“Yes,” he grunted.
“No, you’re not. You’re too busy thinking about other things.”
He eyed her peripherally, but his lips resumed their firm guard.
“Once you’ve learned the spell, you can train yourself to cast even despite distractions—improving your focus—but as a novice, you’ll never learn unless you clear your mind.” She didn’t have to ask to know what his thoughts were. His mind was wandering, and she couldn’t blame him. His life had been upended; how could he not think about that constantly?
It had only been a few days since the news of Rielle, and he’d… taken a new lover. And just this morning, he’d met with every suitress to kindly inform them he was formally courting Princess Alessandra Ermacora of Silen.
She’d seen him with the princess, walking the courtyard together, arm in arm, and riding horses on the palace grounds. She’d seen the jeweler, the florist, the pâtissier, and the chocolatier leaving Jon’s quarters, as he’d selected gifts to send her. With everything else on his mind, he was now entangled in a courtship—additional stress.
“You don’t have to push yourself so hard, Jon. If you need time, take it. The other Grands and I can handle the extra work, and marriage will still be there when you’re ready.”
His eyes closed as he exhaled lengthily, then bowed his head. “Can you do the oath ritual for me?” he demanded, barely audible. “Can you meet with Parliament for me? With the Grands? Can you marry for me? Continue my father’s line for me?”
She swallowed and looked away.
“You can’t,” he said, straightening and breathing deeply. “Tor wanted me to grieve… take the time. But he also once taught me that a blade cannot be wielded by two masters. If I allow grief to rule me, duty won’t. And I don’t… have the luxury of indulging it, not for longer than I have already, nor even as long as I have.”
As he watched the city, there was a certain vitality missing from his Bay of Amar eyes, a spark she’d seen in James’s gaze. Hunger for the future. For life. They had turned cold somehow.
This wasn’t a life anymore. This was survival until he could accomplish what duties he felt beholden to fulfill.
“Nothing has ever hit me this hard, but I have to fall back on my training,” he said. “Losses will occur, but whatever you feel, you must complete the mission.”
Setting aside his feelings? Like what he was doing with Nora? It didn’t have to be that way. “But this—whatever this is, with Nora, isn’t it—”
“Not up for discussion.” Tight-lipped, he scowled at her.
“Jon—”
He stalked away from the window and toward the bedchamber. “Magic lesson’s over for today. That’ll be all, Olivia.”
She followed. The drapes were wide open, had been for days; at least what he was doing had brought him out of darkness, but he didn’t need to debase himself. “I’m not just the Archmage, Jon. I’m your friend. Talk to me.”
He grabbed his sword from a nearby table, along with a small kit, and dropped into an armchair by the fire.
“Ever since Spiritseve,” he said, removing a whetstone, “when I go to bed, I keep thinking about all the things I could have done differently. Should have done differently.” He began the slow scrape of stone against metal. “And since the… news, it’s only gotten worse. I can’t sleep, I can’t rest, can’t function. I count the stars at night just to get a couple hours’ sleep. It’s eating me alive.” The slow, methodical scrape went uninterrupted. “I know you don’t approve, but when I’m with Nora, everything else gets shut out. For a few hours, I can just be… empty. I can survive.” He looked over his shoulder at her with those cold eyes. “Is that what you wanted to talk about?”
Her heart sank. “But maybe if we just talked about those things you wished you’d done differently—”
Another scrape. “Talking about it won’t change that I didn’t go after her. There’s no point.”
“Changing things isn’t the point,” she said, heading closer to the fire. “Talking about it might alleviate your burden.”
“It hasn’t in four months.”
When she moved to sit, he froze, sword and whetstone in hand. She remained standing. “Are you angry with me?”
He looked into the fire. “All of this would be easier if you stopped insisting I fight what must be.”
Easier? Her mouth fell open. Did he honestly believe that making a mistake meant his happiness had no more value? His dignity? His wellbeing? “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To throw yourself down an endless hole, punish yourself, with no one extending an arm to save you?” she shouted at him. “To let yourself be dirt because it’s easier and it’s only two or three more years, right? Right? You’d love that, wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you?”
“I’ll keep practicing, Olivia,” he said quietly, his voice a low, lifeless monotone. “I’ll work on clearing my mind. Tomorrow will be different.”
He wouldn’t even engage her about it anymore. “Someday, you’re going to look back on this and wish you’d taken the time. Wish you hadn’t dishonored her memory. And you’ll remember this conversation, and how I tried to tell you.”
He didn’t reply, and she stormed out of his quarters and into the hall. Never in her life had she screamed at King Marcus. Never. But here she was, acting like an angry sister with Jon.
This was unprofessional of her, and if he so chose, he could dismiss her over it.
Maybe it was his love for Rielle, or maybe the moments she’d seen James in him, but she couldn’t stand by and let him destroy himself, all just to be some shell of a king, even if was dying. Especially because he was dying. Wasting a few months or a year was terrible but not disastrous when there were decades more. But for him? These would be the last years of his life, and he’d spend them already dead.
