By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2)

by Miranda Honfleur

  Life didn’t just go on. It couldn’t. If it just went on and returned to guard so soon, she’d never mattered, and the loss of her had never mattered.

  When Gilles had killed Bastien, he hadn’t replaced him, forgotten him, moved on. He’d suffered, remembered, and vowed justice.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. Life didn’t just go on. It couldn’t.

  He pulled away, and Tor’s face went slack; he was only trying to help. Jon sighed. “I know you mean well, but I don’t want to hear this right now.”

  Tor nodded and waited in the quiet hall, the only sound the distant footsteps of courtiers. His subjects. And beyond them was a city and a kingdom relying on his ability and willingness to protect them.

  Such as by forging alliances. Which this vow would allow him to do.

  He shook his head. “I’ll swear the vow. Whatever they want. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  Just as he was about to enter his quarters, Olivia turned into the hallway and strode toward him. He shook his head, but she only walked faster, touching Tor’s hand as she approached.

  “We must speak,” she said to Jon.

  Jon rubbed his forehead. “Are you sure?”

  Olivia tightened her clasped hands in her lap, brushing them over her black dress. “Yes. There’s something wrong with your heart, and it can’t be healed.”

  He raked a hand through his sweat-matted hair. “Why is it only surfacing now?”

  She shrugged weakly. “Queen Alexandrie struggled with heart problems much of her adult life, but I wasn’t her healer. I suspect you inherited the condition from her.”

  Her. His mother.

  “You’ve led a fit, healthy life until recently, and then there was the Earthbinding, which has been a huge strain on you, and then there was the stress of… of…”

  The love of his life dying.

  Olivia lowered her gaze. “Now that your symptoms have surfaced, things are going to get worse. You might have more of these episodes, and one of them will kill you.”

  He’d already made his peace, said his final words to Raoul. “Two to three years, you said?”

  Her lower lip trembling, she nodded. “If you sleep well, rest, try to stay fit and healthy, it may be on the longer side. Obviously no sen’a or trux, and the less wine and spirits, the better.” She rubbed her arms. “I’ll do all I can, Jon, but I can only heal your symptoms. You’ll need to be near a healer for the rest of your life.”

  For two to three years.

  He tossed some kindling on the fire and watched it char.

  Since taking the throne, everything in his life had burned. His honor, his faith, his love. Now his future. Ash lost on the wind.

  And what did it mean for Emaurria? What could he do for the kingdom in two to three years? “What about the Earthbinding?”

  Olivia blinked. “I hadn’t considered it, but it’s possible the land may sustain you for some time—”

  “No.” He shook his head, huffing a breath. “Will this negatively impact the land?”

  Her mouth fell open. “Oh, Jon…” She just stared at him with sullen eyes. “I’m not sure. There’s little in the histories to help build a hypothesis, but we’ll find out.”

  So they would learn the answer in the worst way possible. He covered his face with his hand.

  A forsworn paladin bastard as king, who could barely survive a couple of years, and might possibly leave the land in worse condition than he’d found it—at best. Emaurria deserved better. But there was no one else.

  “What are going to do?” she whispered.

  The only thing he wanted to do was go back. Go back to Melain, to a blissful moment, and fight time until it stopped, until it gave him a lifetime there, with Rielle, together and happy until they were old and gray, and died in their bed, surrounded by fat grandchildren. She would live, and he would live, and they’d need nothing else but each other.

  But even then, even in those bright days, that had never been possible. This death sentence had always lurked inside of him.

  He sighed. “I need time to think. Right now, I…” All he could think about was her.

  Olivia rose. “Take all the time you need. I won’t tell a soul.”

  “Thank you,” he said quietly, turning back to the fire, watching it burn.

  As Leigh headed for the tree hollow that housed his quarters, Ambriel accompanied him up spiral steps winding around a trunk and onto a narrow bridge grown high over most of Vervewood.

  A dragon mage. If Narenian was to be believed, a dragon mage could complete another Sundering, which could rid the world of the Immortal beasts, of this entire catastrophe… that he had wrought.

