Gran’s hands slipped down to hers. “Tell me who did this, my child.”
Rielle thumbed the bolt tip’s greasy coating. “A team of two. A crossbowman and... a mage.” Her vision blurred. “One burned to the death. The mage escaped.” Memories of the mangled bodies of the Crag camp invaded her mind. “We stumbled upon a camp of dead Crag Company mercenaries. The attackers... they could have been Crag as well.”
“Gautier,” Gran called. Her armor of calm and propriety remained in place.
The door creaked open, and within moments, her impeccable Companion was at her side, one of two she patronized from the Camarilla—one as a bodyguard and the other as a bard.
Gran’s constant guard and Companion for as long as Rielle could remember, Gautier had changed little over the years. Tall, broad-shouldered, with not a single gray hair out of place. During her childhood visits to Melain, he’d been a perfect gentleman to her and Lady Rosette, her doll, during tea parties.
As always, his face was a calm and pleasant mask. His flawless manner and carriage evoked competence, capability, and somehow, despite his advanced age, a deadly air.
“Please make inquiries with the connétable,” Gran said.
Gautier inclined his head and, after a punctilious bow, left their presence. If Gran was sending Gautier, then she was keeping the matter limited to those she could trust.
Jon. Was he all right? Gran had said he was alive. But how badly was he hurt? “I need to see him.”
“Of course.” Gran rose. “Cyril is still with him, but we can wait outside the chamber.”
As soon as the physician finished, she would be waiting. The first to see Jon. She sat up, donned the slippers set by the bed, and followed Gran into the hall. Farther down, in front of the White Room, some household knights and Prevost Castle’s Master Healer, Narcisse Blanc, awaited.
Bows rippled as she and Gran approached.
Outside the White Room’s door, two guards stood watch. Behind that door was Jon.
How hurt was he? Would he live? She reached for the knob.
Gran cleared her throat and gestured to a set of fine upholstered chairs placed against the wall.
Rielle smiled thinly, folded her hands, and sat while Jon fought for his life on the other side of this wall.
He’d tried to tell her about the arcanir poison. She’d felt it for herself.
Arcanir.
There was nothing she could do. His life was in the hands of Gran’s physician.
Please live. I need you.
It wasn’t so long ago that his life had been in her hands, his wide eyes fixed on what lay beyond while he slipped away. Divine be praised, he hadn’t. Five years ago, she never would have guessed that the young paladin she healed would now mean so much to her.
Her hands, clasped together, hadn’t so long been parted from his. Strong, big, rough, and yet so gentle. Loving. Warm. As they’d dashed from Donati’s to Cosette’s, he’d held her hand, squeezed it, grinned at her. She smiled, and her palm tingled at the memory.
The red of Jon’s blood filled in its lines.
Heart racing, she blinked it away.
Gran placed her hand on Rielle’s. “Cyril is highly skilled.”
She swallowed. Of course. Of course he was. Jon would be fine. He had to be.
“I know. Thank you, Gran.” She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wall. The wolf trap snapped in her head, her jagged ankle, Jon’s wild eyes, the way he’d searched the trees for a moment before tending to her—
A man arrived, lithe, in his late thirties with thick black locks. He had a kind face to match his gentle mien; it was Benoist, Gran’s Companion for nearly a dozen years, renowned for his musical talent.
He inclined his head with a sad smile and a slow blink of his long lashes, offering his sympathies most gracefully before taking his place at Gran’s side.
Rielle dropped her gaze to her own lap. White knuckles. Fisted fabric.
“It’s been a long time since you’ve visited, my child.” A slow smile brightened Gran’s face.
Trying to make conversation. To keep her mind off Jon. Rielle’s muscles relaxed. She nodded.
It had been over three years since she’d last visited. Since Midwinter in Tregarde. Since word had spread among all the Houses, Gran’s included. When all eyes saw her through the veil of that night, even mustering presence among the Houses was an ordeal. “I wish I could have come sooner, and under different circumstances.”
