The Queen's Price, page 16
The sitting room door opened. Prince Sadi stood in the corridor, waiting.
Zoey hesitated. “Can I still have the lessons?”
“Yes, you can.”
She bowed. “Lady.”
“Little Sister.”
Zoey walked out of the sitting room. The door closed. Prince Sadi said nothing.
“I got scolded,” Zoey finally said.
“Did you think you wouldn’t?” he asked mildly.
“She’s . . .” Terrifying. And yet . . .
“Yes, she is.”
As they walked back to the sitting room where the rest of their group waited, it occurred to Zoey that Witch was the Queen of Ebon Askavi—and Daemon Sadi had been married to her.
If he could be married to her . . .
She began to appreciate just how dangerous he was.
TWENTY
Ebon Rih
Daemonar landed in the flagstone courtyard outside his family’s eyrie. He appreciated not being stuck in the Coach with the girls, especially since Grizande was the only one who didn’t look ready to fall on him weeping and wailing. Lucivar was acting as the barrier between the girls on the short trip from the Keep to the eyrie—and may the Darkness have mercy on any girl who crossed him.
“Mother?” Daemonar called as soon as he walked into the eyrie’s large front room. “Mother?”
His brother Andulvar would be in school for another hour or so. It was possible Marian was in Riada doing some extra shopping to accommodate guests tonight.
Had anyone told her about the tiger?
*I’m getting the guest rooms ready,* Marian said before Daemonar released a Green psychic probe to locate her. Women, including mothers, could get fairly exercised about having a male track them down when they wanted some privacy.
Boyo, unless there’s a reason to assume she’s in trouble, give your mother a minute to respond. And if you’re going to use Craft to locate her, be subtle about it or risk getting whacked upside the head.
His mother wore Purple Dusk; he wore Green. Even so, it had taken him a while—and a few whacks—to figure out how to be subtle.
He headed for the part of the eyrie that held the guest rooms. He found her in the best guest room, smoothing the covers on the bed.
“Uncle Daemon said he’s staying at the Keep tonight,” Daemonar said.
“So I was told,” Marian replied.
He frowned at the bed. “You’re giving Zoey the best room?”
“Zoey is staying in the guest room close to Titian’s room, where the children’s guests usually stay.”
If Zoey and Titian weren’t romantic, a cot would have been set up in Titian’s room so the girls could stay together. But romance—and sex—had strict rules, at least within the family, so Zoey slept in her own room.
“You’re giving this room to Grizande?”
Marian gave him a look that had a sharp edge. “You have some objection to that?”
“None at all.” A challenge. His mother was a bit riled about something. “Did Father mention the tiger kitten?”
“He did.” Marian stared at him. “No guest will be made to feel unwelcome in our home.”
Whoa. Seriously riled.
He suddenly stood on slippery ground and had no idea why.
Daemonar blew out a breath. “I like her. I like them. I have no quarrel with Grizande and Jaalan.”
Marian sighed, walked up to him, and kissed his cheek. “My apologies. Some things stir up old memories.” She hesitated. “Old wounds. When I first arrived in Kaeleer, someone made me feel unwelcome, encouraged me to feel inferior. Unworthy of time and attention even though I deserved both.”
Daemonar put his arms around her. “What can I do?”
She hugged him hard, then eased back and smiled. “Just be your father’s son.”
* * *
* * *
As soon as Daemon set the Coach down on the landing web below the eyrie, Lucivar opened the door and gave Titian and Zoey permission to leave. They pelted up the stairs, not giving Grizande a backward glance.
He approached the Tigre girl and the kitten from the back of the Coach. Daemon stepped out of the driver’s compartment and approached from the front. Realizing she was caught between two powerful Warlord Princes, Grizande slowly rose to her feet while Jaalan pressed against her legs.
She would fight. Even knowing she couldn’t win, she would fight—because she just might last long enough to get away. Maybe that’s how she survived whatever had happened in Tigrelan.
The girl had backbone. He approved.
“I have noisy children,” Lucivar said. “There are only three of them. . . .”
“Who sometimes sound like three dozen,” Daemon added dryly.
Lucivar nodded. “If you need some quiet time, you let us know. That goes for the kitten too.”
He watched the way she looked at him, then at Daemon. Thinking. Reassessing. Gambling that they could be trusted.
“I say if noisy too big,” she said.
“Okay. Then let’s go up to the eyrie.” Lucivar walked out of the Coach.
“Do you fear heights?” Daemon asked Grizande.
“Heights?” She stepped out of the Coach. Her eyes widened as she looked around and saw the valley below them.
“High places,” Daemon said. “Allow me.” He wrapped a hand around one of her arms and pointed to the stairs with the other. “Lucivar’s home is up there.”
The kitten seemed frozen in the doorway of the Coach. Too many changes for one so young?
Rather than have Jaalan bolt and take a tumble on the mountain, Lucivar grabbed the kitten and settled him in his arms like some oversized, furry baby. Either the kitten was too startled to object or he was used to being held this way, even if the person now holding him was a stranger.
Lucivar reached the flagstone courtyard and was about to put Jaalan down when Andulvar flew in at a reckless speed. Daemon held the girl. Lucivar held the kitten and watched his youngest barely manage to backwing and land without ending up in a heap.
