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“I demand that you release me!”
“Do you?” Prince Sadi presses his right hand against the wall adjacent to the door and embeds a Red shield into the wood. Neither the Queen nor her Master of the Guard are strong enough to pass through it. He decides to reserve the power of his Black jewels for the finer points of the punishment he has planned—and to set Jaenelle’s spell into motion.
Daemon passes through the door, only pausing in the hallway to listen to the sounds of Phaedra’s rage. He then adds an aural shield to spare the rest of the Inn from listening to her.
Surreal waits for him at the bottom of the staircase. Her mouth is curved with a sweet maliciousness. “Is the bitch settled?”
He returns her smile. “Yes, and quite unhappy about it.”
Some of the tension in his back eases when she links her arm through his.
“I’m sure the staff have had their fill of Lucivar by now,” the witch reminds him.
He imagines so.
When Lady Theia exits the main dining area, Lucivar notices the other presence the moment the door leading into the kitchen swings on its hinges. He is a warrior, born and bred, and has honed his innate sense for locating a potential killing field. While a normal man may listen to the pull on his gut, Lucivar tastes the currents of the air. He does not know why that works for him but he has long since learned to trust his instincts.
So when he feels a sense of there, the Ebon-gray Jeweled Warlord Prince usually follows without hesitation.
This time, however, Lucivar Yaslana stays at the bar, alert and waiting for a hint of female distress. When no warning comes, he draws a conclusion that curves the corners of his mouth.
Another player is entering the game.
Eyriens enjoy physical challenges more than most, and Lucivar is no exception.
He is not disappointed. After a few minutes, a grim-faced young man walks out of the kitchen and elicits an array of reactions from the occupants of the tavern.
The Prince seated at the table pales and whispers “Jak, you idiot.” Behind the bar, the Warlord’s busy hands still in the task of wiping down a freshly washed wineglass. Rainier, who has been engaged but relaxed, stiffens and drops his hands to his sides, loosening his muscles for a quick attack. That, at the very least, pleases Lucivar. The Warlord Prince remembers his training—not that Lucivar didn’t take the extra care and opportunity to show Rainier why the technique was important to remember.
The newcomer ignores the other males and focuses on the most threatening person in the room.
Him.
Lucivar gives the Warlord Prince his lazy, arrogant smile. “So you’re the troublemaker Daemon is after.”
The man’s throat works a moment before he speaks. “Yeah, that’s me.”
Lucivar’s eyes harden when the male subtly shifts his weight.
“Boyo,” he warns, “I wouldn’t try anything stupid—well, beyond what you’ve already done. You come at me, I will rip you apart.”
“Wasn’t planning on it,” mutters the Warlord Prince. “I… want to turn myself in. No fighting.”
The Eyrien leans back and considers that request. “I’m not the law in the Dhemlan.” Despite that he is the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih, the ground under his feet is not his territory and that means certain Protocol is required of Prince Yaslana.
Fortunately, Lucivar has never been one for following rules. He opts for taking an accurate measure of the rogue.
Using Craft to float a free stool next to the bar, he orders, “Sit down.”
Prince Jakob eases onto the stool with caution, as though he expects Lucivar to change his mind about their non-violent introduction. Lucivar hides a smile behind his mug of ale.
“A drink for the Prince,” he directs to the bartender.
While the Warlord has sense enough to do as he asks but that doesn’t stop Jakob from staring at Lucivar like he has grown a second head. “What’s your game?”
Lucivar calls in his warblade and sets it beside his half-full mug. “I’ll ask questions and you’ll answer. If you refuse to answer, I’ll start breaking bones. If I don’t like your answer, I’ll use the blade. Fair enough?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not this time.”
“Then what do you want to know?”
Lucivar fixes his gold eyes on Jakob. “Why are you turning yourself in?”
Whatever question Jakob was expecting, the one Lucivar asked isn’t it. The pup’s mouth drops open. “Excuse me?”
The Eyrien has plenty of time. He takes a sip of ale and repeats the question.
