Shalador's Lady bj-8

by Anne Bishop

The problem was there wasn’t any other choice.

  She was wearing a hat. So were Shira and Reyhana, even though their skin wouldn’t burn in the sun the way Cassie’s did.

  She removed the hat and vanished it the moment she reached the shade under the tree, which made him grin.

  “You requested an audience, Prince?” Cassie said.

  Still bitchy. Well, he probably deserved that.

  “Does turning firewood into wood chip mulch work for female temper or just male?” he asked.

  “What?” A moment’s puzzlement. Then her eyes widened as if the question suddenly made sense. “Gray, exactly where did you go today?”

  “I went to see—” Uncle Saetan. Saying that to Talon was a message. Saying it to Cassie might be bragging. “—the High Lord.”

  “Why?”

  “You told me to talk to someone.”

  “I know, but . . .” She stuttered over to a chair and sat down. “What did he say?” She raised a hand. “No. Don’t answer. What is said between you is private.”

  He was glad she appreciated that a man needed to keep some thoughts and feelings private—even from the woman he loved.

  “He didn’t say much,” he offered, taking the other chair. “Mostly he taught me how to use Craft and power to change firewood into wood chip mulch.”

  Cassidy looked around. Then she shook her head. “SaDiablo Hall has acres of gardens and interior courtyards, and they all had this woody mulch I thought was wonderful. I remember asking Tarl, the head gardener, where I could find some for my mother’s garden, and he asked if I had a brother. But he never explained further. You don’t think . . . ?”

  Gray snorted. “I filled half a barrel before the High Lord decided I had worked out enough of the temper. I think he’s a practical man whose groundskeepers get a lot of help for free.”

  She laughed, and the sound of it eased something inside him.

  “Do you want to yell at me?” he asked. He saw warmth and humor in those wonderful hazel eyes.

  “I’m thinking about it,” she replied.

  A ritual question and answer, something that belonged to them.

  He held out his hand. She slipped her hand into his without hesitation.

  “We’re heading back to Grayhaven tomorrow?” he asked.

  Cassie nodded. “It’s time. Powell will send some of the Protocol books so Reyhana, Janos, and a few others can start learning the basics.”

  “Janos? I thought he’d be more interested in weapons than books.”

  “He is.” Cassie’s smile widened. “But he has an older brother who has decided that he will learn Protocol—or else.”

  “Ranon’s going to be at Grayhaven,” Gray pointed out. “Easy enough to forget about the books when the older brother isn’t breathing down your neck.”

  “Harder to forget the books when he’ll be tested the next time I come to visit and his ability will determine whether or not he’ll be Reyhana’s escort, since she’ll also come back to visit.”

  “Ah. Bribery.” He looked at the boardinghouse. It needed attention, but he felt good in this house, in this village. As if he belonged. “So we’ll be coming back to visit?”

  Cassie nodded. “Hopefully I’ll have a chance to meet some of the other Queens who survived the witch storm and are ruling pieces of Dena Nehele. If they don’t know about siphoning power into the land, it’s something I can teach them. Carefully.”

  A psychic tap on the shoulder had him looking toward the house. “Ranon’s signaling. I guess it’s time for dinner.”

  “I guess it is.”

  They walked into the dining room hand in hand. Gray noticed how every man in the First Circle deliberately moved to catch his eye and offer him a nod or a smile.

  Every man except Theran.

  KAELEER

  The study door opened without a knock or any other kind of request to enter.

  Mildly annoyed at the intrusion, Daemon looked up—and annoyance gave way to warm pleasure. He pushed away from the desk and glided to the spot where Surreal waited for him.

  “Welcome back,” Daemon said, kissing her cheek.

  “It’s good to be back,” she replied, hooking her long black hair behind one delicately pointed ear. “Although I may have caused a small domestic crisis.”

  “Oh?” Daemon raised one eyebrow. Since no one had come pounding into the study to report on the crisis, it couldn’t be that bad.

