“We grew up together.” The Proctor stared in reverie for a moment. “I will contact him shortly. Have a seat.” He gestured to the chairs studding his table and disappeared into another room.
Have a seat? The Proctor left prisoners standing. This paladin had transformed from prisoner to guest with the mention of one High Priest’s name? What, did knowing this “Derric” suddenly excuse this paladin breaking through the gate and thrashing six mages?
She exhaled sharply. The night was full of surprises. She glanced at the paladin, and he at her, before she turned away. She removed her gloves, then flattened an imaginary wrinkle in her white mage coat.
“Contact? How can that be?” The paladin broke the silence.
There was one way, at least. “By aerarius, a magical communication brazier made of recondite. Does your High Priest have anything like that?”
A user could light it, whisper an incantation and the name of an intended partner who also possessed an aerarius, and it would enable a line of communication between them. Made from the scarce magical metal recondite, aerarii were created long before the Divinity and the Towers, in the Dark Age of Magic.
The paladin creased his brow for a moment but nodded.
So the High Priest of Monas Ver was in possession of an aerarius.
“I never knew it was... Derric didn’t reveal much about his life before the priesthood.”
“You know him well?”
“He raised me.” He offered her a smile and then frowned. “Forgive me, but I don’t know your name.”
“Favrielle,” she said too soon, her mouth acting before her mind could; she didn’t like being called by her given name. She offered her hand.
He took her hand in his and, much to her surprise, brushed his lips over her knuckles in a whisper of contact.
She raised an eyebrow. It was the greeting of a nobleman, not an orphaned commoner—clearly courtesy of his former paladin-master, no doubt a noble. But he seemed sincere.
No. Since she’d deprived him of his sword and dagger, he resorted to unconventional weapons. Charisma. A tower full of mages was too much direct resistance for any one paladin, even given his impressive display at the gate.
“Well met, Favrielle.” A brief but charming smile. He released her hand, but his touch still ghosted across her skin.
She covered her misbehaving hand with the other.
“Call me Rielle,” she corrected gruffly.
The paladin furrowed his brow. She remembered too late that the only polite answer to familiarity was familiarity.
“Jon.”
“Well, Jon,” she said, his name falling uncomfortably from her lips, “it seems we’re in for a long night.”
There was no telling how long the Proctor’s conversation would be, and that would hardly conclude their dealings.
Jon approached the table and pulled out a chair for her. Don’t fall for his flattery. She wavered. But don’t give away that you know. She took the seat and thanked him while he unfastened his cloak and carefully slung it over another chair. When he sat next to her, the scar on his neck caught her eye again.
But perhaps it wasn’t him. Maybe it was a different man, with a different scar, caused by a different person.
“How did you get that?” she blurted, indicating the scar with a nod.
A wry smile tugged the corner of his mouth. “Perhaps by asking probing questions.”
So much for etiquette. She stared at the scar, her curiosity overpowering her caution. “A healer could fade that for you.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
His hand went to where his sword pommel would be—but slowly—a contemplative gesture. With the sword absent, he curled his fingers before resting his hands in his lap. “It’s a reminder of someone who died, and someone I have yet to hold to account.”
She swallowed. The Code of the Paladin forbade vengeance. Paladins swore to uphold the Code and, above all, the four Sacred Vows of the Paladin: piety, poverty, sobriety, and celibacy. Priests and paladins of the Order were always denying themselves everything to please their goddess, Terra. “I thought the Order forbade vengeance.”
“It does.”
Whom did he seek vengeance on? If it had to do with that scar, perhaps it was against the man who’d caused it. Evrard Gilles, of the Crag Company.
An apprentice entered, bearing two cups. Her lips pursed, she served them. Tendrils of steam undulated and curled off the black surface, intertwined with heat and sweet spice.
Luxurious Kamerish black tea.
Rielle fought a grimace. If the Proctor had wanted to be polite to Jon, he would have dismissed her. The only reason she was still here was because the Proctor wanted something from her.
So much for her plans to go back on mission.
What torturous task would he ask of her? No matter what he required, her position meant she had to accept. While she was under contract with the Divinity, the king couldn’t make her comply with her arranged marriage contract—to the man who’d humiliated her three years ago and been horrible ever since. Brennan Karandis Marcel. The werewolf.
She wouldn’t be free of her arranged marriage until she turned twenty-three... in eleven and a half months. Eleven and a half long, long, long months.
Mages could refuse missions, but if she did, she’d get on the Proctor’s bad side, and if she got on his bad side, well, he might look for reasons to give her demerits. And with enough demerits—
No, she couldn’t risk dismissal from the Divinity, and the Proctor knew it. He’d been using her as his left hand for years.
The Proctor returned. “I spoke with Derric.”
Jon’s expressionless face betrayed nothing.
The Proctor sat at the head of the table. “Derric insists that instead of coming to Monas Ver, you go straight to Monas Amar for further proceedings. He has asked that I send with you an escort until you are reunited with the other paladins.”
Jon raised his head. “Forgive the impropriety, but how can I know these orders are genuine?”
