The Queen's Price, page 47
Daemonar shrugged. “Maybe give each ‘court’ a week to work together before shuffling who serves which Queen. A day isn’t long enough to figure out who can do what—or who will stand and fight and who will crumble in order to avoid paying a price.”
“Sometimes a day is all you have to make that kind of decision,” Daemon said quietly. “But your point is valid and—”
A thump of fist on wood before Brenda walked into the study, followed by Neala. When she spotted Daemonar, Brenda stopped for a moment, then approached the desk, herding the Scelt maid.
“Neala has something to tell you,” Brenda said.
Daemonar started to push out of his chair. “I’ll—”
“Sit,” Daemon said, turning that one word into a command. He pointed to the other chair. “Neala.”
Brenda stood beside the chair, one hand on Neala’s shoulder. Supportive rather than restraining.
“What do you have to tell me?” Daemon asked.
Daemonar wondered if anyone else could feel the cold anger beginning to rise from the depth of the Black. He figured Brenda, wearing the Green, would notice, but she gave no indication of it.
“I was tidying the social room in the Queen’s square—the square of rooms across the corridor from yours,” Neala explained. “I was standing in plain sight, but it was a shadowy part of the room at that time of the morning, so I doubt Lady Cara noticed me when she slipped into the room. Her bedroom isn’t in this square of rooms, and no one else was about, so she had no business being there. Except it seems she did, because she hurried over to the basket that held the envelopes with the assignments, took one out, carefully lifted the wax seal, and then added another piece of heavy paper. I think she used a bit of Craft to warm the wax enough to seal the envelope again.” Neala hesitated. “Lady Cara was laughing when she left the room.” Another hesitation. “She’s an aristo Lady, so I wasn’t sure it was my place to be telling tales about her making mischief, but after what happened this morning, with Liath biting that boy after the boy slapped one of the girls in the face . . .”
“The boy did what?” Daemon’s voice was quiet and viciously polite.
“Slapped her,” Brenda said. “Obeying the Queen’s orders.”
“Whose orders?” Still quiet. Still viciously polite. But getting colder. Getting closer to the Sadist.
“Not yours,” Daemonar said. “Not Lady Brenda’s or Prince Raine’s or any of the other instructors. Not Beale or Holt.”
Daemon’s glazed gold eyes focused on him. Just him.
Daemonar swallowed hard and chose to dance on the knife’s edge. “If the Queens were doing whatever this is by their own choice, you’d toss them out of the Hall before they had time to squeak. Maybe that’s the intention. Maybe someone is trying to push you into expelling these Queens and the others who are here for court training and protection.”
“There’s sense to what Prince Yaslana is saying,” Brenda said. “You’ve already expelled a couple of girls for crossing some lines.”
“I have,” Daemon agreed.
Daemonar held his breath, hoping that Brenda wouldn’t point out that Cara had been one of Dinah’s friends. Although he wasn’t sure what difference it would make. Sadi would figure out if Cara had acted alone or if she had received those extra instructions from someone else—and he would call in the debt.
“A slap on the hand, a slap in the face,” Daemon said. “Was any other kind of punishment ordered?”
“Not that Raeth mentioned,” Daemonar replied. “I can see why no one growled about the hand slaps. I’ve had my hand slapped plenty of times, so being ordered to do that wouldn’t seem important enough to report to you.”
Daemon stared at him. “Having your mother slap your hand because you were trying to grab half a cake and stuff it in your mouth is significantly different from having a Queen give that order for no reason. One slap is done out of love; the other is done because a Queen wants to inflict pain and doesn’t expect to pay a price.”
“It wasn’t half a cake,” Daemonar muttered. “And I was little when I did that.”
Warmth replaced cold in Daemon’s psychic scent. “But it did make an impression.”
The slap itself hadn’t made as much of an impression as finding his mother crying because she’d had to inflict that slap to stop him from grabbing the cake. No need to mention the crying to Uncle Daemon. Lucivar had said plenty about that at the time.
