Leigh supposed he must have looked the picture of gore. “Yes, well, we mustn’t allow torture to get us down.”
Olivia examined him with large, rapt eyes that soon glazed over. “He tortured you.”
Leigh did not reply.
“Did you tell him where Rielle is?”
Leigh leaned forward. “She’s missing?”
“Yes.”
“Since when?”
“Spiritseve.”
The chains clinked as he rose to his feet. “Tell me what happened.”
Olivia’s eyelids were heavy as she looked away. “Rielle freed me, then went deeper into the dungeon. I should have never agreed to let her go alone...”
“Olivia—”
She closed her eyes for a moment. “The king and Brennan went after her. They found a hidden dock, but Rielle was nowhere to be found, just some letter she’d allegedly left in my cell, bidding Jon goodbye.”
He exhaled a sharp breath through his nose. “She’d have said it to his face. It’s a forgery.”
Olivia nodded. “I agree. But there’s still no other explanation. I’d been in that cell all day and all night, Leigh, and no one but she had come. I have no answers.”
He took a few steps back to lean against the wall and rapped it lightly with his fist. Damn it. Damn everything.
“You had nothing to do with it?”
“Olivia,” he said, boring his eyes into hers. “You should know better than anyone that I would never hurt Rielle.”
She held his gaze for a moment, then slowly nodded. “The only shred of evidence I have is that Shadow wanted her for something, but—”
“If Shadow’s responsible, she’s in the wind. We have a better chance of finding the Divine.” He glanced down at her ring and sighed. “But we can find Rielle. She’ll want to be found. If you are still the Archmage, then you have Jon’s ear. Convince him to free me. I will find her.”
She looked away when he said the name. “The priests have barely convinced His Majesty to stay in Courdeval for the stability of the kingdom, after the rite was completed too late. He’s not in a state to hear much of mercy right now.”
“It’s not mercy. It’s pragmatism. I can do what he can’t.” Testing the length of the chains, Leigh moved as close to the bars as he could manage. “Please.”
Her mouth fell open. No doubt she was stunned to hear the word; in truth, he rarely said it.
“I will see what I can do.” She reached for his hand, then gestured a healing spell, her soft moss-green presence entering him.
He closed his eyes and sighed. At least the dripping would finally cease.
But what had she said about—something about the rite and stability?
Finished, she withdrew. “There. Good as new.”
“What does the stability of the kingdom have to do with the rite?” He flexed his fingers. Still stiff. “Wasn’t it all just for show? The Divinity puffing up its own importance?”
Her mouth turned down, her shoulders slumped, even her eyes dulled.
To say that Olivia appeared devastated was a vast understatement.
He frowned. She weathered disaster well, and to see her in such a state...? No sound but the beating of his disquieted heart filled his ears.
“No.” She lowered her gaze, a ruminative crease forming on her brow. “Only the ruling Faralles and their Archmages have been privy to this knowledge, but I suppose you’ll see the consequences soon enough. Long, long ago, when the humans defeated the elves and conquered Emaurria, a primitive ritual was used to secure that victory. It was said that the elves were superior to humanity, that all the Immortals were, and that, alive, they would always pose a danger.”
He knew those tales well. But that’s all they were: tales.
“So mankind corrupted their ritual and used it against the elves—and every other race and species they deemed a threat. Left their bodies in stone, but their souls trapped beyond the Veil, the door between the Lone and our world. The annual Moonlit Rite maintains the Veil and prevents those souls from returning. Every performance of the rite since has kept that door sealed. Now the Rift has torn it open.”
His mouth was so dry he couldn’t swallow. “You’re telling me that the Immortals—elves, fairies, werewolves, vampires, dragons, krakens, mermaids, and so on—are not only real but returning?” He backed up until he hit a slimy wall. “That... cannot be.”
Drip. Far away this time.
“It is.” Eyes shadowed, she drew in a deep breath. “There are already multiple reports of strange creatures coming in.”
