The Queen's Weapons

by Anne Bishop

  “Hmm,” Karla said.

  Witch nodded. “That spell needs some adjusting.”

  Daemon opened the box and removed one of the two objects. Raising an eyebrow, he looked at the women.

  “Stout locks,” Witch said brightly.

  “For your study door,” Karla added. “Uncle Saetan had stout locks.”

  “Did they work?” Daemon asked. He didn’t remember ever seeing multiple locks on the study door.

  “When we remembered to pay attention to them,” Witch said.

  “Which wasn’t often.” Karla looked at Witch. “I think he stopped using them the third time you missed the signal that the locks were engaged and turned the study door into sawdust by channeling enough power from your Black Jewels to pass through the wood and all the shields.”

  Witch gave Daemon an unsure but game smile. “But the locks should work for you.”

  “I’m delighted,” he said dryly.

  He put the lock back in the box and vanished the present. He ignored the red bow that had resumed its hopping and looked like a puppy desperate to go outside.

  “I’m going to my room to rest for a while.” His eyes met his Queen’s. “We need to talk later.”

  Her amusement faded. “Whenever you wish.”

  He returned to the Consort’s suite and set the box on the desk. After removing his black jacket, he lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.

  She probably thought he wanted to talk about Jaenelle Saetien. He didn’t. He wanted to talk about Witch—and what he’d finally understood was possible for their future.

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Standing beside Jillian, Lucivar studied the house and felt a weird little twinge in his chest when he accepted that this child really wasn’t coming home in the foreseeable future—if ever.

  “So you’re looking to purchase this house?”

  “Yes,” Jillian said. “I’ve been talking to Lady Surreal about working at her sanctuary for broken girls. Since I’m close to the same age, Surreal thinks the girls would feel more comfortable talking to me about some things, and it would give me some wages while I work on my next book. And I wanted a place of my own,” she finished softly. “I’m ready for a place of my own.”

  He remembered how it had felt to want a place of his own—and how it felt when he’d moved out of SaDiablo Hall and into the eyrie when he became the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih. He couldn’t fault her for that, but . . .

  “One of the SaDiablo estates is next to the village, which is why Lady Surreal chose this location for the sanctuary,” Jillian continued. “And the village isn’t too big or too small. And this house has almost two acres of land. Plenty of space for me to put in a small garden and leave room for exercise and play.”

  “‘Play’ meaning a Sceltie will be living with you?” It took effort, but Lucivar kept his voice mild.

  Jillian held up two fingers. “One from the Little Weeble pack and the other from Scelt. They wanted a new experience.”

  “Uh-huh.” Better with you than with me.

  “The owner’s man of business assures me that, while some things could benefit from being updated, the house can be lived in right now. And I can have first consideration of the furniture the owner didn’t take with her.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “This is the price.” Jillian hesitated, then thrust a folded half sheet of paper at him.

  What in the name of Hell did he know about the price of houses in a Dhemlan village? He lived on a mountain in Ebon Rih, and the only time he focused on what should be considered a reasonable amount of money was when he set his children’s quarterly allowances, reviewing them each year to make sure that what each child might want could be attained if spending choices were made wisely. The rest of it? The SaDiablo family’s wealth was so vast, he refused to think about it.

  He eyed the man of business Jillian had spoken to when she first viewed the house. The man had backed off after realizing who he was and what his being there with Jillian meant. Lucivar figured the price was going to be adjusted to avoid Daemon’s sharp interest in this transaction. He also figured telling a young woman that the house could be lived in depended, again, on who was defining the terms.

  A handful of men pulled up in a wagon, climbed down, and gave him a subtle bow.

  “My witchling is interested in this house.” Lucivar used Craft to make sure his voice carried to the man of business—who bleated in alarm at Lucivar’s confirmation that Jillian was his witchling. “I’d like you, as skilled craftsmen, to go over the house and tell me what it would need to be livable.”

  The men eyed Jillian, gave him a long look—and nodded. He’d summoned them because they all had some connection to the vineyards, the winery, or the other pieces of this SaDiablo estate. They’d know whose standards, besides his, defined “livable.”

  “Don’t you want to see it?” Jillian asked, sounding anxious.

  “Let the men take a look on their own. Show me around the outside.”

  A low stone wall defined the boundaries of the property. Jillian pointed out a couple of places for gardens, both a kitchen garden and flowers. Plenty of room for sparring and for the Scelties to play.

  “So what is it you’re going to do at this sanctuary for broken girls?” he asked.

  She met his eyes. “Teach them how to fight. Show them that, even without the power they once had, they can be strong in a different way.”

  Tension crackled between them.

  “Anything you want to tell me?” he asked too softly.

  “You taught me well. Now I want to teach them.”

  That didn’t answer his question. Or maybe it did.

  The men met them outside and gave their report. Good structure. No mold or damp. Chimneys were in good shape. Plumbing needed to be replaced from the pipes all the way up to the fixtures. And neither bathroom upstairs would comfortably accommodate an Eyrien. And the necessary on the main floor would need to be enlarged as well. Kitchen could use a new stove and cold box, new sink. Roof needed repairs in a couple of places before it started to leak. Give them the nod, they could pull in enough skilled labor to get the job done in a couple of weeks.

