The Queen's Weapons

by Anne Bishop

  “Terreillean soil.” She spat the words. “Will we ever be free of that corruption, that taint?”

  “Power without price will always be a seductive idea,” Daemon replied. “Those who rule the Shadow Realm now have to make sure there is always a price—and that the price is high.”

  “The bastard wasn’t expecting to have his son die,” Surreal said. “That’s a fairly high price.”

  “Do you think that will be the only price?” Daemon asked too softly.

  Her breath hitched as the room turned icy for just a moment before he regained control of that formidable temper. What other price would that father pay for giving his son that drug?

  She didn’t have to wonder long because Daemon added, “The son is beyond any benefit of a lesson, but do you think that man has ever experienced the effect of a dose of safframate that was equal to what the girl received?”

  She had been an assassin. Was still an assassin. And right now, looking at his glazed gold eyes, she didn’t dare speak.

  “I think it’s best if I go to the Keep this evening and stay for a day or two.”

  She nodded. If he was descending into a cold rage, it was better for all of them if he was in the one place where there was someone who could hold the leash on the Prince of the Darkness, the High Lord of Hell—and the Sadist.

  They both gave up on the now-cold soup. Daemon requested the next course, and Beale came in and removed the soup dishes.

  “So,” Daemon said when they were alone again and he felt like Sadi and not some other aspect of his temper. “Do we keep Jaenelle Saetien with us at the Hall and put up with all this high drama, or do we allow her to board at this school in Amdarh, which she seems set on attending?”

  “And pay her a weekly visit that will leave her snarling and embarrassed because her parents are watching her so closely?”

  “You wear Gray. I wear Black. If we’re sight-shielded, I doubt anyone will know we took a prowl around the school.”

  She nodded. “With Titian there, we’ll have another reason to check up on the children. Three reasons, if you want to include Zoey.”

  “Zoey will be there too?” His eyes glazed again. “She’s just the kind of young Queen who was at risk in Terreille.”

  High Lord or Sadist? Surreal wasn’t sure who sat across from her now, but for Jaenelle Saetien’s sake, she needed to coax Daemon back into thinking like a father—and the current employer at the Hall. Picking up her knife and fork, she cut into her steak. “Who do you think will be more sulky this evening? Jaenelle Saetien because she’s eating whatever Mrs. Beale dumped on her plate, or Mrs. Beale because we aren’t doing justice to the meal she carefully prepared for us?”

  Daemon choked out a laugh. “Mother Night, what a choice.” Then he began to eat.

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Jaenelle Saetien tried not to fidget while her father read her report a second time. When he turned back to the first page for a third time, she jumped up and paced around the sitting area in her room.

  “Everyone who is anyone is going to that school.” She heard the whine in her voice and tried to modulate her tone to something that sounded more mature and less . . . provincial. She couldn’t tell him that the girls she desperately wanted as friends thought she wasn’t sophisticated enough to belong to their exclusive aristo circle, that they’d been polite when she had seen them at social gatherings in Amdarh or when she’d participated in a country outing near one of the family estates, but their surprise that she was the daughter of the elegant and sophisticated Warlord Prince of Dhemlan had stung.

  “Who is the country mouse?” one of the boys had asked Delora, not even checking to see if Jaenelle Saetien was close enough to overhear them.

  “Oh, that’s Jaenelle Saetien, Prince Sadi’s daughter,” Delora had replied.

  “She can’t be!”

  “Poor thing,” Hespera had added. “You’d think her father would want her to dress with a little style and have some social polish, even if her mother is so gauche.”

  She didn’t want to be pitied by the girls who came from Dhemlan’s aristo families. She didn’t want the boys laughing at her clothes. Zoey wasn’t any help in that way. The exclusive circle of girls laughed at her, too, because of her dress and manners, and she was a Queen!

  Delora wasn’t a Queen, but all the girls wanted to copy the way she dressed, and all the boys wanted a bit of her attention. And more than that—the best thing of all—Delora didn’t think Jaenelle Angelline was anything special.

  “Not everyone who is anyone goes to that school,” Daemon said mildly. “Let’s just say that the individuals you feel are important social contacts attend that school.”

  “Yes, let’s say that.” Did she sound snarky? She wasn’t trying to sound snarky. “Father, this is so important.”

  He set aside her report and studied her. What did he see? What was he looking for? How could she be whatever he was looking for long enough for him to agree to let her go to the school?

  “Sit down, witch-child,” he said quietly.

  She sat at the other end of the sofa, barely able to breathe.

  “Your mother and I will allow you to attend this school, and we will allow you to board at the school instead of living at the town house.”

  She squealed with happiness. Couldn’t help it.

  He gave her a sharp, amused look. “I’ll go to Amdarh in a couple of days and make the arrangements.”

  “Couldn’t you go tomorrow?” Sometimes girls had private rooms and sometimes they had to share. When Delora and Hespera had told her about the school, they’d explained that it was social death if you ended up sharing with a girl no one wanted to befriend.

