By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2)

by Miranda Honfleur

  “Lead the way.” Jon allowed the paladins to lead him back up to Trèstellan, acknowledging his people as word spread of his declarations. And he meant them.

  Bright faces greeted him and cheered his name, but none of it warmed. He lowered his gaze for a moment to his gauntleted hand.

  Grotesque scales, a gleaming black snakeskin covered his hand, his wrist, his arm.

  Gasping, he squeezed his eyes shut, and when he looked again, it was only his armor.

  He managed a veil of a smile; he didn’t have the freedom to chase ghosts.

  The cost to fulfill today’s promises would be staggering—Jon could almost picture Derric’s grimace—but he didn’t care. With so few ships coming into port to trade, these people had nothing, and if the capital was to survive, to thrive, that needed to be addressed.

  As much as it hurt, he would stay and see the kingdom safe from threats within and without. And trust Brennan to find Rielle.

  But maybe it’s time to delegate the investigation of the regicide to someone with a more… personal stake. He would see to that later.

  And the promise of ships meant ensuring secure passage—keeping the Immortals at bay. He would need allies.

  Chapter 4

  Olivia’s footsteps echoed through the Abbey of Amaranth, soft clicks on the shining marble. Vaulted ceilings soared majestically overhead, and the fading light poured in through the stained-glass clearstory windows, painting winding patterns of blue, purple, gold, green, and red, joined by the blooming cast of the rose windows from the towers. Majesty and beauty in a place where life took its leave.

  She continued her pilgrimage to the apsidal eastern end, her gaze drawn to the hemispherical semidome depicting a great full moon over a densely wooded forest, and the Terran goddess descending from it in a sweep, arm outstretched, palm offered.

  James.

  She couldn’t wait to see him. Every day for over a month she’d come to see him.

  Her feet trod the familiar path to the Farallan chapel and into the colonnaded rotunda, a round building crowned with a dome. Dying sunlight illuminated the statuary at the center, a tomb for the first Farallan king, Tristan Armand Marcel Faralle, and his queen, Rosalie Aimée Vignon Lothaire. The Blade and his Rose. Cast in bronze, the king and queen stood in worship, arms held up to the sky. Off to the side, the newest tombs awaited.

  There he was, her James: tall, well-muscled, in his best finery… Shoulder-length hair, prominent jaw, straight regal nose, a neatly trimmed beard, his hands lying palm up at his sides, waiting in eternal repose. The gisant had captured him well. She knelt and slipped her hand in his.

  I’ve missed you.

  He lay here, ever to slumber, never to change, and she with the lover’s curse, heart entombed as tightly as he, but left to live. She squeezed his hand. The palace has been so cold without you.

  She’d buried herself in work day after day, loudening the turning of her mind, muffling the solitary beating of her heart. But here, once a day, she let in the quiet whispers of love, of longing, and of justice.

  King Jonathan had slain Evrard Gilles, and for a time, it had given her comfort, but ultimately not peace. Evrard Gilles had tortured and killed James—she shuddered—but for all his brutality, Gilles had been no more than a sword. And the man who’d commanded that sword remained at large.

  Unpunished.

  Who had looked upon James and seen a resource, one whose exhaustion was desirable, even at the cost of his life? Who had seen him as deserving death, when he’d been an honorable man, a good man, her man?

  Her fingertips pressed into the grain of the gisant’s stone, and her skin heated, moistened by hot tears. She dragged a sleeve across her face. The Order of Terra had been investigating the regicide for nearly two months and remained empty-handed. But someone had to bring James’s killer to justice. Someone had to find the person responsible, who would answer for the murders, the siege, the atrocities. Who would know where Rielle had been taken.

  The Swordsman who’d hired Gilles.

  Boots clicked behind her, and she glanced over her shoulder. A man liveried in Trèstellan’s royal blue and white. He bowed deeply.

  “Pardon me, Lady Archmage. His Majesty requests your presence.” He remained bent in obeisance.

  She rose. “Thank you. I shall leave forthwith.”

  He straightened, inclined his head, and left.

