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Jakob puts a hand to his head and says, “Mother Night.” He sits up, decides that was the last thing he should have done, and slowly edges back into a prone position.
“You’re lucky. Prince Nyx was strong enough to kill you.”
He remembers the strength of the hands around his throat.
“Where are we?” he asks, turning his head to look at Sadi. The older man is relaxed on a cushioned bench extending from a wall. Jakob frowns, taking in his surroundings. Small, sparsely decorated…
“We are en route to Mist Falls,” Sadi tells him.
Ah well. There is no need for him to move then. Jakob closes his eyes. “I’ve never been in a Coach like this—didn’t even know they came in this size.”
There is amusement in Sadi’s voice. “It was custom-built; some of my family are rather unique and require additional space for comfort when traveling.”
He has heard rumors that the SaDiablos visit Sceval and its rare race of unicorns at least once a year. Jak has also been told that one of Jaenelle Angelline’s estates is a training ground for Scelties. Unique, indeed.
“Am I still in one piece?” He wiggles his toes in his boots.
“Lady Theia insisted that you not travel until a Healer vouched for your well-being. Unfortunately, the only Healer in Havenstry is visiting family in another area of Ciraea.”
He grimaces. “Theia called Moira, didn’t she?”
“Though we were not introduced, yes, I believe that was her name.”
When Sadi asks sharply as Jakob slides a hand south, “What are you doing?” he answers, “Making sure I really am intact. Moira’s skilled enough—her mother was the local Healer many years back—but she’s got an aversion for most cock and balls in town.”
“She appeared to tolerate touching you.”
He chuckles, wincing at the rawness of his throat. “Trust me, I’m one of the few that has only met with the lashing of her sharp tongue and not her temper. I like to think that I’m pardoned by my age.” He sighs. “She’s a special woman.”
“Black Widows usually are.” Jak is too tired to decipher the undercurrent in Sadi’s tone.
“How long until we arrive?”
“Two candle marks.”
“I never liked Mist Falls,” he mumbles. Damn, he is tired. “That’s where I died, well sort of. D-did you cast a sleep spell on me?”
He barely catches Sadi’s reply. The Warlord Prince says something about a wound being easier to heal once it has bled freely and Jak thinks, But I’m not bleeding, am I?
Wouldn’t he know if he was?
Then Jakob sinks back into cool, sweet darkness, that last thought floating away.
Lucivar lands in a courtyard of Ebon Askavi, knowing that he needs to report to his Queen and her Steward—despite the unofficial capacity of Jaenelle Angelline’s Court.
He walks into a sitting room next to his father’s suite and is immediately bombarded by “Papa!”
His young son pelts into his legs but Lucivar is firmly planted, with just a hint of Craft to withstand the force that is Daemonar at full-hurdle, and is saved the indignity of falling on his ass. “Hey, boyo.”
Daemonar makes a noise of disgust when Lucivar kisses the top of his head. The boy has reached an age where Lucivar’s fatherly display of affection is only accepted in the form of a manly pat or through high praise of Daemonar’s budding warrior talents.
Lucivar chuckles to himself and releases his son. “Where’s your grandfather?”
The boy grins, eyes bright with mischief. “He said he had a headache and I had to read this book until I could remember all of it!” Daemonar runs over to a nearby desk to fetch a book and lugs it back to his father. “See? It’s big ‘n I said if I read all that my eyes would pop outta my head ‘n Grandpa said that’s okay ‘cuz we’d figure out how to put ’em back in but could we really do that? Maybe I can wear an eye patch like a pirate, only on both eyes—!”
Lucivar places a hand firmly over his son’s mouth. “Breathe,” he orders.
The child does so, chest heaving dutifully, and then mumbles some more into Lucivar’s hand.
When Lucivar lets him speak again, Daemonar is saying, “You were gone a really long time. Where’s Uncle Daemon?”
“Your uncle is still busy. Is your mother at home?”
Daemonar shakes his head. “Mama had to buy some food and Auntie J went too.”
Lucivar winces for his wife’s sake. He takes his son by the shoulders and pushes him toward the desk. “Finish your book.”
The boy frowns as he climbs back into his hastily abandoned chair. “I’m tired of readin’.”
“Doesn’t matter. Do it anyway.”
Daemonar sighs like a child humoring his silly parent. “Okay. But when Grandpapa’s headache is gone, he can read it to me, right? I like it when he reads—the story makes more sense.”
