Blade & Rose (Blade and Rose Book 1)

by Miranda Honfleur

  Let the heavens fall upon my head if I defend not the innocent, help not the weak, redeem not the suffering. “The Holy Mother bids us forgive each eve and rise without malice in our hearts.” He hadn’t lived up to those words, but they inspired. He rolled onto his side to face her. “What troubles you?”

  Only tell me, and I’ll see it remedied.

  She curled up tighter in her bedroll, drawing her knees in toward her chest, slender arms holding together what threatened to fall apart.

  He resisted the inclination to lend a comforting touch. Terrans had unburdened themselves to him over the years by the hundreds, seeking guidance when shadows lengthened in their hearts. He had listened, guided when asked, and had strictly kept each one’s confidence.

  “If you don’t wish to tell me, you needn’t, but I’m here for you.” He bit his tongue, but it was too late. His mouth had already gone too far.

  She sniffed bitterly. “For a Divinist?”

  “Unless it’s about the black arts. That’s between you and the rest of the hags that dance under the moon.”

  She gasped and shoved him, a burst of laughter escaping her lips. He retaliated with a nudge.

  Happy silence passed between them. He stared into the dark, touching the fading grin on his lips. Terra have mercy, but he was actually enjoying this. He cleared his throat. Who keeps his tongue keeps himself from trouble.

  “Thank you,” she said, by all signs earnest. “Perhaps someday, I will take you up on your offer.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “It’s no more than I would offer anyone else.” A prevarication, but he needed to make up for his earlier misstep. In such close quarters, his usual measure against temptation—physical distance—was unavailable, but he could use a different kind of distance. Callousness. He turned away once more. “No, on second thought, you’re right. Your idle musings aren’t my concern. Why don’t you keep them to yourself next time so I can get some sleep?”

  Too far. He immediately regretted the words.

  “By all means,” she snapped. “I wouldn’t presume to keep you.”

  An apology would have been proper, but he thought the better of it. Rudeness would serve his vows, even if it disappointed etiquette. Overcompensating rudeness.

  He mulled over the notion. Surliness pushed her away, provided him with the space to preserve his vows. In the absence of physical distance, perhaps it could accomplish what he needed.

  Yes, this would be his winning strategy. He lay back and tried to sleep.

  But it didn’t sit right. If she was troubled, he wanted to stay up as long as it took to assuage her unrest. It had nothing to do with temptation; it was about relieving another’s burdens.

  Would it bring them closer?

  If so, as much he disliked refusing to help, he couldn’t risk it. Monas Amar was still a long journey away, and his resolve had already begun to weaken. He couldn’t risk getting any closer to this woman.

  She hates me. A woman with pride like hers wouldn’t forgive the insult. Any man who derided her would find himself quickly cast away. And rightly so. Any man who derided her didn’t deserve the pleasure of her company.

  He’d insulted her, she’d snapped at him, and somehow he respected her for it?

  Distance. Distance, Terra’s troth, save me from this madness.

  “I forgive you,” she blurted out.

  He raised his head. “Hm?”

  “I’m trying to go to sleep without malice in my heart,” she said, with a cynical edge. “I forgive you for being such a bastard. Goodnight.” With that, she faced away from him and went silent.

  He let his head rest on the bedroll once more, and although he didn’t reply, a grin lingered on his face. He traced it with a finger and frowned.

  Madness is already upon me.

  He needed his restraint to hold. A man without restraint was a city without walls. He would keep his walls, or he’d need to remove the reason for them. The thought shrouded his tired mind until sleep took him.

  Chapter 9

  Brennan raced through the forest’s dense undergrowth in the shadow of the Tainn Mountains, covering more ground on four paws than he ever could on two legs. The freshness of damp earth filled his nostrils, along with the mustiness of old fallen foliage and the almost sweet scent of pine.

  He could close his eyes and nearly forget her—but the honeyed notes of late-blooming honeysuckle bordering the woods invaded his keen nose, conjuring up images of Laurentine, honeysuckle vines on its coat-of-arms, and there she was again.

