To cover up his father’s guilt, he might destroy that evidence. Might, in pursuit of his father’s interests, end up helping the Divinity.
They’d already fought so much, and she didn’t have it in her anymore. Not after today.
Earlier today, he’d agreed to try, and this could be a fresh start for them both, a way to reset and erase all the lies, manipulations, and distrust between them. And if those certain conflicts came up, they could deal with them later.
The door opened, and Rielle started, but it was only the young maid—Stefania—with incense. She set it nearby, floral and light jasmine, then took her leave.
Quiet blanketed the room and warmth wrapped her, until Brennan took her hand and pulled her across the tub to him. He turned her, bringing her back against his chest, and enclosed her in his arms. Her aching body wanted to argue, but as she tucked her head under his chin, absorbed his heat, melted into his embrace, any inkling of complaint dissolved.
He dipped a small cloth in the water, squeezed it, then brought it to her forehead, softly rubbing at a small spot there—she must have missed some blood. His brows drawn, he moved to her cheek, gliding the cloth bit by bit across her skin, so slowly she could feel the stroke of each individual fiber, so carefully she could have sworn those intense eyes saw nothing else but the mark on her cheek.
His touch was so delicate in its care and softness, and yet brimming with intention, so focused, so thorough, determined. The night of the welcome banquet came back to her, when he’d taken her home and wordlessly held her, kissed her, stroked her… bared her body to the glow of the candle flame, and lain her down. No restraints that night, or commands, or roughness, just his lips on hers, on her skin, his touch soft and careful, his movement slow and affectionate as he’d fitted his body to hers, kept her safe in his embrace as he’d watched her eyes, her mouth while he’d brought her to pleasure. He’d only held her closer then, so tightly she’d felt his heartbeat against her skin, and he hadn’t let go until they’d both been spent, both claimed by sleep, just holding her, holding on, with everything he’d had.
That delicate, intent touch brushed across her cheek, and as she blinked, she realized she’d been crying. Divine, why? Why now? About to apologize, she shifted enough to look up at him, but he only cupped a hand to her cheek, tipped her face up to his to slant his mouth over hers.
* * *
After sending word to Liam with a messenger, Rielle headed to the library, where Stefania had said the duchess was spending her evening.
She smoothed a nervous palm over her robe, a light-blue brocade Brennan had chosen for her, over her long white muslin nightgown. She’d arranged her still-damp hair neatly over her shoulder, and although it was late at night and at home, she still felt underdressed.
You’ll be fine, Brennan had assured her, sprawled out on the bed and sipping a brandy. She just wants to take care of you.
That was easy for him to say as his mother’s son, loved unconditionally. This was entirely different. The duchess could, at any time, find her unworthy. Clearly she was already being evaluated, if the duchess passed judgment on her correspondence.
Voices came from the library, and she paused at the door.
“…telling you, Mother, you can’t tell the difference. It was perfect. But I lost contact with her,” Nora’s voice insisted.
“I have some knowledge of these affairs. If the need arises, I can help you. Better to keep such things in the family anyway,” the duchess replied.
What things? Lost contact with whom?
A maid passed around her with a soft apology, bearing a tray of strawberries and two mugs of mulled wine, and opened the dark wood door.
The duchess faced away, but Rielle straightened, smiling awkwardly as Nora approached. Nora, with every hair in place, her face perfectly powdered, her gown a dream made real, yards of violet silk taffeta draped over a small, shapely figure. Firelight reflected in her shining dark hair as she paused, hands on her hips, and sized her up with a flutter of long, curled lashes. “My, my. Such a beauty. Small wonder men fall at the feet of a woman with—what do you call that hairstyle?”
Rielle winced.
“And that makeup! Tell me, who’s your beautician?” Nora asked with a smirk.
It was no secret that Nora was a court beauty, always wearing the latest hairstyles and fashions, her face painted to perfection. Everything about her appearance was refined to an ideal, and just about any woman who believed herself in competition with Nora for beauty would end up disappointed.
