The Queen's Price, page 12
“Thank you, Beale. Could you put these in Prince Sadi’s study?” Daemonar handed the papers containing Grizande’s and Jaalan’s bloodlines to the butler. Then he smiled at the girl as if he wasn’t sharply aware that her Jewel was darker than his and a fight could leave both of them injured—or dead. “Shall we go up?”
She nodded and started to follow him, then looked back at the kitten, who seemed attached to the floor. When Liath gave the tiger a nudge, Jaalan leaped up and the two kindred led the way to the square of guest rooms that were used for people who weren’t given access to the rest of the Hall.
“Your . . . guests?” Grizande sounded puzzled. Unsure.
Something about the way she said words gave him the impression she didn’t know much of the common tongue that was spoken by the Blood throughout the Realm, and that what she did know had been learned recently.
“Prince Sadi is my uncle. This is his home. He’s not here this evening, so I am standing in his place, and that makes you and Jaalan my guests.”
“That . . . other?” Wariness. Some fear, despite the Jewels she wore.
What would make a Sapphire-Jeweled witch afraid of an Opal-Jeweled Queen?
“Lady Zoela lives here now. She’s a Queen in training.”
Grizande stopped moving. The look in her green eyes reminded him of a warrior searching for an enemy before he stepped into a fight—or deliberately walked into an ambush in order to flush out his enemies. Watching her, he guessed she was a fighter like the Dea al Mon more than an Eyrien—and he wondered how much she already knew about fighting with a knife, if she used a knife instead of her claws.
“More . . .” She said a word in her own language.
“Five Queens live here, plus some Healers, Black Widows, and witches,” Daemonar said. “There are also Warlord Princes, Princes, and Warlords. We’re all here to study Craft and Protocol from Prince Sadi and to learn the workings of a court.”
“He is . . . teacher?”
Oh, that sparked her interest.
“He is.” When he continued toward the sitting room where a meal had been laid out, she matched him stride for stride, whatever concern she had about being in a place that contained Queens momentarily forgotten.
Unhappy sounds came from the sitting room. Daemonar lengthened his stride and wrapped a tight Green shield around himself. Not because he thought he would need it but because he didn’t want to get his ass kicked for not doing it.
He stopped a few steps into the room.
Food on the table. A Green shield around the table. One stern and growling Sceltie Warlord Prince—and one grumbling kitten standing on his hind legs to see the food out of his reach.
“Jaalan is hungry,” Grizande said softly. Apologetically. As if there was some shame attached to the young tiger’s hunger.
So are you, Daemonar thought as he studied her. Both of them were exhausted and half-starved. What had it cost Grizande to get herself and Jaalan here? She said she had come to the Hall for help, for safety, but why bring the tiger?
“Over here,” he said, leading her to a door.
She followed him, casting glances at the food on the table.
How to ask questions without making her feel inferior? “Do you know this kind of plumbing?” he asked when he led her into the bathroom adjoining the sitting room. When she hesitated, he turned the water taps on the sink. “Hot water and cold water.” He turned those off and lifted the toilet lid. “Toilet for pee and . . .” If she’d been male, he wouldn’t have hesitated to talk about bodily functions, but he wasn’t sure if that was considered taboo among her people.
Grizande’s lips twitched. “Pee and other.”
Daemonar grinned. “Yeah. That.” He stepped out of the bathroom. “We’ll have something to eat when you’re ready.”
As he approached the table, the kitten looked more than willing to pounce on him to convince him to give up some of the food. Until Liath growled again. The kitten was bigger than the Sceltie, but that didn’t seem to matter. As far as Jaalan was concerned, Liath was in charge—of all of them.
*Beale?* Daemonar called on a psychic thread.
*Prince? Do you need assistance?*
*No, we’re fine for now. But I think Lady Nadene should take a look at our guests if you can think of a way to make that happen without causing distress.*
*We can do that,* Beale replied.
