By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2)

by Miranda Honfleur

  Princess Sandrine Elise Faralle El-Amin. His cousin once removed. If the High Council’s intelligence was legitimate, then Sandrine was hiring hisaad raiders in Sonbahar and preparing to stake a claim for Emaurria. The Faralles were patrilineal; as the son of the late king’s brother, his was the stronger claim. But the longer Parliament stalled on his legitimization and a coronation, the more room Sandrine and her husband would have to maneuver. And even if they invaded, the Order of Terra wouldn’t welcome them and remove one of their own. The ensuing civil war would only plunge Emaurria into deeper chaos.

  He offered her a thin smile. “Was there another matter?”

  She drew in a slow breath. “It’s about Leigh.”

  This had been a long time coming.

  He let out an exasperated sigh and headed to his bedchamber, where he sat in an armchair by the fireplace. She followed. Of all the things they could have discussed, she had chosen his most loathed subject. The traitor.

  He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, staring into the fire. “You shouldn’t waste your efforts on his account.”

  “It’s been two months,” she said. “We have no proof that he was involved in Rielle’s disappearance in any way, and while he may have subverted the Moonlit Rite, he didn’t actually hurt anyone and has been charged with no crime.”

  “And the one hundred and forty-eight dead in Bisclavret?” His shoulders hardened, but he didn’t care about keeping his guard up around her. “He betrayed her, Olivia—and you, me, everyone in this realm.”

  “Without knowing the consequences.”

  “He knew them. He just unreasonably disregarded them. That doesn’t make him innocent—it makes him reckless.” He brought the goblet to his lips and drank deeply.

  Had the Moonlit Rite not been thwarted, the kingdom would not be facing the Immortals now. It would have been completed in time.

  And when it had first happened, he had been convinced that, had Leigh not betrayed them, the vial of king’s blood would not have shattered. His own true identity would never have been revealed then and in that way. The group would never have been separated from Rielle. And she would not have disappeared.

  Over the past few weeks, however, reason had slowly crept in and dismantled the wall of illogical pretexts he’d built around that night. Olivia forcing him to confront that was no pleasantry.

  “Then charge him,” she said.

  He turned away.

  “The Divinity won’t ignore the imprisonment of a master, a successful agent, and one of the world’s few wild mages, not without cause.”

  It was true—Pons had advised him on the matter.

  “The Divinity’s devotion to him is inspiring.” He didn’t bother to hide his bitterness. “Does it know the feeling isn’t mutual?”

  He expected word from the interim Proctor of the Emaurrian Tower of Magic any day now—from Kieran Atterley, who was supposed to be dead, if he was the same Kieran Rielle had accused Leigh of killing. Although if Magehold had allowed this Kieran as interim Proctor, perhaps that devotion to Leigh wasn’t a given.

  She seated herself in the armchair beside him and sighed. “Leigh may suspect the Divinity of a great many things, but he knows better than to leave its protection unless he has grounds—tangible, actionable grounds.” She stared into the fire with him. “I know that you worry about Rielle and miss her. So do I.” She met his eyes for a long moment. “So does Leigh.”

  “It doesn’t change the fact that he is responsible for… the Rift.” He finished the rest of the wine and set the goblet on the floor before leaning back into the armchair. The flames slowly consumed the firewood.

  “He wants to atone.”

  Jon scoffed. How exactly did one atone for setting in motion the destruction of not just one nation but the world?

  As he stared into the fire, memories of Leigh fighting alongside him and Rielle invaded his mind. Whatever his faults, Leigh Galvan was a highly capable and powerful mage. Although the paladins had been handling the Immortals since the beginning of the Rift, they were spread thin defending the Terran faith, the capital, the nation, and its citizens. One mage wouldn’t be a huge relief, but relief nonetheless. The more he considered the idea, the more reasonable it seemed.

  And Leigh’s reluctance to leave the Divinity’s protection was something he could bargain with. “Very well. I will offer him the opportunity for both freedom and atonement. Soon. We’ll discuss it further when you return from Kirn.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled and rose. “I will leave instructions for my clerks to redouble their efforts on researching the Immortals. Oh, and be sure to practice your repulsion shields while I’m gone.”

