Queen of the Darkness bj-3

by Anne Bishop

  "So it would seem," Beale replied blandly. "If you would remain here, Prince Yaslana and the High Lord will be arriving shortly."

  Daemon looked around, then stepped into the formal receiving room just far enough not to be seen by whoever walked through the door.

  Observing the move, Beale shifted position, putting himself directly in Daemon's line of sight.

  *Lucivar,* Daemon said, using an Ebon-gray spear thread.

  *I'm coming in through the servants' door at the back of the hall.*

  *If any of them manage to slip past us, is there any way for them to reach the living quarters?*

  *The only way to the upper floors from that part of the Hall is by using the staircase in the informal receiving room. Don't worry about it. Kaelas is there. Nothing's going to get up those stairs. And the High Lord is coming down from that direction.*

  Daemon heard the carriages pull up in front of the Hall, saw Beale nod to the footman when someone banged on the door.

  Footsteps. Rustling clothes. Then a woman's voice.

  "I demand to see Wilhelmina Benedict."

  Cold rage slipped through him so fast he was riding the killing edge before he realized he'd taken the first step toward it. He hadn't heard her voice in thirteen years, but he recognized it.

  "Lady Benedict is not available," Beale said in a bland voice.

  "Don't tell me that. I'm the Queen of Chaillot and I—"

  Daemon stepped out of the receiving room. "Good afternoon, Alexandra," he said too calmly. "Such a pleasure to see you again."

  "You." Alexandra stared at him, her eyes wide and fearful. Then the anger came. "You arranged for that 'tour' of Briarwood, didn't you?"

  "All things considered, it was the least I could do." He took a step toward her. "I told you I would wash the streets of Beldon Mor with blood if you betrayed me."

  "You also said you would put me in my grave."

  "I decided that letting you live was a more thorough punishment."

  "You bastard! You—" Alexandra started shivering. All of her entourage started shivering.

  The intense, burning cold hit him a moment later, stunning him enough that he slipped away from the killing edge.

  A moment after that, Saetan stepped into the great hall.

  Is that what I look like when I go cold?Daemon wondered, unable to look away from glazed, sleepy eyes and the malevolently gentle smile.

  "Lady Angelline." Saetan's voice rolled through the Hall like soft thunder. "I always knew we would meet someday to settle the debt, but I never thought you would be foolish enough to come here."

  Alexandra clenched her hands but couldn't stop shaking. "I came to take my granddaughters home. Let them go, and we'll leave."

  "Lady Benedict will be informed that you're here. If she wants to see you, a meeting will be arranged—fully chaperoned, of course."

  "You dare imply that I present some kind of danger?"

  "I know you do. The only question is, how much of a danger."

  Alexandra's voice rose. "You have no right—"

  "I rule here," Saetan snarled. "You're the one who has no rights, Lady. None at all. Except those I grant you. And I grant you little."

  "I want to see my granddaughters. Both of them."

  Something savage flickered at the back of Saetan's eyes. He looked at Leland and Philip, then turned his attention back to Alexandra. His voice dropped into a singsong croon. "I had two long, terrible years in which to come up with the perfect execution for the three of you. It will take you two long, terrible years to die, and every minute of it will be filled with more pain than you can imagine. However, in this case, I must have my Queen's consent before I begin." He turned away from them. "Beale, prepare some rooms for our guests. They'll be staying with us for a while."

  As he walked past Daemon toward his study, their eyes met.

  Daemon looked at Leland, who was clinging to Philip and crying softly; at the other Queens and their males, who were cowering in a tight group; and, finally, at Alexandra, who stared at him with terrified eyes and whose skin was bleached of any color.

  Turning on his heel, he headed for the study and noticed Lucivar standing quietly at the back of the hall.

  *If you go in there, be careful, Bastard,* Lucivar said.

  Nodding, Daemon walked into the study.

  Saetan stood by the desk, carefully pouring a glass of brandy. He looked up, poured a second glass, and extended it toward Daemon.

