By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2)

by Miranda Honfleur

  Drina packed up her stall and headed home, to her room at Peletier’s Inn, beaming a smile of her own.

  Chapter 7

  Jon paused. Behind the ornate doors, the palace’s courtiers and esteemed guests had assembled for dinner in the great hall. His heart sank.

  But at least Derric and the High Council had, reluctantly, done his bidding and distributed food and clothing at the docks. Tonight, the people of Courdeval were warm and well fed.

  Now it was his turn to work, to ensure Emaurria’s security. And to do that, he needed to keep the suitresses at Trèstellan convinced of his good faith and, thus, keep their countries amicable to assisting Emaurria until more permanent solutions could be found.

  If they suspected he was merely acting, it would mean his kingdom’s ruin.

  No pressure at all. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, tugged the hem of his fitted black doublet, and took a deep breath. He gathered his composure—a loosening of the muscles, a faint pleasant smile, a carefree air.

  His herald announced him. “His Majesty, King Jonathan Dominic Armel Faralle, Prince of Pryndon, Zahibshada of Zehar, Duke of Guillory, Verneuil, and Ornan, Count of Guigemar, Langue, Buis, Lomiere, and Sauvin, Baron of Milun, Laustic…”

  The entire host of guests stood upon his entry. The carved head table, but for his own seat at the center, was filled end to end with suitresses and faced a sea of courtiers. A few stood out—his political dissidents, Viscount Costechelle, a dapper but graying man; and Marquis Forel, with his dark tousled hair and hazel eyes… another Marcel—

  The herald continued, but Jon kept a smile in place. The mouthful of titles he’d inherited as the last of his line always felt as lengthy as the first time he’d heard it. And their length spoke to the kingdom’s desperation, not any sense of prestige. At its conclusion, he took his seat, initiating a ripple as guests seated themselves. “Good evening.”

  He received a harmony of greetings and honorifics in reply while the dinner service began, and in the corner, a single harpist strummed a light dinner tune. It was a far cry from nights spent alone before the fire pit as a paladin, eating double-baked bread, cured meat, and whatever he could find nearby.

  A seat before the head table remained empty. A young bronze-skinned woman, her voluminous dark hair arranged in an intricate style, approached to take it with effortless elegance, fixing him with her unflinching, hazel-eyed gaze.

  Someone he’d met? He hadn’t faced such rapt attention for nearly a decade, since—

  “How was your day, Your Majesty?” someone asked from next to him. Princess Melora Nualláin of Morwen, Emaurria’s southeastern landlocked neighbor, angled her shoulders toward him, flaunting an ample décolletage framed by a low-cut gown, as she had taken to wearing in recent days. Her lustrous, chestnut-colored curls fell over her shoulders and contrasted against the bright green shade of her dress.

  Just stick to your lessons. Derric had hired—among his many tutors—a Companion, Alexandre Sartre, to teach him the finer points of the game. Flirtation, seduction, things no honorable man discussed.

  He forced another smile. “It was entirely unexciting… until now, Your Highness.” He took a sip of his aperitif—not that it made his dishonor and deception palatable. His advisers, however, would be proud.

  Melora placed her elbow on the table and rested her chin on her hand, grinning broadly in some sort of reverie, but her lady-in-waiting, Aislinn, corrected her with a dispositive throat-clearing.

  To his left, Alessandra rolled her eyes and fluttered her dark lashes before turning to him, tossing her cascades of dark hair. When she leaned closer, spiced perfume inundated his nostrils.

  “I’d rather know,” she began in a low rasp, “how will your night be?” She raised a derisive brow.

  Terra have mercy—

  The dry white wine went down his throat all wrong. He coughed into the glass, his eyes watering. A servant quickly dashed from the corner, but he waved the man away.

  Alessandra flashed an amused smile and looked him over, then lost herself in a large glass of wine. His guests gasped about his coughing fit and asked questions of concern; he allayed their worries with niceties. There was no easy way to admit to being intimidated by a twenty-year-old princess. A smirking, gleaming-eyed princess.