  And every one of them, as he walked past Lucivar, mumbled that he wouldn’t pay a hundred gold marks for all the furniture left in the place—just in case someone thought to sell it.

  Jillian had gasped when they’d told her what the work would cost.

  Once the men had climbed into the wagon and headed back to their day’s work, Lucivar looked at the man of business and said, “Stay there.” Then he led Jillian into the house to have a look around.

  “There’s no point,” she said, sounding disappointed. “I’ve saved up some money, but nowhere near enough to pay for the house by itself. I certainly can’t pay for the house and all these repairs.”

  “What were you going to do?”

  She made a face. “Get a loan. Somehow.”

  “No.” He wandered from room to room. Big enough for an Eyrien to live in comfortably. The men were right about the furniture. Most of it that had been left was barely worth the effort to turn it into kindling. “There’s no need for you to take out a loan. I established accounts for all my children a long time ago. You would have had access to the money in a few years, anyway, and this is a good reason to let you use it now. The interest, at least.”

  “I have money?” Jillian frowned at him. “Enough to buy the house and make the repairs?”

  He shrugged. “You’ll have to talk to Daemon. He’s been handling that for me. He won’t let you touch the principal, so if the interest that has accumulated isn’t enough for what you need, you’ll have to talk to him about a loan.” He’d be the one to fund it—quietly—but when it came to money and family, everyone talked to Daemon.

  He looked at her. Nerve
s and excitement filled her gold eyes. “You sure about this, witchling?”

  She nodded and gave him a brilliant smile. “The next adventure.”

  Lucivar tipped his head toward the man of business, who was still hovering nearby. “Then let’s talk to him about what the house is really worth.”

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  A quiet knock on the door between his bedroom and Witch’s.

  Daemon slipped back into his black jacket and said, “Come in.”

  The door opened and Witch walked into the room. His room. He allowed himself a moment to feel the bloom of possessive desire before he smothered it. Not here. Not yet.

  In all the centuries since she’d healed his mind for the third time and made her bargain with him to help him remain sane and whole, she had never worn the illusion of clothing. She was Witch, and not all the dreamers had been human. The only times she’d made an exception to that was when Daemonar was present.

  Now she stood before him in that same simple dress that left her arms bare and came to midthigh, but instead of the sapphire blue she usually wore when the boy was around, this dress was a shimmering black.

  “Prince,” Witch said.

  He bowed. “Lady.”

  She looked troubled. Weary in mind and heart. “Daemon . . .”

  He stepped up to her and raised his hands to rest just above her shoulders. If he tried to touch her right now, his hands would go through this shadow of her Self. “Take me to the Misty Place.”

  “What needs to be said can be said here.”

  “No, it can’t.” He leaned forward, letting his sexual heat uncoil as his lips almost brushed her delicately pointed ear, and whispered, “Take me to the Misty Place. Please.”

  A moment of brutal cold.

  Daemon raised his head. Mist and stone. And a cavern that contained a spiraling web that still held so much power, it could engulf all the Blood.

  He lowered his hands to his sides but didn’t put any distance between himself and the Queen who was his life. Had always been his life. “I figured it out. It took me long enough, in part because I accepted at face value Daemonar’s grumbles about not being able to hug you. Maybe some part of me knew that you needed me to accept instead of question. But the shadow cats changed that.”

  “You’re not making sense,” Witch said.

  She sounded wary. She knew him better than anyone else ever could or would, so she had reason to be wary.

  “There are different levels of these illusions you call shadows. The simplest are nothing more than a place marker—a stationary illusion that can fool the eye for a short time. Up a few levels from that is this kind of shadow.” He nodded toward her. “Connected to the person who made it, this shadow is a shell for the mind and can move around. It can touch but it can’t be touched. Useful when a person has to walk into a dangerous situation. Then there are the shadows that can touch—and be touched. Shadows that feel like a real animal—or a real person.” He hesitated. “A shadow that could feel pleasure from a lover’s touch.”

  She leaped out of his reach.

  He nodded. Her response confirmed what he’d suspected. “The girls who were at the house party didn’t want to let go of the shadow cats—hadn’t even realized they were shadows—because they were big and furry and hugging them made the girls feel safe. You taught me how to make a shadow that intricate so that the cats would be available if I needed them to protect the Hall. That exquisite piece of Craft takes a lot of power, especially if it needs to continue for several hours. You taught me because it was another safe way to drain some of the reservoir in my Black Jewel.”

  “Don’t,” she warned when he took a step toward her.

  “When we made our bargain all those years ago, you told me I had to stay connected to the living. You told me to do what I could to fix my marriage. I did that, as much as I could. Surreal enjoys being my second-in-command and she enjoys my skills as a lover most of the time. I’m not the husband she imagined I would be, and she can’t be a wife to all of who, and what, I am. But for the sake of the Realm, she’ll stay married to me in order to be my sword and shield against unwanted female attention, and I’ll stay with her because I’m grateful for her companionship.” He gave her a moment to absorb what he’d said. “You warned me that I had done some damage to my heart and lungs by trying to leash what I am so tightly I almost destroyed myself. Do you remember that?”

