By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2)

by Miranda Honfleur

  Exclusive. A woman like her would need to have it.

  Lady Vauquelin narrowed her eyes. “I must have it.”

  Drina smiled. “Then you shall, Your Ladyship.”

  The lady rose, red silk billowing about her delicate form. “Then I shall see you in a month.”

  A month from now, on the day of Veris. Another set of entry papers… and another path to ending the king.

  Drina rose and bowed. “Thank you, Your Ladyship.”

  Chapter 33

  An arm tightened its grip on Rielle’s waist, a man’s breath in her ear. Her entire body went rigid, her pulse thrashed in her ears, and Divine, there wasn’t enough space here, not enough room—

  A tremor shook through her, and the man beside her stirred.

  “Rielle,” came the voice. Brennan’s.

  She opened her eyes. A massive bed and tasseled pillows in deep colors. Satin-and-brocade drapes. A tented canvas canopy. Not House Hazael. Somewhere else. She drew into herself and thanked the Divine, despite the cramps assailing her stomach.

  Brennan pulled away, then gently rested a palm on her shoulder. She quivered.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Just fine,” she replied, with forced cheer. Last night, she’d dreamed of him holding her, but when she’d awoken, he had been holding her.

  Fine…

  But her head pounded, and her stomach, and her side, and her inner barriers rusted for the lack of anima. She felt hollowed somehow, caving in. Her gaze wandered next to the bed, where a pile of bloodied gauze and cloths lay.

  An injury… Where? She pulled her knees in tighter, shifted. Then felt the rub of the gauze against her skin, beneath her.

  No…

  Her palm descended to her belly. It was no different—smooth, unmarred—and yet…

  Her eyes watered, and she closed them. Strong arms enclosed her.

  She shook her head. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t.

  Just yesterday, everything had been fine. She’d been four months with child.

  A smoky haze, a poisoned pin, Farrad bleeding, dead… Fighting guards… She moaned. So much injury, so much blood…

  Too much.

  Too much blood, cramping, pain, and Sylvie—Divine, Sylvie—

  Gone.

  Her chest filled and filled and filled to bursting, and she gasped for breath, tried to inhale, but there was no room.

  She’d lost Sylvie.

  Her child, Jon’s, four months along, and… she was gone.

  No, she couldn’t let her go. Sylvie was all alone, needed her… mother—

  The tears flowed, heavy and stinging, and she couldn’t stop them. Wouldn’t. Pain seized her body and squeezed, and her chest was tight enough to implode. She pressed her fingers into the flesh of her chest until pain bit, deep and penetrating, spreading, sprawling, opening and hungry, singing a ravening call to the elements, to her magic, a choir of anima rising to hum, deafening and soothing—

  A clamp on her arm. Brennan.

  “Rielle,” he said, and he grabbed her shoulders, shook her. “Great Wolf, Rielle—”

  A flaming bed, fire blazing up the satin-and-brocade drapes, canvas in ashes and crumbling—

  Brennan grabbed her face, squeezed her cheeks. “Rielle, stop this! Now!”

  Heat seared from her hands up her arms, flame licking her skin—

  “Jon!” he shouted. “What about Jon? He’s waiting for you, isn’t he? Are you going to leave him alone?”

  Jon. She inhaled, smoke and ash. Jon…

  Her heart ached, held, embraced, crushed. Jon… No, she couldn’t leave him. Wouldn’t. She loved him. Needed him. And he needed her, needed her to tell him about Shadow…

  To live. To survive…

  The flames cloaking her arms faded, died.

  She met Brennan’s eyes, the tempest there, and her vision blurred. “Why her?” she whispered between sobs. “Why her and not me?”

  He pulled her into an embrace, stroked her hair softly, rocked her gently.

  Great Divine, of all the things taken from her here, not her child, too. Not to the Hazaels, not to this place. Why did the Divine take her? Of all life, an innocent who had not even begun to live?

  “How?” She croaked.

  Brennan’s hold tightened. “We… couldn’t summon a healer,” he whispered. “The doctor did all he could, but it was… too late.”

  Too late.

