Court of Shadows

by Miranda Honfleur

  Ever since she’d left Courdeval, he’d been doing battle, risking his life. “Jon, you can’t keep taking risks like this.”

  “What, boar hunting?” He raised an eyebrow. “This was hardly worth bothering Olivia with.”

  “Not the hunting, and you know it.” As a paladin, he’d risked his life daily, but it had been different. A paladin’s risks. Criminals trying to escape justice. Thugs trying to steal arcanir. Now, he lived a king’s life and faced a king’s risks. Assassins and enemy nations. Everything and everyone standing in opposition to anyone in the kingdom. He took it all on, the kingdom’s bulwark, taking every attack and every beating until one day… he could take no more.

  He stiffened. “I’m the king. I can’t hide behind armies while my own people die.”

  And if you’re the one to die? But she couldn’t bring herself to ask it. “They couldn’t bear to lose you. You can’t just—”

  “I have to.”

  “So, what? You’re just going to burn out?”

  He sighed, cloaked in the heavy weariness of an ancient who’d wandered the earth too long. But he was only twenty-seven. “You can’t change my mind, Rielle. Not about this.”

  He’d clearly forgotten that she could be just as stubborn as he could. But for now, under the warm afternoon sun and in the gentle spring breeze, she could let it lie. It was a beautiful day, far too beautiful for arguing, and for the blood that had already been shed.

  He looked her over, an inquisitive frown creasing his features, but although he opened his mouth, he paused.

  “What is it?”

  “Rielle, are you… happy?” The question washed in like a wave coming to shore, slow and gentle. There was a tenderness there, but over something great and dark, whose depths went farther than she wanted to fathom.

  She blinked, probably more times than she should, then forced a smile. “Shadow is gone for good. Sincuore is locked up. I have yet to face the Divinity after everything, but for once, it’s a quiet moment.”

  Those depths lingered, waited, but she’d only touched the surface. He’d been asking about more than that.

  Yes, I’m happy with Brennan, she wanted to say, but was that what he expected? Barely a month after their parting, would the truth be a balm or a dagger?

  Why was he asking?

  No, she wouldn’t turn back now, even if that’s what he wanted. She did love Brennan, wanted to marry him, spend their lives together, be part of a family. And life as a mistress was no life at all, even if—even if…

  “I am happy,” she said at last. “Brennan is… wonderful. He’s kind, supportive, loving. Patient,” she added, while Jon nodded to each word. “He’s changed since Melain, I promise.”

  “I know,” he said, bowing his head. “I just—” He glanced at her briefly. “I’m glad to hear it.” He rose, rolling the kinks out of his shoulder as he looked toward his two guards. “I’ll leave you to your thoughts, Rielle.” As he inclined his head to her, she stood, too.

  “I’ll see you at dinner.”

  Chapter 4

  Olivia drank deeply of her wine in Laurentine’s great hall from her seat next to Rielle, who indeed looked the part of the marquise in a stunning sapphire-blue gown. Across from them, Brennan eyed Jon, who sat at the head and recounted the string of battles against the Immortals and the pirates since Vervewood.

  Custom dictated Rielle sit on the opposite end, but with a table seating thirty, it would have made for a night of shouting.

  And they had important things to discuss. Perhaps Rielle or Brennan would have an idea on how to keep Emaurria’s people alive without betraying the world’s greatest power. Trying to lure the Emaurrian Tower to break with the Divinity would only invite complete isolation from the Divinity and its allies—at best—and outright war at worst.

  Or this would end with Jon and Brennan wrestling each other on the floor until someone threw a bucket of cold water onto them.

  Laurentine’s steward, Hugues Naudé, who’d managed the march in Rielle’s absence and while she was under the Divinity’s contract, hovered in the periphery. All pleasantries, of course.

