The Queen's Bargain

by Anne Bishop

  He petted and soothed until her psychic scent told him she was calm enough to listen.

  “Learning to play is important,” he said quietly, continuing his soothing strokes. “That’s why you should go outside and play with Khary and Jaenelle Saetien while I take care of the work I need to do in my study.”

  ٭Ladvarian knew about human kinds of work,٭ she said timidly. ٭Ladvarian learned a lot of things when he lived with the Lady.٭

  Ladvarian was a legend among the Scelties—the first among them to know Jaenelle Angelline, the first to serve in her court. And he was the Warlord who had gathered the kindred who had stubbornly, and against all odds, saved Witch and brought her back to the living.

  Brought her back to him.

  Was Morghann’s attachment to him just a sign of insecurity, or was she one of the Scelties who was inclined to learn about the human rules of business in order to help him with the school in Scelt that Jaenelle had created decades ago and he still oversaw?

  She was young, but he could show her simple things—addition, subtraction—and see if she had any interest. Today, though, she needed a different kind of lesson.

  “I would like you to go out and play,” he said. He felt the resistance in her body. “Khary knows how to play in snow. He knows games you can play with human children. You go outside and learn from Khary.”

  ٭Khary will not do a wrong thing.٭

  “No, he won’t. And after you play, you can come back and keep me company while I work. I’ll show you one of the things Ladvarian learned from the Lady.”

  Her confidence momentarily bolstered, Morghann trotted out of his bedroom.

  Feeling the Gray presence in the next room, he wished the trouble with his wife could be fixed as easily. He knocked on the door between their rooms and waited for Surreal’s permission to enter—and wondered if he’d receive that permission. She finally used Craft to open the door in silent invitation.

  “I have a meeting in Halaway,” Surreal said as she tossed a dress with its matching calf-length coat on the bed.

  He almost said that a meeting wasn’t listed on the schedule of engagements that Holt kept for both of them, but he didn’t want her making up an excuse for why the meeting wasn’t listed or, worse, lying to him about whom she was meeting.

  He didn’t understand what was happening with her. The woman who hadn’t hesitated to aim a crossbow at him a few months ago to make sure she had his undivided attention when they needed to talk was now unwilling to give him a straight answer about anything that touched on her thoughts or feelings. Her emotions were a maelstrom, especially in bed. She hid it well on the surface, but he’d always gone below the surface to gauge the mood of a lover, and she was anger coiled with lust. She didn’t want tenderness anymore, even when he wanted to give it, needed to receive it. She still wanted—still demanded—sex, but she didn’t want to make love.

  “I hope the meeting isn’t too tedious.” He stepped close to her, bent his head to give her a light kiss on the lips—and felt her flinch.

  ٭Daemon!٭ Lucivar, reaching for him.

  He raised his head and noted Surreal’s furious relief, but he focused on his brother.

  ٭Daemon!٭

  He took a step back. Lucivar sounded upset. Frightened. Nothing could frighten the Ebon-gray except . . .

  “Sadi?” Surreal said.

  “I have to go to Ebon Rih.” He hurried to his bedroom, intending to grab some clothes, aware that Surreal had followed him to the doorway. Then . . .

  ٭High Lord. Please.٭

  Daemon stopped. Let his brother’s fear and those words—those words—settle as a weight on his shoulders. Only one reason why Lucivar Yaslana, reaching out and afraid, would request the High Lord of Hell.

  “Daemon, what’s wrong?” Surreal entered his bedroom and grabbed his arm. She studied his face, his eyes. “Marian?”

  “I think so.”

  “What can I do?”

  At least in this they were still partners. “Have Jazen pack a couple of changes of clothes for me, and tell him to add additional clothing suitable for staying at the eyrie. And fetch Manny. Tell her she’s needed at Lucivar’s home.”

  “There are Eyrien women who can handle the children.”

  “I’m sure there are, but none of them will be able to handle Lucivar.”

