Shalador's Lady

Roc Books, March 2010

For more information, check out www.penguin.com.

Copyright © 2010 Anne Bishop. Used with permission.
(Suggested reading age: 15 years and older.)

As tales of the new Queen’s heart and courage spread through the Territory of Dena Nehele, the Black Widows felt something tremble through the land. But when they spun their tangled webs of dreams and visions, what they saw gave them little comfort.

Many saw honey pear trees, heavy with ripe fruit, growing out of rotting bodies that had been left on the killing fields. A few saw a new beginning that was draped in the colors of sunset. Nothing they saw offered clarity--only the certainty that something was coming that would change Dena Nehele forever.

In Ebon Askavi, the Sanctuary of Witch, another Black Widow studied the dreams and visions in her tangled web--and saw more than the other Black Widows ever could.

Tears fell from her sapphire eyes, but even she could not have said if those tears were born of sorrow or of joy.

Chapter 1
Terreille

Ranon stepped out on the terrace behind the Grayhaven mansion, closed his dark eyes, and raised the wood flute to his lips. Then he hesitated while a lifetime of caution warred with the hope he felt because of Lady Cassidy, the Queen who now ruled the Territory of Dena Nehele.

Because there was hope, and fledgling trust, Ranon took a breath and began to play a greeting to the sun--a song that had not been heard outside of the Shalador reserves for many, many years. Even there, it had not been played openly.

His grandfather had taught him this song and every other song the Tradition Keepers had held on to since the Shalador people fled the ruins of their own Territory generations ago and settled in the southern part of Dena Nehele. The people had thrived there and put down roots, respecting the traditions of Dena Nehele but never forgetting their own--and hoping, always hoping, that someday they would have a Territory of their own again.

It had been good land once, and a good place to live when it had been ruled by the Gray-Jeweled Queens. Then Lia died, and Dena Nehele’s decline began. Queens who were backed by Dorothea SaDiablo, Hayll’s High Priestess, gained control within a couple of generations. Dorothea hated the people of Dena Nehele for holding out against her for so long, but she hated the Shalador people even more because of Jared, the Red-Jeweled Shalador Warlord who had been husband and Consort to Lia Grayhaven, the last Gray Lady to rule Dena Nehele.

Because Dorothea hated Jared’s people, her pet Queens ground away a little more of what was uniquely Shalador with each generation. The boundaries of the reserves where the Shaladorans had settled were whittled away until now they struggled to grow enough crops to feed themselves. The Shalador traditions were forbidden. The dances, the music, the stories--all were taught in secret and at great risk.

His paternal grandfather was a Tradition Keeper of music. A strong, quiet man, Yairen had been--and still was--a respected leader in Eyota, the village where Ranon had grown up. He was also a gifted musician who believed it was his duty to teach the young how to play the songs that had shaped the Shalador heart.

The Province Queen who controlled that reserve broke Yairen’s hands as punishment for teaching the forbidden--and then broke them twice more. When they healed the last time, Yairen could barely hold a flute much less play one. But he still taught his grandson, and he taught him well, despite the crippled hands.

So this music had been a secret for most of Ranon’s life. Even when he admitted to playing the flute, he never played within the hearing of anyone he couldn’t trust--and even then, he rarely played the songs of Shalador.

Did the Queen he now served understand how much trust was required for him to stand here and play the music of his people? Probably not. Lady Cassidy had recognized his reluctance to play, but not even Shira, the Black Widow Healer who was his lover, understood how deeply fear and hope had twined in his heart these past few days as the flute’s notes floated on the air and became a part of the world. Yes, he was afraid, but the hope of something new and better was the reason he stood here, in a place that had been a stronghold for the twisted Queens, and played music that had been forbidden.

As one song followed another, Ranon let his heart soar with the notes and fill with a joyful peace.

“How long do you have to spend serenading the little green things before you can have breakfast?”

He opened his eyes and lowered the flute. The peace he’d felt a moment before vanished as Theran Grayhaven stepped out on the terrace.

He and Theran didn’t like each other. Never had. But he detected nothing in the question except polite interest.

“A quarter of an hour.” Ranon glanced at the hourglass hovering in the air next to him. Judging by how much sand was in the bottom of the glass, he’d played twice that long. “Gray says it will help the honey pear trees grow.”

“Does he really think they’ll wilt and die if you don’t stand out here playing music?” Theran asked as he studied the thirteen pots that were sheltered by the raised flower beds that formed the terrace wall.

Ranon’s heart gave a hard bump at the thought of any of the little honey pear trees dying, but he wouldn’t admit to anyone how much the living symbols of the past meant to him.   Jared had brought six honey pear trees to this land. One of them had been planted here at Grayhaven for Lia and had remained in the gardens long after it died as a mocking symbol of the Gray-Jeweled Queens who had once ruled. But that dead tree had hidden thirteen honey pears, carefully preserved. Lia had hidden them; Cassidy had found them as the first step to locating the Grayhaven treasure. Because of that, those little trees were a thread of shining hope that linked the past and the present.

“Doesn’t matter what Gray thinks,” Ranon replied. “It is the Queen’s pleasure that I play the flute each morning for the honey pears, so I play.”

He knew the phrasing was a mistake the moment he said it.

“Well, we all play for the Queen’s pleasure in one way or another, don’t we?” Theran said. Then he glanced at Ranon and added with a touch of malice, “Better play faster or there won’t even be porridge left by the time you get to the table, let alone meat and eggs.”

