The Queen's Weapons

by Anne Bishop

  She was sorry about breaking trust with the Scelties, but more than that, she sometimes worried that her being a brat during that time was the reason Papa had become so ill and still needed to go for special healing at the Keep twice a month and stay in the sealed suite of rooms at the Hall a couple of days each week.

  She loved her mother, but she adored Papa, and she tried very hard not to be a brat or cause trouble or talk about things that would upset him and make him ill again.

  Making the raft and going over the waterfall might be considered trouble, but Papa didn’t know about that, and Uncle Lucivar hadn’t seemed all that concerned—and the reason for that made her upset and wasn’t something she could talk about until she got home and could tell Mikal what she’d learned.

  “Something on your mind, witch-child?”

  They were riding the Winds in a small Coach, and Papa had allowed her to sit in the other driver’s seat instead of in the back, which was wonderful, except Papa tended to ask questions, and even small fibs could have consequences.

  But she didn’t want him to think she was being a brat.

  “Titian is really happy with the pencils and art paper you bought for her,” she said.

  “I’m glad. Lucivar and I are hoping that our encouragement will negate one person’s unkind remark.”

  “And the boys liked the drawings they can fill in with color.”

  He laughed softly. “I’m not sure about that, but the line was drawn between what is hers and what is theirs.”

  She found a loose thread and pulled it—and started unraveling the hem of her shirt until Papa made a snipping motion with his fingers and used Craft to cut the thread.

  “What’s on your mind, witch-child?”

  His deep voice was still quiet, still pleasant, but the question was no longer an invitation; it was a command to speak.

  “How come you never bought drawing stuff for me?” she asked in a small voice.

  “You, my darling, have never been shy about telling me when you were interested in something. I didn’t always agree with you pursuing a particular thing, usually because I didn’t think you were old enough. And sometimes you decided you weren’t interested enough in a thing to follow the rules that were part of the deal. I simply assumed that if you were interested in learning to draw, or play a musical instrument, or do any number of activities, you would have pounced on me when I was working in my study and told me all about it.”

  “I don’t pounce on you.”

  He burst out laughing.

  She didn’t think it was that funny.

  He finally stopped laughing and cleared his throat. “Yes. Well. If you are interested in trying your hand at drawing, we can visit the art supply shop in Amdarh when we’re in the city later this week and pick up what you would need. If you would like to have an instructor, I will find one. If you would like to invite your friends in Halaway to join you for drawing lessons, I will arrange it. However, if I do arrange for an instructor to provide drawing lessons for any children who are interested, those classes will continue whether you give up on drawing or not. And I will insist that you give the lessons a try for the full measure of a season, and not give up after your first attempt simply because the cat you drew looks like a sausage with ears.”

  He gave her a pointed look softened by a smile—a reminder that she often gave up on things if she couldn’t do them perfectly on the first try. Some things. Other things she worked hard to learn. And some things Papa insisted she learn, like basic Protocol and the proper way to do Craft. Papa gave her those lessons and didn’t allow anyone to interrupt their time together, but he wouldn’t let her . . . embellish . . . a spell or alter the way she used Craft to do something until she could show him that she could do the thing the ordinary, proper way. And Protocol was just boooorrrrring. But those lessons had started as soon as she’d acquired her Birthright Jewel, and it was the same thing over and over and over.

  She grumbled sometimes, but Papa’s answer was always the same: Among the Blood, Protocol isn’t about following a bunch of tedious rules. Protocol is about survival. Protocol is the way those with less power can survive dealing with the Blood who wear darker Jewels. Without it, there would be slaughter.

  Maybe she would ask Uncle Lucivar if the Blood would kill one another if they didn’t have a bunch of stupid rules. No, she’d ask Daemonar if he had to learn Protocol. They didn’t have to do boring lessons whenever she visited; they did things like sparring and exploring and learning about plants and animals. So maybe, if Uncle Lucivar didn’t think things like Protocol were important, she could talk Papa into dropping the boring stuff for lessons that were more interesting.

  He was always willing to add lessons, but dropping lessons? Not so much. Not at all, really, until she fulfilled her side of the agreement for having the lessons.

  Not knowing what to say about the art lessons, she said nothing.

  After a while, Papa called in a set of the line drawings and a decorative box similar to the one he gave Titian. “You could start with these and see if art in some form appeals to you—and also let me know if you think it would appeal to other children. I’m considering giving assistance to the artist who made these in order to have more sets printed.”

  When she’d seen them at the eyrie, she’d thought the drawings looked boring, like something to do on a rainy afternoon if you couldn’t find anything else to do. But helping Papa decide on a business matter made the drawings and pencils much more interesting. “I can do that.”

  He smiled. “Thank you.”

  She hesitated and wondered if her question would touch dangerous territory. “Did the Lady in the Mist like to draw?”

  She’d been named for Papa’s father and his Queen, and ever since she ran into trouble for acting like she was special, she’d wondered about how she compared to the most powerful witch in the history of the Blood—and often worried that she was found wanting, especially after what she’d overheard during this visit with her cousins.

