The Queen's Bargain

by Anne Bishop

  “Your uncle Lucivar needed my help.” Daemon gently brushed the hair away from Jaenelle Saetien’s face. “And there was another reason I didn’t come home with you. I thought it was a small thing, but it wasn’t. It isn’t.” He hesitated. “I haven’t been well, witch-child.”

  “You’re sick?”

  Surreal felt her daughter’s alarm like a knife between the ribs.

  “Not sick the way you mean, but I haven’t been well. It’s going to take a while before I’m well again. That means a couple of times a month I’ll have to spend some time at the Keep. That’s where a special kind of healing can be done.”

  “Can I come with you?”

  Daemon shook his head. “This kind of healing needs to be private.”

  “Are you better?”

  “I am.”

  “Does Mama know?”

  Surreal dropped the sight shield and stepped into the study. “I know enough, but your father and I have some things to discuss.”

  Daemon met her eyes, then turned his attention back to the child. “Witch-child, could you and Morghann take a short walk?”

  “Yes, Papa.” Jaenelle Saetien looked around. “Where is she?”

  “Morghann,” Daemon said quietly. “Kindly oblige me.”

  The Sceltie walked around the desk, gave Jaenelle Saetien a small tail wag, and followed the girl out of the room.

  Surreal closed the door and approached the desk, noting that Daemon remained seated—and watchful.

  “You are better,” she said. “I can feel the difference—just like I felt the difference when you began the decline into . . . this. I wish I’d said something.”

  “I understand why you didn’t.”

  “Do you?” What do you think you understand? “We have things to discuss, but your attention is required elsewhere for the next few hours.”

  Daemon looked at the stacks of papers on his desk and smiled wryly. “I noticed.”

  She felt like she was walking across a frozen lake, with the ice cracking beneath her feet with every step and the shore a long ways away. One wrong move and she would break through and go under—and never find her way back to safe ground.

  “Jaenelle Saetien has been joining me for dinner these past few days, but if you prefer not to listen to chatter, I could have her eat in her room tonight.”

  “I’d like her to join us. Besides, after listening to the yappy horde, listening to one child should be easy enough.”

  “Don’t count on it. She’s been waiting to tell you everything she did during her stay with her cousins.”

  His laugh sounded genuine, so she asked the question she really wanted to ask. “Will you stay with me tonight?”

  A heartbeat of hesitation before he said, “It will be my pleasure.”

  “Then I’ll let you deal with some of this, and we’ll see you at dinner.”

  Leaving the study, Surreal met up with Jaenelle Saetien and Morghann as the two returned from their walk. Morghann headed straight for the study door. When it didn’t open, she lay down in front of it and sighed.

  “Come on.” Surreal put an arm around her daughter’s shoulders. “We’ll see your papa at dinner.”

  As they went up to the family room, Surreal felt Sadi’s words gather weight and settle around her heart. “It will be my pleasure.” A Consort said that to a Queen. Sometimes he meant it. Other times it was an acknowledgment of duty.

  Genuine pleasure or simply duty? She wasn’t sure which way Sadi had meant the words.

  * * *

  * * *

  Daemon stood under the shower, letting the hot water pound some of the tension out of his neck and shoulders. He’d been glad to have Jaenelle Saetien as a chatty buffer at dinner. While he’d been dealing with avalanches of emotion—his own and others’—his girl had had a good time with her cousins. Unfortunately, in the middle of describing one of her adventures, she lobbed a question at him he would have preferred to ignore.

  “Papa, why did you ask Tarl to pile up all those rocks at the end of the garden?”

  “Those are for your mother.”

  “Why does Mama need rocks?”

  For reasons he wasn’t about to explain to a child.

  After drying off and styling his hair, he slipped into a pair of black silk pants and the matching robe. He wasn’t sure what Surreal expected from him—or wanted from him tonight. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to offer—and he couldn’t say with any honesty that he was looking forward to spending the night in his wife’s bed.

  When he walked out of the bathroom, he found Jazen waiting for him. His valet looked pointedly at the room’s other occupant.

  He’d asked Beale to bring Morghann’s cushioned bed up to his room. With Tagg now living with Mikal and Tersa, and Khary still in Ebon Rih, he felt concerned that Morghann would feel abandoned, especially after making the choice to hide and starve when she couldn’t find him.

  It wasn’t the bed or the Sceltie herself that was the reason for Jazen’s annoyance. It was . . .

  ٭That’s my shirt?٭ he asked, seeing a white cuff between the Sceltie’s front paws. The rest of the material was under her, making him think of a broody hen sitting on a silk egg—a thought he kept to himself, since he didn’t think dog or valet would appreciate the comparison.

  ٭Yes, that’s the shirt you removed a few minutes ago—the one I was going to take down to the laundry room,٭ Jazen replied. ٭She growled at me when I tried to take it back.٭

  Daemon looked at Morghann, who gave him a tail-tip wag.

  Sighing, he looked at Jazen. ٭Let her have the shirt.٭

  ٭You will explain that she can only have one shirt at a time. She can’t hoard them.٭

  He stared at Jazen, but his valet didn’t back down, leaving him in the middle of a farce where Sceltie and valet would play a continual game of hoard and retrieve with his clothes.