I guess we’re not trying to get along anymore, Ranon thought. Since he made no secret of it, everyone in the court knew he hated porridge. Which meant Theran had said that in order to jab at him. Why? Because they didn’t like each other, and the effort to be civil rarely lasted for more than a few minutes at a time?

Hell’s fire. Grayhaven had been running hot and cold since Cassidy found the treasure and proved she was meant to rule here, but they were all committed to working together for the good of the land and the Queen.

For the good of the land, anyway. The other eleven men who made up the First Circle knew Theran didn’t feel the same commitment to Cassidy that they felt. Serving in her court was part of the agreement Theran had made in order to bring a Kaeleer Queen to Dena Nehele. That didn’t mean he wanted to serve her, despite his recent efforts to work with her instead of opposing her.

“Tell you what,” Theran added. “I’ll save my share of the porridge for you.”

An edge of temper. A slash of heat in the air between them. And an unspoken invitation to spill some blood.

“You’re twenty-seven,” Ranon said coldly. “I’m thirty. We’re both too old to indulge in a pissing contest over porridge.”

Theran jerked back as if he’d been slapped. Then, snarling, he took a step forward.

Using Craft to vanish the hourglass and flute, Ranon instinctively took a step to the side to give himself more room to maneuver.

He wore an Opal Jewel; Theran wore Green. They were both Warlord Princes, aggressive predators born to stand on the killing fields. If they unleashed their psychic strength against each other, they could destroy the Grayhaven mansion and kill many of the people living here before anyone else knew there was danger. Even without using the power that made the Blood who and what they were, they could cause a lot of harm to each other with just muscle and temper.

But if either of them was damaged so badly he couldn’t serve, the court would break, and Ranon’s hope for the Shalador people would break with it.

Remembering that, he backed away from the fight, indicating with a subtle shift of his body that Theran was the dominant male. Which was true, as far as the Jewels were concerned. But only as far as the Jewels were concerned. And that, too, Ranon conveyed with that subtle shift.

Fury flashed in Theran’s green eyes. Instead of accepting that Ranon had yielded, he took another step forward. Then…

*Theran? Theran!*

Saved by a Sceltie, Ranon thought as he watched Theran’s hasty retreat into the mansion moments before the small brown-and-white dog bounded up the terrace’s steps.

“Good morning, Lady Vae,” Ranon said with more courtesy than was required.

The little bitch growled at him.

Glancing at the Purple Dusk Jewel half hidden in her fur, Ranon offered no challenge. Vae was kindred--the name given to the Blood who were not human--and he’d seen her pull down a full-grown man in a fight. His caste outranked hers, since she was only a witch, and his Jewels outranked hers. On the other hand, she had speed, strong jaws, and sharp teeth.

*You are not usually so foolish as other human males, so I will not nip you this time,* Vae said.

“Thank you, Lady. I appreciate that.”

He also appreciated the implied threat that the next offense would earn him more than a nip.

Vae trotted into the mansion, no doubt intending to administer her own brand of justice on the other foolish male.

Ranon sighed. He’d come close to spoiling something that was as delicate as the honey pear seedlings growing in their pots.

Give her the best you have, Ranon, the Shalador Queens had told him when they left yesterday evening. Show her that Shalador’s heart and honor are worthy of such a Queen.

Cassidy was a Rose-Jeweled Queen from Dharo. A tall, gawky woman with red hair and freckles, she was nothing like the image of the beautiful, powerful Queen that Theran had painted when he’d told the surviving Warlord Princes about his plan to save Dena Nehele.

But when Ranon saw her that first day, he had felt the bond between Warlord Prince and Queen grab hold of his heart and gut, had felt the rightness of handing over his life to her will. In the few weeks since her arrival, she had shown herself worthy of that trust, and in the wake of all she had done in the past week--fighting against a Warlord and his two grown sons to defend a landen family, as well as discovering the treasure that had been hidden on the Grayhaven estate--even the Warlord Princes who had been disappointed when they had first seen her were reassessing the Queen behind the long, plain face.

He didn’t like Theran. He never would. But because he was grateful for Cassidy’s presence--and because he knew how he would have felt if he’d been required to serve a Queen he didn’t believe in--he would do what he could to keep peace between himself and Theran.

And to bring back a little of the peace that had been spoiled, he called in his flute and played a while.

Theran paused in the dining room doorway and took a moment to watch the people around the table. Despite their commitment to serve, the men who made up the First Circle of Cassidy’s court had been wary of her. They had seen too much brutality done at the command of the twisted Queens who had ruled here. And no matter what they said, he knew they had been disappointed in their Queen’s lack of beauty and power.

Then Cassidy found the treasure that had been hidden by Lia and Thera, the Black Widow who had been Lia’s closest friend. Not only did that discovery restore the Grayhaven family’s personal wealth, it had uncovered journals and portraits that gave him and the other men in the First Circle a glimpse of the past that had helped to shape them--because the people in those portraits had known what it meant to have honor. And Cassidy, by her actions, had shown herself to be a Queen of the same caliber as Lia.

Because of those things, he had made the choice to be Cassidy’s First Escort in more than name, to serve her as if he felt the bond that the rest of the First Circle felt. But he didn’t feel that bond, and despite his best intentions, serving her scraped at him. He was grateful for what she had accomplished so far, but he still believed that if Cassidy could do this much, the kind of Queen he had wanted for Dena Nehele could do so much more. The Blood who saw Cassidy had to get past that plain face and Rose Jewel in order to consider if she had anything to offer the land or the people--and most of the Blood would be disappointed enough not to bother.

