She raised an eyebrow and read the facing page, which presented theories as to the nature of the mythical rite. At a Vein, the king was to couple with a virgin representing the land; as they became one, so did the king and his land. Earth brought from all corners of the realm gave him sense of all corners; and a representation of enemy intentions, taken far away, became a prayer to keep the land—and so himself and his bloodline—safe.
The Earthbinding allowed a king to influence his land’s health, prosperity, and strength. She read on. The last Earthbound king was rumored to have been the first of the Faralles, a warrior king, the Blade. Tristan Armand Marcel Faralle.
The Lothaires’—her family’s—only claim to royalty came from the Blade, who’d married Rosalie Vignon Lothaire, a wayward lady and pirate queen who’d brought a fleet under the Emaurrian banner as her dowry. Together, they’d ruled the land and the sea for half a century.
She thumbed the vial of king’s blood she’d gotten from Kieran’s things. Which king’s? King Marcus’s? King Marcus—and the current generation of Faralles—were all descended from the Blade, who, if this book was to be believed, had been the last Earthbound king. That vial was all the more precious now, with all the Faralles dead.
The Blade’s blood flowed through the Faralles. Was in this vial. If that blood had to do with the Earthbinding, it could mean protecting the land from something. Something that had to do with Veins and the thinning Veil.
The maid came and went with trays, food, and water. Jon worked at the letters, and she turned over the same few questions in her tired mind.
She squeezed her eyes shut and looked inward, plummeted to her own anima. The heaviness of a massive presence crowded around her, dozens of phantom hands pushing against her inner barriers. More and more appeared, pushing harder and harder, crowding closer, closer—
She opened her eyes with a start.
This pressure would become suffocating unless relieved the night of Spiritseve, as it was every year.
Spiritseve... when the Moonlit Rite was to be performed.
If it wasn’t—
Perhaps this pressure would continue. A natural culmination. And then an overflow.
She imagined her inner barriers—what made her anima hers and not just of the earth—gone, and shuddered. Every mage’s barriers. The earth’s barriers. If they were gone, what would come over?
She frowned.
Spiritseve... When the Veil is at its thinnest.
The Veil. Barriers. She drew in a shallow breath. Everyone knew that on the other side of the Veil was the Lone, the after realm, a matter both Divinists and Terrans agreed on. What if the Veil tore open?
Whose phantom hands pushed for entry?
Was that the Rift?
Nausea beset her with a sickly warmth. She could hardly think without craving sen’a.
“I’m on to something.” Jon’s excited voice.
Weary, she pushed her chair back and stood to look at the spread of letters arranged in a perfect line from left to right on the desk. Jon ran his index and middle fingers across the first line of every letter.
“The first word is always different,” he said, “but the second word... In all the letters, only two different options appear in that second space.” He rearranged the letters, placing on the left side those with one word and on the right those with the other. “A few of them use the first word, while the vast majority use the second.”
That relationship could only mean one thing.
“The month,” she said over his shoulder, impressed with his work.
“Yes.” He glanced up at her. “Flame wouldn’t have been stationed in Bournand very long. He was probably supposed to have burned them to prevent just this. The first word in every letter, although different, is likely a coded, written-out number for the date. The two options for the second word in each letter end in the same exact construction, so they’re likely the month—Chaudoir or Aimadoir.”
It made sense. And if they could decode two words, a full cipher would eventually follow. Her heart leapt.
She shuffled to her pack to retrieve her extra quill, inkwell, and some parchment and handed the supplies to Jon. Right away, he began scripting a cipher. As he steadily linked symbol to letter, one after another, with a determined crease on his brow, she could not help but grin.
Jonathan Ver was a capable man.
But just how did a former paladin, trained daily in combat, develop a scribe’s abilities? She smiled to herself.
“What?” he asked with a lilt of casual amusement as he worked.
Her lip twitched as she tried to hold in a laugh. “I don’t know, just trying to imagine you, all brawny and broad shouldered, as a bookworm hidden in some candlelit corner, reading long into the night—”
“Find it funny, do you, witch?” An amused gleam in his eye.
“Only a little.”
“It’s not far from the truth. I received quite the education at the monastery. Some of it even had the tenacity to remain, even after all the blows I’ve taken to the head.”
She snorted. But she couldn’t help a brief inspection of his head anyway.
When both words were translated on the parchment, Jon set down his quill. “There. I can decode most—if not all—of the rest, given time.”
She curled her arms around him, and he swept her onto his lap. When she kissed him, he exhaled lengthily.
“Anything else the Divinity needs a forsworn paladin to do?” he joked.
She leaned in close. “I can think of a few things.”
She kissed him again. A very masculine sound passed from his mouth to hers.
“And you?” he whispered against her lips between kisses. “What did you find in that ruined book of yours?”
“It may be ruined, but I’ve got a soft spot for it now.”
“Oh?” Jon glanced at the cover, a corner of his mouth turning up fondly. He traced her lower lip with a reverent thumb. “Why would that be?”
He wanted her to say it? Aloud? “It—”
Her stomach growled.
Jon fixed her with a stern glare. “It’s nearly dusk. You haven’t eaten anything since yesterday.”
