By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2)

by Miranda Honfleur

  “I will wait for you as long as you need,” he said, his voice a smooth, deep caress.

  Yes, their love could overcome anything. It would. It had to.

  If they took the time to fix this, it would work. After Shadow, she’d tell him about Sylvie. Once everything was out in the open, they’d begin mending their relationship. As long as they could resist falling into bed together prematurely, they had a chance.

  She sat up, twisting her messy hair over her shoulder. “I’m going to have some tea. Join me?”

  “I will. Shortly.” He left the bed, dropped to the floor, and began his morning training ritual—or however much of it he could get done here. She headed for the table. And breakfast.

  She poured some tea, took two sugars, and helped herself to some porridge. She eyed the empty chair at the table. The empty place setting. What was Brennan doing right now?

  No doubt he was eating a meal fit for four people. She smiled and drank half her tea, then set down the cup, watching the wavering dark surface. None of this was fair to him. She’d turned down the papers to break her betrothal to him, keeping them both bound to each other. While she attempted to fix things with Jon, Brennan didn’t have a choice of bride, or freedom.

  He loved her. She knew that, clear as day after he’d fought the hisaad in the desert. Even before that, that night in House Hazael. And he deserved a choice.

  After this ordeal with Shadow was over, she’d offer it to him.

  “Six argents.” The captain of the Sileni sloop Tiziana eyed Drina skeptically in the muted light of the afternoon sun.

  “Four.” She met his look squarely. “You’re going to Bellanzole anyway. It’s four more argents than you’d have otherwise.”

  He crossed his thick arms. “Six.”

  She smirked. “Five, and we set sail the moment I’m aboard.”

  He cocked his head, for a moment just surveying her, then spat in his palm and offered it to her. She did the same, and they shook on it.

  “See you tonight.” With a final nod, she adjusted her satchel, backed up, and receded into the alley.

  After she dealt with Favrielle’s man, she’d sail back to Khar’shil in style—aboard the very sloop bearing the Sileni princess home. It was his good fortune that she had no interest in slitting Alessandra Ermacora’s throat.

  Unsurprisingly, the captain had allowed a passenger who could be anyone; he was like most Sileni men—overconfident of himself, underestimating of women, and thus, reckless. To her benefit.

  She headed back to Peletier’s, weaving through the unaware crowds. Lyuba Vaganay had served her well these past months, and no one had been the wiser. Even the Archmage, whose pretty little head was publicly so valued, hadn’t even come close.

  Meandering through the Coquelicot District, she stopped at a hovel. Though small, crude, and cramped, the steps were swept clean of snow and sprinkled with salt. Sauvanne Gouin’s home, and she wouldn’t be at the Greasy Spoon until this evening.

  Drina knocked quietly and waited, scanning the surrounding area. It was a poor district, of that there was no doubt, but the people here were good, kind, just trying to survive. Tavern wenches, apprentices, day laborers. Those who couldn’t afford to live in Dandelion District, but could afford a bit more than the poverty of Chardon, for example.

  Footsteps creaked on the other side of the door, and then Sauvanne’s surprised face appeared. “Madame Vaganay!”

  “Madame Gouin. Good day.”

  Sauvanne opened the door wider. “Come in, please.”

  With a smile, she entered. The interior was warm, with a fire in the small hearth, needlepoint decorating the walls with flowers, birds, happier things than one saw in Coquelicot. In the corner, a girl sat in the bed, her mahogany-brown hair in braids tied with ribbons. The nine-year-old Sophie. Clutching a tattered book, she smiled. “Hello.”

  Drina waved back.

  Sauvanne directed her to a small round table, then hastily put on water for tea. She offered a tray of cookies—madeleines. “I baked them this morning myself.”

  “Thank you.” Drina took off her gloves and helped herself to one. Its sugary sweet smell was the perfect complement to the give of its spongey, cake-like texture. “It’s delicious.”

  Sauvanne smiled. “Sophie has been feeling better, so I wanted to do something special.”