Her contract to rule Dena Nehele is only for a year, Theran thought as he walked over to the table and took a seat. I can put up with serving her for a year. And it gives me time to find the right Queen for Dena Nehele.

The right Queen wouldn’t stick a Shalador Warlord Prince in his face every damn day. His only excuse for his behavior this morning was that Ranon’s presence scraped at him even more than Cassidy’s. He’d spent his whole life being Grayhaven, the last descendant of the Gray Queens’ bloodline and the man destined to become the male leader--the Warlord Prince the other men would follow. Until he brought Cassidy to Dena Nehele and she formed her court, that was exactly who he had been. Now people looked at the dark hair and golden skin that proclaimed Ranon’s heritage. Then they looked at him, and instead of seeing Grayhaven, they saw Shalador.

Worse than that, when men saw him with other members of the First Circle, they responded to him as a leader, but not as the leader. They acted like the Grayhaven name no longer meant as much now that Cassidy was here.

Feeling spiteful and pissed off at everyone, he started to help himself to a double serving of steak, eggs, and potatoes--taking Ranon’s share as well as his own--but as he stabbed the second piece of steak, Cassidy held out a clean plate and smiled at him. Noticing how sharply the other men around the table were watching him, he had no choice but to give her half of everything.

When she set the plate in front of herself and didn’t eat, resentment bubbled up. If she hadn’t wanted the food, why had she prevented him from having it?

At least Ranon is still stuck with the porridge. Then Theran glanced at his cousin Gray and remembered another reason to try to get along with Cassidy.

Gray had been damaged in body and mind by the Queen who had captured and tortured him when he was fifteen. Now, twelve years later, Gray was finally changing emotionally and mentally from boy to man. A boy couldn’t be Cassidy’s lover, and that desire, that need was the force driving Gray’s transformation.

The proof of that was a simple thing: When they had first come back to Grayhaven, Gray had been too afraid of being inside the mansion to eat with them. Now he was here, sitting beside Cassidy, talking about…

“What?” Theran almost dropped the coffeepot. “We’re doing what?”

“Going to the Shalador reserves,” Cassidy replied calmly. “The Shalador Queens invited me. They want me to see the land their people are subsisting on, want me to see the truth of their concerns.”

“It’s not safe,” Theran said. It had been his automatic response to all of Cassidy’s attempts to get out among the people, but this time he really was concerned about her safety and not what people would think about the Queen who now ruled them.

He poured his coffee and began to eat because he needed to fill his belly.

“Then it’s up to Talon as Master of the Guard and Ranon as his second-in-command to make it safe,” Cassidy said.

“If we were going to the southern or western reserves, I would agree with Theran,” Shira said. “They border other Territories, and the people there are as desperate as we are when it comes to repairing their lives and land.”

“What are you concerned about?” Cassidy asked Shira. “That they’ll try to abduct me?”

“Yes.”

Silence around the table. A sharpening of psychic scents as the Warlord Princes who served in the First Circle put an edge on tempers that were always well-honed.

“You underestimate your value, Lady,” Shira said. “You don’t know how much a good Queen is worth in Terreille. Especially now.”

“An abducted Queen isn’t worth anything,” Cassidy countered. “You can’t force her to rule.”

“But abducting a Queen could start another war.”

Cassidy leaned back, clearly startled by that possibility.

“Ranon’s home village is in the eastern reserve, far enough away from other Territory borders to be safe and it’s backed by the Tamanara Mountains,” Shira said. “Protected on all sides.”

“But not protected from what’s inside,” Theran said.

“The Shalador people have no reason to wish Lady Cassidy harm,” Shira said coolly.

“Prince Grayhaven, you can debate this all you want, but my decision is made,” Cassidy said. “Five days from now, I’ll be staying at the Shalador reserve. You, Powell, and Talon will discuss what needs to be done in order to accomplish that.”

She would have backed down a fortnight ago, Theran thought. She would have respected that he knew more about what Dena Nehele needed than she did--and the other Warlord Princes who served her wouldn’t have opposed him.

A leader, but no longer the leader.

He felt as if he’d lost something too elusive to name, but the sense of loss was real.

“In that case, I’ll get started on the plans,” Theran said, pushing away from the table. He picked up his plate and coffee mug. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll finish my breakfast while I work.”

He barely waited for her nod of dismissal, but he waited because Protocol required it. Then he walked out of the dining room to finish his meal away from the woman he’d brought into his land.

Cassidy might do some good during the year she was contracted to rule here. But letting the Shalador people think they were more significant than the rest of Dena Nehele wasn’t going to help anyone.

That was Ranon’s doing. He never let anyone forget that the Shalador people had borne the brunt of the cruelty that Dorothea’s Queens had heaped on the people of Dena Nehele.

And Ranon never let him forget that if his family name had been anything but Grayhaven, Theran would have been living the same desperate life on one of the reserves as the rest of the Shalador people.

Which implied his life had been easy, and that wasn’t true. As the last of the Grayhaven line, he’d grown up in the rogue camps that were hidden in the Tamanara Mountains, living among men who would fight to the death and beyond rather than serve a Queen who wanted them to whore their code of honor. He’d been trained by Talon, a Sapphire-Jeweled Warlord Prince who had been demon-dead for almost three hundred years--and who had been a friend to both Jared and Blaed, the Warlord Prince who had helped Jared elude Dorothea SaDiablo’s guards and get Lia back to Dena Nehele.

