By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2)

by Miranda Honfleur

  “We have come to request a diplomatic envoy empowered to treat with our queen for a formal alliance as soon as possible.”

  The group behind Ambriel stood to perfect attention; if the soldiers this light-elven queen offered were of like discipline, then perhaps this proposed alliance could provide some of the forces Emaurria needed to address the Rift. He could part with some grain and siege supplies in exchange for capable men and women.

  “My household will see that you and your people are fed and sheltered for the night. My council and I will meet tonight and come to a decision. I will summon you here tomorrow for my answer.”

  Ambriel bowed at the waist.

  “The paladins will escort you to our guest quarters,” he said, and Olivia translated. He signaled one of his servants along the wall. “See that they receive the highest standard of hospitality tonight.” He turned to Sir Florian. “Florian.” The paladin approached him. “Please see these guests to quarters for the night,” he said before adding covertly, “and I want a patrol outside their rooms to escort them wherever they wish to go. Report any movement directly to me.”

  The light-elves were to go nowhere without a guard. Florian placed his right hand over his heart and bowed; he would execute his orders flawlessly—he’d always been tenacious.

  Ambriel and the rest of the light-elves departed behind him, a squad of paladins, and an assortment of household staff.

  These were strange times, indeed, to see tales walking among men.

  And now for the bureaucracy.

  He turned to Olivia. “Would you please assemble the High Council in my private dining room and meet me there in an hour?”

  She nodded.

  “And, if you would be so kind, would you find me some materials on Old Emaurrian and Elvish language, if there are any available, and bring them to me at your leisure tomorrow?”

  “Need more work, do you?” The corner of her mouth lifted.

  “Ever and always.” At least it felt that way these days. He rose. One more stop to make.

  There was a certain prisoner of considerable power and unparalleled conceit that he would try to persuade for the good of the kingdom. He had both a carrot—atonement—and a stick—report of Leigh’s actions to the Divinity. Would the mage be swayed by either?

  He gestured to Raoul and a paladin he knew well from Monas Ver, Sir Gregoire Bonfils. “Let’s go.”

  Olivia cocked her head inquisitively. “Is there anything else I can help with?”

  “I’m not certain I wish another witness present.” He cracked his knuckles, and with a parting glance, he led his two guards toward the dungeon.

  He sighed heavily. The ever-abrasive Leigh Galvan… After two and a half months in the dungeon…

  The night would be a long one.

  Chapter 11

  Leigh sat in the filth and listened to the fanciful tale, paying Jon no more heed than a casual glance. Perhaps the entire country was already happy to bend the knee, but the king had done nothing to earn his respect, much less his reverence.

  Although Jon’s visit was atrociously late, he allowed the man to speak his piece. Freedom was long overdue.

  After two months in the austere comforts of the arcanir dungeon, he had begun to wonder if Jon had forgotten him—along with the rats, the snakes, and the mice. It was, however, as his lovers always said: Leigh Galvan was not easily forgotten. He grinned to himself, and from the corner of his eye, devoured Jon’s puzzled expression.

  The barely believable story of light-elves, Old Emaurrian, and treaties Jon had just recounted was ridiculous, to say the least. He wouldn’t have believed it at all had Olivia not visited regularly with reports of strange and legendary creatures appearing all over the kingdom, after the Moonlit Rite had… failed.

  “What I am hearing is that you need me,” Leigh said, with no small amount of conceit.

  Jon crossed his arms. To a learned man, it appeared that the former paladin was displeased with his inferior bargaining position. Good.

  “You can hear whatever you like,” Jon said—typical paladin clod—“but what I am actually saying is that you have the opportunity to leave these conditions and atone, if that is your wish.”

  Atone. It appeared that his former-apprentice-turned-Archmage had been running her mouth; no matter—he wouldn’t give Jon the satisfaction of an explanation. Leigh puffed an aloof breath. Besides, if he was doing anything upon release, it would be finding Rielle. “You and I both know that you won’t be able to hold me here much longer.” He rattled his chains for dramatic effect. “Magehold will want me freed. I am much more valuable to it in the field than I am in chains. In fact, I am much more valuable to the Divinity than your favor.”