She left his lap and poured herself a glass of water. The mirror caught her reflection. Her horrid reflection. The sen’a hadn’t been content with the aches inhabiting every inch of her body and the crawling sensation beneath her skin; it had also darkened the skin beneath her eyes and made her wan. She looked like a resurrected corpse. Or a ghost.
“Rielle.” A scrape followed—the chair.
Forcing a smile, she shrugged. “I’m not hungry.” It was true enough, although it was her churning stomach’s answer and not hers.
“Is it the sen’a?” He directed a nod at her tapping foot.
Immediately, she stayed it, although her restless legs rebelled. The hurt, the pity in his face was too difficult, and she looked away, but she wouldn’t lie to him. “Yes.”
His gaze was upon her, she could feel it, and Divine, she didn’t want to look—she couldn’t.
They had only begun to explore love; she hardly expected any man to suffer through something like this with her after only so little time together.
“Jon,” she began, trying to keep her voice even, “you don’t owe me anything. I understand if you—”
When he swept her into his embrace, the pressure inside her finally broke.
“I’m here for you.” The strength in his arms matched that in his voice.
“You won’t want to be,” she croaked. The restlessness, the crawling, the pain—it was unbearable. She hurt everywhere, her entire body a throbbing bruise, and it would only worsen. If the past was any indication, she’d say terrible things, hateful things, be some monstrous shade of her true self. Olivia had put up with it, but she’d known Olivia for years, had been best friends for years. But Jon—
He rubbed her back softly, his breath warm on the crown of her head. “I’ll help you through this.”
She didn’t deserve it. There were many dark things in her past, not to mention her engagement to Brennan. She longed to tell Jon—even now, just so he’d know the true nature of the woman he had begun to love. And she would tell him all of it, so help her, before she took him to Monas Amar.
He gestured at the table full of food. “You need to eat something.”
He arranged some bread, fruit, and chicken on a plate and placed it on the table in front of an empty chair. She looked away, swallowing thickly. He approached her and, cupping her cheek, tilted her face up to his. “Come. Eat.”
“I’m not hungry.” But she hadn’t intended the agitated tone with which she’d spoken. She sighed. The last thing she wanted was for him to see and hear her vomiting all night. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” He fixed her with a serious look. “You need to keep your strength up. At least eat a little. Even if you only keep some of it down, it’s better than nothing at all.”
He was right. Staring down at the fresh food with all the enthusiasm of a convict facing the gallows, she rose and seated herself at the table. He brushed his palm along her back as he came around to sit next to her.
It was far too difficult to turn him down. It was a wonder she hadn’t simply let him walk away from the skirmish at the Tower.
She speared a forkful of chicken and shoved it into her mouth. Perhaps if she didn’t think about it, she could chew and swallow it without retching.
Chew, chew, chew. Swallow.
Second forkful. Chew, chew, chew. Swallow.
It wasn’t pleasant, but she could manage.
Warmth simmered in her belly and spread, but it settled in her body like malaise, radiating nausea. She paused at the third forkful, the smell of roasted chicken polluting her nostrils while her stomach rolled.
The chair raked the floor and fell over when she ran for the chamber pot and, grabbing its rim with both hands, vomited. The sting of acid in her nose burned so keenly that she could hardly spare a thought for her bulging eyes.
And then she realized Jon had been there all the while, keeping her hair away from her face, an arm around her waist to hold her steady. He’d witnessed the entire disgusting thing.
“Don’t... look... at me,” she managed to say, wiping her mouth, but he didn’t move. She shoved him away, but he didn’t budge and instead handed her a towel.
With a grunt, she accepted it and dabbed at her face, hoping to stave off the dry heaves. Restlessness dominated her limbs, and as she looked at the mess before her, she fidgeted with the towel. The aches filled her up, and she slung her arms around herself, trying to rub them away.
She reached for the water carafe. “I need to clean—”
Before she could grasp it, Jon lifted her and took her to the bed. The objection died in her sore throat before she could make it. He laid her down softly, a font of calm, then handed her a nightgown.
“Try to get some sleep,” he whispered. “I’ll be right here next to you soon.” He planted a kiss on her cheek, then returned to the mess.
Changing into her nightgown, she tried to ignore the protests of her body. Under the covers, she curled into a tight ball.
True to his word, he came to bed and, much to her shame, placed an empty chamber pot on the floor near her. He doused the candle with his fingertips, settled between the sheets, and drew close, reaching out to stroke her hair softly while she writhed in pain.
He embraced her with one secure arm. “Tomorrow will be better.”
She didn’t deserve this kindness, not from Jon, not from anyone, not after all she’d done. Still, even in the depths of her humiliation, his embrace was a comfort. But if he knew about Brennan, if he saw the shadows haunting her, would he still be here?
I’m a murderer.
Her body convulsed with a violent shudder.
Tomorrow, they’d be back on the Kingsroad, in constant danger. Hopefully she’d make it through tonight with some strength left to protect the man she loved, whose caring arms she’d neither expected nor deserved, but now couldn’t imagine living without.