Lucivar doubts that Saetan will recover from a Daemonar-induced headache until well after Lucivar has taken his son back to Ebon Rih. He winks at his boy and says, “Be sure to ask him first chance you get, boyo.”
“Okay!” The boy rustles his wings and opens the tome to a random page. Lucivar watches, amused, as Daemonar points out each word and argues with himself over how it sounds.
He finds his father holed up in his study nursing a large glass of brandy.
“If you have a headache, why are you drinking?” asks the Eyrien.
Saetan levels a look at his son.
“Was he that bad?” Lucivar settles into a chair made to accommodate wings.
“He’s your son,” Saetan states. “Daemonar is exactly as I expect and no less.”
“Or no worse,” mutters the Eyrien.
They share a smile.
Then Saetan places his snifter to the side and steeples his fingers. “How does Daemon fare?”
Lucivar leans forward, places his forearms on his thigh and relates the situation—and all its latest complications—to the Steward of the Dark Court. When Prince Yaslana has finished his report, the High Lord uses Craft to float a new glass to his desk and pours the Eyrien a generous amount of brandy before topping off his own drink.
They sit in silence, Lucivar content to relax after days of being on edge and his father, undoubtedly, working through the nuances of what Lucivar said—and didn’t have to say.
Finally the High Lord speaks. “You’ve done well, Prince. I expect that Prince Sadi is prepared to conclude the situation in Ciraea.”
Lucivar eyes Saetan. “That’s it?”
Saetan raises an eyebrow in question. “Did you skip any details I should be aware of?”
“No.”
“Then yes, Lucivar, that is it. Your brother is capable of handling the trouble in Ciraea—and it is our job to trust in him to do so.”
“What do you think he’ll do with the rogues?”
“They broke the law and, for that, a price must be paid,” the High Lord says softly. “Were the ruler of Dhemlan to allow those men to walk away unpunished, it would plant a seed of doubt that Daemon may be biased.”
“Because of his past,” Lucivar concludes just as softly.
“Yes. Terreille may be recovering its honor now, but the long-lived races will not forget what was—and what could have been—so soon. Daemon, as do you,” explains his father, “carries that stigma and, because of it, will be judged by how he rule his land more harshly than the people would judge any Queen in Kaeleer.” Saetan leans back in his chair, resting long black-tinted nails against his chin. “On the other hand, were Daemon to destroy both Phaedra and the rogues, people would fear him more than they already do, and that fear could lead to the same kind of rebellion that Phaedra’s Court faced.”
“A double-edged sword.”
“Bluntly put, my fine Prince, but accurate nonetheless. Ruling has, and I imagine always shall be, a challenge.”
Lucivar savors the burn of the brandy as it slides down his throat. His mouth stretches in a lazy, arrogant smile. “Good thing our family loves challenges.”
Saetan says nothing, but Lucivar sees the pride in his father’s eyes and savors that as much as he does the drink in his hand.
“You bastard, my Sisters won’t stand for the way you treat me!”
Daemon is sick of listening to the bitch. If he could have handled her the way he did Dorothea’s pets in Terreille, her body would already be writhing in agony from the venom of his snake tooth—after enduring company with the Sadist. But this is not personal justice she must face, not in relation to Daemon or his family. Sadi has little choice but to act in the official capacity of the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan—and as the ruling power over the Dhemlan Province Queens.
Those Queens have asked him to protect the Territory as his father did for thousands upon thousand of years. In return, he is awarded a position in keeping with that request and worthy of his power as a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince. He is the final authority in Dhemlan; liaison to the other Territories in Kaeleer; and, most importantly, the watchful eye over the Territory itself. That includes weighing the actions of each Dhemlan Queen. They trust him not to interfere with their reigns unless necessary; and if it becomes necessary, they expect Prince Sadi to react as a Queen would, fairly and with little compromise to the Blood’s code of honor.
“Each of your Sisters,” Daemon interjects into Phaedra’s tirade, “has the opportunity to review the minute details of your life—each mark you collected and spent, the color of dress you prefer—” His eyes should be warm as they caress her body, but they are little else besides icy cold. Phaedra visibly shivers. “—every male you bedded and, of course—” He smiles pleasantly. “—the matter of your son, Jakob.”
She says weakly, “You’ve set me up.”
