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“Why does Marian put up with you?” Surreal SaDiablo growls as she is escorted into the family estate bordering Ciraea.
“I can’t answer that question, witchling,” Lucivar Yaslana replies.
The witch continues grumbling. Lucivar twitches his wings in amusement.
“You could have at least let me stay at the inn, you ass.”
“Prick,” he corrects mildly. “It’s better if you stay here.”
Surreal hadn’t taken kindly to the announcement that she would be retiring to the estate for the duration of her moontime. But Daemon, Lucivar, and Rainier had set their heels down and wouldn’t be budged on the decision. Eventually Lucivar had gotten tired of arguing with her so he had used Craft to float her down the Rose & Thorn Inn’s steps and into a Coach, which he had then Ebon-gray-locked.
She had cursed and spat the whole time. Inn servants had lingered around corners, smart enough to stay a careful distance away from the danger zone but unwilling to pass up good entertainment.
Surreal hadn’t been pleased either when Lucivar made her apologize to Rainier for smacking him when he had sided with her male cousins. Rainier, of course, took both the smacking and apology with more grace than Lucivar would have. Perhaps the Opal-Jeweled Warlord Prince knows that Surreal will regret her actions later—when she isn’t uncomfortable from the pain of her moontime and not being able to use Craft.
Lucivar settles Surreal upstairs in a suite of rooms and informs her that if she is a good little witchling, she can have a sweet treat with her dinner. Luckily, the skintight shield he wears prevents any real damage from the viciously thrown stiletto.
The Eyrien descends the staircase, grins at the wide-eyed butler and calls in a jar of a particular moontime brew that Lucivar knows Surreal likes.
It’s going to be a fun couple of days.
“Nyx?”
“Lord Reed, your presence is requested by the Queen.”
The Steward carefully sets down his pen and stands up. He follows the Master of the Guard to the Queen in silence.
Phaedra stands tall, a regal figure in her expensively cut gown. She addresses Reed. “Warlord, I have a task for you.”
He bows, a hand fisted over his heart. “My life is yours to do with as you will, my Queen.”
Her eyes hold cold approval. “The Queen’s Coach is prepared for a short journey to the river.”
“You wish for a trip, Lady? I can arrange for the household to move to another estate, if you desire different quarters.”
She smiles then. “No, that shall not be necessary. You will ride in the Coach, dear.”
It takes him a moment too long to understand what she is suggesting. “A ploy?” he asks.
“An opportunity, Reed, for those who are disloyal to make themselves known. There have been certain… rumors of attack by the rogues. Am I not correct, Prince?”
The Steward takes a quick glance at the Master of the Guard. Nyx is blank-faced and looking at no one. His answer is brief. “Yes, my Queen.”
Reed looks into Phaedra’s eyes and tells her, “Understood. I will serve to the best of my ability.”
She tells him in return, “Have no fear for your life. Nyx has arranged a guard detail to keep you safe.”
He murmurs his thanks.
Once dismissed and alone, Reed admits to himself that Phaedra and Nyx won’t grieve if he ends up dead. Well, at least now he knows that above all else, Nyx chooses his Queen.
Sadly, Reed too has chosen his Queen over honor. And tomorrow he goes to his very probable death.
“Why’s the Queen leaving so soon? She doesn’t take her spring trip until next month.”
“Who cares? All I know is that her jollying around is another season’s tithes wasted. I hope she don’t come back!”
“The Queen’s coming! Mama, the Queen’s coming to Mist Falls!”
“I heard that the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan is going to dismiss her. Could she be running? I’d run too, if Sadi were after me.”
Jakob hears these snatches of conversation; they set him on edge. The carefully worded reminder to stay quiet should have reached Eyan by now. He trusts that the man has sense enough not to disregard it.
People are chattering and pointing, large numbers of them teeming on the sidewalks. Jak leans against a streetlight. He observes. Mounted Queen’s men march down the street. The Queen is traveling to the wharf of Mist Falls. A lavish, large white Coach can be seen in the distance. It is heavily guarded. Jakob thinks then, quite suddenly, of Whit; the young man must be among the ranks.
Jak swallows the lump in his throat. Theia had been so proud when her son was accepted into the Seventh Circle of Phaedra’s Court.
He shifts uneasily. Something doesn’t feel right. Why would the Queen make a public announcement of her intentions to travel?
His instincts scream trap!
