His dark, Kamerish eyes gleamed with amusement. Looking no older than thirty-five, he nevertheless had pale white hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes. A wild mage.
The Tower mage who’d taken the second room.
“Leigh?” Stunned, Rielle approached the table. “What are you doing here?”
“Drinking tea,” Leigh said with a crooked grin. He didn’t bother to rise. “You never did catch on quickly.” The mage’s gaze turned to Jon, assessing his face and descending to his feet.
Jon drew himself up to his full height, but stopped himself from resting his hand on Faithkeeper’s pommel. He disliked something about the man, and he’d been a paladin too long to dismiss his instincts.
“You’re the hothead paladin from the Tower,” the mage said, then turned to Rielle. “Escort mission?”
Despite the unexpected run-in, Rielle betrayed no signs of fluster—her face remained its natural alabaster tint, her breathing even, her shoulders loose, her mouth in its faint resting pout.
Leigh gestured to the seats across from him.
Exchanging pleasantries with a man who considered it acceptable to accost a woman at night, uninvited, in her bedchamber? Arrest was likelier. But clearly Rielle considered him a friend, so for her sake, he could keep his peace. He pulled out a chair for her and then seated himself.
The mage flashed him a thin smile. “So you shared the other room with my former apprentice?” He glanced at a scowling Rielle and back.
Unmoving, Jon held the mage’s gaze.
“Why are you in Bournand?” Rielle asked.
“I had nothing better to do, so I came to Bournand for some... entertainment.” Leigh took another sip of tea.
After a conspicuous look around the tavern, Rielle shrugged. “Well, you chose the wrong inn.”
A serving woman brought eggs, bread, sausage, soup, and tea.
“My usual inn was booked up.”
Rielle broke off a piece of bread and popped it into her mouth. “The Velvet Glove?”
The name of an upscale brothel. Jon raised a brow. A particularly brazen Velvet Glove courtesan had once accosted him and Valen. To no success. He helped himself to some eggs and sausage.
Leigh sighed. “Full. Most unfortunate.”
“What can you tell me about Courdeval?” Rielle asked.
Setting down his tea, Leigh sobered. “Rumor has it, deep pockets hired Heartseekers to assassinate the king, queen, and their heirs. Barely a week ago. I suppose you were on the road and wouldn’t have heard.”
Deep pockets... Anyone hiring those assassins would have had to be flush with coin.
The king, queen, and their heirs... “What about Prince James?”
Prince James was a good man, a Terran; he’d visited Monas Ver from time to time as a friend of Derric’s.
“We stopped by the temple on our way in last night but heard little,” Rielle said.
Leigh shook his head. “I’ve heard nothing about the prince, but we can assume the worst. The Crag Company has laid siege to the capital.”
The Crag Company. Jon straightened. Flames licking thatched roofs. Battle cries. Bastien unmoving on the temple’s steps. The serpentine edge of a flambard, death wielded by a stern-faced mercenary—
Gilles.
It could be no coincidence that Flame had attacked them on the Kingsroad. The Crag Company had murdered the Faralles, controlled the capital, and perhaps anticipated some operations from the Divinity and the Order.
“The Crag employed heretics to destroy every dovecote and prevent doves from leaving the capital with the news,” Leigh went on. “Everyone who could, or wanted to, has fled the capital, and only now is word spreading. The priests and paladins of the Order of Terra are assembling in Monas Amar to provide humanitarian aid and to negotiate the release of civilian hostages.”
Of course they are. At such a time, they had to be. The situation was—if ever there were a need for the Order, it was now. And if the Paladin Grand Cordon would but have him, Jon would pledge his sword and his life to the cause. And not just to see Gilles arrested.
If. Jon quashed his sigh. The odds of successfully challenging a discharge were decidedly not in his favor. However, regardless of his official status, the Order was unlikely to turn away an experienced sword-arm during a crisis.
“The Divinity of Magic is mobilizing an army in Magehold, the Order is doing so in Monas Amar to ‘eliminate the Crag’ ”—Leigh made air quotes—“each likely angling to influence who will ascend the throne, no doubt.”
