By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2)

by Miranda Honfleur

  “This one is coming with me—my new scribe.”

  Through her hair, Farrad’s unwavering gaze scorched her. She couldn’t help but crumple.

  “From where do you hail, golden one?”

  Ihsan stepped between her and Farrad, stiffening, curling her upper lip. “She is mine.”

  Farrad stared her down. His dark eyes narrowed. “You claim much, but you forget, half-sister, soon everything in this house will be mine and mine alone.”

  Ihsan balled a hand into a fist. “Not yet.”

  “I know my destiny. It was foretold by an augur, and it will come to pass.”

  Whatever was happening between Ihsan and Farrad appeared to be a longstanding feud. And I’m now caught up in it. Divine help me. She swallowed. So far, absolutely nothing had gone right.

  Farrad slowly approached, pushing past Ihsan like day through night. He grabbed Rielle’s lowered chin and raised it to meet his face.

  Scorching. It was as if the desert sun itself had focused all of its rays upon her. Faced with that gaze and the slight smile on his lips, she quickly averted her eyes, burned.

  His hold on her chin persisted. Tremors rippled through her, and she tensed every muscle she could. Without her magic, there was little else she could do.

  He released her. She swallowed audibly.

  For today, the merciless sun had set: Farrad’s gaze turned to a guard.

  “Take them all away.” He sighed. “And someone clean up that mess.” He cocked his head toward the dead body.

  Away where?

  The guard linked her chain to the end of the line, and it soon moved. Ihsan stared down Farrad. “Stay away from my scribe, or Grandfather will hear of it.”

  No audible answer. She craned her neck around. Ihsan stood with her gaze lowered while Farrad sauntered back to the cushions and his entourage.

  But a small spark of hope flickered to life within her as she and the others were led to the slave quarters. The lines of power here were faulty. She would find the weakest point, sever it, and take back her freedom. She would make it out of House Hazael, and then find some way out of the city. Perhaps she could destroy her brand and lay low until Jon found her.

  Survival here depended on remaining beneath notice. Not being a favorite, preferred, chosen. Being free to move about the shadows, learn, plan.

  Barely through the gates, and she had already become a point of contention. So much for keeping a low profile.

  Hurry, Jon. Hurry.

  Standing at His Majesty’s right, Olivia translated the agreement to Ambriel Sunheart as His Majesty dictated, while the morning sunlight streamed into the throne room. Everyone had assembled—his Majesty and his squad of Royal Guard, Tor, Leigh, Ambriel and his squad of light-elves. His Majesty sat upon the throne, an elbow rested on an armrest and his chin upon his fist. Today, he wore finely tailored black trousers, riding boots, and a fitted overcoat of scarlet, the finest woolen fabric available, dyed kermes crimson. A crisp dyaspin shirt collar and samite cravat peeked out from beneath.

  He looked alive for the first time in months. The battle. He was eager to get to Bisclavret. To risk his life.

  She introduced Leigh to Ambriel, and the two exchanged greetings in Old Emaurrian, looking each other over carefully.

  In the sunshine, light reflecting off inlaid gold, the massive Trèstellan throne room was at the height of its grandeur. The largest chamber but for the great hall, its marble floor sprawled a hundred feet in a pattern of massive golden stars down the middle, white and bronze marble playing in geometric patterns rippling outward. Frieze-adorned white pillars depicting the kings and queens of old buttressed the second level, a gallery absent of courtiers today. Its columns supported a high domed ceiling, where a dragon sank its teeth into the shoulder of a legendary armor-clad king who poised his sword at the beast’s eye. Knights fought all manner of beasts in the background, victorious, struggling, dying. Fighting to the last breath. Ever Emaurrian.

  Like James, who had fought to his last breath against insurrectionists, who’d been murdered in service of political goals.

  And his only remaining son now wished to leave the centuries-old royal duties of the Faralles and fight?

  She drew in a breath and raised her chin, kept her spine straight.

  Leigh, perfectly coiffed and attired in a tailored black brocade overcoat, white shirt, and black wool trousers, glanced toward the king and back to her, widened his eyes briefly.