  Tonight, the household had served up six courses of thirteen dishes, six of which were hors d’oeuvres. Extravagant. The meal opened with a pair of soups and a quarter of veal, followed with glazed eels in a Sileni sauce, and among other entrees and hors d’oeuvres, a ragout of larks with truffles, wild mushrooms, and foie gras, moistened with veal stock and bound with cream and eggs. The soups were replaced with a turbot and salmon, with the second course repeating the pattern of the first. Hams, cakes, sweetbreads, duck tongues, and eggs with a pork sauce—

  It was an overwhelming meal, and overwhelmingly expensive. The food matched the grandeur and luxury of Trèstellan Palace, and clearly had been purchased while its marquise hadn’t even been in residence. Laurentine’s steward had a costly appetite and, it seemed, no shame.

  Even deep in conversation, Rielle cast a critical eye over the vast opulence of the table from time to time. Hugues was in for a rough morning tomorrow.

  “You can’t just wear yourself out going to every battle personally,” Rielle said to Jon, scrunching the fabric of her richly embroidered gown under the table.

  She gave his stubbornness too little credit.

  Raising his eyebrows, Jon leaned into the high-backed chair and shrugged, his leather overcoat catching the shimmer of candlelight. “If I don’t go, who will?”

  “The army—”

  “Overburdened.”

  Rielle frowned. “The Order—”

  “Spread thin.”

  “The light-elves,” she snapped.

  “Rebuilding.”

  She glanced at Olivia, then back. “The Divinity?”

  Brennan scoffed across from her. “Only if there’s something in it for them.”

  Rielle scowled at him.

  “I agree,” Jon said. “Coin—a vast sum—seems to be insufficient.”

  So they were supposed to ignore international law and try to integrate the Emaurrian Tower under the Crown? The Divinity would certainly take note, and not at all in the way Jon desired.

  “The Grand Divinus can be vain,” Brennan offered with a sigh, then took a long swig of his brandy. “Or so Father says. Perhaps she expects you to appear in person and bend the knee.”

  Jon shook his head and breathed deeply.

  “He barely has time to sleep,” Olivia chimed in, “let alone take a lengthy voyage just for appearances.” It was something a queen could do, but Jon had refused to even consider marriage, whether Rielle loved him or not. And judging by that massive ring on Rielle’s finger, everything was on track for her wedding to Brennan.

  Jon needed to take note and move on.

  “I could help,” Rielle said, while Brennan winced. She shot him a sour look, and he shrugged and plastered on a smile. “After Khar’shil, it’s not as though we’re doing anything, and—”

  “Another unsanctioned mission?” Jon grinned. “Would this be… number three?”

  “I’m sure I could convince the new Proctor to sanction it, whoever it is.”

  The Proctor? Kieran. Rielle’s rival and worst enemy in the Tower now held its supreme position of power.

  Olivia took Rielle’s arm. “Don’t be so sure.”

  “What? Why not?” Rielle asked with a tilt of her head.

  “It’s Kieran Atterley.”

  Rielle stopped breathing, swallowed, looked away. “He, um, in Bournand, I—”

  “He’s the interim Proctor,” Jon interrupted.

  Brennan slammed down his brandy. “That grasping, insolent milksop?” His eyes almost—they almost seemed to turn golden for a moment? A trick of the light, perhaps.

  “He… He’s alive?” Rielle whispered.

  “Unfortunately.” Olivia heaved a sigh. “Wait—why wouldn’t he be?”

  Rielle licked her lips and raised a shoulder. “Around Vindemia, Leigh… confessed to killing him.”
/>   “What?” Olivia remembered to breathe.

  “Sloppy work,” Brennan grunted.

  A servant topped off her wine. “In any case, just write to the Tower. Don’t go in person.”

  “I—I—” Rielle chewed her lip. Why was she so nervous? “He’ll never approve of all I’ve done. If it’s up to him, my career with the Divinity is finished. I’ll have to go over his head.”

  Career with the Divinity finished… like a heretic. A heretic outside the Divinity…

  The Covens. Something she’d discuss with Jon later.

  Rielle raised her gaze to Jon’s. “I’ll state my case to Magehold, but in the meantime, I can help. Just tell me where to go and what to do.”

  “No,” Jon replied, pushing away his plate. “You’ve done enough. And I’m very grateful for the ships.” She’d given him the pirate ships she’d captured today.

  “What else am I going to do? Until Magehold gets back to me—”

  “No.” He glared at her, and Brennan slid a look between them.