Drip.
He stared at her, at the blur she became, one with the darkness. He’d killed Kieran to thwart the rite’s performance, even betrayed Rielle, all to undercut the Divinity.
Drip.
Oh, yes. He’d succeeded in making the Divinity look irresponsible and unneeded all right, but the success had an aftertaste so bitter it choked.
Drip.
Silent, Olivia gave him a piteous parting glance and turned to walk away. There had simply been no more words, nothing more that either of them could offer, when they both knew the dire truth.
He had opened the door for, and welcomed, the greatest atrocity in recent history.
Perhaps even the end of mankind.
Chapter 73
Jon tried to shrug off the middle-aged Keeper of the Seals and Minister of Justice, but the little man possessed a determination that belied his size.
“Your Majesty, with all due respect, you cannot garrison paladins in the palace,” Jacques Fernand D’Ambray said over the commotion of voices in the bustling war room. One of the few officers left over from the King Marcus’s administration, D’Ambray had taken refuge in the nearby town of Sauveterre after fleeing the coup d’état.
Jon sighed at the complaint. The last four days had been full of them, even amid funerals for his family and other Courdevallan nobles. He’d had to shuffle the man out of his quarters after naming Valen Grand Chamberlain, one of the highest posts in the Emaurrian court. D’Ambray’s shock at a commoner’s appointment to the position wouldn’t have lessened if he’d been struck by lightning.
The past few days had seen Jon do many things D’Ambray asserted he could not. “I did, so that must mean I can.”
He signed off on a requisitions order presented to him. At least when he kept busy, his thoughts didn’t settle on the one thing he actually wanted to do—the one thing duty and every officer in the Order wouldn’t let him do. Even now, he waited on word from Brennan.
If anyone could find Rielle, it was the werewolf bonded to her, with his preternatural senses.
Jon wanted to be there himself, but that was the selfish desire of a man in love. What Rielle needed right now was not him, but to be found, for which—he begrudgingly admitted—Brennan was better equipped. But the truth salted his wounded heart.
He’d received correspondence supposedly from Rielle—a heartfelt goodbye—but even though it seemed to be written in her hand, with her words, it had to be false. There was no way she would’ve left such matters to a piece of parchment—
D’Ambray persisted. “None but the Royal Guard may—”
Tor arrived, eyeing all the activity uncomfortably, head and shoulders above most of the advisers, guards, servants, and subjects flitting about the room, but when Jon pulled him into an embrace, he relaxed.
“Tor,” he greeted with relief. “It’s good to see a familiar face.”
“I am here to serve, Your Majesty,” Tor said stiffly.
At Monas Amar, Tor had balked when he’d learned the truth, confessing he’d always known Jon was a bastard, but never a royal one. They’d shared a laugh over it.
“Please, to you of all people, it’s Jon.” He wouldn’t have his mentor, who was family to him, hanging on ceremony.
Tor grinned. “Not in front of others it isn’t, sire.”
“He is entirely correct, sire,” D’Ambray interjected. “Formalities must be adhe
red to, lest your rule be considered weak.”
When Jon scowled at him, D’Ambray bowed.
“Forgive my directness, sire,” D’Ambray said. “I only wish to advise you in earnest.”
Trusting any survivor of the coup, especially when the Crag Company’s employer remained a mystery, was out of the question. Perhaps D’Ambray wanted nothing more than a secure position in a new regime, but he still had to be considered with caution.
“I know,” Jon replied, “and for that, I thank you. But that’ll be all, D’Ambray.”
The man opened his mouth, but then he closed it, bowed, and made his exit. He wasn’t the only Divinist noble to have made his discomfort known at the Order of Terra’s new levels of presence and influence.
Jon turned to Tor. “You said you are here to serve?”
“Yes, my king,” Tor replied, inclining his head.
“I hope I can hold you to that,” Jon said, with a deep breath. “I would like to appoint you Constable of Emaurria.”