  “Olivia.” His Majesty touched her arm.

  She started, glancing from his raised eyebrows to Ambriel Sunheart, who frowned.

  “What did he say?” His Majesty asked.

  Gathering her composure, she turned back to Ambriel. “I’m sorry,” she said in Old Emaurrian. “Could you repeat that?”

  Ambriel’s golden eyes looked from her to the king and back again. He licked his lips. “Vervewood accepts His Majesty’s terms. We will send linguists as soon as we can to develop language-learning materials, and as Queen Narenian’s brother, I can authorize the creation and dispatch of independent Immortal hunting squads to handle any predators to your people or ours.”

  With a nod, she relayed his words to His Majesty.

  “Then we have an agreement,” His Majesty said, rising, and she translated. He reached out to clasp Ambriel’s arm. “We’ll await word once our ambassador arrives in Vervewood.”

  A few words in closing, and His Majesty called for two squads of knights to escort the light-elves, Leigh, the humanitarian-aid group, and the paladins and soldiers that would accompany them from the city.

  She descended from the twelve-step dais and stood in the emptying throne room, her gaze caught on a mote of dust falling in a ray of sunshine.

  James had loved her, and she’d loved him, and… he was gone. Forever.

  She’d lost him, but his son didn’t have to face the same fate. Yet, he seemed determined to seek it out, pursue it, fight it. His son, Jon, who resembled him so closely, had walked into her life, and it had been as if James’s memory had chosen to linger, with his easy grace, charming smile, and warmth.

  And here, now, today, it was almost like letting James go all over again. She couldn’t face that pain again—she wouldn’t.

  A new crowd gathered in the throne room—Pons, Paladin Captain Perrault, Royal Guard. The beginnings of the forces leaving for Bisclavret. With Jon. Would they be enough? Could anyone protect him, keep him from the harm surrounding him and closing in?

  A palm gently rested on her arm. Jon’s.

  “Please allow me to thank you.” He smiled warmly and inclined his head. “None of this could have happened without you.”

  James was really gone and would never return. And Jon was leaving, no matter the danger, and taking James’s living memory with him.

  “Don’t go,” she replied, covering his hand with hers, and when he raised an eyebrow, she added, “into battle.”

  He hesitated. “Olivia—”

  She shook her head. “You shouldn’t be risking your life.”

  “I have to.”

  It was the right course of action. The only thing to do. But—

  She squeezed his hand. “Someone else can—”

  “I’m the king,” he said softly. “There is no one else.”

  Sucking her lower lip, she looked away. He’d seemed very devoted to being a paladin, to service; and now, as king, he was slowly being consumed by the same trait that had once served as his strength—his need to serve. He would do anything to save lives, to do right by his kingdom. Even at great cost to himself.

  But someone had to watch out for him, keep him safe, and she was more useful there than fearing for his life here. She looked back at him. “Then at least let me come with you.”

  Jon shook his head. “You can’t. You know you can’t.”

  “Would you say the same if I were—”

  “Don’t mistake me for Auguste,” he shot back. “I know you’re formidable. You’re also the o
nly one left who speaks Old Emaurrian. You’re needed here.”

  He was right. She deflated.

  “And as for me, swinging a blade happens to be my greatest skill, so it’s only fair, isn’t it?” He gave her arm a squeeze and winked at her.

  James’s last surviving child. Her king. Her friend. She couldn’t lose him. Couldn’t lose him, too.

  She wrapped her arms around him. “Divine and your Goddess keep you,” she whispered, holding back tears.

  He didn’t move for a moment, and then hesitant arms settled around her. He smelled like a forest, serene at dawn. “Olivia, I plan on living.”

  “I know,” she said as he rested a palm on her back. “And I expect you back here for magic lessons in no more than two weeks.”

  He chuckled softly, a low rumble in his chest, and gave her a squeeze. “I will be. Promise.”

  He’d better. She pulled away and drew in a lengthy, deep breath, collecting her decorum. A smile played on his lips, his eyes shining in the sunlight, flanked by glittering gold inlaid in the throne-room walls.

  He’d promised.

