Blade & Rose (Blade and Rose Book 1)

by Miranda Honfleur

  His gaze fixed on her backside, he almost didn’t notice the large, dark figure ahead of them. His hand went to Faithkeeper’s hilt.

  A statue. One of the Immortals, sculptures littered across Emaurria and its neighboring lands. He’d encountered these wonders on his travels: a horned horse near a pond, a gigantic winged serpent carved into the side of a mountain, large and low lizards near caves, and most commonly of all, fey spirits in forests. Some nobles collected them, sending sturdy carts and groups of workers to secure the statues for extravagant stone menageries to impress their guests and rivals.

  He paused before the figure, scrutinizing it in the glow of the candlelight spell. Sublime in its ugliness and majesty, the statue stood eight feet tall and had aged well, with no chips nor cracks, only an extensive layer of dust evincing its neglect. The creature’s stone fur was meticulously detailed, and its huge torso appeared to heave in furor even in its stillness.

  At first glance, he had taken it for a bear, but the ears and muzzle were all wrong. The eyes were perfectly carved, so lifelike, like the gorgons in the tales after seeing their own reflections. Thick, man-like arms tapered down to large, claw-like hands. Massive, powerful legs bore the heavy torso aloft, flanked by a long, lupine tail. It was one of the chilling creatures of legend, the Man-Beasts, Death-Bringers, Sharp-Claws—those man-eating, rage-fueled demons that village elders scared children with: the werewolves.

  He thumbed a long, canine tooth, and in the silence, he became aware of Rielle’s breathing and looked beyond the statue to find her glaring at him.

  “Enjoying the sights?” Narrowed eyes speared him beneath her frown.

  “Not nearly as much as the pleasant company,” he said flatly.

  “It’ll only become more ‘pleasant’ if you don’t start moving.” She cocked her head toward the door.

  As they left the old library, a distant light flickered at the end of the hallway.

  He pulled her into a wall recess.

  She extinguished the candlelight spell, and they pressed against the wall in the inky darkness. To avoid the sconce at eye level, he ducked his head, hunched over her like a gargoyle, his hand positioned over his dagger’s hilt.

  Pressed against him, she breathed gentle warmth against his neck. Thankfully, the dust overwhelmed the rose scent of her hair, which only made him long all the more to bury his face in it and inhale.

  “The ward was breached underground,” she whispered in his ear. “Our trespassers. Heretics.”

  Mages not of the Divinity.

  He didn’t know how far the ward’s range had extended, but apparently, it had gone deep enough into the earth for the heretics here to breach it.

  Tucked away, he and Rielle were deathly still, the occasional soft breath the only sign of life. Her shoulder moved faintly against him, her intoxicating scent just under his nose.

  Their path lay through that hallway, but there was no telling what type or number of attackers they might face.

  The distant light neared, its glow on the stone floor visible through the sliver of an angle available to him through the doorway.

  She huddled closer, the silkiness of her hair brushing under his chin.

  A pair of voices conversed casually as they neared. He held his breath.

  The voices rose in volume, their plain chatter mere feet away.

  “…plans to take down the Divinity but needs us to join as spies. A worthwhile meeting,” a man said—by his voice’s rough edge, middle-aged and a pipe smoker.

  “As long as that hydromancer is dealt with before he reaches his destination,” a woman replied gruffly. “If the siege lasts long enough, we won’t have to do a thing more. It’s been a blessing.”

  A siege? Where? He listened.

  “Don’t worry. The Grand Divinus will look like a fool.”

  The head of the Divinity of Magic? How did a siege make her look like a fool?

  The voices faded as the speakers moved past, disappearing along with the light.

  A siege...

  War in Emaurria? After years of peace? If that were true, the paladins would most certainly be involved, protecting the populace, assisting in the defense. No one had mentioned a thing. Not Rielle, not the Proctor, Derric—

  Had Derric sent a mage with him for protection because the paladins were otherwise engaged? Truly?

