A noble. Entire cities didn’t hang mourning flags but for high-profile deaths. The count, perhaps? He glanced at Rielle, but she wouldn’t meet his gaze.
At the heart of Bournand’s quiet was an enormous cylindrical building with a domed roof, a figure eight at its apex. The Temple of the Divine.
Rielle headed straight for the temple’s stables, and he followed. There, an apprentice took their horses and a young black-haired mage with a two-bar chevron on his sleeves led them into one of the temple’s towers, eyeing Jon and his armor the whole way. The temple wouldn’t have welcomed paladins, but in Rielle’s company, he had the rare novelty of entering.
Inside, their steps echoed off the sconce-lit hardwood hallways, quiet and dark. When they reached an office, the mage handed Rielle documents.
“We got a dove from the Tower a couple days ago. The Crowned Stag,” he said. “Lucky for you. The refugees have been clogging up all the best inns.”
“Refugees?” Jon looked up.
The mage hesitated. “You haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?” Rielle glanced from the mage to him and back again. “I noticed the city was in mourning, but—”
The mage adopted a somber look. “About a week ago, King Marcus and Queen Alexandrie were assassinated, along with the entire line of succession.”
The king dead? The queen? The entire line—?
“How?” Rielle squeaked. “How is that possible? The Royal Guard, the knights, the Emaurrian army, the city guard, every noble’s force at court—”
“Who?” Jon closed on the mage. “When?”
“Olivia Sabeyon,” Rielle croaked. “The Archmage. Is she alive? Do you know?”
The mage held up his hands, his eyebrows knitted together. “I haven’t heard. I’m sorry.” His eyes widened, and Jon followed his line of sight to Rielle.
She quivered, faltering on her feet. She took a step back and braced a hand on the stone wall, breathing harshly, her face pale, severe.
Jon steadied her with an arm around her waist. “Perhaps she escaped.”
She glanced at him and flashed a brief, watery smile. “She wouldn’t have. Olivia’s a healer... the Archmage. And a very caring person.” Desperation beaded on her skin, and she winced, shaking.
In shock? He needed to get her to a chair, or—
She closed her eyes and breathed deep.
“Are you all right?” the mage asked.
She shook her head. “I’ll be all right when I know Olivia’s safe.”
Her knees buckled, and she caught herself against the wall. Jon reached her, and under his palm, her tautness relaxed. At this rate, she’d collapse.
“Let’s get you to the inn.” He didn’t wait for a reply before he scooped her up and bore her out. The mage’s footsteps followed for a few beats, then ceased.
“Jon,” she said half-heartedly, “I can—”
“Hush.” As he carried her back to the temple’s stables, her eyelashes fluttered. She frowned and opened her mouth, but whatever protest she’d intended died on her lips.
He’d seen it before, men after battle who’d lost their friends and brothers, who’d lost themselves, unable to speak, to think, to walk. Who’d needed calm and time. What she needed.
In the stable, he set her on a bale of hay, tethered her horse to his, then seated her securely on his black palfrey.
He swung into the saddle behind her, held her close. As they departed, she went limp against him.
Just hold out until the inn. He pressed his lips against the crown of her head. She’d be all right. If her friend needed saving, they’d save her. Whatever it took.
The Crowned Stag’s wooden signboard came into view, bearing the image of a stag with a great rack of antlers etched in gold and a black flag next to it. He dismounted in the courtyard, holding Rielle tightly against his chest. He knocked with his boot’s sabaton, more forcefully than he’d intended.
The innkeeper let them in, sending a boy out to attend their horses.
“What can I do for you, Sodalis?” the man asked sleepily, looking over Rielle with a rising eyebrow.
Jon nodded to her in his arms. “She’s a Tower mage. Favrielle...” It occurred to him that he didn’t know her surname. He waved the documents from the temple between his fingers.
The innkeeper grabbed them, donned his spectacles, and frowned. “This says two rooms, but there’s already a Tower mage in one of them.”
Jon went rigid. “Documented?”
