Olivia’s lips parted, and she curled her fingers on her lap. A crease lined her brow before she lowered her gaze. “I—Perhaps she used a different blade.”
Something tight and painful twisted in his chest. “She’s been trying to kill me for months. What’s likelier? That she left her most powerful weapon behind, or that the woman I love doesn’t love me in return?”
Olivia looked away.
They both knew the truth. It really was over.
And here, in the palace, while Rielle was gods-knew-where with Brennan, what was he to do? Attempt to move past it, dwell on it, fight it?
There’d be no moving past losing the love of his life. That night at the Tower, he’d told her, I am your prisoner.
And he still was. Even now. He’d thought of her every day since he’d met her, and he’d think of her every day on. She was a part of him, whether she wanted to be or not.
And dwelling on it, as an Earthbound king… Would that be as destructive as the lies about her death had been? Perhaps he could try to ignore it, but that hadn’t gone well either, as he sat in the charred consequences of that particular course tonight.
He clenched a fist. Rielle didn’t want him to fight for her love, and he wouldn’t. She didn’t want him anymore—not as her husband, not as her lover. And it was his just fate for all his egregious errors.
His chest ached, and he grabbed a fistful of his brocade robe there.
“Jon,” Olivia said gently, looking about the remains of the room, “should I even ask what else happened here tonight?”
He grimaced.
“A burden shared is a burden halved?” A small smile peeked from her face. “Tell me.”
So he told her all of it—the disastrous circumstances the night of Rielle’s return, the pain and friction between them, how she’d refused to dissolve her betrothal, the gap between them slowly closing during their ruse. And tonight. How close he’d felt to her at the ball, all the signs, their night together here, and how she’d found Nora’s clothes beneath the pillow. He slumped against the armchair’s button-tufted back, rubbing his forehead.
Olivia rested her head against her chair’s back, too, and closed her eyes for a long moment. “She’s hurt, Jon.” She rolled her head to face him. “She’s lost so much in her life—her entire family, Leigh, Brennan… her child. And you. And it’s hurt, deeply, so badly that when Brennan broke her heart in Tregarde, she didn’t want to fall in love ever again.”
He pressed his lips together, thinking back to the days when he and Rielle had just left the Tower. She had stolen glances at him from time to time, flirted, but she hadn’t seemed interested in love. Not until Bournand. And even then, she’d kept so much to herself; she hadn’t even opened her heart to him, not fully, until Melain. “But she did.”
Olivia nodded. “She did. And what do you think it would do to a person, so traumatized by loss, to lose the one they love most?”
“It would hurt.”
“Yes, it would hurt, and it could break them.”
Break? He frowned. But no, he’d seen it… seen the glass cracking—her wild eyes in Brennan’s quarters, her haunted expression in the Grand Library.
But hadn’t their bond slowly healed? In Couronne and at the ball, she’d been more like herself, stable.
Olivia exhaled shakily. “If she had to choose between the risk of loving you and breaking for it… or protecting herself by pulling away from you, don’t you feel the choice would be obvious now?”
“Things were getting better.” He crossed his arms.
“They were. And then she found your former lover’s effects in your bed.” Olivia eyed him with pursed lips.
He shook his head. “I ended things with Nora and Aless that same day I saw Rielle again. I’ve kept to that.”
Olivia chewed her lower lip, fidgeting with her gown, then crossed her legs. “Remember the night I interrupted you in the Grand Library with Alessandra?”
He sighed. “Yes.”
“Remember what I told you?”
“That I was an idiot?” he offered.
She rolled her eyes. “No, not that—but yes, you were being an idiot. But what I’m thinking of is that I was trying to keep you from making a huge mistake.”
“There are many.” He sighed. “You’ll have to be specific.”
“Sacrificing who you are for what you are.”
He frowned.
“You sacrificed everything to try to be what your people needed.” She stared down at her ring, the Ring of the Archmage. “You’re the king. That’s what you are. But you’re Jon first. That’s who you are. And that’s who you must be before doing what you must do.”
