By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2)

by Miranda Honfleur

  Jon shrugged. “Of course. I’d never condone betrayal of a peaceful ally. Tell them that if they want my assurance, they have it.” But it wasn’t so simple. If the light-elves learned the value of his word, they might not expect him to adhere to an assurance. With a sigh, he faced Pons. “You realize I’m an oath-breaker?”

  “Jon,” Tor cut in. “They have a rite.”

  “Of course they do,” he shot back, turning to his former master. “I don’t care.”

  The light-elves worshipped the Dead Gods, and he’d already learned the nature of what the Dead Gods required of their supplicants. The Earthbinding still felt raw. He glared at Tor.

  Pressing his lips into a thin line, Tor swallowed, then took a deep breath. “Jon, I know you’re in mourning. I feel terrible asking you to do this, and there’s been little time for you to accept that the marquise—”

  Jon tore away from the armchair, pressure mounting to bursting in his face. Fight. Gods, how he wanted to fight.

  Tor knitted his eyebrows together and glanced away.

  Hadn’t Tor been the one who’d advocated letting it in? To take the time to recover? And now, what? The first sign of difficulty, and they were here to ask him to set aside his grief and return to his duties.

  He would have been better off before, keeping it out, focusing on duty—

  He threw the blanket to the floor, grabbed his cup, and moved to the snow-covered window. The cold radiating through the glass bit a little deeper. He slammed the cup on the windowsill.

  Booted footsteps clicked behind him. “I wish you could take all the time you need to bear this loss,” Tor said, with firm articulation tempered by softness. His paladin voice. Gods. “You deserve no less. She deserves no less. However… while I can manage some day-to-day affairs in your stead, I can’t be king for you, Jon.”

  In the cup, the dark-red wine roiled, still disturbed from when he’d placed it. Only one thing would still it—a purge. Consuming the bittersweet violence until the cup was empty.

  “Don’t you feel it’s time to start getting back into routine?” Pons offered.

  Jon stared into the cup. “I don’t feel… anything.”

  A long silence.

  “Well, if you change your mind, we’ve arranged a meeting with their witness, Aiolian Windsong, in two weeks,” Pons said.

  Jon picked up the cup and finished what remained of the wine. “Leave me.”

  With a few brief words of acknowledgment, both of them made their exit. Jon trudged back to the armchair and sat with the blanket before the hearth once more, staring into the empty cup.

  It had been months since Vindemia, but at the bottom of the cup, the bonfire still burned. Rielle sat, a knee tucked in to her chest, firelight reflected in her golden hair. She turned to him with a beautiful smile, happiness shaping her eyes to half-moons. Fire, cider, and love warmed all corners, and with her in his arms, he couldn’t have felt the chill that night, or any other.

  That night, indignation, love, and desire had surged in him, filled him to bursting. He’d never felt so… alive. Never.

  And now… Now, he didn’t feel anything. His thoughts and his heart were always elsewhere, and there was nothing left here.

  Another cup of wine. He gulped it down. And another. The burning down his throat was sweet, sweet relief, and yet so far from… from what he wanted. He refilled it.

  Had she… she felt this way, with the sen’a? To feel more than every—everything, and then far—far from it all?

  He blinked sluggishly.

  Yes, he would know how she’d felt. See through her eyes. Know this part of her, wear it… a blood ritual turned brand, a handfasting by scar to… her.

  He palmed at his eyes, blinking away the blur.

  The fire had nearly… died.

  He blinked again and glanced at his cup. Emp—empty again. Too much wine.

  Distant giggles… from the hallway.

  Shouts… from the guards. A shriek.

  Who dared—dared intrude on him now? He gripped the armrest. The commotion continued. Throwing off the blanket, he rose, his vision hazy for a moment, and stalked—staggered—to the door. He just wanted to be alone. Would—would say that to anyone bold enough to try to ignore—his wishes.

  He grabbed for the door handle—damn it, the wood, the wood, the metal at last—and yanked the door open, stumbling into the hall.

  Everyone on the other side froze. Two guards—Raoul and Florian. Raoul reached out for his shoulder and steadied him, looking him over in grim assessment.

