, there was no sting. He had to be sigiled. But against healing magic?

  The gash continued to close, and his skin… it was warm. Warmer. Hot, even.

  Eyes snapped open. Bright amber. He wheezed in a breath and coughed, his hand grabbing her arm so quickly she couldn’t fall back in time.

  She opened her mouth to scream, but his bloodied hand covered it and he was on his feet before any sound could emerge.

  “Olivia,” he bit out, those glowing, predatory amber eyes fixed upon her like a wolf’s, “I don’t want to have to kill you. So when I remove my hand, you’re not going to scream.” His face was stone, expressionless, cold as death. “Nod if you understand.”

  She nodded.

  He took a deep breath, then another, and another, a slow, silent countdown before he moved his hand away, just a touch.

  Very cautiously, she shook her head, willing her pulse to slow.

  “I won’t scream,” she said quietly.

  “Good.” He pulled away, his cold gaze never leaving her as he straightened to his full height. About six feet three inches tall, he’d always been long and lean with a well-built physique, but she’d never quite realized the chiseled power beneath those layers of silk brocade and court fashion. Not just a warrior, but a predator.

  No one would want a man like him looking at them the way he was looking at her right now. The question in that inhuman amber gaze was plain as day—whether or not he should kill her.

  “You’re marrying my best friend,” she blurted. “Whatever this is, no one but you, me, and her need to know.”

  Although now wasn’t the best time to threaten outing his affair to Rielle.

  “She already knows,” he replied, his brows lowering as he sniffed the air.

  Sniffed the…? Olivia frowned at his nudity. “She already knows about your affair and permits it?”

  His head jerked back. “Affair?”

  “What kind of arrangement is this?” Am I really asking about his affair right now? She shook her head, hoping to clear it. “It doesn’t matter. Now’s not the time to—”

  “It’s not—” He frowned, then stilled, every muscle aligning to deadly intention. “Follow.”

  He crept out of the chamber and around the corner, his steps light but quick as he wove through the corridors, keeping to the dark.

  Pausing, he looked back at her over his shoulder and held up a finger to his lips, then shook out one hand, extending what looked like—

  Claws.

  She stifled a gasp as he darted around a corner.

  A heave of breath cut off by a gurgle, then the first note of a scream, followed by a squelch.

  With uneasy steps and shaking legs, she closed in, warily poking her head around the corner. Brennan tucked a foot under one man’s shoulder and rolled him onto his back.

  “Good. It was them,” he said, presumably to her. His hand—his clawed hand—faded to its human shape as it curled into a fist. Muscles rippling, he turned back to her. “Do you know what I am?”

  Werewolf. She’d read about them in the compendium she’d bought from Il Serpente.

  The amber eyes, the claws…

  The Immortality.

  But how? When had he been Changed?

  “Why are you here, Olivia?” He walked past her, back toward the direction they’d come from, and she followed in his wake down the tight corridor, suddenly very aware of his nakedness.

  “I… It’s…” She hushed and gathered her thoughts, looking away from his bare backside. “A man showed up during the trial, a Sonbaharan. When Rielle emerged, he challenged her to a duel. Swords,” she explained, watching Bren
nan’s shoulders stiffen as he led them back toward where she’d come from.

  When he didn’t say anything, she continued, “Rielle froze up, as I’d never seen her do before. But she said she couldn’t duel him, and… Jon stepped in as her champion. He sent me to find you.”

  “He did?” Brennan’s pace quickened.

  “After the Earthbinding, away from the land, he’s… weakened. And there are… other circumstances. I think… I’m not sure he can win.”

  “Then she’ll be…” That quick pace turned into a run, and in no time at all, they were back at the dusty alcove with his clothes. He threw them on as he proceeded.

  “Take me there, Olivia,” he said, shoving his feet into his boots. “Now.”

  Chapter 30

  Jon drew Faithkeeper as Farrad drew his rapier, leaving what looked like a parrying dagger sheathed at his belt, just as Jon left his arcanir dagger sheathed at his own.

  The crowd receded, murmuring amongst themselves but giving them plenty of space in the great hall. Good.

