By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2)

by Miranda Honfleur

  “He was a child.” She glared at him. “What did it matter?”

  Nonchalant, he continued. “Do you know my sister, Countess Nora Marcel Vignon?”

  Olivia blinked. “Countess Vauquelin. She’s, um”—she lowered her gaze—“she and the king—”

  “Fuck,” Brennan supplied. “Yes, I assumed.” He sipped his wine. Yes, Nora had always possessed the boldness to pursue anything she desired with all the restraint of a hurricane. “Did you know she has two children?”

  Olivia frowned. “Two children…”

  “Two sons. Nora has two sons, my nephews. Henry, age six, and Francis, age nine.” While she remained frozen on the cobblestones, he continued. “Francis had his éveil recently, when his father was killed, and revealed himself a rare mage. A spiritualist, would you believe it? Nora retained Master Erelyn Leonne to tutor him.”

  Olivia’s mouth dropped open, but no sound emerged.

  “So let me tell you what an idiot you are. You had the king in a vulnerable position, grappling with the question of whether his beloved was alive or dead. So you brought in a child spiritualist, whose mother coerced him to lie to the king, and she benefited from the lie and ended up in the king’s bed. Which cost him the only woman he’s ever loved. Which has led to him, and your best friend, suffering right now.” He held the stable door open for her. “So yes, Olivia. You are an idiot.”

  She curled a hand into a fist, but he didn’t move. “I’m an idiot,” she called out to him.

  A stable boy eyed her as he exited, but he didn’t dare linger.

  Brennan tilted his head toward the stable, and Olivia entered, where he helped her with her horse.

  The king hadn’t been forced to bed other women, so most of the blame rested squarely with him, but Olivia wasn’t blameless. It was Olivia’s ill-procured assistance that had convinced the king Rielle had died. It was the king’s sincere belief that had driven him to grieve and, likely, to balm that grief with whatever remedy presented itself. And Nora would have a been a very persuasive remedy.

  That had destroyed Rielle and, in turn, destroyed the king. And their relationship.

  Olivia, and her negligence, bore at least some responsibility.

  And yet… A part of him couldn’t ignore that Olivia was to thank, at least in part, for the opportunity that might soon present itself. Thanks to her, Rielle might soon be unfettered by promises and love to Jon. Free. Free to love another man.

  Perhaps, even, to love him.

  For that, he owed the woman a debt, however small.

  Chapter 50

  Jon gave Aless a somber smile as she arrived in the gardens for their late-afternoon walk. So much had changed, and yet, on the surface, everything appeared the same. But after today, it wouldn’t.

  As easy as she was to talk to, this conversation would present a greater challenge than an entire day of sword drills, glaive sparring, even Olivia’s repulsion-shield tutoring.

  As she approached, he offered her his arm. She wrapped a white gloved hand around it, her white cloak a stark contrast against his dark blue.

  “I trust you’re well?” he greeted.

  Smiling, she shrugged. “I will be, after you dazzle me with the story of why I haven’t seen you all day.”

  He lowered his gaze to the path, leading her slowly past the manicured hedges to the wisteria arbor. The stone pillars were strong enough that the wisteria didn’t crush them as it grew and spread.

  Never in his life had he thought he’d need to have this conversation. Ever. But here he was. Life wasn’t done challenging him.

  “My principal secretary was gone for four months, and he just returned from Sonbahar,” he said, gesturing to a bench and assisting her as she seated herself. He sat next to her, and they looked out at the gardens and the distant couples and friends strolling.

  “Brennan Karandis Marcel,” she said, intertwining her fingers with his. “Is that right?”

  He nodded. “When I couldn’t leave to look for… her, Brennan offered to do so in my stead, and I agreed. After the Archmage and I consulted with a spiritualist, we realized he was looking for… her body.”

  She gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

  “Aless,” he said, meeting her chestnut-brown eyes, “he found her alive.”

  Those eyes widened, and her lips parted for a brief moment.

  “I don’t know how it’s possible, but I saw her with my own eyes in the palace.”

