She throbbed with the need to finish healing.
A twig snapped behind her.
Chapter 57
With a flame ready in hand, Rielle spun.
A young blond man stood with his hands raised in surrender. One of the bandits.
“Stop! Don’t”—he glanced down at the fire—“burn me.”
Shade blackened next to her. Brennan at her side, cold menace shadowing his face, his body drenched in dark blood.
“Allow me.” Snarling, Brennan cracked his knuckles.
She blocked him with her arm, her hand pressing against his chest.
Judging by the man’s unblemished clothes and skin, he had abstained from the fight. A coward or a spy. The Divinity had a draconian No Quarter policy on missions—the worth of certainty far outweighed that of mercy, apparently. But perhaps he had information. “Speak.”
His tense muscles relaxed even as his eyes shifted. “Used to run with the Brigands for nearly a decade. Until Serge”—he tipped his chin toward the large man whose head Brennan had taken—“took over. ‘Need to make a name for ourselves,’ he said. ‘Need the threat to mean something, so the marks turn their purses readily.’ No thanks. Not for me. Won’t lie—I’m no hero—but I draw the line at raping and massacring cooperating patrons.”
“ ‘Patrons’?” She arched an eyebrow. Brennan smirked next to her.
The man smiled and shrugged. “Simple, really. For a small fee, we provided safety to those who crossed these lands.”
“From yourselves, you mean.” She pursed her lips. Their business model was not uncommon. They’d take over territory that the kingdom couldn’t afford to guard in force, and they stopped unsuspecting travelers, intimidating them into paying for protection. An exciting career in wealth redistribution and personal security.
“I vote we kill him,” Leigh’s voice lilted from several feet away while Jon dragged bodies into a pile. The terrible stench of the battlefield flooded her nostrils, of blood, viscera, and singed flesh.
Jon came up next to her, wiping sweat off his brow and leaving a bloody smear. “We can’t release him.”
“My vote’s for living,” the man offered with a hopeful smile. “If you’re tallying.”
Killing him—as the Divinity expected—would ensure he wouldn’t bring the Crag information and that he wouldn’t return to kill them in the night. However, letting him live could mean, at the very least, a safe way through the wilds. If he misled them, he could just as easily be killed later. Of course, disobeying the Divinity would mean a demerit... or worse.
She shrugged. If she was being excommunicated anyway after Courdeval, what did the Divinity’s expectations matter anymore?
She turned to Brennan. “Bind him.”
He nodded, then approached the nearest bodies and pulled off sword belts.
“That’s my girl,” Leigh remarked.
“We’re not killing him,” she said. “We’ll use him to get through these lands unhindered.”
Brennan bound the man, who offered no resistance, and tied him to a singed oak. One of the few left standing. She’d have to restore this forest. Well, perhaps after washing off all the blood and guts.
Leigh grimaced. “You’re no fun anymore.”
“What, was all that not enough fun for you?” she joked.
“Ma chère, you really should know better after all these years.”
She snorted. But even Leigh would have to admit they’d bitten off more than they could chew. The Black Mountain Brigands with sigils, arcanir, and a heretic geomancer? Horses, good equipment, and information? None of that boded well for Courdeval.
The man wriggled against the oak, testing the bindings; Brennan had secured him tightly.
“Let’s see what he knows.” Jon stared him down, his face stained blood red but for the whites of his eyes and teeth, despite his attempts at wiping it away.
She probably looked no better. The bottom of her braid was spattered with red. “At least he’ll know that if his information is useless, we could always wear his insides like a face mask.”
Brennan shot a grin her way and then a surly look at their captive.
“Who wants to search the dead?” she asked.
“Searching messy corpses?” Leigh furrowed his brow. “I nominate Marquis Happy-Face over there.” He nodded to Brennan, whose mouth was still a grim line as he stared down the tied-up man.
“You’re too good to get your hands dirty?” Brennan crossed his arms.
