The Queen's Weapons

by Anne Bishop

  One person where there should be none besides himself and his Queen? That he could tolerate. Had to tolerate. He’d given her his word. But two? Two?

  Standing in the corridor with no memory of choosing to leave his suite, Daemon stared at the sitting room door, then turned away. After wrapping a sight shield around himself, he located the intruder and headed for that room.

  He was several man-lengths away when she bolted from the room and ran past the metal gate that marked the boundary of his territory.

  Letting her go, he went into the sitting room to figure out what she had been doing in there—and spotted the tangled web.

  Dropping the sight shield, he wrapped a tight Black shield around himself. Then he approached the table and carefully probed the wooden frame and the spools of spider silk. Nothing dangerous about those things. No spells or traps laid for the unwary. Which left the tangled web itself.

  He braced one hand on the table, his long black-tinted nails cutting into the wood, and took that mental step to the side to see what the tangled web revealed.

  A minute later, he stepped back, stepped away, his rage so huge it rolled through the entire Keep and so cold that ice formed on the windows, looking like frozen streaks of lightning.

  The enemy had no face. Not yet. But . . .

  He turned away from the web and headed back to the small sitting room across from the Queen’s suite.

  . . . the male who had invaded his territory was part of it, and he would know why, even if it meant taking the boy’s body and mind apart piece by piece in order to find out.

  He opened the sitting room door and stared at the boy. Nephew, yes. Brother in the court, yes.

  It didn’t matter. What mattered—all that mattered—was the boy was somehow connected with a laugh filled with joyful malevolence, and that sound—that sound—had been laced through all the pain and fear and misery of his childhood until he became old enough and strong enough to fight back. To be the destroyer instead of the destroyed.

  He stepped into the room. The boy looked up—and the Sadist smiled a sweetly murderous smile.

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Sitting cross-legged on a padded bench near one of the large windows, Daemonar carefully opened the old book of scenarios to the page he had marked with a ribbon. The scenarios—exercises using actual experiences as examples of what to do or not do—were nothing like the books Lord Endar had acquired for the lessons he gave the Eyrien children. From what the Rihlander boys said about their lessons, Daemonar figured they didn’t have a book like this either.

  Why didn’t anyone in Askavi have a book like this now? Protocol was important, and knowing what to do in a court was important, but this information was equally useful. Prince Chaosti admitted that teachers among the Dea al Mon had a book similar to this, but the scenarios were read aloud and then discussed because there wasn’t one correct answer since the answer changed depending on who was the dominant power at that moment.

  The books he was using for his lessons with Auntie J. couldn’t leave the Keep. Some were too old and fragile. Others were too valuable to be removed from the Keep’s library. It was a concession made by Geoffrey as a favor to Auntie J. that Daemonar was allowed to keep the books in this room and read them here.

  That was one of the reasons he always arrived early for his lessons. The other reason . . . Well, he wasn’t sure if he was doing it for himself or for her, but he thought maybe Auntie J. wouldn’t feel as lonely if there was someone in the part of the Keep where she stayed. He wasn’t sure she was lonely, and he wasn’t sure she couldn’t leave or if her Self could leave but the shadow wouldn’t take shape outside this part of the Keep or in the Misty Place. He knew his mother sometimes wanted to be alone—really, physically alone—but other times she enjoyed what she called quiet company, when she would be reading or doing some needlework and the rest of them, his father included, would be working on one of those puzzles that were broken into pieces and had to be put back together.

  So he came early to be quiet company if Auntie J. wanted company, or just to read more of the scenarios—and to figure out who would be the best adult to approach for getting new copies of this kind of book made so that he could take one home.

  His first choice would be Uncle Daemon because his uncle enjoyed books and appreciated the knowledge they held and might see the value of having more young men, especially Warlord Princes, learn lessons Daemonar was sure were important. But even when Prince Sadi joined him and his father and Prince Chaosti to talk about the scenarios and how they would have responded and the choices they actually had made in similar circumstances, Sadi felt . . . strange. Not sick. Just . . . strange. A little off.

  The men noticed, but they didn’t act differently toward the Prince. They were just . . . watchful. The Prince knew. Of course he knew. But, like Lucivar and Chaosti, he pretended not to notice, pretended that everything was the way it always was between them.

  His father had said Uncle Daemon felt that way because he was still rising from the healing time, still fitting back into his skin. And that made sense, because Uncle Daemon often joined them for dinner on his last evening at the Keep, and Daemonar had never sensed that strangeness. A difference of a few hours, no more than that, but enough time for his uncle to be—

  The door opened and someone walked into the sitting room. Daemonar looked up.

  The Warlord Prince who looked at him, whose mouth curved in a sweetly murderous smile, wore his uncle’s face but wasn’t his uncle. He knew that with everything in him.

  Remember your lessons. Remember. Remember.

  Daemonar swallowed hard to keep fear, and his midday meal, from rising. “Good afternoon, Prince. I’m here for my lesson with the Lady.”

  No response. No reply. Just that smile and gold eyes that looked glazed and sleepy.

  Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful. The Prince was riding the killing edge—and he was the target.

