Would she do the same?
It couldn’t matter anymore. The world had broadened far beyond the small circle he shared with Rielle. Although he’d vehemently objected to the Earthbinding for months, when faced with monsters like the mangeurs, he couldn’t any longer. Not in good conscience. If Pons and Olivia agreed it would work, and that it would help his people, save lives that conventional means couldn’t, then the decision was made.
It would be a ritual, nothing more. No emotion, no love, no relationship. Only his body borrowed for the kingdom’s sake.
“What’s on your mind, Your Majesty?” Pons’s voice.
Jon studied the sullied snows of the road. “The Earthbinding.”
Pons nodded, looking out at the horizon. “Have you changed your mind about it?”
“I’ve had to.” Jon swallowed. “When we return to Courdeval, would you see to the preparations?”
A sharp intake of breath. Barely noticeable. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
Hooves crunched the snow into submission. Pons would prepare for the ritual. It was going to happen.
A stiffness settled in Jon’s neck. As a mage, Rielle would see the necessity of this. And he’d spend the rest of his life making it up to her, if she let him. “How well do you know Rielle?”
Pons lowered his gaze and smiled. “Better than she thinks.”
“Really? It seemed, when we first met, you weren’t fond of her.”
“Did it? Let me tell you a story.” He cleared his throat. “Before I had my éveil, Derric and I were very… close. My parents wanted to separate us, marry me to the neighboring farmer’s daughter, which was problematic for a multitude of reasons. We argued, and… I had my éveil. I didn’t mean to, but I hurt them… And they disowned me.”
Some families, especially those who followed some sects of the Terran faith, shunned magic. He himself hadn’t trusted it much before Rielle. “I’m sorry.”
“They were too small hearted to accept me as I was, Your Majesty. I found my true family among the mages.” He smiled sadly. “When I went to the Tower and Derric to the Order, I eventually became infatuated with my master. And, despite what you see now, I was once rather comely.” He winked.
Jon laughed under his breath. “I don’t doubt it.” Pons’s deep laugh lines meant he’d been jovial as a young man. Happy people drew others in easily.
“My master and I fell in love. I never asked, but he wrote me favorable reports, requests for commendations, and the like. And when we were discovered, I was the reason for the rule applied to Leigh and Rielle.”
Jon raised his eyebrows. “What did the Divinity do about you and your master?”
He sighed. “The Grand Divinus wanted to move me to Magehold, to separate us, but all my friends were here, in Emaurria. My master went to Magehold in my stead. He became a magister and served in the Magisterium until he died, about twenty years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
Pons shrugged. “He loved me. And he sacrificed for me. There could be no insinuation of favoritism or corruption.” He took a deep breath. “When Rielle came to the Tower, she had gone through… a traumatic éveil… but she took to her innate magic easily, natural as breath. But like me, she struggled with battle fury, and like me, she’d been parted from her first love. Only hers was…” He shook his head. “I sympathized with her. But after she faced some disciplinary action from Magehold, for her sake I couldn’t afford even the appearance of partiality. Because her achievements were suspect, to legitimately earn her place, she would have to work twice as hard, against adversity, difficulty, to deflect any accusation of nepotism. Her place earned many times over. I treated her more harshly so her achievements couldn’t be disputed. If she succeeded, it would be on her own two feet, and not because of any sort of favoritism.”
Tough love. In order to ensure she’d be well received professionally, he’d distanced himself.
“So yes, I know her well enough, Your Majesty.”
“About the Earthbinding…”
Pons tilted his head. “What the Earthbinding requires… It isn’t love. It is a separate matter. She’ll understand the reasoning. She will outwardly accept it, tell you she forgives you, and tell herself she forgives you… but for some time, it will quietly haunt her, eat away at her, unless your love overwhelms the hurt.”
His love would overwhelm the hurt. It had to.
Chapter 19
Drina stowed her spyglass in her pocket, smiling in the darkness of a cozy rented room in Azalée, the savory rosemary scent of roast lamb, the evening meal, lingering in the air. Tonight, the service entrance to Trèstellan Palace experienced unusual activity. Dancers, players, heaping carriages of food and wine…
Tonight was the eve of the Joyeuse Entrée. It had to be.
