By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2)
Page 51
Next.
Jon turned on Valen, who tossed him a glaive. One of his favorite weapons, aside from the long sword. He held out Faithkeeper to his squire, who quickly took it and stepped clear, then felt for the flat side of the glaive’s seven-foot pole to properly angle the eighteen-inch blade at the tip.
Facing Valen, he took up a ready stance, and they sparred glaive to glaive.
A crowd of exhausted guards and soldiers ringed them in the practice yard. If they were tired, then they were out of shape and needed the extra practice.
“We’ve been out here for hours,” Valen said between strikes. “Are you going to open up about what’s really bothering you?”
Jon lunged with renewed vigor, but Valen parried. “Shut up and spar.”
Valen jerked his head back but continued the exercise.
Good. Jon lost himself in it, nothing but muscle, weapon, memory, and reflex. There was no sense in talking about it. Anything anyone could possibly tell him, he’d already told himself.
He’d betrayed her. She hated him. He deserved it.
His attacks struck faster, harder.
He wasn’t sure how he could ever meet her gaze again, but then, she never wanted to see his face again anyway, so at least his shame had its head.
One blow after another after another, and Valen’s face contorted—he was shouting.
“Jon!” he yelled, over and over again, before he finally caught the pole of Jon’s glaive.
A madness surged through his body, wove through his arms, coiled and clenched in his hands. They didn’t want to stop moving, stop striking, and neither did he.
The ring of guards and soldiers around them had turned tense, with most standing alert, some even appearing to hold their breath.
He closed his eyes for a blessed moment. Terra have mercy, he was losing his mind. His men were here, watching his descent into madness. Some king. Sighing, he opened his eyes, released the glaive, and held up his hands with a forced smile. “Maybe you’re right—a break is in order.”
He could almost feel the collective sigh of relief as Valen handed their glaives off to a waiting squire while another brought them towels.
Walking back toward Trèstellan, Jon swept one over his face and slicked his hair back as his muscles relaxed.
“Florian told me some of what happened,” Valen said from next to him, toweling off his sweat-soaked arms and thick bear-brown hair. “What are you going to do?”
He’d been asking himself that same question since Olivia had left this morning for the city.
He wanted to plead for Rielle’s forgiveness, find a way to make it up to her, to ease the anguish he’d caused her, but how could he do that when she wanted nothing to do with him?
“It’s not about me,” he replied grimly. “It’s about her.” The distance she wanted broke his heart, but he’d broken hers, so what right did he have to ache? “She wants nothing to do with me. She wants space. And that is what she will have.”
Valen grimaced and shook his head. “What will that solve? What you did was faithless, weak, disloyal—”
Jon glared at him, for all that he deserved those words.
“—callous, and wrong, but you did have your reasons. Nothing that excuses what you did, but at least she’d have some explanation, instead of believing that as soon as she was off these shores, you found the next best woman to take her place.”
Terra have mercy, how he’d wanted to explain. To tell her a spiritualist had declared her dead, that he’d wanted to drown in grief, that his duties had demanded otherwise. That he’d loved her more than life itself, and without her, had become a sad, weak fool who’d made the worst choices he could have possibly made to go on without her. That at the first test of faith, he’d failed miserably.
“An explanation would be for me,” he answered, “to alleviate my own burden. She doesn’t want to hear anything from me right now. And I’ll honor her choice. Someday, if she ever sees fit to see me again, to speak to me again, I’ll tell her everything.”
Valen sighed, and through double-doors held open by footmen, they entered the palace, flanked by Florian and Raoul. “The woman you love is alive. Your ideal future is within reach. You have that kind of patience?”
Patience. That was what these past four months had been about, hadn’t they? If he’d only been patient, waited on word from Brennan, instead of succumbing to anxiety and forcing answers, perhaps he never would have made such massive mistakes. He would have had to tell her about the Earthbinding and Manon, and that would have been difficult for them, but would she have hated him?