But she wasn’t in competition with Nora. And didn’t want to be her enemy.
“I’m marrying your brother,” Rielle said softly, her fingers tangling through the ends of her damp hair. “Can’t you and I—”
“I think not.” Nora stepped up to her, narrowed her sparkling hazel eyes and gave her a disapproving once-over.
“Nora,” the duchess warned.
With a smirk, Nora pulled away and left the library.
Becoming a Marcel was going to take more than trading vows with Brennan. Nora might never accept her, ever. And it wasn’t disapproval at the root of it.
Reminding herself of that made the barbs sting a bit less.
“Don’t mind her at all,” the duchess said warmly, glancing over her shoulder. “Come in, Rielle.”
With a deep breath, she moved to the sofa and seated herself next to the duchess by the fire. The duchess had changed into a soft gray dress, made of fine tiretaine, well tailored but simple enough to wear at home. Her hair was still pinned elaborately. Beautiful.
Suddenly she did feel underdressed.
With a soft smile, the duchess took a sip of mulled wine and nodded to the other mug. “How are you feeling? You looked refreshed.”
“I am.” She smiled, taking up the second mug. If she was refreshed, it was Brennan’s doing. But she wasn’t about to say that to his mother.
“Una told me all about what happened,” the duchess said, adding that she have a strawberry. “That had to be terrifying.”
“I’m allergic,” she explained, before returning to the subject. “It was—”
“I’ve already sent His Majesty a note,” she added, daintily biting into a strawberry. “So fortunate that he was there to step in.”
It was, or else… Or else she didn’t know where she would be right now, or what would’ve happened.
There was a momentary lull in the conversation.
“Rielle…” the duchess began. “I wanted you to know that although you’re participating in these trials, winning them isn’t the most important thing.”
And then her spirits fell, her gaze fixed on the bowl of strawberries, beautiful and, to her, deadly.
“They’re extremely dangerous,” the duchess said, “and if at any time they become too dangerous for you, there is no shame in withdrawing. An invitation is already honor enough. You are more important, your life is more important than a victory, a rank.”
“My life?” she whispered, looking away from the fruit.
The duchess nodded. “Una said one of the candidates was killed. And then that duel today…” She shook her head. “It’s a lot of risk. Unnecessary risk.”
Anyone who thought she was only competing for the magister’s mantle and the honor might think so. “Mother, the victor may ask the Grand Divinus for a boon… I want to ask her to end piracy on the Shining Sea.”
The duchess raised her eyebrows. “A worthy goal,” she said, “but remember: you are marrying into an influential family. Once you’re settled in, perhaps the Marcels will do more business overseas, using Laurentine as a hub. That’ll mean more protection for our ships, and deterrence to pirates.”
Just like that? If she wished it, the Marcels could do more business overseas? “That would be wonderful.”
The duchess patted her hand. “You’re family. Your needs are our needs.”
Speechless, she brought the mug to her lips and drank the mulled wine in gulps.<
br />
Just like that. Once she and Brennan were married, the Marcels might direct their sizable resources toward her priorities.
But they could never pry the truth from the Divinity, could they? What Brennan was doing—trying to infiltrate the Archives—the rest of the family would never support, would it?
The truth of what had happened in Laurentine would stay buried, and if the Divinity had done what Shadow had alleged, and had repeated it, killed families to take young mages, then it would… It would never stop.
The Divinity would never pay for the regicide, the attacks, nothing, and would continue taking whatever it wanted, leaving swaths of blood in its wake.
She nodded. “Thank you, Mother. That means a lot to me.”
The duchess smiled. “Just take care of yourself. Don’t risk your health or your life.”
She sipped the mulled wine while the duchess plucked another strawberry from the bowl.
