Blade & Rose (Blade and Rose Book 1)

by Miranda Honfleur

  Watching him carefully, she said, “Phantom was holed up in an old recondite mine beneath a resonance den.”

  “Need I ask?” His voice dropped.

  “No,” she replied with a faint but earnest smile. Her knees faltered under her, and when he led her to the bed, she followed and sat. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

  “They used the old mine as a base of operations for smuggling and, well, for plotting treason. I saw a map there of sen’a distribution and a chest of letters.”

  “Letters?”

  She smoothed a hand over the coverlet’s embroidered thorns. “One mentioned advance payment—to silence dissent until they could nominate and confirm a candidate of their choosing. I think the ‘candidate’ is none other than the next king of Emaurria.”

  “ ‘They’? Do you have the letter?”

  Eyes fixed on the nearest thorn, she shook her head. “It burned... along with everything beneath the resonance den.”

  He clenched a fist, knuckles whitening, the color draining from his face. If he was frustrated by the loss, she couldn’t blame him. Evidence like that might have kept corruption from the throne. At least the worst of it. But now...

  His gaze dropped to the ring on her thumb, and she brushed it with a fingertip.

  “I succumbed to fureur,” she admitted, her voice just above a whisper. “It’s thanks to your ring that I didn’t destroy the city.” With every word, her muscles constricted.

  She looked down at her hands as they shook.

  He cast off from the wall and anchored himself on the bed next to her, pulled her into his embrace. In his strong arms, with her cheek pressed against his chest, she felt warm, loved, safe.

  But it wasn’t only her own safety she risked.

  She closed her eyes. “Do you know what happened in Laurentine nine years ago?”

  “Pirates... attacked the port.”

  If only that were the full extent of it. She drew in a long breath and swallowed. “It was in the heart of winter, one of the coldest days of the year. The watch, huddled in the guard towers, didn’t see them coming in time to keep them out.

  “I was told later that a heretic aeromancer had dispersed sleeping powder over the city. I don’t know.” She paused. “My whole family was bound in one room, and they were about to bind me. One of the pirates was... hurting my brother, taunting my mother, and I—It triggered my éveil,” she croaked.

  He’d told her about his own, so he knew how they tended to be. Usually, an éveil would happen during a mildly emotional moment, just a spark and quickly noticed, controlled, celebrated. Not hers.

  He’d gone still against her.

  She pulled away far enough to see his face, his hold loosening around her. “It was during the trauma of the attack that I had mine. I hadn’t been bound in arcanir like the known mages in my family.”

  The horror flooded her mind anew, but she tried to blink it away. “Magic burst from my body, setting everything—everyone—on fire. My family was bound in arcanir, and although that stopped them from using magic, it did not stop them from being...”

  Burned to death by it. She hadn’t the heart to finish the sentence. “I-I was trapped in my body, a prisoner, watching it all happen. The pirates, the servants, my mama, my papa, Liam, Dominique, Viviane, and Dorian—all of them, I... Everything burned.”

  The inhuman rage of fureur had taken over, insatiable, unstoppable, indiscriminate. Her entire family—reduced to ash. “I killed them all.”

  The emptiness inside widened until she could hardly breathe.

  When Jon didn’t immediately reply, she said, “I should have died. I managed to get out, and by some miracle, Leigh found me there, stopped me with arcanir.” She wiped away the moisture on her face. “N-no one but Leigh and Brennan know, and Leigh thought it best that I keep it...”

  Jon stared at her, his face void of expression and color, but he drew her in close, pressing her against him.

  Her voice died in her throat. With all the blood on her hands, could he see her the same? A liar? A murderer? A demon?

  Chapter 52

  Rielle knotted Jon’s cloak in her hands but pushed for no answer.

  At last, he drew in and released a deep breath, rubbing the back of her neck. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  She froze. “But if I had just been stronger, if I could have controlled—”

  “There was nothing you could have done. You were only a child confronted with her éveil.”