  A hollow widened in her throat, and she shuddered violently. She’d used all her magic at House Hazael, and hadn’t had enough to heal fully.

  Summoning a healer would have meant alerting the Sonbaharan Tower to her whereabouts… and likely execution for what she’d done. Maybe they wouldn’t have even healed her.

  But she would’ve gone to the Tower anyway, even for the sliver of a chance of saving Sylvie.

  And Brennan… Brennan had followed her instructions.

  She closed her eyes, trembling against him. She was here, with Brennan, alive and free, but at what cost? The price for freedom had been steep. Sylvie had paid, and she had paid, and Jon had paid, and Farrad had paid, and the guards had paid, and she would pay for the rest of her life.

  And Samara…

  She gasped. “Brennan. Samara—We need to go back for her.”

  “You barely got out alive,” he said hoarsely. “We’re not going back.”

  She stiffened. “Yes, we are. I’m not leaving her there—”

  “I told you last night, I’ll have Kehani buy her.”

  Buy? She winced. If Farrad was right, Ihsan would be selling the slaves. And if he was wrong, she’d be keeping them. Either way, someone could make an offer and try to buy one. Someone like Kehani. “She will?”

  “Yes,” he whispered, pulling her closer. “I’ll make sure of it.”

  And I’ll make sure of it. “Have her sent to Trèstellan, to me or to Olivia,” she said. “I want to see she’ll be free.”

  “Yes, as you wish.”

  She glanced out the latticed window. It was still dark, although there was a glimmer of light on the horizon. The dawn was imminent. It would be a day unlike any other in four months. A lonely, hollow day… but she was free. She pulled away to look at him.

  “Brennan,” she said softly, “thank you… for saving my life.”

  He lowered his gaze and nodded. “You didn’t need me… All I did was carry you out.”

  She shook her head. “No. Without you, I’d still be there, and… worse.”

  He chewed his lower lip, and then the bed shifted as he stood. “I know this has been a horrible night and day, but…”

  Every moment they spent here, they risked capture. Her gaze lingered on the bloodied gauze until it blurred.

  Shadow, and this place, had robbed her of Sylvie, and had robbed her even of the time to mourn, and yet greedily awaited more. Her capture. Her death. Brennan’s. Jon’s. Her heart broke for time, but there was none to be had here. No more.

  Blinking, she raised her teary gaze to Brennan’s and nodded.

  The grim line of his mouth shifted to a brief, comforting smile before he stalked about the quarters. “The servants brought some things for you.”

  The splashing gave him away at the washbasin.

  She sat up, her limbs not quite feeling like her own. Her fingers trembled. Her anima was dark—very dark—but there was nothing she could do about that now. The healing had been costly. She looked at her bare thighs, just below the hem of an unfamiliar tunic. Bloodied.

  Jumping from the bed, she peered down at her legs, wincing as her cramps spiked.

  Brennan was at her side instantly, reaching out to steady her.

  A wave of weakness doused her right away, setting her legs trembling, and she closed her eyes, rubbing her face with a sweaty palm.

  Her gaze rested on the bloodied gauze and cloths. The cramps doubled her over, and she wept, and damn it all, she couldn’t stop.

  The blood… She had to see this, every
day, for days, weeks, Sylvie’s death, until…

  Taut, Brennan reached out but stopped and clenched his fist. “I don’t know how—” He broke off. “Tell me what to do, Rielle. Please. Tell me what I can do.”

  The tears wouldn’t stop, and she sobbed uncontrollably. How had she allowed it to happen? Why? Divine, how could this have happened?

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I never—”

  “I’m fine,” she said, wiping away her tears. She wasn’t fine, but she couldn’t bear to talk about this any more, to stay here. The desert awaited them, and the Bay of Amar, and Courdeval, and…

  Jon.

  Great Divine, Jon. How would she be able to face him after this? How could she tell him that she hadn’t been able to keep their child safe?

  Her hand went to her forehead, and she rubbed it, rubbed her face as it twisted.

  “We have to go.” Sad eyes roved over her.

  Forcing a nod, she glanced at him, then toward the balaustine-red thiyawb and matching halla hanging on a hook. “Is that for me?”

