The Queen's Bargain

by Anne Bishop

  “I can do that.” Daemon broke eggs into a bowl. “You look tired.”

  So do you, old son. “Baby Andulvar has been fussy. Took a while to get him settled last night.” He pulled out a frying pan to cook the bacon.

  “How is Marian?”

  Daemon asked that question every time they saw each other, as if needing the reassurance that one of them was still loved and happy.

  “She’s doing fine. She regains a little more strength and energy every day, but she’s occasionally frustrated because it’s been months since that healing and she still doesn’t have the stamina she had before the . . . illness. Nurian looks in on her a couple of times a week, mostly because no one has any experience with the kind of healing spell Jaenelle Angelline gifted to Marian. Of course, having three children can sap the stamina from anyone.”

  How much longer can you endure this, whatever this is? How much longer can I wait and watch you suffer? And how can I let you know there is someone who can give you answers without losing you?

  Putting the pan down, Lucivar braced his hands on the counter.

  “Lucivar?” Daemon moved to stand beside him. “What is it?”

  “I don’t think I can tell you.”

  “You can tell me anything.”

  He wanted to believe that. All right, then. A hint. A clue. A rope thrown to a man trying to save himself from a deadly fall and holding on to the cliff with one broken finger because that was all he had left. “I think Daemonar sees Witch once in a while.”

  “You mean he dreams about her when he visits the cabin? I did give him permission to go inside.”

  “No, I think he sees her. Talks to her.”

  Daemon didn’t move, barely breathed. Finally he whispered, “Are you sure?”

  Lucivar shook his head. “I’m not sure of anything, but I’ve been noticing some things since the day Marian fell into that healing sleep and he disappeared for a while. Since then, when we butt heads and he goes away to sulk . . . sometimes he’ll come back and argue his point from a different angle—an angle I’m sure his boy brain would not have considered. Sometimes he comes back looking like he’d gotten the sympathy he wanted—someone taking his side against his mean old father—but also received a whack upside the head along with the sympathy. And sometimes he comes back and apologizes for being a brat—and then we talk about his behavior and my reaction. Bastard, those things aren’t coming from him. Not on his own.”

  “That doesn’t mean Witch is his confidante,” Daemon said.

  Something in Daemon’s voice. Something that sounded too much like desperate hope.

  “No, it doesn’t. I know Chaosti keeps an eye on the boy, and some of that might be coming from him.” While he had walked among the living, Chaosti had been the Warlord Prince of the Dea al Mon. For the past few months he had divided his time between helping his own people when they made the transition to demon-dead and residing at the Keep in Kaeleer.

  Silence. Then Daemon said, “Jaenelle Saetien hasn’t mentioned seeing her special friend since the Birthright Ceremony. Does Titian talk to Witch?”

  “No. Titian never knew Jaenelle Angelline.”

  “Well, the boy always doted on his Auntie J.” Daemon cleared his throat and went back to preparing the omelet while Lucivar cooked the bacon. “Tell me about this trouble with Jillian.”

  “Didn’t Surreal tell you?”

  Another silence. “She sent a note to the Hall asking that someone escort three Scelties to Ebon Rih, but didn’t say why they were needed.” He hesitated before adding, “She didn’t ask me to bring the Scelties, but Jaenelle Saetien wanted to spend time with her cousins, and I wanted to spend some time with you.” Another hesitation. “Surreal won’t be pleased to see me.”

  “Are you telling me I should put you in a separate guest room?” Lucivar asked quietly.

  “That’s up to Surreal. I could stay at The Tavern in Riada or at the Keep. That should be sufficient distance.”

  Sufficient distance for what?

  Quietly descending to the level of his Ebon-gray power, Lucivar picked up a whisper of fragility at the level of the Black along with the jaggedness in Daemon’s psychic scent that had appeared around the same time as the headaches. And something else, something that Daemon was trying fiercely to control.

