By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2)

by Miranda Honfleur

  Flames consumed the world around him. Fate thundered in on four legs.

  He pushed from the ground, staggered, collapsed. Knees—

  Not even he would survive beheading.

  He stared into the abyss. Alone, in the middle of a desert. It wasn’t quite how he’d imagined it.

  The bloodied lance charged for him again.

  Not yet. He fell to the side and grabbed for the lance. He tried to sweep it back, but his shoulder failed him.

  A swordsman dismounted, closed in, and lunged for his chest. He caught the saber, released the lance, and swept a low kick, taking the man off his feet.

  He plunged his claws beneath the mail shirt and dug deep, raking through the man’s entrails. A gurgle began his slow, excruciating death.

  Two lancers, one swordsman, one bowman. And then she’d be safe. Only—

  He tried to brace himself with the saber, pushing down against the pommel, burdening his unsteady legs.

  A sharp piercing in his back—between his shoulder blades—an arrow rippling pain. He lost his grip on the saber and grabbed for it again.

  The lancer charged again.

  He twisted to evade—thundering hooves behind him—a point tore through his shoulder and pinned him to the ground. A lance. The second lancer.

  Sand. He tried to rise. Couldn’t.

  Tightened his grip on the saber.

  Rielle…

  Boots hit the ground. Three blades whispered free of scabbards.

  I…

  A saber plunged through his other shoulder, anchoring him. A knee settled on the small of his back.

  He caught the sheen of the dagger in his periphery, firelight consuming the steel. Sharpness broke into his skull at his temple. Plunged. Agony burned through his head.

  And then all was dark.

  A loud rumble sounded in the distance. Rielle jolted awake, feeling around for Brennan. The night was so dark it was nearly black, but the ever-watching stars offered some scant light. Her gaze darted about wildly.

  He was nowhere to be found.

  She searched the ground until, finally, smooth fabric slipped beneath her fingers. Brennan’s thiyawb. She raised it to her chest and looked out into the distance.

  A fire burned, a growing light among the black. Her runes.

  She clutched the thiyawb tighter. Brennan had gone into battle. Alone.

  Her heart raced as she scrambled out of the bedroll. Magic? Her anima hadn’t brightened much—she could cast a few spells, and that was it. No healing. And if she wasn’t careful, she’d go into fureur, tap into her life force, and cast spells until dead.

  But Brennan was out there. She wouldn’t abandon him. Something… She had to do something.

  Smoke filling her nostrils, she broke into a run toward the fire. A couple highly destructive spells were her best option. There’d only be one chance—maybe two. And to kill them all, she’d need her enemies clumped together.

  Bait.

  She tried to pull on the bond.

  There was nothing.

  Cold swept through her, chilled. She shuddered and looked inward. The part of her anima devoted to the bond was free. No bond.

  Her foot slipped in the sand, and she stumbled but caught herself.

  No bond.

  Brennan—

  No, you’re all right.

  A fire blazed ahead—the rune’s explosion had caught some tufts of weeping lovegrass. Horses shuffled in the distance. A few runes lay dormant to the left.

  She ran faster. Bait. But it couldn’t be obvious.

  The flames silhouetted a small tree—a tamarisk. She darted toward it and allowed herself to trip with a yelp.

  Sand filled her nostrils as she rolled. Come and get me. Huffing, she rose.

  Hooves pounded the sand. Four riders.

  She scrambled backward, ducked behind some weeping lovegrass. With a twist of her fingers, a fireball sparked to life. Twirling it in her palm, she built it. The riders staggered and closed, almost alongside the dormant runes.

  It was still too small; it had to be big and distracting. She waited as long as she dared.

  She threw the fireball just to the right. A crack, a whoosh. Sand and flame flew, exploding in dust and sparks. They veered to the left. One rider caught fire.

  Sleight of hand.

  With her other hand, she raised a wall behind them. Sand hardened and rose into stone. Fifteen feet tall, curving for twenty feet around them. Flame blocked their front and right. The runes blocked the left.

  Three riders made for the quickly closing gap between the runes and the wall.

  Too late.

