Blade & Rose (Blade and Rose Book 1)

by Miranda Honfleur

  Rielle palmed a growing flame. With an angry roar, she threw it in the direction of the woman.

  The fireball flared past the corner.

  It dissipated without hitting the target. Rielle chased after it, then snarled and stopped at the corner, staring down the small corridor at the darkness between the dwellings. Her hands on her knees, she breathed hard, winded.

  “Divine’s flaming fire!” She frowned, fixated on the empty corridor. “Was that—?”

  “Shadow.” He looked down the alley with her.

  “Divine, what next? Are the twelve magisters coming for you?” She brought a shaky hand to her forehead and then let out a huge breath. “I think we’ve seen the last of her, for some time at least.” She eyed the mass of roots dominating the street and, with a descending palm and green glow, returned them to the ground. “Is everyone all right?”

  “I think so.” No one seemed harmed—the streets had cleared. He spotted his arcanir dagger in the nearby wall and pulled it free, then sheathed it and traced back to where he’d been attacked. On the cobblestones lay the book, an obsidian dagger buried in it.

  He dropped to a knee, placed his booted foot on the cover, and yanked the blade free. He turned it, and the dim light of a nearby shop’s lantern reflected off its beautiful black surface. It was long and serpentine, as sharp as a dragon’s tooth.

  But for the book, it would have killed him. Was it because he’d given chase? Shadow had seemed content enough to spy on them before he’d pursued her...

  He tucked the dagger into his belt and then picked up the book. Were the Crag hunting paladins, or just people interfering with Crag affairs? If Derric had known the Crag Company was hired to kill paladins, perhaps that explained his request of the Tower’s Proctor. And Rielle.

  When he rose, he found Rielle standing there, her intense eyes fixed on the dagger’s hilt, her stare blazing. Lethal. She stood frozen, mesmerized, a madness tainting the single-minded violence in her eyes.

  Slowly, he approached her and reached for her limp hand.

  Her eyes still fixed, she inhaled sharply and swallowed. After a moment, she met his eyes. Her nostrils flaring, she heaved labored breaths. “I need to see Leigh. Now.”

  Why? The madness in her gaze belayed the asking.

  Paying no heed to the looks they received from the few agog bystanders, he put his arm around her and headed back to the inn.

  Chapter 32

  Rielle knocked on Leigh’s door. No answer. She knocked harder. Not a sound on the other side.

  That dagger—she’d seen its like before but couldn’t place it. When the battle fury took hold, there was the fire, as always, the fire, and the memory felt so real. The flames had singed the hair on her skin all over again.

  Murderer. Demon.

  And all she wanted to do was kill. She hated it, couldn’t stand it. But when the battle fury took over, it repressed her will, imposed its own. To end life.

  While she fought the battle fury for control, she could direct it, if not reliably stop it, but without a kill, it intensified, unsatisfied, clamoring for full fureur. And if she had something, someone, to lose, the fight for control became more difficult to win.

  No kill had satisfied the battle fury tonight, but she had managed to bring it under her control, reciting her oath to the Divinity as she always did. I, Favrielle Amadour Lothaire, pledge myself, from now for eternity, to the holy Divinity of Magic.

  I declare to take freely and solemnly this oath of obedience, allegiance, piety, and diligence...

  With this oath, I state my strong and irrevocable intent.

  It was as far as she’d gotten. As far as she’d needed to get for her mind to retake control.

  With a heavy sigh, she laid a palm flat against the door and shook her head.

  “Perhaps we should talk to him tomorrow,” Jon said.

  He had come to danger because of her once again. When she saw that dagger, its aim between his ribs—the thought of it finding its mark ignited the battle fury, the gateway to fureur. It was only his survival that had stopped her from flaring into fureur in the midst of a crowd, in a densely populated city.

  She closed her eyes. The carnage would have been unspeakable. Unforgivable.

  If she’d fallen into fureur tonight, all of Bournand could have gone up in flames, Jon included. If he had been killed—she didn’t want to consider that possibility.

