She’d had unerring focus before, but here was a woman intent on refusing to let her mind wander.
Where might it wander to? She and the king had nearly taken one another on the dance floor. And her scent left no doubt as to what happened in the bedchamber.
She must have found his token. And the cold parting meant her affair with the king was likely at an end.
With these pieces of the puzzle, he could wait. He could be as patient as she was impatient. In time, she would open up of her own volition.
Two sets of footsteps neared in the hall. Light and short, and shorter. The door opened.
“Lord Francis Marcel Vignon and Master Erelyn Leonne,” the footman announced.
Francis trudged in first, rubbing an eye and yawning as he stumbled over the hem of his dressing gown. He cracked a sleepy eyelid. “Uncle Brennan?”
Brennan rounded the desk to Francis and crouched before him. “I need your help. Do you think you could help us find someone?”
Erelyn Leonne entered, her dark curls an unruly mess, and curtsied. “My lord, Your Ladysh—” She gasped. “Rielle? I thought you were—”
“Erelyn.” Rielle stood from her chair.
Francis’s gaze shot to her, then his eyes widened and downcast them. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I didn’t mean to tell—”
“Everything is all right,” Brennan said softly. “Don’t worry about that now.”
One step, two, three. Rielle, behind him. A hand rested on his shoulder, fingertips giving him a gentle squeeze. “We need to stop a bad person from hurting anyone else,” she said delicately, “and we need you.” She inclined her head. “Can we count on you?”
Francis met her eyes, his own wide and unwavering, then nodded. He looked over his shoulder at Erelyn. “I want to help. Can we, Master?”
A noble, even a young boy, did not need to ask permission from a commoner; Nora would have to correct that. Brennan speared Erelyn with an unrelenting glare; she met his eyes, winced, then beamed at Francis.
“Of course we can,” she replied.
Brennan stood and gestured to the two chairs. He seated Rielle in one, and Francis climbed into the other. Erelyn took her place next to him, standing.
Brennan rounded the desk once more and dropped into Father’s armchair. He pulled the burnt lock of hair, bound with twine, from his pocket and slid it across the desk, then nodded at Erelyn. She took it and presented it to Francis, whose eyebrows shot up.
“It’s all right.” Brennan smiled his encouragement.
With a nod, Francis accepted the item. Erelyn began to hum softly, an easy tune, and two pulses slowed; Rielle sank into her chair, her relaxed face and posture matching Francis’s perfectly.
Erelyn’s magic, a cantor’s magic… the ability to manipulate the emotions of anyone not immune to magic: to relax, to desire, to hate, to panic. Hedge witches hawked such cheap tricks in every marketplace of every city he’d ever visited; underneath it all, this cantor, wrapped in a fancy coat and stamped with a three-bar chevron, was no different. It was low, common magic, but it had its uses.
A faint purple glimmer dusted Francis, growing and brightening into an aura of sparkling smoke. “A small woman, clad in shadow, with hard eyes.” His voice was an eerie harmony, inhuman, magical. His eyes opened, purple, intense, staring at something nonexistent with unwavering intensity. “A swaying floor. White sails and favorable winds… turned southwest.”
Rielle shook her head, rubbed her eyes, and straightened in her chair. “Sailing out of the bay and to the Shining Sea. So not to southern continent.” She braced a palm on the desk and rose. “We need to find out which direction she’s taking on the sea. We have not a moment to lose.”
Francis blinked, and the purple aura dissipated; he breathed raggedly, and Erelyn patted his shoulder. “You did well.”
“Thank you, Francis,” Rielle said softly, inclining her head.
Francis beamed at her. “My pleasure, Your Ladyship. I’m glad to be of assistance.” He canted his head.
Brennan half-laughed under his breath. The boy certainly had Marcel blood in him.
“Erelyn,” Rielle said, “can I trouble you for a quick resonance?” When Erelyn nodded, they took to the opposite end of the study.
Brennan approached Francis and crouched next to his chair. “Well done.” They shared a smile. “But I need you to promise me you won’t tell your mother.”
