Blade & Rose (Blade and Rose Book 1)

by Miranda Honfleur

  “Who’s asking?”

  “A friend of Favrielle’s.”

  She tilted her head in skepticism. “What do you want?”

  Brennan drew in her scent, the fragrance of almond oil, ale, and woman. “She’s calling in a favor.”

  A vein flared in her neck, pounding with the blood from her heart. She stepped closer.

  “And what does she want?” She planted a fist on her hip.

  “She intends to retake the palace. She can get in without trouble, but the whole of the Crag Company cannot be waiting for her there.”

  Nicolette brought her head down in an epiphanous nod. “She needs a diversion.”

  “Yes,” he answered, restraining the wide grin begging to be released. “On Spiritseve, beginning a few hours before midnight and lasting as long as you can manage.”

  “Will she free the prisoners?”

  “Yes.”

  If the assassin believed it, then she’d be motivated enough to do her part.

  Crossing her arms, she stopped, eyebrows drawn. Typical. Soon, she would ask him whether he was trustworthy, how she could be certain that he would deliver.

  “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “You don’t,” he said, “but if I were a Crag spy, I wouldn’t come here alone to trick you. I’d come here in force to kill you and anyone else trying to mount a resistance.”

  Nicolette’s wary eyes appraised him for a moment. “Those clothes are not yours.”

  He laughed. “Of course not.” He received a crooked grin in reply. Her scent hit him again, strong and tantalizing. “So, can I tell Favrielle you’ll deliver that favor, or will she be on her own?”

  She put her thumb and index finger to her lower lip, then nodded reluctantly. “I’ll need to talk to my people, but... even if they don’t help, I will. I owe her.”

  The little assassin had as much spunk as he’d initially thought.

  “A signal,” Nicolette said. “The northeastern gate tower. Extinguish the light the night of Spiritseve, and that’s when you’ll have your diversion.”

  Rielle could extinguish a fire easily enough.

  “Good.” As his mouth watered, he backed up toward the door. He would hunt a fine young doe tonight and feast on warm flesh to sate this hunger. Clicking his teeth shut, he felt for the door behind him.

  Nicolette followed after him, her feet closing the very necessary gap between them, practically jumping into the wolf’s mouth.

  “Wait! Who are you?” she hissed after him.

  He gave her a toothy grin. “Brennan.”

  He slammed the door shut. It was time to face his snarling little she-wolf and see if a reasonable offer would prevail where a hand of courtship, scorn, humiliation, and seduction had not.

  Chapter 36

  Rielle curled tight, tossing, turning, twisting. The tide of pain in her veins swelled, clotted out even the soft lambency of the night, leaving only the blackness and punctures of bone-needling agony.

  But Jon held her all through the black, and whenever pain shot through her, when she crumpled and winced, his hold tightened until the bout passed.

  The cramps woke her from the fitful storm. Then the shivers, and the goosebumps, descended. Uncomfortable, but nothing compared to the horror of the previous night. She cringed. As much as she’d tried to keep her sen’a withdrawal secret, it had poured out.

  Near dawn, Jon arrived with food. He’d been the one ray of light in the thorough dark of the past night, and she could hardly bear to face him. But he sat in bed with her while she ate some of the toasted bread, broth, and plain rice, and sipped the mint tea, as much as she dared—which amounted to little.

  Stomach full or rotting, she had to go. They had to go. Staying in one place too long was too risky.

  He set down his mint tea and took her hand, held her gaze with that patient stillness of his. “You need to recover. Give yourself time.”

  “I’ll be fine.” She stroked his knuckles softly. “Thanks to you.” Her belly contracted, a cramp clenching tight. She winced.

  “Are you all right? Perhaps you should rest a while longer.”

  Forcing a smile, she shook her head and rose. “We have a schedule to keep.”

  He narrowed his eyes but nodded.

  Quickly, they gathered their things, settled their bill, and found Leigh before making through the morning crowds for Forgeron’s.

  The blacksmith presented a modified suit of armor, dark and unrecognizable, but a shining and elegant deep gray. Jon stiffened, then reached for the arcanir, hesitating before he rested a palm on the new cuirass. He gave a somber nod to the blacksmith, then she came around the counter and helped him arm.

