Shalador's Lady

by Bishop, Anne

  “Thanks, boys,” he said as he climbed into the cart. They stood aside and waited until he’d given the horse the signal to walk on. Then they raced back to the stables, and he headed for a meeting with the village elders.

  Kermilla slipped up to her room. She and Correne hadn’t gotten around to shopping, but they’d still had a delightful afternoon once they’d met Garth and Brok, two Warlord brothers who weren’t much older than Kermilla. They had gone to a dining house and talked and laughed for hours, while her two escorts sat at another table looking bored. Having older, experienced men serving in the court meant she didn’t have to work as hard to rule her territory, but it was so much more work to hold their interest when she had to deal with them day after day. These young men hung on to every word she said—and they were hers. She’d felt that strange pull when she saw them—the same pull she’d felt when she first met Theran.

  After making plans to meet up tomorrow to shop, she and Correne had returned to the mansion and the dull company waiting for her there. But she’d had so much fun with her new boys, she really would pay attention this evening when Theran droned on about what Dena Nehele needed. He officially ruled the town, but he seemed to think she should be doing as much as if she were already the Queen—without the compensation! Well, he did tell her she could put things on account against the tithes, but some of the merchants were getting that tight look in their eyes that meant these people didn’t know how to show their loyalty to a Queen any more than the people in sheep-shit Bhak did. Which was fine for Freckledy—she had never had any style—but not for a Queen who wanted to be recognized in aristo social circles.

  Kermilla opened her door and froze.

  That dumb bitch Birdie, the “Queen’s maid,” was holding a bottle of scent Kermilla had acquired during her last shopping trip. Holding the bottle—and frowning.

  “What in the name of Hell are you doing?” Kermilla demanded. She strode over to the dresser and yanked the bottle out of Birdie’s hand.

  “Cleaning the room, Lady, like I always do,” Birdie stammered, taking a step back.

  “I told you before I don’t like my things smeared with someone else’s psychic stink,” Kermilla said, her voice cold and hard. “You use Craft to raise everything on the dresser and tables when you dust them. Craft, you useless bag.”

  “But I only wear the White, Lady,” Birdie said. “I only use Craft to help with heavy lifting and the like, so I’m not drained when my work is done. Lady Cassidy—”

  “I’m not Cassidy, and as long as you work in this house, you’ll do things the way I want them done. And if you can’t get that through your head, the only way you’ll earn a living is by using what you’ve got between your legs! Is that clear enough?”

  “But—”

  One word. Kermilla heard it as a challenge—and no White-Jeweled servant could be allowed to challenge the Queen.

  You’re still a guest here.

  Remembering that had her putting temper and not power behind the open-handed slap. The blow still knocked Birdie to the floor.

  “Get out of my room,” Kermilla said.

  Whimpering, Birdie got to her feet and stumbled from the room. Shaken, Kermilla looked at the bottle of scent. The girl probably didn’t know what that small, paper-thin stone disk on the bottom of the bottle meant, but Kermilla was certain Theran would be furious if he discovered how she was stretching her income.

  She didn’t want Theran angry with her. For a little while she’d flirted with the possibility of falling in love with him, but those feelings had faded before they began. Still, she did like the man, and she didn’t want him so upset that he would tell her to leave. After all, she needed his support to become Queen of Dena Nehele.

  EBON ASKAVI

  The Keep. The Black Mountain. A place where a man was surrounded by stone and dark power.

  But a strangely comfortable place, for all that. A place where a man could lower his guard and truly rest, knowing there was something else here that was watchful—and aware.

  Ranon prowled around the sitting room where the Seneschal, that strange-looking female, had put him to wait. A human shape, but she wasn’t human—not with that face or the sibilant way she spoke. He’d bet his life on it.

  The door opened, and he turned.

  The woman’s exotic face, framed by golden hair, was a little too thin, but still beautiful in a way that tugged at his male interest—especially because she seemed unaware of the streak of dirt that accented one sharp cheekbone.