  Her feelings for Jon were dangerous. Not just to her. Not just to him. To anyone in their path, should his life be in danger.

  She needed to talk to Leigh.

  “Tonight.” She grabbed the knob and turned.

  It was unlocked.

  Before her, on the large bed, Leigh lay sprawled, shirtless, with a decanter of wine on a wet nightstand. The cups were across the room, on the table.

  She cleared her throat.

  No response.

  A little louder.

  This time, Leigh cracked an eye open and perked his head up. Slowly, a smile brightened his face.

  “Ma chère,” he greeted. “Please, have a drink.” He waved a shaky finger toward the decanter. “You too, Jon.” He chuckled to himself.

  “We’re fine,” she replied while Jon studied the decanter with a frown.

  “Pity. It’s port, your favorite, fourteen hours decanted.” Leigh made no move to rise, so she reached for the serpentine dagger at Jon’s belt.

  She held it up. “Ever seen one of these?”

  Without a word, he extricated himself from the disheveled bed and rose, wearing nothing but fitted black trousers, an unfastened belt, and boots. He poured the rest of the bottle of port into the decanter and drank straight out of it in loud gulps, burgundy rivulets trickling down his neck and bare chest as he headed for the nearby table.

  Jon sighed, crossing his arms and bowing his head to pinch the bridge of his nose.

  “How long have you been drinking tonight?” she asked.

  One cold eye transfixed her, a fearsome stillness possessing Leigh’s body.

  All the air drained out of the room. She swallowed. Leigh’s warning look had always petrified her. No matter that she was no longer his apprentice.

  Jon cleared his throat. “Up for a discussion?”

  Leigh dragged a chair out from the table and planted himself in it. He gestured to the two other places available.

  They sat, and she placed the twisted obsidian blade on the sticky table. “We were attacked by a woman wielding this. Do you know anything about it?”

  Leigh grabbed the blade and scrutinized it. His eyes widened. “Did you defeat her?”

  “I couldn’t. No more than I could defeat shadow and celerity. We suspect it was Shadow of the Crag Company.”

  “Shadow?” Leigh cocked his head. “What would Shadow want with either of you?”

  “I don’t know. What does the Crag Company want with the paladins? But we were attacked on the way to Bournand by a man claiming to be Flame.”

  Leigh bared his teeth. “And you’ve waited until now to tell me this? Ma chère, you try my gentility.”

  “He’s dead,” Jon interrupted.

  Leigh regarded him with a glassy stare. “And you think you’ve done well, do you?” He turned back to her. “If the Crag Company is after either of you, they will not stop, all the more if you’ve killed Flame. The general will not let that stand.”

  “I have my mission.” But it was strange that, although she’d tried to kill Shadow, the woman had not tried to engage her. Almost as though she tried not to kill me.

  “Flame would have been the easiest of them for you, knowing his tricks as you do, but Shadow and Phantom will test even your considerable dueling abilities.”

  “Shadow ran.”

  “You cannot be so naive as to think that’s the whole of it. Shadowmancers always want to fight on their terms, and they will disappear like the receding tide only to return in full force once more. She will wait until you are distracted, vulnerable, and then
she will strike again.”

  “And I’ll be there,” Jon replied, his voice hard, his neck stiff and corded.

  “Until the end of the mission, perhaps,” Leigh shot back. “And as likely to distract as to defend.”

  Jon bristled.

  “And Phantom—you won’t even see her coming before it’s too late. Ma chère—” Leigh shook his head.

  “I can handle them.” When Phantom would come for her, when Shadow would return, she’d be ready.

  “At least while you’re here, near me, neither of them would dare engage you.” Leigh ran his finger across the flat of the dagger’s blade. A line of runes glowed in reply. He grimaced. “Did you study this at all?”

  Between the search, the chase, the fight, the battle fury—she shrugged.

  “Naturally,” Leigh said flatly. “This is a soulblade.”

  She coughed—she had forgotten to breathe. Soulblades were made of a rare volcanic glass infused with sangremancy—to avenge. Embedded into the target of the sangremancy curse, it could kill instantly.

