By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2)

by Miranda Honfleur

  And, above it all, a harmony so beautiful it might have floated down from the heavens.

  “Are you all right, Ambassador?”

  Leigh wiped the moisture from his eyes. Blinked. It was all still here. “I’ve never seen anything so… magnificent.”

  “My heart warms at your praise of Vervewood’s view, Ambassador, but there is still much you have not seen.” Ambriel surveyed him through long, fair lashes.

  “Show me.” Leigh tore himself away from the scene to face the captain.

  Ambriel gave a cordial nod, then led their party down the wide stair into Vervewood and, presumably, Narenian Sunheart.

  Chapter 24

  Rielle reached out next to her in the massive bed, brushing her arcanir-cuffed arm against the smoothness of the sheets. Farrad was already gone—the sun had only begun to rise, but he often left early to practice his swordplay. She rolled over, her bare back against the luxurious bedding, and stared up at the bed’s gossamer white canopy. How many days had it been? Or had it been weeks?

  Every day, she worked in Ihsan’s solar from the early morning hours until long after the sun had set, and then she came here, to Farrad’s quarters, where she worked long into the night to keep herself and her child safe.

  She stroked the fine cotton sheets. The conditions certainly had improved over the slave quarter, and the constant fear took a nightly reprieve. Farrad had been passionate, protective, and perhaps, in his own way, affectionate. She was his lover, but more than her surrender, he sought her ear. Every night, he recounted the day’s events, talked through problems, shared plans. The workings of House Hazael had opened to her, split like the bed curtains.

  Mornings were always a negotiation with herself. Unfaithful. Disloyal. Inconstant.

  How could she share her heart with one man, but a bed with another? If Jon knew…

  Across the black canvas of her eyelids, she could see his face, the line between his brows, his squeezed-shut eyes, a shake of his head. His back as he turned from her. His figure fading into the distance.

  She wasn’t here by choice. She wasn’t free to leave. Jon would understand that, wouldn’t he? A man could be reasonable…

  But love wasn’t. He would understand the confines of her prison, sympathize perhaps, but could his love endure this? Knowing she’d been with another man?

  She shook her head. Love was unreasonable. Love didn’t survive disloyalty, no matter the excuse. Nothing would ever be the same.

  But this was survival.

  She smoothed a hand over her belly, caressing it like she did every morning. It remained flat as it had always been, perhaps even more so since she’d been off the shores of Emaurria, but she could nonetheless feel her child, a fullness inside of her, the indescribable feeling of, even now, somehow never being alone. Samara had guessed that it could have been conceived no earlier than some three and a half months ago.

  Jon’s child. Rielle lowered her gaze but smiled to herself. It was Jon’s child, even if its lineage could never be confirmed. Considering her abduction, she hadn’t observed the seclusion required to confirm royal parentage, but it didn’t matter. Regardless of whether she and Jon could be together, the child in her belly had been fathered by the man she loved.

  And their baby couldn’t be born here, into the hands of slavers.

  If she could escape, if she could make it back to Emaurria… It was too soon, much too soon, but he’d be happy to be a father. Overjoyed. He would love this child, raise her, protect her, guide her.

  Her.

  Rielle bit her lip. When had she decided their child was a daughter?

  “What’s your name, sweet?” she whispered, caressing her belly. What would it be like to hold her own daughter, to nurture her, to watch her grow up?

  She remembered Mama singing as she brushed her hair, untangling curly locks full of prickly rose-bush leaves and honeysuckle, grass, hay, and mud. Some mothers would have scolded little girls who climbed, hid, rolled around, and came home looking wild. But not hers.

  Nature is in your blood, Rielle. It calls to you, and you answer.

  Rielle smiled. I miss you, Mama.

  “Sylvie?” she offered, short for Sylviane, like her mother. The name of a strong, kind, wise woman.

  No objection came. Would Jon like it?

  It was a good name. He’d love it.

  Sylvie.

  Sylviane Lothaire. With Shining Sea eyes, his eyes, and her laugh, and ribbons in her hair.