The First Officer of the Crown and the highest officer of the Emaurrian army, it was not only a position of trust but of power. Born a noble of a distinguished House, Tor was an unobjectionable candidate. And one of the few people he trusted to find the traitor who’d seen the Faralles dead and the capital besieged.
“I am honored,” Tor replied, his eyebrows pulling in, “but... a vassal may not serve two masters.”
Therein lay the difficulty: in order to accept the position, Tor would have to renounce his oath as a paladin. A heavy favor. But if Jon planned to live until his coronation, he’d need to surround himself with those he trusted. “I know I am asking a lot of you, but your country needs you. I need you.”
One of his new clerks brought him a document announcing his rise and calling for a meeting of Parliament. Jon confirmed its contents, sending the clerk away to have copies delivered across the kingdom. He turned back to Tor, who looked downward, his brow creased.
“May I have until tomorrow to consider it?” he asked in a somber tone.
“I trust you will come to the correct decision,” a voice said from behind them.
Tor turned around first. “Derric.”
“Meet the new Grand Master of Emaurria,” Jon said with a grin.
Wearing his new robes and chain of office, Derric was a pillar of white but for his clean-shaven head and ornate chain of office. He regarded Tor with warm brown eyes. “It’s true. The king, however, will require more than a glorified priest as Master of Emaurria if he is to return this land to order,” he added with a smile.
Derric, born a commoner, had resisted appointment to Master of Emaurria, but someone trustworthy had to direct the Royal Household, including the Royal Guard, and the domestic and religious branches. When it came to trust, Derric was at the top of the list.
“I will give the matter serious thought.” Tor turned to Jon. “Your Majesty.” He bowed before making his exit.
Jon raised his eyebrows and watched him leave. He closed his eyes for a moment and exhaled heavily.
And just when would he hear from Brennan? It had been all day, with no lead on Rielle forthcoming.
Derric approached, and Jon cracked an eye open. The line between Derric’s eyebrows meant an unpleasant topic was at hand.
“Preparations for your coronation are under way,” he said, “but we still need at least a token number of Parliament members to confirm the legitimization.”
Unpleasant didn’t even begin to cover where this was going. Returning to his work, he bent over a map of the region. Red markers indicated where pockets of the Crag Company were holed up. The paladins, for the moment at least, had them outnumbered—several times over.
More worrisome were the purple markers, indicating reports of strange animals killing and harming Emaurrians. The Immortals. The monsters whose spirits had crossed through the Rift. Paladin Grand Cordon Guérin had agreed to send troops to investigate.
Derric rested a hand on the map—over the Brise-Lames River, right where he’d been looking. “You need to secure your line. You need an heir. You need to marry.”
Jon heaved a sigh and crossed his arms. It was not the first time in the last few days that Derric had raised the subject.
“No.”
Undeterred, Derric leaned over the map with him. “Our strongest ally is Pryndon, from which your grandfather, King Frédéric Dominic El-Amin Faralle, married Princess Elizabeth, daughter of your great-grandfather, King Jonathan Breckenridge of Pryndon—and Pryndon is all the way across the Shining Sea, with King Jonathan and his children long dead and all but forgotten, just like his ties with Emaurria.”
It was enough to make Jon’s head spin.
“When Prince Basile was killed, his betrothal to Princess Melora of Morwen died along with him,” Derric whispered. “The promise of that marriage secured an alliance between Morwen and Emaurria. Her father, King Odhrán, has already inquired whether you intend to honor the arrangement. Because your uncle, King Marcus, chose to marry from within the kingdom, Emaurria is incredibly weak unless you start building alliances.”
Jon grimaced and looked away. “Prince Basile was fifth in the line of succession.”
“Yes,” Derric replied, “but you don’t have the luxury of heirs to bargain away, do you?”
With Rielle missing, the last thing he wanted to hear about was marriage. He glared at Derric, then began the long walk to the palace kitchens.
