“I did not issue a search against your command, Prince Sadi.” The Queen of Ciraea may be pale but she does not tremble in the face of the Warlord Prince’s anger.

Such a foolish bitch, Daemon thinks. However, Phaedra is also technically correct in her statement. She did not send her guards to hunt down the band of rogues; they were lured. Or rather, Phaedra lured in one rogue dumb enough to challenge a Queen in the middle of a crowded street.

Daemon suspects, by the way the Steward continues to swallow nervousness, that there is more to the story than a simple victorious fight between the Queen’s guards and the now dead male.

He slips his hands into his trouser pockets and croons, “You will remove the body from the wharf, Lady. The display is crude.” He pauses before adding softly, “There are more efficient—” and subtler “—ways to inspire fear.”

Her lovely face twists into something dark and unappealing when she is pissed. “As you wish, Prince” is the smooth, cold reply.

He itches to eliminate her right then, bury her in a grave so deep no one will find it. The chill in the room warns all present not to push his temper. With an inherent feline grace, Daemon glides to the end of the large parlor. “Your Master of the Guard,” he asks, “where is he?”

The flicker in Phaedra’s eyes tells Daemon all that he needs to know.

“On Queen’s business.”

He can, of course, demand an explanation; instead, the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan accepts the answer with a gently brutal smile. Then he ends the meeting by walking out of the room.

Daemon leaves a trail of ice frosting the walkway as he strides to his Coach outside of the Queen’s residence. Once settled, with the door Black-locked and the driver given instructions, Daemon allows his body to fall into a deceptively relaxed pose. His eyes slip closed as he considers all the possible moves in Phaedra’s game.

The bitch has no idea against whom she plays. Daemon has spent most of his 1700 years cultivating and honing his technique in political games—in and out of the bedroom. He can bring down an entire Territory and none would be the wiser.

This is Kaeleer and here there is honor. He does not have to play the invisible opponent but years of subtlety and subterfuge are ingrained in him. Let Phaedra think she is safe. When the Queen moves her next pawn, she will meet with an army of one—and the Sadist will be pleased to finish the game.

Surreal slips her Jewel around her neck with a relieved sigh. She then checks that the knife in her boot is snugly in its sheath, grabs a jacket and heads downstairs.

Rainier is waiting in the main foyer. A light smile plays about his lips as she approaches. Surreal wonders how he can be so agreeable about their departure. Yesterday when she’d brought the subject up, he’d snarled that she wasn’t ready to leave the estate. Surreal had told him in no uncertain terms that he was welcome to stay if he so pleased but she was leaving for Ciraea, with or without him.

“Rainier?”

“Hmm?”

Surreal eyes him closely. Yes, the Warlord Prince reeks of suspicious behavior. Surreal opens her inner barriers slightly, sniffing out for other familiar dark psychic scents. She is even more confused when there are none.

“Let’s go.”

“Yes, Lady,” answers her companion. “The Coach is ready and—” Rainier calls in a picnic basket. “—the cook has prepared some traveling snacks.”

She peeks into the basket. “More like a buffet.” The cold spell on the food will keep it from spoiling until they are ready to eat.

Rainier grins as he vanishes the basket and presents his arm. She lightly rests her hand against his sleeve and they walk outside to the Coach. Her friend graciously holds the door open for her.

Surreal practically bounds into the Coach, ready to be away after three days of being cooped up and fussed over. A silky voice instantly stills her.

“Hello, darling.”

The witch stares at Daemon for a split second before snarling—with a small amount of Craft to enhance the sound, “Rainier!“

Rainier leans into sight from one step below her. “Surreal, you have to move before I can get in.” He looks pleased with himself. Her hand flexes once.

Daemon’s eyebrow rises. “I wouldn’t bother. I imagine that Rainer is shielded.”

She can get stab right through Rainier’s strongest shield but Surreal takes the hint. Instead she points at where Sadi’s ass is snuggled into the seat cushions and snaps, “You know I like the window seat.”

Her cousin smiles. “Yes, you do.” He resettles on the opposite side.

Well, that’s better than nothing. When everyone is finally situated and ready to depart, Rainier brings out the picnic basket without a word. He rummages for a brief moment and then presents her with a wrapped gift.

Peeling back the wrapping, Surreal snorts once and breaks off a piece of fudge. After she enjoys the taste of it, the witch informs the two males, “I hope you brought plenty.”