  “So you were the man too weak to keep her,” Farrad bit out, sizing him up. “This will be easy.”

  If Farrad believed it would be easy, this duel would already be over. But his need to verbally spar implied otherwise.

  It was just air. He wasn’t here to listen, or to talk, but to fight.

  “After her behavior in my possession, are you certain you still want her?”

  Farrad’s footwork was skillful, sure, responsive. He kept measure well, stepping in and out of distance with a few feints and voids.

  Farrad grinned. “It is difficult to resist that face of hers,” he said, low, conspiratorial, “the way she squeezes her eyes shut, throws her head back, bares her neck as she comes to pleasure, those sweet little moans, just an octave higher than—”

  Jon drove down Faithkeeper, and Farrad parried, just barely, then evaded a cut.

  Farrad angled, testing him, but Jon matched every time, adjusting his stance and guard so that Faithkeeper’s forte always defended the line between his body and the rapier’s tip.

  The daggers remained sheathed. Farrad’s wouldn’t do him much good against Faithkeeper, especially with two-handed strikes. So he left his own dagger sheathed.

  Farrad lunged, thrusting for the gut—from middle guard, Jon displaced the thrust as Farrad closed, blades sliding to meet crossguard to crossguard.

  There.

  With a transitionary step, Jon turned, forcing Faithkeeper over Farrad’s rapier, bringing the edge to cut into the side of Farrad’s head and swinging it back over one-handed to slice his neck before Farrad could retreat.

  One-handed… Not fatal. Not powerful enough to be fatal.

  Blood seeped from the wound down into Farrad’s shirt as he went back to guard, chuckling under his breath. “A lucky strike.”

  Jon stayed out of measure, watching him for any hint of movement, keeping perfect guard. With a cut to the head and one to the neck, Farrad would tire over time. Lengthening the duel would end it with less risk.

  But the longer he fought, the greater the risk his own weakness would fail him. He had to end Farrad. And soon.

  Farrad went on the attack again, a quick series of strikes, and one raked his side. He grabbed Farrad’s shoulder and threw him forward, turning to bring Faithkeeper down on his back.

  The blade met Farrad’s raised parrying dagger as he crouched.

  The parrying dagger gave, not strong enough to block him at full power. Faithkeeper bit into a shoulder as Farrad unsheathed Jon’s dagger and buried it in his side, between his ribs, and twisted it.

  Sharp pain shot through him. Hissing, he pulled away, dragging Faithkeeper free of Farrad’s shoulder.

  The dagger was buried to the hilt, seeping blood that soaked down his red doublet and into the white of his trousers.

  A scream echoed in the great hall—Rielle’s.

  Coughing, he doubled over, grasping the dagger’s handle. If he pulled it free, he might bleed out, but leaving it in—

  A thrust of the rapier—he moved to dodge—

  A sharpness, pressure.

  Agony, and with a groan, he gripped the blade, let it bite into his clenched palm, and peered down.

  Run through—run through the stomach.

  Screams and shouting filled the great hall, a chaos of sound, and—

  He tried to take a step back, but he only dropped to a knee as the rapier slid free of his body, cutting its way out.

  Terra help me, but I will kill you…

  A grim twist of Farrad’s lips. A victorious grin.

  …if it’s the last thing I do…

  As Farrad raised the blade, Jon yanked the arcanir dagger free from his own body and buried it in Farrad’s foot, then dropped and rolled to the side, barely avoiding the downward thrust of the rapier.

  Farrad howled and bent over the arcanir dagger in his foot, his gaze darting to the crowd. Wide eyed.

  The sigil—deactivated—

  Rielle knew what it meant. That quick glance—Jon had to have stabbed through Farrad’s sigil.

  No more. Farrad wouldn’t hurt him any more.

  Her blood humming, she held Farrad’s gaze as she clasped her hands together and lifted them, raising along with them a pillar of flame at Farrad’s position.

  It shot from just above the arcanir floor and through his body like divine judgment, surging to the ceiling of the great hall, where it blazed through, raining stone, and into the sky, showering the great hall with dust.

  An ear-splitting scream shook the hall, deafening and great, ringing with fury, and as agony seized her throat, she realized it was her own.

