“Bound?” she asked. “What does that mean? Where?”
“Arcanir bonds, usually,” he replied with a shrug, then drew his brows together. “I felt her to the south, at the capital. Below ground.” Clasping his hands, Feliciano leaned in closer to her face. “You are meddling in things much meaner than anima.” His smiling mask flickered for a moment.
She tried to blink away the blur. Olivia was imprisoned—but alive. Bound in arcanir, underground... In the palace dungeon?
And no one was coming to help her. By the time the Grand Divinus’s army arrived to break the siege in Courdeval, Olivia could be dead. There was only one thing to be done.
Rielle took a deep breath. If the Proctor found out, if the Magisterium found out, if the Grand Divinus found out—and they most certainly would—she would be excommunicated from the Divinity and forced to wed the man who had taken her broken heart, given her hope, then shattered it anew and humiliated her to all society. Who continually devised new ways to torment her.
But Olivia faced death.
It was no choice at all.
Olivia. I let you down today, but I won’t let you die.
Come what may, Olivia would be free, alive, and well.
“How—” Rielle stammered. Her lucidity trailed in. The trance was wearing off. She glanced toward the doorway. “What time is it?”
The trance had felt like days, but it could have been minutes. The windowless building offered no clues.
“It is nearly dusk,” Feliciano said.
She’d spent the entire day tranced out. Had Jon and Leigh finished their tasks? Her heart beat faster. And worse, would they come looking for her?
They couldn’t find her here. Not Leigh. Not Jon. Especially not Jon.
She tried to rise from the lounge but faltered. Dazed, she slowly surrendered, sliding back down.
“Careful, fiamma,” Feliciano cautioned. “Where are you rushing off to, anyway? Puosso aiutarti a calmarti.”
Calm down? Only if she could gather her wits about her and leave. “Then help me up.”
Feliciano nodded, beckoning with two fingers for the clerk to come over. Shortly, the young augur arrived with a steaming mug of dark liquid and offered it to her.
“A favor for a good friend.” Feliciano clasped his hands together and bowed his head.
Tendrils of steam rose from the black surface.
“Trux tea. If you must go, it will give you the ability.”
Tiny white five-pointed stars, the flowers of the truxillensis plant, glimmered small smiles in stretches of endless desert flats, meek in their modest beauty. Heartwarming. Yet trux, made from its silky leaves, was known for its stimulant effects and, in high doses, could stop a heart dead.
It was not her first taste, and he was well aware. She had descended to such lows today, what was another few feet? Tipping the mug, she drank it down.
Feliciano rose and leaned over, eclipsing the paper lantern lighting the alcove. He tucked a small envelope into her décolletage.
She rolled her eyes up to meet his, beneath the mop of sable curls falling over his brow. He had such long eyelashes.
“In the event you require... sollievo later.”
More sen’a—in case she desired to ease the withdrawal pains, if they came. The first time, about three years ago, after heavy use, had been excruciating, but she wouldn’t make that same mistake again.
She nodded her understanding, and he pulled away enough for her to rise.
Her body cooperated. Good. Feliciano held his arms open, and she leaned in, allowing him to embrace her.
“Return to me should you require more. You know where to find me.” When he released her, she nodded. “Any time, fiamma.”
She staggered toward the door, acutely aware of the paper envelope against her skin, and its contents.
But there were far more important things than the weight she carried.
Olivia.
Looking inside herself, Rielle found her azure pool of anima, bright and glowing, and singled out the thread tied to Brennan—their bond. She tugged on that thread; he would come to her. Although she knew Olivia was alive, she would need his help to invade a heavily fortified city besieged by thousands of professional mercenaries.
But would he give it?
Brennan...
She shivered. At the end of this, when the Divinity dismissed her, she faced a lifetime of his punishment. The humiliation of three years ago, stretched over the waning years of her life...
Chapter 26
Three Years Ago
The Emaurrian Tower of Magic
Curled up in her bed on a chilly afternoon, Rielle reread the last lines of Brennan’s letter: I humbly request the pleasure of your company this Midwinter at Tregarde. Forgive a foolish boy his ego, and do the wiser man the great privilege of a second chance.