  Sugar was expensive, and these cookies were indeed special for someone not swimming in coin. “Thank you for letting me share in your joy.”

  Sauvanne reached across the table and took her hand, her eyes watering. “It is thanks to you that we celebrate,” she whispered. “Because of your generosity, my little girl is alive.”

  As it should be. If anyone could keep an innocent little girl breathing, there was nothing else but to do it.

  With a slight nod, she hefted her satchel onto her lap while Sauvanne steeped some tea. There was no telling when, after tonight’s victory, she’d return to Courdeval. Surely not in time to resupply Sophie.

  She removed bag after bag from her satchel, laying out a dozen on the table.

  Sauvanne stared wide eyed, reaching for one, but she’d already know it by the parchment paper and black twine. She dropped into a chair. “Oporavak tea?”

  Drina nodded. The cure for the Wasting.

  “But… but—”

  It was ten coronas a pound, and she’d brought twelve. It was enough to buy a new home, even in Violette District. “I will have to travel tonight, and I couldn’t do that without knowing Sophie will have what she needs,” she whispered.

  No doubt Sophie would fully recover well before the oporavak tea ran out, but just in case, she’d brought more. Sometimes nature didn’t like to adhere to norms.

  Sauvanne covered her mouth, tears rolling down her cheeks. “I can never repay—”

  Drina shook her head. “You don’t have to. Just make sure she gets better.” She sipped from her cup—a tisane—then set it down and removed a handful of argents. “And get her a few more books. They make great company.”

  Shaking her head, Sauvanne eyed the bounty, then looked over her shoulder toward Sophie, who carefully turned a page in the tattered book.

  Drina stood, and Sauvanne stood with her.

  “Why are you doing this?” Sauvanne asked with soft wonder.

  “Because neither of you deserve this, and I can do something about it.” She offered Sauvanne her hand, but the woman embraced her.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, then pulled away. “Gods bless you, Madame Vaganay.”

  “And you.” With a final smile, she left the hovel, twelve pounds lighter, all of it from her heart. Fortune willing, the girl would recover.

  There was no sense in this world if people who didn’t deserve it suffered. If mothers lost their children, wives lost their husbands. In her own way, she could restore that sense.

  Making her way toward Peletier’s through the stalls, she grabbed a cherry-jam crêpe and nibbled it happily.

  And everything—all these years of effort—would culminate in this one night. Surrounded by innumerable courtiers and guards, Favrielle and her king wouldn’t even consider any threats. At least not once they retired to his quarters, where his life would end.

  Her soulblade would finally quench its thirst. She patted its sheath at her back, under her cloak.

  Its empty sheath.

  She frowned, her pulse quickening. It should be there. It was always there. Always on her weapons belt, always sheathed, unless it was gorging on blood.

  Before the docks, before the crowds, at Peletier’s—she’d run into Max in the hall, and he’d embraced her, kissed her, made her a promise for later tonight… one she’d unfortunately miss.

  Had he picked her pocket?

  It might have been in the crowds—but no, she would have sensed it.

  She stuffed the rest of the crêpe in her mouth and quickened her pace through the throngs to Peletier’s.

  There it was—the signboard. She da
rted to the door, threw it open, and nodded a quick greeting to Lionel at the desk before ambling up the stairs.

  Perhaps—if fortune did not hate her—she’d somehow left the soulblade in her room. She’d only been gone half an hour, maybe less.

  A few steps from her door, she paused. “Mother earth, grant me your sight, / Show through your eyes, reveal all life,” she murmured under her breath.

  A large mass of anima awaited on the other side of the door, seated, no doubt at her desk. A single form.

  Engage or flee?

  Seated at her desk wasn’t exactly an ambush. And by the shape of it, the form was a tall, fit man.

  Max.

  Donning a saccharine smile, she unlocked the door and entered. “Oh!” She raised her eyebrows and mustered an expression of pleasant surprise.

  He looked over his broad shoulder, fixing a narrowed rum-gold eye on her.

