The Queen's Bargain

by Anne Bishop

  “Mother Night,” Surreal breathed.

  “I don’t know what it cost him to play those games.” A pause. “Well, I broke his ribs a couple of times when I beat on him afterward. But playing those games did things to him in here.” Lucivar tapped his chest. “He’s a lot more powerful now than he was then, and so is the Sadist. If you truly believe that’s who is coming to your bed, I need to know. If he’s acting oddly toward you, I need to know. If you’re thinking of leaving him, I need to know. You help him stay connected to the living, Surreal. But if something happens and he goes cold and the Sadist starts sliding into the Twisted Kingdom, I need to know because I’ll have to choose to join him in the destruction or stand against him.”

  “You couldn’t stand against him,” she said wearily. “He would kill you.”

  “Yes, he would.”

  She stared at him. He said the words so simply, with such acceptance.

  “Despite the past, or maybe because of it, I love him and I enjoy spending time with him. But I also keep an eye on him for the same reason that Andulvar kept an eye on Saetan, especially after what happened with Zuulaman. Men that powerful have to be protected in some ways, have to know there is a hand that will reach for them if they flounder, have to know someone will say ‘stop’ before they’re out of reach and can’t be stopped. That was true for Andulvar and Saetan. It’s true for me and Daemon. More so for us, because Daemon is a lot more dangerous than Saetan ever thought to be.”

  Surreal pushed her hair away from her face. “What do you want me to do?”

  “What do you want to do?” he countered.

  “I don’t want to leave him.” And she didn’t want to leave Jaenelle Saetien alone with Daemon without a buffer. Not permanently. No one needed to tell her that if she walked away, the High Lord’s daughter wouldn’t be coming with her. “I’ll talk to him, explain why I can’t handle being around the Black every night.”

  Lucivar looked past her and frowned. “Come on. We have other things to deal with.” He dropped the shields and hurried out of the study.

  She hurried after him, not sure what he’d heard that made their discussion end so abruptly.

  “Marian?” She looked at Marian’s pale face and the way one hand clung to Lucivar’s arm as soon as he reached his wife.

  Marian sighed, a shuddering sound. “Surreal. Jillian asked if you could meet her at her home. Apparently something happened and she needs to talk.”

  “All right.” She looked from Marian to Lucivar. “Something else?”

  Marian’s hand tightened on Lucivar’s arm. “Rothvar needs Lucivar down in the village. There was some trouble. Daemonar . . .”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Lucivar said. “You look after yourself and the baby. Let Morghann keep watch on the girls.”

  Marian nodded.

  The tender way Lucivar pressed his lips to Marian’s forehead made Surreal’s heart ache.

  She followed Lucivar out the front door of the eyrie.

  He looked toward the far end of the valley. “You’d better go if you’re going. That’s a wicked bitch of a storm heading this way, and everyone with any sense is going to go to ground until it passes.”

  “After I talk to Jillian, I’ll talk to Daemon,” she said.

  He watched the sky. “Well, that might be difficult, witchling. I don’t feel the Black in Ebon Rih anymore, and Daemon isn’t answering my call. Right now I have no idea where he is.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Lucivar flew down to Riada as fast as he could, aiming for the knot of people and the scattered debris in front of one of the shops. He glided toward Zaranar, Hallevar, and Rothvar, who was holding Tagg. Backwinging, he landed lightly on the street just beyond the debris and the crowd, which was divided into such distinct groups he wondered if this was the start of a fight between Eyriens and Rihlanders or an isolated problem. On one side stood the three Eyrien Warlords. On the other side stood a dozen guards who served the Queen of Riada, including her Master of the Guard, who looked furious.

  Between the two groups of warriors were five young men and the man who owned the shop. Four of the young Warlords were bloody—black eyes, split lips, a couple with broken noses. And two of them were cupping their balls and groaning, their clothes spattered with vomit. The fifth young Warlord looked rumpled, but Lucivar saw no sign that he’d been in the fight. A couple of men carried a sixth youth out of the shop on a stretcher.