  Then he looked into those sapphire eyes and felt his heart skip a beat. He was totally committed to serving Cassidy, and he loved Shira with everything that was in him. But if this woman asked it of him, he would crawl through fire or over knives—and never ask why she required it of him.

  He needed no introduction to know he was looking at Jaenelle Angelline, the Queen who was Witch, the living myth.

  Now he understood what kind of woman could hold the hearts of men like Lucivar Yaslana and Daemon Sadi.

  I belong to her in the same way I belong to Cassidy. And if Jaenelle demanded it of him, he would turn away from everything else he held dear in order to serve her.

  “Lady.”

  “Prince Ranon?”

  “Yes.” He’d been nervous about meeting her, but he hadn’t expected to respond to her like this. As he continued to look into those sapphire eyes, he realized she felt that bond too.

  “I’m the former Queen of Ebon Askavi, Prince Ranon.” Her voice held both amusement and warning.

  Former? A word said for the Queen’s pleasure—and believed by no one except, perhaps, the Queen herself. But he understood that she neither wanted nor expected him to turn away from Cassidy and the loyalty he felt for Shalador’s Lady.

  “I brought the reports and letters.” He called in the message sack and set it on a nearby chair. “Reports are probably a bit lean. Cassidy has been working hard. But not too hard. We’ve insisted she take rest days, but there’s no point having a rest day if it’s going to be spent writing reports, is there?”

  Hell’s fire, he was babbling.

  “No point at all,” she agreed with a smile that told him plainly enough she’d fought—and lost—that particular battle with her own court.

  He only realized he was smiling back when her smile faded.

  “Do you know the history of your people, Ranon?” she asked. “Do you know how your people came to be in Dena Nehele?”

  “Yes, I know the stories.”

  “People looked beyond themselves and made room for you. Remember that, Prince.”

  “I’m not likely to forget it,” Ranon replied, puzzled. Some other message there. Or a warning? “Lady, is there something I should know?”

  “I’ve told you what you need to know. The rest is up to you.”

  “I don’t—” He stopped. Felt the room do one slow spin as he looked at the strange Jewel around her neck—and the hourglass pendant she wore just above that Jewel.

  Black Widow as well as Witch.

  Mother Night.

  “Now,” Jaenelle said. “This is why I asked to see you.”

  Two trunks appeared in front of him. Glancing at her for permission, he went down on one knee and lifted a lid. Picking up one of the items on top, he stood and opened the thin cover.

  Old. Delicate.

  His hands began to tremble when he realized what he held.

  “That trunk has journals that record the daily life of the Shalador people—and the decline of Dena Nehele after Lia’s death. Two generations. No journals were sent after that. The other trunk’s contents are more formal. When the Tradition Keepers saw the decline begin, they took it as a warning. So they wrote down the stories and the songs, wrote down the rituals of the Shalador people, and brought that writing to Ebon Askavi. They knew many of those things would be lost in the decaying years, but they also hoped the time would come when the forgotten things could be reclaimed. Based on the last couple of letters
Cassidy sent to me, I thought it was time for these to come back to the Shalador people.”

  Ranon put the journal back in the trunk before a tear fell and damaged the ink. “Thank you.”

  “I have one other thing for you.” Jaenelle called in another package and handed it to him. “This was left here at the Keep for Daemon, but he and I agree that it should go to you now.”

  He unwrapped the package. Another journal? He opened it to a random page and read for a minute. Then he looked at Jaenelle. “Jared? This came from Jared?”

  She nodded. “This is his account of the journey he made with Lia.”

  “And with Blaed and Thera.” And Talon.

  “Yes.”

  “This should go to Theran. He’s the last Grayhaven,” Ranon said as his grip tightened on the journal.

  “It’s yours now to do with as you please. But I’ll remind you that Jared was a Shalador Warlord, and he was proud of it.”

  Ranon pressed a hand against his chest. “My heart is too full for words.”

  “And I have said all the words I need to say.” Jaenelle smiled. “I need to get back to Kaeleer. My father is here standing escort. In fact, he helped me locate the journals. But my husband gets snarly if I stay at the Keep in Terreille for too long.”