  “Max,” she said happily, closing the door. “Moving your promise earlier by a few hours?” Hips swaying, she approached, but not within his reach. She still had a hidden blade in her right sleeve and another dagger in her left boot.

  He smiled. Coldly. “Did you forget something?”

  Something had changed. She leaned against the wall, trying to appear at ease. “What do you mean?”

  He rose from the desk, all six feet of him, keeping his arms at his sides. Loose. Ready. “I mean the soulblade.”

  She raised her eyebrows again and mouthed a perfect O. “Soulblade? What’s that?” she asked innocently, and canted her head. “Wait, do you mean my knife?” She frowned. “I found that on a body outside Courdeval on my way into town. Some poor soul who’d been robbed, it looked like, with a knife in his back.”

  He speared her with a glare. “You found it on a dead body? Maybe you found everything else on a dead body, too? Your satchel, your medicines, your clothes. Perhaps even your name.”

  “What? This is ridiculous.” She backed up toward the door and turned the knob; he was on to her. It was time to run. “You know me. We’ll talk after you come to your senses.”

  Tonight was her last chance. If Max had divined her motives, suspected her identity—if he’d shared knowledge of the soulblade, then there was no telling when word could spread. It was tonight or never.

  “I think I have come to my senses. Finally.” He tracked her movements with a focused gaze. “What are you planning? Who are you here for?”

  An assassin. He’d put things together.

  “You’re scaring me, Max,” she said, forcing a tremor into her voice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’m leaving, and when I come back, you’d better not be here, or I’ll… I’ll scream. I’ll call the City Guard.”

  He exhaled a half-laugh under his breath. “You’d do more than that. I should count myself lucky to still be alive”—indeed he was—“but you’re not coming back.”

  His eyes locked on hers, and for a moment, she dropped all pretense, let him see her true face. “Goodbye, Maxime Deloffre. You’re a good lover, and a good man. Pray we never meet again.”

  His eyes widened, and she was through the door and in the hall, cloaked in shadowmancy. She pulled up the hood of her cloak, descended the stairs, and left Peletier’s. For good.

  There was no coming back. Peletier’s was gone. Max was gone. Lyuba Vaganay was gone.

  And as for the soulblade—well, one of her other sharp edges would have to do.

  Chapter 58

  Brennan strode through the coldly gleaming palace halls toward Nora’s quarters. He should have visited her long before, but Rielle had required constant guard.

  Until now.

  He grimaced. Word had spread to every corner of Azalée, and throughout the city, that the king had lavished the marquise of Laurentine with gifts all day yesterday and then had arrived to spend the night at Couronne. There wasn’t a tongue in Courdeval that didn’t wag over the scandal, the romance, or the confusion of prizing a disgraced marquise over the region’s finest suitresses.

  And tonight, Rielle and the king would appear at the Veris ball, a couple before the entire court—the entire kingdom.

  A growl rumbled low in his chest. Even if it was a ruse, that ruse would find her and the king together all night, awaiting an attack by the shadowmancer. Waiting for the bitch to walk into their trap.

  And since she’d gone to Couronne, there had been nothing. No messages, no pull on the bond, nothing at all. It was as if these past weeks since leaving Xir hadn’t happened at all. While in the king’s presence, she was completely under his influence, no matter the things he’d done.

  If rumor was to be believed, Nora hadn’t been his only lover. The king apparently couldn’t wait a few months before tumbling other women into bed. Some paladin.

  And Rielle didn’t seem to care anymore. Fell under his spell completely. At this rate—

  A pair of ladies greeted him, and he bit out a reply beneath a scowl and continued on his grim way.

  One last sweep. He’d already checked the gardens and the great hall, and Rielle had agreed he should do one last sweep of the king’s quarters before the ball tonight. At least if she ended up there, it would be safe. He’d make certain of it after checking in on Nora.

  Finally there, he knocked. And waited.

  And waited.

  The door creaked open, and Nora, her large hazel eyes puffy and swollen, met him with a faint smile over her grimace. “Bren… I wondered when you’d finally deign to visit your own blood.”

