by Anne Bishop
At least she’d been able to quiet some of his emotional storm. Now she’d see what she could do to settle her daughter’s mood before the girl gave her father a reason to cancel the trip to Amdarh—and the ride in the park with Lady Zoela.
SIX
Surreal broke open a warm biscuit and added generous portions of butter and berry jam, as well as a dollop of fresh whipped cream, before taking a bite.
She didn’t know what had been said yesterday when Jaenelle Saetien had gone to Manny’s cottage, no doubt to complain about having the meanest papa in the Realm, but the girl had come home chastened to the point of apologizing to Daemon for saying mean things to him when it was her own fault that she hadn’t gone to the play with her friends. The apology had smoothed things over between man and girl, and the three of them had spent an enjoyable evening together after arriving in Amdarh.
Daemon finished his coffee, then pushed his chair away from the breakfast table. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us? It’s a refreshing morning for a ride.”
Surreal gave him a sharp smile. “It rained last night, so refreshing means riding under drippy leaves. No, thank you. Besides, Zhara invited me to join her for coffee and pastries, served with a hefty side of information exchange and a dollop of gossip. That is my idea of refreshing.”
He laughed softly. “Well, aren’t you sassy?”
“I’m not the one who will spend the morning with two giggling girls.”
“That’s a matter of opinion.”
“Watch it, Sadi.”
Daemon walked around to her side of the table and gave her an affectionate kiss—a kiss that might have become warmer if Jaenelle Saetien hadn’t appeared in the doorway of the breakfast room and said, “Come on, Papa! We’re going to be late!”
“I guess someone has developed a new appreciation for being on time,” Surreal whispered.
“I guess someone has,” he whispered back. He gave her another quick kiss before he and Jaenelle Saetien left the town house.
Surreal poured herself another cup of coffee, then let it go cold.
How could she tell Daemon that she wanted to be his second-in-command and his occasional lover but not his wife?
Maybe she was putting too much emphasis on the word “wife.” Or the wrong emphasis. For a Warlord Prince, what was a wife, anyway? A buffer against the unwanted attention of other women. Oh, she could be other things as well, but a weapon that was always honed for war needed someone to keep bloody conflicts to a minimum. That buffer was usually a wife or a Queen—or both. Especially when the Warlord Prince wore a dark Jewel.
“Both,” she whispered. At the time of Witch’s return, she’d been so scared or angry, so desperately trying to survive the emotional storm caused by Daemon’s growing instability combined with his increased sexual heat, that she hadn’t appreciated what the Queen had meant about being a buffer between herself and Sadi. Hadn’t appreciated that her partnership with Sadi wasn’t her only partnership.
Leaving the breakfast room, she found Helton and requested a fresh pot of coffee, two mugs, and cream and sugar. An unusual request since she drank her coffee black, but Helton didn’t ask who might be joining her. She couldn’t have given him an answer even if he’d asked.
When he brought the tray to the morning room, where she took care of correspondence whenever she was in Amdarh, she thanked him and locked the door behind him—then put a Gray shield around the room.
She wasn’t sure how this worked, even though it had happened a few times. Wasn’t sure it would work with her being at the town house. But she fixed the two mugs of coffee, then held them and closed her eyes as she descended into the abyss to the level of the Gray.
*Lady. Sister. Can we talk?*
That moment of biting cold. When Surreal opened her eyes, she stood in the Misty Place.
A moment later, Witch appeared, wearing a sleeveless sapphire dress that reached midthigh. “Hello, Surreal.”
“Hello, sugar. It’s been a while.”
Witch smiled, but she looked puzzled. “You could come to the Keep if you want to talk. Most days, that would be safer.”
“No time to travel today.” And I want to do this before I lose my nerve. Surreal held out one mug. “I brought coffee.” She hesitated. “Can you drink coffee now?”
“No, but I appreciate the thought.” Witch took the mug. “What brings you here?”
“I don’t want to be a proper wife.”
“Well, thank the Darkness for that. I hope you smacked whoever said you needed to be.”
Surreal blinked. Then she tried again to explain something she wasn’t sure how to say. “Sadi needs a wife. We can agree on that.”
“Yes, he does, and yes, we can.”
“But I’m not suited to be a . . . a buffer. As a wife, Marian is a buffer between Lucivar and the rest of the Blood.”
“Buffer” somehow sounded soft and comforting, which were words that suited Marian—when she wasn’t riled.
“So tell me, my Dea al Mon Sister, what kind of wife are you?” Witch asked.
“Sword and shield.” The moment she said the words, she knew they were true.
A warm smile. “So you’ve decided.” Witch paused, as if considering what to say. “You’re not the first witch who chose to marry a Warlord Prince in order to be his sword and shield. That position, while not official since it isn’t always connected to a court, is as valuable a service to the Realm as any other service to a Queen and has much in common with a Queen’s Consort in its duties. Because those duties are intimate, one always hopes for at least affection between the two people if not some kind of love. The details of that arrangement are as individual as the people involved, and those details are no one else’s business. But you have to tell him, Surreal. You have to tell Daemon what to expect from a wife who is a sword and shield.”
