Brennan smiled. He wanted something from her, too. Perhaps the commoner could be useful to him. A bargaining chip.
With a sigh, he returned to the task at hand. The last thing he needed was an assassin robbing him of his betrothed—his redemption. He inhaled the scents, setting aside the stronger, more recent ones in favor of the fading. Besides the Connétablie’s men, the knights, the men-at-arms, the Kamerish foreigner, Rielle herself, the commoner, and the scorched man—he breathed in, his left nostril picking up another.
He followed it to the faint scent of a footprint, then another—stronger. And another. And another. In five steps, despite the changing wind, the changing humidity, nearby deer feces and rabbit urine, he tracked the footsteps with his superior nose through the oaks, birches, and ferns in the direction of Melain.
A clear print in the dirt.
Brennan crouched. It was small—a woman’s. He followed her path, but the footprints ended. The stench of magic lingered.
Illusion magic.
But the silver birch nearby—it bore the scent of leather.
No—Sileni leather, from a Barda cow. The distinct, brisk smell of trux. And a woman’s scent. Danewort root, olive oil...
A recipe for curling hair. He knew that scent, had smelled this woman before.
Grimacing, he invited the Change, let the Wolf out, and began the journey back to Melain.
Chapter 41
Jon escorted Rielle downstairs to the duchess’s great hall for dinner, passing the watchful eyes of Prevost’s household knights and men-at-arms. Good. They were alert, then, as well as they should be after Courdeval.
Although he’d served in Melain before, he hadn’t been inside the castle. Lengthy, tight corridors, its wide spaces insulated deep within. As defensible inside as it was outside. His first time in the city, Tor had taken the opportunity to pair his lessons on city defense with a view of the towering machicolated walls and the northern gate. Its heavy, latticed iron portcullis and three-foot-thick Kamerish teak and iron doors had kept out Northerners, bandits, and in ancient days, entire armies.
The Auvrays had held Melain unbroken since the second Farallan king had taken the throne, and Her Grace, Duchess Madeleine Duclos Auvray, held it now. Under her control, the guards kept the city locked up tighter than an arcanir mine.
And the duchess’s great-granddaughter walked by his side. The Marquise of Laurentine. His love.
With a deep breath, he straightened, raised his chin.
He checked a button on his cuff. Fastened.
After two weeks recovering in a soft bed, it was past time to properly thank the duchess for her hospitality. It would go well. Perfectly. It had to. A lot hadn’t... but this would.
After that golden night by the Vindemia bonfire, when he’d imagined spending two weeks in bed with Rielle, he hadn’t envisioned being critically wounded, weak, and hardly able to move. He’d held such strict dominion over his body for so long; although he’d suffered injuries before, this one had been a lesson in humility. Even reluctantly allowing the household’s valets to help him bathe and walk to the garderobe—Terra have mercy, he could hardly stand needing assistance for those tasks—had led to flares of neck and back muscle spasms, pain that radiated from his back to his legs, tingling, numbness, tremors, palpitations.
Rielle had spent night and day by his side, tending to him, reading to him, telling him about Olivia, magic, experiences in the faraway lands of Pryndon, Kamerai, and Silen. Her nearness was bittersweet agony, spellbinding, tempting, and deadly all at once. Even soft kisses, warm like the hearth, escalated to blazing, spiking his circulation, kicking his pulse into a frenzy.
Don’t you dare die, she’d said to him, her delicate palm pressed against his chest, against the thing that hammered erratically within, too strange to call a heart.
He’d had to drop that pursuit, to retreat, suffer the wait, the experience made all the more excruciating by the delicious temptation of her so close.
But for the past few days, his strength had been returning. He’d begun to walk on his own again, tend himself again without the valets’ assistance. It was no longer inability but pain that crippled him.
Pain he could fight.
Progress.
He’d even taken Faithkeeper in hand again and returned to training before the sun—and Rielle—had risen.
She’d kill me if she knew. His beautiful witch had strictly forbidden anything strenuous, but his choices in this weren’t hers to forbid. No matter how far she believed her imagined dominion to extend. He fought back a smile and glanced at her.
