Blaise reddened and looked away. That was practically a riot from him.
Clearing his throat, Leigh shifted on his feet. “We’ll keep her safe.”
Joel bit his thumb and held out his massive forearm in the vowing clasp. “If you handle that necromancer, I pledge myself and my Coven to the Crown.”
Leigh clasped it, Joel’s mark searing his skin, and his own finding space among many others on Joel’s arm.
“If His Majesty has need, he may call upon me and mine.”
With that, Katia said her goodbyes and they left, mounting their horses.
“This is really important to you,” Ambriel said as they headed for the north gate.
Very important. He’d never mentioned Ava to anyone, not even to Rielle, although she’d known he’d sent coin somewhere every month. What she’d assumed, he couldn’t say, but it had been a secret not even she could be privy to.
Loved ones were a liability to someone like him, someone who could be all powerful, unless he kept them close, protected.
But magic had cost him his entire family, and his protection had meant nothing—he hadn’t been able to protect anyone from himself.
Ava’s greatest protection was her anonymity, and although his heart had ached to see her face, he hadn’t seen her in thirteen years, not since he’d made the agreement with Della four days after Ava’s birth. The Beaufoys, masters of forbidden magic, would keep her safe, from him and anyone else.
But the Beaufoys had lost control, couldn’t even keep their territory safe, let alone the daughter of a wild mage.
His distance might have failed Ava, and once he arrived he’d know… and never fail her again.
“My daughter is among the Beaufoys,” he said quietly to Ambriel. “And I don’t know if she’s safe.”
Chapter 36
Squinting in the morning sunlight, Rielle fastened her turquoise coat in the mirror as Stefania brought in the correspondence. She’d requested a book from Divinity Castle last night, and it still hadn’t arrived. She heaved a sigh. If she wanted to research basilisks, she’d have to go there, or try her luck at the local bookshops.
She snatched up the correspondence. One letter from The Red Veil in Il Serpente, Liam telling her he’d be waiting. And another for her and Brennan, from…
The seal of the Archmage. Olivia.
Frowning, Rielle ran her thumb over it while laughter filtered in from outside. She moved to the window, and below, in the courtyard, Brennan wrestled with his nephews in the grass.
With a slow smile, she shook her head, watching as he let them drag him down and pin him, laughing all the while. She’d been rambunctious as a child herself, and no doubt Sylvie would have been, too, climbing all over her and—
She swallowed.
The look on Brennan’s face—sheer, perfect joy—was a father’s, and here she stood, keeping that from him, depriving him not only of something he wanted but, by the looks of it, something he was meant for.
His gaze met hers in the window, and she turned away, squeezing the letter in her grasp. With a deep breath, she cracked the wax seal and opened the note.
It was short but simple, asking her and Brennan’s help in translating between Jon and Samara, and directions to the villa she and Jon were staying at uptown.
Quick footsteps ascended the stairs to the hall. If she told Brennan she wanted to visit Samara, would he just try to change the subject again? Or try to forbid her?
Brennan opened the door, turned to her, and raised his eyebrows, rolling up his sleeves. “You’re going now?”
She nodded, and he leaned in and kissed her. “Olivia sent us a note,” she said, handing it to him.
As he read, the mirth on his face faded. “Rielle,” he said with a deep breath, “I’m not sure this is such a good idea. After everything that happened yesterday, do we really want to have the same argument?”
“We don’t have to.” She leaned in. “Besides, if anyone has books on basilisks, it’s Olivia. I only have two more days before the next trial.”
He shook his head.
“What is it that you think I’ll do?” she asked. “Don’t you trust me?”
He folded up the note and crossed his arms. “I do trust you. It’s him I don’t trust.”
She rolled her eyes. The moments she’d spent alone with Jon since Veris, he’d been perfectly proper, neither said nor done anything untoward. “Do you want to come with me?”
He was silent awhile. “I’d love to, but there’s something I want to do here that I’ve been putting off.”
