The Queen's Weapons

by Anne Bishop

  But Delora wasn’t like that. She cared about people. And she’d be hurt if she knew what other people called her group of friends.

  The truth was, the girls who had come to the party, the girls Titian and Zoey had befriended at school, weren’t rubes or dregs or the ballast the school needed to stay afloat financially. They were interesting. They didn’t make snide comments about how someone dressed or said someone wasn’t aristo enough to deserve notice. They were just . . . happy. They were from aristo families, but they were happy. They talked about horses; they talked about books; they talked about art. Titian and Zoey had found several copies of an old play or drama or something no one had heard of, carefully preserved in a trunk in the attic.

  They had drawn names out of a hat to decide who would play the characters and who would be the audience. They had giggled and moaned and thrown themselves into the parts—and sometimes had to stop for several minutes because they were all laughing too hard to read the next lines.

  They’d had fun. And if a few of the girls had been a little wistful about the boys’ party being out-of-bounds, it wasn’t because they wanted to spy on the boys as Hespera had wanted her to do; it was because they wanted a minute to talk to Beron, who was very handsome and a rising star in the theater.

  It just seemed that everything had spun out of control at home since she’d been included in Delora’s select group of friends. When she was around Delora, she felt justified in feeling angry about not being given a second dress for a dance. Wincing at the cutting remarks Delora’s friends made about everyone they deemed inferior, she’d felt mortified by the behavior of some members of her family—and humiliated by the truth about . . . that woman. She couldn’t even say the word “mother” anymore, and she thought there might be something wrong with that. Maybe.

  She blinked and sucked in a breath when she realized someone was walking beside her.

  “You were doing some hard thinking,” Mikal said.

  She shrugged. “It was nothing.”

  He cocked his head and kept looking at her. “You sure?”

  She wanted to ask if he knew about that woman, but she wasn’t sure she could stand the shame if he did know. And if he didn’t, he’d figure it out from her questions. “I’m sure.”

  “You going someplace in particular?”

  “I’m going to visit Manny.”

  “Stop by Tersa’s cottage when you’re done. We’ve got two puppies in residence.” His grin came and went. “One is Uncle Daemon’s new special friend. For Breen, it was love at first sight, and the Sceltie Queens said she had to come here to live because she was barely weaned and she kept trying to run away in order to find him. The other pup also requires extra attention. He’s friendly enough, but he’s . . . sad. So they’re staying with Tersa and me until Uncle Daemon sorts out whatever needs to be sorted out and can stay home for a while.”

  “What needs to be sorted out?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. But Uncle Daemon said if any of the girls who were fluttering around me wanted more than first-stage romancing, he wanted to know—especially if any of them indicated that I could somehow be persuaded to break the rules. And he said if I overstepped the lines that were drawn, he’d have my skin—and he meant that. So I figure something is going on. The Halaway Queen’s court is . . . watchful . . . in a sharp kind of way.” He rolled his shoulders, as if shaking off a weight. “Anyway, come see the puppies.”

  “I will.” She hesitated. She didn’t want to put his back up, but she really wanted to know. “Mikal? Do you ever want more than just living in Halaway?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. So many skilled people live in this village or have a connection to the Hall, I could study a dozen different kinds of work right here. And I’ve been thinking of doing a kind of apprenticeship rotation, working with someone for a season to see if I fit the work.”

  “You’re aristo. You don’t have to work.”

  Mikal smiled. “Everyone has to work in one way or another, Jaenelle Saetien. An idle life gives nothing to anyone. And even if it doesn’t appear that they’re doing much, a Queen works the hardest of anyone in a village because the health of the village is in her hands.”

  Krellis, Dhuran, and Clayton would sneer at such talk. Aristo families provided the means for others to have work and food and that was more than enough—and anyone who wasn’t grateful for that should be taught how to be grateful.

  She couldn’t think of a single person in her family who would agree with that.