  “I thank you for your time, Lady. And for these.” He pointed at the trunks. “They are a gift to my people.”

  “May the Darkness embrace you, Prince Ranon.”

  He bowed and waited until she left the room before sinking into a chair to regain his breath and his balance before he headed home.

  TERREILLE

  “Lady?”

  Cassidy looked at Powell, who was hurrying toward her.

  “Told you they’d notice you were still working,” Reyhana said quietly.

  *Grf.* That was Vae’s grumpy opinion.

  “Oh, hush up, both of you.” Cassidy tossed the handful of weeds into the basket, brushed off her hands, and smiled at Powell. “I wasn’t working. Really. I was just pulling a few weeds and keeping Reyhana company while she brushed Vae.” Of course, if she wanted him to accept the “a few weeds” fib, she should have vanished at least half the weeds in the basket.

  “Excellent,” Powell said. “You don’t rest as much as you should.”

  “Powell?” Cassidy asked sharply. The man was too distracted to notice the basket? Her Steward noticed everything.

  “There are some people who need to see you.”

  Not want, need. She sent out a psychic probe to get a feel for Spere’s and Archerr’s tempers, since they were the escorts on duty this afternoon, and wished Ranon or Gray were back from their respective errands—or that it was closer to sundown and Talon could be with her.

  Simmering anger, tightly leashed. That was all she was picking up from her men.

  “Reyhana, stay here. Vae, you stay with her,” Cassidy said.

  “But . . .” Reyhana began.

  “Stay.” Until she knew what this was about, she was not putting Reyhana in a potentially explosive situation.

  *We will stay,* Vae said.

  That much settled, Cassidy strode to the house, Powell puffing to keep up with her. When she reached the parlor that was the waiting room for anyone wishing to have an audience with the Queen . . .

  “Dryden?” Cassidy looked at the Grayhaven butler. “What . . . ? Birdie? ”

  There was the reason for the anger—that dark bruise on the little maid’s face.

  *Shira,* Cassidy called. *I need you in the visitors’ parlor.*

  *Cassie, I really don’t feel . . . *

  *The Healer’s attendance is required.*

  Shira didn’t reply. Cassidy didn’t expect her to. Shira the woman had been holed up in her room, riding a mood since she’d gone out to look at properties with Gray, but the Healer would arrive in the parlor ready to practice her Craft.

  Putting an arm around the maid, Cassidy led Birdie to a sofa and sat down with her. “What happened?”

  “I didn’t do anything bad,” Birdie whispered. “I swear by the Jewels, I didn’t.”

  “If I may explain, Lady?” Dryden asked.

  Cassidy looked past him to the other people in the room. Elle, the housekeeper; Maydra, the cook; and four of the young men who worked in the Grayhaven stable and had befriended Gray before he’d begun to heal from the emotional scars that had their roots in the torture he’d endured.

  Shira burst into the room, took one look at Birdie, and said, “Hell’s fire. Let me get some ice from the block in the freeze box.”

  “I’ll do that,” Spere said. He slipped out of the room.

  “We did use a cold spell on a wet cloth to keep the swelling down,” Elle said. Then she added bitterly, “Had enough experience dealing with this sort of thing before.”

  Cassidy rose and stepped aside, giving Shira room to work. Moving to the other end of the parlor, flanked by Archerr and Powell, she faced Dryden, who was flanked by Elle and Maydra. “Explain, Lord Dryden.”

  “Prince Grayhaven’s guest hit Birdie,” Dryden said.

  A flash of rage, quickly chained. From Dryden.

  “What guest?” Powell asked, but his tone said he already knew the answer.

  “That . . . woman.”

  Oh, Hell’s fire. This was bad. She’d only had this experience once, when an aristo witch who had been a guest had tried to coerce a footman into doing “bedroom work.” Because of the social difference between an aristo and a servant, her butler had refused to say the woman’s name when he’d come to her and reported the abuse.

  Or maybe refusing to say the witch’s name had been the measure of the man’s contempt for her behavior.

