By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2)

by Miranda Honfleur

  Rielle struggled in his grasp, thrashing. “Healers work for the Sonbaharan Tower.”

  “No healer,” he repeated. “A doctor,” he instructed the servants, who nodded and rushed away.

  Rielle didn’t want to risk exposure. He understood. But her healing skills were limited, and he didn’t know what to expect beneath the bloodied thiyawb.

  A stunned Kehani rushed down the stairs in her robe, her cascades of black hair trailing her, flanked by a chambermaid.

  “Brennan, what is the meaning of this? Who is this woman?” She gestured toward Rielle with a wisp of her silk robe.

  “My betrothed.”

  “The Marquise of Laurentine?” Kehani’s eyes widened. “What is she doing here? Where is her entourage?”

  “She and I will be leaving before dawn.” He proceeded up the stairs to the bath. “She will need some clothing… toiletries…”

  “Is she all right? What’s happened?”

  Pausing on the same stair, Brennan looked down and regarded her squarely. “No. More. Questions.” He turned his attention to her chambermaid, a leaf trembling in the wind. “Prepare all that Marquise Laurentine will require for five days’ travel. Now.”

  The maid could have waited for confirmation from her mistress or serve the heir of the man responsible for her wages. She chose the latter.

  He turned back to Kehani, whose narrowed eyes were fixed upon him, bold for a little woman over a foot shorter than him. She didn’t like him ordering around her household.

  He didn’t care. “You—and your household—are to tell no one she was even here. No one. Not even my father.”

  Kehani gave him a moment’s blazing look but nodded; he didn’t need to voice the threat they both well knew. If Father ever discovered he had been here alone, Brennan could tell whatever story he wanted. Kehani has seduced him. The truth.

  And he was certain that although he wouldn’t be Faolan’s favorite child, there would be no question whom his father would choose and whom he would cast off. And Kehani had to know that, too.

  When Brennan continued up the stairs, Kehani didn’t move nor speak. He readjusted his hold on Rielle and looked straight ahead. A firm hand could buy expediency, if not friends. He’d exhausted his favor with Kehani.

  The bath was ready when he arrived in his rooms. Two nervous maids lingered; he dismissed them with a wave. As soon as they left, he carefully peeled off Rielle’s bloodied thiyawb, thankful its dark-violet color had camouflaged the stain before Kehani, and set aside some bloodied papers. He didn’t need her or the servants gossiping about Rielle’s state. The less they knew, the better.

  He threw the garment onto the hearth.

  Beneath, she wore nothing but drying blood and fresh bruises.

  When he hadn’t blinked for some time, his eyes began to water. His mind rejected consideration of what she’d suffered this night, even as his entire body contracted to the point of quaking. He drew in a sharp breath and lowered her into the warm bath.

  Upon contact with the water, her eyes flashed open, then fluttered as she rolled her head to the side and moaned. “Where am I…?”

  Despite the question, she rested her head against the tub and closed her eyes once more.

  “You’re safe.” He pulled her forward and gently washed her back. The scar of a puncture wound marred her side, just below her ribs. He washed and rinsed her hair, then gently rested her head against the tub once more. Remembering the washcloth that had sunk to the bottom, he reached for it, but she caught his arm and drew in close, shifting uncomfortably in the water.

  Her mouth nearly upon his ear, she whispered, “I need… resonance.”

  He drew his eyebrows together. “The one thing I can’t give you.”

  As a werewolf, he had no magic and could never share resonance with her, could never provide her with the nourishment her anima needed. Even if, by some miracle, she agreed to be his, he would never be able to give her all she required. It darkened his thoughts. “If you asked for anything else, I…”

  Her wet grip on his arm slid down its length to his wrist beneath the water and, at last, to his hand. She sat up in the tub, facing him squarely, her pupils so dilated only a blue rim remained of her irises. Looking away, he washed her quickly.

  “I don’t feel… well.” She trembled.

  “The doctor is on his way.” He wrapped her in a towel, carried her to a chair, and dried her off.

  He dressed her in a large tunic and tossed the towels away.

