She wouldn’t be free of her arranged marriage until she turned twenty-three... in eleven and a half months. Eleven and a half long, long, long months.
Mages could refuse missions, but if she did, she’d get on the Proctor’s bad side, and if she got on his bad side, well, he might look for reasons to give her demerits. And with enough demerits—
No, she couldn’t risk dismissal from the Divinity, and the Proctor knew it. He’d been using her as his left hand for years.
The Proctor returned. “I spoke with Derric.”
Jon’s expressionless face betrayed nothing.
The Proctor sat at the head of the table. “Derric insists that instead of coming to Monas Ver, you go straight to Monas Amar for further proceedings. He has asked that I send with you an escort until you are reunited with the other paladins.”
Jon raised his head. “Forgive the impropriety, but how can I know these orders are genuine?”
Her hand jerked, and she steadied her cup of tea before it could make a mess. Well, more of a mess than scalding her fingers.
The Proctor leaned back in his chair and observed Jon for a pensive moment. “He told me that you are no longer of the Order, Jonathan Ver, and that if you are here, you well know it.”
She turned toward the paladin. The forsworn paladin.
He sat still, silent, his smoldering gaze locked with the Proctor’s. The questions were myriad and unspeakable, at least in the Proctor’s presence.
Which of the four Sacred Vows had he broken, and how? Was it the vow of piety—because he sought vengeance? Or was it celibacy, perhaps? She suppressed the curious smile threatening to show itself on her face.
Regardless, if an escort was required, the Order wanted him punished, debriefed, or just wanted to make sure he returned his arcanir.
But what had he done to get himself discharged?
The Proctor regarded Jon expectantly.
“I am a man of honor,” Jon said, his voice firm. “I have broken none of the four Sacred Vows.”
“Why you were discharged from your order is not my concern, but an old friend of mine has asked a favor, and I am inclined to grant it.” The Proctor turned his attention to her. “And your mission is to escort this man to Monas Amar.”
An escort. Fantastic. He obviously could take care of himself and didn’t need her protection; she could have been helping those who did. Wrangling a stubborn paladin all the way to Monas Amar would be a waste of her skills and a headache. A month-long headache. She cringed, looking at the tea. It was an unfit inducement.
Instead of helping those who needed it, a month spent with a man who hated mages and the Divinity. She hesitated. “Isn’t there someone else available... whose abilities better suit this particular mission?”
“I don’t need an escort—or a guard,” Jon insisted. “If Derric wants me to go to Monas Amar, I’ll go. On my own. I need no help from mages.”
“I agreed to assign you a capable escort,” the Proctor said sternly, “and so have I done.”
She sighed inwardly. That was that.
At least she could possibly, with exemplary service, earn a commendation and advance one step closer to the magister’s mantle. That tenure would mean inclusion in the Magisterium, the advisory body that helped the Grand Divinus determine worthy causes for the Divinity to pursue, among other matters. It would also mean permanent insulation from her arranged marriage. She hid a hopeful smile.
Only two more commendations, and she’d get a chance to test for magister. With her luck, her sponsor would hate her and the promotions board would ignore her achievements to focus on scandal. But a chance—even a slim chance—was more than she’d ever had.
Jon stared at the Proctor for a tense moment but finally nodded.
“Good,” the Proctor replied, “because you leave at dawn.”
“Who’s my partner on this?” she asked. Mages worked in pairs.
The Proctor glowered at her. “No partner.”
Off the books.
“I trust you to prioritize completion of this mission—”
No detours.
“—and return to the Tower for your reward.”
Or you’re excommunicated and left without protection from your arranged marriage contract. Got it. “Understood.”
“You will travel to Monas Amar with stops at the cities of Bournand and Melain and no others. Make camp in the wilds, if you must.”
No other cities? The Proctor wouldn’t forbid a stop unless it was unsafe, but why would it be unsafe to stop anywhere else?