She had accepted his invitation, but what to make of this sudden change of heart? Last she’d heard, he’d taken up with Chantal Barthélémy Armel, the seventeen-year-old daughter of Marquis Jean Vignon Armel of Quatrebeaux and jewel of the Emaurrian court. Had that changed?
It must have.
Rielle folded the letter. Did he now understand she’d had to make a difficult choice six years ago, not to spite him, but to save those around him and herself? Her magic was less volatile now. Thanks to the Divinity, the Tower, the doyens, Leigh...
Leigh. More heartbreak there. After the outing of their affair and Leigh’s demotion, he’d rebuffed her attempts to reconcile, flaunting one new lover after the next and breaking her heart anew. In truth, the thought of staying at the Tower for Midwinter, witness to Leigh’s never-ending string of lovers, was intolerable.
And Brennan’s letter... Could they put this old feud to bed, live as their parents had intended? His words gave her hope that she had scarcely dared to dream. And she did have much to tell him—not that he’d been in a mood to listen before. Leigh’s position as a magister had granted her, as his apprentice, access to the forbidden section of the Tower of Magic’s library, and she’d researched answers. There, she’d translated ancient tomes until she’d found one about sangremancy curses.
The Old Emaurrian text called the result of a sangremancy curse a blood bond, formed between the bloodline of a curse’s caster and that of his or her target. Master and thrall. Long ago, a sangremancer of her bloodline must have cursed Brennan’s to an eternity of beastliness, every firstborn son of every firstborn son—a spell paid for with the entirety of one’s anima.
A mage in her family had died to curse his.
But a blood curse could be ended by uniting their bloodlines. By conceiving a child.
She’d kept the knowledge to herself, weighing the decision of whether to tell him or not. The curse made both her and Brennan its pawns; by conceiving a child, they could both be free, and yet, by doing so, they’d be more bound to each other than ever. She sighed. There were no easy answers.
In the weeks since she’d accepted his invitation, he’d surprised her with a lavish correspondence that included gowns, jewels, and trinkets, and love letters the likes of which she never could have anticipated.
If he meant these last lines...
Could the man she’d been engaged to since age five have forgiven her, welcomed her back into his heart? Was it as simple as that? She wanted to believe it.
If he had changed, if he wanted to marry her and she him, then perhaps it was time to discuss it.
Her heart swelled. If Brennan had become a man who could forgive, who could love her even at her worst, then she could allow herself to love him, too. She could marry him. She could do all that her parents had wanted for her and see them honored.
She rose from her bed, flattened the wrinkles in her new gown, and donned her new red cloak. Although she usually wore white, this was a gift. A gift from him.
She headed downstairs, where two novices had already taken her luggage to the elaborately decorated golden carriage, a coach-and-four, harnessed
to four beautiful black horses. Painted panels and carved trim dazzled, with interior drapes in noble blue. The center panel showed a nobleman upon his knee before a lady. Extravagant, with a clear message as to his disposition.
The craftsmen would have earned a lifetime of gold with this alone.
The coachman greeted her with a bow and assisted her into the carriage. She took her place on the right-hand side of the rear seat, and when she was settled, they embarked.
Days passed outside the coach windows, with stops at village carriage houses. How had six years passed in hostility to precede this diplomatic overture? Every day gone by the carriage windows eased her mind a little more.
When she finally arrived at Tregarde, she looked out at Castle Delalune, where the marquis himself—Brennan—emerged to welcome her.
Twenty-four years of age, he’d let his dark hair grow out, a boyish contrast to his sculpted build. Voluminous on top, styled away from the perfection of his face. Effortless in appearance and begging to be touched. Her fingers twitched, eager to rake through his hair, to tug at it playfully. Turned out in a black brocade doublet, fitted trousers, and high-gloss boots, he cut a handsome figure.
