Blade & Rose (Blade and Rose Book 1)

by Miranda Honfleur

  “Olivia,” he rumbled, shaking her as he dragged her along.

  “I am loyal to King Marcus,” she breathed.

  Voices echoed from afar, and he slowed, his grip on her hand tightening, but he did not stop. “There is a wren in my quarters. In the bedchamber.”

  She’d seen the bird every night for the past two months. “I know it.”

  Screams sounded, muffled, from the other side of wall. Cut short. Men’s furtive voices. Her mouth went dry.

  “There’s a black ribbon in the drawer next to the cage. Tie it to the bird’s leg and set it free.”

  Distant doors slammed. More screaming.

  “Olivia.” James’s firm voice. “The wren.”

  She swallowed. “Yes,” she replied tremulously. “Black ribbon. Set it free.”

  “Good.” He pulled her along faster, his palm dampening with cold sweat.

  “James—”

  “The recipient will know what it means. Do this, Olivia. The entire kingdom is at stake.”

  A rumble of shouts—nearer, and James paused, drawing her back to him, clamping a hand over her mouth. Footfalls thudded on the other side of the wall. Crashes. Shattering. A door slammed, then another, farther away.

  James’s hold loosened on her mouth.

  “What about you?” she whispered.

  He drew in a deep, shaky breath, then took her hand anew and led her down the black corridor. “The queen wasn’t present tonight. I must find her.”

  She swallowed. Queen Alexandrie had been ill with heart problems for many months and resisted all healing. Her final months had taken a toll on an already weakened body. But given what had happened in the great hall, Queen Alexandrie’s quarters had to be a killing floor. “James, if you go—”

  “I know.” He came to a stop and put his ear to the wall, then after a moment, pushed open a panel. “These are my quarters. Go, and then flee, mon rêve. Live.” He kissed her—hard, deep, hungry for eternity, his arms so strong around her she believed he’d never let go—and then he did.

  He pushed her through the open panel, and disappeared once more in the black corridor.

  With panic quickening her heart, she took in the familiar bedchamber, where she had experienced such joy, but its warmth didn’t fill her up as it always had. It was just a place. Just walls, furnishings, stone, wood, and fabric.

  No time. She rushed to the birdcage and did as he had bidden—yanked open the drawer, grabbed the black ribbon, opened the cage, coaxed the wren with a trembling hand, and tied the ribbon around its leg. As she opened the window, a door outside the bedchamber creaked open.

  Fly! She set the bird free and then tossed out the birdcage. Her gaze darted about the room. Unable to use magic, she would be helpless. She snatched a letter opener from the desk as the door to the bedchamber flew open. Before she could raise it, a masked stranger blew a dart from a Kezani blowpipe.

  It hit her in the neck.

  And it was all she remembered of that day before waking in her cold, dark grave of a cell. It had been the last time she’d seen James.

  The Crag Company had taken her alive. Her—born of a commoner family, with no hope of ransom. A worthless prisoner. They’d bound her in arcanir cuffs before the arcanir poison could wear off. No hope of escape. Her only hope lay in a rescue, and only one person near and dear to her heart would even consider coming.

  “You should come see the palace libraries,” she had told Rielle the day of her planned departure from the Tower of Magic to the capital city of Courdeval.

  Rielle pursed her lips knowingly. “The palace libraries, or you?”

  Rielle could always be counted on for familiarity bordering on rudeness, and the palace would be a colder home for the lack of her.

  Olivia embraced her. “It just won’t be the same without you.” Committing Rielle’s wistful smile to memory, she pulled away slowly.

  “You’ll do fine. Have faith. You’re Archmage now,” Rielle added, her smile broadening. “The only woman among the king’s advisers.”

  Something she’d worked very hard for—a commoner elevated to a respected position among the Grands, the king’s High Council. She smiled. “Archmage...”

  “And no matter how far you travel, how long, how high, our souls will always call to each other, Olivia.” The bright blue of Rielle’s eyes had shone.

  Her words heartened.

