Blade & Rose (Blade and Rose Book 1)

by Miranda Honfleur

  “Aren’t we dramatic?” Leigh mumbled, entering the hallway. Clapping, he inspected the first-floor service corridor of the east wing.

  She frowned and searched for the stairwell. At the end of an adjoining hallway was a tower with a narrow spiral staircase.

  They’d have to clear the damn stairwell first. If alive, the palace’s original inhabitants were locked in the dungeon, so she summoned a sphere of searing heat.

  The bond tightened like a tendril of a braid pulled taut; she clenched her teeth. Brennan had to be seeking greater control—which meant things were going poorly in Coquelicot. At least he was alive.

  Divide and conquer. Perhaps he and Nicolette needed the diversion now.

  Swirling the sphere of fire into an ascending spiral in her hand, she cast its route and, with a push, released it up the stairs. Flames licked the walls as it traveled, and she ran outside until she could see the top of the stairwell’s tower. Leigh chased her out as the flames burst through the windows on the top floor.

  He scowled at her. “If the Crag didn’t know we were here, they do now.”

  Fresh air blew in through the meurtrière’s holes, and Brennan sucked it in voraciously, the second wind he needed. He crawled to the staircase and tumbled down the steps, then landed on his back, the wind knocked out of him.

  Dazed for a moment, he gathered only enough of his will to drag himself to the exit’s open door.

  His eyes stinging, he blinked several times at the picture outside—a deluge of armored paladins pouring through the southeastern gate, coursing through the Crag fighting the militia, and crashing against the reinforcements with brutal force. A large Order of Terra platoon broke off to reinforce the wall. They could hold Coquelicot with their numbers.

  He looked up at one of them standing over him. Tor smiled down at him, his hazel eyes dancing and his dark hair covered in ash.

  “Does Faolan know you’re here?” He surveyed Brennan with a raised brow and a narrowed eye.

  “Uncle Tor.” It was always good to see him. But on the other matter—he sighed. The less Father knew of his dealings, the better.

  Of his uncles, Tor and Desmond had always been the friendliest, not to mention vastly better men than Father. The youngest of four brothers, Tor had shunned courting marriageable heiresses, and had inexplicably chosen service as a paladin. He had been the best warrior among them, something Brennan had admired and respected since childhood.

  Tor extended an arm, and Brennan took it and struggled to his feet, receiving a pat on the back that made him wince.

  “I won’t tell him if you won’t.” Brennan added an audacious wink with a stinging eye.

  Tor examined the wound on his shoulder, but it had already nearly healed, leaving naught but a shallow cut. “You should get this treated.” Tor eyed the blood drenching the entire right side of Brennan’s body. “The priests have set up a medical tent just outside the wall.”

  Brennan shrugged, his usual excuse ready. “It looks much worse than it is.”

  The smoke inhalation had been the greater annoyance.

  “Tor,” a familiar voice bellowed—the commoner?—and he turned around. “You have command. Subdue the Crag on the wall and the district’s outskirts, rally the militia, then wait for Captain Perrault’s orders.”

  Covering his heart with his right hand, Tor bent at the waist.

  What was this? Since when did forsworn paladins issue orders to their elders? Behind Tor stood none other than Jonathan Ver. Did he now outrank Tor somehow? Or was he relaying the captain’s orders?

  If Jon was surprised to see him, he didn’t show it when their eyes met. Blood spatter adorning his face and armor, he’d clearly seen some battle. Gray ash covered his pauldrons and the helm that he held under one arm; the paladins must have been in position outside the gate during the fire.

  “Tregarde.” Jon inclined his head. The battle continued raging far behind him.

  “Ver,” Brennan replied.

  “Have you two become friends?” Tor asked, looking from Jon to Brennan.

  Friends... with him? Brennan snorted. “I wouldn’t go that far. I only saved him from decapitation a couple times.”

  He savored Jon’s scowl with no small amount of satisfaction. A few days ago, the commoner’s neck would have been a deliciously indulgent crunch between his jaws, but killing him would mean losing Rielle’s good graces forever. Better this dalliance run its course.