  It took forever before he replied, but he sounded thoughtful, not upset, when he finally said, “She did. All the Queens who lived at the Hall during that time took drawing, music, and dance lessons. These were considered necessary social skills and restful activities that balanced the Craft lessons and the training required of Queens in order to rule well. The Lady often did charcoal sketches when she had some free time or when the coven gathered and they all decided to spend an afternoon talking and sketching. Some of her drawings were quite good. Others . . . She would laugh when she was done and twist up the paper to use as kindling. Out of all the Queens who ruled during those years, only Lady Kalush, the Queen of Nharkhava, was a gifted watercolor artist. We have a couple of her paintings on display at the Hall.”

  Did she want to learn to draw now that she knew Papa’s Queen had taken drawing lessons? Wouldn’t that be another way she’d be competing against someone great and powerful? Besides, drawing meant sitting still.

  “I met a young witch about your age,” Papa said. “Lady Zoela, who is Lady Zhara’s granddaughter. She helped me select the art supplies for Titian, and it occurred to me that you might enjoy her company. I could inquire about Zoela coming with us for an outing when we’re in Amdarh.”

  “To do drawings?” She wasn’t sure how much fun it would be to spend an afternoon with Zoela if they were going to sit and do drawings.

  “I was thinking more along the lines of a ride in the park, if Zoela rides.”

  Oh. Maybe this girl would be interesting. And us meant Papa would be doing something with them and not just chaperoning. “That sounds good.”

  They didn’t speak for a while. She was just happy to be with him, even if he had to give lots of his attention to guiding the Coach because they were riding the Black Wind.

  “So,” he finally said, “what did you do on this visit? Anything interestin
g?”

  “We didn’t do much. Nothing different.” Which was pretty much true, except for that one thing.

  He made a sound, like he’d choked on a laugh. “Were the ‘not much’ and ‘nothing different’ before or after you and Daemonar built a raft and went over a waterfall? Because I truly hope that was different from what you usually do.”

  Uncle Lucivar must have blabbed. “We’ve never done that before.”

  Oddly enough, Papa didn’t seem to find that reassuring—but he did smile.

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Lucivar walked around the family room, tidying up. Marian had gone—alone—to the eyrie’s heated pool. Normally, he would have joined her, but he knew by the change in her physical scent and her psychic scent that her moontime was about to start, and his presence this evening bothered her.

  That explained some of her emotions after Daemon and Jaenelle Saetien headed home, but he suspected it was bad timing on Daemonar’s part—and the subject that was on the boy’s mind—that had pushed his darling hearth witch too far.

  “I guess Uncle Daemon and Auntie Surreal have sex, since they’re married.”

  “Yes, they have sex.”

  “So he puts his cock inside her?” Not really a question, more just wanting confirmation.

  “Yes.”

  “But not from behind like the wolves mate.”

  From the kitchen archway, where she’d been standing when she’d overheard them, Marian had shouted, “Dinner!”

  Yeah, bad timing on the boy’s part.

  As they had taken their seats, Marian had snapped at him in front of the children—something she’d never done before—and didn’t even realize it. The boys, however, sat at the table, stunned, while Titian silently slipped into her seat beside Daemonar.

  It had been a long few days, and they were all feeling raw to various degrees because of the children’s conflict with Orian, so Lucivar had let it pass without challenge.

  He looked around the family room. Everything was back in place except the line drawings and box of colored pencils Daemon had brought for the boys to balance his gift to Titian.

  Andulvar had colored in a few parts of one drawing before losing interest. Daemonar hadn’t shown even that much interest. He’d sat with Titian as she looked at the artist’s primer and quietly told him what each lesson demonstrated. The boy would absorb some of the information, but mostly what he’d absorbed was his sister’s excitement and pleasure.

  Lucivar looked through the drawings. Was there too much detail for youngsters Andulvar’s age, especially when you didn’t know what the picture was supposed to look like? Although this one . . .

  A quick psychic scan of the eyrie told him Marian was still in the heated pool, the boys were in Andulvar’s room, Titian was in her room—and there were no other demands on him this evening.

  He settled in a chair and called in the hinged lap desk that his father had given him for Winsol years ago. Made of fine wood by a master carpenter, the top lifted to reveal storage compartments for paper and pens, as well as wax sticks and official and personal seals. He didn’t use it often when he was home. He didn’t see any reason to spoil being outside by bringing out paperwork. But the lap desk came in handy when he was visiting the villages in Ebon Rih and reviewing reports from the Eyrien guard camps and mountain settlements, or needed a flat surface for some reason.

  After putting a shield over the wood, he set one of the drawings on the lap desk, selected a couple of pencils in shades of green, and starting filling in spaces. He let his mind drift, absorbed in the colors giving shape to something stark, like the green buds on trees after the barren wood of winter.