She changed into her white leathers, a hue not unlike the snow atop the Triumphal Arch’s ashlar masonry. She sheathed her dagger in her boot, filled her waterskin, and packed some bread, then gathered the supplies she’d recovered from the weapons cache she’d buried. A heavy crossbow and four arcanir-tipped bolts. She grinned. Its worth equaled a home of her choosing in a place like Alcea or Orchidée.
Working for Evrard Gilles had come with its fair share of perks.
She stowed the crossbow and the bolts under her white cloak. With a final glance around the dark room, she shrouded herself in shadow, opened the window, murmured an aeromancy incantation, and jumped.
The wind carried her down. Her booted heels landed softly on the snow-covered cobblestone. Through shadowed alleys, she picked her way across Azalée, over its wall, and through Orchidée to the Triumphal Arch, keeping out of the full moon’s light. Well past midnight, nary a soul walked the Courdevallan streets.
When she arrived at the arch, no one was about, but she had to be sure. “Mother earth, grant me your sight, / Show through your eyes, reveal all life.”
Small masses of anima—stray animals, vermin—meandered the streets, and two forms tucked into the dark cover of the arch.
A couple of lovers.
She kept to the darkness until they left, arm in arm.
She sighed. She and Marko had been inseparable, would have spent their lives never out of each other’s sight. When at last she’d see him in the Lone, she could bring him a gift of justice. Payment for his life’s sudden end. Something to show for the lengthy years apart, alone, broken. A head to roll for shattered dreams.
She stared up the hundred-and-fifty-foot monument. It marked the victory that had immortalized the Farallan dynasty. And now, thanks to its keen vantage point, its last living heir would die for her victory.
One Kezani mage was worth a king’s life. Marko was worth Jonathan Dominic Armel Faralle’s life.
“Wings of wind, great and soft, / Take me high, bear me aloft.” Repeating the incantation, she soared to the top of the Triumphal Arch. When she ceased the repetition, she landed with a soft crunch in the snow. Quickly, she flattened herself to the arch’s surface. Up so high, the winter wind bit, but the heavy snowfall this year provided ample concealment.
No one would think to study the top of the arch, and even if someone did, she was well cloaked to match the heavy snow. And should anyone look too intently…
“Mirror of dreams, master of deception, / Mask my form, hide me from all perception.” Forbidden magic. An illusion spell from the Magisterium. If anyone searched with nature sight, she wouldn’t be found, but once she revealed the arcanir-tipped bolt, the charm would be dispelled.
Its cost was immense, but her anima was still more than half bright, and after the shot, she would need only enough for an aeromancy spell and a shadow cloak to escape to an abandoned residence in Orchidée, where she had stored supplies.
If she’d calculated well, the king would enter Alcea before noon.
And then he would die.
Jon reined in his eager destrier outside the walls of Courdeval beneath the blinding midmorning sun. He stared at the snowy northern gate, throu
gh which he would soon enter the city with Olivia, Pons, Perrault, and three squads of his Royal Guard, including Raoul and Florian. Four squads of knights also joined the Joyeuse Entrée, along with a company of paladins and a company of Emaurrian soldiers, interspersed with performers of all kinds to make this parade a massive spectacle.
He, perhaps, the biggest spectacle of all. Dressed in his dark modified arcanir armor—polished to a blinding shine—and a priceless Zeharan-red cloak lined with ermine fur, the golden Emaurrian crown atop his head, he felt like one giant ornament.
Above him, servants bore a fine baldachin made of luxurious brocade, richly patterned in deep blue and embroidered with golden winged serpents. The Farallan coat-of-arms, a dragon clutching a laurel leaf and a rose, coiled around a four-paneled shield, an ivy leaf in each panel. His white destrier, extravagantly barded, complemented the ostentatiousness. He shifted uncomfortably.
Next to him, Olivia hid a smile behind her hand—or tried to. She rearranged on her side-saddle.
“I feel ridiculous,” he grumbled, flexing his neck.
