The Queen's Price, page 23
“I have. It was pleasant enough—or not unpleasant, at any rate—and I was relieved to have it done, and even more relieved that it had been done before I . . . Well, there was a man who was very good at hiding his true nature and true intentions. Never got past kisses and a bit of this and that with that one before his true nature collided with my true nature—and my fist.”
Jillian laughed. “I’ve used my fist a time or two to explain things.”
“Well then, you know how it goes. I did have a lover for a little while, and I enjoyed being with him. Was fairly on my way to falling in love and giving him my heart, and that’s the truth. Then I made the Offering and came away with the Green.”
“You were stronger than him?” she guessed.
“I was. I am. And suddenly the things he said he liked about me he started claiming were emasculating him, and he deserved better. ‘Better?’ said I. ‘Maybe so, but then, so do I.’ But there was some pressure from some of the Queens in Scelt for me to do a formal apprenticeship in one of their courts, and he was a favorite with some of those same Queens, and I didn’t need reminders. Then this opportunity to work at the Hall and get a kind of informal apprenticeship opened up, and that’s where I’m headed.”
“I’m a kind of counselor at the sanctuary—and I teach the girls how to fight.”
Brenda leaned closer, the sparkle in her eyes more intense. “I’ve heard Eyriens have those war blades they use on a killing field. Do you have one?”
Jillian called in her war blade. “It’s balanced to my hand and sharp enough that I can cut halfway through a person just by resting the blade against skin and relaxing my grip.”
“A warrior’s blade.”
“Yes.” She was a warrior in her own way. “There are other Eyrien weapons that are better suited for young women who want to be able to defend themselves. An Eyrien club, for example. And there are the sparring sticks. Those moves could be made with a broom as well. If you’re interested, you should talk to Daemonar Yaslana when you get to the Hall. He’s been teaching others how to use the Eyrien sparring sticks.”
Brenda jumped up. “Come on, then. Show me a couple of moves so I don’t feel like a complete fool when I get there.”
By the time Saetien joined them, they’d gone through the first moves of the warm-up a couple of times.
* * *
* * *
Saetien had barely been awake when her father had tapped her on a psychic thread and summoned her to the estate for this meeting. Now she sat in the same sitting room, even the same chair, where she’d made her request. Now she tried not to fidget, tried not to explode with a demand for an answer, as if getting an answer a minute from now would be different from getting an answer right now.
“I’ve made arrangements with Lord Kieran’s family for you to stay with them while you’re in Scelt,” Daemon said.
He was going to treat her like a baby? “You have a house in Maghre. Why can’t I stay there?”
“You’re not old enough to stay by yourself. Therefore, you’ll stay with Kieran’s family while you search for your answers.”
“What if I don’t like them?”
“Then Kieran will escort you back to the sanctuary here, and that will end your quest.”
“Your way or nothing?”
“Yes.”
Why was she fighting about this? Once she arrived in Scelt, she could do what she liked. “Can I have some money for new clothes?”
A beat of silence as the air in the room chilled, warning her that she had, once again, crossed a line with him. Sometimes it felt like she was in a bad play and fell into her part the moment she was with another actor. But she’d written this particular play and kept falling into the role she’d created. She just didn’t know anymore how to be someone else when she was around her father.
“No,” Daemon said softly. “Maghre is a country village. You have a wardrobe stuffed with clothes. I’m sure you already have anything you’ll need.”
“What about expenses?”
“The spending money I already provide is more than sufficient. You’ll be there a few days, a few weeks at the most.”
She didn’t want to arrive in Scelt like some child with a project. “I don’t need minding by some strangers.” Stop acting like a brat. Stop it.
“It’s been years since you were last in Scelt, so I suppose everyone in the village will be strangers. Whether you stay here or go is your choice—as long as you abide by my terms.”
“I could just go there on my own. How would you stop me?” She was playing to an audience that already hated her performance, but she couldn’t seem to hold back the words.
The room turned icy. His eyes glazed—and he smiled a cold, cruel smile. “If you’re gambling that I wouldn’t physically hurt you, then you’re probably right. But I could—and would—hurt anyone who helped you defy me, and everyone on Scelt knows that. Also, you would forfeit any additional funds that come from me. I wouldn’t strip you of the money already in your account, but that would be the end of it. Instead of having free time, you’d have to find work that would provide you with income for food and lodging.”
She did want to go to Scelt. Needed to go to Scelt. So she had to accept his terms.
“Fine,” Saetien said. “I’ll stay with this Kieran and his family.”
“I’m delighted,” Daemon replied, the words holding a sharp edge. “I’ll return in three days to pick you up and take you to Scelt.”
“I can—”
“Be ready first thing that morning. I’ll talk to Helene about sorting out some clothes that will be appropriate for a stay in Maghre—unless you would prefer to write to her and make that request.”
