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Kaeleer
“Get lost, Prick?”
Lucivar steps past his brother. Daemon smoothly shifts out of reach of a spread wing. “Marian needed convincing to watch Daemonar by herself for the next few days.”
“How much groveling did you do?”
Lucivar scratches his chin. “Enough.” It’s not the groveling he minds, because that usually leads to more enticing activities. It’s the fact that the moment he had said Saetan would love to help out, Marian had easily calmed down and agreed. He shouldn’t be jealous of his own father. He shouldn’t.
Fine, so he was.
He had been greatly cheered after stopping by the Keep to explain to Saetan that the man had been volunteered for babysitting duty. His father had not said a word, not during or after the gleeful news, had merely hauled Lucivar to the nearest courtyard and tossed him out.
Lucivar grins in memory. Daemon looks interested.
“I offered Father’s services to Marian.”
Daemon makes a choked noise before regaining composure. “How… unfortunate for Father. It might be helpful if you return sooner than expected.”
Lucivar narrows his eyes. “Are you trying to get rid of me, Bastard?”
“I don’t need you here,” Daemon replies mildly.
He rustles his wings and observes his brother from head to toe. “How many?”
Daemon raises one elegant eyebrow.
“Rogues,” Lucivar clarifies.
“Not many, I imagine.”
The Eyrien pivots and stalks farther into the building. The butler has conspicuously disappeared. Daemon catches up to him, matching him stride for stride. “I’m not leaving,” the Eyrien says bluntly.
“Lucivar…”
He acknowledges the warning chill in the air with all the arrogance of his race. “I won’t interfere in your business, Bastard.” The Ebon-Gray Warlord Prince bares his teeth in a grin.
For a short instance, Daemon watches him with glazed, sleepy gold eyes. Then the brittle gold warms. “Fine. You can look after Surreal.”
He nods. Her moontime is close. It’s dangerous, fussing over a witch with an aptitude for knifing a man. Lucivar likes challenges.
“Dinner or brandy?” asks his brother as they walk.
“Dinner. Brandy later. Surreal and Rainier here?”
“No. They are in Ciraea.”
He grunts.
Then Daemon adds, “I have… an appointment in Ciraea tomorrow. Is there a message you wish to pass along?”
Lucivar barks out a laugh. “Why bother? I plan to deliver it in person.”
“Are you sure?”
“Would I be here otherwise?”
They take each other’s measure, assessing, weighing a bond centuries old. Lucivar reaches out and squeezes his brother’s upper arm. Then he steps back, rolling his shoulders. A lazy, arrogant smile is firmly fixed on his face.
Daemon slips his hands into trouser pockets, waiting.
“Since we’re not leaving until tomorrow, we’ve got time for practice.”
His brother groans.
Lucivar throws an arm around the other male’s shoulders. “C’mon, Bastard. I’ll go easy on you.” And he will, for the first round.
“The help quit?” Surreal settles at the bar and raises an eyebrow at the bartender, then focuses on the Mistress—Theia. She’s dealt with this woman enough that she ought to begin to think of her as Theia.
“No, Lady,” the witch replies steadily. “Family trouble. He’s left for a while.”
“Ah.” She waits. When no other explanation is forthcoming, Surreal asks for a cup of tea. Lady Theia disappears into the kitchen.
How odd. But she supposes, all things considered, having one less Warlord Prince around—especially one that seems to set Rainier on edge—is best for everyone. Won’t Rainier be happy to hear the news? Surreal will have to remember to tell him.
The barmaid, who Surreal has never really talked with unless asking for a meal or a drink, comes out of the kitchen. She places a cup of steaming tea next to Surreal’s left hand. The young witch is wan in appearance.
“Are you all right, sugar?” Surreal asks softly. Just because Surreal is stuck with a family of fussing, irritating males doesn’t mean that all witches in Kaeleer suffer the same fate. Even if it is the girl’s moontime, she is probably required to work whether or not it feels as if her insides are being slowly scooped out with a spoon.
Surreal winces at a tinge in her lower belly. Damn, not much time until her own moontime.
“No, Lady. I—I just don’t feel well. Please excuse me.”
