The Queen's Bargain

by Anne Bishop

  She saw it then, the cliff that was crumbling beneath their lives, their marriage.

  “You’re going to claim all of Askavi as your Territory, aren’t you? All the Queens will have to answer to you.” Queens who were from powerful aristo families. Queens who wouldn’t want to dine with a Purple Dusk hearth witch, no matter whom she’d married.

  “I was satisfied with our life. I am satisfied with our life, with taking care of this valley and its people. Given a choice, I wouldn’t change anything.” Lucivar shook his head. “But I promised her, Marian. I gave my word that, if it became necessary, I would acknowledge the document I had signed that made me the Warlord Prince of Askavi.”

  “What happens if the Queens won’t acknowledge your rule over them?”

  He looked at her. She didn’t see her husband. She didn’t even see the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih. She wondered if Andulvar Yaslana had looked the same way when he became the Demon Prince.

  She closed the distance between them. The Demon Prince would be ruthless, brutal. But the man who walked off the killing fields drenched in his enemies’ blood would still be Lucivar, her best friend, her husband and lover, the father of her children.

  “Being the Demon Prince’s wife won’t be easy for you,” he said quietly. “It won’t be easy on the children.”

  She wrapped her arms around him, rested her head on his chest—and felt his arms tighten around her.

  “Storms and rough winds ahead of us.” She leaned back enough to look at him. “We’ll help each other get through them.”

  “I love you,” he said softly.

  Smiling, she added an aural shield to the shields he already had around the room. “Show me.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “Prince Chaosti,” the High Lord said with a sweetly murderous smile, “I need you and your Dea al Mon warriors to assist me in a hunt.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Unsettled by the latest interview with one of Dillon’s “conquests,” Surreal passed by the dining houses in the aristo part of the Rihland town. She was hungry and wanted food, but she didn’t want to be on her guard every minute.

  Now, why did she think she needed to be on her guard? Was it because of the father and daughter she’d just spoken with who had heaped complaints and accusations on Dillon? Or was it because of the Warlord who had been tracking her since she’d left that aristo house?

  She chose a dining house that looked clean, at least from the outside. On the inside . . . ? Definitely didn’t cater to aristos. The men and women who studied her when she entered wore the clothes of shopkeepers or laborers. Maybe some farmers who had come into town for supplies and were treating themselves to a meal before heading home. But she’d wager the food here was simple and good.

  She was shown to a table at the back of the room and had made her selection from the day’s menu when the Warlord walked in. He didn’t wait to be seated. He strode to her table, pulled out the chair opposite hers, and sat down. He wore a Sapphire Jewel, and the fire in his dark eyes said he was looking for a fight.

  As the dining house’s owner put a glass of wine in front of her and a tankard of ale in front of him, she noticed how everyone else abandoned their meals and left, forming a crowd outside the dining house.

  “I won’t insult you by pretending I don’t know who you are,” he said, wrapping the fingers of his left hand around the tankard’s handle—leaving the gently curled right hand free to close over the sight-shielded knife she was sure he had ready.

  Couldn’t blame him for that. Her right hand was gently curved around the handle of her sight-shielded stiletto.

  “Just what is it you think you know, sugar?” she asked.

  He looked at her right hand. “You’re the wife of the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. And you’re Dea al Mon. I’ve heard a few whispers lately that you used to get rid of problems when you lived in Terreille.”

  Well, that was interesting. She looked at his right hand in the same way he’d looked at hers. “You have a problem you can’t handle?”

  “That depends on why you went to see them about Lord Dillon.”

  “I was asked to look into all of Lord Dillon’s . . . liaisons.”

  “Then someone should tell you the rest of the story and not just what they want you to know.”

  “And that would be you?” She wondered how many other people in the town referred to that aristo family as they in a tone that held nothing but contempt.

  He inclined his head. Took a long swallow of ale, his eyes never leaving hers.

  She took a sip of the wine. Not a bad vintage. Better than she’d expected. “I’m listening.”

  “A while back, Lord Dillon came into town. He’s from an aristo family, but he’s not too far above ordinary folks. Pleasant enough. Crosses paths with the daughter of that family, and she takes a liking to him. Too much of a liking, if you follow me.”

  “I follow you,” Surreal said.

  “While Dillon is happy to be the girl’s dance partner or escort her to a public gathering, she can’t talk him into warming her bed on the sly. Then a letter arrives from a bosom friend in another town, and suddenly Dillon goes from being a pleasant young man who can say no to unwanted sexual invitations to being a man who is expected to provide sex to any aristo bitch who wants him, because his reputation is being trashed behind calculating smiles. I imagine you’ve heard this story in other towns.”

  “Similar stories,” she agreed.

  The Warlord gave Surreal a sharp smile. “The girl is a coldhearted, spoiled bitch who is serving in the District Queen’s court to get some polish. If you ask me, the polish she’ll get with that Queen is the kind that will get her killed.”

  “Will it be your hand that holds the knife?”

  “Probably.”

  Oh, he was interesting. “I’m still listening.”