  Eyes wild, she swallowed and rubbed her upper arms. Uncomfortable. She was uncomfortable.

  He carried her to the bed and gently laid her down. Curling up, she buried her face in his pillow. When she closed her eyes, tears escaped them.

  What had she suffered? How much? If he considered it, his reaction would only make things worse. He stroked her hair and kissed her forehead before stepping away to change. “Everything will be all right now.”

  He stripped off his blood-stained clothes and tossed them into the fire. Once he’d washed, he toweled off and dressed beneath her watchful, drugged-black gaze.

  Things had changed between them. Although she must have seen him naked a thousand times, something had shifted between them. More than the ithara, more than the moonflower, their usual relationship had gone and would never return.

  She rested a hand on her stomach.

  A lot had happened. Too much. The child in her belly, the dagger in his heart. She’d smelled sweeter; her heart had beat faster. He hadn’t raised the subject, and she hadn’t either; if it had been conceived during her enslavement, it only would have added to her anguish.

  He grabbed some gauze from the cabinet near the washbasin. “Roll onto your stomach.”

  She complied, resting on her elbows to watch him as he approached the bed. Once there, he took hold of the tunic’s hem, hitting just above her knees, and raised it until he reached the curve of her backside. She rose off the bed, enough for him to continue to her back.

  He raised the hem, sweeping his palm over her curves until he exposed the brand on her lower back. Shaped vaguely like a blooming crocus, it had to be the rune to which she referred. He caressed it, disliking the thought of marring her skin.

  But he Changed his fingers to claws, and her flesh quivered beneath his touch.

  “Are you ready?” He grazed her skin with the tips of his claws, and she stiffened, pressed her chin into the pillow.

  “Yes,” she replied, muffled, and with merciful quickness, he slashed through her brand, deep enough to scar. She was rigid beneath him as he pressed the gauze to it, but she already moved to heal it, only enough to scab over the wounds. Her anima had to be dark. And he could do nothing to help her.

  When he Changed his claws back to fingers, her blood remained, thick, warm, and aromatic on his fingertips. He raised them to his nose, inhaled deep, then lowered them to his lips, a hair’s breadth away from his mouth.

  “Brennan.”

  He glanced at her back. She held out the bloodied gauze to him.

  His gaze lowered to his bloody fingertips, and a shudder rode his spine.

  Once before the full moon. Once only. A drop, and no more. And he had already gotten this month’s control from her that night in House Hazael. He only ever took what he required, never more, never for—his lip curled—pleasure.

  Horrified, he snatched up the gauze, wiped his fingers, and went to wash his hands.

  He’d already gotten his control this month, so why did her blood tantalize him now? He looked in the mirror, a glimmer of wolfish amber in the reflection’s eyes.

  The wolf was still there.

  His eyes widened.

  Two servants arrived at the door, with an older man in a long, sandy-colored robe, his shoulder-length black hair streaked with gray.

  “Doctor,” Brennan said, forcing a calm he didn’t feel. He took the man’s hand. “Please.” He gestured to the room. “She’s poisoned with ithara and moonflower essence
.”

  The doctor rushed in, and Brennan dismissed the servants and closed the door. As he watched the doctor tend to her, his thoughts turned dark. When she returned to Emaurria, what would happen?

  Although things between Rielle and himself had changed, she still loved Jon. She’d still read that letter with stars in her eyes. But would she still bind herself to him, even barred from becoming no more than his mistress?

  And the child she carried—would she decide to bring it into the world?

  He stiffened. What if it’s his?

  Of all things, that would be catastrophic. She’d never let go of Jon, then—and a former paladin with no family… He’d never let her go either.

  After a thorough examination, the doctor cleaned the blood from his hands and opened a small vial; Brennan breathed in—telar leaf oil, used to counteract ithara. It required very careful dosage.

  The doctor opened Rielle’s eyelid and carefully deposited two drops in one eye and the same in the other. Then, he retrieved a tincture, opened it—passionflower extract, concentrated, a strong sedative—and squeezed a dropperfull under her tongue. He finished up and approached Brennan, gesturing to the hall. Brennan accompanied him out and shut the door.