She nods and the girl walks over to Lawl, says something to him in a low tone before taking off her apron and setting it neatly folded onto the counter. Then the woman exits.
Surreal focuses on drinking her tea.
Sadi hadn’t said any more to her and Rainier than that the planted token had worked—but not as expected. The rogue had come to Sadi rather than Sadi tracking the rogue via the locator spell. So he has met with the rogue—and that also means that Sadi didn’t kill him.
She is uneasy. Why would Daemon not rip the male apart, find out all of the information he needs to hunt the others? Something must have been said that gave the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan pause; words that made Daemon decide to let the fool live a little while longer.
Again, why?
And how is she going to convince Daemon to tell her the details, so that she could hunt this male in order to discover the rest of their plans?
“Surreal.”
Her muscles tense for a second before that pitch of voice registers. She turns on her stool, smiling at Rainier. “Hiya, sugar. Have a seat.”
He returns the smile and approaches her, but there is a sharp look in his eyes. Surreal says nothing, and if Rainier is smart he won’t either.
“Lady,” the Warlord Prince says, “wouldn’t you be more comfortable upstairs?”
She snarls to indicate that he borders a line that should not be crossed. *My moontime hasn’t started yet, Prince,* snaps the irritated witch.
*Surreal…*
She gives him her grumpiest look. *I can still wear my Jewels. I’ll rest when it starts.*
He looks as if he wants to argue but is wise enough to accept her version of acquiescing to his demands. *Yes, Lady.* Rainier executes the proper bow to show that he is at her service.
She sniffs. “Now my tea’s cold.”
Rainier flicks a glance at her cup. “Why don’t I order us a pot?”
“You do that, sugar.”
Before Rainier walks over to the bartender to request the order, he half-turns towards her. “I came down to tell you… Sadi’s on his way.”
Surreal stares. “Here?”
A short nod.
“Shit.”
“With Lucivar.”
“SHIT.”
Rainier snorts.
“Do they even know where—” She doesn’t finish that sentence. The answer to her question is more than likely yes. Daemon generally knows the whereabouts of everyone and everything; Lucivar will simply roar until someone points him in a direction. Sometimes that can be irksome—especially when she is out on a dinner or theater date and one of her male cousins “coincidentally” appears. There hasn’t been a male yet who has had the balls not to run scared at the sight of Lucivar cleaning his war blade or Daemon idly looking at his fingernails.
Surreal sighs. “See if they have something strong to add to that tea, Rainier.”
He grins and calls in a flask. “No need. I’ve already procured the necessary tonic, Lady.”
She snatches the flask from him and sniffs at it. “Gravedigger? Rainier, do you want to get us fired?”
“Sadi didn’t fire us after that time we—”
“You promised to never mention that again,” she hisses.
“Did I?”
At her growl, he scurries off—well, as fast as a Warlord Prince chooses to; they concede only the battles they believe that they have secretly won.
Surreal turns back to the bar, uncaps the flask and pours a generous amount of its contents into her tea cup.
Screw propriety. She needs a drink.
Rather than looking shocked or nervous at the approach of the two most powerful males in Kaeleer, the older witch—and obvious keeper of the Rose & Thorn Inn—snaps at the pair of newly arrived Warlord Princes, “They’re in my dining room. Go get them.” She tosses down a rag and points to a doorway on the right-side of the hall.
Daemon clears his throat. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. They’re over there. Now kindly retrieve the lady and the Prince before my entire inn is burnt to the ground. One fire is enough!”
Lucivar blinks, shrugs, and marches in the indicated direction. Daemon lingers a moment before calling on a spear thread. *Lucivar?*
*Mother Night.*
*Lucivar, what—* Once he is down the hall, Daemon stops in the entrance to a large bar area. Stares. “Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful.”
Rainier, who had been trying to steady himself against the Eyrien, spots Daemon and attempts to greet his employer. He is listing so much that he staggers into an upright barrel.
