Court of Shadows

by Miranda Honfleur

  “You’ll be the most beautiful woman in the room,” Brennan said next to her matter-of-factly, covering her hand on his arm. “Raise your chin,” he said in his low, deep bedroom voice, and she obeyed. “Pull back your shoulders.”

  Her body did as he bade with unwavering obedience, and she was convinced that as long as he commanded her in that particular tone of voice, she’d do just about anything.

  He leaned in. “Watch me later,” he whispered.

  Watch him…? Her gaze met his, and he held it, dark, intense, locked.

  A phantom night breeze teased her shoulders, and she was back in the glade outside Laurentine. Watch me, he’d said to her, and then she might have died of pleasure.

  Did he mean—

  Her breath caught.

  Smiling, he dropped his gaze to her chest. “Yes, Rielle,” he drawled. “Yes.”

  The great hall was a sea of masked faces and expensive fabrics in deep, rich colors, and in true masquerade fashion, no herald announced them. Dinner tables, lengthy and elegant, filled half the massive space before a head table, where presumably the Grand Divinus and any magisters in attendance would be seated. High above them were glittering chandeliers, enormous and replete with crystal, and the grand walls were adorned with detailed tapestries, great feats of magic, momentous events in the Divinity’s history.

  Her slippered heels clicked on the stone floor—arcanir infused, if she wasn’t mistaken—as Brennan led her into the throng of fancy guests swarming the tables.

  Lightning, hot and electrifying, shot up from her hand, where another had brushed it. She glanced back over her shoulder, at who had passed by.

  A tall, well-built man in a black dragon mask looked back at her, with a gorgeous woman in teal taffeta on his arm. His lips, his jaw, his gait, and there, on his neck, it was—

  “Jon’s here,” Brennan hissed, brushing her ear.

  Divine, he was exactly the same. As always. Exactly the same. Same build, same face, same gait. She could pick him out of any crowd. Feel him nearby. She shivered.

  And the gorgeous woman was none other than Olivia.

  Why were they here? What did they have to do with the Magister Trials?

  Brennan led her through the guests, closer to the raised head table, where a woman dressed in swaths of golden silk stood, arms out. The Grand Divinus.

  It was her. It was actually her.

  The Grand Divinus hadn’t always been Eleftheria II, but had once been known as Magister Samanta Vota, a Sileni force mage known for mastery of her power. She’d written manuals even Leigh had studied. Before his time, the Grand Divinus had stayed at the Emaurrian Tower as a magister, fighting the Skaddish warbands during King Marcus’s youth. Her heroism was legend, and what every young novice with stars in her eyes aimed to become.

  And here she was. In the flesh.

  “Welcome to Magehold, treasured guests,” the Grand Divinus declared, as the entire hall stilled and quieted. She had an elegance about her, an ever-placid face that was as pleasant as her pulled back onyx-and-ash hair was severe. “If you are here, you are among the elite few invited to celebrate this year’s Magister Trials.”

  The Magister Trials had never been such a… spectacle. This… was something different.

  “Ever since the Rift, the world as we knew it changed.” The Grand Divinus’s voice dropped. “Where there was once certainty, there is risk. Where there was once safety, there is danger. Where there were once rules, there are none.”

  Nods and murmurs rippled through the crowd.

  “Today’s magisters must not only fulfill the requirements of the world we knew, but the requirements of the world we now live in. It is with this reality that the Magister Trials have evolved. To win, there is only one objective: be the last to survive the trials. No certainty, no safety, no rules.”

  Her heart raced, and as her hold on Brennan’s arm tightened, he rubbed her hand softly.

  Survive? Then there would be death, and with no rules, killing. Any of the masked faces in the room could hide killers… or victims.

  What kind of trials would force mortal stakes? The Grand Divinus could explain it any way she liked, but these trials weren’t just about a promotion, but something ulterior, something nefarious. Gladiators in Sonbahar fought to the death, but this was the Divinity of Magic, and its own mages. Even for a boon, it was a lot to risk—both dying and killing.

