Behind him, someone cleared her throat, and he turned.
Melora held out her bow. “Um, I could use a lesson, too.”
Looking down at her hopeful face, laughter bubbled up, but he suppressed it—somehow. Aislinn grasped Melora’s arm and shook her head.
The sound of rapidly approaching footsteps closed in.
Eloi, looking particularly rushed. “Your Majesty.” He paused a moment and caught his breath. “The Grand Master wants to meet with you in your study.”
A raise. Eloi, for his blessed good timing, was going to get a raise.
And if Derric was calling him away from this, then it was definitely important—Derric prized nothing above “securing the line.” If someone had told him a year ago that Derric would insist so aggressively that he take a woman to wife, it would have been unbelievable.
“Tell him I’m on my way.” He cocked his head to Florian and Raoul, who began to extricate themselves from the suitresses.
Eloi nodded one too many times, bowed, and left.
Nora’s coy smile reached her hazel eyes. Speechless, he was about to blurt out a good-bye, when she bowed. “’Til next time, Your Majesty.”
He gave her a nod before she departed, the winter sunshine catching in the luster of her dark hair. Clever, beautiful, bold—he needed to guard himself around her.
She disappeared into the palace, and he faced his guests. “Duty calls yet again. Please enjoy yourselves as long as you like, and I hope to see you all at dinner.” He bowed and received a response of bows and curtsies in turn.
As he turned to leave for his study, Melora heaved a disappointed breath.
What important matter did Derric want to discuss? Tor already briefed him daily on the state of military affairs in the kingdom. Although the mangeurs hadn’t re-emerged, the Immortals were an ever-present problem. Perrault had laid out his logistical concerns clearly—the paladins were not a sustainable force to defend the kingdom. Paladin Grand Cordon Guérin had concurred.
And today he’d signed an appropriations proposal to hire a small mercenary force to guard the Kingsroad. He had also given Tor, as Constable of Emaurria, broad latitude to redetermine enlistment incentives for the Emaurrian Army. It would be some time, too, before enough soldiers could be promoted from within and trained into the depleted Royal Guard.
Maybe Valen had returned with news? Or perhaps Parliament had finally acknowledged his legitimization? That’d be a sunny day in the Lone.
When he finally reached his rooms, Derric awaited in the study, his tall frame straight and regal silhouetted against the window.
Jon closed the door. “What is it?”
Derric turned to face him. “How are the ladies?”
Jon circled around his desk and pulled out his chair. “Adequately diverted. That’s not all, is it?” He seated himself and motioned for Derric to be seated.
He took the cue. “Jon,” he began.
If Derric was reasserting his familiarity, the news had to be bad.
“The lords of Parliament are yet stalled on acknowledgment of your legitimization.”
Of course they were.
Sighing, he leaned back in his chair. Since the lords had returned to Courdeval, they’d done nothing but gradually press a thorn into his side. Although Duke Faolan Auvray Marcel abstained, along with his entourage, Viscount David Orfevre Fernand of Costechelle, an elderly miser who commanded the favor of numerous lords, had been the sharp tip of that thorn.
They’d begun with complaints about the funeral costs for the Faralles—even his parents and the king—and had continued with selfish requests and petitions accomplishing nothing but their own interests. He had mostly ignored them in favor of ensuring the security of the kingdom and its people, but action on such matters didn’t seem to earn their attention or approval. “What are the numbers?”
Derric shook his head. “Thirty-four yeas, eight nays, and forty-four abstentions.”
There were, then, at least thirty-four nobles who actually cared about the common good. And so many abstentions meant the lords hesitated to cross their more influential peers… or him. He would work with that. Possibly. He sighed. “Duke Maerleth Tainn?”
“Abstaining.”
Of course he was. “His brothers?”
“Marquis Forel abstains”—that would be Desmond Auvray Marcel—“and Viscount Lanvalle stands with you.”
If Viscount Aidan Auvray Marcel stood with him, it was Tor’s doing. But that still left ten abstentions or nays he had to convert to yeas. He needed to find a man of influence to press. “Viscount Costechelle?”
