by Jade Kerrion
His eyes widened. Did she think he was purchasing the jewelry for his mistress? His brain raced through the facts as she knew it, and he chuckled. The nonexistent mistress and his not-impending marriage were perfectly rational explanations for his disguise and the outrageous gift for his mother, whom he loved and respected above all others.
But marriage? He smiled at Nithya. “If you were she, she would be.” The words slipped out, unchecked, and he grimaced. Damn it, he had to be more tired than he realized. Between the two coughing fits, and twenty-hour days, he was less careful than he ought to be.
Nithya tilted her head. “You’re an odd man, Dace. You’re not quite like a fae.”
He? Prince of La Condamine? His bloodline extended back into antiquity, meticulously managed and carefully crossbred against equally ancient fae bloodlines. No one could be more of a fae than he. “I don’t understand what you mean.”
“You lack the vain streak, the self-absorption—”
“Did you just insult my entire race?”
“The fae are no more vain than the witches are cynical and suspicious.”
“Which they are.”
She laughed, the sound like silver bells. “And there you go.”
He set his cup of tea down, and as a precaution, removed hers from her hand. His hand was warm as he caressed her cheek. “What else don’t you like about the fae?”
She shivered against him, her body straining subtly forward. Unless he missed his guess, she wanted him as much as he wanted her, his imaginary mistress and fiancée notwithstanding.
“We’re vain, you said?” he breathed against her ear. Her perfume filled his senses; her warmth pressed up against him. She was always so full of life and energy that up close, he was startled to realize that she was physically small—a slender woman shorter than most female fae, with a tiny waist that fit perfectly into the curve of his arm.
“Yes, vain,” she murmured, turning her face toward his.
He bypassed her willing lips and kissed along the line of her jaw, determined to tease her for as long as he could hold out. “And self-absorbed?”
“Oh, very much so.” Her breathy answer was still somewhat coherent.
He was obviously not doing his job well enough.
His lips dipped to the curve between her breasts, and she arched into his touch. Her breaths heaved in quick bursts as he unlaced her gown and slipped the strap off her shoulders, baring her skin.
Her fingers threaded through his hair as she arched her head back, surrendering her body. “More…please, Dace…”
He inhaled sharply. He stiffened, his lips still against her skin, but he did not let her go. Not yet. Their hearts thudded to the same, frustrated beat; their pulses skittered from the near miss.
Nithya broke the silence. “I guess your name wasn’t real enough.”
“Or perhaps it was too real,” he murmured. Dace. Of the nobility. Wrong woman. Wrong place. Wrong time. “I’m sorry, I had no right—”
“I offered freely,” she said without condemnation.
“I had no right to dream, to crave, to desire what I cannot have.”
She tilted her head to study him. “You are indeed odd. I’ve never known a fae who mastered his whims.”
He chuckled and bent his head to rest his cheek against hers. “There you go again, insulting my people.”
She stroked his hair even as her voice lit with humor. “I can’t help it. The fae tendency toward drama and melodrama lends itself to mockery.” For a moment, the only sound around was the faint crackle of flames in the fireplace in the shop. She inhaled deeply before asking in a quiet voice, “Will you ever be free to do as you wish?”
The truth tasted bitter on his tongue. “No, I’ve never been that lucky.”
She pulled away from him, but only far enough to look into his face. “I am sorry for you, Dace.”
“Don’t be.” He managed a smile. “My responsibilities demand my freedom, but they also provide in abundance. I have no needs, no wants, and apparently no fears.”
“That’s not true, is it? We all have fears. What are yours?”
That life, knowing she is about to lose her grip on me, taunts me with the one person I could love, but cannot possibly have.
“Dace?” Nithya said softly. “What were you thinking?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“The anger and grief in your eyes suggest it does.”
He forced a curve to his lips. “I wish we’d met at a different time and place, as different people.”
Nithya laughed gaily as she twisted out of his arms. “Oh, I don’t know. I rather like who I am. And I like you.”
He shook his head. “This isn’t my real face.”
“I know. The beauty of the fae is as concrete as a mirage.”
“Do you have to try hard to insult us or does it come naturally?”
She giggled. “Like I said, the idiosyncrasies of the fae open them up for it, but I didn’t mean liking your face, specifically. How could I?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you trying to be inconspicuous?”
“Yes, of course.”
“You’d have done better picking a pretty face than a homely one. In La Condamine, beauty is common, ugliness is not.”
Varian chuckled, the sound without humor. What did that make him—the real him, without the glamour?
“What are you thinking about?” she asked. “The twist of your lip was so very intriguing.”
“The prince.”
“Prince Doom-and-Gloom Varian?”
“What did he do to earn that name?”
“He’s unhappy. His problems weigh on him. He has no sense of humor.” She frowned as she picked up their scarcely touched cups of tea and took them to the kitchen. “And of course, he has no perspective.”
“Or perhaps he has a different one.”