  Rielle let the grin linger a while longer. She had a long day ahead of her; here in Farrad’s quarters, her relief at momentary safety hadn’t tempered her desperation to escape, and she had to keep looking for a way out. Sylvie would not be born to slavery. In a few months, it might be too difficult, and after Sylvie was born, perhaps impossible.

  And she had Farrad’s favor now, his protection, but for how long? He’d taken many lovers, and how would she know when her time would pass? And… what would happen to her then?

  She had to escape soon. Now. While it was still possible.

  Tonight, after completing her work in Ihsan’s solar, she would take the long way back to Farrad’s quarters and evaluate her options for escape. Even in arcanir cuffs, there had to be a way.

  Her stomach had the audacity to growl at her.

  She sat up. A breakfast tray already awaited on the bedside table with a silver dallah of coffee; it still steamed. A fragrant stack of freshly baked flat bread heaped upon the tray, teasing her nose. Around the bread, small bowls of white goat cheese contrasted with gleaming black olives. A thick yogurt cheese filled yet another dish, glistening with olive oil.

  Before she’d become Farrad’s lover, she had seen such breakfasts for the Hazaels or guests, but never for herself. It was a far cry from the porridge or beans and lentils of the slave quarters, a very tangible benefit of her new status. Since Farrad had taken to leaving her here in the mornings, she’d always wrapped the remaining food and brought it back to the slave quarters later. And so she would do today.

  She swept aside the diaphanous bed curtains and reached for the dallah, uncovering the metal flap on the long spout’s crescent-shaped beak to pour herself a demitasse of coffee.

  She grabbed a piece of flat bread, tore it to pieces, and helped herself to the feast, rushing. Her meal might have been fit for a distinguished personage, but she, here, most certainly wasn’t one. She had work to do.

  Hastily, she washed and dressed her bare form and hurried to the slave quarters to hand off breakfast, then to the third-floor solar. Ihsan, dressed in a beautiful indigo thiyawb, already awaited her and greeted her with a quirked eyebrow.

  “You’re late,” Ihsan said flatly, not looking up from her work. “Perhaps my brother’s attentions are going to your head.”

  “I apologize, Zahibi.” Rielle bowed low. “It won’t happen again.”

  “See that it doesn’t.” Although Ihsan’s voice had a hard edge, something like a smile emerged on her face. Not a smile, exactly—a twist of the lips.

  Rielle hurried to her workstation and gathered up the stack of news and correspondence. She spread a new roll of parchment, dipped her quill in the inkwell, and began translating.

  Although Ihsan knew of her new arrangement with Farrad, she’d made no negative comment. Well, nothing more than general irritation.

  The day Rielle had arrived at House Hazael, the feud between the siblings had seemed so deep-seated, and she such a point of contention, but neither Ihsan nor Farrad had shown any of the same rage since the new arrangement. Farrad was pacified, but Ihsan? She hadn’t so much as sniffed in complaint. It was unusual, and something didn’t fit, but with so much work ahead of her, there wasn’t enough time to sit and ponder all day.

  The hours passed in boredom, scribbling translations, until she came across a piece of news from Emaurria: Parliament had yet to confirm Jon’s legitimization. She narrowed her eyes. Of course the elitists of Parliament would hesitate in confirming Jon. T
hey wanted something—they usually did—but with Jon as king, how likely were they to get it? Surely he’d reached out to Gran; she would help him get the numbers he needed in Parliament.

  Asking Gran for help while I’m missing might not be so simple.

  Ihsan glanced over, and as nonchalantly as she could, Rielle continued and moved on to the next piece of translation. The day dragged until her hand ached and the daylight dwindled.

  Once she’d finished, she stood from her stool and put away the books Ihsan had left out, taking a moment with some of the tomes on magic. These past few weeks, she’d been practicing the ritual for a forbidden sangremancy three-level ward. It required three perimeters of the caster’s blood, which could be activate with a word—Yol. Perhaps it would someday prove useful against Shadow… and the irony of defeating her with a spell learned here, of all places, would be fitting.

  She was reading about fire-cloak destabilization in a pyromancy book when Ihsan’s voice carried from far back among the bookshelves.

