Leigh rode into the Chalice, Bournand’s upscale entertainment district, and stopped before a large establishment with a rose-studded signboard—The Rose Garden. A boy took their horses.
Inside, laughter hung in the air, a collection of well-lubricated patrons spread out among low, round tables. Off to the side, a buxom redhead tended bar with several well-dressed gentlemen seeking her attention while flirtatious men and women wandered the room, chatting up customers and disappearing with them upstairs or to back rooms.
Jon froze in the doorway. Leigh shoved him in. Two bright-eyed women took their arms and led them inside.
Grimacing, Jon shook his head. “You’ve brought me to a—a—”
“And?” Leigh waved his hand dismissively. “The wine selection is fantastic. Just one glass for me, and we’ll be on our way. Promise.” He grinned roguishly and murmured into his female companion’s ear.
“I don’t drink wine,” Jon growled. The woman escorting him squeezed his arm, completely undeterred by the affronted look he angled her way.
Kissing his escort’s neck, Leigh regarded him with one irked eye. He lifted his head. “So, how did you come to break your oath?”
Break my—
He scowled. The mage had skirted the word forsworn, but the intrusion was the same. The women led them to a table.
“We’re not talking about that,” Jon said finally. “And I’m leaving.” He glanced at the door.
“How happy would that make our mutual fiery friend, hmm?” Leigh raised a pale eyebrow.
That smug look. Jon’s fingers twitched, curling. He wanted to punch that smug look until it became something more like... humility.
He sighed. More trouble than waiting for him to drink one glass of wine is worth.
He settled in, and two other women joined them, one bearing a decanter of wine and two goblets, and the other running her fingers through Jon’s hair, making his entire body freeze at the unwanted contact. He scowled at Leigh, who appeared completely oblivious as a young lady fell into his lap.
“Why not discuss your oath-breaking?” Leigh asked, undeterred, as one of the women pouring him some wine. “There are only a few ways you could’ve, really...” He ignored Jon’s icy glare. “Purchase any lavish items? Drink any ale? Or was it the lure of the little death?”
The young woman in Leigh’s lap giggled.
Jon looked away. He didn’t need to give the mage further ammunition. There wasn’t much to say, regardless, until he learned more at Monas Amar. An honorable discharge could be for any of a number of reasons—to reward service, to excuse physically or psychologically unfit paladins from further duty, to prevent the end of a line, to cull malcontents.
And, indeed, sometimes in lieu of dishonorable discharges for breaking one of the four Sacred Vows or the Code. It was one of the Order’s worst-kept secrets.
But he didn’t want to be discharged. He didn’t want to give up his family, his vocation, everything—
Someone had borne false witness against him. That had to be it. Someone he’d judged, or fought, perhaps. Looking for revenge. Someone with clout, if it had happened so quickly.
At Monas Amar, he would demand the reason for his discharge and correct the record.
“Fine,” Leigh said. “Keep your secrets. I suppose keeping your oath doesn’t matter anymore, does it?” The mage’s eyes gleamed as he sipped his wine.
“It does matter,” Jon replied, “if I intend to get my discharge reversed at Monas Amar.”
Leigh laughed into his cup. “You’re not serious. They let you slip your leash, and you’re staying in the kennel?”
“Finish your wine already, and let’s go.”
The woman who hung on Jon’s arm tucked her hand into his shirt and rubbed his chest.
As she wandered lower, he grasped her wrist and cleared his throat. “I’m not looking for companionship.”
“Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport,” Leigh chided, then spread his arms wide to the woman. “My friend here doesn’t know what he’s missing. Literally.” In a low voice, he added, “He prefers the sweet torture of denial—you understand.” He quirked an eyebrow.
Jon cracked his knuckles. Did all wild mages run their mouths without consequence, or just this one?
The redhead running her fingers through Jon’s hair ceased and left to join Leigh, who drank deeply of his wine. With a woman on each knee, and two others giving him their attention, he appeared at ease, although he shot a peripheral glance at an attractive man serving the next table.