“Yes. Official seal and everything. He was supposed to stay at another inn, but there was some issue with the refugees.”
“One room will be fine.”
The man’s gaze meandered from him to Rielle and back again.
Jon narrowed his eyes. “With all haste, sir. She needs to rest.”
The innkeeper jumped. “Of course. My apologies.” He hurried to the staircase and led the way upstairs bearing a candelabra. “Alfons will deliver your packs to you shortly.”
“My thanks.” He rearranged Rielle in his hold. Eyes closed, she hadn’t moved since the temple.
The innkeeper unlocked the door, and Jon swept inside and accepted the key. The innkeeper lit a large beeswax candle on the nightstand, but as he pulled the door, Jon blocked it with his boot.
“I may need some supplies from the kitchen.” He held the man’s gaze.
The innkeeper nodded several times, eyes wide. “Yes, anything you need, please help yourself—”
“My thanks.” He moved his boot, and with a bow, the innkeeper closed the door.
Jon laid her among the cool, stark-white cotton sheets and overstuffed pillows of the large four-poster bed. He pulled off her boots and covered her legs with a blanket, then watching her for any sign of change, removed his armor. Although her eyes remained shut, a line remained etched between her brows. Troubled.
A knock came at the door. He opened it and let in the boy, who brought in their packs, followed by maids who filled the wash basin and water carafe. Jon gave them a few copper cuivres, then turned back to Rielle. If she woke, needed anything—
He poured her a cup of water and set it on the nightstand, then pulled up the blanket to her waist and leaned in to smooth her hair from her face.
“I’ll be right back,” he whispered, the end of her braid sifting through his fingers.
When she didn’t reply, he strapped on his sword, grabbed the nearby candlestick, lit it with the large beeswax candle, then headed downstairs, locking the door behind him. Quiet darkness claimed the hall and the stairs, and the kitchen was abandoned. He set a kettle of water to boil, milk to warm, and gathered some food and tea.
He shook his head as he stirred a bowl of porridge. When had the capital come under siege? Had Derric known when he’d sent the discharge? Had the Proctor known?
Even now, priests and paladins had to be mobilizing in Monas Amar. The Divinity, too, would have dispatched agents, perhaps even an army from Magehold. An army of mages would cause a stir in the Order, but per the Magehold Convention, the Divinity was bound to restore peace—and no more. At least the Order would watch their hands.
He took a heavily laden tray upstairs. The Crag, the Divinity, the Order... And Rielle’s friend was caught in the middle. He couldn’t allow Rielle to suffer the loss of a friend as he had.
He unlocked the door and shut it softly. Rielle didn’t stir, so he laid the tray on the table and placed the warmed milk at her bedside.
When she woke, she’d be understandably distraught. Whenever he’d had nightmares as a child, Derric had always brought him a cup of warmed milk and stayed up reading epics until he fell asleep once more. Perhaps it would lend her comfort, too.
In the dim amber glow of the candle, he washed up and changed, keeping an eye on her all the while.
At last, she curled tighter in bed and her eyes fluttered open. He sat at her side, hoping to ease her waking before she seized upon the terrible news from the temple once more.
H
er eyebrows drew together for a moment, then she blinked and sat up. He pressed the cup into her hands, his touch lingering on her wrist for a moment.
She glanced at the cup, then sipped it. “Thank you.”
He offered a brief, sympathetic smile.
She looked around the room. “The Crowned Stag?” Her gaze wandered to the blanket and her boots in the corner. “If it weren’t for you, I’d still be a heap at the temple.”
“I know what it is to worry about a friend.” He rubbed his chest. “You know I was raised at the monastery.” With the surname Ver, his life was an open book.
She nodded.
“When I was seven, a boy named Bastien came to live there. His mother had died in childbirth, and his father, a sailor, couldn’t afford to care for him any longer. From the day he arrived, mud on his face, he declared he would someday be a paladin. We became fast friends.”
Leaning back, she gave an amused nod. “Two peas in a pod?”
