When the first men finally achieved a decisive victory against the elves and conquered Emaurria, they didn’t hold it with military power. They held it with magic. Mankind’s kings used magic to bind themselves to the land—to strengthen it and to draw strength from it. The Earthbinding.
And beneath Trèstellan Palace lay the Lunar Chamber, housing a Vein, a connection to the earth’s anima. Originally, the elves had used it to sever the souls of evil that couldn’t be killed, leaving behind great petrified monsters. On Spiritseve, the night when the Veil between the living world and the Lone thinned most, they could send a soul to the Lone without a dark god’s guidance.
Humans had corrupted its use. The Keepers, human hunters of immortal beasts and beings, had collected the blood of each immortal race and brought those ingredients to the Lunar Chamber on Spiritseve. There, upon the Lunar Chamber’s Vein, an Earthbound king had severed the soul of every Immortal in Emaurria—and beyond. How far, the texts never specified.
The first Moonlit Rite had secured mankind’s conquest, but the Immortals ever pushed against the Veil, longing to return to their petrified bodies, their pressure rising in strength until each performance of the rite, which maintained the Veil.
The Moonlit Rite prevented their Immortal souls from returning. Every performance kept the door closed. If it opened—
If it opened, hell would reign on earth.
When she’d told Anton about the Moonlit Rite, he’d left the dungeon and had returned the next day looking five years older. But he’d greeted her with the all-important words: Tell me what must be done.
Rowan ash. The blood of a Faralle. A mage skilled in ritual magic.
She patted her chest. There lay a pouch of rowan ash Anton had sneaked from her quarters and a vial of James’s blood, secured from the torturer’s boy for a bribe. At least the blood meant James was alive.
A month’s maneuvering had taken them only so far. She still had no way out, and they had no other mage to perform the rite either.
She peered at her ring, the Ring of the Archmage, an enchanted emerald set in recondite. Worth many times more than the golden Emaurrian crown, it had been borne by each Archmage for a secret, singular purpose: to open the doors to the Lunar Chamber.
Without the ring, the rite could never be performed. And in the wrong hands, it could enable the severing of any soul, any time.
To trust Anton with it or not? She had wrestled with the decision for a month, and every day he left the dungeon without the ring, the chance of opening the Lunar Chamber doors for a mage to perform the rite dwindled.
And yet... If Anton served Gilles, if the general had the blood of someone important, someone he couldn’t capture to kill through conventional means, the Ring of the Archmage and the texts in her quarters could grant him the power to eliminate anyone.
The footsteps came at last. Soft, uncertain. She pressed her cheek to the bars to try to see down the corridor.
He shed the shadows—Anton, bearing water and more black bread. With a half-smile in greeting, he approached the cell.
She smiled back.
She flinched. Smiled back? When was it that her face had taken such liberties with Anton before her mind calculated them?
Trust... She trusted him.
Intuition, let me down and I’ll never believe you again.
When he knelt at the bars, the torchlight illumed the bruise on his cheek. He passed her the bread and cup of water.
She accepted the offering with a worried frown. “What happened?”
He sat and stroked his sandy-colored beard. “Well, that conjurer I mentioned... Asked her if she’d be interested in some side action outside the company.”
She eyed him. “ ‘Side action’?”
Anton waggled his eyebrows, a sportive gleam in his oaky eyes, and slicked his white-blond hair back. Indeed, he had a sly handsomeness to him. “I don’t kiss and tell, Liv.”
She rolled her eyes.
“I asked her if she’d be willing to take on a side job. A spell for a nice sum of ten coronas, which our beloved general might not quite sanction.” He rested his elbows on his knees.
“And what did she say?”
He turned his face, giving her full view of the bruise. “She let her five fingers do the talking.”
She sighed and hunched over, deflated. This conjurer was the second mage to turn them down. And their second liability, who could report Anton’s doings to Gilles.
He leaned in. “Reserve your worrying. I got a lead on a healer in the Coquelicot District.”
