The Queen's Weapons

by Anne Bishop

  She stared at him, clearly insulted—and hurt. “You said you had my back. You’ve always said that.”

  “And I do. But having your back doesn’t mean agreeing with you all the time or giving in to whatever you want to do. Sometimes having your back means fighting you into the ground if I think you’re wrong.”

  “I bet if precious Jaenelle Angelline had wanted something Lucivar had considered stupid, he would have gone along with it.”

  Scalding fury flooded through him before he tightened the leash on his temper and regained control. “Based on the stories my father has told me about his dealings with the witch who was his sister and Queen, you would have lost that bet.”

  He took a step toward her. She took a step back.

  “Do you hear yourself, Jaenelle Saetien? Do you think acting like some petty bitch is going to impress anyone?”

  “I’m not! Why is everyone against me?”

  He had one more thing to say to her. “Titian was excited about this dance. Instead of being at the school, she’s home. Did you wonder why? Did you ask her? Or are you so self-absorbed that you don’t care about anyone else anymore?”

  He grabbed her and caught the Green Wind, taking them back to the eyrie. He dropped from the Wind when they were close to home, glided in low until he was over the flagstone courtyard, and then dropped Jaenelle Saetien almost on top of his father.

  He didn’t stop, didn’t land. He made a tight turn and flew to the communal eyrie, where he hoped to find someone who was in the mood to spar. He really needed to work off some temper. If he couldn’t find anyone at the communal eyrie, well, he was pretty sure Lucivar soon would be in the mood to oblige.

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Jaenelle Saetien straightened her clothes and raised her chin—and tried not to shiver at the way Uncle Lucivar’s eyes traveled down her body.

  “Well,” he finally said, “since neither of you are bloody, I guess I don’t need to know what you were wrangling about. This time.”

  She heard the warning.

  “Besides,” he continued, “I already have enough testing the leash on my temper.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  That lazy, arrogant smile. Daemonar had that smile too.

  “The next bitch who uses words to hurt my daughter is going to lose her tongue. And I don’t give a damn who she is.” He turned and walked into the eyrie, leaving the door open.

  Jaenelle Saetien stood outside until she was fairly sure he was somewhere deep in the eyrie. She started to rush to Titian’s room, then stopped and looked out the glass doors that opened to the yard. Spotting Titian at the far end, she ran across the yard.

  Her cousin sat cross-legged, on air, her drawing board and box of pastels also balanced on air. She didn’t look distraught or weepy or . . . anything.

  Since her trousers already felt damp from sitting on the riverbank, Jaenelle Saetien also used Craft to sit on air. “Why didn’t you stay at school and go to the dance?”

  Titian carefully put one pastel back in the box and carefully—too carefully?—selected another. “Some of the girls said the boys wouldn’t want to be seen dancing with a fat bat. Why would I want to spend an evening standing against the wall, watching everyone else have fun? Or pretend they’re having fun.”

  Calling an Eyrien a bat was a serious insult. Not as bad as calling an Eyrien a Jhinka, but close.

  “You’re not fat.” An uneasiness went through her. “Which girls?”

  “Doesn’t matter who said it. It doesn’t matter if the aristo girls think I’m an Eyrien rube. The art classes are good. Really good. I’m learning so much, and that’s mostly why I wanted to go to that school.”

  “Maybe I could talk to those girls. If you told me . . .”

  “Leave it alone. It doesn’t matter.”

  Titian gave her a long look filled with warning, and Jaenelle Saetien suddenly wondered if Uncle Lucivar was in his study taking care of the business of ruling Askavi—or if he was in the weapons room sharpening his knives.

  NINETEEN

  Daemonar breathed in crisp autumn air and headed for his favorite bakery on Riada’s main street. It was one of the few places open this early in the morning, and twice a week, he was the first customer because he’d been up well before the sun, practicing the Dea al Mon style of fighting with Chaosti. The dark power that permeated the Keep allowed the demon-dead Warlord Prince more time to interact with the living, but Chaosti and Karla preferred to retire soon after dawn turned to full daylight.

  So his fighting and strategy lessons were finished by daybreak, and because he was a young man and a Warlord Prince, breakfast became his next priority. A fruit pastry and a folded bread filled with cheese and spicy meat would go down well with a large mug of coffee. And after that? He wasn’t required to report to Hallevar and do any sparring with the other Eyriens on these days, but he still felt edgy and could do with a little more physical work before going home to sort the mail and spend a couple of hours with his father learning the “desk” side of ruling a territory like Ebon Rih—or a Territory like Askavi.

  His mother still handled the social invitations, but after being reassured that her firstborn wasn’t being given too much to handle on top of his studies, she’d handed over the business tasks connected with Ebon Rih without a backward glance. Oh, she still met with the women who preferred telling her their concerns, and she still paid all the monthly bills submitted by Riada’s merchants, but the time she no longer gave her husband for paperwork was spent at her loom, where she created pieces that were as artistically beautiful as they were practical.

  She’d even been invited to contribute some of her work for an exhibit in Dharo, the Territory famed for its carpets and fabrics.

  His mother was happy with her home and her family and her work, and he didn’t want to spoil that. But he had to think about—

  “Daemonar!”