  As if she’d missed him. Snorting an amused breath, he leaned in to embrace her and kissed her cheek. “I’d ask how you’ve been, but”—he motioned to her unbound, hastily brushed dark tresses and her white cotton nightgown… in the middle of the afternoon—“I already have the answer.”

  Gaze shifting about the hall, she opened the door wider and gestured him in. “Well, come on—unless you want every mouth in the palace whispering about your pitiable sister.”

  He entered the disaster of a parlor. Open trunks littered the floor, overflowing with gowns, jewelry, hats, boxes, toiletries, and other women’s gear. Clothes lay strewn about over every available surface, including between dishes on the table, where the cold remains of breakfast lay half-eaten.

  He caught their scents before the boys charged through the doorway out of the bedroom and tackled him, latching onto his legs.

  “Uncle Brennan!” they shouted, and he dropped to a crouch.

  Although they both had their father’s coal-black hair and honey-brown eyes, six-year-old Henry’s expression retained its soft earnestness, while nine-year-old Francis bore dark circles beneath his eyes, shadowed as they were, and an abyss behind his excited grin. He looked far older than his years.

  “Can we have another sword fight?” Henry blurted excitedly while Francis bowed his head.

  Brennan ruffled Henry’s hair. “Didn’t bring any practice swords this time”—he reached for his coin purse and pulled out two gold coronas—“but how’d you like to buy whatever practice weapons you want, and I’ll teach you a bit next time?” He gave each boy a coin, watching their mouths fall open as their gazes shifted to their mother.

  Nora heaved an exasperated sigh, closed her eyes, and gave a glamorous shake of her head.

  “Please!” Henry whined, and even Francis joined in.

  She narrowed her eyes at Brennan. “They’re going to be spoiled because of you. You know we don’t throw around that kind of money so cavalierly for toys and—”

  Brennan shrugged. She certainly spent it on herself, but then it was an investment, meant to attract a rich lover or new husband. “Let me take a look at Vauquelin’s finances for you. I have some timber connections, and coopers—”

  “Timber and coopers, Bren! Really!” She threw her hands in the air, then waved him off and turned to the boys. “Fine, you can keep the coronas, but—”

  Henry and Francis cheered loudly, and while Nora grimaced, he tucked a boy under each arm and spun them.
Laughs and shrieks mingled as they spun, and he couldn’t help but laugh either. It had been far too long since he’d seen them.

  “Boys,” Nora interrupted, stepping into their trajectory, “I think it’s time you found Annette. Tell her we’re departing in two hours, and she’s to watch you until then.”

  Her request met with whimpers and moans, she looked to Brennan for support. He set the boys down and lowered to meet them, tapping up Henry’s chin and Francis’s nose with a finger. Two reluctantly dutiful sets of eyes met his.

  “Listen to your mother,” he said firmly, then leaned in. “She’s in a mood, don’t you see?”

  Henry giggled, but they both nodded.

  “Run along,” he said, rising. “And try to go easy on your poor nanny. She’s climbing up there in years and impatience.”

  Grinning, they hugged him, Nora, and then left her quarters.

  She dropped into a clothes-covered armchair and exhaled lengthily. “The king’s sending me away from court.”

  His back to her, he studied her things, more jars and bottles than anyone but an apothecary should own. “And? You coerced your nine-year-old son to commit treason—a capital offense. You have your head. Count your blessings.”

  “Blessings!” she spat. “Now I have to go back to that coastal backwater.”

  He shrugged. “Good. You should oversee your vineyards and make sure they produce this year.”

  A trunk lay open, overflowing with her nightgowns and more intimate smallclothes, a sheer black silk negligee on top that left nothing to the imagination. He grimaced and turned away.

  Nora grinned broadly. “I wore that my last night with the king.”

  He swept an arm. “Don’t tell your brother that!” Great Wolf, if you have any mercy for your Faithful, scrub my mind clean.

  She quirked a brow. “He seemed to like it.”

  He shook his head. Maybe with some luck, he’d clear it.