  Daemon accepted the glass and took a healthy swallow, hoping it would thaw him a little.

  "Another male's rage shouldn't throw you so much it knocks you away from the killing edge," Saetan said quietly.

  "I'd never felt anything quite like that before."

  "And if you feel it again, will it throw you again?"

  Daemon looked at the man standing an arm's length away from him and understood it was the Steward of the Dark Court and not his father who was asking the question. "No, it won't."

  Moving carefully, as if he were too aware that any sudden movement might unleash the violence still raging inside him, Saetan leaned against his blackwood desk.

  Keeping his own movements equally controlled, Daemon poured himself another brandy. "Do you think the Queen will give her consent?"

  "No. Since her relatives inflicted harm on her and not someone else, she'll oppose the execution. But I'll still make the request."

  Daemon gently swirled the brandy in his glass. "If, for some reason, she doesn't oppose it, may I watch?"

  Saetan's smile was sweet and vicious. "My darling Prince, if Jaenelle actually gives her consent, you can do more than watch."

  9 / Kaeleer

  Lord Magstrom sighed as he laid his stack of files on the large table already filled with stacks of files. He sighed again when his elbow jostled a corner stack and the top bulging file spilled on the floor. Going down on one knee, he began collecting the papers.

  Thank the Darkness claiming day had ended and the autumn service fair was officially over. Perhaps he should decline to work the service fair next spring. The grueling hours were taxing for a man his age, but it was the heartbreaking hope and desperation on the immigrants' faces that wrung him dry. How could he look at a woman no older than his youngest granddaughter and not want to help her find a place to live where the fear lurking at the back of her eyes would be replaced by happiness? How could he talk to a courteous, well-spoken man who had been horrifically scarred by repeated attempts to "teach him obedience" and not want to send him to some quiet village where he could regain his self-respect and not have to wonder what was going to happen to him every time the Lady who ruled there looked in his direction?

  There weren't places like that in Little Terreille. Not anymore. But it was the Queens in this Territory that continued to offer contracts and stuff their courts with immigrants. The other Queens in Kaeleer, in the Territories that answered to the Queen of Ebon Askavi, were more cautious and far more selective. So he did his best to find the immigrants who had a skill or a dream or something that might buy them a contract outside of Little Terreille, and he brought those people to the attention of the males in Jaenelle Angelline's First Circle when they came to the service fair. As for the others, he filled out the contracts and wished them luck and good life—and wondered if their new life in Little Terreille would really be any different than the life they had tried to escape.

  And he tried not to think at all about the ones who hadn't been fortunate enough to receive some kind of contract and were sent back to Terreille.

  Magstrom shook his head as he shuffled the papers into some kind of order. Such sloppy work, stuffing the immigration entry lists into the same file as the service lists and the lists of those who were returning to Terreille. How could the clerks be expected to—

  His hand tightened on a sheet of paper. The Hayllian entry list. But he had been in charge of the Hayllian list— until the end of the third day, when Jorval had decided to oversee that particular li
st. There had been twenty names on the list he'd given Jorval. Now there were only twelve. Had someone recopied the list and only put down the names of the people who had been accepted into service? No, because Daemon Sadi's name wasn't there.

  Magstrom quickly shuffled through the papers for the Hayllian list of people returning to Terreille which the guards would use to make sure no one tried to slip away and go into hiding. Four names listed. Since Sadi was now in Dhemlan, that left three people unaccounted for who had been on the entry list he had given to Jorval.

  When he heard footsteps approaching, he stuffed the papers back into the file, grunted softly as he stood up, and hurriedly placed the file on a stack where it wouldn't just spill back onto the floor.

  The footsteps stopped at the door, then continued on.

  Magstrom listened for a moment, then used Craft to probe the area. No one there. But a shiver of uneasiness rippled down his back.

  Pushed by that uneasiness, he left the building and hurried to the inn where he had been staying during the service fair. As soon as he reached his room, he began to pack.