Not an easy life by any measurement, but other men had survived worse. Gray, for one.

It was only for a year, he thought as he ducked into a room to finish his meal. Not that much could change.

As he ate, he ignored the little whisper telling him that a great deal had changed already.

The only thing left on the table was porridge.

Ranon suppressed a sigh and took a seat beside Shira. That put him across from Cassidy, who had a full plate of steak, eggs, and fried potatoes.

“Coffee?” Shira asked, holding up the pot.

“Thanks.” He scraped what was left of the porridge into a bowl. It was food, and he was thankful to have it.

That didn’t mean he had to like it.

As he dug in, Gray turned to Cassidy and asked, “Will you be coming out to the garden to work?”

“Not this morning,” Cassidy replied. “I’m going with Shira to check on the landen girl who was injured.”

Ranon tensed. So did every other man who was still at the table. But no one challenged that statement, which was a welcome change since Theran was always yapping whenever Cassidy wanted to leave the estate.

Archerr, an Opal-Jeweled Warlord Prince, said, “Prince Spere and I have escort duty this morning. If you think the First Circle should show a stronger presence, I can ask Prince Shaddo and Lord Cayle to stand as escorts too.”

Archerr kept his eyes on Cassidy, but Ranon knew the question was directed at him as Talon’s second-in-command. He tipped his head in a subtle nod. Additional escorts weren’t needed to ensure Cassidy’s safety during this visit, but it didn’t hurt to remind the townspeople that the Queen was served and protected by strong men.

Then Gray said, “Perhaps Lady Vae would be willing to join you.”

“I don’t think any of us could stop her,” Cassidy said.

Ranon snorted softly. Before Cassidy’s arrival, no one here had seen a Sceltie. Vae had been an education for all of them.

Powell, the Prince who was the Steward of the court, pushed away from the table. “With your permission, Lady, we’ll leave you to begin the day’s work.”

Cassidy nodded. “When I return, I’ll stop at your office to review anything that requires my attention.”

“Certainly. Ranon? When you have a moment, I’d like to discuss the Lady’s visit to your home village.”

“I’ll join you shortly,” Ranon replied.

“Lady Shira and I will be ready in half an hour,” Cassidy told Archerr.

“I’ll see you later,” Gray said, brushing a fingertip  over the back of Cassidy’s hand.

He’s come so far so fast, Ranon thought as Gray and the rest of the men left the dining room. Now he’s acting more like the Warlord Prince he should have been.

When the last man left the room, he pushed aside the half-eaten bowl of porridge--and Cassidy pushed the full plate of food in front of him.

“Lady,” he protested.

“I ate,” Cassidy said. “But we’ve agreed to live lean and not cook more than we need for each meal. You were out with the honey pear trees, and I had a feeling that there might not be anything left by the time you got here.”

Living lean. In the reserves, winter was called the Season of Hunger, so he knew about not wasting food. And he knew the unspoken rule of this court: Once everyone was served, what was left could be eaten by anyone who wanted more. The Blood’s bodies needed more fuel than landens, and the darker the Jewel a person wore, the more food that person needed in order to remain a healthy vessel for the power that lived within. So everyone was willing to eat another helping when it was available.

Because he’d been late, and because of Theran’s remarks, he hadn’t expected to get more than porridge that even hunger barely made tolerable.

“If you have no objection to a solitary meal, Shira and I really should be going.”

“I’ve no objection,” he said. He touched his fork to the edge of the plate. “Thanks for this.”

He waited until Cassidy and Shira left. Then he began eating with enthusiasm. As he poured the last of the coffee from the pot, it occurred to him that Cassidy had not only saved some food for him, she had used a warming spell on the plate so the food wouldn’t get cold.

A small thing, perhaps. A simple courtesy. But when simple courtesies came from a Queen, it said a great deal about how she would treat her people--and, hopefully, how she would treat his.

Chapter 2
Kaeleer

Laying face down on the large bed, Daemon Sadi groaned with relief as his wife’s skilled hands coaxed his back muscles to relax. The warming spell Jaenelle was using to ease the tightness didn’t hurt either.

“Tell me again how you did this,” Jaenelle said.

A typical wife question, particularly when said in that tone of voice.

“Daemonar was stuck in a tree,” Daemon mumbled. Then, “Oh. Right there.”

“Uh-huh. That is a very nasty knot.” She said nothing for a minute while she worked on that part of his back. “So we’re talking about Daemonar Yaslana. Your nephew.”

“He’s your nephew too.”

“Yes, he is. And he’s Eyrien. Which means he has wings.”

“He’s just a little boy.”

“Who has wings.”

Damn. She was going to hold on to that little detail like a Sceltie herding a single sheep.

“Since he is little,” Jaenelle continued, “how did he get up in the tree? He wouldn’t be able to reach the lower branches to climb up like you did.”

Oh, no. He knew a trick question when he heard one.

“He flew up, didn’t he?” Jaenelle said. “Using his wings.”

“Darling, you’re starting to sound like a Harpy,” Daemon said. “Ow!” That because she dug her thumbs into his back--which he deserved for the Harpy comment.

“Why don’t you just admit that climbing a tree in those shoes you usually wear instead of using Craft to float up to the branch where your erring nephew was waiting for you, and most likely giggling, was a dumb idea?”

