A shudder ran down her spine.
Not him, she prayed. Not him.
She stole a glance at his face and nodded with a confidence she did not feel, even as her heart threatened to burst from her chest.
He needed to get to Melain. She had to try bandaging him and make for the castle.
She wiped the wetness from her face, then her unsteady hands began their work. After removing her scarf from the wound, she felt around the bolt tip. She reached for his sword belt and pulled the sword free, then held the belt before his mouth. He clenched it between his teeth.
“Steel yourself.”
He nodded. She grabbed the bolt shaft and broke it.
His eyes shut tight. He bit into the belt. Hard.
She dropped the fletched end, then removed any splinters she could. Trying not to push the bolt tip in deeper, she tied the scarf around the wound as tightly as she dared. His jaw twitched as he clenched the belt between his teeth.
His eyes fluttered open, and he spit out the belt. His elbow on a bent knee, he rested the uninjured half of his back against the tree. Pale and drenched in blood, with a red-stained scarf binding his wounds, he was a chilling sight.
“You’ll be fine,” she affirmed, taking his hand, surprised by the sticky contact. Her hands were covered in blood up to her elbows. The metallic smell inundated her nose as her adrenaline faded.
So much blood.
Somewhere out there was the person who had almost killed Jon. She flexed her hand, smeared with blood, dark and sticky. Before the day was done, she knew it would be soaked in more.
“Wait here,” she said.
He nodded.
Casting her earthsight, she scanned her surroundings. Back the way they came, up in the trees, a dull aura descended. A non-mage. Chasing the first figure, she and Jon had run right past a crossbowman.
Carefully weaving between traps, she caught the angles to ignite every tree surrounding her target, the canopy, and the forest floor. She kept the blaze carefully controlled, preternaturally hot.
“Nowhere to run,” she called to her target, watching for any sign of him through earthsight.
When he held out an arm, a bolt tip plainly visible, she expanded her fire spell to where she presumed the heavy crossbow to be. The aura’s limbs spread wide. He dropped the crossbow.
He was trapped. She spelled aside all vegetation in her way and approached the target. Her soon-to-be prisoner.
He dropped into the fire.
Agonized screams tore from the flames.
She dispelled the pyromancy on the forest floor. Too late.
At the site, only a charred body remained, next to it three unburned arrowheads. They had to be coated in arcanir poison. She snatched them up and, confirming with her earthsight that the second target wasn’t in the area, hurried back to Jon.
His face was pale as a shroud—
Her outstretched hand trembled its way toward him to disprove her eyes. She brushed his skin with her fingertips, smearing blood.
“Jon?” She shook him gently.
His head lolled to the side.
Tears stung her eyes as she shook him harder. “Jon,” she called, taking in a deep breath through her mouth.
His face, but for its ghostly color, looked as it always had.
No magic. No medicine.
She shook.
“Help!” she cried, her hand sliding down the length of his arms to his wrist. Her limbs refused to cooperate, buckling and faltering when she needed them to stay still, so that she could focus on some sign of life she could measure—any sign. “Help! Leigh!”
Nothing. But he couldn’t be far.
Raising her arm, she shot sparks of lightning high above the canopy to burst in the sky. A signal. Leigh would see it. He had to.
She swallowed. With the arcanir poison in Jon’s body, her fingers could feel nothing but her own fear. Seconds passed like years in her trembling, the rising hysteria inside threatening to burst.
“Jon!” she yelled into his ear, as loud as she could, spasms wracking her body. “Wake up.” That familiar red feeling began to spark and burn in her chest. Murderer. Demon. “Wake up!”
No reply.
No, no, no, not me, I’m not—
She collapsed against his uninjured side, the tears trailing down her neck, feeding the pressure building in her chest. The blood coating her hand had saturated the grain of her skin, a branching chaos, a shattered pane of red glass made liquid.
The blood of the man she loved.
