Warrior Witch: Book Two, page 18
Jack’s eyes were still on Kye. “Today. Immediately. I know a marriage license can take time, but Sophia Becker is prepared to offer a generous tithe to help speed things along.”
Tears swam in Kye’s eyes. She swiped them away. Leaning forward, her hair fell just so, hiding her watery gaze behind a curtain of lovely platinum tresses.
Marnie abandoned her coffee on the cart, too entranced to drink anything. She couldn’t decide if she felt pleased to be included or flustered Jack had tried so hard to keep her out of something so momentous. Did he honestly think that if he loved a woman, she’d ever do anything to jeopardize that? Clearly, Kye wasn’t a rodent! Then she studied him a little harder, remembering his comment about making plans by ear, and wondered if proposing here and now was his intention all along.
“A tithe”—Doyle said the word like it tasted acrid in his mouth—“won’t be necessary with me. I would consider it a privilege to wed the renowned warrior witch to his bride. May I inquire what the hurry is about, though?”
“There is a reason. An inconvenience, more like.” Jack reached across Kye’s lap and took her hand. She squeezed his palm fiercely enough to turn her knuckles white. “Please keep in mind, Sophia Becker is prepared to give a very, very generous tithe to assist in handling the matter smoothly and quickly, should someone else require one.”
“Very generous,” Marnie added, patting her fat handbag.
“Oh, this ought to be good,” Ren said, leaning back in his armchair. Marnie remained standing, too full of nervous energy to attempt to sit.
“Kye is from Stejin,” Jack began. “Her master has arranged a pairing with a priest she does not know. A man significantly older than her.”
“Oh dear,” Doyle said. “I’m afraid I’ll have to stop you right there. If Kye is already paired, there is little I’m able to do. I’m a Silk District priest. I have no jurisdiction over matters in Stejin.”
Marnie perched herself on the arm of Ren’s chair. “Luckily, I know a priest from Stejin.” She patted his shoulder.
His lips quirked. “A friend of yours?”
“A good friend of mine, some of the time,” she said. “A bishop who, if I understand it correctly, has jurisdiction any damn place he pleases.”
Ren shuffled to the edge of his chair, green eyes searching Jack. “Tell me, warrior witch, are you confident you have the means to take care of this woman?”
Jack opened his mouth, but it was Kye who spoke for them. “I’m a huntress with a degree of skill. I take care of myself just fine.”
“Has a bride price been paid?”
Kye nodded. “I plan to pay it back. I’ve made the first payment already. A considerable one.”
“I’ll pay it,” Marnie said. “Today. How much is it?”
Cheeks pink, Kye whispered an amount in Jack’s ear. Judging by the way his eyes went big and round, it was a lot. He motioned Marnie over. She leaned in to hear him better.
“Diridge’s flaming balls,” Marnie said, back stiffening. Doyle went pink in the face. Ren snorted. Clearing her throat, she recovered quickly. “Of course, you’re worth every penny, Kye. It will be paid. Every note of it. Today.”
Ren’s eyes were piercing as they studied Kye. “And this is what you want? You want us to wed you to this man? What of your home, your family, your people?”
Kye squeezed Jack’s hand in both of hers. “I want him to be my people. Where he goes, I go.”
Ren stared at her, emotions warring in his face. He tapped a staccato beat into the arm of his chair with the horse crop. “It isn’t right that you should have to hurry into one marriage just to free yourself from another. Pairings were not intended to trap a witch, but it’s clear you feel that way. Desperate. Please, tell me your name?”
“Kylan,” she said.
“Kylan, like the saint of the hunt. How fitting. Kylan, I’ll free you from the burden of this arranged pairing, but I won’t allow your union with Jack. Not today, at least. No witch should be forced into such a partnership so quickly, so blindly. I feel the urgent panic in you both. I’m sure this is not how either of you planned to end your day today.”
“What you offer is more than fair. Unfortunately, it won’t bring me the freedom I seek. My master will simply pair me with another priest, and I do not wish to be paired.”