“Proctor—”
“No questions.” The Proctor grabbed a sheet of parchment and scribbled a note, then rolled it up. “Bernadette will have supplies delivered to your quarters.” He turned to Jon. “Please accept our hospitality tonight.”
Jon inclined his head, his posture stiff. “Thank you, my lord.”
He, too, had no options.
The Proctor turned to her. “Magos, I’m awarding you a commendation for your performance tonight.”
She raised her eyebrows, trying but failing to engage her paralyzed tongue. A commendation... Only one more—one—and she could test for magister. And all that stood in her way was an in-person hearing, a thorough evaluation of her history, winning over her unknown sponsor, lucking out with the selection of three magisters who didn’t hate her for the promotions board, an exam failed by the vast majority of candidates—
Her spine threatened to turn to jelly, but she stiffened. There was time enough to worry about all that later. For now, she had to carry out this escort mission in exemplary fashion. No pressure.
She manipulated her uncooperative body into a bow. “Thank you, Proctor.” Now that he was in a good mood, perhaps he’d finally tell her what he knew of Olivia? “Proctor, if I may, about Olivia—”
“Please escort Sir Jonathan to your vacant apprentice quarters for the night.” The etched lines of his face left no room to argue.
She sighed. The protest died on her lips. After this mission, she’d go to Courdeval and check on Olivia herself. It was less than a day’s ride from Monas Amar.
The air at the Tower was becoming scarce, but soon, grapes might ripen on the willows. Snow might fall in the summer. The sun might rise in the west. And she might become a magister.
A slim chance, but a chance nonetheless. No more dirty work. No more arranged marriage. No more fear of fureur.
But this mission first.
She nodded. “Yes, Proctor.”
Chapter 3
Jon trudged down the spiral stairway behind Rielle. Why had Derric asked for a mage to escort him? Derric had raised him from infancy, true enough, but was it really fatherly concern about his disobedience?
How patronizing. If Derric had but spoken to him, even by way of that brazier device—aerarius, was it?—Jon would have heeded his commands.
But no, instead, here he was, following a mage to quarters for the night, the first of many together on the way to Monas Amar.
Moving up alongside her, he studied her. Long, straw-blond locks tamed into a thick braid; a stubborn chin; full lips; and eyes the color of a summer sky. A worried frown, unwanted storm cloud, creased her brow. No more pleased by the mission than he was.
She glanced his way briefly and stiffened, then her face tightened in a smile. Forced smile. She moved ahead and descended three floors on the spiral steps, then entered a sconce-lit hall. Circular, windowless.
They stopped at a door, like all the others; wrought-iron long-strap hinges, scrolling decoratively, bound the sturdy oaken boards. She unlocked it and beckoned him to follow her into the dark.
“This way.” With a gesture of her fingers, she cast a spell—a glowing light, tiny like a candle’s flame—and guided them through an antechamber with two doors, one of them open. The candle’s flame illuminated the small room, its austere stone walls softened with massive tapestries, its cold floor cushioned with a heavy-pile off-white rug with an ornate pattern. A va
se of white roses graced a round table with four chairs, and beyond it, just below a window, a long table bore a line of clear vessels containing a variety of clippings—flowers, twigs, all in varying stages of growth.
So she liked plants. A lot.
A soft clatter came from farther in. Rielle ambled through a doorway to an open window in the bedchamber. The flowing white lace curtains flared around her as she latched it. The room was larger than the antechamber, but despite squinting in the dimness, he couldn’t make out much beyond a large hearth awaiting flame, more plants silhouetted against the darkness, a double bed, shoes lying about the room, and books stacked on every available surface.
Clearly, she hadn’t planned on guests.
His pack—thank Terra—rested on the floor next to the desk, and upon it—
Faithkeeper and his dagger. Since taking his vows eight years ago, Faithkeeper had always been within reach. Until tonight.
Terra have mercy, he’d prayed these mages hadn’t taken off with his weapons to... study the arcanir, or whatever they did with something they so rarely got their hands on. He stared at his weapons belt. If only wishing for it to be in his possession could make it so.