“Is that a cat?” Andulvar asked, his eyes on the kitten. “I saw you arrive when I left the school eyrie.”
Well, that explained the boy’s hurry to get home.
“Can you say hello to our guests?” Lucivar said.
“Hello.” That aimed at the kitten.
“The other guests?”
Andulvar blinked, then turned his head. “Hi, Uncle Daemon.” He gave more of his attention to Grizande as he reached for Jaalan. “Who are you? Is this your cat?”
“Boyo, you’re fondling the tail of a Warlord Prince,” Lucivar said.
“Huh?”
“This is Lady Grizande,” Daemon said. “That is Prince Jaalan.”
The titles seeped into his boy’s brain. “They’re Blood?”
“They are Blood,” Lucivar agreed. Then he sighed. The boy was focused on the cat. The kitten was focused on the boy’s wings. “Come on.”
Lucivar led his guests and son into the eyrie, then turned and took the kitten through the glass doors that led to the play yard. He set Jaalan on the grass and gave boy and kitten a stern look. “No teeth, no claws, no fists. Play nice or you won’t be allowed to play together. Understood?”
“Yes, Papa,” Andulvar said.
Lucivar wasn’t sure how much the kitten understood, but the adults would soon find out. “All right. Go play.” He walked back into the eyrie and looked at Grizande, who watched the kitten bound after the boy. “There are shields around the yard to keep them from falling off the mountain. They’ll be all right.” More or less.
“Big noisy stay outside?” Grizande asked.
Daemon chuckled.
Lucivar grinned. “Yeah. Until the big noisy is tired enough to be quiet.” He sensed Marian’s presence a moment before she entered the front room. “Marian, this is Grizande. Witchling, this is my wife, Marian.”
He felt Grizande brace for an attack.
Marian walked up to Daemon first and gave him a kiss on the cheek before turning to the girl. “Welcome, Grizande. I have a room ready for you, if you’d like to see it.” She frowned. “Where is . . . ?”
A happy shout coming from the play yard.
“Oh,” Marian said. “Well, they can’t get into too much trouble out there.”
“One Warlord Prince is Lucivar’s son and the other is a tiger kitten,” Daemon said in a tone that sounded insincerely helpful. “How much trouble can they be?”
Marian smacked Daemon’s arm and huffed while she tried not to laugh.
Grizande blinked.
“I’ll keep an eye on them.” Daemon sounded chastened—and amused.
Grizande blinked again.
And so your education begins, witchling, Lucivar thought.
“I’ll show you to your room,” Marian said, focusing on Grizande. She looked at the men. “You two do whatever you’re supposed to do.”
“Well, that put you in your place,” Daemon said when the women headed into the warren of rooms that made up the eyrie.
“You’re one of the two, old son,” Lucivar replied. He watched Andulvar and Jaalan for a minute. “The girl is fairly easy with Warlord Princes but struggles with other women.”
“I noticed. But she trusted a Black Widow enough to leave everything she knew and come to the Hall.”
“If the girl is being hunted, do you think that Black Widow is still alive?”
The air chilled. “I’ll ask some of the demon-dead to keep watch for any Tigre witches arriving in the Dark Realm. If something happened to the people who helped Grizande get away, I’ll know soon enough.”
You’ll know when they die. But if they’re captured and tortured, who can say how long they’ll endure before you have an answer?
“Tigrelan is not our Territory, Prick. There’s nothing we can do.”
“I know. But that girl isn’t in Tigrelan anymore.”
“No,” Daemon said too softly. “She’s under my hand now.”
Protected by the High Lord of Hell. And Witch.
* * *
* * *
Grizande followed the female Lucivar called wife. Same as mate?
As they walked through wide corridors carved from the living mountain, she looked for cages and traps. For betrayal.
Marian opened a door and walked into a room that held a large bed and small bedside tables, a wardrobe and dresser, a chair and floor lamp. A window without bars, but shields could also make a prison. This witch didn’t have that kind of power, but if she wanted it to be so, would Prince Lucivar use his Ebon-gray to create a cage?
“This room is closer to our bedroom, in case you have any questions or wake up uneasy,” Marian said. “The bathroom is just down the corridor. I’ll show you.” A hesitation. “Did anyone at the Hall ask you about moontime supplies? Do you need some? Or any other supplies?”
Kindness. Caring. Grizande looked around the room. Simple. Clean. But the quilt on the bed, in colors of the forest . . .
When she pressed her hand against it, she could pick up some of Marian’s psychic scent. Too much scent for just handling. Scent held over from the making? “Beautiful,” she said softly.
“Thank you.”
“You make?”
“Yes, I did.”
Memories almost forgotten out of necessity rose and raked Grizande’s heart.
“Grizande?” Marian sounded concerned, as if feelings mattered.
How to explain to this woman when she didn’t have the words anyone here would understand? “Mother.” She waved a hand to indicate the room and what its clean simplicity meant.
“This reminds you of her?” Marian asked.
She nodded. “Dead long time.”
“Ah.” A pause. “Would you like a hug?”