  Would she have to kill for this? She shook her head, looking over the crowd for the other candidates.

  The black dragon mask faced hers from across the room. Jon, rigid as stone, staring her down. She knew that look, that posture, the way his hands were at his sides, open, ready.

  Run, that look said. It’s too dangerous.

  “The first trial begins here on the 20th of Floreal, with the second three days later, and the third and final trial three days after that. Until then, let’s celebrate having survived the Rift.” The Grand Divinus gestured to the musicians, who began to play as the household started dinner service.

  Celebrate? They were going to celebrate with death?

  Brennan seated her, then sat down himself.

  “No rules,” she whispered to him. But there was so much at stake—securing help against the pirates, the truth about Laurentine, learning whether the Divinity was friend or foe.

  Too much at stake to turn back, and magic was her life.

  * * *

  As Jon gripped the goblet, Olivia cleared her throat, then after a moment, tapped his thigh. He glanced at her.

  “You’re going to break it,” she said quietly, rearranging the napkin in her lap.

  His knuckles around the silver goblet were white. He loosened his grip and set it down.

  No safety, no certainty, no rules? What did this woman have planned? If Rielle was here, it could only be for one reason: she had been invited to the Magister Trials.

  She’d offered her help against the Immortals and the pirates, and wanting to keep her from risking her life, he’d refused it. And now, here she was, risking her life anyway.

  Closing his eyes, he sighed, then turned to Olivia. “You were right.”

  She smiled beneath her cat half-mask. “I often am. This time…?”

  “I should’ve just… let her help.”

  Olivia took a sip of wine, set it down, then shook her head. “Maybe so. But if she’d gotten this invitation, she would have come here anyway, and you know it.”

  Rielle had long wanted to become a magister, and this was her dream coming true—only was it as she’d expected?

  After he and Brennan had questioned Sincuore, it seemed likely the Grand Divinus had been involved in the regicide. How far could that possible involvement have extended? To sending Flame, Phantom, and Shadow after him and Rielle? To abducting her and having her sold into slavery?

  This invitation might have been sent to her in bad faith. The Grand Divinus could be luring her here to kill her.

  Hadn’t Brennan tried to convince her not to? Wouldn’t he have told her about what Sincuore had said?

  I have to try.

  His gaze found her again. In that bright, bold red dress, she had doubtless drawn every eye in the room. With a glittering phoenix half-mask on her face and an elegant strapless red ball gown wrapping her body, she was stunning. Her arms, half her back, and her shoulders were bare, shoulders he had kissed hundreds of times before, soft caresses that had made her shiver, little moans falling from quivering lips—

  Stop it.

  With a lengthy exhale, he picked up his goblet and drained its water.

  He was here to ask for aid, be denied, and return to an alliance with the Covens. What Rielle chose to do was her choice, but she deserved to be warned.

  Across the hall, on the raised dais, the Grand Divinus sat on a massive throne of gold and jewels. Tonight, he would submit to her before everyone in attendance here and ask her help. He hadn’t even been allowed to bring in the Queen’s Blade he’d brought as tribute—t
he Divine Guard had taken it at the entrance and suggested scheduling a private audience.

  Which tonight wouldn’t be.

  The most demeaning moment of his life, probably, and it would ripple across the world, but no choice. Everything hinged on this moment—the fate of his kingdom, of his people. No turning back, even if he had to prostrate himself entirely. If it earned the support of the Covens, it would be worth it.

  “You want to persuade her to go home,” Olivia said between dinner courses.

  “Don’t you?” he asked her. “Especially after that opening address?”

  Olivia readjusted her Ring of the Archmage. “After dinner. We’ll approach her.”

  A minute or two of conversation, and then he could focus on what he’d come here to do. Reasonable enough.

  The rest of the dinner was a blur, and although the food was elaborate, it was all the same to him. Extravagant.

  Soon the musicians began the dance suite, and he took to the floor with an insistent Olivia while Brennan did with Rielle, the kraken and the phoenix, sea and sky mingling with otherworldly grace. They were a perfect pair, elegant, twirling skillfully about the crowd.