  Daemon rushed through the corridors. The servants who saw him must have alerted Beale and Holt, because both were waiting in the front hall.

  “Prince?” Beale asked.

  “My presence is required at Prince Yaslana’s eyrie,” Daemon said as Holt helped him into his winter coat. “I may be there a few days.”

  “Prince Yaslana asked for your presence?” Beale asked quietly.

  He looked his butler in the eyes, understanding Beale’s question. Very few people knew for sure that he had become the High Lord of Hell when Saetan embraced the final death and became a whisper in the Darkness, but Lord Beale, the Red-Jeweled butler at SaDiablo Hall, was one of them.

  “Not his brother’s presence,” Daemon replied just as quietly. “Mine.”

  Beale dipped his head in acknowledgment.

  Daemon walked out of the Hall, went to the landing web, and caught the Black Wind to ride to Ebon Rih.

  * * *

  * * *

  The land looked bleached of all color to the point that there were barely shades of gray. It looked . . . faded. It looked like Marian felt, like all the vitality that had once filled the land had been siphoned off, leaving little more than a failing memory of what it had been.

  She remembered falling, but she didn’t remember landing. Didn’t remember how she’d come to be in this lost, fading place.

  Then she heard the voice, the song. The song wasn’t familiar, but she remembered that voice. Recognized that voice.

  Not knowing what else to do, Marian followed the voice until she reached a cascade of black water spilling into a warm pool.

  * * *

  * * *

  Surreal wasn’t sure what to say when Tersa walked into Manny’s cottage carrying a cloth travel bag. Since it wasn’t likely that Tersa would think to pack clothes, the Darkness only knew what was in the bag.

  “My boy will need me,” Tersa said. “The winged boy will need me.”

  She couldn’t argue with that. If Lucivar’s call for help was an indication that Marian’s illness had taken a turn for the worse, she would need all the assistance she could get to deal with Yaslana’s emotions. She’d been too caught up in her own grief—and the aftermath of the first night she’d spent with Daemon—to remember what Lucivar had been like when his father died. By the time she’d seen him, her pregnancy was the paramount concern, and Lucivar had been Lucivar—arrogant, demanding, and ready to stand on a killing field if that was what it took to protect someone who was a member of their family.

  Manny walked into the front room with her own cloth travel bag, looked at Tersa’s, and said, “Mikal.”

  Hell’s fire. She’d forgotten about the boy. Not forgotten, exactly, but she hadn’t known Tersa would be coming with her, so no provision had been made for the boy.

  ٭Holt,٭ she called. ٭Mikal needs to stay at the Hall for a few days. Tell him Manny and Tersa have gone with me to Ebon Rih.٭

  ٭We’ll take care of him,٭ Holt assured her.

  She hustled the two older women into the small Coach she’d chosen for this trip. It was meant for short distances and didn’t have a toilet or sink. Hopefully no one would need such amenities.

  Or was she hoping for an excuse to delay their arrival by needing to set down in a village somewhere to accommodate an older woman’s personal needs?

  When had she become a coward?

  When? It had happened on the day she’d realized that Daemon Sadi changed into the Sadist every time he saw her, spoke to h
er, made her desperate for him to take her.

  Tortured her.

  * * *

  * * *

  Lucivar knew the moment the Black arrived in Ebon Rih, knew by Daemon’s psychic scent that his brother had understood the message. By the time he reached the front room, the High Lord of Hell walked into his home—but it was his brother who reached out and held him.

  “Bad?” Daemon asked.

  “She’s unconscious. We can’t wake her. Nurian says it feels like a healing sleep, but it’s more, and it’s powerful, and it’s like nothing she’s seen before. She thinks if we try to break whatever this is, Marian won’t find her way back.” Lucivar rested his forehead against Daemon’s. “If the worst happens . . .”