Francis flinched and lowered his gaze. “Uncle Brennan, I didn’t want to lie, but—”
“I know.” He rested a hand on Francis’s forearm. Nora suffered from the same rare strain of seditious madness that Father did, and she couldn’t be allowed to pass it on to Francis or Henry, nor risk them and the entire Marcel line on her treasonous gambles. Even Jon, who had once been a beneficent paladin, had less and less mercy to spare as king. Traitors would be punished the way they had always been. “The king has granted you mercy this once, but do not count on it again. The next time your mother asks you to do something you don’t believe is right, you come to me. I’ll handle it.”
“You’ll help me?” Francis asked, eyes bright.
“Always and no matter what. I promise.” He gave Francis’s forearm a gentle squeeze. The boy smiled and yawned. “Now that you’ve played your part in this heroic venture, I think it’s time you return to dreamland.”
“Yes, I think it is time we retire,” Erelyn said, her face flushed. Just like Rielle’s. Francis’s head bobbed sleepily. “My lord, Your Ladyship?”
Brennan nodded his permission, and they left. As soon as the door shut, Rielle strode to him and raised her chin to meet his gaze firmly.
“We need to leave. Now. An hour ago.” She inhaled a slow, steadying breath, then narrowed her wild eyes to slits.
He leaned against the desk. “What we need is a ship.” Luckily, the most imposing frigate he’d ever seen sat in port.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” A rictus grin split her face, one worthy of the Great Wolf Himself.
Brennan mirrored the expression. “Let’s see how big a favor a sister’s love can buy.”
Olivia set aside the latest petitions from village and town magistrates across the kingdom, and looked out her study’s window. The great thaw had begun, albeit still beneath a gray sky. The sun sat at its midday high behind a veil of clouds.
By now, Jon would have spent several hours on the road, with two companies of soldiers, an equal number of paladins, and the hedge witches that had been recruited into the new Order of Sages. Once an arm of the Order of Terra, at least until its intolerance of magic had become absolute, they now served the Crown—one of Jon’s better ideas. Too long had magic practitioners outside the Divinity’s control been ignored in Emaurria, branded “heretics” and “hedge witches” everywhere else. But there was no sense in deferring to the Divinity when it offered little in return to the Crown.
The Order of Sages would be a great advantage in the battle to come. And Jon, frayed as he was, needed every advantage now.
She curled her fingers into a fist and exhaled her annoyance. Left behind. Again. He would be fighting Immortals—the dark-elves, at that, foes they had not yet faced in battle, and so, knew little about. She should be out there with him, protecting him as best she could and ready to heal him and others if need be.
She nudged a tome beneath the petitions. Her latest project, one Jon had specifically told her to give up on, was finding a way to save his life. With Immortal beings walking the land, there had to be a way to save a human life. Jon had enough to worry about without being in constant anticipation of his heart failing him.
Whoever had hired the courier was still out there, and she’d come no closer to finding him. She pictured the sketch in her mind: a narrow face, aquiline nose, shoulder-length hair, deep-set eyes, and a birthmark on his jaw. After staring at the sketch so many times for so long, she’d recognize him anywhere.
A large, warm palm covered hers, and she looked a
way from the window to Tor’s comforting smile. At least he’d agreed to have his desk brought in. Jon had left management of his affairs to them both, and as much work as it was, they could get through it in one another’s company.
“He’ll be fine, Olivia.” He patted her hand, then intertwined his fingers with hers. “Pons is with him, Valen is with him, and Raoul and Florian, along with most of the Royal Guard. He has friends at his back.”
And Cédric. At least he was a healer.
Just not her. But she nodded anyway; he was trying to make her feel better. “I wish he trusted my prowess. I don’t need sheltering.”
Tor shook his head and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “It’s because he trusts you that you are here. Someone has to manage the kingdom, but not just anyone. As much as I’d like to be there, too, there is no greater duty than what we are doing here.”
