When she struggled with a chest, he swept her aside, broke the lock, and threw it open. Letters piled within. She shuffled through them and carefully pulled one out.
“Advance payment to silence dissent until we can nominate and confirm a candidate of our choosing,” she read aloud. Her eyes widened. “A ‘candidate’? A king?”
“ ‘We,’ ” Brennan repeated. “There’s only one ‘we’ that can nominate and confirm a king.”
She sucked in a breath. “Parliament.”
He shrugged. “Some members, if not all. Whether one or more, they must be influential, if they claim to have such control.”
“Treason.” She stared at the wall and shivered. “King Marcus’s own nobles had him and his family killed.”
The map—
Maerleth Tainn had been among its points.
But Father would never risk treason. He was far too smart for it.
Or, if he did, he certainly wouldn’t get caught.
Other nobles, however...
“Ambition knows no satiety,” he said while she gathered up every document she could find.
“We’ll take the letter and present it to—” she paused. “The Paladin Grand Cordon. The Order of Terra would be obligated to investigate such a thing, especially in the absence of a Lord Chancellor or Constable of Emaurria.”
Two of the Grand Officers of the Crown, the Lord Chancellor and the Constable of Emaurria, would have to be appointed by a new king, one who could be complicit in the treasonous plot. Unworkable.
Indeed, the Order of Terra would be as impartial a judicial body as could be found.
A new king... Rumor said the king’s niece once removed was laying claim to the throne with her husband, but married to an El-Amin prince, she would be as welcome in Emaurria as a plague. No, the Houses wouldn’t support her, not when there was another, older, line of kings headed by a powerful, intelligent, rich man.
Father. Brennan peered at the small chest of letters.
However, without the actual payment and clarification of “candidate,” there would be little to prove the guilt of any member of Parliament.
A new king.
Father could be king.
And I could be—
No. Too remote. “I scented the assassin earlier. She was here.” He cocked his head toward the open door. “But she ran out before I entered.”
Rielle straightened. “Then let’s catch her.”
She stuffed letters into her shirt, and together, they headed for the door.
Chapter 50
Rielle entered the dark corridor with Brennan. That letter... King Marcus’s own nobles had plotted his death and that of his heirs. They’d been so threatened by the Farallan agenda that they’d hired the Heartseekers and the Crag Company. So much tragedy over...
What? Politics? Money? Ambition?
No matter. They now had solid proof and could, with time, identify the nobles involved.
Brennan guided her over another tripwire and toward a door. The assassin would be there; she had to be. Capture her, question her, and they’d be back at the castle. Jon wasn’t here and Brennan was immune to magic, so there was no danger from the battle fury nor fureur.
She’d had to kill, but it was kill or be killed.
Brennan held her back. “There’s a lot of movement.” He stared at the door, his eyebrows drawn.
“Let me handle this.”
He cocked an eyebrow but moved aside. With a quick bit of pyromancy, she set the door on fire. While the flames consumed the wood, she cast a wind spell, blasting the door open.
Fire blazed through and inside.
Ear-splitting screeching—
She cloaked herself in flame and followed its wake. Inside, several figures burned—all women with long, black curls, wearing leather armor, daggers strapped to their belts.
No, the same woman. Doppelgangers.
They all smoldered until they vanished, wisps of smoky red.
“You’re brazen.” A woman’s mellifluous voice came from everywhere at once. “I’ll give you that.”
A laugh came from behind. Rielle turned.
A giggle from the side. She spun.
“Not very smart, though.”
An illusionist. It had to be...
Flame, Shadow—and this must be—
Phantom.
I need a shield spell. The flame cloak would work. Impervious to blades and dulling to blows. As long as her focus didn’t break.
Brennan paced the room, his shoulders tense, a crease between his eyebrows. Tracking the assassin’s scent, no doubt. An illusionist could hide from the ungifted, even from mages, by disguising herself and her anima as anything else. Earthsight would be useless.
But even Phantom could hardly hide from a werewolf.