Daemon turned his attention back to the Scelt maid. “Thank you for reporting this, Neala. You did the right thing. If you notice anything else, please inform Lady Brenda. Or you can report to Beale, Helene, or Holt. I’ll make them aware of this . . . trouble.”
Daemonar pushed out of his chair. “I left Raeth watching Jaalan. I’d better rescue him.”
“Which one would you be rescuing, then?” Brenda asked.
“I guess I’ll find out.”
Brenda and Neala left the study. Daemonar stayed a moment longer. “Is this how it begins? With something that seems so insignificant that no one challenges it?”
“Last week started with a slap on the hand,” Daemon replied. “This week has added a slap in the face. How many steps between that slap and someone being ordered to use a riding crop or belt or whip on someone’s back? Not that many. And once you’ve split someone’s skin, it’s easier justifying taking that next step if the choice is to inflict pain or feel the whip yourself.”
“What are you going to do?”
“As long as it doesn’t escalate, I’ll give the youngsters a couple more days to report this to me or resolve it on their own. Either way, I will find the source of this trouble.”
“Sir.”
“Prince.”
Daemonar hurried to return to the room where he’d left Raeth. Yes, Sadi would find the source. And may the Darkness have mercy on that person.
* * *
* * *
Daemon waited for Beale, Helene, and Holt to report to his study.
He’d been aware of emotional undercurrents. Hell’s fire, there were thirty-six aristo adolescents living in the Hall—not to mention the servants who were around the same age—so how could there not be emotional undercurrents? But this deliberate . . . corruption . . . of honor. He understood why the other girls hadn’t come to him when that first command had been given, but he felt a sharp disappointment that neither Titian nor Zoey had marched into his study to ask him about it. They should have known he wouldn’t allow even that much physical harm, that he wouldn’t allow any mental or emotional harm to be inflicted on anyone under his protection. Instead, they had submitted to receiving and inflicting physical harm.
Well, once they got this sorted out, he knew what lessons these youngsters needed to learn for their own sakes as well as for the safety of the Realm.
* * *
* * *
Titian hurried to open the door of Zoey’s bedroom just enough for Jhett to slip inside. It had been an awful day, with the instructions getting garbled as they’d been passed from Province Queen to District Queens, who gave the orders to their people. The result of those garbled instructions was that two of the girls had been slapped in the face hard enough to leave a bruise. Arlene and the other apprentice Healers had done what they could to reduce the pain and swelling—and the skin discoloration—instead of hauling the girls to Lady Nadene and having the resident Healer deal with the injuries. But Nadene would have reported to Uncle Daemon, and Zoey wanted a little more time before Uncle Daemon learned about the extra instructions—just enough time for the Queens to find some answers on their own.
“It’s possible,” Jhett said without preamble. “Paper doesn’t usually hold intense emotions like a room where someone was attacked, but a skilled Black Widow could draw out some emotion or recognize a psychic scent.”
“Could you . . . ?” Zoey began.
Jhett shook her head. “I don’t have the skills yet to do that.” She hesitated. “Prince Sadi has that skill. It’s kind of an open secret now among the Hourglass and isn’t supposed to be talked about with anyone who isn’t a Black Widow, but he is a natural Black Widow—the only natural male Black Widow in the history of the Blood, and the only other male Black Widow ever was his father. And Witch was one of Prince Sadi’s teachers in the Hourglass’s Craft.”
Zoey caught her lower lip between her teeth. She trusted Prince Sadi. She did. But she was certain someone was watching the Queens to make sure they followed the secret instructions, and she couldn’t risk harm coming to her people by her breaking the rules and telling him about this.
She couldn’t tell Prince Sadi, because he lived at the Hall, ruled the Hall.
Her breath caught as an idea took shape. But how to get there?
“We should tell Uncle Daemon about this,” Titian said. “He wouldn’t approve of these disciplines. I know he wouldn’t.”