  Rielle pulled on his hand. She wanted to move. Movement could betray their presence, but there was a chance the strangers could return. This could be their opportunity to reach the exit. He let her pull him through the doorway. They felt their way along the wall until they reached a corner.

  The creak of a door came from the side. Rielle threw a ball of candlelight flame ahead, and her grip on his hand tightened.

  She yanked him into a run. Already moving, he caught a glimpse of a figure silhouetted in the light streaming from the open door.

  Shadows clung to the hall, illuminated by the faint candlelight spell, the glow from the open door, and a solitary torch. He and Rielle ran past the doorway, voices shouting in their wake.

  Faster, Jon moved ahead and dragged her behind him, their footfalls echoing in rapid succession. He glanced back.

  A translucent blur of energy sped toward Rielle’s back.

  Turning on his heel, he threw his free arm around her and threw them to the ground. He landed on his back and choked out a breath.

  She rolled out of his grasp, away from his arcanir, and onto her side, twirling her fingers before her.

  He jerked out of the way and rose.

  A whirlwind blew past and, with a wave of her hand, twinned with fire toward their attacker. Flame spun in ravenous embrace with a cyclone, razing all in its path to glowing embers and scattered dust.

  A flash of violet. A red-haired woman in dark leathers charged out of the fire.

  He drew Faithkeeper up and to the outside to block the strike of a conjured hand axe. The spelled weapon dissipated upon contact.

  The woman’s eyes brightened as she disengaged. “Paladin!” she called over her shoulder.

  “Kill him!” a man ordered amid cracks, thuds, and crackling.

  The char of burning fouled the air. Jon risked a glance at Rielle. She faced off against the man, a force mage who threw large pieces of stone—bits of Immortals. She blocked.

  Jon’s attacker wielded a stone arm, her face contorted. She charged, swinging the full weight of the makeshift weapon.

  He dodged and transitioned into a killing thrust aimed directly beneath her sternum. His blade plunged deep, through, and blood wreathed the arcanir.

  Her eyebrows drew together in one last struggle before the stone fell from her grasp.

  He pulled Faithkeeper free, a red spray accompanying the motion.

  A great flash blinded him. A massive ball of swirling flame saturated the hallway, barreling from Rielle’s hands. An anguished scream choked—ended.

  She rushed to him and grabbed his hand, cracks and rumbling sounding above them.

  His pulse pounding in his ears, Jon dashed ahead of her, his grip on her hand unrelenting. Earthiness teased his nose—clean air, a forest—

  The entire passage came crumbling down behind them.

  Chapter 13

  Covered in dust, Jon panted in the cool forest air, the only other sound Rielle’s fast, ragged breathing beneath him. He braced on his hands above her. At least he hadn’t crushed her. They’d managed to get out alive. Barely.

  He scanned the dark surrounding forest. No unusual sights or sounds. They were safe for the moment.

  With a relieved sigh, he collapsed beside her, staring up at the waxing gibbous moon brightening the black sky. The sight had never been more welcome.

  A green glow radiated next to him from Rielle’s hands. Earthsight. Her irises became an arcane verdant green.

  “We’re safe.” She dispelled the earthsight and inspected him under a candlelight spell. “Are you hurt?”

  He moved his fingers and toes. “I�
�m fine.” He rose on his elbow and studied her in the faint candlelight; gray all over, she was powdered with dust. “You?”

  Her face tight, she nodded, but her pallor belied her answer. A sickly sheen broke through the gray veil over her wan complexion. When she held up her hand, two of its fingers bent at unnatural angles. Her eyes widened.

  He shot upright in the grass and seized her wrist. “We’ll need to immobilize them, wrap them with the adjacent unbroken fingers—”

  A brief, faint smile, and she shook her head, grimacing. “Magic, remember?”

  Magic. In truth, at the sight of her injuries, he’d pushed all else from his mind.

  “Right.” He released her wrist, but his gaze stayed on her fingers, on their distorted shape.