Daemonar closed his eyes. Quiet. Confident. Easy. He swallowed the emotions churning inside him, leashed the instincts that demanded he give more forceful help to this female who needed the safety he—and Beale—could provide. What he felt didn’t matter. Not right now.
Grizande came out of the bathroom. Daemonar hadn’t heard the toilet flush, so he wasn’t sure if she hadn’t used it or didn’t know how to flush the waste. He’d let Helene know.
“Thanks, Liath,” he said. “You can drop the shield now.”
He’d been prepared for the kitten’s leap to grab some food, but Liath was faster. The kitten hung in the air before being set down near the table.
Grizande said something that sounded like a scold, but it was the sadness under that scold that scraped at Daemonar.
“I am . . . sorry,” she said as she approached the table.
“No need to be,” he replied as he poured water into a shallow bowl and set it on the floor for the kindred dog and kitten. “I have a little brother who does much the same thing.”
She smiled and took a seat.
Daemonar eyed the food and realized the bowl of raw meat wasn’t meant for him and Grizande. At least he assumed it wasn’t. Taking a small plate, he filled it with a quarter of the chunks of raw meat and used Craft to set it on the floor near the table.
Liath growled. Jaalan didn’t make any move toward the dish, but he did make sounds that Daemonar figured would have kicked the instincts of an adult tiger into giving up some food. Too bad the kitten was dealing with a Sceltie.
Liath approached the dish, carefully sniffed the meat, took one chunk, then stepped back—a signal for the kitten to eat. The meat was gone in seconds.
Daemonar moved the roasted chicken within Grizande’s reach. She ripped off a whole leg with a speed that startled him because the move looked . . . and felt . . . feral. And desperate.
“Easy,” he said, placing his hand over hers.
She immediately dropped the chicken leg and looked . . . ashamed?
“You can have as much food as you want,” he said gently, “but I can tell you from experience that if you eat too fast when you’re empty, you’ll end up with a bellyache.” He released her hand, then tore off the other chicken leg and set it on his plate.
“You have been hunger?” She sounded like she didn’t quite believe him.
He thought for a moment before nodding. “Because I was focused on boy things and food wasn’t immediately available, not because there wasn’t any. So I came home very hungry, ate too fast—and learned about bellyaches.”
She bit into the thigh, and he could see the effort it took for her not to gulp down the meat as fast as possible. Had speed been essential to getting any food because there was competition for what was available—or because there was fear that it might be taken away?
Who was this girl who could trace her bloodline back to Grizande and Elan and yet arrived at the Hall frightened and starving?
She took another bite. Chewed. Swallowed. “Boy things?”
He grinned. “My grandmother’s term for all the objects and adventures that male children find fascinating.”
Liath and Jaalan’s plate, licked clean, rose up to the height of the table.
*Daemonar?* Liath said. *We are ready for more meat.*
Nodding, he filled the plate with another quarter of the raw meat and used Craft to set the plate on the floor, just in case the kitten forgot his manners.
Same steps. Liath sniffing the meat and taking one chunk before Jaalan ate the rest.
Grizande had devoured every scrap of meat off the chicken leg and now eyed the rest of the chicken, her battle between hunger and manners visible on her face.
Daemonar took two biscuits out of a basket and broke them in half. He spread one side of one biscuit with a creamed cheese. He spread the other side with a thin layer of butter and . . . “This currant jam comes from Tigrelan. You won’t find it in any of the shops here. My uncle buys it directly from whoever makes the jam in your Territory, so it’s a special treat, not something that shows up on our table every day.” He set the two halves of the biscuit on a small plate and set it in front of her before fixing his own biscuit and taking a bite.
She took a small bite of the half with the creamed cheese, made a face, and set it aside. He’d bet his quarterly spending money that she wouldn’t have set it aside yesterday, whether she liked it or not.
She savored the half with the currant jam. “I not have like this. We pick berries and eat.”