The kingdom didn’t just need a blade to wield; it needed a righteous, honorable, good man to lead them. A well man—emotionally. And Jon wasn’t well. That was where his duty lay—in becoming well again, to go on and to lead his kingdom. Not in going through the motions, suppressing everything just to complete the mission. Down that road was the complete loss of his self and his will to live.
And as much as he didn’t want her to, she’d find some way to save him before it was too late—not just his emotional wellbeing, but his heart. His life.
Jon sluggishly blinked his eyes open, squinting at the predawn light—no help at all to his pounding headache. He wanted to rub his forehead—but his arm was trapped under a head full of long, dark hair, wisps sprawled over her bare skin.
A fire crackled in the hearth, dying but still in its throes. Smoke puffed, and above it, Rielle smiled coyly.
“That’s her, isn’t it?” Nora’s soft voice rasped. She squeezed his hand, intertwined her fingers more tightly with his. “The marquise of Laurentine. Looks like her.”
“It is.” He didn’t look away from the portrait.
A fingertip softly stroked his knuckle. “Rumor says you loved her.”
“I do.” He met Rielle’s eyes in the portrait. Love me at your peril.
“Why isn’t she here?” she whispered.
He tensed. “Because she died,” he said under his breath at last.
Nora rested her head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.” She rubbed his chest softly with her bronze-skinned hand, a shade darker than his. “I can see it troubles you… Perhaps you should have the portrait removed.”
Removed?
Remove her… He swallowed. That was what he was doing now. Removing her… from his heart.
That wasn’t what he wanted. This hollowness, this numbness, kept him functional, but what did that mean, when the person responsible for her death still walked the earth? Whoever had hired Gilles.
Rielle was gone, but she needed justice. And he needed it, too. More than anything.
When Brennan returned, he’d return with answers. The circumstances of her death, perhaps a name, something to help bring her kil
lers to justice.
Those piercing sky-blue eyes of hers pinned him. What are you doing for me, Jon? Leaving me to rot while you console yourself with a new lover?
A pressure formed in his chest as he met those eyes that saw right through him, their disappointment, their judgment.
The knights and paladins searching for her were never going to find her, and he hadn’t done a thing more for her sake. Nothing.
Did you ever even love me, Jon? Her voice ghosted in his head.
He couldn’t just sit on his hands. She deserved more. So much more.
It was time to revive Olivia’s investigation.
“Will you marry Alessandra?” Nora traced a heart on his chest.
Marriage was inevitable, and he was responsible for the stability of the kingdom, with only a couple years to secure it, and Alessandra was intelligent, well bred, shrewd, bold. A fine partner for any man who wanted one. “If she’ll have me.”
He extricated himself from bed and stretched as the first pink rays of the dawn filtered through the curtains.
Nora chuckled behind him. “If she won’t, she’s a fool.”
Nice of her to say, but it wasn’t true. He didn’t have much to offer any of the suitresses, not really. They were here out of obligation, just like he was.
Outside the windows, the snowy rooftops stretched far, to the bay, a land frozen in winter, in time, with no thaw in sight. He rubbed his chest.
In a little less than two weeks, he’d have to swear a ritualized vow not to betray a peaceful civilization.
The world had come to this—his honor and goodness suspect, doubted, but for a rite. Vervewood didn’t know him, didn’t know his reputation, the rigidity of his honor, but… Neither did he. No longer. The Code of the Paladin that had defined his role then could never hope to keep a kingdom safe and peaceful now. Whoever he was now, the paladin he’d once been no longer spoke for him. He couldn’t.
Everything in him wanted to cling to the Code, its righteousness and familiarity, but that was selfishness.
Continuing the investigation—eliciting answers by whatever means necessary—was the right course of action now, while he was still alive to see it done. No matter how dishonorable it would soon become.
Jon strode to the Royal Warden’s office with his guards and Eloi, Olivia trotting alongside him.
“Don’t do this!” She grabbed his arm, but he brushed her off. Servants walked by without a second glance.
Prisoners had been sitting in the dungeon for months, and to what result? One dead end after another? If the Order couldn’t find answers its way and Olivia couldn’t find answers her way, then it came to him to do what needed to be done. To seize justice for the kingdom, his parents, and Rielle.
“The paladins won’t agree to this!” she hissed. “Torture?”
He huffed. “We’re not so benevolent as you imagine. We’re practical.” Paladins can and did torture criminals in the field, when their guilt was certain and their information could save lives.
“Not on this scale. Not so… severe.”
Indeed, the mass torture of untried prisoners—physical, psychological, emotional—was anathema to the Order of Terra. And repugnant to him. But needed. “It’s not up to them. I am thankful for the Order’s assistance”—Raoul and Florian behind him performed their duties honorably—“but this is still my kingdom. And my dungeon.”
She leaped in front of him, her face contorted in a snarling frown. “They tortured your father!”
He stopped. His mouth hung open, but he quickly shut it. “Yes, they did. And he gave me up, didn’t he?”
Olivia raised a hand, but immediately curled it into a fist and lowered it. “How dare you—”
“That’s how Gilles figured out who I was, right? Why paladins around my age were assassinated on the roads?”
