Gilles blocked, crossed swords with him. Directed the point toward his shoulder. Right into the wound left by the arrow in the market.
Through the shoulder—
Wincing, Jon angled, their swords bound, maneuvering Gilles in front of two bodies—dead doubles. Gilles’ blade plunged deeper.
Caught.
Roaring through the pain, Jon grabbed the sword and advanced as Gilles took the expected retreating steps.
And tripped over the bodies.
It was over.
Jon pinned the general’s right wrist with an armored foot, crushing it until Gilles released his sword, and pressed Faithkeeper’s tip to the weak point in Gilles’s armor at his neck.
He yanked Gilles’ blade free of his own shoulder and glared at the vile man beneath him.
The general didn’t remember him, but it didn’t matter. He’d longed for—envisioned—this moment countless times, imagining what the swell of justice would feel like when Gilles was finally behind bars for killing Bastien.
“I surrender.” Gilles pushed away his sword with sluggish fingers.
Jon glared at him. “Soldier of fortune,” he said coldly, “waging war and taking life for coin...”
He could finally arrest Gilles...
Bastien’s life. His brothers’ lives. His family’s lives. His people’s lives.
He stared into the general’s visor until he saw the whites of the man’s eyes. The Code demanded he accept an enemy’s surrender.
He was bound by the Code no longer. “I don’t accept your surrender.”
The general’s eyes widened.
Jon thrust his sword through Gilles’s neck.
Chapter 66
With a frustrated roar, Rielle tried to pull open both of the doors without success, her face pulsating with pain.
No choice.
Focused on one door, she stepped aside and cast a gust spell behind it.
Both doors flew open, wind tearing through them to sweep the mercenaries in its path against the back wall. Something—a whetstone—flew past her.
The doors were open.
Time to perform the rite.
She cast a candlelight spell above her and entered, trying to whisper the healing incantation. Sharp agony shot through her face as it healed, blinding white.
And that was it. There would be no more magic beyond a single spell until she had resonance.
At least the rite was powered by blood.
When her vision cleared, she looked about the chamber. Massive, its large stone construction predated anything she’d seen on the palace’s upper levels. Darkness cloaked most of the area, but moonlight poured in from high above, illuminating a dais of wood, about fifty feet wide...
With roots buried in the stone?
A tree stump?
She climbed onto the stump and moved until she stood at the center of the light, then looked up to see an open circle at the top of a tower, the moon nearly filling it. It had to be 200 hundred feet tall, easily going through the temple above.
“The Lunar Chamber,” she whispered.
Around her, a pentagram lay carved into the wood, circled by an ouroboros. Carvings, deep, ancient, and dark; mages had performed this rite for centuries, and witches had for ages before that, and perhaps before them, practitioners with no name, only magic seeping from their fingertips, anima shining within their inner barriers, and a soul that reached deep into the earth when they closed their eyes.
At her feet, a star-shaped crack in the wood, blackness at its center, reached into those depths. This was it. She followed the edge of the circle with her eyes up to the head of the serpent. Rushing toward it, she reached for the pouch of ash on her belt to trace the lines.
It wasn’t there.
She looked down, feeling all around her belt for the pouch. It was gone.
“Looking for this?”
She whirled to see Leigh in the doorway. He entered and shut the massive doors.
Dust grayed his face. A smattering of blood darkened him. He held up the pouch of rowan ash.
Thank the Divine. She hurried toward him.
“I found it on the ground outside the chamber.” He held it at his side, and when she approached him, he offered it her, placing one hand on her shoulder. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Of course.” She met his narrowed eyes.
A pull at her neck and a snap.
He threw the vial of king’s blood upon the ground, shattering it.
Its precious contents soaked into the dust.
“You gave me no choice,” Leigh said flatly. He stepped away from her.
How...?
She clutched the pouch of ash close and fell to her knees. The canvas grated her fingertips. Her palm pushed dust, blood, and shards of glass. Uselessly. Hopelessly. Her heart clenched in an unforgiving vise.
How could he?
“It had to be done,” he said, his voice wavering despite his words, his dark eyes haunted.
Her mind was numb.
“The Divinity has long acted without conscience. It secures peace by removing all opposition.”
No words would come.
“Monarchs seek the Divinity’s approval to enact laws. Grand Divini determine the legitimacy of governments. And no country may deny the Tower without consequence.”
Her eyes narrowed, lessening him.
“The Divinity is setting itself up to become the world’s government unless we, the mages, rebel. Starting with you and me.”
Her hands clenched. Dust. Blood. Glass. A throb began in her fists.
“To the Divinity, you are an expendable soldier, but to every mage out there torn from her home, forced under the Divinity’s rules, regulated to the point of every personal decision, you’ll be a role model and a rallying cry. Join me. Let’s return to the old ways of Covens and Archons—mage communities that served all mages. No more of this... tyranny. You have to understand, Rielle, I would never hurt you. This is best for everyone.”
Useless words. His paranoid vendetta, the imagined slights, and the unfounded accusations made her stomach roll.