  Manny’s and Tersa’s cottages were next to each other, so Jaenelle Saetien parted with Mikal at Manny’s front walk. The old woman invited her in with smiles and a hug.

  “Quiet days after the big Winsol celebration,” Manny said. “The cold box is full of food, and the pantry shelves are bending under the weight of all the treats I prepared or was given, so there’s nothing for me to cook. I’ve got my feet up this afternoon, and I’m reading a book the boys would be embarrassed to see me reading—especially since I’m old enough that I can point to something in the story and ask them flat out if they do that with their wives.” She laughed. “Last time I did that, Lucivar blushed.”

  So tempting to ask for the title of that book, but there were other answers she wanted today. “Could we talk in the kitchen?”

  Manny’s good humor remained, but it was tempered by concern. “Sure we can. Do you want some tea?”

  “Thanks.” Because she knew it would make things less grim, she added, “And maybe I could help reduce the weight on one of those groaning pantry shelves?”

  Manny put the kettle on for the tea, then handed Jaenelle Saetien a plate and sent her into the pantry to select some treats. They worked without small talk. Jaenelle Saetien hadn’t come for small talk.

  “What’s on your mind?” Manny asked when the tea had been poured and they’d each selected a couple of treats.

  “Did you know my . . .” She choked, unable to say the word. “Did you know Surreal was a whore?”

  Manny nodded. “I wasn’t comfortable with how she made her living, wasn’t always comfortable being around her when we were in Terreille. But she was a good friend to Daemon, and when he was lost in the Twisted Kingdom and finding his way back, she found a place where he would be safe and hidden from everyone who was hunting for him. She asked me to go with her to help look after him, and I did. He and I stayed hidden, and she went out and did what she had to do to keep us safe until he finally walked out of the Twisted Kingdom.”

  Shocked, Jaenelle Saetien bobbled the tea cup. She set it on the saucer. “My father had been insane?” Was that different from whatever had made him ill when she was young? Was it different from the funny turns he still experienced?

  “He was for a while. Unlike Tersa, he was able to cross the border and come all the way out. He had a reason to come out.”

  “When he was my age . . .” She wasn’t sure what she wanted to know.

  “He suffered.” Manny breathed in, an angry sound. “That evil woman put a Ring of Obedience on him and started training him to be her whore within hours of him making the Birthright Ceremony and her arranging for his father to be denied paternity.”

  “What woman?” She grabbed the old woman’s hand. “Manny? What woman?”

  “The High Priestess of Hayll. Dorothea.” Manny seemed to struggle to breathe. “Just saying that name makes me want to spit. A foul woman. She used him and abused him and raped him and tortured him until he became old enough and strong enough—and lethal enough—to be a danger to her and her coven. Then she sold him to Queens and aristo witches who curried favor with her, trying to break him down. But he didn’t break the way she wanted. He became cold and cruel and deadly, and in the end, she had to keep him away from Hayll because she’d known that if he got close enough for long enough, he would have ripped her to pieces with his bare hands, regardless of wh
at happened to him afterward.”

  Dorothea.

  Remembering the sound of his voice and the look in his eyes when he met Delora and called her by another name, Jaenelle Saetien shivered.

  Manny sighed. “That bitch hurt him so much, he didn’t remember that Tersa was his mother, but once they met again, he loved her and looked after her. He didn’t remember his father, but he was too much his father’s son for Dorothea to be able to control him or shape him into a weapon she could use. Daemon was never truly happy after he was taken from his father. Not until he met Jaenelle Angelline. She saved the best that was in him—and she loved the side of him that everyone else feared. Without her, he would have become death on the killing fields. Death . . . and nothing more. Lucivar too.” She sat back. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Too much pain.”

  “I’m sorry I brought up bad memories.”

  “There wasn’t much else in Terreille. Not for those boys, or for Surreal either. Not for any of them.” Manny blew out a breath. “Enough of looking back.”