  Jon narrowed his eyes, but a smile played about his mouth. What was he thinking?

  Regardless, his intellectual tools were blunt; Leigh had deceived him before and could handle him now. He grinned inwardly.

  Jon tapped one of the metal bars with a booted foot. “So valuable that no request for your release has arrived.”

  “It’s adorable that you believe yourself so above deception.”

  An amused grunt.

  So Jon had been a paladin, unlikely to deceive, but who knew how many hands had handled such a request? Any of them could have quietly made it disappear, and it was too soon for the Divinity to send an emissary from Magehold. He could wait. The cold, the damp, and the constant sting of arcanir rattling his bones was… unpleasant, but not unbearable.

  “It is my understanding that to date, due to Rielle’s disappearance, no report on her mission has been turned over to Magehold,” Jon said. “Imagine how its valuation of your usefulness will be affected if it discovers your direct defiance of its orders.”

  Leigh’s grin threatened to disappear, but he forced its persistence. The paladin-turned-king had shed the heavy ethics that had once impaired him, it seemed, and… Perhaps his intellectual tools weren’t entirely blunt.

  “You wouldn’t,” he challenged. “I’d be of no use to you if the Divinity took me into custody.”

  Jon leaned in close to the bars. “You’re of no use to me now.” A victorious pause. “I could be persuaded to keep my peace, however, if you were to choose to serve the people of the kingdom you’ve blighted.”

  Choose.

  Somewhere deep, deep, deep down, he could find a few specks of respect to scrape together for Jon, but a compromise would be hard won.

  He shrugged. “Aside from the warm feelings, what’s in it for me?”

  “Besides the very tangible benefit of freedom from this place, Olivia and I will agree to keep your interference in the Moonlit Rite a secret, you will be named an Emaurrian Ambassador, and after the alliance has been formed, you are free to do as you like,” Jon said, lowering his voice, “so long as you do not cross me again.” A sharp edge rode his threat.

  “Aren’t you the least bit concerned that I may try to seek revenge for this imprisonment?”

  Jon rested a hand on his sword’s pommel. A look not unlike malice flickered in his expression. “If you do, I will destroy you,” he said flatly. A promise, not a threat.

  The urge to scoff briefly sparked and died. Jon was serious. Perhaps paladins could handle most mages, but Leigh was not most mages.

  Still, he didn’t relish the idea of testing probability. Especially considering where his last test of probability had gotten him.

  “You will recall that because of your idiotic conspiracy theory,” Jon said, “our party was split up that night? Rielle is still missing. I have no mercy to spare for you, Galvan.”

  “Do not lay the entirety of that blame at my feet, Your Majesty. Your little revelation shocked her.” That little secret being aired was as much to blame for her disappearance as her abductor. Who would die a very, very, very painful death. “It is not my fault you chose to divulge it then and there, pushing Rielle away and ultimately leading to her abduction. If you have blame to spare, keep it.”

&n
bsp; A fire raged to life in Jon’s eyes, and his hands clamped tightly around the cell’s bars. For a moment, Leigh expected him to pull the cell door off its hinges and summarily execute him, but instead, the fire in his gaze slowly died. Jon exhaled coarsely and bowed his head. He loved her. Through and through. He loved her. This man wanted her found just as much as he did.

  “Is there any news of her?” Leigh dared to ask, softly. He would have been the first to find his former apprentice, but the arcanir chains and prison bars had proved a stalwart obstacle.

  “Brennan is following a lead on the Kezani vessel seen departing the bay later that night,” Jon informed him in a crestfallen murmur.

  “Ah, yes, the beast.” Leigh’s gaze wandered over the various healing bruises and lacerations on his body. Two months ago, Brennan Karandis Marcel had certainly left an impression. “You trust him?”

  “He is loyal to Rielle,” Jon quickly objected, “and I trust in that loyalty.”

  “Is it really loyalty, or something else?” Leigh raised an eyebrow. Perhaps the state of those intellectual tools required reevaluation.

  “Whatever it is, it’s enough for me to trust we share this one, common goal.”

