By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2)

by Miranda Honfleur

  With the help of another paladin, Jon set Olivia atop his destrier, then mounted behind her. Too out in the open. They had to move. Fast.

  A servant handed him the reins.

  He made for the palace, servants, paladins, and soldiers scrambling into place around him.

  Chapter 20

  Panting, Drina darted into the abandoned home in Alcea district, where she’d stashed clothes. She hastily changed into the middling gown—a russet-brown cotton frock and a beige cloak to match—and picked up her apothecary’s satchel.

  Neatening the clothes, she peeked outside. The paladins hadn’t caught her trail yet, but they would. She hurried out, following the well-trod paths in the snow to the main thoroughfare, where people still gathered in the streets, collecting coins and wrapped sweets. The crowd buzzed with rumors—of the assassination, the king’s romance with the Archmage, the baffling heads of the Immortals.

  She forced a faint smile and bent to pick up some coins. She’d had one shot. One shot to kill the king, and the meddling red-haired strumpet had ruined the whole thing. Thrown herself in front of him.

  It had been the perfect moment—the king distracted, the crowd watching him, the Royal Guard watching him, everyone watching him.

  But for one meddling woman.

  She’d acted fast—too fast—and ruined the entire plan. Fortune shits on this day.

  The idiot paladins wouldn’t find anything they could trace. She still had her anonymity and access to the palace, courtesy of Claire Gouin and Countess Vauquelin.

  A new plan. She needed a new plan.

  The king, for his newness and the kingdom’s weakness, was surprisingly well guarded by the Order. Too well guarded this time.

  She needed to catch him alone. In private.

  She raised her eyebrows. The means were simple, as an apothecary with access to the palace; she could get to the king’s rooms. On a night when the Royal Guard, when the whole of the palace would be distracted.

  A night like Veris.

  Smiling, she made her way to Peletier’s. Yes, Veris.

  Staring at the marble tile, Jon sat in the palace infirmary, chin in his hand. Terra have mercy, Olivia could have died, and might yet.

  An assassination attempt. Someone had just tried to kill him. In public.

  If someone wanted him dead, then he had to be doing something right. Many had a stake in his rule, but just as many, if not more, had a stake in his downfall. And that of the kingdom.

  It wouldn’t fall. He wouldn’t allow it. He wouldn’t ignore anything in his power to strengthen the kingdom. Not anymore.

  Movement echoed in Trèstellan’s massive infirmary, its vinegar scent faint. Beneath the rib-vaulted ceilings and canopies, a dozen screened-off wards divided the infirmary, the largest in Courdeval. Of the dozen wards, only one was in use today.

  Someone pulled aside a curtain. Olivia lay in a bed, a nurse bringing a cup to her lips.

  He sprang from the chair and headed to her side.

  A heavy woolen blanket, down comforter, and immaculate white sheets covered her up to her waist, and from there on, she wore a white cotton gown, bandages padding her right shoulder. The gauze only barely shrouded a dark red stain beneath.

  A sheen of sweat coated her alabaster frowning face, her red hair moist and plastered to her head. The nurse raised another cup to her mouth, and she drank greedily.

  He took her hand.

  Her eyes met his. Dilated. “Jon… you’re… here…” Her voice broke, faint, weak.

  The nurse, an older woman, bowed to him. “Your Majesty, she’s been given an antidote to the belladonna poisoning and should recover within a couple of days. The arcanir poison may take longer.”

  He nodded, more than familiar with arcanir poison himself. Its nullification of healing magic made recovery difficult.

  “Made from a… a bean, and things.” Olivia’s unfocused eyes sought his with a modicum of success.

  The nurse handed him the cup, patted his arm, and moved to the next ward.

  Olivia smiled weakly, breathing irregularly. “You can thank me now… Jon.”

  He sat on the bed next to her and leaned in, glaring at her. “You idiot.”

  Her brow furrowed. “I think you mean ‘hero.’ ”

  “No, I mean ‘idiot,’ ” he bit out, sitting up. “What in Terra’s name were you thinking?” He scowled at her wound. “You could have died.” He slammed the cup on the nearby table.