  But she—and the other suitresses—were no doubt just playing their parts, too. Their countries had demanded this from them as his had from him. None of them actually wanted him; none of them could. To them, he was a bastard raised as a commoner, elevated to royalty by circumstance, and a stranger. Perhaps each of them had their own love, too, but their station demanded sacrifice.

  The staff served the appetizer course, a savory cheese soufflé in individual ramekins. The suitresses chatted at his table while he said as little as he could get away with.

  This was nothing more than a farce, as much as the Grands argued otherwise. The longer he could manage to hold the interest of the other countries in the region, the more time he could buy for Emaurria to stabilize. What happened when that time ran out—he and his officers had vastly differing opinions about.

  The servants set the main course, a rosemary-roasted quail in a fig demiglace over root vegetables and rice. How many loaves of bread would that have bought his people? All this for appearances.

  Course after elaborate course went by, one light topic of conversation to another, all his guests appearing to enjoy themselves but for Alessandra, whose dark eyes smoldered as she assessed him for far longer than propriety allowed, finishing her second glass of wine before pouring a third.

  The suitresses chatted, and the dark-haired courtier viewed him over the rim of her goblet.

  “His Lordship, Magister Pons Olivier, Lord Chancellor of Emaurria!” the herald announced.

  The seventy-two-year-old former Proctor of the Emaurrian Tower of Magic, and Jon’s current Lord Chancellor, Magister Pons Olivier, approached, adorned with his chain of office. He leaned in. “Your Majesty, how would you like a reprieve?”

  Praise Terra. He rose. “Pardon me, ladies, but I must take my leave. Please, enjoy your dessert and tea.” He added pleasantly, “I will see you all tomorrow.” He inclined his head, and the ladies stood to curtsy or bow as was their custom.

  The dark-haired courtier’s eyes met his, and she gave him a mysterious nod. Who in Blessed Terra’s name was that person?

  Alessandra lost her balance as she curtsied. He reached out to catch her, and she tumbled into his arms.

  “Are you all right?” He looked her over.

  She brightened. “Yes, thank you.” Rising on her toes, she leaned in to kiss his cheek. “You don’t fool me,” she whispered, and he froze. Beaming, she pulled away and reached for the arms of her chair. “Too much wine.”

  Melora rose from her chair. “I’ve also had too—”

  With a shake of her head, Aislinn caught her hand and urged her back to her chair.

  He took his leave and followed Pons out into the hall. “Thank you.” He heaved a sigh. “I am in your debt.”

  Pons chuckled as they walked toward Jon’s quarters. “Not many men would complain in your position, at least not those of your persuasion.”

  Jon shook his head. “It’s not that I don’t enjoy their company. It is that I am doing so disingenuously.” He loosened the collar of his fitted black leather doublet. “That, and the Sileni princess is beyond bold.”

  Laughing, Pons clapped him on the back. “Yes, they do things differently there. She will expect to bed you soon.”

  “She will… what?” He stopped in his tracks, gawking at Pons, and thumbed his Sodalis ring, which had last graced Rielle’s finger.

  “I know.” Pons paused. “You will, however, have to continue with gestures of good faith.”

  He drew his eyebrows together. Gestures of good faith… There had to be some way to placate them, especially Princess Alessandra. He already dined with them, and what else was there but romancing?

  When he
’d fallen in love with Rielle… The days and nights they’d spent talking, reading, dancing—

  Dancing.

  This time of year, the Houses usually fussed over the Midwinter Ball, but he’d heard nothing of it. “The Midwinter Ball was canceled due to the siege, wasn’t it?”

  “Perhaps too hastily.”

  He nodded. The next occasion was the Terran spring festival of Veris in three months. “Let us have a ball for Veris.” It would maintain the appearance of courting a bride; he didn’t need Derric, the new Grand Master of Emaurria, to take him to task. And the suitresses would be diverted.

  “New, but not unusual. I’ll talk to the Master of Ceremonies and see that it is done.”

  His dance tutor would be pleased, at least.

  When they finally arrived at his quarters, he paused. “There was a courtier who arrived late to dinner, a dark-haired woman possessed of unusual intensity. Do you know her?”

