Chapter 27
When Jon awoke in the comfort of his bed in Trèstellan Palace, he lay awhile with his eyes closed. His mind was quiet, but just beneath lay a new consciousness. Like the smell of red wine in his room, the feel of luxurious bedding, the sound of soft breath, and the taste of a parched mouth, he now perceived a thousand new sensations. Something strange in the forest outside of Courdeval… A freezing of the River Mel up north… A darkness near the Emaurrian Tower… And vivid life near Melain—Vervewood? And if he focused, he could single out an individual spark of nature, moving, living, breathing—a wild mage. Leigh.
But it wasn’t like the night of the ritual, myriad impressions assaulting him all at once, overwhelming him, shutting him down. No, now it had all faded into the background, along with everything else he could perceive, unobtrusive unless he chose to focus on something in particular, like a taste, a sound, a touch, a smell, a sight.
He opened his eyes. Morning sunlight streamed into his bedchamber. Next to his bed, Tor sat in a chair and watched him, worry etched into his face and his broad shoulders hunched.
“Sacrilegious rituals and black arts,” Tor mumbled with a sigh, then leaned forward in his chair and handed him a cup of water. “How are you feeling, Jon?”
“Less like my head will explode.” Jon sat up and drank deep. On the windowsill outside the glass, snow piled high. In his bedchamber, flower arrangements covered every available surface. “Where did all this come from?”
“The suitresses wish you a quick recovery.” Tor smiled.
The winter land offered no flora, so he imagined the royal greenhouses were a great deal emptier. Jon’s mind numbed at the thought of returning to his everyday dance with deception and dishonor. The Earthbinding had exhausted him and demanded too much, but at least it had been honest. “How long was I out?”
“Two days.”
Two days? Two days of work gone, two days of petitions, letters, negotiations—his head pounded, and he grimaced.
“You gave us quite a scare. Olivia said you were healthy, physically, but that your mind was in a state of chaos, and you’d need time to recover. She said there was nothing for it but patience as your mind acclimated. Praise Terra, you’ve woken.”
Terra. He winced. All his life, he’d worshiped Terra, served Terra, believed Her and Her pantheon to be the only gods, the true gods.
He’d performed the blasphemous ritual, and… It had worked. His prayers to the Dead Gods had worked. If the only gods in existence were Terra and the rest of the Eternan pantheon, then why had a blasphemous ritual to the Dead Gods worked?
Ulsinael, Rathenis, Nenarath, Firenith… They existed. His changed state confirmed Their continued existence. Gods above, you heard me.
But Terra had touched his life. It was as certain as night turning to day. Terra had to exist, too. She had to.
What did all of it mean?
“Do you feel any different?”
In every way. And not just from the ritual. He took in a deep breath, extending his perception to frost melting in the canal, hoof beats vibrating in the ground, wolf howls flowing through the forests. “I can feel the land—every boon, every harm, every anomaly. The Earthbinding worked.”
“Thank Terra for that,” Tor said, sitting up, “since Derric has announced you Earthbound to all the kingdom.”
Never letting an advantage go unpressed… That was Derric.
Tor took a sip of wine, his face crinkling as he winced. “I have no idea how a ritual to the Dead Gods worked—and I don’t think I want to know. What can you do with it?”
Good question. Jon sighed. “I don’t know. I can… see things. Sense other places.” He frowned. “But Pons and Olivia made it sound like it would be… more.”
Tor set down his goblet and folded his arms. “Perhaps you could try to focus on a threat? See what you can do?”
With a nod, Jon closed his eyes.
He imagined the room around him… The down comforter, the four-poster bed, the rug, his weapons on the table, the silk drapes and their crystal ties catching the sunlight, the windows… And then the cool, crisp air chilled his skin. The brine of the sea filled his nostrils. Waves beat against the cliffs like his own body, and he ascended a rocky slope, the soft shrubs tickling, the dust texturing his entire body, to the darkness of a cave. Moist, moldy air inundated him, and then he was high up, black feathers catching spare sunlight below him. Large wings, long hair, human bodies clad in black robes, clawed hands, talons for feet… and human faces with too-wide mouths exposing the sharp teeth of a carnivore. Harpies.
