Blade & Rose (Blade and Rose Book 1)

by Miranda Honfleur

  He closed his eyes, massaging his temple with a finger. “Three years ago, the Grand Divinus’s hensarin cuffed me with arcanir.” He glanced at her. “They knew there was a good chance I loved you and that we would be parted. A wild mage in fureur—it’s unthinkable—but in arcanir, I was harmless. I don’t know what would have happened without it when the Magisterium advocated for moving you to Magehold, but I’d like to think I would have withstood the battle fury and not gone into fureur. I don’t know.”

  She gasped. “Then it’s true. You sacrificed the magister’s mantle to keep them from transferring me.” After the demotion, he’d shut down, distanced himself from her, and had never opened up about the proceedings despite all her questioning.

  “I should have never allowed what happened between us to happen. I failed as a master, and as a man.”

  “I pursued you.” Even as an apprentice, she’d been bold.

  “It doesn’t matter. What happened was my fault, and I wouldn’t let you suffer for it.”

  She met his earnest eyes and nodded her thanks. “What you did, I’m grateful—”

  He shook his head. “I’m not telling you this for your gratitude. I don’t need that. I never did. I’m telling you this to remind you that unless you make peace with yourself, there are only two ways fureur ends—death or arcanir.”

  Death or arcanir.

  He pulled a small satchel from his belt and emptied it into his palm, then presented the contents to her.

  A small, sage-tinted ring.

  “It’s—” She’d never forget it. “Nine years ago, when you found me in Laurentine, you put that on me. An arcanir ring.”

  He closed his fingers around it. “When I was accepted as a novice at the Kamerish Tower, the Proctor gave me this... because I’m a wild mage. My fureur could destroy the world.”

  The destruction of the world. It should have been a ridiculous proposition, but she believed him. With a link to the earth’s anima, a wild mage’s fureur could truly end everything.

  “I was taught not to love, not to develop attachments, not to cling to other people as we are born to do, all in order to prevent fureur.” He drained his cup and tipped it on its side.

  She already loved Jon. Could she... stop loving him?

  “Were you able to?” In her heart, she knew the answer.

  “No. You know that.” He avoided her gaze. “But that is the advice given to us by the Divinity.”

  She frowned. “And you... don’t trust that?”

  He righted the cup. “What is magic, ma chère?”

  “Anima.”

  “And anima?”

  She shrugged. “Everything. It’s in everything.”

  “Nature,” he said. “Anima is nature. Magic is nature. And love? Is it natural?”

  She raised one shoulder.

  “Do you suppose magic would require the inhibition of something so natural as love? What does it serve? Whom does it serve?”

  Whom did it serve... If the Divinity was teaching mages prone to the battle fury to inhibit love, it meant fewer attachments. Powerful mages with fewer priorities. Available to pursue the Divinity’s priorities. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it?” He brought the decanter closer, swirled its contents. “Do you know what the battle fury is?” When she shook her head, he dragged her chair close to his. “It’s disharmony... between this”—he touched her forehead—“and this.” He touched her chest, just over her heart. “Your mind comprehends someone you love in danger, part of a truth your heart knows in full. A truth it must accept.”

  She waited, but he didn’t continue. “And that is...?”

  “We—battle mages—are governed by the heart. Our passions are strong, our hearts violent. We don’t know how to love with restraint. But if we try to impose those restraints, if there is disharmony within ourselves, we can’t control our magic. Something else takes control.” He poured a full cup.

  “Fureur.”

  He nodded.

  Although she understood his words, if there was an answer in there about preventing fureur, it was in code.

  “Making peace with yourself is the answer to fureur, ma chère.”

  “How do I make peace with myself?”

  He drank. Slowly. Very Slowly. “What keeps you from giving your heart free rein?”

  She frowned and shook her head. Fear? Pain? Danger? “I don’t know.”

  “Well, you need to find out, and make peace.”

  Make peace? How did one make peace with fear? With pain? With danger? She wrinkled her brow. “And if I can’t?”