  Nora raised her chin to meet his eyes. Her fluttering eyelashes swept like great black wings… enormous and all-encompassing… fanning a cool breeze over his face, once—twice—thrice—

  A cool breeze on his face. Now, just for a moment…

  She wore her dark tresses unbound and a black silk robe tied closed. Improper, especially for a lady of the Houses. Improper. Imp—

  “Your Majesty,” she greeted, curtsying, while Raoul and Florian rushed out apologies.

  “Lady… Vauquelin.” He waved off the guards and caught himself on the doorjamb. They returned to attention at their posts while he peered at Nora’s pert expression. The hour was late. Very late. “What are you doing… here?”

  A coquettish smile teasing her lips, she batted her great black wings and cleared her throat. The vibration throbbed through his skin and beneath, humming through his blood.

  “Word around the palace says you could use a friend,” she said, “so here I am.”

  He gawked at the dark-haired, hazel-eyed beauty, the hazy aura around her, shadowy, soft.

  Nora.

  Her silk robe was black with a vine pattern that grew and grew and twined around her figure, beneath her—breasts, and around, sprouting leaves and thorns… and leaves. It slipped from her shoulders, revealing a dark-red nightgown that… left nothing, nothing to the imagination. Shadow and sheer dancing, appearing, disappearing.

  She rose to kiss him, her lips supple against his as she threw off his robe. Mmm. He took a few steps back into his quarters and meant to push her away but found his arms wrapped around her. Tight. Silk swept against his skin, rippling a pleasant shiver.

  She kicked the door closed behind her, her palms gliding over his back, firm and languor—languorous in their touch, tracing paths of… ecstasy over his flesh. Good. It was good. Her skin’s softness against his, like… like lying in a field of feathery dandelions…

  Her tongue invaded his mouth, sensual but urgent, sweet like… honeyed pear, and he seized the comfort of it with thirst, now, more and more. Good… good. She pulled away, only enough to slip the tunic over his head, and led him to the bedchamber.

  Chapter 35

  When darkness blanketed the desert, Rielle followed Brennan toward an oasis that would be the halfway point on their journey to Gazgan. She couldn’t see a thing now, but a candlelight spell would give her away as a mage. Too risky. If their pursuers were tracking them, at the very least, her magic could remain a hidden advantage.

  They stopped on the way in, and with Brennan guiding her, she laid down a few fire, earth, and wind runes. If they were lucky, their pursuers would be thrown off their mounts, hurt, or even killed on contact. A shiver shook through her; the air had gone cool with the sun’s departure.

  Once she finished, Brennan tethered the camels to a date palm and tended them, then made the telltale strike of steel against flint. She followed the soft noise in the dark, reached out until she touched his shoulder, then lit the tinder with a mere spark of magic in a covered fire pit. The flash of brightness assaulted her eyes; she recoiled.

  He covered her hand with his. “You should conserve your anima.”

  “It’s nothing.” Her innate elemental magic darkened her anima little, unlike all the non-innate healing she’d done the night before. And it looked no different to an observer than a natural spark. She slipped her hand free.

  “Thanks to our pace earlier, we have about t
hree hours until they’re upon us,” he said. “We could get some sleep, some food…”

  “I’m fine. I can’t imagine getting much of either until we handle our problem.” She peered at the supplies he had next to him and grabbed a bedroll and a blanket. “I will, however, enjoy any time not spent on a camel.”

  He grinned, then turned away. “I’ll alert you when they’re near.”

  With a whisper of thanks, she moved to the other side of the fire and laid out her bedroll and camel-hair blanket. She burrowed into it. Perhaps it had been her loss, and everything here in Sonbahar, but Brennan had been so strangely careful in his treatment of her. He’d once been very kind, loving, considerate as a youth. For nearly a decade, however, he’d been callous, threatening, vulgar.

  But he was returning to his former self. Was this his true self, then, or were both facets part of the same man? As good as he was to her now, how long was it to last?

  She shivered in her bedroll under blanket, and he came to bed down next to her. The silence remained unbroken while he sat and stared into the fire with a ruminative frown—at least until her teeth chattered. He peered at her, eyes narrowed but a corner of his mouth curling upward.