His body was taut—no, completely rigid. Closer. He had to get closer…
He couldn’t move toward them. Like stone, he was—
Stone. I am the stone. A copper vein in the rock. Entombed. Contained.
He traveled through the stone, circled them, moved below them. One stirred, raised his head, and stared at the ground. Scowled. Snarled.
He reached out, but nothing happened. Nothing moved.
He was the ground. And could no more fight the harpy than the ground could.
Nothing. It had been for nothing. He roared, shaking the pebbles and dust, and the other harpies awoke, searched.
He withdrew, back through the cave, down the mountain, off the cliffs and into the air, and he remembered his bed and himself in it. And opened his eyes.
Tor jolted upright in his chair. “Are you—”
“Worthless,” Jon snarled, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s worthless.”
Tor moved to the edge of his seat. “What? Why? What happened?”
Nothing. Nothing had happened. That was the problem, his failure. “I can do no more than see and sense.”
What had the Earthbinding been for? Was this all there was?
Tor rested a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve only just awoken. Don’t surrender yet. Pons and Olivia will shed some light on this. You’ll see.”
On what? They hadn’t even known what the Earthbinding would do. They still probably didn’t. It had been a shot in the dark, and they’d hit nothing. Jon sighed.
Tor squeezed his shoulder. “This will cheer you up… Parliament confirmed your legitimization. Your coronation will be after Veris.”
So his deplorable machinations with Melletoire and Costechelle had succeeded. He wasn’t sure whether to be disgusted with himself or celebrate. It seemed a common dilemma for him these days. “That’s good news, at least.”
“Well, it’s not all good news,” Tor said slowly with an uneasy grimace. “Caerlain Trel is repelling a pirate attack. While our navy is recovering, Silen has sent a flotilla of caravels, but they’ve secured the coast and trade routes from Silen and Kamerai.”
Emaurrian ship-builders worked hard to meet the navy’s quotas, but not fast enough. Even one geomancer could make a dramatic difference in the navy’s recovery, but Jon hadn’t made overtures to the Divinity about it yet. There were questions of Rielle’s whereabouts and Leigh’s actions to consider before opening diplomatic relations with Magehold.
But he had discussed creating an Order of Sages that welcomed the kingdom’s hedge witches into training for the Emaurrian military. It would be some time before any of them would be fit for duty.
Moreover, thanks to King Macario, he was fulfilling the promise he’d made at the docks months ago—with the trade routes secured, ships would be sailing into port all along the coast, and even into Courdeval. There would be work at the docks again.
“Please send King Macario an extravagant gift of thanks.” Although his navy needed recovery, the kingdom’s coffers—and his own—certainly didn’t.
“Already done,” Tor answered. For a while, he remained frowning, his dark eyebrows drawn.
“Good.” His mind wandered back to the ritual. He’d been with another woman. And for nothing.
Tor cocked his head, his eyes probing. “ ‘Good,’ you say… And yet you look troubled.”
No matter how well he lea
rned to hide his expressions, Tor could always see through him.
“I know you feel the ritual hasn’t accomplished much—”
“It’s not that.” Jon crossed his arms.
“Are you still feeling ill? Do you need to rest?”
“No.” Jon paused. “You know I’m in love.”
Tor nodded and folded his hands together.
“The Earthbinding… required a coupling.” Jon sat higher in the bed, folding over the covers. He breathed deeply and shook his head. “I’m in love with a woman, a missing woman, and while she’s gone, I lay with another.” He pressed his eyes shut. “It’s shameful. Dishonorable. And when I finally see Rielle again, what will I say to her? I can’t lose her.”
His elbows on the chair’s armrests, Tor brought his folded hands up to his stubbled chin. “Tell her the truth,” he said. “All of it. She may, in time, forgive you. She might not.” He let one of his hands fall. “But you have not sullied your honor. Duty and circumstance left you few options, and this sacrifice, for its potential reward, was difficult but not unconscionable. To deny its occurrence when you speak to her, to give into deception, that would be dishonor.”
