Court of Shadows

by Miranda Honfleur

  “Young,” Ambriel said softly. “She’d intended to save the world single-handedly—always trailing me and our scouts with her bow.” He laughed under his breath. “She was only fifty-seven when Narenian sent her away. Barely out of her juvenile years. But Ruvel had come of age, she had as well, and it was time.” His voice faded to silence.

  He missed her. Of course he missed her. And the light-elves lived a difficult life, attempting to stay isolated.

  “I hope I meet her,” Leigh said, catching up to him.

  Ambriel’s lip twitched. “She’s very possessive, dreshan. Be prepared.”

  Possessive of her father? At fifty-seven? Leigh smirked.

  Once they reached the Beaufoys, Ambriel would be meeting his daughter, too. And so would he. And there was no telling what—

  “We’re not alone,” Ambriel whispered, barely audible. He drew his bow, had an arrow nocked and pointed at an aspen behind them in the blink of an eye.

  Leigh spun, ready to cast a repulsion shield if need be. “Show yourself. Unless you want to be a pincushion.”

  A hand poked out from behind the trunk first, then a leg. A short one, wearing a fashionable feminine boot with golden spurs. Then a red-haired head and a sheepish smile.

  He covered his forehead with his hand. “Katia…”

  Joel would kill him. Or rather, shout very, very loudly. Or worse, tell another story.

  “What are you doing here? Your father is going to lock you up until the end of time,” he hissed, stalking over to her.

  She stepped out from behind the tree with her hands clasped behind her back. “He’s going to lock me up whether I go with you or not. And besides, Ambriel said you’d be welcomed, so…”

  “And how did we not hear you?” Ambriel called from behind him.

  She lifted a leg and wiggled her foot, the golden spur catching the filtering sunlight. “I may have borrowed these enchanted spurs from the Coven’s armory,” she said in Old Emaurrian. “Maybe.”

  With a frustrated groan, Leigh took her by the arm and started heading back southeast toward Bournand. “Come on. You and your stolen goods are going home.”

  “Borrowed goods,” she snapped, yipping and wincing to keep up. “Leigh, don’t be such a grumpy old man!”

  “Old?” He scowled at her.

  Determined gray eyes bored into his. “I… I have a great reason for being here,” she said. “You’re trying to establish trade between the Coven and the light-elves, but then you’re leaving us, aren’t you? So… someone from the Coven should be here to know what’s happening and make sure the transition is smooth, right?”

  He sighed. “When have you made anything smoother?”

  Her gaze meandered the forest, then met his anew, with another sheepish smile. “Here’s my big chance?”

  They’d lose an entire day taking her home, but if they didn’t, they’d have an indignant Archon to face when they returned.

  Ambriel rested a hand on his shoulder. “Dreshan, she’ll be safe with us.”

  “That won’t matter. Her father—”

  “Would rather she be safe with us,” Ambriel said, rounding to face him, “than finding her way home in the dark.”

  “But if we bring her back—”

  “We’ll bring her back regardless,” Ambriel said, his golden gaze resting on Katia for a moment, who practically bounced on her toes. “The only question is whether we’ll be bringing her back empty-handed, or with an agreement from Ferelen.”

  “And—and I can tell Ambriel all about Bournand and human things and Coven stuff,” Katia offered hopefully.

  Leigh sighed and finally nodded to Ambriel. Why was he right so criminally often?

  The daylight sun was darkening to burnt gold when Ambriel held up a hand and stopped them. “Arms at your sides,” he said to them, “and don’t move.”

  “Brashan, shto rabish s timi lyudimi?” A deep voice, masculine, from high up in the trees. Speaking Elvish, probably.

  “Dolashimo u miru u shushret s Kralyishom Ferelen,” Ambriel called back.

  There was a silence, interrupted only by the breeze rustling the trees.

  “Tata?” a high, girlish voice called down.

  “Ashta,” Ambriel answered, his voice quavering, and advanced a few steps.

  “Ashta, zoshtavi!” the deep masculine voice protested. On edge.

  “Ne,” she snapped back, “to ye miy tata.” And before long, a sleek form dropped from branch to branch until she jumped to the ground.