  The look was still sharp but no longer amused. There was something cold in his eyes that was struggling to rise to the surface, and that cold made her nervous.

  “I’ll go to Amdarh in a couple of days,” he said too softly.

  “Okay.”

  He hadn’t moved, hadn’t tried to hug her like he would have done when she was little, but the man sitting on the other end of the sofa was no longer quite her father.

  “There are conditions to this agreement, and there are rules,” he said. “The conditions are fairly simple, I think. I will pay for the school, which includes the books and any other supplies required for your classes. I’ll take care of the room and board. I will also provide a clothing allowance that will cover the basics you will need for school itself, and I will entertain paying for an outfit for a special occasion. You will pay for any other expenses out of your spending money, whether it’s clothes or books or paying for a social outing.”

  She almost asked if he would increase her spending money, but Zoey’s and Titian’s jaws had dropped when they’d learned what she already received as spending money, so she didn’t think she should ask for more, even though Delora and Hespera had given her a pitying look that made it clear they thought her father was being stingy—especially since he was so wealthy and could afford to give her more. But once he spoke to the school administrators and learned about all the incidental things a girl would need, she was certain he would increase her quarterly spending money without her having to ask.

  “You might be tempted to ignore the rules,” he said. “After all, you’re going to be on your own, making your own decisions and having the exciting experience of living among your peers with limited supervision. But I strongly urge you to listen carefully and listen well, Jaenelle Saetien, because these are lines I will hold with everything in me, and the consequences for breaking the rules will be severe.”

  Her stomach churned, and she felt a little sick. “What rules?”

  “Nothing you haven’t heard before, but it’s what a basic rule encompasses now.” His smile had an edge. “Permission before action. A simple enough thing to remember.”


  Was that all?

  “You look very like your mother, and that means you’re a lovely young woman. There will be young men at that school who will want to become friends, companions. Lovers. As friends and companions, that choice is yours. Lovers?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I already know about sex. Mother explained things years ago.”

  “Good. Then you can’t claim ignorance of how things work as an excuse if you defy me and cross a line that is being drawn here and now. You’re too young to have your Virgin Night and come through it with your Jewels and your power intact, so your choices will have consequences beyond the risk to yourself.”

  She wasn’t talking to her father anymore. Maybe this was how he sounded when, as the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan, he summoned someone to account for something they had done. Or maybe this was something—someone—else, a side effect of the healing treatment he still had done at the Keep. Whatever this was, she wished her mother was here to shield her from the man whose mouth curved in a cold, cruel smile.

  “Knowing you as I do, I am granting you, here and now, my permission to engage in the first stage of romance. That means holding hands. Hugging. Kissing. But the sexual encounter, which is touching and kissing, stays between collarbone and crown of head, between elbow and fingertips. If you’re interested in doing more, you will both come to me for permission. Anything that involves your vagina or his cock requires my consent. And that includes kissing.”

  Her face flamed with the heat of embarrassment.

  He leaned toward her. Just a little. Just enough to have her lean back to maintain the distance between them.

  “My darling,” he purred, “should you be so unwise as to let one of those young studs talk you into letting him see you through your Virgin Night, it won’t matter if you come through it undamaged or not. His execution will be slow, it will be painful, it will be messy, and it will be very public. And I will leave no doubt in anyone’s mind that the reason he died that way was because he had dared lay a hand on my daughter without my consent.” He waited a moment. “Is there anything about that line that you don’t understand?”

  “No,” she whispered. “No, sir.”

  “I’m delighted.” He rose. “In that case, I’ll bid you goodnight. I imagine you and your mother will want to do some shopping before classes begin.”

  He walked out of her room.

  She raised one hand and watched it shake. But a minute later . . .

  “He said yes. He said I can go to the school.”

  She leaped up and danced around the room.

  Her father had said yes! And he’d said more. He’d said she could go shopping for clothes before she started school. Sure, she’d have to go with her mother, and that would be embarrassing, but maybe she could talk Surreal into letting her buy some stylish clothes.

  THIRTEEN

  Lucivar walked toward the Queen’s private area of the Keep. He’d hoped this day would never come, but even before the door to the Consort’s suite opened, even before he saw the man who looked at him with glazed eyes and a sweetly murderous smile, he knew he’d been summoned to the Keep because he’d insisted on a promise. Now he’d have to fulfill his side of that promise.

  Black shields formed a Craft-made wall across the corridor, blocking any retreat. He stood his ground and waited while the Sadist glided toward him, while one hand with its slender fingers and long black-tinted nails curled around the back of his neck.

  “You told me once that if I needed to play, I should come to you,” the Sadist crooned. “Do you remember?”

  “I remember.” He could survive this. No matter what was done, he could—and would—survive this.

  Wrapping a hand around Lucivar’s right wrist, the Sadist led him to another room in this part of the Keep. Another bedroom.

  May the Darkness have mercy on me, Lucivar thought as he heard the snick of the lock, as he felt the Black shields surround the room, cutting off all hope of escape.

  “Strip,” the Sadist said.

