By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2)

by Miranda Honfleur

Taking the long way to Farrad’s quarters, she tried to assess the options laid out before her. Could Ihsan be trusted? Her plan had been carefully constructed, but had she revealed the whole of it? Her reason, wanting to see House Hazael in honor, was worthy, if true, but it lacked the urgency to prompt the murder…

  However, if Ihsan was offering her freedom from arcanir, she would gladly accept—but aptly plan for the worst case. If anyone tried to apprehend her after Farrad’s killing, she needed a proper escape plan.

  Five days.

  If Ihsan could deliver on her end, in five days, she would kill Farrad abd Nasir abd Imtiyaz Hazael.

  In five days, she would be a free woman.

  Chapter 25

  Deep in the heart of the royal lands outside of Courdeval, amid the snow-covered trees and grass, a large, verdant patch of grass somehow persisted despite the winter. On a summer day, to a non-mage, it might not have looked or felt anomalous.

  But therein stood a massive, circular stone structure. Whether it was natural or constructed by some ancient beings, Jon couldn’t fathom, but at its center lay a Vein. Wild magic.

  Now, in the dead of winter, the stark white framed its power with unerring clarity, even in the scant light of torches and the gibbous moon.

  His mind had filled to capacity with concerns the past few days. The Earthbinding required much. Much more than he had been prepared to give. Yet Pons’ historical accounts of the flourishing land after kings became Earthbound convinced him beyond any reasonable doubt.

  None but kings and their elite had ventured here to perform the ritual for centuries, if not millennia. And it felt warm. The silken robe and ermine-trimmed cloak he wore felt all too heavy here, hot despite the season.

  The drum and the shroud of night eased his troubled mind. And here, he could think of nothing but the vibrations shaking him to his core, resonating with his anima. He closed his eyes, focused on the hum, attuned himself to it. Every part of him grew lighter even as it filled with life itself, until he felt weightless.

  “Your Majesty,” Pons’ voice interrupted from outside the circle, “as I warned earlier, do not reach out to the power here in resonance. It would end badly.”

  “I’m not.” The power reached out to him. Nonetheless, he pulled his attention away.

  The Earthbinding had required a fortnight’s fasting of bread and water and bodily cleansing in waters blessed in the name of the Dead Gods. But here, he and each of the ritual’s participants shared wine of Emaurria’s grapes, vines, soil—touched by the starlight, night, moonlight, and firelight. Pons, Olivia, a chanter, two drummers, and the servant who summoned him to dinner every evening—he did not even know her name—partook of it with him. None but they would witness this sacrament, this blasphemy, this legend, this ritual. But his kingdom would know soon enough.

  The mythos of the Earthbinding can prove stronger than its true effects, Pons had said, and there was wisdom to his words, based on historical accounts. If it could possibly be true, who would challenge a king bound to the land? What force would dare invade it, if its king could sense every change, affect an enemy army by will alone? And history had treated the Earthbound kings with respect.

  He took in his surroundings. The stone formation created a sacred circle, like the ouroboros Rielle had identified in the Moonlit Rite. Here, he was to address the Dead Gods, undisturbed by outside forces. Their ways long lost, their names long forgotten, would they listen to his prayers? Did these deities still stand watch over the lands of their bygone worshippers?

  A platter featuring four small mounds of soil lay just outside the circle, next to a pouch of moonstones. A white doe stood calmly, tethered to a nearby tree. A painted box concealed its contents. A water carafe stood free on an altar, its clear glass catching the beams of light.

  Peering into his chalice, he watched the wine’s dark surface. There would be no return from this ritual. In the eyes of Most Holy Terra, he’d be a blasphemer, a heretic calling upon false gods. But the day he’d climbed the twelve steps to sit upon the Emaurrian throne, he’d left Jonathan Ver, his soul, and his concerns below. Left behind, secondary, as he’d ascended to his new name, his realm, and its needs.

  He stared at the reddish-purple darkness, then brought it to his lips and drained it. No return.

  Pons’s face maintained an appropriately contemplative frown. Next to him, Olivia stood in a black velvet gown, her eyes downcast, but as he looked at her, she raised her gaze to meet him.

  Gleaming, anguished eyes. Pleading eyes. Don’t do this, they said. You can still refuse.