The kingdom had been expecting, anticipating, praying for the Moonlit Rite, and it was the Divinity’s responsibility. Olivia’s responsibility. Kieran’s responsibility. Hers.
And he’d pretended she’d had a meaningful choice, when he’d been prepared to do this if she disagreed with him.
She stiffened. In the ruins, the heretics she and Jon had overheard spoke of joining someone planning to take down the Divinity, of stopping a mage from reaching his destination, of making the Grand Divinus look like a fool.
“It wasn’t a coincidence, you being in Bournand,” she said.
Leigh lowered his gaze. “No.”
He’d been working with the heretics.
He’d betrayed the Divinity.
But worse than anything, he’d betrayed her. When they’d always, always trusted and protected each other. “And all this time, you pretending to be there to help me... it was all in anticipation of this moment,” she said, sharp pain blooming in her palms, “when you would betray someone who has always loved you?”
The throb spread up her arms, her hot arms, to her shoulders, scorching shoulders, and up, through, out—
He shook his head. “It had to be done, ma chère.”
“Don’t you dare!” Pain burned in her palms, her hands, and coursed through her; pure flame marching through her veins. “In Bournand, did you even send my report to the Tower?”
He didn’t answer.
Deep, calming breaths. The Proctor wouldn’t know about the heretics in the underground ruins. About what they’d said. No clue leading to the heresy happening now. And she was implicated.
The only Divinity mage who could tell him.
And Leigh—
He stood there, still, full of conviction, over-bright eyes boring into hers. She was a loose end now. He’d already betrayed her. Did he also plan to—?
; “And now...” Her searing skin tightened, begging for transformation, to be part of flame made flesh. “You just destroyed our only hope of completing the rite. And I’m the only one left to tell the Proctor.”
He said nothing. Stood. Watched. Unmoving.
A familiar power surged beneath her skin, longing to burst free, set her alight.
She stared at her fiery fists, feeling the pressure build to capacity inside her. To burn, and burn, and burn until only embers and ash remained. Bright as the sun, far as its light, until eternal night.
But it didn’t fight for control; it came to her call. It’ll burn you, and it’ll warm you, the girl had said. She had said, to herself.
“Wait,” a voice called out, reaching through the fire. Jon.
She panned her twitching eyes to him. He’d bested Gilles—and lived. The Crag were defeated.
Her heart swelled. She longed to embrace him, but her eyes darted to Leigh, who stood ready to cast, observing. Would he try to harm Jon, who’d walked on this... this betrayal? She couldn’t let her guard down.
But as for the rite—she blinked and shook her head. The die had been cast. She had failed. And there was nothing Jon could do.
No need for violence. For her violence. “Leigh destroyed the only vial of king’s blood.”
They would solve this together. Solve it together, and live.
She curled her shoulders, retreating into herself. The flames receded; the glow of her skin faded.
It was over.
Jon stepped between her and Leigh. “Use my blood.”
His blood?
King’s blood—
Her mouth dropped open.
Leigh’s eyes widened.
“I found out at Monas Amar,” Jon said firmly, his gaze trained on Leigh.
“How?” She gaped at him.
“I can’t let you do that,” Leigh declared. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will stop you.”
If he wanted to now, Leigh would stop her. But she wouldn’t let him without a fight, even weakened as she was. He’d have to kill her.
The doors burst open.
Covered in blood and gore, Brennan threw himself at Leigh, seized his hands.
“Do what you need to do,” he growled at her, trying to restrain Leigh beneath him. He wrapped his arm around Leigh’s neck and head.
“Don’t kill him.” She lurched forward, but Jon grabbed her arm, held her.
“It’s all right,” he said, while Leigh stared at her, eyes fading. Dimming. Her fingers twitched. Her foot stepped forward. Her chest tightened, as did Jon’s hold on her arm.
Finally, Brennan subdued Leigh, who lay unconscious but breathing. “He’ll live.”
“Use my blood.” Jon turned her to face him.
What?
Her face went slack, and she shook her head.
Jon was king.
It had to be why she’d been ordered to escort him to Monas Amar. She’d been chosen to protect the new king, the last of the Farallan dynasty. It hadn’t been a lowly escort mission.
She sucked in an epiphanous breath. The Proctor had known about the regicide. He’d kept it from her to ensure she’d accept the mission instead of going after Olivia. Her chest pounded.
The Heartseekers—they’d been searching among the paladins for the new king.
“I found out my parents were Queen Alexandrie and the king’s younger brother, Prince James. I’m... the child of an affair.” He dipped his head, blinking away a shadow of a thought.
Even Queen Alexandrie was rumored to have lovers. Gran’s words rang in her mind.
“But they signed a document legitimizing me, so when the regicide happened, I... It’s why I was discharged from the Order.” He met her gaze squarely.
She looked at Jon, and she saw it now—the resemblance in his face that recalled Prince James. She and Jon had shared so much together, and she’d never even suspected.
But there was no time to think about it all. She needed to complete the rite. She clasped his hand in hers, and Jon met her look with a tentative smile.
Speechless, she pulled him behind her, tracing the sacred circle and the pentagram with rowan ash. Once she finished, she led him to the center and began to remove the armor covering his hand.