Her full-skirted brocade gown matched his own cream-colored attire, trimmed in golden-yellow lacing and embroidery. Much to his chagrin, a valet had insisted on helping him dress for tonight’s occasion—in better clothes than he’d ever seen, much less worn.
Her hair ornately secured atop her head in cascading curls, Rielle gave him a reassuring smile.
Not an hour ago, she’d pinned him and demanded he drink the medicinal concoction the physician had ordered. He had been feeling much better, and the brew was entirely unnecessary, and... tasted like having his face shoved in the Monas Ver garden.
But his sadistic, beautiful witch had cast a spell, one that had rendered him powerless: Please... I know you think you don’t need it, but I worry about you all the time, and this little draught makes me feel like maybe I can worry less, that you’ll be all right.
He’d gulped it down, the entire herbal torture, without complaint.
“You look confident,” she whispered.
Then Tor’s lessons in masking his emotions had proved fruitful. He covered her hand on his arm with his palm, caressing her soft skin. “After drinking that terrible brew, little can unsettle me.”
But the Duchess of Melain was now arguably the most powerful woman in Emaurria, moving mountains with a flick of her wrist. And he was a forsworn paladin bastard in love with her noble great-granddaughter.
She laughed, and there—he could see it clearly—that tiny spark gleamed in her eye. Sadism? “You needn’t worry, Jon. Gran is lovely.”
He nodded. Here, in her home, he’d been at the duchess’s mercy and had survived. That counted as a good sign. “Will Leigh be joining us at last?”
She winced and looked away. “I told you—Leigh decided to stay in town.”
It was hard to imagine Leigh turning down castle food, drink, and accommodations. “Why?”
Taking a deep breath, she glanced around the opulent hallway. He’d only seen such opulence matched at Maerleth Tainn, the home of Tor’s duke brother.
“Rielle?”
She sighed. “Gran wasn’t pleased with the way things ended, with the disciplinary action at Magehold. She may have... insinuated that if he ever showed his face here again, he’d be parted with his... most cherished jewels.”
His most... cherished...
He chuckled softly.
But if the duchess had made such threats to Leigh, a powerful wild mage, over the end of his relationship with Rielle, what would she say to a common-born forsworn paladin who dared love her?
He quickly quieted and then cleared his throat.
They proceeded down the palatial hallway and its endless portraits. Noble after noble after noble. Who else could afford to be painted, even once in his life? He exhaled lengthily. The odds of being well received looked grimmer and grimmer and grimmer, and then one of the portraits—
He stood, gaping.
A young woman in a dazzling white gown embroidered with golden peonies, neckline plunging provocatively, her waist accentuated by a full skirt—extravagantly full. With a dense crown of golden hair atop her head, a few curls daring to break free, she regarded him with a gleam of challenge in her bright sky-blue eyes, a coy smile gracing her beautiful oval face. A golden signet ring adorned the fifth finger of her delicate left hand.
He reached out to touch her but stopped himself before his fingertips could make contact with the ca
nvas. Rielle. Regathering his composure, he turned to her. “This is...?”
Blushing, she looked away. “Gran had me sit for one every year since... Since I could be made to sit long enough for the painter to work.”
“When was this one?” It could have been yesterday.
“That’s the last one I sat for...” She shrugged. “It’s from three years ago.”
“None since?”
“No.” She took a deep breath and exhaled it heavily. “Gran sent the painter every year, but I...” She stiffened, glanced at him, and flashed a fleeting, nervous smile.
Just what made her so nervous? She could tell him anything. And why she hadn’t sat for a painting in three years couldn’t have been such a grave secret.
He glanced at the portrait again, at her coy smile and challenging stare. She exuded spirit, fearlessness, boldness, like she played through life with a winning hand. And she did, didn’t she? A powerful mage, a rich noble, a woman of character, skill, and beauty. Her world appeared so perfect.