  By rights, he should have sought out other Council members and mentioned the disparities in the Hayllian lists. Maybe it was a simple clerical error—too many names, too much work rushed through. But who would "forget" to put a Warlord Prince like Daemon Sadi on the list? Unless the omission had been deliberate. And if that were the case, who knew how many other lists had similar disparities, how many Terreilleans who had come to Kaeleer were now unaccounted for?

  And who knew what might happen to the evidence of those disparities if he told the wrong Council members about it?

  If he rode the White Wind, which would be the least demanding, he could still be at the Nharkhava border by dawn. Because one of his granddaughters lived there, Kalush, the Queen of Nharkhava, had granted him a special dispensation that allowed him to visit her Territory without having to go through the formalities every time. And if, once he reached the border landing web, he requested an escort to his granddaughter's house... The guards might think it an odd request, but they wouldn't refuse to assist an elderly man. After he had a little sleep, he would compose a letter to the High Lord, explaining about the disparities in the lists.

  Maybe it was only a clerical error. But if it was, in fact, the first glimpse of trouble, at least Saetan would have some warning—and would also know where to look for the source.

  Jorval looked at the sheet of paper lying under the table and the papers hastily stuffed back into the bulging file.

  So. The old fool had gotten curious. How unfortunate.

  Magstrom might have been a thorn in the Dark Council's side for a good many years now, but he'd had his uses— especially since he was the only Council member who could request an audience with the High Lord and actually be granted one.

  But it would seem that Magstrom's usefulness was coming to an end. And he wasn't about to forget that if it hadn't been for Magstrom's interference yesterday afternoon, the Dark Priestess would have had her Black-Jeweled weapon safely tucked away somewhere where he could be useful.

  He was tempted to send someone to take care of Magstrom that night, but the timing might lead certain people—like the High Lord—to look into the service fair a little too closely.

  He could wait. Magstrom couldn't have seen that much. And if anything was questioned, it was easy enough to dismiss a clerk or two for negligence and offer profuse apologies.

  But when the time did come...

  10 / Kaeleer

  Alexandra huddled in the chair in front of the blackwood desk.

  The High Lord requests your presence.

  Requests? Demands was more like it. But the study had been empty when that large, stone-faced butler had opened the door for her and, after fifteen minutes, she was still waiting. Not that she was in any hurry to face the High Lord again.

  She strengthened the warming spell she'd put on her shawl and then grimaced at the futility of seeking a little warmth in this place. It wasn't so much the place —which was actually quite beautiful if you could get past the oppressive, dark feel of it—it was the people who produced a bone-deep chill.

  She didn't think it was out of courtesy that she and her entourage had been given dinner in a small dining room located near the guest rooms. He wouldn't have cared that she was too physically and emotionally exhausted to cope with meeting whoever else lived there. He wouldn't have cared that she wouldn't have been able to choke down a mouthful of food if she had to sit at a table with Daemon Sadi.

  No, she and her people had dined alone because he hadn't wanted her presence at his table.

  And now, when she wanted to do nothing more than retire to her room and get whatever sleep she could after an exhausting day, he had requested her presence—and then didn't even have the courtesy to be there when she arrived.

  She should leave. She was a Queen, and the insult of keeping her waiting had gone on long enough. If the High Lord wanted to see her, let him come to her.

  As she stood up, the door opened and his dark psychic scent flooded the room. She sank back into the chair. It took all her self-control not to cower as he walked past her and settled into the chair behind the blackwood desk.

  "When a male asks to speak with a Queen, he doesn't keep her waiting," Alexandra said, trying to keep her voice from quivering.

  "And you, being such a stickler about courtesy, have never kept anyone waiting?" Saetan asked mildly after a long pause.

  The queer, burning glitter that filled his eyes scared her, but she sensed this was the only chance she would have. If she backed down now, he would never concede anything.

  She filled her voice with the cool disdain she used whenever an aristo male needed to be put in his place. "What a Queen does is beside the point."