  He grimaced. He had yet to successfully cast one. “I will. Be safe out there. Terra’s blessings upon you.”

  She lingered in the doorway. “Divine keep you.”

  As she left, he settled deeper into his armchair. Perhaps Olivia could finally bring justice to the regicide.

  And in the meantime, he’d have to accept the idea of freeing the man whose recklessness had led to the Rift. Perhaps two months in the dungeon had given him the opportunity to feel some remorse.

  Chapter 8

  Through the coach window, Olivia watched the wintry landscape go by, a vast canvas of white stretching as far as the eye could see, framed by snow-tipped pines. The sun hid behind the clouds, leaving the sky gray, a few shades from the snowy starkness it overlooked. She and James had always planned to travel the kingdom… the forests of the heartland in winter, the coast in the summer, vineyards in early autumn. They’d planned so much that had been taken from them.

  Soon she’d be in Kirn—and the courier would be in her custody.

  A chill wind swept through the coach; she closed the drapes and shrugged into her miniver-trimmed cloak, grateful for the warm stones at her feet. Divine bless Lydia. The sixteen-year-old maid had a good head on her shoulders.

  Across from her, Sir Edgar sat dressed like no paladin she’d ever seen. He wore an inexpensive but well-tailored gray wool overcoat, white cotton shirt, black wool trousers, and well-worn but shined leather boots. An unremarkable brown leather belt bore his arcanir longsword—well camouflaged—along with a dagger, belt pouch, and coin purse. Despite the cold, he appeared unperturbed, his evergreen eyes upon her, a faint smile playing around his mouth.

  Lydia gave her a rabbit-fur muff. “To stave off the cold, my lady.” She blinked her large, doe-like eyes and smiled.

  Olivia dug her hands into the fur’s warmth. “Thank you, Lydia. I’m glad we packed it, considering this weather.”

  Sir Edgar raised an eyebrow. “What, none for me?”

  She shot him a scowl.

  “I could pull off that look.”

  Lydia stiffened.

  “No, you couldn’t. And if it’s warmth you’re looking for, I know a wonderful pyromancy incantation,” Olivia replied loftily. “It’ll light you right up, like a torch.”

  He snorted. “Afraid not.” He pulled open his shirt and overcoat near the neck, revealing some of his sigil tattoos—the pyromancy sigil, in particular.

  “Keep your clothes on,” she scolded, although her voice betrayed her and made it sound like a tease.

  He neatened his shirt and overcoat once more, grinning broadly. “You’re a healer, aren’t you? You’ve seen it all by now, I’m sure.”

  Of course she had. She’d probably seen more injuries than a seasoned soldier and more bare flesh than a courtesan. But that was in the context of healing, not the ill-conceived exhibitionism of an unmannered paladin. “What I have and haven’t seen is no business of yours.”

  He leaned back in the coach seat and folded his muscular arms. “So, tell me, how is a charming woman like you unmarried?”

  She laughed under her breath. “As though marriage should be my primary goal in life?”

  Marriage was something to consider once the grief over James wasn’t still so fresh, when the right suitor presented
himself, someone who could raise her station and that of her family, and their lot. But what man could possibly measure up to James? To take his place in her heart?

  So what if she was alone and unloved? There was plenty in her life to keep her warm. She puffed and gestured to the coach. “I’m a fishmonger’s daughter, and look at what I’ve accomplished.”

  He half-laughed. “Riding in a coach with an armorer’s son and a maid?”

  Lydia stifled a giggle, and Olivia glared at her. The girl sobered.

  “I’m a master mage, one of the Grands, and completely self-reliant, all at age twenty-six, on my own, without a husband.” She grinned confidently. “And having been born a commoner, I’ve had to work many times as hard as any noble for it.”

  The carriage jostled over a bump. Sir Edgar sighed. “You say ‘having been born a commoner’ as though you no longer are one.”

  She was rich, accomplished, titled.

