The Queen's Weapons Read online

  Alanar and Tamnar weren’t within the radius of his psychic web, but Orian was. Ever since he’d made the Blood Run, he’d had the uneasy feeling of being hunted whenever he crossed her path, and they seemed to be crossing paths a lot more lately. They were courteous whenever they saw each other on the street or at some event, but they hadn’t been friends for a long time now. He didn’t want anything to do with her physically, and as sure as the sun didn’t shine in Hell, he did not want to serve in any court she formed. Ever.

  Besides, he already served a Queen, even if the memory of her was fading among the short-lived races, turning an extraordinary woman and Queen into a story, a legend. She wasn’t a memory or a legend. Not to him. No longer flesh, but Auntie J. was still extraordinary—and powerful.

  Abandoning the spot where he was supposed to meet his friends, Daemonar strode to the bakery and went in. Since he’d been coming down to the village anyway, he’d offered to pick up the bread, greens, and other foods the family needed during the three days when his mother stayed home and quiet. His father had priority when it came to fussing over Marian during her moontime, but taking care of errands like this was a subtle way of fussing that appeased his own need to take care of her. He’d already placed an order at The Tavern for two steak-and-ale pies, figuring he could run the rest of his errands and talk to Alanar and Tamnar in the time it would take for the pies to cook.

  He’d decided on a loaf of cinnamon swirl to have with tomorrow’s breakfast and was chatting with the baker’s son about which herb-flavored bread Marian would like with the pie and greens when Orian and her latest Rihlander coven of followers walked into the bakery.

  “Ladies.” Daemonar gave the young women a nod carefully balanced to indicate respect and also remind them—especially Orian—that he outranked all of them. “If you’d like to place an order . . .” He gestured toward the racks of bread and rolls behind the counter.

  “I know what Lady Orian would like to order,” one of the women said, running the tip of her tongue over her upper lip.

  The baker’s son blushed, but the female’s blatant crudeness filled Daemonar with hot anger. He was still feeling raw over what he’d learned about the Ring of Obedience, and he responded to the tone and action as a call to battle, not an invitation to the bed.

  Adding a little more power to his shield, he turned his back on the women, made his selections, and vanished the loaves after the baker’s son tallied up the purchases and gave him the ledger to initial. Then he turned again and said quietly to Orian, “You want to get out of the way.”

  “I’m going to have my Virgin Night soon,” she said.

  “That doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

  Her skin whitened around her tightly pressed lips. “It could.”

  “No. It won’t.” He expanded the Green shield to keep everyone from getting closer than a forearm’s distance from his body. Then he took a step, knowing Orian would brush up against the shield. He gave her a moment to step aside; then he moved toward the door, knocking against the girls who foolishly didn’t get out of his way.

  “Daemonar!” Orian shouted. “You shame your mother with that behavior.”

  To say that to a man, especially a young man, was a serious insult.

  He stopped at the door and looked at her. “Considering your behavior recently, I wouldn’t talk about someone else shaming their family, Lady Orian. I really wouldn’t.”

  He walked out of the bakery and spotted Alanar and Tamnar hurrying toward him.

  “Do all girls go through a stage when they’re completely out of their minds?” he demanded.

  Alanar looked toward the bakery. “Ah, Hell’s fire. Has she started on you again? I thought she’d gotten over that.”

  “So did I.” He walked away from the bakery, the other Eyrien males falling in beside him.

  “It’s because you’re the only Eyrien aristo Warlord Prince in Kaeleer,” Tamnar said. “I think Orian sees seducing you as a point of honor. Or something.”

  “Well, thank the Darkness she isn’t foolish enough to make a play for my father,” Daemonar snapped. “We’d need buckets and shovels to pick up what was left of her after his temper exploded.” He glanced at Alanar’s gray face and stopped walking. “Please tell me your mother hasn’t become so unhinged that she’s thinking in that direction.”

