She shook her head. “I don’t know that either.”
Edgar sighed. “What do we know? Other than we’ve just thrown the Lord Constable into a dungeon cell?”
It was risky. For Edgar, with his new position in the Royal Guard, it was risky. But she’d take responsibility. She’d already written and signed affidavits. If Jon needed anything else, she’d do it all, and keep Edgar’s name out of it. He didn’t need to make an enemy of the Marcels, or their many allies—nor of Jon, for that matter, if all this went sideways.
But all this… There was something to it. There had to be. “He’d said… ‘Just hear me out.’ Why would he say that? What would there be to hear? If there was nothing damning, why wouldn’t he just let me leave?”
The moment Tor had suspected she’d read the correspondence, he’d tried to prevent her leaving.
But she’d read the message. Again and again. And so had Edgar. It was little more than an invitation to Maerleth Tainn for Ignis.
Except for the “it” Faolan suggested Tor discuss with him there.
Whatever “it” was, perhaps it had been enough for Tor to stop her, to fight her, perhaps even to…
“Maybe he thought you’d get the wrong idea about something,” Edgar suggested carefully.
“What wrong idea would be worth hurting me?” She rubbed her hands, which she’d resisted healing of their bruising. Evidence.
“Something important.”
“Something seditious.” She stopped in the hall, rested her palm against the moldy wall.
Sedition.
Faolan employed the courier. That courier had delivered coded messages between him and Gilles. Those coded messages had likely contained instructions for the regicide.
And for James’s murder.
She grabbed at her chest, a fistful of gray velvet.
If Tor had hidden Faolan’s crimes, he was responsible for more than just lying to Jon. Much, much more.
Edgar’s touch on her shoulder was feather light. “Are you all right?”
She shook her head. “No, I’m not. But this isn’t about me.” Straightening her back, she gathered her composure and walked on. “But I appreciate your care.”
He huffed.
“No, truly,” she said, pausing to touch his arm.
His gaze settled on her, skeptical beneath knitted eyebrows.
“I couldn’t do this without you, Edgar. And I’m glad we met. I’m glad we’ve gotten to know each other. I’m grateful for all your help, and your friendship.”
His smile had grown with every word until he looked away. “It’s my privilege, Your Ladyship.”
She gave his arm a squeeze. “We’re friends. It’s Olivia, if you please.”
He grunted and grinned at her. “Oh, now it’s ‘Olivia’?”
Pursing her lips to hold back a smile, she resumed her steps to Tor’s cell.
A few feet away, Edgar took up a post at the wall, with a clear line of sight. He nodded to her, and she proceeded.
Behind the iron bars, Tor sat cross-legged on the floor, his palms up and open in prayer. Someone had brought him a change of clothes—Edgar, perhaps—proper boots, pants, and a crisp white shirt. His robe sat neatly folded atop a cot in the corner.
He blinked, and those once-sunlit hazel eyes found hers, dull like the grave, somber, old beyond his years.
“Olivia.” He rose, and she took a step back. Wincing, he froze, lowered his arms to his side. “Olivia, I’m sorry. I never meant to—”
“To what?” she bit out, schooling her face. He wouldn’t see her waver. Not if she could help it. “What, exactly, were you going to do?”
His gaze fell to the floor for a moment. “Would you believe me if I told you I don’t know?”
She’d never forget it—the wide-eyed look on his face as he’d attacked her. Eyes that didn’t understand what his hands did.
She nodded to him. But none of that mattered. “Somehow, the idea that you didn’t know is just as frightening, if not more so. You can’t tell me… You can’t tell me, with certainty, that you wouldn’t have killed me.”
He drew his eyebrows together, opened his mouth, closed it. “I… I wish I could tell you that. But I don’t know.”
She swallowed and nodded. Once. Twice. “Tell me the reason, Tor. Let’s not pretend there was none.”
His gaze lifted to hers, and he blinked. “I won’t lie to you. We’re past innocent explanations now, aren’t we?”
“Far past.” If any innocent explanations had even existed.
