The Queen's Weapons Read online

  “But there are a few who accept the girl for who she is.”

  “A few.” Most of them were either family or had fur, but he didn’t tell Weston that part.

  Then he had a thought. Zhara would try to skin him alive if he made that introduction, but the girl, as girl and Queen, might benefit from having a special friend.

  Another quick check on the girls. Still so serious.

  “Is this your assignment in Zhara’s court? To be Zoey’s primary guard?” he asked.

  Weston nodded. “Zoey’s paternal grandfather and mine are cousins. I was already serving in Lady Zhara’s court when Zoey’s father decided to stay in his current lover’s bed instead of attending his daughter’s Birthright Ceremony. The day after the ceremony, I asked to be assigned to Zoey.”

  “Family.” That explained some things about the casual give-and-take between girl and guard.

  *We are bored.* That from the Warlord who was Jaenelle Saetien’s mount. *Our little humans are done talking about sad things and need to run to be happy.*

  Daemon saw the look on his daughter’s face and let his voice roll through the park. “Canter, not gallop.”

  The horses didn’t wait. They lifted into a canter as the girls’ delighted laughter floated back to the two men.

  *We are not running. Why aren’t we running?* The stallion carrying Daemon had recently made the Offering to the Darkness and was now a Sapphire-Jeweled Warlord Prince. Not a male who was inclined to put up with nonsense from his rider—no matter who was on his back.

  Besides, the girls were getting a bit too far ahead of their escorts.

  “Shall we join the girls?” he said.

  “Is that your way of telling me our mounts will be joining the girls whether we’re still on them or not?”

  Daemon nodded a moment before both horses shot forward like they’d reached the starting line for a race. Once the men were riding alongside the girls, the horses slowed to a walk and headed back to the SaDiablo town house, where the riders were encouraged to dismount so that the horses could return to the stables and enjoy a snack.

  Having never been encouraged to dismount in quite that way—having a horse use Craft to shove him out of the saddle when he didn’t move quickly enough on his own—Weston looked a little dazed as he stood on the sidewalk and watched the horses trot away. Zoey, on the other hand . . .

  Even at the risk of raising Zhara’s ire, Daemon thought Zoey would benefit from some personal experience with the kindred.

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  After changing her clothes, Jaenelle Saetien chose a book from her current stack of reading material and went downstairs to find Papa. He wasn’t in his study, which surprised her, since he always had business papers to read or letters to write to the managers of the family’s various estates. He wasn’t in the morning room or the sitting room either. Just when she became uneasy and wondered if he’d left without saying anything, she found him in the informal sitting room that looked out over the town house’s back garden.

  He wore casual black trousers and a deep green shirt that had a soft gray pattern, like wisps of smoke, and his feet were bare, the soft house shoes dropped near the sofa where he sat reading a letter from the stack in his lap. He looked amused by something in the letter. When he looked up and saw her, his smile warmed and deepened.

  She sat on his right side, so close she could feel the heat from his body, could breathe in his scent—a scent that, today, meant safety. And love.

  Zoey’s story about her sire brought home the truth that, even when she felt cross with Papa, he still loved her and would be there if she really needed him, whatever the price.

  She intended to read her book while he read his letters. She often cuddled next to him in the evening, reading her book while he read one of his, although, if she asked, he would read her a story like he’d done when she was younger. But she didn’t feel content. Instead, a thought scratched at her, and she wasn’t sure which would be worse—getting an answer or always wondering what the answer might be.

  “Papa?” she asked after he put aside the first letter.

  “Witch-child?” he replied as he broke the wax seal on the next letter.

  “Should I write reports for you?”

  She braced for him to tell her she was being foolish because she wouldn’t have anything interesting to say, not like Zoey, who was a Queen. Not that Papa had ever made her feel foolish when she asked a question, but . . .

  He stared out the window at the garden beyond. Quiet. Thoughtful. Then he said, “If something troubled you and you weren’t comfortable talking about it directly, you could write it down for me to read. Otherwise, I would hope that you could sit down and tell me whatever was on your mind.”

  “Zoey is going to write reports to send to you.”

  “Zoey doesn’t live with us, and she doesn’t live near the Hall.” He put an arm around her. “I receive reports from Dhemlan’s Queens informing me about any concerns they have regarding things happening in their territories, but the Queen of Halaway comes up to the Hall once a month. We sit in my study and have coffee and whatever treats Mrs. Beale has made that day, and we talk about the village and the people. She rarely writes a report because she’s just down the road, and I’m in the village several times a week to see Tersa and Manny, and I spend a few minutes chatting with her Steward or Master of the Guard. Those chats are just as valuable as the reports.” He gave her a hug. “It’s a question of distance.”

  Jaenelle Saetien leaned against Papa. “Zoey doesn’t have a papa who listens to her.”

  “I know,” he replied softly.

  “And her mother . . . That’s so sad.”

  “Yes, it is sad.”

  She looked up. “You’ll read her reports?”

  “I will read her reports.”

  “And we’ll all be friends?”

  “If you and Zoey like each other and want to spend time together, then, yes, we can all be friends.”