The duchess promised much, but what did she expect in exchange? Once you’re settled in, the duchess had said. What did that mean? Settled. Did it mean giving up magic and using it to do some good in this world? Did it mean bowing to the family’s interests over the kingdom’s interests? Did it mean living the same life the duchess did?
If she wanted to fight the pirates and the Immortals, would Brennan support her in that? The more they discussed the future, the less it seemed their visions matched. She loved him, and he loved her, so it would work out. It had to. But they’d have to discuss exactly what life would look like once they were married. Soon.
But first, Liam. Then Samara.
And using every waking second left in the next three days to learn how to defeat a basilisk.
Chapter 35
Samara looked up at the palatial villa, with the shadow of Divinity Castle looming in the distance. A stable hand guided the packhorses bearing her medicines, tools, and ingredients away. She nodded her permission and stepped under the roof bridging the main houses and into a small courtyard.
Beneath the starlight, there was a split herb garden and carefully manicured dwarf cypress trees. She walked between them, letting her fingers stroke through soft fronds, textured leaves, abrasive stems.
Zahib had died tonight.
She pulled away a sprig of rosemary and ground it in her hand, letting its fresh scent intensify.
If ever she crosses my path, I will see her dead, he had said to her, before they’d left Xir.
When Thahab had burned down the barracks and nearly killed him, he’d been an unstoppable force, sending mercenary after mercenary to find her and bring her back for judgment. Zahibi Ihsan had tried to curry favor among the extended family for backing as the stronger choice, but Zahib had had her married off and out of the house in weeks.
Zahib Imtiyaz had died, Zahib Farrad had been soundly defeated, and the slave responsible had escaped. To any zahib, it would have been unthinkable.
But he’d claimed to be different. Not beholden to the old ways. How could a forward-thinking man not understand a person’s natural desire for freedom? How could he not sympathize?
He’d tried to be different, but in the end, he couldn’t overcome his name.
He’d freed House Hazael’s slaves, but he hadn’t freed himself of the Hazael name, or its inbred obsessions. Power, privilege, and above all, pride. It hadn’t been justice that had driven him to pursue her, nor vengeance for his grandfather; he’d taken a woman into his bed, believed her toothless, and she had bitten him, made a fool of him, and all of Xir had known.
It was for pride that he’d pursued her.
The liberating master had met the jilted lover in him; the forward-thinker had come face to face with the noble; and when it came to his reputation, he’d cast off his forward-thinking ideals in an instant.
In that instant, he’d chosen pride, privilege, power, and everything he’d claimed to have left behind over everything he’d claimed to have striven for. In that instant, as she’d screamed and pleaded for him not to, he’d cast her aside and walked backward into a past where nothing he’d said since leaving Xir had ever been said.
A man who didn’t want to see the woman he loved returned to chains had stepped forth, and fate had done its part.
Somewhere on the wind there were whispers of a future in which he’d seen an escaped slave, begged her forgiveness and paid her whatever amount she deemed reasonable in trying to make her whole. In which he’d left his daughter and heir at university but kept in close contact with her and never gave up on trying to build a relationship with her. In which someday, he might have overcome the sins of his past and become someone… more.
A dream of a dream, where ideals lived, not flesh-and-blood people.
She released the crumpled rosemary, and the wind blew past.
On the stairs leading into the courtyard, a red-headed woman stood, regal, exotic, wrapped in finery of the northern style—a voluminous gown, fitted above the waist and flaring below, all the way to the ground. She took a few steps down, said something that sounded like a greeting, and held out her hand.
Zahib—
No.
He wasn’t her zahib anymore, and he wasn’t her father.
Farrad had warned her that his wives and children would come after her, and she wasn’t about to stay in the room he’d rented for them when news got back to Xir of his death.
The King of Emaurria had invited her to stay here, from what the Divine Guard had said. She didn’t know him, Thahab clearly had. A man who’d been willing to step between her and a drawn blade. Her love, the father of her baby? If Thahab loved him and trusted him, he probably wasn’t a bad person. He’d fought honorably… Thahab’s interference had been beyond his control.