“I’ve never had the berries right off the bush. Are they good?”
“Good.”
“More chicken?” When she nodded, he sliced the meat off one side of the breast and put it on her plate. Then he refilled Liath and Jaalan’s plate before forcing himself to eat a few bites. He was hungry, but he felt too tense, too tight, to put much food in his belly.
He swallowed a couple bites of chicken before easing into what he and Beale needed to know. “How did you find the Hall?”
She made a shape with her hands and said a couple of words in her own tongue.
Daemonar shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
She thought for a moment, made the shape again, and said, “Sister.” Then the two words she’d said before.
Sister. Older sister, if the female had that shape? Or . . . “Hourglass. Sister of the Hourglass. Black Widow.”
Grizande nodded. “Black Widow. Web seeing. Says Jaalan and I must find Witch home or die. Helped me. Helped us before . . .”
“Before someone came hunting for you,” Daemonar finished quietly.
She nodded. “Tigre Black Widow not know where to find Witch home. Took many days to find. Took asking many people. Some worked for bad Queens, and I had to fight to escape again. Always running from bad Queens and males who hunt. Finally found woman who knew this place. Said I find Witch home here.” She looked at the remaining food with regret and sat back in her chair as a sign that she was done eating.
He wondered if the woman who knew this place quietly sold jars of currant jam for the SaDiablo table. He didn’t know what Grizande had experienced, but he had a feeling that his father would understand all too well. “You don’t have to say more tonight. Prince Sadi will want to know all of it, but those are words for tomorrow.”
A knock on the door before Helene and Nadene walked into the room.
“This is Lady Helene, the Hall’s housekeeper,” Daemonar said. “And Lady Nadene is the Hall’s Healer.”
Grizande pushed away from the table, alarmed. “Healer?”
“A rule of the house,” Helene said briskly, as if she hadn’t noticed the girl’s rising panic. “Every guest is checked over by the Healer to assess the scrapes and bruises they have when they first arrive.” She gave Daemonar a pointed look.
“Hey,” he protested, understanding what she wanted from him. “I don’t always show up with scrapes and bruises.”
“Not anymore.” Helene sniffed. “There was a time when you couldn’t get from the landing web to the front door without looking like you’d been on a three-day march through rough country. Which is why the rule was established and has not changed.”
He turned to Grizande. “I was little.”
Damned embarrassing, but the girl almost smiled, so it was worth the price.
“House rule,” Helene repeated, holding out a hand. Then she glanced at the kitten. “Come along. Bath and bed, I think. You’ve both had a long day.”
“Welcome to the Hall, Grizande,” Daemonar said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“In morning.” Grizande hesitated a moment, then walked up to Helene and slipped her hand into the housekeeper’s. The girl’s retractable claws could rip Helene’s arm to the bone, and they all knew it—and they all pretended that nothing would frighten the girl or the kitten so much that it would happen.
Daemonar waited until two maids came in to clear the table and tidy the room. After suggesting they check the bathroom in case he’d left out some instruction their guest needed, he made his way to his own room, where he would have the privacy to release all the churning feelings he’d held back while he’d been with Grizande.
His stomach ached, but he couldn’t tell if it was because he hurt for Grizande and Jaalan or because he was hungry. He just knew he couldn’t sit at a table with children tonight, couldn’t remain civil while they speculated about Uncle Daemon’s guests. And as sure as the sun didn’t shine in Hell, he did not want to deal with Zoey.
But it looked like he was going to deal with his sister.
Titian stood in front of his bedroom door, her expression a mixture of distress and fury.
He couldn’t remember ever seeing fury before. And this display of her temper frayed the leash on his when he already felt raw.
“You owe Zoey an apology,” Titian said.
“No, I do not.”
“She’s been crying.”
“Too bad.”
Titian looked outraged. A year ago, she wouldn’t have shown that much steel. She’d had it in her, but she wouldn’t have shown it. “I’ll tell Father.”