  Looking at them even a moment longer—

  He turned away. He’d held in a paladin’s entrails to keep them from spilling out. He’d splinted broken bones. He’d disemboweled enemies. Such was the life of a paladin.

  But the sight of her delicate fingers broken—he couldn’t stomach it. He shook his head.

  Mages were selfish hedonists; he’d heard it time and again among the priests and paladins.

  And yet... A mage stranger had healed him once before, a few years ago. And in the ruin, Rielle had seen to him first, just as she did now. Even if her anima were dim, she would have healed him instead of herself.

  He’d misjudged her. Perhaps he’d misjudged all mages.

  “I’ve been through worse.” She touched her fingers with a wince and whispered a healing incantation. Her teeth ground together as her bones righted themselves. She sat up, resting her elbows on her knees, and heaved breath after distraught breath.

  He looked away while her breathing evened out, at the firm tall grass, the swaying larch canopy, the bed of soft wood ferns beneath, iridescent spikemoss in the moon’s light.

  It was already well past midnight, and they were some distance from camp. He rose, dusted himself off, and held out his hand. “Come.”

  As he pulled her to her feet, she braced a palm on his armored chest. That touch dispelled the candlelight. She stepped away.

  A lesson to remember.

  Faithkeeper lay nearby. He retrieved it, then pinched the blade between his thumb and forefinger and drew off the blood before sheathing. It had given him no pleasure to kill again, especially a woman, but she’d left him no choice. He bowed his head and said a prayer to send her soul along to the Lone.

  Bathed in the moon’s silvery light, Rielle covered her eyes. A soft, green glow flashed from her hands, and she uncovered her eyes. “This time stay behind me,” she said, “unless you’d like to take another tumble.”

  With her spell, she’d see any unsteady earth. He had no desire to fall through the ground again. “Lead the way.”

  She took his hand, her skin clear of his arcanir knuckle-dusters. He hesitated at the contact but didn’t pull away as they began the long walk back to camp. It would be easier to make their way through the dark holding hands. Nothing more.

  But as she took him to the bed of ferns, he couldn’t stop wondering if she’d ask him for resonance again.

  She needed to be at her full power. He couldn’t refuse her, temptation or no. He had the strength to resist breaking his vows, strength enough for them both.

  Water splashed at his feet—a stream—and from farther away came the roar of a waterfall. They continued through the forest until a fire flickered in the distance. Their camp.

  She stopped and checked the horses. “The ward was dispelled when you passed through it in your arcanir, but it seems no one’s been here.”

  He pulled aside the flap to their tent and nodded, dust clouding from his head. He swept a hand back and forth through his hair, sighing at the never-ending puffs of gray.

  “We can clean up in the stream.” Her torn white mage coat was begrimed, too.

  She rummaged through her packs and retrieved clothes and toiletries. He took a few items himself and stashed them in a knapsack. It was barely a quarter full, so he held it out to her and she stowed her things within—filling the bag to capacity.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Do all women carry so much gear, or just you?”

  She shot him a bitter smile and plodded into the forest. Somehow, her sour expression only made him grin. There was something about her that just made him want to tease her endlessly.

  He followed her into the trees. Bathed in moonlight, the forest took on a surreal quality: leaves shining silver and lined with sable; trees a ghostly gray but backed with darkness, filtering the light effusing onto the leafy forest floor. Ahead, mist shimmered above a widening stream, where water fell over a ledge, joined by a brook farther along the rim of the basin. On most other nights, the drop would’ve been dangerous, but tonight, in the natural radiance, it was just visible.

  She led the way down to the forest pool. At the bottom, she took off her mage coat, sat on the bank, and pulled off her boots. He offered her the knapsack, and she removed what seemed like a never-ending succession of items.

  He left her to it and unfastened his armor, gazing out at the spray of the waterfall meeting the surface.

  Dust wisped into the air. She’d unbound her hair from its braid and was shaking it out—a veritable halo of long, golden curls. He’d had no concept of its thickness until now, when it flared around her like an aura. When she shed her leather vest and rose to unfasten her trousers, he straightened and turned away.