  “That whole family cares for no one and nothing but themselves—and they’re a little too proud of their Terreillean bloodlines.”

  That was what had left her feeling unsettled—the sense of something familiar in a place where it shouldn’t have been familiar.

  “There was a woman who worked at a dressmaker’s shop just down the street. Nice woman who comes from a good family, at least by the standards in this part of town. Met a Warlord at a public dance, oh, seven years ago or so. He was a persuasive and ardent suitor—until she became pregnant. Big surprise for her, since he’d sworn he was drinking a contraceptive brew.”

  “Hmm,” she said.

  “He can’t marry her, of course. Too far beneath him socially for that to be a consideration. But he’ll help her raise the child and he’ll be there for the Birthright Ceremony.”

  “Did he help, at least financially?”

  The Warlord snorted. “She never saw so much as a copper from him, let alone anything else. Barely ever saw him again, even though he lives in this town too. But he did show up for the Birthright Ceremony and said all the right things, and that made her hopeful. If nothing else, once paternity was officially acknowledged, her daughter wouldn’t be considered a bastard.”

  “But . . . ?”

  The Warlord focused on the tankard. “Sweet girl—and smart enough in her own way. But she’s a little bit simple in the way she sees the world. Despite both parents wearing Jewels—lighter Jewels, to be sure, but still enough that you’d have expectations for the child—the girl didn’t acquire a Birthright Jewel at the ceremony, and it’s unlikely that she’ll ever have more than basic Craft even when she’s old enough to make the Offering to the Darkness.

  “To say the girl’s sire was viciously disappointed would be gilding him with a kindness he doesn’t deserve. When the girl failed to acquire a Jewel, he refused to go through with the rest of the ceremony so that paternity could be acknowledged. He said loudly—and in front of witnesses—that he woul
dn’t have his name associated with a blob of flesh that might have come from the last squirt of his cock or a half dozen other men’s. The woman was crushed, since he’d been her first—and only—lover. Her family is helping her as best they can, but she’s been struggling, barely able to leave her home because that bastard’s ‘jest’ was all over town by that evening and she’s too ashamed to see anyone. And the girl doesn’t understand why her mother is crying all the time.”

  “What does this have to do with Dillon?” Surreal asked. She hadn’t been hired for what she was thinking. She didn’t have a client.

  Well, Hell’s fire, she’d just hire herself—and give herself a steep discount from her usual fee. Or not.

  “The Warlord who wouldn’t acknowledge his daughter because she wasn’t going to be anything useful to him is the uncle of the bitch who took a fancy to Dillon. I don’t know how Dillon heard the story about the woman and her daughter, but when the ground was pulled out from under him and the bitch’s father paid him to leave town so that he wouldn’t soil the bitch’s honor by association, Dillon gave the woman half the money before he left town.”

  The Warlord drank until he drained the tankard. He set it aside. “Maybe he’s developed a skin of meanness in his dealings with the distaff gender. But that’s not who he was a few months ago. I thought you should know that.”

  “I appreciate it.” Surreal looked toward the owner, who hovered out of earshot, and wondered if she would ever see her meal. “Two things, Warlord. First, tell the woman to write up every encounter she’s had with the man who sired her daughter. Make sure she records what support he provided before and after the Birthright Ceremony.”

  “I told you—he didn’t provide anything. He has no interest in the girl. Never did.”

  “Exactly. And make sure what occurred at the Birthright Ceremony is part of that account, including what he said. If she won’t—or can’t—do that, you write it. Have that written account witnessed and give a copy to the woman’s family. Another copy should be sent to the Province Queen. And the third copy should be taken to the Keep, with a request that it be included in the information for the woman’s bloodline and the Warlord’s.”

  “What’s the point?”

  “The point is to show that he shouldn’t be granted any authority over the girl, if he starts showing interest in a year or so, since he wasn’t interested before.”

  “Before what?”

  Surreal smiled and leaned closer. “The second thing: where can I find that Warlord?”

  * * *

  * * *

  An art exhibition. People milling around, distracted by the art—and more distracted by noticing who was noticing them attending the exhibition. The Warlord was there, showing everyone how attentive he was to the Lady he’d recently married.

  Surreal strolled through the crowd, stopping to look at a painting here, a fired pot there. The spell she had crafted was ready, primed for release.

  Bloodless castration. Not as much fun as the other way but useful when it needed to be done neatly. And something that might not be detected for years, since it didn’t take anything away from a man except his ability to sire children.

  Jaenelle Angelline had taught her that piece of Craft.

  So simple, really. Looking away as if distracted when the Warlord walked toward her. Her shoulder bumping into his hard enough for anyone looking to think she’d lost her balance. Her hand brushing against his cock and balls for just a moment. Just long enough to release the spell.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” the Warlord said, sounding outraged. “Have you forgotten who you are?”

  The question made her smile. “Actually, sugar, I finally remembered.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Lucivar landed on the street in a Rihland town, studied the clusters of people standing on the opposite side of the street, then looked at the beautiful man in the perfectly tailored suit waiting for him in front of a shop.