He wasn’t about to admit to anything. Especially when it had been a dumb idea. He’d known that when he was doing it. He’d known it even better when he watched Daemonar flutter down to find out what he was doing flat on the ground. But it had been a matter of pride. Jaenelle understood about male pride. She might find it amusing or irritating, depending on the consequences, but she understood it. So she should understand that, at that moment when the boy was looking down at him, he saw himself as the uncle who used Craft instead of muscle, who didn’t participate in the physical world the way his brother Lucivar did. In that moment, he didn’t want to be seen as less by a boy who wasn’t old enough to appreciate the power and skills he did have.

So he’d climbed the damn tree.

Idiot.

“At least I didn’t actually hit the ground,” Daemon muttered. “I did remember to create a shield and use the air walking spell.” Which saved him from serious injury since he landed on a cushion of air instead of hard ground, but it didn’t spare him from having the wind knocked out of him--or having a back full of tight, aching muscles.

“Good for you,” Jaenelle said, her voice so dry there was no question she was not impressed.

“All right. Fine. I was an idiot.” Which was a story he was sure the servants at SaDiablo Hall would share for many years to come since a couple of them had witnessed the little drama. They wouldn’t share the story with outsiders, because anyone who worked at the Hall knew the private lives of the SaDiablo family remained private. But he could see someone like the footman Holt taking a young servant aside and telling him that story as an assurance that the powerful, dangerous, lethal Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince of Dhemlan could also be a man who acted like a bumbling uncle with good intentions and a shortage of brains.

“Shit.” He could feel her smile, and the fact that she didn’t need to comment was more than sufficient comment.

She kissed him between the shoulder blades, and that simple contact between lips and skin warmed him in other ways, and the next stroke of her hands down his back had him purring instead of groaning.

“Just relax,” Jaenelle said. “I’m almost done. By tomorrow you’ll be your usual wonderful self, and if you can remember that you’re a grownup, you should be able to get through the last day of your nephew’s visit without doing any more damage to yourself.”

Her hands glided over his back, more a caress than a Healer’s touch.

“You’re not relaxing,” she said.

“I’m very relaxed,” Daemon purred. Most of him, anyway. He’d been sore enough that he hadn’t focused on anything besides not hurting. Now he was aware of a few other things.

“No, you’re not.”

He heard the concern in her voice. That meant she was looking at him as a Healer and not a woman--and he wanted the woman’s attention.

“Sweetheart, you’re sitting on my ass. There are parts of me that find that very interesting and don’t want to relax yet.”

“I am not sitting on your ass,” Jaenelle huffed. “I’m straddling you to work on your back.”

“You’re close enough that I can tell you’re not wearing anything under that shift, so I call that sitting.”

“And you can tell what I’m not wearing because…?”

“When you brush against me, it tickles.”

A too-thoughtful pause. “You’re awfully sassy all of a sudden.”

“Blame it on my beautiful wife.”

“Boyo, I don’t think your back will take what you have in mind.”

“Then I’ll just roll over. Since you’re already straddling me, you can give us both a ride.”

She snorted out a laugh. “You’re such a romantic when you’re exhausted, but I’ll take you up on your offer. Just to help you relax completely, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Hold still for another minute.”

Her hands glided over his back, the warm, sensuous caress of a lover.

Jaenelle Angelline. The living myth. Dreams made flesh. The former Queen of Ebon Askavi. And his wife. His wonderful, longed-for wife.

“Daemon?”

In another minute he would roll over and touch her body. He would use a psychic thread to link with her, mind to mind, and consummate their lovemaking with more than his body, touching her in ways he had never touched another woman.

“Daemon?”

He could picture her fair-skinned hands gliding over his golden brown chest as she sheathed him in silky fire.

In just another min…

Ebon Askavi

Saetan Daemon SaDiablo, former Warlord Prince of Dhemlan and still the High Lord of Hell, set aside the current stack of books he was sorting in the restricted part of the Keep’s library, leaned against the large blackwood table, and watched the son who was a mirror prowl restlessly around the room.

Not physically a mirror. Not quite. They had the same thick black hair and gold eyes--although his hair now held wings of silver at the temples. They had the brown skin of the long-lived races, but Daemon’s skin was a golden brown--more Dhemlan than Hayllian in color.

He had always been considered handsome. Daemon, on the other hand, was beautiful and moved with a feline grace that drew the eye and aroused the senses.

The foolish lusted after that body, forgetting that the man inside the skin was a powerful predator with a cold, killing temper.

Which made him wonder about the reason for this visit.

“You’re here early,” Saetan said.

“Went to sleep early, got up early,” Daemon replied.

Back and forth. Ceaseless movement. If it was Lucivar, he wouldn’t think twice about the prowl. But Daemon?

Daemon stopped moving and stared at the wall. “I think there’s something wrong with me.”

Fear clamped around Saetan’s heart, but he asked calmly, “In what way?”

A few weeks ago, Theran Grayhaven came to Kaeleer and asked Daemon for help. Disturbed by the physical resemblance between Theran and his old friend Jared, Daemon had slipped into painful memories, confusing the past with the present. No one had known there were deep emotional scars connected to the years after Daemon helped Jared and Lia elude Dorothea’s guards. No one had suspected there was anything wrong--until Daemon attacked Jaenelle.