  “I don’t know what she’s thinking anymore,” Alanar said bitterly. “Father left, moved someplace around Doun. She didn’t want him around anymore. Said he shamed her, not being a real Eyrien warrior.”

  Endar had never been a skilled warrior and would have been among the first to fall on a killing field. When their children were small, Dorian had been pleased that her husband had been hired to teach the Eyrien children instead of being carelessly spent in a fight. Now Dorian was even more obsessed with what a Queen would be entitled to have when she came of age and could form her own court, and every attempt to curb the sense of privilege Dorian encouraged in her daughter had failed.

  And no one, not even Lucivar, knew what had shaped the whip that was driving Dorian toward a battle she couldn’t win.

  “I’ve heard talk—whispers not quite behind the hand—that Eyrien men aren’t suited to live with women and children,” Tamnar said. “That Eyrien men living with their families is unnatural, just like having male children remain at home instead of being fostered at a hunting camp isn’t natural.”

  Daemonar snorted. “Tell that to Rothvar or my father. Tell that to any of the men who have started families and live with those families. That’s Terreillean thinking, and it has no place in Kaeleer.” He thought about what Lucivar and Daemon had found at the Sleeping Dragons, then looked at his friends. “Someone is stirring up trouble, and I may not be the only target. You need to be careful.”

  “Tamnar and I are going ahead to establish a bachelor eyrie,” Alanar said.

  “Are you going to join us?” Tamnar asked.

  They had talked about it before he’d made the Blood Run. But this encounter with Orian showed him why he shouldn’t leave the protection of living under his father’s roof. He’d be battling her every damn day, and eventually she would end up bloody because he wasn’t going to let her corner him into any kind of commitment.

  “No,” he said. “Not yet, anyway.”

  They kept him company while he went to another shop and selected greens for the salad before heading to The Tavern to pick up the steak-and-ale pies.

  “You’ll be all right?” Alanar asked when they reached The Tavern.

  That was as close as any of them came to acknowledging the way Orian and her coven had followed them from place to place.

  What in the name of Hell was wrong with that girl? “I’ll be fine.”

  Tamnar and Alanar spread their wings and leaped for the sky. He went into The Tavern.

  The current owner of the tavern and inn could trace his line back to Merry and Briggs, who had run the place when Lucivar first came to Ebon Rih. It was still one of his father’s favorite places to stop for a glass of ale or a meal, and the steak-and-ale pies were a recipe that had been handed down through the generations.

  He felt Orian’s presence the moment she entered The Tavern, felt his temper flash hot as he began rising to the killing edge. And then . . .

  “Hey, boyo. Why aren’t you out kissing sky?”

  Daemonar turned and let out a whoop as anger vanished, conquered by delight. “Jillian!”

  Dropping the Green shield, he grabbed her and spun them around so many times they had to hold on to each other for balance when he finally set her on her feet.

  “You’ve gotten tall,” Jillian complained.

  “Nah, you just stopped growing—at least upward.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Watch it.”

  He grinned, unrepentant. She wasn’t boyishly lean anymore. Then again, s
he wasn’t a girl anymore, and while she wasn’t soft, her body said woman now.

  “Are you here for a visit?”

  “Going to stay a while.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Orian muttered.

  Daemonar swung around to challenge—and hit the fist Jillian thrust in front of his chest. He started to protest, then saw her give Orian a smile so sharp, it could have cut leather.

  “Yes, I guess we’ll see about a lot of things, won’t we?” Jillian said. “But if people start dumping shit on my doorstep, I’ll know exactly where to find the buckets—and I know exactly what to do about it.”

  Daemonar collected the pies and hustled Jillian out of The Tavern.

  “That girl is going to be trouble,” Jillian said.

  “Yeah, I know.” And now Orian had Jillian in her sights. “Maybe you should stay with us while you’re here. We’ve got plenty of room.”