“Evrard Gilles.” Jon glared at the mage. “Is he in the capital?”
Leigh shrugged. “Presumably. The Crag in Courdeval are three thousand strong at least. They’ve already repelled attempts by some of the Houses to retake the capital.”
Gilles’ Crag Company mercenaries included two thousand doubles in a total of sixteen thousand men. Doubles, named for the double pay they earned, filled out the front lines, trained in fearsome two-handed swordsmanship and the crossbow. Most worshipped Damir, god of war in the Eternan pantheon and brother to Merciful Terra; and Damir rewarded glory in battle and glorious death with entry to the realm of Dahm, heaven of eternal spoils in the Lone, as conquerors.
Gilles was a formidable adversary, with a formidable army.
Rigid, Jon cast a speculative eye at the retired mercenary once again. A woman and two children had joined the man at the far table.
Jon folded his arms and leaned back. “The paladins, if they’re gathering at Monas Amar, will number as many, if not more than three thousand, but the odds of victory are slim without some entry assistance, a diversion, some war machines.”
“There’s been no word in or out of Courdeval since the siege,” Leigh said. “Nothing to suggest the survival or operation of a defending force within. No one can say who yet lives within or in what numbers, so I doubt the Order will be getting any assistance from inside. There may be some remaining forces from the defeated loyalist Houses that have stayed to assist, but without an heir to rally around, most are waiting for the Order and the Divinity to sort it out.”
“Olivia,” Rielle whispered, then turned her soulful eyes on Leigh. “Has there been any word of her? Anything?”
Leigh covered her hand with his.
Don’t touch her. The thought sprang, unbidden; he glared at their joined hands. He’d have liked to rip the other man’s hand off hers, push him away, but instead he unclenched his fists.
“Nothing.” Leigh leaned back in a dejected slump. “If she’d made it out, we’d know by now. The Archmage is well known.”
Taking deep breaths, Rielle rubbed an eyebrow, a forlorn look on her face. He wanted to do something, anything, to comfort her.
Her friend was the Archmage—adviser on magic and mages to the king. He remembered now. Over the summer, a young virtuoso mage from the Emaurrian Tower had been appointed to the king’s High Council—a woman, and a commoner at that—to fill the vacancy left by the previous Archmage, an elderly illusionist who had died in office. The Houses had made their displeasure known, but the royal family had stood by the king’s choice.
The Archmage’s chief duty was to perform the annual Moonlit Rite on Spiritseve, when the Veil was at its thinnest. Predating both the Terran and Divinist faiths, the Moonlit Rite was said to protect the realm from an ancient evil. Emaurrians, both Terran and Divinist alike, believed in the rite’s protection. Even among the paladins and priests, there were believers whose nerves didn’t settle near Spiritseve until word came of Trèstellan Palace’s bells ringing to announce the rite’s performance. The Hallowday bells.
It was less than a month away.
Leigh’s concerned gaze never left Rielle. “Will you be all right, ma chère?”
She shook her head.
Something about the way the man called her ma chère set Jon’s teeth on edge.
“If I hear anything, I’ll tell you,” the mage said. Sympathy passed in the silence.
Jon could do
better than listen for news. With the paladins, under the Paladin Grand Cordon’s command, he could see Courdeval restored and, along with it, perhaps Rielle’s friend. He could see justice done to Gilles for this, and for all his crimes.
“The Divinity will send someone,” Rielle said softly. “There’s the Moonlit Rite to consider.”
Leigh huffed. “The Moonlit Rite... What a farce. No more than an attempt by the Divinity to endear itself to the Crown and the people.”
Rielle’s mouth twisted. “How can you say that? Don’t you feel the pressure around Spiritseve, the push against your inner barriers?”
“That has nothing to do with the rite.” Leigh crossed his arms. “If it did, you’d better believe the Divinity would shout it from the rooftops, so everyone knew just how indispensable we are.”
She rubbed the table. “That’s cynical of you.”
Leigh shrugged.
The Crowned Stag’s front door opened. Two cloaked figures entered.
