Blade & Rose (Blade and Rose Book 1)

by Miranda Honfleur

  The lock turned, and he took a step back.

  Too late. Definitely too late.

  Tomorrow would be better. He’d make an effort.

  Heaving a sigh, he let his gaze settle on the bath. The steaming-hot bath. Yes.

  He removed the rest of his armor and undressed, then sank into the blessedly hot water. Terra have mercy, there was nothing better on earth.

  She’d spelled it so simply—he held a hand over the water and wriggled his fingers as she had hers—and it had been so, with her long, tapered fingers. Elegant. Smooth, uncallused skin. Soft, he recalled, as he’d kissed her hand. Slender, delicate wrists...

  He rested his head on the rim of the tub and hissed. At the Proctor’s insinuation that they were lovers, his mind had illustrated the notion. Vividly. Meeting the surly mage, glittering in her ferocity, for a moonlit tryst in the surrounding forest, eye to eye, face to face, body to body. A woman who didn’t shrink away from challenge. His gaze had roved over her domineering sky-blue eyes, her stately posture, her—Terra help him—shapely figure, and he’d tasted that distant reality, right there in the Proctor’s quarters, for one excruciating moment before he’d pulled back, hard, and remembered who he was.

  Sodalis of the Order of Terra, eighth rank, Monas Ver First Company. Regardless of what some paper said.

  The mage was comely but, to him, an unwanted distraction. It would never happen. He held to the Sacred Vows.

  He forced his mind where he always did: the five-foot serpentine blade of a flambard. A crown strike, a block, an advance matched step for step, bound blades, disengage. A mirrored stance, sure feet, each step aware and stable. Blinded by rage, he’d once stumbled, but never again. In his mind, ever he surveyed that field of battle. No rage. Cold calculation and the sword. Only the sword. One last duel, an arrest, and he’d go home to visit Bastien’s grave with justice in hand.

  He washed quickly, dried off, then pulled clean braies from his pack and dressed for bed. From among his armor, he retrieved his belt pouch and the familiar tiny, corked round glass vial inside.

  A cluster of golden yellow blossoms filled the vessel. Immortelle. It bloomed the better part of the year all around Monas Ver, fields of sunshine gold surrounding the monastery. Surrounding home. Derric grew it for medicine, but it had become the essence of home.

  He took Faithkeeper in hand, left it nearby, accessible, and then slipped into the bed’s soft, warm embrace. Tension fled his aching muscles. Terra’s troth, it was comfortable.

  Maybe he’d have to reevaluate the mages’ extravagance.

  He uncorked the vial of immortelle and inhaled the scent, so like autumnal maple leaves but spicier; it took him back to long days in the sun, training with his brothers, ever surrounded by bright immortelle. It bloomed in early summer and remained all year until the first frost, and once cut, immortelle dried almost perfectly preserved and kept for many months. He’d cut this cluster four months ago and hoped to be home again before its gold faded.

  Would he still be welcome? Discharged paladins never came to the monasteries. Would he be one of them? Nothing left in the monastery of him but a ghost while he made his way laboring for anyone hiring extra hands?

  He corked the vial.

  First things first: he’d go to Monas Amar, Sacred Vows unbroken, and petition for reinstatement. Either he’d find a way, or he’d make one. When he would finally return to Monas Ver, it would be as a brother, not a ghost.

  As orders dictated, he would just have to allow the mage in the next room to take him.

  Chapter 4

  When someone knocked at her door, Rielle jumped out of bed, flushed, heart racing. It was still dark. Jon should be sleeping—what could he want at this hour?

  Divine, just like her dream. She laid a palm over her chest, willing her pulse to slow. It was the Proctor’s fault. He’d planted the thought in her mind with his baseless accusation that Jon was her lover.

  Blood rushed to her face. If only the Order of Terra mandated the mutual exclusivity of celibacy and attractiveness.

  Perhaps it hadn’t been a knock. An illusion of the night, and no more...