  The faint smile lingered on her lips, but it slowly faded. “You’re my king,” she croaked. “I owe you my loyalty.”

  He canted his head and rested a hand on her arm. “Olivia.”

  She managed a watery grin. “Besides, if I let my best friend’s soon-to-be husband die on my watch, I’d always regret it.”

  His eyes widened, then he blinked, slowly. A laugh burst from his mouth, and he covered it. “What am I going to do with you?”

  “Retain me as Archmage and reward me with a handsome raise?”

  “Done.”

  “Learn to cast a force-magic shield?”

  He winced. “Done…?” He eyed her peripherally.

  She drew in a lengthy breath. “Don’t do the Earthbinding ritual.”

  He shook his head. “Olivia…”

  Her eyes locked with his, deep, determined, unwavering. “We can continue fighting conventionally. I know we can. And Leigh might get us those Immortal hunting squads from Vervewood.”

  He heaved a sigh. Vervewood couldn’t protect an entire kingdom. And neither could his armies, or the paladins, not on their own.

  “And we still don’t know what it’ll do to you. For all we know, it could kill you. It could destroy your mind. It could madden you.”

  Pressure built up in his chest, and he clenched his mouth shut, turning away from her. She wanted to bait a fight? Now? “And the previous Earthbound kings?”

  “Who knows what kind of preparation they underwent? There has to be a reason they stopped doing the ritual.”

  He shrugged. “Lack of necessity.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Who happily surrenders power because it isn’t needed? There is no such thing as having too much power.”

  “Isn’t there?”

  “Spare me the semantics.”

  He sighed. Someone had just tried to kill him, and it was the least of his worries. The Immortals were strong—too strong for Emaurria to survive much more conventional warfare, especially so depleted. Unless he sacrificed himself for the sake of the land, there might not be an Emaurria to survive. He’d barely convinced himself to do what needed doing, and he didn’t need Olivia to break his will now. “If you weren’t lying in a hospital bed, I’d reprimand you.”

  “Lying is unbecoming, Jon.”

  He pressed his lips together, but a smile emerged anyway. “And to think, mere months ago, you were calling me ‘Your Majesty’ and standing on ceremony.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t change the subject. The Earthbinding asks much. I don’t want you making those sacrifices, risking your sanity, your life.”

  “You think I do?” But his actions spoke plainly. Cold. Reasoned. Dishonorable. While Sir Jonathan Ver rolled in the grave, King Jonathan Dominic Armel Faralle was alive and well. Doing good had changed so drastically, it was barely recognizable.

  She raised her eyebrows and scowled at him.

  “It’s not as simple as all that, Olivia. Not anymore. The Rift demands a price. And I won’t shirk that price while the rest of the kingdom pays and pays and pays. It’s not who I am.”

  “And if you die?” She blinked sluggishly.

  He’d been asking himself the same question since battling the mangeurs. “I intend not to.”

  “And if you do?”

  He exhaled a long, slow breath. There was only one hope. “Then I die trying to save this kingdom.”

  “And what if you don’t?”

  He shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “What do y
ou want me to say, Olivia?”

  “That you won’t do the Earthbinding.”

  He wanted nothing more than to do exactly as she suggested, but then what? Would soldiers and paladins continue dying to the Immortals? Would small, depleted Vervewood’s hunting squads protect an entire kingdom? The Earthbinding offered hope. Hope that he could turn the land against Emaurria’s enemies himself.

  There was nothing else. Nothing else but slowly chipping away at everything he had left to offer. “Not all men are destined for easy paths. A king’s life must be defined by duty, not ease. You know this.”

  She heaved an exasperated huff and shook her head. “Any man can change his cards. Destiny isn’t set, or else no one would ever transcend the circumstances of his birth.” Her eyes locked with his. “You would have been a dead prince. I would have been a fishmonger. Rielle would have been a duchess.”

  He clenched his teeth bitterly. “I lost the right to change my cards the day I accepted the responsibility of being king.”

  “Don’t you want—”

  He rose. “What I want must bow to what I must.”

  A man cleared his throat. Jon looked over his shoulder, and Tor offered him a warm smile.

