Court of Shadows

by Miranda Honfleur

  The bond. If she was ever under imminent threat of dying, he wanted her to pull on the bond.

  He glanced toward the courtyard doors just as they opened.

  Vietti approached, wax-sealed note in hand. “From Magehold, Your Ladyship.” He handed it to her.

  She opened it and read, “You have been bestowed the great honor of an invitation to continue in the Magister Trials at the second trial, to be held on the 23rd of Floreal at sunset. Arrive in the dungeon of Divinity Castle, bring your token, and do not be late.”

  “The dungeon?” Brennan asked, raising a brow. He translated for Samara.

  “How am I to fight a basilisk in a dungeon?” she asked. “And what about the other Immortals? Someone else is facing a giant.”

  Would the dungeon be infused with arcanir? Would she be able to use her magic?

  “Maybe you’re only meeting in the dungeon,” Samara suggested.

  That could very well be.

  Her sword skills weren’t even good enough to be called fledgling, so Divine willing, the trial would be held somewhere she’d be able to use her geomancy. She wasn’t about to end up as basilisk prey, and withdrawing from the trials was not an option.

  Brennan stood and kissed her forehead. “Let’s keep practicing for as long as you can handle it. Then I have somewhere I need to be.”

  Chapter 42

  In the middle of the night, Brennan strode up the stairs behind the royal valet, who led him past other members of the household, past Royal Guards, and to a small parlor, where Brennan threw himself onto a sofa and sprawled out. Maids flocked about him, preparing his tea and presenting him with petit fours while the valet stoked the fire in the hearth.

  He’d promised Nora he’d ask Jon to invite her back to Court, but more than that… Jon had been looming like a ghost in his and Rielle’s periphery, haunting them constantly, and it was time to have a word with him and end it. Rielle, exhausted from a day of sword practice, slept soundly, and he’d be back before she woke.

  It wasn’t long before sure-footed steps strode down the hall, and the Royal Guard opened the doors.

  In plain clothes, Jon entered, looking him over with a narrow curiosity, before moving to the drinks cabinet to pour himself a goblet of water from the carafe. “Drink?”

  Brennan raised his tea.

  With a nod, Jon took his goblet and sat in the facing armchair, resting his ankle on his opposite knee before leaning back, spreading his arms on the armrests, and watching him evenly. “What brings you here?”

  “Besides the tea?” he offered drolly, and set it down.

  Jon raised his brows and sketched a smile. The impression of courtesy without actual courteous intention. His tutors had trained him well.

  “I’ve come to collect what I’m owed.” Two things.

  A drink of water, and Jon peered into his goblet with disinterest. “Owed?”

  “I’ll get to that in a minute,” Brennan said. “First, you interceded on behalf of my soon-to-be bride,” he said, resting his shoulders against the button-tufted back of the armchair.

  Jon held the silence a moment, and cold eye contact. “You were nowhere to be found.”

  Never mind that he’d been about Rielle’s business. That information was none of Jon’s.

  Exhaling lengthily, Jon set his goblet down beside him on a low table, slow, deliberate. “If you want an apology, you’ll leave disappointed.”

  Brennan laughed. “I got all the apology I wanted later that night in bed. That’s not why I’m here. If anything, I wanted to thank you for that.”

  Even that sketch of a smile didn’t show now. “Why are you here?”

  “You gave her an arcanir blade.”

  Jon tilted his head, betraying no more of a reaction than a crease between his brows. “I did. When she came here yesterday.”

  Trying to imply Rielle hadn’t mentioned the visit? Not a chance. “Yes, to assist with Samara. We discussed it.” Brennan sighed. “You didn’t just give her any old blade.”

  The moment she’d drawn it, he’d known it for what it was. The Queen’s Blade.

  Jon had given her a royal treasure meant for a queen. A claim.

  A corner of Jon’s mouth turned up. “Does it matter what blade it was, as long as it’s of help to her?”

  “It matters.”

  A slight narrowing of Jon’s gaze. “Whatever she needs of me, she shall have. I’ll deny her nothing. Ever.”