  She hooted. “Not a chance.” She linked arms with him. “I appreciate the offer. I do. But you’re a man now, and being around the sexual heat of two Warlord Princes?” She shook her head. “You might want to consider that Orian’s reaction to you isn’t all her doing. Your heat isn’t overpowering, but it is noticeable.”

  If Jillian was right, then living in Ebon Rih was going to become intolerable. “Where are you staying? With Nurian and Rothvar?”

  “Not exactly. Nurian kept the Healer’s eyrie, and my room is still available there. So I’ll stay there, visit with my niece and nephew, and have my own space when I don’t want company.”

  “Alone? You’re going to stay on your own?” His voice rose loud enough to draw attention to them from people on the street.

  “I’ve been on my own for quite a while.”

  “You’ve always had someone with you, a companion.” He felt the tension in her, the grief. “Ah, Jillian.”

  “Kindred don’t usually become demon-dead. Did you know that?” she asked softly. “I don’t know why that’s so; it just is. But Khary made the transition and stayed with me for a long time after his body died of old age. Their lives are so short compared to ours. A few decades at most. But he stayed with me while I learned so much.”

  “When did your . . .” What word could he use? Current companion?

  “A couple of weeks ago.” Jillian sniffed, blinked, looked away from him. “I finished a project I’d been working on, and when he became a whisper in the Darkness, I knew it was time to come home for a while. Lady Perzha and the current Queen of Little Weeble agreed.” She sniffed again. “That’s something I need to discuss with Lucivar.”

  “You might have to get in line,” Daemonar said. “Titian didn’t come to the village with me today because she wanted to have a private talk with Father.”

  “Oh, no,” Jillian breathed. “She’s reached that age, hasn’t she? Poor Lucivar.”

  Well, that didn’t sound good. “Come on. I’ll escort you home—and if you don’t make a fuss about it, I’ll give you a share of one of the pies and part of a loaf of bread so you’ll have something to eat while you get settled in.”

  She studied him. “You’re bossy—you can’t help that—but you’re clever about it. All right. Escort me home and then let your father know I’d like to talk to him at his earliest convenience.”

  Once they’d reached the eyrie Jillian had once shared with her sister, Daemonar gave her a third of a pie and half a loaf of the herb-flavored bread.

  “Do you need anything else?” he asked.

  “I did pick up a few supplies before I spotted you going into The Tavern,” she said with a smile. “I won’t starve.”

  So she probably didn’t need the steak-and-ale pie. Which wasn’t the point. She was family, and Warlord Princes took care of family.

  “Be careful who you let in when you’re on your own,” he said.

  “If I need help, I’ll holler. I promise.” She gave him a hug and pushed him out the door.

  When he arrived home and walked through the big front room on his way to the kitchen, he glanced toward the glass doors that opened onto the yard and stopped, frozen by the sight of Titian kneeling in the grass, looking miserable as tears ran down her face.

  A few minutes later, after he’d coaxed her to tell him why she was upset, he stormed into his father’s study, ready—hoping—for a fight.

  Lucivar tossed a report on his desk and leaned back in his chair. “I take it you’ve talked to your sister.”

  “Talked to her?” Daemonar snarled. “She’s out in the yard crying her heart out because you’re putting her through exercises she can’t possibly do.”

  Lucivar’s eyes glazed, a warning of temper being held on a tight leash. He rose slowly and opened his dark membranous wings their full span before closing them again.

  Daemonar opened his wings halfway for balance and settled his feet in a fighting stance. If they were really going to fight, he would end up bloody, but he wasn’t backing down. Not after seeing his sister hurting so much.

  “What I’m asking of her is what I need from her in order to let her go,” Lucivar said. “She has to be able to build shields fast enough and strong enough to withstand an attack—and she has to hold those shields until help arrives.”

  “So you’re going to keep testing her?”

  “Yeah, I am. And you’re going to help her hone those skills so that she passes the test and can go to school in Amdarh for her art.”

  Daemonar felt his jaw drop. He’d thought this was some kind of trick to keep Titian home—and that made him feel ashamed of himself because Lucivar wouldn’t stoop to a ruse for any reason.

