Liam glanced down at her trembling hand. “You came to me for resonance.”
She sucked in a breath. That had been before she’d learned Captain Verib was her brother.
“I’m the only mage aboard, besides yourself.”
She sighed.
He rolled up his sleeves and looked around the cabin. “All right. Where do you want to do this?”
There was the captain’s chair, the arm chairs—
She looked at the captain’s chair and the desk before it. “Why don’t you sit in the captain’s chair, and I’ll sit across from you on the other side of the desk? We’ll join hands.”
He squinted contemplatively, then nodded. “Best of all options.” He sat in the captain’s chair, cleared the desk, and rested his arm on it. She took a seat across from him in Brennan’s armchair. Hesitantly, she reached for his hand.
His large, rough palm closed around her own, its warmth comforting. She offered him a smile. He returned the expression, despite the tightness in his face. He closed his eyes, and so did she. The pull was strong, drawing her toward him, and she pulled back, the connection stretching to its limit until it caught, tight, solid, unbreakable.
The sunlight against Rielle’s closed eyes wasn’t as bright as it had been—was it the late-afternoon sun? A part of her didn’t dare open her eyes, not yet, not until she knew her dream had been real. That Liam was real. Here. Alive. “Liam?” she whispered.
He groaned. “How did you dim so much anima? Did you destroy an entire damned city?”
She cracked an eyelid. “Something like that.”
Indeed, it was late afternoon. It had taken much longer than with Jon.
Jon. Just the thought of him flooded her with warmth. Remembering his arms around her, the need of his lips against hers, the love in his eyes—it made her empty hands ache. She needed him, and…
He was marrying someone else. She’d go to Courdeval to find him betrothed or already wed… And what? Wish to become his mistress? Was that all that remained for them now, a wisp of a grander dream their hearts had dreamed together?
No, love could withstand anything. Their love could.
Her chest tightened, compressed. She couldn’t think of that now. What mattered first was getting home, warning him, dealing with Shadow, making her suffer for what she’d caused.
Liam stared off to the side, wisps of straw-blond hair shrouding his face.
She stiffened in her chair. “Thanks.”
He held up a hand and waved her off.
She braced on the desk, her knees weak. After a moment to gather her composure, she made for the cabin door, but paused before it. “Liam… I know how what you said, but just think about it. If you spend too much time worrying about what others think of your life, you’ll miss your chance to live it as you truly wish.”
He didn’t raise his head from the desk, but he didn’t need to. He’d heard her. Now if only he’d listen.
With a sigh, she headed out onto the quarterdeck. Crewmen eyed her, winked, whistled. Heat blazed in her cheeks. Great Divine, they thought—?
She took a deep breath. Let them think. It didn’t matter. If he cared to reveal who she was, he could explain what had really happened.
She strode to the hatchway and picked her way down the stairs. Her and Brennan’s hammock had been in the corner, and when she looked there, he jolted straight, alert, and then stalked over to her.
He wrapped an arm around her and led her away from the full-moon eyes of the crew. He closed the door to a room—so stocked with barrels that there was hardly any space to move. The powder room. A small porthole allowed a ray of sunlight for the dust to glitter in.
“What?” she whispered.
Brennan grabbed her shoulders, near enough that cinnamon, cypress, and the heady scent that was so uniquely his filled her nostrils. She breathed it in and shivered.
Divine, he had no right to smell so good.
“The whole crew thinks you… We boarded as husband and wife, and now, they think—”
She laughed softly. “Perhaps we should set them straight.”
He sighed. “What, and tell them you’re his sister?” he hissed. “Because that would be so much better. Offer every man aboard your identity to make it that much easier for the Hazaels to track you down.” He narrowed his eyes, but his nostrils flared.
He breathed. Deep. Eyed her.
His hands moved down from her shoulders along her arms, firm, hard, and fell from her elbows to her waist.