  He wanted to uncross his legs in order to have some chance of moving when the strike came. Because it was going to come. He had no doubts about that. But he knew it would come faster if he made any kind of move.

  The Prince took another step into the room. Power—and something else, something more and just as deadly—washed over Daemonar. Sadi wore nothing above his waist except the pendant that held his Black Jewel. A solid body with defined muscles. Not bulky, more . . . sculpted.

  Daemonar felt his face heat. Why would he think such a thing about his uncle? It was true, but why would he think it?

  And the scars on the right biceps. Thin white ridges marking the golden brown skin.

  He’d seen those white ridges plenty of times, but today, here and now, he understood that Witch’s claws had given Sadi those scars.

  The Prince—no, that was too tame a word for the man who glided across the room toward him—stared at him in a way that made his heart beat too fast, made fear threaten to swallow sense. He wanted to run, but if he moved now, he wouldn’t survive long enough to take another breath, to feel his heart take one more beat.

  “Prince.” Witch’s midnight voice was equal parts threat and command.

  Sadi—or whoever lived inside that skin right now—stopped moving, but his eyes and rage remained focused on Daemonar.

  Witch appeared beside Sadi. “You gave me your word, Daemon. Your word.”

  The Prince turned his head just enough to focus those glazed eyes on her—and he snarled.

  “He is mine, Prince, as you are mine.”

  Sadi snarled again. Louder.

  Witch waved a hand as if to erase the words. “Not exactly as you are mine, but he is mine as his father is mine. You know this, Daemon. You know this.”

  Silence. Daemonar held his breath. Whatever discussion was going on between Sadi and Witch was taking place on a private psych
ic thread, but whatever was said had Sadi turning fully to face her, had Witch resting her hand over his heart, her claws barely pricking the skin.

  Sadi breathed in. Breathed out. And said, “Your will is my life.”

  “Yes,” Witch replied softly. “And I am asking you to obey my will.”

  Sadi hesitated, as if he wanted to turn once more to the other male in the room. Then he walked out of the sitting room.

  Moments later, Daemonar heard another door close.

  “Come on, boyo, you have to go.” Witch closed a hand around his arm and hauled him to his feet.

  Daemonar almost dropped the book. Just managed to close it without tearing any pages. “But . . . our lesson.”

  “Not today.” She pulled him toward the door.

  “Auntie J.! The book!”

  “Take it home with you.”

  The words shocked him enough that he stopped resisting and kept pace with her. Take the book out of the Keep? A book Geoffrey had barely allowed to leave the library?

  “You can’t be here today,” Witch said. “Chaosti will stay with you until your father arrives to escort you home.”

  His father here at the Keep when Uncle Daemon was acting so strange? No.

  “I can go home by myself,” he said.

  “Not today.” She sounded grim—and worried.

  Prince Chaosti stood on the other side of the metal gate that separated Witch’s private area from the rest of the Keep.

  “Do you know?” Chaosti asked softly.

  “Not yet,” she replied. She looked at the big sitting room that was closest to the gate. “But I will.”

  She gave Daemonar’s arm a light squeeze. “Wait for your father, boyo.”

  Daemonar looked back in the direction of the Queen’s and Consort’s suites. “Will you be safe, Auntie J.?”

  She smiled. “I’ll be safe.” She took a step back—and faded away.

  “Come, little Brother,” Chaosti said. “Give Sadi a chance to regain control.”

  As soon as Daemonar walked past the metal gate, he felt the other familiar presence. “What is Tersa doing here?”

  “I think that is a question between Tersa and the Queen,” Chaosti replied.

  “What if Uncle Daemon . . . ?”

  “Draca will look after Tersa.” Chaosti tapped the top of the book. “What have you got there?”

  “A book I was reading. Auntie J. said I could take it home.” He was sure she meant he could borrow it, not keep it. He’d take extra care with it too. Maybe Geoffrey would let him borrow other books if he took extra care with this one.

  Chaosti sat with him for an hour, discussing some of the scenarios, before his father arrived. Lucivar stared at him for a long moment. Just stared.

  “Father?” Wondering if he had done something wrong, Daemonar waited.

  “This was unusual,” Chaosti said quietly. “Unforeseen.”

  “But it can happen again,” Lucivar said.

  “Yes, it can happen again. He is who, and what, he is.”

  Lucivar nodded. Then he held out a hand. “Time to go, boyo.”

  “Are we going home?” Daemonar asked. Something about the look on his father’s face—a look that might be fear.

  Lucivar didn’t reply, just kept moving until they walked out of the Keep and stood in one of the open areas where Coaches carrying visitors and scholars could land.

  “Are we going home?” Daemonar asked again.

  Lucivar shook his head. “We’ll go to the hunting eyrie for a little while. This is a private talk. Just you and me.” He took a deep breath, let it out in a shuddering sigh. “There are things you need to know about your uncle Daemon.”

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Calm and once more in control, Daemon stood on the flagstones outside of Lucivar’s home and waited to see if the door would open. Lucivar knew he was there. If his brother chose to shut him out tonight, he would accept it.

  “He is part of it! I saw that much. I know that much!”