“What?”
He leaned against the doorjamb. “Worship,” he murmured.
Quickly, he glanced away; the look on her face must have betrayed her surprise.
The Marcels were well known as Terrans in that they believed in the goddess Terra, but it was Nox, god of death, that they worshipped. Brennan had once told her that the only power able to grant a blessed life was Death. His parents kept a shrine at every property, and she remembered his mother or father disappearing down a set of stairs. Upon return, they’d always exuded the smell of blood.
But she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Brennan do so.
She placed a palm on his chest, over his heart. “Well, with all due respect, tell Him not to expect you anytime soon. I have big plans for you.”
“Oh?” He stroked her cheek with a faint smile.
“Step one,” she said, leaning in close to his ear, breathing softly, and placing a kiss on his jaw, “have my way with you later.” As she pulled away, his heavy-lidded gaze followed her.
“And step two?” he asked, his voice low, seductive.
“Repeat for the rest of our lives,” she said, and pressed her lips to his.
Grinning, she rounded him and stepped out into the hall, but he took her hand. “Take some outriders with you. The first sign of trouble, burn down everything.”
* * *
The sprawling bazaar of Il Serpente was already dense with people when she arrived, peeking out from between the carriage’s drapes while the outriders cleared a path. The travel accommodations were lavish, far fancier than she preferred, but if it made Brennan feel more comfortable about her going, then she’d do it to please him. It was too small a concession to fight over.
She stopped at the few bookshops to be found here, but found nothing about Immortals. From what the booksellers said, nothing new had been released, and the antiquarian books that did contain useful information could only be found uptown or on the black market. Her best finds came from a small foreign section that had books in Nad’i, including ones on learning Emaurrian, Sileni, and Morwenian, and then a tome on Sileni herbalism. Samara might like them, something to occupy her mind. Even if she never wants to speak to me again.
With a sigh, she let the coachman take her to the entertainment district. The Red Veil was a tall, three-story building wedged between two taverns, with so much raucous noise in the air, she wanted to hold her hands over her ears.
Four of her outriders minded the carriage and horses while the remaining two shouldered their way into The Red Veil. A cozy entryway draped in hanging red silk led into a bustling great room, where all manner of revelry and debauchery unfolded, from drinking and gambling to smoking and flirting, to the many varieties of pleasure this place traded in.
She squinted, blurring her vision and hoping not to see Liam among these patrons. Without even knowing their names, she’d seen too much of them already.
“And you are?” a tall woman asked, with the most voluminous red curls she’d ever seen. The madam?
“Visiting Captain Verib,” she said quietly, clearing her throat as a kissing couple bumped into her. The two outriding guards who’d walked in with her directed them along. “He’s, um, a friend,” she added, hoping to mitigate any rumors.
“They always are,” the madam crooned as she rounded the bar and opened a book. She traced a fingertip down a page, then smiled brightly. “He’s
expecting a visitor. Third floor, second door on the right.”
With a nod, she turned to the tight staircase, and the guards moved to follow. “I’ll be fine on my own,” she said, meeting two stern faces. “You two wait for me here.”
They took up posts by the staircase as she ascended. Did they report to Brennan, or to Mother? What would they say about this?
She sighed. No sense in worrying when there was nothing to do about it. Keeping her eyes to herself, she climbed the stairs all the way to the third floor. At the second door on the right, she knocked, then took a polite step back.
Some shuffling on the other side of the door, a cheery feminine giggle, and then she came face to face with a buxom, gray-eyed blonde with kiss-swollen lips, wrapping a burgundy shawl about her shoulders. With a last look back, the blonde bit her lip and sashayed out of the room and down the stairs.
Bad timing. Very bad timing.