  Hell’s fire, what’s she doing up at this hour? he thought as Orian rushed toward him, then stopped and covered the rest of the distance with a suggestive hip-swaying walk that made him embarrassed on her behalf. A Queen shouldn’t act like that. Not in public.

  Something off about this.

  As she came toward him, Daemonar created a tight Green shield around himself that would prevent her from touching him. Then he formed a defensive shield a finger length above that—a shield that included a bit of Craft Auntie J. called a kiss of lightning.

  Orian wasn’t alone, but the two Rihlander girls who were part of her current unofficial court remained on the other side of the street, watching.

  “Orian,” he said when she reached him.

  She clearly expected him to invite her to join him for breakfast. Since he wasn’t interested in spending an hour with her while she tried to make plans for his future, he just stood there, waiting for her to say something.

  “I need to get to work.” He’d learned not to ask if there was something she wanted, since she usually wanted something he didn’t want to give.

  Angry? Petulant? Desperate? He couldn’t name the feeling he saw on her face, and he didn’t care. She’d ignored him for years, which had been a relief, but lately she’d been trying to renew their “friendship” and seemed determined to put him in a compromising position that would create some obligation to her.

  She stepped closer. He didn’t step back, wouldn’t yield even that much since he was protected by Green shields.

  She reached for his arm, then shrieked when the Green defensive shield sizzled, inflicting enough pain to hurt like a wicked bitch without doing permanent damage.

  Thank you, Auntie J.

  “Don’t touch me,” he said quietly.

  Fury filled her eyes, but her words were quietly spoken, and the sound of her voice became enticing, persuasive. “I have a device that can make a man feel all
kinds of things when it’s slipped around his cock. If I put it on you, you wouldn’t dare turn down an invitation from a Queen.”

  For a moment, all he could hear was his heart pounding. All he could feel . . .

  Lucivar set a shielded gold ring on the edge of the blackwood desk.

  Daemonar leaned forward to get a better look. Too big for anyone’s finger, so . . .

  “It’s called a Ring of Obedience,” Lucivar said. “It’s put on a man’s cock.”

  “Like a Ring of Honor?”

  “The difference in what they’re called should tell you something about how they’re used. Some of . . . the High Lord’s men retrieved a sack of goods from a smuggler who didn’t survive the journey through the Sleeping Dragons. A few of those Rings were in the sack.”

  Lucivar gave him a long look, as if trying to force himself to step up to a line. “I can share a memory of what it’s like to wear a Ring of Obedience, of what it feels like to be punished. A few seconds. No more. But only if you want to know.”

  His father didn’t want him to know. That much was clear. And that was why he said, “Show me.”

  A memory of something that had been done to Lucivar long ago. But as soon as mind touched mind to share that memory, it felt like his nerves were on fire, and he thought his cock and balls would explode from the pain. Terrible. Terrifying.

  Done.

  As he struggled to catch his breath and wipe the tears from his face, he watched Lucivar’s hands tremble as his father poured two large whiskeys and held one out—then had to help him hold the glass.

  “That’s what the Queens in Terreille did to you?” he asked when he could draw a full breath.

  “That’s what they did.”

  “More than once.” Not a question.

  “More than once,” Lucivar confirmed. “For centuries, boyo. Every time I defied them, and that was often.”

  “How old . . . ?”

  “A little older than you. I’d made the Blood Run. I wasn’t close to making the Offering to the Darkness, but I was getting too strong to be controlled any other way, too good in a fight.”

  “How did you survive?”

  Lucivar smiled. “For a long time, I was just too angry to give up and watch the bitches hurt anyone else. Then I held on and kept fighting because I was told the Queen was coming. In the end, it took almost dying to find her again after our first brief meeting.”

  To hold on so long for a dream. “Uncle Daemon?”

  Lucivar swallowed hard. “He was Ringed soon after his Birthright Ceremony.”

  Daemonar met his father’s eyes. To be a boy and feel that pain, to be punished with that pain again and again and again. To shape yourself into a weapon that could strike back in retaliation. To become someone who could wrap pain in desire and need so intense, it would ensnare an enemy and crush them. Crush every part of them.

  Now he had some idea of the pain that had birthed the Sadist.

  “You need to be careful,” Lucivar said. “Some of those Rings might already be in Askavi. Trust your instincts before you trust anyone else.”

  Daemonar took a step back. Then he smiled a lazy, arrogant smile while his heart pounded and pounded. “Orian, this much I promise you. If you ever touch my younger brother for any reason, I will drag you into the middle of the street and gut you.”

  She looked shocked—and afraid. Did she really think he wouldn’t hear her words as a call to battle?

  He strode down the street just far enough to give himself wing room. Then he launched himself skyward and flew home.

  Ever since Jaenelle Saetien’s last visit, he’d been thinking about spending time in Amdarh to support Titian. But he hadn’t figured out how to tell his father that he wanted to attend the same school when he wasn’t sure they had any studies of interest to him. Now . . .

  As he walked into the eyrie’s big front room, he heard the rise and fall of his mother’s voice coming from the kitchen and his father’s quiet, husky laugh.