  A dragon mage… could be made. But how? She’d dodged all attempts to follow up on the question. If the light-elves had any records here—as unlikely as that was—he’d need to find out.

  After dinner, the sky had darkened with nightfall, but the Gaze-like small crystals suspended from branches illuminated the dark with small bursts of glowing starlight.

  Reflections played in the quietly humming rivers weaving through the land.

  Ambriel’s eyes caught the shine of a nearby crystal, and his skin took on a silvery cast. Decked out in Emaurrian fashion—a white cotton shirt unbuttoned to the chest, a forest-green velvet overcoat, fitted black breeches, and boots—his fit physique stood in stark relief. The light-elves took their time crafting their own clothing. They could take forever… Hopefully.

  Ambriel met Leigh’s gaze with a coy smile. The captain.

  The captain was becoming a distraction. An all-too-tempting distraction.

  Leigh cleared his throat. “So how does one become a dragon mage?”

  Ambriel breathed a slow, lazy breath. “In resonance, you and your partner fill one another, but that is not the only option.” Ambriel looked him over, devoured him with those golden eyes. “You may also draw from your partner, draw until you take everything.”

  Leigh’s mouth dropped open. He swallowed. “That would lead to fureur. I can’t imagine anyone would choose it.”

  “Contact with arcanir removes the choice, and prevents fureur.”

  Draining an arcanir-bound mage of anima? Leigh frowned. “But once anima has been extinguished, it cannot be relit.”

  “Correct.”

  That would mean… the ability to unmake a mage. If such a possibility had existed, it had become lost in history’s faded pages. Or… kept quiet by the Divinity.

  Shaking his head, Leigh continued trudging, but Ambriel was no longer at his side. He looked back.

  “We’ve arrived at your quarters.” Ambriel stood before—indeed—the entrance to the tree hollow.

  Leigh approached him and stopped a couple feet away beneath a glowing crystal. “This… drawing from a partner, taking. How is it done?”

  His head bowed, Ambriel took a step forward, a smile playing on his lips. “I am no mage, Ambassador. I am familiar with… similar things, but not when it comes to anima.” When he raised his chin, he was only inches away.

  Illuminated, beautiful, powerful. A god, some facet of Solis come to earth, impossible perfection among mere mortals, there to be worshipped, adored, feared.

  The waterfall splashed, soft play in the night.

  Heat pooled in Leigh’s lower body. His breathing slowed. “Show me.”

  A brief raise of his eyebrows, and Ambriel leaned in, eyelids falling heavily.

  A rumble shook the landing—a horn blow reverberating through the sultry air.

  Ambriel stiffened, snapped toward the Gaze. Shouts and calls rippled throughout Vervewood.

  Leigh followed his line of sight. “What is it?”

  “A raid.” Ambriel’s mouth pressed into a grim line. He took off across the nearest bridge, and Leigh chased after him. The rickety wood stretched high above land and waterways. Perhaps looking down wasn’t the best course of action.

  “Who?” he called out as they ran.

  Every soul i
n Vervewood was in motion—on the bridges, the steps, below.

  “Dark-elves,” Ambriel bit out, fleet footsteps descending the spiral stair. At the bottom, they pushed past armored elven women bursting out of a doorway.

  Inside, armor and weapons lined racks. Ambriel hastily donned leather armor.

  “What are the—?” Leigh waved his hand toward the commotion. Someone pushed him aside to grab a longbow and arrows.

  “Dark-elves,” Ambriel repeated, fastening a wooden chestplate with a grimace.

  Leigh batted Ambriel’s hands aside and made quick work of it while Ambriel chose a weapons belt and arms.

  “We light-elves dwell in and worship the light, the sun, the moon. The dark-elves dwell in and worship the dark.” Ambriel clipped a sword and a dagger to his belt, and grabbed a kite shield, a short bow, and an arrow-filled quiver.

  Leigh finished with the chestplate and eyed the wood grain. “Wood? Really?”

  Ambriel flashed his teeth briefly in an expression too vicious to be called a grin. “Ironwood. As strong as your human metals, but light.” He strode outside, where an entire forest of elves trickled toward the Gaze through the sea of trees, the women armored, carrying bows, swords, shields. The massive crystal refracted silvery moonlight, blessing the surrounding soldiers with an otherworldly glow.