He took slow, cautious steps to the bars and grasped them, lightly, thoughtfully. “I’ve spent all my life looking out for my family, as well as I could, and much of my life looking out for Jon. When I learned they might be at odds, I wasn’t going to choose a side. I decided I would make peace.”
The Marcels and Jon at odds. “And how would you do that?”
He exhaled a soft breath. “I would dissuade my brother from his ambitions.”
We’ll discuss it then, the letter had said. “When did you know Faolan was responsible for the regicide?”
A contemplative frown. “About two months ago, I was certain. But my suspicions are older. Much older. In my family, the aspirations to the Crown, the notion that it was rightfully ours, never quite faded. Everyone knows that, right? It’s no secret among the Houses. I wanted no part in it, content to join the Order. And no one was reckless enough to act on it, of course.” A slight smile, soon fading. “But then… Faolan had lingered close to the capital during the siege. Appeared quickly. Taken King Marcus’s bastard daughter as a mistress. Many of Faolan’s allies in Parliament stalled Jon’s legitimization. And my niece so desperately courted Jon’s favor. Perhaps she didn’t realize he would never be as ruthless with his justice as my brother would, if he got wind of treason.”
A shiver rode down her spine. “So your brother… was responsible for hiring Gilles, the Heartseekers, for the regicide, the siege?”
Tor frowned grimly, but nodded. “Yes.”
“And you knew? You knew and didn’t tell us?” Her voice broke. “Did you think Jon would see your entire family executed? Why didn’t you tell us?”
He shook his head. “Can’t you see, Olivia? It’s far beyond him now. Hundreds of paladins and priests died. He has the Order of Terra to account to. And this is an atrocity that has shaken the world. He can’t be lenient. Any leniency will be seen as weakness, and weakness will be seen as opportunity.”
“So you believe Jon—our Jon—would execute your entire family?” It was unthinkable. Even to such considerable pressures, he wouldn’t submit. Not when it would mean loss of innocent life.
“Even if Jon wanted to be merciful, the Paladin Grand Cordon would not. The Grands would not. The world stage would not allow it. His hands would be tied. Faolan would be executed, no question. His wife, my sister-in-law? Would anyone believe Caterine would have been unaware? And Nora, who seemed to be ingratiating herself to the king? And what about Brennan, who stood to gain everything if Faolan succeeded? A man who’d no doubt swear vengeance if his father, mother, and sister were executed? Do you believe they’d spare him? With the Order, the Grands, and the region watching, Jon would have no real choice.”
She opened her mouth, but no words came out. Faolan Auvray Marcel had ordered the deaths of an entire family. All of the Faralles, down to the last child. If the Marcels anticipated response in kind, they clearly didn’t know the man whose family they’d killed. Whose father they’d killed. James. Her James.
Faolan Auvray Marcel had swept away James’s life as if it had been meaningless. Allowed Gilles to use him for information, to torture him, with no honor, no respect, no humanity.
And out of fear of retaliation for that atrocity, Tor had kept it all secret. Tried to dissuade—
“You said ‘dissuade,’ ” she whispered. “That means he still aspires to the throne.”
Tor’s face went slack, and his grasp of the bars loosened. �
�I’ve convinced him not to act on it, to wait until after we meet during Ignis. I was hoping to put his ambitions to rest.”
Jon was still in danger.
And if any word left the capital that Tor was imprisoned, that anything at all had changed, it would alert Faolan to their knowledge. “How did he plan to take over now, after the siege?”
A deep breath. “He believes in redundancies. He’s bought allies in many corners. The only reason he didn’t succeed before was because he wasn’t aware of Jon’s existence until—”
“Until…” She swallowed. “Until Gilles tortured that information from James.”
Tor bowed his head. Nodded. “Olivia, I’m—”
She held up a hand.
There could be no apology that would ever assuage the grief and the rage over what Gilles had done to James. Over what Faolan had done to James. No words Tor could ever say.