No, as difficult as it would have been to overcome, she would have understood. But this, with Nora and Aless? Never.
“Yes, I do,” he said. “I’ll wait as long as she needs me to.” He’d ask Aless to release him from his promise to her. He’d end things with Nora. He’d take no other. He’d have the patience now that he should have had these past four months. “Hopefully she’ll speak to me again someday.”
Valen huffed. “Until that day, I guess I sacrifice myself in the practice yard.”
Jon rolled his eyes as they were about to part ways. “As if you have a choice.”
Valen barked a half-laugh before striding toward his quarters.
Jon headed for his own. He’d have to wash the madness off, because he had a long day ahead of him, beginning with recalling the knights and paladins searching for Rielle, and then his late-afternoon walk with Aless… and prying for her mercy.
Chapter 48
Through the parting crowd, Leigh strode to the Treeburst throne, flanked by a squad of elven guards. Each face wore variations of the same masks—curiosity, doubt, fear. These people were strangers in their own land now, and had left their fate in the hands of a foreigner. No surprise that they weren’t at ease.
He didn’t turn his head this way and that, but he glanced over the many faces for Ambriel’s. The visit to Courdeval hadn’t been long, but in a way, it had been too long.
Queen Narenian perched upon the throne like a sleek cat, exuding restrained lethality and elegant superiority, her sharp, silvery eyes sighting him like a nocked arrow.
Ten feet away, he stopped and bowed. “I bring news, Your Majesty.”
“You are welcome, Ambassador Leigh Galvan,” she declared, her regal voice loud and strong. “You may speak freely.”
The crowd stilled and quieted, only the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze daring to interfere.
“King Jonathan Dominic Armel Faralle has sworn the oath ritual with you through Emissary Aiolian Windsong.” A susurrus of soft gasps. “It is done. And I have returned with the negotiated alliance agreement. Once it is signed, Emaurria will be your sworn ally.”
The starlight of Queen Narenian’s eyes shone a measure brighter, just briefly; she nodded and stood, her back perfectly straight, a tumble of long platinum-blond hair gleaming behind her. Chin raised, she searched the crowd, a faint smile playing on her lips. Measured. “My loyal subjects, tonight we celebrate our new bond with the Emaurrian people. May it continue to grow and prosper.”
Soft clapping rose in unison, filling the space with the sound of relief to accompany the many pleased faces.
But not his own. Where was Ambriel? Had the dark-elves attacked again? Or had the light-elves launched an attack of their own?
He wasn’t one to quail in pursuit of his own ends, not unless he bore the crushing weight of the greater good. Like relations between two countries. He sighed inwardly.
The crowd closed in, a cacophony of questions and compliments enveloping him.
Quickly, he forced a smile and nodded agreement to those around him. Indeed, Vervewood was one step closer to an alliance, and when the alliance would at last happen, his work would be done here.
But the thought didn’t please him, gave him no relief.
Amid the crowd near the throne, a fair head peaked above the rest, a hardened expression meeting his probing. Ambriel.
He’d returned victorious. Surely that had to count toward some reward?
Ambriel failed spectacularly at hiding a grin.
Queen Narenian raised her hands, and the clapping faded. “Let us gather tonight, when the first star takes to the sky. Let us all take part in this momentous occasion.” She turned to a member of her household. “See that it’s done.”
The woman bowed and quickly departed.
At that, Queen Narenian seated herself upon the throne once more. “Ambassador Galvan, you and Emissary Aiolian Windsong have served Vervewood admirably.”
He shook his head. “I have merely done as bidden by my king, Your Majesty.”
“Nevertheless.” She regarded him with a hint of a smile. “You have earned our respect and are welcome among us. Please enjoy all Vervewood has to offer, with our sincerest blessing.”
He raised a brow. All Vervewood had to offer? He glanced at Ambriel, who was doing a fantastic job at not facing him directly. Was Queen Narenian offering her blessing?
“I…” He straightened. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I’m honored.”