  “I’m going to find a way to save you,” Olivia said to him as he turned her.

  “I don’t need saving.” He pulled her close. “The kingdom does.”

  Olivia frowned as she twirled away once more. Her determination knew no bounds; she wouldn’t give up on her goal.

  Neither would he on his. There was work to be done.

  When the musicians struck up a volta, Olivia wouldn’t quit the floor, so he danced with her. Other men had requested her, but she’d refused them, refused to leave his side, as though she believed he might drop dead at any moment unless she was present to save him.

  Or she’d chosen to stay with him because she fancied him. And he’d have to broach that subject with her soon.

  “I don’t know how I earned your friendship”—he lifted her—“but I praise Terra for it, Olivia.”

  She grinned. “Just remember you said that, won’t you?”

  He spun them, catching a glimpse of that phoenix half-mask, facing him—Rielle, looking right at him.

  She quickly turned away, and as the volta finished, she and Brennan left the dance floor toward a set of doors. Were they leaving?

  “Wine,” Olivia said, and he escorted her to one of the heaping trestle tables along the walls. A servant poured her a goblet full, and she sipped it, catching her breath. “She won’t want to withdraw from the trials, even if you do warn her.”

  No certainty, no safety, no rules? “We have to try.”

  Olivia nodded, and they made their way to the doors Brennan and Rielle had disappeared through.

  The hallway was dark, empty, with nary a sconce lit against the shadows. Olivia’s arm wrapped around his, they slowly made their way deeper, toward a corner, but Olivia came to a stop, her fingers digging into his bicep.

  Panteds breaths, whisper-soft, that had graced his ear countless times. Little moans, an octave higher than her usual voice, and the swish of fabric.

  He froze, gaze fixed on the end of the hallway, the wall, the dead end.

  A groan, deep and masculine, rolled low, eager, and around this corner had to be—

  The pull on his arm was Olivia, taking a step back, and swallowing, he remembered how to move again, and took a step back with her, and another, and another.

  His chest was pounding, and he was breathing hard, blood spiking through his veins like ice, its coldness piercing him to his core.

  An awestruck gasp, and another, and another, Terra have mercy, that he’d heard so many times before—

  And now with someone else. Not him. With Brennan.

  Brennan, who had superhuman senses and could probably hear him here, and Olivia, right now. Brennan, who was taking Rielle right around that corner.

  Olivia dragged him now, dragged him away down the dark hallway, through the doors, into the light and myriad reflections from crystal chandeliers and gold, amid chatter and laughter and dancing, and he blinked, blinked again, staring at those doors, where his mind still stood, fixating on that dead end, listening to the sound of his heart breaking.

  This was—

  Two betrothed lovers, doing nothing wrong.

  But his pulse pounded in his ears, and he couldn't look away.

  Olivia, her grip tight, urged him back toward the trestle table, saying something to him, but he couldn’t hear her, could only hear those breaths, those moans, those gasps—

  He stood there, breaths heaving, unable to look away—

  Olivia swept in front of him, into his field of vision, and blocked the doors. She pressed her palms against his chest, pushed him back. “I won’t let you do this to yourself. I won’t.”

  When he wouldn’t meet her eyes, she took his face in her hands.

  She rose up on her toes and pressed her lips to his.

  Chapter 18

  Rielle glanced up at Brennan as he guided her back down the hall, his palm at the small of her back. Her heart was still racing, hammering in her chest like a wild thing, pleasure singing in her blood, and his smug smile only made her want to tear off his clothes and do the same to him, but he’d denied her.

  “Why won’t you let me—”

  A low laugh rumbled in his throat. “Soon, my bride. Soon.”

  That was what he always said when she wanted to pleasure him. When it came to making love, nothing happened until he allowed it. Although it wasn’t something she’d been accustomed to, Brennan was worth the change. His happiness had become so important to her that there was little she wouldn’t do for his sake. But this wasn’t about happiness. There was an uneasiness there, a fear even, and it had to be about that night at Tregarde nearly four years ago.

