The Black Queen (Book 6) (9 page)

Behind him, a chair squeaked. So his daughter was growing restless. Good. Let her and that fop she had chosen for a husband stew for a moment. Bridge wanted to deal with them calmly, not in full temper as she had expected.

He tightened the grip on his own wrist. Between her silly request and the strange feeling he had had all day, controlling that temper would be difficult. He made himself take a deep breath.

Below him, Nyeians, in their thick, frilly clothing, went in and out of stores, stopping at the street vendors, and carrying large purses into the new Bank of Nye. The new Bank of Nye. He smiled, this time truly amused. The new Bank of Nye was 40 years old. It was the brick building across the street which looked prosperous and settled against the cobblestone. His palace was the old Bank of Nye, an ancient stone building shaped like a fortress. His grandfather had claimed it as Fey headquarters when the Fey conquered Nye, and the Black Family had lived here ever since.

This branch of the Black Family anyway. The poor relations. The branch with lackluster Vision. What other epithet could he think of? Probably every one his grandfather had hurled at him in the years after Bridge’s sister Jewel died. Now the Empire was being ruled by Jewel’s daughter, a half-breed who had never been to Galinas, had never been out of her little Isle. And she had decreed that the years of Fey conquest were over, that the Empire was complete.

His grandfather’s spirit had to be restless. The girl was changing everything the Fey stood for.

No more conquests meant no more warriors. And the Fey had always been warriors. With increasing frequency, Bridge had to deal with loose bands of Foot Soldiers attacking random targets, trying to create trouble where there was none. He had heard stories like that throughout the Empire.

This Arianna, so unlike her historical namesake, didn’t know the trouble she had brought with this long peace. Sometimes even he forgot what war felt like, and he had spent his first eighteen years in battle.

A discreet cough sounded behind him, reminding him of the folly of his own children.

“Daddy?”

His daughter Lyndred had no patience. That was one of the reasons she sat behind him now. She thought she could control him by putting pressure on him. And, to her credit, she had once been able to do so, until he realized that she was just like his sister had been: brilliant and manipulative and talented.

She wouldn’t manipulate him today, even if he hadn’t made that decision years ago. She wanted to marry the Nyeian beside her, and have babies with the weasly twerp. Dilute the Black line so badly that no one would recognize those children as part of the Black Family. He would not have approved the match no matter how much she manipulated him.

He hadn’t done well by his daughter. Her resemblance to Jewel, his sister, had always made him cool toward her. And that had been a mistake. Lyndred was the only member of his immediate family with enough Vision to lead the Fey. Black Blood did indeed run thin through him, and he was aware enough to know it.

The sun disappeared behind a cloud that loomed over the large stone buildings. It seemed like a sign. Better to take care of things. His daughter had waited long enough.

Bridge turned, and resisted the urge to go to his desk. Standing behind the solid mahogany, he would have a barrier between himself and this man—this boy—who believed he could marry into the Black Family. But Bridge needed no barrier to hide behind. Not in this instance.

So, he kept his hands clasped behind his back and raised his chin slightly, knowing the power the stance gave him. The older he had gotten, the more he looked like his grandfather: craggy features in leathery skin, black hair with just a touch of silver, a thin mouth that sometimes spoke of meanness. The main difference was in the eyes. Rugad’s eyes had a brilliance that Bridge’s never would. He had known that even as a boy, when he had seen his father stand beside his grandfather. The look of the Black Family was a uniform one—it was easy to see that the men were father and son—but his father’s eyes didn’t have that brilliant ruthlessness in them either. And that somehow dulled his features, made him seem like a lesser man, even though that was the only difference.

Bridge tried to will his grandfather’s forcefulness into his own expression now. He had to be doing pretty well, because the fop sitting next to his daughter cringed.

Bridge took a step forward. His daughter had chosen a typical Nyeian. The boy had pasty skin and no muscle tone. He wore his brown hair long, the edges just brushing the frilly white collar that accented the pallor of his face. He was dressed in the Nye formal style: a tight embroidered jacket over a white shirt that had ruffles on the neck and sleeves. His pants were velvet and were tucked into a pair of thigh-high boots with fringe at the top.

Lyndred sat beside him on a matching wooden chair, clutching one of his long hands in her own. She wore standard Fey warrior clothes: a simple leather jerkin over breeches, with her hair braided down her back, not because she wanted to, but because Bridge wouldn’t let her in the palace if she dressed like a Nyeian.

“Daddy,” she said again. “I thought you agreed to meet with us.”

“I agreed to meet with you,” he said.

She tilted her head slightly, like a cat examining him. She had the sharpness in her eyes, like his grandfather’s, like Jewel’s. Only unlike them, she didn’t use it. She seemed determined to live a normal Nye life: parties all evening, shopping all day, children trussed in three layers of clothing even on hot afternoons.

“Then you also agreed to meet with Rupert,” she said.

Rupert. What kind of name was that? It was a Nyeian name, one that wouldn’t work in battle, just like all the other Nyeian names he had heard. Percival, Rupert, Chauncey. He couldn’t imagine shouting those names in the heat of the moment.

Names were important things. The Fey had always known that, and had chosen their children’s names accordingly. Many Fey adopted the naming tradition of the conquered countries: Bridge and Jewel had been named according to the L’Nacin tradition of using descriptive words for names. But Bridge was aware that his name was symbolic as well and that part of the reason he had remained in Nye was to provide a bridge between the Fey on Galinas and on Blue Isle.

And eventually, his grandfather had hoped, on Leut.

Only now Arianna was not planning to go to Leut. Perhaps there never would be a bridge between the great continents of the world. Perhaps Blue Isle was where it would all end.

“I did not agree to meet with Rupert,” Bridge said. He inclined his head mockingly at the boy. The boy blinked at him, then looked away.