  “The list of things she needs from you ends there.” His face tight, Brennan scowled at him. “The first thing you owe me,” he said, “is allowing my sister to return to court.”

  Jon scoffed. “All of your sisters are welcome, save for one.”

  “It is Nora you’ll allow to return.”

  Jon pinched the bridge of his nose. “If I never see her again, it’ll be too soon. And that is my answer: never.”

  “That answer will change,” Brennan said, “and here’s why. Last year, when Rielle chose you over me, you’d had your chance with her, and she would have stayed with you, even after everything in Sonbahar, but you ruined it all.”

  Jon lowered his hand and glared at him.

  “Among your sins, you fucked my sister.” Brennan waved a cavalier hand. “Normally, I wouldn’t care, except that she’s spent all of her time since then with us, and she doesn’t waste a single opportunity to flaunt your affair in my fiancée’s face.”

  That glare faded, and Jon lowered his gaze.

  “That shouldn’t matter, but we both know that it does,” Brennan hissed. “Since our engagement, you’ve been omnipresent. Inescapable, even. And with Nora around, even when Rielle and I are at home, away from your presence, you never truly leave us be.”

  Jon’s chest rose and fell, rose and fell, heavier and heavier.

  “You owe it both to her and to me—space from you and all the pain you caused her. And you can do that by allowing Nora back at court.”

  The quiet went on too long before Jon nodded.

  “And the second thing I’m owed. Stay away from my fiancée. Don’t meet with her. Don’t write to her. In fact, just avoid being in her general vicinity.”

  Stormy sea-blue eyes met his.

  Brennan didn’t waver. “You shattered her when she returned from Xir, repelled her the night of Veris. I did what you couldn’t—I made her happy. And now that she’s finally happy again, she doesn’t need you interfering in her life.”

  Jon inhaled lengthily, lifting the goblet and turning it absentmindedly. “I think we both know who ‘repelled’ her, as you put it, the night of Veris.”

  Brennan huffed. So Jon had figured it out and hadn’t said a word. “Placing the blame for the flood on the last raindrop?”

  “I am to blame,” Jon said solemnly, “for everything. If not for my wrongdoing, there would have been nothing for you to exploit.” He crossed his arms.

  Brennan stood. “So you’ll stay away.”

  A twist of Jon’s lips, and then he rose, too, and rounded the table. “You fear me.”

  “Me? Fear you?” Brennan smirked.

  “You fear me, or you wouldn’t be here.”

  That was ridiculous. “You can never marry her.”

  “That’s not it,” Jon said, holding his gaze. “It’s not her hand you fear losing to me.”

  His stomach turned solid as stone, and the muscles in his arms quivered, but he only tensed them taut. No, Rielle had given herself to him, and he’d given himself to her, in every way. They loved each other and had planned a future together. He wouldn’t lose her to Jon. He wouldn’t. “Whatever you have to tell yourself, Your Majesty.”

  If Jon wouldn’t agree, he’d find other ways of keeping her away from him.

  Grinning smugly, Brennan inclined his head. “I really must be going—Rielle’s waiting for me. You understand.” He stepped around Jon and headed for the doors.

  “You really shouldn’t,” Jon called from behind him.

  Against his bette
r judgment, he paused. “Shouldn’t what?”

  “Fear me.” Jon looked over his shoulder at him, with a certain dullness in his gaze. Any tautness in the set of his shoulders dissipated. “I want you to marry her, and I want her to love you. And I’m going to tell you why.”

  Intriguing.

  Over the past couple of months, Jon had kept silent when he could have exposed certain lies—questioning Sincuore, his father’s guilt, the negligee. He hadn’t criticized. In fact, beyond his presence, he hadn’t interfered at all.

  “Listen,” Jon said gravely, approaching him. “Listen closely to my pulse. I know you can tell truth from lies.”

  He listened. Jon’s heart beat evenly.

  “There’s something wrong with my heart,” Jon said, but it continued to beat normally. “Sometimes it doesn’t work properly and disrupts the flow of my blood. There’s no cure. And unless Olivia discovers a miracle, I’ll be dead within two years.”