  “Even with all of that”—he gestured to her blanket and bedroll—“you’re cold?”

  “I’m—”

  “Fine?” he offered.

  She scowled at him. Perhaps her brave face hadn’t been as convincing as she’d hoped.

  “Do you trust me, Rielle?”

  Trust? Such a question usually hid another. She looked at him. What could he possibly want?

  “Well?”

  “Yes,” she answered in exasperation. “With my life.”

  “Then let me warm you up.”

  She froze, restlessness coiling in her legs, her arms, her whole body.

  “Nothing untoward,” he said. “I promise.”

  Nothing untoward. She breathed deeply. Everything they’d done in Sonbahar had been untoward; there was little reason to believe this would be any different. But she couldn’t help but want to believe him. Or perhaps her shivering body just wanted his warmth.

  She nodded, but he didn’t move, just sat there, eyeing her.

  A shiver shook her. “All right.”

  Of course he’d made her say it. She rolled her eyes.

  He lifted the blanket and eased into the bedroll. At contact with him, she went rigid, but slowly, the tension dissipated as he slipped completely inside. She settled into the curve of his arm, hesitating before she rested her cheek on his chest… So warm. All of him was so warm. Cuddling closer, she drew a leg across his thighs, drawing her entire body flush against his.

  He wrapped her in his embrace, doing no more than breathing while her shivers began to subside. He smelled of camel, sweat, and his usual spice, but somehow, Couronne’s lush courtyard ghosted across her closed eyelids, verdant green grass and a white drive, the wrought-iron-clad double doors. With a deep breath, she relaxed. His warmth seeped into her, a slow wave flowing through her body to every corner of her being, until even her very fingertips thawed and rebelled, rubbing his chest softly, testing the firmness of the flesh beneath his thiyawb.

  She stopped. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

  Brennan blew out a breath. “Do you think Jon would want you to be cold?”

  “No.” Not that it mattered. Lying wasn’t an option. Not anymore. Never again. Upon her return, when she’d tell Jon everything, any love he still had for her would be forever changed. Once she told him about her decision to become Farrad’s lover, her night with Brennan at House Hazael, and losing their child, he would never look at her the same way again. No matter how much she loved him and needed him.

  Every time he’d look at her, he would be reminded of all these things. If he never wanted to look at her again, she’d deserve it.

  Her lip trembled, but she bit it.

  Killing Shadow. That’s what she’d have to focus on. Shadow, who’d caused all of this, most of all, Sylvie’s death. If not for Shadow, Sylvie would still be alive, and for that injustice, she had to pay. She had to die. Suffer as Sylvie had suffered.

  Brennan rubbed her shoulder. “I won’t cross any lines, Rielle. Not unless you ask me to.”

  “I won’t,” she said, but she snuggled closer. If she were honest, the thought didn’t fill her with revulsion as it once had. Something had changed in him—he’d become… more like he once was. A friend.

  Although she expected Brennan to argue, he didn’t. He simply lay there, stroking her shoulder and arm in a hypnotic back-and-forth motion, lulling her to slumber as she watched the stars.

  Brennan opened his eyes. Darkness still shrouded the desert, but hooves pounded the sand beyond the runes. Nearing.

  In his arms, Rielle slumbered, cheek to his chest, wrapped around him like a willowy vine. He smiled despite himself. After all they’d been through, he’d never imagined this outcome. Rielle, comfortable in his presence—comfortable enough to hold him, to be close, to be vulnerable? It was intimacy he didn’t deserve and had proven himself incapable of cherishing once, but he cherished it now.

  She loved Jon. Of that he was certain.

  But she’d opened her heart to him; he was certain of that as well.

  And a dozen warriors were coming to kill her. Soon, they would be upon the runes, and that’s when he’d have to strike.

  Doing his best not to wake her, he slipped from her embrace and settled the camel-hair blanket upon her. She shifted, but didn’t wake. A rare peace claimed her face, a peace he’d see prolonged, if he could.