“We have no proof that we’re being given these orders and not making them up on our own,” Zoey protested.
“We could have proof tomorrow or the next day.” Titian took Zoey’s hand. “It’s possible, even likely, that Jhett, Arlene, Laureen, or I will be in the Territory Queen’s court tomorrow. Whoever is in the Territory Queen’s court should offer to burn the instructions. Kathlene, Felisha, and Azara don’t want to do this any more than you do. If a Queen tells someone to burn the original instructions and that person doesn’t do it, then she’s not risking her whole court being punished—because she wasn’t the one who disobeyed.”
“That risks the person who didn’t follow orders.”
“Not if the person takes those instructions to Uncle Daemon before anyone else finds out. And if I’m not the one who is in position to take that paper, I’ll go with whoever has it, because he’ll listen to me. He always has.”
Zoey swallowed hard. She could do this. She would do this. “We should get advice from someone who doesn’t live at the Hall, just in case these disciplines are intentional.”
“Who?” Jhett asked.
Zoey called in a small velvet pouch and removed one gold coin. She held it up. “This mark of safe passage grants me an audience with the Queen of Ebon Askavi. I’ll tell her what is going on here and ask what we should do.”
Titian blinked. “How are you going to get to the Keep?”
“I’ll get there. And I’ll ask someone who can get there a lot faster than I can to go with me.”
* * *
* * *
Grizande opened her bedroom door and stared at Zoela Queen.
“May I come in?” Zoela Queen asked, her voice hushed.
When Zoela Queen slipped into the room, Jaalan bounded toward her, then stopped when Grizande didn’t give him the signal that this girl was a friend.
“I need a favor,” Zoela Queen said. “I need your help. Can you drive a Coach on the Winds?”
“I can.” Hard to read this girl-Queen. Afraid. Uncertain. But also strong. “Why ask . . . ?” She made a gesture to indicate herself.
“You wear Sapphire, so you could get us there faster than I could travel on my own. And you’re a strong warrior. An honorable witch.”
Grizande studied Zoela Queen. A trap? She didn’t think the girl-Queen knew anyone in Tigrelan. “Where we go?”
“Ebon Askavi.” Zoela Queen held out a gold coin. “I can use this to request an audience.”
“You go to ask wisdom of the Queen who is more than a Queen?”
“Yes.”
A need strong enough to approach Witch? Fear and strength. That made sense now.
“When?”
“Tonight during the quiet hours, after everyone retires and before the first servants report for their duties.”
She’d need help getting a Coach they could use. Which made her wonder . . . “You friend of Daemonar’s sister. Why not ask him?”
Zoela Queen swallowed hard. “He’s a Green-Jeweled Warlord Prince. When someone finds out we’re gone, there might be trouble that could end with someone getting hurt. Daemonar might be needed here to help protect . . .”
To protect his sister, among others. That made sense too. If Daemonar sounded the battle cry, not only would Green step onto the killing field; the Black would join him.
Grizande turned to the pendulum clock and pointed at the number three. “Come to landing web. We go then.”
“I’ll be there.” Zoela Queen hesitated. “Thank you.”
Using the excuse that Jaalan needed garden time, Grizande escorted Zoela Queen out of the glass doors that opened to the inner courtyard. While Jaalan took care of his business, she watched the girl-Queen hurry back to her own room—and the friends waiting for her.
There would be trouble over this. She just wasn’t sure where the trouble would fall.
* * *
* * *
Daemonar paused for a moment before opening his bedroom door. Only one Sapphire in the Hall, so this wasn’t one of the girls—or one of the boys—who might be looking for a little romance.
“Grizande.” He spread his wings enough to block the doorway.
“Need help.” Quietly spoken words filled with fierce determination. “Need a Coach. Small.”
“Why?” When she hesitated, he gave her a lazy, arrogant smile. “Darling, if you want my help to leave the Hall, you’ll have to tell me why.”