  What in the name of Hell was going on?

  Couldn’t meet this battle head-on. He’d let Surreal handle things with Jillian for the most part and find reasons that he and Daemon needed to be away from the eyrie, find distractions until his brother was willing to talk to him.

  While they ate breakfast, Lucivar told Daemon about the incident that had set off his temper—and set all the rest of this mess into motion.

  “What do you know about Lord Dillon?” Daemon asked as he refilled their coffee mugs.

  “Comes from an aristo Rihlander family. He’s visiting family in Riada. That’s all anyone here knows about him.”

  “Maybe that’s all anyone is willing to say about him, but I doubt that’s all anyone knows.”

  Lucivar shrugged. “I don’t like him, and Surreal thought there was something off about him. But this is first love, so I’m expected to be fair about this.” He bared his teeth in a smile.

  “Uh-huh.” Daemon sipped his coffee and studied his brother. “Now that we’ve agreed to respect the mantles of our authority and be adult and fair about this, who is your best source for gathering gossip?”

  “I stop at The Tavern for that,” Lucivar said. “Same as I’ve been doing ever since I first arrived in Ebon Rih.”

  “That tells you about Riada. Maybe Doun and Agio, too, since the Masters of the Guard for those Queens’ courts know they can drop by and share a few unofficial observations that will be followed up by the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih making an official visit to their village. No, we need someone who knows the gossip about aristo families throughout Askavi.”

  Lucivar put his mug down and eyed Daemon. “There is one person who might know. But if you really think I need to ask her, you’re coming with me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because being demon-dead hasn’t made Lady Perzha any less eccentric.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Surreal tightened the belt on her robe before she unlocked the guest room’s door and stepped back to allow Daemon to enter.

  His sexual heat washed over her, making her nipples harden and her body throb with need.

  Bastard. Couldn’t he have given her a couple of days of peace while she was helping his brother?

  Daemon studied her for a moment, then slipped his hands in his trouser pockets and said in a voice stripped of emotion, “Jaenelle Saetien wanted to visit her cousins. I thought that would provide them with a distraction while you dealt with Jillian. If staying in another guest room here inconveniences you, I can take a room at The Tavern or stay at the Keep.”

  And have everyone in Riada whispering behind their hands the way the Blood in Amdarh were doing? Have Lucivar back her into a corner and demand to know what was going on? If she’d thought for one minute that he would understand, that he might be able to rein in the games Sadi was playing to torment her, she would have told him. But it was more likely that Lucivar would side with Sadi. Not only side with him, but think that she was the one in the wrong for not being willing to accommodate her husband’s needs because Daemon had these damn headaches—which didn’t seem to trouble him when they were in bed.

  “There’s no reason for you to stay elsewhere or to stay in another room here,” she said.

  “Very well,” he replied. “Lucivar and I are heading out. There’s someone who might have information about Lord Dillon, and Lucivar doesn’t want to go by himself.”

  He would be gone for a few hours, and she could breathe again. Thank the Darkness.

  She locked the door be
fore stripping off her nightclothes and getting dressed. Then she waited until she felt the Black and Ebon-gray leave the eyrie before venturing out to the kitchen to get something to eat.

  * * *

  * * *

  Little Weeble was often described as quaint or original. Those were the kind words that were used, although the tone in which they were said was often less than kind. Not that the citizens of Little Weeble cared what outsiders thought or said about their village. After all, outsiders were outsiders and weren’t required to deal with the citizens except for business ventures—were, in fact, gently encouraged to go away.

  As he and Daemon walked from the landing web to Perzha’s sprawling patchwork home, Lucivar noted how many merchants who were just opening their shops froze at the sight of them—and how many stopped working and followed them at a distance calculated not to provoke a challenge.

  He had visited Little Weeble once or twice a year for decades and had never seen the people react this way. They had never worried about him showing up. Which meant Daemon was the reason for their barely contained panic and fear.