  The sound of upheaval carried from the distance near the citadel. It likely meant one thing: Rielle had invaded the Azalée District.

  Jon glanced toward the citadel, where black smoke curled from a palace tower, and pointed to it. “That’s where I’m headed.”

  “So am I.” Before heading out, he turned to Tor. “Good luck, Uncle.”

  Tor nodded, but his gaze shifted toward Jon and he took a preparatory breath. “Perhaps you should—”

  A look from Jon, and Tor stayed his tongue and stood to attention.

  “Terra’s blessings upon you.” Tor gestured the blessed circle with his open palm toward them.

  “And upon you,” Jon replied while Brennan nodded his thanks.

  They turned to the north and began the long advance toward the citadel through groups of wounded soldiers, prisoners of war, and heaps of corpses. The city remained dark but for the light of burning buildings, and quiet but for distant cries and fighting.

  The exchange between Tor and Jon had been strange. The bow meant it hadn’t just been a relay of orders. Jon outranked Tor, but how could that be? Had the Order taken him back among its ranks? Perhaps his assistance with entry into Courdeval had even gotten him promoted?

  If so, the Sacred Vows would govern him once more. His tie to Rielle would be severed. She’d be free.

  Brennan fought the broad grin threatening to emerge. One fewer obstacle. Perhaps he’d break the curse yet.

  Only a couple of hours remained before the Moonlit Rite would have to be completed. Hopefully Rielle would survive the damned night—she had a habit of nearly getting herself killed. The last thing he needed was her dying. Especially now.

  “Your injuries look severe,” Jon murmured as they crossed from the Coquelicot District ringing the city into the Dandelion District, known for its sprawling bazaar.

  “I’ve had worse.” Bleeding wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Perhaps his rapid healing had colored his impression of pain. “I’ll be fine.” His werewolf healing would restore him soon.

  “ ‘I’ll be fine,’ ” Jon imitated, with that insistent down-note on the end that was so familiar. “You sound like Rielle.” He looked ahead solemnly as they moved through the marketplace’s wrecked stalls.

  True enough. By now, they sounded like old soldiers reminiscing about battle wounds. But there was something different about the man; his heart beat faster. Perhaps stressed by his return to the Order? Or was it just the uncertainty of battle?

  He scented the faint smell of Jon’s blood on the wind. A diagonal cut along the cheekbone. “What about you? Are you redecorating your face?”

  A stern glare. “I’ve been dodging arrows all night.”

  “Looks like you’ve gotten better at it since Melain.” He could hardly hold back his grin, and even Jon’s glare cracked.

  A strange, faraway sound. Brennan tilted his head. A creaking, kind of like—

  Jon opened his mouth when Brennan lunged to tackle him.

  They tumbled behind a fruit stand in a loud clatter, sending fruit rolling away. A barrage of arrows impaled the spoiling apples, pomegranates, and pears next to them.

  Chapter 63

  Smoke rose from the stairwell, and Rielle drew in a deep breath. Yes, doubtless the Crag now knew they were here, but it would take the pressure off Brennan, Nicolette, and the Black Rose at the southeastern gate.

  Their time would soon run out. They needed to complete the rite, find Olivia, and get out. She raced past Leigh and entered the smoking tower.

  Leigh hel
d the black wool of his sleeve to his nose as he followed her in. She spelled a gust that blew the smoke away.

  “Now that the Crag know we’re here,” Leigh said, “there could be hundreds of mercenaries coming our way. We may have to choose between Olivia and the Moonlit Rite.”

  Gilles would send his best men to the palace. Sigiled men. Those who could stand up to magic. And the Crag had shown its access to black-market arcanir. Spell shields were useless against arcanir weapons and arrows... magekillers. And in cramped quarters—buildings—indirect magic would be risky.

  But she’d come here for Olivia. Although the Moonlit Rite couldn’t be ignored, he had to know she’d choose Olivia.

  She looked back at him. “I’m doing both, with or without you. So make up your mind.”

  He bridged the few steps between them and grabbed her upper arms. “Don’t you understand yet?” he asked in a hushed voice. “These traditional rites are so old, no one knows why we even need them anymore or if we need them. As long as people believe that the Divinity protects them, it retains its power—control—over us all, over every aspect of our lives.”