So far he has not caught any tell-tale currents of rancor or harmful intention among the growing crowds. And may the Darkness be merciful, he has not seen any familiar faces in the crowd. If one of his men were captured, it would end badly for all involved.
Jak knows with certainty that if given the chance, he would kill a friend rather than let him be taken into interrogation.
Whatever plan the Queen is enacting, in hopes to catch them, none of the rogues will take the bait. Jakob pulls the floppy hat lower to obscure his face. The Coach is close to passing by. So close. Just when the horses’ hooves are clattering on the stone, clop-clop-clop, and the rattle of the Coach wheels are drowned by the talk of people, he scents trouble.
Before Jakob can identify a direction, a Craft-enhanced shout cries out “For Ciraea!” There is a robed man in the middle of the street, arm raised.
A blast of Green-Jeweled power rams into the side of the Coach. People scream, horses spook and guards shout orders. The attacker takes off into the crowd.
Jakob fights through the throngs to follow. The attacker heads for the long, narrow alleys. Jakob veers onto a different path, intent on intervening.
He bursts around a corner, seeing the haze of a sight shield not strong enough to hide from the Sapphire, and catches a handful of the dark robe, yanking the man into a side alley.
He slams the man into the stoned wall and yanks back the hood. Stares.
A knife hits his Sapphire shield and slides away.
“Charon, you son of a whoring bitch!“
The fighting male hesitates. Jakob reveals himself.
“Jakob?”
“Damn you! Of all the stupid—”
Charon shoves him backwards. “Shut up. I did what I had to.”
“It’s a trap—”
There is the sound of booted feet and clanging swords. They both hush.
*Charon, it was a trap. I doubt the Queen was even in that Coach. Now they’ll hunt you until you’re carrion strung up on a post.*
When Charon looks at him, Jak cannot shake the surprise at the hot anger he sees in the Warlord’s face. *I am willing to die, Prince.*
*Charon, don’t be a fool-*
But Charon ignores him and steps out of the alley. Jakob can feel the Green power building, can feel the call of battle that Charon sends out in psychic waves.
Jak grits his teeth, stuck between joining Charon and keeping to the shadows.
The guards enter the alley. Jakob wonders if Charon plans to obliterate everyone, himself included. Then he catches the dark feel of a wall of power woven in front of the guards. His stomach drops. What kind of spell—? Shit!
*Charon, no!*
Charon unleashes the Green. The power slams into the spelled web. There is loud snap and it bounces, creating a terrible backlash. That raging power, somehow fueled by the web, breaks through Charon’s Green shield and keeps coming. Jakob tries to ride it out, instinctively letting the power flow through him rather than fighting against it.
It is possible that he blacks out for a moment.
Lord Charon staggers, face white. His defenses are gone. A command sounds, an order to…
*Charon!*
Jakob doesn’t think, just plunges out of the alley and into the fight. But he is too late. There is a scream of pain and the Warlord crumples to the ground. Jakob hears a roar of defiance, of denial, only distantly recognizes that it is coming from him. He senses that the guards’ protection spell has broken and throws a bolt of Sapphire power in their direction, catching them unawares and causing a brief retreat.
When Jak drops to the ground, to Charon, and turns the man over, he already knows that the Warlord is dead. There is a gaping hole is in Charon’s chest and his wide eyes are sightless. The sounds of shouting, cursing, and the smell of raw power grows dim; the scent of blood sharpens.
The Warlord Prince in Jakob howls to be unleashed. He closes Charon’s eyes and stands up. Those who have regained their footing see him and hesitate. He growls lowly.
There is uncertain shifting of bodies and slowly, so slowly, one of the guards raises his blade in challenge. Jakob widens his stance, feeling Sapphire power thrum through him, straining.
The guard is saying “Identify yourself, Prince. Do you stand against the Queen?”
“Yes,” he answers coldly.
“Remove your Jewels and—”
“No!“
A cry from someone Jak knows well. Whit.
Hell’s fire. He can’t kill Whit. Before anyone can move, Whit has placed himself between the guards and Jakob. “Stand down,” orders the young man desperately. “I know this man! He’s not—”
“Whit,” Jakob calls quietly.
The young man, a brother to him, half-turns to the Warlord Prince. He is sweating, pale. “Please, I don’t know why you’re here but you can’t mean it. Tell them.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Whit, I am a rogue.” The horrified realization on Whit’s face is like a knife in the gut.