  “Soulblade?” She gaped. Damn it all, an infamous heretic shadowmancer had nearly killed Jon with a soulblade, and they weren’t even halfway to Monas Amar.

  “What’s a soulblade?” Jon asked.

  “A rare and priceless weapon designed for vengeance. The runes are chiseled with recondite. Not even a paladin would be immune to its magic.” Leigh sighed, brandishing the dagger. “She’ll be back for it, I’m sure.”

  “If she does, I’ll give it to her.” Sharply. Deeply. Painfully.

  “That’s my girl.” With a heartening grin, Leigh reached for a cup and poured himself some more port.

  At least he was using a cup. Progress.

  She slid the blade into her boot and laid the cylindrical case on the table. “In any case, it also turns out that Kieran was sent to Courdeval.” She opened the case. “Maps of the capital—Azalée and Trèstellan Palace, specifically.”

  Leigh peered down his nose at the maps. “Is that so?”

  Was he really going to play dumb? “There were signs of a struggle in his room.”

  “Did you find a body?”

  “No,” she replied. “The room overlooked a waterway. Where a body might easily have been disposed.” When he didn’t meet her eyes, she added, “It was at The Velvet Glove. Your usual room.”

  His gaze locked with hers.

  No more games. “Did you kill Kieran?”

  “Yes.”

  Next to her, Jon shifted in his chair.

  “Why?” she asked Leigh.

  He spread his arms wide. “The man provided plenty of reasons,” he replied bitterly. “But if you knew the things he threatened to do to you—”

  She balled her hands into fists. “You killed him because he threatened to do something to me?”

  Hardly believable, but not impossible. Kieran had always hated her for winning the apprenticeship to Leigh—and his hatred had only escalated to open war between them.

  Leigh inhaled an incensed breath. “He rented a room personally instead of taking the Tower’s reservations. If he knew you were coming through Bournand and wanted to enact his plan—”

  “Or he just wanted to stay there.”

  Leigh rose. “He told me that one day he’d kill you.” His eyes were narrowed, dangerous, a clear warning she knew well: to proceed with caution. “I did what needed doing.”

  She stood. “If he threatened me, why didn’t you tell me?”

  He paced toward the window. “You would have felt responsible if I did.”

  He was right. And she did feel responsible. She was responsible.

  A threat wasn’t reason enough to kill someone, but she’d told Leigh that Kieran had reported their affair to Magehold and had pushed her down the stairs last year. Brutal, decisive action was Leigh’s way.

  “That hydromancer wanted to kill you, ma chère. I say good riddance.” Leigh settled back into his chair. “Wouldn’t you agree, Jon?”

  Jon crossed his arms and frowned contemplatively. Then he looked up at her. “Hydromancer.”

  Hydromancer. That heretic in the ruins had said, As long as that hydromancer is dealt with before he reaches his destination.

  Jon’s eyes flickered from hers to Leigh and back again.

  Pensive, she blew out a soft breath. And so the hydromancer has been dealt with.

  There was no way Leigh would be working with heretics. To what end could he possibly? Leigh had been working for the Divinity since before she’d had her éveil, and they’d been so close—as close as two people could become—for years. If he worked against the Divinity, he would have told her.

  She shook her head at Jon. There was no way.

  “Kieran was on a mission from Magehold to Courdeval,” she said to Leigh, “to perform the Moonlit Rite. Someone else will need to do it.” She grabbed Kieran’s orders and handed them to Jon.

  When he finished reading them, he passed them to Leigh.

  Eyes narrowed, Leigh slipped on his spectacles and read, crumpling the orders in his hand when he finished. He sighed. “Don’t tell me you intend to do this? Sneak into the capital, do the rite, see if Olivia’s alive?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “And why are you revealing orders to an outsider?” He glared at Jon.

  Sitting up straighter, Jon scowled back at him.

  The last thing she needed was another brawl between them. “The mission was high priority. The way I see it, I have two options. The first is to return to the Proctor with all of this. The second is to finish my mission and then Kieran’s.”

  She sat, folded her hands together, and looked from Jon to Leigh.