  Perfectly tailored. It suited him. Over his shoulder, his once-white cloak was now a deep, cobalt blue. His lips curved beneath somber eyes. “Thank you.”

  The blacksmith inclined her head. “Wear it well.” She slitted her eyes at Leigh. “Now get out of my shop.”

  Leigh held up his hands and smirked. “Give my best to your lovely papa.”

  As they left, Rielle took Jon’s hand. “Your armor”—she looked him over—“do you regret it?”

  “No.” Grinning, he helped her into the saddle. “But if you want to cheer me up later, I still welcome all efforts.”

  He mounted and, with a lingering look, rode past.

  Leigh followed, rolling his eyes. “Really,” he muttered, just barely audible.

  With all the talk of refugees, the Kingsroad to Melain should have been bustling, but it was clear, with nothing but greenery and wildlife to distract them. Even so, she checked for Shadow and Phantom constantly with her earthsight.

  No sign of either. Perhaps having Leigh along was all the deterrence needed.

  With the road safe and clear, the journey would take only two days, but it would be a taxing two days. Although her sen’a withdrawal tapered, her moonbleed had her wincing through the ride.

  The first night, they camped at dusk and rested fully in the safety of her wards. The next day, their route took them along the Kingsroad through the Forest of the Hart, a dense wood said to be protected by Solis—Sun God, Oak King, and Holly King—the triune god of the Terran pantheon, taking the form of a great stag.

  The sky still bore the intense pinks of dawn when they set out—much too early—but Leigh set their schedule. Ahead of them, he led their small cavalcade, bespectacled and withdrawn, reading a tome on legendary immortal creatures.

  Farther from Bournand, the forest had thrived and become overgrown, its tangled woods ablaze with reds and golds pressing tight against the road. Serenaded by the clopping of her mare’s hooves, Rielle gazed at the canopy, catching only occasional glimpses of the sky between the densely leafed branches rippling in the wind. The autumn chill made her shiver, but when she closed her eyes, she could feel the heat of Jon next to her beneath the thick coverlet at The Crowned Stag, holding her close, taking care of her.

  Jon had sacrificed, greatly, only to be tangled into the mess that was her life. There was still so much she needed to tell him, chief among all subjects her engagement to Brennan.

  Her breathing turned shaky, and her mare stiffened. Rielle whispered words of comfort and patted her softly.

  She and Jon did not need the added pressure of this discussion now. And there were still two mage captains of the Crag Company out there. If she told him everything and he decided to end things, would he still accept her protection? Or would he try to leave on his own?

  And how would I protect him then?

  If he took off as he had after Feliciano, he’d be all alone. He could handle himself, but against Shadow and Phantom? It was too risky. He could get hurt or killed.

  She tightened her white scarf around her neck.

  It would have to wait until they were close to Monas Amar.

  Once they arrived in Melain, she’d ask Gran’s support in breaking her betrothal. At least that much. If anyone had the political clout and broad influence,
it was Gran, but the Auvrays had long nurtured close ties to the Marcels. It had seemed hopeless for years and seemed hopeless now, but she had to try.

  Something lurked in the distance. She squinted.

  A massive sculpture of a beast the size of a caravel, with a huge spiked maw and long sharp claws, seethed its rage among the bright-yellow growth of autumn hawkbit.

  The Serpent of Mel. One of the Immortals, it was made in the shape of a great winged dragon, a legendary creature that rained had terror from the skies on villages, farms, and castles.

  Still hours away from Melain, Leigh brought his horse to a halt, and she and Jon followed suit. Her sore backside would be grateful for a reprieve from the torture device—saddle. And she’d make some tea to soothe the residual queasiness from the withdrawal.

  She dismounted and secured her horse, then moved to the Serpent’s head and reached out to rub a long tooth, easily the length of her arm.

  Jon approached with his horse in tow, then tied it off to a nearby tree next to hers. He leaned in and kissed her softly. “What’s on your mind?”

  Too much. She shook her head. “Just thinking about the weeks ahead.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “With such a frown? Should I be worried?”

