Warmth ebbed away the pain. Slowly.
It abandoned him, and something else, something sore, flowed into its void, rising, shoving to the top. The soreness pushed from the inside out, his chest aching at the expansion, his heart faltering in a merciless grasp that squeezed and squeezed.
He blinked his eyes open, and a blurry Olivia was shouting, both of her hands on his chest.
He drew in a breath, and another, and another. The world began to come into focus, ghosts superimposing over reality.
“Don’t you dare die, Jon,” she screamed. “Don’t you dare, don’t you even dare. You give up, and I’ll never forgive you, never, never—”
“Olivia,” Raoul bit out, shaking her arm, and nodding toward him.
The floor was hard against his back, shoulders, and head, and he looked up at them both, catching his breath.
Rielle. Blessed Terra, he’d only seen her a few weeks ago. Held her in his arms. He would never have believed it.
But the boy—Jon had seen the test and the magic before his very eyes. The obliteration of hope. The end of a life. Her life.
Olivia sobbed quietly and wrapped her arms around him, pressing the Laurentine signet ring against his chest.
He’d promised Rielle he’d return it to her.
He’d promised.
Olivia faltered in Edgar’s arms, sapped of the strength even to walk. She couldn’t feel her feet. He braced her in the hall, slung her arm around his neck, and finally gathered her up and carried her.
“Come, Your La—Olivia,” he said softly. “I’m not officially your guard yet—not until His Majesty knights me—but Raoul and Florian summoned me. Not a moment too soon, either. I’ll take you to your room so you can rest.” His moss-green eyes were soft.
Your Ladyship. She’d been fretting over forms of address while Rielle… while Rielle had been dying.
Hot tears rose anew. She covered her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut.
And Jon—Jon had nearly died, too. Divine, had no healer ever seen his heart?
He was fit, healthy, so perhaps no one had ever thought to check, but now that he’d shown symptoms… now that…
She covered her mouth, but tears rolled down her cheeks.
She could relieve the symptoms, but she couldn’t heal the heart he’d been born with. “It’s too cruel,” she whispered.
Rielle was gone, and he—he had two, maybe three years at most before it would kill him.
“Hm?” Edgar asked, close, mercifully close.
She shut her eyes and rested her head against his chest. Losing both Rielle and Jon? Life couldn’t be so cruel. The Divine couldn’t be. Terra couldn’t be.
Edgar opened the door to her quarters and rushed to her bedchamber, where he laid her upon her bed. Although the curtains were drawn, hardly any light illuminated the room; the sky had darkened from gray to black. None of the red shades in his maple-brown hair showed.
She curled up tightly, gathering her pillow, and pressed her face into it. Soft light brightened the room, her bedside candle as Edgar lit it. A thick knit blanket covered her—Mama’s—and the bed sank as Edgar sat next to her.
He took her hand in his. That warmth, that comfort, was too much.
What had happened to Rielle? Where had she been the moment she’d… Had she been alone? Without a friend, family…?
“Olivia…” Soft, soothing.
“I left her to die,” she cried out between sobs. “She came to save me… and I left her to die.”
Edgar squeezed her hand. “You didn’t know. You couldn’t.”
No, she hadn’t anticipated the abduction, but she should’ve known. In a palace teeming with Crag Company mercenaries, she should’ve known…
She shook her head. “It’s my fault…” Tears soaked her pillow. “It’s my fault, and…”
Edgar swept her wet hair off her face, tucked it behind her ear, stroked her head gently. “It’s not your fault, Your Ladyship. We all make our own choices, and your friend did, too.”
She closed her eyes. “You don’t know…” And she couldn’t even tell him about Jon. Not without telling Jon first.
Edgar leaned in. “It is said, ‘And the blackwood trees shall part, and such a light will pour forth, and at its center will be all the righteous who’ve come before, and the Most Holy to wipe every tear from your eyes, for there shall be no more crying, nor pain, nor death, for the earthly things will have fallen away.’ ”
He spoke of heaven, at the heart of the Lone. Divinists and Terrans alike believed in its existence… Rielle had, too. Sniffling, she blinked. “Do you think it’s really there, Edgar? Heaven?”