  “We should discuss—”

  “I’m fine, really,” she lied, her breaths shallow as she reached for the thiyawb.

  Brennan remained silent.

  Her breath caught. She could never lie to him. He’d know by the beat of her heart. He knew now. She wrung the garment in her hands.

  “I’ll find us some food while you get dressed,” he said cautiously. “I’ll send a maid up to help you with your hair.”

  She reached to touch her hair, finding it a tangled mess.

  All that mattered now was getting out of here and to Courdeval before Shadow could take away another person she loved.

  Ignoring the throbbing tangle of emotions inside him, Brennan rushed down to the kitchen. The harsh desert sun would dawn in an hour, and both he and Rielle needed to be out of the city by then. He could already smell the white-bean wayfarer’s soup cooking; as a boy, he’d always eaten it with Father the day they departed Xir.

  In the kitchen, several women flitted around. “Breakfast?” he demanded.

  “Zahib,” Cook said, inclining her head, “we will bring breakfast to you and your guest forthwith.”

  With a shrug, he thanked her; she’d been there as long as he could remember. Unable to resist the scent, he grabbed a flat bread and left the kitchen. As he passed the inner courtyard, he spied Kehani having tea, his dark waves unbound over a flowing, emerald-green caftan. For all her indifferent airs this morning, he could hear her heart race as he strode past.

  “The news has already spread all over the city,” she called out to him. Foolishly running her mouth. Recklessly.

  Clenching his teeth, he approached. “Keep your voice down.” He tipped his head toward his quarters.

  Kehani raised her eyebrows. “Farrad Hazael is a well-regarded man, Brennan. He is known for treating his wives and children well, for being a fair businessman, a respectable duelist. All of Xir and the zahibshada himself are looking for the slave responsible for this.” She glanced up toward his quarters.

  “She is no one’s slave,” he seethed, keeping his voice low. “A woman of noble birth, my betrothed, was abducted and sold into servitude. No one takes from a Marcel.” When Kehani froze, speechless, he continued, “And you’re misinformed about the man. Any man who could subjugate someone—”

  “A slave.”

  “—cannot be called ‘well regarded’ by any stretch of the imagination.” He suppressed a growl.

  “To them, she is no more than a slave. Be glad they do not know her true identity.” Kehani took a deep breath. “For all your time here and your Sonbaharan blood, you still do not understand our ways.”

  “Our ways?” He scowled. Father understood Sonbaharan ways, all too well, and that was what was wrong with him. “I don’t want to understand ways that make such atrocities acceptable.”

  “Brennan,” she said, in that smooth, sincere way that had always reached him as a boy. “I do not say this to anger you but to educate you. I see what you have gotten yourself into. And I want you to be aware of the danger. You might leave Xir today, but Xir will not leave you. Ever. Every shafi, nawi, and even the zahibshada himself will not stop looking for the one who dared touch such a man. It sets a dangerous precedent.”

  He turned away. “I don’t plan to be found.”

  “Just promise me you’ll take care,” she said, her shaky tone laced with worry. “The ire of every influential man in Xir is not something you should ignore.”

  “If they even think of touching what’s mine, it is they who should fear me.”

  “Your father is the same way.” She met his gaze squarely.

  Ah, an effort to threaten him should he reveal their dalliance to Father… Brennan almost admired her boldness, attempting to play her weak hand. “Yes, he’s very protective of his family.”

  Duke Faolan Auvray Marcel would favor a mistress over his only son and heir the day the sun neglected to rise. And she well knew it.

  Her gaze narrowed, but she smiled and sipped her tea. “I sent my maid to attend your fiancée.”

  No taste for defeat—a subtle cue to go. “Thank you.” He paused. “There’s something else I need you to do.”

  She heaved a lengthy sigh. “I am hardly surprised.”

  “There’s an apothecary slave at House Hazael, a young woman by the name of Samara. I want you to buy her through intermediaries and have her sent to me at Trèstellan Palace.”

  She raised dark eyebrows. “You would involve me in your crime spree? I don’t plan to risk my head for—”

  “No one would dare touch you, and you know it.” He peered at her. “I’ll reimburse you, naturally, plus a handsome fee for your efforts.”