  She pulled away, clutching at the vial of king’s blood hanging from her neck. “It may very well be a manipulation. Who knows? But we can’t take the risk.”

  “Oh? What are we risking, then?”

  Shaking her head, she shrugged. “Fine. I don’t have all the answers. But Olivia does. And she chose to perform the rite. I trust her judgment.”

  He turned away and sighed. “Then let’s go get her.”

  Great Divine, if only it were so simple. “I found out in Bournand that she’s bound in Courdeval. Who’s to say they’re not keeping her locked in her quarters, chained up with arcanir?”

  “If I took control of a palace, I know where I’d put my prisoners.”

  “The most secure part of the palace? Before we put ourselves in there, we should be sure our risk is warranted, shouldn’t we? It could be a trap.”

  Leigh scoffed, but didn’t reply.

  A loud boom roared from the south. She darted to a nearby window and looked out at the darkness of the city, lit only by the moon and the scattered fires beneath it. In the distance, a massive fiery glow rose over the city. A battle. Jon.

  “The Order is doing its job,” Leigh said. “It’s time to do ours.”

  “I—”

  “I’ll go in first.”

  Chewing her lower lip, she followed up to the fourth floor. So she’d managed to convince him to check Olivia’s quarters first, then. At least for now.

  Leigh cast his repulsion shield while she assumed a position to the side of the doorway.

  He entered the hall and cast a flurry of force-magic spells. Anguished cries and the crunch of bone—

  She stepped out of the doorway. Two guards lay on the floor, bent at odd angles.

  A third collided with the floor, the ceiling, and then the floor again.

  With earthsight, she scanned both hallways stemming from the tower stairwell. No more movement.

  Leigh stood ready, still as stone, his brow creased.

  She moved past him down the hallway toward Olivia’s quarters—no brightness there either. Empty.

  She dispelled the earthsight and, with a wave of her hand, lit the hallway’s many sconces. Tapestries saturated the walls, priceless antiques filled in alcoves, and the vaulted ceiling figured high above them in majestic, lofty arches. Most of the stained-glass windows were still intact, representing generations of monarchs in their immortalized glory.

  The Crag hadn’t ransacked the place. Their employer—the anonymous lords of Parliament calling themselves the Emaurrian Knot—had prioritized keeping the palace in good condition.

  Gilles would say he’d defended the capital and defeated the assassins and traitors who’d killed the Faralles. And who would remain to refute him?

  She wasn’t the only one who needed to find Olivia alive. All of Emaurria needed her alive.

  The Archmage’s quarters were unlocked, and they entered a parlor. Off the parlor were several doors—the first of which had a large blackwood desk covered in papers, artifacts, and supplies. The drawers and their contents lay scattered on the floor.

  The magic laboratory and the storeroom appeared much the same while the small library remained orderly. The Crag didn’t seem to think books were worth cracking.

  The last of the doors opened to private chambers. The dresser’s drawers were open haphazardly, the armoire emptied, the bed overturned, and the storage chest’s lid hung off its hinges against the foot of the bed. Next to her, a solemn Leigh browsed through the contents of a bookshelf.

  Olivia had lived in this room for the past few months: a vanity with toiletries, two night stands piled high with books and papers, a dresser in utter disarray, and a small table with writing implements and an incomplete drawing of a cat on some official document. Olivia’s quarters at the Tower had been full of sketches; her mind tended to wander when she mulled over a problem.

  Like the rite.

  On top was a requisition order for alchemy supplies. She flipped it over. Nothing. And beneath it, a letter: You say you can’t, but you want to. Meet me in the stables after the banquet. A moonlit ride. Just you and me.

  She ran a thumb over the ink. The words of a lover. Had the attack happened later, would Olivia have been safe, outside the palace, in the arms of her man? Someone honorable and steadfast like Jon, or mysterious and volatile like Brennan, cold and wry like Leigh. Did she love him? Would she see him again?

  A lump formed in the back of her throat, and she tried to swallow, but couldn’t.