  With a final glance at James’ gisant, she took a deep breath and left the abbey to meet with his son.

  After a short ride in a coach-and-four, the white-stoned majesty of Trèstellan Palace came into view. She exited the coach, pulled off her gloves, and strode to the royal quarters, exchanging greetings with passers-by as doors opened before her and closed behind her in perfect service.

  Lydia, her young lady’s maid, rushed to her side, brown curls bouncing. “Rumor says His Majesty took the Constable of Emaurria and several paladins on a merry chase today,” she whispered.

  Did that have anything to do with his summons? Every evening at their force-magic lessons, he’d been growing more and more restless as he awaited correspondence from Brennan Karandis Marcel.

  “The king has reached his breaking point.” She swallowed. And so have I.

  “Small wonder. None of the paladin investigators have returned with good news.” Lydia leaned in conspiratorially.

  “Rielle came here to save my life, and succeeded. And for that success, she’s still missing.” With a sigh, Olivia bowed her head. “And it seems even the Order can’t find her.”

  “The Tower has been a great help, too,” Lydia added.

  “Divine forbid they pull a muscle waving us off dismissively.” She had sent to the Emaurrian Tower for a spiritualist, but the interim Proctor had replied that none could be spared, and good luck with finding Lothaire.

  She smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from her black velvet gown. How Kieran Atterley had managed to secure a position as interim Proctor was anyone’s guess.

  “We’re on our own,” she whispered. Spirit magic performed by any mage other than a spiritualist required massive amounts of anima and, for all its costs, rarely succeeded. She would have to inquire about hedge-witch spiritualists with her mage contacts…

  …or go to Bournand and twist Feliciano’s arm. She shuddered. That dirty peddler of poison could rot in the Lone, even if he was one of the rare few spiritualists. But if her contacts proved worthless, she’d have no other choice.

  I’ll do no less than Rielle did for me.

  Lydia gave her a warm smile. “You’ll see her again, Your Ladyship. You aren’t one to give up easily.”

  Definitely not. She’d find her best friend no matter what it took. Even if she had to run a company of paladins into Feliciano’s filthy resonance den.

  “Well, I’m off to see His Majesty.” She handed Lydia her cloak and gloves.

  Lydia inclined her head. “I’ll have your tea brought to your study later.”

  It was where evenings always found her. And with that, Lydia left.

  At the heart of the palace, Olivia took a deep breath, reaching for her braided bun to make sure every hair was in place. A couple of new console tables bearing vast floral arrangements lined the halls, and it didn’t feel as empty as it had yesterday. The Crown slowly replaced tapestries, paintings, and furnishings stolen or ruined during the siege, but not fast enough to restore Trèstellan Palace to even a fraction of its former glory.

  But restoration was at hand. Soon, it would be as if the siege had never happened, as if Gilles had never invaded, as if James had never died. The court could pretend nothing had gone awry at all, even if she couldn’t. The Swordsman needed to be found well before then, before Courdeval, Emaurria, and the world lost interest in him and in justice.

  The Order would find him soon. They had to.

  Finally, she arrived at the royal quarters, and upon sight, the two paladin guards admitted her. The entrance opened into the parlor, the first of an enfilade
of rooms with massive south-facing windows—a dining room, a study, a bedchamber, a wardrobe, and a garderobe.

  The parlor’s golden upholstered walls shimmered in the luminance of the lit sconces, its tufted sofas and armchairs inviting, its portraits regal, softened by massive arrangements of flowers grown magically by the aged Grand Master of Botany, an appointed geomancer who kept the royal greenhouses in bloom year round.

  On a nearby winged armchair, she could almost see James again, gazing intently at his brother, King Marcus, while he discussed plans to ban sen’a and trux, and create assistance programs for recovery.

  But those days were long past.

  “Your Majesty?” she called.

  “Join me in the study, Olivia,” His Majesty called back to her.