  Tall and slender, her long flaxen hair was pulled back from her alabaster face and twisted in two braids. Her eyes were bright, honey golden like Ambriel’s, and she was clad in neutral-toned linen from head to toe, a wrap shirt tucked into loose breeches, secured with a sash. A bow strapped across her body and linen wrapped her legs and feet, with naught but woven soles for shoes.

  Ambriel ran to meet her and threw his arms around her. “Ashta, dushan, propustio sam te.” His words were like relief rippling from tense shoulders.

  “Tata,” she said softly, hugging him tightly.

  That was her—Ambriel’s daughter, whom he hadn’t seen since before the Sundering. He whispered quiet questions to her that she answered, rocking gently in his embrace. He pressed a soft kiss to her head as other light-elves dropped down from the canopy—three, all with bows.

  A man of about Ambriel’s size, with broad shoulders, clear eyes, and platinum-blond hair cut very close, walked up to Ashta, waited a moment, then grasped her shoulder. She shook off his touch and held Ambriel tighter. “Ashta—”

  “Ne, Ruvel. To ye miy tata,” she pleaded.

  Two women flanked Ruvel, their hair and eyes matching his, all wearing the same linen clothes, and followed his gaze to Katia and him.

  “Tko su oni?” Ruvel jerked his head toward them. He hadn’t let his guard down at all. Had the people of Bournand done so much damage, or was there some other threat in the area?

  “Ashta, Ruvel,” Ambriel said, prying himself away from her tight embrace, just a little, “ovo ye Leigh Galvan, miy ... lyushan.”

  Lyushan… What did that mean? Leigh inclined his head.

  “A ovo ye Katia Forgeron, priyashan. Govoren Stari Emaurri.”

  Katia bowed, smiling brightly.

  Ashta eyed them around Ambriel’s shoulder, her pale eyebrows drawn. “Your love?” she asked Ambriel in Old Emaurrian. Incredulous Old Emaurrian. “A human.”

  Ambriel urged her to accompany him, and reluctantly, she gave in, clinging tightly to his arm. “Leigh, this is my daughter, Ashta Windsong.”

  Windsong? Like the Priestess of Vervewood, stone-faced Aiolian? But he smiled warmly. “A pleasure, Ashta.”

  She frowned. “What’s your interest in my father?”

  Romantic but extremely physical?

  “Ashta,” Ambriel scolded.

  Leigh cleared his throat. “Quite honorable?”

  Ambriel cocked his head and flashed him a knowing smile. To Ashta, he said, “Entirely reciprocated.”

  She pressed her lips together and sighed through her nose.

  Well, he’d certainly have his work cut out for him earning her approval.

  “And you?” Ashta asked Katia, who bowed again.

  “My name is Katia Forgeron, daughter of the Archon of the Forgeron Coven,” she said firmly. “I come peacefully, in the hopes of fostering a relationship between our peoples.”

  Ruvel approached, a hand on his hip, and huffed. “We already experienced your people’s concept of peace and have had enough.”

  A grimace from one of the other two light-elves. “We have our hands full with witches’ troubles already, on both—”

  “Merian, zoshtavi,” Ruvel hissed, and Merian lowered her gaze.

  “Witches’ troubles,” Ambriel repeated, raising Ashta’s chin with a finger.

  Her face went slack. “Tata, there is an—”

  “Ashta!” Ruvel stepped toward her, shaking his head. “Don’t—”r />
  “Ferelen will tell him anyway,” she snapped back. Clearly theirs was a love match made by the gods. She returned her gaze to Ambriel. “An army of undead from the northwest, from the mountains.”

  Undead.

  “A necromancer,” Leigh said. Just north of here was the Beaufoy Coven’s territory, and their witches dealt in all manner of forbidden magic, including necromancy. Had one of them gone into fureur? If it was still ongoing, that meant a mage of incredibly bright anima. Limitless, even.

  He shuddered.

  Ava. Was she in danger?

  No, Della and Axelle would keep her safe. They always had and always would. But—

  “I am a wild mage,” Leigh said, “or as Ambriel called me once… prophet. I will help your queendom in any way I can. Now tell me everything you know.”