  “You do realize I’m right here?” he grumbled.

  “And?” A splash and a gasp indicated she’d entered the pool. “I knew you’d turn away.”

  “Did you?” Stiff, he tried not to dwell on the thought of what she might look like naked and instead focused on steadying his breathing while he stripped off the last of his armor.

  “For all your superficial nastiness, you’re actually rather courteous.” Another splash of water.

  He huffed. He hadn’t been able to commit to being entirely rude, even for his own sake. “What, is courtesy so rare among practitioners of the black arts? How surprising.”

  A loud splash was her answer. Droplets spattered his back. He grinned.

  “You can look now, by the way.”

  He turned around. In the reflection of the moon, she faced away from him, head and shoulders above the gleaming water, curls cascading down her back. For a moment, he was still, committing the sight to memory, and then she submerged and resurfaced, moved deeper in until the water reached her shoulders.

  He shed his clothes, grabbed his soap, and waded in, dismissing his shudder against the cold. When he’d reached waist level, she turned to him, water lapping at her collarbone.

  “Refreshing, isn’t it?”

  He crossed his arms. “How did you know I was in deep enough?”

  With an impish smile, she shrugged. “Courtesy is rare among practitioners of the black arts, I’ve heard.”

  He smirked and moved farther away, then immersed his head in the water, the cold both shocking and revitalizing. Soap in hand, he popped back up and washed, the dust rippling away from him on the surface. “You think we’ll see more of those heretics around here?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Out here, I’m in my element. Let them come.”

  What confidence. He raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t catch all of what they said, but they mentioned something about spies, a meeting, a hydromancer...” He frowned. “A siege... and making a fool of the Grand Divinus?”

  The splashing stopped. She paused. “I would’ve loved more answers, but I have my mission.”

  Right. Taking him for a walk to the monastery. He scrubbed the back of his neck.

  “I’ll need to send a dove to the Proctor when we reach Bournand. He’ll want to send mages to investigate.”

  Of that he was certain. Had the same been said of the Order and the Paladin Grand Cordon, he would’ve sought to do as she did. It had to be uncomfortable that he’d been privy to Divinity matte
rs, but it couldn’t be helped.

  A shrill squeal cut the air.

  Adrenaline spiking, he whirled. She thrashed in shoulder-deep water, arms flailing.

  “What is it?” He rushed to her.

  “My foot!” Her face contorted. She reached into the water, drawing in breath after sharp breath.

  With a gulp of air, he submerged into the dark water. His sight useless, he reached out for her leg. He found her thigh and then descended to her foot. Feeling to her toes, he encountered something smooth and hard.

  A shell.

  He could’ve laughed. A turtle had clasped on to her foot, nothing more. If he tried to pull it away, it would only latch on tighter, possibly causing injury. When he surfaced, she panicked.

  He grabbed her shoulders. “Be still.”

  She gasped for breath but at last met his eyes.

  “A turtle latched on to you—”

  “I must’ve stepped on it.” She breathed fast and deep, muttering in distressed tones to herself.

  “He’s just scared. If you stop thrashing about, he’ll relax and let go.” He rubbed her upper arms. “Be still.”

  Wearing a determined frown, she nodded but clenched her teeth. He watched the tension in her face, trying to soothe her as best as he could, until she finally gasped.

  The turtle must’ve released her.

  She ducked into the water and grabbed her foot.

  “That snappy little bastard.” She snarled and murmured a healing spell. “He bit right into me.”

  “You’ll live.” He could hardly contain his amusement. He’d seen the same fuss from children at the monastery, who ran up to priests and paladins with scratches and bites from the barn cats. “ ‘I’m in my element,’ was it?”

  She glared at him. “If you tell anyone about this—”

  “About what? About a little animal making a mighty master of the black arts squeal in terror?” His lips twitched with the urge to laugh.