The Queen's Weapons

by Anne Bishop

  “You feeling that guilty about this afternoon?”

  “How is Titian getting on with the artist’s primer?”

  “She’s excited about it, talks about what she’s learned.” Lucivar laughed. “I guess the boy isn’t the only one who has boxed you in. I doubt there is a publisher in Dhemlan who wouldn’t publish one book as a favor to the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. But publishing art primers and long-forgotten books that won’t make a profit?”

  “Yeah.” Daemon smiled wryly. “One way or another, I’m going to include a publishing house in the family holdings. Something small and eclectic, so Marcus doesn’t shake his head and look mournful every quarter when we review the accounts or sigh too much if the endeavor doesn’t at least pay for itself.” He growled. “It’s not like I can’t afford to take a financial loss on one business when I’m adding it to the holdings to gain another kind of profit.”

  “Well, you have my total support, Bastard.”

  “But not your help.”

  “Hell’s fire, no. Now, if you want to talk about establishing a shop for finely made weapons . . .”

  “Take a piss in the wind, Prick.”

  Lucivar laughed again, then rested a hand on Daemon’s shoulder. “You all right now? This afternoon . . . Hell’s fire, Daemon. The cold rage in you . . . I thought we were preparing for war.”

  “We are. I am.” Daemon looked into Lucivar’s eyes. “I don’t remember what I saw in a tangled web. Once I felt calmer, I wasn’t permitted to go back into the sitting room and look again. But the Sadist’s response to what had been seen . . .”

  “When?” Lucivar asked.

  “I don’t know. But Daemonar will be part of it.”

  “On which side of the line?”

  “Hopefully ours.” Daemon rested his forehead against Lucivar’s. “I’m sorry I frightened him this afternoon, but I’m glad you told him about me. He needs to know. More than the other children, he needs to know. As a young male, he needs to be careful around me, especially when he’s at the Keep.”

  “Nothing we can do until the storm is on the horizon.”

  “Be vigilant.”

  “Yeah. We can do that.” Lucivar eased back. “You staying at the Keep tonight?”

  Daemon nodded. “I’ll head home in the morning.”

  “Marian made a pie this afternoon.”

  “Oh? Her pies are usually not up for grabs.”

  “If we’re caught helping ourselves, I’ll just blame you.”

  Daemon laughed. “That’s fair.”

  They found Marian in the kitchen. Half the pie was already divided into four pieces and on plates. The other half was divided in two and still in the dish. She put the plates on a serving tray, then gave Daemon a kiss on the cheek.

  “You do realize that that old book isn’t the only one in the Keep that Daemonar would like to have for his own?” She smiled at him. “He’s making a list for you.”

  Daemon looked at the remaining half of the pie. “So I get a quarter of the pie as a reward for future endeavors?”

  “Something like that.” She picked up the tray and walked out of the kitchen.

  Lucivar took two forks out of a drawer, put the pie dish on the table, and said, “Dig in.”

  Since Marian’s pies were delicious, and Lucivar wasn’t above taking more than his share from a common dish, Daemon did exactly that.

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  The Seneschal had done something to the room where Tersa hid to keep her presence undetected until her boy had left the Keep.

  Cautious—a feeling she’d never experienced before because of her boy—Tersa returned to the sitting room closest to the metal gate. The door stood open. The tangled web on the table was still intact. And studying that web . . .

  Witch turned to look at her. “I know what I see in this web. Tell me what you see.”

  Tersa walked up to the table and stood near the Queen. She felt anger burning under ice. Contained. Controlled. For now.

  “Malevolence and rot, hidden by youth and a mask of innocence,” Tersa replied. “Choices that will ripple through the Shadow Realm and leave Dhemlan bloody. And a sharp price that will have to be paid.”

  “Have you and I ever paid any other kind of price, Sister?” Witch asked.