By their carriage and gear, they were warriors—skilled hands—a man and a woman. They wore leather armor, well fitted and of high quality, with several throwing knives sheathed in bandolier vests and elsewhere. With a look, Jon guessed at the shoulder, the gauntlet, the belt. Both of them bore not swords but a pair of long stilettos in scabbards on their belts.
The man approached the innkeeper, gesturing lengthily with his hands—about a sword?—speaking in hushed tones while the woman studied the diners.
A long sword.
Jon hitched Faithkeeper behind him.
They were looking for a paladin. But why?
Would the innkeeper give him up?
Jon barely had time to prepare himself when Rielle plopped into his lap and closed her arms around his neck.
Her hair brushed his cheek as she whispered, “Play along.”
She pulled away, her nose almost touching his, and gave him a grave look, then caressed his jaw with the back of her fingers. A shiver rattled him.
Disguise. It was his only coherent thought. When he finally remembered to exhale, the sound emerged more like a groan than a breath.
She leaned in close to his ear, where she nipped him and exhaled, making him shiver. “Are they gone?”
Wrapping an uneasy arm around her hip, Jon glanced over her shoulder. “Yes.”
Leigh rested an elbow on the table and his chin in his hand, staring with mock interest. “Why don’t you two take this upstairs?” he suggested with a patronizing wink.
“Come on.” Rielle slid from his lap, took his hand, and urged him to rise. Uncomfortable in his fitted trousers, he followed her up to their room.
Inside, she turned around and pressed her fingers into his chest, pushing him against the door, and he allowed her to.
“Who were they? Why were they hunting you? What aren’t you telling me?”
“They were clearly warriors, perhaps Crag. It’s obvious they’re looking for paladins.”
“So they’re hunting every paladin in Emaurria? If so, why would they look here?”
Just what was she implying? How was he to know? “I don’t know.”
Paladins were easily found at the way-station, and there’d be at least one performing services at the third night of the Vindemia festival tonight. Even if he’d been seen coming here, he was just one paladin; why had they come to The Crowned Stag?
Was he mistaken after all? Perhaps they weren’t looking for paladins?
“Do you know why your High Priest and the Proctor assigned me to you?” she asked in a low, seething voice. “If you do, tell me. I don’t appreciate being kept in the dark.” She pierced him with indignant eyes.
Her challenge made him want to throw her onto the bed, pin her, stare her down until she battled him for control, until she pulled him to her, twisting, tangling, intertwining—
He leaned in, invading her space. “I’ve told you all I know. Think what you like, mage,” he replied, matching her low tone.
Her mouth dropped open. She raised a hand to grab his collar—
He seized her arm, fingers easily closing around her slender wrist, and spun to pin her against the door. She resisted, but the fight in her eyes faded. When she dropped her gaze, there lay only a finger’s width between them. Only...
He released her arm. The whisper of an arpeggio plucked on a lute floated up from downstairs.
She lifted her chin. A blush reddened her cheeks, a touch of rose red across winter white. His fingers tensed, and before he could stop them, they stroked the softness of her cheek.
She quivered.
Despite all his efforts to push her away, longing persistently invaded his heart. Time and again. He cared, more and more each day. When they arrived at Monas Amar, would he be able to watch her fade into the distance and the past?
With a bang of splintered wood, the door flew open.
She tumbled into his arms.
Catching her, Jon kicked the door shut, but it caught. Held by some unseen force. Rielle whirled in his hold and faced the doorway.
He stared wide-eyed as Leigh sauntered in, holding up a hand with blurry aura, then flicked his wrist and closed the door.
Rielle relaxed as her feet found the floor, her soft body serene against his. Warm. Close.
The mage had the worst timing. Or the best.
Leigh grinned. “One thing is clear. The Proctor assigned you an escort with good reason.”
Satisfied that Rielle had regained her balance, Jon let her go.
Leigh eyed him. “You won’t be able to carry your sword,” he said, studying the arcanir armor across the room, “or wear your armor, despite its inherent advantages. In fact, you might want to consider getting it modified.”