Having Helene and a maid going through her clothes to choose some outfits wasn’t any different than having a maid put clothes into her wardrobe and dressers after wash day, but it felt more intrusive somehow. But she was banned from the Hall, so she couldn’t go through the clothes there anyway, and if she sent a written request, she’d lose a day or more before Helene received the message.
“Thank you, Father. If you talk to Helene, that will give her time to find the proper outfits.”
She left the sitting room feeling churned up and unhappy instead of excited. And she knew without a doubt that she had brought that unhappiness on herself.
* * *
* * *
Daemon wanted nothing more than to collect Brenda and head to SaDiablo Hall. And Hell’s fire, he needed some sleep, but he had no idea what was happening at the Hall. Beale had been reticent about what had been going on, saying only that Lucivar was still in residence and Surreal was not. And one instructor had resigned, so it was fortunate he was bringing someone new.
One more to go, he thought as Jillian walked into the room.
She stared at him. He tried very hard not to stare at her short spiky black hair.
“Lady Karla?” Jillian’s wings flared to their full span before settling back to their usual position. “Free fall? What were you thinking?”
What was she talking about? “Free fall?”
“Karla. Virgin Night. Did Lucivar actually tell you about that night?”
“Well . . . no.” Maybe he should have asked Karla before he suggested she talk to Jillian.
He looked at her spiky hair. Maybe he should stop suggesting that Jillian talk to Karla. For his own sake.
“Fortunately, Brenda was more forthcoming about what to expect.”
Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful. “Oh. Good. I’m delighted.” Daemon wanted to put some distance between himself and this witch who was sounding a bit . . . exercised. But he was a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince, and backing down wasn’t an option.
“I think having the party the following evening would be sensible. Give me a little time to adjust. What do you think?”
“Quite sensible,” he agreed, grateful that she was back to sounding like the Jillian he knew. “Inform Surreal to send me the date you’ll be going through this rite of passage, and Lucivar and I will arrange to have a party at the town house the next evening.”
“Nothing big. Just family and a few good friends. I’d like Brenda to come, if she’s interested and can get away for an evening. And Stefan, of course.”
“Of course. We’ll take care of it.”
Jillian gave him a bright smile. “I’d better get Saetien back to the sanctuary, or she’ll be late for her morning classes.”
“You do that.”
Daemon waited until Jillian left the room. Waited until he was sure no one else was going to come bouncing into the room with other thoughts, demands, opinions. Then he scrubbed his hands over his face and muttered, “Jillian and Brenda. May the Darkness have mercy on me.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
SaDiablo Hall and Halaway
Daemonar felt self-conscious about leading the adult men through the warm-up and workout with the Eyrien sparring sticks when his father was one of those adult men. How was he supposed to comment about Lucivar’s fighting skills?
The second time Daemonar almost missed blocking one of Weston’s moves because he wondered what Lucivar thought about the way he’d taught the other men to use the sticks, his father’s sharp whistle called a halt to the workouts.
“You can’t be thinking about my opinions when you have an opponent in front of you,” Lucivar said when the other men left the room. “You do that, you’re going to be kissing dirt—or nursing bruised ribs.”
“You should be leading this workout,” Daemonar said.
“No, I should not. That’s one of your duties. From what I’ve seen, you taught those men the moves as they should be done, and the only thing they need is practice to hone their skills.”
“Is your ankle bothering you?” He’d noticed a couple of moves that weren’t fluid and gave Lucivar’s opponent a potential opening.
“Is that why you retreated from Weston’s advance?” Lucivar gave him a knowing look. “So you’d be close to my left side? But you didn’t comment about the misstep. An instructor should have.”
“You did that deliberately?”
Lucivar smiled. “A different kind of lesson, just for you. You made the right move for a battlefield or a killing field. But here? You should have called me on it—if for no other reason than to prevent a potential injury. You would have if I’d been anyone else.”
Daemonar sighed.
Lucivar laughed. “It’s not easy giving orders to someone who outranks you and is usually the one giving you orders. But sometimes, boyo, that’s what you need to do. I had plenty of opportunities to learn that lesson with your auntie J.” He wrapped a hand around the back of Daemonar’s neck and kissed his forehead. “Get cleaned up and get some breakfast. You have other duties this morning. I’ll take the rest of the sparring lessons.”
“It’s the girls this morning. There will be whining.”
Lucivar gave him a lazy, arrogant smile. “Then I will give them a reason to whine.”
Oh, shit.
Daemonar hurried toward his room, then stopped when he spotted Zoey and her coven heading for the main dining room. He gave Zoey and Titian a nod, then said, “Lady Jhett, your assistance is required.”
Jhett’s eyes widened at the formal request that was actually an order, since he was a Warlord Prince who outranked her. She glanced at Zoey, who had stopped walking the moment she heard the words.
“Is there something we can do for you, Daemonar?” Zoey asked.
“I just need a bit of help from Jhett.”
*But not from me,* Zoey said on a psychic thread, sounding disheartened.