She sighed. Why did he have to be so sensible? “You’re right. I’m just… worried about him. It’s been a tough several months, and a trying several days.”
He lowered his gaze and bobbed his head, the soft sunlight catching in his thick, dark hair. “He’s been hit hard by the events of late, but I’ve known him since he was a boy. He can set aside all else and accomplish the mission before him.”
Smiling her agreement, she nodded. And the mission Jon had set before her was assessing the results of the “interrogations” the warden had been conducting in the dungeon. He’d been torturing prisoners for information, but so far she had found nothing of use. Some Crag lieutenants in hiding, former clients, but nothing to connect anyone to the regicide.
Praise the Divine that Jon had come to his senses and ordered the torture stopped.
“How about dinner later tonight, just you and me?” Warm hazel eyes gleamed at her.
They’d gone to the Veris ball together, but Shadow’s attack had cut short what should have been a much longer, much grander night together.
She eyed him peripherally and grinned. “How about an early dinner, just you and me, minus the dinner?”
Chapter 65
Brennan swung out of his hammock and headed through the dark for the hatchway. It had been half an hour since Rielle had awoken and left his side; she should have returned by now. He ascended the steps onto the main deck into the soft silvery light of a million stars. The Liberté bobbed gently, waves lapping against its hull, wind billowing its great white sails.
Sterling had the helm, standing stiff and tall as one of the masts. Or a Pryndonian. Blinking, he nodded off to the side, where Rielle leaned against the railing on the quarterdeck, staring out at the vastness of the Shining Sea. Outfitted in a turquoise coat cinched in with a white sash, she looked like one of the waves come to life.
Brennan took up a perch next to her against the railing. She glanced at him, only a brief moment, before exhaling lengthily and fixing her gaze upon the waves once more. He’d expected she’d come up for some fresh air, at least after sleeping in a room full of sailors, but judging by that fine crease between her brows and the intensity of that gaze, something weighed heavily on her mind.
She gestured a spell—earthsight—then narrowed her eyes. Dispelled it a moment later.
“Are we close?” He drew in a deep breath, gazing as far as he could with his Wolf eyes. Nothing.
She deflated with a heavy sigh. “Not close enough.” Her gaze dropped back to the sinuous waters.
“We’ll get there.” Wherever Shadow was going, she would eventually have to arrive, stop sailing, and then they would catch up with her.
“The Liberté is designed for speed. She’s fast for her size, but compared to a small, maneuverable ship like that sloop, not fast enough.” She was on her last nerve—that much was clear—but Shadow getting away again was untenable.
This was it. Whether their quarry was torn to pieces or led them to their deaths, the hunt would come to an end.
Minutes passed to the whispering of the wind and the soft splash of water; he leaned in, and she rested her head on his shoulder. He closed his eyes, savored that strange intimacy, affection that only a few months ago had seemed so foreign. But her posture was still stiff, a little too taut, too rigid. Straining to hold up more burdens than chasing vengeance.
Something had closed inside her and hardened. A grim determination, born of that night after the Veris ball. She had arrived on the shores of Emaurria full of hope, broken and saddened, yes, but there had been a yearning gleam in those sky-blue eyes that could see happiness, no matter how far, how remote, how unlikely—hope.
That gleam was gone now. Those eyes looked straight ahead, only ahead, fixated on one goal, and only that goal. Focused eyes. Determined eyes. Cold eyes.
A hollow formed in his throat, and he swallowed, lowered his gaze to the dark waters crashing against the ship. What had it felt like? To be in the embrace of the one you love, and for your hand to close around a reminder of your love’s betrayal?
And that was all it was: a reminder. No one would believe the king had been unfaithful to her since her return. Not like the few months past.
But she’d needed the reminder. That would be the life of the king’s lover.
How heavy a burden had that inevitability been, of knowing that the pain of betrayal would always outweigh that uplifting rapture that was love? When she’d spoken the words, as he imagined she must have, how cold had her lips been after saying them?