Ren mulled that over, rubbing his clean-shaven chin. “To rectify this, I will make it clear that, should any further arrangements be made for your hand, they shall not be authorized by the Cloth unless Kylan’s wholehearted permission has been secured first. Is this acceptable to you?”
She glanced at Jack. “Yes. Very.” Her eyes crinkled, and the corners of her mouth turned up. “I can’t believe it.”
One at a time, the bishop removed his boots. The room fell silent, all eyes intent on Ren as his hands worked his feet free.
Then he gave them to Kye.
An old witch gesture of good faith with so much feeling Marnie was too choked up to speak. Even Doyle’s eyes turned glassy.
Kye sniffed, and Jack put an arm around her. She laid the boots in her lap, hands trembling. “Thank you,” she said softly.
“It shall be done,” Ren said. “In the way of the witch, until I honor our deal, please keep those for me.”
“I’ll keep them well.” Then she set them aside and hugged his neck.
“That was good of you, Bishop,” Marnie said, wiping her eyes. Jack remained quiet, back rigid. She could not decide if the look on his face was relief or grief.
Probably, he couldn’t decide either.
***
Ren dressed handsomely for the function, Marnie thought. He’d make the cover of a tabloid for sure in his black finery and matching bowtie. Her favorite part of his ensemble was, of course, his lack of shoes. True to his word, Kye would keep his boots until the deal was done—the deal was already settled for the most part, the bishop confided in the back of the motorcar. All would be finalized once Marnie’s reimbursement of the bride price arrived at the priest in the mountains.
A man of his word, he told her he would not don another pair of shoes until Kye was wholly free of her unwanted engagement.
They arrived at the Silk District Amphitheater, a gigantic circular structure dotted with stone statues of the Church’s favored priests—deceased saints, they called them in Stejin. Ren helped Marnie out of the motorcar, then detoured her away from the crowded entrance to a small courtyard with an elaborate fountain. The water display was intricate, shooting high and landing with enough force that Marnie felt it misting the side of her arm as they maneuvered by. It was an unusually cool evening. The skies threatened to storm soon.
“I wanted to introduce you,” he said, his easy smile wide, gesturing to a statue of a bearded saint bedecked in ancient clothing and a stone stole.
Marnie curtsied to it playfully in her bright blue chiffon evening gown. “A pleasure to meet you, sir.”
He chuckled at her. Then he left her side to stand beside the statue, leaning against the stone priest. “Saint Renald, my namesake. You’d like him, Marnie. He is beloved for many things. A gifted academic and writer, he discovered a variety of runes and spirit symbols in his studies and travels, but my favorite thing about him—an unsung thing—was his love of witches.”
Marnie scrunched her nose up at him.
Ren cleared his throat. “Not the carnal kind of love, Marnie. I didn’t mean it like that. He lived amongst a community of witches for a time. It was very daring of him back then. Witches warred openly with the priests intent on enslaving them when he was around.”
“Oh? Well, that’s better than what I imagined. I’ve heard of the Priest Renald. We studied his pilgrimage through the mountains in school. His book on the subject made for terribly dull reading.” She lowered her voice teasingly. “I admit, I barely skimmed it.”
Ren’s mouth fell open in mock outrage. “How ever did you graduate?”
“Copied off Jack during the test, I’m afraid. I’ve always loved numbers and the sciences, but don’t ever make me write essays about dull books . . .” She made a sour face.
He guffawed. “I love dull books, and I won’t tolerate you insulting them. Best to change the subject, then . . . Renald’s wife was a witch, renowned for being lovely, and it’s rumored she could ride magic. Sound familiar?”
“Now that is fascinating. Had she been in the book, I might have paid more attention. Take me to a statue of her, and I’ll talk to it all day.”
“I think I would, too. Renald loved her desperately. She fell mysteriously ill with a sleeping sickness. The writings are not clear how, but he cured her with spirit magic, earning her hand in marriage, his fame, and the title of saint upon his death.”
“Then, do you pray to him? The way I pray to the spirit Soshua or Sidra?”
“I do. Like you pray to Saint Sidra,” he teased.
She rolled her eyes. “Has he ever powered a rite for you?”