*Not today.*
Zoey hurried away, followed by the other girls. Titian gave him a worried look but said nothing as she linked arms with her friend.
Zoey had stumbled the night Grizande arrived, and she hadn’t regained her balance, and that was a concern. He wasn’t sure why making a mistake had hit her so hard—and that was something he needed to mention to Uncle Daemon.
“What kind of help?” Jhett asked.
“I’m supposed to take Grizande to the village this morning and show her around. And she’s supposed to purchase some clothes. All kinds of clothes.” He had a mother and a sister. He’d seen his share of female underwear being dried on wash day. But he wasn’t his uncle, and helping a girl he barely knew purchase underwear . . . No.
“Ah.” Jhett nodded. Then she gave him a sharp look. “Why me?”
“You’re a Black Widow. Grizande grew up around the Hourglass. I think she’ll be more comfortable around you than with any of the other girls. Also, you live in the same square of rooms. Getting to know you might help her relax around the other girls in Zoey’s coven.”
Jhett nodded again. “Do I have time for breakfast?”
“Sure. I’ll tell Grizande about our plans, and we’ll meet up in an hour?”
She hesitated. “Let’s meet up in the great hall. Zoey is my friend, and she’s still feeling raw about Grizande’s rejection.”
How much to say? “Because of things that happened to him in Terreille, my father doesn’t have much use for Queens as a caste. Grizande doesn’t have much use for Queens either. I suspect her reasons for feeling that way are much the same as his. Pain is a harsh teacher—and scars make sure a person doesn’t forget the lessons.”
Jhett sucked in a breath, confirming that she understood what he was saying. “Does anyone else know about Grizande?”
“The adults who serve Prince Sadi know. My father knows. But the students?” He shook his head. “She’ll choose who she tells.”
“It helps that you told me—especially if we’re going to be trying on clothes.”
Daemonar waited until Jhett hurried to join the other girls before he entered the Queen’s square. He found Grizande wandering the courtyard, staying away from the box of sandy earth where Liath was showing Jaalan how the kitten was supposed to use that kind of toilet.
He whistled softly to catch her attention, then jumped from the second-floor balcony, spreading his wings for a controlled drop.
“We’re going to the village this morning,” he said. “My father’s orders. I’m told you need more clothes, and it would be good for you to see some of the shops and get a feel for the village.”
Grizande looked away and shook her head.
Daemonar called in the leather wallet and held it out. “A welcome gift from my family.”
She took the wallet, opened it—and then stared at him.
“Money is a kind of freedom, a kind of safety,” he said quietly. “A shield against hunger, if nothing else. Halaway is a good place to practice using it, because no shopkeeper will try to cheat you or take advantage of you learning something new.”
“A learning.”
She didn’t sound excited about the prospect of having new clothes or spending money. He wondered if she’d ever experienced either of those things.
“I’ve asked one of the girls to help us with the clothes. Jhett. Did you meet her yesterday?”
Grizande shook her head.
“She’s a Sister of the Hourglass.” Daemonar watched Grizande relax and was relieved that he’d made the right choice of assistant. “Once we have the clothes—we can’t come back without them—we’ll visit the village weapons maker to select a gift from me. I figured you could use a good knife.”
That made her purr.
* * *
* * *
Yesterday Zoey had avoided seeing anyone but her circle of close friends—girls who were curious but wouldn’t ask her to talk about what happened at the Keep. Today she had to have meals with the other Queens and their friends, had to go to classes. Had to pretend nothing had changed.
Everything had changed.
“Zoey?” Titian said softly when they reached the open dining room doors. “Do you want to go back to our rooms?”
She shook her head. Couldn’t act like a coward, even if she did want to hide.
She walked into the dining room. The boys were already in line to fill their plates. They were always the first in line—but to be fair, they always yielded their places as soon as any of the girls approached the table that held the serving dishes. Ladies had first choice, and Queens were given first choice among the distaff.
Most of the boys glanced at her, then looked away and hurriedly filled their plates. The four Warlord Princes gave her a careful look. Raeth dipped his head in the smallest bow before selecting the food for his breakfast.
But the other four Queens hurried up to her.
“We heard you were summoned to the Keep,” Kathlene said, sounding concerned. “Is that true? Did you see . . . her?”
“What’s she like?” Felisha asked. Avid curiosity.
“She’s . . .” Power and mind and knowledge and storms, and not all the dreamers who shaped her were human, and there is no hiding that now. “She’s hard to describe.”
“I’m going to insist that the rest of us have an audience with her,” Dinah said, sniffing. “We’re just as important as you.”
“It wasn’t an audience,” Zoey snapped, aware that even the boys had stopped focusing on food to listen to her. “I was chastised for ignoring some court Protocol, and being in the same room with her when she’s angry is horrible.”
It wasn’t all horrible. But somehow, when Witch had sounded human and . . . ordinary . . . it was more unnerving. And Zoey had wondered—and worried—last night if she’d have the courage to request one of those audiences that had been a gift from Witch.