  “You need a safeguard.” He put the arcanir ring back in its satchel, then stashed the satchel back in his belt pouch.

  On the black market, it was worth a thousand times its weight in coronas. Paladins were sometimes hunted and killed for it.

  Swallowing, she rose. Her stomach churned, and she rubbed it. Sen’a withdrawal was setting upon her; she could feel it. “Thank you... for everything.” She headed for the door. “Goodnight.”

  He smiled. “Go back to your lover and make it so.”

  She left the room, then paused in the hall to gather her composure.

  Loving someone, loving Jon, meant not only putting herself at risk but him, too.

  I can’t lose him.

  And if, Divine forbid, she did lose Jon, she’d go into fureur and kill everything and everyone near.

  Unless she made peace with herself. Whatever that meant.

  Chapter 33

  Jon set down the glass of wine, staring at its unsettled dark red until it stilled. The maid had brought up supper—fine baked veal pâté with figs, cornichons, warm partial-rye bread, and a hearty pea soup—luxuriously far from the country pâté of chicken liver and pork that was his favorite. And here it sat, this expensive meal, nearly gone cold.

  Rielle still hadn’t returned from Leigh’s room.

  Probably some internal Divinity matters. Nothing more.

  He spread out the papers they’d taken from Flame’s room and lifted a sheaf to read. Coded. It would take some time before they’d learn the contents.

  And just why had she trusted the mage so easily? He’d killed a man, lied to her, and she just took his word?

  Jon set down the paper and crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair.

  With a sigh, he threw his head back. Candlelight swayed with shadow on the ceiling.

  Was Leigh trustworthy? He’d shown up in Rielle’s bedchamber that night in the Tower, clearly wanting something she hadn’t planned on giving, and now he’d just coincidentally shown up in Bournand? In the same inn? Lying about a murder?

  Something didn’t fit. His easy demeanor suggested no jealousy—so he didn’t seem to be after Rielle. So why the late-night visit at the Tower? Why the appearance here?

  And this Kieran—the victim—had been a hydromancer. Like the heretics had mentioned.

  The candle’s glow flickered, shadow claiming the ceiling for a moment. He’d seen countless liars over the years, questioned them, unraveled them, sentenced them. And Leigh Galvan was a liar.

  Leigh and Rielle were close. That much was certain. The mage had made it clear they’d meant a lot to each other in various ways for a decade.

  And I’ve known her for a week. He sighed. Rielle trusted the mage. Without question.

  I don’t. She gave the mage the benefit of every doubt, but that didn’t mean he had to.

  I’ll watch him.

  The door creaked open. He straightened.

  Rielle peeked her head in and smiled, wavering but warm. With a swish of her white cotton dress, she entered, then cast a ward before the door.

  He grinned. “Finished plotting the conquest of the universe?”

  She chuckled softly, tongue in cheek, then shut the door. “Ah, yes. I updated my black-arts overlord on my symbolic victory over the paladins.” She removed her boots and set them next to his by the door. Together.

  “You mean on your accepta
nce of a willing surrender.”

  She cast another ward at the window, then strode by, touching his hand and stroking her way up his arm to his shoulder, and leaned in close. Close enough for him to inhale rose balm and rainwater and her.

  “Are you ready to continue negotiating the terms?” she whispered into his ear, raising a pleasant shiver.

  Elementalists were fearsome indeed, if they could reduce a man to cinders without casting a single spell. Perhaps it was just his elementalist.

  He turned his head to hers, her lips a soft breath away from his. “You have but to ask, witch.”

  A mischievous smile curled her mouth, and the sky blue of her eyes shimmered. She licked her lip—enviable, enviable tongue—humming a quiet moan that teased more than it answered.

  She slipped away and disappeared behind the privacy screen. And he could breathe again.

  Water splashed.

  His chest pounded. Terra have mercy, what was he doing?

  His tongue had taken leave of his senses and boasted without a shred of experience to call upon for reinforcement.

  He shuffled the pile of papers. There had been stories of famous rakes and their exploits. How they pleasured women. He had read those.

  Books on anatomy. He’d read those, too.