Chapter 35
During the midnight change of the Crag Company guard, Brennan scaled the wall in man-beast form and descended into the darkness of Courdeval’s Chardon District.
He kept to the shadows of the wooden buildings. The streets here were empty, although his werewolf ears pricked at voices in the distance, muffled from underground. He shifted to full wolf and padded toward the sound, sniffing his surroundings cautiously.
The Crag Company skimmed every corner of the city that mattered, cheap leather boots pressing old Courdevallan blood into the cobblestone and dust roads. Few Courdevallans remained in the city—alive—but those who did kept to the destitute districts like this one, where the penniless and the lawless burrowed underground, in ratholes ignored and forgotten.
He’d overheard the guards talking about a resistance. Would the Black Rose assassin Rielle had mentioned know anything about it? Rielle may have been content to throw her life away on a suicide mission, but he needed her alive to continue their monthly meetings, to be free of the moon’s control. If a resistance could help her odds of survival, then he would seek it out, as well as this Nicolette—he tongued his teeth in distaste—even if it meant openly acquiescing to Rielle’s wishes.
She certainly wouldn’t approve of his little bloodbath on the Kingsroad, but she didn’t have to approve. She just had to survive long enough to free him of the curse.
So he’d killed all the Crag there. Better dead than alive. Only once had he bitten someone and let him live. He’d ended up having to behead the man—no, the werewolf. Never again. There was nothing to gain by leaving behind living, breathing evidence to come seeking hush money. Or worse, to spread word of a certain nobleman who turned into a monster at will.
He growled.
At The Rose Garden, the wild mage had said Rielle’s concern for the commoner extended far beyond her mission. That his presence pleased her.
She’d had brief dalliances before. Brief. But perhaps this commoner was different. Maybe he was more to her than a warm, willing body.
A tool to father a bastard, the next Marquis of Laurentine? Was that how she planned to circumvent the betrothal, by bearing a bastard?
No comparison to a Marcel, of course—she’d be foolish to pursue that course. But it couldn’t hurt to bring his fiancée to heel. He’d already tried shaming her for carrying on with a commoner. To no effect. He’d tried seducing her in the barn—to some success, if his nose hadn’t betrayed him—but not enough. It was time to consider other cards.
A reasonable offer, and if that failed, a change of targets. If she proved immovable, the commoner could be handled. No commoner could withstand the full force of a determined Marcel.
The voices grew loud enough for his wolf ears to discern. He slowed his steps. Stopping at the door, he read the shingle above it: Del’s.
“...they have nightly meetings there, and we’ll just have to hit them hard, when they least expect it,” a woman said firmly.
There were murmurs of halfhearted support amid the din. “Nicolette, the Divinity is no doubt already sending an army—”
Nicolette. She was the one.
“So what? We should just wait? Keep starving? Keep suffering, only to be bargained off as hostages later?” Nicolette shot back.
“This is not what we do,” a man argued in a smooth, calm voice. “We’re the Black Rose, not the damned militia.”
“We are residents of this city, Ben, and if there is no one left to stand for it and for us, then even we assassins must stand.” She paused for a moment. “We need to free our brethren.”
Brennan pulled back. If Rielle meant to infiltrate the city on Spiritseve, then this could be the well-timed diversion needed to reduce the risk involved considerably.
He’d approach this Nicolette, but there were questions to consider of how he’d entered the city, and how he’d be leaving. Even
if he name-dropped Rielle.
Stalking into an empty hovel, he shifted to his human form and searched for clothes. His spoils were sneer worthy—an over-sized woolen tunic, a rawhide belt, patched and too-large woolen pants, and old rawhide shoes for his feet, at least two sizes too small, and all stinking of sweaty commoner. He groaned, but this was a part of being a werewolf attempting to blend into human society—common human society.
Once dressed, he slipped out of the hovel, slinking along walls and in shadows until he reached Del’s Tavern once again. He closed his eyes and exhaled, letting a mask of calm settle over him, then opened the door.
Only a couple pungent customers sat within, nursing ale steins nearing empty, muttering about ghosts, phantoms, and the Lone—the other side of the Veil.
An elderly barman drying an ale stein with a dishcloth eyed him warily. “We’re closed.”
The presence of the two customers spoke to the contrary, but the barman glowered at him.
“I’m here to see Nicolette.”
The barman set down the stein and placed his hands on the table. “She’s not here.”
The oldster had some fight in him. Good. That would keep things interesting.
“She’ll want to see me,” he said. “Tell her Favrielle is calling in a favor.” The name-drop would smooth things over. He stood still, fixing the barman with an unrelenting stare.
The barman frowned but finally gave in and left the bar, presumably for the cellar. Brennan released the tension he’d been holding in his shoulder blades and waited, listening to the voices and footsteps.
The two customers rose and, eyeing him warily, left the tavern. Wise choice.
Within moments, a small brunette emerged, her eyes wide and curious despite the taut anticipation of her body. She stopped in the doorway, her hand resting on its frame. She wore her hair high, secured tightly, and a fitted coat, trousers, and boots of the darkest black.
“Nicolette, I presume?”
Blade & Rose (Blade and Rose Book 1) Page 32