“Step aside, Whit,” says one of the Queen’s guards. “We have to take him in.”
Jakob takes a step back, nostrils flaring. “You won’t,” he says quietly. “If I have to kill you in order to walk away, then that’s what I’ll do. I won’t warn you again.”
Whit’s hands are trembling as he steps closer to Jakob and reaches out to touch him. “Jakob, I-I serve the Queen. I can’t let you go.”
There is an ache in his chest, because of the pain in Whit’s face. He doesn’t blame the man for his misplaced loyalty; but Jak won’t have the chance to tell him that either.
Just when Jakob is about to break from Whit’s hold, another Warlord pushes to the front of the guards.
“Jakob?”
The whisper of his name from that voice, that familiar voice, freezes the Warlord Prince where he stands.
Whit looks relieved that Jakob is not fighting; he looks sick too, but that cannot be helped.
A man—a face—that Jakob has not seen in person for over a hundred years, except in his nightmares, is staring at him. Someone gasps. He can’t tell if it was him or the Warlord.
They lock eyes. “Mother Night” is the horrified whisper.
It’s then that Jakob’s brain restarts. He takes advantage of Whit’s loosened grip and wrenches against it before slamming his fist with a small burst of Opal into Whit’s stomach. Whit sprawls with a cry. There isn’t a moment to apologize.
Jak throws up a Sapphire shield to block the powered attacks of the other guards and bolts. Somewhere behind him is a distant cry of “Don’t kill him!”
Jakob doesn’t stop running. He uses the last of his waning power to wrap a sight shield around his body and slips from shadow to shadow, alley to alley—not sure where he is going and not caring.
He can’t be caught.
He can’t see that face again. It’s too soon. He’s been found too soon.
Finally, after what seems a long period of time, Jakob crashes from the streets into the dockyard of Mist Falls. The sound of pursuit has long since died away, but his heart still pounds like a drum.
The man collapses to his knees in a dark corner.
No.
Lord Reed, his mind whispers back.
No.
Now he knows, Jakob, that small voice says—that harsh voice which has been pushing him all these years towards revenge.
And soon, so will your mother.
“A body?” Sadi repeats too softly.
“Yes,” Rainier answers. “It was tied to the back of the Queen’s Coach and dragged through Mist Falls to the Queen’s residence.” He swallows hard and clenches his jaw in memory. “The guards wouldn’t have done that for any plain criminal. It was a rogue.” Rainier had left Mist Falls as quickly as possible thereafter, slipping away unnoticed in the commotion, general shock and horror permeating the air as the guards rode triumphantly down the street after the kill.
There is a long cold silence from Sadi.
Rainier waits, unable to leave the room until Daemon dismisses him, but also afraid that if he does leave, there will be no buffer between the Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince’s rage and the innocent people in this inn.
Phaedra has defied a specific, witnessed order from the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. She now has no hope of ruling even the smallest backwater town—of that, Rainier feels certain; however, if Daemon is in a truly bad mood, then the consequences for Phaedra will be much, much worse.
Finally, Sadi speaks. “I need to send a message to Yaslana. It must be delivered promptly.”
“Yes, Prince.” Rainier bows, relieved, and turns to exit the room.
“Rainier.”
He pauses.
“Thank you for telling me.”
Rainier tilts his head in acknowledgment. “I serve” is his gentle reply.
Lucivar steps through the open door to Surreal’s sitting room, the witch eyeing him irritably from her position on the couch, when a spear thread stops him in his tracks. *Prince Yaslana, a message has arrived for you.*
*I’m coming.*
“Lucivar?”
“Just a minute. Here.” He calls in another blanket and uses Craft to float over to Surreal. “Tuck yourself in.” Then he turns around and goes back to the first floor.
The butler hands him the message. He breaks the seal and reads it. It is from Daemon.
Queen’s guards have killed a rogue. I sent Rainier your way. Keep Surreal there.
His wings rustle. A storm is coming.
Lucivar vanishes the note and turns to face the witch behind him—had known she was here.
“Do you need me?” Surreal asks softly.
Lucivar plants his fist against a wall. “Go back upstairs, Surreal.”
She ignores him, descends the last three steps on the staircase. “Does Daemon need me?”
His face is hard. “It’s still your moontime. So I’ll give you a choice, little witch. Either you let me take care of things, or I’ll escort you to the Keep and lock you in a room with Rainier.”
