Court of Shadows

by Miranda Honfleur

  How dare he? How dare he accuse her of running to Jon? As if she had been the one to suddenly recall that she’d bedded someone and would soon have a lovechild.

  His ability to hold up a mirror to any issue with him was astounding.

  And right on the heels of his revelation, expecting her to break the curse? Kehani’s son hadn’t even been born yet, and he was already demanding she break the curse, no matter what she felt.

  He would see reason. He’d see it, take back everything he’d demanded, and then they would have peace. Because if he didn’t—

  She hefted her coin purse, full of gold coronas. If she needed to, she’d stay at Staff & Stein through the remainder of the trials, and book her own passage home.

  Swift steps crunched in the grass behind her, and blowing out a sharp breath, she looked over her shoulder. “Leave me alone, Brennan, or so help me—”

  Marfa held up her hands and slowed, shifting uneasily in her overcoat, made of buttery-soft leather dyed a fashionable forest green. After awakening with nothing, Marfa deserved the finer things. And as her lady, of sorts, it was her responsibility to provide everything Marfa needed. “Maestru.”

  “Oh, it’s you.” Heaving a sigh, she beckoned to Marfa to walk with her. “We’ll be staying at an inn for…” She shrugged. “For some time.”

  They made their way from uptown to the market district, where the temple was, the candlelight spell softly glowing before them.

  “Chì ci hè?” Marfa asked, her head tilted and her eyebrows creased together.

  How to even begin explaining what was wrong? She heaved a sigh, but Marfa tipped her head encouragingly.

  “Brennan,” she said, and Marfa nodded. But how to explain—?

  She pantomimed a curved, pregnant belly, and Marfa lit up.

  “Avete avè un zitellu?”

  Zitellu—did that mean baby? Rielle gestured to herself, and Marfa nodded.

  Not me. Rielle shook her head.

  Marfa’s eyebrows slowly rose as her face drained of color. “Brennan hè un zitellu,” she whispered, with a slow shake of her head, “micca cun voi?”

  Marfa’s incredulous, outraged tone sounded about right. Rielle nodded.

  With a narrowing of her eyes, Marfa stomped her foot, then again, and crossed her arms. “Omi,” she said with a grunt and a contemptuous frown. “Tutti… facenu cusì.” She exhaled a sharp breath through her nostrils. “Trovu una altra donna.”

  “It’s not his fault,” she replied. “Well, conceiving the child, maybe. But it was before he and I got together.”

  Marfa raised an eyebrow.

  He had claimed he’d been with no one since Melain. What he’d done hadn’t been wrong, but had it really slipped his mind? Or had it been easier to lie?

  Either way, how was she ever to trust him? Whether he lied or not, the difficulty lay in never being at ease with him, always having to doubt, to question, to wonder. It was an unsteady ground to stand upon, shifting sands that could give way at any time. A lie she could forgive, but this indefinite state of distrust, doubt, unease? That was harder to live with. Not only that, but it made her into a person she didn’t want to be, always doubting, always questioning, suspicious—

  Marfa grabbed her arm, yanking her to a stop, and breathing in deeply as she scanned their dark surroundings with glowing amber eyes.

  Dispelling the candlelight, Rielle cast earthsight, and there, in the tight alleyway between two buildings, a tall, rail-thin mage shone brightly, watching them from the next street over.

  She pulled a wind wall up before herself and Marfa. Only days ago, she’d been followed here, too, and that figure, that form—it was the mage who’d accompanied Mac Carra.

  If he wanted to take her out of the trials, he could damn well attempt it himself.

  “Mac Carra,” she bellowed at the figure. “Show yourself. Stop hiding behind your lackeys.”

  But the figure took off at a run, the bright glow fading with the distance. She stood, watching until it disappeared past her range.

  “Coward,” she growled under her breath.

  He could wait until the final trial and compete with her honorably? Instead he had to send some minion to do his bidding and thin the candidates.

  At least the minion was too scared to do anything.

  She dispelled the wind wall and her earthsight while Marfa crept along the nearby buildings, pausing attentively from time to time or sniffing the air.