“Quite the bloodhound you have there,” Phantom’s voice echoed from every corner. “How does a mere man develop such a skill?”
Brennan hissed. “A lapdog could smell that shit in your hair from a town away.”
Silence.
A dozen curly-haired doppelgangers emerged from a corner, each wielding two sharp daggers.
Rielle called flame to her palm, burned anything that closed in while maintaining her flame cloak.
Brennan dispelled one—two—five doppelgangers.
“Here I am,” Phantom’s voice teased from the left.
A slash—barely evaded.
It wouldn’t have cut through her flame cloak, but it would’ve connected.
“No, here.” A laugh.
Pain radiated from her cheekbone. Rielle caught an arm and incinerated the snarling doppelganger to a cinder. Games. This was all fun and games to Phantom. Behind her, Brennan fought the last few.
“He should have died in the woods, that paladin.” Sharp, clipped. “But now, he’s going to die in the Red Room of Prevost Castle.”
The flame cloak blazed white. Larger. The Red Room? Was someone—
How did—
A face flashed before hers. No, shimmered. A distraction spell. The woman aimed to flank her. Revealing her position, if only briefly.
Rielle conjured a stone arrow across the room behind the woman. Shot it.
A body thudded against hers. Together, they fell, the flame cloak between them. Screams and the stench of singed hair rose like a bonfire.
Tangled in burning curls, Rielle rolled her over, spelled the woman’s wrists and hands to the floor with earthen shackles, and then her ankles. Dispelled the flame cloak.
The woman thrashed. Rielle pinned her, seized her throat. Felt the blood pulsing in her neck. Saw the whites of her eyes. Heard the labored breathing, thumping, pounding, drumming—
Blood hummed in her ears, the pounding, the drumming—
That face paled. Blued.
A deep breath. Smoke. Ash.
No. No. She could be lying... He might not be...
She pressed the arcanir of the Sodalis ring to Phantom’s flesh. Eyebrows rose. The remaining doppelganger disappeared in Brennan’s grip.
“How do you know about the Red Room? What are you planning?” With a glare, she conjured fire in her palm and held it over Phantom’s arm. Incentive.
Phantom stared up at her, eyes wide. Grinning. Grinning. “If you hurry, his body might still be lukewarm.”
Bright red draped her vision. Blood. Jon’s blood. “Answer.”
A twitch of her mouth. A smirk. A laugh.
Rielle tightened her grip around the woman as the fire in her burned hotter. Flesh went stiff below her.
The fire... Brighter. Hotter. Scorching.
“Rielle—” Brennan’s voice.
Burn. Fingers twitched. Burn.
No, no, no.
I, Favrielle Amadour Lothaire, pledge myself, from now for eternity...
The fire inside banked a measure. “Answer.”
Phantom stared up at her. Gaze unbroken.
Burn. Burn.
Not yet. Was Jon in danger? She’d warded the r
oom, but—
Divine, he could be—
And she was here, and not—
Burn and burn and burn. Her breath short and furious, she leaned in, brought the white-hot fire of her palm to the woman’s arm.
Shrieks rose with the heat as the fire ate away leather, cloth, skin, and flesh. Bulging eyes fixed upon hers, capillaries bursting, a mouth open so wide it tore and bled at the corners.
“Rielle!”
Need to go back.
Not yet.
Burn.
I declare to take freely and solemnly this oath of obedience, allegiance, piety, and diligence...
She pulled her hand away, the flame dancing along her undulating fingers. The odor of scorched flesh filled the room. Residue coated her palm. The fire had eaten the arm away to the bone.
She slowed her breathing. Divine, now was not the time to be losing ground to battle fury. “Did you send someone to the castle? Or are you just toying with me?”
“Fuck... you...” Phantom raised her trembling head from the floor and spat.
Rielle slowly drew a sleeve across her face and wiped the spittle from her skin. Her flame grew, large and lively, blazing with the desire to destroy. Destroy. “Tell. Me.”
“You will all—die—”
A hand dropped onto her shoulder.