“Of course it’s there. It is written.” He glanced at the window. “They say the Immortals came from the Lone. And if the Lone exists, so must its center.”
Was he right? Would she see Rielle there someday? Would Jon?
Her heart felt as black as the sky beyond her windows, but with Edgar’s words, perhaps a little lighter. He gave her a soft, sad smile, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. He was trying to make her feel better, but it was a lost cause.
Her best friend was dead. And another friend was dying.
She rubbed her cheek against the pillow’s soft, wet cotton, fresh tears still streaming from her eyes. They were supposed to have spent Midwinter together. She and Rielle would have stayed up together like they used to, sharing the stories of their lives, laughing together, happy. They would have shared the new magic they’d learned, and talked about the latest volume of Court Duelist. They would have gossiped and teased one another…
But they’d never see each other again. Or laugh. Or talk. Just like James, and Anton, Rielle was gone. And Jon had but a couple years to live.
Edgar stroked her cheek. “Tell me what you need, Olivia, and you’ll have it. Just please… I want to—”
The door opened, and Edgar turned sharply. “Lord Constable.” He rose and bowed.
“Sir Armurier,” Tor greeted as he entered, carrying himself with that easy elegance all Marcels seemed to be born with; everything about him, from his hazel eyes to his deep bronze skin and dark hair, even his ability with a blade, declared his lineage as one of Maerleth Tainn’s distinguished sons. Although he wasn’t lord of any lands, his name alone was invaluable. It was no wonder that many of the court’s ladies fawned over him, with his kind heart, unwavering honor, and ruggedly dashing looks in his early forties.
She and Tor had been spending more and more time together recently, and he’d begun courting her in earnest. He knelt at her bedside and took her hand. “I came as soon as I heard. I’m so sorry.”
She nodded, and he kissed her forehead and then lightly brushed her lips with his. “Is there anything I can do? What do you need?”
She shook her head.
He glanced over his shoulder. “You can go, brother. I’ll stay with her.”
His face tight, Edgar bowed. “Yes, Your Lordship.”
Tor turned back to her, and Edgar’s look lingered on her a moment before he departed.
She sniffed and eyed Tor. “Jon needs you.”
Tor raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Derric’s with him. And I’m here for you.”
She shuffled over on the bed, making room, and he sat, holding her hand. “I don’t want to be alone,” she whispered.
He kissed her fingers, then slowly lay next to her. “You never again need be.”
She clung to him, let him take her into his arms, rested her face against the burgundy tiretaine of his doublet. Rielle would never again know the embrace of a loved one… She’d lost too much, and Olivia had lost too much, and loss was the everlasting way of things. It hurt too keenly, and would keep hurting, and she never wanted to lose again.
Tor’s arms were safe. He was a Marcel, well insulated, and warrior—skilled, a survivor. Not a royal. No one out for his head.
She wept, buried her face in his chest, and resolved never to let go.
Whoever d
id this—
She’d find the one responsible. The Swordsman. The one responsible for James. For Anton. For Rielle. For Jon. Even if it took weeks, months, years, or lifetimes, the Swordsman would never take anyone away ever again.
Chapter 31
The scent of Rielle’s blood carried on the wind long before the shouts of the guards alerted Brennan to her movement. He’d stayed hidden among the dense pomegranate trees, as promised, but as the coppery smell hit him, his body ached to go. If she was hurt, she might need his help.
She’d use the bond. But that thought did nothing to quiet his nerves. He paced beneath the sweet canopy, fallen fruit crunching beneath his feet while the enemies’ calls increased in volume and number.
Orders or not, promise or not, he had to go to her. He stripped off his clothing, listening to discern the content of the orders shouted. He began the Change, shifting to full wolf. With any luck, the Hazaels would have no reason to link him to her disappearance or track them to Emaurria. After tonight, Rielle would be safe.