His eyes widened. “And what if I can’t do what’s expected of a king?”
She shrugged. “Then you can’t, and you’ll find another way. No one is perfect, not even a king. And if you try to be a perfect king, you’ll lose yourself.”
Lose himself… He already had, hadn’t he? Sacrificed everything he’d loved and believed in, to do what kingship demanded. And where had it left him? He looked about the room. The burnt, destroyed room.
The ruin.
He looked up at the portrait of Rielle. She’d loved him, and hopefully she still did, but he had changed. She’d told him so herself.
And he hated who he had become. What he had become.
He couldn’t do this anymore, not even for two to three more years.
“I don’t know if I can ever go back to who I was,” he thought aloud, “but I can be who I am instead of sacrificing to do everything kingship demands.”
Olivia smiled. “That’s a start. You can’t just be king; you have to be King Jon.”
She was right, and Rielle was right. He’d become unrecognizable—the king: a man capable of doing any deed for the sake of the kingdom, the people, the land; a man with no honor; a man who had forsaken good and right for progress.
A man he could no longer be.
Perhaps the person he’d been before the crown would never make an excellent king, but it was the only king he could be, and live with himself.
And whenever the demands of rule became dishonorable and blinding, when voices required expediency, he had only but to look into his heart, where in the shadows would forever lay anguish, grief, and regret over the loss of the family he, Rielle, and Sylvie could have been—and he would be reminded of the real, human cost of surrendering to that expediency. The unbearable cost. And he’d have the strength to hold fast.
He looked back at the portrait and nodded toward it. “Do you think she’ll ever forgive me?”
“I don’t know. She’s hurt, so she’s turned to something less painful, something safe—”
He frowned.
“I don’t care what some blade is supposed to mean. She does love Brennan, that’s for certain, but not the way she loves you. I think she knows that, and that’s exactly why he’s safe.”
Safe… Perhaps. Brennan had hurt her once, and seemed to have made amends. But tonight, the disaster in bed…
He frowned. Nora’s clothes.
Nora. Brennan’s sister.
He jumped from the chair and paced before the fireplace.
“What is it?” Olivia rose.
He rested his hands on the mantle and leaned against it, over the fire. How had he been so thoughtless? Brennan had come by earlier in the day to check the room. He’d had the perfect opportunity to plant whatever he’d wanted.
“How did Nora’s negligee end up under the pillow?” He pounded a palm against the mantle.
“You think Brennan—”
He spun on his heel, breathing hard. “I know he did it.”
Blanching, Olivia took a step back, and he tried to rein in his temper. “What are you going to do?”
With a shake of his head, he paced again, slowly. “I can’t accuse him to Rielle—she’ll think I’m just trying to undermine him,” he thought aloud. “And I can’t challenge him—it’ll just look like I’
m jealous.” Which I am.
But I’m not wrong.
“Then what’s left?”
He wouldn’t stoop to Brennan’s level.
Brennan claimed to love Rielle. But how could he, if he resorted to manipulating her? That wasn’t love. It was selfishness. And that selfishness wouldn’t stop. His love would never be true, and someday, he’d make a misstep, and Rielle would see that. Someday, he’d slip up and lose her forever.
“Nothing. I will do nothing.” He took a deep breath. “If he did this, he’s manipulated her in other ways, and will continue. Someday, she’ll catch him and know him for what he is.”
“And you’ll… wait? What if…” She looked away.
He didn’t have to hear the words. What if you fie before she sees the truth? “I waited my entire life to meet the woman I love.” He met her stunned gaze squarely. “I have patience enough to sustain me, forever if need be. I’ll marry no one else unless she does. Which she won’t.”
Olivia extended an arm as if to touch him, but stopped. “Jon…”
“He’ll make a mistake.” He reached for Faithkeeper’s pommel, but he didn’t have his sword belt.
“And if he doesn’t?”