  Shit. Not a good time to interrupt them. Maybe he should go to the communal eyrie and work off some of this rage before talking to his father.

  As Daemonar hesitated, Lucivar stepped out of the kitchen, his gold eyes filled with a lustful heat. Then the look in those eyes changed, sharpened.

  “What’s wrong?” Lucivar asked.

  Marian stood in the archway. “Daemonar, what happened? You’re shaking!” She started to rush toward him, then stopped, blocked by Lucivar’s hand.

  Was he shaking? He felt his heart pounding and pounding, felt a memory of pain that he was sure would never quite go away—and fury erased caution.

  “If Orian tries to put a Ring on my little brother, I will kill her.”

  “What?” Marian said.

  Lucivar gave her hand a gentle squeeze, then focused on Daemonar. “In my study. Now.”

  He strode to the study. In the minute he had alone, he thought of friends at risk. The moment Lucivar walked into the study, he said, “Tamnar. Alanar. They need to be warned.”

  “They’re at the communal eyrie sparring with Rothvar and Zaranar,” Lucivar said. “They’ll be safe until I get there. Now tell me what happened.”

  He took a moment to gather his thoughts, to recall every detail he could. The Demon Prince would expect that from a warrior who served him. Witch would expect that from a Warlord Prince who served her.

  Then he told Lucivar about his encounter with Orian.

  “Is that exactly what she said?” Lucivar asked. “That she had a Ring or that she could get one?”

  “She didn’t call it a Ring of Obedience. She said she had a device that could make a man feel all kinds of things when it was slipped around his cock. What else could it be?”

  The Demon Prince said nothing. Then, “Pack your trunks. I want you gone in an hour.”

  “Sir, this is my fight.”

  “Not anymore. This is about the safety of the Eyrien people under my hand. This is about the safety of every man in Kaeleer. If Orian wasn’t bluffing and really does have a Ring, I will execute her, and I do not want you in Askavi when that decision is made. You understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.” It wasn’t exactly how he’d intended to approach receiving permission, but there was no point wasting the opportunity. “I could go to Amdarh for a few days. See Uncle Daemon. Visit with Titian.”

  Lucivar gave him a long look. “And maybe inquire about attending that school?”

  Hell’s fire. Did his father have to know everything before he did? “Maybe.”

  “Get packed, boyo. I’ll let Daemon know you’re on your way.”

  “What should I tell Mother?”

  “That you’re going to Amdarh to talk to your uncle about enrolling in that school. It won’t come as a surprise. She thought you’d make this request before now.”

  He packed in a hurry, filling one trunk with everyday clothes and weapons, and the other trunk with his better clothes and the books he valued most. His little brother was still asleep when he stood on the flagstones in front of the eyrie and hugged his mother—and said good-bye to his father.

  And wondered what was going to happen in Ebon Rih after he was gone.

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  *Bastard, I’m sending Daemonar to you for a few days.*

  Daemon stood in front of the door of Lady Zhara’s home, responding to a request for an urgent meeting. It sounded like he would need to deal with something urgent within his own family too. *What’s wrong?*

  The door opened. Zhara’s butler stepped aside to let him enter, but it was Zhara’s husband, Garek, who waited for him just beyond the door.

  Daemon held up a hand, indicating that he was occupied.

  *I need the boy out of Ebon Rih while I take care of a problem. He might talk to you about going to that sch
ool.*

  *Should I encourage or dissuade?*

  *If he really wants to study there, help him enroll in the school. If he just wants to pester Titian by being a protective brother, keep him for a few days and then kick his ass back to Ebon Rih.*

  *Done. When is he coming?*

  *He’s on his way.*

  *Do you need help?*

  *Not yet. But I’ll need to talk to the High Lord and the Queen about the smuggled goods you’re holding.*

  Daemon knew that Lucivar, being Lucivar, could handle any problem caused by anyone living in Askavi. He wanted to press for more information, but he needed to deal with Zhara before Daemonar arrived.

  “Thank you for coming so early, Prince,” Garek said when Daemon crossed the threshold.

  “There’s some trouble?” Daemon asked as they headed for the room that overlooked the back garden—a room Zhara used for personal discussions with visitors, which meant he wasn’t dealing with the Queen of Amdarh.

  “Not trouble, no. Something . . . extraordinary. Zhara will tell you.”

  The way Zhara clutched his hands when he held them out to her, the look on her face, in her eyes as she struggled to control her emotions . . .

  “Zhara . . . ,” he began.

  “Sheela,” she said, her voice breaking. “My daughter. Zoey’s mother. After all these years, after centuries of being lost, she found her way out of the tangled web. She’s been ensnared since she was a journeymaid Black Widow, but she found her way out.”

  “Darling, sit down.” Daemon led her to a sofa and sat with her since she hadn’t released his hands. He glanced at Garek, who brought over a straight-backed chair and sat nearby, tears running down his face as he smiled. “That’s wonderful news.”

  Extraordinary news. Learning to see the dreams and visions in a tangled web was part of a Black Widow’s training, but every year the minds of some of the witches became trapped in those webs. It was the potential price that was paid for being a Sister of the Hourglass.