  “There was,” she bit out, tears flowing. “It was the weakness in me that killed them. I had to be stronger, find the strength to control my own power. I couldn’t be that girl, that murderer, that demon. When I am a magister, only then will I rest.”

  It was why she’d chosen the Tower, why she clung to it so fiercely. Years of diligence had hardened the pain into ambition to master her magic. And she would not rest until it was mastered. And safe. Used to do some small amount of good in this world through the Divinity to atone for so much bad.

  “Sometimes, something triggers the memory, and... I don’t know what happens exactly, but Leigh has told me that I shut down until it’s over. I’ve learned to control it with a mantra, but... it seems that has now failed me.” If the mantra no longer worked, there only remained making peace. And where to begin with that? “I can’t always predict when it’ll happen.”

  “So you push people away.” He stared at the door. “Some part of you dislikes others getting close, tries to maintain a distance.”

  It had been her way to protect her loved ones—and herself. As long as they were safe, she was safe, and so was everyone else. “The farther those I love are from me, the safer they are.” She couldn’t kill them if they weren’t around. “The farther you’d be, the safer—”

  “How can you even say that to me?” His voice descended to deep, cold depths.

  “I killed my family, our household, probably anyone who died in Laurentine that day. Capable mages. Knights. Warriors. Even the pirates.” Her shoulders tensed.

  “I am a paladin. You couldn’t kill me with magic if you tried.”

  “Would that matter if an entire castle came down on you? If the ground gave way beneath your feet? For all your sigils and arcanir, would you be any less dead?”

  He reached for her and turned her chin until she looked at him. “I love you. If I risk death at your side, then so be it. It is my choice.”

  She shook her head free and rose from the bed. His choice? He would choose to risk death?

  No. Why would anyone choose that? Could he really—did he accept her, the deadly, dangerous, ugly true self she had so long hidden? Telling her it wasn’t her fault... did he... forgive her?

  She shook her head and swallowed. No. It had been nearly a decade, nine years of hiding the horror of that night, bottling it, locking it away, wearing an innocent face, a false face, one that neither asked for nor received absolution, one that hid evil. True, disgusting, unclean evil, rotting and malignant, burrowing deeper and deeper, never to see the light. Never to be cleansed. Absolved.

  Had all that—all the hiding, the lies, the suppression—been for nothing? All this time?

  She walked to the mirror, ignoring her throbbing head, and once there, the white wool coat faced her in the reflection.

  White. Since that day, she had endeavored to only ever wear white. Clean. Pure. Innocent. Good. A reminder of who she wanted to be.

  A guise hiding what she truly was. A part of her.

  Her fingers assailed the buttons, trembling to undo them, and beneath—a white shirt, even whiter than the coat.

  Running her hand over her face, she felt its texture and had never longed for a bath more than now, to wash away the day, the years, the rot of her life, to start anew. Her hand fell to her side.

  Jon stood silent, eyebrows drawn. She had said too much.

  “The fureur tonight,” he whispered. “How did it happen?”

  She sniffled, forcing Phantom’s
face before her eyes. Her spiteful words. Her threat to Jon. “She... said you were dead.”

  He took hold of her shoulders and peered into her eyes in the mirror, jaw clenched. He lowered his gaze, and his hands descended to hers. “I need you to understand something.”

  She waited.

  “What is the greatest pain you can imagine?”

  Imagine... She didn’t have to imagine. She’d survived the greatest pain—losing her family. “Losing someone you love.”

  He searched her eyes, twined his fingers with hers. Slowly, he raised her fingers to his lips, pressed a kiss to her skin. A deep breath. “Do you know what would cause me the greatest pain?”

  She blinked. “I—but I’m all right.”

  He lowered their joined hands, wrapped them around her. “Yes, you are. But this is the third time that you’ve nearly died when faced with the prospect of my death. Even if I did die, the last thing in the world I would want is for you to meet the same fate.”

  “I know that, but...”

  “Loving someone is loving yourself as they do. Loving yourself enough to go on, if not for yourself, then for them.”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it.