  ٭I’ll talk to her,٭ he said, fighting the urge to laugh.

  ٭Very well.٭

  ٭There’s no need to get huffy.٭

  ٭I’ll remind you of that when you complain about not having any clean shirts in the closet.٭

  ٭Hell’s fire, man, just order more shirts and go away tonight.٭

  Judging by the look on Jazen’s face before the man made a quick exit, Daemon realized he’d been herded into agreeing to exactly what his valet wanted.

  “Damned impertinent,” he muttered. But there was something to be said for impertinence. A man couldn’t be completely terrifying if his valet was willing to argue with him about shirts.

  Going over to the cushioned bed, he crouched in front of Morghann. It would crush her if he said she had done a wrong thing. Instead, he tugged the other sleeve out from under her and laid it over her like an arm casually draped around her.

  “I’m going to be in the other room with Lady Surreal tonight,” he said quietly. “You need to stay in this room. Do you understand?”

  ٭I will wait here for you.٭

  “Yes. You sleep here, and I will see you in the morning.”

  He gave her one caress before he rose, walked over to the door that separated the bedrooms, and knocked.

  * * *

  * * *

  Their lovemaking often began in what Surreal thought of as the social area of her room—the mix of tables, chairs, and love seat where she could read in solitude or talk privately with a close friend or her daughter. Or cuddle with her husband while they talked about their respective days or shared observations made during that evening’s dinner or social gathering.

  She had a feeling that Sadi wouldn’t join her on the love seat tonight and might deliberately misinterpret her invitation to discuss things as strictly verbal communication. So she waited for him in bed, propped up with pillows, a book open in her lap.

  “Come in,” she said in re
sponse to a knock on the adjoining room’s door. Her smile froze when he saw her and hesitated, which meant his saying, “It will be my pleasure,” when they had talked earlier had been an acknowledgment of his duty as a husband.

  Hell’s fire! She’d been a whore for decades. She’d been the most expensive whore for decades. Tonight she would need all of that skill to show him he was still wanted, still loved.

  She flipped the covers back on his side of the bed. She closed her book but didn’t put it on the bedside table, a subtle way of telling him she didn’t expect him to perform immediately.

  He stretched out beside her, propped up on one elbow. Not touching her.

  “It’s confirmed now?” she asked. “Lucivar has taken over rule of all of Askavi?”

  “He signed the document that gives him the whole Territory,” Daemon replied. “Draca and I witnessed it, so it’s official.”

  “How does Marian feel about that?”

  “She seemed to take it in stride after being assured that she wouldn’t have to be the buffer between Lucivar and all the Queens in Askavi beyond the ones whose territories are in Ebon Rih.”

  “Someone has to arrange for audiences and prioritize meetings.”

  Daemon looked amused. “It’s been sorted out. Marian will help Lucivar in his capacity as the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih, same as she’s done since she married him. Rothvar will be his second-in-command for the whole Territory when it comes to defending the Territory or any of its people from an outside invader or from each other. The Blood in Askavi will have a choice of living by the Old Ways or leaving. If they want to follow Terreillean ways, they can go back to Terreille—or face the Demon Prince on a killing field.”

  “Mother Night.”

  “There have been some savage fights in some of the Provinces, and several courts have broken. I imagine there will be quite a few people who want to talk to him in the next few days.”

  “Who’s going to represent him when he’s not available to talk to the Queens and meet with the First Circles of newly formed courts?”

  “Karla.”

  Surreal blinked. “Karla?”

  “Yeah.” Daemon laughed. “Lady Karla, the former Queen of Glacia, in all her Gray-Jeweled terrifying glory. She is Lucivar’s second-in-command when it comes to the Warlord Prince of Askavi’s administrative duties. With Draca’s permission, she set up an office in the Keep and will command from there.”

  “Will she have helpers?”

  “I expect so.”

  “Will any of them be among the living?”

  “I didn’t ask. I played least in sight and let Lucivar deal with her.”

  “Well, he did choose her.”

  “Not exactly.”

  She laughed and set her book aside. Before she could turn to him, he placed a hand over hers, and his mood sobered.

  “The rocks at the back of the garden,” he said.

  “If you want a rock garden, Sadi, you and Tarl can build it.” The sass in her voice should have made him smile. It didn’t.

  “They aren’t there to grow anything. They’re there . . .” He sighed. “It’s dangerous to thin the shields around that chamber beneath the Hall. I must insist that you stop doing that.”

  “What’s in the chamber?”

  “Nothing that concerns you—and not something we’ll discuss.”

  She studied his face, tried to read the warning. “Something Saetan left in your care?”

  “Yes.”

  She nodded her acceptance, since there was nothing else she could do.

  “The rock pile is a place where you can drain your Gray Jewel whenever you need to,” Daemon said. “I’ve laced Black shields around them and filled pockets between the rocks with Black power. You can strike the shields without worrying about damage or danger.”

  Meaning she wouldn’t have to engage with him directly for help draining the Gray or the Green. Since she’d avoided asking for his help for months, why did his creating this solution make her sad?