“Abstaining.” Derric pursed his lips. “You will have to hold a lit de justice.”
Meet with Parliament himself? Trying to compel them to act?
Derric continued, “It will cow the recalcitrant lords and impose your sovereignty.”
Viscount Costechelle wouldn’t hinge his entire plan—and there most certainly was a plan—upon a single meeting. Jon shook his head. “It will accomplish quite the opposite, if they mean not to obey.”
“Then they will be arrested for treason.”
“A fine start and end to my reign,” Jon replied with no small amount of sarcasm. “Destabilizing the Houses. Moreover, the simple fact of my attendance will demonstrate Parliament’s power to compel my appearance.” Coming like a dog to heel whenever Parliament held out? It hadn’t worked for King Marcus.
Shaking his head, Derric looked off to the side. “Then… a lettre de cachet?”
The logical next move. A signed and sealed order… a lettre de jussion commanding Parliament to act, joined by Pons’ signature and seal as Lord Chancellor.
Far too moderate a measure for that lot. “A lettre, too, may be ignored.”
Derric hesitated and gave him a grim look. “Darker routes, then?”
Jon drew in a slow breath. Without Parliament’s acknowledgment of the legitimization, there would be no coronation and the matter of succession would remain unsettled. For the stability of the kingdom, there was little he would not do.
And if he failed, he’d be powerless to do what needed doing, slave to the lords’ selfish desires.
No, he couldn’t afford to lose face to Parliament’s drama. His actions now would set the tone of his relationship with the Houses for the rest of his reign. He needed to have the appearance of control, which would fail if Parliament was in a position to reject any of his actions. Yet he needed to maintain stability, which meant that arrests, executions, and assassinations were off the table.
Bending influential members of Parliament was his best option. Demonstrate to the rest of the Houses and to Emaurria that he commanded respect.
Duke Maerleth Tainn was out of the question—too affluent to be bribed and too insulated to be threatened.
But Viscount Costechelle could be bent. The means would set a precedent. A bribe would mean a never-ending and ever-growing demand for coin, and an evergreen source of blackmail. But a threat… a careful but real threat… Its judicious use here could ensure future compliance.
Threatening innocents was against the Code.
Jon rubbed his chin. Could a king continue playing by a paladin’s rules? It was wrong, sinful, unethical…
But those were burdens to his honor, and against the burdens of the kingdom, weren’t they wanting? If he had to wrong to do right, wasn’t that his responsibility now, no matter what it made him?
He drew in a deep breath and grimaced. “I… I want you to ask Paladin Grand Cordon Guérin to pull paladin defense from the viscount’s castle in Costechelle. They are, however, to maintain defense of the city.”
The color drained from Derric’s face. “Costechelle has been battling a harpy invasion for the past two weeks. If we pull the paladins from the castle’s defenses, the viscount’s family and household could be killed.”
“I know.” To a paladin, it would have been unconscionable. Unthinkable. Leaving people helpless in the face of imminent death.
It was.
But Viscount Costechelle left Emaurria helpless in the face of imminent death. And if needed, its king would have to cut the finger to save the hand.
If the viscount bent, he would influence other lords to join him. And if he didn’t, well… He’d be broken, and the consequences might serve as a lesson to the other lords. The more vulnerable among them would either surrender or seek support from the strong. Either way was better than deadlock.
Ruling a kingdom wasn’t the same as keeping the faith. As a paladin, he’d prioritized the Terran faith and its tenets above all else, but as a king, he could afford those voluntary shackles no longer. And neither could his advisers.
No matter what it cost him.
Derric blanched. “Raphaël will never agree to it.”
Jon only stared him down. “He will if he wants to keep one of his paladins on the throne.” He rose. “Talk to him, then send the viscount word that the paladins at the castle must reinforce the city to protect its citizens, and that he should make arrangements with a private force. Have a dove ready to dispense orders to the paladin commander there, and await word from Parliament about the viscount’s vote before reestablishing defense of the castle.”