Leigh side-eyed him. “Indeed. Well said.” He patted Brennan’s shoulder with lips pursed in distaste. “Perhaps you’re not a complete asshole. Some part of you may just be buttock.”
Brennan exhaled lengthily and headed for the bodies. “Come on, foreigner. Don’t make me drag you along.”
Sighing, Leigh followed.
She and Jon approached the prisoner. Despite his slender build, he had a large frame. Lanky. He had hair the color of straw, the kind children usually grew out of in their teens to become brunettes. The texture of his skin—and his knowing dark eyes—he had to be in his late twenties or early thirties, but that hair lent him a juvenile air despite his many bruises.
Jon stalked to the oak and thudded his knuckle-dusters into the bark beside the man’s head. “Where’s Gilles?”
The man flinched, widening his eyes, then inched his pleading gaze over Jon’s shoulder at her.
No, no help here. “Don’t look at me. Answer the question.”
He swallowed. “In the capital?” he offered, looking back to Jon. “Haven’t seen him in a few days. Look, I’ll tell you all I know. I’m a sure thing.”
Jon lowered his fist and took a step back, resting his hand on his sword’s pommel. Unmoving, he locked eyes with the man, who looked away quickly.
She rested her hand on Jon’s gauntlet, but he didn’t waver. She tipped her head toward the prisoner. “What’s your name?”
“Anton.” He met her eyes. “You?”
She grinned. “Stick to answering.”
“That’s a mouthful. Got a nickname?”
Jon went rigid, but she shook her head at him.
“Anton,” she said, testing the name. “The Brigands knew about us?”
“Gilles sent me to them with information.”
Jon leaned in. “Gilles? What does he know?”
Anton raised his eyebrows. “I’m just a grunt. All I know is what was in the message... To expect two Divinity mages and a paladin, and believe me, the Brigands had the influx of coin to keep watch. Delivered it myself.”
Then Gilles knew they were coming. Knew about her. About Jon. Even Leigh... but not Brennan. “You’re very forthcoming with this information.”
“I like to live.” Plain. Serious. Matter of fact. “The Brigands were once respectable robbers, taking a cut from traveling merchants and sending them on their way. But their new way wasn’t the life I signed up for, and I don’t want to die for it—or for the bloody Crag Company. ‘Is this really the hill I want to die on?’ I ask myself. No. Might have something to live for after all this.”
“What do you think we are to Gilles?” Jon asked, eyes narrowed.
“I don’t know—Sent to stop all this, to—”
Jon winced, gritted his teeth. He coughed into his hand. Blood.
She grabbed Jon’s wrist, looked him over. Behind the arm he held in front of his torso was a huge set of dents in his cuirass. “What is this?” she demanded, staring into his blank eyes.
He shrugged. “I’m fine. We need to know—”
“What. Is. This.”
He drew in a slow breath but coughed before his lungs filled.
“Off with the armor. Now.”
He held her gaze, face an unflinching mask.
Oh, he could resist. He sure could. He could resist if he wanted her to climb him like a sycamore and undo all the straps herself.
Footsteps crunched from behind. “He took a flanged mace to the ribs.” Brennan’s voice.
Jon glared at him, but Brennan shrugged. “And apparently wants to drown in his own blood. Maybe we should let him.”
Jon scowled. Blood trickled from his hairline down his face—from where, she couldn’t tell. She’d need some water.
The Propré River was nearby, branching from the Mor. The falls. “Anton’s not going anywhere,” she said to Jon, then turned to Anton. “Are you?”
Anton shook his head. “Couldn’t even if I wanted to.”
“See?” She raised her eyebrows at Jon. “So you’re coming with me, and I’m going to clean these wounds and heal you. Then we can talk to him as long as we want later. Got it?”
Jon hissed. “Mage—”
“I’ll even keep an eye on him,” Brennan interrupted. “So go on.”