Gran’s eyes shone. “Don’t trouble yourself, child. You’re here now. I am hosting a small number of displaced nobles from the capital... and Marquis Tregarde.”
Stiffening, Rielle pressed her lips into a thin line. Brennan had already returned from the capital, then. At least he’d behave in Gran’s domain. Probably.
“Not your favorite person, I know,” Gran remarked, “but he is still your future husband.”
Rielle shook her head and exhaled sharply. “Tregarde’s cruelty is inhuman, Gran.”
“And yet obligations remain.” She heaved a sigh and lowered her gaze as she clasped her hands and rested them on her knees. She had lived those words, in one way or another, like countless other noblewomen. “Your parents carefully planned your union. Their reasons are still valid.”
As much as political marriage repelled her, the day would come when she’d have to pay the price for being the daughter of Corbin Fernand Lothaire and Sylviane Amadour Lothaire, née Sylviane Auvray Amadour, Gran’s granddaughter.
While nobles enjoyed great freedom, she would not be able to elude the duties of governance, propagation, and honor forever.
Just not with that sadist.
The door to the White Room opened. The physician emerged, and she stood from her seat, wringing her hands. He turned to Gran, who nodded toward Rielle and took Benoist’s arm to rise.
“The patient should make a full recovery,” the physician said, eyeing Rielle. “The bolt just barely nicked his subclavian artery. Leaving the bolt tip saved his life.”
She shuddered and lowered her gaze.
“He will need his dressings changed twice daily and this salve applied.” He handed her a medium-sized jar. “There are no signs of infection, but this should prevent it and decrease inflammation.” He thrust a tall canister into her hands. “Serve it brewed as a tea thrice daily until it is gone.”
She opened it and sniffed. Yarrow, among other herbs.
“There is no antidote for arcanir poisoning, but his body should filter it out in about two to three weeks. He can then be fully healed by magic. Otherwise, he’s in good health and will recover with rest and plenty of fluids.”
Good health. Recovery. “Thank you,” she breathed.
He inclined his head. “He’s awake. You may see him now, if you wish.”
Gran smiled her encouragement. “Go.”
Heart pounding, Rielle entered the room and closed the door behind her. What could she say to him? He’d come to harm in her care. She’d failed him. But for Leigh, he might have...
A fire blazed in the hearth, and a large bowl of reddened water sat on the table. Next to it rested the broken bolt—Leigh must have brought it—and the rhombic tip, upon a piece of canvas. Gently, she set the medicine down next to it.
A few steps through the antechamber and around the corner, and the bed came into view.
Jon sat against the pillows, his chest and back bandaged. He greeted her with sleepy eyes, a corner of his mouth raised, at ease as though this were any other day.
Her heart leapt. Although he was still pale, some color had returned to his skin. Alive. Awake.
She ran to the bed, where she fell to her knees and buried her face in the bedding. He could have died due to her carelessness, but he hadn’t.
His fingers roved through her hair as he consoled her with a quiet, soothing sound. Reality slowly sank in, a warmth seeping back into her bones. She knelt there in silence awhile, his comforting hand on her head, until the tea
rs stopped flowing.
Although he’d been the one shot, here he was, comforting her.
“What happened?” he asked. “I don’t remember much after getting shot... I know we were ambushed by at least two enemies. One lured us into the other’s sights.”
She swallowed. Fureur. The rise of truth would at last meet the surface. “I tried to trap the crossbowman, but he killed himself rather than face capture.”
“Odd.” Jon shifted. “Such loyalty is rare, especially among mercenaries. Perhaps a Damir fanatic among the Crag, hoping to die in battle and enter the realm of Dahm? Or a Heartseeker? They’re more of a religious order devoted to Nox than assassins.”
It could be either. There’d been no magic used—at least none that she’d seen—but the runner had possessed a bright anima. Perhaps a mage. But if it were Shadow or Phantom, why not finish the job? Had Leigh been so close by?
She shook her head. “If we are dealing with Heartseekers, then we won’t find his partner until he wants to be found.”