A pulse of need made her gasp. She took a step closer, the heat of his breath warming her head. When she closed her eyes, she was back at House Hazael, in bed with him, beneath him, and his heat seared her skin, his grip firm on her hip, that crease of pleasure on his brow—
“The resonance,” he whispered, his breath a soft chill in her hair, sending a shiver down her spine. “Does it always make you…”
“Yes,” she said, looking up at him.
A low breath hissed from his lips. His eyelids descended heavily, and his fingers pressed into the flesh of her waist. His warm hands sent a frisson through her body.
Her breathing shallowed. There was not enough air to take in, not enough in the room—were the walls closing in?—and Great Divine, it was hot, like a desert oasis at noon, and she just wanted to fan herself—did that porthole open?—the thiyawb was much too stiff, her hair pulled back much too tight, and by the Divine, she wanted him with every fiber of her being.
It’s the resonance. The resonance had readied her body, and it sought satisfaction.
With a doubt, she desired him, had desired him since that night, but this wasn’t her will making a choice, but the aftereffects of resonance. He was attractive, she had needs, and he was here.
She pressed wary fingers against his chest. “Brennan—”
He stiffened, then smiled, ease relaxing his features. “Jon. I’m well aware.”
Yes, she loved Jon, but… it wasn’t only that. Brennan was not one night’s pleasure; he was so much more, would always be so much more, and never approached lightly.
And the long history between them made any deeper involvement inadvisable, undesirable, no matter how her body reacted to his; she couldn’t read him, would never be able to read him, and never fully trust her heart when it came to him. He was dangerous. He would always be dangerous. Allowing herself to fall for him, even a little, would only ever end in tragedy.
A few days more. She could hold out a few days more.
Chapter 43
Jon eyed the neat stack of missives on his purple-heartwood desk, right next to his Old Emaurrian language-learning books. One letter bore the elegant scrolls of Leigh’s hand.
He tore it open and read:
Met with Queen Matryona of Stonehaven. She offers assistance in quelling the Immortals in exchange for Emaurria’s help in subjugating the light-elves.
Explained reservations. No change. The queen cannot be reasoned with and demands answer within three days. Her captain shows some hesitancy but remains loyal…
Captain Sunheart mentioned the dark-elves have a custom that allows a queen to be challenged in single combat, but only by a member of her Quorum or another ruler. She is renowned as a fast, capable warrior, feared, and Queen Narenian doesn’t consider herself Matryona’s match…
I may have an angle on a member of her Quorum, but if not, that option remains in the event of battle…
He tossed the paper onto his desk, leaned back in his chair, and loosened his cravat. Blinked.
Ever since he’d ascended the throne, the kingdom had been in a constant state of war. And would so continue.
“Raoul,” he called.
The hall doors creaked open, deliberate footsteps clicked nearer, and in the doorway to the study, Raoul bowed. “Yes, Your Majesty?”
“Summon Paladin Grand Cordon Guérin and the High Council to meet tonight.” His answer to Queen Matryona’s offer would require preparations. Extensive preparations.
�
�After the opera?” Raoul asked.
The opera. Right. He was taking Aless to see Il Cuore Spezzato tonight, her favorite. He’d invited the company from Caerlain Trel especially for her.
“Yes,” he answered. “Thank you, Raoul.”
“Your Majesty,” he replied gruffly. “If… if you ever need someone to join you in the practice yard, I don’t mind.” His ice-blue eyes were unwavering, his face set.
He didn’t just mean sparring. He meant a sympathetic ear. A kindness… a gesture of friendship.
Jon grinned. “You’ll live to regret that, my friend.”
Raoul shifted on his feet. “Fairly certain I already do.”
They shared an amused look before Raoul bowed. “I’ll have your clerk alert Paladin Grand Cordon Guérin and the High Council, Your Majesty. By your leave?”
Jon nodded, and with that, Raoul left.
And so Queen Matryona would have her answer. Emaurria would be ready for the repercussions.
He stood and headed for his privy wardrobe to change for tonight.