  * * *

  Olivia feathered the quill under her chin, staring at the drawing of the dragon in the massive Compendium of the Immortals in Old Sileni. The villa’s library had a dictionary of Old Sileni to Sileni translation, of which she had a basic working proficiency, but the process of translating each to the next and accounting for dialect and style was tedious.

  The book called them the Dragon Lords, the first and most powerful of the Immortals, and capable of miraculous feats. All of them harnessing anima from the earth, able to use all magic with mere intention, able to shift into any form. Some of the Dragon Lords were written to have shifted in a form and remained in it so long as to have forgotten their original forms. Some shifted into humans, some into wolves, birds, bears, and changing others to join them.

  It was written that all Immortals had been either created or descended from the Dragon Lords. Offspring that self-selected over hundreds of thousands of years or more to become what they became. Elves. Werewolves. Dryads. Unicorns.

  She wrinkled her nose at her notes.

  A Dragon Lord may be killed but cannot die.

  That couldn’t be right. She’d bungled the translation somehow.

  In any case, after two days of research, she still had no leads on Immortal medicine.

  Whisper-soft footsteps traversed the small library, and a maid set a steaming cup of tea nearby, in the light of a ray of warm afternoon sunshine coming in from the window.

  Manon.

  Jon had transferred the maid to her household—probably too awkward having his pagan ritual lover serving him.

  That night, in the glow of the torches, he’d stood before her, naked, powerful. Dirt darkening his skin, covering nearly every inch of his big, hard body, his intense gaze had fixed on her. The chanting had been dense on the air, beating like a heart pumping blood, rhythmic, primal, and that intense gaze had darkened to rhythmic, primal purpose.

  “My lady?” Manon’s small voice intruded.

  Straightening, Olivia swallowed. “You’re still here?”

  Manon reddened, folding into herself. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but I wondered if I might trouble you for just a moment—”

  “What is it?” Olivia set the quill down and turned to her, crossing her legs.

  “Well, it’s—” Manon’s hands fidgeted. “The girls have been talking about you being a powerful healer, and well, Clarice in His Majesty’s household is with child and has the childbearing sickness. We thought—we were wondering, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, if—”

  Smiling, Olivia held up a hand. “Say no more. If she’s feeling ill, she may come to me at any time, and I can heal her,” she said. “But unfortunately, healing magic isn’t a long-term solution. An apothecary might be better suited for that.”

  Not that they had a court apothecary. Not yet, anyway. Many court positions still remained unfilled.

  “Thank you, my lady.” Manon curtsied and took her leave.

  As she left, Jon sidled by through the doorway, and they exchanged a look. It was fleeting, so very fleeting, but there was a knowledge there between them that—in recent months—she envied, more and more.

  He begged Manon’s pardon and let her pass, then clearing his throat, entered the library. Away from the palace, he dressed simply, in just a white shirt and trousers, and yet it suited him so well. Gifted with natural good looks, he’d never needed embellishment.

  “Are you all right?”

  She glanced up at his face. “Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You were frowning.” He approached the table, tracing a finger over the dragon illustration, the woodsy smell of him near and heady.

  Frowning… She shrugged. “Just a healing question. One of the maids is with child.”

  Jon spun, his head snapping to Manon’s wake, and Olivia gasped, reaching for his hand.

  “Not her,” she blurted, and his taut bearing slowly relaxed, until he heaved a sigh and rubbed a hand over his face. “Clarice.”

  “Terra have mercy, Olivia, you do not simply say things like that and—”

  She laughed, unable to keep it in.

  He eyed her, lips pressed in a line, then looked back to the book. “Find anything interesting?”

  “Interesting, yes. Useful? No. Unfortunately,” she said with a grimace, sliding her notes over to him.

  He licked his thumb and paged through them, his eyebrows creased together with focus as he read, curled over the table, shoulders taut—

  No.

  Divine, what was wrong with her? Everything about this was wrong, but whenever he was near her, more and more, her mind just went somewhere else. Somewhere… rhythmic. And primal.