“I haven’t asked him to. I usually seek his blessings when I pray, though, or his guidance.”
Marnie studied him, fascinated and genuinely made curious by his devotion. “And does he answer your prayers, do you think?”
“I believe he guides me, yes. Not the same way Sidra can, mind you.”
“Some spirits—saints—are more powerful than others,” she offered.
“But he does guide me. This path I’ve found myself on, the one that landed me a bishop seat so young with the call I feel to better things for witches and to grow our knowledge . . . I believe it is his influence on my life. He did not approve of the quarreling between witches and priests in his lifetime. He would not approve of the unrest and mistreatment now.”
Marnie slipped her arm around his, leaning into him companionably. “I think that’s wonderful, Ren. Your mother named you well.”
“She did a lot of things well.”
He led her inside, through a press of bodies. Marnie felt their curious eyes falling on her, drinking her in. Then the whispers started, and her blood pressure spiked.
“It’s because you’re lovely,” Ren whispered, as big a flirt as ever. “They can’t look away.”
“It’s because I’m a witch.” She touched the Sidra star for comfort. When that did not work, her fingers twisted in the silver chain about her neck, the one holding her bone ring hidden in the bodice of her dress. It helped her best.
“It’s both,” he reassured her, patting her hand. They took their seats toward the back of the amphitheater just as the lights dimmed and the music started.
His camaraderie comforted her through the craning necks and long glances. She made it to the end of the musical performance feeling only mildly distressed and slightly claustrophobic amidst the rows and rows of bodies seated so close. All of them priests and their wives and families.
Her enemies.
She felt a twinge of shame at thinking of them that way.
This wasn’t so bad. She’d survive, she decided. Thunderous applause brought on an encore and another rendition of the Spirit Soshua’s Symphony. Then the lights rose in the auditorium and the seats began to empty. Ren guided her into the ballroom.
Gilded chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings, casting a soft and intimate light. An expansive hardwood dancefloor disappeared beneath a scattering of rounded tables. Beside the entrance was an ancient hanging of quilted leather—a banner of the Cloth that displayed its tenets. There is only one God headed it in an archaic script that was difficult to read with its loops and strikes. It ended with Beware the use of organic magic.
Priests from generations ago had used quilted images as banners and a means of spreading their early teachings, earning them the name Church of the Cloth by the people. Marnie tried not to frown at it—tried not to think of it as her adversaries’ banner—realizing if she wanted them to see her differently, she’d have to extend the same courtesy. She could try harder to value an institution with such history. Marnie put a smile on her face and fought to think of the good they had done: wars they had stopped, kingdoms they’d united, schools they’d built.
The good they could still do.
The dance floor was already filling with bodies. Ren ushered her to the center of it with his rakish charm and an enthusiasm that was impossible to turn down. He was a lovely dancer, but Marnie tired quickly. She had been resisting sleep to avoid bad dreams. It was taking its toll on her energy reserves.
“I hope you don’t mind if I sit down for a while after this one,” Marnie said during a slow ballad. At another time, the closeness of their bodies and the weight of his hand on her hip would have made Marnie a little uncomfortable, but Ren’s teasing nature made him unthreatening. She enjoyed his company.
“I suppose that’s all right. If you don’t mind, though, I’d like to carry on dancing.”
“By yourself?”
“I wanted this night to be a success, so you were not the only witch I extended an invitation to.” Ren gestured behind them.
Marnie spotted Shar, and her face split into a smile. The two witches embraced. Shar was elegance personified in a dress as bright as a sunrise. The frock was shorter than was fashionable, showing off her midnight legs. She stood out stark and bright amongst the more muted and modest attire donned by the other women, but Shar did not seem to notice. Or did not care, more likely. A witch through and through. Marnie admired her boldness.
Shar took Ren’s arm and ushered him into the next dance. Marnie found herself a small, quiet table in the back of the room, not far from the kitchen doors. Servers offered champagne and finger foods. She accepted a small glass of water.
“May I sit?”
Bran’s voice so close left her gasping.