Her fingers curled into fists, coiled so tight that her fingernails broke the skin. The pain—it burgeoned, bloomed into a gateway, magic drumming a battle march in her veins. It was dreadful delirium, a vision of fire and ash before her wide, unblinking eyes. Her hands grew hot, unbearably hot, invisible fire climbing up her arms, awakening every part of her body, armoring it, a flame cloak for magic personified.
She could smell it—the ash, keen and bracing, a rallying cry. The world would reek of it.
Then—noise—a voice—movement—
Darkness.
Chapter 37
Olivia rubbed the back of her head against the rough stone wall, hoping to relieve the persistent itch in her greasy hair. She stared into the darkness across the cell, where the two boxes lay. Where James’s eye and hand lay.
It would be so easy to wish it all away, pretend it hadn’t happened, invent a happier dream-world and wrap herself up in it. But that path was dangerous. That path could kill. She’d been taught at the Divinity about imprisonment survival strategies, and disengagement led to complacent prisoners, ones incapable of fighting.
Instead she tortured herself, staring at the boxes. Imagining their contents. And how they’d been acquired. Staying in pain. Staying alive. James’s love was real. His life was real. His suffering. She refused to close her mind, and her heart, to him—no matter how much it hurt not to.
Hope. She needed hope. But here it seemed in short supply.
A smooth tail slipped along her ankle. A rat. She kicked out. “I’m not dead yet.”
The croak sounded unfamiliar to her. Her own voice. She hadn’t spoken in two days. No one had come. No one bearing food or water, no one to drag her to the Hall of Mirrors. She swallowed and shook her head, shaking that thought free. She didn’t want to think about what it meant.
“Hmm?” A voice swept in from down the corridor. An unfamiliar voice.
She shuddered. When her spine finished trembling its shock, she jolted upright and held her breath. Had her starved mind conjured it?
Footsteps echoed. Not measured and self-assured as her former guard’s had been. Softer, unsure. Someone new.
Someone new.
Hope.
She seized it, wriggling closer to the bars. “Yes?”
A light shone in the distance, and she squinted her eyes against it.
“I’m here.” She forced an eye open, flinching against the pain, trying to discern something, anything, from the blur of flame-gold light and shadowed black before her.
A figure neared. Tall. Broad shouldered. Slender. A man. He had a crown of hair the color of the Aes River sandbar north of Caerlain Trel, a sandbar with a stand of cottonwood trees, black poplars. If she closed her eyes, she could see the leafy branches softly swaying in the wind.
No. It was not yet time for them. After all of this, she would go there. She would go there with James.
At last, he came into full view, willowy and young, his torch shining overbright, but she could just make out his features. His face bore fading scars—a slash across the cheek, one along the nose, and another across the chin that disappeared into short, well-groomed facial hair. It was a face that had seen too much and wished to see no more.
He bore a—not a box, Divine be praised. A platter. He dropped to a crouch before the bars and laid his burden beside him. A full cup and bread. Her mouth watered.
Black bread. The Crag must have exhausted the palace’s supply
of wheat and turned to rye. Loyalists had to be raiding supply lines. The siege couldn’t last much longer.
“Gods above,” the young man swore, and turned away. “To a woman...”
Did she look so horrific? With her wrist, she swept tendrils of greasy hair away from her oily face. How long had it been since she’d bathed? The sting in her eyes had burned badly at first, and now that she recalled it, the stinging resumed. She’d gotten used to it.
The smell. She bit her lip. Had it been two weeks since she’d been able to wash? There’d be no mercy coaxed through flirtatious wiles. Not here, not even from this man, with his warm, oak-brown eyes and hair like the sand.
“I’m Olivia,” she whispered. A name for the wretch before him. Perhaps he’d treat her kindly if she had a name.
Warily, he turned to her and clenched his teeth. “Anton. Your... new guard.”
Guard. Her spirits fell. Someone new all right. But no hope.
Anton. Her previous guard hadn’t given her a name. Hadn’t introduced himself at all. Was this one new to the Crag Company? A pliant recruit, perhaps?
