Olivia curled up in the corner of her cell, cloaked in darkness. The chill had taken on a biting edge, and the humidity made it almost icy. She rubbed her bare ring finger with a stiff hand.
It had been at least two days since she’d seen Anton. He had the Ring of the Archmage. And he hadn’t returned, not even to bring her food, water, or a new torch to chase away the darkness. She hadn’t rationed her bread or water; she’d trusted him. The dizziness and weakness had set in.
She’d trusted him, and he hadn’t returned. Hadn’t brought back the ring. Hadn’t kept his promise.
Gilles could end whomever he wanted now. Thanks to her.
She’d failed. Failed in every sense. To stop the regicide. To perform the rite. To guard the ring. And, soon, to stay alive. The realities were too much. She closed her mind, and her heart, to them and their hurt.
Curling up tighter, she nuzzled the stone tile with her cheek. Sometimes, if she pretended, it almost felt like the walls in the palace stairwell leading to her quarters.
There, James had surprised her once during the summer and pressed her to its rough stone, his hands firm upon her. “Come with me to Vercourt, mon rêve,” he’d whispered between kisses.
“What’s in Vercourt?”
“I have some business nearby. Come with me.”
A trip? They’d been inseparable for some weeks but hadn’t spoken much about what lay ahead. He was married, albeit estranged from his wife, with several adult children. A prince.
Yet she—she was... What was she? “James, what am I to you?”
Eyelids drawn, he regarded her intensely, the air between them dense as he leaned in and kissed her cheek. “Friend.”
Was that all? She squirmed, but he gently lay a finger to her lips, his smile broadening until she quieted.
He kissed her. “Lover.”
The sea of his eyes glittered, and she fought to hold back a grin.
He lowered his mouth to her chest and, eyes closed, pressed his lips there, in the very center, his breath warm and awakening. “Dream.”
Head leaned against the wall, she inhaled deeply, her hips swaying toward his of their own volition. “Dream...”
“Of the life I always see, have always seen, when I close my eyes.”
A dream. Not fleeting, but deep seated, an aspiration. And yet... One couldn’t marry a dream. Have children with a dream. “And what can you promise a dream?”
It was a naive question. She’d known his bonds. Royal. Matrimonial. Paternal. All unbreakable. She’d always known. But the days with James that had turned into weeks had given way to thoughts of months and years. Someday, she’d need to be more than friend, lover, dream.
He cupped her cheek and stroked her skin softly. “To respect you. To love you. To give you all that I can. To never promise anything I cannot provide.”
The words were soft, warm, sincere. She covered his hand with hers. “Will that be enough?”
“That is for you to decide, mon rêve,” he said softly. “It is not for a man to tell a dream when it is satisfied.”
She’d melted into him then.
Now, in the dungeon, the cold stone floor wasn’t as loving, as yielding, as warm as he, but if she pretended deeply enough, it was almost like the walls of that stairwell, and her imagination could wrap James’s arms around her, whisper his words in her ear, press his lips to hers.
A sound filtered in—not the usual rush of water, drip of leaks, or skittering of rats—a light but labored rhythm. A struggling gait.
She laid her palms to the stone floor, raised herself, crawled to the bars. She pressed her cheek against the iron and squinted down the corridor. A faint light glimmered far down, blurry. A visitor.
She had heard Anton walk this corridor for a month. His steps were always soft, a little uncertain, but regular. She’d know his gait anywhere, and this wasn’t it. Hardening herself against a shudder, she rose, dusted off her dirty frock, and raised her head high. If the executioner had come for her at last, she’d not give him the satisfaction of cowering fearfully, no matter what trembled within her.
The irregular steps neared, and she swallowed, trying to slow her racing heart to no success. A tired grunt accompanied the unusual gait. She tilted her head. Strange. Had the executioner been so overworked? She took a hesitant step toward the bars.
“Liv?” Deep, rasping, but it was Anton’s voice. It was him. He’d returned.
Her breaths came harsh, hard. She wanted to run to the bars, throw herself against them, but she couldn’t will her feet to move.