  Olivia nodded. “Don’t make me cry, or I’ll have to leave in tears.” She grinned. “Besides, I’ll see you at Midwinter. It’ll be here before you know it.”

  And it had been the last time she’d seen Rielle.

  She’ll come for me. Olivia squeezed the bars of her cell. She had to believe Rielle would come.

  There was no way the Divinity would sanction a rescue mission now that she had sworn her allegiance to the Emaurrian Crown. Rielle would face excommunication for undertaking such an unsanctioned mission.

  I know Rielle. She’ll come.

  But she won’t throw her life away without knowing I’m alive. She’ll visit a spiritualist. Emaurria was home to a precious few spiritualists, but there were two at the Tower. Thank the Divine that Feliciano Donati was no longer there. He was the last person Rielle should ever meet again, or he’d break her precarious recovery. Olivia shook her head.

  As long as she wasn’t encased in arcanir, a spiritualist could find her anima. Spirit magic could find her—or anyone—anywhere. Not even the Crag Company’s three heretic captains could stop it.

  She shuddered. Phantom, Flame, and Shadow, as they were known, were General Evrard Gilles’ illustrious mage captains, retained in exchange for certain promises after his embarrassing loss in Signy five years ago. Or so rumor said. The illusionist, Phantom, disguised their attacks; Flame, the elementalist, laid waste to all; and the elusive shadowmancer, Shadow, obfuscated their exit.

  As formidable as they were, they could do nothing about a spiritualist’s seeking.

  Except kill me.

  But it hadn’t happened yet for a reason. A reason she hoped would persist until Rielle arrived.

  Chapter 11

  Rielle slouched in the saddle. Jon’s bitterness had been exhausting, but without conversation, the day dragged, and it was nearly dusk. The area around the Tainn Forest here was plagued by underground ruins and unsteady ground, so she needed to find a good, safe campsite. But as much as she disliked the endless ennui of the road, the prospect of settling into camp with a scowling Jon was less than appealing.

  The night she’d asked him about forgiveness, he’d been friendly, caring even, until that caustic remark. Your idle musings aren’t my concern. Why don’t you keep them to yourself next time so I can get some sleep?

  What had that been about? He usually acted so personably, but as soon as she began to expect that, all hope fizzled.

  Although she set their pace, somehow he was always ready and waiting to leave in the mornings before she’d even properly opened her eyes. This morning, after training with his sword, he’d caught her watching him shave. Papa had always insisted on doing it himself, and seeing a man shave always took her back to sunlit mornings as a little girl, tugging on Papa’s tunic, begging to go riding or swimming or sailing while Mama laughed heartily.

  At her looking, Jon had almost smiled, as pleased as the wolf that caught the hart. Then he had turned bitter and muttered something about it being rude to stare.

  Cursing under her breath, she clenched the reins. First hot, then cold. She could handle either, if he’d just make up his mind. But the constant fluctuations, the uneven ground, made her head spin, and her spinning head would twist clean off if the rest of the mission continued this way.

  By nightfall, the horses were spent, and so was she. She spotted a potential campsite. On a slight rise, the small clearing was flat and well drained, in a grove of Emaurrian larches with a gap to the east that would let in the morning sun. If the ground supported the larches, it would support their camp. “How about—”
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  Jon urged his horse right past her and into the trees. She blew out an exasperated breath.

  She followed him in, and they repeated their routine: she placed the ward, he built the fire, she tended to the horses, he pitched their tent. Tonight, they ate their supper of cheese and moistened double-baked bread by the fire and then enjoyed the warmth for a while. Perhaps the night would pass without incident.

  Divine willing. She sighed and warmed her hands by the fire, letting its heat permeate her skin, her tired flesh and aching bones, to slowly devour the day’s ravels like kindling. It was her constant companion, friend and enemy, the fire, with its versicolor hues as numerous as its powers. The power to warm, the power to kill, the power to light, the power to consume, to protect and to scare, to comfort and to hurt. It had borne witness to the brightest and darkest spots of her life. At times, she cursed its power, wished it doused, and always, always, she turned again to its familiarity, sought again its warm embrace.