“I suppose the view from the palace is quite different. All he can see is the barrier that covers Isa Fae.”
“Is he supposed to see something else?”
“His view is consumed by death, even though there is life all around him—from the magical lights on Coronation Avenue to the peat torches of Grenth’s Cove. We need a prince of the people—not a mystic king who is too heavenly minded to be of any earthly use.”
Reluctant laughter tore out of him. “I think he would be surprised to hear you say that.”
“I don’t think he would care.” Nithya shrugged. “I attended a dinner where he was present. He didn’t even look at me once. I’m a witch. I’m probably beneath his notice.”
“Or perhaps he found you too distracting.”
“Me?” Nithya’s bracelets jangled as she touched her fingers to her breasts. “That’s ridiculous. He’s got his pick of the swooning fae ladies—all pale, blond, and beautiful.”
“You have something against blond?”
“Only as a symptom of herd mentality.”
“He could use someone like you on his council—someone to poke holes in his logic and puncture his pomposity.”
Nithya shook her head and smiled. “He wasn’t pompous. I wasn’t fair…” Her voice dropped to a thoughtful murmur. “He was worried and probably too distracted to take note of a common little witch.” Her voice wobbled. “He made his mother cry.”
“What?”
“She was worried about him—worried that he would do something reckless and stupid, but she defended him. She didn’t cry until after he left.”
Damn it. His mother and Lord Grimaldi had said nothing to him after dinner.
“You know…” Nithya continued quietly. “I think that’s the part of him I can’t forgive or forget. He’s cold. Implacable. He’ll crush anything and anyone who doesn’t believe what he believes, or who stands in his way.” Their eyes met. “He’s got all the makings of a tyrant.”
A tyrant…
Was that what she thought of him?
Varian paced the length of his office, pausing
only to nod his thanks to the servant who had quietly entered to light the logs in the fireplace.
He wanted to fix the one problem that was affecting everyone’s quality of life…the one problem that was slowly destroying their world…
And that made him a tyrant?
In the name of all the gods and the thirteen witches—what the hell!
He balled his hands into fists. Was there no way to do his job right? If all he did was show up at business launches and fund-raising events, someone would probably criticize him for being shallow and trivial.
A knock on the door drew his attention.
He glanced up sharply. “Tristan.”
“I know it’s late, but the servants said you had come in, and that you were agitated,” Tristan said mildly. “Anything I can do?”
Varian shook his head. “I’ve just had an unwelcome blast of reality about what people think of my plan to shatter the barrier.” He strode over to the side table and poured a glass of water before adding to it a sachet of powdered medicine. It dissolved slowly, giving the water the consistency and taste of an oil slick.
He drank it without murmur or complaint. The weakness in his lungs, which he had inherited from his father, was just something else to be managed. The scrapped-raw sensation in his lungs eased slightly, although it would be a few days before the discomfort fully passed. It was his own fault; he should not have allowed so many days to pass without consuming the medicine.
He’d had a series of good days; he’d hoped he was getting better. Wishful thinking. So far, all he had done was delay, and worsen, the moment of reckoning.
Magic can fix almost everything—except what’s wrong with your blood…
Tristan’s voice cut into his thoughts. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“What’s there to talk about? The people think it’s hopeless, at best, and tyrannical, at worst.”
His friend frowned. “What’s tyrannical about saving the world?”
“I wish I knew.”
Tristan’s eyebrows drew together in a scowl. “What is wrong with people? You can’t even help them without getting a commentary, or worse, a critique about everything you’re not doing perfectly. And there isn’t just one definition of perfect. There are twice as many definitions as there are people. You’re never going to make anyone—let alone everyone—happy.”
How about just one person—Nithya?
But she had made it clear she wasn’t happy either.
A muscle twitched in Varian’s smooth cheek. As far as she’s concerned, I’m a tyrant who made his mother cry.
He glanced out of the window at the new moon, scarcely a sliver in the sky. In fourteen days, a full blood moon would coincide with the winter solstice.
In fourteen days, the barrier would be weakest.
If not then…
“It will come again,” Varian murmured. The astrologers had estimated the next fortuitous weakening of barrier at approximately 527 years.
And the meteorologists estimated that, at the rate at which the winter was worsening, neither the fae nor the witches would live to see that second weakening of the barrier
Even so, La Condamine would not vanish in his lifetime. He could address the not-so-subtle discrimination against witches. He could better the daily lives of all his people. Wasn’t that good enough?
He did not have to break his mother’s heart, nor leave her childless.
He could spend his days with Nithya.
He could let the barrier be someone else’s problem—someone with greater resources and stronger support; someone without an incompetent heir.
How could he leave La Condamine…Nithya…under the rule of his cousin, who had frequently and publicly held witches in contempt?
It was simpler…
“What was simpler?” Tristan asked.
Only then did Varian realize he had spoken aloud. “It was simpler a month ago when the only thing at stake was my life. Now it’s different.”
“How so?”
“Every day, the cost seems to get higher.”