  “The Dea al Mon have very . . . fluid . . . ideas about what kind of greenery belongs inside their homes. When Beale escorted me up to my suite here a few minutes ago, I got so excited about not having a tree growing in the middle of my bedroom . . . Well, I hugged him.”

  Daemon laughed. “He’ll survive. And under the circumstances, I think Mrs. Beale will forgive you.”

  “If she doesn’t, I’m standing behind you.”

  Not likely. Surreal tended to fight her own battles. A feminine body that looked delicate but had sinewy strength. A lovely face and sun-kissed skin. Black hair. Gold-green eyes. And those delicately pointed ears. She got her coloring from her Hayllian sire, but her looks came from her mother’s people and were all Dea al Mon.

  “Jaenelle is in Halaway with Sylvia, Tersa, and Rainier. Mikal is performing in a music recital, and they’re all attending,” Daemon said.

  “And you got out of attending by . . . ?”

  “Listening to Mikal’s rehearsals and figuring out twenty-seven ways of saying ‘that was good but it still needs work.’ I sent Rainier as my representative so there would be a male presence—and I promised my wife outstanding sex tonight if I could skip the festivities.”

  She laughed. “Don’t you give your wife outstanding sex every night?”

  “Yes, but outstanding is a bit more special on some nights,” he purred.

  She blinked. Swallowed hard. “Shit, I don’t even want to think about that without a tub full of cold water nearby.”

  He kept a straight face, but it took effort. He’d been worried about her. Being trapped in that damn spooky house last autumn and the time it had taken for her to recover from the injuries she had sustained—and the fact that Rainier never would fully recover from his own injuries—had left emotional wounds.

  Her time with the Dea al Mon had done her good. Physically, she looked to be in glowing health. Emotionally, he had the sense that some rough edges had been smoothed out. And there was something else about her now. Something more.

  “Do you want to sit down?” He indicated the informal side of the study. “I’ll ask Beale to bring in a tray unless you want a more substantial meal.”

  “We have something to discuss.” Surreal tipped her head to indicate the blackwood desk. “But over there. Refreshments can wait.”

  Daemon looked at the blackwood desk, then at Surreal. “All right.” He took his seat behind the desk, crossed his legs at the knees, and steepled his fingers, resting the forefingers against his chin. He watched her settle into the chair on the other side of the desk.

  Formal. Official. Whatever she wanted to say would be said to the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan, not Daemon Sadi.

  They sat quietly, studying each other, both comfortable with the silence. Both aware of the tension building in the room.

  “Years ago, when you found me again after Titian was killed, you arranged for me to train in a Red Moon house,” Surreal said.

  He swallowed the anger now as he’d swallowed it then. “You were little more than a child, and you were whoring on the streets to stay alive. That wasn’t the place for you. I had no right to dictate your choice of profession, but I had the means of providing you with an education that would give you more choices—and a better living.”

  “I wouldn’t have accepted your friendship or assistance if you had tried to impose your will over mine.”

  He’d known that.

  “The reason you gave for helping me was that my dual bloodline meant I’d live for centuries. Two thousand years. Maybe more. Th
at might be half the usual lifetime of the long-lived races, but it’s a very long time compared to everyone else.” She shifted in her seat. “That didn’t have much significance for me because I kept traveling all around Terreille, working in Red Moon houses and honing my skills as an assassin. It might be a decade or more before I circled back to a particular city. I saw young men who counted me as their first experience with sex turn into old men. Didn’t mean much. They were a passing moment in my life.”

  She was working up to something, so he waited, saying nothing.

  “These weeks I’ve spent with the Dea al Mon . . .” Surreal sighed. “Hell’s fire, Sadi. I was having breakfast one morning with Grandmammy Teele, and I realized she was an old woman. Then I looked at Gabrielle—a beautiful, vibrant Queen in her late twenties—and I knew the day would come when I’d be visiting her and see an old woman. And Chaosti. Powerful. Virile. Guarding his land, his people, and his Queen. Loving his wife and son. They aren’t temporary people in my life. They’re the other side of my family, and I’ll see them grow old. I’ll see them die. And even if they become demon-dead for a while, most likely they’ll no longer be a part of my life.”

