“Can what? Waste away in loneliness until her thin-skinned, weak boy of a fiancé decides she’s suffered enough?” She spat in his face.
He threw her aside, and she tripped over a hay bale and landed on the ground. He dragged a sleeve across his face.
“In the war of love, who flies conquers. And I have conquered you. I have won.” He chuckled, a sharp white smile eerily joining primal eyes. “Don’t be a sore loser. Or do. I don’t care. I’m going to find a way to marry Chantal.”
Marry Chantal? Was that the point of all this? Good riddance. They deserved each other.
He clenched his teeth. “I don’t need you anymore.”
Sad laughter ripped out of her, strong and throaty, deepening until she laughed herself to tears. “But you do. Every month. We both know that.”
She would elicit one small victory out of this nightmare. “And you should know, fiancé mine”—she savored his favorite term of endearment, spitting it back at him with venomous satisfaction—“that, in the Tower library’s forbidden section, I learned how to break the curse. I was going to tell you tonight.” Laughter bubbled within her anew.
The color drained from his face. He fixed his eyes on her.
Now she had his attention. All of it.
She savored the moment. “To break a blood curse, one bloodline cursing another, you must unite the bloodlines.”
Realization dawned on his face, and she let herself laugh into a stupor.
He sobered. “Rielle—”
She only laughed harder. Divine, the comedy of this moment, how he’d thrown away freedom from the curse for petty revenge, without even knowing it! The grim amusement masked, if only for a time, the deep wound he’d clawed into her.
He looked at her, eyebrows drawn, pleading. “Rielle, not an hour ago, you were happy at the prospect of bearing my children. Give me another chance and free us both.”
Never. She beamed a smile so wide her face hurt, and shook her head. “You’ll come crawling to me again before the moon is full.”
She led the horse out, willing her composure to last just long enough to leave.
“You’re lying.” His voice, now thin, carried from behind her.
She scoffed and mounted. “You can tell I’m not. We both know that.”
He followed her outside. “You’re not going to get very far with one horse and no money.”
She glanced down at her signet ring. “I’m the Marquise of Laurentine. I’ll make do.”
His upper lip curled. “I hate you.”
She flinched but straightened quickly. “The feeling’s mutual, fiancé mine,” she mocked. “See you before the full moon.”
A gossamer net held back the flow of tears and sobs as she rode away, but it held long enough to see her far from Castle Delalune toward the city.
Another chance. She’d given him a second chance willingly.
But not a third. Never a third.
Chapter 27
Rielle shuddered, picking her way through the crowds. The grim memory of that night three years ago was never far. She’d closed off parts of her life—the Houses’ society and love—but now that grimness stretched before her feet, a black carpet she would follow into the horizon, if it meant Olivia’s rescue.
Night had fallen when she finally found her way back to The Crowned Stag, the vial of blood on its chain around her neck and the cylindrical case in tow. The smell of cider was thick in the night air, and a bonfire rose in the distance. She stabled and tended her horse, trying to quiet her doubts. She couldn’t worry about what came after. She had to focus on now.
When Brennan arrived, she would ask him to contact the Black Rose, an assassin’s guild in Courdeval whose illustrious leader owed her a favor. If the woman was still there, Rielle would have it repaid.
But there remained the matter of convincing Brennan to help. He was her only chance at getting a message into the capital fast enough and over its walls unnoticed, but at what cost? She would never admit to him that the Divinity would excommunicate her, and when it happened, she would fight to her last breath to resist marriage to him. The one thing he truly wanted, a child, she would never give him, and little threatened him personally.
If anything, she was the weak point in his armor—if something were to happen to her, he’d have no means of control over his curse.
Finished caring for the horse, she headed for the front entrance, trying her best to clear her mind. Tonight, she had the unenviable task of confronting Leigh about Kieran, and she needed to keep her composure.
In the tavern, amid nearly a full house, Jon sat at a table, nursing a cup of tea, his leather doublet unlaced at the neck. A trying day, then. Chatter filled the air, punctuated by the occasional thunk of dinnerware and cutlery on tables and the crackling of the fire.
When she approached his table, he looked up and rose. With a deep breath, she laid the cylindrical case down on a chair, and they sat.
“What’s that?” He tipped his head toward the case.
“Maps.”
He frowned.
She glanced about the room, full of unwanted ears. “I’ll tell you all about it later. Where’s Leigh?”
“He had some business at the temple.” Jon sipped his tea.
He’d abandoned Jon here? She fought back a grimace. But perhaps Leigh was sending her report to the Proctor. Good. He would know about the heretics in the ruins sooner rather than later. “How did your errand go?”
“Your former master knows Helene Forgeron fairly well, it turns out,” he said. “She accepted the job and said it would be ready the day after tomorrow. Then Leigh took us to a brothel.”
Unsurprising.
“And you?” he asked.
“I went to a brothel, too.” She tried to hold back an impish grin.
Jon crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, gaze smoldering.
“Was your coin well spent?” he asked, a slight growl in his throat.
“Oh yes,” she answered, enjoying rattling him far more than she should. “I found the staff there most accommodating.”
The leather of his doublet crackled.