  She finally nodded.

  Just as he turned to leave, she said, “You could have told me why you were here.”

  “I didn’t want to implicate you.” Or risk you trading secrets for favor.

  “You already have.”

  “It would be best if you slept through last night, and no one heard or saw a thing.” He didn’t need to add the threat of outing her to Father.

  Her black-as-night eyes locked with his, she smiled. “Isn’t that what happened?”

  When the sun peeked over the horizon, Rielle had already exited the hateful walls of Xir with Brennan.

  Her hands trembled—anima withdrawal. Peering at her wrists, the false arcanir cuffs occasionally showed past the deep-red sleeve of her thiyawb; she and Brennan hadn’t had time to get them removed.

  She squinted; even with her gaze downcast, the light still tormented her sensitive eyes, and her cramping stomach had to be the worst pain she’d ever felt in her life, even through the herbs the villa’s maids had given her.

  Between the western Altaef Mountains and the eastern Siddi range stretched a low, flat desert. Sand dunes disappeared into the horizon, the shape of never-ending round bellies veiled in honey-brown shrouds whipped about by the wind. The voices of shifting sands whispered secrets lost in time, in the endless, stark wilderness. Here, in this otherworldly place, she was no more than a red drop in a sea of sun-burnt gold.

  They made north to Gazgan, a small port town west of Harifa. They’d left the villa with a large breakfast that Brennan had insisted she eat on the way. A fried egg in olive oil with a wedge of creamy cheese and black olives, which she’d eaten with the flat bread and a mix of cumin, sesame seeds, and salt. With it, she’d had a soft, tart goat cheese and a spicy white-bean soup flavored with onion and garlic and served with olive oil and cumin. A massive meal.

  The soup had been heavy, but now, hours later, she was thankful for it, even if the harsh stink of camel made her nauseous.

  She’d never ridden a camel before, but Brennan had advised her, all the while carefully keeping his distance. They had left through Xir’s West Gate, and just as Ihsan had said, the guard on duty glanced at her eyes, asked whether she’d dropped something, and when she’d said yes, handed her a pouch
of gold araqs.

  And she was out of the city, as promised.

  Ihsan… At last, Rielle mustered the courage to take the bloody papers from her thiyawb. Farrad’s papers. She unfolded them.

  Release documents… She blinked and reread them. And again.

  It was… just as Farrad had said.

  A shudder shook her, and gooseflesh pebbled her skin. Had he been telling the truth? About everything?

  If she had just waited, done nothing, would he have seen her freed? Her and Sylvie?

  Her fingers shook.

  Sylvie would have lived. Her daughter and Jon’s, alive, well, growing up. If she had just—

  A soreness formed in her throat and lungs, and even in the desert heat, cold iced her flesh. That future was beyond her now. That sunlit day would never dawn.

  If only Farrad had told her… Could she have stopped to listen to him? Or would she have been dead for it?

  But knowing what little she had, the killing and the escape had seemed her only options. Seemed.

  When Brennan urged his camel closer, she glanced at him. As soon as the sunlight assaulted her eyes, she regretted it. Her ribs squeezed, and her skin tightened.

  “You know, Emaurria’s probably covered in snow right now,” Brennan said, with a pleasant animation to his tone, a lilt, one she hadn’t heard in years. “Remember that one year when your family was at court for the winter, and Father and I returned from Sonbahar early? We built a massive snowman in the courtyard.”

  “You built a massive snowman in the courtyard,” she replied, with a chuckle. She’d been no more than six when eleven-year-old Brennan and his father arrived for a visit at her family’s Courdevallan villa, Couronne. The snow had fallen late and heavy that year, and she’d goaded Brennan into helping her build a snowman after she’d exhausted her brother Liam’s patience.

  Brennan had obliged.

  “At your behest,” he argued cheerily.

  When she’d remarked with concern that their snowman would be cold, Brennan had taken off his cloak and swept it around their creation.

  “When you’d shed your cloak, I don’t think I’d ever seen your nanny so upset.” She laughed.