Stolen moments in dark corners. If she had to marry another man, if she had to marry that man, it was stolen moments in dark corners or nothing. Dishonor or despair.
He left the firewood and headed back into the woods for more. In his lifetime, he’d been struck by despair over and over, but he’d defended. Despair could only land a fatal blow if allowed. His parents had abandoned him. His best friend had been murdered. He’d been discharged from the only family he’d ever known. All defended. He was still standing.
But now the only woman he’d ever loved could be wed to another man.
If Most Holy Terra wouldn’t spare him this strike, his perpetual duel with despair would continue. But it was no longer only himself he defended. Rielle marrying that man wouldn’t only destroy him; it would destroy her, too. Never seeing her smile again, leaving her to the whims of that monster...
He shook his head and broke off another oak branch. If his continued love of her, in secret and in dark, in adultery and in dishonor, brought her some measure of joy... could he withstand the pain and dishonor? If that were the only way? A shadow lover...
Foliage crunched softly behind him. He turned, his arms full of small beech and oak branches.
Rielle bent and retrieved one herself, a candlelight spell hovering above her, setting her braided golden hair aglow. As she straightened, she smiled and tipped her chin toward his bundle. “You put me to shame.”
He bridged the space between them and kissed her softly, the contact of his armor against her hand dispelling the candlelight spell. “It’s been a long day of riding. Why don’t you rest at camp and let me finish up here?”
“Rest?” She pursed her lips, then looked away. “You know, don’t you?”
After she’d grimaced her way through the entire ride today and hurriedly brewed raspberry-leaf tea whenever they stopped, even a paladin would know it was her moonbleed.
For the past four days and nights, they’d chased pleasure at every available opportunity. Making it through the day without falling asleep and out of the saddle was a wonder, having slept so little. And still, he desired her, to see her face tighten, to hear her primal cries, to feel her fingers press into his flesh, her sated body curl into his. He would always desire her.
She softly stroked an oak branch in the bundle he held. “Not the greatest timing.”
“We may not survive,” he teased.
“Dreadful, isn’t it?” she asked, a soft lilt in her voice. A smile. “Disappointed?”
Desire wasn’t everything. He tossed aside the bundle of wood and drew her in, kissing her full on the mouth once more, savoring her softness, her nearness, her. “Like blessed water to sun-parched lips.”
“What?”
From the Code of the Paladin. A verse about Terra’s grace. “You are to me as blessed water to sun-parched lips. You could never disappoint.”
Rising on her toes, she kissed him once more, a soft hand tracing along his jaw. “Neither could you.”
Give me a lifetime, and I’ll prove it.
She pulled away and retrieved some of the firewood he’d dropped. He joined her. Together, they made their way back to camp and built the fire.
Leigh read a book while Brennan, if the lamplight in his tent was any indication, had elected to isolate himself. He’d pitched his tent and theirs on opposite ends of the camp.
A courtesy? Jon mulled it over as he boiled, then fried, some of the salt pork they’d packed in Melain. Brennan had minded his tongue and kept his peace since the duel. But whatever he was doing, it couldn’t be as genuine as he pretended.
Still, if he could fall in line to keep Rielle safe, then a truce was tolerable... for her sake. If not complete trust.
He fixed a plate for himself and Rielle and joined her in the tent, where she lay on her belly, frowning over a tome. “That good?”
She looked up, and her face brightened. “My Old Emaurrian is rusty, that’s all.” She held out her hands, and he turned over the plates.
He began unfastening his gauntlets. “What’s it about?”
“A history of Trèstellan. I asked Leigh for help, but he can’t be bothered. I wish Olivia were here.” She sighed, her breath abandoning her and leaving her slumped. “Well, for many reasons more important than this.”
“We’ll find Olivia. Have faith.” He removed the rest of his armor and joined her.
She offered him that thin smile again, then nodded and brightened. “I know that. I do. But it’s good to hear you say it. More real somehow.”