Shaking his head, Jon took off toward the river. She nodded her thanks to Brennan and got a quick smile in reply as she trailed Jon.
Leigh tethered the horses to a nearby tree. Good—he’d found them.
“Anything on the bodies?” she called as she walked by.
He smirked. “Weeks of unwashed stench. Want to check?”
“Better you than me.” As she passed the pile of bodies, she ignited them. The hotter-than-hot fire would reduce them to ash.
Ahead of her, Jon shed his armor piece by piece, then his arming jacket and his shirt, too.
Even from behind, his side looked bad—heavy bruising on his ribs. How he still had the wherewithal to trudge—
“Would you just stop?” she called after him. “Why are you so angry?”
He turned, walking backward, and narrowed his smoldering eyes at her as he clipped his weapons belt back over his trousers. He turned his back again. She ambled to catch up to him.
“Jon.”
“Why am I angry?” he asked the canopy above. “Why could I possibly be angry?” He shot a piercing glance at her and looked away, his mouth a thin line. “Could it be because you told me you hated your fiancé, were never going to marry him, couldn’t stand him, and now he’s your—and everybody’s—best friend?”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“Or could it be that I warned you all that this”—he jerked an arm toward the field of battle—“exactly this would happen if we took this route?”
“We couldn’t—”
“Or maybe it’s that Gilles knows we’re coming, is prepared, and we’re walking right into his trap?”
“Can I just—”
He grabbed her shoulder, yanking her to a stop, and whirled her to face him. Fresh blood streaked through his hair down his face. “Or could it be that I just had to watch you nearly die over and over. And over. And over—”
Her chest tightened. “Jon...”
“No.” His grip on her shoulders clamped harder, the storm in his eyes wilder. “This was just a preview of what awaits in Courdeval. And have your plans changed?”
“No, we—”
“So what could I possibly be angry about? Other than, of course, us nearly getting killed, this reckless plan, your new best friend, and you foolishly walking straight to your death?”
She ripped away from his grip. “Don’t you dare.” Pressure formed behind her eyes. “I am not some doll for you to lock away. Look at yourself”—she raked eyes over his array of lacerations and bruises—“and then try to tell me I shouldn’t go into danger.”
He spread his arms. “I’m not saying that, am I?” He turned on his heel and stalked toward the river.
“Then what are you saying?” she shouted after him. “Tell me what you want from me!”
“Nothing,” he barked back over his shoulder, then stopped. “Everything.”
“What do you expect me to do?”
He just stood there, taut as a bowstring, ready to snap, and... He didn’t. Didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t... anything.
The rush of water figured in the silence. Ahead of them, boulders and large rocks littered a river bank. The ruins of an old stone bridge over the Propré River, branched from the Mor. Here, the Propré was about forty feet across, with banks that eased into the water. The sizable remnants of the bridge broke up the Propré’s shallow autumn flow. Interrupted it.
“There’s nothing to do about any of it. That’s what’s so infuriating about it,” he said quietly, but his voice vibrated like a fist clenched too long.
He strode to the river bank, knelt, and splashed his face. Water ran down his face and chin, and he kept his eyes closed, taking a moment. He just breathed.
“You look like you needed that.”
He washed his head. “Things have just been... tense lately.”
“Tense?”
Water fell through his hands and dripped into the river. “I’ve always been of single mind before battle,” he said, pressing his lips tight for a moment, “but having your fiancé along, and the threat of battle, and this—it’s all made me very... aware of how much I have to lose when I finally speak to the Paladin Grand Cordon.”
She moved next to him and reached for the contusion to his ribs, to start the healing process. He caught her fingers in a light grip, her injured arm, and when she flinched, he released her.
His gaze dropped to her injured side. “I saw you take that blow from the falling club. Your ribs are broken, and so is your arm.”
“Nearly healed.”
But he was right. She hurt all over.
“Take care of yourself first.” The look in his determined eyes left her no room to argue.