Since that night, Daemon was quick to hone his temper when anyone questioned his mental or emotional stability, so the subject had to be approached with caution.

He understood that. When the witch Vulchera had tried to compromise Daemon’s honor by playing her particular brand of blackmail games, something had snapped inside of him, and he’d slid into the Twisted Kingdom where his rage had found an insane and terrible clarity. It wasn’t the snap and slide that had disturbed the family; it was the deliberate way he had executed the bitch that had scared them.

So the whole family was still feeling a bit raw--and Lucivar going into rut so soon after didn’t help.

“In what way?” he asked again.

Daemon turned to face him. “I’m only seventeen hundred years old. I’ve been married for a year to the woman I love with everything in me--a woman I’ve waited centuries to be with. So when that woman indicates she wants to make love with me, I should not be falling asleep between the thought and the deed!”

Relief made Saetan’s knees weak--and he needed every drop of his fifty thousand years of self-discipline and control to keep a straight face.

“Lucivar is in rut,” he said.

“I know that,” Daemon replied, sounding as if he’d like to whack his brother’s head against a wall a few times because of it.

“Who is looking after Daemonar?”

Daemon frowned. “He’s staying at the Hall with us. I thought you knew that.”

“I’m aware of where he’s staying. Who is looking after him?”

Daemon shifted his weight from one foot to the other. In and of itself, it was an insignificant movement--except that Daemon had done it, and Daemon rarely showed any sign of uncertainty.

“I am, for the most part. Well, Hell’s fire, Jaenelle can’t hold the leash on that little beast.”

Of course she could, Saetan thought. Even now, when she no longer had the abundance of physical energy she used to have, Jaenelle was probably one of the few people who could keep up with a small Eyrien boy. Not to mention that Daemonar loved his Auntie J, sensed on some level that she couldn’t take rough play, and now had his young Warlord Prince instincts tugging at him to protect the Queen.

“Holt is also taking shifts watching the boy,” Daemon added.

“Holt?” Saetan wondered if the footman was writing out his resignation. Which would be a shame, because the man was an asset to the household.

“He’s young, strong, and has the experience of having several nieces and nephews,” Daemon replied. “He also gets double wages for any day he assists in looking after the boy--and an extra day off with pay.”

“Generous,” Saetan murmured. “If those are the terms you offered, you should have plenty of volunteers.”

“Not after the first hour,” Daemon growled.

Don’t laugh, he told himself. You know exactly what this is like, so do not laugh at him.

But he wanted to laugh. So he gave himself a stern mental shake and cleared his throat.

The rut wasn’t a laughing matter. Once or twice a year, the fierce sex drive that always simmered in a Warlord Prince intensified to a need that eclipsed sanity, and a man who could normally control his predatory nature became a danger to everyone except the woman he’d fixed his attention on--and sometimes, if she wasn’t careful around him, even she wasn’t safe from a temper that had no leash.

It changed when a Warlord Prince had a strong relationship with a woman, particularly when that woman was his lover. She, at least, could usually penetrate the sexual madness and provide a little control during those three days. And a Warlord Prince who was a father could usually tolerate his own children’s presence when they were infants or toddlers, as long as he didn’t have to interact with them.

But Daemonar had begun the transition from toddler to boy last autumn and now had the unmistakable psychic scent of a Warlord Prince. Now Lucivar saw a rival instead of a son. So the boy could no longer stay in the eyrie when his father was in rut. Which meant Daemon took Daemonar for those days in the same way Saetan had taken Andulvar’s son, Ravenar, and Andulvar had taken Mephis and Peyton.

“You’re taking care of a small boy who is in motion almost every moment he’s awake, and you think there is something wrong with you because you fell asleep before making love to Jaenelle?”

“Well…”

“When he goes down for an afternoon nap, do you have sense enough to take an hour of that time to get some sleep yourself?”

Daemon’s gold eyes flashed with annoyance. “I do have work to do.”

“Meaning you haven’t taken that hour.”

His son snarled softly. “Lucivar doesn’t take naps.”

Hell’s fire. This wasn’t a competition. Or maybe it was. Except for these past few years when they had been reunited with him, the only measuring stick they had for what was “normal” for a male with so much power was each other.

“Lucivar is Eyrien,” Saetan said, his patience starting to fray.

“Half Eyrien.”

“Nevertheless, the Eyriens are a very physical people, and your brother is no exception. Besides, Lucivar catches quick naps throughout the day. Haven’t you seen him stand perfectly still with his eyes focused on some distant spot while you’re talking to him and then realize he hasn’t heard anything you’ve said?”

Daemon shrugged, a movement full of dismissal and irritation.

“He was asleep,” Saetan said.

Daemon jerked. “What? He was what?”

“Asleep. I’m not sure if it’s something Eyrien males are born knowing how to do or if they’re trained, but they can sleep on their feet with their eyes open. Just a few minutes at a time. For a warrior, being able to snatch those moments of rest can mean the difference between surviving a battle or being one of the dead.” Saetan paused, then added, “Andulvar used to do that sometimes when I was talking to him. He even had the balls to tell me my voice was a soothing drone.”

Daemon snorted in an effort to hold back a laugh.

“If it’s any comfort to you, I know for a fact there are nights when Lucivar flops on the bed and is so deeply asleep by the time Marian comes in that she can’t shift him, so she throws a blanket over him and sleeps somewhere else. A few hours later, he wakes up, realizes she isn’t there, and goes and fetches her to tuck them both in for the rest of the night.”