Lucivar chokes on a laugh. *You take Rainier.*
Daemon uses Craft to float Rainier into an upright position. The male smells strongly of burnt hair and something strange. Daemon’s brain finally identifies it as furniture polish. *He stinks.*
*Do you want to handle Surreal?*
Daemon takes a quick glance across the room and raises an eyebrow when he spots his brother and his second-in-command. His decision is instantaneous and firm. *I’ll pass.*
*Didn’t think so—shit! She bit me!*
*You are shielded.* He levers Rainier to his feet. The man groans, burbles something. Daemon certainly hopes that Rainier can wait to empty his stomach’s contents.
*So’s Surreal. We kept bumping shields.* Lucivar then growls something in Eyrien that Daemon doesn’t bother to translate. *I’ll meet you upstairs.*
The innkeeper, a nasty glare and swinging rolling pin in hand, moves out of the doorway to make room for Daemon and his burden. “Which room?” he asks.
She turns on her heel and leads the way up a set of stairs that makes Rainier turn green. Daemon hustles him to his bathroom just in time. After he finally has the man situated—that is, dropped into bed and mostly cleaned up—he exits Rainier’s room to find Lucivar already waiting for him. The Eyrien is leaning against a wall, arms crossed.
“Is Surreal all right?”
Lucivar pushes off of the wall. “As well as can be. I tossed her in the shower. She’s pissed.”
Knowing his brother, Lucivar probably didn’t bother to heat the water. Daemon bites off a laugh. “I can imagine.”
“So, are we staying?”
“Do we have a choice?”
“Not unless you want to haul a hung-over Dea al Mon witch into a Coach.”
“I’ll acquire us a set of rooms for the night.”
Lucivar’s gold eyes are amused. “You do that.”
Daemon slips his hands into his trouser pockets and narrows his eyes when his brother calls in a flask and uncaps it.
“Prick, if you touch one drop of that, I’ll punch you.”
Lucivar’s smile is lazy and arrogant. “You could try.”
Daemon shifts.
Lucivar watches him for a moment before saying, “I don’t want that witch downstairs to flatten my head. Did you see the size of her rolling pin? I bet Marian would love one.” The Eyrien thrusts the flask into Daemon’s startled hands. “You might want to talk to your staff about chugging Gravediggers on the job, old son.”
He closes his eyes. “And what good would that do?”
“Not a damn bit.”
“Precisely.”
They stare at each other. Then Lucivar smirks. “Morning’s going to be a bitch.”
He returns the smirk. “Yes it will.”
And that will be revenge enough to satisfy him.
“Boy, quit yer moonin’! Get back to work!”
Jakob grits his teeth, re-adjusts the tight fit of his worker’s gloves and uses Craft to set the boards into place so that he can hammer them down. The general sounds of construction rise up into a den of noise. He does not smile, does not frown, merely works until sunset.
Upon leaving Havenstry, Jakob sent word to the other rogues to lay low until further notice. He’s in hiding now, from Sadi. That does not mean, however, that Jakob is running scared. No, he wants to keep the Rose & Thorn Inn safe, stop Sadi from adding it to his hunting ground. Let the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan hunt him—that is inevitable after their previous encounter. But Theia does not deserve to have her life’s work ruined. Jakob will do anything to prevent harm to his family. So the Rose & Thorn is best suited to become a memory until the ashes from Sadi’s rage are all that is left.
Hours past the end of the work day, he lingers over a draught of ale. A group of fellow handymen and carpenters come careening into the bar which Jakob thought was secluded. One of the men, a Rose-Jeweled Warlord, spots Jakob in the far corner and hails him. He sighs but accepts the invitation. A loner can arouse suspicion.
They greet each other, spend a few minutes ordering drinks and settling down. Jakob notes how tight his shoulder muscles seem to be and purposefully slumps on his stool.
The Warlord is talking. “I ain’t heard nothin’ recently except…”
Jak interrupts carelessly. “Except what, old man?” The Warlord lets out a bark of laughter. Jak scoffs, “Rumors of the foreman’s affair with his bottle of whiskey, or the new set of shops the Aristos want? We’ve all heard those.”
There are several laughs and agreeable grumbles.
“Naw, naw. I got somethin’ better than that!”
His companions lean in.