“Zoela Queen needs wisdom from Queen who is more than a Queen. I can drive Coach. I take her to Ebon Askavi.”
Hell’s fire. Uncle Daemon was going to bounce off the ceiling when he heard that. And yet . . . Not a solution most people would consider, but requesting wisdom from the most powerful Queen in the Realms was certainly an active effort to deal with the additional instructions the Queens had been given.
“I’ll get the Coach and bring it to the landing web,” he said. “When?”
“Tonight at . . .” Grizande held up three fingers.
“Okay.”
“You look after Jaalan?”
“You’ll be back by the evening meal. I’ll look after him until then.”
She looked doubtful about getting back that day. He had no doubts at all since he figured Lucivar would be the one driving the Coach back to the Hall.
And once the Demon Prince and the High Lord teamed their skills and tempers to deal with this problem . . . Wouldn’t that be fun?
“Get some sleep,” he said. “If you’re going to be driving a Coach on the Sapphire Winds, you need to be awake and sharp.”
He dozed more than slept. Judging the time, he dressed in warm clothes, went to the building that held the Coaches, and roused one of the men who was on night duty in the stables that held the mares and a couple of foals. He could have taken the small Coach without help, but telling someone he was taking it would cause less trouble in the morning.
There was going to be enough trouble without adding more.
At three o’clock, Daemonar stood outside the Coach he’d positioned on the landing web and waited for Zoey and Grizande. He didn’t wait long. Grizande looked like a warrior prepared for battle. Zoey looked like she was running ahead of an avalanche and wasn’t sure she’d get away.
“A Coach this size is meant for short distances, so it doesn’t have a toilet,” he said, watching Zoey. “I did borrow a bucket from the stables in case one of you needs a container.”
Grizande shot him a look. Yeah, they both knew who might need it.
“There’s also a jug of coffee, a jug of juice, and some food I took from the auxiliary kitchen.” He focused on Grizande. “Eat something if you can.”
“Thank you, Daemonar,” Zoey whispered before she entered the Coach.
“I take care of her,” Grizande said.
He smiled. “I know you will . . . sister.”
She looked startled. Then she gave him a fierce smile, entered the Coach, and closed the door.
He moved away from the landing web but stayed nearby until Grizande used Craft to lift the Coach off the ground and catch the Sapphire Wind.
He’d give the girls a head start before he woke up Uncle Daemon and told him Zoey and Grizande were scampering off to the Keep to have a chat with Witch.
SIXTY-FOUR
Maghre
It wasn’t reasonable to expect a return letter so soon—Saetien wasn’t even sure her letter had reached SaDiablo Hall yet—but she still felt disappointed that there wasn’t anything for her in the morning delivery of letters and messages. Then again, she’d been tired and angry when she’d written the letter, and she didn’t quite remember what she’d said, remembered only that she’d been angry with Butler about neglecting his garden. So maybe her father didn’t think it was worth a reply.
No. She knew him better than that. He would reply.
Same routine as yesterday, only this time she wasn’t acting like the foolish sheep trying to bolt from the pasture before she was rounded up.
The Warlord hitched to the cart would take her to the cottage? Yes.
The adult Sceltie Warlord would keep an eye on his lone human sheep unless Caitie joined her again to double his flock? Yes.
Shelby coming with her without the drama of the dusty shirt? Yes.
Food, water, hat, gloves, and everything else that someone else deemed vital to her spending a few hours in a garden away from home and could be packed into the cart? Yes.
Was it like this because she was in Scelt, or had it always been like this whenever a female went anywhere or did anything—this bringing along a hill of essentials—and she hadn’t noticed because whoever was standing escort was the one who carried everything?
And if this fussing was considered necessary for a witch who wore Purple Dusk, how much more did a Queen—any Queen—have to put up with? Were men who served in a First Circle trained to be subtle about packing up supplies for a simple visit, as if the Lady were a witless puppy who couldn’t take some responsibility for herself?