  “Having some money and being the Archmage doesn’t change your blood. But you shouldn’t be ashamed of who you are, Olivia.” He held her gaze.

  “Your Ladyship,” she corrected.

  “I appreciate the gesture, but I prefer ‘Edgar.’ ”

  She sighed. “Why must you be so annoying?”

  He laughed, his eyes gleaming. “Why must you be so amusing?”

  Her mouth dropped open. “I’m not here for your amusement.”

  He smiled that boyish lop-sided grin. Lydia beamed next to her. Traitor.

  Olivia sank back into the coach seat, fidgeting in the rabbit-fur muff. “Don’t you have a code to adhere to? Sacred Vows?”

  “They don’t forbid talking,” he replied.

  “If you’re only going to poke me for effect, then I’d vastly prefer silence.”

  He snorted.

  The rest of the trip to Kirn, however, did pass in silence. At least his ears did what they were supposed to, even if he didn’t.

  The dense cluster of buildings came into view in the evening, two- to three-story peaks clustered around the castle within stone walls. The coachman let them out at a well-to-do inn, The Seabird, where they’d rented a block of rooms. Her cover, a buyer for a wealthy household, would involve arranging delivery of some delicacies to Courdeval, for which she had the paperwork in hand. Sir Edgar would pretend to be her personal bodyguard, along with her squad of guards in escort.

  Benoit Donnet had provided a sketch, but additionally, he’d named the establishment frequented by the courier they tracked. Pierre’s. She and Sir Edgar would visit there personally and search out the man.

  Lydia unpacked her bags and set down a hand mirror, moonlight reflecting off its silver surface. Beyond the window, it was dark, but the waning gibbous moon shone in the sky.

  It was well before midnight; the taverns would still be full of patrons. Olivia removed the sketch from her coat. Perhaps even the courier was about?

  She rubbed the leather-wrapped parchment. Why waste a single night more than necessary? His Majesty needed her in Courdeval—while she was in Kirn, her clerks and assistants attempted to complete her duties. But no one would be as thorough.

  The longer she stayed in Kirn…

  She moved to the adjoining room’s door and knocked.

  No response.

  “Oh, Sir Edgar went downstairs for supper,” Lydia chimed in as she stashed clothes.

  Olivia rifled through her bags for the map of Kirn she’d studied earlier; to get to Pierre’s, she’d need it. She grabbed her cloak off the rack, and her coin purse. “Thank you. I’ll meet with him, and we may go for a walk.”

  “Shall I join you, my lady?”

  If they went to Pierre’s and the situation deteriorated, the last thing she wanted was for Lydia to get caught in the crossfire. There was no telling who this courier worked for, or how prepared he’d be for them. “That won’t be necessary. Order anything you want from the kitchen, and have a comfortable night in.”

  Lydia beamed at her, twirling a lock of brown hair, and thanked her.

  Downstairs, it didn’t take long to find Sir Edgar sitting alone, shoveling stew into his mouth, with three empty bowls stacked next to him.

  “Divine… have you never seen food before tonight?” She sat at his table.

  Sir Edgar looked over the rim of his bowl with those moss-green eyes but kept eating. When he finished, he set down the bowl and downed a cup of tea.

  “How uncharacteristically quiet of you,” she said.

  He gestured to the serving man, who brought him another cup of tea and asked her if she wanted anything. She politely declined.

  Sir Edgar speared her with a spirited look. “I thought you said you preferred silence.”

  She shook her head. “So my only choices are annoyance and quiet?”

  Grinning, he shrugged. “When everything I say annoys you, then yes, I suppose so.”

  She sighed. Perhaps she was being too harsh. It wasn’t so long ago that she had been in a similar position—a commoner on the rise. His route differed greatly from hers, and his… manner, but a person of her origin and status should be more sympathetic.

  She was just so close to finding the person responsible for James’s death—the Swordsman—and the merest hint of flirtation, intentional or unintentional, poked a sore spot in her heart that hadn’t yet healed. That perhaps would never heal.

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I’ve been out of sorts lately.”