Jon scoffed. That armor had been made by the Sacred Blacksmith of Monas Ver. It was divine artistry, rendered in arcanir. Modifying it in any way was blasphemy. “You must be joking.”
“Those two sellswords came looking for a paladin,” Leigh said. “You’re one no longer, but arcanir does have its benefits. You can protect yourself by modifying the armor,” he suggested, “or you can die.”
“I can handle sellswords.” Rielle pulled out a chair and sat. “He doesn’t have to change anything he doesn’t want to.”
Leigh ignored her. “If you continue to look like a paladin, you endanger yourself. If you don’t wear your armor until Monas Amar, you’ll still be in danger, but Rielle will protect you.” He pointed at her. “Either way, you endanger her, too. Needlessly.”
Leigh was right. Jon grimaced.
“I can handle myself,” she snarled at the mage, “and my charge. Stay out of it.” She poured herself a goblet of wine from the decanter.
Leigh leaned on the table. “And the man can make his own decision. You may have charge of him, but not of his possessions. It’s out of your hands.”
She huffed and folded her arms across her chest.
As loath as Jon was to admit it, Leigh’s reasoning was sound. He needed to be both disguised and armored, for his own protection and for Rielle’s. Whether he preserved the state of his armor wouldn’t matter if he died before reaching Monas Amar.
Finally, he nodded. “You’re right.”
“You’re stating the obvious.” Leigh waved a dismissive hand.
“But I don’t have the coin to pay for such a thing.” Jon received a small stipend every quarter, but not enough for extravagance.
“But I do,” Leigh quickly offered. “And I’ll help you, free of charge.”
Jon furrowed his brow. The mage, of course, didn’t care for him a whit—he offered for the sake of Rielle’s safety, who scowled at her former master with bitter annoyance.
But in this, his interests and the mage’s aligned.
“You don’t want his money, Jon.” Rielle upended her coin purse on the table. A pile of gold coronas, silver argents, and copper cuivres clattered onto the wood. “If you need anything, I’ve ample funds.”
He could hardly take her hard-earned coin. I
f she needed to work for the Divinity, then she needed the money. “It’s all right. I’ll do as he says.”
With a sigh, she rose. She swept the coins back into the purse. “If you’re decided on this, we should see a blacksmith today. Such work will take time, and we have a schedule to keep. We’re already taking longer than expected.”
“I have just the blacksmith in mind.” Leigh grinned. “I’ll take your forsworn paladin there.” When Rielle opened her mouth, he added, “Don’t worry. I’ll see to it that not a hair on his head is harmed.”
Jon resisted the urge to remind them he was still in the room.
“Fine,” she said. “I have to stop by the marketplace and the temple to send the Proctor my report. I... wasn’t able to last night.”
“The market’s on the other side of the city,” Leigh replied. “I’ll be visiting the temple later. I can send your message.”
Rielle removed a rolled piece of parchment from her belt pouch and handed it to Leigh. She trusted him so readily? If she did, perhaps the man was more than his demeanor suggested. Just how close are they?
Were they, he corrected. She’d told him at the Tower that she and Leigh weren’t involved. They weren’t lovers. At least not anymore.
Not that it mattered. It couldn’t matter. Not to him.
Leigh tucked the parchment into his shirt and turned his attention to Jon. “How would you like to accompany me into the city center?”
Spending a day with the man wasn’t his favorite idea, but he could handle it. He shrugged his assent.
“That thrilled, are you?” Leigh joked.
“As long as you don’t kill each other.” Rielle drank her wine.
“I’ll leave my thirst for blood behind, then,” Leigh declared.
“No chance your forked tongue will want to keep it company?” Jon asked with a grimace.
Wagging his finger at Jon, Leigh grinned. “Promising,” the mage praised. “Very promising.” Leigh passed in front of him and through the doorway. “Come. Let’s take the horses.” He didn’t stop to wait.
Jon grabbed the pack containing his armor and shouldered it, and with a final glance at Rielle, he followed Leigh to blasphemy.
Blade & Rose (Blade and Rose Book 1) Page 18