  Mama wouldn’t have wanted her to succumb to fureur. To die. Neither would Papa. Nor any of her brothers or sisters.

  Nor Jon.

  When their loss crept in, when the fear ensnared her, it became absolute and turned to rage. A great black sky, stretching as far as the eye could see. And the sun would never rise again, shine again.

  But it did rise again. It did shine again. And they wanted her to see it.

  “If I were the... if you... if because of me, you—”

  He squeezed her fingers gently. “I’d forgive you.”

  Pressure pushed against her eyes, and she drew in a deep breath. “Do you think they... do you think they would...”

  “Yes. They already have, Rielle.”

  She closed her eyes in a futile attempt to keep the tears in.

  “You hold your loved ones at a distance, but with that mantra, that distraction you use, you distance yourself from who you were, too.” He kissed the side of her head. “That little girl from nine years ago, so loved by her family, didn’t mean for any of that to happen. She needs to be forgiven. She needs to be held. Loved.”

  She turned in his embrace, wrapped her arms around him, and he held her, stroking her hair.

  “Do you understand, Rielle?” Jon squeezed her, a comfort, his hold warm and familiar.

  Making peace with herself. “But how do I do that? I don’t... I don’t know where to even begin.” She covered his hand with hers, rubbing it for the feel of his skin, relishing its familiarity. Whatever lay ahead, she resolved not to let it go.

  “For that, you need to look inside yourself, my love.” He held her close, held her safe, and kissed her shoulder. “Forgiving yourself is never easy, but I’ll be here to help you through it.”

  The inner glow of his eyes embraced her in its softness, surrounded her. She was his, and he was hers.

  For nearly a decade, the notion of home had unsettled her, scared her, evaded her. She’d reduced Laurentine to ashes once. She didn’t belong there with the ghosts of her family. She didn’t belong at Tregarde or Maerleth Tainn with Brennan. She didn’t belong at the Tower with the mages who hated her.

  Jon’s eyes reflected her, and in them, she saw where she belonged. Saw herself as he did. If she could hold on to that, perhaps battle fury couldn’t rip her away into fureur. Perhaps, with his eyes, she could see the little girl she’d been. An innocent. One who needed forgiving.

  And if that was so, then the answer to her fears had been the one she’d spent the last nine years pushing away.

  She rested a palm on his chest, just beside his stitches. Had he recovered? She removed his cloak, then reached for the fastenings of his brigantine and undid them. With his help, she removed the armor, then unfastened his shirt enough to slip her hands toward the stitched wound. When she glanced at him for permission, he nodded.

  Whispering an incantation, she healed the wound beneath her touch. She moved on to the claw marks Brennan had raked across his chest, and those healed, too. Her anima was dim, but she’d ask him for resonance later.

  “All better.” She smiled up at him, and he reflected the expression. Wistfully, she traced the scar on his chest with a finger. She hadn’t the talent to remove it, just like the one on his neck. “You’ll need a healer to remove this.”

  He took her hands in his, interlacing his fingers with hers. “I think I’ll keep it.”

  He reached out to her in resonance, pulling her in, and she pulled back. A brief frisson of ecstasy, and the intense connection oscillated between them until she was filled to abundance, brightening and bright as the rising sun.

  He wanted it, he wanted her, he wanted all of it. He knew her—every last dark corner—and loved her. If it was a dream, she would keep dreaming it as long as she could.

  When she looked up at him, brimming with power and desire, it was all she could do to take his mouth with her own. His strong hands claimed her body, spun her, pinned her against the wall. Something fell to the floor with a clack—a sketch, a painting—

  His mouth wanted, demanded, and she leaned into him, smoothed needy palms over his hard body.

  A knock rapped at the door.

  She exhaled sharply, deepened her kiss.

  He broke away, heavy-lidded eyes dark. “Tonight,” he whispered, and she sighed her regret.

  “Tonight.”

  Holding her gaze, he raised her chin and brushed her lips with his, then turned away to the window. She righted her clothes as her breath slowed, then answered the door.