“Rielle,” Brennan said softly. “Heartseekers don’t talk. You know that. Let me deal with her.”
“She’s not a Heartseeker.” She peered at the woman beneath her, whose eyes widened for a fraction of a second. Just enough. “This is Phantom, one of the Crag Company’s mage captains.”
The woman flashed a thin rictus grin. Still posturing.
Or pleased... That someone was finishing the job at the castle.
Her chest tightened. Never.
Brennan folded his arms. Good. He knew better than to interfere.
Heat simmered inside, prickling her skin.
“I’ll talk,” the woman sputtered. “A Heartseeker has already killed him. Another body for the fire.” Laughter bubbled in her throat and boiled. “If you let me go, your mage friend in Courdeval might be spared... more or less.”
Killed... Jon... Olivia.
Grabbing the woman by the shoulders, she stared into her eyes, their veiled fear, their spite, their trux-induced mania. Demon mouthed on the woman’s chapped lips.
Murderer. Demon…
The fire just beneath Rielle’s skin licked at the surface, making her fingers glow a volcanic red. She closed her eyes and plummeted deep, down into the heat of liquid flame below the land. A drum beat in her heart, in her blood, in her head, welcoming the smoldering heat of the earth’s core. Mage no more, self no more, one with the fire. Fire.
She opened her eyes. The glow of her fingers intensified to a blazing vermilion, grew brighter against those shoulders, to a voice that screamed uselessly, painfully, loudly, each note kindling for the flames, another drum to the line. The bright heat permeated every ounce of the body below until it shone like a lantern, roared like a bonfire.
More. Consume. More. A primal voice inside.
And hands—the hands that burned and burned and burned—those fading hands did not hold shoulders anymore but an ash hulk. Entirely grayed.
Her fingers spasmed.
The hulk disintegrated into dust. Specks of gray settling onto the floor, coating its stone.
Her eyes watered. She dusted off her hands, the debris puffing away. When she looked down at her palms, ash filled in and darkened the lines.
Ash.
She blinked. Ash coating little fingers and palms, lines filled in with death. With loved ones. Mama, Papa, Liam, Dominique, Viviane, Dorian...
Her hands shook.
She rubbed them, rubbed the lines, attempting to push the ash out and off, but the stain only smeared deeper into her skin. Death. The hot tremor spread up her arms, through her, into her, until she rattled like a disturbed bone chime, and the fire spread within, wild, unfettered.
She broke the threads of anima. Tried to. Again. Again.
No.
Didn’t break. They didn’t break.
She shivered, rubbing her blazing arms—trying to—her hands, they wouldn’t move. The ring. Jon’s ring. Jon. She twisted a finger toward the arcanir center—
To no avail. It wouldn’t—
Jon.
She shook. A sickly feeling pervaded, squeezing tighter and tighter, and heaving breaths, she closed her eyes.
It couldn’t happen now. It just couldn’t. In the city. In the middle of the city—
Please. Someone... Anyone...
Leigh. Make peace with herself, she hadn’t even—
“You must—” Stop me. She turned to look at Brennan, at his lined face, but it was not his face she saw anymore.
Mama, Papa...
I, Favrielle Amadour Lothaire, pledge myself, from now for eternity, to the holy Divinity of Magic.
Huddled in the corner, she shook like a leaf in the wind, watching their terrified faces. Next to her, Dominique, Viviane, and little Dorian cried.
I declare to take freely and solemnly this oath of obedience, allegiance, piety, and diligence...
Sunlight reflected off the sharp, black edge held to her brother Liam’s throat, its sinister shape a stark contrast to its bright sheen.
With this oath, I state my strong and irrevocable intent.
They took him into Mama’s room and slammed the door.
To pledge my magic, my life, and everything that I am to the cause, defense, honor, and further knowledge of the Divinist religion, the Divinity of Magic, and of my mages in camaraderie, to the lands under the Almighty Divine’s protection...