  At last, Marfa nodded to her. Apparently satisfied they were safe.

  They weren’t. Not until the final trial was over, and… not even then.

  “Maestru,” Marfa said with a sigh. “Avete nimici.” She spat that last word, glaring in the direction the minion had fled.

  The number of her enemies only seemed to be multiplying.

  “Yes, I have nimici. Lots and lots of nimici,” she replied with a sigh, and they headed toward Staff & Stein. With so many enemies out for her blood, she had to consider—

  She wouldn’t lose to them. She wouldn’t. But… but if she did…

  Not only would an innocent child suffer, but so would Brennan. He needed her blood every month, and if the unthinkable happened—

  She took a deep breath. If only she would ask Olivia…

  Wait. I can. Olivia knew about Brennan, and maybe she’d know a way to make sure, just in case…

  “Maestru?” Marfa asked, with a tilt of her head.

  She smiled quickly. “I’m fine. Let’s get inside.”

  Chapter 48

  In the morning sunlight, Jon parried Florian’s riposte and pulled a kick to the abdomen. Hit. Florian grinned, nodded an acknowledgment, and they resumed the sparring.

  It was all finally out of his hands.

  There was something liberating about it, a sort of peace, knowing there was no more uncertainty. Rielle was marrying Brennan, and Brennan now knew why that marriage would never be under threat. He’d confessed about his condition, the year or two likely left to him, and his wishes. Brennan had listened to it all, agreed to keep his confidence, and left.

  And that had been all.

  Strike. He blocked, then stepped offline to avoid a slash from Florian.

  With his heart failing, there had never been hope of a future with Rielle. Maybe Olivia could save his life, but he wouldn’t bet Rielle’s future on it. She deserved more, with the man she’d chosen, and now she would get it—and the man to give it to her wouldn’t have to worry about him interfering.

  Parry. Riposte. Counter-riposte.

  He wouldn’t interfere—not unless her life depended on it—ever again. He wouldn’t meet with her. He wouldn’t write to her. He’d leave them be. He’d leave her be, and focus his energies where they belonged: righting all that was wrong in Emaurria.

  A series of strikes, parries, lunges, and blocks, and—

  His chest tightened.

  He staggered backward, sheathed Faithkeeper, and clutched at his chest as his heart pounded, thudding heavily in his chest. He bent, trying to catch his breath.

  “Summon Olivia,” he forced out between breaths, and Florian called to another guard before bracing Jon, slinging his arm around his shoulders.

  “Slow breaths,” Florian said, helping him to a chair nearer the doors. “She’ll be here soon.”

  Fighting for breath, he nodded, pain radiating from his chest like needles cutting through him. Terra have mercy, his body—something he’d worked on his entire life—was failing him.

  The doors burst open, but it was Samara who ran out, her face contorted.

  Florian stopped her, but Jon waved him off.

  Throwing her bag down, she grabbed his shoulder and urged him to lean forward in the chair, which helped his breathing a measure. She pulled his shirt open and pressed her ear directly to his chest, completely still.

  Olivia burst through the doors. She raced to his side, and as Samara stepped aside, took his hand. The warmth of her healing magic flowed into him, throu
gh him.

  As his breath evened out, he watched the fine line creasing her brow, the way her eyes searched his face.

  “You won’t like this,” she said with a shaky breath.

  He glanced at his guards and cocked his head toward the doors; they gave him and Olivia some privacy, leaving only Samara, who dug through her bag and pulled out some paper.

  “What is it?” he asked Olivia.

  Her gaze fell to his belt and Faithkeeper strapped there. “I think you’ll need to give up the sword.”

  His breath caught, filling him up until he could scarcely move. He glared at her. “Out of the question.”

  “Jon, it’s killing you—”

  “I’d rather die.” Taut, he held her gaze until she bit her lip and looked away, then dropped her gaze to the ground. He would die before abandoning the sword. It was the last thing he had. His final measure of worth. If he couldn’t even hold a sword, what was left for him to do?

  “There’s more.” She squeezed his hand. “Anything that would tax your heart. Fighting, training, running—”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “You’ll have to give it up to prolong your life. I fear the duel a few days ago has already exacerbated your condition.”