  She traversed the dining room, which sat twenty, and entered the study. Nearly every available inch of its twenty-foot-high walls overflowed with books. Magnificent chandeliers, lit with candles and fitted with mirrors to reflect the sunlight in the daytime, hung from the frescoed ceiling, upon which the Great Hunt unfolded. It was said that the Faralles had come to power in the ancient days as a clan of dragon hunters, a myth they had taken to heart, incorporating a winged serpent in the royal coat of arms.

  At the massive purple-heartwood desk, His Majesty sat, leaning deep in his high-backed chair, his chin resting on a fist as his sea-blue Bay of Amar gaze pierced a document he held. He wore a black brocade doublet with the first closure unfastened. He still kept his hair close cropped, his face shaven, so like the other paladins of the Order. A show of solidarity, perhaps.

  Like his father, he was uncommonly handsome, with a chiseled jaw, dark angled eyebrows—one sporting a slash of a scar—and an irresistible smile. And at twenty-six years of age, royal, and the richest man in the realm, he could certainly have his pick of fine ladies, but only had eyes for one. Her best friend. She smiled.

  He still sported the poorly healed scar on his neck—when she’d offered to fade it for him, he’d revealed that it had been Rielle’s work.

  He was an honorable, strong, and capable man. And he loved Rielle. Together, we’ll find her.

  His Majesty looked up from the document he was reading and inclined his head toward one of the armchairs before his enormous desk.

  “What is it you have there, Your Majesty?” She sat.

  He lowered the paper to his desk and sighed. “Word from the Order.” He closed his eyes and rested his head against the high back of his chair. “Or rather, no word from the Order.”

  She frowned. “About Rielle or the regicide? Both? Or should I say ‘neither’?”

  He cracked his eyes open and nodded tightly, then crossed his arms, tapping his bicep with a finger. His piercing eyes pinned her to the chair. Evaluative.

  She squirmed.

  “You’ve been working a lot lately.”

  As the Archmage of Emaurria, she was head of all magic affairs, managing and financing the Grand Library; teaching the royal family magic; investigating any magic-related offenses in the kingdom; serving as ambassador to the Divinity of Magic; and commanding the Guardians of Emaurria, the specially appointed mages working as warders in the palace. She oversaw the Grand Healer, the Mage-Commander of the Guardians, the Grand Alchemist, and the Grand Master of Botany, the only immediately subordinate posts to hers that had been filled since the siege.

  On top of that, she’d been named Liaison to the King’s Council on Immortals, which had her buried in research on every new beast threatening the land since the Rift and advising relevant offices on how to defeat them. Although she delegated what was impossible to fit into her schedule, she thrived on long, busy days.

  Keeping the turning of her mind loud.

  She shrugged. “No more than I can handle.”

  His Majesty chuckled darkly.

  “Truly,” she added, stroking the Ring of the Archmage. The more she worked, the better. “If there’s anything else you need of me, you have only to ask.”

  His Majesty peered at the document on his desk, his finger tapping restlessly. At last, he exhaled deeply. “I want you to investigate the regicide.”

  A frisson along her spine made her jump in her seat. Yes, she wanted to scream. I’ll do it. Let it be me. I’ll find out who’s responsible for James’s murder. I’ll work tirelessly until it’s solved.

  But… The Order of Terra, headed by Paladin Grand Cordon Raphaël Guérin himself, investigated the regicide. His Majesty had been a paladin himself. Why would he distrust the Order?

  Paladins filled every available military office.

  Did His Majesty wonder if the Order had schemed to put one of its own on the throne?

  If he did, if he withheld his trust from the Order of Terra, then he wouldn’t delegate to his adoptive father, Derric Lazare—or even to his former paladin-master, Torrance Auvray Marcel, who, aside from formerly serving the Order, was brother to the most influential noble in the realm.

  And if His Majesty didn’t trust the Order, he certainly didn’t trust the Divinity. So that removed the former Proctor, Pons Olivier, from the list.

  But why her? She’d been of the Divinity herself.

  He fixed his gaze on her. “Olivia, you loved him. No one will look harder.”

  James—and Anton—would not find peace in the Lone until there was justice for their deaths.

  Justice she could secure.

  Justice she would secure.