“No, my dear. You did that all on your own. Keep in mind, however, that what the Queens think of you does not matter to me. You are mine alone to punish as I deem fit—and I promise you, the punishment you suffer will remain in keeping with the debt you owe.”
“You can’t touch me! You’re just a male, you don’t outrank me—”
“I outrank you where it matters,” he says coldly. Against the tan of his skin, the Black Jewel gleams from a fire within. “Never forget that.”
Jakob is washing his face in the tight space of a small bathroom (he marvels that a Coach can have a place to piss) when there is a loud thump against the other side of the door. He opens it to find Eyan staring back at him.
The Prince shoves his way into the bathroom, not allowing Jakob to escape, and they stand almost chest to chest.
“You son of a whoring bitch,” says the man. “Do you know how lucky you are, Jakob?”
“Nice to see you too,” the young man replies dryly.
Eyan runs a critical eye over him. “You don’t look half bad for a man who got pounded on.” Then Eyan’s voice fills with concern. “Are you sure that you are all right? Sadi wouldn’t let us out of the Coach, even after he ordered Traye to fetch a Healer.”
“I’m okay.” His face heats. “Yaslana killed Nyx.”
“I heard.”
They stare at each other for a minute.
“Sadi says we’re headed to Mist Falls.”
“Yeah.”
Jakob slumps against the sink counter. “Never thought I would return there to die,” he mutters.
Eyan touches his shoulder. “I don’t know for certain what is going to happen to us, Jak,” he says, “but thank you for trying to protect the men.”
“We’re all here,” he says bitterly. “I didn’t do any good, Eyan. We’re here because I started this damn band in the first place!”
The Prince pulls back. “Listen well, Jakob, because I’ll only say this once. Every rogue on this Coach chose to join you of his free will—just as each man chose to come back and face judgment. We are in this as equals. You’re a fool to think otherwise.” Eyan adds with a sigh, “I suppose that’s why Sadi won’t punish only you.”
The reason matters little now, thinks Jak. They will arrive at their destination shortly and there is no way to stop what must be faced.
The Coach lands in the town square of Mist Falls. Surprisingly Sadi announces, “This is a brief stop. Stay seated.” Then the Warlord Prince glides to the door, his secretary on his heels and they both exit the Coach. Jakob remains, somewhat painfully upright, next to Eyan, waiting with part curiosity and part dread.
When Sadi returns, Prince Rainier is absent. The Coach does not lift back into the Winds but rather gives a forward lurch on its wheels. The group now travels by land—which means that they are headed to a local area.
The Queen’s Residence, he decides. Where else would be more appropriate to conduct this business than the origins of it all?
Somehow, that thought is not comforting. Jakob leans his back against his seat and closes his eyes.
He must still be healing from his injuries because there is little other reason for a Warlord Prince to fall asleep when he should remain alert. Nevertheless, Jakob finds himself shaken awake by his companion and told, “We’re here.”
Jak ignores the protest of his ribs as he stands up. Despite that an ugly, mottled bruise has developed on his left side, no ribs seem to be broken or cracked. Nevertheless, he tries not to jostle against the other men as they file out of the Coach.
The courtyard of the Queen’s residence looks the same. Jak’s eyes involuntarily seek out the spot where Fallon was executed. He swallows down the bile in his throat.
Turning to Daemon Sadi, he asks, “Where do you want us?”
Sadi’s voice is amused. “Unless you prefer to sleep on the stones, I would suggest that you settle inside. We’ll be here for a few days.”
Oh.
Eyan prods the back of his shoulder and that prompts Jakob to follow Sadi through the front gates. Everyone else falls behind him.
It’s your own fault, Prince. He claimed the position as their leader so he doesn’t have the right to protest when they expect him to act as a buffer. Well, Jak thinks, it’s too late to fall back into the crowd now.
He wonders where the women are as he steps into the front hall of the Queen’s residence and watches Sadi issue a set of commands to the startled staff. Neither Lady SaDiablo nor Phaedra have left the Coach. Or Yaslana. Where is the Eyrien?
Daemon tells those standing behind Jakob to follow the waiting servants to their rooms. Then, after Eyan has given him a last fleeting glance, Jakob walks into a side parlor on the heels of the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan.
“My mother?” he blurts out before he thinks.
“Still in the Coach.”
He nods, unsure of what else to do. Then, almost tentatively, he asks, “Why are you… waiting to destroy us?”
