by Anne Bishop
Theran drained his glass and poured himself another. “Gray remained a child all these years, so I had to become a man.”
“You would have become a man no matter what,” Talon said. He shifted in his chair, a restless movement that wasn’t like him. “So you don’t fit in with Sadi and Yaslana. There aren’t many who could.”
“Guess not.”
“Go to bed,” Talon said. “Things will look different after some sleep.”
Theran rose and lifted his glass in a salute. “I’ll do that.”
Talon waited until Theran left the room before he got up to pour and warm a glass of yarbarah.
. . . Jewels only measure one kind of power. . . . would have stood in front of me . . . Overshadowed me . . . he’s a Warlord Prince like they are....
Talon raised the glass and studied the blood wine. “Theran, my boy, I’ll never say this to your face, but you’re right about Gray. He would have overshadowed you. Not deliberately. He’d been taught from the cradle on up that he was your sword and your shield. Had been raised to believe it was his duty to protect and defend the Grayhaven line. Men have followed you because of your name, but being a leader is still an ill-fitting coat on you. For Gray, being the dominant Warlord Prince of Dena Nehele would have been as natural as breathing.”
He took a swallow of yarbarah. “You might have ended up hating him for being what everyone expected you to be. And as much as my heart aches to say it, and as much as I wish he’d never been harmed, maybe it’s just as well he’s waking up now when you’re old enough to hold your own.”
Talon drank the rest of the yarbarah and sighed. “Maybe it’s just as well.”
Gray leaned against the outside wall of the stone shed and studied the glow of witchlight coming from his window. Soft light, Daemon had said. Enough so nobody was stumbling around in the dark, but not so much to spotlight desire. It was easier to yield just a little more in the dark.
And wasn’t that a wonder? he thought as he waited for Cassie. Talking to Daemon was like having an older friend who not only knew things about women but was willing to tell you things.
Was willing to do more than tell.
“Put your hands on her waist. Like this. She’ll be so concerned with apologizing for that damn illusion spell, she won’t even notice your hands until the warmth seeps through her clothes. That moment when she becomes aware is when the romance needs to begin. She’s feeling vulnerable tonight. She’ll try to shy away. This is the moment when you offer just enough to make her want more. Let her lose a few hours’ sleep because you’ve given her a reason to think about you. To wonder about you. To dream about you.”
Then Daemon had shown him. . . .
“Gray?” Cassie called softly. “Gray, are you in there?”
“Back here,” he called.
Realizing a tactical error, he shifted so his back was against the shed. That way, once she was standing in front of him, it would be easy to shift so she was in the soft light and he was in the shadows.
She came around the corner, hesitated a moment, then hurried to reach him.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, sounding like she was braced for bad news.
“Why would something be wrong?”
“You’re outside.”
“It’s a soft night in early summer,” he replied, smiling. “The air is deliciously scented with all the things that are growing.” And I was waiting for you.
“Gray, I’m sorry about the illusion spell. I didn’t know it would upset you. I just wanted to look . . .” She pressed her lips together.
He shifted away from the wall and put his hands on her waist, holding her lightly. “How did you want to look?”
“Pretty. Or as pretty as someone like me can look.”
He heard pain and bitterness in her voice, and he suspected someone had inflicted a deep wound at some time in her life, but he didn’t understand what that wound had to do with her using that stupid illusion spell. “Why do you want to be pretty when you’re already beautiful?”
So vulnerable.
She didn’t believe him. Couldn’t believe him.
She drew in a breath, probably to deny what he’d said. Instead, she looked at him, and he saw the moment she realized his hands were on her, realized how close they were standing, realized what the brush of her body was doing to his.
“Cassie,” Gray whispered.
He placed the first feather kiss at the corner of her mouth and worked his way along a cheekbone up to her temple. “Cassie.”
“She doesn’t understand yet how you see her, boyo,” Daemon had said, “so don’t waste your breath on words that will cause her to pay attention to the wrong things.”
He didn’t waste his breath. He diligently practiced the things he’d been taught that evening and felt her melt against him, caught the intoxicating scent of her arousal, both physical and psychic. When she pressed her lips to his and slipped her tongue in his mouth, he wrapped his arms around her and almost ignored the last instruction.
His self-preservation kicked in when he remembered who would demand an explanation if he ignored that last instruction.
He waited until she broke the kiss before he eased back—and added the footnote to the evening.
“Everything has a price, Lady,” Gray said, smiling. “You owe me a little something for that illusion spell.”
A jumble of emotions in her hazel eyes, wariness and arousal being dominant. “What do I owe you?”
“The answer to a question.”
She relaxed a little.
“Are the freckles only on your face?”
Her face colored. She swallowed hard and eventually said, “No, they’re not just on my face.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing the rest of them.” He stepped back, not sure if he wanted to snarl or whimper about that particular instruction. “Come on. It’s late. I’ll walk you back to the house.”
She looked a little dazed during the walk back to the house. She looked more than a little confused as he nudged her inside and closed the door.