Jakob says, resignation in his eyes, “I have people to protect.”
“Who?”
“My family.”
Lucivar glances over to the quiet and frightened Prince. Then he looks pointedly at the door Jakob came through. “The lady?”
Jakob nods. “Among others. The Master of the Guard has my brother Whit.”
“They collaborated to keep you hidden,” he guesses.
“No!” insists the young man fiercely. “It was me. Just me. They were never involved.”
“They are involved now,” Lucivar tells him softly, “because they are your family. There isn’t a way around that.”
“That doesn’t mean they have to die!”
Stupid men always have to learn the hard way. “That, too, isn’t your call. Who will you name?”
“Name?” repeats the male dumbly.
“The other rogues. You realize that by handing over your life, you are offering up theirs too.”
The Prince behind them makes a strangled noise.
Jakob’s skin lightens to a faint grey. “I—I can’t do that.”
“Mm,” says Lucivar. “Not much choice. I doubt my brother will bother to ask.”
He lets the implication of his words ripen. When Jakob has the look of a man about to puke his guts, Lucivar uncaps a flask, empties a generous amount of its contents into Jakob’s mug, and thrusts the mug into the man’s trembling hands.
“Drink it.”
The brew is gulped and some color comes back into Jakob’s face. “I don’t understand. Why are you telling me this? You aren’t going to let me go.”
“No,” he agrees, “I won’t. You made your choice when you executed the first theft. Everything has a price.”
Jakob swallows. “You haven’t asked why I went rogue.”
“Chances are that it won’t matter.” Lucivar runs a finger around the edge of his warblade. “Every rogue has a reason. Some reasons are honorable; some aren’t.” He pulls in a sharp breath of memory. “I’ve seen both.”
“Prince Yaslana understands the consequences of disobedience,” a silky voice inserts smoothly into their conversation. Daemon is lounging against the entrance of the tavern, his eyes sleepy. Surreal guards the opposite side, a hand curled around her trademark stiletto.
Lucivar narrows his eyes in his brother’s direction. “About time you joined us, Bastard.”
Sadi smiles. “Prick. I am aware that we have our differences, but sharing a drink with the enemy? You might want to re-evaluate your strategy.”
Lucivar snorts. “Too easy to kill him. Besides, I wouldn’t want to step on your toes.”
Daemon glides over to them. “Smart man.”
“Sometimes.”
The Eyrien watches as his brother focuses on the other Warlord Prince. Daemon’s “Jakob” has a familiar pitch that sends a chill running down his spine.
Like a man defeated, Jakob stands slowly, almost positive that he wants to close his eyes rather than see the death blow. The casual banter between Prince Sadi and Prince Yaslana does nothing to ease the roiling of his gut.
“Prince,” he forces past the tightness of his throat.
“I would say that I appreciate you saving me the effort of the hunt,” Sadi says casually, “but I am rather disappointed. This won’t be as… entertaining.”
Oh, Jakob seriously doubts that.
He works to keep his voice calm. “Sorry for the inconvenience.” He pauses. “I have some conditions before I let you kill me.”
Sadi raises an eyebrow and Prince Yaslana turns a look on him that clearly reads you are dumber than I thought. “I ran from the Queen’s men for a reason. I won’t kneel to Phaedra, not in service and in repentance. That stands.”
For the first time, Jakob looks over to Eyan. The man has a white-knuckled grip on the edge of his table. He speaks of his second condition as he meets Eyan’s frightened gaze. “As the leader, I take full responsibility for the raids.” He turns back to Sadi. “Make an example of me but let the rest of my men go.”
The Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince slips hands into his trouser pockets. His voice is bitterly cold. “You once accused me of indifference. Now you request it of me. You are a fool.”
Jak feels trapped by that sleepy, bored look, unable to look away. Mother Night, how did things spiral so far out of his control?
He decides that he has nothing left to lose by speaking until Sadi decides to take his tongue. “I meant my words,” he admits softly. “When was the last time you visited this province? When was the last time Ciraea meant more to you than a name on paperwork?”