  “Well,” he said.

  She touched his face, kissed his mouth. “Stay. I need you, Daemon. Stay.”

  She could barely feel the sexual heat that had been such a torment and wondered what he had done to quiet it so much that it was barely a sensual warmth tonight.

  He didn’t reject her kisses or withdraw from her touch, but it took a while before he began to respond with some excitement, before he began kissing her back with some enthusiasm. Then she pulled the robe off his shoulders and ran her hand down his right arm—and found the scars.

  She jerked back and stared at the white, thin ridges. “Hell’s fire, Sadi. What happened?”

  He said nothing.

  “Why didn’t Nurian heal these wounds so they wouldn’t leave scars?”

  “They were meant to scar,” he said quietly. “Just as the one on my left wrist was meant to scar.”

  “Why?”

  “A reminder.”

  Of what? she almost asked him. Then she remembered what he’d told Jaenelle Saetien about a private kind of healing at the Keep and knew who had given him those scars.

  He kissed her, a lover intent on pleasuring his woman—or at least pleasuring the one he could touch. He took his time and loved her in all the ways she liked best. And when he finally sheathed his cock inside her, she knew he enjoyed it, knew he wanted her.

  And yet . . .

  * * *

  * * *

  Surreal invited Daemon to her bed each night, and they made love until they were both spent. The sexual heat became more noticeable with each passing day, and she knew Daemon watched her, always assessing whether the pleasure he gave her, and his presence, was still enjoyable or had slipped into torment. On the fourth night, instead of joining her in her bed, he kissed her good night and retreated to the suite that now served as his sanctuary.

  He never stayed with her more than three nights in a row. Sometimes he retreated to the suite that had been his father’s. Sometimes he went to the Keep after Jaenelle Saetien fell asleep, and stayed for a day or two. When he returned, the sexual heat was drained to the point that it was just enough to add a fillip of arousal to everyday desire.

  The edgy play that had been the merest whisper of the Sadist and had been an exciting part of being in bed with him was missing altogether, even when the heat became uncomfortably intense, and she regretted the loss.

  She couldn’t breach the barrier between them—and admitted to herself that maybe she didn’t want to. She felt comfortable being around him again, felt they had reestablished the partnership they’d had for decades. This arrangement gave her breathing room so that she didn’t have to look at the full truth about the man she had married.

  The truth had terrified her, but, Hell’s fire, it had been exciting too. The problem was, if she managed to break that barrier, could she survive the man now contained behind it?

  Her feelings were conflicted. Daemon’s feelings were not. In bed and out, he maintained that careful distance between them in order to keep her safe, and he did it out of courtesy, out of respect, out of kindness.

  Out of love.

  FORTY-FIVE

  They stood in front of the gate of a sprawling patchwork house.

  Jillian had never seen the ocean, was already fascinated by the fishing boats that were heading out. Would any of those fish find their way to Riada? Would she have the opportunity to learn how to catch one?

  Her first apprenticeship in a real court. What would her duties be? What . . . ?

  Lucivar sighed.

  She looked up at him. “You’re going to have to do this three more times.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  He sounded unhappy. He sounded like a father who wanted to keep his girl close to his own wings but knew he had to let her soar on her own. Had the other steps
he’d let her take been as hard for him, or was this a bigger leap?

  Nurian and Marian had both given her spending money as a farewell gift, after learning that she’d given all her savings to Dillon. The first thing she would look for once she got settled in was some nice stationery that might reflect the sea or this village so that Lucivar would know she had bought it in order to write to him.

  She saw the homely woman walking toward them, talking to two men who were escorting her away from the Queen’s home. She wore skirts and shawls and so many jangly bracelets, she could be heard down the street.

  “It’s kind of the Queen to grant an audience to the village rag lady,” she said, trying to sound grown-up.

  Lucivar choked on a laugh. “That’s not a rag lady, witchling. That’s Perzha, the Queen of Little Weeble.”

  Her jaw dropped as the woman smiled at them and waved.

  “Another thing,” Lucivar said. “Perzha has an allergy to sunlight and rests during the day. Some members of my family had a similar allergy.”

  Jillian blinked. “You mean she—”

  “Has an allergy to sunlight and has to drink a special tonic.” His gold eyes held two parts warning and one part amusement.

  “Right. Allergy to sunlight. Special tonic.”

  “Come in, come in.” Perzha waved her hand. “Don’t just stand at the gate.”

  The other member of their little party didn’t require a further invitation. He trotted over to the gate and wagged his tail.

  ٭I am Khary. I am a Sceltie. I am Jillian’s special friend.٭

  “Oh, my.” Perzha patted her chest. “How delightful. Welcome, Lord Khary.”

  “Should have warned her,” Lucivar muttered.

  “It’s been a long time since one of your people came to our village, but I remember when Lord Ladvarian used to accompany the Queen when she came for a visit. You know he was the Lady’s special friend.”

  Khary seemed stunned into momentary silence.

  “Last thing, witchling,” Lucivar said quietly. “Perzha wears a Red Jewel and comes from one of the oldest aristo Rihlander families in Askavi. And she and the Queen of Ebon Askavi were good friends.”