The Duchess of Melain had passed on that news last autumn, when he and Rielle had been staying at Melain. It hadn’t made sense at the time, but it did now.
Olivia gaped at him, the tightness abandoning her face, and she averted her gaze. “He… He wouldn’t…”
“How did they manage that, I wonder?” He eyed her, how her shoulders curled inward, and—his father hadn’t been the only prisoner Gilles had kept. His father’s lover stood before him, and a man like Gilles wasn’t stupid enough for coincidence. “Better to give me up and save you right then and there, right? I could take care of myself. Better than a locked-up mage.” That was the least cruel explanation he had.
He couldn’t blame his father for it. Choosing between the wellbeing of his lover, locked and helpless in a dungeon, or the identity of his son, a presumably capable paladin far away? If put in the same position, he might have chosen the same.
When Olivia met his eyes, her own were big and overbright. She pressed her lips together.
Yes, his father had loved her. Dearly. But his confession proved her wrong about this plan. Jon proceeded around her down the corridor.
“Jon,” she called. “Are you going to be… just like Gilles?”
Gilles? He was nothing like Gilles.
Gilles had tortured and killed for profit, for personal gain. He’d used torture and death for nefarious purposes; yet, to fight without those weapons was to fight with one arm behind one’s back.
I can’t do that anymore. The Order’s idealistic means were their own ends, but he needed to capture a murderer. A traitor. And he was running out of time. He didn’t need honor; he needed victory. Justice. The traitor’s head. Maybe then—
Maybe then… “I am going to take justice for this kingdom. I am going to punish the one responsible for all of this.” Even if it means abandoning everything I believe in. Duty is sacrifice. Without waiting for her reply, he continued down the corridor.
The Royal Warden was in his office, sitting at his mahogany desk, and upon Jon’s entry, rose. He bowed from the waist as Raoul and Florian took up posts at the door. “Your Majesty.”
His name was Gustave Alis, a silver-haired former guard captain from Aestrie who still clung to armors of formality and duty. Tor had recruited and hired him, praising the man’s discretion and perfectionism. Gods willing, he’d been correct in his assessment of the man.
“Good morning, Lord Warden.” Jon nodded to Eloi, who handed over documents.
Gustave looked them over. “This is…”
“A full pardon.” He sat at the desk and motioned for Gustave to join, which he did. “I want there to be no misunderstandings about the importance of this matter, so I am here to personally deliver it.”
“A pardon for”—Gustave fixed gray eyes on the documents—“ ‘any and all crimes committed under Emaurrian law in the pursuit of evidence, whether actionable or not, regarding the principal who retained the services of the Crag Company, by which the regicide of…’ ”
“Yes.” Jon ran his fingers over the armrest of the chair—a serpent’s face. “Carte blanche to solve one of the worst crimes in our history.”
Gustave met his eyes with utter calm. “My guards include paladins.”
“You will also find there orders transferring all paladins from jail guard duty, as well as permission to request any new guards as are required from Guard-Captain Corriveau, and blank requisition orders signed by me.”
Gustave rubbed his bristly chin, shuffling through the papers. He nodded. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”
Jon stood, and Gustave mirrored. “You will report daily, directly to me. Your authority is unfettered where these prisoners are concerned, with exception to efficacy, as judged by me. Do not fail.”
Gustave bowed. “You can trust me, Your Majesty.”
“I will await your report tomorrow afternoon.” With that, he left the Royal Warden’s office and headed for his lessons with his Camarilla and history tutors and dance instructor. A ridiculous way to spend the rest of the day, but the Grands insisted. Perhaps if they knew those lessons were a waste?
He sighed.
Here,
Olivia’s wariness was well received; torture made no distinction between the innocent and the guilty. As a paladin, he could have never contemplated such a thing, not unless he was personally certain of the prisoner’s guilt, and even then—
He shuddered.
But his personal preferences could not control his rule. He could not ignore the needs of a country for the sake of his own selfish concepts of honor and goodness. A king’s soul darkened to keep his kingdom in light. And that was his only role now, all that mattered.
He would get justice for his kingdom, his family, and Rielle, even if he had to cut through flesh and bone to do it.
Chapter 41
The early dawn set fire to the turquoise coastal waters of Gazgan. On horseback, Rielle shielded her eyes, squinting as she looked out at the many single-masted dhows lining the docks, the few caravels, and a large square-rigged three-masted ship with a forecastle and aftcastle outfitted with cannons. No fewer than two dozen gunports figured along the upper deck, wider than the weather deck—an extreme sloping tumblehome design for peerless hardiness—with heavier guns on the lower deck. It outclassed anything she’d ever seen built in Laurentine’s shipyards.
It had to be a frigate. Silen had begun building such ships years ago, but she’d only seen a couple herself. Designed for escort, they protected wealth-laden prizes. They were second in size only to the new ships of the line, whose firepower dwarfed that of the frigate, sacrificing maneuverability. But only a couple had been built, far away in Pryndon, last she’d heard from Laurentine’s steward.
Brennan’s lips parted. “Incredible.”
“So which one’s the Liberté?”
Grinning, he tipped his head toward the frigate.
By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2) Page 42