  No irregularity. No lie.

  Great Wolf’s ass.

  He’d heard it—the night of the welcome banquet. Beating too irregularly to be normal.

  Dead within two years. “You don’t want her to throw in with a dying man.”

  Jon held his gaze and gave a slow nod. “I haven’t given up, but the odds are against me. I plan to use whatever time I have left to set things right in the kingdom. That’s all.”

  Because of this illness, this incurable illness, Jon had backed off completely, had set aside his desires for her.

  What, as if Jon would have won her love otherwise? After so much irreversible damage, there was no way Rielle would choose Jon over him. “And you think if she knew, she’d come running?” He huffed. “Don’t be so sure of yourself.”

  “Then tell her,” Jon said, his voice low, deep. A challenge.

  “Why haven’t you?”

  “You know why.” Jon walked away and dropped into the armchair. “It’s better this way, for everyone.” So Jon didn’t want him to tell Rielle, perhaps even more than he didn’t want to tell her.

  An eerie silence deafened the parlor, interrupted only by the wind battering the villa.

  Jon had revealed this grave secret, and had left it to him to decide whether to confess it to Rielle or not?

  Rielle had sworn him to the truth—

  No, sworn or not, if Jon wanted Rielle to know he was taking the long sleep in a couple of years, he could tell her himself.

  “Why tell me?”

  Jon looked at him over the rim of his water goblet, then set it down, unaffected. “You came here with demands, worrying that I’m a problem between the two of you—”

  Worrying?

  “—and now you know I won’t be,” Jon said expressionlessly, and glanced at the door. “So, go. Live a life together. Make her happy. And stop dueling shadows.”

  Chapter 43

  It was strange having a sword belted to her side. But the day of the second trial, its weight was a comfort. No more challenges catching her unaware. No more loved ones being hurt on her account. Now she could at least defend herself, albeit poorly.

  It was time. The second trial. The basilisk.

  As Rielle entered the carriage, the blade caught on the door, and she stepped back.

  “You’ll have to unclip it for the ride,” Brennan said to her through a smile.

  Of course. Grinning sheepishly, she did as he bade and unclipped the sword, then took his offered hand and got into the carriage. He followed and sat across from her while she laid the sword—the rapier—on her lap as the carriage set off.

  Altogether, the rapier was about forty-four inches long, with a thirty-seven-inch arcanir blade, long and thin like a thorn. Its swept basket hilt was elegant, and the heavily carved horn grip, wound and inset with a steel wire for better grip, felt made for her hand. The extended ricasso engraved with twining vines was intricate, something she could examine for hours and not quite get the full measure of.

  It would take years before she would know how to properly use it.

  “Every blade should have a name,” Brennan said, nodding to hers. “What’s yours called?”

  He rarely used his sword, a dueling rapier, but the rumors she’d heard of when he did use it never ended well for his challenger.

  “What about yours?” she asked.

  “Bite.” He grinned wolfishly.

  Bite. Yes, appropriate for any blade of his.

  She peered down at her own, long and thin, sharp. It had been well cared for recently. She ran a fingertip along the leather scabbard and its twisted steel accents, then tapped the point of the tip. “Thorn.”

  “Thorn,” Brennan repeated, looking out the carriage window. “A fitting name.”

  The rest of the ride passed in silence as visions of what the second trial might entail passed by her mind’s eye. She’d never fought a basilisk, of course, but she’d fought a kraken—and won. Olivia’s books had given her worthwhile knowledge about the scales: their preternatural hardiness, their susceptibility to arcanir. And Jon had fought these beasts before, and had warned her about its eyes and its tail. For the eyes, she’d brought a hand mirror, which she had tucked in her coat.

  If everything went wrong and she got pinned down, Brennan had been teaching her the sword, and although it hadn’t been long, some training was better than none.

  “If you need me, I’m only a pull of the bond away. So don’t worry.” Brennan held her gaze evenly, serenely.

  “I have my magic,” she said, sucking in a nervous breath.

  “But should you find yourself cornered, remember that most of them would kill anyone if it meant climbing to success. So we can do the same without any reservations.” He flashed a rictus grin.