“You’ve arrived, fiancée mine.” His voice was rich, deep, and smooth like hors d’âge brandy, flowing into every corner of her being with languid sensuality.
Despite their silent monthly offerings, how long had it been since she’d heard him speak? Years, at least.
With a warm smile, he offered his hand to help her from the carriage. “How was your trip?”
Unable to tear her gaze from him, she accepted his hand and began to exit the carriage, but ended up stumbling over the first step and straight into his arms. Idiot.
But he caught her adeptly, closing around her in more than mere support. Divine, she’d forgotten how good he smelled, cinnamon spice and cypress. Luxurious imports thanks to his father’s trade connections in Sonbahar. A sudden chill pricked at the crown of her head—Brennan breathing her in.
“Sorry, I—” she stammered.
“You never need an excuse to get close to me, fiancée mine. I am for you and only you.” His rumbling whisper left a shiver in its wake.
Her cheeks flamed. A discussion. Of course. They had planned to discuss their future.
Had he asked her something? His amused eyes offered nothing.
“Your trip?” A grin played at his lips. Gentlemanly of him to repeat it.
“Wonderful! Thank you. It was wonderful. Everything was... wonderful.” Her mouth had run away, leaving her sense behind. She winced. Wonderful.
But no sharp retort came. He held his arm out to her, and warily, she accepted it. While servants flurried around them with her belongings, Brennan led her into the castle, covering her hand with his.
Her heart lodged in her throat. “You really didn’t have to do all this.”
He stopped just inside the foyer. “Yes, I did.”
With a finger, he raised her chin and met her gaze.
His eyes were the color of wet bark on the oaks, rimmed with moss green. At times, the edge seduced the iris, moss growing over rich wood. When he smiled, the warmth of the deep brown danced with the seductive green in dazzling intimacy.
So close, so warm, so gorgeous—she could hardly stand it. She tore herself away, but her gaze wandered back to his in helpless attraction.
“It’s been some time since I’ve had the pleasure of seeing your face in the sunlight. You’ve grown into a stunning woman.” He wound a loose straw-blond curl around his finger and pulled it only to watch it bounce back again. “You must have suitors begging for your favor.”
After news of her affair with Leigh had spread throughout the Tower, hardly anyone looked her way without scorn. But Brennan didn’t need to know that. She shrugged it off and gathered a few of her escaped wits.
“Does this flattery usually work?” she teased, feeling more like herself.
He chuckled. “Stunning and modest. Perhaps I should keep you hidden from the other guests.”
“Desperate to get me all to yourself?”
“Desperation speaks poorly of a man.” A slow smile tugged at his lips as he leaned in by her ear. “And yet...”
Her breaths heavy and ragged, she bit back a gasp. Had any other man spoken such things to her, she would have laughed him off, but when Brennan Karandis Marcel murmured these sweet nothings, Divine help her, she wanted to believe him. No matter how many locks she closed around her composure, he had all the keys.
As he pulled away, the foyer waited in silence, empty, and it wouldn’t object to a moment stolen from passing, would it? She rose on her toes, wrapped an arm around his neck, and kissed him.
He swept her into a dark corner with him, exploring her mouth with a skillfulness worth the six years since their last kiss.
She raked her fingers through his hair, relishing the soft thickness of it, pulling on it enough to make him groan. Beneath her cloak, he swept a palm up her back, separated from her skin by too many layers of cloth. He drew her against him and held her tight enough that she didn’t melt to the floor at the thought of what he’d do next.
He broke away then, and her question barely formed when a group of nobles walked past.
Werewolf senses—he never got caught doing anything unless he wanted to.
A true gentleman of the Houses would never allow others to see his lady in a state of indecency. And he wanted to protect her reputation. Or what was left of it. Her cheeks hot, she lowered her gaze and smiled.
He exchanged pleasantries with them before turning back to her. “Why don’t I take you to your room?”
“Please take me,” she replied, breathless. “To my room,” she corrected. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
With a pleased arch of his eyebrow, he offered his arm and led her upstairs. “I had the lady’s quarters redecorated in anticipation of your arrival.”