  “How do you know it’s the dark-elves?” Leigh ran to keep up through the lush grass and over an intricately grown bridge. They ascended the wide stair.

  “This isn’t the first time,” Ambriel hissed through gritted teeth.

  A heavy feeling weighed in Leigh’s stomach. He ducked his head as he kept up. So the elves hadn’t been entirely honest. They offered a new ally with one hand and a new enemy with the other.

  The elves formed ranks, Ambriel finding his place in the front and barking orders in Elvish.

  Bows trained at high targets. Leigh’s gaze climbed the ironwood trees embracing Vervewood. Arrows flew.

  High up, hooks dug into branches, trailing ropes that went taut. From the other side of the wall of trees, dark figures ascended—three, ten, no… More. Arrows plucked them out of the sky. Severed ropes.

  A hand-axe whirred by. Buried in an elven chest. Blood gushed.

  Ambriel nocked another arrow.

  Two hand-axes flew toward them. Leigh cast a force-magic shield, repelling the two weapons. Sparking, they fell harmlessly to the ground.

  He spread the shield wide, providing cover for the archers, then channeled attractant force magic in his free hand. Scanning the ironwood canopy, he plucked dark figures from the branches one by one. They flew, screaming, to their deaths.

  Bones crunched. Flesh squelched. Blood sloshed.

  Screams erupted from Vervewood. Light-elves dragged away toward the trees by a few dark-elf survivors. Channeling repellent magic, Leigh hit each of them with force-magic shoves, pushed them together, then—with a closing of his hand—crushed them together into a bloody paste.

  Not a muscle moved.

  A susurrus rippled through the light-elves, whispers and mutterings a tide.

  From the ironwood branches, ropes hung limp. Not another soul emerged.

  Voices reclaimed the hush, sharp orders and questions, desperate calls. Ambriel lowered his bow and returned the arrow to its quiver. He eyed Leigh, brows drawn, and gaped.

  Leigh patted his shoulder. “Now, where were we?”

  Drina stowed her entry papers in her apothecary’s satchel as she headed past the service gate and into the palace. A second delivery of wild carrot powder, red raspberry leaf tea, and chasteberry… Lady Vauquelin must have been pleased with the first. Keeping her pleased would remain a priority, at least until the king met his fate.

  The morning light shimmered through the massive windows, motes of dust dancing above the gleaming marble floors, where fashionable high-heeled slippers and glossed leather boots clacked past. Great hearths housed great fires, warming through the late winter chill, and she paused to heat her palms on her way to the stairs and Lady Vauquelin’s quarters.

  Shifting her satchel, she knocked.

  The door opened. A freckled young woman smiled and bowed her head. Primly, perfectly. Vassal nobility, no doubt. A lady-in-waiting. She offered a polite greeting. “My lady is currently indisposed. If you would be so kind as to wait, she will be along presently.”

  Drina nodded, and the lady-in-waiting held the door and invited her in, ushered her to a seat in the salon. Drina sat and accepted black tea and a small plate of glazed petits fours. The lady-in-waiting busied herself arranging a bouquet of lilies while voices carried in from the bedchamber.

  “Who are they?” a woman’s mellifluous voice trilled. Sileni.

  “His Camarilla tutors,” Lady Vauquelin said softly. “They take a turn around the Winter Garden once a week.”

  “Companions?”

  “Of course,” she replied. “But you mean are they his lovers?” A pause. “No, no. He was innocent but months ago. Perhaps, contrary to rumor, he still is. He wouldn’t know the ways of the game; his advisers were wise to procure tutors on such matters.” Another pause, then a soft huff. “Perhaps if they were both women. But a man and a woman? No, not for him. I daresay he’s much more traditional.”

  “Too traditional?”

  A haughty laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous, Chantal,” Lady Vauquelin cajoled. “Look at him… Dark, gloomy, lifeless. Broken. Perhaps once he might have had the will to remain steadfast, but no more. He is ripe for joy, vulnerable, and so unaware.”