  Something in him fractured, and he offered her a half-hearted smile. Thank you for caring about the man in me. His heart. His soul. Thank you for seeing more than the kingdom’s blade.

  That’s what he’d become, hadn’t he? A blade to be drawn for the kingdom’s sake, to be bloodied, to be tarnished, to be broken if needed. To be wielded coldly, pragmatically, for a blade was only a blade; it had no soul, no heart; it was only a tool, to be used in fulfillment of a purpose. Never to be considered, nor cared for, nor loved. Nor free.

  Tears welled in her eyes.

  Thank you, Olivia. But he shook his head. There was no turning back.

  She covered her mouth, nodding once, twice, again, before lowering her gaze once more.

  He glanced back at Pons, whose hardened expression left as little room to argue as there was to turn back. Jon dipped his chin in silent assent.

  Pons clasped his hands. The unnamed woman came and took the chalice from Jon’s hands, then left him alone in the circle once more.

  Taking a deep breath to gather his composure, he hoped he’d remember all the words. There would be no second chances. He stepped to the center of the Vein, the cool grass caressing his bare feet. Revitalizing energy climbed through his body.

  At the center, he turned his face up to the heavens, raised his hands on either side of him, palms facing upward.

  “Hear me, Ulsinael, Lord of the Stars!” he called, in a deep, booming voice. “Hear me, Rathenis, Lady of the Night! Hear me, Nenarath, Lady of the Moon! Hear me, Firenith, Lady of the Flame!” He invoked all the gods overseeing the Earthbinding. “Turn thy holy visages away from thy Chosen’s enemies. Listen not to their prayers. Accept not their offerings. Enemies of the land seek, by evil means, to bind the hands of thy Chosen. Most Divine of the Heavens, hear thy Chosen!”

  He stared at the night sky’s constellations, at the astral manifestations of the Dead Gods, willing them to hear his prayer.

  “Hear thy Chosen, Ulsinael, Lord of the Stars!” Pons said. Jon’s gaze at the sky remained unbroken.

  “Hear thy Chosen, Rathenis, Lady of the Night!” Olivia said.

  “Hear thy Chosen, Nenarath, Lady of the Moon!” the unnamed woman shouted.

  “Hear thy Chosen, Firenith, Lady of Flame!” a chanter called out.

  Jon bowed his head in reverence and closed his eyes, surrendering to the raw drum beat.

  “Hear thy Chosen, Ulsinael! He bares himself to thy light!” Pons said. Soft footsteps entered the sacred circle, drew closer until they stopped.

  “Most Divine of the Heavens, hear thy Chosen,” Jon said. “Ulsinael, Lord of the Stars, I bare myself to thy blessed light.”

  At that, the heavy, ermine-trimmed cloak fell away as Pons removed it. And then the silken robe.

  Skyclad, Jon listened to Pons’ retreating footfalls, keeping his eyes closed. Never in his life had he felt more exposed, but there was no room to feel, only to do what was necessary.

  “Most Divine of the Heavens, hear thy Chosen!” Jon called out. “Rathenis, Lady of the Night, I submit to thy holy darkness.” This time, quieter steps closed in. Olivia’s. She rubbed him with soil from all corners of his kingdom, starting with his face and working her way down. She coated his neck, shoulders, back… He couldn’t help but open his eyes.

  A mortified part of him wanted to jump out of his skin, but he forced himself to stand his ground, to acc
ept the contrition of this moment.

  When she finished rubbing the dirt onto his feet, Olivia pressed her lips together and stood. She glanced up at him but once. A world of unspoken words stormed in her gaze, but at last, she gave a supportive nod and left the sacred circle.

  His heart beat irregularly, but he focused on the next prayer.

  “Most Divine of the Heavens, hear thy Chosen!” he called. “Nenarath, Lady of the Moon, I receive thy silvery touch.” He held out his hands, his palms an empty cup.

  The chanter, repeating words of a dead tongue to the beat of the drums, entered the sacred circle. She deposited moonstones in his cupped palms, cold and smooth against his skin. He closed his eyes, said a prayer to Nenarath, and returned them to the chanter. They would be dispersed to every corner of the kingdom. As the chanter left the sacred circle, Jon stared at the flame of a torch behind her. He watched it burn, raw, ancient, like the fire of passion.

