Shalador's Lady (24 page)

*Shira is a hissy cat,* he replied.

Archerr’s snorted laugh had Shira stopping midstride to turn and stare at Gray.

Hell’s fire.

His smile must have been sufficiently insolent because he could see her temper flare.

He felt a bit weak-kneed as he gave her a two-finger salute, then turned his back on her and walked to the front of the house.

It wasn’t smart to piss off a Black Widow. On the other hand, she probably would be too angry to wonder about the “something” he needed to do.

He untied the horse and started walking down Wolf Creek Road to take a look at the two cottages that were also within the “Queen’s square” and also available for the court’s use. He hadn’t reached the first cottage before the silver twins came running down the road, no doubt alerted by Vae.

*Are you going home now, Gray?* Kief asked, wagging his tail.

*We will take the horse back to the stable,* Lloyd said.

“Thanks, boys, but I still need the horse.”

They stared at him, tails gently wagging.

Trying not to sigh, he held out the lead. “Hold him while I take a look at these buildings.”

*I will watch the horse,* Lloyd said.

*I will go with Gray,* Kief said.

Now he did sigh, but he didn’t argue. No point in arguing. It didn’t take the humans long to figure that out. The Scelties seemed to know when they had to obey without question—and they knew when humans were acting like stubborn sheep and needed to be herded in the right direction.

The smart human yielded before getting nipped.

Not all of the Scelties had found their special place in the village, but some were settling in. The Warlord brothers Lloyd and Kief had taken up residence at the stables where the court kept their horses. The First Circle had dubbed them the silver twins because they were gray and white. Not really twins, but they were litter mates, and the only difference in their looks was that Lloyd had a wider blaze down his face. The men were still looking after their own mounts, but they felt easier about leaving the stable unattended now.

After all, dogs who were smart enough to bring carrots out to the pasture to make friends with the horses were also smart enough to know when to fetch a human.

Prince Darkmist divided his time between Yairen and Akeelah, a witch who was a Tradition Keeper of Stories. It sure pissed off Ranon the first time he walked into his grandfather’s house and was challenged by another Opal-Jeweled Warlord Prince. So Ranon and Mist were working out a few territorial issues. The fact that Ranon was Khollie’s human and Khollie was Mist’s little brother made things more . . . interesting.

As entertaining as that was—when you weren’t the human involved—right now, he needed to take a good look at these cottages and see if his idea would work.

When he finished inspecting the second cottage, he stood out front, shaking his head and smiling. Lloyd had brought the horse and cart.

“Thanks, boys,” he said as he climbed into the cart. They stood aside and waited until he’d given the horse the signal to walk on. Then they raced back to the stables, and he headed for a meeting with the village elders.

Kermilla slipped up to her room. She and Correne hadn’t gotten around to shopping, but they’d still had a delightful afternoon once they’d met Garth and Brok, two Warlord brothers who weren’t much older than Kermilla. They had gone to a dining house and talked and laughed for hours, while her two escorts sat at another table looking bored. Having older, experienced men serving in the court meant she didn’t have to work as hard to rule her territory, but it was so much more work to hold their interest when she had to deal with them day after day. These young men hung on to every word she said—and they were hers.

She’d felt that strange pull when she saw them—the same pull she’d felt when she first met Theran.

After making plans to meet up tomorrow to shop, she and Correne had returned to the mansion and the dull company waiting for her there. But she’d had so much fun with her new boys, she really would pay attention this evening when Theran droned on about what Dena Nehele needed. He officially ruled the town, but he seemed to think she should be doing as much as if she were already the Queen—without the compensation! Well, he did tell her she could put things on account against the tithes, but some of the merchants were getting that tight look in their eyes that meant these people didn’t know how to show their loyalty to a Queen any more than the people in sheep-shit Bhak did. Which was fine for Freckledy—she had never had any style—but not for a Queen who wanted to be recognized in aristo social circles.

Kermilla opened her door and froze.

That dumb bitch Birdie, the “Queen’s maid,” was holding a bottle of scent Kermilla had acquired during her last shopping trip. Holding the bottle—and frowning.