“What happened to my old one?” she asked.
Anton drew in a slow breath. “You... killed him.”
“I did?” When was that?
He stared at the torch pointedly.
She gasped. “Ah, I did?” She’d burned him during her escape. Had to be. “I mean... I wasn’t aware that I did,” she quickly corrected. “It’s—”
He waved a hand dismissively. “How about this: I will make sure you have food and water, and I don’t end up crispy like my unlucky predecessor?”
She almost smiled, and then she allowed it. Hope. “Deal.”
He removed a cup of water from the platter and, through the bars, placed it before her. Kneeling, she wedged it between her palms and brought it to her mouth.
Sweet, soothing, she drank it as if she’d never drunk water before. “More?”
“I’ll return with more later tonight.” Anton accepted the empty cup from her.
Was that allowed? Her previous guard had brought her bread and water once a day, if that. But she wasn’t about to question him.
He passed the chunk of black bread onto her side of the bars. It took all of her self-control not to pounce on it immediately. Making a pig of herself would surely detract from what minimal charm she had left.
He stayed in a crouch, frozen. When she moved to grasp the bread with her broken hands, he lifted his gaze to hers.
“Is there anything I can get you for”—he nodded to her hands—“that?”
Why was he acting so kind? That had to be a facade. He wanted something. Had to. But she couldn’t expose him, alienate him. Better he thought her naive, liked her, even... and kept bringing her food and water.
She raised her head to better expose the arcanir collar. “The key to this would be nice.”
An amused laugh faded into hollowness, and he stroked his blond beard. “Somehow I don’t think General Gilles would approve.”
No, he wouldn’t.
“Then we won’t tell him.” She mustered her most charming smile.
With a long sigh, he lowered himself to the floor and sat cross-legged. “I don’t even have the key.”
No chance, then. “And to the cell?”
He shook his head. “Not trusted enough for that, either. ‘Glorified but powerless kitchen boy’ is the sum of my accomplishments.”
No key to the arcanir collar. No key to the cell. His openness gave her pause—a ploy to get her talking? She wouldn’t tell him anything worth knowing.
“You seem a decent sort,” she whispered cautiously. “What are you doing with the Crag?”
He averted his gaze. “Robbed travelers for a living with the Black Mountain Brigands, ever since I was old enough to hold a blade.” He glanced back at her and drew in a breath. “No killing, mind. Just robbing.”
She nodded encouragingly. Hopefully he’d keep talking. Maybe he’d tell her something she could use.
“Then Serge took over. He did things... differently. I wanted no part in it, thought, ‘Join up with one of the Free Companies. Help some people for coin.’ Signed the papers a month ago, enlisted for a year. You can see how that turned out.” He hung his head.
“They forced you to do this?” she asked cautiously.
He huffed. “No, my company—and several of the others—were brought in to quell a coup d’état. A faction arisen among King Marcus’s men—insurrectionists. They’d killed the king, his heirs, all the Faralles here. The loyalists were said to have abandoned the capital. We were brought in to eliminate remaining traitors—the Emaurrian Army, the Guard, anyone who put up a fight. We were to take control and hold the capital until Parliament could convene and settle succession.” He drew in a deep breath and released it. “Only, when we arrived at the palace, General Gilles was already there. Along with Phantom, Shadow, and Flame. And hundreds of men. Where had they come from? When had they arrived? ‘Forlorn hope,’ they said. ‘Vanguard.’ Right.”
If this fellow could be believed, most of the Crag Company had been deceived into treason.
She remembered to breathe. “You were lied to.”
“So I’ve gathered.” A lengthy exhalation. “There were a few outbursts of doubt, protest. Quieted. ‘Paranoia,’ the officers say. And we don’t dare object. No longer.”