  Pons pursed his lips, then his face brightened. “Ah, the recently widowed Countess Vauquelin, Nora Marcel Vignon.”

  Terra have mercy, she’d been familiar with good reason. He stiffened. While he’d been Tor’s squire, whenever Tor had brought him to visit Maerleth Tainn, she’d pursued him mercilessly.

  But it had been a decade since he’d last seen her, and the years had changed her. He’d invited Vignon’s widow to court without knowing her true identity. Faolan Auvray Marcel’s daughter and Brennan’s sister. “Nora?”

  “Do you know her, Your Majesty?”

  “We’ve met. What do you know of her?”

  “Her husband died in the siege. She has two sons, ages nine and six. The elder had his éveil early upon learning that his father had died. A master from the Tower tutors him now, Your Majesty.” When Jon didn’t reply right away, Pons hesitated. “Will you… make overtures?”

  Overtures. The kind that would—? “No.”

  Unthinkable.

  Pons inclined his head, perhaps just the slightest show of approval, and took his leave. Jon lifelessly greeted Raoul and Florian.

  “That good of an evening, Your Majesty?” Florian asked with a sympathetic shake of his head.

  “Makes me long for the monastery,” he murmured in reply, earning smiles from them both as he entered his quarters. Removing the restricting doublet, he crossed the foyer, still feeling Nora’s unwavering gaze upon him.

  Nora Karandis Marcel.

  No, Nora Marcel Vignon. A formidable woman. No other woman had pursued him so aggressively. The sinful things she’d whispered in his ear to watch him squirm nearly a decade ago still lingered in his memory. Aren’t you even curious? A devilish little grin. I won’t tell a soul, promise.

  He shivered.

  All these years, a marriage, two children, and a widowing later, and she still looked at him the same way she had then. In a strange way, she wasn’t unlike her brother—unsettling in her intensity.

  He shook off his thoughts and headed to his.

  As he entered his study, a woman stood with her back to him, gazing out the window. A simple black velvet gown trimmed with white fur clad her figure. Firelight shone in her bright red hair, secured in a large, braided bun at the nape of her neck with a golden comb.

  “Olivia.”

  She turned, eyes wide, and squeezed a roll of parchment. She bowed. “Your Majesty.”

  “How did you—”

  “I apologize for intruding on your privacy”—she glanced away—“but I wanted to speak with you… away from other ears.” She tipped her head toward the bedchamber, and he accompanied her in, toward his drinks cabinet.

  “There are passages in the palace, all throughout. When the Crag struck, James—” Her voice broke.

  James. Prince James. His father.

  “There are some sensitive matters… At least one that should know no other ear but yours.”

  “Tell me.” He poured two goblets of wine and handed one to her.

  After taking a sip, she looked at the goblet pensively, took a deep breath, and handed him the parchment.

  He unrolled it. It was a sketch of a man with long hair that brushed his deep-set eyes, a gaunt and stubbled face, an aquiline nose, thin lips, a birthmark on his jaw. He looked to be in his forties. “This is…?”

  “A courier.” She took a place next to him and peered at the drawing with him. “I questioned Gilles’s chamberlain, a man called Benoit Donnet, who said that Gilles received coded messages by courier. Always this man. I believe the other party to be the suspect we are looking for.”

  He glanced at her, a smile spreading across his lips. “Olivia, you…” Terra have mercy, she’d done it. She’d found a lead. She’d done in a week what the Order hadn’t in months. He wrapped an arm around her and drew her in. “Terra bless you and your brilliance.”

  When he pulled back, she beamed back at him and gave him a confident nod. “We have a sketch, yes, but don’t go blessing me yet. We haven’t apprehended the man.”

  “But I know you will.” He handed the parchment to her. “What do you need to accomplish this? Name it, and it’s yours.”

  “A believable cover. A coach and guards for a few days in Kirn. Lodging. And permission for one of the Order’s dungeon guards to accompany me, as he’s familiar with much of the testimony in the investigation. And a lady’s maid.” She hesitated. “And the guard, the paladin guard… He’s a junior member of the Order, and I promised I’d put in a good word with you about knighthood.”

  “Done.” He grinned. “Send me the paperwork, and I’ll push it through.”