Her fists clenched, she struggled to draw in deep breaths, to release them slowly. Not to scream. Not to cry. Not to reduce the bars to rust and cast spell after spell until the pain abated. Which it never would.
No. They had answers now. That was something. More than they’d had before.
Faolan had left them in a web, paralyzed, unable to act for fear of alerting him, and yet unable to ignore the rot of betrayal that had corrupted the very heart of the High Council. Of Jon’s inner circle.
But as long as Faolan remained unaware of their knowledge, they’d be at an advantage. One she would push, with Jon’s blessing, after she told him all of this.
She turned back the way she’d come.
“Olivia,” Tor called, his voice raw, broken, “I know it would be pointless to ask you not to tell Jon. To let me handle this—”
The audacity… She shook her head.
“But when you do tell him, make sure he knows all I’ve wanted is to protect him, and to protect my family. To make sure both survive.”
She pinned her lower lip bitterly and glared at him. “You’re a liar.”
When he only blinked, she continued, “All you’ve done is drag this out, give Faolan the time to put every last piece into position. You think a man who spent millions of coronas to overthrow a dynasty was going to change his mind after a talk with his little brother? He was never going to be dissuaded. He was never even open to it. All he did was manage a liability. Manage you.”
He recoiled from the bars, shuddered.
“To him, Jon’s assassination was always an eventuality. And you—you. ‘A blade may not be wielded by two men.’ You know this. You know it, and yet you expected to serve both your king and your diametrically opposed family? No, you’re no fool. You knew it could never end peacefully. But you told yourself it could, lied to yourself, all so you could stall the inevitable.”
From between two bars, he gaped at her, his brown eyes wide, unsettled, his breaths escaping in gasps. At his sides, his fingers trembled.
She walked back the way she’d come, and when he called her name, again and again, she didn’t stop.
Edgar hadn’t moved from his post, although his gaze darted toward the cell, then back to her, unsettled in that same way, haunted.
Tor’s calls for her didn’t stop.
“We’re done here,” she said to Edgar, and continued down the corridor. With a bewildered nod, he moved alongside her.
She’d find a way to bring Faolan Auvray Marcel to justice, and save Jon’s life—no matter who plotted his death.
As cheers rose up among the light-elves and the Emaurrians, Jon winced, rubbing his temples. He’d slept through most of the night and the entire day, and yet that headache from the battlefield had stubbornly lingered.
A palm clapped his back, and he staggered over the table, spilling his water onto the ironwood surface.
“What are you so sullen about?” Valen asked with a chuckle as he downed his cup of mead. “The war is over, the dark-elves surrendered, a peace has been negotiated. What could there possibly be to brood over?”
Jon scowled at him. “Well, my guts flying out of my chest and onto this table, for one.”
Valen snorted and broke into laughter.
Their alliance with Vervewood had now been blooded, and was strong. Stonehaven had surrendered and accepted terms—the new queen to serve as a governor with an Emaurrian observer, the dark-elves free to live among his people if they so chose, an exchange of knowledge, trade relations…
Emaurria was stronger than it had been on his first day. But there would always be the next battle. The next Immortals. The new crisis. “There’s just no end to this in sight. Today, we have peace. Tomorrow, there will be some new Immortal creature wreaking havoc on our people.”
Valen set his cup down and sighed. “Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst, my brother. You can’t tunnel into seeing only conflict after conflict.”
He shook his head. “But the loss of life—”
“Every life counts. That means not just lives lost, but lives saved. How many lives were saved yesterday with that surrender? On all sides?”
Terra’s teachings. “You’re right.”
“Of course I am.” A laugh as Florian, next to him, poured him another round. Raoul was still recovering, but seemed better since last night.
“But His Majesty isn’t wrong either,” Leigh said from across the table. He sat with Ambriel, cozy, intimate, but a grim line creased between his brows. “The dark-elves surrendered, and they may yet prove themselves to be peaceful. But can we expect that of other Immortals? Wyverns, frost giants… werewolves?” He pierced Jon with dark eyes. “What if we come across entire races wanting to annihilate us?”