“My boy came home to visit—that’s his mother’s doin’. Anyway, he’s got steady work, is head of the East Dock in Mist Falls.” The Warlord puffs with obvious pride. “And ye know what he said to me? Pa, he said, my men are scared shitless—jumpin’ at every shadow.” The man grins largely at the group. “Seems them rogues are finally settin’ their sights on good ol’ Mist Falls.”
“What?” Jak chokes on his ale. The Warlord slaps Jak’s back, which does little to aid him.
“Swallow, pup! Mother Night. What’s the matter with ye?”
“The rogues?” he manages.
“Yeah. Rumor is that they’re going to strike t’Bitch’s palace.”
“You must have heard wrong,” he growls.
That earns him a strange look.
Jak adds, “Why would they announce their intentions? Isn’t that… something they haven’t done before?”
The Warlord shrugs. “Don’t know. But the Queen’s bound to have ’em on her doorstep someday soon. What else have those men been buildin’ up to?”
“A message, not a battle.”
Another male inputs, “Well, the Queen’s guards will be set for battle if they catch sight of the rogues. I heard Nyx is making ’em practice twice as hard before the sun is even up.”
“The rogues are not going to Mist Falls!”
“How do you know?”
Jak clenches his jaw.
At his silence a few snort and salute him with their mugs. The Warlord says, “Right. Ye know as much as the rest of us, boyo.”
Jakob doesn’t correct the man. Instead, he listens as the conversation switches to more common talk and waits another hour before tossing down change and leaving behind the dwindling group of gossiping men.
No word has come to him; no meetings have been held, not since Halesford. That can only mean one of two things: someone is lying and attempting to draw out the rogues or, worse, the rumors are true. In that case, he needs to find out who is issuing orders for another attack. There is only one foolish enough, burning with zealous anger, to want to storm the Queen’s gates.
Charon.
It is time to pay the bastard a visit.
He goes back to his small rented room and packs his single traveling bag. Lord Charon has been living at a family estate in southern Ciraea since he joined the rogue business—but if there is talk of activity in Mist Falls, then chances are Charon has moved back to his family’s main seat.
Charon is an Aristo who scorns his upbringing. Jakob can almost relate. Almost.
Yes, Charon may be surprised to see Prince Jakob on his doorstep, but this is certainly an overdue meeting; Jakob has tried to put off this particular pissing contest since the day Charon arrived at the Rose & Thorn for a drink and with an inquiry that nearly had Jakob kill him right then.
Jakob pays a last night’s rent to the tavern owner and catches the Winds to the north.
Mist Falls.
Home.
An uneasiness settles in the pit of his stomach. He ignores it and forges ahead.
“Mother Night… Could you lower your voice, please?“
“Same to you, sugar.”
Rainier and Surreal stare at each other. Daemon uses Craft to thunk down two mugs of brew in front of them. They simultaneously groan; then Surreal snarls at him.
“Please explain, my darlings, why you thought drinking Gravediggers sounded like a good idea.”
“If we do—” Surreal manages, “—you’d probably kill us.” Rainier whimpers into his mug.
Daemon’s eyebrow shoots up. “You have such faith in me, Surreal.”
She grunts and settles for glaring at Sadi. He bites back the urge to laugh. It is reassuring that some things never change between friends.
“You’ll be pleased to know that Lucivar won’t require your presence on the practice field this morning.”
Rainier opens an eye to fix on him. “This is an inn. There isn’t a practice field here.”
He keeps smiling. Rainier wisely says nothing else.
Surreal sighs at both of the males and says to Daemon, “Why’d you invite him along anyway? Isn’t chasing rogues enough excitement?”
“Lucivar invites himself wherever he pleases.” They all know that, of course. Anyone who has had the misfortune of tangling with Lucivar learns quickly that the Eyrien follows no rules but his own.
The door bangs open. Surreal and Rainier cringe.
Lucivar walks right up to the table the three are situated at, takes one slash of a glance at Daemon before focusing all his attention on the pair of hung-over idiots. Surreal stays focused on Daemon, and Rainier pillows his head in his arms.
“The bartender wants to know what you two poured down your throats last night.”
“Shit. You didn’t tell him about Gravediggers, did you?”
Lucivar grins. “Naw. I doubt his employer wants to deal with the consequences of selling it.” The Eyrien shrugs. “She sent him running before I could answer, anyway.”