She didn’t bother hiding her smile anymore and nuzzled the miniver of her gray cloak. “Oh, come on. You won a great victory. Your people want to celebrate you.”
“ ‘Celebrate.’ ” Five hundred and thirty-one had died to the mangeurs. Paladins didn’t celebrate after victories; they thanked Terra, prayed, and honored their fallen. He clutched the reins tightly. “Right.”
A horse stamped its foot to his left, barded in white. In the saddle, Pons was decked out in a fine white velvet overcoat and matching trousers, the ensemble trimmed in gold, his gleaming chain of office about his shoulders under a fine black cloak.
Pons breathed deeply. “Your Majesty, you want many great things for your people. Safety, security, prosperity. To accomplish those things, you need their faith, their support, and their loyalty. And this is how you get it—by marking what you’ve done for them, giving them cause to remember you, to value you.”
Shoring up support. Right. Jon shrugged, reluctant to agree even if Pons spoke true.
Pons continued, “You’re not celebrating a victory paid for by five hundred and thirty-one lives”—as Jon’s eyes darted to him, Pons raised his eyebrows—“you’re solidifying support so that bloodshed can be avoided in the future.”
To avoid rebellion. Revolution. To dissuade usurpers with tenuous claims thinking his rule weak. All of that would mean bloodshed, and preventing it would save lives.
“The kingdom cannot withstand infighting when the real enemy wears no human face, Your Majesty,” Perrault added from behind.
Right. Yes. He knew that. Needed to focus on it. The Immortals were the enemy, and Emaurria couldn’t fight them while fragmented in every way. He looked over his shoulder. “Thank you, Captain. Wise words.” When Perrault inclined his head, Jon turned to Pons and Olivia. “Thank you all.” He looked ahead again, staring at the northern gate.
Espoire was saved. The march of Bisclavret would recover. The mangeurs were dead. There was relief in those truths.
And if he could earn the kingdom’s approval, he could continue to do his all to protect it and spare his people future harm.
“It’s been difficult to see past our losses,” he said with a deep breath, “especially with the reminders so near.”
They all glanced back at the trophies from the battle: the heads of the mangeurs, prepared for display, for burning in the square outside Azalée.
“A necessary horror,” Perrault said. “The people must know exactly what we face… and what we have defeated.”
The people had to see with their own eyes that the reports were true.
The Master of Ceremonies, a brightly clad plump oldster, gathered everyone into position and signaled the trumpeters. Horns called the Joyeuse Entrée to begin.
A squad of mounted soldiers bearing pole-arms and shields led the procession, followed by a troupe of festively attired performers carrying baskets of flower petals, wrapped confections, coins. Behind them, riders on specially trained horses, dancers, fire-breathers, marching musicians, honored paladins and soldiers from the battle. And then Jon and his entourage, the Royal Guard, one hundred and sixty-eight caparisoned horses for all those who lost their lives in the battle, and more basket-bearing performers and soldiers with horse-drawn carts displaying the mangeurs’ heads for all to see. More guards and some musicians brought up the rear.
The shadow of the northern gate passed over him as they entered the city, its Chardon District, its small homes adorned with flowers, carpets, tapestries. People lined the main thoroughfare, cheering and chanting his name, faces bright as they captured the bounty tossed to them.
Horns blasted, musicians played a lively tune, petals rained over the procession, children laughed and scrambled for the confections and coins, some civilians shouted, others screamed, some cheered his long life and good health.
Countless people filled the streets, pressed together, a tight river of paladins, soldiers, and performers winding through them. Tight quarters, a cacophony of sound, a kaleidoscope of sight.
A little boy waved from atop his mother’s shoulders in the densely crammed bazaar of Dandelion. The entire market teemed with people. Farallan banners hung from tall buildings, fluttering in the wind.
Jon smiled and greeted people from time to time. Servants rode up to him with baskets of coins that he handed out.
Before the siege, Courdeval’s population had totaled just under 300,000 people, and it might have stayed much the same, if his eyes didn’t deceive him now.