  “If her body dies, I will take care of her. If Marian no longer walks among the living, your children won’t lose their mother. It’s not like our family hasn’t included the demon-dead before. Daemonar might not remember Andulvar, but he’s old enough that he would have memories of his grandfather. We’ll adapt.”

  “Right now, there’s just a body in that room, not their mother. If the body dies before Marian returns . . .”

  “Then I will find her. Whatever I have to bend or break in order to do that, I will find her and bring her back.” Daemon’s hand closed around the back of Lucivar’s neck, both comfort and warning. “Do you understand me?”

  Lucivar eased back enough to look at the man who held him. It didn’t matter what the rest of the Blood called Daemon—Prince, High Lord, Sadist—for him there was one word that meant all of those things and more: brother.

  “I understand you.” He stepped back. “I’d better check on the children. Jillian’s been looking after them, but I’ve left her on her own long enough.”

  As he turned to head for the playroom, Daemon fell into step beside him.

  “I’ll check the food supplies, bring in what we’ll need,” Daemon said.

  Lucivar snorted. “Give it a couple of hours. Rothvar came to find me when Nurian was called to the eyrie. By now all the Eyriens in the valley and most of the Blood in Riada know Marian is very ill. I expect the casseroles, cakes, and other offerings will be arriving anytime now.”

  “Then I’ll handle that while you concentrate on the children.” Daemon hesitated. “You feel easy about Rothvar taking charge while you tend to things at home?”

  “He’s a good man—and an honorable one.”

  Lucivar knew why Daemon asked the question, and he knew Rothvar’s life depended on his answer. Prince Falonar had been sent away to serve in a Rihlander Queen’s court and had disappeared soon after. Most people assumed he’d gone into hiding somewhere in the Askavi mountains or, more likely, had returned to Terreille. Lucivar had always suspected that the man walking beside him was the only person who knew exactly what had happened to Falonar after he vanished from Lady Perzha’s court.

  They heard the baby fussing before they walked into the playroom. Jillian looked frazzled as she rocked the baby, and Titian rushed over to them the moment they entered the room.

  As Lucivar hugged his daughter, he scanned the room. “Where’s Daemonar?”

  “He left a while ago to use the toilet and said he was going to wait with you until Prince Sadi arrived,” Jillian said.

  Lucivar looked at Daemon.

  ٭He wouldn’t do anything foolish,٭ Daemon said.

  ٭He found Marian, and he’s upset.٭ And the mountains could be a dangerous place, especially for a boy preoccupied with worry about his mother.

  Daemon walked out of the room. By the time Lucivar untangled himself from Titian and offered half-assed reassurances to her and Jillian, Daemon met him in the corridor.

  “The boy’s not here,” Daemon said.

  “I am going to kick his ass all the way down the mountain for leaving and not telling someone,” Lucivar snarled.

  “Let’s find him first. Why don’t you fly over the mountains and see if you can pick up his psychic scent? He’s probably tucked in a hidey-hole somewhere. I’ll check the Keep and Riada.”

  “Let’s try one thing first.” Lucivar gathered a measure of the Ebon-gray and let power and temper thunder from one end of the valley to the other. ٭DAEMONAR!٭

  They waited. There were queries from the Eyrien men—some startled by his summons, some wary, and many responding with concern—but as the minutes passed, his son didn’t answer.

  If the boy had done something fatally careless, it could take a few hours for him to make the transition to demon-dead. He wouldn’t be able to respond until then.

  Cursing himself for not paying enough attention to Daemonar’s whereabouts, Lucivar left the eyrie to fly over the mountains in search of his son.

  * * *

  * * *

  Daemonar looked around and breathed a sigh of relief. He had reached the Misty Place. He never knew when it would happen, couldn’t say what combination of need and feelings brought him here. He’d come to realize that if he wanted to be here but didn’t need to be here, the problem was something he could, and should, figure out for himself—or ask for more ordinary help with.

  But he always found this place when he really needed to talk to her.

  “Auntie J.?”

  The sound of a delicate hoof striking stone.