  “I won’t kill for this, Brennan.” Not if she could avoid it.

  “But they will. And you might have to kill to survive.”

  He wasn’t wrong. Mac Carra had proven it. She wouldn’t expect mercy from him, or most of the others, for that matter.

  The carriage ride took them up the drive to the castle, where footmen escorted them to the ornate double doors. Inside, equerries led them deep into the castle and down a large set of stairs below ground.

  She exchanged a look with Brennan. The dungeon. Hopefully it wouldn’t be arcanir infused.

  Before long, they were in a circular antechamber lit by torches, with only one massive set of doors awaiting. The Grand Divinus sat on a throne-like bench, surrounded by her Divine Guard, holding court before the other six candidates, their entourages, and…

  On one end, Una was already with two of her friends. Grinning, she waved and mouthed, Good luck.

  On the other, Jon stood—tall, regal, in a coat-tailed sapphire brocade jacket trimmed in gold, his hands clasped behind his back, chin raised. Faithkeeper was strapped to his belt, along with his arcanir dagger. So he’d come prepared for any eventuality.

  The line of him was strong, elegant, with Olivia next to him in a sleek gray dress, her shining red hair twisted ornately at the nape of her neck. They were always together. Inseparable.

  Olivia’s smile in the sunlit afternoon came back to her, after she’d parted from Jon in the stable. They were happy together.

  Jon turned his head in her direction, looked her over from head to toe in that sweeping once-over of his, his Shining Sea eyes bright sea-blue against the sapphire of his jacket. No smile. A muscle twitched in his jawline, and then he nodded to her, briefly, impersonally, and turned his attention back to the Grand Divinus.

  She palmed Thorn’s pommel, a comfort, one she’d seen him take countless times with Faithkeeper.

  “…and then we will begin,” the Grand Divinus finished. Had she been speaking this whole time?

  Rielle swallowed, glancing at Brennan next to her. He hadn’t moved from his courtly nonchalance, a stylish looseness in his stance. As she looked at him, his gaze didn’t waver from the Grand Divinus.

  The Grand Divinus turned to a set of doors, and two footmen opened
them. She gestured everyone to enter.

  A coliseum.

  Seats cascaded down into an arena as large as a temple, walled by a blurred transparent wall. Six members of the Divine Guard ringed the arena from the stands, their hands up. Force mages holding up a repulsion shield.

  From the entrance, stairs led up on both sides into the stands, and one set descended farther. To the arena level.

  The arena.

  There would be room to maneuver, and perhaps she’d be able to use her geomancy after all.

  Ariana Orsa passed by, with a hilt—no blade—strapped to her belt. Next to her stood Mac Carra with a massive two-handed sword—over six feet in length, and the thin master he’d been with before the first trial.

  So she wasn’t the only one with a blade. Perhaps everyone had been rattled by Farrad’s challenge.

  No matter.

  Before she could enter, Brennan took her hand. She rose on her tiptoes to kiss him.

  “For luck?” Mac Carra bit out over his huge shoulder as he passed by. “You’ll need it, bonny little flower,” he called as he descended into the arena.

  “Don’t listen to him,” Brennan said, eyeing Mac Carra’s wake with a glare that could only be called deadly.

  Luca Iagar passed by with a smirk, and the last of the candidates descended into the arena.

  “I have to go,” she whispered, pressing her lips to his one last time before she slipped away and turned into the darkness.

  At the bottom of the stairs, she entered a small chamber, where one of the Divine Guard asked to see her wrist. She held it out, and he clasped a tight-fitting cuff around it.

  Arcanir cuff.

  * * *

  Brennan left the stands and passed the Divine Guards, and none of them tried to stop him.

  Several unusual scents mingled here, many he couldn’t identify, except for the scent of a werewolf. It was strong, overpowering, and he was drawn to it in ways the scents around Maerleth Tainn had drawn him.

  But he’d known them for what they were then, and he knew now: female werewolf.

  One of the candidates would be fighting her today, no doubt, or she’d somehow managed to get into the castle incognito for the trial.