“I’ll deduct the damage fees from their salaries,” Daemon remarks.
“I’d suggest you double the amount,” his brother adds. “That’s what Father did when Cat and I trashed Merry’s.”
Rainier’s head pops up, causing him to wince. “You did?”
The Eyrien rustles his wings, looking smug.
Surreal also looks interested in this tale—not that the family hasn’t shared plenty of hilarious, and heart-stopping, stories involving Jaenelle, her friends, and a particularly potent brew aptly named a Gravedigger. Daemon is curious, most certainly, though he would never admit it. It will be better to wait until he can stop by the Keep and ask his Father. Reminding Saetan of that particular incident is likely to be as amusing as the tale itself.
“So,” Lucivar begins, “let’s order food and then we’ll talk.”
Rainier turns an interesting shade of green and excuses himself. Surreal merely announces that she wants a double helping of fried potatoes—and they’d better be damn good.
“Tell Lord Charon that Jakob is here.”
The servant makes no reply except for a quick bow and disappears down the hallway. Jakob is left standing in the front entrance to a large manor house. The walls are decorated with tapestry, every specially arranged vase gilded in gold. The home reeks of Aristo wealth and arrogance. It makes Jakob itchy.
He senses the temper before he sees the man and tightens the reins on his own temper. This is not the place to shed blood.
Charon appears, resplendent in a finely woven silk shirt, tan breeches, and soft leather boots. His sneer distracts from the ensemble. The Warlord takes Jakob’s arm in a tight grip and hauls him into a side parlor. An aural shield snaps up around the room and the door is Green-locked.
“You fool!” the Warlord hisses.
Jakob lets the air chill around him. “What did you expect, Charon? That I wouldn’t hear about the strike until it was over and my men were dead?”
Charon swallows some of his anger. “I won’t be idle. I don’t take orders from you, Prince.” The man shifts.
Jak does too, balancing his weight. Just in case. “You’re the fool, Warlord, if you think an attack on the Queen’s residence won’t get you and everyone else killed. Because it will.”
“Then we die with honor. Ciraea will know that we die for them!”
Something in Jakob snaps. “There is no glory in death!” Charon makes a noise of surprise, doesn’t have a moment to duck before Jakob has him pinned against a wall. The Green Jewel around Charon’s neck flares, and the Warlord Prince dares him, says, “Go on, Charon. Give me a reason.” Jakob snarls, “Do it!”
The male in his grasp stays tense but does not strike. Jakob gives him one last shove into the wall before stepping back. It is obvious that the Warlord is trying to master his voice. Jak smells Charon’s anger; that anger is also tainted with a hint of fear.
“The other men may take your orders, Jak, but I don’t. I won’t.”
“Then you’re out.”
“Fine.”
They lock stares. Charon is the first to look away.
Jakob tells him, “I never asked you to believe in me. I asked you to believe in Ciraea—what’s best for Ciraea. Killing the Queen is not what is best.”
“You don’t know that.”
He answers softly, “I do. I understand Phaedra very well, Warlord.”
He ignores Charon’s “What the Hell are you talking about?”
“She is an ambitious woman, and she’s cold, Charon. She’ll do what it takes to get herself where she believes she belongs. If you give her a reason, she’ll destroy you so thoroughly that no one will entertain the thought of going against her; she’ll convince them to turn a blind eye. That’s why we have to do this my way. You kill a weed by pulling out its roots.”
“Ciraea isn’t that bitch’s roots,” snarls the other.
“No. Her support is her Court.”
He watches as those words ripen, as Charon takes them in. The Warlord wants to know, “How do you plan to take away her Court?”
His smile is gentle and dangerous. “With the truth,” he replies.
“What truth?” Charon steps forward.
Jakob moves around the man to the door and lazily snaps the Green lock.
“You can’t—”
The Warlord Prince takes one last glance at his companion. The Opal Jewel necklace is gone; a Sapphire-Jeweled ring is glowing on his right hand. Charon’s mouth opens, once, like a fish.
Prince Jakob’s words are quiet. Deadly. “I can. Don’t tell anyone about us or this. I have plans, Warlord, and if you screw with my plans, I will kill you.”
