Olivia. He’d busied his mind with Gilles and the Crag Company, the capital, his armor, even Leigh Galvan and his tales, and had forgotten that Rielle didn’t know whether her dearest friend was dead or alive. And he’d pushed her into attending a celebration? He winced.
If she wanted to take her mind off the unanswerable question, then tonight he’d do his all to lift her spirits.
As they made their way through the crowds to the bonfire in the distance, her gaze darted from costume to costume. The city’s women would have worked on them for weeks; their discipline and devotion showed in their well-crafted patterns, myriad colors and designs, and painstaking stitches.
A small group of revelers broke through them to pass by, and when he and Rielle reunited, she locked her arm with his.
He stood taller and fought the urge to grin like an idiot. She wanted to be near him. Close. And it felt good.
It had no right to feel good. He eyed her warily.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she grumbled. “I just don’t want to lose you in this crowd.”
When he scoffed, she elbowed him playfully.
I don’t want to lose you either.
A shadow passed over her expression. She spared him a quick grin before turning back to the spectacle. “I don’t think I’ve ever been to a Vindemia bonfire.”
“I’ve never missed one.” He flashed her a half-smile, and she waved him off.
“Well, it’s hard to miss one when you’re a paladin.”
Yet this year, but for her last-minute acquiescence, he would have. He would have stayed in that room with his arms around her for as long as she needed. A part of him wanted to go back to that moment and never leave. “I’m glad we came.”
A group of jovial celebrants danced past them and tossed vine necklaces over his and Rielle’s heads. She lifted hers, examining the weave with a curious eye.
Ahead of them, several pots steamed with spiced cider.
Rielle squeezed his arm. “Do you mind if I...?”
“Not at all.”
They made their way through the crowd. He’d always wondered how the beverage tasted, but had never broken the second Sacred Vow.
Before they could reach the cider, a group of men clad in vines handed them each a large cup of wine. Thankfully, Rielle accepted them both with thanks and drank deeply, laughing as the other people in the crowd drank and cheered.
He couldn’t help but smile.
In the orchard, the circles gathered for the offering, and he led her there among them.
“Is it all right that I’m not—”
He nodded. “Terra welcomes all.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it and smiled, joining him in the outer circles. A priest stood before the altar with five black candles—one for each of the quarters and one to unite the circle—and lit incense of frankincense, myrrh, sage, and cinnamon. The circles filled and tightened, the thankful closing in and in and in, and then the priest called the four quarters, masked representatives.
The Stag of the North brought an offering of apples to the altar; the Fox of the South an offering of wheat; the Hawk of the East brought an offering of onions; and the Trout of the West an offering of wine.
The priest recited the introduction and lit the first candle; the Stag the second; the Fox the third; the Hawk the fourth; and the Trout the fifth.
The chant began at the altar. Jon closed his eyes along with the crowd.
The chant spread. “Great Goddess, give; Great Goddess, keep; Great Goddess, sow; Great Goddess, reap.” And repeated.
I am finished with irresolution. From tonight, I will walk my destiny with purpose. He laced the words with hope and intention and prayed Terra would give him strength and take away his weakness.
The chant finished, and he opened his eyes. Rielle looked around, her eyebrows raised. She was interested, then; and it pleased him.
The priest reminded them of the four quarters’ work, their energy placed upon the altar as tokens of repayment to the Goddess, and that they would receive the gift of another—balance celebrated. He stepped away from the altar, and the four quarters rotated, each taking a gift they had not provided.
“We thank you, Great Goddess!” the priest called.
“Praise Terra,” Jon replied, one of the countless voices in the crowd. Rielle’s brows knitted together, and he gave her hand a squeeze. She smiled.
The inner circle turned sunwise; the next widdershins. And each of the circles alternated until theirs turned sunwise, and as the outermost circle spun, the group prayer rose up on countless lips. “Lady of the Harvest, Mother of the Earth, / Most Holy Terra, Goddess of death and rebirth: / The grain has been threshed; the grapes have been pressed. / Hear our thanks; we have been blessed!” And twice. And thrice.