“What in the name of Hell are you doing?” Kermilla demanded. She strode over to the dresser and yanked the bottle out of Birdie’s hand.

“Cleaning the room, Lady, like I always do,” Birdie stammered, taking a step back.

“I told you before I don’t like my things smeared with someone else’s psychic stink,” Kermilla said, her voice cold and hard. “You use Craft to raise everything on the dresser and tables when you dust them.

Craft, you useless bag.”

“But I only wear the White, Lady,” Birdie said. “I only use Craft to help with heavy lifting and the like, so I’m not drained when my work is done. Lady Cassidy—”

“I’m not Cassidy, and as long as you work in this house, you’ll do things the way I want them done. And if you can’t get that through your head, the only way you’ll earn a living is by using what you’ve got between your legs! Is that clear enough?”

“But—”

One word. Kermilla heard it as a challenge—and no White-Jeweled servant could be allowed to challenge the Queen.

You’re stil a guest here.

Remembering that had her putting temper and not power behind the open-handed slap. The blow still knocked Birdie to the floor.

“Get out of my room,” Kermilla said.

Whimpering, Birdie got to her feet and stumbled from the room. Shaken, Kermilla looked at the bottle of scent. The girl probably didn’t know what that small, paper-thin stone disk on the bottom of the bottle meant, but Kermilla was certain Theran would be furious if he discovered how she was stretching her income.

She didn’t want Theran angry with her. For a little while she’d flirted with the possibility of falling in love with him, but those feelings had faded before they began. Still, she did like the man, and she didn’t want him so upset that he would tell her to leave. After all, she needed his support to become Queen of Dena Nehele.

EBON ASKAVI

The Keep. The Black Mountain. A place where a man was surrounded by stone and dark power.

But a strangely comfortable place, for all that. A place where a man could lower his guard and truly rest, knowing there was something else here that was watchful—and aware.

Ranon prowled around the sitting room where the Seneschal, that strange-looking female, had put him to wait. A human shape, but she wasn’t human—not with that face or the sibilant way she spoke. He’d bet his life on it.

The door opened, and he turned.

The woman’s exotic face, framed by golden hair, was a little too thin, but still beautiful in a way that tugged at his male interest—especially because she seemed unaware of the streak of dirt that accented one sharp cheekbone.

Then he looked into those sapphire eyes and felt his heart skip a beat. He was totally committed to serving Cassidy, and he loved Shira with everything that was in him. But if this woman asked it of him, he would crawl through fire or over knives—and never ask why she required it of him.

He needed no introduction to know he was looking at Jaenelle Angelline, the Queen who was Witch, the living myth.

Now he understood what kind of woman could hold the hearts of men like Lucivar Yaslana and Daemon Sadi.

I belong to her in the same way I belong to Cassidy. And if Jaenelle demanded it of him, he would turn away from everything else he held dear in order to serve her.

“Lady.”

“Prince Ranon?”

“Yes.” He’d been nervous about meeting her, but he hadn’t expected to respond to her like this. As he continued to look into those sapphire eyes, he realized she felt that bond too.

“I’m the former Queen of Ebon Askavi, Prince Ranon.” Her voice held both amusement and warning.

Former? A word said for the Queen’s pleasure—and believed by no one except, perhaps, the Queen herself. But he understood that she neither wanted nor expected him to turn away from Cassidy and the loyalty he felt for Shalador’s Lady.

“I brought the reports and letters.” He called in the message sack and set it on a nearby chair. “Reports are probably a bit lean. Cassidy has been working hard. But not too hard. We’ve insisted she take rest days, but there’s no point having a rest day if it’s going to be spent writing reports, is there?”

Hell’s fire, he was babbling.

“No point at all,” she agreed with a smile that told him plainly enough she’d fought—and lost—that particular battle with her own court.

He only realized he was smiling back when her smile faded.

“Do you know the history of your people, Ranon?” she asked. “Do you know how your people came to be in Dena Nehele?”

“Yes, I know the stories.”

“People looked beyond themselves and made room for you. Remember that, Prince.”

“I’m not likely to forget it,” Ranon replied, puzzled. Some other message there. Or a warning? “Lady, is there something I should know?”