He ran his fingers through her hair, slow, soft, coaxing. “After you defeated him, what happened?”
Her worst nightmare. She chewed her lip. “I came back, and you were... unresponsive. I shouted for help, but no one came, and I...” She took a deep breath. “There’s something you need to know.”
He drew his eyebrows together, watching, waiting.
She took his hand. “Some mages are predisposed to a condition called battle fury.” Mages who’d experienced traumatic events and never could move past them. There was a fear left behind. She licked her lip. “Do you know what that is?”
He nodded. “All paladins do. Spells are anima constructed into magic. That construction is mindful, complex, meticulous, and as a result, delayed. Battle fury is an involuntary response to fear of a threat. It lowers the inner barriers between a mage and her anima, enabling faster, more natural spellcasting at a cost of...” He pressed his lips together and lowered his gaze.
“Mind,” she supplied softly. “It’s all right. In battle fury, our minds are affected by that fear. But fear can keep you alive.” Battle fury was a shortcut. It skipped questions, theories, excuses, and cut straight to sorting threat and non-threat. Straight to survival. “We’re controlled by instinct, bloodlust, violence, until the threat is destroyed.”
“We?”
She nodded, and his hold on her hand tightened. “If that fear turns to madness, those lowered inner barriers can disappear completely. And so can the mind.”
“Fureur,” he rasped, wincing as he sat up. “You went into fureur?”
Eyes watering, she looked up at him, her chin quivering, and nodded. “When I thought I’d lost you, I—”
“Lost yourself.” His voice dropped. “You could have—”
“I know.”
A deep line settled between his eyebrows. “Like a berserker...”
She nodded.
“Except at the end of it, you’d—” He swallowed, shook his head, and pulled his hand away. “I can handle a lot, Rielle. But no matter what happens to me, your”—he closed his eyes and took a deep breath—“death isn’t one of them.”
But he hadn’t felt the loss when she had. Entire. All consuming. Hadn’t felt the fureur settle in, taking on the pressure, setting her mind free as it took over.
The sea of his gaze turned cold. “Fureur is caused by fear,” he murmured, “when a mage or loved ones are threatened.”
No, no, no. If he decided he would try to prevent her fureur, this would go somewhere horrible.
She shifted. “I had no choice.”
“In fureur taking over?”
“In loving you.”
The line between his eyebrows faded.
“Believe me, I wanted to want no more than a cheap thrill. That’s all I’ve allowed myself for years. Those first few days on the road with you, before the promise I made you about not using your feelings against you, if you’d pinned me in the dark, I would have gladly enjoyed some pleasure and no more—”
His eyebrows shot up.
“—and I would have been fooling myself. Because by the end of this mission, I would have completely and utterly fallen for you. No matter what.” His mouth fell open, but she pressed on. “And even if you tell me now that, for my own good, this is over between us—”
He took her hand again. “Rielle—”
“Even if you tell me that,” she continued, her eyes locked on his, “that won’t change how I feel about you at all.”
He looked away, but his mouth twitched. When he looked back to her, he was grinning, that dimple playing below one of his twinkling eyes. “If I’d pinned you in the dark?”
She frowned. “Jon, I’m serious—”
“How often, exactly, did you think about that possibility?”
With pursed lips, she eyed him.
“Because judging by how readily you said that, it seems like you’ve given it a lot of thought.” He raised an eyebrow. “A lot.”
She exhaled sharply. “Jon—”
“I know,” he said, sobering. “Fureur. We’ll face it together.”
“It’s not that simple—”
He held her gaze. “When problems come up, we face them together. It is that simple. Done.”
Done? Just like that? She drew in her chin. He was lying here because she’d gotten caught in a trap, because she’d made a mistake, and now she’d told him about fureur, the risk to him, herself, and everyone around them, and he was... taking it in stride?
He cleared his throat. “How is your ankle?”
She scoffed. Her ankle didn’t matter. With a sniff, she murmured into the sheets, “Don’t ever do that again. Promise me.”