His temper snapped the leash. “Go ahead. I gave Zoey a verbal slap for what she did. Father would have given her a fist in the ribs.”
Her mouth fell open in shock. “She was trying to help.”
“But she wasn’t helping, Titian. Her presence was causing that girl pain, and if I hadn’t stopped Zoey, Grizande might have run, because right now she’s just too tired to fight. And if she ran, she could have died.” That was one of the things that was chewing at his gut—the certainty of how close a Sapphire-Jeweled witch had come to dying because of Zoey. “Beale told Zoey he would take care of Prince Sadi’s guest. I told her we would take care of her. But Zoey was so determined to do things her way that she didn’t listen.”
Daemonar moved Titian to one side and opened his door. Then he looked at his sister. “If you want to give Zoey hugs and pat her hand and say there, there, you go right ahead. But don’t you kick at me for doing my duty to the patriarch of this family and the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan.” And my Queen. “Don’t you ever do that again.”
He walked into his bedroom and slammed the door in Titian’s face. Then he pressed his hands against his face and allowed himself to feel all the things he’d chained under the pretense of easy manners while he’d talked about food and currant jam, while he’d played the game with Helene to lighten the mood and make it possible for Grizande to trust all of them enough to receive the help she needed.
Fear. Pain. Where had this girl been that she didn’t know the common tongue among all the Blood?
Fierce. A fighter. But how long can someone fight before they have nothing left and break?
Lucivar would know. So would Daemon. Except they had forced themselves to stand and fight again, even when there was nothing left. Had Grizande done that?
A tap on the glass door that opened onto the balcony that ringed the courtyard.
Holt.
Daemonar crossed the room and opened the glass door.
“Rough?” Holt asked quietly.
“Rough,” Daemonar agreed.
“Did you get any food?”
“Not much.”
“You want some?”
He shook his head. “Not right now. Wouldn’t sit well.” He tried to smile. “They need help, Holt. They really do.”
“They’ll get it.” Holt hesitated. “Beale has already informed Lord Weston that, regardless of Lady Zoela’s feelings, Weston can have no quarrel with you.”
A warning to Zoey’s sword and shield that Daemonar hadn’t crossed any lines.
Holt rested a hand on his shoulder, a moment’s touch. “Get some rest. We’ll take care of whatever else is needed tonight.”
“Thanks.”
A hot shower eased the soreness in his tense muscles but did nothing to soothe the raw churning in his gut or the ache in his heart. He’d never lashed out at Titian like that before. Hadn’t thought it possible. But . . .
Fear. Pain. Grizande, what did they do to you?
* * *
* * *
When all the young people had retired for the evening, leaving the staff free to take care of preparations for the next day, Beale waited in Prince Sadi’s study for the senior members of the staff to join him and make their reports. He’d chosen the Prince’s study because it would be private—and it was large enough to hold all the people who needed to be present.
Mrs. Beale arrived first. “The Dharo Boy is looking through my books to find the recipes I used for the Tigre during the Lady’s time here. The girl can’t live on currant jam and chicken.” She frowned at Beale. “Did Prince Yaslana request a meal from the auxiliary kitchen? He ate next to nothing while talking to the girl.”
His wife knew as well as he did that Daemonar hadn’t requested any food. If the boy turned down food in the morning, something would need to be done. Daemonar had stepped up to the line, and Beale had let the boy take the lead because the girl had responded to his name, had trusted his name.
The girl hadn’t trusted Lady Zoela. Had looked at a Queen and seen an enemy.
And Daemonar had done what needed to be done to protect both girls—and had received an emotional hit on behalf of one of those girls as thanks.
Something else he would mention to Prince Sadi, along with what he’d gleaned about the spitting and spatting going on among the females today. Another day of that and the boys would be pulled into the scrapping, arguing with the girls and with one another about who was right and who was wrong when what they should be concentrating on was who would get their asses kicked for this excess of emotions.