Faithkeeper was displayed on the wall, four feet long from pommel to tip. He grabbed the scabbard and drew the double-edged arcanir blade, which had been with him since his vows at eighteen. The cruciform hilt had a straight cross-guard, the quillons ending in knobs, and the hand-and-a-half grip, covered with leather and wire wrap, had felt always a part of him, but now, apart. The worn, moon-shaped pommel, a Terran symbol, had often provided him comfort, his palm seeking out its familiarity at his side whenever he’d been troubled.
With Faithkeeper in hand, he’d personally see the queen’s unconscionable plans ended as he had so many evils before, even if it cost him his life this time.
The elven oath ritual required allies swearing loyalty to one another’s bloodlines. If he died, the light-elves would remain beholden to his blood heir.
Which meant…
He closed his eyes and exhaled a slow, defeated breath. It meant he’d need a blood heir before he died. Before this war was fought.
An heir… a child of his own.
Since Vindemia, when Valen had spoken to him of—he smiled faintly—a bounteous clan, the thought had returned from time to time. Marrying Rielle, a handfasting as she smiled at him. Huddling together in bed, holding their first child on a quiet morning. Chasing their children in the gardens, laughing with them, watching them grow up as he and Rielle grew older, hand in hand, facing their life and the kingdom’s needs together.
A hollow formed in his throat, and his eyes watered.
Gods, it had all been reduced to that, and only that—a thought. Never to be. She was dead, he was dying, and that future was like the wind. A faint whistle, a howl that haunted his days, but one he could never touch, never hold, never chase and laugh with.
And now he had to face the prospect of bringing a child into this world, only to leave her fatherless shortly after her birth.
Cruel. Irresponsible. And yet what the kingdom demanded of him. If Alessandra agreed, they’d conceive an heir and she’d remain regent until their child came of age. And he would swear all the necessary oaths, make all the necessary alliances, to ease the burden of rule for them both after he was gone.
He’d tell her all of it before Veris, and pray she agreed.
With a sigh, he sheathed Faithkeeper. To face the dark-elves, his blade wasn’t enough. Nor the Order’s, nor the army’s.
He looked inward, imagined his weapons, armor, and clothes about him. The silk drapes and their crystal ties, the windows letting in the muted afternoon sunshine… The chill wintry air bit his skin, the crisp scent of an ironwood forest, and deeper in, lush foliage brushed his skin. Below him, two-legged figures traversed soft ground latticed with waterways, among them a figure so bright it shone like a star.
A wild mage.
Leigh.
Reaching toward him did nothing; he could scarcely move but to sway just slightly. A tree. He was a tree.
He strained to bend, to approach, but leaves merely fluttered on the boughs. Not close enough. Nowhere near close enough.
He pulled back, past the soft foliage, through the forest, into the cold air. Windows figured in his vision, letting in afternoon light to dance on silken drapes and in crystal-adorned ties, and then he saw himself, standing amid weapons, armor, and clothes.
With a gasp, he staggered back until he hit a wall, and gulped in breaths, wide eyed and shuddering.
What good was this power? The power to be a stone, a tree, immovable, useless? He slammed the wall with a tight fist.
Useless.
Without that emissary to teach him, it was useless. And without it, he was only a blade, and useless, too.
But if the light-elves were right—if there was more to being Earthbound—perhaps that was the key to victory against the dark-elves. In a few days, he’d swear the elven oath ritual. With the emissary’s knowledge would come not only victory against the dark-elves but true power. The power of the land. The power to attract allies… and to survive without them, for this generation and the net. Freedom.
But if, on that day, the emissary didn’t arrive, neither would victory, power, nor freedom.
A soft knock came from the hall, and he called out permission to enter.
Soft footsteps clicked, and then Alessandra stood in the doorway to his bedchamber, a fan folded in her hand. She was dressed in high fashion, a purple gown with a plunging neckline, and her dark waves were bound high, with some ringlets over her shoulder. “Are you ready?”
The opera. Right. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ll get changed, and we’ll go.”
She cocked her head, holding his gaze with a knowing look, before she gave him a sympathetic shake of her head. Tossing the fan onto the bed, she glided across the room to stand behind him, her gown swishing as she moved.