Daemon sits on a short couch, arms lazily draped across its back, and crosses his legs. Jakob finds a chair.
Looks like we’re going to have a chat. He hopes that he does not appear as nervous as he feels.
“There are many and varied reasons that I have not eliminated your little band,” Prince Sadi says silkily. “The foremost reason remains that, as appointed ruler of this Territory, I would be remiss in my duties were I to simply reduce you to ashes without proper witnesses.”
Shit. He didn’t realize political executions would be this complicated. Jak is sorry that he asked.
Daemon smiles knowingly. “There is also the matter of your mother—and you.”
“You promised that you would make her pay.”
“There is a time and place for that, Prince. It will arrive sooner than you anticipate. Now, I am told there is a Healer is residence, despite that half of the staff are… elsewhere. She will be waiting to see you.”
He hesitates.
Then Sadi says, “Considering the areas that she will be poking, boyo, I wouldn’t make her wait too long.”
Before leaving, he bows to an amused Daemon Sadi lounging in an Aristo’s parlor like he belongs there.
Then again, Jak supposes that Sadi does.
A Warlord Prince and his friend are expending energy by taking a morning walk around the grounds. The atmosphere is heavy with a sense of anticipation. A new sound breaks into the subdued noises of the day; it is wheels rolling over gravel.
Eyan grabs Jakob’s arm and drags him to the shady side of the Queen’s gardens—and closest to the entrance. “Now we know why Sadi wanted to wait.” He indicates a Coach approaching the Queen’s residence.
They lean into the shadows out of habit, watching from their vantage point.
Jakob seems to be doing better, despite that he is jumpy. Hell’s fire, Eyan thinks. Every last rogue in this place is jumpy, anxious, or downright terrified. This waiting only amplifies their nerves.
Two witches are helped from the Coach by a footman. Beside him, Jakob makes a choked noise.
“What is it?” Eyan asks him sharply.
“That’s Lady Zhara, the Queen of Amdarh,” whispers the young man.
May the Darkness be merciful. What is Zhara doing in Ciraea? “Are you certain?”
“Oh yes. I saw her once when I was a child and my mother held a ball for visiting—” The words halt as easily as they started.
Eyan frowns. Where in the name of Hell would Jakob have been to meet the Queen of Amdarh?
Before he can ask, Jakob shoots him a look from beneath hooded eyes. “Never mind,” says his friend. “Just trust me when I say that’s who she is.”
“And her friend?”
“I don’t recognize her.”
The women disappear through the front gates. Eyan asks almost absently, “If Queen Zhara is here, who else is due to arrive?”
Jakob says nothing. He doesn’t need to. They both fear the answer.
By late evening, more guests are milling around the rooms of the Queen’s residence. Jakob walks, oscillating between memories of sprinting through the corridors on coltish legs with a caretaker in pursuit and thinking of the present. These people are more than impromptu guests, he decides. Their scents hint of purpose.
Queens. Each Dhemlan Queen in power—Province, District, small town. It matters not. They are here, in the largest gathering of Queens that Jakob has ever seen.
Only a summons by the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan would be obeyed so readily, so quickly that each witch arranges an hasty hiatus from her territory to come straight to Ciraea.
Daemon is preparing for the trial of the rogues. No, it’s more than that. There is also the Queen of Ciraea to consider. With certainty, Jakob knows that Phaedra will face Sadi and the Dhemlan Queens as well.
He can only hope that Prince Sadi has mercy for his men—or that one of the Queens will persuade the Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince to spare a few lives.
Jakob, unfortunately, has only ever lived under the rule of Queen Phaedra. His faith in that caste is based on a long, terrible experience. He hurts even now to think that one day, should he survive this encounter with Daemon Sadi, a Queen will hold his leash—or he will become an outcast of the Blood.
It is early morning of the following day when the rogues are ordered to the council chambers of the Queen’s residence. They walk into the large room to find Daemon Sadi standing in front of rows of chairs arranged in a half-circle. Those chairs are occupied. Jakob feels the weight of the stare of each Queen as he approaches Sadi, his men silently following in his footsteps.
He bows to the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan.
“Prince Jakob,” Prince Sadi acknowledges. With Craft, someone positions a chair to the side of the seated council, close but far enough to discourage interaction with the females. “Sit down.”