  He bared his teeth and ran faster, willing each stride to distance him from thoughts of her. What he needed was to get home and come up with a plan to handle his rebellious betrothed. Time had already dwindled to less than twelve months, and soon it would disappear altogether.

  He forced out an angry exhalation. The last Lothaire of Laurentine, his snarling little she-wolf, had few options if she wanted to honor her family. And she did want to. Desperately. He curled his upper lip.

  She wouldn’t die unmarried and childless, shirking duty and leaving her entire family in shame. Not Rielle. She’d been waiting him out, perhaps planning to marry some lowly baron—or what dregs remained of the Houses beyond the nobility already betrothed since childhood. Or perhaps she planned to take a new commoner plaything to bed, bear a son out of wedlock, a bastard ostracized by the Houses but able to inherit all the wealth of Laurentine and carry on her bloodline.

  He snarled. Never. No Marcel had ever countenanced such a slight. He wouldn’t be the first.

  For years, he’d been waiting her out, and in eleven months, it would all be for naught? Every day that passed was another day closer to the end of the betrothal’s term, her twenty-third birthday, and every day passing without her bearing him a child was another day she could die. Another risk.

  A blood curse like theirs could be ended by a joining of the master and thrall bloodlines. By a joining of their bloodlines. By the conception of a child between them.

  She’d have to agree; she couldn’t hold out forever.

  His throat tightened, along with the rest of him.

  He needed a solution soon. His life in his own hands again, not at the mercy of a girl’s whims. That day in the Tower nine years ago, he’d known the Divinity’s power to shield its mages from the king’s influence; he’d played every card in his hand to entice his young fiancée into a quick marriage and had left with nothing. Less than nothing. A reputation for being refused by a thirteen-year-old orphan in favor of scouring pots and pans and learning a few spells.

  He, a Marcel, most faithful of Nox, the Great Wolf, the Dark God, the Unseen One, Life-Taker, Death-Eater, He-Who-Carries-Away-All. His family had not made offerings for centuries to be rewarded with such low regard.

  Even if she hated him, he’d seen the way she eyed him sometimes. He could get her into bed. It might only take once to get what he needed. He swished his tail in pleasant rumination.

  If his seduction failed, he could spread word of her every common relationship and shame her into eventual submission, as long as she never learned the source of the rumors. Marriage to him would restore her instantly; no one would dare speak ill of a Marcel’s wife lest they desired humiliation, pain, or death. Her fatal attractions with scandal—the affair with that wild mage, and her glorious degradation at Tregarde three years ago, among others—had convinced him she would never willingly invite it into her life again.

  In the end, she would give him what he wanted. They always did.

  A plan. He had a plan. His throat relaxed, his muscles loosened with relief. A course of action. Finally.

  At last, the sprawling stone walls of Maerleth Tainn came into view. He made for his usual point in the darkness of the mountains and Changed to man-beast to scale it. Once over, he Changed back to full wolf and ran around the outskirts of the city enceinte toward the massive castle. He entered through one of a network of subterranean passages, traveled between labyrinthine walls an
d dozens of windings.

  Stale air gave way to the myriad scents of Tainn Castle, and soon he pushed a panel open into his quarters. Since his first Change, he had seen clearly in the darkness, something he’d had to hide from his family and everyone else for fear of death. He closed the panel and, in complete darkness, quickly donned a pair of black silk pants.

  He headed to the washbasin and scoured the dirt off his skin. Unlike men and beasts, he didn’t tire but for extreme exertions, but he could do nothing about the dust and grime of the forest floor, traitors eager to spill his secrets before all eyes. He scrubbed his feet and dried them. Such precautions were necessary if he wanted to avoid the fates of the suspected werewolves among his ancestors, necessary honor killings performed in secret. Miscarriages. Beheading. Quartering. Burning at the stake. Sometimes uncanny accidents.

  He eyed his desk, where in a locked drawer, he kept what journals he’d found about the beasts of the Marcel bloodline, all firstborn sons of firstborn sons. His grandfather’s older brother had been stillborn, and it had been decades since there had been a werewolf among the Marcels. Until my first Change eleven years ago.