  Leigh scoffed. “Aside from his unsavory history with Rielle, he turns into a monster with an insatiable thirst for blood and death. How can you trust anything about him?” Even before the torture, he had seen it in his eyes in the Lunar Chamber, when the beast had set upon him like death upon the dying.

  “And how are you different?” Jon asked. “How much blood and death have you left in your wake?”

  Leigh wrinkled his nose. So he’d killed some. And caused an apocalypse.

  But the beast did have an obsession where Rielle was concerned. No man orchestrated so elaborate a revenge scheme for a straying fiancée—and then remained both in contact and betrothed—without being obsessed.

  The beast could be trusted to find her, perhaps, if with nothing else. Especially not his intentions.

  Jon pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “I have no more time to trade barbs with you. Will you be the ambassador to the light-elven kingdom or not?”

  Between rotting in an arcanir cell until Jon decided to expose his betrayal to the Divinity and being freed to go to a legendary land accompanied by legendary beings, the winner was always clear.

  “Fine,” Leigh replied, “but I’ll need to visit a bathhouse first. And a brothel.”

  An irritated growl. “Both of your needs will be met. Do we have a deal?”

  “We do.”

  Jon nodded to a guard—another paladin. “I want this man freed, bathed, clothed, and sent to my private dining room within the hour. After the council meeting, procure a selection of… specialists… from the… local house of ill repute,” he said, curling his lip.

  Leigh could have guffawed—but he did not want to delay that procurement in the least.

  “It shall be done, Your Majesty,” the paladin replied robustly. He placed a hand over his heart and bowed low before swiftly leaving to execute his orders. Another guard took his post.

  Delicious. A paladin would see to the procurement of whores. Leigh smirked to himself.

  And he would finally be free of this place.

  Jon turned toward the stairs.

  “Ordering baths, clothes, and whores… It is good to be king, isn’t it?”

  Jon stopped and looked over his shoulder, shadows playing across his face. “I’d always imagined it would be more honorable,” he said, his voice low, deflated, “but I have learned that sometimes, in order to secure the kingdom’s honor, my own must be sacrificed.” At that, he strode toward the stairwell, flanked by his guards, and disappeared.

  Jon would have to choose whether as king, he would be himself or something more.

  Sometimes an individual’s honor had to be tarnished for the greater good. Perhaps he and Jon finally understood each other.

  Two hours into the meeting, Jon’s High Council was still debating how to proceed regarding their Immortal guests, and he needed an agreement to present to the light-elves tomorrow morning. He rubbed the oaken table, its grooves over his fingertips keeping him attentive.

  “If these ‘elves’ coexisted with the other Immortals before, then they have valuable knowledge. Their help is not something we should dismiss.” Tor thumped the table, earning some nods and murmurs from the other Grands.

  Tor was right. But better to let them keep talking, keep options and ideas flowing. Since his briefing on the situation with Vervewood—its opportunities, risks, and challenges—and explaining Leigh’s involvement, the High Council had been disputing negotiation parameters. He would finish hearing their differing views before throwing his weight behind any individual stance.

  “But what help is there, Torrance, when no one understands them but two mages?” Derric straightened his long and lean frame in the chair and shook his head; although clean shaven, a white sheen of his hair was still just visible. But if he was feeling his age, he certainly hadn’t let it slow down his quest to save the world. “This kingdom needs to focus its energies on consolidation of power and development of a unified identity, not diluting itself through alliances with non-humans.”

  Tor held his head high, his shoulders back, his spine straight. He didn’t waver at all. Jon had expected some problems sorting out the former Order hierarchy from his current officers, but Tor, at least, didn’t let Derric’s former higher position command his obedience. He may have been a paladin for most of his life, but he’d been a Marcel first.

  “There won’t be a kingdom if we can’t stand against the Immortals,” Valen argued, sweeping his arm out—he’d always had a presence to match his large size. He’d adapted to the duties of Grand Chamberlain and to palace life well, and at thirty-one years old, handsome, and with perpetual good humor, the court had welcomed him with open arms. “The attacks are constant, and how will we protect the kingdom with such small numbers?”