She tried to make herself as small as possible, holding her knees in to her chest, squeezing her crying eyes shut and thinking of the dagger, praying the man would stop hurting Liam, that the men would let him and Mama and Papa go, and Dominique and Viviane and Dorian.
To submit to the Rule of our Holy Grand Divinus Eleftheria II, to the Conventions, Laws, and other Decrees and all statements issued in conformity with the Code of the Divinity; to the Hensarin, the Proctors, the magisters, and all high officers of the Divinity, singularly and collectively...
Liam never cried, but he cried then, and it hurt, it hurt, it hurt. A... warmth coated her skin, a fever.
To love my brothers and sisters the mages and to help them, their children, and their partners with my magic, my advice, my means and wealth, my credit, and everything in my power, and to favor them, without exception, over those who are not members of the Divinity...
Rocking back and forth, she tried to choke back a sob, but it escaped. The man said to be quiet or else. He pointed a dagger at Dominique and smiled.
“Your mother’s next.” He smiled, his teeth catching the light of the winter sun, sharp and shining, and how, how could he be smiling, while the other men were hurting Liam, and Mama begged, she begged, and then it felt so hot inside, the fever spreading everywhere, pushing with the pressure of a headache, and why, why had they come, why were they hurting Liam, why?
To fight the heretics and the non-believers with my example, faith, charity, and convincing arguments; and with lethality to fight the heretics and non-believers who attack the Divinity with their own...
“Rielle,” said a man’s voice—No, it had been Mama’s.
They burned—her hands—they burned, no, no, no, and everything burned, and she couldn’t stop—it wouldn’t stop. Everything burned, fire hiding away everything that hurt, and Mama, she cried but she said, “I love you.”
It wouldn’t stop, why wouldn’t it stop, why? The crying, the fire, the screaming, she couldn’t look, couldn’t bear to see—
To live in happiness as One with the Divine and to defend to the death others’ right to live in happiness as One with the Divine...
Tears streaming down her cheeks, and the flames licking at her heels. The stench of burning flesh. The ghostly echo of death throes. The hot
stone against her hands. The smoldering hallways. A nightmarish hellscape that had been home.
A girl, a murderer, a demon. Full of love, full of rage. So many loved ones in her heart, so many loved ones dead around her. Murderer. Demon. Lock her away. Leave her behind. All that she was, all that she’d been, all her love, all her rage. Leave it all. Reforged in the flames of death.
Blazing steps seared the soles of her feet, unable to carry her fast enough down the stairwell, and her eyes oozed sweltering tears caked with ash. The smoking air scorched her nostrils as her lungs inhaled breath after desperate breath, until finally, the castle spewed her out like soot onto the cold ground.
Inside, nothing remained but the trembling need to find something to hold on to. Anything.
No looking inside.
Look outside.
Help. Someone.
This oath I pronounce loudly before the mages present at this Tower. I sign it and confirm it by my blood, as I am registered to this Tower and witnessed by the mages...
A sting. Chilling. Strong arms.
Glory to the Divine.
Everything went black.
Jon paced the length of the Red Room’s bedchamber. What was she thinking, venturing out alone with that monster? Brennan Karandis Marcel had no honor. There was no telling what he might do.
And I... gave her a ring and let her go. He winced, snarled, and scrubbed a hand over his face.
Her reasons had been convincing. Yes, he was poisoned with arcanir. Yes, that was a risk. Yes, she could take care of herself. And yes, the monster needed her alive.
Alive. But safe? Free? Neither was a certainty.
He glanced at the door, his hand hovering over Faithkeeper’s hilt.
No. He’d given his word. She could take care of herself, and she trusted the monster.
Sighing, he raked his fingers through his hair. Something to do. He needed something to do. Anything but fuming and contemplating.
A stack of letters sat piled atop the desk. The coded letters from Flame’s room at Cosette’s Inn and Tavern.
After the shooting, the surgery, the duel with the monster, and—he sucked in a sharp breath—getting closer to Rielle... Terra have mercy, but last night had been—and this morning—
Blade & Rose (Blade and Rose Book 1) Page 44