  Everything in him wanted to fight, wanted to challenge, wanted to refuse any kind of submission. But whatever was driving his brother tonight would turn totally merciless if challenged. Besides, he had agreed to this to keep everyone else safe.

  He turned his back to the Sadist and faced the bed as he undressed. Oh, they’d seen each other naked plenty of times, spent hours talking some evenings while they’d soaked in the heated pool in his eyrie.

  This was different.

  As he tossed the clothes to one side, the covers on the bed rolled back, leaving nothing but the bottom sheet.

  The Sadist said, “On the bed. On your belly.”

  He obeyed. Raising his arms over his head, Lucivar locked his left hand over his right wrist, a self-inflicted manacle, as he listened to the Sadist undress.

  A weight on the bed near his thigh, a knee carefully placed to avoid catching his wing. Another weight on the other side.

  Straddled.

  He flinched when the Sadist’s hands touched his back—a light but firm touch that seemed to be exploring. For what? Weaknesses?

  “What have you been doing lately?” the Sadist murmured as he raised his hands.

  A scent in the air. Not unpleasant. The sound of skin rubbing skin. Then . . .

  Hands rubbing warm oil over his back. Long strokes and shorter ones, moving over tight muscles.

  Lucivar kept his eyes closed. The Sadist blended intense sexual pleasure with exquisitely vicious pain. So what in the name of Hell was the man doing? He didn’t want to be lulled into not being prepared for the first shock of pain.

  “I miss this,” the Sadist said quietly. “I can’t be around Surreal when I need . . . I miss touching someone.” His hands moved over skin and muscle. “Sometimes when I needed to play, Jaenelle would let me do this for hours, touching her and coaxing the muscles to relax, coaxing her to let go of the day’s burdens.” He chuckled. “I got around to relaxing her in other ways, too, but that was a quiet swelling, a gentle rise and fall. I loved those nights, loved that this part of me could pleasure her so much that everything else disappeared and there was nothing but her and me in that bed.”

  The hands kept moving, kept coaxing knotted muscles to relax.

  Was that what this was? A simple need for the most brutal side of Daemon’s nature to touch someone else?

  He’s enjoying this. Just this.

  He tensed when the Sadist’s hands rested on his ass. Couldn’t help it.

  The fingers digging into muscle weren’t as gentle in response to his unintentional resistance.

  “What have you been doing to get knots in your ass?” the Sadist muttered.

  “Same thing I did to get all the other knots,” Lucivar grumbled. “Testing my children’s shields and pulling the blows against the shields just enough that the children don’t get discouraged without looking like I’m pulling the blows.”

  “Huh.”

  More oil. More heat in the warming spells in the oil and on the hands.

  Lucivar groaned as the Sadist worked on the backs of his thighs and down to the calves.

  “All right, roll over.”

  “How am I supposed to do that? My muscles have melted.”

  A soft laugh as hands slid under his thighs and the Craft used to float objects lifted him high enough to be turned and settled back on the bed.

  Keeping his hands above his head and shackled, Lucivar opened his eyes and studied the Sadist as those hands worked on his feet and began moving up his legs.

  There were places he would rather not go with his brother, and he knew all too well that the Sadist could make him beg to go to those places, so he said, “Jillian is home.”

  The hands stroked his thighs from knees to hips. “Oh?” A smile Lucivar couldn’t interpret. “A descendant of Lord Dillon is now working as one of Mrs
. Beale’s apprentice cooks. She calls him Dharo Boy.”

  “Hell’s fire.” He was not going to be the one to tell Jillian that a however-many-generations-in-between descendant of the boy who had been her first romantic encounter worked at the Hall.

  But in a verbal pissing contest, whatever worked was fair. Right?

  “She’s written a book. For children. And not just human children. At least, that’s how she explained it.”

  “Oh?” Another smile. “I happen to own a publishing house, so . . .”

  “She wants to get it published on her own. Without help from us.”

  “Why?”

  “Damned if I know. Something about the story being published on its own merit.”

  “Phhht,” Daemon said.

  “Yeah. But your publishing house is on Jillian’s list, and she’s made an appointment next week to see the acquisitions editor. Marian is going with her.”

  A pause as the muscles along the side of one thigh were persuaded to relax. “Have you read the book?”

  “No, but Marian did and said it’s a good story. It’s based on some of the adventures Jillian and Khary had during their apprenticeship in Lady Perzha’s court.”

  “Well, then . . .”

  “It’s called A Dog and His Weeble.”

  Daemon’s hands spasmed, and his fingers dug into Lucivar’s thighs hard enough to hurt.

  “It’s about a Sceltie who has adventures and solves problems with the help of his pet weeble and his human female companion,” Lucivar continued.

  “But how Little Weeble got its name has been a secret since the village was founded.”

  “Well, the former Queen, in her position as court consultant, and the current Queen have given permission for that secret to be revealed. Their reasoning is that since so many other things are dressed up to suit the story, everyone will think Jillian made that up too.” He waited a beat. “This is your fault, you know.”

  “How is this my fault?” Daemon sounded miffed.