Court of Shadows

by Miranda Honfleur

  He rested his hand on his sword’s pommel. Faithkeeper—the sword he’d had the night he’d invaded the Tower grounds. It seemed a lifetime ago. “And you carried it out in ways I’ve never before seen.”

  The magic? She clasped her hands behind her back. “I was only able to because you held them at bay.”

  “We work well together.” A muscle flexed in his jaw. A restrained smile. “We’re a world away from you caging me in geomancy to fight Flame.”

  Her mouth fell open. That spell? Not one of her better moments. “I—That, um, never happened?”

  His lips twitched. “Right.”

  As he fought back a smile, the past several weeks and weariness fell away from his face; he lit up and, for a moment, looked like he had in Bournand, in Melain, before any of this had ever—

  “I see you got my note.” Olivia’s voice carried from just outside the gates.

  “Olivia!” She raced through the sand and flung her arms around Olivia, who hugged her back.

  “I’m glad you’re all right,” Olivia said, with a relieved breath. “I received your letters from Stroppiata.”

  Letters about defeating Shadow. About her cryptic threats. About Brennan recovering in an inn, and then… their recommitment to each other.

  Rielle took a step back to look Olivia over. She didn’t look as worn down as Jon did, but she was in battlemage leathers again. Just like old times. Far from Lady Archmage and more like her partner on many a mission from the Tower. “Well, well, did you step out of last year, or was the palace getting too dull for you?”

  A grin lit Olivia’s face. “Even the Archmage must flex her muscles now and then.”

  “She saved my skin at least once,” Jon added from next to her, the deep rumble of his voice all too familiar and comforting.

  Olivia grinned at him, then sniffed. “I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t insist on fighting every Immortal in the land yourself.”

  “I can hardly sit around while—”

  “No,” Olivia cut in, “instead you insist on getting whipped across the field by a basilisk’s tail.”

  He crossed his arms. “I wasn’t petrified, though, was I?”

  “Ah, yes. Being alive absolves you of your recklessness.”

  “That’s all I needed to hear,” he teased.

  They bantered like the best of friends. She looked from him to Olivia and back again as they went at it; they’d gotten close since Spiritseve, and only closer since fighting alongside each other these past weeks.

  Behind Olivia, Brennan approached, jerking his head toward the ships and raising a brow. He must’ve run the long way—well, every other way was the long way compared to jumping off the cliff—but he’d barely broken a sweat.

  “Took you long enough,” she called over to him.

  Smiling mischievously, he joined them. “Cliff jumping isn’t for everyone.” He inclined his head to Olivia and bowed to Jon. “Lady Archmage, Your Majesty.”

  They greeted him in return.

  “An updraft spell is safe,” Olivia said, knitting her eyebrows together. “You could have followed.”

  He couldn’t have; as a werewolf, the magic wouldn’t affect him. He’d have plummeted to the ground.

  “Well—” Rielle began.

  “I wanted me to make sure no flanking force had invaded the city.” He nodded to her. “All clear, by the way.”

  Quick thinking. “Thank you.” She made to step around, but Olivia grabbed her hand.

  “Oh no you don’t.” Olivia raised Rielle’s hand. “I’m taking a closer look at that ring.”

  Jon went rigid next to her.

  Would Olivia mention the wedding?

  Divine, not like this. She’d wanted to write to Jon, to tell him herself, make sure he didn’t find out about the wedding date when he got the invitation—

  Olivia turned her hand this way and that, letting the multi-faceted garnet catch the sunlight. “Was the entire mine unavailable to wear as a ring?” she asked over her shoulder.

  Brennan smirked and came around to Rielle’s side, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. “It’s been in my family for… eight hundred years? Something like that.”

  “It’s stunning,” Olivia said, with a disbelieving shake of her head. “When’s the—”

  “Let’s go inside, shall we?” Rielle blurted, nodding up toward the castle. “We rode straight here, and I, for one, wouldn’t say no to food. I’m sure you both could do with a hot meal and some rest.” Laurentine made the best custard tarts, and cutting through the awkwardness would be a great bonus.