In the background, Eyan makes a small noise that might be the warning shut up. But Jakob can’t stop talking now; there won’t be another chance. “What did you expect us to think—to expect of you?” He knows how bitter his words sound. “Ciraea couldn’t wait until it climbed to the top of your list. Phaedra was crushing us.” He says simply, “You are welcome to strip me of my Jewels or my life, but do not touch my family—or my men.”
Sadi is silent as he takes one step back, pivots on the ball of his foot, and glides away with a feline grace.
When Jakob realizes that Sadi is aiming for Eyan, he leaps forward but is dragged back by Prince Yaslana’s bruising grip on his arm. “Leave him alone! He has nothing to do with this!”
That croon scares the shit out of Jakob. “He is a rogue.”
Eyan stays absolutely still in the face of a predator. When the Prince bows his head under Sadi’s glittering stare, Jakob feels like he has taken a blow to his own gut.
“Your leader asks for your pardon,” the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan says. “Tell me why I should consider it.”
The answer is quiet. “I did what I thought was right. Just—” The pain in the man’s voice is audible. “I’ve got a wife and children.”
Sadi looks bored.
Eyan swallows hard. “Don’t punish them for my mistakes. That’s all I ask.”
Sadi reaches out and strokes the curve of the Prince’s jaw with a long black-tinted nail. Prince Eyan is told, “In three days’ time, you will bring every rogue to the doorstep of this inn. I don’t care how you do it.”
Then Sadi calls his second-in-command and says, “Escort Prince Jakob to a guest room.”
Finally, to Jakob, the Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince warns, “I wouldn’t piss off Lady Surreal. She has a certain… suspicion of Sapphire-Jeweled males.”
He doesn’t question how Sadi knows his Jewel of rank. Jakob’s gaze flicks over to the witch. There is a Gray Jewel around her neck and a unnerving professional assessment of him in her green-gold eyes. Sadi’s warning is generous, then.
When the stew starts to bubble in its pot, Theia eases back from the kitchen door. She has heard enough to know that little can be done for Jakob. After arranging the food, and subsequently distracting herself, she squares back her shoulders and thumps open the swinging door with her hip.
Everyone in the tavern stops what they are doing—or discussing—to watch the Mistress of the Inn set down a tray of steaming bowls onto the bar. Theia murmurs to Prince Yaslana, “Enjoy” and then calls out “Wait!” to Jakob. Lady SaDiablo is on his left, and by her stance, prepared to stop Theia from interfering.
She has no such intention. Ignoring the spectators, Theia pulls her boy into a last hug.
Jakob leans into it, remarkably uncaring of his pride as he might have been in any other situation. She finally leans back, mops at her wet face, and then smoothes down his hair as she used to do to comfort her son Whit when he was little and too scared to sleep through lightning storms.
“I’ll be upstairs,” Jak tells her quietly.
The smile stretching her lips isn’t heartfelt. “Then I’ll bring you some dinner once you’re settled.”
They part.
She watches, hands tucked against herself, as Jakob follows Lady SaDiablo from the room.
Theia turns to the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. “I want my boy Whit returned.”
Surprisingly, he doesn’t discard her request as the Master of the Guard had. “Prince Rainier will see to it.”
Sadi’s secretary executes a short bow and disappears on the heels of Jakob and Lady SaDiablo.
With a gesture at the bar, she tells the remaining males, “I made plenty of stew. The bread is still baking but it should be done shortly. Lawl, put down those mugs and have a bite to eat.”
She says nothing to the contrary when Prince Sadi chooses to lounge at the bar with his brother. In some ways, he is simply not what she expected. Though Theia cannot explain precisely why that makes her feel better, she only knows that she would rather live with Daemon Sadi’s judgment than Queen Phaedra’s.
Eyan resists the urge to glance over his shoulder, wondering if Sadi will change his mind and call the Prince back. It is that fear which prompts the man to run once he steps onto the boardwalk. Past the emptied and closed stores, across the deserted street, and as fast as possible to his home.