He shook his head. “She thinks he’ll be a better man. An honorable man. And if that is her wish, I hope he will.” He crossed his arms and rubbed his chin. “Brennan Karandis Marcel will either—against all odds—become the man no one expects him to become, or… his selfish nature will be his undoing. The next time he manipulates her and she finds out, it’ll be the last. He’s hurt her enough that if it happens, she’ll want nothing more to do with him.”
Olivia lowered her gaze, stared at the floor. Feeling sorry for him, no doubt.
It didn’t matter. He couldn’t lose faith again. Wouldn’t.
He paced to the broken window, watching the drapes billow outside in the wind. Brennan had hurt her, knowingly, purposefully, and maliciously, in the past. And he’d deceived her tonight. Who knew what other shadows lurked behind his “love”?
Jon sighed. Yes, he would wait for her, continue to love her. If she hated him for it, then at least she’d hate his true self, and not some shade of him. And when he died, he’d have been himself at least.
She already had plenty of reasons to hate him, but she’d once loved him for who he’d been.
He lowered his gaze to the broken glass, opaque with drying blood. Rielle’s.
There was a knock at the door.
“What is it?” Jon called.
Eloi entered, his blond curls angled in every direction. Frazzled. “The guards said not to disturb you, but—”
“Speak.”
“There was a message, Your Majesty. From Ambassador Galvan.” Eloi handed him the message.
Jon broke the seal and read.
The dark-elves have attacked Vervewood. The alliance has been triggered…
Olivia joined him at the window, and he passed the message to her.
She gasped. “What are we going to do?”
The wind tore one of the drapes off its rod and swept it away. “We’re going to war.”
Chapter 64
Out of the rain, Brennan strode past the footmen opening the doors to Victoire. Behind him, Rielle’s footsteps clacked, still in her jeweled slippers from the ball. He eyed the footmen—if they so much as raised a brow at her ruined gown, they’d regret it—but their inscrutable masks didn’t waver. Beneath the petrichor of the rain and the wet mustiness of smoke, the scent of her blood was strong—still on her hands, on her clothes.
And the king, heavy on her skin.
What had she done in that bed before she’d set fire to it? Had they found his little gift? The questions lingered, but before his mind could conjure any answers, he shook his head. He didn’t want to know. For once.
Besides, there were more important matters to handle.
Preston, the elderly manservant, greeted them. Before the man’s open mouth could emit words, Brennan said, “Get Her Ladyship some practical traveling attire and some tea.” He shoved past Preston toward the stairs. Over his shoulder, he said to Rielle, “Wait here.”
She inhaled sharply but did not object. Preston softly offered her a seat while Brennan took the stairs two at a time, his fingers tracing the hazel carving on the banister. After being banished from court, Nora had come to Victoire to sulk before leaving for Vauquelin. For once, her mulishness was functional and not just annoying.
He made his way to her usual quarters, pulled a corona from his pocket and worried it. He knocked on the door. Soft, short footsteps—Melanie’s—and the door opened. She stood aside as he entered. “My lord! Good evening to you. My lady is—”
He held up a hand. “How are the boys?”
“Sleeping, my lord, in the adjoining quarters. Annette is watching them.”
He nodded, then headed for the bedchamber. Nora’s quiet breaths came from within, but not to the deep rhythm of slumber. He creaked the door open.
Clad in a deep-red ball gown, her hair elaborately arranged on her head, she lay on the bed. Her jeweled shoes caught the moonlight. Without lifting her head from the pillow, she eyed him. “What do you want?”
He leaned against the doorjamb and exhaled lazily, turning over the coin in the silvery light. “Is that any way to greet your only brother?”
She puffed, eyeing the corona. “Don’t you have any other bedchamber to haunt?”
“None with a madwoman outfitted in formal attire for bed.”
If looks could kill, he’d be massacred. She shot bolt upright. “And whose fault is that? If you’d left well enough alone, I’d be at the ball in my formal attire. Instead, you brought a problem back that ruined everything.”