And the prayer was done.
Rielle looked up at him with wide, curious eyes.
Hear my thanks. I have been blessed.
Off to the side, a band played a quick and lively dancing tune. A bourrée, but in triple time with the crowd clapping the beat.
“And now?” she whispered.
The crowd headed for the dance floor and moved to the rhythm with an energy only a Terran festival could spark. Even Rielle tapped her foot to the beat.
“And now we show our thanks.” He inclined his head toward the band. “You dance, witch?”
“I haven’t—”
“You’re about to.”
When the dancers drew into a tight circle, he led her to join them. The city folk accommodated them happily. He joined his right hand to the others at the center of the circle, and so did Rielle. They went sunwise, stepped, widdershins, stepped, and broke to spread out on the dance floor, stepped, and wove through one another to mirror it all.
Rielle tracked the dancers with bewildered eyes, her steps quickly falling into line as dancers braided through one another only to pair once more in a tease of spaced, mirrored movement and a clap to the beat. When she spun, he orbited her, feet practiced, heart amateur; the immaculate white of her bodice and skirts brought out the gold of her hair, her cheeks rosy pink as she danced with abandon, and he couldn’t look away. The world around him blazed with warm color—amber light, golden hair, the honey-colored hay bales.
They circled each other, a dance of intricate steps and layered gazes, her cheer igniting to fire, to an intensity he couldn’t look away from. He swept an arm around her, took her hand in his, joined the many pairs twirling; her eyes held his captive, her frame so right in his arms that when it came time to break, he could hardly will his limbs to cooperate. They circled each other once more; she spun away; and they wove through the other couples, Rielle slipping from his grasp.
Right hands returned to the center of the circle—her soft hand beneath his—and they went widdershins, stepped, sunwise, stepped, and spread into a wide ring, holding hands.
As the last sounds of the hurried tune faded, the ring of dancers freed one another’s hands, but Jon drew her in, indulging in the pleasing encore of holding her close.
Terra have mercy, nothing had ever felt so good, so right, so whole. Panting as he did, she smiled up at him and moved even closer, sparkling as she glanced at her hand in his. Her sky-blue eyes widened. Her gaze flickered, and she drew in a soft, giddy gasp.
I love her.
A chaotic line of dancers moved past, and raising her eyebrows in invitation, she grabbed his arm.
“Jon?” A man’s voice.
Jon whirled, sweeping Rielle behind him.
Sir Valen Boucher, a paladin and one of his closest friends—a thirty-one-year-old bear of a man with rough features and cheery eyes, clad in full arcanir plate, a longsword on his belt and his shield on his back.
“Valen,” he greeted in surprise, clasping Valen’s arm and leaning in to embrace him. “Terra’s blessings upon you, my brother.”
“And upon you.” Grinning, Valen gave him a once-over. He turned to Rielle, and his mouth dropped as he squinted. “Terra’s troth,
you found her.”
“Found?” Jon repeated, raising an eyebrow. He glanced at Rielle, whose gaze darted away.
“The healer.” Valen’s cheery face went slack. “From Signy?”
Jon’s breath hitched.
Rielle’s mouth fell open, her head shaking in quick little swipes. Fiery and fair as ever. Her notes of “Winter Wren” from the forest pool threaded deeper, a faded fiber of something older, worn, a threadbare tapestry of rooftops aflame, fire reflected in golden hair.
The familiar song in his heart.
Merciful Terra, the healer-apprentice who’d saved his life? It couldn’t be. “You’re an elementalist. How can—”
She cleared her throat and released his arm. “Why don’t I give you two a chance to catch up?” Her eyes were wide, too wide, and then she blinked rapidly, shifting her weight. Her gaze darted away. “I’ll be at the bonfire.”
No attempt to even deny it. “Will—”
She bowed and rushed away. How could—
He planted his hands on his hips, stared at the blades of grass at his feet until he couldn’t see them anymore.
“Jon?”
He shook his head. “Are you sure that’s her?” But he already knew the answer. Valen had been at Signy, too.