Tristan’s hand clapped down on his shoulder. “It’s late, Varian, and you’re tired. Why don’t you get some rest? Everything will seem clearer in the morning; it always does.”
Varian dismissed his friend with a nod, but he remained by the window, staring out at the raging blizzard. How can it seem clearer in the morning when the darkness next to my heart, in front of my eyes, swallows up all light?
By mid-morning, the blizzard had passed, and the day warmed imperceptibly. Servants entered his office frequently to stoke the fire and add logs to the flames. He might have looked up once or twice, but for the most part, the paperwork consumed him.
Most of the transition plans had been laid out months earlier, but other last-minute problems had popped up. Fortunately, with clear and detailed instructions, some issues could be handed off to trusted aides. Others, however, he had to attend to personally.
His secretary knocked on the door. “Your highness, Louis Hugo, from the Immigration Department, is here to see you.”
“Thank you; send him in.”
Louis, a former member of Varian’s personal security detail, had married and opted for the regular hours of the Immigration Department instead. His intelligence and competence set him on the fast track, and his personal loyalty to Varian made him the perfect person for the job Varian had in mind.
Varian stood to welcome his old friend. “How is life treating you?”
“Splendidly.” Louis grinned. “My wife is doing well, and immensely pleased with her new home in the garden district. How may I serve your highness today?”
“I have a favor to request, one that will take several days. There is a family in the outlands—a man, his wife, and their three children. I want them brought to La Condamine.”
“The outlands?”
“You won’t travel alone. Take as many guards, carriages, horses, and supplies as you need to ensure your safe return with the family.”
“And then?”
“And then you’ll process their permanent residency, and if they desire it, their citizenship, in La Condamine.”
“Your request is a bit out of the ordinary,” Louis said. “I’ll do it, of course, but you’ve never made those personal requests of the ministries before. Why now, if you’ll excuse my audacity in asking?”
“Because sometimes, personal intervention is needed to move things along.” And because I’m out of time. He slid a map across the table, marked to show the approximate location of Nithya’s family’s homestead. “How soon can you leave?”
Louis frowned at map. “Tomorrow morning. Assuming the map is accurate, it’s probably a two-week round trip, depending how long it takes to convince them to leave and how much time they need to pack up.”
“Tell them to bring only items of sentimental value. Everything they need will be provided to them in La Condamine.” Varian handed a sealed envelope to Louis. “Give this to them.”
“I hope it’s convincing enough to make them pack up and leave.” Louis tucked the letter into his jacket.
“By the time you get back to La Condamine, my secretary will have the deed of their new house ready, as well as their pension details.”
“A house? A pension?” Louis arched his eyebrow. “What does it take to get on your good side?”
“You already are.” Varian smiled. “I’ve been accused of being too heavenly minded to be of any earthly use. This is one family whose lives I’ll be affecting, I hope, for the better.”
“A house and a pension in La Condamine are better than any life in the outlands.” Louis rose. “With your permission, I’ll make preparations for the trip.”
Varian dismissed him with a smile before returning to his endless list of loose ends that had to be tied up. His secretary was already working on purchasing a large family home in the city’s arts district, a thriving community popular among the well-to-do witches. He would transfer the deed to Nithy
a for her family’s use. They could not all crowd into the little apartment above her shop. The pension, which included a generous allowance for furnishing the house, would ensure her family would never want for heat, food, or any necessities.
It would not make up for the years of suffering they had endured in the outlands.
Varian grimaced as he picked up the file that had arrived from the Immigration Department earlier that day. It contained Nithya’s multiple appeals to bring her family to La Condamine. Whatever criticism he could make of the Immigration Department, it would not be a lack of thoroughness. Her residency application matched the story she had told him in the tavern—of lives lived on the tenuous edge of death.
He could not undo their past, but he could change their future.
“Your highness, your next appointment is here.”
Varian glanced at the scribbled-over calendar. At his request, his secretary had rescheduled his original appointment with a fae lord. Something far more important had come up. He braced himself. It was time for necessary change.
Three male and four female witches, dressed in formal robes inscribed with runes spun from gold and silver thread, entered his office. They were among the most powerful witches in La Condamine. At his nod, servants scurried in, bringing more chairs to seat them all.
“Thank you for coming at such short notice,” he began when all were seated. “I would like to invite all of you, as the leaders of your community, to be a part of my royal council.”
The witches exchanged startled glances. A long, silent moment passed before the eldest among them, a white-haired woman who still bore traces of luminous beauty, spoke. “And does your royal council agree to these changes?”
He had expected her question. “I choose my advisers, madam. The size of the council is for me to determine.”
“But what advice will you take from your council, in the event of a tie?”
“I listen to individual voices, not the majority. The council advises me. It does not vote on what I should do.” Varian smiled faintly. “You’re seeking assurance that the role is not a sham, nor a transparent ploy to appease the witches. It is not.”
“Why the change of heart, your highness?”