  Daemonar turned, keeping his eyes focused at about knee height. Hooves came into view. Knees. Halfway up the thighs was the hem of a sapphire garment. That provided enough reassurance—and disappointment—for him to look at the rest of Witch, who had been the living myth and dreams made flesh. Still a myth. Still a dream. But no longer flesh. And never like this in the flesh. Except here.

  He’d begun wishing that he hadn’t been such a prudish little boy the first time he’d seen her in this form. She’d been naked that first time, unconcerned about a shape that revealed the Self that had lived within the flesh. Amused and a little baffled by his reaction, she’d created a garment to cover what the boy hadn’t wanted to see.

  He wasn’t interested in the titties or the thatch of hair between her legs. He figured all girls had those things. But here, in this place, her golden hair was more like fur, and her hands had a cat’s retractable claws, and there was the small spiral horn on her forehead. And there was that faun’s tail visible through a back slit in the garment. Along with the delicately pointed ears, those were the things he could see, but what else was now hidden under cloth that he hadn’t observed that first time?

  Tiger and Tigre, Arcerian cat and unicorn, satyr and centaur, Dea al Mon. So many races had yearned so long for this dream that her Self reflected all of them. But the eyes, those ancient sapphire eyes, were the same as they had been when she’d walked among the living.

  More than his beloved Auntie J., she was his Queen, always and forever. He knew it—and she knew it. That was why she allowed him to come here when he needed her.

  “What’s wrong, boyo?” Witch asked.

  “Mother is sick. She’s really sick, and she won’t wake up. I found her.”

  She studied him, then turned her head as if listening to something only she could hear. Back to him, frowning. “Didn’t Marian use the healing spell I left for her?”

  “What?”

  “A last gift. Did she use it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  A stone bench appeared. Witch sat and waited for him to join her.

  He sat and leaned toward her. What he could see was nothing but a shadow, an illusion created by Craft and power. If he leaned against her, he would fall right through the shadow. If she, on the other hand, leaned against him, she felt real and skin touched skin. He didn’t know why it was true; he just accepted. She had never been like everyone else when she had walked among the living. He saw no reason for her to be like everyone else now.

  She leaned just enough for their arms to brush.

  “When you f
ound Marian, did you see anything that looked like this?” Witch asked. A black translucent stone floated in the air in front of them. “Or this?” The stone became clear.

  Daemonar thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I wasn’t paying attention to anything but Mother, but I don’t remember seeing anything like that.”

  “Look around as soon as you can. If you find the stone and it’s clear, then Marian used the healing spell, and that’s why you can’t wake her. She’s in a healing sleep, and she’ll wake when the healing is complete.”

  “What if I find the stone and it’s still black?” Daemonar asked.

  Sorrow in her eyes. “That means she left it too late and didn’t have a chance to make the healing brew.”

  “Could we give it to her now?”

  “No.”

  He didn’t ask why. If Witch said it wouldn’t help now, then it wouldn’t.

  She nudged him. “Your mother is not a fool. She wouldn’t have wasted the gift by not using it when she needed it.” She pursed her lips. “Where is your body, boyo?”

  “At your cabin in Ebon Rih.”

  “Inside?”

  He shook his head. “Only Uncle Daemon goes inside. He stays there sometimes. And Mother goes in once a month to clean. But no one else is allowed to go in.”

  “So you’re outside?”

  “Yes.”

  “In the cold. It’s winter there, isn’t it?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Hell’s fire. She was getting that look—the one she got just before she whacked him upside the head for being stupid.

  “Did you at least remember to put a warming spell around yourself so your body doesn’t freeze to death while you’re here?” Witch asked sweetly.

  Sweetly was bad. Very, very bad. She didn’t sound like syrup unless she was really pissed off. Of course, her sounding cold was even worse. Potentially deadly.

  Fortunately, he had the correct answer. “Yes, I did. I put a warming spell on my cape and another one around me. And a bubble shield for protection.”