  She swallowed and reached for the notes. “Don’t worry. No concoctions just yet.”

  He grinned, and Divine help her, she wanted to kiss that dimple. “So I shouldn’t be worried about changing into a dragon or something?”

  She laughed, louder than she’d intended, and shook her head. “Not just yet. At least not until I start experimenting.”

  Changing into a dragon. She chuckled under her breath as he arched an eyebrow.

  “Olivia, I was wondering if you’d like to take a walk in the garden? Maybe we could talk a—”

  “I—” she began. Talk about how I’m losing my mind. “I’d love to… but I have a lot of work I want to get done today. Another time?”

  He frowned contemplatively, but nodded. “Of course. Another time.” Sliding her tea closer, he smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t forget to rest now and then, Olivia.”

  “I won’t,” she replied brightly as he took his leave.

  Then she let herself crumple onto the table, resting her head on the page facing the dragon illustration.

  Divine, she was making a fool of herself.

  No matter what thoughts broke into her mind, he was her king. James’s son. Rielle’s former lover. It would only be the most awkward match ever, even if he did feel the same.

  Which he didn’t.

  That gentle tone he took with her when he invited her to talk—oh, she knew it. She’d used it herself with colleagues who’d looked at her that certain way, and he’d say the same thing she always said to them. I’m flattered, but I don’t want to complicate our relationship. Can we still be friends?

  She heaved a sigh, and the illustrated page fluttered.

  It was inevitable, but maybe once he finally said it, she’d be able to put all this behind her.

  She eyed the tea, its surface still moving from when he’d slid it closer. He hadn’t been with a woman in months, and it didn’t seem like he intended to, at least not anytime soon. But maybe… maybe someday he’d look at her that certain way, hungrily, just once.

  And maybe once would be all it took to answer that curiosity, to know what it felt like to be with him, just once, and dispel the alluring mystery that stalked her daydreams and left her no peace.

  He’d had casual lovers before, or at least he had with Nora Marcel Vignon, but he wasn’t that man anymore. But this could be different, couldn’t it? Two friends taking solace in each other? He was in love with a woman he couldn’t have, and she… she was r
ight here. Would that be so bad?

  She inhaled a deep breath, closing her eyes. Face reality.

  They’d have that talk inevitably. And there was as much chance of taking solace as there was of him changing into a dragon.

  “Changing into…”

  She sat up, staring at the illustration, a thought blooming in her mind, unfurling, with the Compendium of the Immortals before her.

  Immortal medicine… had been the wrong path.

  Immortal.

  There were countless tales—Immortals turning humans, the rare few who survived, into vampires, werewolves, all manner of monsters…

  Immortal monsters.

  If she couldn’t find a cure or treatment for Jon’s heart, could she find a way to change her king into an Immortal?

  Chapter 25

  Rielle pulled on her boots, hastily reading through her notes on Divinity Castle. If the trials were on the castle grounds, then there had to be some specialized area where they could take place.

  The arena has been part of Divinity Castle since its establishment as headquarters of the—

  Brennan slammed the book shut.

  “Hey!”

  He handed her a white mage coat and gave her a light push toward the door. “If you don’t know it by now, then last-minute cramming isn’t going to do anything.”

  She grimaced but accepted the coat and dragged it on, then grabbed a small pouch from the desk. A small pouch containing the Sodalis ring Jon had given her.

  Although she hadn’t worn it in almost two months, its arcanir could be a distinct advantage if any other mage attacked her. No rules.

  “Come on,” he said. “You don’t want to be late. We have work to do.”

  Tucking the pouch away, she followed him downstairs, where the duchess, Caitlyn, and the boys—sniffling and coughing—wished her luck, while Una promised to be there soon with two friends.

  Beneath a dark, stormy sky, Brennan swept her away and into the carriage, and they headed to the castle. From the seat across, he stared at her, and she stared right back.

  He still hadn’t promised not to manipulate her. The night of their argument, he’d told her about thrashing Kieran, and she’d had a momentary… lapse in judgment and had fallen into bed with him. But since then, she’d made it very clear what she expected, and he’d made it very clear she shouldn’t hold her breath.