But he’d never broken his word, and he wouldn’t begin now.
She approached the desk, unclipped Faithkeeper from the belt, and held it out to him.
Frozen, he gawked at her. “You trust me?”
“Sword or no sword, I can handle you.” She cracked a smile. “So there’s no harm in returning it.” The dagger, however, she left clipped to the sword belt.
He glanced about the room and its lacking space, greedily claimed by furnishings. No swordsman in his right mind would attempt using a long sword in such close quarters. She must have known that much.
He accepted Faithkeeper, a peace offering, and once the fine-grain leather of the sheath was back in his hands, he exhaled his relief. Terra help him, he’d never surrender his weapons again. “Thank you, mage.”
“You’re welcome. Gather your pack.” Once he shouldered the bag, she led him back to the antechamber and pushed open the adjoining door to a dark room. “You’ll be staying here tonight.”
As he tried to make out the furnishings in the light of her spell, she gestured a flame with her other hand and flung it at the hearth.
A roaring fire sparked to life.
She opened the window, then flitted to the wash basin, where she conjured water to fill it.
All these things that took so much time to do every day, she did with simple gestures. He shook his head.
She repeated the feat over the water carafe and the tub, which even steamed. Hot water. His muscles practically melted at the thought.
When he caught her gaze, she smirked. Full of herself, no doubt. He narrowed his eyes. “Magic, even for such simple things?”
Her smirk vanished.
Good. Mages could learn a touch of humility. They were, in ways, superior, special, but while the priests and paladins of the Order of Terra remained humble, mages constantly elevated themselves. It was only a matter of time before they became as dangerously supremacist as the heretics they hunted.
He dropped the pack on the floor and unfastened his cloak.
In the light of the hearth, the room was extravagant, furnished in blackwood furniture—a four-poster double bed, two tall nightstands, a desk, an upholstered chair, vanity, and two armchairs—and jewel-toned brocades. A tapestry hung on the wall against the cold, and a thick rug added warmth to the marble floor.
The Divinity wasted coin on these luxuries, when there were children who starved in nearby towns and villages? The Grand Divinus claimed the Divinity of Magic was a “religion.” If mages worshipped anything, it seemed to be coin.
At the monastery, he and his brothers all slept on simple straw mattresses with rough-spun bedding, enough to be serviceable, with furniture made by the paladins and priests themselves from the white-pine Ver Forest.
He laid his cloak over the desk’s chair. “The room’s... lavish.”
She frowned.
Perhaps it was simple to her. Normal. Leaning against a bedpost, he unfastened the straps on his gauntlets.
“We leave an hour after sunrise,” she said.
He could still try to make a run for it—break down the door, attempt to escape down the spiral stairwell and dispatch any mages who dared get in his way. Or he could leave with her tomorrow, and then lose her in the woods. He didn’t need a nanny.
But orders... Derric had given him an order. The Proctor’s knowledge of the discharge message had confirmed it.
I’m going to Monas Amar with this mage.
“Can’t wait,” he said flatly.
“Fine. Goodnight.” Her pretty face slack, she quit the room and shut the door.
He straightened. Had he upset her? He crept to the door, rested a palm on it. She’d captured him, true enough, but had only done her duty; otherwise, she’d been professional and hospitable... and he’d been rude and judgmental.
Was it too late to apologize? Too awkward?
The lock turned, and he took a step back.
Too late. Definitely too late.
Tomorrow would be better. He’d make an effort.
Heaving a sigh, he let his gaze settle on the bath. The steaming-hot bath. Yes.
He removed the rest of his armor and undressed, then sank into the blessedly hot water. Terra have mercy, there was nothing better on earth.
She’d spelled it so simply—he held a hand over the water and wriggled his fingers as she had hers—and it had been so, with her long, tapered fingers. Elegant. Smooth, uncallused skin. Soft, he recalled, as he’d kissed her hand. Slender, delicate wrists...