  He raised an eyebrow, then exhaled a long breath. Finally, he nodded to the empty bowls. “Eat every meal as if it were your last.”

  “What?”

  “I eat a lot because I eat every meal as if it were my last. I’ve been hungry too much of my life already.”

  She’d grown up hungry. Papa had tried to make enough money for Mama, her, Aerin, Ronan, and Killian, but sometimes the fishing had been poor, and his business had suffered. It wasn’t until Killian had turned twelve and started taking on odd jobs, and when Olivia had gone to the Tower, that they’d had more to eat. She’d been sending them money since.

  “The Order doesn’t sufficiently provide?”

  “It does,” he replied, “but it’s difficult to break habit.”

  She grinned. “I’m surprised you aren’t as wide as you are tall.”

  “Just wait ‘til I’m old.”

  She laughed. He was so young; his waistline still had many years to grow.

  “So what brings you down here, to the likes of me?”

  Her smile faded.

  “It must be something.”

  “We’re going to Pierre’s tonight.”

  Edgar leaned back in his chair. “Tonight? Why?”

  “Why wait?”

  He rubbed his stubbled jaw. “You’re not tired?”

  “Not when there’s work to do. Are you with me or not?” When he reached for his tea, she took it and drank it herself. His eyes widened. Before he could ask, she said, “I’m drinking like it’s my last drink.”

  He grinned. “Let’s go.”

  She pulled out the map and traced their way to Pierre’s. It wasn’t far—perhaps fifteen minutes.

  Outside, sparse lanterns provided soft yellow light among overhanging snow-mantled oaks arching over the gray cobblestone streets. Narrow avenues winded between stone buildings, light casting a fiery glow on walls, and only a few passersby wandered the city at this hour.

  She ducked under awnings with him, caught peeks of the night sky above them. The moon watched, and stars dotted the sky, winking from time to time, silent comrades on their mission.

  “You have a gleam in your eye,” Edgar whispered. “Like you’re going to take over the world.”

  She smiled. “I am.”

  According to the map, they should have happened upon Pierre’s by now. A few dark alleys branched off from the street, but—

  Two forms emerged from the darkness. Swords drawn. Men in leathers. “Greetings—”

  She extended her arm and twisted her hand. A sleeping s
pell. One man collapsed.

  As Sir Edgar drew his longsword, the other charged.

  She threw a sleeping spell at him, too. He thudded to the cobblestone. Sir Edgar rushed over to him, sword pointed at the man’s neck, frowning.

  Where was Pierre’s? She studied the map. It was right here according to the damned thing. She searched the narrow street for signboards—no Pierre’s.

  “Olivia…” Sir Edgar backed away from the sleeping men. “That fast?”

  There was a butcher shop, a restaurant called The Hungry Shepherd, and an inn, and a door with faded lettering over it—err.

  Pierre’s.

  Sir Edgar approached her. “You took down those two men before they could even reach us.”

  She grabbed his arm. “We’re here. I think.” She nodded toward the inadequate signage. “Quite a bit of wear and tear. How do they expect anyone to find this place?”

  “They don’t.” He stiffened, eyeing her peripherally.

  She smiled. People assumed healers could not properly defend themselves, that they could only help others. A needle could stitch a wound, but it could also open a vein.

  He furrowed his brow, then shook his head. “Paladins are susceptible to healing magic, but knowing it and seeing it are very different things.”

  She grinned. “If I wanted to, I could make your nose run right now.” She chuckled under her breath. “Or make you wet your pants.”

  He rolled his eyes, but a slow laugh escaped him. “Well, I’m glad you’re a friend.”

  She reached for the door and glanced over her shoulder. “For now.”

  With a shake of his head, he followed.

  Soft yellow light escaped the inside, and a wall of odor hit—the reek of unwashed flesh, mud, feces, urine, and over it all, ale and pottage, the ever-bubbling stew over the fire. A tapestry hung precariously above the hearth, a top corner peeling away from the wall. Coats lay thrown over chairs and tables. Groups of men with the rare woman here and there nearly filled the tavern; their voices, laughing and shouting, competed for attention.