  She drew in her fingers, drawing the wall’s stone to collapse toward them. A rumble shook the sands, an explosion. Fire and wind burst from the runes. Horses screamed. Men shouted. The grating of stone against stone abraded the air.

  Eyes wide, she stared ahead, her breath coming fast and harsh. Tremors racked her body.

  Had any lived?

  In an instant, she looked inward. Her anima dangerously skirted fureur.

  She blinked it away. Unable to spare the cost of an earthsight spell, she staggered to her feet and scanned the desert before her in the light of burning grasses.

  Nothing moved. Only the crackling of fire disturbed the quiet.

  Brennan.

  She crept through the ruins, the burning brush, and the carnage, searching the ground for him.

  A fallen horse, wisps of black mane fluttering in the wind. Just past it, she could see the hilt of a saber and most of a lance. Plunged into the ground. Plunged into…

  Her breath caught. She scrambled toward the horse, her terrified gaze descending along the blade of the saber until she found where it met with flesh. A man’s back.

  Brennan’s back. Through his shoulder.

  A lance through his other shoulder.

  An arrow in his spine.

  A dagger in his head.

  In his head. A dagger in his head.

  She cried out, covered her mouth. Couldn’t stop the tears from coming. Ran to him and fell to her knees. Her hands shot toward him but paused just over his skin. Was he…?

  She placed her palms on his back, sticky with blood. He was cold. There was nothing—

  She shed her thiyawb and covered him, rubbing his arm through the cloth. Warm him up. She had to warm him up. Just a little warmth, that was all. That was all he needed.

  Just—

  Only a little, and—

  A sob tore from her throat. She gulped it back.

  She brushed his hair away from his face. Glassy eyes. She gasped.

  “No.” Choked, the word barely emerged.

  Her ankle pulled out from under her.

  She fell to the ground, dragged. A tight, painful grip.

  A man, trapped under a horse, pulled her. Scrambling, she kicked at his face and grabbed wildly. No magic. She couldn’t use magic.

  Divine. He was at her knee.

  Her hand found a hilt, and she pulled through the resistance. Even before it was free, she knew from where it came. Brennan.

  The man seized her thigh with both hands, nails breaking the skin.

  She lunged forward and grabbed for his wrist. Yanked back. His wide eyes froze open.

  A dagger slash—the eye.

  He screamed, rolled his head to the side. She plunged the blade into his neck. His hands instantly released her.

  She scrambled away. The man gasped, gurgled, but she turned from his dying throes to Brennan.

  Still. Unmoving. Fingers trembling, she closed his eyes, the softness of his eyelashes tickling her skin. Making her shiver.

  Divine, please.

  She sniffled and dragged an arm across her face. The bond hadn’t returned. It had never left her like this before. He had never…

  The weeping lovegrass next to him burned. Close. Closer.

  If she didn’t move him, he’d burn, too. Anchored to the ground by the saber and the lance, he’d need them
removed. She stared at the arrow embedded between his shoulder blades.

  When he’d been pinned here, he had to have known it was his end.

  But he hadn’t pulled on the bond. Hadn’t called out.

  He’d… died.

  Brennan, you— She rubbed her lips together and shook her head. Hot tears burned in her eyes, rolling sticky warm trails down her face, robbing her of the strength to move him, and she couldn’t stop the sobs that wracked her body. He’d allowed himself to die here to protect her. Hoped he’d bought her enough time.

  Her entire body shook.

  Brennan… Why did he? There was nothing in it for him. He could have run, could have lived. Even without his monthly control, he could have at least survived.

  He’d wanted something from her. She laughed sickly, tears bursting forth with renewed force. That’s what she’d told herself for so long. But here he was, the selfish wolf, the cruel man, the manipulator, dead. For her sake.

  To save herself, her child, and Jon, she’d agreed to assassinate Farrad. And she had. For her actions, the warriors had been sent after her, but Brennan—

  Brennan had paid the price.

  She’d killed Farrad, and Brennan had died for it. Blood for blood. She exhaled bitterly.

  A nearer tuft of weeping lovegrass caught fire.