  “Need to get this one to the Healer,” they said. “He was thrown through the shopwindow, and the defensive shields he had around himself didn’t hold. His back and legs are cut up pretty bad.”

  Lucivar nodded, giving unspoken permission.

  ٭When we arrived to break up the fight, Daemonar ran off,٭ Rothvar said on a psychic spear thread. ٭Don’t know where he is right now. He’s hurt. Can’t say how badly.٭ He put a hand on the puppy’s head. ٭This one was told to stay out of the fight, but he started barking loud enough to bring us and the Queen’s guard running.٭

  “Something has to be done about that brat!” one of the young men shouted as soon as the men carrying the stretcher headed down the street with their injured friend. “Who does he think he is?”

  “He thinks he’s the son of the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih,” the Riada Master of the Guard replied. He waved a hand, drawing everyone’s attention to where Lucivar stood. “So why don’t you tell his father why all of you got into a fight with one boy?”

  Two of the Warlords who had been in the fight and the one who had stayed out of it looked at Lucivar and turned sickly pale, confirming that they lived in Ebon Rih, even if they didn’t live in Riada. The other two were stupid enough to look defiant.

  “The brat started the fight,” one of the fools said. “We were just having a little fun.”

  Lucivar smiled a lazy, arrogant smile. “And what was said that provoked that first punch?”

  “We didn’t say anything,” the second fool said.

  ٭Bitch,٭ Tagg said, squirming in Rothvar’s arms. ٭Whore. Suck cock.٭

  Lucivar watched as fury filled Rothvar’s eyes. Zaranar’s and Hallevar’s too. What surprised him was feeling the same level of fury pumping out of Riada’s Master of the Guard.

  “What do you want done with these curs, Prince?” the Master asked.

  Thunder rumbled. Lightning flashed. The storm would reach the village in minutes.

  Lucivar looked at the shopkeeper. “You figure out the cost of repairing or replacing everything that was damaged in this fight, then double it. Give the figure to the Master of the Guard and Lord Rothvar. Everyone who was involved in the fight—and that includes my boy—will each pay a share of the cost.” He looked at the Master. “Get them cleaned up and have the Queen’s Healer deal with whatever needs healing. Then hold them until I find out if the debt’s been sufficiently paid or if they’re going to forfeit their tongues.”

  He ignored the young men’s protests and turned to Rothvar. ٭I’m going to find my boy. You get to shelter and take the pup with you.٭

  ٭Done.٭ Rothvar studied the sky and the advancing storm. ٭Not a good time to be flying.٭

  ٭No.٭ Turning away from all of them, he launched himself into the air and flew into the storm, heading for Ebon Askavi, the most likely place to find his son.

  * * *

  * * *

  Hearing the quick knock, Daemon gave the Consort’s bedroom one swift look to be sure he’d eliminated all signs that he’d been hurt. Then he opened the door.

  “Geoffrey?” He smiled at the Keep’s historian/librarian.

  Geoffrey didn’t return the smile. “You’re needed.”

  They hurried away from the Queen’s section of the Keep and continued on until they reached one of the areas reserved for guests and visitors. Spotting the boy and the Warlord Prince who stood next to him, Daemon rus
hed past Geoffrey.

  “Daemonar! What . . . ?”

  Daemon looked at Chaosti, who rested a hand on the shoulder of the defiant, bloodied, trembling boy. Still a Gray-Jeweled Warlord Prince, Chaosti had been the Warlord Prince of the Dea al Mon before he’d died in his sleep at the natural end of his life. He’d been a vigorous old man who made the transition to demon-dead with enviable ease, continuing his role as an advisor to those who now ruled his people. More important to Daemon, he had become a friend again over the past few years.

  “I’m glad I beat the snot out of those wingless Jhinkas,” Daemonar shouted. “I’m glad!”

  Calling anyone a Jhinka—a winged race that was an old enemy of the Eyriens—was the worst kind of insult. And calling someone a wingless Jhinka was the epitome of insults if you were an Eyrien boy.