“You must be a masochist, Jon.” Leigh traced small circles on a woman’s arm with his fingertips, making her shiver. Was this entire show—what, a taunt? Flaunting what paladins tried so hard to resist?
And what was the appeal of half a dozen women hanging off a man for coin? It didn’t even compare to the love of one woman. The one.
The—? He shuttered his eyes bitterly. Indeed, circumstances had made a masochist of him. “I tried to leave a couple days ago, but she”—he lowered his voice—“captured me.”
Leigh smirked. “That’s my girl.” He twirled a lock of a woman’s red hair.
Shuddering, Jon let his gaze wander to nothing. Rielle’s intensity in the pit still haunted him.
“You’re past the point of leaving now, aren’t you?” Leigh brought his cup to his lips.
Jon had promised not to, but the promise had proved more convenient now than simply binding. Even if he were free to leave, he couldn’t say with certainty that he would. She’d made that difficult.
“You’ll soon have a choice to make. Backward or forward. Known or unknown.” Leigh sighed. “If you choose the unknown, make no mistake—”
“I would never hurt her,” Jon interrupted, the words escaping his mouth without leave of his mind. But they were genuine. Not that he’d ever choose to break his vows, but just what was the mage insinuating?
“She’ll eat you alive.”
Jon grimaced. “What?”
Leigh leaned in, resting an elbow on the table. “She will reach into you”—he held out his hand—“grab your heart”—curled his fingers—“rip it out”—drew his hand toward his own chest—“and crush it.” He clenched a fist and leaned back in his chair, eyebrow raised over an unflinching stare. The whole show lit the mage from within, his dramatic pantomiming lending a gleam to his dark eyes. “The man who will ultimately stand at her side will be forged in fire. If you burn easily, don’t even bother.”
The mage speaks from experience.
Jon raised his eyebrows. “You love her.”
Leigh scoffed and leaned back in his chair, letting the women resume their fawning. “You say ‘love’ as if there is just your kind—the aching, yearning, sweaty, romantic kind.” He gave a careless shrug. “To her, I have been guardian, teacher, master, partner, lover, friend—spanning a decade. The kind of love she and I share is something you could never understand, will never understand. She and I are beyond romantic love.” A wistful smile lit his face, then faded. “But she’s lost everyone. And it would bring me comfort if she found joy.” Leigh met his gaze soberly. “Do you believe you can deliver?”
His chest tight, Jon considered a reply when the doors opened.
The entire establishment hushed. A man entered, tall and handsome, with a devilish smirk and a confident swagger, his overcoat of the finest black velvet, a signet ring adorning his fifth finger. A noble, and a landowner at that.
Accompanied by two blond women, he claimed a large, plush curved divan in the corner with a view of the entire brothel, sprawling across it with unmistakable dominance. One leg hung over the divan’s arm as he surveyed his domain with imperious eyes.
“Who is that?” Jon inquired quietly. He recognized the man’s face but couldn’t place it.
Leigh frowned in distaste. “Fortune shits on this day. That is none other than Marquis Tregarde, Brennan Karandis Marcel.”
“Duke Faolan Auvray Marcel’s son and heir?” Jon asked.
Tor, Jon’s former paladin-master, was the duke’s brother, making Brennan Tor’s nephew. It had been years, but Jon had not forgotten the intense young man so unreasonably jealous of the attention his favorite uncle paid his squire. Nor his beautiful sister, Nora, for that matter—who’d boldly declared her intention to pursue a paladin’s squire. He grimaced. He’d spent the better part of a fortnight evading her.
“The one and only,” Leigh said flatly. “He’s considered one of the cleverest men in Emaurrian society, and one of the cruelest.”
“Oh?” Jon had met him a few times in his youth, and although the marquis always seemed aloof, that had been the extent of his impression.
The women huddled closer, too.
“When he was nine, he was engaged to a girl five years his junior,” Leigh began. “When she lost her family at thirteen, he went to where she was staying and begged her to return with him to Maerleth Tainn for her safety, that they’d marry within a couple of years, that he’d protect her. On his knees, before all the kitchen staff, he begged her.” Leigh took a drink. “She refused him.”