“I’ve told you what you need to know. The rest is up to you.”

“I don’t—” He stopped. Felt the room do one slow spin as he looked at the strange Jewel around her neck—and the hourglass pendant she wore just above that Jewel.

Black Widow as well as Witch.

Mother Night.

“Now,” Jaenelle said. “This is why I asked to see you.”

Two trunks appeared in front of him. Glancing at her for permission, he went down on one knee and lifted a lid. Picking up one of the items on top, he stood and opened the thin cover.

Old. Delicate.

His hands began to tremble when he realized what he held.

“That trunk has journals that record the daily life of the Shalador people—and the decline of Dena Nehele after Lia’s death. Two generations. No journals were sent after that. The other trunk’s contents are more formal. When the Tradition Keepers saw the decline begin, they took it as a warning. So they wrote down the stories and the songs, wrote down the rituals of the Shalador people, and brought that writing to Ebon Askavi. They knew many of those things would be lost in the decaying years, but they also hoped the time would come when the forgotten things could be reclaimed. Based on the last couple of letters Cassidy sent to me, I thought it was time for these to come back to the Shalador people.”

Ranon put the journal back in the trunk before a tear fell and damaged the ink. “Thank you.”

“I have one other thing for you.” Jaenelle called in another package and handed it to him. “This was left here at the Keep for Daemon, but he and I agree that it should go to you now.”

He unwrapped the package. Another journal? He opened it to a random page and read for a minute.

Then he looked at Jaenelle. “Jared? This came from Jared?”

She nodded. “This is his account of the journey he made with Lia.”

“And with Blaed and Thera.” And Talon.

“Yes.”

“This should go to Theran. He’s the last Grayhaven,” Ranon said as his grip tightened on the journal.

“It’s yours now to do with as you please. But I’ll remind you that Jared was a Shalador Warlord, and he was proud of it.”

Ranon pressed a hand against his chest. “My heart is too full for words.”

“And I have said all the words I need to say.” Jaenelle smiled. “I need to get back to Kaeleer. My father is here standing escort. In fact, he helped me locate the journals. But my husband gets snarly if I stay at the Keep in Terreille for too long.”

“I thank you for your time, Lady. And for these.” He pointed at the trunks. “They are a gift to my people.”

“May the Darkness embrace you, Prince Ranon.”

He bowed and waited until she left the room before sinking into a chair to regain his breath and his balance before he headed home.

TERREILLE

“Lady?”

Cassidy looked at Powell, who was hurrying toward her.

“Told you they’d notice you were still working,” Reyhana said quietly.

*Grf.* That was Vae’s grumpy opinion.

“Oh, hush up, both of you.” Cassidy tossed the handful of weeds into the basket, brushed off her hands, and smiled at Powell. “I wasn’t working. Really. I was just pulling a few weeds and keeping Reyhana company while she brushed Vae.” Of course, if she wanted him to accept the “a few weeds” fib, she should have vanished at least half the weeds in the basket.

“Excellent,” Powell said. “You don’t rest as much as you should.”

“Powell?” Cassidy asked sharply. The man was too distracted to notice the basket? Her Steward noticed everything.

“There are some people who need to see you.”

Not want, need. She sent out a psychic probe to get a feel for Spere’s and Archerr’s tempers, since they were the escorts on duty this afternoon, and wished Ranon or Gray were back from their respective errands

—or that it was closer to sundown and Talon could be with her.

Simmering anger, tightly leashed. That was all she was picking up from her men.

“Reyhana, stay here. Vae, you stay with her,” Cassidy said.

“But . . .” Reyhana began.

“Stay.” Until she knew what this was about, she was not putting Reyhana in a potentially explosive situation.

*We will stay,* Vae said.

That much settled, Cassidy strode to the house, Powell puffing to keep up with her. When she reached the parlor that was the waiting room for anyone wishing to have an audience with the Queen . . .

“Dryden?” Cassidy looked at the Grayhaven butler. “What . . . ? Birdie? ”

There was the reason for the anger—that dark bruise on the little maid’s face.