  “There’s a fire going in the sitting room,” Chaosti said, nodding to the open door. “I’ve asked for a basin of warm water and cloths, but there hasn’t been time to find out what sort of damage our little Brother has done to himself.”

  They led the boy into the sitting room and stripped him out of his drenched clothes, since he’d managed to reach one of the Keep’s courtyards before the storm began pounding on the mountain, but hadn’t reached shelter. Between them they washed the simple cuts—Daemon using healing Craft on a couple of deeper ones—and examined him for injured muscles and damaged bones. Bruised ribs, a split lip, and some cuts, including ripped skin on his knuckles. The worst injury was a broken bone in the boy’s left arm.

  After setting the bone, Daemon wrapped healing spells around the damage, then added a shield to hold the bone. And then . . .

  “Hell’s fire, Uncle Daemon.” Daemonar stared at his arm in disgust. “What is that?”

  “That?” Daemon looked mildly surprised by the question. “That, boyo, is a shield that will keep your forearm protected until the bone fully heals.” He turned to Chaosti. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  Chaosti studied the arm and said solemnly, “It’s quite obvious.”

  “It’s blue,” Daemonar protested. “It’s bright blue. Everything and everybody will be able to see it halfway up the mountain!”

  Daemon smiled at his nephew. “Only halfway? Maybe I should . . .”

  Daemonar tucked the arm beneath the blanket they had wrapped around him.

  Setting aside the healing supplies, Daemon remained sitting on the footstool. “It’s time to tell us what this was about,” he said with a quiet gentleness that wasn’t any less a command made by the patriarch of the family.

  Daemonar shook his head. “I can’t. I won’t tell you.”

  Daemon felt cold anger whisper through his blood, saw the flash of fear in Daemonar’s eyes—felt Chaosti descend to the level of the Gray. Not that Gray could survive against the Black. Not that a man who was demon-dead didn’t understand what it meant to challenge the High Lord of Hell.

  “They said mean things about Jillian and about . . . I won’t tell you. I won’t.”

  “If you feel it isn’t prudent to tell your uncle what was said, are you willing to tell me?” Chaosti asked.

  Did the boy realize or remember that Chaosti had a family connection to Surreal? Probably not, since Daemonar looked relieved at the suggestion.

  “All right,” Daemon said. “You give Prince Chaosti a full report, including everything that was said. He will decide if it’s best that your father and I not know the details.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rising, Daemon walked to the door. He looked back to see Daemonar studying the bright blue shield—and saw Chaosti’s amused smile before the Dea al Mon Warlord Prince settled his lined face into a suitably grave expression before sitting on the footstool Daemon had just left.

  He’d barely closed the door when he felt the presence of the Ebon-gray. Lucivar walked toward him, soaked to the skin, gold eyes hot with temper.

  “Is he here?” Lucivar asked. “And when did you get back?”

  Get back? He hadn’t left the Keep. At least, his body hadn’t left.

  “He’s here,” Daemon replied. “He’s fine. Better than you.” Grabbing Lucivar’s arm, he hauled his brother into another room, dragging him the last few feet until they reached the fireplace. Using witchfire, Daemon lit the logs that were stacked in the grate before turning to his brother. “Hell’s fire, Lucivar! What were you thinking, flying through a storm like that? You could have been hit by lightning.”

  “Almost was. Twice.”

  “Idiot.”

  “You would have done the same.”

  “Of course I would have, but that doesn’t make you any less of an idiot.”

  Lucivar smiled and moved a little closer to the fire. “Temperature has dropped. Almost got hit with some hailstones that would fill the palm of my hand.”

  “Get out of those wet clothes.” Daemon called in a couple of the towels from the bathroom in the Consort’s suite. As soon as Lucivar stripped out of the clothes, Daemon handed him one towel and then started wiping down Lucivar’s back and legs, checking for injuries. “Are your wings all right?”

  Lucivar opened them. “They’re fine.” He didn’t give Daemon time to pat the wings dry before he closed them and turned around. “The boy.”