“You hate parties. What are you doing here . . . ?” Marnie spun toward him, shocked. How could he sneak up on her, as aware of him as she usually was? She must truly be spent.
“I heard a rumor that the devastatingly beautiful ‘hero witch’ would be in attendance tonight. I don’t usually care for parties, but with you for company, I stand a fair chance of enjoying myself. Now, may I sit?”
His presence washed over her. The masculine heat of him, the smell of an autumn night. Her face filled with color. Recovering, she smiled up and up and up at him because, from her seated position, he appeared mountainous. “Are you the emperor, or aren’t you? Surely you can sit wherever you wish to.”
He looked resplendent in black evening wear, a kissable grin on his lips. Bran straightened his bowtie, then he pulled up a chair right next to her and sat. “I assumed you would frown upon being seen beside me at a function like this full of so many priestly types. So I thought I’d ask first. If this isn’t all right, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”
“There’s nothing frightening about innocently sitting next to you in a crowded room. And yes, I’d tell you.”
“I see.” He scooted in closer. “How about now?” Marnie’s breath caught, and he smiled serenely in response.
“Still perfectly acceptable,” she said, trying not to remember the last time they were together, because the intrusive memories fogged her mind and left her feeling boneless.
“You wouldn’t dare take it further, though, of course. That would be much too loud, wouldn’t it? Draw too much attention?” The look he gave her nearly melted her to the floor.
“I know what you’re doing, Bran. You shouldn’t play with fire.” It was probably pointless to hope he didn’t notice how her skin was pebbling, every hair on her arms rising to attention.
“Don’t worry, Marnie. I agree with you. These people look terrifying.” He indicated a frail elderly couple a table over. “They would surely throw food at us if you so much as . . . held my hand, let’s say.” He laid his hand, palm up, on the table.
“You’re goading me,” she ground out.
“You know it, and it’s still working. I find that delightful.” He beamed at her.
She glanced briefly around the room. A mechanized piano accompanied a live band playing string instruments on a low, makeshift stage beside the dance floor. Marnie scooted in her seat, chair legs scratching the ballroom floor until their seats were touching. Ignoring his offered hand, she grabbed his knee, squeezing brutally under the table.
“It’s working,” she agreed, not thrilled about the truth of it, but breathless and ready for him all the same. Marnie walked her fingers up his thigh, lingering near his belt. “When this gets out of hand, you just remember who started it.”
“It couldn’t possibly get out of hand,” he said, eyes hooded, voice gravelly. “You wouldn’t dare kiss me now, so there’s nothing to worry about.”
Marnie straightened, snatching her hand back. “I wouldn’t.” She looked at him sideways. “I shouldn’t . . .”
He showed his teeth in pure, unadulterated challenge. “Perhaps you’re right. A witch shouldn’t kiss the emperor. Certainly not here in front of all these men of the Cloth. It would scandalize them.” He lowered his voice, tone daring. “Witches should remember their place.”
Her mouth fell open at that, but she recuperated quickly. “Well played, Lord LaFontaine. Unfortunately, I’m the guest of another man at this function. Kissing you here and now would be rude.”
“Isn’t it a well-known aspect of your culture that witches are unrestrained and able to be free with whomever they wish?” His brown gaze sparkled with mischief.
She laughed. “Why yes, it is a common aspect of witch culture.” She lifted out of her seat just enough to see beyond Bran, knees bent, looking around.
“What are you doing?”
“Searching for a man to be free with, now that you’ve brought it up. I had forgotten exclusivity was beneath me.”
Chuckling, Bran hauled her back down into her chair. “Well played, Marnie. Point for you.” He used the opportunity, once she was settled, to leave a hand on her thigh. She was grateful the tablecloths were long enough to conceal his exploration. “One kiss?” he whispered.
Marnie’s eyes immediately went to his lips, and her blood stirred. Her mind wandered. She was no longer in a ballroom, surrounded by crowds of bodies. Instead, they were back at the palace, in the library, his head between her legs. Her sharp intake of breath probably slipped his notice in the loud, bustling dance hall, but the heat in her face, the deep shade of red staining her chest, that was unmistakable.