There is no room for rebuke or refusal. Jakob dregs up the half-forgotten lessons of Protocol that he never completed. Without a word, he takes a seat. It is difficult to watch his men and do nothing, so Jakob clenches the sides of his chair with a bruising force. Sadi begins to talk, his voice Craft-enhanced to carry to even the servants undoubtedly crouched at keyholes.
“A Queen’s will is law; those who break her laws are deemed criminal in nature. A rogue, however, is a particular brand of criminal. A rogue is a man who denies the authority of his ruler and, in Kaeleer, he is a threat to the Old Ways of the Blood.”
Jakob is unable to look away from Daemon Sadi who has pinned his men with hard gold eyes.
“The power a Queen holds over her subjects should be forged with trust and accepted with honor. I will not excuse Phaedra’s abuse of her position or dismiss the suffering of this province under her rule. Nor I will excuse your actions. I am the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan and, by right, Phaedra answers for her crimes to me. You did not approach me for resolution—” His voice is too soft. “—and so I must assume that you deny my authority as well.”
Which is probably why Sadi looks beyond pissed—so cold that Jakob expects to see ice crystals in the air.
Sadi tells them bluntly, “You retained enough sense to forgo violence on your quest; and those that would have are dead. For this reason, I will not kill you.”
The Dhemlan Queens are silent but it is obvious that they are listening as intently to Prince Sadi’s decision as the males in the room.
“Each of you will serve Ciraea’s Queen for two years.” Sadi pauses, allowing for the sharp gasps and low whispers behind him to subside. Some of the men around Jakob shift—whether in surprise or unease, he does not know. He is only aware of his own reaction: his stomach drops. To be at the mercy of another women like Phaedra…
Then Sadi continues smoothly. “Should I—or the Queen—determine that your commitment is unsatisfactory, or if you refuse these terms, then you will be exiled from Dhemlan. This is your chance, gentleman, to demonstrate that you remain worthy of trust. If you cannot prove that you are capable of accepting the leash of your ruler, then there is no Blood in all of Kaeleer who will help you.” The Warlord Prince of Dhemlan’s face is hard, his words unyielding.
The men barely breathe, though some of them are clearly thinking hard on his decree. If they accept banishment from Dhemlan, they will be branded for life with that mark of distrust. Because Sadi’s influence stretches to most of Kaeleer as Warlord Prince of Dhemlan, former Consort in the Dark Court and, Jakob suspects, personal friend of those in power of other Territories, they will be lucky to find tolerance of their presence wherever they settle—unless of course they leave the Realm altogether.
That possibility doesn’t bear thinking about.
Sadi says as his gaze passes for male to male, “The decision you make in this room will be irrevocable. I suggest that you choose wisely.”
No one asks about the third option, which they all know includes paying their debt to Sadi with their life.
After a nod from each of the men, Prince Eyan bows to the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan and formally replies, “We choose service. Thank you, Prince, for sparing our lives.”
Sadi nods and dismisses them. Most of Jakob’s former band depart from the council chamber with unsubtle haste. Only Eyan lingers near the doors, waiting for Jakob as a friend.
“Prince Jakob.”
He rises and walks forward with the sensation of stepping on thin, cracked ice. One wrong move and… Jakob halts within an appropriate distance and bows.
Sadi slips his hands into his trouser pockets and croons, “You are the instigator and the leader of the faction.”
Though it is not a question, Jak answers, “I am.”
“Then you understand that your punishment will be more severe.”
“I will pay the price,” he says simply.
“You will serve five years under a Queen of Witch’s choosing.”
His mouth drops open before he can manage to collect himself and say, “Yes, Sir.”
Someone behind Sadi, one of the Queens, whispers loudly enough, “Mother Night. If she’s a Sceltie… that poor Prince.”
He feels faint. A Kindred Queen?
Sadi says nothing. At first, he expects that Sadi is letting his silence linger to unsettle Jak (a tactic which works, Jakob thinks) but when it stretches long enough that the Queens shift and murmur, Jak wonders what in the name of Hell Sadi is doing.
Then the side-doors to the chamber open unaided, and Jakob’s mother walks in.
Even now her chin is high and her eyes are icy, her voice icier. “I am here as you summoned, Prince.” The way she emphasizes the ‘summoned’ is obvious to any person in the room; disdain for Sadi drips off of it.
Sadi smiles pleasantly in a way that makes Jakob’s blood run cold with fear. The Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince finally addresses the Queens. His deep, cultured voice binds them into rapt attention.