And he thought the light would be burning in her bedroom for a while longer that night.
Returning to his little room in the shed, he stripped and got into bed. He wanted to write the letter to Lord Burle and ask about the plants, but he didn’t feel quite ballsy enough to write a polite letter to Burle when he was having these kinds of feelings about the man’s daughter—and wanting to do things with that daughter that were less than polite.
So he turned off the lamp and lay in the dark, thinking about the evening. He’d made friends tonight. He was damaged, and they didn’t dismiss that, but even though nothing had been said, the High Lord, Lucivar, and Daemon had made it plain that they expected him to live up to his potential. And if he asked, they would show him how.
“Daemon? Have you kissed men before?”
“I have.” Sadi’s mouth curved in a predatory smile. “Some even survived the experience.”
“Have you taught other boys to kiss the way you just taught me?”
The smile softened, and there was an odd expression in Daemon’s gold eyes. “I taught Jared. And Blaed.”
Ebon ASKAVI
Saetan swirled the brandy in the snifter.
“If I’d known about this bitch, she wouldn’t still be among the living.”
He should have known about her. Daemon had said the witch wasn’t a girl, and it was hard to believe this incident was the first time she’d flirted that way with a married man—especially because the detail of taking a shirt as a trophy kept tugging at him, making him think the scenario he’d told Jaenelle wasn’t just a scenario. It was also hard to believe she waited decades between her victims, which meant she’d been playing this game while he’d actively ruled Dhemlan.
And no one had told him. Even if the Queens, for some inexplicable reason, had chosen to remain ignorant of the bitch’s activities, at least one Warlord Prince should have had balls enough to come to the
Hall and inform him.
His conclusion? Some of her prey had helped cover her tracks and hide her games.
He wasn’t interested in the men. Not yet, anyway. But the witch who had dared try to tangle up his son in her petty little game . . .
A flicker of memory, there and gone. A man’s anguish. A child’s face.
Or what was left of the child’s face.
There and gone.
Taking the brandy with him, he went out to one of the courtyards.
“When I stepped away from the living Realms, and Dhemlan,” he told the night sky, “I thought I’d given Daemon a healthy Territory and a clean slate to begin his rule. But it looks like I have some unfinished business after all.”
CHAPTER 24
TERREILLE
Several days after the dinner party at the Keep, Theran walked into Powell’s office so soon after breakfast, the Steward wasn’t settled behind his desk yet.
“Did the letter arrive?” he asked.
“The messenger just returned from the Keep with the sack,” Powell replied. “I haven’t even opened it yet.”
“Well, get on with it.”
Before Powell could say what he looked like he wanted to say, Ranon and Shira walked into the office, with Archerr following right behind them.
“Did the letter arrive?” Ranon asked.
“Hell’s fire,” Powell muttered. “The last time this many men were interested in a single letter, it was because all the young men in my village were waiting to see who the prettiest girl had asked to be her escort to the harvest dance.”
“It’s been enough time,” Theran muttered. “How long can it take to write down the names of a few plants?”
Shira rolled her eyes. “Men are so dim about some things. The more it matters, the more time it takes.”
Theran gave Ranon a sharp smile. “So what’s Ranon hurrying that he shouldn’t be?”
Ranon snarled at Theran.
“I wasn’t talking about him,” Shira said.
“If anyone is interested,” Powell said, “Lady Cassidy has two letters here—no, three. And there’s a box for Gray. Looks like Prince Sadi’s writing on the label, and that’s definitely the SaDiablo seal.”
“Damn,” Theran and Ranon said.
Theran sighed, then raked his fingers through his dark hair. “Give it to me. I’ll take it out to Gray.” And try to figure out what to say today when that look of disappointment fills his eyes.
Powell handed over the box.
Breakfast felt like a cold, heavy lump in Theran’s stomach, and it got heavier and colder with every step he took toward the ground Gray was breaking for this new planting.
He’s working too hard, hoping for too much, Theran thought. These past few days, he had the feeling that Gray had made a blind leap and had broken the life he’d cobbled together, but wasn’t sure of what kind of life he would have in its place. What kind of life he could build.
If he could build anything at all.
“Gray?”
Gray set aside the spade and reached for the water jug. He glanced at the box Theran carried, but he didn’t ask about it. He drank, then pulled a scrap of towel out of the waistband of his trousers and wiped his face.
“No letter,” he said.
There was a flatness in Gray’s voice, a lack of light in his eyes, that worried Theran.
“No letter,” Theran said. “But this box came from Prince Sadi. Gray, it hasn’t been that long since you sent the letter.”
“Long enough for a mother to decide that she doesn’t want a particular man showing interest in her daughter.”
Mother Night, Gray, what are you thinking?
The hurt in Gray’s voice made it clear exactly what his cousin was thinking: he wasn’t good enough to be more than a friend.
“Open the box,” Theran said. “Maybe there’s an explanation.”
Gray wiped his hands on his trousers to clean off some of the dirt. Then he took the box and set it on the freshly turned earth, which made Theran wonder why he’d bothered to wipe off his hands.