  By the time they reached Perzha’s house, her First Circle was there. Most were old men—still vigorous and mentally sharp, but there was no denying that most of them had grandchildren. But there were younger men who hadn’t been there the last time he visited, men in their twenties who might have been serving their first full contract in a court.

  The old men’s eyes were filled with fear. The younger men stared at Lucivar and Daemon with defiance that wasn’t quite a challenge.

  “You’ll have to excuse them,” a woman said from behind the wall of men. “They can be overprotective.” An age-spotted hand thumped the shoulder of a young Warlord Prince who was too close to making a lethal mistake. Reluctantly, he lowered his eyes, no longer on the point of challenging two Warlord Princes who would have destroyed him if he started a fight. Even more reluctantly, he stepped to the side to make room for the woman who jingled and jangled into sight.

  Lady Perzha had freckles, buckteeth, rusty red hair heavily threaded with silver, and a face that was so homely it was oddly attractive. She wore shirts and skirts and shawls in colors that clashed as often as they coordinated. Her jewelry was a mishmash of seashells and glass beads, pearls and rubies, diamonds and emeralds. And somewhere under all of it was a Red Jewel, making Perzha as powerful as she was eccentric.

  “Is this an official visit?” she asked politely, looking at Daemon.

  Being demon-dead, she was the only one facing them who wasn’t holding his breath waiting for an answer.

  “Not on my part,” Daemon replied mildly. “Prince Yaslana needs your help, and I tagged along to keep him company.”

  “Do you mind if we sit out in the garden? I do love the early-morning hours when I can be outdoors and look after my flowers.” Perzha turned to one of the older men. “Lord Carleton, will you see to refreshments?”

  “But . . .” Carleton, who was the Steward of Perzha’s court, slanted a look at Daemon before hurrying into the house.

  “This way.” She led them through a gated archway that divided the house into two sections and provided access to the enclosed lawn and gardens. “Even if one works from a single room, it’s important to be able to separate business from one’s personal life, don’t you think?”

  “My study may be my main place of business, but it’s also my sanctuary from household drama,” Daemon replied as they took seats at a round table on a terrace overlooking flower beds that followed the same color schemes as Perzha’s wardrobe. “That’s why it has a thick door and a stout lock.”

  Perzha gave them a sympathetic smile. “When children reach a point of having opinions of their own, family is often about drama.”

  “Mine have been voicing opinions since before they could say actual words,” Lucivar said, happy to see a woman wearing an apron approaching the table with a coffeepot, followed by a younger woman carrying a tray that held plates of pastries and sandwiches. Carleton brought a ravenglass goblet and a familiar kind of decanter.

  “May I,” Daemon said, indicating the goblet and decanter. It wasn’t a question.

  Carleton set the items next to Daemon’s place at the table and retreated, along with the two women from the kitchen.

  Ignoring his coffee, Daemon removed the crystal stopper from the decanter and poured the dark liquid into the goblet. As he tilted the goblet, he used Craft to create a tongue of witchfire. He turned the ravenglass slowly over the flame until the liquid warmed to the correct temperature. Extinguishing the witchfire, he moved the goblet back and forth under his nose, breathing in the scent before he took a taste—and made a face as he set the goblet on the table.

  “Hell’s fire, woman,” he said. “What kind of blood wine is this? Why aren’t you drinking proper yarbarah?”

  “Proper yarbarah, as you put it, comes from the SaDiablo vineyards in Dhemlan,” Perzha replied. “A few other places produce some yarbarah for ceremonial purposes, but the best vintages come from your vineyards. Having my court ordering bottles on a regular basis would have caught your attention.”

  “So?”

  “So you are more than the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan, and my people have feared the day you would come calling.”

  Lucivar chose a sandwich. He wasn’t hungry, was rapidly losing his appetite for a lot of things since realizing what their arrival might mean for this village, but lazy arrogance was a useful tool—or weapon. “Is there a reason they’ve been concerned about Prince Sadi coming here? Something your court should have reported to me?”