  “Thahab, come here moment.”

  In all her days working here, this had never happened. Called to the back? She took wary steps toward the source of Ihsan’s voice, thoughts racing.

  Swallowing, Rielle rounded the bookcases to find Ihsan in the dark, sitting at the window, the lattices open, gazing out at the starlit night sky. She gestured to a chair opposite her.

  Her chest tight, Rielle moved as bidden.

  For a long while, they sat, the sweet scent of jasmine wafting in, coupled with the cleanliness of crystal waters, the freshness of the palms. The silence lengthened until the calls of birds, the soft footsteps of patrolling guards below, and the rustle of trees in the night wind became almost deafening. Beyond the window, the lush grounds, and the walls of House Hazael, the city of Xir glittered, a sea of sparkling gold against the black velvet night. Out there, free women lived—mages, warriors, sisters, mothers, lovers, daughters—living as they pleased, somewhere that guards didn’t threaten them and arcanir shackles didn’t exist.

  And somewhere beyond the shimmering city, across the scorching desert and the Bay of Amar, her homeland lay waiting, soft cool earth patiently expecting her homesick feet. And, she prayed, Jon.

  “What would you do,” Ihsan’s soft voice broke the quiet, “if I told you I would like to free you?”

  Am I… Is it a daydream? Rielle’s gaze darted over, and Ihsan clearly sat next to her. A master of this house had spoken those words? Given the chance to escape this frightening life? To reunite with Jon, Olivia, Gran, Brennan, Leigh, and everyone else she loved? To have her freedom? To bring Sylvie into the world away from this place?

  It had to be a dream, but even if it was, she would grasp the chance with both hands.

  “Anything, Zahibi,” Rielle whispered in reply.

  Even in the dark, Ihsan’s eyes were grim. “I hoped that would be your answer.” She leaned in and tucked a lock of Rielle’s hair behind her ear; Farrad liked her to wear it unbound. “Your knowledge of High Nad’i was not the only reason I chose you. The day of the auction, I reached out to your anima. I know you are possessed of strong magic and a deep anima, and that is exactly what I need.”

  Looking into Ihsan’s eyes for some hint of what she wanted, Rielle could find nothing. “I don’t understand, Zahibi.”

  Ihsan took a deep breath and leaned back, then blew it out in a long, wistful exhalation. “I wish to see House Hazael in honor,” she said, “with no slaves… but paid servants in every position. Grandfather had always planned to do it, but nearing death, with Farrad whispering in his ear about fortune, the family name, legacy, and so on, his determination has wavered,” she explained. “Mine has not. I, however, cannot realize this vision unless I am House Hazael’s scion.”

  That left only one answer. “You want Farrad dead.”

  Ihsan’s brow creased. “For Aina, for the countless others he has brought to violent ends—yes. I want to see him dead. And you are in the perfect position to make it so.”

  The perfect position. Rielle raised her eyebrows. Aina had been in the perfect position, too, hadn’t she? To try to kill Farrad? The perfect position for his hands to close around her neck and strangle the life from her body.

  Then this was how she had died, a pawn moved by Ihsan, an unfortunate sacrifice in Ihsan’s grand game to win her family’s empire.

  I refuse to be a pawn.

  But where Aina had failed, perhaps she could succeed. A master mage of the Divinity of Magic, she was a quaternary elementalist, manipulator of fire, water, earth, and wind. Without her arcanir cuffs, she could bring down all of House Hazael, reduce it to rubble, to dust, and killing one man would be child’s play.

  One man. Farrad.

  Her heart softened, and her shoulders slumped. The only reason she sat here now, unharmed, was because of him. He had never hurt her, forced her, or done anything but improve her sorry lot here. In all their nights together, in all he told her, he never mentioned his plans for the future, nor his support of slavery. No manipulation of his grandfather. It didn’t seem like him.

  Samara’s father… an honorable man—

  Who owns slaves. Who owns me.

  No matter how kind he seemed to her, his kindness was, by circumstance, impossible. A person who didn’t find fault with owning other people could never be kind. Could never be honorable.