  She nodded. She’d heard more than enough. For now, anyway. “Mikal says there are puppies next door.”

  “That there are.” Manny pushed to her feet. “Let me wrap up those treats. You can take them next door.”

  Figuring the puppies would be in the kitchen area, she went out the back door of Manny’s cottage, entered through the back door of Tersa’s, and turned toward the basket and the puppy who looked into her eyes, then struggled to get away from Mikal and reach her.

  Love at first sight. For him. For her.

  She almost dropped the plate in her haste to set it on the table before rushing to the basket, sinking to her knees, and cradling the pup in her arms.

  “Oh, you adorable boy!” she cooed. “Aren’t you a lovely boy?”

  The adorable, lovely boy was beyond excited to see her. She put him down on the diaper Mikal dropped in front of her, but she had to hold on to him until he piddled to keep him from wetting her lap.

  “That’s Shelby,” Mikal said. “He’s a direct descendant of Ladvarian. Breen comes from Morghann’s line.”

  A Warlord. A strong-willed one. He was too young for her to get a sense of his power, but may the Darkness have mercy on anyone trying to deal with him if that strong will was combined with a darker Jewel.

  Mikal had his hands full with the little female, who was focused on something in the front of the cottage and cried in a way to break a person’s heart.

  “Breen,” Mikal soothed. “Hush now, Breen. Daemon isn’t here.”

  “Yes, he is.” Daemon stepped into the kitchen behind Tersa, shrugged out of the short winter coat, and sank to his knees beside the basket. He picked up the puppy and cradled her against his chest, a brown-and-white ball of fur against the bright red sweater.

  The sweater was a signal that her father was home and off duty, his obligations as the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan put aside—at least for the day.

  She wasn’t sure what he’d intended, but he moved his hands and the puppy sank her sharp little teeth into the sweater, anchoring herself to him. From his quick intake of breath, she suspected Breen’s teeth had caught more than the sweater.

  When she picked up the Warlord again to cuddle him, she realized he was focused on Breen. Before he could follow the other pup’s example, she lifted him away from her chest and said firmly, “No. We don’t claim humans by biting their clothes.” Or the body part under the clothes.

  Shelby hadn’t learned to talk to humans yet on a psychic thread, but she could feel his frustrated objection. But Breen is doing it.

  Mikal snorted a laugh, then tried to look innocent.

  Yes, these two pups needed extra attention and someone to love—and herd. She wasn’t foolish enough to think there wouldn’t be extra herding as well. She’d lived around Scelties all of her life, but after she’d made a mistake with Morghann and told her to do a wrong thing, the Scelties who lived at the Hall would play with her, but none of them would let her teach them anything. They learned what was proper from her father and Beale and Holt—and Mikal.

  She wanted that connection again, wanted to be teacher as well as playmate. Wanted someone to think she was special.

  Quiet murmurs from her father in his deep, soothing voice finally convinced Breen to release the sweater. He petted and praised. They all played with the two pups until exhausted bundles of fur were tucked back into the basket for a nap.

  As she and her father rose to take their leave, Jaenelle Saetien realized Tersa had been sitting at the kitchen table all that time, watching them. Just watching.

  Tersa followed them to the front door, then grabbed her wrist, holding her back with one hand while giving Daemon a push to indicate she wanted him out.

  He gave his mother a puzzled look but stepped outside and closed the door.

  Sometimes Tersa just seemed eccentric. Other times she was strange in a frightening sort of way—like now.

  “Everything has a price,” Tersa said. “You will pay what you owe. He will ask, and she will answer—and she will do what needs to be done. For him. For you. When the time comes, you should remember that.”

  “I’ll remember.” She had no idea what Tersa was talking about, but it was better to agree with her.

  “Yes,” Tersa whispered, “you will.” She released Jaenelle Saetien’s wrist.

  As Jaenelle Saetien opened the door, Tersa added, “Not all scars are visible. You put a scar on the girl that will never fully heal. You both have to live with that now.”