  “Most Divine of the Heavens, hear thy Chosen!” he shouted. “Firenith, Lady of the Flame, I cleanse myself of evil with thy righteous inner fire. I cast it beyond thy chosen land to curse my enemies.”

  The unnamed woman entered the circle then, clad in a luxurious, rabbit fur-trimmed cloak, the drum beat much too unforgiving for her delicate way. Her fawn hair flowed unbound behind her, decorated with a wreath of night-blooming jasmine, grown from this land. She fixed her chestnut-brown eyes, wide and gleaming, upon him.

  His heart pounding, Jon watched her, too, his breath catching. He didn’t know her name, but tonight, she was the land. Emaurria.

  “Most Divine of the Heavens, hear thy chosen!” he called. “Bind me to the earth!”

  She cast off the cloak. Naked beneath, she met his eyes shyly. Terra have mercy, he wanted nothing more than to pick up her cloak, wrap her in it, and send her back to the palace.

  But that was not what duty required.

  She approached, taking slow, uneasy steps. Unwilling to let her bear the burden alone, he moved to the close the gap, meeting her halfway, in the circle’s center. He tried not to look at her nakedness, but could feel her gaze upon him, and so, out of respect, he glanced at her face, her large eyes.

  A trembling hand reached out and found his chest, over his heart. Slowly, she pressed her fingers into his flesh, the dirt of his land marring her immaculate skin. His skin barely contained his nervousness.

  He couldn’t do this.

  He had to do this.

  The drums beat on, no slower, without stopping, relentlessly. He gazed up at the moon, a man beneath it as billions had stood before, with a woman beneath it as billions had stood before. Her hand slid up his chest to his shoulder, then glided over its curve and down over his bicep to his forearm until it joined his. She raised his hand to her breast, pressed his palm into her supple flesh. Rising on her toes, she curled her fingers around the back of his neck, wove them through his hair, urged his mouth down to hers.

  His heart sped to bursting.

  Run. He wanted to run. But his body wouldn’t cooperate.

  Her lips—small, fine, and delicate like the rest of her—found his. As their kisses deepened, he knelt with her and lowered her gently to the bed of supple grass. Her hold was tight. Firm. Needy.

  There was no turning back now.

  The sweet smell of the flowers in her hair mingled with the deep scent of earth in his nostrils. Beneath him, she winced, but a second later, she opened her mouth in a silent gasp. He imagined the moon above them watching a man and woman lying beneath, lying as billions had lain before. The ancient, primal beat of the drums filled him up until the surrounding winter spun, until his head swam, until torchlight played on her face in mystical illusions, and the beat took him, took his body, hers, immortal rhythm beneath an immortal moon, the ancient music of the night played fierce and hard, vigorous and raw, driving, driving, and driven at last to stunning end. He heard his own shaky exhalation in the quiet from afar, her soft cries, and he blinked at the distant world beneath him as it faded to torchlight playing on her flushed face.

  Relaxation claimed his body, and he held her as she trembled. She covered his hand with hers, stroking his fingers as her breath slowed. Calmed.

  At last, he rolled onto his back next to her and stared up at the black heavens, their darkness impossibly wide and deep.

  This most intimate of moments hadn’t been for strangers, for other women, but for the one he loved. That intimacy was now gone. Forever.

  And the woman, hadn’t she imagined her first time with a man she loved? A man who’d love her, who’d be there for her? He stared at the black sky, but no answers came. He’d taken something from this woman, too. Something he hadn’t wanted to take, that she shouldn’t have had to lose.

  But the bond was consummated.

  She sat up next to him and, with Pons’ assistance, rose. He wrapped her in a cloak, handed her a cup of wine.

  When Jon sat up, he planted his feet on the ground, rested his elbows on his knees, stared at his hands. Dirty. Like the rest of him.

  He let his hands fall atop his elbows and rested his forehead on his arms. A separate matter. He’d allowed sex to become a separate matter from love. He clawed at his chest, at the painful hollow forming there.

  The Laurentine signet ring wasn’t there. Removed. For this.

  When Pons led the woman away, Olivia tarried a moment and rubbed her upper arms before opening the painted box, retrieving a dagger in its scabbard, and leading the white doe into the sacred circle. Her footsteps stopped, and Jon raised his head. She held out the dagger to him hilt first.