  Was that it? Despite all she’d said to him, did he still think her unwilling, deep down? Wary?

  She trusted him, through and through, enough to submit to him entirely. He wouldn’t lie to her, he wouldn’t harm her, and she knew it. If he had any doubt of that, she’d have to relieve him of it. Soon.

  She stopped in the hallway, and before he could say anything, she urged him against the wall and kissed him. That laugh again—but he wrapped his arms around her, ran his palms up her bare back, met her kiss with his eager tongue.

  He pulled away and swept a lock of her hair off her mask. In the dark, he stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers, the smooth sensation making her close her eyes and shiver. “Care for a dance?”

  A smile stole onto her face. “Once I can feel my legs again, yes.”

  A half-laugh. “We’ll have to work on your stamina.”

  “Perhaps all night.”

  “Brazen words,” he said, tracing her lips with a finger. “Will they deliver?”

  She pressed a kiss to his fingertip and held it. “With pleasure.”

  His grin broadened a moment, then he looked away, curled her arm around his, and led her to the doors. “Show me what those lovely, unfeeling legs can manage.”

  They’d continue this at the mansion, but for now she did as he wished.

  With Brennan leading, any woman would be hard pressed to fail in the dance, but then again, her failures were legendary.

  “Catch me when I fall,” she whispered.

  “One of my many skills.” He opened one of the doors and led her through.

  Off to the side, not far from them, stood Jon in his dragon half-mask, with Olivia’s hands on his face, his arms around her waist, gaze locked with hers; she rose on her toes and kissed him.

  “Well,” Brennan whispered in her ear, “that explains why he’s in no rush to wed.”

  She grinned, grinned so broadly her face hurt, laughed a little, even, a hollow sound she didn’t recognize.

  That night in Laurentine, Olivia had asked her if she ever thought about Jon… Was this why? Had she wanted… permission?

  Olivia was highly capable, witty, intelligent, beautiful. And Jon�
��

  A new movement in the dance suite began, the gigue, and Brennan led her into it. Her shoulders melted in Brennan’s hold, but he led her through the dance without error.

  It didn’t matter if Jon and Olivia were together. It was none of her concern. She was marrying, and he—and Jon was none of her concern. None.

  She met Brennan’s eyes, their hazel gaze spearing her, and a shudder tore up her spine. Her foot missed a step, but Brennan caught her and expertly transitioned her into the next.

  “Almost there,” he whispered, turning her. “We’ll leave shortly. Just endure a little more.”

  Endure? Her face went cold.

  He knew. He knew how she felt about this? Of course he did. Of course. Pressure pushed behind her eyes, tears, but she wouldn’t let them through. Not now.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly as the dance ended.

  Brennan pulled her in, gently stroked her arm in that lulling back-and-forth motion. “It’s not your fault.”

  Soon these last traces of whatever she’d had with Jon would disappear, and she could be the woman Brennan deserved. She would be.

  The crowd parted, and through them walked Jon, unmasked, Olivia by his side, toward the dais and the Grand Divinus.

  The Grand Divinus motioned to her Hensarin, who stood down. Jon handed his mask to Olivia, who stopped at the edge of the crowd as Jon proceeded to the Grand Divinus.

  “Good evening to you, Most High.” He bowed, with all the carefully controlled elegance of a lifelong courtier. “My name is Jonathan Dominic Armel Faralle, King of Emaurria, and I have come here to beg Your Excellency for aid, to spare my people the ravaging of the Immortals.”

  As he lowered to a knee, gasps wove through the crowd. Her own breath caught in her throat.

  “And for your magnanimity,” he declared, his voice loud and deep, “I would gladly pledge my fealty.” His head bowed, he remained on his knee, holding the position, an exercise in patience and humility.

  He’d submitted himself—wholly and without pride—to ask help for his people’s sake. The king of her realm had just humbled himself completely to another power.

  The entire hall stood with bated breath until the Grand Divinus opened her arms. “You are welcome at my court, King Jonathan. Please rise.”