But when he looked away from the portrait to her, she didn’t exude spirit, fearlessness, and boldness. They were part of her—and he well knew that part—but those qualities were caged, on occasion flashing bared teeth through the bars, but for most of the time bound. What were those bars made of? Fear? Obligation? Weariness?
What had changed in three years?
“So when this was painted,” he began, “you were...”
“At the Tower.” She shot a wistful look down the corridor toward the great hall.
Three years ago... “Back then, you were... involved with Leigh?”
Her cheeks reddened. “No, this painting was after. Not long after, however.”
The portrait didn’t depict the face of a heartbroken woman; the affectedly demure mouth, the provocative eyes, the confidently raised chin—it was the face of a woman in love.
He frowned. If not Leigh, the man she had devoted years to, whom did this young woman in the portrait love?
“This isn’t an interrogation, is it, Sir Jon?” She gave his arm a squeeze and winked.
He huffed a laugh. “That depends. Are you hiding anything?”
“Everyone has their demons.” She smiled. “Shall we?”
She had yet to share those demons. Someday, when she was ready, he would get their full measure.
But not here, in this hallway, while the Duchess of Melain awaited them both.
“Yes,” he answered. “Let’s not keep the duchess waiting.”
Her features relaxed into a relieved grin. She felt like Rielle again, the one he knew on the road, rather than the landed and titled noble. They continued down the hallway.
Two footmen—liveried in the household violet and white colors—opened the doors to the great hall.
“The Marquise of Laurentine, Her Ladyship Favrielle Amadour Lothaire, and her companion, Monsieur Jonathan Ver,” the herald announced.
Within, the duchess, dressed in an indigo gown, sat at the head of a table flanked by a host of servants. Soft music welcomed them—a harpist off to the side. Innumerable candlelit sconces glowed against the tall latticed windows, revealing the dark star-studded backdrop of night outside the castle walls. Only one of the enormous room’s dining tables was set, with but three place settings.
“Welcome.” The duchess examined him with a probing gaze as they approached.
“Terra’s blessings upon you, Your Grace.” He bowed from the waist.
“And upon you, Monsieur Ver.”
“I am humbled by your generosity and hospitality, Your Grace.” He inclined his head. “I am in your debt.”
“It is in my domain that you came to harm. It is the least I could do. Please.” With a wave of her hand, she directed them to the two open seats on each side of hers. “I am pleased you’re able to join us. I expect the empty hall comes as a surprise, but as it has been some years since I’ve seen my great-granddaughter, I wished for us to speak freely. Rest assured, Benoist is entertaining my other guests expertly.”
“Thank you, Gran.” Rielle grinned warmly.
They sat, and the duchess laid her napkin upon her lap as servants emerged with the apéritif, an anise-scented liqueur.
She shared a smile with Rielle, then took a drink. “Forgive me, Monsieur Ver. Normally, we take the apéritif in the salon, but I thought it best we avoid too much movement.”
“My thanks, Your Grace,” he answered, “but my strength returns quickly.” The last thing he wanted was to appear needy and impose on the duchess any more than he already had.
The servants brought in platters of colorful hors d’oeuvres. Rielle selected a gougère. “I haven’t left his side for more than a minute. He still needs rest and time to recover.”
In truth, when she’d pledged to nurse him back to health, he’d wanted to test the limits of her fussing. The high, high limits. Watching her fret over his every movement, he’d decided a prank was in order.
She raised an eyebrow, then the other, too. “What, was all that just for fun?”
With an inward grin, he lowered his chin. Ah, it was her nature to overreact. To brim with ferocity.
“My child,” the duchess said, eyes sparkling, “your complaint rings hollow.” She offered Jon a charming smile, and he was only too pleased to turn to Rielle with her own great-grandmother’s validation.
Rielle’s fierce eyes narrowed, gleaming with the promise of sweet revenge later.
And he wanted it, all of it, and to provoke her all the more—to elicit her overreaction, her passion, her amusement, her joy, her pleasure. To meet like flint and steel.
“I’m glad you two still have joy, in the midst of... all this,” the duchess said, her voice pleasant despite its somber undertone.