If Anton really wasn’t a Crag spy, this was risky for him. With every task he performed on her behalf, he risked exposure and punishment.
She leaned against the bars. “And this is worth it to you? What stops you from just waiting the siege out, taking your pay, and parting ways?”
He pursed his lips. “You know... you’re right. Maybe that is the smarter choice.”
She froze—her body refused to move until he cracked a smile. She grimaced.
“In the summer, the mosquitoes here are bad enough. When I imagine having to swat little naked pixie men away, I don’t need any more persuasion to see this thing through.” He winked.
She gave him an encouraging smile. “So you’re an altruist, then? Just doing it to stop the Immortals from coming through?”
“In part, perhaps.” His smile faded. “Signed on with the Free Companies to do some good. Gods know the army wouldn’t have me. But this...?” He shook his head. “Can’t bring back the dead. Can’t save His Highness, Prince James. Can’t free you. Can’t defeat Gilles. The fact is, Liv, I can’t do much.” He heaved a deep breath. “But I won’t let Gilles tell me who I am. With this, every man who willingly follows him endorses his actions—killing the king, the queen, the rest of the royals, nobles, women, children, old folk; conquering the capital; mounting insurrection; imprisoning young, beautiful women, abusing them, and torturing those they love,” he whispered, grabbing one of the bars. “Won’t endorse that. Won’t become a murderer, conqueror, insurrectionist, abuser. I refuse. That much I can do.”
She rested a hand on his. “Anton...”
He lifted his gaze to her hand and frowned. “Gods, Liv, how could they have done that to you?”
With a shrug, she pulled her mangled hand away. “If you’re willing to do wrong when you tell yourself your cause is just, there’s little you won’t do.”
She stared down at her hand, at the Ring of the Archmage. If she hesitated in order to save the life of some heretofore unknown person, the Veil could come down. Immortals could walk the earth once more, claiming countless lives.
That couldn’t be allowed to happen.
She raised her ring finger to her mouth and moistened it. The ring had always been loose, but her fingers had been broken; it was snug now. Praying the band would come off, she put her finger in her mouth and, using her teeth, pulled at it.
Anton grabbed the bars. “What are you doing?”
The thing was stuck, but she didn’t relent. Little by little, she dragged it, and at her proximal joint, her pulling sparked agony. Would the damned thing come away only with her finger?
But at last it gave. She spat it into her palm. “You’ll need this.”
“What?” He stared into her palm, worry etched into his face.
“The doors to the Lunar Chamber are secured with a recondite lock that only this ring opens. You insert the stone into the lock. It closes quickly, so when it opens, wedge something there, if you can. Otherwise, no mage will be able to enter on Spiritseve.” She held out her palm to him.
He swallowed. “This must be worth—”
“One of Emaurria’s most priceless treasures.”
“And you trust a former bandit with it?” He raised his gaze to hers.
She shook her head. “No. I trust you with it.”
He drew in a shaky breath and accepted the ring. “I’ll bring back the ring. Promise.”
She smiled her encouragement. “I know you will.”
Regardless of what happened, she’d have certainty. Certainty that she’d done all she could do to see the rite performed. Certainty that, if Anton returned with the ring, she could trust him enough to tell him about Rielle coming.
And, if he didn’t return with the ring, the certainty that she’d given Gilles everything he would ever need to control the kingdom of Emaurria.
Chapter 48
Breathless, Rielle gazed down at Jon. Divine, he was persistent. Against a sea of red bedding, the morning sunlight swelled behind him through the sheer panels. Bliss. He lay with his head against her inner thigh, his loving mouth intimating daydreams of afterlife—ascension—a world bathed in warm. Unrelenting. Pleasure.
Her breath quickening, she closed her eyes, writhed against the pillows, overwhelmed with sensation—cool, smooth cotton and the soft give of down, hot sweat spirited away by the chill air, a firm hand anchoring her bucking hip, unyielding warmth and pressure. A wave of white blinded her, and she squeezed her eyelids tighter.