  The pillar of flame flared, brightly burning like an unstoppable, gushing bonfire, piercing the heavens above with its destruction.

  A cough on the floor next to it, and her pained gaze fell to Jon, lying in a pool of blood upon the shining marble, clutching his chest, his face creased in agony.

  No.

  Dispelling the pyromancy, she ran to him, the crowd and his guards parting to let her through, whispering, and she fell to her knees next to him, taking him in her arms, slipping onto her backside in his blood.

  His squinted eyes met hers for a fraction of a moment, held her gaze through the crippling pain creasing his face. “Ri…” he rasped.

  “I—I can fix this,” she said, her wet, red hands running over his wounds, smearing blood, as her tears dripped onto his face, streaking down into the red.

  “Sundered flesh and shattered bone, / By Your Divine might, let it be sewn,” she blurted, over and over, and his wounds closed, but still he clutched at his chest, his fingertips digging into the flesh as if he tried to rip out his own heart.

  What was…? Why wasn’t it—?

  His face was tight with agony, his eyes squeezed shut, and the healing incantation, it, it wasn’t working, and his skin was darkening to blue, and he groaned, a sound so vulnerable it broke her—she’d never heard him so—and it—she shook, trying to hold him as he slipped in her bloodied hands.

  He crumpled toward her, resting his head on her lap, and she held him, stroked her fingertips through his thick hair, over and over, over and over, unable to stop, curling over him as he gasped in breaths… slower and shallower, violent, and slower. And shallower.

  “Jon?” she asked quietly, but his name was barely more than a cry on her lips, and a spasm seized him, shaking him violently against her. “I don’t know what to—Tell me what to do—I don’t—”

  His eyebrows creased together, forming a deep, pained furrow on his brow, and that agonized groan, vulnerable and breaking, it was… quieter. Weaker.

  No. Divine, no, this wasn’t—he wasn’t—

  She tried the incantation again, kept trying it, rocking him on her lap, holding him, and nothing, nothing happened, and he was fading, fading.

  Pressure pushed at her eyes, and she blinked, watching him through the blur, refusing to look away, and she adjusted her grip, trying to
pull him closer to her, but he was so heavy.

  “You can’t,” she whispered, resting her head against his, breathing in the steely scent of his blood, cupping his rough-stubbled cheek, brushing it with her thumb as she had so many times before. “You can’t, Jon, you can’t, please—”

  A shallow rasp from his blue-tinged lips, lips she’d kissed a thousand times, and the rigidity of his body lessened, weakened, and then a little more. And a little more. His eyes, squeezed shut, opened, just a sliver, and his fading gaze locked with hers. The Shining Sea in a storm, and he…

  The hand grasping at his chest released, its grip loosening, and his fingertips inched toward her hand on his arm, steeped in red to her wrists, fingers that had intertwined with hers a thousand times, that she’d once thought would intertwine with hers forevermore.

  “No,” she pleaded, her voice breaking as she wept over him. “No. It’s not… You can’t…” Her tears trailed through his blood as she shook her head, but she grasped his hand, intertwined her fingers with his. “No, Jon,” she rasped, touching her forehead to his, breathing the same air with him as she had so many times before. “You… you’re going to live, you hear me? You’re going to… You’re going…”

  That Shining Sea gaze locked on her flashed, just once, like the sun breaking through the clouds, and then he blinked his eyes shut slowly, that light disappearing, his light disappearing, and she wept against him, tightening her hold around him as his faint grasp on her hand went limp.

  Chapter 31

  Olivia burst into the great hall with Brennan and Raoul, who’d found her and led them back with all haste.

  In the center of a whispering crowd, Jon lay on the floor steeped in his own blood, with Rielle curled over him, holding him, and Olivia was already running before she could think.

  Divine, no. Spare him. Please, spare him. Please.

  “Clear the hall,” Brennan bellowed, his grim gaze meeting the Grand Divinus’s, who nodded to the Divine Guard to do as bidden. Murmuring and whispering, everyone reluctantly headed for the exit, guided by the Divine Guard, all the while gaping.