  But every day he remained a werewolf risked his life. And that cold-hearted bitch can’t be bothered to care.

  He longed to return to Tregarde, to hear Liliane’s counsel; although she never approved of his intrigues, she could always be counted on to assess them. She had been his bodyguard and his first, taught him the ways of the lover, the courtier, the plotter. At forty years of age, she was his oldest friend, if a Companion of the Camarilla could be called such. And yet, she knew nothing of his curse, his suffering. Even she might recoil from the monster. She had to be kept in the dark, like everyone else save for Rielle. He fought back a growl.

  He threw the towel aside.

  Distant, soft footsteps came from the hall—a woman’s. He grabbed the washbasin, rushed to the garderobe, and poured out the dirty water.

  As he finished, he caught the scent of jasmine and warmth. Mother. She knocked softly.

  Silent as death, he crept into his bed and covered himself with a blanket. “Come in,” he rasped.

  She opened the door, letting in the illumination of a single candle. “Brennan? Are you abed?”

  “Yes, Mother. Is everything all right?” He sat up, grabbed the flint and pyrite to light his bedside candle.

  Clad in an elaborately embroidered dressing gown, her long brown waves unbound, she was the picture of elegance. She placed her candlestick on a table, and sat on the edge of his bed. “Your chamberlain said you weren’t in your quarters earlier.”

  “I wasn’t. Not in my quarters.”

  She eyed his bare chest and still-damp skin and raised an eyebrow. “Please, tell your mother no more.” She patted his blanketed ankle. “The guard has warned your father—a large black wolf mysteriously appeared inside the city walls again tonight and has been seen prowling the grounds. I know you come and go as you please to Tregarde and elsewhere, so I wanted to make sure you were safe and that you take care.”

  If he didn’t know better, he could almost believe she was warning him that the guards had seen him. He studied her even forest-green gaze, gentle and placid as ever.

  No. She didn’t know. She couldn’t know.

  She was genuinely concerned a wolf might hurt him. A novel thought. In addition to a dueling master, Father had paid his own weight in gold to buy his only son hand-to-hand combat training from a Faris grandmaster in Sonbahar, and he still employed a Faris master at Tainn Castle to train his knights.

  He took her hand. “I can handle myself, Mother. I promise.”

  She studied him with searching eyes until she finally squeezed his hand and nodded. “I love having you here.”

  His smile faded, and he looked away. “But?”

  She shook her head. “You’re turning twenty-seven this autumn, and you’re my only son. You should have your own children by now. Half a dozen, at least.”

  His back stiffened, and he fought back a smile. “Mother—”

  “I don’t blame you, but that girl has humiliated you long enough.” Her face set, she could fit in among any army on a battlefield.

  “It is I who have humiliated her, Mo—” He stopped short. He wasn’t about to tell his own mother about the shameful deed he’d done.

  “That was three years ago.”

  He swallowed. She’d heard about it? Mother, of all people, was privy to what he’d done to Rielle? “You know?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “My son, there is nothing about you I don’t know.” She held his gaze a moment. “You’re strong, intelligent, capable, rich, handsome. That girl is disgraced, only getting older, working for the Divinity like some commoner, and has no other prospects. If she came to her senses, she would thank the Great Wolf for her good fortune and marry you.”

  If only it were so easy. “Yes, well—”

  “And the only person more adamant than your father about adhering to the marriage contract is you.” She took a deep breath and sighed. “Remind me again why it must be her.”

  Because she’s the only one who can break my curse, but she hates me so much that she won’t share my bed unless it’s to do her marital duty and consummate as the scion of House Lothaire... Even the ridiculous answer would get him killed. “Because I love her. I’ve loved her ever since I was a boy. I made one stupid mistake, and I will spend the rest of my life trying to make up for it if I have to.” The honeyed words were enough to make him retch, but there were few believable answers.

  “Fortunately it’s only eleven more months. You could learn to love another woman.”