  “Why not?”

  Jon didn’t waver. “You have a wedding to plan.”

  An incredulous sound escaped Rielle’s throat.

  “These aren’t your problems. Go be happy. Live a good, long life. You’ve more than earned it.” His tone was matter-of-fact, but every insecurity he’d ever spoken about his terminal condition, every heartfelt word of love for Rielle, every sadness he’d ever voiced about losing her brimmed in the intensity of his sea-blue eyes. He would not be swayed.

  Rielle’s gaze meandered to Brennan, who seemed unable to restrain a smile. He shrugged. “You heard the man.” He cleared his throat in a smooth sound, clearly well practiced. “And you, Your Majesty? Are we to have a queen soon?”

  Jon grimaced, crossing his arms with a creak of leather sleeves over biceps.

  “No rush to commit to just one woman, right?” Brennan shot him a lopsided grin.

  “You’re really going to waste my skills when the kingdom clearly needs them?” Rielle hissed.

  Jon didn’t look at her, holding Brennan’s gaze.

  Brennan’s grin widened. “No doubt there will be many awaiting your courting pleasure at Courdeval. Perhaps our future queen among them.”

  Rielle took her wine and drained half the goblet, then straightened and fixed Jon with a fiery glare.

  “I’m here,” Rielle said to him, her voice bitter, almost mocking. “Trained, capable, and I’ve been fighting for half my life. Use me. Relying on your skills alone… is… is willfully crippling yourself—”

  Jon’s eyes widened for a moment before his eyebrows lowered once more. He held up a hand.

  Rielle scowled. “Or does it only mean something when you say it?”

  “No, and we’ll not speak of it again.” He swabbed his mouth with a napkin, set it down, and rose. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he said with an abrupt bow, “but I think it’s time I retire.” He glanced at Olivia, cocked his head toward the double doors, and she nodded.

  Rielle had just given them the solution to their mage problem. The Covens. They had much to discuss.

  Olivia stood from her chair—Brennan rose as she did—and touched Rielle’s shoulder. “I’ll meet you in my quarters shortly?”

  Unclenching a fist, Rielle looked up at her. “You’d better.” She grinned.

  “Wouldn’t miss it.” At that, she caught Jon’s grave look and followed him out of the great hall. The idea was radical, but surely he could set aside his paladin past and work with some heretics?

  * * *

  As Rielle rose, Brennan held out a hand to her. Blowing out a breath, she took it and let her nerves cool as he wrapped her arm around his and led her out of the enormous white double doors of the great hall.

  The sconce-lit corridor was empty; Jon and Olivia must have already gone to each of their quarters upstairs, or outside.

  And dinner… It was eye opening. Hugues had been burning through Laurentine’s coin like an inferno through paper. When next she spoke to him, it wouldn’t be about righting wrongs, but about packing his bags.

  And after detailing how thoroughly the Immortals and the pirates were trouncing Emaurria, Jon had refused her help. He’d seen on the coast today what she could do. He knew her capabilities, and yet—

  “He’s being a stubborn ass,” she hissed through pinched lips.

  Brennan rumbled a deep laugh next to her as they strolled past portraits of past Lothaires and toward the dark stairwell. “Great Wolf save any man who dares stand in your way.”

  She shook her head. “Why won’t he let me help? He has no legitimate reason.” When he grinned and opened his mouth, she added, “And don’t say ‘wedding planning.’”

  He sighed, and soon all traces of levity faded from his countenance. He paused on the landing and swept her into the corner, then waited attentively. In Tregarde, years ago, he’d pinned her just so, sharing intimate breaths in close quarters and a kiss that sometimes still stalked her dreams.

  “When a man who spends day and night dreaming of you can’t have you,” he said, clearly satisfied no one was listening, “do you suppose he wants to be anywhere near you?”

  Her mouth dropped open.

  “It would be easy, you know, to ask you to go here or stay there, run into you coincidentally, and torture himself with your presence when he can’t have you. He knows it. And he’ll try his hardest to avoid it,” Brennan answered.

  She lowered her gaze, staring into the black velvet covering Brennan’s chest.