  A movement at the doorway had him looking up. Titian hesitated, then hurried over to join him. She was dressed in the top and knee-length pants she wore as summer pajamas, which made him wonder how long he’d been sitting there and . . .

  Marian was in their bedroom. Had her moontime started enough for her to notice it?

  “Something on your mind, witchling?” he asked.

  Instead of answering, she used Craft to kneel on air before sitting back on her heels. Standing—or sitting—on air as if it were solid ground wasn’t a bit of Craft that was second nature to her yet, but she was steady. Even so, he created a shield and slipped it under her to catch her if she wobbled and fell.

  She studied the part of the drawing he’d filled in, then studied the green pencils. Scrunching her face in fierce concentration, she pointed to part of the drawing. “How did you get that shade of green? None of the pencils are that shade.”

  He held up the pencil in his hand, then used it to point at another one. “I used this pencil and that one and smudged the colors together.”

  “Why?”

  He handed her the pencil to let her hold the two shades of green side by side. “Because that’s how I see the leaves on the trees around that pool we visit on warm summer days.” He looked at the pads on the fingers of his left hand, now stained green from his color smudging, and called in a handkerchief. As he rubbed the color off his fingers, Titian gasped.

  “Papa! You can’t use a handkerchief for that. It might stain it, and you can’t blow your nose on a handkerchief with stains.” She called in a cloth and handed it to him. “Mother gave me a couple of old diapers to use as art rags.”

  He vanished the handkerchief and accepted the diaper, scrubbing more color off his fingers. Then his curiosity got the better of him. “If it’s clean, why would it matter if the handkerchief was stained?”

  “Because you’re the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih and Askavi.”

  Apparently, that was supposed to be sufficient explanation.

  “Come on, witchling. Time for bed.” Lucivar slipped the drawing into the lap desk’s compartment for papers before vanishing the desk. The pencils and the rest of the drawings were put on a shelf set aside for the children’s games. He escorted Titian to her room and tucked her in before checking on the boys. Andulvar was asleep in bed, which meant Daemonar had hauled his younger brother off the floor before going to his own room.

  At Daemonar’s bedroom, Lucivar tapped on the door before opening it just enough to look in. The boy was propped on his side in bed, reading.

  “A few more minutes to finish this chapter?” Daemonar asked.

  “A few more minutes,” Lucivar agreed. He started to close the door.

  “Papa?”

  He leaned in—and waited, noting the worry in the boy’s eyes. “Son?”

  “Mother smells different.”

  Ah, Hell’s fire. “Your mother is fine. You just picked up the scent of moon’s blood. There are rules about men dealing with women during that time—and women include mothers. We’ll talk about the rules in the morning.”

  Relief flowed from the boy. “All right.”

  Lucivar closed the door and headed for his and Marian’s bedroom, thinking, May the Darkness have mercy on her. And on us until she gets used to having two Warlord Princes who are driven to fuss over her.

  Marian was already in bed, maybe even asleep, but she had left a candle-light on low so he could see while he undressed. As soon as he settled in bed, she turned to him, the arm around his waist holding him tight while she rested her head on his shoulder.

  “I was a bitch,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Not a bitch, just a bit bitchy.” He turned his head and kissed her forehead. “Want to tell me what I did to piss you off?”

  “It wasn’t you.” She sighed. “I had . . . words . . . with Dorian today when I went to the market.”

  “Since I wasn’t informed of a brawl on Riada’s main street, I assume you both kept it to words,” Lucivar said mildly.

  “Why would you think we would brawl?” Marian demanded.

  “The last time you had words with someone, you and R
oxie were tearing into each other—and I, who was just trying to be helpful and rescue you, almost got my balls kicked into my throat and then got slugged in the face.”

  “Well, I didn’t know it was you, did I? I felt someone grab me from behind, and I did exactly what you had taught me to do.” She sniffed. “And that was a long time ago, before we were married, and you shouldn’t be remembering it.”

  As if he was going to forget it. He’d dodged the kick in the balls and most of Marian’s roundhouse punch after he’d separated the women, but the bruise on his face had still hurt like a wicked bitch.

  She wouldn’t have gotten past his guard if he’d thought for a moment that she would try to hit him. He loved her dearly, but he’d never made that mistaken assumption again because his hearth witch could be damn feisty when she was riled.

  “You had words with Dorian,” he said. “About . . . ?”

  Her fingers dug into his ribs, making him glad she kept her nails short. Even so, he gently pried her fingers off his side and held on to her hand.

  “She was offended that Daemonar had insulted Orian in public in front of her friends, and she insisted that he should not only apologize in public but make some amends.”

  “Like . . . ?”

  “She said he should be Orian’s escort for some dance or other such event—as if our boy is old enough to be doing that. As if that girl is old enough to be thinking about things like that.” She pushed up, struggling out of his hold, and narrowed her eyes at him. “And don’t you think for one moment that Daemonar should oblige either of them in order to soothe Dorian and restore peace in the Eyrien community, because I will loose the hounds of Hell on Riada before I allow that to happen.”