Under the cover of night, he darted across the lush courtyard, keeping his movement quick and low to avoid notice. He pulled on the bond to no avail; instead of moving toward the pomegranate trees, Rielle moved away. Following her direction, he avoided the shuffling squads of guards, crept in the shadows, then darted to the colonnade. Blood and burning flesh mingled with jasmine in the air as he sidled along the wall.
There, nestled amid the copious jasmine, Rielle crouched, clad in the thiyawb of the upper class, mouthing some words to herself. A healing incantation. She hadn’t seen him yet. Several charred bodies lay in disarray around her.
Careful not to startle her, he approached. A short distance away, he paused in the dark and waited until the vicinity cleared of running slaves and fleeing guests before Changing back to his human form.
He grabbed her from behind, covering her mouth with a palm, and dragged her into cover with him. She screamed into his hand, her body afire with magic—a flame cloak spell.
At times like this, he didn’t rue his werewolf nature.
But the spectacle would draw attention. He angled to show her his face, and the flame died, if not the screaming. He realized then it wasn’t from terror but pain. The side of her thiyawb was bloodied.
Ever the fool, he’d drawn that side against him. He pulled away with care, until her muffled screaming ceased. Only then did he uncover her mouth.
Shaken, she turned to him. “Is it really you?”
She reached out. Her hesitant fingertips brushed against his lips, her hand rested against his cheek, her thumb pressed into his chin. “Brennan?”
“It’s me,” he hissed, glancing at their surroundings.
Something was wrong. No, several things. Her heart raced, faster than he’d expected. Her eyes—even in the night, he could discern her blown pupils.
Drugged. Badly.
“I won’t be tricked again.” She laid her palm against his chest, closing her eyes in concentrated silence. After a moment with his beating heart, she opened them, apparently satisfied with his reality. “It’s really you.”
“Of course it’s me.” He tried to keep the edge from his voice. “What were you given? Ithara?” The scent had carried earlier.
A slow nod.
Ithara created and amplified desire, distorted pleasure to the limits. He’d partaken before, even if his beast blood did not allow the effects to linger. Ithara couldn’t be all that was wrong. “What else?”
At her side, she buried a hand beneath her thiyawb, the faint glow of magic and whisper of an incantation evidencing her healing. A sluggish blink, and she slumped onto his chest, into his lap.
“Moonflower,” she slurred, fading. “Can’t heal it…” Her cheek burned with fever against his stomach.
Moonflower. She lived, so it wasn’t a lethal dose. But now her doubts about reality made sense.
“You came for me,” she murmured against his skin. “Farrad is dead… Samara… We have to find… Samara…” Her voice drifted off.
Voices came from the gardens. He gathered her up and hid behind a pillar.
A squad of guards shuffled through the colonnade, pausing at the charred bodies, and just before they could move past, he swept her around the edge to avoid being seen. The whole property teemed with men searching for an intruder, and soon, the city would be swarming with slave hunters and mercenaries looking to cash in a bounty. Their time was running out.
He waited until the squad rounded the corner, then kept to the cover of trees and bushes as he carried her back to where he’d left his clothes. Although his items were nondescript, if they were found, Rielle’s escape would be linked to an accomplice and perhaps, eventually, to his own departure from Xir.
Finally, the shadow of the pomegranate trees’ canopy shrouded them. He navigated around a rappelling spider and laid Rielle gently upon the ground. He found his clothes and dressed quickly, his attention on the guards fanning out to search the property. One of them made his way toward the pomegranate trees.
Brennan froze. Instinct dominated as he took cover behind a massive trunk, listening to the cautious footfalls of the approaching guard. Nearer and nearer the stranger crept, far from his comrades, his gait alert. There would be but one chance to get this right without making a sound.
The steps slowed near the tree Brennan hid behind, but they continued. A pomegranate fell from above and thumped upon the ground. The guard turned. Opportunity. Brennan sprang on him from behind, covered his mouth, and put him in a hold, keeping him there until the guard passed out. Killing him—without magic, anyway—would only alert the guards that she’d had assistance.