“And if he won’t accept it?” she asked softly.
“Why wouldn’t he?” Witch asked just as softly. “It’s what you were when you married him, even if you hadn’t used those words.”
“And then, that night . . .” She didn’t have to be more specific about the night that had changed—and broken—so much. “I ran the next morning in order to survive. I can’t be the Sadist’s lover. I can’t.”
“No, you can’t.”
“But you could.”
“Daemon and I suited each other in every way, including the darkest ways. If he hadn’t survived what had been done to him in Terreille, if he hadn’t managed to reach Kaeleer when he did, I would have never known that kind of love because he was the only one who was able to get past the scars I carry from Briarwood. And he was the only one who had the strength and courage to be a lover to everything I was.”
“If he hadn’t met you, he wouldn’t have known anyone who could love and accept everything he is,” Surreal said.
“As I said, we suited each other in every way.”
And you still do.
“It’s time for you to go. Even the Gray isn’t safe in the Misty Place.” Witch handed the mug back to Surreal. “Tell him where you’re drawing the lines, Surreal. It will be easier for both of you if you do.”
“Maybe I should start tucking my crossbow in bed with me, like Mrs. Beale does with her meat cleaver.”
Witch stared at her, wide-eyed. “Do you ever want Daemon to sleep with you?”
“Well, Beale seems to manage with—”
“Good-bye, Surreal.”
Biting cold.
Surreal blinked. Then she laughed and felt a part of herself begin to heal. Setting the mugs on the tray, she went up to her room to freshen up before her visit with Lady Zhara.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
“Thank you for inviting me to ride with you,” Zoey said. “Lord Weston and I ride in the park at least once a week, be
cause I like riding and he’s a good rider, but it’s different riding with another girl. I mean, Weston listens to what I’m saying, but he’s a grown-up male and doesn’t understand what I’m saying half the time.”
Jaenelle Saetien looked over her shoulder at the two men riding far enough behind them not to overhear her conversation with Zoey. That didn’t mean they were unprotected. She knew Papa had light defensive shields ahead of them and on either side to keep them safe. “My papa understands what I’m saying most of the time. That’s not as comfortable as you might think.”
“I think it would be wonderful.”
Zoey’s wistful smile made Jaenelle Saetien feel a little guilty. Papa was supposed to be riding with them, not behind with Zoey’s guard, but there had been something about the light in Zoey’s eyes when she’d looked at Papa that made Jaenelle Saetien reluctant to share him with another person. That was the reason she had emphasized that Zoey was her guest. Papa had yielded—and had looked pleased—but she wondered if he’d known it was because she didn’t want to share him with a Queen, who would be more important simply because she was a Queen.
“That’s why I’m going to send Prince Sadi reports,” Zoey continued. “I think it’s important for Queens to keep the ruler of a Territory informed.”
“What can you tell him? It will be years and years before you rule even a village.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t pay attention to the people who live in Amdarh or notice when someone needs help. I tell my grandmother about what I observe because that is part of my training as a Queen, but sending Prince Sadi a report would be . . . nice.”
“Can’t you tell your own papa?”
Zoey’s lips quivered. “I don’t have a father. I have a sire.”
Jaenelle Saetien gasped. Her hands tightened on the reins, causing her horse—a kindred Warlord—to toss his head and snort. “Sorry,” she murmured, patting his neck. “It’s all right.”
She’d never met anyone who wasn’t one of the kindred who just had a sire instead of a father. “Why?” she asked—and then wondered if she was being too curious. After all, she and Zoey had just met, and this seemed like the kind of heart-deep stuff you only told a good friend.
Unless you didn’t have any good friends?
“He told my grandmother he didn’t want the weight of duty that came with raising a Queen, but he would be there for the Birthright Ceremony so that paternity could be acknowledged,” Zoey said.
“What did your mother say?”
They rode in silence for a forever amount of time before Zoey said, “My mother wasn’t a natural Black Widow, but the Hourglass’s Craft called to her. She was near the end of her apprenticeship when she met my father and they fell in love. My grandmother says my father isn’t a bad man, just a selfish one, but my grandfather said once that my father had been more in love with the status that came from being part of our family than with my mother. I was born while my mother was a journeymaid. One day, she wove a tangled web of dreams and visions, and something went wrong. She didn’t fall into the Twisted Kingdom. She’s not insane, exactly. She’s just . . . gone. Lost in whatever she saw in the tangled web. Grandmother visits her once a week at the healing house that takes care of people whose minds are . . . not right. I only have to visit her for an afternoon every month. That’s hard because I remember who she was, but she doesn’t remember me. She’s still connected to her body enough that she can feed and clothe herself and knows how to use the toilet, but my mother isn’t there. Not really.”
Jaenelle Saetien thought about her own grandmother. Tersa was a broken Black Widow who wandered the roads in the Twisted Kingdom, but she was able to live in Halaway, knew her family and talked to them, and participated in celebrations like Winsol. Mikal lived with Tersa, and Papa wouldn’t have allowed that if Tersa wasn’t a little bit able to look after a boy.
“I’m sorry,” she said—and meant it.