  Disrobing, he gazed out into the desert, catching the sweetness of the palms and dates on the night breeze, the musk of the fox and the mice scurrying about in the cold, and invited the Change to full wolf.

  A muzzle burst from his mouth, fur from his skin, a tail, and claws emerged from his fingers. He dropped to all fours, lupine pads meeting the sand. He glanced at Rielle, still sleeping.

  Be safe.

  His look longed to linger, but he tore himself away and stalked among the scattered tufts of weeping lovegrass toward the runes. He lowered himself among the cover of a tamarisk’s slender branches and ample foliage, and stared out at the band of warriors closing in. The night breeze carried in the scent of man, horse, and Xiri steel.

  He couldn’t discern their weaponry at this range, so he waited.

  Silhouetted against the starlit sky were lances, bows, sabers. Four lancers, two bowmen, and six swordsmen, but these weren’t just any warriors.

  Hisaad. The elite raiders serving the zahibshada. Trained to ride since before they could walk, they knew nothing but horse, blade, and tactics. Their raids were legend.

  Brennan swallowed. Victory would be hard won.

  A cloud of dust swirled in the distance. The hisaad rode in at a canter, wearing out the horses, pounding the sand, and didn’t slow at all as they neared the runes.

  Brennan went rigid, muscles hardening as hooves tore up the desert.

  Flames burst from the sand.

  Wind cut in a spire.

  A pit opened in the earth.

  The world’s fury unleashed. Rielle’s.

  Horses and men screamed. Flesh singed, and the coppery tang of blood flooded the air. He kept low to the ground in wait.

  Two hisaad burned. One blew apart. One tumbled into the pit.

  A bowman deftly maneuvered his horse around the abyss, flanked by unfettered fire and storming winds.

  Now or never. Brennan leaped for the bowman.

  The bowman turned and shot an arrow into Brennan’s chest. He closed his jaws on the bowman’s unarmored face and tore him from his horse. He crushed the man’s head between his teeth.

  Horses closed in, an arc abutting the flames. Weeping lovegrass caught fire, spreading, smoking. As a lance lunged for him, Brennan leaped away through the fire. Seven hisaad remained.

  There’d be no retreat. He was the last line before Rielle, and her anim
a was too dark to defend herself with.

  A lance burst through the flames, narrowly missing his shoulder, and disappeared. He shifted to man-beast and broke off the arrow in his chest with a wince.

  When the lance lunged again, he grabbed it and swept it to the side.

  A thud hit the ground—the lancer. Brennan spun the lance, jumped through the flames, and pierced the man’s face into the sand.

  Pain bloomed in his shoulder. A saber lodged there.

  Two more flashed in his periphery.

  He grabbed the swordsman’s arm and slid beneath the horse, his superior strength pulling the rider along. Snarling, he yanked the blade from his shoulder and buried it where the armor gapped, into the swordsman’s armpit, deep into his chest. Then he rent it free with a spray of blood, taking momentary cover behind the horse.

  He clutched his hemorrhaging shoulder. Two lancers, two swordsmen, one bowman. And then she’d be safe.

  A bowstring snapped. With a flash of claws, he beat aside an arrow as hooves closed in behind him.

  Agony ripped through his abdomen. He staggered forward. A lance. He stared down in disbelief.

  Rielle…

  The slash of a saber for his neck, and he raised the blade he held to parry. He craned forward, with searing pain, and plunged his blade into the swordsman’s horse. Deep in the chest. It shrieked, reared, and tumbled to the ground.

  The lancer who’d pierced him urged his horse into motion, and Brennan with it. Dragged through the dust, he grabbed the lance protruding from his body and tried to pull himself off it, wood and metal abrading his flesh, his blood seeping from the wound and pouring down his body while his legs thrashed across the unforgiving sand. Skin ripped away, flesh tore, bones cracked—his teeth clenched against the unrelenting assault of pain.

  At last, he was free of the lance.

  He fell to the ground, inhaled the sand.

  Hooves beat the ground.

  He struggled to rise, but the severed muscles in his shoulder, chest, and abdomen wouldn’t cooperate. Kneeling was the best he could manage. Sand caked his blood-soaked skin.