Steeling herself, she dropped the gauntlet and gazed above her. The moon was very close to filling the circular opening perfectly. The pouch of ash still in her hand, she tipped its contents over the center of the pentagram and the star-shaped opening.
The entire sigil beneath them, around them, glowed a ghostly white. One more ingredient.
The Veil was coming down. It was time.
She drew Jon’s sword just enough and then held his unarmored hand to the sharp edge. Their eyes locked, he pressed his palm to the blade, then she slid the sword back into its sheath.
He clenched his hand into a fist.
As she looked up, the moon slowly moved from the circle.
His blood dripped from his palm onto the center of the pentagram, leaking into the crack in the middle, the final step of the rite and his royalty blooming between them. The ghostly glow of the sigil faded beneath them.
The reality flooded her memories and knowledge of the last several weeks, saturating every uncertainty with his revelation. All they hadn’t known, all the questions—answered. It was all too much.
When she’d bared her soul to him in Melain, had he suspected? She’d had everything to lose by sharing her secrets with him, but she’d valued his love and trust more than the risks. Had he?
She pulled her hand free of his. “When did you suspect?”
He grabbed her shoulders. “It’s not like that,” he answered quickly, giving her a light squeeze. “I didn’t know until they told me at Monas Amar. I promise.” He brought his fingertips to his temple. “I can hardly believe I’m saying these words.”
Neither could she. But faced with his strong, unwavering gaze, she believed him.
Here he was, fighting for his kingdom, for his people, not like the spoiled kings of the last few generations. A warrior king. A paladin king. He’d rule well.
But she remembered the bottle of immortelle, tucked away safely in her recondite pouch in her saddlebags. Home, he’d called it. With her.
A pang of sadness hit her. Divine irony. Jon, as the new king, could break her marriage contract with Brennan, but she—a mere noble, and disgraced at that—could never hope to marry him. A king wed for his kingdom’s advantage. Jon would wed for his kingdom’s advantage. Some princess. Not her. Never her.
Faced with his smile, she could barely meet his eyes. He didn’t know yet. He didn’t understand. And it would fall to her to tell him. To break his heart.
“Terra have mercy, say something, Rielle.”
“I...” The life of a king’s mistress was incomplete joy and complete misery. But this wasn’t about her. There were bigger things happening. “You’ll make a great king.”
His gaze bored into her, a storm breaking in his sea-blue depths. It seemed her answer hadn’t been what he’d wanted to hear.
He looked at her then with such a void; it demanded response—something, anything to fill the darkness.
She placed her palm over his, preparing to heal the wound, but her anima was too dim. Instead, she took his hand and reached out to him in resonance. He pulled back, and power flooded her like euphoria, forced into every corner of her being, so bright and alive, blinding, overwhelming—
She collapsed against him, against his arcanir, and the resonance broke. But his hand was still in hers, the feel of him still soothing warmth into her. Great Divine, she loved him.
He brushed her fingers with his. “Speak to me.”
Her gaze never left his. She whispered the healing incantation over the sword slash in his skin and the wound in his shoulder.
If only their other problems could be repaired as easily. As king, he was going somewhere she couldn’t follow. Their dreamy musings about being together after t
his battle could only ever be musings.
It hurt to breathe. “I’m going to the dungeon,” she said softly, “to find Olivia.”
He grasped her wrist, drew his eyebrows together. “Terra’s troth, Rielle—”
“I’ll come with you,” Brennan interrupted, earning a scowl from Jon. “Trèstellan has a few arcanir cells, if I recall correctly.” He slung an unconscious Leigh over his shoulders, holding his right arm and right leg securely. “We need to find out if Galvan was working with anyone.”
The time to perform the rite had ended, for good or ill. Perhaps Jon’s blood had hit the center of the pentagram before the moon had shifted. Whatever the Rift was, she had done all she could to prevent it. The rest was out of her hands.
A distant explosion sounded.
Chapter 67
Rielle slipped her hand free of Jon’s.
Brennan turned toward the door. “Movement.” His nostrils flared. “Paladins.”
One of them entered, his gaze flitting from each of them to the next until it rested on Jon. A squad followed.
“Your Majesty,” the paladin commander said with a bow. “We’ve taken control of the upper levels. Paladin Grand Cordon Guérin—”
Jon held up a hand to the paladin commander, then lightly squeezed Rielle’s wrist. His earnest eyes found hers. “It’s not what we planned, exactly, but we can do all that we wished for in Melain... and more.”
He grazed her cheek with loving fingers.
Her shoulders curled inward. “It’s much more complicated than that now.”
His hand firm on the small of her back, he pulled her in closer, raised her chin.
“It’s very simple,” he said with an abundance of conviction, his breath warm against her lips, seductive, making her melt against him. “Do you love me, Rielle?”
A shiver trembled through her as he inched closer to her mouth.
“Yes,” she whispered, and his lips met hers, soft union giving way to firm demanding; he cupped her face with a gentle hand, rubbing her cheek.
The paladin commander cleared his throat. “Your Majesty—”
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