“But he didn’t think something was wrong with him,” Daemon muttered.

Saetan raised an eyebrow. “Then why do you think I know about it?”

Daemon blinked. Blinked again. “Oh.”

He huffed out a sigh. “Is that it? Anything else? I noticed you’re a bit stiff this morning.” When Daemon mumbled a response, he put some paternal steel in his voice. “What?”

“I fell out of a tree.”

“I see.” He didn’t--and he wasn’t going to ask about it. But even knowing the response he was about to provoke, he decided to trespass. “How are you otherwise?”

A heartbeat was all it took for Daemon to switch from being a son to being a Warlord Prince whose cold temper could be as elegant as it was deadly.

“I’m fine,” Daemon replied, a warning chill in his voice.

“And I’m your father,” Saetan replied, “as well as the High Lord of Hell. I’ll have an honest answer this time, Prince.”

They stared at each other, assessing, measuring. Then Daemon leashed the Warlord Prince in order to be a son again.

“I don’t like knowing there are places where I’m fragile,” Daemon said. “I don’t like admitting I can be vulnerable.”

“No man does. But very few men, if any, could have survived having their mind shattered twice and come back from it. Everything has a price, Daemon. Knowing there are some things you can’t do seems like a small price to pay for getting your life back.” Saetan studied his son. “There’s something else. What is it?”

“I’ll be going into rut sometime in the next few weeks,” Daemon said.

“And that worries you?”

“Yes.”

“Does it worry Jaenelle?”

“No.” Daemon shifted his shoulders. “Could you talk to her? Make sure she’s willing after…”

…after the attack.

Daemon took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “I need to get back. Jaenelle was sure she and Holt could deal with the boy for a few hours, but I don’t want to be away too long.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Saetan said. “Soon.”

Daemon nodded. “If Lucivar gets Marian pregnant again…”

They both sighed.

“If that happens, we’ll all deal with it,” he said. And hope for a girl.

“I don’t think Eyriens created the hunting camps just to train boys to become warriors,” Daemon said thoughtfully. “I think they created them to send young males away from home because that was the only way Eyrien males would have siblings other than older sisters.”

Saetan’s lips twitched. “You could be right. Yes, I think you could be right.”

“Hello, witch-child.” Saetan pushed the books aside and turned to lean on the blackwood table. He’d been expecting her. That was why he hadn’t retired to his suite to rest during the harsher midday hours that were so draining for a Guardian.

“Hello, Papa,” Jaenelle replied.

She didn’t come to him for a hug. She didn’t look away. In fact, the fingers twining around and around each other was the only sign of nerves.

The living myth. Dreams made flesh. The daughter of his soul. They had almost lost her when she purged the Realms of the Blood who were tainted by Dorothea and Hekatah. Now she was whole and healthy again, if still a bit too thin in his opinion. The golden hair, cut short while she was healing, looked shaggy now. He couldn’t tell if that was a deliberate style or the result of letting it grow.

But it was the sapphire eyes that held him now as they had held him the first time he met her.

“What is said between father and son is private, and I appreciate that,” Jaenelle said. “But I need to know if Daemon is all right.”

“Are you asking about his back?”

“I know about his back, Saetan.”

And there it was--that hint of caverns and midnight in her voice that told him he was no longer talking to his daughter; he was talking to his Queen. To Witch.

“Daemon Sadi is the most powerful male in Kaeleer,” Witch said. “He’s a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince with a temper that cannot be dismissed or taken lightly. He’s your equal.”

“Actually, he’s dominant,” Saetan said quietly. “His power is a little darker than mine. Which makes him the most powerful male in the history of the Blood. I’m aware of that, Lady. What is your point?”

“He slunk out of the bedroom this morning. He slunk out, Saetan. I need to know why.”

“He was embarrassed because he had fallen asleep before making love to you last night. He thought there must be something wrong with him.”

Jaenelle’s mouth fell open. She stared at him. Finally she said, “Well…Hell’s fire. He’s been chasing after Daemonar for two days. Why was he surprised that he fell asleep?”

“Because, like his brother, he hasn’t taken into account that having the stamina to run other grown men into the ground is not the same thing as trying to keep up with a small, bright boy who leaps into exploring the world with all the arrogance of his race--to say nothing of having inherited Lucivar’s confidence in being able to meet any challenge the world foolishly chooses to toss at him.”

“Oh.”

“Were you disappointed that you didn’t make love last night?”

She gave him a dry smile. “Frankly, I’m not sure either one of us could have stayed awake through the whole thing if we’d tried.”

End of discussion, Saetan thought. Except it wasn’t. Not quite. “He’s also concerned about how you’ll respond to him the next time he goes into rut--which will be fairly soon.”

The look in her sapphire eyes sizzled along his nerves. He was her adopted father, and he had never thought of her physically in any other way. But he was also a man and a Warlord Prince, and there was always a sexual awareness between a Warlord Prince and his Queen, even when there was no desire to do anything with that awareness.

When Daemon was caught in the rut’s sexual madness, how much of his relief came from physical sex and how much came from the knife-edged dance of being with Witch in the Misty Place deep in the abyss--of being with the living myth when she revealed the Self that lived within the human body? The Self that was not completely human.

The sizzle faded. He had to clear his throat before he could speak. “I’ll tell Daemon not to worry about the rut.”

*I’ve never worried about the rut,* she told him using a psychic thread.