“Several weeks ago, you each received a copy of paperwork and accounts. I hope that you carefully reviewed the documents of Queen Phaedra’s court, because if it was not clear before, the next time a Queen in my territory is accused of abuse and found guilty, there will be no excuse for ignorance of the standards you must adhere to.”
He tells Phaedra, “I had another punishment planned for you, but I have decided that it shall be more appropriate at a later date. As of now, you are stripped of your title and tithes.”
Jakob wants to clench his fist at his mother’s sentencing, knowing that there should be more, but any outward sign of aggression means immediate death in a room full of Queens.
Then Sadi flicks a sharp glance at Jakob before re-focusing on the former Queen of Ciraea. “Now that we have addressed that issue, we must move on to a… more personal debt you owe, darling.”
For the first time upon entering, Phaedra pales and sways on her feet. No one dares to offer her assistance.
“Prince Jakob, state your grievance against the Queen,” the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan orders.
Jakob’s mouth goes dry.
*Do it, Jakob, or she walks away,* Daemon warns quietly over a spear thread.
“I am Jakob,” he says roughly, “the only child of the union between Queen Phaedra and her former Consort, Lord Eron.”
“A lie!” cries the woman. “What a foul lie! My son is dead.” Phaedra turns on Sadi before anyone else can speak. “How dare you allow this man to stand here and pose as my son!”
Sadi says mildly, “I daresay he has your looks, Phaedra—though I am sure that is not a compliment to the Prince.”
“It’s true,” Jakob interrupts. “You are my mother and you know it—you’re just upset that I didn’t fall prey to death as you wished.”
Phaedra levels her finger at him. “Silence! My son died tragically and too young. I won’t have you dishonor his name.”
Dishonor?
“I am not dead!” he roars back, the anger in him now hot and raging. “For so long I’ve been afraid of you—but not today, never again! Do you hear what I’m saying to you, Mother? I won’t let you hurt me anymore. Once was enough,” he says with ample bitterness.
She steps back from him, a blatant show of fear. Then Phaedra turns to her Sisters and pleads, “I beg you, stop this nonsense. Haven’t I been punished already? I will never rule again!”
One Queen says, “These accusations are ludicrous. Everyone knows her Master of the Guard killed the child out of jealousy.”
Another retorts, “Let the Prince speak. If he is telling the truth…”
Sadi uses Craft to enhance his voice above the arguing Queens and asks Jakob, “Who do you name as executor of the Queen’s order for your death?”
The room is silent again.
Jakob realizes that Sadi has handed him an opportunity. He doesn’t intend to waste it, not when he owes Fallon for a long silence. “Prince Fallon was innocent of the crime. I was—” He swallows against the rush of memories. “—traveling home for the holidays. It was late and the fog along the river had delayed passage. When my carriage was crossing the North Bridge of Mist Falls we were overtaken.”
Jak speaks quietly, reliving the night in his mind’s eye. “It isn’t uncommon for looters to use the fog to their advantage; anybody who lives here knows that. It never occurred to me that it was a trap, not until my warden—” He stares past Sadi to the circle of women. “—my mother’s Steward, Lord Reed, who had fetched me from school, watched as the men dragged me to the edge of the bridge. One of their blades caught me here—”
Jakob touches the scar along his jaw.
“—when I fought back. I managed to hang onto the stone as I went over.” He turns his face to the side, away from the stares. “Lord Reed reached over the side, and I thought he was going to help me—I was terrified of falling into the river—but he didn’t. He pulled my hand loose and let me go. ‘I’m sorry.‘ That’s what he said to me.”
Jakob looks at his mother then. “‘I’m sorry,‘” he repeats, his voice harsh.
Phaedra’s voice is too calm for her expression. “I made a mistake, a terrible mistake.” She puts a hand to her mouth as if horrified. “I was so sure that it was Fallon who—”
“No!” Jakob launches toward her with a cry of rage. “You bitch, it was you!“
Sadi catches him easily and forces him back. “Don’t” is the Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince’s only warning. Addressing Phaedra, Sadi says softly, “Do you know what happens to mothers who kill their children?”
“You have no proof,” the witch replies. “It’s his word against mine—and I deny any involvement in such an insidious crime.”
“Unfortunately, my dear, you are incorrect again.” Sadi glides past Jakob to the still-open side doors.
Jakob thinks, Hell’s fire, is he leaving?