  “Gods’ speed, Your Majesty. When you return, we’ll find Rielle together.” She’d already sent word to the boy spiritualist’s tutor, former Tower doyen Erelyn Leonne.

  “Terra’s blessings upon you, Olivia,” he said, gesturing the blessed circle with his palm open to her.

  “And upon you.” Forcing a smile, she bowed, waiting until his purposeful footsteps echoed farther and farther away.

  He would be fine. He could handle himself. And with the Divine and Terra both watching over him, he’d be safe. Or at least it was what she had to tell herself.

  When had she become so fearful? It was as if the fear Gilles had instilled in her those months in the dungeon had never truly left. Every day was another day a box could arrive, an eye, a hand, James’s death. She lived in that fear, and in grief, when she should believe in Jon. Have faith in her friend.

  It was untenable. Something had to change. Something new had to come into her life that wasn’t a box of fear, grief, and death.

  She straightened, eyeing the empty throne room for a moment. She hadn’t gone to the abbey yet today to see James. To her quarters, then, and to the abbey.

  In the hallway, servants, guards, and courtiers passed to and fro, but amidst it all, a broad-shouldered man stood with his back to her, conversing with two clerks. Tor. The clerks nodded, bowed, and departed.

  He turned, and his eyes met hers, brown flecked with sunlit gold. Torrance Auvray Marcel. He offered a measured smile, and it always made her want to smile right back. “Archmage Sabeyon,” he said, “where are you headed?”

  “The abbey,” she replied and turned in its direction.

  A slight, warm smile lit his lips. “It brings you peace.”

  She nodded. “It does.”

  “We could all use a bit,” he replied, drawing in a deep breath. His sunlit brown eyes gleamed.

  Was he asking for an invitation? Outside of Jon, she hadn’t made the effort to forge friendships, to get to know others, not since the siege. And Tor… with his kind smile, his bronze skin like sun-warmed stones, always trying to keep the peace, pleasant, could be someone she should get to know. A new friend, maybe. “You’re welcome to join me.”

  He opened his mouth, but no words emerged.

  Perhaps not. Did he think it more than it was? She looked away.

  After a moment’s hesitation, he offered his arm. “It would be my pleasure, Archmage Sabeyon.”

  Even if he thought it more than it was… Would that be so terrible? Torrance Auvray Marcel, a good man, a handsome man, honorable and pious… Would it be—

  She laced her arm through his. “Please, call me Olivia.”

  Chapter 13

  When the sun set on Sixtidi, Drina left her room at Peletier’s and headed downstairs to the tavern. Although she worked her stall from dawn until dusk from Primidi to Quintidi, she took Sixtidi and Septidi for herself, only occasionally accepting clients arriving with dire need at Peletier’s counter to ask for her wares.

  Downstairs, the usual mixture of kitchen maids, tradesmen, mercenaries, and guards ended the day with a pint or two of pale ale. It was a bland nowhere, exactly where a no one like her wanted to be.

  Maxime Deloffre waved at her from his table in the back corner. “Lyuba!”

  For the past two months, she’d been Lyuba Vaganay, the Kezani widow of an Emaurrian hedge-witch healer and apothecary, Marc Vaganay, from Aestrie.

  Max was a well-meaning man with a mop of black curls, strapping broad shoulders, and rum-gold eyes, in his early thirties and a hedge-witch conjurer working for one of the Free Companies—Broadsteel—guarding the cargo of one of Courdeval’s shipping companies.

  With a wave to the serving girl for her usual, she sauntered to his table. “Max. Early reprieve from the docks?”

  He nodded. “You missed it—the king left the capital today.”

  While she’d been lounging the day away, the king had left the capital? Her stomach turned to stone. Fortune shits on this day.

  There were things she missed about working with a Free Company. Intricate spy networks among them.

  She raised her eyebrows slightly. “Oh?”

  “With a company of paladins, two squads of soldiers, and the Lord Chancellor himself. He left through the North Gate, so you probably wouldn’t have heard the commotion.”

  With such an entourage, it had to be for battle. “What do you suppose he’ll be doing?”