  She reflected his pleased expression, but the grin soon faded. “I also have less… promising news.”

  “What is it?” He leaned against the window and drank his wine.

  “Word came from Bisclavret.”

  He knew Bisclavret as a march near the Marcellan Peaks.

  “Strange creatures have been spotted there—massive giants radiating cold. They’ve been attacking flocks of livestock and scaring the surrounding villages. Some of the villages’ militias are mobilizing, but…”

  Bile rose in his throat. He drank deeply. Tragedy. Death. Loss. It spread across the land like a sickness. And the account wasn’t unique. His kingdom had been slowly succumbing to the newly awakened Immortals, and if the tide wasn’t soon stemmed, there’d be no kingdom to speak of. “Death toll?”

  “One hundred and forty-eight.”

  He slammed down the goblet. Terra have mercy.

  “And what’s worse, we have little information about them, only what the fleeing villagers can tell us. The marquis is sending forces, but faced with the—I call them mangeurs—I doubt his soldiers will be effective.” She shook her head.

  He grabbed a nearby quill, dipped it in ink, and hastily scrawled a note on some paper. He handed it to her. “See what information you can uncover about them by tomorrow afternoon,” he said, “then take this to Paladin Captain Perrault and tell him what you know. He should send paladins.”

  She nodded. “Pons has also suggested a more… unconventional solution.”

  Considering the number of problems ever multiplying, if solutions were on offer, he was all ears. She turned back to the window. He joined her and followed her line of sight to the Bay of Amar. Somewhere beyond it, if Brennan’s note bore truth, was Rielle.

  “The Earthbinding,” she whispered.

  He raised an eyebrow. The Earthbinding… It was the stuff of legend.

  “It is an ancient ritual, but it is real. Performed at a Vein, it binds a king to his land to influence its health, prosperity, and strength.” She rolled her shoulders. “Pons wants you to do it, but…”

  Anyone who knew Emaurrian legend knew the Earthbinding linked a king and his land. He had read the old tales. A king’s will and the state of his realm, forever in contest… An Earthbound king had to fight off the vulnerabilities of his land, strengthen it with his own will, and live as one with it for his whole life.

  If he succeeded, the harvest wo
uld be abundant, his enemies disadvantaged in Emaurria, the Immortals thwarted by the earth itself.

  If.

  “Will it work?” he asked.

  “Although I have deciphered—”

  He exhaled sharply. No half-measures. “Will it work?”

  “We believe so, yes.”

  “What does it require?”

  She grimaced but quickly recovered. “Invoking the Dead Gods…”

  His stomach rolled. A former paladin and devout Terran invoking the Dead Gods? “So, blasphemy.”

  She bit her lip. “There’s some ritual—animal sacrifice—”

  More blasphemy.

  She bit her lip. “And, um, coupling with a virgin—”

  Infidelity. Absolutely not.

  “She would represent—”

  He brought a weary hand to his face and sighed. Did anyone in this palace care a whit about who he was, or only what he could do? He crossed his arms. “So, what would he be called afterward?”

  She eyed him warily. “Who?”

  “The stranger who inhabits my body.”

  She pressed her lips together and looked away.

  If only he could abdicate—

  He hissed. That was unconscionable. He was the last Faralle; trying to hand off a crown would incite another war altogether, a civil war, and he wasn’t about to jeopardize the lives of hundreds of thousands of people for the sake of his own selfish desires.

  But he didn’t have to perform the Earthbinding. And Olivia didn’t deserve his wrath. She was only trying to help.

  “I’m sorry.” He looked out at the city. Lights shone as far as the bay, although fewer than he would have liked. “I just… don’t want to become someone unrecognizable.” Too late for that. “Any more unrecognizable.”

  She rested a hand on his arm. “You’re doing your best, Your Majesty. You need to stay true to yourself as much as you can. Everyone will tell you that to protect a kingdom, sacrifices must be made. But this ritual, if you do it, you wouldn’t be you anymore.”

  At least she agreed. “But we do have to do something,” he said. “You heard at the High Council meeting. Princess Sandrine is gathering an army.”