No spine, just as Bridge thought.

“I want to marry him, Daddy,” Lyndred said.

“Of course you do,” Bridge said. “But you will not.”

“Daddy, he’s from one of the best families in Nye.”

“The best families in Nye are not worthy of polishing our boots,” Bridge said, keeping his gaze on the boy. Color filled those pasty cheeks.
Stand up to me, boy, and maybe I’ll let the girl wallow in her own folly, make her understand that she is making her own mistake, always questioning my opinion.
He wondered if the boy had even considered standing up to the Fey ruler of Nye.

Probably not.

So much for the good family.

“You don’t understand,” Lyndred said.

“I understand too well.”

“You hate Nyeians.”

He turned his gaze to her. “There’s not enough about them to hate. At best I feel a mild contempt.” And then, because he could not help himself, he said, “Think you can overcome mild contempt, boy?”

Rupert raised his head. His eyes seemed bigger than they had a moment ago.

Of course not. The boy couldn’t even speak to his prospective father-in-law. This simply would not work, even if Bridge liked the boy, which he decidedly did not.

“Why do you want to marry this—Rupert?” Bridge asked.

Lyndred put her other hand over the one she had clasped in Rupert’s. “He’s good-looking and smart. We have great conversations, and we love to spend time together. We would be blending our houses, one of the best families on Nye and the Black Family, just like my aunt did on Blue Isle.”

“And you expect your children to be as special as your cousins.”

“It’s always good to mix Fey blood with new blood,” she said, repeating one of the tenets of Fey belief, one which had been born out in repeated conquerings. Mixing Fey blood with that of other races kept the magick strong.

“There’s a wild magick on Blue Isle,” Bridge said. “There’s nothing wild about Nye.”

“Everyone thought Blue Isle was a group of religious fanatics who would be easy to conquer. Maybe you’re as wrong about Nye.”

“You forget,” Bridge said softly. “We conquered Nye forty years ago. Easily.” He looked at Rupert. The boy kept his gaze downcast. What did she see in him anyway? “Your people rolled over quite quickly, Rupert.”

The boy jumped at the sound of his name.

“What makes you think you’re worthy of my daughter?” Bridge asked.

The boy raised his head again. He was beginning to remind Bridge of a badly whipped dog. Head up. Head down. Head up. Head down. He wondered if the boy would heel if he asked him to.

“I asked you a question,” Bridge said.

“I love her.” The boy’s voice broke midway through the sentence, as if he were still going through puberty.

“You love her,” Bridge said, his tone flat. “I suppose you have written her sonnets?”

“They’re lovely, Daddy.”

“Let him answer,” Bridge said, keeping that even tone.

“Yes,” Rupert said.

“And made her chocolate in the Nye tradition?”

“Yes.”

And you have written your own ballad to honor your love?”

“Yes.”

It took all of Bridge’s restraint to keep from rolling his eyes. “These things, then, make you a worthy candidate to become a member of my family?”

“Sir?” The boy was shaking. Lyndred held his hand tightly as if she were afraid he would bolt.

“You are asking to become part of the greatest family in the world. What do you bring to us besides love?”

“Sir, I—my family is one of the oldest on Nye. We have great wealth. An interest in the Bank of Nye. We—”

“I own the Bank of Nye,” Bridge said. “Just like I own the entire country. Fortunately for your family, the Fey believe in allowing people to continue holding property even after the Empire has taken over a city. Your wealth is on my sufferance, and I could take it in a heartbeat if I so chose. Now, what do you bring to my family?”

The boy opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again, like a fish. He looked at Lyndred, who for the first time, could not meet his gaze. Perhaps the boy loved her, and perhaps she was infatuated with him, but she knew the answer to the question her father was asking, and she knew the boy did not measure up.

“I am one of the greatest poets on Nye,” the boy said at last. “My family’s talent in the arts is beyond compare. We have always bred great poets.”

“And how will great poets help the Fey conquer Leut?” Bridge asked. “Will we have you all stand and recite your verse in the hope of boring the Leutians to death?”

“Daddy!” Lyndred said. “We’re not going on to Leut. Everybody knows that. Rupert’s family understands there’s more to life than war. He’ll bring us sophistication, and help us lose our roughness. He teach us how to be cultured.”

“Cultured,” Bridge said. He gazed at Rupert. “Cultured?”

“The Fey have no poetry and little music, and their art—”

“Our art is magick. Our poetry are battle stories, and our music battle cries,” Bridge said. “You want to narrow our focus, make us like Nyeians?”

“We know how to be peaceful.” The boy had some spunk in him after all.

“The Fey have not warred on anyone for fifteen years. We know how to be peaceful as well, but we do not lose our edge.”

“Daddy,” Lyndred said.

He held up his hand to silence her. The anger he had been holding back had finally come to the surface. “You do not bring anything of worth to my family,” he said to the boy. “You bring your Nyeian ways and think those are the only ways. You, with your silly name and your love poetry and your ‘interest’ in the bank of Nye. You have courted the cousin of the Black Queen of the Fey, and say you would bring culture to our family. Our family which has experienced more cultures than you can imagine. Our names reflect it. I am named in the L’Nacin tradition, and Lyndred in the Tashil tradition. I have lived in five countries, and have ruled this one for fifteen years. I know your culture, and I despise it.”

He spat out the last sentence, then took a step closer to the boy. The boy recoiled visibly. If he had been standing, he would have backed away until he hit the wall.

“You are not worthy of my daughter. You are not worthy of an audience with me. You are not worthy of ever coming near a member of this family again. Am I making myself clear?”

The boy swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

“You will destroy the love poetry you have written for my daughter, and you will never sing your ballad again.”

“Daddy!”