  Casual talk. He’d heard his fair share in towns and villages, men boasting of their conquests. Among the abundance of tall tales, there could have been some small whit of practical advice.

  As a squire, he and his friends had carefully studied erotic illustrations they weren’t supposed to have. Ah, contraband. It had been endlessly fascinating. Although... the Sonbaharans had drawn feats of human flexibility that gave the imagination a week’s worth of long-sword drills. Per page.

  Those among them who’d come to the monastery later, who’d had some experience with girls, had been asked to recount their tales a thousand times over. In detail. All variations of fumbling in the dark, earth-shattering ecstasy, comparisons of breasts, and everything being over far too soon.

  These were the things he knew about lovemaking.

  He scrubbed a hand over his face, dropped his head in his hands. Merciful Terra. What was wrong with him? He could train all day and every day, resolve disputes ranging from petty squabbles to the most violent of crimes, kill men in battle, hold to strict vows for years on end—but this... this was... beyond—

  The papers crunched beneath his elbows. Crumpled. He flattened them and then undid the first few buttons of his shirt, his gaze settling on the bed.

  The bed.

  He’d slept on the floor last night. But tonight, after what had happened at Donati’s, would she—?

  Light footsteps. Rielle padded across the room barefoot, small perfect toes peeking out from under her full-length white nightgown, lacy, feminine, soft. She’d unbound her hair, long golden cascades shimmering in the candlelight. They swelled around her in wild disarray, untamed and shining and ferocious. Just like her.

  She strode to the table and poured herself some wine, then took her glass to the vanity, where she rifled through her packs until she pulled out a jar. A pinch of its contents went into the wine.

  A powder. She wasn’t ill—that he knew of. There was a common preventive women used, also a powder—was that it? A preventive taken daily, for...

  He raised his glass to his mouth and drank down its bittersweet contents all at once. Wine was relaxing, fortifying. Or was supposed to be. Any second now.

  Flushed, she came and sat next to him. He looked back at her with what he hoped was a completely normal facial expression. Then her gaze dropped. To his lap.

  She reached out and rested a hand on his bouncing knee.

  Terra’s troth. Idiot. He stilled. “It’s, um—must be the—”

  She rose and sat in his lap, wrapping an arm around his neck. Her eyes met his, their clear skies sparkling.

  She found this all amusing, didn’t she? Smug little witch. He wanted to laugh, but held back. In the resonance den, he’d been a man possessed, his mind silent, but now?

  Mind. That was it. Too much time to think.

  For a long moment, he held her gaze, losing himself in her intensity, and then he wrapped his arm around her waist, drew her in, and brushed her lips with his. Natural. Warm. Soft. She met his kiss slowly, the smoothness of her lips caressing his, teasing his nose with hers.

  Playful. He huffed an amused breath, but before he could say anything, she covered his mouth with hers, kissed him hungrily, explored him with her eager tongue. Wanted. She tightened her hold around his neck, shifted in his lap against his hardness. Goddess, he wanted her. To make her moan, make her cry out in pleasure, make her his. He held her in place, a hand on her thigh, his fingers pressing her yielding flesh through the nightgown’s cotton.

  Beneath, bare skin. Immaculate thighs, begging to be touched, caressed, parted. He exhaled sharply against her mouth.

  “Take me to bed, Jon,” she whispered to his lips. Tenderly, she kissed his jaw and moved down his neck.

  He went rigid, a fullness swelling inside, bigger than his body, brimming, burning through his skin. Eyes locked on hers, he gathered her into his arms and carried her to bed. He descended to her, claimed her mouth, let his unlearned hands explore the curves of her waist, her hips, warm and supple, and he gathered the fabric of her nightgown.

  She grazed the coarseness along his jaw and slipped her fingers over his neck and into his hair, grabbed, pulled, hard enough to hurt. Hurt with the utmost pleasure.

  Mouth never leaving hers, he shifted to lie next to her, and finally his palm found the warm, smooth bare skin of her thigh. And he touched. Caressed. Parted.