Her hands settled on his shoulders, and she rubbed firmly, deeply. “Is it the pirate attacks again?”
He and Alessandra had been tracking the pirates’ movements along the western coast and staying in contact with her father’s flotilla. “No, it’s the dark-elves. We may soon be going into battle… another battle.”
“Is Vervewood worth it?” she asked, her hands still working miracles in his muscle.
“We need the knowledge the light-elves have, but even if Vervewood weren’t worth it, Stonehaven’s queen is a slaver.” And that would not be tolerated.
“Then all we can do is prepare. You’re already doing all you can, and there’s no sense in worrying too much about what’s to come.” Her hands rubbed lower, finding tense spots and relaxing them. “Is there anything I can do?”
Besides battle plans and preparing troops, he still had yet to learn repulsion shields, or master the Old Emaurrian he’d need to communicate with this Aiolian Windsong when she arrived. “Not unless you want to study Old Emaurrian with me.”
A soft laugh. “You’ll be jealous when I’m better at it than you.”
“Is that a challenge?” Smiling, he turned around, and her hands settled on his chest.
She arched a brow, her chestnut-brown eyes gleaming. “Done.”
She wasn’t in love with him, nor he with her, but they would be the best of friends. He could feel it.
Since the news of Rielle, his nights with Nora had been like the breath of life, and he cared for her, but they’d both known it wasn’t more than diversion. They’d both known he would have to marry one of the suitresses, and likely Alessandra.
And Alessandra—brilliant as she was—was no one’s consolation prize. She deserved a strong, capable man who’d love her well, and he’d thank the gods if she settled for him.
“If we’re going to the opera,” he said, eyeing her hands on his chest, “we should leave, Alessandra.”
She held his gaze, searching his eyes, and the quiet in his bedchamber settled about them like velvet, heavy, smooth, warm.
“Aless,” she whispered, as her palm slid up to his cravat, pulling it loose as she rose
on her toes and kissed him, softly, slowly. They breathed the same air for a moment before she drew a small measure away, holding his gaze.
She let the soft silk slip from her hand to the floor.
“No opera tonight,” she whispered, taking his hand and leading him back to the bed. “Tonight, you relax, give me a taste of what a lifetime of being your queen would be like, and then I destroy you with my superior Old Emaurrian skills.”
He followed her, and his lips found hers again; she was beautiful, and his body knew these steps, even if his heart wasn’t in it.
“Destroy me,” he breathed between kisses, as he unbuttoned his shirt. “Do you want to spend a lifetime doing that, Aless?”
She laughed as she reclined onto the bed, her voluminous purple skirts blooming around her. “We’ll see after tonight. No pressure, Your Majesty.” She smiled softly.
Only the fate of his kingdom rested upon it. No pressure. None at all.
He joined her, clearing his mind of everything but the present.
“The stars,” Rielle cried, stirring in the arms around her. Beneath the looming darkness. Amid many breaths and bodies. Too many. Together… in chains… made to sleep in small, cramped, too-tight stalls—No. “I need to see the stars.”
Darkness blanketed the crew deck, only patches of moonlight glimmering through the hatchway and portholes, illuminating crew dozing in hammocks.
“Rielle.” Brennan’s voice, soft and warm against her ear. “It’s a bad dream. Just go back to sleep.”
A bad dream… Yes. She was free now. The stable and the ship that had brought her there were in the past. Past. The warmth and the quiet beckoned once more. She shut her eyes.
Cold arcanir shackles chilled her wrists—
But not anymore. Not anymore. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter.
Brennan hugged her gently. She shifted in the hammock until she came face to face with him. She’d known his face—its prominent aristocratic features, as cruel as they were handsome, and the hazel eyes that could lure a smitten girl into endless depths—long before the stable and the ship. The same face now kept those demons away. A talisman, even beneath the coarse growth covering his chin and jaw, beneath the long, dark lashes shading his gaze.
By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2) Page 45