  “You know full well the reason for their concern. I told my First Circle—the First Circle who was with me then—that I should go to Hell. I was demon-dead. I died of natural causes, of an illness this old body couldn’t overcome. It was swift, and I died in my sleep, which is why, when I made the transition to demon-dead, I still had the reservoir of power in my Red Jewel as well as my Birthright Green.” Perzha leaned toward Daemon. “I told them I should report to the High Lord of Hell and they should look for another Queen. I told them Prince Yaslana wouldn’t allow Little Weeble to go to another Queen without considering what the people needed. But the First Circle pleaded with me to stay until they could find the right Queen to take my place. As long as a Red-Jeweled Queen ruled here, the village couldn’t be claimed by some ambitious twit—their word, not mine—who looked at Little Weeble as a place to gain credentials for something better. As if there could be any place that was better.”

  “I wouldn’t have allowed a twit to take over the village,” Lucivar growled. “They should have known that.”

  “They should have,” Perzha agreed quietly. “Especially considering who you still serve.”

  He didn’t look at Daemon. The commitment they had made to the Queen of Ebon Askavi was a lifetime commitment of service—their lifetimes, not hers. So he understood why the people in this odd yet productive village would have resisted bringing in anyone who couldn’t be another Perzha.

  “Do they actually look for another Queen?” Daemon asked.

  “Yes, they do.” Perzha hesitated. “Every year, the First Circle collects a bucket of sand from our beach. Then the men use a screen and carefully sift the sand. On the day they find a diamond among the grains, they’ll know there is a Queen out there who is right for Little Weeble and they should let me retire, even if retiring means going to the Dark Realm.”

  “You really think there is a diamond somewhere on that beach?” Lucivar asked.

  She smiled. “Yes. That’s why I have stayed. It’s there. They just haven’t found it yet.”

  His heart gave an odd flutter. Daemon, he noticed, looked pale.

  “Who told you?” Daemon asked quietly.

  “A few days after I made the transition to demon-dead, the living myth came to Little Weeble with the previous High Lord. She was the one who told
the First Circle about the sand and the diamond. She saw it in a tangled web of dreams and visions—the diamond found in the sand would herald the arrival of the new Queen. Until that day, everyone agreed that I should stay here and take care of my people.”

  Daemon rested his hand over hers. “If my father and my Queen agreed to this arrangement, then I will honor it. But if you tire of duty, if you want to go whether the people find the diamond or not, all you have to do is send a message, and I’ll return for an official visit.” He sat back and took a sip of now-cold coffee. “Until then, we came for some gossip.”

  Perzha blinked at Daemon, then looked at Lucivar.

  “Yeah, gossip,” he said.

  “The more titillating, the better.” Daemon gave Perzha a smile that would have made her blush.

  “Oh, my.” She patted a hand over her heart, looking flustered. “I’ve never heard of you being much of a flirt.”

  “I only flirt with those who would appreciate it for what it is and not expect anything more.”

  Because anyone who expected more would find themselves facing the Sadist, the cruelest and most lethal side of Daemon’s temper, Lucivar thought.

  “Well, gossip that reaches a coastal town is a bit like storm wrack,” Perzha said. “A lot of debris gets thrown onto the shore, but not much is worth anything unless it happens to be the thing you’re looking for.” She gave them a brilliant smile. “Who do you want to know about?”

  * * *

  * * *

  An hour later, when members of Perzha’s First Circle kept showing up every five minutes, broadly hinting that their Queen needed to rest, what with her having an allergy to the sun and all, Daemon and Lucivar walked back to the landing web at the edge of the village.

  “Hell’s fire,” Lucivar said. “How does she know so much about aristos in other villages? Why does she know so much?” She hadn’t known anything about that prick-ass Dillon, but he felt confident now that she would find out everything he wanted to know.