  She hesitated, then asked her final question. “Do you wish that I was a Queen?”

  “Never.”

  His firm, and instant, answer surprised her.

  “A Queen is bound by her caste. Everything in her pushes her to rule something, regardless of whether it’s large or small. No matter what other talents she has, or what she might have wanted to be, she is first, and always, a Queen. There were boundaries around Zoey’s life from the moment she was born. But you, my darling, can be anything you want to be, can follow your dreams to do whatever work gives you joy. I’ve always been happy that you have that choice.”

  “So many choices,” she said quietly.

  “We make our life out of choices. Do we like the color green better than blue? Or strawberries better than radishes? Small things or big things, eventually those choices shape who we are.” He kissed the top of her head. “But you don’t have to choose everything today. Except whether you want to eat strawberries or radishes, which taste very different but are both red.”

  She giggled. “That’s silly.”

  Satisfied, she opened her book. Papa went back to reading his letters. When her mother came home, the three of them talked for a little while. Then Papa put on regular shoes and he and her mother went outside to walk around the back garden together. Jaenelle Saetien watched them, the way they talked—so serious!—and the way Papa held her mother’s hand.

  Sometimes her mother and Papa didn’t get along. Sometimes Papa had to live apart from them even when he was still at the Hall. But today, as they walked back to the house, they looked happier with each other—and she had made a new friend.

  SEVEN

  A month later, Daemon rode the Black Wind to Amdarh for an early-morning meeting with his second-in-command, whose terse summons made him a little wary. Surreal had returned to the town house a couple of days ag
o and Jaenelle Saetien was at the Hall, where he was supposed to be the parent on duty for the next several days, since he’d been away from home so much these past few weeks.

  After being told Surreal was on her way downstairs to meet him, he entered the breakfast room and sat down. Then he looked at the two letters Helton placed next to his plate with a care and precision that gave him a good idea of how much trouble he was in.

  “Couldn’t those wait until I’ve had breakfast?” he asked.

  “Lady Surreal also received a letter this morning,” Helton replied. “Hers was marked Urgent and came from the Queen of Amdarh. I thought you would want the letters that were delivered at the same time—by the Queen’s Master of the Guard.”

  Hell’s fire. Sending the Master out before dawn to deliver letters seemed a bit excessive.

  Then Surreal strode into the breakfast room, a letter in one hand. “Sadi, what in the name of Hell did you do?”

  “Do?” He might have gotten away with sounding as if no one should be concerned if Helton hadn’t chosen to make a hasty retreat from the room, almost slamming the door in his hurry to leave the field of this particular battle.

  Not that there should be a battle.

  Daemon broke a corn muffin in half and took his time buttering it. “You summoned me to Amdarh, remember?”

  Surreal sat opposite him. “I requested your presence because yesterday two of the Ladies in Zhara’s First Circle approached me and hinted that you were the cause of considerable agitation in the Queen’s family. I thought it best to find out why. Then this letter arrived before any reasonable person should be awake.” She dropped the letter on the table and leaned toward him. “You shoved a Prince into Zhara’s court without consulting her?”

  “I did no such thing. I merely introduced Zoey to a young Prince whose company I thought she would enjoy.”

  “A Sceltie Prince.”

  “But not a Warlord Prince. That would have been excessive.”

  Surreal narrowed her eyes and said nothing when he poured a cup of coffee and set it in front of her. Then, “Have I met this one?”

  “No.” And thank the Darkness for that. “He’s been at the school in Scelt.”

  “Is he the reason you’ve spent so much time in Scelt these past few weeks?”

  “One of the reasons.” The main reason. Princes didn’t have the aggression and volatile temper of a Warlord Prince, but Trace’s driving desire to manage things, combined with a Sceltie’s passion for herding, had had the instructors at the Sceltie school pleading with Daemon to find the youngster a place where all that energy could be put to use. And since the youngster had come away with an Opal Jewel after the Birthright Ceremony and had the potential to wear the Red when he matured, finding work for that Prince had been a priority.

  It wasn’t his fault that Trace and Zoey had adored each other at first sight.

  Surreal folded Zhara’s letter and vanished it. After filling her plate, she gave his unread letters a pointed look.

  Probably best if he read them before they discussed anything.

  Daemon picked up the letter from Lord Weston and broke the seal.

  Prince Sadi,

  I am sure that Lady Zhara will appreciate your gesture after she’s had a few more days to adjust to the new member of her household. Until then, may I suggest, man to man, that you absent yourself from the city to avoid a vigorous discussion with Amdarh’s Queen. You should also be aware that the teachers at Zoey’s school may want to have an equally vigorous chat with you. It seems Prince Trace has firm opinions about proper education, and he has named you as his source for the Right Thing to Do.

  Zoey meeting Trace is the best thing that has happened to her in quite some time, and you have my wholehearted thanks for bringing this about.

  Sincerely,

  Weston

  Postscript: Please burn this letter after you’ve read it.

  Daemon folded the letter, then called in a stone bowl. Holding the letter over the bowl, he created a tongue of witchfire and watched the paper swiftly burn to ash.