  There was a lump clogging Daemon’s throat. He swallowed it before he could speak. “What’s your point?”

  “The visit with my mother’s people helped me decide what I’m going to do with the next few decades of my life.”

  He raised an eyebrow as a silent question.

  “I’m going to work for you.”

  He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it wasn’t this. “Why?”

  “Because you don’t have time to waste,” Surreal said quietly.

  The truth of those words jabbed his heart.

  “Daemon, you waited seventeen hundred years for a dream. You’ve got, at best, a few decades to be with the love of your life. Whether you admit it or not, there must be an hourglass inside your head, and every day that ends is one more grain of sand falling to the bottom half of the glass.”

  “Don’t,” he whispered.

  “You don’t have time to investigate minor problems reported by Province Queens or District Queens—or time for petty shit like the game Vulchera tried to play.” She smiled coldly. “For a people who keep themselves isolated, the Dea al Mon are surprisingly well informed when they choose to be. So I did hear about the party at Lady Rhea’s country house and how Vulchera foolishly tried to ensnare the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan in a bit of sexual blackmail.”

  Did you also hear how the High Lord of Hell killed her?“What are you proposing?”

  “I’m going to be your second-in-command.” Something fierce and feral flashed in those gold-green eyes. “A second-in-command you can trust to guard your back.”

  They didn’t speak the name. They didn’t need to.

  “I figure I’ll work from the town house in Amdarh at least half the time.”

  “Missed being in a city?” Daemon asked mildly.

  “Hell’s fire, yes. Taking a bath under a canopy of leafy vines is romantic in its own way—until a large bug falls off a leaf and into the bathwater.”

  It was tempting to tease her and ask if it was a beetle, but that would have been unkind, and he understood the generosity of the offer she was making. He needed to work, needed the challenge of taking care of the SaDiablo family’s estates and fortune, needed the demands of ruling Dhemlan. If he spent his time and strength on nothing but Jaenelle, he would smother her and give her no opportunity for a life beyond what they shared. But letting someone else take the burden of routine visits to the Province Queens meant being able to spend time at Jaenelle’s house in Scelt—and spend time with the friends who would be only memories a century from now.

  “I also plan to look for a residence here in Halaway,” Surreal said. “Maybe see if Rainier would like to share a house.”

  Daemon narrowed his eyes. “There is plenty of room here at the Hall. And wings far enough from the family suites that they would qualify as a separate residence.”

  “For a man who buys property all the time, you’re being dense. I want a place of my own. I want a place that doesn’t belong to the SaDiablo family or you. I want a place that has my name on the deed. Since I hired Lord Marcus to be my man of business because he is yours, I figure you know well enough that I can afford just about any kind of house I want.”

  “Marcus would never reveal confidential or privileged information,” he said with a warning bite in his voice.

  “To anyone else? No, he never would,” Surreal agreed. “Would he refuse to answer any question from you?” She shook her head. “That’s like thinking that the firm who handles the family’s investments wouldn’t answer a question from Uncle Saetan about any member of this family.”

  True, but he wasn’t going to acknowledge it out loud.

  “So you know I can afford my own residence,” Surreal said. “Besides, you’re going to pay me an outrageously generous salary.”

  “I am?”

  “You are.”

  They smiled at each other. Then Daemon’s smile faded. “You’ve told me what I’m going to get out of this—and I’m grateful. What do you get out of this arrangement besides an outrageously generous salary?”

  Her smile faded too. “I miss Rainier,” she said.

  “Surreal . . .”

  She laughed quietly. “Relax. I know he’d rather flirt with you than with me, except he doesn’t have a death wish. But he’s a friend unlike any other. And love isn’t always about sex. Talking to Karla about the family she formed with her adopted daughter and her Master of the Guard helped me see that. Rainier matters to me, Daemon.”

  “If you set up your own residence, you’ll hire servants?” Daemon asked.