She let her smile free and nodded, then dismissed him. He receded three steps and turned away, heading for his quarters with a bounce in his step. Victorious hero, queen’s honored guest, and celebrations of his accomplishments: these were not new features in his life, but they never lost their luster.
But he hadn’t looked forward to a celebration this much in years.
He spotted the tree with the cascading root and ascended the winding stairs to his hollow. Such a small space, but upon his entrance, the tiny Gaze crystals within twinkled a starlit greeting, and the wood felt familiar and welcoming beneath his booted feet. His bed waited, and he threw himself into it.
Someday, this could be a comfortable life. A happy life.
But everything had gone well. Emaurria and Vervewood were allies, and Stonehaven would soon know. As vicious as Queen Matryona had shown herself to be, it would be the height of arrogance to attempt an attack now and make enemies of all surrounding her.
And if she entertained such madness, perhaps one of her Quorum would invoke the single-combat rule. Perhaps Varvara would, for the sake of her people.
As much as he didn’t mind killing here and there if it suited the greater good, an entire race of people, ones who perhaps disagreed with their misguided leader, was another matter. Lives came and went with the wind, but entire civilizations? On such a grand scale, decisions had to be weighed all the more carefully.
But the détente was a blessing. Surely by now, some diplomats in Courdeval were learning Old Emaurrian and making good progress. He wasn’t needed here anymore, and Jon would send someone else. And he would leave Vervewood.
And look for his vanished former apprentice. Someone had to teach her a lesson, after all—he grinned—and no doubt His Majesty would have other priorities.
The sun was setting when the pan flutes and singing began; Leigh made his way to the feast, weaving through clusters of laughing celebrants and servers bearing earthenware jugs of spirits. Smoke and the aroma of roasted pork carried over—the humans sharing their cuisine, or just tired of eating only raw foods. And who could blame them?
Silhouetted against the reddish-golden glow of dusk, Queen Narenian sat at the head of a long trestle table adorned with colorful dishes and greenery. She languidly sprawled over her chair, gaze resting on her consort as she laughed with Ambriel.
There was so much to tell him, more than could be said in one night. But chief among all things, goodbye.
Ambriel’s gaze caught his, and Leigh offered a grin. Smoothing things over, hopefully.
“The hero graces us with his presence at last.” Ambriel raised an earthenware mug to him.
Narenian motioned to a place at her left, and Leigh joined them on the bench, exchanging pleasantries. One cordial evening, at the very least, should mark a momentous occasion like this. He feasted with them, chatted, laughed, listened, made merry, and the celebration was enjoyable, or should have been, but for the words he had to say tonight when he could get Ambriel alone.
“You received correspondence today, dreshan.” Ambriel broke into his thoughts.
“I did?” It had to be from Courdeval. Was something amiss already? “Is it urgent?”
“It could be.”
Narenian smiled into her goblet and waved them off. “Go. Attend to your urgent matters.”
Leigh pressed his lips together and eyed her, but rose along with Ambriel. Was everyone aware of all that was unsaid between them? The nosy wood elves could use some diversion. Theatre. Opera. A brewery. Maybe a hobby or two. Perhaps then they’d stay out of each other’s dramas and make up their own.
Ambriel cocked his head toward a steep set of stairs grown into a massive trunk—the royal quarters?—and Leigh followed him up, looking out over the elves and humans crowded below, firelight reflected in a sea of platinum-blond-haired heads, and the dappling of human brunettes and redheads. Chatter, laughter, and song carried past like a happy breeze.
Vervewood was a small enclave in Emaurria, but if the future someday looked like that, would it be so terrible? Humans in Vervewood and elves in Emaurria, sharing food and wine and words? Sharing their lives, even?
He followed Ambriel into an open room with a large pillow-laden bed on one end, two savonarola armchairs and a wide table bearing a map and a jug on the other end.
Ambriel snatched a wax-sealed message from under a map marker and presented it. He gestured to one of the armchairs, then approached the open-air balcony overlooking the interwoven waterways and the cascading waterfall.