  She took a deep, calming breath. Her anima sought resonance; that was it. Yes, that was all. That deep, replenishing connection with another mage, which somehow made the sum greater than its parts, the greatest coming from complementary mage pairs. Yet practical need to brighten anima wasn’t the only draw to resonance. Greater than any other, it was pleasure, a spiritual sensation unlike any other.

  Like others of her kind, she needed a fellow mage from time to time.

  But Jon was no mage.

  It was an urge, no more, like hunger or thirst, and she could control it. If she had to, she could live off crumbs of brightening and just meditate for a few days instead of resonance.

  Another soft knock. She lit a candle at her desk with a flick of her wrist. A simple spell, it barely dimmed her anima.

  She darted to the wash basin, splashed her face to freshen up. For modesty’s sake, she grabbed her silk nightgown’s matching robe. No need to taunt the poor man. Her heart raced like a gust spell, and she covered her chest with a palm, willing it to slow.

  What did he want? She headed for the door and stopped in front of it, taking a few breaths.

  The knock sounded again. Farther away. It wasn’t from the adjoining door but from the hallway. Not Jon.

  She stilled, blinking too fast, and pressed her lips together. Idiot. She blew out a breath. Someone was at the hall door.

  Eyebrow raised, she went to it. At least whoever was in the hallway hadn’t featured in her latest dreamy insanity, and wasn’t looking to escape. She gathered her wits about her and opened it.

  Leigh Galvan stood in the doorway—a tall, slender wild mage in his early thirties and her former master. His black almond-shaped eyes, a gift of his mother’s Kamerish heritage, contrasted sharply with his platinum-white hair, the mark of a survivor and master of wild magic.

  Heredity wasn’t the only door to magic. Harnessing the wild magic of the land from a Vein was usually fatal, but rarely, an exceptional person could control the massive primal force and come away a mage, and a strong one at that.

  Someone like Leigh.

  When she’d been his apprentice, she’d gotten to know him better than any apprentice should ever know a master, but she’d never learned why he’d taken such a risk.

  He leaned against the doorjamb, disheveled. So he’d spent the evening and most of the night up to no good, like most nights. His black mage coat and a crimson brocade waistcoat hung open, his white shirt unfastened well past his smooth ivory-colored chest.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He grinned coyly, half-shutting his eyes. “What? Can’t I visit a former apprentice?”

  “Not this one, and you well know it,” she grumbled, leaning out to search the hallway. If anyone saw him here—

  “Oh, relax.” The smell of alcohol blew past her. She rolled her eyes and took a step back.

  He sauntered into the antechamber and drew the door shut behind him, ignoring her frown. “Everyone knows our time is done.”

  For the last three years, she’d kept a reputation beyond reproach, avoiding even a single catastrophic misstep. Such as letting into her quarters the man the Divinity expressly forbade her from fraternizing with.

  He leaned against the door, eyeing her darkly, then winked. She kept her frown in place.

  “All right, then. Frowny face it is. On to business.” He proceeded into her bedchamber, pulled the chair away from her desk, and plopped into it. “I heard that you took a prisoner,” he said, with a playful lilt to his smooth, melodious voice.

  “I did.” More of a charge now. Was that what had brought him here? Didn’t seem worth his time.

  Gazing past her toward the bed, he remarked, “I came to see for myself.”

  She followed his line of sight and sighed her annoyance. “Really? The bed? Perhaps that’s where you keep
your charges, but I’d say that’s an... uncommon... preference.”

  He shrugged. His lips pursed, he looked unsatisfied by the inspection. “I can’t help but wonder what you do out in that forest on your... midnight jaunts.”

  Midnight jaunts. The same words the Proctor had used. Exactly the same.

  As much as she had wanted to tell him about her sangremancy bond with Brennan, how their monthly offerings helped him control his Wolf, Brennan had sworn her to secrecy.

  If word got out, it would end with his werewolf head on a spike. As much as she hated him, she didn’t wish for his death.

  From under his pale lashes, Leigh stared up at her with a wry grin and swayed in his chair. “I thought ‘lover,’ but no, too simple. You don’t love anymore, and you’ve been sneaking out for so long, since before you and I were involved, and you would never have betrayed me when we were...”