It turns out that they did.

Jakob’s brain does not comprehend the serious danger in which he has landed his family until the third sleepless night in a row. He is ensconced in a cheap, closet-sized room with a cot. It’s in the seedier side of Mist Falls and he wastes the dark hours before dawn listening to the sounds of people carousing on the streets below until the nightlife dies down and they find shelter indoors. When the man does fall into a lull, between the noises of the other occupied rooms, he relives the nightmare of his youth, feels again the careening of the Coach, splintering of wood against the stone of the bridge.

He sees the Steward, a man he’d considered a friend, and hears the whisper, “I’m sorry. May the Darkness forgive me.”

Jakob sits up with a shudder and scrubs both hands over his face. The cold splash of water has little effect. He feels like a spinning top in a child’s game—out of control and with little idea of when the world will settle. His plans have been smashed to pieces by a cruel twist of fate.

Lord Reed knows that he is alive. His mother, no doubt, now also knows that he is alive. Will she come for him? Yes. Will she be pleased when he is caught, his tongue cut out before he can cry foul, and punished as a nameless traitor to the Queen?

Oh yes—of that he is certain.

The man lives in a world of regret. When Jakob leaves the room to acquire a meal, the smell of fresh bread baking nearby strikes him hard. In those moments, the ache for the comfort of the Rose & Thorn Inn supersedes reason. He shouldn’t have left, should not have hurt Theia as he had. Jakob thinks of the only place he has called home in years and realizes that his need for vengeance has spoiled that safe place. He can never go back to the Inn, hear Ali’s teasing or feel the firm, understanding weight of Theia’s hand.

Hell, Jak even mourns the loss of Lawl, who is as much a fixture of the Inn as the rest.

And poor Whit, a kind-hearted young man like his mother, someone Jak considers to be an honorary little brother. Whit won’t forgive Jak now that he—

Shit.

Jakob jerks out of his morose mood.

Whit knows.

Whit is a Queen’s guard and Whit knows.

The sudden terror that Jakob experiences is not for himself; he is terrified for Theia’s son, an innocent, helpless man suddenly thrown to the wolves who are the Queen’s most trusted males. Whit won’t escape interrogation or the slicing of Nyx’s blade.

Jak’s stomach lurches.

They will cut into Whit as they did to Fallon. He swallows against the bile in the back of his throat as that painful memory bleeds into his thoughts like a freshly opened wound.

~

The young man had only one urgency driving him as he squeezed through the throngs of hushed people: Fallon, his Uncle Fallon, was going to die—will be executed for Jakob’s death when he, Jak, still lives.

He swore that on the day he returned to his mother’s home, the debt would be paid in full.

~

Jakob won’t stand by this time, too afraid to act. He won’t allow those that he loves to suffer in his name. Though he cannot save Whit without storming the Queen’s residence, he can, and will, save their family.

On the fastest Wind he can manage, Jak leaves Mist Falls. He does not stop for rest, driving onward and praying to the Darkness please, keep my family safe. Upon nearing the town, he drops from the Winds on the outskirts out of habit. A man involved in rogue business can never be too careful and knows not to use the regular landing webs to mark his coming and going. Jak slips onto the wharf of Havenstry through a roundabout way just as the shop-owners are unlocking doors and opening shutters. Some greet him by name with surprise on their faces.

When a hand catches his arm, interrupting a mad dash through the early morning risers, Jakob spins with a snarl twisting his mouth.

“Not that way, Prince,” the woman speaks quietly.

It is Moira. Jakob flicks a glance across the open street before hesitantly saying, “Lady?”

She urges him towards a narrow gap between shops. “Come!”

Because he trusts her, and because only a foolish man refuses the assistance of Black Widow, Jak follows Moira into the shadowed alleyways.

“We aren’t passing through Mist Falls?” It is a question rather than a statement.

“The Queen and I had a… conversation early this morning,” Daemon tells his second-in-command and his secretary.

“Bet she was thrilled,” mutters the witch.

He smiles.

Rainier eyes him, however. “I assume that she is still alive.”

“At the moment, yes.”

“Why?”

Despite the warning sleepy look in Daemon’s eyes, Rainier breathes deeply and repeats his question. After a heartbeat or two, the Sadist acknowledges the legitimacy of the inquiry and subsides.

“Two reasons. A significant contingency of her guards—including the Master of the Guard—are missing.”