  “Olivia and I aren’t the only ones who speak Old Emaurrian,” Leigh said, his voice a slow drawl from his relaxed position. Clean, coiffed, and well-dressed, he almost resembled a man who hadn’t spent two months in prison after thorough torture. Almost. “Bookworms abound at the Tower. Send to the new Proctor for aid or, if you have the stones, petition the Grand Divinus herself.”

  Olivia swatted him, not unlike a mother scolding a disobedient child, and whispered in his ear; Leigh frowned as if he’d sucked a lemon. “Although Leigh is correct, we have many practiced linguists here. Learning Old Emaurrian won’t present but a modest challenge, simpler than Kamerish or Nad’i, for certain.”

  After the attempt to thwart the Moonlit Rite, a rejection from the Divinity would be just what Leigh wanted. He’d revealed his bias—the mage looked for any opportunity to sow discord with the Divinity.

  “Dead languages are not songs and dances, Archmage Sabeyon,” Marquis Auguste Vignon Armel, Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs—and Jon’s newfound cousin—argued. “It will take far too long, and we need solutions now.” Auguste stroked his pointed, graying beard and scowled at Olivia.

  A spark illuminated her eyes. “I appreciate the education, Secretary. Truly enlightening.” She and Leigh exchanged amused looks.

  Auguste opened his mouth, but Jon held up a hand, before this meeting turned into pages smacking each other with practice swords. “Enough. I’ve heard your concerns and suggestions, and I thank you all.” He motioned for Eloi to approach, and the clerk hurried to his side, quill and parchment in hand. “First, I’m issuing a mandate that all palace scribes begin learning Old Emaurrian immediately, under Archmage Sabeyon’s guidance. Accelerated achievement shall be rewarded with both coin and position.”

  Eloi busily transcribed the mandate while general acceptance rippled through the council.

  “Our ambassador will depart for Vervewood tomorrow, and he will negotiate with Queen Narenian thus: in return for livestock, horses, grain, other foods, clothing, and
supplies, Emaurria seeks independent Immortal hunting squads, which would report to our newly appointed Ambassador to Vervewood, who would, in turn, report to the Constable of Emaurria. The numbers are to be negotiated, but I expect parameters delivered to Eloi by the Grand Master, the Grand Squire, and the Secretaries of the Treasury, Commerce and Labor, Foreign Affairs, and Agriculture well before dawn.”

  His respective officers motioned for their clerks in varying degrees of haste.

  “The Ambassador to Vervewood will attempt to negotiate the most favorable agreement based on these figures, so make no mistakes.” Jon waited for Eloi to finish writing. “As part of that agreement, an assembly of Vervewood’s linguists is to meet here with our own under the Archmage’s oversight, so that language learning materials may be developed jointly and distributed to any who seek to learn. I also grant broad discretion to our ambassador to negotiate for anything of significant value to our kingdom, within the limits prescribed.”

  Jon glanced at Olivia, who would become even more indispensable. “In the meantime, Archmage Sabeyon will learn more about their culture and that of any other intelligent races awoken by the Rift, information about the Immortals, and anything else to help us make sense of this new world.”

  He looked for any sign of objection, but the room remained silent except for Eloi’s scribbling. “Very well. That concludes the matter of Vervewood.”

  “Your Majesty,” Tor cut in. “There is the matter of the attacks surrounding Bisclavret.”

  The march near the Marcellan Peaks. The mangeurs—as Olivia had dubbed them—had begun raiding the villages a few days after the Moonlit Rite, capturing people and livestock. The death toll had, last he knew, been one hundred and forty-eight. Perrault was to have sent paladins to help.

  With a long exhale, Jon motioned for him to continue.

  “Paladin Captain Perrault dispatched two squads of paladins, along with our three squads of soldiers. With the marquis’s men, they mounted a defense at one of the villages.” Tor lowered his gaze and hesitated. “The village was lost. Radiating an aura of cold, the mangeurs had frozen every person, animal, and building left behind, affecting all but the paladins. Survivors fled farther and farther to at last flock in the village of Espoire. A scarce few remain in the Bisclavret infirmary. Enough to inform the Marquis of Bisclavret, Claude Amadour Tremblay, of this intelligence.”