If the viscount chose to ignore the consequences, then he would seal his own fate.
“Mercenary forces are exhausted,” Derric reminded him. “If he does not comply, there will be casualties.”
“And how many more will there be if we must repel challenges to the Crown due to his obstructionism? Has all of this been for naught?” He lowered his gaze.
How far would he have to go to secure the interests of the kingdom? The sacrifice and dishonor accumulated—but his duty was absolute.
And failure would mean… It would mean that all he’d sacrificed, every dark deed he’d done, would have been for naught. He had to succeed. After so much sin, there was no other choice now. “We will see if the serpent still bites when presented with its own tail.”
Derric gaped at him.
A knock on the door.
“Enter,” Jon called.
The door opened, and Pons entered. “Your Majesty,” he greeted, then he and Derric shared an affectionate look.
Jon nodded in greeting. “What is it?”
Holding up a scroll, Pons said, “Everything is in order for the Earthbinding, but there is still some preparation for Your Majesty before we travel to the Vein. You must fast for a fortnight from sunrise to sunset, and purify your body.”
The time for the pagan ritual had come.
Chapter 23
The weak winter sun had reached its zenith in the pale sky, the glitter of its rays modest on the never-ending snow cover outside the forest’s edge. All seemed as it had always been. Leigh glanced at the rest of the riders. If Vervewood lay within, it did not look any different from the outside. He’d seen this woodland many times, traveling to Melain or Courdeval, and had never suspected the ruins of an entire elven civilization resided within. Perhaps it was time for a new pair of specs.
Elven civilization or not, the sooner he met with this Narenian Sunheart and negotiated the peace, the better. Then he’d bring his wayward former apprentice home. No matter what Jon said, Marcel could only be trusted to pursue his own selfishness. And that would come into conflict with Rielle’s wellbeing. It was as certain as the wind was cold.
He sighed. Too much damn time on the road. It was cold, and snowy, and void of wine and whores, and cold. The Divinity was rotten to the core, but at least Pons knew better than to send him on back-to-back missions. Knew that a month or two indoors kept a wild mage a little less… wild.
“How much farther?” he grumbled.
“Not far.” Ambriel Sunheart led the way. Although the captain had been quiet for days, his silent stares had become longer, intense, pensive. Perhaps one tangible perk of being on this mission.
Well, the captain’s tangibility was yet to be certain.
Mostly, he pretended not to notice the looks. Then, on occasion, he met them unequivocally. His reactions puzzled the handsome captain. Good. Leigh hid a smile.
As they entered the forest, his skin warmed, his energy refreshed; he took a deep breath, his body, by all signs, awakening. Warming. Invigorating. How curious. The air hung heavy, dense, but it did not weary; rather, it revitalized. Although faint by comparison, it was like becoming one with the earth’s anima at the Vein where he’d become a wild mage, a sort of rush of refreshing energy. He looked around. The light-elves’ stiffness relaxed, yet the Emaurrians seemed unaffected.
“It is a prophet’s connection to the earth that allows him to sense where its magic is strong,” Ambriel said.
Leigh turned to him, but Ambriel did not face him—he merely stared ahead, riding through the trees, his horse’s hooves crunching on the moderate accumulation of snow. But his lips twitched.
Connection to the earth… He hadn’t awakened at the forest’s edge. The earth had. Two months ago.
He bowed his head and pulled his hood. The Rift hadn’t only awoken the Immortals but the very earth, too, then? Or had the light-elves done that?
Ambriel led them to a narrow path. Despite the forest’s distinct new feel, there was still no sign of an elven civilization. Leigh surveyed the forest ahead. Trees. Plain damn trees.
But something was amiss. The snow cover lessened the farther in they traveled. And the longer he stared, the stranger the sight of the trees lining the path became. Change. Were they changing? He looked down the narrow path, but it widened. The trees, they… bent around it, curving in a natural embrace as far as his eyes could see. He gasped.
Whispers and sharp breaths rippled through the Emaurrians, even the gigantic Sir Marin.
“Vervewood welcomes you, Ambassador,” Ambriel said loftily.