  “The healed wound to her side caused internal bleeding—and she’s suffered a rare complication with ithara,” the doctor said softly. “I’ve done all I can for her, and she will improve with time, but… she’s already begun the bleed. Unless you summon a healer, she will lose your child tonight.”

  A sudden coldness chilled Brennan to the core.

  He crossed his arms, covered his mouth, and inched open the door. Rielle lay on her side, curled away from them, her breath even and soft—asleep. He gently shut the door once more.

  Lowering his gaze, he fought a pain in the back of his throat. Rielle hadn’t wanted a healer for fear of contact with the Sonbaharan Tower, which would record everything meticulously and lead the slave hunters right to them.

  Not even he could hope to stand against all of Xir’s mages. She’d be recaptured, tortured, executed.

  But if it were her decision, if she had to choose now, would she—

  He stared at his feet. With a simple reply, the circumstances of their future would change. Severely. He clenched a fist so tight his knuckles cracked. “What should I do?”

  The doctor’s soft eyes looked away toward her direction, and he bowed his head. “If you summon a healer, you’ll be alerting the Tower, and her fate will be sealed.” He searched Brennan’s eyes. “If you want her free, alive, then your choice is already made.”

  He couldn’t lose her. No matter how much she’d hate him, he couldn’t risk her.

  He nodded somberly.

  Although he should kill the man, Brennan handed the doctor a coin pouch heavy with araqs. This doctor had saved Rielle’s life, and for that, he would live. “For your work and your silence.”

  The doctor wavered, blinking, but his fingers closed on the pouch. He inclined his head and disappeared down the hallway.

  Brennan reached for the door but paused, gathering his composure. He had just allowed the death of Rielle’s child. He rubbed his forehead.

  She would have taken the risk.

  But if he’d taken her to a healer, she’d have been recaptured and put to the sword—both she and her child. Maybe him, too.

  His choice had been sacrificing one life for two, or losing all three.

  Perhaps he could tell himself that, for the rest of his life, and somehow still meet her gaze.

  Steeling himself, he opened the door. After dousing the candles, he sat on the far side of the bed. She lay on the bed where he’d left her, curled into herself, frail, alone. His fingers reached for her, but he closed them, fighting a chill.

  She shivered.

  He looked away, pawing a hand through his hair. A monstrous tightness formed in his chest, devouring, growing, filling.

  The room’s darkness closed in on him, wrapped him like a robe, and he breathed in deep, slow, then moved next to her, wrapped his arm around her, and buried his face in her wet hair. Beyond the scent of the lavender and olive oil soap, the salt of her dried tears lingered.

  “Try to get some sleep. We must leave before dawn.” He held her long into the night, wide awake.

  Chapter 32

  Jon wiped the sweat from his brow, then resumed striking the practice dummy with his sword. The day had been gray but clear of snowfall, and he’d been training relentlessly since dawn—with the sword, the glaive, the bow, the sword again. Better that way. Better to keep his mind on drills than—

  Now, the dimness of dusk began to shadow the training yard. He’d sparred with all of his guards until he’d exhausted them. Perched on the sidelines, they pretended not to watch. He didn’t need a partner, or anyone. As long as there was a practice dummy, he’d work with that. And when there were no more, he’d shadow-spar.

  Cut, block, return to guard. Cut, block, return to guard. He repeated the drill, repeated the strikes, repeated the pattern. Cut. Chips of wood splintered and flew from the practice dummy. Block. It would soon need replacing. Return to guard. But keeping his body occupied, staying focused on training, repelled the impact of reality a small measure. Cut. That small measure kept him standing.

  A large chunk of wood broke. He’d lost count of how many dummies his squire had replaced today. Block.

  “Time for a new one,” Tor said from behind him.

  Return to guard. Giving the dummy a once-over, Jon answered, “This one still has some limbs intact.” Not for long. Cut.

  “The audacity.”

  Block. Jon rolled his eyes. Return to guard. “Don’t you have a kingdom to run?” he asked as he struck the dummy once more.

