Instead, she’d caged him, taken on a dangerous enemy herself, and left him unable to defend himself or her. By the looks of it, she’d nearly burned to death and, by her own hand, left him trapped to await doom or destiny.
He drove a fist into the mud and clenched his teeth, grinding them until they creaked, radiating pain through his jaw.
She could have died.
He stared down at her, undecided whether he wanted to embrace her for surviving or shake her until some sense settled in.
Kneeling, he remained still until his breathing slowed and his muscles relaxed. He wouldn’t touch her—not like this—not until he knew his own strength again. Calm seeped in as he watched her breathing steady, and he took in the frailty of her singed, curled form.
What had she been thinking? The finality on her face as she’d sealed him in the cage crept into his mind. The gravitas. Sacrifice. Trying to protect him?
She expected to do everything herself. Investigate the ward breach herself. Fight the pyromancer herself. Protect him herself.
He’d seen it before, people who acted alone, who preferred to fight alone. Survivors. People who’d lost someone and now thought themselves alone.
Mistakenly. People like her believed that if they just took on danger alone, no one else would die. People like her ignored their own weaknesses and others’ strengths. People like her got others killed. And died.
Lying here like this, she appeared helpless, normal. No hint of her massive presence, her power. Her ferocity. All the things that drew him in and infuriated him. All the things that could make her stronger if she’d embrace them, if she’d open her eyes and cast away her willful blindness.
Rain soothed its way down his face and into his armor. She, too, lay soaked. He looked around—nothing and no one. He scooped her up and headed for the woods to find their horses. He needed to get her warm, comfortable. Somewhere safe, covered, when she awoke.
It was the least he could do; because when she finally came to, he’d give her hell. He’d give her hell, and she would never do this again.
Chapter 18
Rielle shifted, soft fur smooth against her bare legs. Her blanket. She rubbed her cheek against the pillow, pressing her face into its pleasing give. The rousing scent of black tea and bergamot beckoned. Morning already? Too soon...
When had she gone to sleep? She frowned, trying to recall the previous day... On the road, traveling with Jon, and then—
Flame.
She stiffened.
Jon. She snapped her eyes open.
Soft lamplight illuminated the tent and Jon’s stern face as he sat, watching her, his eyes half-lidded, his jaw set. He was here. Free. Unharmed. His dark hair was wet but clean, and he wore a fresh white linen shirt and fitted trousers tucked into his leather boots. He set down a steaming cup next to another.
He did not look happy.
She blinked under his scrutiny and struggled to sit up, her palms sticking to the bedroll’s canvas. Sticking? The sheen of a poultice covered her angry red skin. She raised it to her nose. Yarrow and grease... goose fat. Her gaze meandered to her sleeve.
No, the sleeve. An oversized white shirt she practically swam in. Crisp white linen. One of Jon’s. She glanced at him, but his quietly severe stare didn’t waver. Although she pulled aside the covers, she didn’t need to see her legs to know the shirt hit just above the knees and that her legs—and all beneath—was bare. Her cheeks heated.
She shot him an inquisitive look. He’d undressed her? Washed her?
His flinty eyes narrowed. Challenged.
That stare persisted, speared her. She looked away.
He was angry. Angrier than she’d ever seen him.
“Who was he?” His voice was cold, low. Unlike him.
“Flame,” she replied, clearing her throat, “mage captain of the Crag Company.”
He shifted, staring into space, an unfathomable world behind his eyes.
“Gilles.” He froze and turned that storming world upon her, suffocating and blinding in its intensity. “General Evrard Gilles. Did the mage mention him?”
She managed to shake her head. Five years ago, in Signy, it had been none other than Evrard Gilles who had almost killed Jon. She kept her eyes from his neck.
“At the Tower, you asked how I got this.” Jon raised his chin, and she allowed herself to look, the gruesome memory of that healing fresh in her mind. Blood. Wide eyes. Gurgling. A weakening grasp—“Courtesy of Evrard Gilles.”
His unwavering glare pinned her.
“Do you think he’s still after you?”