Her face smoothes, becomes equally hard. “Do you like your balls, Yaslana?”
“Don’t fight me, Surreal. Daemon wouldn’t thank either of us if you end up hurt.”
“I can defend myself,” she snarls.
“I know that,” he answers softly. “But right now, in a fight, you’ll be a distraction and not a help.”
She says nothing for a moment. Then, “Two days. Then I’ll return to Ciraea.”
His smile is lazy and arrogant. “Three days, and I won’t even complain if you miss a scheduled nap.”
Surreal sputters. “You call that a compromise?”
He pushes away from the door, wings spread. “Can you make it back up the stairs, or would like me to carry you?”
Her muttered response is nothing pleasant. “Fine. When Rainier gets here, tell him I said it’s okay to beat your brains in.”
The Eyrien tilts his head at her, baring his teeth in a smile. He watches her disappear to the upper floor, waits a heartbeat before contacting his brother. *Has Rainier left?*
The thought comes back to him instantly. *Yes. Surreal?*
*She didn’t knife me. But we’re probably going to have to let her kill someone before this is over.*
*I’m sure there will be volunteers.* A pause. *Lucivar?*
Lucivar sends a hint of concern along the spear thread. *Bastard. Tell me what I can do.*
*I have a message I need to get to Jaenelle.*
*Done.*
*Thank you.*
*Daemon, take care of yourself.*
*I love you too, Prick.*
Lucivar rubs at the back of his neck and stops pacing the length of the hallway. He figures Rainier won’t arrive for another two hours, so arranging a meal in the meantime will be welcome. Deciding on this course of action eases his restlessness.
Now to see about riling the witch upstairs. It might not improve Surreal’s mood, but it will do wonders for his.
Not long after, when Surreal is to the point of throwing pillows—and luckily not her stiletto—at Lucivar who smacks them away with a snap of his wings, Rainier arrives. The man takes one look between the grumpy witch and Lucivar, and hauls Lucivar out of the room.
“She’s supposed to be resting,” Rainier says. His words border challenging.
“I’m tiring her out,” the Eyrien replies. “If she’s tired, she will be easier to coax later.”
Rainier blinks. “Okay.” Then he calls in a box. It has a Red seal on it, one that Lucivar could easily break, but he senses the other spells woven into the seal as well. Spells that could only be done by a Black Widow and undone by a Black Widow.
He takes the box with care. “For Cat?”
Rainier nods.
Lucivar vanishes it. “Then I had better get this to her.”
They both turn their heads to the sitting room at the loud annoyed “Rainier?”
Lucivar’s smile turns into a grin. “Have fun, Prince.”
Rainier’s expression indicates otherwise. Lucivar leaves him to the testy Surreal without a moment’s guilt.
“I am pleased with Nyx,” Phaedra says as soon as Reed slips through her private sitting room door. She is facing a mirror, a jeweled hand rearranging her carefully coiled hair.
“Phaedra.” His heart is pounding. How can she not hear it? How could she not see how troubled he was earlier, when he requested a private audience? He’d almost been ill when the dead rogue had been dumped on the foyer of the Queen’s residence. Even now, an hour later, his stomach still churns.
“The body must be put on display in the courtyard. No,” she pauses. “Not the courtyard. Have it strapped to the docks of Mist Falls. I want everyone to see the fate of traitors.”
“Phaedra…”
“Do we know his identity yet?”
“No, Lady, but I must speak of another matter.”
“Oh, what is it, Reed?” she snaps. The woman who faces him is displeased.
“Please sit down, Phae.”
She stares at him for too long before retiring to the settee. Reed slowly walks to her, his Queen, and kneels.
“There was another rogue, one we didn’t catch.”
“It does you no good to speak to me of failure” is the Queen’s icy response.
“It was Jakob.”
Silence. Phaedra seems frozen in time, her face at first blank and then slowly drained of color.
“No.” The denial has a faint, painful echo.
“I saw him.”
“No!” She gasps then, like a dying woman. Her hands go to his face, clutch at him.
“Phae…”
Her hands tighten, nails sharp. He goes still, her terror battering at his psychic shields. The potency of it makes him sway.
She whispers, “Are you sure? It was… Jak?”
The Warlord closes his eyes. “Yes. I… He recognized me too, Phae. And he—looks so much like you and—”
“Stop. Please, that’s enough.” Phaedra releases him, her hand shaking as she touches her brow. “Oh Reed, how? After all this time… It’s not possible! He’s dead,” she states flatly.