The box had a simple hook closure, so whatever was inside couldn’t be valuable. Or it meant that no one would be foolish enough to take anything from a box that had the SaDiablo seal.
Gray opened the box. He sat back on his heels. He lifted one Craft-preserved flower out of the box. Then another—and another until he was holding a bouquet.
“There’s a note and a book in there,” Theran said, looking into the box. “And something else.”
Handing the bouquet to Theran, Gray opened the note.
“ ‘Prince Gray,’ ” Gray read.
“A common-ground planting is a wonderful idea. The seeds I gave Cassie were meant to span the seasons, so there aren’t many yet that I can show you. I’ve sent flowers from the late-spring and early-summer plants, but hopefully you’ll be able to match the others from the sketches in the book. The bulbs can go in pots. Those, too, span the seasons—a reminder of family as she makes a new home. Burle spoke highly of you. I’m beginning to see why. I hope we can meet one day. Devra.”
Gray set aside the note, picked up the book, and riffled the pages. “Plants from Dharo. There are drawings and information about planting, and . . .” He closed the book and studied the cover. “Cassie’s mother wrote this book. Cassie said her mother knew a lot about gardening, but I didn’t realize. . . . No wonder she understands the land so well.”
“So this is good?”
“Better than good. It’s—” Gray’s eyes widened and his face paled. He grabbed the bouquet from Theran and shoved it in the box. “Cassie’s coming. You have to distract her. She’ll notice I’m breaking new ground, and she’ll ask about it, and I can’t lie to her. I can’t. And she can’t see what her mother sent. She’ll know then, and it will spoil the surprise.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Theran.”
Step up to the line, Grayhaven, and be his shield. What he feels for Cassidy is something you’ve never felt for anyone. Not even in passing.
“Get that stuff tucked away,” Theran said as he rose and turned toward the house.
“Thanks, Theran.”
He watched Gray bolt for the stone shed, then hurried to intercept Cassidy.
“Is something wrong with Gray?” Cassidy asked as soon as he got close enough to hear her.
“He’s fine,” Theran replied, taking her arm and turning her back toward the house. “He’s got a bundle of work he wants to get done today.”
She wasn’t dressed for spending time in the garden this morning. Was that good or bad, since she always spent time in the garden after breakfast?
“Maybe I should give him a hand?”
Cassidy sounded doubtful. Was she trying to back away from Gray? She had been acting a bit skittish about being around him. At first Gray had been pleased about that, but that had changed more and more as the hoped-for letter didn’t arrive.
“I was going to come out and work in the garden, but Ranon is going back to his home village for a couple of days, and he and Powell said there was something urgent I needed to do before Ranon left, but they weren’t clear about what that was, and said I should talk to you.”
Theran tossed a psychic thread toward Ranon. *Next time you decide to be helpful, give me some warning.*
*We gave her a reason to come looking for you instead of Gray, so figure out why she’s supposed to be stuck at a desk for the next few hours.*
Go piss yourself. He didn’t say it, but the feeling traveled through the link between them—and the feeling was quite mutual.
What could he ask her to do that had to be done before Ranon left?
They were on the terrace and almost to the door before he had an answer.
“The Shalador Queens,” Theran said. “You need to write a letter inviting the Queens on the Shalador reserves to meet you. Ranon will take the letter when he goes back to his village. That’s why it’s urgent.”
&nbs
p; “You don’t want me to contact the Queens in Dena Nehele,” Cassidy said. “You’ve opposed that suggestion every time I’ve made it.”
“Seemed more important for the court to adjust to working with each other. Now . . .” He shrugged.
“You really want me to contact the Queens on the reserves?”
“Yes, I do.” Besides, he added silently, it’s not likely any of them will come.
He opened the door for her. “Come on. Once you wade through the paperwork Powell seems to create overnight, you’ll be free the rest of the day to save the posies from the nasty weeds.”
She stopped in the doorway and looked at him as if she suddenly saw a different man.
“You don’t have a feel for the land, do you?” she asked. “It’s just dirt and boundaries to you.”
“I don’t fuss over it like you and Gray seem to,” he said dismissively. “It’s the people that matter. It’s the people that need tending.”
“How do you take care of one without taking care of the other?”
Since she didn’t wait for him to answer, he guessed she didn’t expect one.
Gray set the items in the box on the potting bench, one by one, and marveled at this gift.
Cassie’s mother had written this book. Cassie’s mother had sent this box. No hasty reply to his letter, but a bundle of information from a woman who seemed to understand that he was hoping to put down roots in her daughter’s heart.
And the flowers, preserved in shields so he could study them at his leisure.
His own mother had given him a fierce kind of love. He didn’t know if it was because she was unable to be soft, or if because he’d been destined for the killing fields, she hadn’t wanted to give him anything a warrior wouldn’t need.
He could still see her face, filled with hard pride, on the evening when Talon came to take him to the mountain camps. He’d been seven years old, but there had been no tears, no hugs. To her, he was already a warrior. To her, he always had been.