He looked away. “No,” he replied. “While I have relived that duel in my mind almost every day since, to him I was—am—no one.” He shook his head. “But to me, he’s the man who killed my best friend.”
Sir Bastien. In Signy, he’d kept her alive and helped save countless lives at mortal cost to himself. That’s what happened when she didn’t handle threats alone, when others helped. They died. Because she’d been too weak to handle the danger on her own, Jon’s friend had died.
A shiver shook her spine, but she fought it. Controlled it. The wind thrashed the tent flap, a dreary late afternoon—not morning—haunting outside.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” She reached for his hand, but when he clenched it into a fist, she stopped without touching him.
“It was five years ago, but I see it as vivid as yesterday,” he said, his tone turning icy, “and I can’t wake from that yesterday until I arrest Gilles, bring him to justice. For Bastien.” He rose and reached for his armor. With his back to her, he re-armed.
“Where are you going?”
He didn’t turn around but nodded at a spade in the corner. “The body.”
She’d left Flame’s body in the middle of the road.
Silence pervaded as Jon finished securing his weapons belt.
She couldn’t leave things like this with him. Distant. Icy. Detached.
“You’re angry with me.” Her shoulders slumped.
His fingers flexed in their gloves, knuckle dusters catching the lamplight. He cracked his neck from side to side and took a deep, slow breath before glaring down at her over his shoulder. A muscle twitched in his clenched jaw. “That is the last time you will ever cage me.”
The cold edge to his voice chilled her bones. She shuddered, curling her legs closer to her body. By order of the Divinity, he was in her charge. His survival was her responsibility. Her duty. “I did it to keep you safe.”
He whirled to face her, fisting his hands. “I learned to walk with a practice sword in my hand. I’ve battled mages for half my life,” he snarled. “I don’t need you to keep me safe.”
“I—”
“No.” He shook his head. “Never again.”
Never again...? She hadn’t planned on the first time. Never in her wildest nightmares had she expected to duel one of the heretic captains of the Crag Company.
Flame had been alone... But what if he hadn’t been? What if Shadow or Phantom—or both—had been there? She’d left Jon in the earthen sphere, knowing he’d soon free himself, but what if he hadn’t in time? She looked away and plucked at her blanket.
Her impulsive decision to cage Jon could have gotten him killed. He would have died. And it would have been my fault.
And if Shadow and Phantom were coming—
He was right.
Her hands shook, and she folded them together. “Are you asking me to—”
He bared his teeth. “I’m not asking.”
She jerked her head back. Oh? She’d made a mistake, yes—a big mistake—but he now intended to dictate terms to her? In her years of service, she hadn’t let a charge walk all over her, and she wasn’t about to start now.
He’d wanted to fight Flame himself; is that what he had expected? To imperil himself when her duty was to keep him safe even at cost to herself? He wasn’t the only person who’d sworn vows.
She wouldn’t confine him again, but he had to accept that when
there was a threat, it was hers to take on as his guardian and escort.
She rose. “I know I made a mistake—”
His eyes bulged. “A mistake?” He shook his head. “Don’t try to minimize this.” He swept a hand out angrily. “What you did was risk my life and your own. Foolishly.”
“I wanted to save you!” she shouted back at him.
“Fantastic work,” he shot back, wearing a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Boxing your charge and wrapping a bow around him for your enemy—is that what the Divinity calls ‘saving’?”
“You’re alive, aren’t you?”
A half-laugh escaped him. “By sheer dumb luck.”
Dumb luck? Did he have any idea how long it had taken her to master those spells? How many lives she’d saved by what he reduced to “dumb luck”? She pressed her lips together bitterly, staring at the ground with all the ferocity she wanted to turn on him.
When Flame had attacked, she hadn’t stopped to consider every option, every consequence. Only to make sure Jon was safe and to keep Flame away from him.
But... Jon was right. She had endangered him. While he’d have been able to break the earthen sphere, if Flame had defeated her quickly, Jon would have been at his mercy.
But for her “luck,” Jon might have been dead.