  Jon wanted to avoid her. Maybe… maybe he was trying to be with someone else. Maybe he wanted to marry. Maybe he needed one fewer complication in his life. “But I repeat, he has no legitimate reason.”

  Just because their history was messy didn’t mean he should turn down her help for the kingdom.

  “Kings don’t need legitimate reasons,” Brennan said. “And you…” Brennan raised her chin, forced her to meet his eyes. “Why are you forcing yourself into his circle? Don’t you have any mercy for a man pining after you?”

  “This is bigger than my mercy, Brennan. This is about the kingdom, and it’s falling to ruin. And I can help defend it.”

  “The kingdom is the king’s responsibility, and his queen’s. You’re a marquise. Worry about your march, like you did today. Defend Laurentine, Tregarde, Calterre. Defend your piece of the kingdom. That’s how you can help.”

  She crossed her arms and leaned against the cool stone wall.

  Well, she couldn’t be everywhere at once. And Jon couldn’t stop her from defending her own lands, even if the Divinity excommunicated her.

  Which was what she needed to handle next—settling her status with the Tower. With Kieran. Tomorrow, she’d write him a letter and find out what fate held for her. If he decided to stand in her way, she’d step right over him and see what Magehold had to say. For nearly a decade, she’d worked tirelessly toward the magister’s mantle, and some idiot as interim Proctor wouldn’t stop her now.

  She grimaced. “Fine. You win. He wins. You both win.”

  The moonlight cast a gleaming reflection on Brennan’s dark hair as he leaned in, his mouth curving in a roguish grin. “Oh, I definitely win.”

  Shaking her head, she rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t keep the stupid smile from her face. With him so close, the air was all cinnamon spice and cypress, and it heated her blood, stoked that heat pooling in her lower body.

  He cupped her cheek with a big, warm hand and raised her mouth to his. His lips were hot against hers, blazing hot, and as he leaned into her, pressed her against the stone, the whole of his perfect, hard body blazed just as hot against her.

  As he deepened the kiss, his tongue seeking hers, a moan escaped her—or a whimper; she couldn’t tell, and she didn’t care. Her arms curled around him of their own volition, fingers clawing into his back, pulling him closer, urging him deeper, and Divine, it was cruel, completely and utterly cruel, that his tongue was a virtuoso, and his
body a master, and he was doing all this to her when she had plans with Olivia tonight.

  Brennan paused a moment before booted footsteps ascended the stairs—one, two, three, four sets—then abruptly stopped.

  She broke away to glance around Brennan’s biceps.

  Jon’s hardened expression met her squarely as he stood perfectly still, his arms at his sides. He held her gaze a moment with a piercing intensity, an immobilizing grip that froze her completely.

  He was angry. Divine, he was angry. He and Olivia must have taken a moment outside after all. Brennan was right. It really was difficult for Jon to be around her, especially like this.

  He blinked, clasped his hands behind his back, and a cordial smile appeared that didn’t reach his eyes. He inclined his head, slowly and carefully. “Goodnight.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he proceeded up the stairs. Behind him, Olivia followed with an arched eyebrow, a gaping mouth, and a look that said We are definitely talking about this later. Two members of the Royal Guard—the one with the scar across his face, and the other with the short, thick curls—trailed after them.

  After their footsteps faded from earshot, she looked up at Brennan, who didn’t move an inch but to eye her, his lips pressed tight.

  With his werewolf senses, he would have detected their approach.

  “You knew,” she grumbled. After all that talk about Jon keeping his distance because of his remaining feelings, Brennan had knowingly done this? “You said you’d be nice.”

  “I said I’d be nice at dinner.” He touched his nose to her temple, brushed it lightly into her hair, and breathed in deeply, slowly, the momentary chill tracing a shiver down her spine. “And it is now most definitely dessert.”

  She shifted her hips, but the throb between them only intensified. Divine’s flaming fire, she wanted to scold him and scream at him for using her like that, tackle him right here in this stairwell… tear his clothes open, shove him onto the stairs, and—

  His mouth closed over hers once more, and before she could seize him and have her way, he parted. “Goodnight, Rielle. Have fun catching up with Olivia.”