  His fingers brushed the crossguard. Wetness streaked her face, her eyes reddened beneath a determined frown. So many wrongs tonight, so many sins, and it wasn’t enough. With this blade, he was to kill innocence, if he could muster the resolve.

  It was all too much, too far for Jonathan Ver, but this… this was for his kingdom. He couldn’t falter for the sake of his own morality.

  He pulled the dagger free of its scabbard. Rising to his knees, he regarded the animal before him, her skin a pure white. His manner gentle, he reached out to touch her. Her flesh rippled at the contact, but her breathing slowed, relaxed.

  Still petting her, he plunged the dagger deep into her heart. She gave a distressing cry and fell to the ground.

  Olivia dropped the doe’s lead, left the sacred circle, took something else out of the painted box—a black opal. Gesturing over it, she whispered an incantation.

  Indignity, cruelty, infidelity. Blasphemy. Betrayal of his goddess, his love, and himself. This would cost him all that he cherished, all that he loved, all that he was.

  The Earthbinding demanded much. Too much. But he had to finish.

  Returning his attention to the sacrificed doe, he dipped his fingers into her blood, pulled them out, and spilled the blood to the north. He repeated the action for the rest of the four cardinal directions, an offering to the Dead Gods, requesting them to protect the land on all sides. When he finished, he used the dagger to skin the doe.

  It had been months since he’d skinned an animal, but his hands hadn’t forgotten. Something familiar to do, something he could lose himself and his dark thoughts in. Careful, methodical, he completed the task. He lay his new ceremonial dagger next to him.

  Olivia brought the opal into the sacred circle, deposited it into his bloodied hands, and walked away.

  He gazed up at the sky, holding up the gemstone, blood running down his arms. “Most Divine of the Heavens, hear thy Chosen! I confine the evil of my enemies in purity, that they may do thy chosen land no harm,” he said and placed the black opal inside the doeskin, then wrapped it. It made the perfect confinement for evil and impurity, being white and pure from the outside while holding the symbolized evil inside.

  Olivia took the doeskin containing the opal and sewed it closed. She placed it at the circle’s center.

  He put his hand on the sealed package. “All evil threatening my land, I, Chosen of the Most Di
vine of the Heavens, order thee to depart.”

  When Jon held out his hands above the doeskin package, Pons approached with a water carafe and poured. Jon washed his hands, transferring all lingering impurity to the doeskin package. Pons picked it up; it would be taken beyond Emaurria’s borders to protect the land. Any enemy encountering it would be tainted by the evil he sought to inflict upon Emaurria.

  It was time. Were the Dead Gods alive once more to hear him? Cleansed, consummated, suppliant, he would be bound to the earth now, or he wouldn’t.

  He stood, looked at the sky, held out his hands to his sides, palms facing up. “Most Divine of the Heavens, hear thy Chosen!” he bellowed. “Enemies of the land seek, by evil means, to bind the hands of thy Chosen. Accept not their offerings. Listen not to their prayers. Turn thy holy visages away from thy Chosen’s enemies. Hear me, Firenith, Lady of the Flame! Hear me, Nenarath, Lady of the Moon! Hear me, Rathenis, Lady of the Night! Hear me, Ulsinael, Lord of the Stars!”

  He stared at the night sky’s vast constellations, at the astral manifestations of the Dead Gods, willing them to hear his prayer. Weariness slowly took its toll; he blinked as the torches became flame-red wisps and the ritual’s participants no more than silhouettes against the firelight.

  “Hear thy Chosen, Firenith, Lady of Flame!” the unnamed woman cried.

  “Hear thy Chosen, Nenarath, Lady of the Moon!” the chanter shouted.

  “Hear thy Chosen, Rathenis, Lady of the Night!” Olivia called.

  “Hear thy Chosen, Ulsinael, Lord of the Stars!” Pons shouted.

  Exhausted, Jon broke his gaze from the sky and clasped his hands. Had he been heard? Would he be Earthbound?

  Rielle would never forgive him. He would never forgive himself.

  His mind barraged, all grew dark as he collapsed.

  Chapter 26

  Crossing a desert should have given Brennan time to think, but all it had done was sharpen his resolve to kill. Every step, every stride, his mind seized on new and worsening fates Rielle may have suffered. As he made his way into Xir, no matter which House had her—Afzal, Fakhri, or Hazael—he was ready to destroy anyone and anything that could have hurt her.