“Why?”
The levity in his face chased away, Leigh pulled free of the women. “She was scared. She felt safe where she was. I’m sure the marquis knew that, but refusal is difficult to accept for a duke’s son.” Leigh earned a few smirks from his entourage. “He left in a temper, and word of the refusal spread quickly among the Houses. He took lovers, one after another, and a few years later, she took one herself. Her relationship became public—humiliating the marquis to all society—but he was handsome, titled, and vastly rich. It should have been nothing to him. When her lover abandoned her, the marquis invited her to Tregarde.”
“Surely to put it all behind them?”
For a moment, the mage’s gaze dropped to the table. “He lavished her with gifts, love letters, luxury... Heartbroken and lonely, she went, hoping to reconcile. Indeed, he held a fête, danced with her, romanced her. They stole away to the kitchen and, in a back room, did as young lovers are wont to do.”
“Then he married her after all?”
Tregarde wore a relaxed smirk, an arm around each woman and his left booted ankle resting loosely on his right knee. Unlikely.
“During the fête, a few of his guests wandered in at an inopportune moment for her, but he called them in and said he’d be along presently, now that he’d had some relief. Shattered, his fiancée begged him before his guests not to forsake her. But viciously, he refused her—humiliating her to all society. She left in disgrace. Nobles have tangled with him rarely, and only to their detriment, since.”
Looking away, Jon rubbed his eyebrow. If the story was true, then Tregarde was a malicious man. Without honor. “What happened to them?”
Leigh shrugged. “They’re still engaged.”
Jon frowned. “But how? They must hate each other.”
“Nobles do not marry for love, but for power, position, and fortune. She brings an entire march as her dowry, being the last of her line. And he can make her a duchess. Nonetheless, she petitioned the king to release her from her marriage contract, but—no surprise—King Marcus denied it. Tregarde’s father, the duke, has a lot of influence.” Leigh’s eyes went cold. He slumped his shoulders and drained his wine. “The air in here has turned foul, ladies, so we take our leave.”
In the face of several downturned mouths, Leigh furnished a handful of argents from his coin purse and extricated himself from the appreciative women. The mage was generous with his wealth.
“Now,” Leigh said, “I promised Rielle I’d protect you—”
Jon bolted out of his chair. “I don’t need your—”
“You and I both know Rielle’s... concern for you goes far beyond this... venture.” Leigh lowered his chin, his dark eyes frank. “If your presence—however bewilderingly—brings her joy, then I’m not letting you out of my sight until we’re back at the inn.”
Wide stance. Open demeanor. Relaxed posture. By all signs, this man spoke sincerely. He drowned in licentiousness and inebriation yet seemed selflessly devoted to the happiness of a former lover. A friend. He defied quick judgment.
The suffocating protection irked, but Jon didn’t want to delay their departure any longer. “Let’s go.”
As they made their way toward the exit, he glanced in Tregarde’s direction. Tregarde turned his head then, looked directly at him, and gave him a knowing wink before returning his attention to the women with him.
Unnerved, Jon followed Leigh out.
Chapter 23
A cold wind blew in from the open window. Rielle shivered, and rubbing her arms, moved to close it. Outside, people walked the streets in cloaks and warm clothes. The autumn had chilled, and soon it would be winter.
Winter. She and Olivia had made plans to spend Midwinter together in Courdeval, but Divine only knew whether the city would survive until the day. Courdeval was in turmoil, and Olivia might be there, trapped, hurt, or worse. And no one was coming for her.
Rielle buttoned her white shirt and tucked it into her trousers, chewing her lip. Interfering in Courdeval unsanctioned would deprive her of the Divinity’s protection. No more contract to keep her safe. Brennan’s father could enforce her arranged marriage.
None of it mattered. Not when Olivia’s life was at stake.
But perhaps she had somehow made it out. There had to be a chance.
Rielle rubbed her forehead. She had to know whether Olivia was alive and in Courdeval before throwing her life away. She laced her leather vest.