  He could feel it. For days, he’d been trying to work past it, continue his regimen, keep up his health, but he couldn’t deny the truth of her words. “So… what? I’m dying faster?”

  When Olivia’s gaze met his, her eyes welled. “I’m sorry.”

  Closing his eyes, he rubbed his forehead. Nothing that would tax his heart—all the things he lived to do.

  Training? Sparring? The sword? Fighting? In the near future, fighting was most of what Emaurria had ahead of it, and was he to sit on the edge, wither and weaken and watch as his kingdom struggled?

  “For a man to want his life prolonged… it has to be a life worth living.” He covered her hand with his. “I won’t become a shell of myself for just a few days more, a couple weeks, a month or two. If I’m to live on, even to tomorrow, it has to be my life, Olivia.”

  She wiped at her eyes and nodded. “I know… just… maybe there’s a balance. As long as you have a healer with you, the… episodes could be mitigated. But in public, it won’t be long until word gets out that there’s something amiss with the king’s health.” She sighed, softly stroking his thumb. “But in private, well, you could still live your life, as long as a healer is nearby.”

  As much as he hated to admit it, she had a point. He couldn’t be collapsing publicly, or it wouldn’t be long before the world would know his secret. But avoiding combat was unthinkable until there would finally be peace.

  And he would unite both the Tower and the Order under the Crown. He would repel the pirates. He would quell the Immortals.

  A stern crease on her brow, Samara approached and held out a paper to him and Olivia. A quickly sketched heart. She held a piece of charcoal and circled what looked to be a lock of some kind, then tapped it. “This,” she said in Emaurrian, glancing between the two of them. “I can help.”

  Olivia eyed him skeptically. Only those closest to him knew the truth, and they kept it that way. But it seemed Samara had already figured it out.

  Rielle had trusted her with her life. They were friends, and close at that.

  “I trust her,” he said, and when Olivia nodded, he looked to Samara. “Help me, Samara. Please.”

  * * *

  Olivia sighed, hunched over the desk in her quarters at midnight. Without a translator, explaining Jon’s condition to Samara had been slow going, but they’d labored through it with dictionaries and drawings, and Samara had promised to treat him, with plans for a special diet and an herbal concoction after she could gather some ingredients. Not a cure, but she promised improvement.

  Once they were back in Courdeval, Jon had promised to engage an entire team of tutors for Samara, including one in the Emaurrian language, if she so chose. Between her treatments, healing magic, and anything in the texts on Immortals, he would survive this. He had to.

  Footsteps sounded past the door adjoining Jon’s quarters. Was he all right? Had he recovered from the episode earlier? She rose, knocked on it, and waited.

  “Come in,” he called softly, and she entered, leaving her door open.

  The quarters were dark but for a flickering glow in the bedchamber, and she followed it, finding him already in bed. He sat up against the pillows, but she raised a hand. “Don’t stress yourself on my account.”

  He raised a brow. “The day sitting up in bed becomes ‘stressing myself,’ it’ll be all over for me, Olivia,” he teased. His sea-blue eyes gleamed darkly as a corner of his mouth turned up. If he was joking, then he had to already be feeling better.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and rested a hand on the covers over his foot. “How are you feeling?”

  He gave her a half-smile and shrugged a shoulder. “Optimistic.” He sighed. “Anxious to get these trials over with, get our answer, and go home.”

  Home. Yes, she couldn’t wait to get her hands on her books again, research that Bell of the Black Tower, and get some answers. Perhaps the light-elves would know something.

  There was a distant knock—from her quarters? She and Jon both answered at the same time, and his valet came through the adjoining door cautiously.

  The caution was unwarranted. As impassioned as she’d been that day in the stable, things were different now. But her constant proximity to him, on account of his condition, no doubt stoked rumors among the household anyway.

  His valet held out a note to her. “From Marquise Laurentine, Lady Archmage.”

  Rielle? Olivia grasped it, rubbing the paper softly, and nodded her thanks before the valet departed.

  She opened it and read:

  Staying at Staff & Stein. Need to see you.