  She snorted. “Damn right I’ll hire servants. I don’t want to do the cooking and cleaning by myself.”

  “Good. Then Mrs. Beale and Helene won’t be complaining about you the way they complain about him.”

  “Why are they complaining about Rainier?”

  “Because he keeps a room at one of the inns in the village instead of having a suite here at the Hall. Which means he isn’t being looked after properly. They won’t go so far as to actually criticize the cook or housekeeper at the inn since these are women they socialize with; they simply insist that it is inappropriate for the secretary of the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan to be making do with a room at an inn instead of having a proper residence and servants to look after him.”

  “Does he need looking after?”

  He heard the concern in her voice and made a rude noise. “No more than you do, but real need is never the point of these conversations.”

  Her expression changed from concern to cautious delight. “Just how often do you get pinned to the wall because Rainier obstinately refuses to recognize this particular duty?”

  “Weekly. So if you’re serious about being my second-in-command, you’re shouldering this particular nuisance.”

  Laughing, she rose and stepped up to the desk. “Done.” Then she pressed her hands on the blackwood and leaned toward him, that fierce and feral something back in her eyes.

  “One question. Does Lucivar have to worry about Falonar coming up behind him in any way?”

  Ice ran in his blood, and he knew his gold eyes had turned glazed and sleepy. No one else had dared ask that question. Not even Lucivar. A few weeks ago, before she spent time with the Dea al Mon, Surreal wouldn’t have dared ask that question either.

  He smiled at her—a cold, brutally gentle smile—and the Sadist said too softly, “No one has to worry about Falonar anymore.”

  CHAPTER 8

  TERREILLE

  Gray watched Cassie from the corner of his eye and tried not to hover and fuss. Uncle Saetan had sent a note by special messenger warning him that hovering and fussing too much could turn even the most mild-tempered woman into a snarling bitch. Not that Uncle Saetan had put it in those terms, but that was the message.

  It was hard not to hover
when he was sitting with Cassie, Ranon, and Shira in one of the four-seat squares in the Coach. Powell had claimed one of the seats around the table so he could catch up on paperwork, the other men were split into small groups to talk or not, and Vae was sprawled on the floor where she’d be in the way of the most people, snoring lightly. Talon was in the small bedroom at the back of the Coach. Cassie had insisted he take it so he could stay inside until sunset and not be disturbed by the rest of them when they returned to Grayhaven.

  It was hard not to hover when they were sitting side by side. Even harder not to fuss, but she hadn’t snarled at him yet, so he figured he was keeping that tendency fairly well leashed.

  Until she marked her spot, vanished the book she was reading, and closed her eyes.

  “Tired?” Gray asked, trying to keep his voice casual while everything in him went on alert.

  “Just feeling lazy,” she replied.

  He glanced at Ranon, whose attention had also sharpened.

  Then Shira said, “Thank the Darkness. I wasn’t sure you even knew the word.”

  Cassie smiled—and Gray relaxed. He slipped his arm around her and shifted them both so her head rested on his shoulder. He brushed his lips against her hair. “There’s nothing to do for the next little while, so rest, Cassie. Rest.”

  “Ranon, why don’t you play for us?” Shira said.

  Ranon glared at his lover. Before he could make some excuse or just refuse, Cassie said, “That would be nice.”

  Trap set and sprung, Gray thought, fighting to keep a straight face while looking at his friend’s sour expression. Then Ranon called in the Shalador flute and began to play.

  The notes meandered like a stream winding its way through a summer meadow. Soft. Easy. Gray wasn’t sure if it was a song or just one note following another. Either way it was peaceful. Within minutes, both women were asleep.

  The rustle of paper and the murmur of male voices twined with the flute, and Gray sensed the men relaxing. Their Queen was safe and she was content, so they could afford to let down their guard and rest.

  *They’re proud of her,* Ranon said on a psychic spear thread. *She scared the shit out of all of us when she drained herself like that, but there’s a feeling of pride now. Even more than when she defended that landen family.*