In Bournand, there was one person who could tell her Olivia’s current condition and location—the Sileni spiritualist, Feliciano Donati. Before he’d given in to his sen’a addiction, he had been a respected master doyen teaching at the Tower, his expertise the study of anima in resonance. A spiritualist, he was able to detect, enhance, disrupt, punish, and otherwise affect anima.
Feliciano was an epicure of anima, and quaternary elementalist anima was rare. Answers from him would come at a high cost, but she needed them. Badly.
She would pay whatever she had to.
But before she could justify it, she had to know that was her only option.
There was something Leigh wasn’t telling her. She trusted him implicitly, but his booking an incognito Tower-reserved room at The Crowned Stag didn’t make any sense. Even if The Velvet Glove was fully booked, there were a dozen other brothels he could have stayed at.
If he truly wanted to keep something from her, trying to drag it out of him would be an exercise in futility. She’d have to find out for herself. Maybe there was something there... anything... that could spare her Feliciano’s price. If Leigh was hiding something, it would be something big; he didn’t bother with anything but.
She winced. He had never given her reason to distrust him. It was weak, it was selfish, but she had to try. Anything that could spare her further wrath from Brennan.
She pulled on her boots, clasped her white cloak, locked the door, and headed for the stable.
Something Leigh wasn’t telling her... She huffed. He wasn’t the only one.
Those sellswords who’d come looking for Jon—It’s obvious they’re looking for paladins, he’d said. Just how stupid did he think her? Some adversary hunted every paladin in Emaurria?
She grumbled and saddled her mare. What kind of trouble was Jon in? Over the course of only one week, they’d crossed paths with two sellswords and Flame of the Crag Company. Either he withheld the details of his trouble, her own past had come back to haunt her, or coincidence laughed in her face.
If Jon could just be honest with her, she’d be better able to protect him.
Like this, however, he forced her to proceed blindly. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be worse than endangering both their lives. But that’s what came of trust. For most people, it was granted only to be broken. She had learned that well enough and often, and the lesson still smarted.
She hissed. Leigh. Was her trust still well
placed with him?
Time to find out.
She pulled up the hood of her coat and took the long ride to the Beck, where The Velvet Glove and several middling establishments did business. Despite the somber atmosphere, the city bustled with preparations for Vindemia. She pushed her way through.
After stabling her horse, she shouldered her way in, scanning the bar and tables for familiar faces. The Velvet Glove appeared unaffected by the national tragedy or, perhaps, even more populated than usual.
A well-dressed, pretty hostess bounced toward her in blush-pink skirts and a matching low-cut bodice. “Good morning, my lady. What’s your pleasure this fine day?”
Inundated by a freesia-scented fog, Rielle shook her hand, sneaking a corona into the hostess’s palm and eliciting an excited gasp. It was more than most made in a month.
She leaned in close to the young woman’s ear. “Here to visit the guest in Leigh Galvan’s room, if you’d be so kind.”
The hostess beamed a high-noon smile. “Certainly.”
She led Rielle through the brothel’s main room and into a hallway, where moans and laughter hung thick in the air. At the end of the hall, the hostess stopped and, with a courteous tilt of her head, gestured to a door. “Anything else, my lady?”
“That’s all for now, thanks.”
Grinning, the hostess disappeared down the hall.
Part of a broken pewter key protruded from the lock. Foul play. Steeling herself, she knocked. Twice.
No signs of life came from inside.
In the noisy hallway, she assessed the door, backed up, and took a preparatory breath, waiting to time the strike with the thumping a few doors down.
There. She side-kicked just below the doorknob—hard—with her heel. It budged but didn’t open. The thud, thankfully, hadn’t drawn attention. It blended in well enough.
Short of burning the door down or blowing it apart, she didn’t have any other option but to continue. At least her sometimes-lover Launce had taught her a practical thing or two between bouts in bed. Broadsteel mercenaries possessed a different but useful skill set.
Blade & Rose (Blade and Rose Book 1) Page 20