  "Since a Queen can do anything she damn well pleases, no matter how cruel the act, no matter how much harm she causes."

  "Don't twist my words," she snapped, forgetting everything else about him except that he was male and shouldn't be allowed to treat a Queen this way.

  "My apologies, Lady. Since you twist so much yourself, I'll do my best not to add to it."

  She gave herself a moment to think. "You're deliberately trying to provoke me. Why? So you can justify executing me?"

  "Oh, I already have all the justification I need for an execution," Saetan said mildly. "No, it's simpler than that. Your being terrified of me gets us nowhere. If you're angry, you'll at least talk."

  "In that case, I want my granddaughters returned to me."

  "You have no right to either of them."

  "I have every right!"

  "You're forgetting something very basic, Alexandra. Wilhelmina is twenty-seven. Jaenelle is twenty-five. The age of majority is twenty. You have no say in their lives anymore."

  "Then neither do you. They should decide to stay or leave."

  "They've already decided. And I do have far more say in their lives than you. Wilhelmina signed a contract with the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih. He, in turn, serves in the Dark Court. I'm the Steward. So court hierarchy gives me the right to make some decisions about her life."

  "What about Jaenelle? Does she serve in this Dark Court, too?"

  Saetan gave her an odd look. "You really don't understand, do you? Jaenelle doesn't serve, Alexandra. Jaenelle is the Queen."

  For a moment, the conviction in his voice almost convinced her.

  No. No. If Jaenelle were really a Queen, she would have known. Like would have recognized like. Oh, there might actually be a Queen who ruled this court, but it wasn't, couldn't be, Jaenelle.

  But his declaration gave her a weapon. "If Jaenelle is the Queen, you have no right to control her life."

  "Neither do you."

  Alexandra clamped her hands around the arms of the chair and gritted her teeth. "The age of majority acknowledges certain conditions that have to be met. If a child is deemed incapable in some way, her family maintains its right to take care of her ment
al and physical well being and make decisions on her behalf."

  "And who decides if the child is incapable? The family that gets to maintain control of her? How very convenient. And don't forget, you're talking about a Queen who outranks you."

  "I forget nothing. And don't you try to take the moral high ground with me—as if you had any concept of what morality means."

  Saetan's eyes iced over. "Very well, then. Let's take a look at your concept of morality. Tell me, Alexandra. How did you justify it when it was obvious Jaenelle was being starved? How did you justify the rope burns from her being tied down, the bruises from the beatings? Did you just shrug it all off as the discipline needed to control a recalcitrant child?"

  "You lie!" Alexandra shouted. "I never saw any evidence of that."

  "You just tossed her into Briarwood and didn't bother to see her again until you decided to let her out?"

  "Of course I saw her!" Alexandra paused. An ache spread through her chest as she remembered the distant, almost accusing way Jaenelle would look at them sometimes when she and Leland went to visit. The wariness and suspicion in her eyes, directed at them. She remembered how much it had hurt, and how Leland wept silently on the way home, when Dr. Carvay had told them that Jaenelle was too emotionally unstable to have any visitors. And she remembered the times she had felt relieved that Jaenelle was safely tucked away so others wouldn't have firsthand knowledge of the girl's fanciful tales. "I saw her whenever she was emotionally stable enough to have visitors."

  Saetan snarled softly.

  "You sit there and judge me, but you don't know what it was like trying to deal with a child who—"

  "Jaenelle was seven when I met her."

  For a moment, Alexandra couldn't breathe. Seven. She could imagine that voice wrapping itself around a child, spinning out lies. "So when she told her stories about unicorns and dragons, you encouraged her."

  "I believed her, yes."

  "Why?"

  His smile was terrible. "Because they exist."

  She shook her head, struck mute by the collision of too many thoughts, too many feelings.

  "What would it take to convince you, Alexandra? Being impaled on a unicorn's horn? Would you still insist he was a fanciful tale?"