  Jon looked up from her hand, managed a quick smile, and nodded. Olivia’s brow furrowed, but she nodded, too.

  Good. And she didn’t need an inward glance to know what else she needed. “After all that, I’ll need resonance. Would you mind?”

  Chapter 3

  Brennan brought up the rear with Jon while Rielle and Olivia took off for the castle. Fortunately, Rielle’s friend was here to oblige her with resonance; he’d have to look into retaining a mage at Tregarde once they were married. A healer, maybe. A woman, preferably.

  He’d see to that when they returned to Maerleth Tainn. Rielle wanted to review Laurentine’s defenses and household—or at least she was saying so to Olivia—and hire a hydromancer for the city guard. It had been some time since she’d conducted a review, and this incident had revealed her steward’s incompetence.

  And Great Wolf’s ass, he’d forgotten the stench of coastal cities in the spring. Salt and the briny stink of the sea, along with the pungency of decaying fish and unwashed peasants, assaulted him, along with the tang of blood and burnt flesh. The last two were almost preferable. He flared his nostrils and exhaled sharply.

  There was one scent—Sincuore’s—that he’d make certain would disappear from the face of the earth. Arrest or no, trial or no, he would see Sincuore dead.

  Fingernails bit into his palms, and he uncurled them slowly. Best not to think of Sincuore now.

  “How have you been, sire?” he asked Jon, just making conversation. The sooner they entered the lesser stink of the castle, the sooner he could breathe freely again. “Better than you look, I hope.”

  Jon huffed, but smiled. “Is bloodied armor not in fashion?”

  “This spring, it seems to be the horse-collar-tied cravat.”

  “Right,” Jon said with an indulgent nod. “I must have left mine next to my hairbrush and cologne.”

  “You’ve had a lot on your mind, so this solitary oversight can be forgiven.”

  Jon side-eyed him.

  He wasn’t just here because pirates had attacked. There had been attacks on Costechelle and Sauveterre, down south—where even Princess Sandrine had invaded, challenging his claim. Yet he’d let his generals handle that, and here he was. Because it was Laurentine. Rielle’s home. He couldn’t help but come, perhaps some part of him holding out desperate hope she’d return.

  But any hope of that would soon be destroyed.

  The streets of Laurentine were lined with its residents—shipbuilders, fishermen, sailors, netters, and others, who cheered as their lady greeted them, took their hands, asked after their health, gave coins to children, the elderly, and the infirm.

  Her gaze lingered a golden-haired little girl with two long braids, smiling in a blue frock. He couldn’t help but grin, too. Someday, he’d love to raise a little girl just like her, with Rielle, and teach her about the world, watch her grow and become a strong woman, just like her, just like the women in his family.

  But Rielle’s gaze dulled, and her happy face slipped for just a moment before she returned to greeting her people. Not ready. Her thoughts must have still been with the child she’d lost.

  Many of the townspeople reached out for Jon and wished him well, some just brushing fingertips in contact. Others thanked him for his help and generosity—he must have already given them coin when he’d arrived.

  Well loved by the people. It had to have been some time
since an Emaurrian king had raised a sword in defense of his subjects here.

  If Father’s plans to take the throne hadn’t yet fallen apart, then they soon would. And it would save everyone the hardship.

  But once Rielle became a Marcel, as Marquis of Laurentine, he’d make sure he had the people’s loyalty. He had the sums to spare. The years he’d spent managing Tregarde and Calterre had taught him everything he needed to know to win the hearts of the people. Feed them, treat them fairly, and share his bounty—and they’d fight to keep him and his line in power.

  As they ascended the road to the castle, the crowds thinned. Rielle and Olivia discussed the dark-elves and Shadow, and plans for a long night in. It sounded like she’d be spending tonight with Olivia instead of in his arms…

  And they had yet to finish what they’d started in Maerleth Tainn’s gardens. He’d been waiting until he could be certain she loved only him, until she wanted only him. But how much longer would that be? And it didn’t help that her former lover was skulking about.

  “How long will you be staying?” he asked Jon.

  “Only long enough to resupply and rest up before returning to Courdeval. It’s been a long month.”