Rielle sobered. “Have you heard any news, Gran?”
The servants brought in the appetizers—smoked fish, pâté, sausages, quiche, and some foods he’d never seen—and the first bottle of wine.
“Yes, my child,” the duchess replied, “and none of it good. The Crag Company’s control of the Kingsroad is extending ever closer to Melain. Unfortunately for General Gilles, my city is well guarded. His control will extend no farther, lest he risk relaxing his hold on the capital merely to monitor a roadway.”
Gilles.
Jon clenched his jaw. How he longed to put that blackguard behind bars, let the Order and the Crown bring him to justice for all his dark deeds. But Gilles’s mercenary company was formidable. The dead squad of Crag mercenaries he and Rielle had encountered on the road had been scouts—what awaited them in Courdeval was far worse.
“Monitoring?” Rielle asked. “For what?”
The duchess drew her eyebrows together. “There are whisperings about the Moonlit Rite going unperformed. And the Crag Company, some of its men with black-market arcanir, has made it unsafe for any mage to travel toward the capital. My child, it is good that you are here. Protected.”
“There are people who need help. A mage’s help. For them, I do not fear combat, Gran.”
“You should,” the duchess scolded, and Rielle’s fingers curled. “Do not fool yourself, child. You have gone on your missions, yes, but this is war. War is ugly. I know you are strong, but it takes little more than a single well-placed bolt to warrant a dirge.”
At that, Rielle’s fists loosened. Her face went slack.
Beneath the table, he brushed her foot with his and, when she perked up, gave her a reassuring look.
They were both alive. That bolt needn’t trouble her any longer.
“If you are taken alive,” the duchess continued, “war makes beasts of men. It is no place for a woman, let alone a lady. The best you can hope for is to be kept prisoner and ransomed, if you are lucky.”
Rielle’s slender wrist disappeared under the table. He’d seen firsthand the victims left behind by an army like the Crag Company—treated them, comforted them, counseled them, buried them. Some had even been sold into slavery, to lands beyond Emaurria’s
free shores, by greedy mercenaries.
Rielle planned to infiltrate the capital, which teemed with such men. Only her magical ability and competence stayed him from dissuading her.
“Don’t trouble yourself, my child. We will retake Courdeval before the first snow. The Order is mobilizing. No doubt the Grand Divinus will send a force. I’ve reached out to Faolan and the other nobles. Once we hear back from him, Courdeval will be cleared of that rabble without you having to lift a finger.”
“Gran,” Rielle said quietly, “I know you mean well, but I am no gentle lady.” She raised her head and met the duchess’s eyes squarely. “And there are those trapped within Courdeval’s walls who won’t survive until the first snow.”
An icy grip seized his heart. Some primal part of him wished to secure her in a sanctuary, somewhere safe from everyone and everything, with all she needed and could ever want.
But the woman he loved could never sit idly while the world burned; Rielle would always see herself as a mage first.
The duchess regarded her great-granddaughter with a resigned sigh. “Very well, child. Then just promise me you’ll be cautious. The instability in the capital is quickly spreading.”
“Of course,” Rielle answered, perhaps a little too quickly.
As the servants brought in the main course, the duchess shot Jon a meaningful look and glanced toward Rielle and back.
He would keep an eye on her great-granddaughter; that went without saying. He gave her a grave nod.
The main dish was served—a veal tenderloin stuffed with a fragrant mushroom mixture, accompanied by roasted vegetables and potatoes, with a medium-bodied red wine alongside.
“Is there any news from the capital?” Rielle’s foot, apparently freed from its shoe, stroked his leg gently, entirely removed from the serious tone of her voice and topic of discussion.
This was it, then. Sweet revenge. Did she want to make him squirm?
En garde, my love.
“No news from Courdeval, I’m afraid.” The duchess paused between bites. “There is some talk of the late king’s niece once removed laying claim to the throne, but married to a Sonbaharan prince, her claim is weak. Emaurrians would never accept an El-Amin dynasty of kings.”
Blade & Rose (Blade and Rose Book 1) Page 37