  Leigh came in scowling, rubbing his temples. He’d worn that look before, usually when she’d acted spontaneously on missions and succeeded. Like today. An exasperated anger bubbling beneath a precarious lid.

  She was in for it.

  “Do you realize what could have happened? What you could have done?” The disapproving look he gave her almost made her bite her tongue.

  But she nodded.

  Unspeakable things could have happened today. She brought her thumb to her palm, pressed the firmness of the Sodalis ring against it.

  Arms crossed, he watched her, his fingers in restless movement, drumming on his arm.

  Worry. He’d always been harsh with her... Because he cared. Whether that worry surfaced as anger or whether he masked it so, she never did find out.

  “I want you to live, ma chère,” he said. “Divine knows I’ve tried to teach you, but maybe...” He shook his head. “Maybe I’m not—”

  Brennan walked in, holding the curtain about his waist, and picked through the satchel Leigh had brought. He held up a commoner’s rough-spun tunic and pants.

  “Peasant’s clothes?” He scowled at Leigh.

  Leigh shrugged. “I never did like you.”

  Brennan dressed, yanking on braies, the pants, the tunic, and a pair of rawhide shoes. “Why does it always have to be—” he muttered, then sighed.

  She allowed herself a small smile until she sensed Jon’s intense presence behind her. A look over her shoulder, and—

  Jon scowled.

  A shiver rattled her spine. She should’ve looked away. Definitely should have looked away.

  Her lips pressed together, she sobered as she turned back to Leigh. “I know it’s late in coming, but I think I know how to make peace with myself.”

  Leigh’s skeptical gaze flickered to Jon and back to her once more. “You do?”

  She nodded. Soon she’d test her theory and pray it would work.

  His lips curved slightly. “Good.”

  Brennan raised an eyebrow. “What?”

  “The answer to fureur,” she replied.

  He shrugged.

  “Tell me what happened,” Leigh said, pulling a chair close and planting himself in it.

  She relayed Brennan’s leads—the essentials—t
he old recondite mine, the sen’a crates, the smugglers, the map, the letter, Phantom, the Heartseekers, and the fureur... as much as she could remember. And that Brennan was sigiled against elemental magic—which he was, for the sake of appearances—to explain how he’d survived. Jon stiffened next to her but didn’t object.

  “One group of nobles hired the Crag Company,” Leigh said, “which in turn hired the smugglers and the Heartseekers. That group calls itself the Emaurrian Knot. Some of them are involved, if not all of them. Nearly a decade ago, when King Marcus had threatened a ban on the sen’a and trux trade, they blocked it with countermeasures. There had been whispers of another such attempt of this ban not five months ago.”

  “All this—over a possible law?” She shook her head. Most nobles didn’t care about the law until it meant sacrifice. Usually monetary.

  “How much did they stand to lose?” Jon asked.

  “Millions of coronas.” Leigh paused. “We’ll have to rely on the Order’s support to hold the capital until a new king can be crowned.”

  A new king. She leaned against Jon.

  He tipped his head toward Leigh. “You, advocating for Order support?”

  “I want the capital saved as much as you do,” Leigh replied. “For good. The two of us have better odds of actually saving someone in a siege with ground forces. Now, if we were tasked with leveling the city—”

  “Three of us,” Jon said.

  Leigh glared at him.

  “You said two.”

  Brennan cleared his throat. All eyes turned to him. “Two, three, whatever. Enjoy your little squabble.” He tipped his head to Rielle, a mischievous smile lurking about his mouth. “I’ll see you soon.”

  That was always the case.

  He took his leave with his chin raised high, peasant clothes and all. Visible or not, the cloak of nobility always hung from a Marcel’s shoulders. She sighed.

  Jon’s narrowed eyes traced his exit. “When do we leave?”

  “Tomorrow.” She just had to say goodbye to Gran first. Take responsibility for the fire.

  And ask her help to break the betrothal.

  Chapter 53