Lady Surreal SaDiablo meets Sadi at the doors. Her voice carries. “Sorry we’re late, sugar. This one likes to play hide-and-seek.”
Sadi’s secretary appears with a man in tow.
Jakob sees that face and closes his eyes at a burning in his chest. Phaedra, on the other hand, sees the man and recoils as if struck.
Lord Reed almost lands at Prince Sadi’s feet when Lady SaDiablo gives the man a none-too-gentle forward shove. Jakob thinks that Sadi uses a bit of Craft to steady the Warlord but considering the pallor of Reed’s face, Jak doubts that the gesture is made out of good will.
Reed trails behind Daemon, jerking like a puppet on a string, as they re-situate themselves before the circle of Queens.
Sadi croons, “Lord Reed, I am going to ask you a very simple question. If you lie to me, then you will be asked the same question again—by my wife.” Daemon Sadi looks only at the Warlord, but his words are meant as a warning to all. “Until now, I have accommodated my schedule to handle this situation. Two days ago, I missed a play which my wife desired to see. She is very unhappy. I would love to finish this quickly, Warlord, if only to prevent Witch from deciding to end it.” His voice borders on pleasant. “Now. With whom would you rather speak?”
Reed nods helplessly at Sadi.
“Excellent. Who issued the order to attack Phaedra’s son?”
“Please,” whispers the Warlord in a strained voice. “I can’t.”
“Who?” croons the Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince.
“I’ve sworn an oath…”
Phaedra calls out, “Reed!” The Warlord flinches.
“Who?“
“My Queen,” the man says at last. Then he gives a great heave of breath and sinks to his knees. “I’m sorry, Phae. I’m sorry,” he says again and again.
Jakob’s stomach roils at the words. He takes two steps back, wanting to be anywhere but here listening to the echo of a nightmare. His mother has thrown herself at Reed, and when she tries to rake his face with her nails—and Reed doesn’t shrink away from her fury—an invisible blow sends the witch sprawling at the feet of her Sisters.
One Dhemlan Queen rises after another until they are all standing.
It is Zhara, the Queen of Amdarh, who speaks. “Prince Sadi,” she states in a strained voice, “we came to hear judgment passed on the Queen of Ciraea and the rogues. Phaedra’s—” Zhara’s face twists with disgust. “—personal crime, though repugnant as it is, is not something for which we can demand justice.”
Zhara looks Jakob. “That price is yours for the asking, Prince Jakob.”
His muscles relax and the words come easily. “Daemon Sadi has offered to collect the debt on my behalf and I accepted.”
The Queen of Amdarh stares at him for a moment. Then, “Very well.” She gives Phaedra a wide berth, the other Queens following suit.
Zhara nods to Sadi once and offers, “I and my Sisters will compile a list of names for Phaedra’s replacement.”
“Your choices shall be considered,” the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan replies. He offers them no guarantees.
When the Dhemlan Queens are gone, Jakob staggers on unsteady legs to a vacant chair. He ignores everyone and puts his head in his hands. It is some minutes before a light pressure settles on his shoulder. He looks up, bleary-eyed and feeling inexplicably weary, at Eyan.
His friend crouches next to him. “How can I help, Jak?”
His brain takes too long to comprehend the question. “I’m—I’m not sure what you want me to say.”
Eyan gives him a strange look. “I wasn’t asking for myself, you idiot.” Eyan gestures to Sadi, who is standing guard over Phaedra and Reed. “Do you need… help with that? Or do you want to go? I can ask Prince Sadi if—”
Jakob straightens from his slump. “Shit, I forgot.” He sighs and walks over to Lord Reed.
The Warlord barely acknowledges the new presence. He looks broken.
Jakob asks Daemon, “What happens to him now?”
“Do you want the kill?” the Warlord Prince responds.
He swallows. “No.”
Sadi considers him.
“Everything has a price,” Reed interrupts quietly. The man stares up at Jakob. “I know that I have no right to ask, but I beg mercy of you.”
Jak picks up on the strong scent of Eyan’s disbelief and disgust. He asks Reed, “Would you beg that your life be spared?”
“No,” the Warlord answers, surprising him. “Let me return to the Darkness.”
Suddenly, he understands. Reed is afraid of being condemned to live with his guilt until he dies of old age. A small part of Jakob wants the man to suffer, but a larger part of him already knows the right answer.