“Oh, we got into so much trouble. We misbehaved so much, we spent more time punished with chores than the rest of the boys combined. One time, Derric fell asleep at his desk, and we filled his doorway with books stacked to full height, four rows deep.” He huffed a nostalgic half laugh. “Five years ago, when the Crag Company took it upon themselves to clear Signy of bandits, they took over, hired themselves, and decided to charge for ‘protection.’ Bastien and I were among the many deployed to remove them. The Crag refused to vacate. There was a battle. Bastien and I were separated, and when I heard his position had been overrun, I—” He shook his head.
“He was like a brother to me,” he said. A hard knot formed in his stomach, and his fingers went to his Sodalis ring. “Those moments when I didn’t know whether he lived were some of the most difficult I’ve ever had to bear.”
She covered his hand on the bed with hers. “I’m sorry.”
“If I could spare you this, I would,” he said gently, stroking her fingers. “At least there is hope your friend may yet live.”
“She does.” She intertwined her fingers with his. “I believe that.”
He nodded. “No one else was downstairs, but we might learn more about the situation in Courdeval tomorrow.”
His gaze lowered to their joined hands. He pulled away and leaned over to remove his boots.
Rielle cleared her throat softly, set down the cup, and left the bed. She padded about the room in her nightly routine, getting ready for bed.
Bed. He rose and stared at it. One.
He moved to the table and poured himself a cup of water. His grand plan after trying to escape from her a couple of days ago had involved separate rooms. Walls, doors, and space between them.
And here he was, enshrined with her in one room, with one bed, and no space between them to speak of.
From behind the privacy screen, she emerged in a full-length nightgown, white cotton and lace flowing about her soft curves, and brushed out her curls.
His fingers twitched. Wanting to comb through her hair. Traitors.
Her stomach growled, and she grinned at him sheepishly. “Sorry.”
Fighting a smile, he nodded at the tray. “Too late for supper, unfortunately, but I scavenged what I could.”
She sat with him and filled a plate with cured meat, cheese, and bread, and helped herself to a bowl of porridge. He ate his fill, too, then rolled up his sleeves. She followed the retreating fabric with her gaze, lingering over his arms, where the winding sangremancy sigils wove into aeromancy scrolls. Her sky-blue eyes dilated, tracing down to his hands, and her lips parted.
Did she like what she saw? He straightened in his chair.
Smoothing a hand over the skirt of her nightgown, she licked her lower lip. What would the lower lip feel like between his? Soft, warm—
She met his gaze and flushed. Terra have mercy, to be a stray thought in her head...
“I’ll keep you company tonight,” he said, keeping his voice even. There was only one room, so there wasn’t much of a choice.
“Thank you.”
She rose and laid the room’s ward while he finished his water, then she withdrew to the bed.
Propped up on a pillow, she waited. For a moment, the silence between them was palpable. He approached the bed, grabbed a pillow, and tossed it onto the floor. From the armoire, he pulled out a blanket.
Even if he presumed to impose upon her and share the bed, it would have been beyond idiotic. His body had already abandoned any allegiance to him.
“Would you care to take the bed instead?” she offered.
As if he could ever bear to sleep on a soft bed while she suffered the floor. But she didn’t offer to share.
Keeping her word?
He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.
“Thank you, but I’m fine.” He laid Faithkeeper next to the bed.
“Are you sure?” she asked, with a slight tremor to her voice.
“Completely.” He spread the blanket on the floor. “Beds are too soft for me anyway.” Don’t feel guilty. Exhaling a quiet breath, he reclined, stretching out an arm and tucking it under his head.
She blew out the candle. Night blanketed the room, her breathing and his the only sounds.
“Thank you,” she whispered, “for everything, Jon.”
He nodded in the darkness. This day hadn’t been easy for her, and the coming days would only become more difficult as worry for her friend would deepen. At least today, he’d managed to ease her suffering, in some small way. “Goodnight, Rielle.”