  She nodded, licking her lips before she pressed them tight. “What are you going to do?” she asked softly, gently.

  Rielle had recoiled from him, thrown him out, fled from him. He’d betrayed her trust, and she had every reason to hate him.

  But she was alive, and he loved her, with every fiber of his being. He’d be with no other woman, even if that meant being alone for the rest of his short life.

  Or that was what he wanted to do.

  “Aless,” he said, stroking her hand slowly with his thumb, “I know we plan to announce our engagement at the Veris ball. I made you that promise.” She searched his eyes, but he pressed on. “But I’m here to ask whether you would find it in your heart to release me from it.”

  She looked away, her gaze wandering over the wooden wisteria vines twining around the arbor’s stone pillars.

  When she looked back to him, she smiled, leaned in, and brushed her lips against his in a warm, lingering moment. “I release you from your promise,” she whispered, a hair’s breadth from his mouth.

  If there was anything that could unsettle her, he didn’t yet know it. “Thank you.”

  With a sage nod, she pulled away and looked back out at the gardens, folding her hands in her lap. The breeze played with a few of her gleaming, dark locks. “It’s a rare thing, Jon, and you’re fortunate. If the love of your life isn’t dead, then you need to be with her.”

  He’d have called her amazing if he hadn’t already known it. “I won’t forget this, Aless.”

  “No, you won’t.” She grinned, but it soon faded. “I know you’ve sent all the others home. I’ll buy you as much time with my father as I can.” She stood, and he rose with her. “The joy in life is measured by the boldness with which it is sought. Love her forever, Jon, because if she rejects you, you’ve lost your chance with me. And I’m too good to give you a second.”

  He met her sanguine smile with one of his own. “Should you ever need anything, Aless, you will always have a friend in me.”

  She inclined her head, then walked away, chin held high.

  Jon stared at the oak tree in the courtyard. “It’s not going to work.”

  Aiolian swept her knee-length overcoat aside. Coolly placing her palms upon the table, she glared at him. “As I’ve said, Your Majesty, you must not be the tree, but the anima within the tree.”

  Sometimes he wished Aless hadn’t so diligently studied Old Emaurrian with him. “I’ve no talent for magic.”

  She shook her head. “You mages”—she spat the word with a distaste many a paladin would admire—“have learned to manipulate anima into magic. But raw anima isn’t magic. It is life.”

  “And how does that help me?” He was in no mood for this, or anything. Later this evening, he’d have to meet with Nora and formally end their affair. After all she’d done for him…

  Aiolian sighed. “Project your presence into that tree.”

  “But how will I—”

  “Your human ears will still hear me, even if your presence is there.”

  With a grimace, he closed his eyes and pictured the solar, its wood-paneled walls, granite fireplace, its peaked windows; the warm sunshine alighted upon his face, the cool air raised the hairs on his skin, and the freshness of new leaves flowed into his nostrils. Below, couples walked among the manicured trees and shrubs.

  He extended his arms, wiggled his fingers—and there was but the slightest tremble of the leaves, a breath of the slightest breeze.

  You do not have arms, legs, or skin, Your Majesty, a
stern voice whispered. Aiolian’s. You have branches, a trunk, roots, bark.

  He imagined what it would be like to be covered in bark, the wind hitting its dry roughness, rigidity—

  You aren’t only the tree, but its will, she said. You are threads of life through every fiber of its being. Be the anima within it, and everything in the land shall bend to your will.

  Be the anima? Easier said than done. He’d somehow become the anima in a rose bush, but he couldn’t remember how.

  He’d never seen anima before. Threads of life? What might that look like?

  Silky strands of starlight… glowing silver white… shimmering, twinkling. In the furthest reaches of his branches. Below them, on the ground over his roots, a bright figure strode toward the palace. Olivia?

  He leaned in, and a great groan rumbled through the air. Creaks, a gnawing whine.

  She froze and gazed upward.

  Olivia, he wanted to say, but wind rustled through leaves.