  No, she wouldn’t have.

  “But you’re no purist, either,” he continued, “so no dancing under the moon, honoring the Dark Age of Magic. And you being an elementalist and all makes it quite a challenge for anyone to follow you.”

  For an elementalist, it was easy enough to magically cultivate a thicket here, open a hole in the ground there. It may not have been good fun for the tails the Proctor sent after her, but it certainly kept them busy.

  “Tell me.”

  The days when Leigh’s interest could rove into any facet of her life were long gone. “Not your concern.”

  With a sigh, he leaned back in the chair and scowled at her. In her days as his apprentice, he’d always managed to arduously work any defiance out of her, but no longer.

  They had both changed since then.

  “You will always be my concern.”

  She withdrew to the window and pulled the drapes and curtains aside, finding the surrounding land still dark. There were more important concerns. Perhaps she could divert his attention to those.

  Her eyes darted to the crystal goblet on her desk again, and Olivia’s old letters beneath it. “Any news of Olivia?”

  Another of Leigh’s former apprentices—although, granted, not nearly as... close as Rielle had been—Olivia had recently achieved the most coveted court position for a mage in all of Emaurria: Archmage, one of the Grands on King Marcus’s High Council, and adviser on all things magic.

  A crooked grin displaced Leigh’s frown. “None. Or anything from Courdeval, for that matter. Don’t change the subject.”

  “Nothing from Courdeval at all?” No correspondence from the capital? Unlikely. “In how long?”

  “It depends. What do you do out in the forest every month?” His gaze followed her as she made her bed.

  Maybe then he’d stop staring at it as if it were some sort of invitation.

  “Just tell me,” she said, pulling the sheet tight.

  “Days,” he answered.

  Days? What could cease all correspondence from the capital for days? She wandered back to the desk, moved the crystal goblet to the edge, and opened Olivia’s letter again. Perhaps there was some clue as to what might have happened at the capital. Why hadn’t the Proctor just used the aerarius to reach out to Courdeval? Or allowed her to? It didn’t add up.

  Her back to Leigh, she reread the letter. Nothing.

  “You can tell me what you do out there,” he said, his voice warm and near. “I’ll keep your confidence.”

  She forced out an exasperated sigh. What would it take for him to leave her alone about it? “I tear my clothes off, rub mud all over myself, and scream up at the dead gods,” she hissed, slamming the letter down on the desk. “I sacrifice animals, deflower virgins, and dance under the moon, cackling.”

  His half-laugh misted on her neck, and she froze. He slipped her robe from her shoulders. It dropped to the floor, silk feathering against her legs to her feet. A whisper of fingertips caressed her bare arm from wrist to shoulder; a frisson rippled her ready flesh. His nearness felt so familiar, so comfortable. She closed her eyes.

  His arm glided under hers to wrap around her waist, his palm pressing to her belly in the firm way she’d always liked. His lips brushed against her skin where her jaw met her ear, sending a tendril of need through her body. “Tell me. Perhaps our interests are aligned.”

  “And what is it you’re interested in?”

  “Right now?” His hand descended from her belly at the painstaking pace that had always driven her mad with desire, gathering the fabric of her nightgown. “This.”

  These were the steps to a dance they both knew well, but the music had stopped years ago.

  She grabbed his wrist. “We shouldn’t.”

  The words left her mouth against all indications from her body. Allowing this would be a mistake, toying with their rank and position in the Tower—and for what? A meaningless romp? They could each get that elsewhere.

  “Shouldn’t...” His lips kissed their way down her receptive neck in negotiation. “Very different from ‘I don’t want to.’ ”

  A part of her wanted to, and he happened to be convenient, but that part didn’t get to decide.

  Once, nothing short of the Divinity of Magic itself could have kept them apart, but she didn’t love him like that anymore. Years ago, after the Divinity’s official ruling, he’d done everything possible to extinguish her love. He’d jumped from bed to bed, turned aloof, derisive even. And he’d succeeded.

  At first, she’d thought he wanted to create the semblance of distance between them. At nineteen, she hadn’t understood. She’d fought him, and worried, and cried, and scolded, and threatened, but he’d made plain his goal wasn’t the semblance of distance between them but actual distance.