Derric followed. “This isn’t a problem you can ignore. Prince Robert—the Crown Prince—was married to Princess Giuliana of Silen. Had they lived, she would have been queen. King Macario has already sent an offer of marriage on behalf of his youngest daughter, Princess Alessandra, for which you should be immensely grateful. He could do far worse to the kingdom that failed to protect his daughter and grandchildren.”
The smell of freshly baked bread grew stronger. At last, Jon had reached the kitchen, dodging a bevy of hanging dried herbs and smoked meats. He walked around wheels of cheese and crates of fruit and vegetables until he reached a large table covered in loaves.
“These are important matters you can’t run away from,” Derric added behind him. “And you don’t have to go to the kitchen for food... There is a palace full of staff eager to serve your every request.”
The cooks and servants jumped out of his way, asking how they could serve, but he waved them off. Spotting some fresh butter, he tore off a piece of partial rye, dusted flour off a nearby stool, sat, and buttered the bread.
As he bit into it, he wondered if Rielle had enough to eat. Or anything at all.
The bite turned to ashes in his mouth.
“Jon!” Derric exclaimed, earning gasps from the servants within earshot. “This kingdom will not survive politics, let alone the Rift, unless you start acting in its interest.”
He paused, pinning Derric with a cold glare. “I am here. Have I done anything but act in this kingdom’s best interest, forsaking even my own?”
With a coarse exhalation, Derric sat. “I know you wanted to chase after that marquise, son. I know. You love her. But you’re a king now, and that comes with certain obligations. A marriage to her would not only bring no alliances whatsoever but insult what fragile relations we do have, leaving this kingdom vulnerable, and it would fracture the Houses. You well know she’s promised to Duke Faolan’s heir.”
Jon scowled. I do know.
Her betrothal to Brennan had weighed on his mind since he’d learned of it, and the added difficulties of his new position didn’t help, but there had to be a way. No matter what Derric or anyone else said, there had to be a way.
The first Farallan king, Tristan Armand Marcel Faralle, had married a Lothaire. If the Blade could marry the pirate queen, Rosalie Vignon Lothaire, then there had to be a way for him and Rielle. He wouldn’t let her slip through his fingers just because others deemed their union inconvenient.
“Despite all this, I know you still want to find her. But you have to leave the in
vestigation to the paladins. Others can search for her, but only you can rule this land.”
It was this argument and Brennan’s oath to search for Rielle that kept him in Trèstellan Palace. Barely.
“The paladins are already spread thin securing the kingdom,” Jon fought back, “and the single care I have as a man will not outweigh that task for them. Their duty is to the Order, first and always.”
They’d already had the same argument multiple times since the night of her disappearance. At least he could count on the werewolf to find Rielle.
But the question of how to handle the marriage problem had weighed on his mind. There were agreements and alliances to be made, but the issue of betrothal was inescapable. Many lands would send suitresses and contingent offers of support. And to choose one would be to deny the others, perhaps inviting more than mere indifference from their lands.
His thoughts had returned to his days as a page at Monas Ver, and the rare book of tales that would arrive on Derric’s order from time to time. Pages, squires, paladins, and priests alike would ply him with favors for the privilege of reading the new arrival after he finished. Cleverly, Derric accepted favor from all, but could only pass on the book to one.
“A quick marriage won’t fix everything. Even if I were to do as you say, marrying a princess of one land to form an alliance will unmistakably turn away the others.”
Derric nodded. “Then what do you propose?”
A way to keep marriage at bay and give himself room to breathe. “What this land needs is time—time to gather its composure, rebuild its government, replenish its army. And we can secure that time by entertaining alliances with not one but many countries.”
Derric crossed his arms. “Are you suggesting that we... flaunt you as a prize to be won, leaving each country to believe it has a chance of supplying the future queen?” He knitted his eyebrows. “Keeping the kingdom protected from foreign threats long enough to regain its stability? It’s... sensible.”
Sensible. Disingenuous. Dishonorable. But the most practical of all his options.
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