Valen made the sign of the Goddess. “I was there, Jon—fighting beside Tor while you were dying. She saved you. By my life, that’s her.”
You could have a healer fade that for you, she’d said to him on the night they’d met at the Tower.
Terra have mercy. All this time. She’d known. He backed up until he hit a hay bale.
“What’s wrong?” Valen touched his shoulder.
It was her. It had been her that day, that fateful day. Rielle had returned him to this side of the blade. Not a healer. An elementalist who’d healed him. An elementalist. Had the other paladins not known the difference?
It didn’t matter. A face like hers—he would have remembered. He should have. Except that he’d been dying.
So little had stayed with him from that time beyond the crippling loss of Bastien, the battle, and his own imminent death.
And at the Tower, it had been her, one and the same, savior and captor. All this time, she’d tolerated his ingratitude, his rudeness, and hadn’t voiced the one thing that would have humbled him completely.
Rielle. His chest ached.
Valen frowned. “Where’s your arcanir?”
Jon folded his arms across his chest. “I’ve been discharged from the Order.”
“What? You?” Valen leaned against the hay bales with him. “Honorably?”
“Yes.”
“Any idea why?”
“No.” Jon stared at the ground, at feet shuffling by toward the bonfire. Toward Rielle. “I got word from Derric about ten days ago. Then I met her.” He caught Valen’s easy grin in his periphery. “I’ll petition Paladin Grand Cordon Guérin for reenlistment.”
Valen pushed off from the hay bales. “What?” He swept his hand toward the bonfire. “A blind man could see the affection you bear that woman.”
Druthers had always been murmured in monasteries, but the rarity of oath-breaking spoke to paladins’ dedication. And he’d pledged his. “I know my place.” He took a deep breath. “I swore vows, Valen.”
“Yes, you did. We all did.” Valen grabbed his shoulder. “But you’ve been honorably discharged. You are beholden to those vows no longer.”
“Is that what it means to swear a vow? To intend it at the time and then seize the first available opportunity to abandon it?” He clenched his teeth.
“It is Terra’s will. She set you on your path for reasons you may never understand. Or is it so common to you that you should cross paths, unbeknownst to you, with the woman who saved your life?” Valen gave him a light shove. “Are you of so little faith? What is it that you fear?”
Fear? Was that it?
“Do you have any idea how many of us would rejoice at the chance to have our service ended with honor, to have fulfilled the mission, and to be released to please the Goddess with a fruitful life?”
A fruitful life...
Rielle perched on a log bench near the bonfire, her head tilted, her back to him, rigid. She’d already found her way into his heart. There was no denying it.
Even released from his vows, what could he offer her? All he had to give her was himself, a man who only knew how to be one thing, that which he could be no longer.
It wouldn’t be enough. It would never be enough.
A woman like her deserved more than he could give her, more than he could ever be. More than a destitute man who could scarcely secure a roof over her head. No matter what he felt about her, inviting her to join him in such misery wasn’t in him.
“If I’m not a paladin, what is there for me?” he thought aloud. “I have nothing. For men like us, service is life.”
“You can still serve.” Valen stepped back. “You’re going to Monas Amar to turn in your arcanir, right?”
“Yes.” Jon eyed him warily. A paladin would never suggest joining up with irregulars. Pledging a sword-arm once sworn to Most Holy Terra to take life indiscriminately for coin was no option.
“Horrible tragedy—Courdeval,” Valen murmured solemnly.
So much loss of life. Unnecessary. Unspeakable. The Crag Company had gone too far. Yet again. “When Parliament elects the new king, perhaps Gilles will finally face justice.”
“That, and... when the new king is crowned, go to Courdeval and swear your fealty to him. He’ll need knights. With an honorable discharge, you’ll get a recommendation from the Order. Maybe you’ll be chosen for the Royal Guard.”
Service—a different kind of service. A knighthood.
At the bonfire, Rielle turned, her arcane-green eyes searching the area with earthsight, then she dispelled it. She pulled in a knee to her chest and rested her chin upon it, staring into the fire.