  “Not like her.” He clenched his teeth.

  Mother let the silence settle for a moment. “When your father mentioned the black wolf, I told him it was none other than the Great Wolf himself come to protect His most faithful servants during this difficult time, now that the king is dead.”

  His breath caught. “The king is dead?”

  Was this the bad feeling about the capital that Rielle had mentioned?

  “Yes, my son. King Marcus, Prince James... the Faralle line. And many eyes turn to your father now.” She rose with effort. “All the more reason you must take care. Although I believe the black wolf is He-Who-Carries-Away-All, our most holy god, my hedge witch has called it the Black Dog, le Rongeur d’Os of legend, omen and bringer of death. Watch your step, my son, and the eyes upon you.” She kissed his forehead, reclaimed her candlestick, and left the room.

  He blew out his own candle and stared into the darkness, willing the cold sweat from his body as smoke stung his nostrils.

  Watch your step, my son, and the eyes upon you.

  The breath abandoned his lungs. She knows.

  Did she? Could she? He gasped. He could wait no longer. He needed the curse broken as soon as possible—by whatever means necessary.

  Chapter 10

  The cell door slammed shut behind Archmage Olivia Sabeyon, and the lock clicked with a metallic hiss. A right turn, twenty-eight steps, a left turn, two flights of stairs, a right turn... Always the same. Every day, a Crag Company mercenary came to her cell, blindfolded her, and took her to the Hall of Mirrors. She could tell it instantly from the scent of iron and something like frankincense, light lemon notes and evergreens. Recondite. No other place in Trèstellan Palace smelled so heavily of recondite but the Hall of Mirrors.

  And every day, some mercenary would tie her to a chair and simply stand over her but for the rare slapping, flogging, and cold blade pressed against her skin. Soon enough, the whole ordeal would end. She was always taken back to her cell to continue the next day. Like today. Like tomorrow.

  She spun and threw herself against the door.

  “Let me see James!” she shouted. Prince James Maximilien Breckenridge Faralle, Duke of Guillory, the king’s brother and her lover, had been alive when last she saw him. Please be alive, James.

  The Crag Company mercenary merely regarded her with a sneer and
departed, along with the light.

  “Who’s on the other side of the mirror? Who?” she screamed down the darkening dungeon corridor. Her voice echoed in the blackness to no effect.

  These dark walls had become her bower, silent but for the skittering of vermin and rush of faraway water, and cold as the grave. That day, that fateful day, the great hall in Trèstellan Palace had shone, golden, brilliantly bright, in only the light of the magnificent crystal chandeliers and sconces. Hosting a Sileni prince and his son, King Marcus had hoped to arrange a marriage for his youngest granddaughter. And no expense had been spared.

  How deep had the treason gone? Filtered through the ranks of the guard, the army, the household?

  A priest of the Order of Terra had arrived, bearing an urgent message for King Marcus from Paladin Grand Cordon Guérin, and as the king had beckoned him to his ear, the air had been hot, full, weighed far more heavily than its three hundred guests.

  Five hundred breaths had stolen the air, from the corners, from the shadows, from the cover of magic, and as the strange priest leaned in, his dagger sharp into the king’s flesh, two hundred blades pierced flesh from the corners, from the shadows, from the cover of magic. She had turned, caught an edge to the shoulder, immediately tried to cast a sleep spell but found her magic inert. Arcanir poison.

  Her attacker’s arm quickly dislocated from his shoulder, by none other than James.

  Blood darkened the red brocade of James’s doublet. A wound to the chest. But he lived. Without a word, he swept her away, the room a spinning top of spattering blood, a chaos of screams and wet gurgles, the marble damp with death and laden with bodies. Before they disappeared behind a curtain, she glimpsed King Marcus, lifeless on the table next to his sons, Crown Prince Robert and Prince Basile—and their wives and children. All dead.

  A panel opened and shut, and she trembled in the darkness, borne away by James’s arms alone.

  “Are you loyal to the Divinity?”

  Darkness amplified the screams, choked her.