“Me too.”
She hesitated, but Zoey’s life was so different from her own that curiosity won over what Papa might call good manners. “Is that why your papa doesn’t live with you? Because he couldn’t raise a Queen on his own with your mother being lost that way?”
Papa had been very, very ill for a while, but he was getting better, would continue to get better. But if he hadn’t gotten better, would her life be more like Zoey’s? Without either parent? No. Her mother would have stayed, would have protected her, loved her.
Zoey’s smile was bitter and too old for someone their age. “He doesn’t live with us for the same reason he didn’t show up for the Birthright Ceremony, even though he promised he would—he expected to be paid. When he found out Grandmother wasn’t going to provide him with an income, he moved to another Province in Dhemlan. So Grandmother had him listed as my sire in the official registers so that the bloodline would be recorded, but he doesn’t have any say in my life. He’s not a part of my life.”
That was so sad. “But you have your grandfather.”
Zoey’s smile warmed. “Yes, I do. And my grandmother. And Weston.”
Jaenelle Saetien hesitated, but only for a moment. “And my papa. He’ll read your reports—and he’ll help you if you need help.”
The horses snorted.
“I think they’re bored with walking.” She gave Zoey a mischievous look. “We can—”
“Canter, not gallop,” Papa said, his deep voice rolling over the distance between them.
Zoey’s eyes widened. “How did he know?”
Jaenelle Saetien focused on the space between her horse’s ears. “The horses are kindred. I think Papa was telling them, not us.”
“Oh.” Zoey looked at the mare she was riding. “Kindred? I didn’t realize. How . . . ?”
That was as far as Zoey got before the horses lifted into a canter.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
Daemon watched the two girls and resisted the temptation to ask the horses what they were discussing. If the mare and stallion he’d asked to be the girls’ mounts had decided the human chatter wasn’t interesting, he didn’t want to give them a reason to pay attention. Keeping anything private in a household with Scelties was a near impossibility, but the dogs eventually learned that they didn’t have to tell him everything that his daughter was doing or saying—just the things that might threaten her well-being in one way or another. Since he resisted crossing that line with the Scelties, he wasn’t going to smudge the line with the horses.
“So serious,” he murmured.
“Your invitation to ride this morning means a great deal to Lady Zoela,” Weston said. “She was excited enough to enlist her maid, her grandmother’s maid, and her grandmother into helping her select a riding outfit.” A beat of silence. “She even asked for my opinion.”
Daemon swallowed a laugh. “Hell’s fire, man. It’s just a ride in the park.”
“To Zoey, it’s more than that.”
After a quick psychic probe to assure himself that nothing was amiss around them, he gave his attention to the other man.
“You know about Lady Zhara’s family,” Weston said.
“Some things,” he replied. “I know her daughter is a Black Widow lost in a tangled web and, so far, even the most skilled Sisters of the Hourglass haven’t been able to bring her back.”
When he’d first heard about Zhara’s daughter, he’d considered if his being a natural Black Widow who wore the Black could help their family. In the end, he admitted he didn’t have the skill—and he couldn’t risk his own fragile sanity. He could weave a tangled web and see the dreams and visions, but he was always careful not to look too deeply into a vision—or step too far into the Twisted Kingdom. He’d climbed out of madness once with Witch’s help. And having a mother who always lived on the border of the Twisted Kingdom was a daily reminder of the price she’d chosen to pay in order to regain som
e of her Craft.
But times had changed. There were two skilled Black Widows residing at the Keep now. Their knowledge hadn’t been available to him when Zoey’s mother slipped into the visions. Maybe there was something he could do now.
At what price? Zoey’s mother wasn’t the only Black Widow to be trapped in a tangled web. If he convinced Karla and Witch to help one woman, how many more would want the same help?
Slippery choices. He was whole and sane because Witch had intervened to heal him when he needed her the most. She had come back for him. Not only for him, since she had maintained contact with Daemonar because she was the boy’s Queen, but she had returned enough to be a presence at the Keep for him, Daemonar, and Lucivar—and for Karla, who had informed them all that she wasn’t going to put up with dealing with so much wiggle-waggle unless she had someone sensible to talk to.
Since she was Lucivar’s administrative second-in-command, no one had dared to argue.
“Even girls from aristo families will fawn over a girl who is a Queen,” Weston said. “But when the girl’s mother is . . . lost . . . and her father is something of a scandal . . . Children can be cruel. Maybe that was a reflection of what they picked up from the adults around them, but the end result was the same. Zoey had become more and more isolated living at Lady Zhara’s country estate, even though there were a lot of things she enjoyed about country life. Bringing her here to live in Amdarh . . . I think Lady Zhara hoped to give Zoey a fresh start at a new school.”
Daemon hadn’t detected loneliness in the girl when he’d met her at the art supplies shop, but he’d been so much on edge, he’d responded to the Queen. Now he wondered how much her delight in assisting him had covered other feelings.
“Jaenelle Saetien faces similar challenges,” Daemon said. “A girl with an unusual Jewel who comes from the family that has ruled Dhemlan for thousands of years. Sometimes it’s hard for her to maintain her balance.”