  “You haven’t been to the palace in a month?” Brennan raised his eyebrows. Perfect time to mention the wedding. “You might not have received it yet, then.”

  A slight grin ghosted on Jon’s lips. “No, I did. I received the wedding invitation a couple days ago.”

  Brennan suppressed the frown before it could etch his face. Jon had received the wedding invitation? His heart beat steadily, and his breathing was even. Almost entirely unaffected?

  He’d given up, then? Good.

  “Congratulations.” The word was low, quiet, yet cordial. Not bitter.

  “Thank you. I must say, I wasn’t expecting you to—”

  “There’s no sense in dredging up the past. What’s done is done.” Jon hung his head a moment as they entered the castle’s outer bailey. “Just honor her, respect her, love her—”

  What right did he have to make threats?

  “—or you’ll lose her. Some unsolicited advice.”

  Not a threat after all. “With all due respect, I don’t need your advice.”

  Another huff. “Then let useless words cast no shadow on your superior wisdom.”

  With a slight grin and a nod, Jon moved on ahead. He grazed Rielle’s arm, informed her he would be along soon, then headed for the command tent. Olivia joined him.

  As Jon walked toward the command tent, Brennan traced his path, narrowing his eyes. The Wolf snarled his displeasure but, with a glance at Rielle, calmed.

  She was with him, and she would stay. The wedding was five months away, and not even the damned pirates would have missed the way she’d looked at Jon as he’d jested with Olivia—like a wildfire at an untouched grove just ahead.

  But Rielle was his. He had every advantage, and he’d use them all to elicit those three words from her. And then once she was in bed beneath him, she’d forget Jon had even existed.

  Rielle glanced away from Jon and Olivia’s direction to him, wrinkling her nose. “What’s with that face? He came to Laurentine’s aid when it was sorely needed. Be nice, Brennan. Please.”

  He offered her his hand, and she took it. “Nice? What’s that?”

  She sighed, then rolled her eyes. “It’s that way you never are. You should give it a try.”

  He fought back a grin. “I have. Not for me.”

  “Well, you’ll have another chance to get it right at dinner. Try, please. For me.” She held his gaze until he heaved a sigh and nodded his surrender.

  “All right. I’ll be ‘nice’ at dinner,” he murmured. “But I won’t like it.”

  Smiling, she leaned her head against his arm and nuzzled it as they made their way to the castle. “Charming… handsome…”

  He shook his head. “Humble.” It was less a joke and more like a prayer this time.

  One night. He could be civil with her former lover for one night. Couldn’t he?

  * * *

  After reviewing a stack of papers from Captain Dufresne, Rielle sat on a bench in the courtyard. She needed to resolve her status with the Tower, get back on track to magister, but Laurentine was a mess. She wasn’t leaving until that was rectified.

  Above her, the single Suguz pine, tall, slim, tilted heavily to one side, as if bowing to a fierce wind, but its foliage remained still, unruffled, caught in time.

  It was the only one of Mama’s trees to have survived the fire. Her tree, really, planted the day of her birth.

  She clutched the locket on her chest that bore the mermaid scale, passing her fingers over the warming gold.

  Nearly everything in the castle had been rebuilt, but it had really been in this courtyard where everyone had lived, where Mama had turned a garden into a magical wonderland, lined with trees, bursting with color, attracting butterflies and bees and songbirds. In the dreamy haze of memory, sunlight always glittered on leaves and petals, and laughter always carried on the air, and Mama always danced in a circle with her and Dominique and Viviane, hand in hand in hand…

  A throat cleared, and she started, jerked her head to glance over her shoulder.

  Dressed simply in one of his white shirts tucked into brown trousers, Jon towered next to Hugues Naudé, Laurentine’s rotund steward, who wore an extravagant overcoat of chartreuse velvet trimmed in gold and embroidered with pearls in a vine pattern. The pearl buttons strained over a rounded belly, which contrasted sharply next to Jon’s tall, sculpted warrior’s form. The two men couldn’t look more different if they’d tried. What were they doing together?