Her hand jerked, and she steadied her cup of tea before it could make a mess. Well, more of a mess than scalding her fingers.
The Proctor leaned back in his chair and observed Jon for a pensive moment. “He told me that you are no longer of the Order, Jonathan Ver, and that if you are here, you well know it.”
She turned toward the paladin. The forsworn paladin.
He sat still, silent, his smoldering gaze locked with the Proctor’s. The questions were myriad and unspeakable, at least in the Proctor’s presence.
Which of the four Sacred Vows had he broken, and how? Was it the vow of piety—because he sought vengeance? Or was it celibacy, perhaps? She suppressed the curious smile threatening to show itself on her face.
Regardless, if an escort was required, the Order wanted him punished, debriefed, or just wanted to make sure he returned his arcanir.
But what had he done to get himself discharged?
The Proctor regarded Jon expectantly.
“I am a man of honor,” Jon said, his voice firm. “I have broken none of the four Sacred Vows.”
“Why you were discharged from your order is not my concern, but an old friend of mine has asked a favor, and I am inclined to grant it.” The Proctor turned his attention to her. “And your mission is to escort this man to Monas Amar.”
An escort. Fantastic. He obviously could take care of himself and didn’t need her protection; she could have been helping those who did. Wrangling a stubborn paladin all the way to Monas Amar would be a waste of her skills and a headache. A month-long headache. She cringed, looking at the tea. It was an unfit inducement.
Instead of helping those who needed it, a month spent with a man who hated mages and the Divinity. She hesitated. “Isn’t there someone else available... whose abilities better suit this particular mission?”
“I don’t need an escort—or a guard,” Jon insisted. “If Derric wants me to go to Monas
Amar, I’ll go. On my own. I need no help from mages.”
“I agreed to assign you a capable escort,” the Proctor said sternly, “and so have I done.”
She sighed inwardly. That was that.
At least she could possibly, with exemplary service, earn a commendation and advance one step closer to the magister’s mantle. That tenure would mean inclusion in the Magisterium, the advisory body that helped the Grand Divinus determine worthy causes for the Divinity to pursue, among other matters. It would also mean permanent insulation from her arranged marriage. She hid a hopeful smile.
Only two more commendations, and she’d get a chance to test for magister. With her luck, her sponsor would hate her and the promotions board would ignore her achievements to focus on scandal. But a chance—even a slim chance—was more than she’d ever had.
Jon stared at the Proctor for a tense moment but finally nodded.
“Good,” the Proctor replied, “because you leave at dawn.”
“Who’s my partner on this?” she asked. Mages worked in pairs.
The Proctor glowered at her. “No partner.”
Off the books.
“I trust you to prioritize completion of this mission—”
No detours.
“—and return to the Tower for your reward.”
Or you’re excommunicated and left without protection from your arranged marriage contract. Got it. “Understood.”
“You will travel to Monas Amar with stops at the cities of Bournand and Melain and no others. Make camp in the wilds, if you must.”
No other cities? The Proctor wouldn’t forbid a stop unless it was unsafe, but why would it be unsafe to stop anywhere else?
“Proctor—”
“No questions.” The Proctor grabbed a sheet of parchment and scribbled a note, then rolled it up. “Bernadette will have supplies delivered to your quarters.” He turned to Jon. “Please accept our hospitality tonight.”
Jon inclined his head, his posture stiff. “Thank you, my lord.”
He, too, had no options.
The Proctor turned to her. “Magos, I’m awarding you a commendation for your performance tonight.”
She raised her eyebrows, trying but failing to engage her paralyzed tongue. A commendation... Only one more—one—and she could test for magister. And all that stood in her way was an in-person hearing, a thorough evaluation of her history, winning over her unknown sponsor, lucking out with the selection of three magisters who didn’t hate her for the promotions board, an exam failed by the vast majority of candidates—
Her spine threatened to turn to jelly, but she stiffened. There was time enough to worry about all that later. For now, she had to carry out this escort mission in exemplary fashion. No pressure.
She manipulated her uncooperative body into a bow. “Thank you, Proctor.” Now that he was in a good mood, perhaps he’d finally tell her what he knew of Olivia? “Proctor, if I may, about Olivia—”
“Please escort Sir Jonathan to your vacant apprentice quarters for the night.” The etched lines of his face left no room to argue.
She sighed. The protest died on her lips. After this mission, she’d go to Courdeval and check on Olivia herself. It was less than a day’s ride from Monas Amar.
The air at the Tower was becoming scarce, but soon, grapes might ripen on the willows. Snow might fall in the summer. The sun might rise in the west. And she might become a magister.
A slim chance, but a chance nonetheless. No more dirty work. No more arranged marriage. No more fear of fureur.
But this mission first.
She nodded. “Yes, Proctor.”
Chapter 3
Jon trudged down the spiral stairway behind Rielle. Why had Derric asked for a mage to escort him? Derric had raised him from infancy, true enough, but was it really fatherly concern about his disobedience?
How patronizing. If Derric had but spoken to him, even by way of that brazier device—aerarius, was it?—Jon would have heeded his commands.
But no, instead, here he was, following a mage to quarters for the night, the first of many together on the way to Monas Amar.