He laughed under his breath. “For all your cleverness, your plans are too risky.”
“If only yours weren’t. Then your advice would be legitimate.”
He sighed. “Let’s just skip the verbal tête-à-tête portion of this conversation and go straight to the point.”
“Which is?”
He sauntered to the bed and leaned against one of its posts, tossing up the coin and catching it. “Do you know why you’re here, Nora?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Because you couldn’t leave well enough alone.”
“Because Father has the funds to keep a villa in Courdeval, and you don’t.”
She snapped her face away and crossed her arms. “The point of this humbling?”
“You have no money.”
Her upper lip curled as she turned back to him.
“And you don’t know the first thing about how to make it. I do.”
Slowly, her frown relaxed to allow her eyebrow to rise. “And…?”
“And”—he shrugged and dropped onto the bed—“I’d be willing to manage Vauquelin for you, free of charge, for a year.”
She huffed a laugh. “Free. Certainly. I’m about to wake up, aren’t I?”
“All you have to do is tell me where Francis’s magic tutor is—”
“Her? Really?” Nora scrunched her face in the most unappealing way.
He winked, smirking. “You’re charming, dear sister. But no, not for that. I’d like Francis to find someone for me.”
She scoffed. “Did your escape-artist fiancée run off again?”
“Just say yes.” The less she knew about it, the better. Any information in her hands became a weapon. And how his dear sister would put these gems to use was anyone’s guess—and he couldn’t have it, not until Shadow was meat between his teeth.
She arched a brow. “Who is it?”
“No questions, or you’re on your own with Vauquelin.” He turned the corona over and over and over.
Her eyes narrowed. “Two years.”
Two years of managing the mess that was Vauquelin… in exchange for getting revenge on the bitch responsible for Rielle’s captivity? “Done.”
Nora’s eyes glittered as a smile slid across her face. “I’ll send for Master Leonn
e right away.”
“I’ll wait in Father’s study.” He stood and peered at her, then tossed her the coin.
She caught it and plopped back onto the bed once more. “Pleasure doing business.”
If there was anything Nora loved more than money, he had yet to find it. He strode from her bedchamber. He caught the gaping Melanie’s arm. “Have Marquise Laurentine escorted up to Father’s study,” he hissed. “Discreetly.”
When he let her go, she bowed. “Yes, my lord.” And disappeared.
Grinning, he entered the hall and proceeded to Father’s study. The last time he’d been there, he’d confronted Father about his treason—effecting King Marcus’s assassination and planning the ill-conceived coup d’état.
He raised his chin and flexed his neck; his head was still on his shoulders, so things hadn’t gone as poorly as they could have. Even Jon, bleeding heart that he was, wouldn’t reward treason with mercy. Traitors bought death with their schemes, for themselves and their families.
Praise the Great Wolf, he’d covered Father’s tracks and saved his family. Perhaps Father could content himself with his vast holdings and wealth.
He opened the ornate oak doors and entered the study. By the moonlight coming in through the windows, he headed for the nearest candelabrum and lit its candles, then the rest of them. Father’s tufted leather wing chair sat empty at the desk, and he planted himself in it. Shortly, two sets of footsteps—timid and light, and a self-assured stride that could only be Rielle’s—neared from the hall.
The door opened, and she walked in, wearing a belted red brocade riding coat—one of Una’s. Of all his sisters, naturally Una would be the most practical. Rielle looked about the room, her hair bound in a braid, if still soot covered in places. The scent of fresh olive-oil soap wafted, but beneath it all, blood and the king.
Brennan flinched.
“We can’t stay the night.” She strode to the desk and placed her fingers atop it. “We’re losing valuable time.”
He hadn’t been able to track Shadow beyond Azalée. “Trust me, knowing where to look will help.”
She grimaced and threw herself into a chair. One leg conquered the other and bounced impatiently. She crossed her arms. Ready to fight. Ready to kill.
By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2) Page 67