  “No,” Tersa whispered. Then she hesitated before adding, “What the boy saw in the web . . . He will not remember what called to his rage, but he will recognize it when the malevolence begins to crack through the mask of innocence. And then—”

  “I will hold him back long enough for him to make a clear choice, to recognize and accept what will come from his actions and what price will have to be paid,” Witch said.

  Those sapphire eyes looked beyond the madness of a tangled mind, looked deep and acknowledged all the choices Tersa had already made.

  A secret between them, forever contained in the Twisted Kingdom—and in the Misty Place—beyond the reach of anyone else.

  “Say the words that are at the core of this tangled web. Speak the truth of what the visions revealed,” Witch said softly.

  “If the High Lord hesitates, if he does not shape his rage into a blade for slaughter, a witch like Dorothea SaDiablo will rise in Dhemlan and spread her particular kind of poison, will sink her roots into the hearts of Dhemlan’s people. Another like Dorothea will gain enough power and support to corrupt and then destroy.”

  “She is coming?” Witch asked.

  Tersa looked at the tangled web. Shaking her head, she reached out and swiped a hand through the strands of spider silk, destroying the vision. “She is already here.”

  PART TWO

  Weapons Unleashed

  TEN

  Centuries Later

  Daemonar stood on the canyon’s edge, looking down at the Blood Run in Askavi Kaeleer. For generations, the Eyrien males in Askavi Terreille had gone to the Blood Run to test their strength and skill, a rite of passage to prove they were ready to be warriors, ready to be men.

  The Rihlander friends who were near his equivalent age and on the cusp of reaching their majority thought it was an insane way to prove you had balls enough to be an adult, with adult privileges and responsibilities. Even Beron, who was part of the SaDiablo family, questioned the merits of a custom that required young men to fly the length of a canyon where winds and Winds collided in a dangerous, grueling test of mental and physical strength.

  Daemonar understood the reason the custom was questioned. The Blood Run, as the lesser run, held the threads of the lighter Winds, from White to Opal. You had to be able to ride those Winds—or at least the ones that were your Jewel strength or less—while being buffeted by fierce winds that could push you off course enough to have a wing strike the canyon walls or the spears of stone you had to weave through as you dropped from one Wind and caught another.

  A grueling test that had been required of every Eyrien male in Terreille.

  Some hadn’t survived it. Some had survived but were maimed and lived on the edges of Eyrien society, dregs who were considered useless and had little future—and often went back to the Blood Run to be smashed to pieces and die.

  The Blood Run was hard enough. The Khaldharon Run was the ultimate test of the strongest warriors since the Winds that ran through the Khaldharon were the darker Winds, from Green to Black.

  Lucivar was the only Eyrien living in Kaeleer who had made the Khaldharon Run. Had, in fact, made the Khaldharon more than once, which was something no other warrior could say.

  Someday, after he made the Offering to the Darkness and wore the Jewel that was the reservoir for his mature power, Daemonar would test himself in the Khaldharon. But today, he faced the Blood Run.

  Lucivar left the group of Eyrien warriors who had gathered as witnesses and walked over to Daemonar. Still a strong man and still in his prime, b
ut there were some mornings when it was obvious to anyone who noticed—anyone Lucivar allowed to notice—that the damage that had been done when he was younger bothered him more as the years passed, might cost him more when he stepped onto a killing field. It would be a lot of years before anyone could stand against him and survive, but that day would come.

  And that was the main reason Daemonar Yaslana was standing at the edge of this canyon, preparing himself for this particular rite of passage. Because when that day came and he took his place at his father’s side, he needed to be acknowledged as a warrior by the rest of the Eyriens living in Kaeleer.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Lucivar said.

  Daemonar gave his father a crooked smile and looked him in the eyes. “Yes, I do.”

  It still surprised him that they were the same height now. Oh, he had the leanness of youth and didn’t have the breadth of shoulders or the muscle of an adult male, but he no longer looked up at his father.