They ate their fill, then lay back, watching the firelight skirmish with the shadows on the tent’s canvas. He curled an arm around her and held her close. She wriggled closer and nuzzled his bicep.
With her in his arms, the bleak possibilities that might await them seemed more distant than ever. But if the unthinkable happened, forcing her to marry that man...
He had sacrificed everything to be with her. If he had to sacrifice more to stay by her side, he would. No matter how much it hurt. Those stolen moments would still be blessed, perhaps all the more so in their scarcity. And the rest... his pain, dishonor, anguish, loneliness... The rest wouldn’t matter.
But surely it would never come to that.
Would it?
At the sound of footsteps, Olivia smiled and sat up. Anton had arranged to meet with that healer the night before. Maybe they’d finally found their ritual mage for the Moonlit Rite. She crawled over to the bars and peeked out for the familiar glow of torchlight.
And it was there, down at the far end of the corridor.
Good news. It was going to be good news.
Leaning against the bars, she waited, listening to the set of steps echoing.
No—two sets of steps. Had Anton brought the healer? Risky of him. She stilled and focused on the sounds. Soft, light but sure steps. And the other—a regular beat. Wide, large steps. Purposeful. Confident. Arrogant.
Not Anton.
Gilles.
A shiver spiked up her spine, and she scrambled to her feet, backing up to the walls. Divine, if Gilles was here—
Her breaths turned ragged, her mind reeled with thoughts of plans revealed, the Moonlit Rite thwarted, punishments to follow—and Divine help her, she’d endangered not just herself, but Anton, too.
She pressed a palm to the wall, rubbing the stone grain into her skin. Calm down—she had to calm down. Perhaps Gilles didn’t know anything. He might have come to gloat again... Or to coax free some answers, as he had before, about Rielle.
Soon, the lighter set of steps faded—stopped. Only the arrogant set remained.
She stared at the bars and braced herself.
Gilles strode into her field of vision, six feet of muscle clad in black-market arcanir plate, his silver-trimmed black cloak flaring behind, and he set a torch nearby. He bore his five-foot flambard sheathed at his side and...
A box.
She cringed and swallowed the lump in her throat.
Another box.
Expressionless, he proceeded to unlock the cell door, set down the box, then strolled back through and locked it once more. He set off back toward the end of the corridor.
Just like that, he was going to leave? No word, no answers, no taunting? Where was Anton? Had Gilles done something to him? And the general was going to just stroll away?
She stumbled forward. “Where’s my guard?” she blurted out.
Gilles slowed to a stop, let his head fall back, eyes closed. A corner of his mouth curled upward. “That lanky fellow?” He tilted his head and looked at her, his eyes cold and empty but for his usual amused glimmer. “I needed a liaison to accompany my sigilist, and he intimately knew the group with which I needed him to liaise.”
Gilles had a sigilist? Recondite was tightly controlled by the Order and the Divinity, as were the tools and knowledge of sigilists. How had he found a rare defector?
And group? What group?
All he’d told her over the past month... The only gro
up she could think of—
The Black Mountain Brigands. Anton had said he’d been a member before joining up with the Free Companies, a robber until the group changed... And that he’d hated it.
Had Gilles sent him there to prevent anyone from performing the Moonlit Rite? Or as a punishment? She stopped herself from biting her lip. She’d die before letting Gilles know she feared for Anton’s safety. If Gilles detected anything more than a guard–prisoner relationship, Anton—and their whole plan—would be in danger.
Gilles smirked. “Why? Have you taken a liking to him?” He turned toward the bars and grabbed them, leaned in. “After His Highness, a lowlife such as he would be beneath you.” He sneered, and although he sobered, an ill glint shone in his narrowed eye.
“Because I’ve appreciated the food and water.”
Gilles looked her over with a calculating eye. “I see you’ve been well fed.”
Considering the guard before Anton, that likelihood must have been rare. Although she kept her face a stone mask, she scrambled for explanation. “Yes, well, he exacted his price.”