Yellow torchlight suffused the entire corridor, and despite the ache, she forced her eyes open, strained to look.
When he came into view—
Anton kept his weight off one leg and, despite bearing a tray of black bread and a waterskin, held an elbow close to his ribs. His face... One eye swollen shut. An array of sickly ochre, titian, and puce. And a faint smile with a split lip.
She gasped, ran to the bars, gripped them painfully. “You—” What had happened to him? “I—” She’d spent so much time wondering whether he’d betrayed her, and he’d been—
The faint smile broadened. He passed her the bread and water, then tipped the tray toward his face. “What, this?” He shrugged and quickly winced. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing?” She huffed. Why was he minimizing this? She bit the waterskin’s valve, yanked it open, and took a deep gulp. Water... She’d never take it for granted again. “I’ve seen rainbows with fewer colors than your face is wearing now.”
He chuckled, torchlight silhouetting his form. “Clever.”
“What happened?”
He bent to place the tray on the floor, his movement stiff and slow. “Would have come sooner, but couldn’t move until today. Told another merc to bring you food and water, but”—he looked her over with his one available eye—“clearly she didn’t.”
Clearly. “Never mind that. What happened?”
He heaved a sigh. “Followed our plan. Got caught after trying to open the Lunar Chamber. I was trying to sneak past the guard after, but he woke.” He rubbed his neck. “ ‘You picking my pocket?’ he asked me. He assumed. Didn’t correct him. And this”—he glanced down—“is justice.”
Trying to do her bidding, he’d gotten himself hurt. Could have been killed. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. No, he had wanted to do this, too. She alone couldn’t bear the burden of guilt. “Did you do it?”
“Pick his pocket?” Anton smiled and crossed his arms. “Nah. Is that what you think of me, Liv? A mere pickpocket, after all we’ve shared?” He winked.
The bastard was teasing her. She waved him off. “No, you ninny. The Lunar Chamber.”
“ ‘Ninny’? ‘Ninny’!” He scoffed. “After all I’ve done—”
“Anton—”
He leaned in to the bars, his sandy-colored hair catching the light of the torch. “Yes,” he whispered, gripping them, his battered face close enough to hers for his answer to breeze onto her skin. “Did everything you asked. Wedged a whetstone there, between the doors. Should hold.”
He took her hand in his, urged it between the bars. His skin was warm. Callused. She shivered, struggling to remember the last time anyone had touched her but to hurt her.
James.
Anton pressed something into her palm, gingerly handling her broken fingers to curl closed. “Did you miss me?”
Against her own reluctance, she smiled anyway. “I missed sustenance.”
“One and the same by now?” Grinning, he covered her hand, enshrined it between his warm, callused palms, and gently guided it back to her.
She swallowed. He’d become her only friend here, the one person who came without demands or harm. She peered at her palm.
The Ring of the Archmage. Returned. She’d been right to trust him.
Eyes shadowed, he gripped the bars, clenching them tightly. “It’s not going well with His Highness.”
What? “It’s not.
.. How do you know?”
Anton shook his head slowly. “It’s better if you don’t know, but just... prepare yourself. He doesn’t have much time left.”
“Then... Then let’s find a mage to perform the rite, and—” Pointless.
Even if they found a mage to perform the rite, there was no way for her to escape her cell and save James. In her heart, she’d always known it, hadn’t she? Hope had been a distant dream, but she’d dreamed it, despite all she’d known, all that the world around her had been shouting in her reluctant ear.
James had never promised her forever. But what had he said? That it was not for a man to tell a dream when it was satisfied?
But Gilles would. He’d decide when her dream with James would come to an end. And here, behind these bars, she couldn’t fight to keep it alive. To keep him alive.
“I’m sorry.” Anton bowed his head, his light locks shrouding his eye. “Told you I had a lead on a healer who might do us that favor. Well, now I have a reason to visit her.” He gestured to his array of bruises and flashed a brief smile. “Think it’ll all go well.” The words were bright, but he still clenched the bars.