Her heart raced, bliss throbbing through her entire being, pounding in her blood, in her ears, pulsing bright against the canvas of her vision. Cries—hers—chased away the quiet, and Divine, she could take no more, but he pushed her past her limits, pleasured her past her concept of pleasure, persisted until nothing else remained to animate her spent body, no more sound to escape her gaping mouth.
White. Pure, radiant white.
As the throb ebbed, he kissed her inner thigh before resting his head upon it once more with a smug sigh. They had spent most of the night and the morning in each other’s arms, exhausting each other—in the bed, on the desk, in the bath—
And when he’d insisted on exploring her, there had been little she could say to dissuade him. Curious, captivated, determined, he’d tested her response to every touch, kiss, and more, then put it together to leave her a consumed heap.
“You’re not as dead as you look, I hope.”
She chuckled weakly. “If I am, you killed me. Too much of the little death.”
A playful fingertip grazed her tender flesh, and she shivered.
“The witch yet lives.”
She opened an eye.
His wry grin faded into softness. “You’re beautiful.”
She suppressed a smile. His light touch trailed across her sensitive skin, swept across her thigh, coaxing gooseflesh and shivers.
A knock sounded at the door.
The light in the room dimmed—a cloud shuttering the sun. She sighed. It had been too much to hope for a lazy day abed with Jon.
Go away. “Just a minute,” she called.
Jon left the bed with a wince, rotated his left shoulder stiffly, and she followed, assessing the strain on his stitches with cautious fingertips.
Grasping her hand, he smiled. “I’m fine. Truly.”
She shook her head. Arcanir poison still flowed in his blood, and until it was gone, she’d worry.
“I know that look,” he said, a twinkle of amusement in his squint. “Stop worrying. Really. I’m all right.”
But he wasn’t. Not until the arcanir poison was out of his system. She would simply have to be stubborner than he.
“You’ll mind those stitches, Jon, or else.” She put on her robe and pulled the sash tight.
“Don’t provoke me, witch,” he said, his voice an octave lower. “Or I may have to ‘kill’ you again.”
She swallowed. The promise of pleasure glimmered in his eyes, and she raked her gaze over his strong, bare form. Provocation had never been so tempting.
Another knock.
Of course. Breathing hard, she walked backward to the door, leaving Jon as he dressed and shot her a challenging look. Her breath caught.
Walk away, walk away—
With a last check of her robe, she answered the door.
Muscle rippling in black leather, Brennan filled the doorway, fixing her with a knowing look, the hint of a sly smile slinking around his mouth. He gave her a slow once-over and flinched. “How long does it take to answer a door?”
She was of half a mind to slam it in his face. “Have you gone soft in the head?” she hissed, trying to push him out into the hallway, but he wouldn’t move. “Showing up here, after last night—”
“What happened last night?” He only moved into the hallway when she stopped pushing. “Your lover survived. You relished bringing a beast to heel. If anyone should have cause for umbrage, it’s me.”
“The victim of your own tale, are you?”
He shrugged. “What’s a little blood shed between intimates like us? We have weathered worse, you and I. The bond continues unbroken. Let us not pretend, fiancée mine, to now have delicate sensibilities. You will continue to give me relief. I will continue to protect you.”
Albeit unpleasant, it was the truth. But she shook her head. “I don’t need your protection.”
Coolly, he lowered his chin. “Do you have preternatural reflexes?”
She scoffed. His talents weren’t the only way.
“Then you need my protection,” he said with a victorious grin. “Especially considering I have a lead on your missing assassin. We’ll be going into town.”
He’d found the assassin?
Well, he did have skills she needed. Loath as she was to admit it, she required his help. When his attention shifted to something behind her, she stiffened.
“You,” Jon snarled.
Brennan smirked. “Me.”
Jon stalked past her toward Brennan and leaned in. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t gut you.”