Tomorrow, he would learn all he could about the regicide and the siege, but tonight, he would make certain the demons that had sapped her strength at the temple didn’t return in the night.
Chapter 20
The sun’s morning rays alighted upon Jon, but even before he could open his eyes, he felt Rielle tucked cozily in his embrace. She’d cried quietly in the night, and he’d moved to comfort her, unable to stop himself from whispering away her fears. Eventually, she’d begun to drowse against him, and as he’d lain her down, he hadn’t possessed the heart to disturb her when she’d finally fallen asleep, in his arms. He hadn’t moved since.
None of this broke the Code, at least not in deed. But spirit? Whatever this was, it drew him like a shrine drew the faithful. For all his self-control, tears from her and he could do nothing but keep her close. His face buried in her hair, he breathed her in.
She was still sleeping now, and deeply. Her night had been difficult, and she needed all the rest she could get.
Last night, the innkeeper had said a Tower mage, a man, had taken their second room. Shadow and Phantom were known to be women, so he hadn’t troubled Rielle with the information. But he’d have to tell her today.
Careful not to wake her, he pulled his arm gently from under her neck. He sat up and, with one last look, said his prayers, did his morning exercises, practiced the sword, washed, shaved, and dressed.
As he laced a black leather doublet, a door slammed in the hallway. He flinched. It would wake her.
Rielle eased open her eyes.
Unlike him, she didn’t spring awake with the rising of the sun. She greeted the world like the fields of immortelle around Monas Ver on warm summer mornings. As the sun had climbed the sky, the yellow blooms brightened slowly to radiant golden life, a flowery wildfire spreading toward the horizon, verdant hills dusted with gold in northeastern Emaurria.
She gave him a thorough look, her gaze trailing his fingers as he finished lacing the doublet. “It suits you.”
The innkeeper’s perplexed frown the previous night had been hint enough that a mage-and-paladin pair drew attention. The wrong kind of attention. The items the mages had packed for him had included some fine clothes—poorly chosen, as they’d make anyone stand out—but the well-made leather doublet was plain enough to suit his purposes.
“Perhaps we’ll draw less attention.” He took a seat.
Rielle gave him a once-over. “I doubt that.”
<
br /> A grin threatened to emerge, but he schooled his face.
Slender bare feet slipped from the bed as she sat up and stretched with a yawn, the hem of her nightgown rising from her ankles to reveal a glimpse of shapely legs. Long, flowing golden locks flared around her head and shoulders, down to her waist...
He tore himself away.
“Thank you,” she said softly, “for last night.”
His heart clenched at the memory. “You’re welcome.” He brushed it off. “We should head down to breakfast, see what we can learn.”
“A few minutes.” She hopped out of bed and crossed the room to the vanity.
He sat and waited until she emerged, clad in a fresh white mage’s coat, her hair in a thick braid but for the stray ringlets framing her face.
He opened his mouth, then closed it. He’d seen many mages in his life—if from afar—but very few chose coats in white, as Rielle seemed to favor. Even her quarters in the Tower had been decorated with white everywhere—and he hadn’t seen her wear any other color.
But it suited her.
“Let’s go,” she said.
Downstairs, the tavern was full, but instead of the merry faces and lively conversation, the somber-faced clientele huddled close and whispered amongst one another, snippets of anxiety over the Spiritseve rituals, Hallowday bells, and the capital. A fire crackled in the hearth, and a couple women served breakfast and hot beverages. There were three exits, one in the front, two in the back. At the far table, a man in his fifties sat wearing a merchant’s garb, but his alert eyes were a warrior’s. Retired mercenary?
“Good morning, ma chère,” a lilting voice taunted from behind them.
Jon whirled. A man sat at the corner table, sipping tea. The same man who’d visited Rielle’s room that night in the Tower. The libertine. He wore a black mage’s coat with a four-bar gold chevron on each sleeve. Beneath the open coat, his garb was luxurious: a navy-colored velvet waistcoat, a cravat, and a crisp white shirt. His boots reflected an ostentatious shine.
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