The people sitting across from him take a moment to weigh the implications of his words. Then Surreal wants to know, “What’s the second reason?”

“The servants are occupied—packing.” A disgruntled footman carrying a large trunk had nearly avoided crashing into Daemon. The Warlord’s horror was plain once he had realized who he had almost flattened in his haste.

“Running?”

Daemon props his elbows on the armrests of his seat, steeples his fingers and rests long, black-tinted nails against his chin. “If Phaedra plans to relocate, then she does not intend to travel with her household.” At their questioning looks, he explains further. “There were several storage Coaches lined around the back of the residence but no passenger Coach or carriage.” He had sight-shielded and taken a stroll through the grounds before announcing his presence to demand a meeting with the Queen of Ciraea. Daemon has his own way of scoping a battlefield.

Surreal’s green-gold eyes are sharp and speculative. “So Phaedra moves her residence to another part of Ciraea and you turn your attention in that direction, chasing a dead end.”

“Precisely,” he purrs. “Which is why we will track the Master of the Guard rather than the obvious trail.”

Rainier’s expression is thoughtful. “Queen Phaedra knows that there is nowhere in Kaeleer she can go and not be ousted by a Court once word spreads. So why does she need to buy time if she is going to remain in Ciraea?”

“That, Prince,” Daemon confirms with hard gold eyes, “is what I intend to discover.” His following question is spoken in a deceptively gentle voice. “Does the name Jakob of Havenstry sound familiar?”

Surreal and Rainier share a look. The Gray-Jeweled witch asks, “Is this Jakob a Warlord Prince with a birthright Opal? Because I can think of one place to look.”

Interesting. Daemon says, “Explain.”

“Moira, I need to get the Inn! Theia and Ali—”

“There is danger,” agrees the witch.

Jakob tugs her to a stop. The Warlord Prince demands, “Where?”

“Not where but when, Prince” is the cryptic answer.

Jakob snarls, dissatisfied. “I don’t have time to unravel riddles, Lady. Queen’s guards are coming.”

“Yes,” she says quietly. He goes still when a hand reaches out and brushes soft fingertips against his face. “The Queen is coming.”

The words are foreboding and, more importantly, probably true. His mother will want personal assurance that he is dead—even if that means she has to leave the safety of her well-guarded palace to watch his blood spill.

Jakob pushes past the woman, intent on his destination. She says “Jakob” once, fiercely, and he swallows against the frustration straining to break free. Moira talks lowly, knowing that he will listen. “I warned you long ago that if you stayed on this path, others would suffer. The webs have not changed, Jak.”

“I know that I didn’t listen, Moira. You can’t understand why—”

“Reasons do not matter,” she says gently. “You cannot walk another road now. There is only one choice left and this, Prince Jakob, I urge you to make. When help comes, accept it.” She steps back. “If you refuse, all you love will burn.”

An icy dread grips his heart. Moira’s eyes travel the length of his body. She appears to come to some decision about him and nods once. Then the Black Widow points to the east and says, “Go. Tell Theia and her kin that my home is always open.”

Jakob turns and runs.

The moment the entrance to the Inn darkens with a newcomer, the psychic scent which filters in screams danger. Theia is not close enough to greet the guest but even from down the hall she can tell when a predator has arrived. The woman dismisses the kitchen maid and the young Warlord with whom the girl had been caught dallying in the laundry room. The pair beats a hasty retreat from her scolding.

The Mistress of the Rose & Thorn Inn casually removes her hands from her dress pockets as she approaches him. It is part of an early training for all Blood youth. Always allow the Warlord Prince to see that you are weaponless unless you purposefully intend to provoke an attack. Their caste is particularly volatile; the male will rise to the killing edge in a heartbeat—and just as easily step onto the killing field.

The man’s face is not entirely familiar but from the markings on his clothes she suspects his identity.

“Prince,” Theia greets. “How may I be of service?”

The man’s hard eyes flicker from her to the shadows of the long hallway. If he anticipates trouble then Theia has little doubt that he is prepared, has not come alone. She does not make the mistake of showing her suspicion or unsettled nerves. When he finally speaks, the Warlord Prince is gruff. “Are you Lady Theia?”

She inclines her head. “Yes.”

He makes an aborted gesture with his hand, as if he is used to signaling when he talks. “I am Nyx, Master of the Guard of the Queen of Ciraea.” He falls back into silence. Not a moment later, the double doors to the inn swing open. So, there are others to answer his summons. Two properly attired Queen’s guards walk in with a man between them.