The streets tightened in Violette District, full of middle-sized homes and the working class, who studded the thoroughfare as far as the eye could see. Massive tapestries hung from roofs, depicting the victories of old led by the Farallan dynasty. When the route opened up to a small square, a stage along the route featured a scene from a duel between an actor garbed as a crowned paladin and one as a Crag Company general.
The paladin-actor leveled his sword at the general on his knees.
Blatant propaganda. He rolled his eyes to Olivia, who only smiled knowingly.
The crowd cheered and applauded.
The parade continued into Alcea District, where the marked uptick in luxury shone in the scale and grandeur of the homes owned by the rich merchant class and the nouveau riche. The lavishness of the decorations increased—more flowers, bigger banners, more intricate tapestries. The streets tightened ever more, lines of spectators pushing in on the procession, cheering, screaming, grinning, shouting, trumpets blaring, music soaring, the roar in the background—
Another tableau, wedged among the crowd, featured a winged woman in dazzling white silk, golden waves of voluminous hair falling to her hip, a wreath of laurel upon her head. Terra. She was handing a wrapped bundle to an elderly high priest at her feet.
Was it…?
Olivia eyed him and nodded toward the scene.
The Goddess handing him to Derric. Terra have mercy. Who’d planned this blasphemy?
“King Jon the Giantslayer!” the crowd shouted. “Long live the king!”
Surreal. Pressure pushed in, air fled, tapestries, high walls closing in. It was too much. He smiled and nodded, hand on Faithkeeper’s hilt, staring ahead, up a hill covered with crowds, the Triumphal Arch peaking beyond. Almost to Orchidée, then through Azalée, and to Trèstellan…
Only a bit farther.
He distributed coins and greeted Courdevallans as the procession ascended the hill, glancing to Olivia.
“Almost there,” she mouthed.
Almost couldn’t come quickly enough.
She urged her horse closer and leaned in as they crested the hill. “You look comfortable.”
“Right at home among dense crowds cheering at me,” he said through a tight smile. “Why wouldn’t I be?” They’d have much to discuss tonight—about the mangeurs, the Earthbinding, the ridiculous tableaux, everything.
Chuckling, she nudged his arm.
<
br /> Something in the sky gleamed.
A glowing white veil of magic sprang before him. Olivia tumbled out of the saddle and into him.
A sharp cry.
They fell to the snowy cobblestone, dotted with red. A horse screamed, others shying and bucking. The baldachin came down, heavy brocade blotting out the sun and sky.
Jon rolled over Olivia, braced over her. A bolt impaled her shoulder. Hooves came down around them.
Magic rippled above. A repellent force-magic aura. Pons.
Jon shifted to get his arcanir clear of Olivia. Red soaked into the shoulder of her gray cloak. Blood. “Healing?”
A line formed between her brows. She shook her head.
Arcanir poison.
“Commander Garreau! Take your squad to the arch and capture the archer immediately,” Perrault bellowed.
“Yes, sir!” A dozen horses broke away from the procession and pushed through the crowd. Or at least tried.
Olivia looked up at him from the snow, heaving swift breaths.
“You’re all right,” he whispered, surveying the wound. “Stay with me, Olivia.”
She nodded, pallor claiming her face. Jon removed his cloak and pressed it around her wound.
Servants scrambled to lift the baldachin. Royal guards apprehended and calmed horses. Raoul shouldered his way through, followed closely by Florian.
“Jon—” Olivia stammered, fading. “Water…” She licked her pale lips and blinked sluggishly. “Belladonna…”
Belladonna? He searched her face. “Poison?”
She inclined her chin.
“Your Majesty!” Raoul tried to help him up, but Jon brushed him off, scooped up Olivia, and rose.
“Sodalis!” Jon called.
All paladins within earshot turned to him.
“You four”—he tipped his head to the men surrounding him—“assemble the physicians in the palace infirmary immediately. Tell them to prepare for belladonna and arcanir poisoning.”
“Yes, Your Majesty!” They saluted, then departed. The baldachin stiffened into place, horses and men cleared from around them. Stillness settled over the procession and the crowd.
By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2) Page 19