  “You’re really going to let her go to school in Amdarh?”

  Lucivar huffed. “It’s not the other side of the Realm, boyo. It’s in your uncle’s Territory. In fact, it’s the capital of your uncle’s Territory.”

  “But Uncle Daemon doesn’t live in Amdarh.”

  “Not all the time, no, but he’s there often enough.”

  He felt panic rising at the thought of Titian being out of reach if she needed help. “But he’s not there all the time. What if he’s staying at Ebon Askavi when she needs help? What if he’s in Scelt? That is on the other side of the Realm.”

  “If Daemon is away from Dhemlan, then Surreal will be in residence, either at the Hall or the town house in Amdarh,” Lucivar replied. “If neither of them are close by, Titian can ask for help from Lady Zhara or anyone in her court.”

  Daemonar paced, feeling the room closing in around him.

  “This is important to her, Daemonar,” Lucivar said quietly. “Important enough that she came to me and asked for my permission. If she meets the terms I set, I will not refuse to let her go. And neither can you.”

  “She’s not strong.” He heard the plea in his voice—protect her.

  “She’s not a fighter like you—or me. That doesn’t make her weak. That just means she has a different kind of strength. All we can do is help her prepare to meet the challenges she’ll face and to let her know we will always have her back. Always.” Lucivar came around the desk until they stood barely an arm’s length apart. “Can’t clip her wings, boyo. I won’t do that to her.”

  “She’s vulnerable.” He meant sex, meant the risks a young witch faced on her Virgin Night, but wasn’t going to say that. Titian was way too young for that.

  “You’re vulnerable too,” Lucivar said quietly.

  “That’s beside the point,” Daemonar snapped. “I’m older than Titian, and I can take care of myself.”

  “Well, your mother and I made sure you know how to cook. Now all you have to do is remember that underwear doesn’t walk itself to the laundry tubs.”

  “You’re just twisting my balls because you’re worried about Titian.”

  “And worried about you.”

  Daemonar saw that truth in his father’s eyes
. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’ve been trained by the best.”

  Lucivar smiled. “Yes, you have. And what did she say?”

  Daemonar shrugged. “I just found out about Titian wanting to go to school, didn’t I?” He’d have to think about how to present his concerns to Auntie J. to avoid getting a whack upside the head if he sounded like he wouldn’t support his sister. He would support her. He just needed time to get used to the idea of her being gone.

  “Ice on a cliff’s edge and a long drop to the river if you lose your footing.”

  Meaning his father had a really good idea of how Witch would react if he didn’t support Titian—or sounded like he didn’t support her.

  “What about you?” Lucivar asked. “I have concerns about you joining Alanar and Tamnar, but if you felt strongly about it . . .”

  Daemonar shook his head. “I don’t like being hunted.” Would he ever think of the Ring of Obedience without a kick of fear?

  Lucivar leaned against the front of the blackwood desk. “Well, Alanar couldn’t refuse to let his sister in if she came for a visit, just as he couldn’t say much if that sister, who is also a Queen, decided to take a nap in his friend’s bed.”

  “You think I’m a coward for not wanting that fight?”

  “Never that. It’s not cowardly to want to feel safe in your own home.”

  Daemonar looked into his father’s eyes and felt chilled by what he saw there.

  “Orian is a cat trying to play with a mouse, refusing to recognize that the mouse is a wolf who can snap her in half,” Lucivar said softly. “Witches tried to play those kinds of games with me. The ones who survived didn’t walk away unscathed. Hopefully Orian will outgrow this latest bitch phase and show some potential to be a good Queen. But if she starts playing cat and mouse with other young men who aren’t so well able to defend themselves, I will break her, Daemonar. I will strip her back to basic Craft. If that isn’t enough to stop her from causing harm, then I will bury her. You understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lucivar seemed to shake off the edge of temper. “Well . . .”