Theia inhales sharply, tightening her inner barriers against a mother’s natural cry. They won’t have the satisfaction of seeing or scenting her distress. Theia walks quietly past the tall, stoic guest and lifts the fourth man’s face in her hands.

“Whit,” she says softly. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, Ma.” Words whispered to her.

“Are you hurt?” His subdued reaction strikes terror into her very core.

Whit shakes his head in the negative. His eyes, usually full of boyish pleasure, are frightened and pained. When they catch hers, they insistently trying to convey an unspoken plea that she is unable to understand.

Theia looks directly at the unwanted and unwelcome man, then, standing close to the reception desk. “Prince Nyx.” It is a mother’s and a witch’s warning.

“Lady.”

“Why are you here?”

His smile is amused and ugly. “We’re looking for a man that your son knows. That you know, Lady.”

“We know most of the folks in this town,” she doesn’t quite snap. It would be better if she can resist challenging the Queen’s Master of the Guard. Theia simply wants to get her son away from these men.

“A rogue.” Something dark flashes across that scarred face. “You know a rogue… by the name of Prince Jakob.”

On the inside she is trembling. One son already caught in the hands of potential butchers; another son, hunted. This is what she had feared from the beginning, since she discovered that Jakob’s nightly wanderings were related to the illegal activity throughout Ciraea.

The woman pulls back her shoulders. “If there is something you wish to discuss, Prince, then I will be pleased to comply in private… and once you have released my son.”

“Very well. Let him go, men.” Those cold eyes never leave Theia’s face. “If the pup acts against any order, kill him. Now. You and I, we will speak.”

“Ma!”

“Hush, Whit,” she tells her child. “The Master of the Guard abides by the Law as we all do.” She silently dares Prince Nyx to deny that claim.

The dangerous man simply replies, “I obey my Queen.”

“Then I pray that your Queen is a fair woman.” With those last words, Theia turns on her heel and leads the way farther into the Rose & Thorn Inn. The enemy follows.

The Coach stops at the landing web rather than continuing to maneuver into the riverside town of Havenstry. Rainier shoots Surreal an expression that reads this can’t be good. Daemon has stilled, his eyes gaining a faraway look that indicates he is communicating via a psychic thread. Then Sadi gives them both a sharp verbal command of “Stay.” He exits the Coach, hands tucked in trouser pockets, and Surreal is mightily tempted to peek out of the doorway after him. As if on cue, a Black shield encompasses the Coach, successfully trapping the Warlord Prince’s second-in-command and secretary until Sadi allows them to leave.

The beautifully cold man returns some minutes later. His expression causes them to snap skintight shields into place.

“Sadi?” Surreal asks softly.

“Prince,” the Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince addresses his secretary—and another Warlord Prince trained to kill, “I want you and Lady Surreal to find a discreet way into the Rose & Thorn Inn.”

“Daemon.” Surreal puts a hint of a snarl into her voice.

When those glazed gold eyes fix on her, she meets them with a hard look of her own. The tension in Daemon dissipates. “There are check-points around the landing webs in Havenstry. The driver contacted me as soon as we were to be detained for inspection.”

She narrows her eyes. “Then Phaedra already has men here. What did they say?”

Daemon shifts, then, so fluidly and without apparent purpose that Rainier stiffens by Surreal’s side. It is the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan who smiles gently and says, “The two guards were very informative. It seems that we have stumbled upon the missing pawn in Phaedra’s game.”

“The Master of the Guard,” Rainier inputs.

“Yes. Prince Nyx is one step ahead of us—at the Rose & Thorn Inn.”

Though she should know better by now, Surreal still asks. “The guards talked?”

Daemon’s smile turns malevolent. The Sadist purrs, “What makes you think I bothered to ask?”

She lets the rest of her questions go.

Rainier clears his throat. “If we are going to slip into the inn, where will you be?”

Daemon half-turns and releases the Black shield around the Coach. He tells them both, “I will be walking through the front door.” Then Daemon steps from the Coach and vanishes in broad daylight.

They exit to the sight of the pale Coach driver nervously wringing his hands. Surreal takes a quick look around, gaze traveling to the distant rows of buildings. She tells the Warlord Prince at her side, “Looks like I’ll get to kill someone after all.”

Rainier gives no reply.

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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