  Lucivar huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, you do. And better to do it the traditional way than having you leap into the run unprepared.” A brutal reminder of a recent death.

  Daemonar had been preparing for decades, training with the warriors who worked for Lucivar—and training with Lucivar. Learning the aerial dances that were beautiful to watch and damn hard to perform. Spending hours doing precision flying with Lucivar, Rothvar, and Zaranar. More hours practicing with Tamnar and Alanar since the three of them were the only Eyrien males of a comparable age living around Riada.

  Tamnar had successfully made the Blood Run some time ago. Alanar had made the Run a couple of months ago. An Eyrien youth who lived around Doun was supposed to make the Run on the same day, but Lucivar had refused to give his permission. He said, and Rothvar had agreed, that the youth needed more practice and seasoning. The youth hotly insisted that he was ready—and just as hotly denied that he was showing up late for his training because he preferred the lessons he was receiving from some of the older Rihlander girls.

  A week later, angry and defiant, the youth dove into the canyon to make the Blood Run on his own.

  Daemonar had watched with Alanar and Tamnar as Lucivar and his men walked the canyon floor to find what they could. He saw the look of sorrow and anger on Lucivar’s face as the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih took the grisly remains to the Keep, where the High Lord of Hell waited to escort the youth to the Dark Realm—and send him to the final death once the Eyrien made the transition to demon-dead.

  “I’m ready for this,” he said.

  Lucivar nodded. “I know you are.”

  Daemonar glanced at the group of Eyrien men. Women were not permitted to stand witness. They would attend the celebration later. But there was someone missing among the witnesses. “Uncle Daemon isn’t coming?”

  “He’ll be here.” Lucivar brushed a hand over Daemonar’s hair. “Sun’s in the best position now, so whenever you’re ready.”

  As Lucivar walked away, Daemonar saw Rothvar, Zaranar, and Tamnar spread their wings and fly to the other side of the canyon. Hallevar, Endar, and Alanar stayed on this side. And Lucivar would be flying above the canyon and behind him to avoid casting a distracting shadow. But if he got in trouble, his father would be there to pull him out, just as Lucivar had been there to watch over Tamnar’s and Alanar’s Runs.

  Staring at the canyon below, Daemonar opened his wings their full span, then closed them softly. He’d warmed up his muscles earlier. There was nothing more to do except leap toward his future.

  No fear. Just the thrill of the challenge.

  He took a deep breath. Then he dove into the canyon, caught the Tiger Eye Wind, and began the Blood Run.

  Wings open to catch air currents. Wings tight and body turned as he followed the Tiger Eye between two stone spears before switching to the Purple Dusk and running on that thread. Hell’s fire, the difference in speed! Up. Down. Catching the Opal, then dropping back to Summer-sky to keep as close to the center of the canyon as he could while weaving between obstacles. It was a hundred times better than riding the rapids on that raft he and Jaenelle Saetien made all those years ago.

  Back to Purple Dusk, and there was the end of the canyon—a wall of stone. Time to head for the sky, pumping his wings. Pumping and pumping to get himself above that stone wall.

  Up. Out. He kept heading for the sky and then turned to circle back to the land above the canyon—where Daemon Sadi waited for him.

  He backwinged and landed as the other Eyriens flew toward that spot to meet him. He had fulfilled the rite of passage. He was a man now.

  He let out a whoop and leaped into his uncle’s arms.

  Laughing, Daemon swung him around once before setting him on his feet. “Well-done, boyo. Well-done.”

  Grinning, Daemonar stepped away from his uncle and looked at his father when Lucivar landed nearby.

  “So,” Rothvar said. “We’ve got another Eyrien man among us.”

  “Now you’re old enough to stay out as long as you please,” Zaranar said.

  Lucivar made a rude noise. “The first time his mother worries, he’ll find his bed on the flagstones outside the eyrie.”