  “You’re utterly wicked.” An excited giggle from Chantal.

  “So perfectly wicked.” They both laughed. “But he needs someone. Every man does.”

  “On the subject, is your brother coming to court?” Chantal asked.

  A puff. “We have more important concerns than my wayward brother.”

  Chantal whimpered dejectedly. “Is it so contemptible that I would like his strong arms to comfort me while my husband handles these trade negotiations?”

  “Your life is stable. Take care upsetting that stability, my friend.” Another pause.

  “Don’t worry. No one will take Vauquelin from you and your boys, Nora. The new king doesn’t seem the type.”

  The soft sound of a kiss. “Great Wolf bless you, Chantal.” A lengthy, contented breath. “Shall we meet for tea later? I have appointments.”

  Drina straightened on the sofa. Well, well. The countess of Vauquelin certainly surprised. Did she and her friend scheme together? How would the woman help her? Fate spun her threads in such strange ways.

  A pair of delicately slippered feet soon padded across a rug to click across the floor. A young woman appeared, a little over five feet tall, slender but shapely. Her chocolate-brown curls tumbled in a cascade down her back, but her most striking feature was her classically beautiful porcelain face, with bright, youthful sage-green eyes. She was easily one of the most beautiful women at the Emaurrian court.

  She glided through the salon, sparing only a mere imperious glance before exiting the quarters.

  Another set of footsteps, and Lady Vauquelin entered bearing a gown over her arm, a heavy sigh relaxing her shoulders.

  “Melanie,” she said, and the lady-in-waiting inclined her head. “Take this back to the dressmaker. The embroidery is unimpressive. Tell him I want his best work by the Veris ball, and that my father sends his regards.”

  Veris…

  The night Drina had raided the chambers of the Master of Ceremonies, she’d discovered a dance suite, but little else. A Veris ball… The king would dance with many women, perhaps even seduce one. To be killed at the end of such a night, with a lover in his arms—

  Drina resisted the urge to grin. How perfect it would be for that bitch Favrielle to discover her man lost to another woman and to this life. How deliciously perfect.

  Poison? It could be done, and with so many bodies in the palace, it would be simple—easy, really—to go wherever she wanted. Kill him however she wa
nted.

  Melanie accepted the dress and bowed. “Yes, my lady.” She took the gown and disappeared.

  Lady Vauquelin’s hazel eyes settled on Drina. “You’re early.”

  Drina tapped her satchel and suppressed a grimace. She’d arrived midmorning, as agreed. She plastered on a simpering smile. “Apologies, Your Ladyship.”

  Lady Vauquelin waved her hand dismissively and seated herself primly in an armchair off to the side, settling her red silk robe over her legs. “I trust you’ve brought all I’ve ordered?”

  “Yes, Your Ladyship.” Drina opened her satchel and unloaded the packages. Veris was one month away… She would have to guarantee her return to the palace. An inducement would work. “Is everything working to your satisfaction?”

  Lady Vauquelin raised a perfectly arched eyebrow and sighed, reclining in her armchair. “Despite all my preparations, I cannot avoid the fact that a man is required.”

  An open admission? “I can’t imagine Your Ladyship would have any difficulty in that regard.” Drina looked her over for effect.

  Lady Vauquelin smiled. “No. Not usually. But this one is proving… a challenge.”

  “There are tools that may assist in any man’s… surmounting.” When the lady merely raised her eyebrows, Drina continued, “An aphrodisiac lip balm. It has only recently been tested and sold, but I have heard when worn in very close proximity to a man, it has the power to madden him with need.” A perfect inducement.

  Lady Vauquelin bolted upright in her chair most ungracefully. “And you can procure this balm?”

  Drina drew in a slow, contemplative breath and tilted her head. “I do know the apothecary who formulated it. I could reach out to him if Your Ladyship should—”

  “Please do.” She crossed her legs. “When would it arrive?”

  “In a month, perhaps.”

  The lady shook her head, dark curls bouncing. “No. Not soon enough.”

  “It would be imported from Pryndon. Quite a distance away… And I’m certain few, if any, other Emaurrians have procured it.”