His wife reaches for him the moment he clears the doorway. Eyan holds her, kisses her feverishly. Then he hugs each of his stepchildren in turn.
“I’ll be traveling for a few days,” he tells his wife, “but I’ll come back.”
“Eyan?”
“Please, Jyl, don’t fight me on this. Sadi knows.”
He ushers her into a seat when she goes white with fear. “May the Darkness be merciful. Oh Eyan, we can’t lose you,” she whispers, her eyes red with unshed tears.
It’s too late for that, he knows.
Sadi has come to some decision about him, that much was evident in Sadi’s tone, but Eyan won’t know what that decision is until he completes his orders. There is little doubt that should Eyan fail to do as he is told, the leniency Sadi may grant him—grant his family—is forfeit.
Maybe… maybe this is a test of his honor. Eyan does not plan to fail.
“Comfortable?” a cold voice asks. Prince Sadi is standing in the doorway, face unreadable.
Phaedra hadn’t heard his approach, hadn’t felt him until he wanted to be known. She is grateful when Nyx places himself between her and the Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince.
She says as coolly as she can manage, “The decor is common and the bedding is cheap.”
His laugh startles her. “I doubt this inn caters to Aristo bitches on a regular basis.”
How dare he!
When Phaedra looks to Nyx to defend her honor, the Master of the Guard locks his jaw and remains silent.
Males are the same, every last one of them, tucking tails between their legs and rolling over for the dominant cock. This is why females carry the true power of the Blood in their veins. The female will not be cowed.
“When you address me, Prince, you will speak with respect. I am a Queen.”
“And yet the Queens of Dhemlan handed me their Territory to rule.”
“I was out-voted on the matter, I assure you.” Her voice is ice.
His voice is as cold as the power of the Black. “Thank you, darling, for telling me that.”
She lets the silence stretch until, when Sadi gives no sign of leaving, she is forced to ask, “What do you want?”
The bastard pretends ignorance of the real meaning of her question and answers, “My father taught me that it is common courtesy to inform a lady when danger has passed. I have the rogue leader.”
At the remainder of who sired him, she pales. Then his words sink in. Jakob. Mother Night, Jakob is here. Of his own will. She can think of only one reason that Jakob would brave facing Sadi, of what information he might use to bargain for his life. If the boy talks…
“Kill the bastard,” Nyx breaks his silence. He is looking at Sadi.
“Are you giving me orders?” the Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince asks too softly.
The Master of the Guard speaks no further.
“I wish to see this leader,” Phaedra interrupts, chin high.
Nyx’s face is hard when he turns to address her. “No,” grates the man.
She dismisses his concern, never taking her eyes off of her goal.
Sadi smiles in a way that causes an unexpected heat in her groin. She locks her knees and says, “His crime was against my person. I have the right to face him.”
“Fine,” Prince Sadi agrees mildly. “Follow me.”
When Nyx tries to block her path, she lays her hand on his chest and says, “Stay.”
“Phaedra,” the man whispers. “I’ll go with you.”
“I’m sorry, Nyx. You won’t be useful.”
She steps around him and waits for Sadi to offer his arm as escort. When he does not, simply turns and walks out the door, she has no choice but to trail behind him like a child. Phaedra spares a thought for nothing but the task ahead of her.
Once Daemon leads the bitch to Jakob’s room, Phaedra tells him, “Your presence is not required inside, Prince Sadi.”
He raises an eyebrow. “And if the rogue were to attack you?”
“That would please you, I’m sure,” she snaps in response.
True. Daemon inclines his head. “Then the lady shall do as she pleases.” He adds, “Don’t bother running. I promise you that you won’t make it very far.” The Warlord Prince of Dhemlan inclines his head courteously and walks away.
When Daemon turns the corner of the hallway, he pauses, silently marking the sounds of the open and close of a door. Then he re-enters the now-empty hallway and backtracks.
The Queen’s guards don’t offer a fight when Rainier shows up to collect Lady Theia’s son. He imagines that word travels fast and no one wants to challenge a man in service to Daemon Sadi.