  “What . . . ?” Surreal asked.

  Daemon merely smiled and opened the next letter.

  Dear Prince Sadi,

  Trace is so smart! When we went to school yesterday—Weston too—my teacher said students weren’t allowed to bring pets to school, and Trace told her he was an escort just like Weston, only he was a Sceltie and a Prince, and he would wait for me in the room set aside for escorts. Except then he decided he should be learning too, but my studies would be too hard for him right now. So he found the classroom for the younger students and sat in an empty chair in the front and participated in the reading lesson. And he did as well as the other students! He was also quick to snarl at a couple of boys who weren’t paying attention to the teacher. At least, that’s what Weston told me after school. The teacher had called him after Trace cornered the boys and put up a shield to keep them in the corner and told them bad sheep had to stay in the pen until they learned how to behave. I guess Weston had to negotiate with the teacher and Trace about how much time bad sheep had to stay penned.

  I’m not sure if anything else happened because Weston didn’t tell me, but there was a loud burst of laughter from the escorts’ room a couple of times yesterday.

  At recess, some of the girls came over to talk to me. They really wanted to meet Trace, but they were nice to me too.

  I think Grandmother is a little miffed because Trace wanted to know what time I should wake up and go to bed and go outside and play. He said you had taught him how to read clocks, so he should know these things in case my human family forgets to tell me. I don’t think Grandmother or Grandfather—or Weston—will forget, but it’s so much fun to have a friend like Trace, and I don’t feel so alone now.

  Thank you, Prince. I’ll take good care of Trace, and he’ll take good care of me.

  Sincerely,

  Zoey (Lady Zoela)

  Daemon folded Zoey’s letter and vanished it. Then he quietly cleared his throat. “If there’s nothing else, I think I’ll return to the Hall.”

  “You might not want to be that easy to find,” Surreal suggested.

  “It’s one Sceltie.” He had good reason to know that it was, at best, a feeble defense.

  “Uh-huh. I seem to remember you lobbing that argument at Lucivar after a few of Jillian and Khary’s adventures. And look what happened in Little Weeble.”

  He would rather not think about that. Really rather not.

  Lucivar would forgive him for that misstep. Someday. Besides, Lucivar had agreed to the arrangement, so it wasn’t all his fault.

  Being the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan meant he couldn’t tuck tail and run. At least, he couldn’t be obvious about it.

  “I’ll return to the Hall,” he said. “I don’t want to leave Jaenelle Saetien on her own for too long.”

  “I’ll stay here for a couple more days and provide a sympathetic ear.”

  “Thank you.”

  She laughed. “The sympathetic ear is not for you, Sadi.”

  “It’s one Sceltie.” He imagined that someone kicking the pebble that starts an avalanche said much the same thing.

  EIGHT

  Tersa wandered the streets of Halaway, shivering. With effort, she focused on some of the people going in and out of shops. Coats. The significance of coats was . . . Couldn’t remember. Didn’t matter.

  “Tersa.”

  Her boy glided toward her, smiling. But the look in his gold eyes? Concern. Yes.

  Did he know? No, someone in the village must have told him she was wandering. Had someone asked her something? Had she answered in a way that had caused enough concern for them to summon him?

  Couldn’t remember. Couldn’t hear past that sound.

  “Darling, put this on. It’s chilly today,
and you’re not dressed warmly enough.” Her boy helped her into a coat. His coat by the scent rising from the material, warmed by his body and by warming spells that he must have added for her sake.

  No amount of outside warmth could stop this shivering. Tersa turned and grabbed fistfuls of her boy’s white silk shirt. “You must tell the Queen.”

  His hands closed over hers. “Tell her what?”

  “I still hear them. The footsteps are getting closer.”

  When he tried to question her, she shook her head and allowed him to lead her back to her cottage. She had given the answer and had to trust that he would deliver it.

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Delora linked arms with Hespera as the two girls walked along the perimeter of the lawn where the afternoon party was taking place. She had dressed in her best party frock, not to impress her hosts—they were minor aristos who had recently moved to this part of Dhemlan and embraced country life—and certainly not to impress the girl who was the reason for this celebration. No, she’d worn it to please her father so that he could boast that she was the brightest and prettiest girl in the Province. She could do no wrong when he believed other men envied him for having such a daughter, and she liked to keep it that way.

  “What do you think of Dahlia?” Hespera asked, indicating the girl who was talking to one of the older boys while cuddling the kitten that had been one of her gifts.

  “She’s . . . adequate,” Delora replied. “But she has a selfish streak that I don’t think will suit us for being friends.”

  “Selfish?”

  “I admired the fancy comb in her hair and asked if I could borrow it. She said no.”

  “It is a gift she just received today,” Hespera pointed out.

  “So?”

  “Is the comb going to fall out and go missing?”

  “Oh, no,” Delora said. “I’ve decided it isn’t pretty enough for me to wear.”

  “I don’t see Zoela here,” Hespera said after a minute. “Don’t tell me the little Queen wasn’t invited. I think Dahlia’s parents invited every aristo girl in the Province who is the same age as darling Dahlia.”