Now he understood why she didn’t.

Jaenelle closed the distance between them and hugged him. Then she gave him a bright smile. “I’d better get back to the Hall before Daemonar gets his Unka Daemon into trouble.”

“I thought Daemonar had given up the baby talk.”

“Oh, he has for the most part. But he likes the sound of ‘unka,’ and his uncle doesn’t insist that he say the word correctly.”

Saetan smiled. “I see. Off you go, witch-child. Try to keep them both out of the trees, will you?”

“I’ll do my best.”

Later, when he was alone in his suite, preparing to sleep through the midday hours, he allowed himself to remember her in that moment when she showed him a side of Witch a father would never see.

And he allowed himself one moment to envy his son--and to wish he could have been the lover instead of the father.

Chapter 3
Terreille

Propped up on one elbow, Ranon watched Shira’s slow return to awareness after the climax that was the finale of a long, slow, intense evening of lovemaking.

Before coming together in Cassidy’s court, they’d had five years of fast, furtive coupling because his interest would have drawn the wrong kind of attention to the Black Widow Healer. Five years when he’d tried to stay away from her and had been unable to resist being with her. Five years of love always being entwined with fear.

Twice that five years, actually, if he counted the years before they became lovers. He had been twenty and still adjusting to the Opal power that coursed through him after he’d made the Offering to the Darkness. She had been sixteen--a young Black Widow, born to the Hourglass Covens, who was just beginning the secret training that would hone the Craft she instinctively knew, as well as the open training required to be a Healer.

They had both been visiting friends in a village that wasn’t home to either of them. They had met by chance when their companions had chosen the same dining house for the midday meal. And that meeting had shaped their hopes and dreams for the next ten years.

Now, thanks to Cassidy, he and Shira could spend time together openly, could spend the night together, could begin to build a life together. That alone would have earned Cassidy his loyalty. The fact that she was proving to be a far stronger ruler than any of them had expected from a Queen who wore a Rose Jewel had earned his respect and a different kind of love. Her will was his life, and he would do everything he could to help her rule Dena Nehele--and by doing so he would do more than he’d dreamed possible for the Shalador people.

“What are you looking at?” Shira asked, her dark eyes reflecting the pleasure of their lovemaking as well as amusement.

His thoughts had drifted beyond her bedroom, but his eyes had been focused on her breasts.

He lowered his head and placed one warm kiss between her breasts before saying, “A Shalador beauty.”

Her response was a little snort. “I know what I look like.”

“But you don’t see what I see,” Ranon said. He was considered a handsome man. The sharp features typical of his people gave his face a rugged handsomeness that went well with a warrior’s lean body, and he had the dark eyes, dark hair, and golden skin that made Shaladorans distinct from the brown-skinned, long-lived races or the fair-skinned races like the people of Dena Nehele.

She had the look of their people, too, and many men had thought the sharp bones of her face and the curves that lacked abundance made her less appealing as a lover--and her sharp tongue and temper discouraged most men from getting close to her. But it was exactly those things about her that excited him in ways no other woman had, and he understood why Gray could look at Cassidy--who even the most generous supporter could not call pretty--and see a beautiful woman.

Shira turned her head away from him, an evasive movement that wasn’t typical of her.

He considered his words. You don’t see what I see. Then he considered the nature of a Black Widow’s Craft and felt a chill settle in his belly.

“Shira? Have you seen something in a tangled web?”

“I can’t talk about it.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Can’t, won’t. The words make no difference.”

They made a difference to him. His voice went flat. “You saw something in a web of dreams and visions. Didn’t you?”

“I can’t speak of it, Ranon. None of us will speak of it.”

The chill in his belly turned to jagged ice. “How many Black Widows have seen this?”

She sighed, a sound full of exasperation and a hint of anger.

He shifted away from her, sat up, and wrapped his arms around his bent knees. He had no right to push. If she felt he needed to know, she would have told him. Hell’s fire! She was the one who had pushed him to come to Grayhaven when Theran had first summoned the Warlord Princes to talk about bringing a Queen from Kaeleer. She hadn’t told him anything then, either. She’d just said he had to go.

The Hourglass didn’t divulge what they saw in their tangled webs. Not very often, anyway. And not directly. But a Black Widow never made a suggestion about an action to take without a reason.

“Is it something to do with Cassidy?” he asked.

She didn’t answer.

“Shira…” He didn’t know what to ask.

Finally Shira asked quietly, “Who has your loyalty, Prince Ranon? Tell me the list in order.”

His heart ached, but she had asked. Because he would give her nothing less than honesty, the words had to be said. “I love you with everything I am, but my first loyalty is to my Queen. Then you, then our people, then Dena Nehele.”

She sat up and pressed a hand against his face. When he looked at her, she said fiercely, “Remember the order of that list. Hold on to it with everything you are.”

Was she warning him that something might happen to Cassie when they went to the Shalador reserves?

“Hold on to it the same way you’ve held on to your honor,” Shira said.

And that was the answer: Cassidy the Queen came before anything and everything else--his lover, his people, his land.

The visions seen in tangled webs didn’t always come true. Sometimes they were warnings of what might be. Shira was telling him that his choices would make a difference. His choices. And she had told him, without breaking her own code of honor, what his choice had to be.

That night, while Shira slept and he lay awake staring at the dark ceiling of her bedroom, he realized that fear could entwine with hope as well as love, and all he could do was give his best to the two women who were now the center of his life.