“Don’t get shot? Got it.” His soft chuckle broke into a cough.
“Jon,” she chided, “you could have died.”
“I would have,” he said, taking her hand, “but for you.” With some effort, he urged her onto the edge of the bed.
“But for Leigh, you mean.” Frowning, she pulled her hand free and turned away from him. If she’d been more vigilant, he wouldn’t have been hurt. He was trying to comfort her, still. She slumped. “If I hadn’t gotten caught in the trap—”
“Let’s lay the blame where it belongs... with the one who shot me.”
“He’s not here to punish, is he?” She sighed.
Jon held her against his uninjured side. “Stay with me.”
As if she’d leave. As if she’d want to. “Someone has to make sure you don’t die abed... at least not from battle wounds.”
The sound of his soft laughter gave way to a pained grimace. With Jon afflicted with arcanir poison, it would be some time before he’d be fit for travel—and for battle—again. He would be well protected here, and they had no choice but to wait the two to three weeks. A wait would mean not only Jon’s recovery but also a delay in approaching the capital until Spiritseve and the rite.
A serious delay. She’d have to send the Proctor an update—
Or he might think it’s a stalling tactic. A lie so that I can step into Kieran’s shoes and go to Courdeval on Spiritseve.
And what would the Proctor do then? Send explicit orders not to go? Send someone to stop her?
No. There could be no more reports, not until this was over. Not until Olivia was safe—even if it meant incinerating every mercenary in the way.
She was through hiding from the Crag, defending against them. Jon lay, barely alive, bleeding and bandaged in a bed. This was what came of hiding and defending.
Until Jon fully recovered, battle was too risky for him. But not for her. It was time to find their enemies and kill them first. Kill Phantom and Shadow so they couldn’t strike from stealth.
She would just have to track them down somehow. But all she had was her memory and the broken bolt.
The broken bolt...
Brennan might get a scent off it. Perhaps he would have some insights that could lead her to the mage captains... and their final
resting place.
She wrapped a cautious arm around Jon, looking about the White Room.
The White Room. In Prevost Castle, Gran’s home. She stiffened. She needed to tell Jon who she was—among other things. She shook her head. One step at a time.
“Jon,” she began.
“Hmm?” He caressed her arm.
“We’re in Prevost Castle in Melain, home of Duchess Madeleine Duclos Auvray.”
“I know that.”
“My great-grandmother.”
He frowned.
“I am Favrielle Amadour Lothaire, Marquise of Laurentine.”
He went rigid, opened his mouth. Closed it. A line formed between his eyebrows. “You did not introduce yourself as such.”
She hadn’t thought it would matter when she’d captured him. Hadn’t foreseen that the stubborn paladin stuck in her spell would become so much more. “At the Tower, my title has no bearing. I’m just a master mage, no more, no less.”
His gaze downcast, Jon stole a glance at the fifth finger of her left hand, where she should have worn her Laurentine signet ring. It was a badge of difference, isolation, identity, and a constant reminder that her future was not entirely her own. She kept it in her recondite satchel.
“I have lived away from the Houses and their politics for a long time... I’ve lived as no more than a mage for almost a decade.” She paused. “I love you, but there are things you must know about me before you can truly feel the same. My past. My duties—”
“I know what I feel.” He caressed her cheek, shaking his head slowly. “We can figure the rest out later.” He tipped her chin up to his mouth and kissed her.
Chapter 39
Tension seized Rielle’s body. Suddenly. Quickly. Entirely. Brennan pulling on the bond, the sensation powerful. Close.
She opened her eyes. It was still dark, and Jon still slept beside her, his arms encircling her, his chest rising and falling steadily. His skin was cool to the touch.
She tugged the covers a little higher. Better he be warm, comfortable, anything to bring him back to health, especially with Shadow and Phantom still out there, and who knew what else hunting them.
Dragging a shaky hand through her hair, she rose from the bed. Jon lived. But how long until the haunting fear of his brush with death dissipated? Maybe never.
Blade & Rose (Blade and Rose Book 1) Page 35