And he’d kindly offered her shelter, thinking her destitute?
She could trust Thahab’s faith in him enough to stay here, enough to believe he’d protect her if House Hazael sent blades her way.
She didn’t know about university at the Divinity, or what tomorrow might hold, but tonight, she took the red-haired woman’s hand and followed her to rooms for the night.
She’d write Thahab a letter and ask for it to be delivered wherever she was—surely they’d understand her enough for that—and help anyone here who needed it. And then she would decide where her life would take her next.
* * *
Next to Ambriel, Leigh sat on an old sofa in Joel’s home, where nestled within cramped quarters, an entire family gathered, and waited. Where was Katia?
Massive, brawny Joel sat across from them, scratching his beard contemplatively, while nearby, stone-faced Blaise—massive and brawny himself, in his thirties—perched crosslegged on a thick-woven rug before the hearth, with half a dozen small children climbing him and tugging at his red hair. He watched his father intently, unmoving and expressionless, completely oblivious to the dozen sticky little hands on him.
“All of them yours?” Leigh asked.
Blaise fixed gray eyes his way, turned up one corner of his mouth, and grunted before looking back to his father.
Such a chatterbox.
“Don’t despair,” Ambriel whispered as he patted Leigh’s thigh. “I’m certain he remembers you.”
“That wasn’t—How did you—Are you telepathic?”
A smug smile flashed across Ambriel’s pale face. “Katia may have mentioned a thing or two.”
So that was where Blaise’s power of speech had gone—to his younger sister. For evil.
Some delicious, sweet baking scent wafted in from the kitchen, where Marie, Helene, her oldest boy, and the rest of the clan were gathered, talking and laughing and maybe eating that deliciously scented whatever-they-were-baking thing.
The door flew open and Katia burst in, holding up a quiver, her red hair fleeing its braided bun in rebellious locks. “I got them!”
Joel nodded toward Ambriel. “Are you a good shot?” he asked in Old Emaurrian.
“One of the best among my people,” Ambriel answered una
bashedly, and Katia handed him the quiver containing three arrows.
Three arcanir arrows.
“It’s gone on too long to be anything but either… deliberate,” Joel said with a sigh, “in which case you’ll want to use these, or a wild mage in fureur… in which case you’ll need to use these.”
There had been no word of a wild mage among the Beaufoys, which meant… a new one. But perhaps Joel’s first guess was right—some heretic deliberately wreaking havoc.
Helene strode from the kitchen, dour-faced, and held out a knapsack.
“So good to see you, Helene!” he teased.
She held out the knapsack farther.
Ambriel took it and offered her a warm smile. “Thank you.”
Joel stood. “This necromancer is closing in on our territory,” he said, “and now that we’re allied with Queen Ferelen, we have added responsibilities.” He scowled at Katia, who beamed and brimmed with excitement, quivering on her feet. “If the Beaufoys don’t handle their business, we will—and we’ll be owed a price.”
Covens that couldn’t keep their territory found their resources dwindling, but the Forgerons stepping in would mean no care to whoever was causing the disturbance, whether their actions were intentional or not. They’d be ruthless about protecting their own territory.
When it came to fureur, the Covens didn’t dither.
And if it was someone he knew—Leigh rose, fixing his gaze on Joel. “It won’t come to that. I’ll take care of it.”
“Katia will make sure you do.”
“I won’t let you down, Papa!” she said, darting to him and throwing her arms around him. He looked a lot like Blaise, enormous, unmoving, expressionless, and oblivious to the sticky hands on him.
“If she comes to harm, Galvan, I’ll make good on the promise I made you two years ago,” Joel said firmly.
Two years ago, when Joel had walked in on him and Blaise, told him to keep his trouble away from his son, and threatened to craft his jewels into a necklace if he needed a reminder.
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