Inside, sprawled out on an armchair, Liam slowly raked his fingers through his tied-back, unruly straw-blond hair, blinking sluggishly, his ankle propped on his knee. Barefoot, he wore only a pair of light-colored linen drawstring pants, the vast sun-tanned expanse of his chest and arms golden against the black velvet upholstery. His sky-blue eyes met hers, and he grinned, with the sunlight streaming in through the window behind him.
“Did I come at a bad time?” she teased, grabbing a gray shirt from a chair and tossing it at him. It hit him in the face and fell to his abdomen.
He smirked. “No, not at all. Perfect time, actually.” He rose and threw the shirt on over his head, then wrapped her in a hug.
The sea’s fresh salt air and the scent of dry red wine flooded her nostrils, and she breathed him in, the familiarity of him, the reality—even solid and warm in her arms, she could scarcely believe it was really Liam. “I’ve missed you.”
Here, in his arms, she felt like she truly belonged.
Huffing a half-laugh, he patted her back gently and then pulled away. “I’ve missed you, too, little bee. It’s been too long.”
He cocked his head toward an empty chair at the table, and she plopped into it, watching him as he gestured over the teapot until it steamed, spooned some black tea into two cups, then poured. He slid one down toward her.
Such a long way from exploding teapots in Laurentine.
After grabbing an armful of clothes, he disappeared behind the bathing screen. “What took you so long?”
She grimaced, wrapping her hands around the steaming cup. “The Marcels’ steward curates the incoming correspondence.”
“Can’t say I’m surprised.” He threw the pants off to the side on the floor. “It’s a fancy family you’re marrying into.”
Fancy was right. “So I would’ve been here sooner, but I only found out you were here through Olivia.”
A pause. “Fine woman, that Olivia.”
With a shake of her head, she leaned back, then took a sip of the hot black tea. It was strong, delicious, not sweet at all—just as she’d always liked it.
“Olivia would have none of this,” she said, glancing about the disheveled room, “so don’t waste your time. Besides, wouldn’t your companion of five minutes ago be disappointed in how soon your mind turns to another woman?”
A laugh, then the clink of his belt buckle as he stepped out in fitted black trousers, the gray shirt she’d tossed him tucked into it. He fastened his belt. “The best part about paying for companionship is not having to care what she thinks.”
She sighed. He’d been at this kind of life for quite a while, hadn’t he? Living at sea, coming into port for leave once every couple of months, spending a few days in a place like this…
“A woman like her probably wants a marriage,” he remarked loftily, dragging on boots.
“And a good one.”
“Just another kind of shackle.”
She wrinkled her nose.
“One person always secretly wants something from the other. Complete possession. A child. To change you. To keep you stuck somewhere,” he listed off, stomping about the room in his big, black boots, upending blankets and pillows. “Not me. I’m not going to let anyone control me.”
It was easy for him to speak that way now. “If you love someone enough, you might not see it that way.”
“Love?” He raised an eyebrow. “I’m content with what I have,” he said, holding up his arms to indicate the room. “At least it’s honest. She’s upfront with what she wants, and so am I.” He eyed her doubtfully. “If you think your fiancé is any different, remember who he is. That’s a man who does what he wants, anything he wants, with no thought to the consequences.”
“He’s changed,” she said, straightening.
Liam pulled a blue doublet out from under a pile of clothes. “I don’t trust him.”
“You don’t know him,” she snapped back, and Liam shrugged, then threw on the doublet. “I wish you could spend more time—”
“Well, I can’t.” He raked his fingers through his hair again, exhaling lengthily. “As soon as I’d set foot in the doorway at the Marcels’ mansion, or in Divinity Castle, that’s it. This life would be over.” He held out his hand to her, and she took it, letting him help her up.
“Are we going somewhere?”
“Best place in town.” Grinning, he headed past the armchair and threw open the window panes. He climbed out onto the roof, dipping in again to grab a half-full bottle of wine on the window sill, then offered her a hand. “Coming?”