  Two Royal Guards had taken up posts at the entrance to the courtyard, their watchful eyes on Jon.

  “Good afternoon, my lady,” Hugues said with an elaborate bow. All the elaborate bows in the land weren’t going to make up for how he’d underfunded the city guard. “Pardon the intrusion, but—”

  “Forgive me,” Jon said, inclining his head. “I asked for a tour of the grounds. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  Shaking her head, she stood. “No, no. Not at all. You’re welcome to go wherever you please in Laurentine, J—Your Majesty.” No need to provide Hugues with fodder for rumors. The man was worse than a Proctor’s wife. “Join me, if you like.” She gestured to the seat on the bench next to her.

  Hands clasped behind his back, Jon nodded, turned to Hugues and offered his thanks, then approached her as Hugues departed. She’d speak to him later—about a great many wrongs he needed to right.

  Jon loosened the collar of his shirt before he sat down, exposing further glimpses of his pyromancy sigils. Beneath his shirt, they scrolled down to his collarbone, then winded into geomancy sigils. Her fingers twitched, recalling the pattern, and she clamped them on the bench and breathed deep. How could someone feel so familiar and yet be worlds apart?

  Jon seated himself on the other end of the bench, as far as he could, really, just on its edge. He glanced above, at the Suguz pine. “Your tree appears to be… falling over.”

  She laughed. “This is a Suguz pine, native to the Kezan Isles. My mother had a whole courtyard of them, here, before the fire. One planted for each of us the day we were born.” The line of pines used to shade half a dozen benches. “They all tilt toward the center of the world… So down far south, they tilt toward us, and up here, they tilt toward the south. She used to say they remind us that there’s something beyond ourselves.”

  Jon’s gaze traced its trunk, from root to crown, and he looked out toward the sky. “That’s a worthy thought.”

  This tree had joined her at the Tower, and when other novices and even her doyens had told her it was a waste of time, she’d spent the better part of a year healing its burn damage. The rough, gray, resinous bark flaked a bit in strips, with a black burn scar she hadn’t been able to heal, but it was otherwise healthy. It had lost every last one of its mates, but it still lived, still grew, despite it
s scar.

  “You tilt toward innocent people,” Jon said, “always wanting to help, whenever you can.”

  She smiled. “So do you.”

  He eyed the burn scar. “It’s from… before.”

  She nodded. “This tree, outside of my people, is the most important thing to me in Laurentine.”

  “It didn’t survive on its own,” he guessed. “Someone tended it well. Loved it. Helped it.”

  “An entire year.” A faint smile claimed her lips.

  “And here it is, like a living memory.”

  A living memory… That was exactly what it was to her. Hopefully it would live on for future Lothaires to enjoy, along with the trees planted for their births.

  Their daughter would have had a Suguz pine. Sylvie’s tree would have been planted at the end of Messidoir in the summer, when she would have been born. If only…

  Golden hair in braids and a bright blue frock, a happy, smiling face… That little girl could have been her. Or Sylvie as she might have been. Would her hair have been blond like hers, or brown like Jon’s? Would her eyes have been light-blue or his sea-blue? Whose laugh would she have had? Whose nose?

  Did he ever think about her, too?

  Jon leaned back, his gaze resting a moment on her hand atop the bench before climbing to her face. “So, where’s Brennan?”

  The question broke into her thoughts. Probably for the best.

  She exhaled a sigh. Brennan’s commitment to Sincuore’s execution was nothing short of exacting. “Sincuore has ‘escaped’ prisons before. He wanted to oversee the jailing of the pirates himself to ensure that doesn’t happen.”

  Jon’s lips pressed together grimly as he dipped his head. “It won’t. My own Royal Guard secured him in the dungeon. Only I have the key.”

  Then Sincuore wouldn’t have a chance. But Brennan didn’t share her trust. She shrugged.

  “Right.” He cracked his knuckles. His large hands were callused as ever, and up from his wrist was a long scratch, scabbed over.

  “What’s that?” She tipped her head toward it.

  “Oh, this?” He raised his wrist. “Boar hunting, while we were camped outside Caerlain Trel.”