  “What brings you here?” he asked.

  “Followed a side trail,” Daemon replied. “It led me here.”

  “This is the last one on my list.”

  “Then this is the last one.” Daemon used Craft to open the shop’s door. “After—”

  Daemon’s power broke the aural shield around the shop, revealing the voices and the struggle going on inside.

  “Do it!” a female voice screamed. “If you loved me, you would do it!”

  “Graham! Don’t. Please don’t.” Another female voice, crying, pleading.

  A male voice, angry and anguished. “Bekka! I can’t stop. . . . I have to prove I . . . Get out of here before I hurt you!”

  “Do it!” the first female screamed again. “Kill her!”

  Wrapping himself in a skintight Red shield, Lucivar strode into the shop, Daemon right behind him.

  One young woman trapped between a counter and a young Warlord with a knife. Three other young women—aristos by the look of their clothes. Two of them watched with avid cruelty while the third kept screaming, “If you loved me, you would kill her!”

  “Bekka!” the young Warlord cried. “I love Bekka!”

  ٭I’ll take him,٭ Daemon said. ٭You protect the girl he’s threatening and keep those bitches in the shop.٭

  Lucivar formed an Ebon-gray shield around the shop, locking the building. A heartbeat later, Daemon’s unleashed sexual heat hit everyone as he glided over to the Warlord. One of his hands closed over the hand holding the knife. His other hand curled around the Warlord’s throat, pulling the youngster close enough to be swamped with a need that would go unfulfilled—if the youngster was lucky.

  Gritting his teeth against his own response to the heat, Lucivar pulled the girl—Bekka—out of reach of the knife. Scared. Shaking. But no injuries. He put a shield around her, partly as protection and partly to keep her from doing anything that might piss him off more than he already was.

  “Show me,” Daemon whispered, his lips close to the Warlord’s ear. “Tell me.”

  Graham turned his head slightly, revealing the side of his face that had been maimed by something—or someone.

  The three bitches had been so focused on Graham and Bekka—and then pulled into lust by Daemon’s overwhelming presence—they hadn’t noticed Lucivar. Now they did.

  Two tried to run and slammed into the shield across the doorway. A flick of his Ebon-gray power drained their Jewels almost to the breaking point, assuring they weren’t going to do any damage to anyone—at least, not with Craft. Stunned, they collapsed to the floor and began to cry because the Warlord Prince was being mean.

  That left the third bitch, the one who had been screaming at Graham.

  Lucivar tightened the leash on his temper, fighting against the fury rising in him, which wanted to wash the walls with her blood. If this was as bad as he suspected . . .

  Realizing her game was spoiled, the bitch lashed out with the power of her Summer-sky Jewel. Not at him. She wasn’t that stupid. No, she tried to strike Bekka.

  Lucivar shaped another shield around Bekka a heartbeat before the bitch’s power struck. Years ago, Saetan had shown him how to add an extra bit of Craft to a defensive shield when drama was required. The clash of the witch’s power hitting the second Ebon-gray shield sounded like buildings exploding—a sure way to bring everyone who served the District Queen running to investigate.

  Of course, they would be running right into him and Daemon. Wouldn’t that be a kick in the balls?

  Before the aristo bitch could attempt some other trouble, he stepped close to her, called in his war blade, and held it a whisper away from the side of her face. “You want to be very careful about what you say or do. If I get upset, my hand could slip, and this blade is honed for war, so it would slice right through your jaw.”

  “You’ll answer to my father for this,” she said, her haughty expression
at odds with the fear in her voice. “He’s an important man, not some grubby . . .” Either she couldn’t think of a scathing enough insult or she’d finally noticed his Ebon-gray Jewel.

  “Oh, I hope your father does show up. I have some things to say to him. None of them are good.”

  Sensing another male presence behind a shielded door that, most likely, led to the back of the shop, and wondering who was hiding behind that door, Lucivar broke the shield and waited. Moments later, the door opened and an older man rushed into the front room.

  “What do you want?” The older man’s voice trembled. “Hasn’t my son been hurt enough?”

  “More than enough,” Lucivar agreed. “And that ends now. Lord Graham?”

  “Sir?” the youngster said as Daemon released him and stepped back.

  “Do you know the names of the men—or women—who gave you those scars? Am I right in assuming that was done to your face as punishment for not accommodating these Ladies in some way?”

  “The aristos who did it will know I told you,” Graham said. “They’ll hurt my parents.” He glanced at the young woman wrapped in Lucivar’s shields. “They’ll hurt Bekka.”

  “They won’t have time to hurt anyone,” Daemon crooned. “They’ll be dead by morning.”

  Lucivar felt fear spike through the aristo women. He felt relief flood the two men who didn’t belong to that social class. That told him he’d postponed this day too long.

  Everything has a price.

  ٭Prick?٭ Daemon glided to the door and studied the crowd. ٭The Master of the Guard has shown up with what looks like all the Queen’s guards. He seems agitated.٭

  ٭Let the fool come in,٭ Lucivar said, dropping the Ebon-gray shield around the shop.