  Pull back, Aiolian’s voice said again.

  Pull back? He frowned, a creak and crisp abrasion. Like bark against bark. He shook his canopy.

  Pull back. You are a man. Remember your body, remember the tree, the courtyard, the palace, the solar. Pull back.

  A man. He flexed his hands, branches that shook in the wind. Branches. The tree. The courtyard of manicured greenery. The sunshine warm upon his face—the peaked windows of the solar, the wood-paneled walls, the granite fireplace—

  He gasped, snapped his eyes open, clenched the armrests of his chair until the wood groaned.

  Crouched next to him, Aiolian rested a hand on his. “Always remember yourself. Some part of you must always remember. Do not let yourself inhabit the land completely, or—”

  He nodded. She didn’t need to say the words. If he forgot what it was to be a man, he’d ever remain a tree.

  A quick descent of cold—wet—on his lip, and he dragged a wrist along his mouth.

  Blood.

  He inhaled, rubbed at it, and pulled out his handkerchief.

  Aiolian lowered her gaze, blinked slowly. “Your human mind isn’t accustomed to such labors. Perhaps we can attempt to have a healer present, but this is a thing untested with your human mages. Until then, you must practice gradually, on smaller living things—a flower, a shrub—with less dramatic exercises. Eventually, you will be able to do more without hurting yourself.”

  An ache pressed against his forehead, and he rubbed it. “Thank you.”

  She nodded and stood, then inclined her head. “It is why my queen sent me, Your Majesty.”

  He stood with her. “Together, we will accomplish great things, Emissary Windsong.”

  “It is my hope.” She glanced at the door. “Shall I call a servant to assist you?”

  With the blood. “I’ll handle it myself.” He inclined his head to her. “Good day to you.”

  “And to you, Your Majesty.” She returned the gesture.

  Satisfied he’d wiped most of the blood away, he headed for his quarters, flanked by Florian and Raoul. He stuffed his handkerchief back in his pocket. Projecting his presence would come at a cost, but if Aiolian could be believed, it was like any physical labor. With practice, skill, and time, he would reach some level of competence.

  If he could survive.

  He nodded to the courtiers who greeted him in the palace halls and at last arrived at his quarters.

  Raoul and Florian stood to attention and saluted. “Your Majesty, Countess Vauquelin awaits you in your quarters,” Raoul said lifelessly.

  He nodded. Perhaps the sooner he spoke with her, the better.

  The antechamber, dining room, and study were empty; Nora had to be in the bedchamber.

  The metallic scent of blood invaded his nostrils, and he headed straight for the washbasin. As he washed his hands, he looked over his shoulder at the woman sprawled on his bed like a queen in a bright-red gown.

  “I haven’t heard from you in almost a week. So here I am, to remind you of why I’m unforgettable.” Her smile stretched, then a line formed between her brows. “You’re covered in blood.”

  He splashed his face. The cool water soothed his aching head, too—a measure. “Don’t worry—it’s mine.”

  A half-laugh. “That makes me worry more.”

  He toweled off, and a knock echoed from the hallway. “Yes?”

  “Archmage Sabeyon, Your Majesty,” Florian called.

  “Send her into the antechamber,” he called.

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Jon faced the bed and Nora’s arched brow.

  “She can’t wait?”

  He huffed his amusement. “I’d ask you to make yourself at home, but…”

  With a deep breath, she leaned back into the pillows, stretching out her legs under her gown’s skirts. “I am at home.”

  And that would make their talk all the more difficult; Nora had done nothing but keep him company, help him escape the horrors of reality when he’d believed Rielle dead. She’d been a friend to him and an ally, not just a lover. She’d done nothing to merit being cast aside.

  But the woman he loved was alive. Whether Rielle forgave him or not, he wouldn’t carry on as he had any longer. “I’ll not be long.”

  He left the bedchamber and shut the doors, then the study’s doors, and at last, those of the dining room, until he turned to face the antechamber.

  Olivia shed her cloak and laid it on the sofa. “Jon—good, you’re here.”