Moving up alongside her, he studied her. Long, straw-blond locks tamed into a thick braid; a stubborn chin; full lips; and eyes the color of a summer sky. A worried frown, unwanted storm cloud, creased her brow. No more pleased by the mission than he was.
She glanced his way briefly and stiffened, then her face tightened in a smile. Forced smile. She moved ahead and descended three floors on the spiral steps, then entered a sconce-lit hall. Circular, windowless.
They stopped at a door, like all the others; wrought-iron long-strap hinges, scrolling decoratively, bound the sturdy oaken boards. She unlocked it and beckoned him to follow her into the dark.
“This way.” With a gesture of her fingers, she cast a spell—a glowing light, tiny like a candle’s flame—and guided them through an antechamber with two doors, one of them open. The candle’s flame illuminated the small room, its austere stone walls softened with massive tapestries, its cold floor cushioned with a heavy-pile off-white rug with an ornate pattern. A vase of white roses graced a round table with four chairs, and beyond it, just below a window, a long table bore a line of clear vessels containing a variety of clippings—flowers, twigs, all in varying stages of growth.
So she liked plants. A lot.
A soft clatter came from farther in. Rielle ambled through a doorway to an open window in the bedchamber. The flowing white lace curtains flared around her as she latched it. The room was larger than the antechamber, but despite squinting in the dimness, he couldn’t make out much beyond a large hearth awaiting flame, more plants silhouetted against the darkness, a double bed, shoes lying about the room, and books stacked on every available surface.
Clearly, she hadn’t planned on guests.
His pack—thank Terra—rested on the floor next to the desk, and upon it—
Faithkeeper and his dagger. Since taking his vows eight years ago, Faithkeeper had always been within reach. Until tonight.
Terra have mercy, he’d prayed these mages hadn’t taken off with his weapons to... study the arcanir, or whatever they did with something they so rarely got their hands on. He stared at his weapons belt. If only wishing for it to be in his possession could make it so.
But he’d never broken his word, and he wouldn’t begin now.
She approached the desk, unclipped Faithkeeper from the belt, and held it out to him.
Frozen, he gawked at her. “You trust me?”
“Sword or no sword, I can handle you.” She cracked a smile. “So there’s no harm in returning it.” The dagger, however, she left clipped to the sword belt.
He glanced about the room and its lacking space, greedily claimed by furnishings. No swordsman in his right mind would attempt using a long sword in such close quarters. She must have known that much.
He accepted Faithkeeper, a peace offering, and once the fine-grain leather of the sheath was back in his hands, he exhaled his relief. Terra help him, he’d never surrender his weapons again. “Thank you, mage.”
“You’re welcome. Gather your pack.” Once he shouldered the bag, she led him back to the antechamber and pushed open the adjoining door to a dark room. “You’ll be staying here tonight.”
As he tried to make out the furnishings in the light of her spell, she gestured a flame with her other hand and flung it at the hearth.
A roaring fire sparked to life.
She opened the window, then flitted to the wash basin, where she conjured water to fill it.
All these things that took so much time to do every day, she did with simple gestures. He shook his head.
She repeated the feat over the water carafe and the tub, which even steamed. Hot water. His muscles practically melted at the thought.
When he caught her gaze, she smirked. Full of herself, no doubt. He narrowed his eyes. “Magic, even for such simple things?”
Her smirk vanished.
He dropped the pack on the floor and unfastened his cloak.
In the light of the hearth, the room was extravagant, furnished in blackwood furniture—a four-poster double bed, two tall nightstands, a desk, an upholstered chair, vanity, and two armchairs—and jewel-toned brocades. A tapestry hung on the wall against the cold, and a thick rug added warmth to the marble floor.
The Divinity wasted coin on these luxuries, when there were children who starved in nearby towns and villages? The Grand Divinus claimed the Divinity of Magic was a “religion.” If mages worshipped anything, it seemed to be coin.
At the monastery, he and his brothers all slept on simple straw mattresses with rough-spun bedding, enough to be serviceable, with furniture made by the paladins and priests themselves from the white-pine Ver Forest.
He laid his cloak over the desk’s chair. “The room’s... lavish.”
She frowned.
Perhaps it was simple to her. Normal. Leaning against a bedpost, he unfastened the straps on his gauntlets.
“We leave an hour after sunrise,” she said.
He could still try to make a run for it—break down the door, attempt to escape down the spiral stairwell and dispatch any mages who dared get in his way. Or he could leave with her tomorrow, and then lose her in the woods. He didn’t need a nanny.
But orders... Derric had given him an order. The Proctor’s knowledge of the discharge message had confirmed it.
I’m going to Monas Amar with this mage.
“Can’t wait,” he said flatly.
“Fine. Goodnight.” Her pretty face slack, she quit the room and shut the door.
He straightened. Had he upset her? He crept to the door, rested a palm on it. She’d captured him, true enough, but had only done her duty; otherwise, she’d been professional and hospitable... and he’d been rude and judgmental.
Was it too late to apologize? Too awkward?
Blade & Rose (Blade and Rose Book 1) Page 3