  “You have your orders,” Leigh said in the authoritative tone she knew all too well. “Magehold will have a contingency plan. Unsanctioned missions lead to excommunication and punishment. You know that, and you can’t risk it.” His gaze flickered to Jon.

  She shivered. There was the very small matter of her unwanted betrothal to Brennan. She’d wait him out under the Divinity’s contract until his father gave up on her and arranged a new marriage. That, of course, would be difficult if she were excommunicated.

  And however irrelevant her betrothal, Jon deserved to know. She needed to tell him. But not tonight. She bit her lip.

  With a nod, Leigh took the cue well and quickly. “If you want to become a magister, you need to complete your mission, no more and no less, and get your next commendation. Focus on that.”

  Avoid Courdeval? “What about Olivia? I can’t just leave her there and this... Rift, whatever it is, to happen.”

  Leigh sighed. “I don’t want to abandon Olivia either, but I’m not in favor of sacrificing one former apprentice to save another. My trip to Bournand is just a pleasure trip. I can take Kieran’s things back to the Tower and talk to Pons. He’ll send someone.”

  Jon took her hand. “You should do both missions, Rielle.” He fixed her with a ruminative stare that made her hold her breath. “I’ll help you.”

  Leigh scoffed, earning a warning look from Jon.

  “But... I’m supposed to take you to Monas Amar.”

  “You will,” Jon replied, “but if I choose to go to the capital afterward, then I don’t see how you can stop me.” He smiled warmly. “There’s a lot at stake, if these orders are to be believed. The Rift sounds disastrous for not only the city but the kingdom. And no one can begrudge you wanting to save a friend,” he said, his eyelids falling heavily for a moment.

  He had to be remembering the friend he’d lost. Sir Bastien.

  “And I won’t turn down an opportunity to destroy the Crag Company.” Jon’s expression turned hard as he stared at the maps.

  She met Leigh’s scowl directly. “After Monas Amar, we’re going to Courdeval. It’s the right thing to do.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You don’t even have this vial mentioned in the ord—”

  She pulled out the vial on the chain around her neck and held it up defiantly.

 
“Oh fine,” Leigh grumbled. “Shadow and Phantom, along with the rest of the damned Crag Company, hunt you, ma chère, and you want to infiltrate a heavily guarded city. You know I’m not about to let you run off to your death with only a forsworn paladin for support.”

  Jon began to rise next to her, but she covered his hand with hers. He glared at her but kept his peace. Her former master had never been a mild man, but his heart was in the right place.

  “Now get out. I need to sleep off all the insanity you’ve just spewed at me.” Glowering, Leigh tipped his head toward the door.

  Her stomach rolling, she gathered everything from the table and handed it to Jon. “I’ll catch up in a minute.”

  Jon hesitated, glancing from her to Leigh and back, but finally nodded. “I’ll see if the kitchen can send up supper.” With a glance at Leigh, Jon left the room and closed the door.

  “He’s jealous.” Leigh raised a knowing eyebrow. “At least you finally have someone cleaning out the cobwebs.”

  If only. She bit her lip. Was that why he’d riled Jon so much? Testing him for reaction? Hoping jealousy would give away the truth of the matters between them?

  “You wanted to speak to me in private. Something you didn’t want to discuss with your new lover present.”

  Lover. She dropped back into the chair, her heart pounding.

  “You love him.”

  She buried her face in her hands. For three years, she’d managed casual dalliances, kept her heart safe, herself free from risk and others safe from the ever-looming possibility of her fureur.

  Enter Jon. She sighed. Her desire for him had come quick, strong, so heady she hadn’t thought past it. She’d only fallen for him harder, deeper, since. And now, she risked him, herself, and everyone around her if anything ever happened to him.

  “Fureur,” she croaked.

  He raked his fingers through his long white hair. “How close were you?”

  “A dagger strike away.” She rubbed her forehead and pulled at her bodice. The blasted thing had become terribly uncomfortable, made all the more so by the aches inhabiting every inch of her body and the crawling sensation beneath her skin.