  He gestured to the sofa, and she sat.

  “Did you see Rielle?” He seated himself next to her.

  Raising her eyebrows, she bowed her head and fidgeted. “I, um… I did.”

  She looked up at him briefly and then away.

  So she’d met with Rielle. And, by the looks of it, whatever she’d heard hadn’t been good.

  He scrubbed a hand over his face. Terra have mercy, he couldn’t help but see Rielle’s red-rimmed eyes anew, her anguished face. Brennan carrying her out of the room. Get out, get out, get out! The last words she’d said to him.

  He dropped his head in his hands.

  She hated him. Never wanted to see him again. Whatever she’d told Olivia would hurt, but he deserved it.

  He folded his hands together. “How was she?”

  Sighing lengthily, Olivia pulled at the brocade of her dress. “She wants to meet with you.”

  His spine straightened. Meet with him? She wanted to see him again? “Where is she? I’ll meet her right away.”

  Olivia shook her head. “She’ll be coming here. Tonight. Midnight.”

  He stood, raked a hand through his hair, paced the antechamber.

  “Florian,” he called.

  The hallway door opened, and Florian poked his head inside. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

  “Talk to my chamberlain. Have him arrange a late supper, tea and custard tarts”—Rielle’s favorite—“and an intimate ambiance”—but not here; he didn’t want to suggest the wrong expectations—“in the Grand Library. Midnight.”

  Florian paused, then nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “That’ll be all.”

  Florian acknowledged him and shut the door.

  Bowing her head, Olivia bit her lip. “Jon…” she said gently. Too gently. “It may not be as you—”

  “I know.” He strode to an armchair and dropped into it. “She wants to see me again. I’m glad for it, and I don’t presume a thing more.”

  She bobbed her head, rubbing her lips together. “There’s something else.”

  Terra have mercy. Something else… He didn’t want to hear it.

  Rielle was coming to see him, and there was something else.

  Someone else.

  Brennan. She loved Brennan.

  “It’s about the spiritualist,” she whispered.

  Frowning, he leaned in.

  “I’m so sorry. I… made a mistake,” she said hoarsely, her eyes watering. “The boy. Francis. He’s… the heir to the county of Va
uquelin.”

  That made him… Nora’s son.

  Rigidity climbed his muscles until he could hear the blood rushing in his ears.

  “It’s all my fault,” Olivia blurted. “I should have been more thorough, but he was just a boy, and his tutor was my friend, and I was so eager to learn anything about Rielle, I just…”

  He leaned into his chair, forced his head back, and stared at the ceiling. Nora’s son was the spiritualist. Had told a lie.

  The tears, the difficulty… The boy hadn’t wanted to lie. He’d had to.

  All this time, Nora—the same Nora sprawled out on his bed right now—had played him. She’d brought her son, a spiritualist, to court, the only one of his kind in the kingdom, perhaps, aside from Donati. And she’d known about Rielle.

  Why don’t you have her portrait removed? she’d asked.

  If anything should be removed, it was Nora. Out of his bed, out of his room, out of his life.

  All this time—

  And what, had she hoped to insinuate herself into his good graces through this deception? Surely she’d know Rielle would return someday. Or she’d been desperate enough to gamble on the odds.

  No… Nora Marcel Vignon did not risk without a plan. She couldn’t have hoped for marriage, but—

  A child.

  He jolted upright in his armchair. Terra have mercy, was she—

  No, no, he’d been careful; he’d used the sheath, just as his Camarilla tutors had taught, despite her insistence that he needn’t.

  The notion of being tutored in such matters had, at the time, seemed a ridiculous notion, but he was grateful for it now. Having grown up a bastard, he would never take the conception of a child lightly, especially when he wouldn’t live long enough to be a true father.

  But if she’d schemed in order to—

  He clenched his fists so hard his knuckles cracked.

  Terra have mercy. He took deep, cleansing breaths. He wouldn’t talk to her like this. Not until he calmed down. Not until he knew his own strength again.