“We have help in Vervewood and now Stonehaven. If there are problems, we’ll all face them together.” Valen drank deeply of his mead, and Florian nodded next to him.
“And how big of a problem can we manage?” Leigh challenged. Ambriel took his hand, but Leigh shrugged him off. “We should be making peace where we can, but this is also a new world to us. Our ancestors knew it, and their answer to uncooperative enemies was the Sundering.”
Ambriel straightened and glared at him. “Dreshan, they sealed entire peoples, our people,” he bit out in Old Emaurrian. “You can’t possibly—”
“And that was wrong,” Leigh said softly, turning to him. “They never should have done that to the light-elves. Or any life not hellbent on destruction. But wyverns? Frost giants? Whose only goals seem to be destruction and death, who are incapable of forging a peace? Was it wrong to seal them?”
A silence settled over their portion of the table, while cheers and laughter still rang around them from the celebrating light-elves and humans.
“Even if we all agreed as an alliance, even if we chose only to seal the beasts among the Immortals, the Sundering happened millennia ago,” Jon argued in a low voice. “We don’t know how it was done.”
A sly smile claimed Leigh’s face. “And if we did?”
Jon raised his eyebrows. Based on the rituals he knew of so far—“I have no doubt an immense sacrifice would be required.”
“And if could stop armies before they could kill a single Emaurrian, what wouldn’t you sacrifice for peace?”
Peace often came at the cost of lives. But this—sealing off entire species and races before they could wage war—was that “peace”? That was what they were discussing. It didn’t sit right. “If you have any knowledge of it, send it to me, or to Olivia. We’ll consider all options, but only if our allies agree.”
“Dreshan,” Ambriel began, “our peoples just survived a war. Let us celebrate that, at least, before you wage another war of your own.”
Leigh shot him a lopsided smile, then sighed and raised his goblet. “To peace.”
Jon raised his, as did everyone else around. “Hear, hear.”
As he drank his water, he looked out over the crowd. Light-elves and humans, celebrating together, allies, united. Perhaps someday soon, the dark-elves would be among them. The face of Emaurria was cha
nging, growing stronger, finding strength in the chaos of the Rift.
Since Spiritseve, life had changed for everyone here—and everyone in Emaurria and beyond—and he aimed to make that change for the better, if he could, with whatever time he had left. He, too, had gone from a simple life serving Terra to what was now more complex a life than he ever could have imagined.
Beautifully complex.
He set down the goblet, smiled as Cédric poured him some more water, and then some wine for Ella.
What was Rielle doing now? Had she found Shadow? Was she well, happy?
When she’d left, she’d taken a piece of his heart with her, but even so, it was fuller now than it ever had been. And she may have given up on him, but he… he wouldn’t give up on her. Maybe she didn’t love him anymore, but he loved her, and always would.
Stay safe, live well, be happy. I will see you again, in this life or the next. Whether as friends or more, he’d always be there for her. Whatever she needed of him.
And until then, he’d… What had Valen said? Prepare for the worst.
Yes, it was time for that. While danger lurked in every shadow, Emaurria couldn’t afford to house power that didn’t earn its keep.
It was time to bring the Tower of Magic into the fold.
In the dark, Leigh gazed at Ambriel’s hand on his chest, stroked it lightly. Next to him, Ambriel slept soundly.
The celebration had gone on long into the night—and in this bedroom, well past midnight—but now, just a couple hours before dawn, all of Vervewood was quiet. The night air blew in, fluttering gossamer curtains and carrying in the sweet smell of spring blooms and dewy leaves. Lying here with his lover in his arms, Vervewood and Stonehaven at peace, and the land so lively, it seemed enough to content just about anyone.
Just about.
But he had fought a wyvern. Been tortured by a werewolf. Knew the accounts of the Emaurrian army fighting the mangeurs. It would only get worse. From what he’d read about the dragons, it was only a matter of time until they mobilized and reconquered the world.
And what loss of life would accompany that? How many humans—and who knew who else—would have to die for that conquest?
By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2) Page 73