  She hugged him, resting her cheek against the arcanir of his chest. It stung, but she didn’t care. His arms closed around her.

  “I’m very selfish, Jon,” she whispered.

  He snorted a soft breath. “I think you’re mistaken. You’ve risked your life to save mine, more than once, and you’re on a mission to rescue your best friend. Few would call that ‘selfish.’ ”

  His words elicited a small smile. There was little she wouldn’t do for those she loved.

  “If you are pursuing your own happiness,” he said softly, “then in that, our goals are aligned.” A smile lilted in his voice. “So don’t waste another minute frowning.” His hold tightened.

  If he knew the truth of the matters worrying her, would he say the same?

  Leigh rode by, beckoning her to follow with a jerk of his head.

  “I’d like to make some tea.” She rested a hand on her unsettled belly.

  “We’ll catch up,” Jon added, leaning against the serpent of Mel with his arms crossed.

  Leigh cocked an eyebrow. “Ten minutes. I’ll scout ahead.” He rode ahead.

  She pulled away from Jon and offered him a thankful smile. There was time for some peppermint tea, which would hopefully make the rest of today’s riding a little less entirely uncomfortable.

  “I’ll gather some firewood,” Jon said.

  “Together.” She smiled, and when he offered his gauntleted hand, she took it.

  They entered among the trees, picking their way through the dense foliage as they gathered sticks and twigs. She’d only need a little bit to get a fire to blazing and a kettle of water boiling.

  A fallen bough lay nearby, full of sprigs she could break off. Her foot caught, and she tripped with a yelp.

  He darted to catch her but lost his balance, too. She landed atop him, hard, her breath knocked out of her lungs. Stunned, she took a moment to collect herself before lifting her head. Graceful. Very graceful.

  When her eyes finally met his, Jon was grinning.

  A putrid odor invaded her nostrils. Not the crisp freshness of a forest.

  “What is it?”

  She sniffed. “Don’t you smell that?”

  He paused and smelled the air, then nodded. She searched the ground. Her gaze wandered a little farther.

  A severed hand.

  Her breath caught. It was small for an adult. Probably a woman’s hand. The point of separation was far from clean—a mess of torn flesh, tubes, and bone at the gruesome end of a blood trail on the forest floor.

  Before she could venture beyond the scene to follow it, Jon grabbed her arm. She rounded on him with a scowl.

  “I’ll take a look.” His grip slid down to her hand, and he squeezed it in reassurance.

  She wanted to stop him and say she’d be the one to go, but he wasn’t just her charge anymore. Things were different now. Barking orders at him was no longer an option; she couldn’t even bring herself to. They’d just have to work together.

  “Not without me, you won’t.” She conjured a flame in her hand while he drew his sword and moved alongside her.

  They crept through the brush, following the blackened blood trail to an arm, thin and grayed by death. Farther still, a headless torso clad in bloodied leather armor lay among the filth and leaves, a short sword not far from its grasp.

  She knelt beside the body. Amid the shredded flesh were puncture wounds and claw marks.

  Brennan.

  She held her wrist to her nose. Jon crouched near the body of—a boy, probably no older than sixteen, a new recruit perhaps. But he stared elsewhere. She followed his line of sight.

  Detached limbs reached out, mouths on decapitated heads hung open in silent screams, bodies lay torn asunder, and drowning it all, a dried pool of bloody terror soaked into the leaf-strewn ground. The disarray of pieces amounted to at least a dozen bodies.

  Swords, knives, axes, and bows littered the area. Some torsos still bore bloodied red tabards—a black mountain flanked by the sun.

  “Crag Company.” Jon scanned the scene and examined the spread of the bodies. “They tried to retreat.”

  “Wolf attack,” she murmured. If he needed an answer, that was the only one she could give.

  Jon closed the young man’s eyes. Slowly, he rose and shook his head. “The bodies are ripped apart, but not much is missing. No predation.”

  She couldn’t tell him that no, it hadn’t been a pack of wolves—nor even one.

  Jon sighed. “Enemies or not, we can’t leave them like this. It’s not right.”