One of the guards points to a building near the main landing web. When Rainier walks inside, a young Warlord with a bruised face sits up from his sprawl on a long narrow bench. The other males in the room don’t look at Rainier or each other.
“Whit?” he inquiries of the wide-eyed young man.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Your mother is worried about you.”
The boy is on his feet in an instant. “Is she all right? Is Ali all right?”
Ali must be the name of the sharp-tongued barmaid Rainier remembers. Interesting.
“Lady Theia is well. Come with me.”
Whit doesn’t waste any time in following him. They are on the street when he asks, “We’re going to the Inn?”
“Yes.”
“Shit, I can’t believe this!” Whit talks faster than he walks. “I can’t believe Jak is one of the rogues. I keep wishing I’d wake up. Hell’s fire, I almost wish my mother hadn’t let him stay—”
Rainier stops and turns on his charge. “If you had known what your brother was doing, would you have turned him in?”
Whit shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“Then be thankful that you didn’t have to make that choice, Warlord.”
Silence is heavy between them until they reach the doors of the Rose & Thorn Inn.
Jakob paces the small room, unable to remain still. He is uneasy because he has no idea what Sadi plans to do with him. Trapped, he thinks. Then, Mother Night, Theia, I’m sorry I did this to us.
He is not expecting to see Sadi so soon after their last confrontation so Jak has his back to the door when it opens. Then he catches the psychic scent and rises to the killing edge in a single heartbeat.
“Hello, Jakob,” a feminine voice calls to him.
He says nothing, simply turns around and looks at the beautiful woman through a red haze. She is the same as he last remembers, the physical scent unchanged—a combination of an expensive perfume and a musk that uniquely identifies her. The haziness between memory and reunion almost pushes him over the edge but he clings to his last vestiges of control.
The pair stands in place, frozen by a long and terrible history. Finally, Jakob breaks his silence.
“Mother.” It is a painful word to say.
“Oh, Jak.” Phaedra moves, then, hand reaching out for her son. “How I’ve missed you!”
He stares at that hand for too long before shuddering once and looking at her through clear eyes. Jak faces the woman he’d loved as a boy, whose love he had yearned for in return.
“Don’t,” is bitten out between sharp breaths. “I know what you did.”
“No, Jak, no. I’d never—“
“Liar!” he snarls. The room fills with an onslaught of emotions. “How—how could you—“ His laugh is abbreviated and harsh. “You never loved me, did you?”
Jak barely resists the urge to shatter the nearest object against the wall. That hard, unyielding something builds and builds inside him now; her smooth expression, the same look that used to tear his heart to shreds—all of it drives the betrayal, heartbreak and insane bitter rage to the surface until it spills over in his words and the jerky, barely controlled flexing of his fists.
“You’re mistaken,” is her flat assurance. Her voice has lost the dramatics, the caring and warmth which Phaedra can beckon at a moment’s notice. Jak knows; he recalls all too well the petty games she would create to manipulate his father or other males. Those many years ago, he had been too young to recognize the miserable, sick atmosphere of her Court.
“It was Reed who pried my fingers loose when he could have saved me,” Jak states flatly. “There is only one person that man would have committed murder for—and that’s you.”
When he had realized that he had survived, exhausted and lying half-drowned on the riverbank, the first thing the terrified and white-faced boy had done was steep himself in denial. For days he had waited in that one spot along the riverbank, thinking someone would search for him, that he’d lived through a horrible accident. When no one came and the crows grew disappointed that he wouldn’t die, Jak had dragged himself up the bank and stumbled through countryside as long as he could, too empty of tears to cry. By the time he’d reached the first sign of civilization, an emotional numbness had swathed him, left him cold. Logic won over the denial, drove Jakob to keep his silence in the face of worried strangers. After that, the boy had done what he could, lied and stolen from decent people, always moving on and never looking back. His naivety and his faith in others were gone.