After camouflaging the guard in some nearby bushes, he slunk back to where Rielle lay. Although quiet, her fever had not abated, and she slept fitfully. It was a wonder she hadn’t been heard already.
Climbing the ten-foot wall was their only option, and it had to be now, before the missing guard attracted investigation. Brennan gathered her up and slung her over his shoulder.
When the shouting was distant, he Changed to his man-beast form, as much as he could in such little time. He scrambled up the wall and over, smothering a yelp from Rielle as she jostled awake. On the other side, he Changed back to man and, holding her against his chest, strode toward Father’s villa through the night streets of Xir.
The nausea that came with Changing too often hit him heavily, but he stifled the urge to vomit and proceeded. Rielle nuzzled his chest, wriggling in his hold; now that she was awake, the ithara’s effects reigned over those of the moonflower.
“Brennan,” she whispered. “I need… You have to save her from—”
Taking a deep breath, Brennan tried to ignore the intoxicating smell of her blood, but the rare treat caught his wolf’s attention and held it, ceasing the imbalance that made him sick. Instead of balancing, he now had to control the force of his wolfish urges.
She bunched the fabric of his thiyawb in her trembling hand, going rigid against his arm. He quickened his pace.
A dark thought he’d been willfully ignoring invaded his mind then—the scent of the man on her, mingled with her blood. Farrad abd Nasir abd Imtiyaz Hazael had dared to harm her, had done unspeakable things to her. If she hadn’t killed that demon herself, Brennan would have relished the task.
Although she had recounted the events of the past few months to him, the telltale changes in her heart rate had spoken volumes of the account’s alteration. Whether out of shame or indignity, she hadn’t told him everything. And those secrets tore at his soul. What she had endured at the hands of her tormentors—would he ever know? If he could ever bear to know. These streets would run red with blood.
Lamplit stalls and small groups of revelers dotted the dark city street. A passerby scrutinized him for longer than usual, and mustering a congenial expression, Brennan muttered some excuse in High Nad’i—his wife falling asleep at a party. The old man smiled and nodded, looked away, kept walking, his pulse no
rmal. His reaction had spared his life.
“We’re not married yet,” she whispered, with a soft chuckle. She rubbed her face against his thiyawb.
Yet.
The delirium of ithara and moonflower drugging must have been affecting her more than he had thought.
“It hurts.” Her voice no more than a whimper, she contracted in his grasp.
Urgency tightened his body. “We’re almost there,” he replied, his breath catching for a moment. When, exactly, he’d fallen in love with her eluded him—When she’d relived the fire at Laurentine? When she’d nearly killed herself to force his hand? When their parents had arranged their engagement? When they’d forged the bond?
It didn’t matter anymore. No matter when or how long, he loved her.
Whatever that meant.
“Brennan.” She squirmed in his embrace.
The villa was in view. “Almost there.” He held her closer, attempted to comfort her.
“Not that,” she replied weakly. “Samara… We have to go back for Samara.”
He pressed his lips together. “We can’t. If we go back there, we’re—”
“You don’t understand!” She squeezed his arm. “She saved me, and—”
“We’re not going back, Rielle.”
The smell of salt assaulted his nostrils. Her eyes watered. Great Wolf, she wept? She wept… “Is she a slave?”
She nodded. “An apothecary. A young woman.”
“I’ll have my father’s mistress purchase her, whatever the cost.”
After a moment, she nodded weakly.
In the distance, he heard no more shouts. “I think we lost them—”
“My brand,” she blurted. “My slave brand. They’ll find us… You have to destroy it…”
Slave brands were tattooed into the flesh, usually the small of one’s back. To destroy it would be— “You can’t possibly mean—”
“Claw it… Break the rune.” Her eyes fluttered open and closed.
Brennan charged toward the villa, knocked on the doors, and when they opened, stormed past the startled servants.
“Run a bath and build a fire in my quarters,” he commanded one, who disappeared right away. He turned toward another. “Fetch a healer—”
By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2) Page 31