  “You mean Lady Kermilla?” Powell asked.

  Dryden nodded.

  Elle said, “Lady Bitch,” under her breath, quietly enough that Cassidy pretended no one had heard the housekeeper’s opinion of the other Dharo Queen.

  “Why would she hit Birdie?” Cassidy asked. Her stomach felt like it was full of foaming milk. Hadn’t she voiced concerns about Kermilla when the other Queen had been training with her? The court had adored the pretty, dark-haired girl; the servants had disliked her.

  “Birdie was cleaning her room the way I told the girl she could clean—and the way you allowed her to do for you. But that other one didn’t want her things touched, wanted Birdie to be using Craft all the time to lift or move every little thing.”

  “That makes no sense,” Cassidy said.

  “It does if the Lady doesn’t want anyone picking up an object and noticing something unusual about it,” Powell said, looking at Dryden.

  The butler nodded. “Birdie picked up a bottle of scent from the dresser—a bottle that still had the theft disk on it.”

  Frowning, Cassidy looked at Powell for explanation.

  “A spelled disk of paper-thin stone,” Powell explained. “It was a common practice in the shops favored by the Queens and their aristo companions to put such a disk on small, expensive items that had a way of going missing. Since he didn’t want to lose an eye or his tongue, the merchant couldn’t acknowledge the theft, even if he saw the person do it. But a bottle of scent, for example, that left the boundaries of the shop with the disk still on the bottle would be spoiled.”

  “Spoiled?” Cassidy asked.

  “Imagine a dozen rotten eggs breaking on the kitchen floor,” Maydra said. “Of course, the way some of those spells worked, the scent smelled fine until it warmed on the skin for a little while. So the Lady was usually well into her social engagement before she, and everyone else, realized something was wrong.”

  “Oh.” Cassidy clamped a hand over her nose in automatic response. Lowering her hand, she smiled sheepishly. Then she glanced at Birdie and found nothing to smile about. “So Birdie picked up a bottle of stolen scent and Kermilla hit her.”

  “Yes,” Dryden said. “When I reported the abuse to Prince Grayhaven, Kermilla insisted that she caught Birdie trying to steal from her and that w
as why she struck the girl.”

  “Grayhaven believed that?” Archerr asked.

  Dryden looked sad. “Sometimes a man only sees what he wants to see.”

  “Shit,” Archerr said softly.

  “Birdie was dismissed without references,” Dryden said. “Elle, Maydra, and I talked it over, and handed in our resignations. We have worked for such witches before. We do not want to work for such a one again. As it turned out, four of the stable lads have no ties to the town, no family to hold them there, and they didn’t want to stay either.” He hesitated, then looked Cassidy in the eyes. “We came in the hope that you might have a place for us here.”

  She didn’t know what to say. Powell, however, didn’t have that problem.

  “There are servants’ quarters here, including a separate parlor off the kitchen. Didn’t ask to have those rooms cleaned since we weren’t using them.”

  Maydra frowned. “If you have no servants here, who’s been cooking for you and your court?”

  “Oh, well, I’ve been doing a bit of it, along with some of the women in the village.” Cassidy’s voice trailed away.

  “You’ve been doing your own dusting too?” Birdie piped up, sounding shocked.

  The Grayhaven servants stared at her.

  *I wouldn’t admit to running a dust rag over the furniture,* Powell said, sounding amused. *You’ve shocked them quite enough for one day.*

  *As my father is fond of saying, I was born a daughter on the same day as I was born a Queen, and if I can get dirty weeding a garden, I can get dirty washing a floor.*

  *Your father is a wise man, but I think it is time to relinquish some of your less-than-Queenly duties. Besides, they need the work, and we need the help. With your consent, I’ll discuss duties and compensation with them.*

  *All right.* She smiled at each of the servants and stable lads—and especially at Birdie. “Welcome to Eyota. There is plenty of work here for all of us. Prince Powell will discuss the details with you.”

  She walked out of the room, heading for the back door that would take her to the gardens. Then she changed direction and went up to her room. She wanted solitude. She needed privacy.