She scrubbed a hand over her face, wincing when the poultice stuck to her cheek. “I’m sorry.”
He regarded her from a distance, warily, palming his sword’s pommel.
“I only wanted to protect you... any way that I could,” she said, her shoulders dropping. Her gaze fell to her toes pressing into the bedroll. “I didn’t mean to put you at risk.” She rubbed her lips together. “I won’t do it again.”
When she looked up, a line etched between his eyebrows.
Popping his jaw, he anchored his hands on his hips and looked away. “It’s not just that you put me at risk,” he said, his voice losing its edge. His eyes fluttered shut, and he frowned, taking a deep breath. “You could have died. Do you understand that?”
She took a deep breath, but before she could speak, he reached up and brushed aside a stray lock of her hair, then stroked her jaw, soulful intensity gleaming in his eyes.
His touch... She wanted to close her eyes and sigh, but she dared not move, dared not speak, dared not breathe until she heard his next words.
“You matter, Rielle.” He thumbed her cheek. “And a guardian who doesn’t value her own life is dangerous. She doesn’t acknowledge her own weaknesses, or her charge’s strengths. She makes poor decisions that could cost someone... far more than he is willing to pay.”
She shook her head. “I’m not trying to throw anyone’s life away. Yours, nor mine.”
“And yet, you nearly did. On a whim.” He squeezed her shoulders. “Did you stop to think what I could contribute?”
She blinked. No. Why would she have? Charges were a responsibility, not an asset. Countless typical missions had unfolded with her or her mage partner removing charges from danger, but she’d never worked without a mage partner. If she’d had one, he might have pulled back to guard Jon while she handled the threat herself.
“I’m a paladin, Rielle. A pyromancer, to me, is nothing. At least when I’m not stuck in a cage.”
She frowned. A pyromancer... A paladin... Her mind flickered to the night at the Tower. The six mages afield, defeated.
Arcanir. Sigil tattoos. Shuttering her eyes, she heaved a sigh. This wasn’t a typical mission. He wasn’t a typical charge.
“I could have walked up to him, shrugging off all his spells, and defeated him. And I say ‘defeated’ because I wouldn’t have killed him unless he refused to surrender. I would have arrested and questioned him.”
Questioned... Why had Flame come after them? What did the Crag Company want? She eyed Jon, his thoughtful expression. Had she let him fight alongside her, they might have had answers.
But she hadn’t thought about what he could do. Only what she could. “I just... prefer to handle threats by myself. It’s safer for everyone that way.”
He shook his head. “Is it? You don’t think ‘I’ll handle this’ are famous last words? People aren’t solitary by nature; we were meant to be together.” He straightened and cleared his throat. “To help each other.” He exhaled a sharp breath. “You’re accustomed to fighting alone. I understand,” he said. “But I’m here. Trained, capable, and I’ve fought mages for half my life. Use me. Relying on your skills alone is willfully crippling yourself... and us.”
She sucked in a breath. By trying to do it all herself, she’d exposed them both to greater risk. If she withheld her trust in Jon, she relied on her skills alone, and if she failed to protect him, he could be killed due to no decision of his own, but hers.
But if she trusted in him, she relied on both his skills and hers, and if one of them failed, the other might not; and if they died, they died by their own choices, fighting like hell.
He deserved a say in his own fate, the opportunity to defend himself should she fail, and her trust.
She nodded. “I understand.”
“Good.” He released her shoulders. “I’ll handle the body.”
With Flame dead, Shadow and Phantom wouldn’t be far behind. She glanced around the tent, wringing the hem of the shirt in her hand. “Are there any trousers? I’ll come with you.”
He shook his head, glanced at her legs, then looked away. “I... couldn’t find anything of yours, and the shirt was challenge enough with my eyes closed.”
She grinned.
“You’ve been through a lot. Just stay here, find trousers”—he smiled—“and rest.” He nodded toward the bedroll. “You don’t have to do everything yourself. Let me take care of you for a change.” He grabbed the spade.