Hoping to distract her, to cheer her up?
She forced a smile. “Yes, it will. I’m sure it will.” It had to.
He pulled away, then bent stiffly to retrieve the tray. “Hopefully, I’ll be able to return tomorrow with some answers.”
Would those answers come as expensively as opening the doors to the Lunar Chamber? She held the ring tightly, ignoring the ache of her hand. “Try not to get yourself killed.”
He flashed her a quick smile. “I won’t, Liv. Promise.”
She watched him leave until his form passed away into the darkness, and the unnaturally quiet isolation returned, her constant companion.
This was the last risk he had to take. If they managed to convince a mage to perform the rite, at least Emaurria’s people would be safe. And, after that, so would he.
And if they failed—if they failed...
She shook her head.
It would go well.
It had to.
Chapter 54
Rielle shifted on the sofa, its seat hard and uncomfortable. She’d never been skilled at drawing, but as she glanced over Gran’s work, it was obvious that the deficiency hadn’t descended from the Auvray branch of the family: the wolf catching the doe depicted in Gran’s drawing was vivid.
“Brennan was right to do as he did.” Gran leaned back and studied her work.
Rielle shook her head and leaned forward. “Surely you don’t mean that. I put the entire city at risk. I need to be held accountable.” If innocent people had been hurt, their recovery was her responsibility. If they’d lost their homes or belongings. Their fears. Their panic. If there were consequences from the Connétablie or the Divinity, she would face them. As she should. No more secrets. No more lies. No more regrets.
“Everything has been taken care of, child. Master Blanc has tended the injured personally. I have financed the rebuilding of homes and replacement of possessions. All will be as it was.”
Warmth washed through her. Gran had money enough to cover the victims’ losses... but no money would ever make them whole. To replace their keepsakes and mementos, their bottles of immortelle and Sodalis rings. “But it can’t be. I won’t be the—”
Gran took a lengthy breath. “There is no need to disgrace yourself. You are already punishing yourself quite ably.”
“Disgrace myself?” She straightened. “I don’t care about—”
“But I do.” Gran resumed her work, shading in shadows. “Is my duchy better served when I am strong and trusted, or when I and my relations are dangerous and doubted?”
Rielle opened her mouth, but no words emerged. Dangerous and doubted. She was a liability, best kept quiet and managed. Her actions could reflect poorly on Gran, in her duties as duchess...
In her political relations.
In her business negotiations.
In all matters.
Could. No, they probably already had. She winced. “Gran, I’m sorry. I know I haven’t had an ideal, illustrious few years...” She pressed her hand to her cheek. “Decade. And what I’ve done can’t have—”
Gran turned away from her drawing, set down her burnt-umber chalk, and sat next to Rielle on the sofa. “Is that what you think? This is all about my reputation?”
“No, but—”
Gran took her hand. “What good will shouting the truth from the rooftops do?”
Her chest ached, a knot pulling tighter.
“You believe it will ease your burden. That their judgment and ire will allow you to punish yourself less for your flaws,” Gran said softly.
Wouldn’t it?
“But there is only one way to ease a burden. Set it down.”
Rielle’s hand instinctively went to her chest, where the solitary vial of king’s blood she needed for the Moonlit Rite lay just beneath the velvet of her gown on a silver chain, along with her signet ring. “Walk away?”
Gran nodded. “You have no sensible reason to continue tempting fate by doing fieldwork for the Divinity. Retire to a quiet life. A safe life. For yourself, and others.”
Rielle stood from the sofa, rubbed her forehead. Retiring, locking herself away, wasn’t the best she could offer the world.
She paced to the windows. So many had been consumed by her power. Innocents, criminals, loved ones, strangers.
But destruction wasn’t the whole of her gift. Outside, the smoke had cleared, and somewhere to the south was Olivia. She palmed the cool glass. Today it was Olivia, but there was always a use for her magic. A good use, a worthy end, helping someone in ways others couldn’t. The way Leigh had helped her after the burning of Laurentine.
“I still have work to do,” she whispered.