  “He’s bruised and a bit bloody. Has a broken bone in his left forearm. That’s the worst of it. What happened? I gathered he was in a fight, but he wouldn’t tell me what started it. He is giving Chaosti a full report.”

  “I’m surprised Chaosti isn’t resting at this time of day.” Lucivar wrapped a towel around his waist.

  Daemon found a blanket folded over the back of one of the chairs in the room—a blanket he was certain hadn’t been there a minute ago—and gave it to Lucivar.

  “Five aristo Rihlander Warlords who are close to their majority if they haven’t already reached it against Daemonar,” Lucivar continued. “There was a sixth youngster, but he stayed out of the fight.”

  Daemon stared at Lucivar. “Five against one?” Of course, it was five Warlords who probably didn’t know much about fighting beyond the basics against a Warlord Prince who had been learning how to fight almost from the moment he left the womb—and learning from a man who was a brilliant warrior on a killing field.

  “One of them went through the glass window of a shop and is hurt fairly badly,” Lucivar replied. “I’m not sure that was deliberate. The other four look like they’ve been in a down and dirty brawl.”

  Daemon shook his head. Eyrien arrogance and the natural inclination of the males to fight could never be underestimated. “What set him off? Did anyone tell you?”

  “‘Bitch.’ ‘Whore.’ ‘Suck cock.’”

  Daemon rose to the killing edge before he made a conscious decision that violence was required. “I beg your pardon?” he said too softly.

  Lucivar watched him. “I don’t think Tagg knows what the words mean—except for ‘bitch,’ which means something different to him—but he didn’t hesitate to repeat the words he’d heard before Daemonar tore into those prick-asses.”

  He stepped back from the killing edge, a little surprised by the effort it took to do it—and wondered if it was going to take more effort from now on. “I guess the boy was right about not wanting to tell us what was said.”

  “But he’s telling Chaosti?” Lucivar snorted a laugh. “Well, safer, I suppose, since this isn’t Chaosti’s territory.”

  A tray appeared on a nearby table, holding a pot of coffee, a bottle of brandy, and two mugs.

  “Drink?” Daemon asked.

  “Sure.”

  He filled the mugs two-thirds of the way with coffee and topped them with brandy, giving the drinks a quick stir before bringing the mugs back to the fire.

  Lucivar seemed lost in thought but roused when Daemon held out one of the mugs.

  “I just contacted Mari
an to check on everyone. Surreal is at Nurian’s eyrie, talking to Jillian,” Lucivar said. “Marian and the girls are at our eyrie. The girls are teaching Morghann how to play hawks and hares, so Marian is playing with them to make sure the Sceltie learns the proper rules.”

  “Thank the Darkness for that,” Daemon muttered. Then he studied Lucivar. “You know . . .”

  “You brought three, you leave with three.”

  “You are so strict.”

  “Damn right.” Lucivar studied him in turn. “You all right? You feel . . . different.”

  “Do I? How?” He wasn’t ready to talk about being in the Misty Place with Witch.

  “After the headaches started, your psychic scent felt jagged. Now it doesn’t. Like something was mended and you’re well again.”

  Not a dream. “That’s accurate enough.”

  “Is it? Then I’m glad.”

  “When things are settled about the boy, I need to talk to you and Marian about my . . . recovery. About changes I need to make.”

  “Whenever you’re ready,” Lucivar replied.

  They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes before Chaosti walked into the room.

  “Should I ask Draca to send in some yarbarah?” Daemon asked.

  Chaosti shook his head. “But I thank you for the offer.” He used Craft to position another chair near the fire. They waited while he got comfortable. “What was said was sufficient cause for a Warlord Prince to defend members of his family. I believe it is in the best interest of everyone in this valley that the two of you don’t seek to know the details.”

  “I haven’t seen Daemonar yet, but . . . if I may?” Lucivar said.

  Daemon felt the brush of Red power against his first inner barrier—a request to share information. Glancing at Chaosti, he realized the same request had been made of the other man.

  Eyriens on one side. Riada guards on the other. A shop with its outside displays in shambles and a large window broken. And the four Warlords who were almost standing after the fight.