  Jon sharpened his sword, his constant companion, glancing her way from time to time. He’d been at it for hours—honing sections of the three-and-a-half-foot double-edged arcanir blade from guard to tip with one hundred strokes each on the rough-grain damp whetstone, polishing with a soft cloth, then the medium grain, polishing, the fine grain... Firelight seduced the mirror edge, a blurred dance claiming the blade to the measured hum of a nearby stream and the soft churring of a nightjar.

  His eyes hard set, he worked with unflinching discipline, unwavering, patience and control in every identically repeated action. She watched him from beneath stray locks of hair, stealing glimpses of his stern face, the heat of the campfire warming her furthest reaches, and then those hard-set eyes fixed upon hers, turning the thousand suns of his concentration upon her while he continued honing the blade uninterrupted.

  Her breath caught; a frisson of need shot through her, and she squeezed her knees together. The blade’s tempered moan ended with a slow hiss, and his intense gaze locked with hers, he polished its length with a languorous stroke from base to tip.

  The air spilled from her mouth, and she bit her lip. That look... He wasn’t angry; he was...

  She swallowed and turned away, a plant soaking too much sun, and her gaze settled on the tent. Tonight would be another night sleeping side by side in close quarters, and Divine be praised if she’d get a wink. At least they’d soon be in Bournand, in separate rooms, among other people.

  The previous night, she’d hardly been able to sleep at all, for different reasons, frustrated by his confusing behavior and his damnably intoxicating scent of—she’d discerned after some rumination—linden wood and smoke. Papa had used a shaving balm that smelled just so, and it made her think of home and her childhood, safe and laughing in Papa’s arms, sunny days, the salt on the air from the Shining Sea—

  A feather fluttered along her ribs—an echo of magic reverberating through her. A breach of the ward. She jolted upright. Something large.

  She surged to her feet, and so did Jon, the whetstone abandoned, eyes scanning the surroundings.

  Someone had dared to cross the threshold. Brennan had met with her the previous night—and wouldn’t return for a month.

  An intruder.

  “The ward’s been breached.” She looked beyond the campfire, peering into the woods. The elements were at her disposal, at least until her anima went dark, but there was no danger of that unless an entire army had breached the ward or serious healing was needed. “Stay here.”

  Already arming, he fixed her with a stubborn glare. “I’m coming with you.”

  No surprise.

  “You’ll only get in my way. You’ll be safer here.” Divine’s flaming fire, the last thing she needed was for him to get hurt or killed fighting an intruder, or hitting a patch of unsteady ground. As she stowed their valuables in her recondite satchel, arcanir clinked and leather hissed.

  Shaking her head, she stalked through the tall grass, wizened by the onset of autumn, in the direction of the intrusion.

  His footsteps followed as he trod through the brush behind her. Arguing with him would probably require more effort than defending him in battle, so she didn’t waste her breath.

  Her inner barriers pulled to the southern edge of the perimeter, her body tensing and favoring that direction. The ward breach had occurred there, a short walk into the Tainn Forest. When she’d laid the protections, the twilight radiance had still granted her sight. In the darkness, however, a candlelight spell would give away their location. The forest’s darkness protected them, and in lieu of the spell, she stopped, listened.

  Jon’s breath huffed on the nape of her neck—hot, close. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled.

  She closed her eyes and signed the earthsight enchantment over them.

  And blinked.

  The world was still dark, but faint white threads wove together before her in intricate patterns—in the shapes of grass, trees, and brush, with small, moving points of brilliance she knew to be rodents, owls, nighthawks. The glowing tree shapes shone ahead of her, their anima very much alive, the world woven and its life exposed.

  If they were quiet and careful, they would see the intruders before being seen themselves.

  Metal clinked softly behind her. Jon’s fingertips brushed gently against the back of her coat.

  “Stay close to me and be silent,” she whispered. With earthsight, not only would she be able to spot the aura of a trespasser, but also the telltale loose threads in the ground, where the subterranean ruins might have crumbled and caused unsteadiness. Their campsite seemed well used and was safe enough, but here, there was no such confidence.