  “That’s my line, Your Majesty.”

  “Yes, well,” he began, getting in another hit, “as Derric so bluntly pointed out, my ‘unstable emotional state’ might affect my decision-making. ‘Unfit to rule.’ ” Cut. It hadn’t been his own decision to take time off. Block. No, it had been the High Council’s strong suggestion—after Olivia had told a vague story, he was sure, for his own good.

  Return to guard.

  Derric himself had called him “unfit to rule,” and Tor had temporarily taken over managing the kingdom. Jon cursed under his breath as he sundered off one of the dummy’s arms. He was about to call for his squire, but Tor stepped into his path with his sword drawn.

  Jon transitioned to sparring with him.

  “Many of your people lost loved ones during the siege.” Tor lunged.

  Jon parried and followed with a riposte. “I’m aware.”

  A parry and counter-riposte. “Even burdened by the shroud of sorrow, they work for you, fight for you.”

  Jon blocked. “Set aside my grief and see to duty. Got it. Thanks for the talk.” Vexed, he broke away, but Tor pursued. Instinct took over as Jon raised his guard.

  “Feel it,” Tor said, with a few quick cuts that Jon met. “Don’t try to fight it indefinitely. Let it in. Grieve.” A descending strike.

  Jon blocked again. “That’s not what we do. In the field, we—”

  “We’re not in the field.” Tor renewed his assault. “You’re blocking—prolonging a losing battle. But this isn’t combat—this is grief. You need to take the hit.” Tor struck his shoulder, then Jon broke Tor’s guard and leveled his sword at his former master’s neck.

  Let it in… He heaved breath after ragged breath. “What if I…” He paused and lowered his sword. “What if I can’t recover?”

  “You can.” Tor took a few steps closer and laid a hand on his shoulder in support. “You will.”

  Could he? Could he let in the darkness that had been pushing against him, and live to see it someday dissipate? He swallowed. In the field, paladins acknowledged bad news about loved ones and grief, but reminded themselves that worry and grief were useless emotions. Surrender to them made a person unfit for duty. Useless to his unit—worse, a liability. There was time
enough after a mission to let in worry and loss.

  But a king… A king was always on mission. There was never a time to let in weakness, to surrender to anything that might cripple his fitness to perform his duty.

  It was antithesis to all he knew, but at the moment, Tor’s judgment was far worthier of trust than his own.

  Let it in…

  With a nod, Tor sheathed his sword. “There’s something else.”

  “What is it?” Jon handed Faithkeeper off to his squire, accepted a towel from a valet to wipe his brow, and accompanied Tor toward the palace, flanked by Raoul and Florian. Bit by bit, the late-winter chill slowly overpowered his heat.

  “A message from Vervewood. Our ambassador says the light-elves want you to swear an alliance vow according to their custom before a light-elven witness.”

  According to their custom…? More blasphemy. A tightness formed in Jon’s chest. They headed into the heart of the palace to the royal quarters. The wall sconces and candelabra already lit the halls with soft light. Courtiers bowed and whispered greetings, and he returned them lifelessly as he had a thousand times. “What does this ‘vow’ involve?”

  Tor shrugged. “The witness will come with instructions.”

  He tugged his rolled-up sleeves down. Instructions. Just what would he have to do now? Buttoning his cuffs, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He’d become no more than a blade to be wielded whenever the kingdom required.

  And if it at last broke him, what little remained, at least it would all be over. An end. A peaceful end. No more pain, no more loss, and the blackwood trees would part, and such a light would pour forth… And at its center, Rielle, waiting, smiling, hand reaching out for his.

  He opened his eyes and sighed. “If it means peace and ridding this land of the Immortal threat, I’ll do what is required.”

  They reached his quarters, where Raoul and Florian relieved the two guards from their posts.

  Tor squeezed Jon’s shoulder reassuringly. “It’s not just ‘what’s required,’ it’s life going on. Remember her, give her the thought and respect she deserves, but remember yourself, too. It won’t always be like this, Jon. I promise. I know these last few months have been tough, but peace is in sight.”