Years later, at the brink of something too dark for words, Jak found himself in a little place called Havenstry and was directed for work to the Rose & Thorn Inn by a woman with sharp eyes and the psychic scent of a Black Widow. He had intended only to stay long enough to replenish his meager stash of traveling coins. It was when the Mistress of the Inn, with a gentleness and pity in her eyes, said not a word after she had caught him pocketing money from the evening till, that the wall around his heart cracked under his shame. Theia had made no fuss, simply led him into the inn’s kitchen. She packed a basket of food and offered it to the young man with the words, “Take this with you if you go, but you may stay. I’d much rather that you stayed.”
Jakob pulls himself away from the flash of memory. Phaedra’s eyes are slits; she is watching him with care, probably judging the depth of the threat that he poses. He is a mature Warlord Prince now, his strength darker than hers.
She is still an enemy he cannot afford to underestimate.
“I know why you are here. You won’t stop me.”
“Jak, can you not forgive me? I did what was necessary… as a Queen. What would have become of me if my purpose in life had been taken away?”
His lips part at the sheer ludicrousness of her words. “A mother doesn’t kill her son.”
“A Queen does not abandon her people,” counters the dark-haired woman.
The bitterness is terrible, swells to consume his very reason. “You’ve got that backwards, Lady. The people are abandoning you.”
Something dark—like rage—flickers through her eyes before it is blanketed. “I cannot make you understand a Queen’s sacrifice.” She calls in a bag and floats it to a side table. “In that purse is two hundred thousand gold marks. You will receive another two hundred thousand once you cross the border of Dhemlan.”
“A bribe for my silence?”
“For your suffering,” she answers smoothly. “Jakob, you must go before Daemon Sadi returns. This is your only chance to escape, to live. Go before he destroys you!”
The Warlord Prince is blunt. “Are you afraid of what I might say?”
She stiffens. “Of course not. You must know that the word of an unleashed male won’t stand against that of a Queen’s. You would only look the fool if you made an accusation against me.”
He is not convinced. She is afraid.
Jakob stares at the half-open pouch, revealing a large sum of gold marks. His mouth stretches in a faint smile. “You owe me a debt,” Phaedra’s son tells her softly, “that cannot be repaid with money.”
“I owe you nothing” is the cold reply. “You were born into this world from my body and belong to me. I am your Queen as well as your mother.”
“My Queen?” The words are full of disgust. “You were never my Queen. You’re just a selfish, conniving bitch that I had the ill misfortune of having as a mother.” Jakob takes one sure step forward. “I’ve had my eyes opened, Phaedra, in the worst possible way. I see the ugliness of your soul and the rot in your heart.” He lowers his voice to an ominous pitch. “Ciraea is learning to look deep. You won’t be able to hide behind a beautiful face forever.”
“My face is yours.”
He snarls. “No.”
The Queen’s smile is unpleasant. “Don’t you see what you are doing with your pitiful band of rogues? You, my darling, are as manipulative as I. You use weaker males like puppets. We are the same.”
“I don’t decide for other people. You can’t stand the thought that our hatred of you brings Ciraea together.”
His mother meets his forward step with one of her own. The line has been drawn and they stand separated by it. He knows for a fact how he will react once it is crossed.
“I have no more time to wait for your forgiveness, child,” the woman tells him. “And, as Queen of Ciraea, I cannot allow you to go unpunished for your crimes against the people.”
He laughs. “My only crime is against you, Mother. I return to Ciraea what you took from her.”
“You are a fool like your father—and Fallon. I am Queen. My will is just; my will is law.” She smiles but the glint in her eyes does not match the curve of her lips. “You are a mistake I intend to correct.”
Jakob recognizes the significance of Phaedra’s movement, when her hand clenches around a weapon out of thin air. There is no betrayal in her actions now, only confirmation that she is as desperate and twisted as he believed her to be. Jakob stands still even as she cries out and flings herself forward, the dagger in her hand coated in Jeweled power.
You can’t hurt me anymore, Mother, he realizes with an inexplicable wild joy. I’m strong enough now.