  “Your Majesty,” Tor said with a bow, then inclined his head to Olivia. “Lady Archmage.”

  “Tor,” she greeted softly.

  Tor approached and crouched near the bed. “Praise Terra you live.” He took her hand.

  She blushed.

  “Thanks to you, he”—Tor tossed his head toward Jon’s direction—“is alive and well.” Tor grinned.

  “Catching bolts with my flesh is one of my greatest talents,” Jon joked. “Next time, let me handle it.”

  “My former squire brings up a good point.” Tor gazed at her, his hazel eyes dancing.

  She smiled. “And the assassin?”

  Tor sighed. “Still at large, unfortunately. Derric has increased the guard at the gates and the walls. Could the Guardians ward His Majesty’s balcony as well? It seems the assassin is using aeromancy.”

  “An aeromancer, or another mage willing to darken his anima enough to enter and exit by aeromancy incantation.” Olivia nodded. “I’ll issue the orders forthwith.”

  Tor squeezed her hand. “You took quite a fall, from what I heard.”

  She smiled. “His Majesty broke that fall… albeit with less-than-pillowy arcanir armor.”

  Tor laughed. “Well, then perhaps it’s for the best that I asked your household to prepare your rooms for your recovery, if that’s not too forward.”

  “Not at all. That sounds perfect.”

  Jon cleared his throat. “I’ll leave you both to it.” He glanced at each of them, then shot Olivia a knowing smile. She inclined her head.

  Tor rose and bowed. “Your Majesty.”

  With that, Jon took his leave, striding to his quarters. The burning of the mangeurs in the square had gone on without him, and so could the feast. He’d face the Grands—and his suitresses—tomorrow.

  Perhaps their nations would continue detente, if he could manage to stay balanced on the knife’s edge.

  At least long enough to perform the Earthbinding.

  Chapter 21

  Rielle leaned on her elbows over the stack of news articles in the third-floor solar. The morning had been translation after translation, but the words on the page meant nothing. Her child. Samara. Farrad. The lash. The thoughts circled like wolves and gave her no peace.

  The best thing she could do for her child was to escape—easier said than done—but saving Samara was a different challenge entirely. No matter how much she thought about it, there were few options but to throw herself at Farrad’s mercy and beg him to let her take Samara’s place. Even to protect her child, she couldn’t let a young girl suffer.

  Perhaps for coming forward, Farrad would be merciful. It was her only hope.

  Farrad was in negotiations with another House today and wouldn’t return until late in the evening. Or such had been the word at the slave quarter this morning. She would hurry through her work, then make her way to his quarters. And face the inevitable.

  In the soft glow of the early sun, she glanced through the last of the news reports: ships destroyed by mysterious creatures, a drought in Hongo, a Pryndonian princess arriving in Emaurria.

  Emaurria?

  She blinked.

  Her Highness, Princess Adelaide Breckenridge of Pryndon, arrives in Emaurria’s capital city of Courdeval, as the latest of the region’s most eligible ladies, for the courting pleasure of the King of Emaurria, His Majesty Jonathan Dominic Armel Faralle.

  Princess Adelaide.

  She read and reread the scrap of paper.

  Eligible ladies.

  Courting pleasure.

  His Majesty, King Jonathan Dominic Armel Faralle…

  And that was all. The last news of the day. No other papers. No word on whether he was…

  The parchment crumpled. She wrung it in her hands, trying to squeeze out one more paragraph, one more sentence, one more word.

  When had Adelaide arrived? How long had she been there? If a princess was there, then Jon was—

  No.

  She had to finish. The sooner she finished, the sooner she could speak to Farrad. The sooner she could ensure Samara’s safety.

  Work… The text before her blurred, and she blinked, dipping her quill in an inkwell to translate the Pryndonian tongue into High Nad’i.

  Breathing deeply, she peered at the blank parchment. Empty.

  Jon wasn’t coming.

  She set down the quill and raised her chin, staring through the lattice at the blank sky.

  A rustle of paper, and she glanced down at her hand. Her fingers clenched the parchment again. She loosened her grip.