“Hug?”
Marian opened her arms. An invitation.
The Hourglass had raised her, protected her, trained her in basic Craft, because of her bloodline. But they had kept their distance from her. It hurt now to be held by a woman, by a mother. It hurt—but it also felt good. Felt safe in a way her mind barely remembered but her body did.
“You’ve had an eventful couple of days,” Marian said. “Would you like to stay in your room and rest or come out and join us?”
“Join big noisy.”
Marian laughed. “Come on, then.”
When they reached the large front room, Marian stopped and looked around. “I guess we’re on our own. Oh! Daemon.”
Prince Sadi appeared in an archway. “Darling, do you mind if Grizande and I use your kitchen table?”
“I don’t mind as long as you don’t get in the way of me making dinner,” she replied.
“I would never get in the way of dinner preparations,” he said dryly. “Not with your hoard.”
Grizande followed them into the kitchen. Marian pulled food out of a cold box and set bowls and other tools on the counter. Humming a tune that sounded bittersweet, she began her work.
Prince Sadi took a seat at the table and indicated that Grizande should sit beside him. He placed a sheet of paper and a writing tool in front of her. He picked up another writing tool, and on the paper in front of him made careful shapes. Then he pointed to the paper in front of her. “Now you try.”
She studied the shapes on his paper, picked up her writing tool, and copied them.
The Prince nodded. “That is your name. That is how ‘Grizande’ looks in the common tongue.” He looked at her. “In Tigre?”
She wrote her name in the language of her people. He studied it, copied what she’d done, then asked, “Is that correct?”
“Yes.” Her name. The Hourglass had taught her what they could of the common tongue, but they hadn’t known this.
The Prince drew more symbols below her name. “Daemon.”
She copied that name—and the ones that followed. Daemonar. Lucivar. Andulvar. Jaalan. Marian. Titian. Zoela. Helene. Nadene. Beale. Mrs. Beale. Holt. Raine.
When it seemed like he wasn’t going to write any more, she wrote a word in her language and looked at him. When he didn’t seem to understand, she pointed in the direction of the Black Mountain. “Her?”
“Witch?”
She nodded.
He wrote the word for the Queen who was more than a Queen. Who was myth and dreams. One name for her, anyway. She copied the word.
Smiling, the Prince called in a strange book of empty lined paper. “This is what students use for their studies. You write in it.”
“Write important . . .” How to ask?
He seemed to know. “Whatever you want. Words you want to know. Things you want to remember. Questions you want to ask. And these”—he called in printed books and set them in front of her—“are how our young learn to read the common tongue. I think they will be a useful way to begin the lessons.”
“Lessons?”
“With me. I’ll be teaching you Craft and Protocol with some of the other girls. The lessons in the common tongue will be with me or with Prince Raine.”
“Daemonar?”
“He can help you learn the common tongue and help you practice the lessons you learn from me.” The Prince paused. “And I’m sure Liath will help too.”
Grizande sighed. “Prince Bossy Stern Teeth.”
Marian let out a hoot of laughter and stopped chopping vegetables. “Who is this Liath?”
The Prince cleared his throat. “A Sceltie Warlord Prince who wears a Green Jewel.”
“Oh, Daemon,” Marian said. “You didn’t.”
“I repeat: Sceltie Warlord Prince who wears a Green Jewel. What makes you think I had any say in this?”
“You own the Hall?” Marian replied.
“You wear Black,” Grizande said, then braced for a slap. She hadn’t been told she could speak.
The Prince looked at Marian, then at Grizande. “I own the Hall, and I wear the Black. Not everyone who lives or works at the Hall is impressed by those truths.”
The tone was dry as dust, but his gold eyes were filled with humor.
Prince Lucivar stood in the archway and looked at the Prince. “You done with her?”
“For the moment,” he replied.
“Good. Come on, witchling. I’ll get you started learning the sparring warm-up.”
Grizande looked at the Prince, not sure who she should obey.
“I thought you were going to help me fix dinner,” Marian said.
“You have him,” Prince Lucivar replied, tipping his head toward the Prince.
“Go on,” the Prince said quietly. “You should learn from the best.”
Grizande vanished the items she’d been given, then followed Prince Lucivar to the large front room.
Daemonar handed her a long, thick stick. “An Eyrien sparring stick.” He took up a position on one side of her.
Prince Lucivar took up a position on the other side. “This is how you begin.”
* * *
* * *
Daemon had known Marian for centuries, had loved her for being his brother’s wife and also loved her for being Marian. He knew her moods almost as well as Lucivar did.
“Something on your mind?” he asked as he kneaded the dough for the biscuits.
“You are going to help that girl.” It wasn’t a question.
“I am. I’ll keep her safe, Marian, along with the other girls.”
“Are there Tigre in Hell?”
“Why do you ask?”
“She said her mother died a long time ago, but she’s from a short-lived race and she’s young, so it can’t be that many years.”
Daemon continued to knead the dough while he considered how to answer. “If it was a hard death . . .”
“The girl doesn’t need to see the mother, although she desperately needs some affection. But I think Grizande’s mother would appreciate knowing her daughter is safe. Especially if hers was a hard death.”