Leigh ran a finger over the dried blue wax. The Farallan dragon. He cracked it open.
Rielle is alive and back in Courdeval.
I am sending you a replacement to train. An Amadour.
Back to being a rose bush.
J.
Leigh exhaled a relieved breath through his nose and folded the message. That’s my girl. She was a survivor, and he’d trained her himself, made sure of her skills himself. And he’d never doubted her return.
They’d have to get together soon over some port, so she could tell him about all the fools who’d gotten in her way and how she’d crushed them.
Alive and in Courdeval… Well, he couldn’t ask for better than that, could he? It said all he’d hoped for.
And yet what it didn’t say spoke volumes. Back from where? And why not “alive and well”?
And where was all the pathetically romantic gushing? Betrothal, a royal wedding, the nine planned heirs, and thirty-odd grandchildren?
Perhaps Jon was a conservative writer, even if he’d walked around with stars in his eyes for months.
And what about Marcel? No mention of him. Had he brought her home, or had she returned alone? Or worse, had she brought him home?
Leigh frowned. When had she returned? He’d only just left Courdeval.
“On your brow, there is a line I don’t like the look of.” Arms crossed, Ambriel leaned against the table, all bulk and muscle and exuding sexiness and—
“Just thinking.”
“Ah”—Ambriel turned to the table and poured some spirits into his cup—“then you should stop.”
“Because you don’t like the look of this line?” He pointed to his forehead.
Ambriel handed him the cup. “Is there a better reason?”
Shaking his head, Leigh brought the cup to his lips, then took a drink. “This line and I are very well acquainted… We’ve been nigh inseparable for years now. I regret to inform you that we’re something of a package deal.”
Ambriel dropped into the armchair next to him, and together they looked out at the waterfall. Laughter and song carried from below. “It’s a new world, dreshan. Bigge
r and heavier than the old. You cannot carry it. At least not alone.”
Another drink, and Leigh sighed his surrender. “Very well. At least not tonight.” He set the empty cup on the floor, then frowned again.
“Empty cup, empty words?” But there was a smile in Ambriel’s voice.
Leigh raised an eyebrow at him. “That word—dreshan. You call me that sometimes. What does it mean?” Foreigner, probably. Or mage.
It was Ambriel’s turn to sigh, but he clipped it with a half laugh. “It is an Elvish word. Something like ‘adored one.’ ”
Adored one? “But—I heard you say it weeks ago, after Stonehaven attacked.”
Ambriel rose. “Pity you didn’t speak Elvish.”
Was that why every set of lips in Vervewood gossiped about them? “And you knew that.”
“And here we are.” Ambriel spread his arms, wide and inviting, his lips curved in a confident smile. With good reason.
Leigh stood, turned, clutched the back of the armchair, staring into the shadows. It wasn’t as much a victory as Ambriel believed. “I’m not a good man, Captain.”
“Neither am I.” Ambriel’s firm, deep voice, and then a soft step. “Your people have never seen a light-elf, a dark-elf, a mermaid, a dragon. But it is a good man that is the myth.” Another step. “We are all our deeds. Good and bad. And there is not a man under the sun who has done only good.”
And he’d thought his own hope had been in short supply. Leigh clutched the armchair tighter. “Then none of us are good?”
“None.” The word warmed the back of his neck, soothed its way down his spine with a pleasant shiver. “But that doesn’t matter.” A soft touch began at his knuckles and firmed as it rose up his arm, radiating pleasure and heat and anticipation.
“Then what does?” he whispered, unwilling to speak up, to move, to even breathe for fear of interrupting that touch.
“That you want to be good.” Up his biceps to his shoulders, fingers and palms melting tension and pressure—
He exhaled loudly, tossing his head back… onto a waiting shoulder. His back pressed against warm hardness, Ambriel, solid and strong behind him, long arms that wrapped his body, and fingers that tilted his mouth up.