Her anima had dimmed by more than half—ghostly pressure pushed against her inner barriers—but she’d have enough to heal them both. Biting down on a twig, she touched her broken arm—shattered in several places. Whispering the incantation, she began, using magic to pick the bone shards free of the flesh and return them to their proper place, knitting together muscle, closing open blood vessels, struggling with the pain of it all.
She resolved to give healing magic another good-faith effort the next time she returned to the Tower. If I am ever again welcome at the Tower.
When she finished healing, she opened her eyes to Jon’s creased brow. “I’m fine. Promise.”
His mouth twisted.
“Whatever happens, we’ll find a way.”
“I know. I’ve just been preparing myself for the... worst case.”
She swallowed. “Worst case?”
He looked away. Bloody water dripped from his chin. “If nothing awaits me at Monas Amar, if the new king won’t hear your petition, isn’t Faolan Auvray Marcel—”
She held her breath, not wanting to hear the words, not wanting to hear that if she had to marry another man for the sake of her line, this would end between them. But she knew it. “There’s no need to—”
“I still want to be there.” Dauntless, he held her gaze, strong and vulnerable and brave and afraid. He’d sacrificed all he’d ever known for her. And he offered to sacrifice even more.
She stroked the contusion to his ribs.
He gasped, and she held a stick before his mouth. He bit it.
“Sundered flesh and shattered bone, / By your Divine might, let it be sewn,” she whispered, threading her anima to reshape his bones, seal his internal wounds, make him whole.
The river babbled quietly, the current breaking against the stone ruins that had stood steadfast in its path for centuries, if not millennia, and withstood the constant force with unwavering strength.
If the tables were turned, being a mere mistress to the man she loved would be... Watching him with a wife who bore his name and his children, who was his partner before all the world, who had everything she could only ever want. And then being the black mark that tarnished something beautiful, a leech to what a real family offered, stealing away just enough love for her heart to subsist on. Ruining his chance at pure joy, and ruining her life by being in his, yet unable to imagine life without him. The pain, the torture, would be crippling. “Why? Why would you?”
He submerged his fingers in the river and let the wat
er flow between them. “These past few days, I have asked my own heart what, for your sake, I would not do.” Slowly, a resolute smile spread across his face. “The answer is nothing.” Unabashed, he met her eyes. “For your sake, there is nothing I would not do, nothing I would not suffer. You have become... everything to me.”
Everything... everything that could make him happy, or that could destroy him. “Jon—”
“My mind is made up.”
Beneath his unwavering stare, she averted her gaze. “That worst case will never happen.”
He splashed some water in her direction, and she yelped at the cold water that sprinkled her skin. “Even if everything goes wrong, we’ll fight. We’ll fight with everything we’ve got. When the enemy takes your sword, you must draw your dagger.”
Nodding, she shook off those distant thoughts. They were together now, and they had hope; it was more than she’d had in a long time, and she wouldn’t waste this day pondering clouds that only might portend future storms.
While he scrubbed in the river, she sat on one of the rocky ruins and unbuttoned her stinking coat. The sooner she washed her clothes off, the better. When she leaned over to take off her boots, Jon came up and held out his hands until she surrendered her foot to him.
He removed one boot and then the other. “You know, I have given much more thought to our other, more optimistic fates.”
“Have you?” She grinned and gathered up her coat.
He nodded. “They all begin with taking you out into the country for the winter. A cottage.” His intent eyes met hers as he paused and tenderly drew her trousers down and off, revealing a cut on her thigh. “Somewhere only for you and me.”
She liked the sound of that fate already.
“And then?” She inspected the wound, removing a few blades of grass.
He knelt and flushed it with water. “I’ll hunt and fish and cook, and you—you’ll do whatever chores it is you know how to do—”
She gave him a playful shove. “Hey! I know how to—um...”
Blade & Rose (Blade and Rose Book 1) Page 51