The king was a changed man, no longer the one she’d fallen in love with. In time, wouldn’t she have realized that, ended things anyway? It had been a mercy, saving her further pain.
Or it had been a convenience. For him. One that had cost her heartache she still paid now, and would pay for the foreseeable future.
Perhaps he could have left well enough alone, loved her from afar, waited. Perhaps he should have.
Water broke against wood, again and again, as the ship sailed on.
Her gaze didn’t waver, only looked ahead, only ahead.
“Come,” he said. “You’ll catch cold, and I don’t fancy explaining to your brother how I let that happen.” When she eyed him, the corner of her mouth turned up, and he laughed softly under his breath. “Someone will let us know when we catch up to her. So let’s get some sleep while we can.”
She remained still a moment longer, then straightened and stretched, curving her arm over her head and then the other. “You’re right. I know it. I just—”
“Need to see this done.”
A nod. “So much has been taken from me… For too long. No more. I’ll end this, and I’ll fight to my very last breath if I have to.” The starlight gleamed in those eyes like a specter on steel, cold and deadly, ethereal.
“So will I,” he answered. “So will I.”
In the dark of night, Leigh held up the repulsion shield, a blurry, translucent arcing wall in front of the two companies of light-elf infantry. Arrows glanced off.
One penetrated—arcanir—he diverted the light-elf it would have hit, and renewed the shield. “Just let me use an attraction ring and—”
“No,” Ambriel grunted, nocking another arrow and shooting through the repulsion shield amid a flurry of fire. A dark-elf soldier bat it aside with a bracer. “You’d destroy the forest. We’d rather die.”
“An elementalist could fix—”
“No.” Ambriel winced as their forces chased the dark-elves.
“What?”
He shouted a command in Elvish. “They’re retreating toward a fairy mound.”
“A what?”
“A hill. Higher ground.”
Divine’s tits. Another arrow broke through the repulsion shield and found its target before he could divert the light-elf. Leigh hissed as he renewed the repulsion shield.
The bastards had arrived well equipped with arcanir armor, shields, and weapons, and the light-elves were being idiots about breaking a few trees.
“Once they make it out of the woods, I’ll obliterate them.” He searched the army for
the archer shooting arcanir arrows. The origin changed every time—perhaps they’d handed out those arrows to each of them. Intelligently.
The light-elf army began to shift, attempting to push the enemy to the right, but the front lines only collided. The dark-elves continued their retreat trajectory.
Roaring, Ambriel shot arrow after arrow after arrow. The clearing shone through the trees.
We’ll have to retreat, he wanted to say, but no doubt Ambriel already knew that. They couldn’t let the dark-elves have the high ground, especially without knowing what the enemy might have left there.
But as Ambriel shouted commands, the light-elves army only continued angling and pushing past the tree cover.
Leigh cast a repulsion wall along the tree line. If they had to retreat, only the dark-elves with arcanir would be able to pursue as he renewed the wall over and over.
Ambriel bellowed, and battle cries rose up from the light-elves. They broke from the tree cover as the dark-elves backed up onto the hill—
Pounding. Thundering. The ground vibrated.
The crest of the hill seemed to shift, a moving silhouette against the night sky. The moonlight illuminated the hundreds of cavalry units charging down the hill over the dark-elves’ back lines.
As the enemy turned, Ambriel gave the signal to the archers, who loosed arrows into enemy backs.
Myriad vines wove through the dark-elves’ front lines, rooting their feet to the ground, holding them in place as the charge rolled over them in a clash of hooves, arcanir, and steel.
Paladins.
Metal glinted in the silvery light. The coppery tang of blood seized the air.
The light-elves defended as the squadron of cavalry destroyed their enemies. The rumble of hooves subsided. The clash of blades died. Screams faded into gasps and silence. Small shadows slunk from the field of battle, a handful of survivors. Light-elf archers pursued.
A small contingent in tight formation broke away from the arriving force and slowly approached the tree line, stopping perhaps twenty feet away.
By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2) Page 68