“We never recovered the body.”
Her eyes squeeze shut. “What can we do?” It sounds so lost.
Reed swallows.
His Queen breathes deeply. Then her body finally seems to obey her command and returns to a calmness that surprises Reed. Unnerves him.
Her words are equally disturbing. “Get rid of him.”
“Phae?”
When she finally opens her eyes again, they are resolute. The Steward shudders. “It should have been done years ago. We were so careful. I was so sure—” She stands. “No, don’t worry about this. I’ll handle it myself, as I should have.”
His heart lurches. “No, Phae, you can’t—”
“It is out of your hands, Warlord. Now leave me. I must… rest.” She is cold, so cold.
His mouth is dry but he manages to say, “Yes, Lady.” Reed pauses at the open door, says, “I am sorry, Phaedra.”
She gives no reply.
Jaenelle folds the paper and vanishes it along the box that Lucivar brought. It is Witch who tells him, “Inform the Prince that his request has been heard and accepted.”
Lucivar nods. He steps back and bows precisely as Protocol dictates.
Then his sister is back again and watching him carefully. “How is Daemon?”
“He misses you and that makes him pissier than usual.”
“I miss him too.”
Lucivar snorts. “Don’t expect me to kiss him for you, Cat.”
She grins.
Then he narrows his eyes and focuses on her. “Is there anything I should be aware of?”
She blinks at him. “Like what?”
“What did you do to make Father so grumpy?”
Jaenelle’s unsure-but-game smile makes him stare. Perhaps asking was not the wisest course of action. Now that he takes a moment to think, he’d rather not know what his darling sister has been up to.
“Papa was helping me with a spell and, well, we didn’t get the results we expected.”
“Oh.”
“Now that you’re here…”
Lucivar backs up, grinning. “And now I’m leaving.”
“But Lucivar!”
“Cat, I like all parts of me just where they are.” Her look of confusion is kind of cute. “And whatever spell you are attempting might change that.”
Her lips purse. “Lucivar, I haven’t blown anyone up in ages.”
“Uh-huh. And have you remembered to tell your husband about that incident?”
Her blush is answer enough.
“Then you don’t ask me to participate, and I keep my mouth shut.”
She eyes him. “Deal.”
“Good. Now let’s go find Father and cheer him up.”
“How are we going to do that?”
“The usual method—arguing until he pitches us out of his study.”
Her silvery, velvet-coated laugh eases some of his tight muscles. Linked arm-in-arm, they go in search of Saetan.
The pup’s head hangs low. Reed almost feels sorry for him—to be caught in this position. But the Queen demands answers.
“How long have you known this… Jakob?”
The guard is Seventh Circle, a nobody. Reed can see the fear in those eyes. “How did you know his name?” asks the young man.
“That’s what you called him.” Nyx’s gravelly tone is full of disgust. “I’ve listened to all the reports, boy, and they say the same thing. You let him get away!” snarls the Master of the Guard.
The guard is pale. “I-I didn’t! I couldn’t! He’s my brother!“
Reed sucks in a sharp breath. “Your… brother? By blood?”
At the other male’s sudden reluctance to answer, Reed gestures to Nyx. When the Warlord Prince calls in a wicked, long-bladed knife, Whit—that’s his name, Reed notes—makes a terrified noise.
“No!”
“No, what?” asks the Steward gently.
“No, he’s not my brother by blood,” answers the man.
“Ah.” Reed leans back in his chair across from the guard being questioned. “You will, of course, supply me with all the details.” Meeting Whit’s eyes, he holds his gaze and says, “And, Lord Whit, you must not lie to me. If you do, you will not only be branded a traitor to the Queen, but we could… misunderstand your family’s involvement with the rogues.”
He purposefully glances to the towering figure of Nyx, who waits in the shadows of the interrogation room.
“Things might go ill for those who are innocent. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Lord Reed” is the whisper.
“Good. Now begin.”
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Related Posts:
- [BJT Big Bang] The Rogue of Ciraea (masterpost) – from March 5, 2011
- The Rogue of Ciraea – Preface – from March 3, 2011
- The Rogue of Ciraea – Epilogue – from January 29, 2011
- The Rogue of Ciraea – Chapter Six (2/2) – from January 23, 2011
- The Rogue of Ciraea – Chapter Six (1/2) – from January 18, 2011