With a smile, she accepted it and stepped out into the great, vast blue, unsteady on the clay roof tiles. Liam helped her to the top, where the beam was wide enough to sit on comfortably. Perched there, he looked out at the sprawl of Magehold, and so did she. Between the rooftops, tiny people moved like the lapping sea, and farther beyond were the mansions and villas—the Marcels’ among them—and then the enormous shadow of Divinity Castle. Down the other way were smaller, meeker houses, farms, countryside and forests, and then the endless bright turquoise of the Shining Sea, with ships and boats bobbing in the harbor, sails fluttering in the free wind. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
He uncorked the bottle, took a swig, and handed it to her. “It’s why I always rent this room.”
“Nothing to do with your fine companion?”
He smirked. “Vera has her fine points, too.” He nodded toward the castle. “Someone put a skylight in last night. Was that you?”
She shrugged. “It was getting stuffy in there. And as it turns out, the ceiling is not made of arcanir.” A drink of the wine—dry and warm—and she handed it back to him. “It’s terrible.”
“Don’t hate the wine,” he scolded, angling the neck of the bottle toward her. The breeze blew straw-blond wisps across his eyes, and he dipped his head. “Rumor says the Emaurrian king fought another man for his lover.”
Cheeks warming, she looked away. “This ‘lover’ is causing him so much trouble. Can’t say I approve of her at all.”
“Not only that, but she intervened, completely obliterating his opponent to ash.”
She bit her lip. “Everyone was thrilled about that, right? Because that might have saved his life?”
“Well, some have said she ended both the duel and his reputation in one fell swoop,” he said, and she winced, “but here, the women can’t shut up about how romantic it is. He saves her, she saves him, and they’d do anything for each other, right? Reputation and appearances and all that be damned.”
She sighed. Put like that, it sounded grand, not like the charged, angry chaos it had actually been. “Only she’s not his lover.”
“And he’s not her fiancé.” He fixed narrowed eyes on her. “Where was Brennan?”
Her mouth hung open, but no words would come. Brennan had been helping her, risking his life for her. “He was—It wasn’t his fault.”
Liam cocked his head toward the castle. “What are you really doing there? And don’t say competing for magister.”
So he’d figured her
out, just like that? “Do you ever think about what Shadow told us on Khar’shil that day?”
He spat. “I do my best not to think of that bloodthirsty madwoman,” he grumbled. “But to be honest, I haven’t been able to stop. I think it’s true. I keep putting together bits and pieces about the Divinity and pirates, bandits, ruffians, and these attacks and—” He sighed.
“I’m not sure what to believe,” she said, “but if there are answers, they’re in there.” She pointed her chin toward the castle.
He eyed it for a while before snapping his head toward her. “You can’t possibly mean—you’re trying to break into the Archives?”
She nodded.
“That’s suicide.”
She pulled out the basilisk scale. “And what do you call this?”
He took it, rubbing fingers over the rocky exterior. “World’s worst leather?”
She grimaced. “I’m fighting a basilisk for the second trial, and I don’t know the first thing about them.”
He half-laughed. “Don’t ask me. Mermaids, krakens, water dragons, and selkies I can help with, but land beasts are not my area.” He eyed her peripherally, flashing a derisive grin. “I heard your king fought them recently. Can you just bring him? No rules, right?”
The urge to jab him bubbled up to the surface, but she waited until it passed. There had to be some rule about waiting a certain length of time after reuniting with your long-lost brother before you could resume all sisterly activities.
“Joking aside, maybe he knows something that could help you.” He returned the scale to her, and she lowered her gaze, catching on the sheath in his boot. The dagger he’d lent her that day on Khar’shil.
Farrad had plunged a dagger into Jon’s side, between his ribs, and the look on Jon’s face had been—this intensity, this farseeing intensity, as if he’d seen where his life would end, the only path open to him, and had taken the first step.
She couldn’t get it out of her head.
“Rielle?” Liam waved the bottle of wine in front of her face, but she swatted it away.
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