  She nodded slowly and watched him.

  “You’re not the only one who can spin a tangled web of dreams and visions,” he said quietly. “I spun one a while back. Instead of showing me the answer to the question I had about a heart wound, the web showed me the end of my time among the living. It will come swiftly, with little warning—and I will not be an old man when my heart takes its last beat and my lungs draw their last breath. That much I know.”

  “Daemon . . .” She grabbed one arm, touched his face with her other hand.

  “No.” He covered her hand with his—and felt the truth. “You’re not going to fix this. I will experience the physical death and make the transition to demon-dead. I will do as my father had done and continue to rule Dhemlan until there is someone who can succeed me. After that, I’ll continue to look after the SaDiablo properties and wealth, and I will rule Hell as its High Lord.” He saw concern in her eyes. He saw sorrow. He also saw what he wanted—needed—to see. “I won’t abandon Lucivar. I promise you, I won’t do that. But I need a promise in return.”

  He lifted her hand from his face and pressed a kiss into her palm. She made a startled sound when she realized he had felt her palm.

  “The first time I saw the Misty Place, the first time I saw you as Witch, as the dreams beneath the flesh, I could touch you. Hand to hand. I’d forgotten that. But I’ve had time to think about it, Jaenelle. I’ve had time to think about why you deliberately made a shadow that I couldn’t touch.”

  “You needed to stay among the living,” Witch said. “You needed to have a lover who was among the living. If not Surreal, then someone else.”

  “I couldn’t have continued to be her lover if I’d known I could be yours again, even in a limited way. But my physical death will change everything. Even if she chooses to remain my second-in-command, Surreal will no longer feel obliged to be my wife. She’ll be free to find a man who will adore her and whom she can love without fear.” He rested his fingers lightly on her shoulders, thrilled to feel her skin. “It takes a lot of power to maintain a shadow that can pass as a living being, but you have plenty of power and could touch the world again, more than you’re doing now. Could be held again.”

  “What, exactly, do you want, Daemon?”

  “To be with you after I make the transition to demon-dead. To be your lover again. The body is not the only way to give pleasure, Lady. And in this place, where we are both Selves without flesh, there is no reason why we can’t feel.”

  Witch gave him a sharp yet sad smile. “Should I make that promise by swearing on my life?”

  Daemon shook his head. “You don’t value your own life enough. Make that promise by swearing on my life. Promise me that you will inhabit a shadow that is as tangible as my demon-dead body—or promise that you will burn out my power and send me to the final death. I don’t want to be without you, Jaenelle. Not again.”

  Witch stared at him. Stared and stared. Finally she said, “The body that you knew and pleasured is gone. I will still look like this.”

  “I know.”

  She sighed. “I give you my word, and swear it on your life. But you will do everything you can not to hurry that day.”

  “Agreed.” Taking her face in his hands, he kissed her. Slow. Deep. Another promise made to both of them. He stepped back because he needed to keep a promise to another woman for a while longer. He slipped his hands in his trouser pockets. “I won’t make things difficult f
or you, but I’d like you to consider using that other shadow now. Daemonar may not have told you how he came by those injuries, but he stepped onto his first killing field when he came to the Hall to defend Titian and the other girls. That first time? A Warlord Prince truly begins to understand what he is—and why he’ll be feared. It would help the boy to be able to hug his auntie J.”

  “I’m not sure I want to be that tangible until the colors on the shield protecting his arm have faded,” she said dryly.

  Daemon laughed. “You have a point. He is a bit exercised about that.”

  A moment of biting cold and they were back in his bedroom, facing each other.

  “Tell Lucivar,” Jaenelle said. “Even if the day you saw in the vision is still centuries away, tell your brother.”

  “I’ll talk to him before I go back to the Hall and settle the rest of what is owed.”

  She walked back to her bedroom and closed the door.

  Daemon turned and looked out the window. He’d waited seventeen hundred years for her the first time. He could wait a few more centuries to be with her again. In the meantime, he would do his best to take care of the living.

  *Prick?* he called on an Ebon-gray thread.

  *Bastard?*

  *Do you have time to talk today?*

  A sudden wariness, almost as if Lucivar had been expecting this request. *Sure. Now?*

  *I’ll meet you in one of the Keep’s sitting rooms. You’ll know which one.*

  Daemon left the Queen’s part of the Keep. After tracking down Draca and making a request for refreshments when Lucivar arrived and indicating the preferred room, he went to that room, then called in the latest letters Holt had shoved at him as he walked out of the Hall that afternoon. He flipped through the letters and pulled out one he hadn’t expected.

  Before he read the next round of concerns from the Province and District Queens, he would find out what Lucivar had needed to put in a letter.

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  “Are you sure?” Lucivar demanded. He’d thought that Daemon wanted to talk about the letter and his decision, not about this.