“I would never lie to her. I just don’t know how to say it.”
“What matters is that you say it. You can’t build anything on an unsteady foundation.”
He should have expected Tor’s advice would be to do the right thing and accept the consequences. It was something Jon had been trying to live up to all his life. Even now. But what was right had changed so much from his days as a paladin.
“Sometimes,” Jon said, “duty calls for actions that dishonor the Sacred Vows.”
Tor shook his head. “We are bound by them no longer.” He picked up his wine goblet and held it out conspicuously; he no longer held to the Sacred Vows either. “As a king, your duty is now to your kingdom first and to all else second. It is your path. Because I know you, I know you will sometimes despise yourself for it, but you must do what needs to be done. Unlike the well-lit path of a paladin, it is a shadowed path you walk now, the winding road traveling dark corners at times. And when you cross that darkness and punish yourself for it, know that I am here to tell you when to stop.”
Jon nodded. As difficult as it was to accept, he would do what he had to. “What about Valen? Is he here?”
“He sat with you all through the night and is sleeping now,” Tor replied, digging in his pockets, “but he asked me to give you this.”
Jon opened the wax seal. Inside, the note said simply in Valen’s rounded script: No luck.
The only link to the person responsible for the regicide, the siege, everything—was in the wind. With a sigh, Jon folded the note back up. “And Olivia?”
Tor grinned, and it reached his eyes. “She’s… I… What a remarkable woman.”
Jon canted his head. Remarkable woman… He raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Yes, she is.”
Tor cleared his throat. “The paladin you asked to have discharged—Derric had it pushed through. All that remains is the knighting ceremony.”
Sir Edgar. Good. If the assassin was still about, and the courier’s master, then Olivia might need his help again.
Quick footsteps came from the parlor. Derric hurried through the doorway. He was pale, with dark circles under his honey-brown eyes as they examined him.
“Praise Terra.” Derric motioned to a servant, whispered something in his ear, then moved toward the bed. Derric took his hand, checked his pulse at his wrist, pressed a palm to his forehead; suddenly, he felt like a sick eight-year-old again. “How do you feel?”
“I’m all right. Promise.” He met Derric’s worried gaze until it became a nod.
Jon relayed what he’d told Tor, and Derric clasped his hands, looked above, and murmured his thanks to the Goddess.
It was the Dead Gods who had granted him an ancient boon. Were Derric’s thanks misplaced?
“I will pass this information on to Olivia,” Derric said. “Perhaps she can find out more about your possible… abilities.” Gently, Derric seated himself on the bed, his eyebrows drawn together and his head bowed. The lines in his face deepened. “There’s something else.”
Tor rose. “He’s only just awoken, Derric,” he said. “Let him rest.”
Meeting Tor’s hard gaze, Derric shook his head. “This can’t wait.”
When Tor seemed about to argue, Jon interrupted, “What is it?’
“Princess Alessandra,” Derric said. “I have it on good authority that she is considering leaving court.”
Jon pinched the bridge of his nose and drew in a deep breath. After completing an ancient ritual, he’d returned to playing a wooing game. As much as he wanted to tell Derric to let her leave if she wanted to, being Earthbound didn’t resolve all of Emaurria’s vulnerabilities. In fact, he didn’t know the full extent of what it did resolve. His kingdom still needed the protection of alliances, foreign soldiers, and the period of detente a royal courtship afforded. At least until Leigh could negotiate a favorable agreement with the light-elves.
“What do you need me to do?”
“We are in a sensitive position. Our forces are spread thin handling the Immortals, and until the alliance with the light-elves is ironclad, we must keep Silen in play,” Derric replied.
“On that, we are agreed.” A small, intricate scabbard lay on his desk. The ceremonial dagger from the Earthbinding, Rathis.
Derric paused, indulging a troubled frown. “I think you should grant her a private audience and do whatever is necessary to make sure that she stays, but it is your decision.”