  “We can tell the guards at Melain,” she offered, her throat tight. She watched him awhile, standing with his hands up in offering, praying to his Goddess.

  A rustle came from the forest. Clear in the silence. She nodded to Jon, who acknowledged.

  The thrash of a run through dense vegetation—

  Casting earthsight, she tracked the sound. The bright figure was clear as day—a person, and a mage at that.

  “Stop!” she shouted.

  She and Jon wended through shrubs, bushes, and brambles as quickly as they could. The bright aura grew smaller, gaining distance. They closed in, when—

  A snap. Blinding pain. A crunch. A scream. Her own.

  Pain shot up her leg from her ankle, so excruciating she couldn’t think. She collapsed.

  Jon was at her side, his back to where they’d come from. A roar in her ears, images came to her in disarray. He took her in his arms, shouting words she couldn’t hear, his alert eyes flitting to the surroundings and back to her. Pain immobilized her, breaking her focus.

  Her earthsight dispelled, she lost track of their quarry. On the ground, her booted ankle bent oddly, caught between two metal jaws. A wolf trap.

  Jon wedged his arcanir dagger between the jaws, his voice reassuring but unintelligible. Her ankle throbbed in agony during his ministrations. Pain seared. Dizzy, she squeezed her eyes shut as he pulled her free.

  “You’ll be all right,” he said firmly. But his eyebrows were drawn together, and he breathed quick, shallow breaths. He held the leather sheath of his dagger in front of her mouth. “Bite down.”

  The taste of leather and oil frayed at the ends of sharp, shooting pain—he removed her boot—and she clenched down. Her palm shot to slam the ground, an instinct, but Jon grabbed her hand midair.

  “Don’t.” He tipped his head toward the ground.

  Leaves littered the forest floor, glimpses of metal peeking out here and there.

  Traps.

  Tenderness—Jon’s feather-light touch—at her ankle made her squirm.

  She peered at the jagged shape.

  “I’ll need to splint this. We need to get out of here.” He surveyed the area.

  Atte
mpting to heal it, she spat out the sheath and murmured an incantation but couldn’t focus her magic. Arcanir.

  “Jon,” she said, her voice strained, and he turned to her. “I can heal it, but you have to let me go.” She nodded at his armor against her bare leg.

  After a moment’s hesitation, he let her go. She whispered the incantation and suffered through the healing. When she finished, Jon looked from her ankle to her face, murmuring soft thanks to his Goddess.

  Metal screeched. Armor. Jon jerked forward. A gasping cry forced from his mouth as his hand flew to his chest.

  He slumped onto her.

  The shaft of a crossbow bolt protruded from his back.

  Cold fractured her inside.

  She shook it off, tried to assess his state with healing magic—no good. Contact with his armor prevented casting. He breathed raggedly as he unfastened his left pauldron.

  A second shot whizzed by her ear. The angle—from above—meant a crossbowman in the trees. A warm, wet substance coated her hands.

  Blood.

  Jon’s blood.

  With his arcanir against her skin, there would be no earthsight. No elemental magic. No healing.

  She needed to move him.

  Wary of the traps, she readjusted her hold on him and, with his help, dragged him behind the trunk of a cedar. The crossbowman would need time to get another angle on them.

  Granted a moment’s safety, she frantically unfastened his cuirass and inspected the wound. Deep.

  Bright-red blood seeped. Arterial blood.

  “You have to run,” he bit out, his face paling. “Arcanir poison. I feel its sting. If it hits you—”

  Quickly, she untied her scarf and pressed it into the wound to slow the bleeding.

  His hands clenched. He exhaled heavy breaths through his nose. The white lambswool knit against his wound reddened. The pressure and the scarf wouldn’t stem the bleeding.

  He would bleed out.

  “Rielle.”

  She broke all contact with his arcanir, then whispered an incantation over the injury.

  Resistance. A wall stopped her magic.

  The bolt had been coated in arcanir poison.

  “No,” she said, her voice breaking. Her heart raced as precious seconds ticked by. Blood pooled on the forest floor, soaked up by decaying leaves. He didn’t have much time.