Rattled indeed. Perhaps she’d tell him a little. She sighed and patted the cylindrical case. “A whole corona to bribe my way into a vacant room, but I found these.”
Relaxing, Jon glanced at the case. “Maps, you said? Whose, and of where?”
After a look around—no one sat nearby—she leaned in and beckoned Jon to do the same. “Turns out, a mage booked Leigh’s usual room at the usual place. A mage on a mission to perform a certain rite. The maps are of the venue.”
He thumbed his ear and raised an eyebrow. “A certain rite and a venue... down south?”
She nodded.
“And he just let you walk off with them?”
She shrugged. “He was nowhere to be found.”
Jon hesitated and then lowered his voice even more. “You think Leigh had something to do with it?”
“When he returns, I intend to ask him.” The thought was troubling, but it only grazed the surface of her concerns.
“Hopefully, it can wait until after the Vindemia festivities tonight. I’ve never missed the offering or the group prayer, and I don’t intend to tonight. It is only by expression of our gratitude to Most Holy Terra that the harvest is abundant each year.” With a heavy sigh, he leaned back in his chair, his gaze wandering the inn with detached interest.
“Oh?” But those mercenaries had come to the inn looking for a paladin. And Shadow and Phantom were still out there. A shadowmancer and an illusionist... She and Jon would never even see them coming. There was no certainty the threat had ended with Flame. “Attending the festival is inviting risk.”
Jon eyed her resentfully as he folded his arms across his chest. “Trying to cage me again?” he hissed, the raging sea of his eyes crashing into hers. “After last time, we agreed: never again.”
This was different. Flame was a risk they’d had no choice in facing. I
f another unavoidable risk turned up, she wouldn’t send him away again. But she could hardly expose him to needless danger for the sake of—what, fun?
She shook her head. “The answer’s no.”
After clenching his fists and flexing his fingers, he laid his palms on the table and rose, leaning over it to scowl at her. “I didn’t ask.”
Livid, she stared him down. Did he plan to renege on his oath to her? He’d vowed not to sabotage her mission. But if they went to this festival, out in the open, surrounded by people and chaos, and he got himself killed, he’d be doing just that.
And it wasn’t just about the mission anymore. She rose and rounded the table to face him. “You promised—”
He straightened and took a step toward her, invading her space. “I know what I promised, witch.” He closed in. “I did not promise to ask your bloody permission to practice my faith.”
“Good,” she snarled. “It spares you the disappointment, then, since it would be denied.”
Scowling, he opened his mouth, but then he closed it. He glared at her, holding the silence like a blade to her flesh.
Let him fume. If she had to cast every spell in her repertoire to keep him from doing something stupid and getting himself killed, then that’s what she would do. He might have been keen on endangering himself, but luckily for him, he didn’t make the decisions on this mission.
A smile soon replaced his scowl, and his eyes gleamed. “Never mind.”
What? What did that mean? And why was he giving up so easily?
Jon picked up his tea and drained it as he strolled around her.
Dumbstruck, she looked around the room. Everyone was watching. Had they taken in the spat? Simpering, she took off after him while he deposited the teacup on a serving woman’s tray and headed for the stairs.
What had convinced him? Had it really been so simple? Perhaps he’d realized all the threats still out there—especially Shadow and Phantom.
No, it was a ploy. Or a ruse to soothe the spectacle. Had to be. What game was he playing now?
She caught him on the stairs and gripped the railing. “What did you mean by ‘never mind’?”
“I meant never mind arguing downstairs.”
“What?” Her face burned.
“We can discuss this upstairs.” He continued up the stairs.
She followed him. “You want to go to Vindemia so badly?”
He turned and raised an eyebrow. “Badly? Tell me, why would I want to go to a celebration germane to my religion that I have attended every year without fail? Speak sense, witch.”
She slipped past him into their room. As she took off her coat, she lost her balance. Damned sen’a.
Jon moved to stand before her. Close. He grabbed her coat. “What would it take to convince you?”
“It’s dangerous.”
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said, hanging her coat, “or to me. I’ll be on my guard. And there will be other paladins there. It’ll be safe, trust me. I wouldn’t recklessly endanger you.”
“But Shadow and—”
“They’d never attack us in a crowd like this.” He tipped his head toward the window, where throngs of people clogged the streets. “Not tonight. Not here. It would be suicide. The streets are full of paladins. We will never be safer than in that crowd.”
She searched his eyes. Indeed, anyone bold enough to attempt a murder in such a crowd would find escape nigh impossible, and the increased paladin presence meant a quick arrest.
And perhaps she was being closed minded. Divinists didn’t attach as much meaning to ritual as Terrans did. His faith was important to him.
She could check the vicinity with earthsight every so often... and stay close enough to him to be mistaken for a part of his body. At least if Shadow or Phantom appeared, she’d have some warning with the earthsight and would be close enough to shield Jon.
And... they were at an inn. Where she couldn’t capture him with geomancy. If he truly wanted to go without her permission, she could do little to stop him. Even on the city streets. He’d respected her enough to discuss it. She could compromise, too. “Fine. Let’s go to the festival.”