  “Maybe,” Witch had replied when his rage had been purged enough that he could speak—and listen. “Or maybe he is part of it because he is a weapon that fits my hand. Like you, Prince.”

  Queen’s weapon. Like him. Like Lucivar. Power and temper shaped to do a Queen’s will.

  She said he hadn’t hurt the boy. He wanted to believe that. Whether or not the door to the eyrie opened or remained closed would tell him if she was right.

  The door opened. Lucivar stood there, watching him.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Daemon walked across the flagstones and stopped in front of his brother. “I’d like to speak to Daemonar, if you’ll give your consent.”

  He recognized the wariness in Lucivar’s eyes. He’d seen it enough times before when Yaslana had brushed against the Sadist. It stung to see that look now, even if it was deserved.

  “Not alone,” Lucivar finally said.

  “Not alone,” he agreed.

  Lucivar didn’t step out of the doorway to give him room to enter the eyrie. “I told him who, and what, you are. And some—enough—of the why.”

  He nodded. Lucivar’s choice wasn’t unexpected, but the boy’s response? He had no way to gauge what Daemonar might think about him being the High Lord of Hell—or the Sadist.

  Lucivar stepped back. “We’ll talk in my study.”

  Daemon followed his brother. He could sense the presence of Marian and the children, but no one came out to greet him.

  Once they were in the study, Daemon settled in one of the visitors’ chairs. Lucivar leaned against the front of the blackwood desk, leaving the other chair for Daemonar.

  A minute later, the boy joined them.

  “Your uncle would like to talk to you,” Lucivar said.

  Daemonar nodded and took the other chair.

  Daemon wondered what the boy was looking for in that careful study of his face.

  Then Daemonar said, “You don’t feel strange anymore. At the Keep today, you felt strange. Not like you.”

  “Not like you know me, but that is also who I am,” Daemon replied. “Your father has told you who, and what, I am.”

  “Yes. But that’s not always who you are.”

  “You’re wrong, boyo. It’s always who I am. It’s just not the part of me that is usually seen.”

  The boy pressed his hands between his knees and seemed to be thinking hard. “Like Papa always being the Demon Prince now, but not always being the Demon Prince?”

  “Like that, but . . . more.”

  “So that’s why you stay with Auntie J. at the Keep? Not just for healing, but because you can be all that you are when you’re with her?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she isn’t scared of you when you’re all that you are because she can be even scarier?”

  Daemon blinked, not sure how to answer that. “Well . . .”

  “The scars on your arm. I didn’t understand until today that Auntie J. gave them to you.”

  “Yes, well . . .”

  Daemonar leaned forward. “How much stupid did you have to do to get her that mad at you?”

  Lucivar coughed and looked away.

  Daemon stared at the boy, speechless.

  “It’s just . . . I get a whack upside the head sometimes for being stupid, but it would be good to know how much stupid I’d have to do to get her that mad at me.”

  “Probably more than you would ever think to do,” Daemon finally said, not daring to look at Lucivar. “I argued when I should have listened and got her very riled.”

  Daemonar nodded. “She gets That Look when you don’t listen. Mother has that look, too, but not like Auntie J.”

  The boy was taking this better than he’d hoped, accepting so much that so many others couldn’t—woul
dn’t—accept. “Is there anything you’d like to ask me?”

  Daemonar didn’t say anything for almost too long. Then the boy called in a book and held it out. “It’s old and fragile, and I have to bring it back to the Keep’s library.”

  Lucivar straightened. “You aren’t supposed to take the books that belong to the Keep.”

  “Auntie J. told me to take it home.”

  Daemon opened the book to the page marked with a ribbon.

  “These are the scenarios,” Daemonar said, looking at both men. “The ‘if you saw this happen, or if someone did this to you, what would you do?’ exercises.”

  “Yes,” Daemon replied. “We’ve talked about some of these.”

  “I go to the Keep before my lessons in order to read that book.” Daemonar pointed to the book, in case everyone else couldn’t figure out which book was under discussion. “And maybe my being there for extra time today bothered you. But if I had a copy of the book to keep at home, then I could read it here. It’s a really good book, Uncle Daemon. And useful. And not just for me. Titian and Andulvar would learn from it too. And Jaenelle Saetien when she came to visit.”

  “You gave this some thought, didn’t you, boyo?” Daemon murmured.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Daemon carefully closed the book and gave it back to Daemonar. “Let me ask around and see if there are other books like this that might already be available in another Territory. If not, we’ll see about getting copies of this one made.”

  “Okay.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No, sir.”

  Lucivar tipped his head toward the door. “Go on.”

  Giving them a big smile, Daemonar left the study.

  Daemon looked at Lucivar. Lucivar looked at him and said, “A Sceltie couldn’t have boxed you in better. What are you going to do if that kind of book of lessons isn’t available anymore?”

  It probably wasn’t. Or if there were similar books out there, they didn’t have the exercises that Witch specifically wanted Daemonar to consider.

  Daemon pushed out of the chair. “It looks like Marcus and Holt are going to investigate the availability of a publishing house that might be for sale or figure out what I’ll need to do to create a new one.”