Unmoved, Brennan shrugged with his usual nonchalance. “For one, I promised Rielle I wouldn’t hurt you, and it wouldn’t be very sporting of you to attack a man who won’t fight back,” he said, with all the condescension of a parent explaining something to a small child. “And for another, while you’re held together by some catgut and stubbornness, you’re still far too weak.”
Jon clenched his teeth. “Try me.”
She rolled her eyes. “Both of you,” she interrupted, “stop.”
Drawing a deep breath, Brennan held Jon’s gaze and smiled icily, his eyes brimming with either amusement or hatred—she couldn’t guess—but he kept his peace.
What had changed between last night and today?
But with the way Jon glared at him, how long would that peace hold?
She cleared her throat and darted between them to face Jon, whose glare remained fixed on Brennan. “He said he has a lead on the other assassin.”
“On friendly terms with the enemy, no doubt,” Jon bit out, his neck corded.
“No,” Brennan replied. “If the assassin had succeeded, on the other hand—”
When Jon anchored a palm on her shoulder, she interrupted before he could nudge her aside. “I’m going into town with Brennan to deal with—”
Jon turned the full force of his glare upon her. “I’m coming with you.”
She shivered. Not a question. A declaration.
With his injury and the arcanir poisoning, he couldn’t—and he had to know that. Looking away, she gently urged him back toward their quarters.
Brennan leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his ankles. “If you don’t want your plaything broken, leave it in your room, fiancée mine.”
When Jon tensed, she preempted him and turned to Brennan. “Silence.” Her pulse sped.
Brennan held up his hands, then crossed his arms. But he’d already drawn blood.
She turned back to Jon, who bristled, staring down Brennan.
“I’m coming with you,” Jon repeated. Not a question.
“Jon,” she pleaded, her voice barely above a whisper. What she had to say to him would hurt, but she hoped her care would lessen the blow. She led him into the room, away from Brennan, and gently shut the door. “You know you can’t.”
He shook his head vehemently. “I won’t allow him to—”
“Even if you were reco
vered from your wounds, which you’re not, you’re still afflicted with arcanir poisoning. If anything were to happen to you, I’d be unable to heal you. You could die.” She stroked his shoulder.
He pulled back. “I can handle myself, mage.”
Mage. She winced. The last time he’d called her that, she’d been as a stranger to him. She lowered her gaze to his clenched fists. When she reached out to take his hand, he drew away.
Even if he did feel affronted, she couldn’t let him take such a risk to protect her, neither as her lover nor as her charge. He had to be made to see reason.
“Brennan won’t hurt me.”
He rolled his eyes.
“In fact, he has good reason to protect me, and you know it. I’m safe with him.”
“I can protect you.”
She shook her head. “No, you misunderstand me. I don’t need his protection. I’m just telling you he has no reason to allow harm to come to me.” If he wouldn’t see reason to stay behind for his own survival, she had to try to convince him another way. “And, as much as I’m touched by your care, I don’t need your protection either. What I need from you is to stay here, so that my focus isn’t split.”
He recoiled.
But she’d told him the truth. “This is mission related, so I say this to you as your guardian and escort. My mission is to protect you. Your arcanir poisoning has complicated matters. I know I can trust you to fight well, but if something happens, I can no longer rely on healing you—and I am no doctor. Knowing that one rare blow can, without healing magic, kill you—I don’t want that to happen to you. Ever.”
She couldn’t bear it if anything happened to him. If he wanted to protect her, the best way to do that was by keeping himself safe here, behind a ward and the castle walls, under Gran’s guard. “Preventing that requires a level of attention that could compromise my own safety. And I would—if we needed to take the risk, but we don’t. Do you wish me to risk my life to suit your preferences?”
While he stood speechless, she moved to the wardrobe to leave the vial of king’s blood and her signet ring in her recondite satchel and to dress in her shirt and trousers. “That is why we’re still in Melain. Because it’s riskier for you to be out there now, even with two mages to protect you.”
Blade & Rose (Blade and Rose Book 1) Page 42