  Leigh came up to her and put an arm around her shoulders. “We’ll find her.”

  They would. They had to. She nodded. “Let’s go. There’s nothing here.”

  He squeezed her shoulder gently, lowering his gaze to the drawing. “She always did have a cat thing.”

  He was stalling.

  “Leigh—”

  “Fine. Let’s go. The dungeon it is.”

  Stay, go, act, don’t—could he make up his mind? They had two goals tonight—Olivia and the rite. It was unlike him to be so hesitant. He’d always been a man who shrugged off opposition and smiled at challenge. Who boasted that, no matter what, he’d accomplish his goal.

  Who was he tonight? Eyeing his back warily, she headed for the door.

  Brennan popped his head up just long enough to spot the archers readying another volley from behind a cloak stall.

  Jon dropped to a crouch and took cover as they let their arrows fly. A pear flew off the top of the fruit stand and rolled across the ground, an arrow embedded in its flesh.

  “Is there an archer in this kingdom who doesn’t want to shoot you?” Brennan bit out.

  Jon peered around the stall’s edge. “I’ll let you know when I meet one.”

  Brennan followed his gaze. The archers were splitting their formation, some drawing swords.

  “They’re going to flank us,” Jon murmured.

  Brennan gathered a couple apples. “I’ll draw their fire, and when the opportunity arises to attack, you take it.”

  “Are you insane?” Jon’s gaze snapped to his. “Out of cover in nothing but leathers? You’ll be—”

  Brennan got in position to run. “I’ll be fine.” He flashed his teeth. “You’re the one they like to shoot so much, remember?”

  He bolted. Arrows dotting his wake, he ran in an arc away from the fruit stand. The arrows followed.

  Jon dashed to another stall and another and another until he crouched behind a spice display, just behind the archers.

  Arrows whizzing close by, Brennan dove toward a clothes rack. In midair, he hurled two apples—each hitting an archer in the forehead—and rolled to a landing through a shelf of boots. He darted toward the cloak stall and took cover on the opposite side.

  Only two remained, their hearts hurried and erratic. The rest approached the fruit stand with swords drawn.

  Br
ennan rounded the cloak stall and grabbed the two archers’ jerkins, knocked their heads together.

  He kicked aside their bodies and stayed in cover, just in case the swordsmen switched back to their bows.

  Metal cut the air. His ears perked.

  The crunch of blade connecting with body after body. The coppery scent of fresh blood competed with a cacophony of screams.

  He peeked around the cloak stall.

  Jon stood, blood-drenched, an arrow lodged in his armpit through a weak point in his armor. A scattered array of body parts, bows, armor, and fruit formed a grotesque circle around him.

  “Not bad,” he murmured under his breath. The arm of an archer jerked next to him. Brennan twisted his neck.

  Jon removed his blood-spattered helm. Its visor hadn’t protected his face from the crimson spray. He offered a grim nod to Brennan, then looked beyond the citadel toward the palace. “We’re close.” He shook off his sword and sheathed it.

  Brennan grabbed two black cloaks from the stand.

  Jon jerked his head toward the palace. “You can shop later. Let’s go.”

  Brennan tossed him a cloak, and Jon caught it, wincing. “It’s free now. You might not be able to afford it later, on a paladin’s wages.” He smirked. “Besides, we look like someone killed us, dug us up, and killed us again.”

  Jon strode toward him and past, grabbing hold of the arrow protruding from between his cuirass and pauldron—it had just barely split and penetrated his chain mail—and pulled it free with a grimace. He threw the black cloak about his shoulders.

  Donning his own, Brennan walked up to him. “Looks like your dodging still needs work.”

  “So did theirs.” Jon put on his helm once more as they headed toward Trèstellan.

  Rielle had seen this tapestry already—a man slaying a dragon. They had the same eyes. She turned the map of Trèstellan’s ground level. The door was supposed to be here somewhere. “Are you sure we haven’t been here already? I think we’re lost.”

  Leigh shrugged. “Whenever I came here, I didn’t exactly spend time wandering the halls. If we were trying to find our way around a bedchamber, however—”