Gilles peered down at her through the bars, his stare appraising. “Between the bars? Truly?” He leaned away. “Few can claim to have enjoyed such favors from a prince’s mistress.”
Prince’s mistress. Of course. Even after all she’d accomplished, history would see her as a prince’s mistress and no more.
But the general seemed to have accepted her explanation. At least Anton wouldn’t suffer for the kindness he’d shown her.
She mustered her most nonchalant shrug. “Even a prince’s mistress will do what she must to survive.”
Gilles crossed his arms. “People like us, Lady Sabeyon, no matter how high we ascend to equal those gods among men, we never quite leave behind the streets, do we? We do what we must. And we survive.”
She forced a grin—a predatory grin. “Is that a promise?”
He laughed. “I wish it were so, but you had the grave misfortune of finding yourself in my path, Lady Sabeyon, and of the two of us, I am the better survivor.”
She smirked. “They must have been quite persuasive, then.”
He stiffened and canted his head. “What?”
“The favors you have provided between the bars to those ‘gods among men.’ ” She grinned, fixing him with a piercing glare.
Gilles flinched.
She’d unsettled him. Good. She’d grown tired of his smirking arrogance.
His flinch proved a fleeting waver; he donned his smirk once more. “Such a mouth, Lady Sabeyon. If not for your necessary and inevitable end, I would have kept you as a concubine and enjoyed it.”
Disgusting. And a lie. The way he looked at her—detached and calculating—he’d never looked at her lustfully. His tongue, speaking those words, attempted to wield power, not desire.
And she saw through it. It was her turn to smirk. “But I’ll never see the day. What a pity.”
He clenched the bars. “You think yourself so clever, don’t you?” The leather of his gloves crackled as he tightened his grip even more. “You suppose I don’t know exactly how much bread makes its way down here? When and how much hot water comes down in which tub and for how long? Nothing happens in my company without my knowledge.”
Her breath stopped.
Divine, had she misread the situation so egregiously?
She looked away from him, her gaze settling on the box. “Why have you brought this?”
But she knew the answer. She’d known it from the moment she’d seen the thing. To punish her. And yet the question spilled from her mouth, a prayer hoping against hope.
The general tore himself away from the bars. “How should your attempts at manipulation be rewarded? I don’t care if my men find a little comfort with a prisoner, but when one steals from me—”
By the Lone. Rewarded. Someone had suffered for her actions. Anton? James?
She suppressed the tears. Trembling took over her body, its conquest spreading unhindered until the whole of her quaked.
“What have you done?” she asked, despite her quivering jaw.
Gilles took a deep, calm breath and clasped his arms behind his back. “When someone steals from me, a lesson must be taught. My men, and the world, must know what happens when some conniving little schemer like you tries to take advantage.”
She stared at the box.
James.
The pressure behind her eyes broke, and tears burst free. Gilles had cut the punishment not from her body, but his.
“Enjoy your evening, Lady Sabeyon.” Gilles smiled, bowed his head cordially, and strolled away. The steps departed, serene but wide—a pleased man, an arrogant man.
Her gaze settled once more on the box, and tears flooded her determination to pool at the corners of her eyes. Cold whispered against her skin, quiet words that shivered through her being, so chilling even the tears rolled away.
Her chest tight to bursting, she scrambled toward the box on her knees and elbows, rasping desperate breaths.
She could feel it in her heart. Feel the missing part of her, right there in that box.
“James—” Divine, please spare him, let him live—Terra, Nox, you gods of the old world, all of you, any of you—
She grasped the box with broken hands, biting her tongue against the pain. Blood pooled in her mouth as she opened the wooden lid.
James.
James was dead for her scheming. His head lay there, the suffering of the past weeks permanently etched into his flesh.
His voice. She would never hear his voice again. Feel his touch again. See him stride confidently through life with unbreakable composure. He’d been broken here, forever, and the man she loved was gone—disrespected, dishonored, defiled.