  She wouldn’t leave him here. Not like this. She’d move him or die trying. Grunting with effort, she pulled out the arrow.

  She struggled to her feet and grabbed the sword hilt. After one pull, it wouldn’t budge. Please, please… just, please… Come on… Weeping, she yanked at it until it was finally free, then threw it aside.

  He didn’t flinch.

  Didn’t move.

  Only lay there, absent, no pain, no… anything.

  Her lower lip trembled, but she bit it into submission.

  The lance was even worse, but it, too, at last came free.

  A firm hold on his wrists, she painstakingly dragged him to the cover of the tamarisk, her arms and legs numb. She collapsed to her knees and onto her chest, the air oomphing out of her lungs as her face met the sand.

  Crying, she dug her fingers into the ground. Tried to pull nearer. Huddled close, rested her forehead against his. Full of sand and tears, her eyes burned, and she shut them. Surrendered.

  He’d loved her.

  He’d loved her, and now he was gone.

  Chapter 36

  Olivia crumpled the message in her hand. “Why didn’t you deliver this to His Majesty?”

  “Apologies, Lady Archmage. His Majesty’s guard said he was indisposed.”

  Indisposed? She shut her aching eyes. She’d cried for days; Jon was still in mourning and she’d only just told him about his heart, but the kingdom relied on him. He couldn’t afford to be “indisposed.”

  She waved off the messenger. The young man bowed and left her salon. Silence and the blush of the early-morning sun reclaimed the room.

  She reached behind her for an armrest, and when her grip closed around the familiar damask, she surrendered to the chair.

  The light-elves of Vervewood were being raided by another tribe of elves, the dark-elves of Stonehaven.

  She smoothed her black wool gown, busying her anxious fingers. The alliance hadn’t even been sworn, and already it threatened to fall to ruin. Leigh had written in no uncertain terms that the light-elves would gratefully offer information on the Sundering, the Earthbinding, and dragon mages in exchange for Emaurria’s assistance.

  Emaurria already struggled for breath beneath a never-ending assault of Immortals, and now this?

  But if Leigh’s words were true, Stonehaven threatened all. Better to handle a fledgling enemy early with an ally than to wait while the enemy grew strong on conquest. Jon would see reason.

  She pushed to her feet and shook out her skirts. See reason… Tor had assured her of Jon’s agreement to swear the elven oath. That meant he had already improved, if only a little.

  It was time to speak with him. Together, they’d support one another through Rielle’s death and work to find the one responsible. They would keep the kingdom safe, and it started with this alliance.

  Clutching the message, she strode out into the hall and toward the royal quarters. Jon hadn’t faced the messenger, but he would face her.

  In these early hours, she passed rare faces offering cordial greetings, courtiers going about their normal days. None of them knew Rielle was gone, nor the depth of her loss or Jon’s. None of them knew Jon had but a couple years to live. The kingdom lived on, breathed on, unaware.

  Someone would have to tell the duchess of Melain, Rielle’s great-grandmother. Olivia knitted her eyebrows together. She would make the visit if Brennan didn’t return soon. The duchess deserved to know, to be told in person, and there were arrangements to be made, contingencies, and…

  She swept the wetness from her cheeks and took deep, calming breaths. It would not do to meet Jon in tears. Surely he was barely managing on his own and would not need a reason to falter.

  At last she arrived in the royal wing and before Sir Raoul and Sir Florian, who stood sentinel, if with a ghostly pallor and sickly sheen.

  She greeted them, earning lifeless greetings in return. “Are you quite well?” She glanced from one to the other.

  Sir Raoul scowled at his partner, then sighed. “Yes, Lady Archmage.”

  Even as he said so, his ice-blue eyes dulled. She pressed her lips together. Was some fever spreading through the palace? “Honesty, Sir Raoul, is a virtue. If you are ill, I am—quite conveniently—a healer.”

  He grimaced. “It is not that, Lady Archmage.”

  “Very well.” She glanced at the door. “Is His Majesty in?”

  Sir Raoul’s gaze darted to Sir Florian. “He is… indisposed.”