The words cut deep. Jon threw aside the white covers, prompting Derric to rise, and left the bed. He rubbed his chin, annoyed at the two days’ growth. When he reached the washbasin, he splashed his face and stared into the mirror.
Alessandra’s departure would not only mean the withdrawal of Macario’s much-needed flotilla; it would also mark the beginning of the entire courtship maneuver’s collapse. If she didn’t believe she had a chance of becoming queen and left, it was only a matter of time before the other ladies followed suit.
Perhaps she even knew that, knew all it could cost him and Emaurria. Perhaps she was indignant at being a pawn here, and that was the reason behind her sudden urge to depart. But even if all that were true, Emaurria couldn’t risk the loss.
He couldn’t risk the loss. “I’ll do it. Arrange the private audience,” Jon said, preparing to shave.
“I will,” Derric answered, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “You’ll meet her in the Grand Library in an hour. I’ll order you a bath.”
“Thank you.”
At that, Derric inclined his head and left. Some movement came from the other room, and soon, a couple servants trickled in to draw a bath. Tor lingered, anchoring a hand on his hip.
After all he’d learned about Silen, the late Prince Robert, and his wife Princess Giuliana, Jon had no illusions about what it would take to convince her to stay.
“What kind of man does it make me?” he wondered aloud.
“A man may do as he pleases, but a king does what he must,” Tor answered.
Jon looked at the man in the mirror. Perhaps someday he would be familiar again. But not today.
In the morning light, Rielle stacked the books the Sonbaharan Tower of Magic had requested. Her hands shook, and she couldn’t tell if it was from fear or excitement or equal parts of both.
She followed Ihsan’s instructions and worked under a veil of calm while within, anxiety and fear waged an anxious war of attrition. There was still so much risk involved in the plan, even if most of it was solid. Ihsan had shown her the false arcanir cuffs—which looked indiscernible from the originals—and had walked her through every part of the plan.
However, there were still a couple matters left outstanding. Although she had plotted a path of least resistance out of the villa, she would have to fight at least a dozen guards two months out of practice with magic. She was a formida
ble mage, but even formidable mages needed practice. What time she could find, she used to read Sonbaharan tomes on elemental magic. They detailed some unique spells she hoped to incorporate into her repertoire.
Ihsan had also provided her with critical information on Farrad. He had a single sigil somewhere on his body, in addition to being a capable warrior.
If the sigil protected against elemental magic, then she would fail the assassination, but it was a risk she had to take. Ihsan promised to give her a poison-tipped hairpin for precisely that case. She would have to wait for the moment in which he would be most vulnerable.
And after that, the guard at the west gate would know her, give her a purse of gold araqs, and let her pass to buy a camel and travel for the nearest port.
When she finished stacking the books, she scrawled a quick note to give to the head of the house slaves. The sooner the books left House Hazael, the better. As she worked, she steadied her hand and tried to combat her anxiety. Tomorrow would be Farrad’s birthday—and the party that would end his life.
And tonight, she would have to bear the attentions of a stranger. The price of freedom was steep.
She folded the note and left the solar. She made her way down the stairs, and no sooner had she set foot on the landing when crisp footsteps sounded down the hall.
A house slave, flanked by a group of others. “You are summoned by Zahib Farrad.”
Her stomach rolled, and with difficulty, she swallowed. It was time to prepare for the shafi’s son. There would be no refusal, no excuses, no escape. Just submission. She had to be as obedient as possible until Farrad took her into his chamber the next night.
She nodded, her hands shaking, and followed. The slaves led her not to the pleasure house room she’d expected but to a bath. They swarmed her, their movement a disorienting blur as she tried to make sense of all being done to her.
Hours later, she trudged to the entertainment hall. Bathed in saffron, she wore a lavender crocus flower in her hair, a living ornament. Gone were her simple two-piece house-slave robes, replaced by the extravagant regalia of a pleasure slave decked out for entertainment: a top entirely covered with jewels, beads, and golden coins, and a skirt of blue silk slung low on her hips and secured with a thick sash of gold mesh and clinking coins that sounded with her every movement.
By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2) Page 26