She never has the chance to batter against his Sapphire shield and fail. Her uplifted arm jerks back in mid-plunge, surprising them both. Phaedra gasps and wrenches away, wide-eyed. Jakob reacts on instinct, ready to kill her before she turns to run. He calls in his Sapphire ring on his right hand, the Jewel flashing as he releases a burst of undiluted power.
That power strikes a black, rippling barrier and dissipates as if absorbed.
His mind only needs a moment to process the interference. He lifts a horrified gaze past the shaking woman, straight to the other side of the room.
A smooth, deep voice touches his mind. *Kill the bitch now and her death satisfies only your pain, no one else’s.*
Daemon Sadi reveals himself from an unnatural shadow that fades away. Both Warlord Princes ignore the clatter of the Queen’s dagger to the floor, the way she launches herself away from them, and claws at the shield over the door that is too dark to bend to her will.
Jakob shudders with the need to lash out. *She owes me.*
*Yes, I know* is the soft reply. *But Phaedra also owes Ciraea and that debt takes precedence.*
He shakes his head in denial. *She won’t suffer enough!*
Sadi approaches him, stops within an arm’s length. “I guarantee that she will.” He smiles.
“How?” Is that his hoarse voice? “How will she die?”
“The spell is already in place.”
A spell cannot possibly make Phaedra pay the price for her crimes against her people. Against him. Only blood for blood…
Jakob is stunned by the strange look in Sadi’s eyes. The coldly beautiful man is saying, “My wife created the spell.”
He sucks in a breath. Sadi’s wife.
“Witch,” he whispers, remembering a time when the most powerful Queen in Kaeleer ruled Ebon Askavi and held dominion over the Realm. The forces of Kaeleer bowed to her, served her with unshakable loyalty.
Without knowing why, Jakob feels lighter. He cannot not bow to Jaenelle Angelline’s judgment; she is epitome of the double-edged sword that Queens are born to wield—mercy and justice.
He looks at his mother then. Phaedra is sprawled against the bottom of the door, a mimic of a lovely broken doll. Stepping back from the killing edge is easier than he expects.
Daemon Sadi pivots away from Jakob. “Ciraea’s last memory of your mother won’t be kind.”
At the flick of Sadi’s fingers, the door to the room springs open. “Clean yourself up,” the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan tells the silent, sickly pale witch as he glides past.
Lucivar leans against the railing along the upper room, arms crossed. His brother stops within a foot of him and asks, “Something you need, Prick?”
“I could ask you the same.”
The air chills and that is never a good sign simply because it means his brother’s temper is honed.
Lucivar has seen the repercussions of that temper. He is prepared to meet it if necessary.
Daemon stares at him for too long before silently walking past him and down the stairs. The Eyrien takes that as his cue to follow. When they end up in the street outside of the Inn, matched stride for stride, Lucivar feels his own temper rise in response to the cold silence that envelops his brother.
They come to a standstill at the end of the boardwalk facing the river’s edge.
Lucivar calls Daemon’s attention back to him. “Bastard.”
It isn’t quite the Sadist who meets his gold eyes, but the rage there is too close for comfort. “Did Father tell you about Phaedra’s past?”
He shakes his head. “What do I need to know?”
Daemon tells him about the Queen’s reputation, the death of her only child and execution of her first Master of the Guard. Lucivar thinks there’s more—something else that sets his brother on edge. Daemon is never bothered by games of intrigue or murder. His brother was molded in the heart of Dorothea’s taint while Lucivar grew up in the Eyrien hunting camps.
So he says, “Tell me.”
Standing next to him, Daemon’s words are soft-spoken. “Phaedra arranged the kill but the child survived.”
Lucivar’s temper flares. “Daemon,” he says ominously, “spit it out.”
Daemon’s eyes are like chips of ice. “Jakob is Phaedra’s son.”
Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful.
No wonder the rogue wants the bitch to pay, Lucivar realizes. He has to know, “Will Jaenelle’s web suffice to call in the debt?”
The Sadist croons, “It will—once I tire of the bitch.”
Lucivar likes that answer.
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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