  Can you preserve blood? If you can, let’s do it.

  Rielle

  Preserve blood? What the—?

  “What is it?” Jon asked, leaning forward a little.

  If Rielle was staying at an inn, then that certainly didn’t bode well for relations between her and Brennan. “She’s staying at an inn. I think she and Brennan had a fight.”

  He glanced at the note, then quickly looked away and crossed his arms. His eyes dulled and took on a faraway quality. He had asked her to save his life, had committed to reaching for more than he’d been given. So why was he denying his feelings?

  To strengthen the kingdom against the Immortals, they planned to bring both the Tower of Magic and the Order of Terra under the yoke of the Crown, and in so doing, Jon would be free of the responsibility to marry outside the kingdom. If he had faith that they could accomplish this, and that she could save him, why wouldn’t he pursue the woman he loved?

  “I’m going to visit her tomorrow,” she said carefully. “Should I tell her anything from you?”

  He lowered his gaze, letting the silence settle. “No.”

  * * *

  Samara wended through the shaded grove, scanning the greenery for little white five-petaled flowers. It was a beautiful day, with not a single stray cloud to portend any ill.

  “Did you find it?” Una called from behind her in Nad’i, leading their horses into the woods.

  They’d left in the morning, and it was nearly noon. Although she hadn’t known Una before Brennan had introduced them, she’d been very friendly. Not closed off and mysterious like her older brother, or dramatic and bold like her glamorous older sister. Instead, she spoke with a genuine earnestness, and acted very thoughtfully, as if she strove to be an ideal—or maybe she already was.

  “What should I even be looking for?” Una asked, and the crack of wood betrayed her misstep.

  “Five-petaled white flowers,” Samara said. “They’re called hawthorn.” She glanced at The Sileni Herbal in her hands, and the illustration there. “There’s an old myth that they could cure a broken heart.”

  They did treat the heart, so perhaps that myth had
been misconstrued by those hopelessly in love. Or perhaps it did mend both types of broken hearts.

  “Yes,” Una said with a sigh, “but what does it look like? Are we looking for a lone flower, or a tree, or what?”

  A few pink blooms peeked out between the undergrowth, and Samara crouched while Una tethered the horses. A squarish stem clad in short hairs, slightly purplish, with bell-shaped pink flowers, with a minty smell. She set down her bag and carefully collected some.

  “Is that it?” Una whispered, as if to avoid disturbing the flowers, and crouched next to her.

  “This is lion’s tail,” Samara said, smiling at her. “It can slow a rapid heartbeat, improve the health of your heart, or even just tranquilize the body in times of stress.”

  “Like valerian?” Una offered quietly.

  “In the tranquilizing aspect, yes.” It always thrilled her a little when someone knew medicine, like sharing a secret language, even for a bit. And valerian eased the burden of ruling kingdoms, guarding lives, and other stresses too heavy for one set of shoulders to bear.

  Una heaved a sigh. “My sister Nora takes it with an overflowing goblet of wine. She says it’s the only way she can handle the boys.”

  Samara frowned. There was that use, too.

  “So this hawthorn we’re looking for. Will it be growing like this, low to the ground?”

  Samara shook her head and held out the book. “They grow on shrubs,” she said, as Una stood and proceeded. Just a few more cuts of lion’s tail, and she’d resume the search for the hawthorn. “The shrubs can generally be about twenty or thirty feet tall, with spiraling leaves, and thorns—”

  “Ow!” Una called out, then hissed. “I… I think I found the thorns.”

  Jumping to her feet, Samara darted to the large shrub where Una sucked her index finger with a pout.

  “This is it!” The shrub was abundant with the five-petaled white flowers, and she cradled one in her hand. Something beautiful among the thorns it had grown from. “Hawthorn.”

  Immediately, she began gathering the precious flowers. If only she could be here when it bore fruit, too—but perhaps it could be ordered. With this, she would have almost everything she needed to begin preparing a treatment for His Majesty. She would have liked some anjelica, too, but it was abundant in Emaurria, so she’d have to ask that some be purchased here, and then gather more once she arrived in Courdeval.