  Taking a step forward, she peered past her own brightness at the anima of the grass beneath her boot glimmering faintly and, as she raised her foot, brightening once more. She led him toward the edge of the ward, weaving through the trees and the brush, and paused when a tiny ball of light darted across their intended path.

  Jon stopped behind her, so still and so quiet she couldn’t deny a begrudging respect for him.

  “What is it?” he asked, barely audible, his mouth a hair’s breadth from her ear, the tingle making her shiver.

  All that newfound respect disappeared. “A rabbit,” she grumbled in a hushed tone.

  If he didn’t keep his mouth shut, then all her effort at stealth would be for nothing.

  He didn’t reply, and she continued on, expecting to see anima the size and shape of at least one person ahead. However, as they neared the edge, nothing indicated a person. The ward had been breached—that much was certain—but they should have encountered the trespasser by now. Someone had been out here.

  She looked left and right before turning around to look behind her—

  An abundance of light.

  Anima.

  With a gasp, she receded and averted her gaze from the brightness. Great Divine.

  “It’s only me.” Jon held out his hand in peace.

  Unmoving, she blinked away the floating ghosts of light in her vision and allowed her gaze to settle upon him once more.

  Silver brilliance shone from his face, uncovered by arcanir. Bright and shimmering, a marvel to behold, far brighter than only life.

  Magic.

  “You’re a mage,” she whispered. There was no time for this now; somewhere out there, a trespasser lurked. Could someone really have triggered the ward but not seen their camp, nor meant them any harm? She couldn’t let her guard down.

  Jon is a mage.

  There was a tense silence.

  Unable to see his facial expression for all the light, she couldn’t fathom his reaction. Despite the disdain he’d shown for mages, he’d been one himself all along. Perhaps that was the reason—the guilty self-hatred of a doué paladin. A magically gifted paladin.

  He muffled a sigh and raked his fingers through his hair? The brightness of his anima made the motion difficult to discern.

  She scanned their surroundings. Clear.

 
He trudged through the trees, and she followed.

  “I don’t practice magic,” he said, pacing a small clearing, his voice soft even in its insistence. He fidgeted with his wrists—loosening and removing his gauntlets.

  “But you can learn to.”

  “I don’t want to.” He twirled that ring again.

  “You’re a mage—whether you want to be or not.”

  It did not matter whether he used his magic or not—he had been a mage long before now, before even his éveil, the awakening of his magic at puberty; he had been a mage since birth. “You’ve had an éveil.”

  He nodded. “While training with another page when I was twelve. He was bigger, stronger—pinned me. Wouldn’t let me up, his knee pressing into my chest”—his palm settled over his sternum—“and I could hardly breathe. Everything was going white, and then... he was across the yard.”

  Force magic.

  She could still hardly believe it. Rare and unexpected. In a kingdom of twenty million people, less than two thousand were known to be mages, many of them nobles. And here, one of the few mage-born, an enforcer, wasted away in the Order of Terra.

  “Why are you a paladin?”

  He stepped toward her.

  The anima threads in the ground beneath him loosened. Divine, that meant the ground was—

  A rumble. The anima threads broke apart.

  He glanced down. The ground collapsed.

  He slid into the void below. She hurtled toward him, reaching out with both hands to catch his arm. The ground beneath her crumbled away.

  They plunged into the darkness. She only tightened her grip on his arm.

  The weightlessness of falling. The raw life of the hold between her and Jon. Her fingernails dug into flesh. A chunk of earth crashed through their joined hands. She didn’t let go.

  He pulled her into his arms. Her earthsight dispelled. She struggled to breathe in his hold as they plummeted together.

  Geomancy—no, aeromancy—

  The sting. Nothing. In the clutch of his arcanir. No magic at all.

  Rushing air pulled at her coat.

  The ground came too soon. The grotesque sounds of clashing armor, thudding bone, and crashing flesh.