  She leaned forward. “I’ll do it.”

  A tentative smile spread across His Majesty’s face, his eyes lit with an inner glow. “Good.”

  He looked to his desk and riffled through the documents, raising his eyebrows at last.

  With a quick dip of his quill in the inkwell, he signed it and then handed it to her. “This will give you unfettered access to everything I have access to. I’ll send word to Paladin Grand Cordon Guérin that I’ve appointed you as Special Investigator on Magic to assist with the regicide. To impede you would be as if to impede me.”

  Faced with his hardened expression, she shivered at the thought of anyone doing so. She accepted the document.

  After handling a few investigations of crimes involving magic, she knew where to begin. She’d see whom the Order had in custody. The paladins had made several arrests of Crag Company mercenaries, officers, and Evrard Gilles’s associates.

  “I’ll begin tonight,” she said. “But first, your force-magic lesson.”

  His Majesty rolled his eyes. “I’m not improving much, and it’s not for your lack of effort. Magic… is not my area.”

  She waved him off. “Small steps, Your Majesty. You can’t expect to complete training in a month that normally takes five years or more.”

  He quirked an eyebrow. “How about training that takes a novice five minutes?”

  “Not all novices are created equal.” She grinned. “Some require more attention than others.”

  “Vastly more, clearly.”

  “Repulsion shields again tonight?”

  He grimaced and rose. “Very well. I suppose even the Archmage needs a laugh now and then.”

  It was his modesty that made her laugh. And for now, she would allow herself that much. His skill with magic—or lack thereof—was indeed remarkable, considering how quickly he learned all else. What little free time he would have had disappeared in lessons—lessons from a dueling master, linguists, historians, etiquette tutors, even a Companion of the Camarilla. What the Companion—infamous flirts, seducers, and lovers—taught, she didn’t even want to imagine.

  As for the magic… Her work would be entertaining, at least.

  But later tonight, the investigation, would be far darker. Somewhere in the Lone, James sharpened his rapier, waiting to greet the man responsible for his death, with Anton close by.

  Chapter 5

  As soon as the flatbread landed in her open palms, Rielle snatched it away and began stuffing it into her mouth as she crouched, curled, swallowed.

  Countless ha
nds reached over her, yanking back her hair, her clothes, pinching, scratching. Fingers closed around her chin as someone grabbed at the remaining flatbread in her hands.

  It was gone.

  The hands still clawed at her, reaching for her mouth. She shot out blindly with her elbows, colliding with groaning bodies, but they moved on.

  She trudged to the side until she hit a wall, and then slumped to the ground.

  No more than a mouthful or two each day, and some days, nothing at all. At this rate, she would starve to death.

  A sad tease of light stroked her face. Even blindfolded, she discerned the soft morning sun from the scorching, dead heat of the afternoon and its bright, blinding light. The light would stay another few minutes, until the overseers would lock the doors once more, leaving them all in total darkness.

  Thick in the air, the smell of filth never relented, but she’d given up hope for any basic human necessities; their importance had crumpled in favor of survival. Even the thought of what covered the ground beneath no longer figured.

  Somewhere behind her, cries arose with the crack of a whip and ended with a few erratic sobs. Someone had been too slow. Too loud. Too scared. Or maybe just unlucky. The whip didn’t care.

  Before long, nearby movement breezed against her skin. Then forceful hands grabbed her, yanked her up, and linked her chains to those of another, already moving.

  Where? The question flickered in her mind, a mere glimmer, and disappeared.

  Chains rattled ahead of her and behind until she was thrown to the ground, colliding with a warm body and bumped by another brought down on her other side. One after another behind her, bodies thudded to the ground. All breathing. All alive.

  “Where are we?” a voice dared ask in timid Kamerish amid the whimpers ahead.

  A few fearful voices hushed the speaker.

  The southern continent. It had to be. The heat, the low Nad’i spoken by the overseers—Sonbahar, or somewhere on the border. Somewhere near water—the salt air sometimes taunted relief it never delivered.

  A cry, and more rattling. The body next to her trembled, chains clinking.