The lady’s quarters? The rooms for the lady of the castle? Blinking, she struggled to breathe and reined in her eager mouth for a full three seconds. “How thoughtful.”
He straightened next to her, raising his head a little higher, and stole glances at her as he made polite conversation about the weather, visiting artists and bards, and the guests in attendance, until they at last arrived at the lady’s quarters.
White walls decorated with floral carvings and paintings contrasted with ornate blackwood furniture. A white Sonbaharan rug with a golden, scrolling floral pattern lay beneath a four-poster bed draped in white velvet. Above, intricate stuccowork of white hinds framed an intimate, detailed fresco of an elven maiden caught bathing in a forest pool.
Crystal vases brimming with red roses lent their bright crimson to the room, a sweep of petals across the bed in invitation.
A shelf of books on magic, botany, and theology waited nearby, with two volumes of Court Duelist, her guilty pleasure, stacked on a nightstand with a brown-ribbon-wrapped box. She grinned. Sugared almonds, her favorite.
It was the most beautiful room she’d ever seen.
Brennan smiled. “Do you like it?”
There were no words. How did he know her so well? All that he’d done for her—the invitation, the letters, the careful choices of gowns and gifts, the elegant coach, his thoughtful decoration of this place, this room that was somehow a reflection of her own heart and mind—
Her knees threatening to buckle, she tightened her grip on his arm and faced him, met his eyes unabashed, and unclasped her cloak. With a whisper, it fell to the floor, and with its descent, he lowered his gaze to her chest. It lingered.
A step closer. She traced a line up his coarse jaw, slow as the breaths passed between them, and he exhaled measuredly. He met her eyes, brushed a curl from her face; his finger stroked a heavenly path over her cheek, and her eyes fluttered shut as she raised her mouth to his.
A chaste kiss led to another, and another, and another, until she teased his lips between her own, drew at them, challenging his tongue to seek out
hers, and he did, sweeping her into his arms, leaning against the closed doors, coaxing her mouth to voracity.
Divine, she wanted to kiss him forever, to love him forever, to marry him and bear his children and break the curse and live her life by his side forever.
She pressed into him, provoking him, daring him.
But he cupped her face, held it, her lips a breath away from his. “Marry me, Rielle... Let me love you for the rest of my days.”
She shivered. Since her early childhood, she’d always imagined her fiancé as her knight in shining armor, and she his lady, and after that dream had fractured six years ago, she’d kept the pieces together with nothing but hope. But now—now—with a single word, the fracture could disappear. And her weakened heart desired it, longed for it.
“Yes,” she breathed, and he gave her quivering lips another soft kiss.
“Before the party tonight,” he said, inhaling a sharp breath as she leaned into him, “I have some arrangements to see to. At the end of the night, we’ll make the announcement. A summer wedding.”
Goosebumps pebbled her skin. A summer wedding. A bride. A wife. A mother. A duchess. The life her parents had always wanted for her. She inclined her head in agreement.
Brennan knotted his hand in her hair and pulled it back, urging her to look into his dark eyes, bringing his mouth achingly close to hers. He held her there, leaving her wanting, needing, on the cusp of begging, the air frozen in time while her heart pounded away.
The moment she thought he would kiss her again almost came. Almost came. And almost came. His heat warmed her face, made her lips long for his to sear her like a brand for a lifetime.
“’Til tonight,” he whispered.
“Tonight.”
He lowered his gaze to her mouth, exhaled a ragged breath, and his touch slipped away, leaving behind the promise of the evening.
She could hardly wait for her new life to begin.
A few hours later, the herald announced her, and Rielle entered Castle Delalune’s great hall, which was hung with banners in Tregarde’s red and gold overlooking a room rippling with activity. On one end, a meticulously staged scene featured players as the triune god’s second facet, the Oak King, arriving to defeat and slay his third facet, the Holly King, so that he would reign in the Waxing Year.
Blade & Rose (Blade and Rose Book 1) Page 23