“Sometimes, the best thing you can do is nothing at all.” A soft voice. A loving voice.
She squeezed her eyes shut. “Is that why I have magic? Why I was born to this world? For nothing at all?”
“Child—”
Rielle straightened, every bone and muscle in perfect posture, and raised her chin. There were more choices in this world than destruction and nothing. There had to be. Difficult, uncomfortable choices. Challenging ones. Paths full of stones and brambles, breaks and scars, that led somewhere worth going. She turned back to Gran, whose watery gaze closed around her. “There’s something more for me, Gran. There has to be.”
“Will you marry Brennan?”
Her palm found the wall. Then her back did. “Do you wish me to, Gran?”
Gran gestured to the space next to her on the sofa, and Rielle sat. “Someday, and it may not be today or tomorrow, you might change your mind. You might wish for something this life you lead can’t give you. Stability, children, legacy. If you do not start planning it now, you will regret its lack someday. Take it from an old woman—nothing brings me more happiness now than my children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.” She reached out to brush the back of her fingers lightly against Rielle’s cheek. “And Brennan, despite his faults, can offer you not only a family but the kind of stability a life at the Divinity cannot.”
A life at the Divinity, with a commoner as her lover. “I don’t love Brennan the way—”
“The way that a woman loves a man?” Gran offered airily. “Love is what lovers are for. Even Queen Alexandrie was rumored to have lovers. Love is transient—it waxes and wanes. A marriage must be made to endure. The secret to a good marriage for us nobles is not love, but a combination of respect, trust, and communication.”
She and Brennan lacked those things. Severely. But there was no explaining that to Gran, not without mention of what had happened at Tregarde. I’d rather pull my own teeth.
And how one could separate love and marriage—? “Gran, it’s not only a lack of love on my part, but outright animosity on his. You witnessed how Brennan treated me at dinner. Sometimes it is worse.”
Gran folde
d her hands together. “You see animosity, child, but for a man to be so hostile to a woman requires animus. Intense passion that would not exist but for frustrated love.”
Love? She choked back a gasp.
Brennan needed her and rued that need, but Gran couldn’t know about the bond. Perhaps, to her, it looked like frustrated love.
Yet... Long before she’d told Brennan how to break the curse, he’d borne that animosity toward her. When she’d rejected him at the Tower, he’d been so cold, so hostile, and hurtful beyond her wildest nightmares. Could that have been, as Gran said, frustrated love?
And if it was so then, was it possible that now—
She shook her head. “If this is how he shows his ‘love’ now, Gran, then if we’re married, I fear I won’t survive any escalation.” When Gran didn’t immediately reply, she added, “He may love me, he may not—but I deserve better than to be mistreated, manipulated, hated, no matter what he’s feeling. I will never accept becoming a sacrifice to him, to endure his frustrations, to tolerate suffering as though his emotional wellbeing were my responsibility.”
The doe in Gran’s drawing seemed to come alive, her gleaming eyes fixed upon the wolf with its teeth buried in her hind leg. Gran lowered her gaze.
“I can’t live agonizing over my every step, walking the edge of a cliff. But that is my life, Gran. And it is terrifying.” After rescuing Olivia, she’d be at the Divinity’s mercy. And likely end up at the bottom of that fall.
Gran looked from the drawing to her, shook her head, and pulled her into an embrace. Rielle laid her head in Gran’s lap and closed her eyes as Gran stroked her hair softly. It was fifteen years ago, and she was a little girl in this very room, napping in Gran’s lap while Mama and Grand-Mère Geneviève laughed and sketched.
“I won’t condemn you to that fate, child, but neither will I act hastily. There are few unbetrothed suitors of worth for a noblewoman of your wealth and title, and it will be difficult to make a proper match. Men at Brennan’s age can be capricious, but perhaps he may yet surprise you.” A pensive silence lingered while Gran smoothed her curls. “A compromise, then. If, by the end of summer, you remain unconvinced about Brennan, I will do all in my power to dissolve the betrothal.”
Blade & Rose (Blade and Rose Book 1) Page 47