  “And you’re old enough to walk into any tavern and drink yourself stupid,” Hallevar said. “Just don’t expect any of us to hold your head while you puke up your balls.”

  “So I’ve just spent decades training to do something that will allow me to get drunk and sleep outside?” Daemonar asked.

  “Sounds like it,” Daemon said dryly.

  Daemonar looked at all the men who watched him. He was the Demon Prince’s firstborn son and, by Eyrien tradition, he was a man. Everything he did from now on would matter.

  “Do we get anything to eat?” he asked.

  The men laughed.

  “There’s a feast waiting for you at the eyrie,” Lucivar said. “Your mother’s part of the celebration, as well as edible tributes from Manny and Mrs. Beale.”

  Daemonar’s mouth watered, and he didn’t even know what was going to be served.

  “Why don’t the rest of you head up to the eyrie?” Lucivar said. “We’ll be along in a few minutes.”

  Daemonar felt the ripple of concern that passed from man to man, and shrugged in response to the questioning looks Tamnar and Alanar gave him. His own concern heightened when Uncle Daemon put a hand on his shoulder and led him farther away from the canyon’s edge.

  “There is another Eyrien tradition that is part of this rite of passage,” Lucivar said.

  Pretty sure what was coming, Daemonar tried to take a step back, but Uncle Daemon’s hand was now between his shoulder blades, holding him in place.

  “I can’t say my experience was a good one, and I’d like yours to be better,” Lucivar continued. “Being a man in this family can be a delicate, and difficult, position. And somewhere, somehow, you need to learn how to be a lover.”

  No, Daemonar thought, pressing against his uncle’s hand. I’m not ready for that.

  Oh, he was plenty interested in what he and a girl could do together, but when you were Blood and male, it wasn’t that easy—and the price for pleasure could be terribly high.

  “Which is why, with your parents’ permission, your aunt Surreal and I are giving you this as our gift.” Daemon called in a thick envelope and held it out.

  Not seeing a choice, Daemonar took the envelope and opened it.

  Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful. His stomach flipped and his knees went weak. He enjoyed kissing girls. He really did. But . . .

  “Lessons?” His voice cracked.

  “While there aren’t Red Moon houses in Kaeleer as there were in Terreille, there are establishments where young men can receive instruction on how to be a lover,” Daemon said. “It’s required for consorts, and recommended for any man who wants to be a husband who is welcome in his wife’s bed.”


  Leaping back into the Blood Run was sounding like a good idea right now.

  He looked at his uncle. “Couldn’t I just keep talking to you about . . . stuff?”

  “Of course you can,” Daemon soothed. “And those conversations can be as basic or explicit as you want them to be. But you will need some experience in areas that I will not teach you.”

  *And that line has been drawn at my request,* Lucivar said on a psychic thread directed at him.

  “This place is very exclusive and discreet,” Daemon said. “Among its clientele are the sons of Queens because those are young men who, otherwise, could be vulnerable when they are first learning about the pleasures of the flesh. It’s located in Amdarh, so it will be easy to arrange for a lesson when you come to visit.” A beat of silence before he added, “Beron received his instruction at the same establishment. You could talk to him before making a decision.”

  Instructions away from Ebon Rih. Private. Discreet. Nothing the girls in Riada needed to know about—especially girls who might be having their Virgin Nights soon and would be free to indulge in having lovers.

  “If you’re worried about being cornered by a girl who expects you to be accommodating now that you’ve made the Blood Run, you can tell her your father and uncle are being pricks and holding you to the no-sex-without-permission rule,” Lucivar said. “We’ll back you.”

  “Against anyone,” Daemon purred.

  “Thank you.” Not sure what else to say, Daemonar vanished the envelope. “Can we go eat now before all the food is gone?”

  Father and uncle laughed and said, “Sure.”

  Daemonar just shrugged as they all caught the Green Wind and headed for the Yaslana eyrie.

  Sex was all well and good, but a man had to set his priorities.

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