When Leigh glanced at him this time, the captain smiled. “Geomancers?” The magic was subtler than he’d ever seen, if so, but he had to know.
“Magic? No, Ambassador.”
A familiar two-note song came from the trees. A chickadee. The male sang the song in isolation, when away from other chickadees, especially its mate. A familiar sound from Ren, his home in Kamerai. But here, in Emaurria? He scoured the canopy for the songbird.
At last, he found the small, round bird, its shining black head and bib a stark contrast to its white-and-beige body. The chickadee ruffled its feathers, eyed him, and flew to land on his arm. The bird hopped, bit by bit, to his wrist, and examined him expectantly.
“Is this… actually happening?” Leigh asked, his tone quiet and even, for fear of startling the bird.
“He’s come to greet you,” Ambriel said.
Greet…? The chickadee eyed him, turning its head this way and that. If he remembered his tales right, there was a good chance he was about to burst into song and be kissed by a prince.
The bird flew away and landed on a branch, resuming its two-note song.
Leigh blinked and tried to find his tongue. Minutes passed. Or hours. “That… doesn’t usually happen.”
“There’s a certain allure to the unusual.” A gleam in Ambriel’s eye. Seductive. Brief.
Yes, the unusual certainly did bear an allure. “I concur,” he answered, lending his voice the unmistakable low rumble of interest.
The corner of Ambriel’s mouth turned up, then he looked ahead. They crossed a lengthy bridge of melded wood, like greenery grown together, over a ravine surrounding a large plateau. Leigh followed Ambriel’s line of sight.
So much green. His jaw dropped.
Across the bridge, ironwoods, tall and straight, stretched toward the heavens, standing almost equally spaced like sentinels of the forest. But their branches—fine, reaching—intertwined in arches, circles, and winding patterns.
Between two ironwoods, spaced farther apart than the rest, a majestic arched bough bridged them high in the canopy. An intricate design not unlike the lattices of Sonbahar decorated the space above, its art not dense like that of Sonbahar but natural, ea
sy, flowing. In the center, a beautiful, circular symbol graced the design, capped by another glorious arch.
Light flanked the beauty of this living panel of trees, bright, serenely so. Through the arch and farther ahead, a massive trunk figured in the open woodland, as thick as ten ironwoods grown together. But rather than stretch toward the heavens, its wood split, braided around itself, bloomed into a verdant crown in the center. And there, at its heart, a massive crystal glowed with a golden light, touched by the sun streaming through a rare part in the canopy, absorbing the radiance and illuminating all around it.
It was… the source of serenity. Breathtaking. Divine. “Was this… always here?”
Ambriel hesitated. “When we… awakened, the Tree of Light had grown around the Gaze, but we asked it to bloom.”
Asked? He jerked his chin at the odd choice of terminology. “You mean ‘spelled’?”
“No.”
“You… asked… a tree to do something?” Leigh challenged, raising an eyebrow at the captain. “As in, ‘Excuse me, tree. Could you please open up?’ ”
“Not I. A tree-singer.”
Tree-singer… His mind conjured images of elven bards singing to trees for favors. What could you ask it for? Shade? Wood? Relationship advice? “And it… complied?”
Ambriel bobbed his head toward the Tree of Light. “What do your eyes tell you, Ambassador?”
Leigh scowled, but then again, he himself had never been merciful with slack-jawed bewilderment either.
As they passed by the Tree of Light and the Gaze, they came upon an overlook and a wide stair descending below. But beyond the edge—
A sea of trees—no, buildings—no, trees—formed a city. Hollows too perfect to be natural formed in thick ironwood trunks; stairs wound around them; doorways and balconies and windows figured, not carved or drafted but sung? Small crystals not unlike the Gaze hung from winding branches.
Boughs bridged the tree-structures, connecting nearly everything high in the canopy. Clear water flowed from a waterfall flanking it all, parting the woodland realm with a gentle system of sun-dappled streams. Grass grew green and thick, a lush verdant bed, paying no mind to the season.
By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2) Page 22