He nods. Before he can change his mind, Jakob uses the strength of his Sapphire power for a fast kill, shattering the man’s light Jewel, breaking open his inner barriers and turning that brain to dust with a thought even as he consumes the rest of the man’s lingering power.
Reed lands on his side, eyes open and empty. When Jakob sees the almost peaceful look on that face, something within him breaks open, like an old wound. He gasps at the pain of it.
Eyan is turning him around by the shoulders, talking in a quiet coaxing voice. “C’mon, Jak, let’s go home. Let’s go now.”
He follows numbly, hardly aware of a deep voice behind him saying, “Find Rainier and he will take you to a Coach.” Jakob does stop at the sound of his name.
The Warlord Prince of Dhemlan tells him, “In three weeks’ time, I expect you at SaDiablo Hall.”
Jakob might have said “Yes, Sir” or “Okay” or nothing at all. His mind is only focused on returning to Theia, because the pain in his chest is always soothed when she is near.
He sleeps sporadically, waking to find Eyan seated across from him, looking at Jak as if he were a stranger. The Coach ride is surprisingly smooth and quiet; in a lull of stilted conversation, Jakob consoles himself with memories of a warm tavern and a large glass of ale.
The Coach takes the pair of men from Havenstry’s main landing web to the doors of the Rose & Thorn Inn. Eyan is smart enough to stay seated as Jakob bolts out of the Coach and to the boardwalk. The young man pushes into the front hallway of the inn with urgency and a tremor in his hands.
Theia takes a last step off of the staircase, wiping her hands on her dress. “Jakob?” Then he is in her arms and the world falls apart.
Beyond the sound of his own keening and pain exploding through his chest, Jakob feels the soothing stroke of a hand on his hair and knows that he is home.
Daemon releases the spell that binds Phaedra from escape. The witch immediately darts for the closest door and finds her bathroom Black-locked. He watches in amusement as she then scatters items across her vanity, searching desperately for a weapon.
“A fruitless venture, I promise you,” a hint of the Sadist croons in his deep, cultured voice.
The bitch turns to watch Daemon as he idly leans against a tall bedpost and inspects his long black-tinted nails. Then she looks past him to the bed. Her skin bleaches of color.
His voice is cold. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Phaedra swallows. “Then you… won’t break me?”
“I don’t need a cock to break you.” He slips his hands into his trouser pockets. “But yes, before I finish the kill, I will shatter your Opal and drain the remnants of your power.” His smile is malevolent. “Although, I considered helping you make the transition to demon-dead. Few living would believe so, but the mind of a demon is still very sharp—and your head is the only part that the High Lord will need to extract the remainder of the debt.”
“You don’t need to… do anything,” she tries to assure him. “I understand what I’ve done! I feel so terrible, so guilty.”
He is tempted to rip out her vocal chords but then he wouldn’t be able to hear the bitch beg in madness later on. Instead, Daemon loosens his choke-hold on his sexual heat just enough to produce a feeling in the air that will distract her.
When Phaedra’s eyes begin to glaze, a phantom hand runs down the curve of her hip. Daemon’s mouth smiles but his eyes are hard gold.
“What do you want?” asks the woman, wetting her lips.
“What I always have, sweetheart.” He beckons her closer with a crook of his finger. She is helpless to obey and creeps within range of him, her body now betraying her arousal. Daemon fixes a sleepy look on her.
She repeats, a shaky whisper, “What do you want?”
The Sadist murmurs like a lover’s caress, “To teach bitches like you the proper meaning of suffering.”
By the end of the night, the former Queen of Ciraea has screamed until her voice is gone.
Then Daemon Sadi determines that the initial payment of Jakob’s debt has been extricated, and it is the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan who calls in a box. He releases the spelled lock and gingerly removes a shimmering dark web.
The mess of a woman on the bed whimpers. Prince Sadi soothes her with, “Hush, darling. This will only hurt in your mind.” A drop of his blood causes the web to glow and pulse. He engages the spell, watches as it slips beneath her inner barriers and hooks into Phaedra’s core, dragging her into a Hell of her own making.
If she rises from it whole, he decides that he shall hand over the pieces of her to his father after all. With a pleasant smile, Daemon settles into a plush chair to wait for the outcome.
[ previous | masterpost | epilogue ]
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 (1/2) – from January 18, 2011
- The Rogue of Ciraea – Chapter Five (2/2) – from December 25, 2010