  So much had changed between them. They were... something more than friends, but not lovers. And their relationship, such as it was, meant a lot to her. One night like this could destroy three years of progress.

  “It’s not worth the risk.” She pulled his hand away from her clothes.

  “What risk?” he whispered.

  “To our positions, our relationship—” She turned to face him. Her elbow collided with the crystal goblet. With a clink, it toppled onto the desk and rolled.

  Frantic, she grabbed for it, but it fell to the floor and shattered.

  “Leigh!” she exclaimed. He could’ve done something other than stand there. Great Divine, he was a force mage! He could’ve used his magic to catch it.

  “What?” he shot back, staring at the mess.

  A loud crash—the adjoining door smashed onto the floor.

  Jon’s eyes found her immediately. Half-dressed, he leveled his massive sword at Leigh. “Move away from—”

  Leigh threw a force-magic spell at Jon, a blur that flew from his hand to Jon’s chest.

  It dissipated upon contact. Paladin sigil tattoos protected against magic.

  She raised her hands. “Both of you, just—”

  Leigh’s gaze darted to the crystal shards. It would be simple enough for him to throw them with magic—

  But he couldn’t kill a charge of the Divinity, and he knew it.

  He magically threw a book.

  Jon raised his sword, slashing it in half. The blade caught on the bedpost.

  When Leigh spelled a chair to fly at him, Jon dropped his sword and rolled. He closed the distance and grabbed Leigh’s collar.

  “Stop it!” One of them would be hurt if this continued.

  Jon threw Leigh to the ground, hissing as books, shoes, more shoes, and other items from all around the room hit him.

  “He attacked you,” Jon snarled. His merciless voice matched his expression as he pinned Leigh and grabbed his hands.

  “Control your prisoner.” Leigh thrashed beneath him, spelling a jagged shard of the crystal goblet to poise above Jon. With a simple gesture, it would fly directly into his back.

  She gestured a gust spell and sent the shard flying into the wall.

  Twitching, Leigh eyed it. He could spell it free again if he wanted. Trapped beneat
h Jon, he looked back to her, the desire to do just that plain in his wild eyes.

  With a glare, she shook her head. Don’t you dare. Carefully, she approached the two men, avoiding the remaining shards of crystal before her bare feet.

  Jon grabbed Leigh’s hands, crushing them in the grip of one palm, and then seized the mage’s neck.

  Leigh’s gaze remained unflinching. Only a mage of his caliber could maintain his control while pinned to the ground by a paladin.

  Jon stared at Leigh without deviation. “I heard you—”

  “That’s not what happened.” She knelt before Jon and, when he didn’t react, reached out to touch his cheek, a spark of sensation humming at their point of contact. Strange.

  He jerked his face up to hers, all fight.

  “The goblet shattered by accident.”

  He didn’t react.

  She remained still, and slowly, his expression relaxed. He glanced down at Leigh, who regarded him with no small amount of annoyance.

  He released Leigh and rose. He held out his hand and, when Leigh took it, pulled him to his feet. As Leigh made a show of dusting off his clothes, he shot Jon a peripheral scowl.

  “It’s time for you to leave.” She placed a hand on her hip and glared at Leigh.

  Leigh nodded until he glanced in her direction. He raised an eyebrow and pointed at himself in utter shock. “Me?”

  “You.” She tipped her head toward the hall.

  At least Jon had taken the difficulty out of turning down her former master and the all-too-tempting surrender he’d offered. Perhaps even Leigh would think the better of it when he sobered.

  He threw up his hands and strode toward the door, but then he turned and narrowed his eyes at Jon, tugged at the cuffs of his sleeves, and without another word, left.

  Shaking her head, she tried to settle on what she’d say to Jon. Are you all right? Or How much did you hear? Or the all-important, Would you be so kind as to keep this between us?

  Staring at the mess on the floor, he stood where she’d left him, barefoot and bare chested, firelight casting its glow on his tattooed skin. Power bulged and rippled beneath, animating the winding designs.