  She wasn’t going to think about that. She wasn’t.

  Her father waited for her at the end of the walkway.

  “Everything all right?” he asked.

  “Everything is fine.” Nothing was fine, so she focused on the one thing she wanted to think about.

  “Papa? Could I help you and Mikal teach Shelby?”

  He said nothing. As they walked up the main street, he nodded to the people who were going in and out of the village shops, but they all seemed to sense that he didn’t want to stop and chat. Finally, he said, “I think it would break that pup’s heart if he couldn’t be with you at least some of the time, but you will be going back to school in a few days. Won’t you?”

  “Yes.” It hadn’t occurred to her that she wouldn’t go back to school. “But when he’s a little older, Shelby could come to the town house on the study days. I could stay home then, and we could take walks around the square. It wouldn’t be good for him to come to the school. Too many people who might accidentally tell him a wrong thing without appreciating the damage they could do.” Like she’d done. But she’d been a child then. She wouldn’t want any of the boys at the school to spend time around Shelby when he was so young and impressionable.

  None of the boys except Daemonar.

  That uncomfortable truth was something else she didn’t want to think about.

  “I agree,” he said. “When it comes to Scelties, all the teachers have to agree on the rules—and uphold them.”

  Pretty much the way it worked in the family. Her father and uncle decided on the rules and where the lines were drawn—and they both upheld those rules, regardless of place and whose child was being called to task.

  But she was almost an adult, and she had to make her own choices, her own decisions. Didn’t she?

  And yet, today felt comfortable. She knew the boundaries of acceptable behavior as well as she knew the boundaries of the family seat. Delora and Hespera kept saying she was afraid to step beyond the rules, that she would never prove to anyone that she was a strong woman unless she showed everyone that she could make up her own mind about things—something her parents, her father, clearly would never allow her to do.

  They always sounded right when she was with them. She wasn’t allowed to do half of what they were allowed to do, and doing those things
with them gave her a taste of defiant freedom.

  But Titian and Zoey had stepped outside all expected lines, and no one had made a fuss. Her father and Uncle Lucivar had listened to Titian—and then had drawn new lines. No fights, no defiance.

  It wasn’t that they never moved the lines. They just couldn’t seem to understand when she needed the lines moved. Maybe because she didn’t know where she wanted them to draw those lines?

  “Witch-child?”

  She linked her arm in his and remembered something that was sure to distract him. “What was the title of the book Manny was reading that made Uncle Lucivar blush?”

  He choked. “It doesn’t matter since it will be a few more decades before you’re allowed to read it.”

  Maybe tomorrow she would chafe at his deciding she wasn’t old enough to read a particular book, but for the rest of the way home, they talked about puppies and made plans to go out riding together in the morning.

  THIRTY

  Delora watched from the shadows as Jaenelle Saetien stopped to talk with Insipid Zoey and Fat Bat Titian, as well as the group of girls—and boys—who were infatuated with Daemonar’s fighting skills.

  Something had changed during the thirteen days of Winsol, when Jaenelle Saetien had been away from school—and away from her influence. When the girl had arrived at the school that fall, she’d been ripe for rebellion, craving an escape from her stodgy little village and the rules her parents used to constrict her choices.

  She’d been ripe to embrace some of the Hayllian traditions that Delora found so fascinating because you had to read between the lines of what was written in history books and listen for what wasn’t quite said in the stories her family told when they acquired a new object that had come from Hayll.

  It had been such a thrill when Jaenelle Saetien’s father had misheard her name and called her Dorothea, like he already acknowledged her ambition and destiny.

  But something had changed in Jaenelle Saetien during her time away from school. Instead of being embarrassed or laughing with the rest of Delora’s followers when the boys used their cutting wit to demean the girls unworthy of their notice except as prey of one sort or another, Jaenelle Saetien had looked uncomfortable and actually told Krellis yesterday that he was being unkind to one of the school dregs.