  “Word has spread that he’s going to battle the Immortal giants preying on the march of Bisclavret.” Max leaned back in his chair and took a swig of ale. “The situation must be dire if the king’s leading the men into battle personally.”

  Frost giants. She’d heard the news of the twenty-foot Immortals that had come from the mountains, devouring everything they could catch and freezing what they couldn’t. After she’d left the Divinity, the ruined tower in Khar’shil where she made her home had housed remnants of an ancient library, and she’d read everything she could in Old Erudi. About dragons, krakens, mermaids, werewolves, and even frost giants. The tower itself had a bell that, according to legend, summoned a dragon to destroy any enemy—requiring only a sangremancy ritual.

  Legend no more.

  The frost giants had been wreaking havoc. And the marquis had raised an army of his vassals only to see them obliterated in battle.

  If the king was going into battle himself, then he’d already sent men previously—to their deaths. And a second force, without him, would only go into battle full of fear, or desert to save their own lives. His presence would give them hope of victory. Illusory hope.

  She dropped her mouth open. “But that’s so dangerous!”

  Max laughed and reached across the table to stroke her hand. “My sweet Lyuba.” He shook his head. “That’s why he’s going. My captain says a dangerous threat such as that makes men either corpses or cowards. If their own king will lead them into battle, then surely the danger isn’t as great as they supposed, or he wouldn’t risk his own life.”

  “Is that wise?”

  Max shrugged. “It’s reckless, especially without an heir. Young king like that, surrounded by fine marriageable women, should produce a few princes to keep the realm secure—safe from utter chaos. But if he wins, his spoils aren’t merely the safety and gratitude of Bisclavret’s people and marquis, but also the respect and faith of the kingdom.”

  A warrior-king playing to his strengths. “I suppose there’ll be a parade when he returns?”

  “Naturally. A Joyeuse Entrée.” Max drained his ale while the serving girl placed a pint before her, along with a bowl of goat stew and fine potato bread.

  Only half-listening to Max, she ate, catching snippets of chatter from the room—concern for the king, worry about the realm’s future, rumors about the Lord Constable, fears about the Immortals, and personal anecdotes. She focused on the anecdotes, learning bits a
bout her ever-growing board of pawns.

  “Lyuba. Message for you.” Lionel Peletier himself lumbered to the table, laying the leather-wrapped message next to the stew, with his sausage-like fingers. An inn’s food had to be good when the innkeeper was as portly as Peletier. And she’d been right to think so.

  She sopped up the last bit of stew with the crust of bread and popped it into her mouth. She dragged an arm across her lips and nodded to Peletier. “My thanks.”

  He winked and waddled back to the counter.

  Max tipped his head to the rolled-up message. “What is it?”

  “Probably a customer placing an order.” She opened the message, her eyebrows rising.

  Madame Vaganay, my mother told me you could provide remedies and discretion. Come to the palace forthwith. I’ve included the relevant documentation. C.

  Claire, Sauvanne’s elder daughter. Documents of entry included. She rubbed the leather wrap.

  “Well?” Max asked.

  She stood and drained her ale. She kissed Max full on the mouth, earning hoots and whoops from the tavern clientele. “Business is good, Max. Eat up, drink up, and find yourself in my room tonight. You’re going to need the energy.”

  The clientele’s teasing escalated, and he flushed. “’Til then.”

  With a broad grin, she bounded up the stairs and to her room, clutching the message close to her chest. The pieces were falling into place at last. The only thing better than gaining access to the palace would have been if the king were in residence, but even this was a huge victory.

  She’d memorized the maps of Trèstellan, and tonight, she would set in motion a perfect trap for His Majesty. She packed her apothecary bag and her recondite skeleton key.

  A parade. Naturally. And the Master of Ceremonies would plan it all. Naturally. Musicians, dancers, and trumpeters needed coordination. Flowers had to be ordered. Food. This parade, like all others, would be a well-choreographed event.

  Whose choreography she could steal.

  And once she knew the king’s route, she’d know where she needed to be to kill him. The news of a royal assassination would travel far and wide… even to Sonbahar.