  A person who didn’t find fault with owning other people was a person she could kill.

  But she had been gullible before, and vowed never to be gullible again. How could she trust Ihsan’s word? “What do you wish me to do, Zahibi?”

  The chair cushion rustled as Ihsan faced her. “Every year, Farrad has a massive celebration for his birthday.” Ihsan pulled up the coverlet and propped her head up with her hand. “He invites all the nobles, and he drinks, celebrates. The party rages on into the wee hours—with everyone, the guards included, partaking to excess. He always takes his current favorite at the end of the night to his chamber. This year, he will do the same, and that woman will be you. There, alone with him, you will kill him.” Her face was expressionless, but almost… placidly so.

  Rielle frowned. How could it be possible? How had Ihsan known Farrad would choose her as his lover?

  She is mine. Ihsan’s words echoed in her head from that first day at House Hazael. Farrad’s intensifying look, scorching as the desert sun.

  Had all of that been to spark Farrad’s interest? She assessed Ihsan with new eyes. Whatever game the woman was playing, she was a master.

  But even if Farrad took her to his chamber that night, how could she kill him? Her garb afforded her no privacy to hide weapons. She had no use of her magic. She had no means. “But—”

  “The day of the party, I will replace your arcanir cuffs with false ones.” Ihsan took her hand.

  False arcanir cuffs. Rielle gasped. She would have full use of her magic.

  “And then, I will leave town on business. You will do as he asks all day and all night until he takes you to his chamber. Then you will kill him, and anyone who gets in your way, and then you will leave this place,” she said. “I will bribe a guard at the West Gate to give you passage and araqs for your journey, wherever you go—it is best if I do not know where, Thahab. I will return, mourn my dearly departed brother, and Grandfather will name me the scion of House Hazael. I will free every slave here and bring House Hazael into honor when his time comes.”

  Stunned, Rielle gaped at Ihsan. “You trust me not to kill you the moment you remove the arcanir cuffs?”

  Ihsan nodded. “You have suffered here. I know this. But I also know that you have reason to live”—she eyed Rielle’s belly—“and without my help, you will not make it out of Xir alive. The mages on the wall will overpower you.”

  How many were there? Perhaps a dozen? Were they all enforcers? No wild mages among them, surely. With the element of surprise, perhaps she could—

  “Killing me, without a plan of escape as I will provide, wou
ld grant you, and your unborn child, a most certain end. Word would get to the gates long before you could.”

  Rielle hesitated. Just how long had Ihsan known about her child? Her mind searched back to the stable, the auction, and… Ihsan’s examination. A scribbled note. Had it been then? A strong mage with an undeniable reason to live and escape… Power and desperation.

  It had all been planned, from the beginning.

  And Ihsan had been right. About everything. “Correct, Zahibi.”

  Ihsan gave her hand a squeeze.

  “May I ask… what happened to Aina?”

  A silence settled over Ihsan. “She… She wasn’t a mage.” Her voice was low, barely above a whisper. She looked away, her face shrouded. “But you are. You’ll survive this, make it out in the chaos of the party. I know you will.”

  Aina hadn’t been a mage… Well, Farrad knew nothing of her magic, of her reputation at the Tower. All he knew was what he saw. A woman. A slave.

  “Are we agreed, then?”

  Agree to have her arcanir removed, and for the reward of her freedom, kill a man who owned people?

  “On my honor, yes, Zahibi,” Rielle replied in earnest. It was five days until Farrad’s birthday, and she had precious little time to prepare. And she would need to hide her intentions from him until then.

  “Good. Then go to him, Thahab, and keep him content. Do everything he asks for five more days, then in the confusion of the party, you’ll go free.”

  Rielle nodded and rose, inclined her head to Ihsan, and departed for Farrad’s quarters. Every night, he ordered a lavish supper that he shared with her as he relayed amusing bits of news; they shared his luxurious marble bath; and he plied her with kisses, massage, and pleasure into surrendering to him.

  Once she set aside her guilt and her lack of meaningful choice, a part of her enjoyed his company, and but for his status as the heir to this vile empire, she might have been sorry to have to kill him.

  Might have.