  Did Jon suffer this fever as well? Had he taken ill? It could worsen his condition. “Divine, you two! I am the Archmage, yes, but a healer first. If His Majesty has taken ill—”

  Sir Raoul shook his head and opened his mouth when one of the doors opened. He and Sir Florian stood to attention.

  Laughter exited the royal quarters first, quiet and girlish, and then Nora Marcel Vignon in a man’s brocade dressing gown, her dark shimmering locks disheveled, her face-paint smudged.

  Olivia gaped, eyes widening, her chest taut as thread on a loom. A woman? A woman had been in Jon’s quarters, and—by the look of her—had spent the night?

  Nora’s hazel eyes met hers, and a little smirk stole onto the beautiful woman’s face. Smug. Victorious. With a flutter of her long lashes, she glided away down the hall.

  Olivia’s vision blurred before she remembered to blink. Her mouth had gone dry, and she brought her lips together once more, her gaze scrabbling toward Sir Raoul.

  His eyes went soft. Sympathetic. “Lady…”

  Paper crackled in her hand. She stormed through the open door.

  “Lady Archmage!” Sir Raoul's voice bellowed behind her.

  She didn’t stop, striding through the salon, the study, and into the bedchamber. The indignity, the disrespect, the callousness—

  She shook her head. “How dare you—”

  A set of gloved hands gripped her arm, and she thrashed free. In the massive four-poster bed, Jon sat bare chested, the sheets over his lap, elbows on his raised knees and his head in his hands.

  “Lady Archmage,” Sir Raoul scolded, “you cannot—”

  Jon raised a hand and waved the words away dismissively. “Leave us,” he mumbled.

  She yanked her arm back and stared a hole through Sir Raoul's face. He pressed his lips into a thin line, bowed, and exited. When the door closed, she stalked to the side of the bed and threw the message at Jon. It hit him in the shoulder.

  He didn’t even flinch. The sour smell of old wine rolled off him.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she shouted at him. “The kingdom is on the verge of war, and you’re—”

  He shot up and bolted from the bed
, shoving her aside as he ran to the garderobe and vomited.

  Puffing a sharp breath, she poured a cup of water, then headed to the washbasin and grabbed a towel. She held the towel out to him.

  “Why, Jon?” She shook her head. “Why?”

  Coughing between dry heaves, he palmed his mouth before he grabbed the towel and wiped. “Olivia—”

  She snatched the towel away and handed him the water. He eyed her lifelessly, and she turned away from him and searched his quarters for clothes. She found braies on the floor and threw them at him. “I told you to avoid wine, to rest, and this is what you do? Are you trying to die?”

  “I don’t need to… explain myself to you,” he rasped, then took a gulp. And another.

  Don’t need to explain? She could have struck him. “I’m your healer! It’s my mission to keep you alive and well.” His health was her duty. “And we only just found out about Rielle two days ago! This is how you honor her? How do you think she would feel, knowing you did this? How can you even claim to have loved her? I don’t even—”

  “It’s over,” he said quietly. The cup thumped on wood, and he moved to the washbasin and splashed his face. He shook out his hands, leaning over the basin, staring joylessly into the mirror.

  Her back hit the wall, and she shut her eyes, leaned her head against it. Every time she visited the abbey, beheld James’ gisant, a part of her begged for release from this prison, to be reunited with him. The world was lonely now, and thin; in those moments, if she couldn’t have the perfect world he’d existed in, she didn’t want any world at all.

  But that part of her gave way to reality, to the sunlight dancing on the marble floor, to life continuing to beat its steady pulse. Friends, family, nature and its beauty. Destiny, future. Ripples of good that would flow from her into everything and everyone else, ripples that would not exist without her.

  She opened her eyes. Jon hadn’t moved, staring into the ghost of a man that stared back at him in the mirror. Caught staring into the abyss inside of him, he would never see reality, the sunlight dancing… None of it.

  She approached him and gently took his hand; he didn’t resist, and she covered it with her other. She squeezed his hand, and his eyes shuttered. “You still have time. Do you see nothing beyond these bars you’ve forged for yourself?”