He rested his head on the rim of the tub and hissed. At the Proctor’s insinuation that they were lovers, his mind had illustrated the notion. Vividly. Meeting the surly mage, glittering in her ferocity, for a moonlit tryst in the surrounding forest, eye to eye, face to face, body to body. A woman who didn’t shrink away from challenge. His gaze had roved over her domineering sky-blue eyes, her stately posture, her—Terra help him—shapely figure, and he’d tasted that distant reality, right there in the Proctor’s quarters, for one excruciating moment before he’d pulled back, hard, and remembered who he was.
Sodalis of the Order of Terra, eighth rank, Monas Ver First Company. Regardless of what some paper said.
The mage was comely but, to him, an unwanted distraction. It would never happen. He held to the Sacred Vows.
He forced his mind where he always did: the five-foot serpentine blade of a flambard. A crown strike, a block, an advance matched step for step, bound blades, disengage. A mirrored stance, sure feet, each step aware and stable. Blinded by rage, he’d once stumbled, but never again. In his mind, ever he surveyed that field of battle. No rage. Cold calculation and the sword. Only the sword. One last duel, an arrest, and he’d go home to visit Bastien’s grave with justice in hand.
He washed quickly, dried off, then pulled clean braies from his pack and dressed for bed. From among his armor, he retrieved his belt pouch and the familiar tiny, corked round glass vial inside.
A cluster of golden yellow blossoms filled the vessel. Immortelle. It bloomed the better part of the year all around Monas Ver, fields of sunshine gold surrounding the monastery. Surrounding home. Derric grew it for medicine, but it had become the essence of home.
He took Faithkeeper in hand, left it nearby, accessible, and then slipped into the bed’s soft, warm embrace. Tension fled his aching muscles. Terra’s troth, it was comfortable.
Maybe he’d have to reevaluate the mages’ extravagance.
He uncorked the vial of immortelle and inhaled the scent, so like autumnal maple leaves but spicier; it took him back to long days in the sun, training with his brothers, ever surrounded by bright immortelle. It bloomed in early summer and remained all year until the first frost, and once cut, immortelle dried almost perfectly preserved and kept for many months. He’d cut this clust
er four months ago and hoped to be home again before its gold faded.
Would he still be welcome? Discharged paladins never came to the monasteries. Would he be one of them? Nothing left in the monastery of him but a ghost while he made his way laboring for anyone hiring extra hands?
He corked the vial.
First things first: he’d go to Monas Amar, Sacred Vows unbroken, and petition for reinstatement. Either he’d find a way, or he’d make one. When he would finally return to Monas Ver, it would be as a brother, not a ghost.
As orders dictated, he would just have to allow the mage in the next room to take him.
Chapter 4
When someone knocked at her door, Rielle jumped out of bed, flushed, heart racing. It was still dark. Jon should be sleeping—what could he want at this hour?
Divine, just like her dream. She laid a palm over her chest, willing her pulse to slow. It was the Proctor’s fault. He’d planted the thought in her mind with his baseless accusation that Jon was her lover.
Blood rushed to her face. If only the Order of Terra mandated the mutual exclusivity of celibacy and attractiveness.
Perhaps it hadn’t been a knock. An illusion of the night, and no more...
She took a deep, calming breath. Her anima sought resonance; that was it. Yes, that was all. That deep, replenishing connection with another mage, which somehow made the sum greater than its parts, the greatest coming from complementary mage pairs. Yet practical need to brighten anima wasn’t the only draw to resonance. Greater than any other, it was pleasure, a spiritual sensation unlike any other.
Like others of her kind, she needed a fellow mage from time to time.
But Jon was no mage.
It was an urge, no more, like hunger or thirst, and she could control it. If she had to, she could live off crumbs of brightening and just meditate for a few days instead of resonance.
Another soft knock. She lit a candle at her desk with a flick of her wrist. A simple spell, it barely dimmed her anima.
Blade & Rose Page 3