A knighthood. Money. A home. Perhaps even—
Fiery hues shimmered in her hair.
“If ever there was a sign...” Valen’s voice drifted off. The faint trace of envy and awe in his tone lingered in Jon’s ear. “An honorable discharge and crossing paths with the woman who saved your life are it. Ask for your lady’s hand, start a family—”
Jon winced.
“—and let me visit your bounteous clan on furlough.” Valen elbowed him in the ribs and grinned.
He shoved Valen back light-heartedly. It was easy for someone who was one of seven siblings to talk like that. If only things were as simple as Valen’s far-reaching ideas.
And yet, his words made sense. Jon rubbed his chin and—that idiot grin had returned to reclaim his face.
“She’s a mage, you know,” Jon said as Rielle played with a flame in her palm. “And works for the Divinity.”
“And you have an awful temper. We all have our faults.”
A smile tugged at the corner of Jon’s mouth. For a paladin, he had never been known for his restraint. Cooling his hot head was a lifelong challenge.
“Don’t keep her waiting. We can catch up in Monas Amar,” Valen said.
“You’ll be there?”
Valen nodded. “Orders. Heading out tomorrow with some of our brothers.”
The sellswords at The Crowned Stag. It could be nothing, but... “There’s something else. Earlier today, two sellswords came in to the inn where I’m staying, looking for a paladin. You need to watch yourself and pass the word along to our brothers.”
With a grave frown, Valen nodded. “I saw a couple of those types hanging around near the way-station, but they made no move. Still, we’re all on notice.” A warm smile. “Watching my back as always, eh, Jon?” Valen clapped him on the back and drew him into an embrace. “Goddess keep you, my brother.”
“And you.”
Valen let him go, but then he lingered a moment; he opened his mouth, but no words came. He smiled, and they parted ways.
The bonfire rose higher. But Jon hung back. Ri
elle traced her finger over the flame in her palm.
He headed toward the bonfire, stopping only for a cup of mulled wine.
No. He hesitated. Tonight, he would take the first step toward his destiny. That first step was breaking one of the Sacred Vows.
The entire journey, he’d made it clear to her that he’d planned to keep them. Made her promise not to interfere. And now he wanted her to do the opposite.
It wasn’t her burden to bear; it was his. Unless he made his intentions clear and secured his own freedom, he could not in good conscience court her.
A second cup of wine. He poured another.
I am finished with irresolution. From tonight, I will walk my destiny with purpose. He strode toward her.
Her eyebrows drawn, she glanced in the direction he’d come from, then turned back to him. “Are you all right?”
He handed her one of the two cups, then sat next to her and took a deep breath. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her shoulders slumped as she studied the bonfire, pensive in her hesitation. “When I was an apprentice, Leigh and I were sent to Signy to rescue the viscount, but when the paladins needed help with a burning temple and the people trapped inside, I volunteered.” She gave a little shrug, her gaze dulling. “Sir Bastien covered me while I got them out—”
Bastien? She had known Bastien?
By name?
“But there was a girl, unconscious... she needed to be carried out. He...” She shook her head, staring into the cup.
“He died a paladin, honorably, fighting for what he believed in.” Jon thumbed the rim of his cup. “I saw Gilles kill him.”
The image of Gilles running Bastien through had been seared into his mind, and even now, when he closed his eyes, not a detail of the gruesome scene had faded despite the worn fibers of all else.
His scar burned, a hot brand on his neck. Leather creaked. He’d gripped his dagger’s hilt to numbness. He inched the blade from its sheath, just a bit; the fire played on its reflective surface, reminiscent of the light cast by Signy’s burning buildings.
“I charged in, thirsting for vengeance, and I fought him,” Jon said, the memory vivid, “but in my hatred, I lost my focus. Gilles outmaneuvered me, tripped me over two of my dead brothers, and impaled me through the neck.” He raised his chin at the mention, the gurgle of blood rumbling in his throat anew; he had stared at what he’d believed to be his last sight: up the blade of a flambard to the grinning face of his best friend’s murderer.
Blade & Rose (Blade and Rose Book 1) Page 26