Jon leaned against the door, arms crossed, looking like the cat that ate the canary.
She retreated behind the privacy screen to change into her white batiste chemise, her corset, and her cotton bodice and skirts—as “festive” as she’d get—careful to keep Feliciano’s envelope in her décolletage. “But only for an hour, and if you die, I’ll”—Kill you?—“be displeased.”
“I’ll do my best to keep you pleased,” he replied.
Frozen, she bunched the fabric of her skirts in her hands, holding her breath with a growing smile. Is that so?
“By staying alive,” he corrected, clearing his throat.
She remembered to breathe. “Of course.”
What am I doing? She scolded herself. Was she really allowing this man, who had already rejected her, to get to her now?
Olivia flashed through her mind, suffering and hurt, imprisoned. Tears waited impatiently to make their entrance.
Vindemia. She sighed. With the capital, the rite, and Olivia on her mind, how could she attend a festival? When Olivia could be in chains? Arcanir chains. Surrounded by a hostile army.
She pinned her arms against her stomach, fighting its upset. With Olivia in danger, the last thing she wanted was to go to a festival.
But she emerged from behind the screen. Jon twirled his ring around his finger; his eyes downcast, he could have been miles away or years.
He glanced up, looked her over, and his face went slack. His gaze lingered at her face, seeking across the distance between them. “Are you all right?”
Was her worry that obvious? Pressing her lips together, she looked away and raised her shoulders in a halfhearted shrug. She fought the tears that threatened to invade.
Not now.
Divinity mages did not weep before their charges. She did not weep before her charges. Or anyone, if she could avoid it.
But Jon followed her, didn’t let her turn away, bent to glimpse her face. He approached her with all caution, his careful observation equal parts soothing and disconcerting. Why did he care? Hadn’t he turned away from her before? Hadn’t he made his decision?
Yet when he touched her upper arm, let his fingers glide down to her elbow, every trace of her nervousness disappeared, replaced by familiar, warm comfort.
“We don’t have to go to Vindemia.” He rubbed her arm gently through the cotton fabric. “We can stay here, do whatever you want. I’m sorry.”
Settled in here for the night, she’d think only of Olivia and wait for the sen’a withdrawal to come. Perhaps there was a way to keep moving, keep her mind off everything, and keep Jon from recognizing the withdrawal when it came.
“You can talk to me, Rielle.”
Her older brother, Liam, used to say that to her. Then Olivia had become the only one to truly listen, the only one she could bare her heart to, without fear or reservation.
Her hands shook. Useless. Alone, she could do no more than throw herself at the Courdevallan gates, a raging wave breaking against the immovable cliffs, but break she would, if it would see Olivia free. If only.
Stupid tears—there was no stopping them now—but Jon was there, and she pressed herself against him, buried her face in his doublet, his shirt, his chest. He welcomed her, invited her in. Cautious arms closed around her, tightening against a fleeting hesitation, and he rested a cool hand on the back of her head, his fingers soothing into her hair.
She angled her body away from him, her ribs squeezing, her body collapsing in on itself... But when he offered a tranquil whisper to her ear, the brush of the gentle summer breeze that eased into Laurentine from the Shining Sea, she closed her eyes and let herself lean into him.
She would give her all to save Olivia. But until that time came, she would borrow strength from Jon, if he’d lend it to her.
His fing
ertips coaxed the distress from her with subtle strokes, sweeping it away to distant air. A moment in his embrace gave her much-needed relief, but before she could daydream about another night in it, a moon, a lifetime, she drifted away. A storm darkened his eyes, and she attempted to ease the worry there with a small smile.
“We should go,” she said. “You’re Terran. You belong there. And I... Well, I’ll keep you safe. And getting out of here for a while might do me good.”
A dense pause followed, but the tempest cleared from his gaze, and he let his hold slip from her arms, down to her hands, and apart.
“As you wish.” His soft tone belied the words’ meaning, yet he moved to open the door. “After you.”
With a glance over her shoulder, she mustered a smile, then headed downstairs and outside, with Jon close behind. It was time to steal some joy before the torture that would become her life after Courdeval.
Chapter 28
When Jon stepped out of The Crowned Stag with Rielle, lamps and torches lit the dark streets with dancing flame, casting everything in a warm glow. City folk reenacted scenes, dressed as the mournful Maiden and the dying Oak King.
Thanking Terra for another good harvest and asking her blessing for the coming year was an ancient tradition, and he hadn’t missed the daytime festivities for as long as he could remember, so today was a first. But ever since Tor had taught him to dance, he hadn’t missed the evening celebration, either.
Rielle spelled her eyes, and her irises turned that arcane green of earthsight. Squinting, she looked around.
If an assassin wished to strike from stealth, this crowd would be cloak enough. But since he’d taken his vows, risk had been his faithful shadow. Paladins wore wealth that attracted greedy hunters, and for that greed, he’d dealt death before and would deal it again. A man who feared his own shadow was no man.
Although armed only with his dagger, he could ably defend her and himself, and she was a capable mage besides. Convincing her to attend had seemed reasonable, and yet, at the sight of her aggrieved face in the inn, he had regretted it all.
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