She froze, but as he lifted the tent flap, he glanced at her, a glimmer in his Shining Sea eyes. His lips twitched, but he made no further comment and left.
Staring after him, she waited for her pulse to slow. When it didn’t, she collapsed into a heap on the bedroll.
She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, picturing him trying to wash her and dress her without looking, and she covered an embarrassed smile with a poulticed hand. After her spectacular mistake, a lesser man would have left her stewing in mud and spell-scorched rags. Laughed under his breath. Enjoyed her pathetic state. Punished her foolishness with humiliation.
But Jon hadn’t. He didn’t wish her browbeaten, but taught. Wiser. Stronger.
She slipped a hand into the shirt—his shirt—and pressed a palm against her chest, feeling the thump of her beating heart. He was a rare man, Jonathan Ver. Rare, and all too captivating.
The poultice stuck against her skin. Healing. She needed a touch more. But air dense as oil surrounded her dim anima, the rising pressure of Spiritseve, hungry outside forces pushing for a way in. It would not abate until Hallowday. The pressure pushed all the more against the dim; darkness didn’t keep them away so well as the light.
She hadn’t brightened her anima since the ruins. Fighting the heretics, healing, dueling Flame, healing again... It had strained.
Her options were few. Anima brightened slowly, over time; in a few days, it would glow again at least, but they’d likely reach Bournand tomorrow. There, she could find another—some other—mage at the Temple of the Divine.
Yet, if Shadow and Phantom hunted them, even a day was a dangerously long time to wait.
Resonance.
Could she burden Jon with it again? She’d promised not to use his feelings against him, feelings he kept so well restrained. Resonance removed those restraints.
She chewed her lip. A distraction. She needed a distraction.
Barefoot, she crept to the tent flap and pulled it aside. A fire burned in a pit, and their tethered horses ate happily from their feedbags. Earthy petrichor lingered in the air after the storm, soothing and electrifying all at once. She picked her way through the camp to their packs and retrieved some supplies from her recondit
e satchel. She’d have to teach Jon how to use it, for the next time—
The next time he undressed her, washed her, and clad her in fresh clothes? She pursed her lips. There would be no next time, would there? She’d never make the same mistake again, and he... he would never want to touch her again.
The rain had ceased, but gray clouds ominously hovered above. She spelled the campfire against the rain, blanketed the horses and stowed their empty feed bags, then tiptoed back to the tent to change. Undergarments, trousers, socks, fresh boots, and...
Her shirt waited, primly folded. She raised the cuff of Jon’s shirt to her nose and inhaled. Fresh air, sunshine, and him. Like an idyllic summer day she could lounge in for the rest of her life.
Or at least a few hours more.
She left his shirt on and donned a fresh mage coat with trembling fingers. Anima withdrawal had already set in. She took a fortifying breath and stared at the steady flame in the fire pit.
Foliage crunched nearby. Out of the bracken, Jon returned, bearing the spade, a knapsack, and a belt pouch.
She inclined her head toward the bags. “Are those—?”
“Flame’s.” He dropped the knapsack and belt pouch near the fire pit and headed for their packs. He stowed the spade.
“I’m going to lay down the ward,” she said, “and then we could go through his things together?”
He nodded and began unfastening his armor. “I’ll see to supper.” They were running low on provisions, but whatever was left would be sufficient for tonight. He looked her over, firelight glimmering in his eyes. “I see you found trousers.”
She anchored a hand on her hip. “You know how to use a recondite satchel, right? You just think of what you need, and if it’s inside, you’ll get it.”
He raised his eyebrows as he set aside his armor, then opened his mouth and closed it.
“Well?”
“I didn’t want to risk accidentally thinking of shoes and triggering an avalanche.”
“That’s not how it—” When she caught his grin, she sighed.
Striding past her, he clapped her arm. “Thanks for the lesson, witch.”
Shaking her head, she headed to the edge of the camp and circled it to lay the ward, the weave thick and large for trespass. Her hands flickered near the end, glowing so dimly she could barely discern the deep blue of her anima around them despite the dark.
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