  Every night, she’d thought of Jon. Called out to him. Waited for him.

  He wasn’t coming.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. Jon loved her, had felt a duty to keep her safe. The only thing that would prevail over that duty would be a greater one. To the kingdom.

  He’d chosen the kingdom over her.

  She braced against the desk. Of course he would. As he should. He owed a duty not just to one woman, but to a nation. Of course he couldn’t come after her, not as the king of Emaurria.

  She hadn’t really even expected it. No, to expect it would have been foolish. She pressed a palm to her belly. And he doesn’t even know about you.

  Of course he would court princesses. A king had to marry high for the good of the kingdom and from beyond its borders—especially when the previous king had married from within. Of course. She had known all that. Like her, Jon was confined—not by tangible bonds, like hers, but by the bonds of royal duty. Of course.

  Then, why—?

  She dabbed at her wet face with her upper robe. She had known it all and tucked it away in her mind. Seeing the unforgiving truth on paper was another matter.

  The realities of his position—no, the realities of their relationship—were harsh. Jon wasn’t coming for her, and he would soon marry. Both as duty dictated.

  Allowing herself to rely on him before hadn’t been easy, but it had felt right. Now… now that he was so much more to so many more people, she couldn’t rely on him anymore. It wasn’t even fair.

  She wrapped her arms around herself. It’s all right. I’ll get us out of here. Whatever it takes. She smiled tightly.

  After a few deep breaths, she dipped the quill in the inkwell again and transcribed the news. News like any other. Translated words. Nothing but strokes and ink. Nothing but.

  As soon as it was done, she trudged into the hallway and handed it off to another house slave. Finally out of her hands.

  The rest of the day bled into Aina’s unfinished project. Willful denial was a great motivator. Anything to keep her mind busy. She was close to finishing a compilation Aina had entitled Healing Poultices. The sun had risen to high noon, but just a little more. The moon had risen, but only another line…


  Ihsan didn’t stop to question her remarkable stamina as the hours flew by, but brought her some goat’s cheese and flat bread at midday and a meat pie when the sun set. More food than she ever received at the slave quarters.

  When she finished transcribing the final recipe, Ihsan was nearly asleep at her seat, experimenting with a healing spell that treated the symptoms of the Wasting, a disease yet without cure. Rielle nudged her awake.

  “Yes, yes.” Ihsan came alert. “What is it?”

  “I’ve finished the book of healing poultices, Zahibi.”

  Ihsan flipped through it silently. “I see that you added an index. Very helpful.” She closed the book and swept a palm lovingly over the cover. “Take it down to Samara’s desk. She’ll make sure all of the required ingredients are ordered in the morning.”

  Rielle took it and began the long trip from the third floor down to the apothecary; from there, she would make for Farrad’s quarters immediately.

  The villa was quiet this time of night, with nary a servant stalking its dark halls. Empty. As she followed the light of the radiant sconces to the first floor, only the sound of the indoor courtyard’s fountain accompanied her soft footfalls.

  There was no one outside the apothecary. She unlocked the door and found the room dark and unattended. Too late? She bit her lip.

  The open door admitted light into the room from the hall, however dim, and she crept to Samara’s work space. Scattered among the jars, envelopes, books, and papers, were paper pouches of black tablets. Sen’a.

  She swallowed.

  Of course it would be available here. In a house of pleasure. Complete, entire, consuming pleasure.

  A chill racked up through her limbs. The dissonant twang of need. One small dose, and for a few hours, she could forget being a slave, forget the news she’d read earlier, forget it all, and melt. Dissolve into blinding pleasure, into nothing, into a blankness free of any thought or worry.

  She blinked.

  No.

  Not now.

  Not ever again. For her baby’s sake. For her own. The sooner she left the apothecary, the better.

  She left the book on the table, by the wall of full shelves, covered jars lining their length. The apothecary was well stocked. A heady mixture of scents competed— cinnamon, vervain, and primrose among them. She followed the middle shelf to its end, jars oozed the smells of their contents, even through their fabric covers. Wormwood and belladonna—poisonous if used in certain ways—and the key in her hands felt weightier.