And his murderer had strolled away. Smiling.
Chapter 56
Rielle shivered. She shrugged deeper into her cloak as the wind beat against her back. Although the days had grown colder and the riding made her sore, at least her moonbleed had passed.
The country landscape was stark; the once golden-crowned canopy of the early autumn trees had given way to bare dark limbs, the land slumbering beneath a heavy shroud of foliage.
Ahead, Jon’s shoulders moved with his horse’s gait as he kept an unflinching watch at the front of their group. He knew this land better than any of them, and his unease was unnerving. If he was on edge, they’d be fools to relax.
They kept to little-traveled roads, paths the map had laid out in bandit territory, avoiding the exposed Kingsroad where the Crag would be watching. Brennan brought up the rear, his face set into a stony mask. As mischievous as he could be at social functions, he was devoid of that mischief now.
He tossed something to her.
She raised her hand and somehow managed to catch it. A...?
An apple, its color a dewy red and its flesh firm. She wanted to thank him, but he’d already turned away, his focus back on their surroundings.
With a shrug, she faced forward again and bit into the fruit. Juicy. Sweet.
“The Heartseekers,” Leigh said from next to her. He shut the book he’d been reading and cocked his head toward Jon. “Is that what’s got him in knots?”
She chewed slowly and studied Jon, then took another bite. “Why don’t you ask him?”
“I did.”
“What did he say?”
Leigh sighed through his nose. “He told me that I waved my tongue like a palm frond, with just as much significance.”
Laughter and bits of apple exploded from her mouth. Brennan smiled wryly and shook his head. Jon looked over his shoulder at her, eyebrow raised.
“Even if navel-gazing is his life’s calling, there may be hope for him yet,” Leigh said to her.
So they were getting along. Somewhat.
A shadow passed above. A raven flew ahead of them and disappeared into the distance. At least something else was alive out here.
“You once burned with purpose, ma chère.”
> “What do you mean, ‘once’?” She frowned.
Deep lines tightened his face, but he blinked and they disappeared. “What if I told you that the Divinity wasn’t as... well intentioned... as you think it is?” he asked in a hushed tone.
She drew in her chin. The Divinity had saved her, taken her in, given her structure and purpose. She’d devoted her life to it and its goals. Not well intentioned? He’d been drinking again probably.
“What if I told you a lot of the Divinity’s ‘services’ to governments are actually manipulation and deception? Ways to pursue its own ends? That it isn’t as righteous as we’re all led to believe?”
She pursed her lips, but a half-laugh escaped anyway. “That’s ridiculous. All the missions that I’ve ever—”
“There are other missions, Rielle,” Leigh said, his voice lower than before. Conspiratorially low.
Covert missions. Black operations. Dark dealings behind closed doors. Actions shrouded in mystery! She rolled her eyes. Rumors abounded wherever the Divinity’s name fell from flapping lips. Tales of attacks and extortion, assassinations and schemes. And yet, every mission she had carried out or heard of had the clear purpose of advancing righteous causes. But of course, rumor didn’t like reality.
Fearmongering. That’s all it was. “What proof do you have?”
Leigh wrinkled his brow. “There are mages, people who say that—”
She shook her head. No solid evidence. It was no different than gossiping about whether some noble lady polished her guard’s sword. “Gossip is hardly proof of anything, except that some people have time to waste.”
He frowned. “You won’t even listen.”
“I have listened to this all my time at the Tower. And will never get those minutes back.”
He scowled at her.
“These are the same rumors that have always haunted the Divinity. They haven’t proved true in all this time, and you with your swaths of no evidence aren’t pulling back the curtain either.”
Several factions segmented the Divinity’s membership, all with different ideas about what the Divinity should and shouldn’t do. Factions full of people with time to waste: the Pillars, the Protestants, the Integrationists, and the Anarchists. As these time-wasters ascended to the Magisterium, the Hensar, and Proctorship, each faction vied for influence, wielded rumors like blades to cripple the others.
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