  She hurried through unfastening his shirt, at last stealing in, her palms planing over his chest, his abdomen, and he gripped her backside, stroked the curve as she unlaced his trousers and braies and at last freed him.

  A soft murmur in her kiss, and she smoothed a palm over his abdomen and lower, lower, lower until she stroked him slowly, firmly. His eyes squeezed shut. Terra have mercy. Her touch, it was—Goddess—he’d thought about this a million times, and it was—finally, it felt—

  So good. His fingers met silk—lingerie—and traced the waistband, tugged a silky ribbon, slipped between it and soft skin. Found heat, blessed wet heat, and she raised her hips to meet his touch, moaned.

  He exhaled sharply between kisses.

  This was Rielle. He was with her. He loved her, and she—

  She—

  Did she? She did, didn’t she?

  Her strokes firmed. Deliciously. He tensed.

  She hadn’t said, had she?

  Blessed Terra, it’s—

  How many men had she given her heart to?

  —a world away from—

  How many had she taken to bed, men she didn’t love, and promptly discarded?

  Until the end of the mission, perhaps, Leigh’s voice rang out in his head. Terra have mercy, of all things—and now—

  No.

  He groaned and broke away, ravenous and frustrated and ravenous. And ravenous.

  Wild eyes met his for a moment; breathing hard, he glanced away and moved to sit next to her on the bed, anchoring his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Not how he’d envisioned the night going.

  “Jon?”

  She sat up with him, still and quiet. “Talk to me,” she whispered, resting a hand gently on his arm.

  Talk to her? Tell her what? That he had no idea what he was doing? That he blindly followed his body’s demands, letting it lead him into a murky darkness he didn’t understand? That he needed to understand.

  What was this to her? Sex? Love? He knew his own heart, but hers? How did a man tell whether a woman’s heart was in it? Every part of him wanted to be one with her, to bring her pleasure, to let her pleasure him. But that was the squire in him, flipping through erotic illustrations and wondering what it would be like to feel a woman beneath him. And answering that wonder wasn’t enough. Wasn’t a
nywhere near enough.

  She was sophisticated, experienced, knew her way around a man, a heart, and these matters. If he told her any of it, wouldn’t she laugh?

  He could wait. See. Learn. He could accept that.

  But her laughing at him? Not that. Never that.

  “Tell me what’s on your mind,” she said, and he couldn’t remain silent.

  “I’ve been a paladin for so long, Rielle, but always a man first.” He took a deep breath but couldn’t look at her. “I’ve thought about this moment so much, tortured myself with it.”

  She rubbed his arm softly. And Terra help him, it only made the ache in his body hurt all the more. “It’s all right if you don’t want to.”

  He took her hand in his, intertwining their fingers. “No, I want to.” He almost laughed. “Believe me, I want to so badly it hurts.”

  She hesitated. “Your decision, then... It hasn’t changed?”

  Never. He met her eyes, unblinking. “I love you. I want to be with you, in every meaning of the word.”

  Her eyes widened, and a soft smile claimed her swollen lips. “I love you, too.”

  He brought their entwined hands to his mouth and kissed her fingers. The tension imprisoning his body began to recede, his disquiet slowly soothed.

  Her eyes were earnest, her lovely face calm, her body relaxed. She meant it.

  Even so, all of this was fast, flashing like lightning into the celibacy of his life, a sky-splitting bolt from the heavens to the earth, full and instantaneous. Kissing her had been a revelation, a pleasure, one so soon blinded by the next and the next.

  He sank back onto the bed, and so did she. He moved closer, then brushed her cheek with his hand. Was it selfishness to want to savor a lover, to learn every nuance of her kiss, the exact shape of her hand, the feel of her and only her beneath his touch, and yes, at long last, every breath, every whimper, moan, and movement of hers in the throes of pleasure? A great part of him desired this, more than the quick conquest of a mystery too long left raveled.

  Soft warmth from the candle flame set her eyes aglow as he drew a path to her neck, over her shoulder, and down her arm to her waist. He let his fingers settle there, stroking over the curve of her hip, and she leaned into his touch.