A reckless wish sprang in her breast, to convince this man to abandon his Free Company and incite rebellion among the Crag, but there was no sense in it. Against the organized Crag officers and men who had knowingly committed treason, a few low-level dissenters had no hope of victory. And they well knew it.
Moreover, convincing men who had drowned their swords with the blood of the Emaurrian Army, the Guard, and innocent countrymen attempting to defend their realm that they would not be tried as traitors was a losing battle.
But Anton had no love for Gilles or the Crag Company. No dedication to their cause. If he could be believed.
“James. Can you get to Prince James?”
Anton shook his head. “Heavily guarded by Gilles’s most trusted doubles.”
Her heart swelled. “He’s alive?”
Eyes shadowed, Anton nodded. “If it can be called that.”
Gilles’s words needled her mind. How much can be cut away from a man before he can no longer call himself such? I have yet to learn the answer with His Highness.
No matter what Gilles did to him, James was James. She closed her eyes and could see him raising her hand to his lips, eyeing her with sea-blue charisma, requesting a dance with her at the Ignis ball last spring. His muscled build had belied his grace, and he’d moved with the fluidity of a consummate dancer. In his skilled arms, faced with his refined handsomeness, she’d melted into him. That evening, when the ladies had run into the King’s Wood for the maying, she’d wished for him to find her. And he had. That night, under the stars, in a bed of soft grass, they’d made love for the first time. She smiled at the memory.
As long as he lived, he was the man she loved. No matter what.
But there was nothing Anton could do for him.
“Do any other Faralles yet live?” she asked. James had gone to find Queen Alexandrie after all.
Anton shook his head.
None? Not even any of the little princes and princesses? Not even—
She stifled a sob. No, she couldn’t think about that now. She frowned, considering further options. “Can you get a message out—”
“Not allowed any messages out.”
She sighed. No keys, no access to James, no messages, no rebellion? What could he do?
What if he’s lying?
She bit her lip. If he was lying, he might pass on everything she said to Gilles. Would the general have her killed?
Killed... No. Then he could no longer use her against James.
And if Rielle hadn’t yet used spirit magic to find her, he could no longer use her to lure Rielle here either.
; No, she was too useful to Gilles alive.
But if Anton truly did bear the Crag and Gilles ill will, if he truly did wish to help...
“The Moonlit Rite.”
His eyes widened. “What about it?”
If there was one thing, above all others, that could be done to help the realm, the Moonlit Rite was it. And Anton was the last remaining hope to see it done.
She would test him. And if he passed, she would tell him everything.
Chapter 38
A soft hand squeezed hers, and Rielle opened her eyes.
Red. The chamber was appointed in all things red, from its priceless Sileni drapes to its Sonbaharan cotton bedding. It had once been her favorite, before she’d had more than her fair share of red in her life.
She inhaled. Lily of the valley and amber, a scent from her childhood.
Next to the bed sat Gran, regally attired in a long-sleeved violet dress of the finest velvet, her silvered hair spun into an elaborate style that emphasized her sky-blue eyes. A fine crease had settled between her eyebrows.
“Gran.” Rielle shifted toward her.
“Are you all right, child?”
Gran. Melain. Rielle clutched the red coverlet. Red. Red. She jerked upright. “Jon—”
“He’s alive.” Gran stood and took her shoulders. “My House Physician, Cyril Féron, is operating.” Her palms rubbed comfort through unfamiliar fabric.
Rielle glanced down. A simple white chemise and side-laced bodice. Hands clean of blood. And on the bed lay a bolt tip, coated in a waxy substance.
“That man said you should keep it close, that it would be of help if you needed to calm yourself.”
That man. Only one man had the dubious honor of being called such by Gran. Leigh.
Rielle rubbed the bolt tip. Arcanir poison. It was designed to both prevent its target from receiving magic and to prevent casting. Before all had gone dark, she’d felt the battle fury nearly break her.
No, not mere battle fury, not stoppable, reversible battle fury.
Outright fureur—
Blade & Rose (Blade and Rose Book 1) Page 34
