by Anne Bishop
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-i n-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 alwa
ys 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
Lying facedown 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 grown-up, 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,” Jaenell
e 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.