“Jakob…”
“Goodbye, Charon. I hope, for your sake, that we don’t meet again.”
He leaves. The shout of “Jakob!” is just a distant sound in comparison to the blood singing in his veins.
“Prince” greets the Steward.
Nyx gives Reed one quick slashing of a look and dismisses the male guard from the room. He understands, at least, that what needs to be said between them is private, Steward to Master of the Guard.
There have been enough years of acquaintance that Reed knows not to bother to ask Nyx to sit. The Warlord Prince prefers to receive and issue orders standing. Reed has often idly wondered if the man insists on intercourse in an upright position too, but that’s something he’d never have the balls to ask Nyx—or Phaedra.
“We must discuss the Queen’s will.” When Nyx says nothing, he continues. “The Queen requires the identity of the rogue that has become known to Sadi.”
Nyx replies gruffly, “I have men placed in the south for this purpose, Warlord.”
Meaning that Nyx has either anticipated the Queen’s wishes or Phaedra ordered him to search in person, rather than allowing the Steward to handle the matter. He knows which case is more likely—and it hurts.
“Do not harm the rogue once you find him, Nyx.”
The Warlord Prince’s silence speaks for itself.
Reed sighs. “He must be brought before the Queen and made an example for the other rogues. As a warning.” He pauses. “And Phaedra has expressed a desire to talk with him before his execution.”
“No.” That response is automatic for a Warlord Prince, because of his possessive, protective nature.
“Yes,” Reeds replies gently. “It is the Queen’s will, Prince. We have given Phaedra our words—and our lives.”
“I serve,” states the Master of the Guard bluntly. “I serve the Queen as she wishes—and as I choose to obey. The only way Phaedra will speak with any treacherous bastard is if I am in the room.”
“I doubt she’d want it any other way, Prince.” No doubt, indeed. Phaedra knows the value of a loyal Warlord Prince… and also what happens when that loyalty is lost. He thinks of Fallon and shudders.
“Are we done?” Nyx asks.
“No. There is one other matter.” And the reason he needed to speak with the Master of the Guard in private.
Reed walks away from his desk, running a hand across the spines of books on a high shelf. He selects a book and opens it, not looking at the words, but in need of something to hold while he speaks.
“Prince Fallon,” he begins. His back tenses when the room starts to smell dangerous. Reed presses on. “The Former Master of the Guard was your teacher at one time, Nyx. When you… turned on him, to report suspicious intent against the Queen, I must know, Prince, what did he tell you?”
“You questioned me then” is the answer.
“Yes, I did. You were evasive on the details of what Fallon claimed.”
“His talk was dishonorable. He received the punishment that was his due.”
Reed replaces the book and confronts Nyx. “How did Phaedra explain his accusations to you?”
Nyx shifts, then, for the first time since entering the room. “The Queen does not have to explain herself to anyone, Warlord.”
“She should to you, considering your intimate affection.”
Nyx snarls, and Reed is certain that if he weren’t the Steward, Nyx would have killed him by now. “Get to your point, Reed.”
It is the use of his given name that prompts Reed to answer truthfully, without playing a game of words. “My point is that Fallon’s claims were true.”
Nyx is on him so fast that Reed doesn’t have a moment to breathe. There is a blade against his throat and an enraged Warlord Prince pressing Reed into the bookshelf. Reed hears something fall and shatter on the ground. He knows better than to fight, to give the male a reason to shed his blood. So Reed goes as limp as he can beneath Nyx’s arm.
The Warlord Prince is snarling “You lie!”
“No,” he manages calmly, despite the wild beating of his heart. If Nyx does slit his throat, then it will be an appropriate way to die. Maybe if he returns to the Darkness, he will find his soul again.
“Liar!”
“Either kill me, Prince, or let me go. I’m too old to be held hostage like this.”
Those glazed gold eyes bore into his. When the knife against his throat presses deeper, Reed is certain that he is going to die. Then Nyx steps back and re-sheathes the knife in his boot.
The sudden ability to breathe again makes him light-headed. Reed feebly holds himself upright against the bookcase. When a sufficient amount of time—and silence—has passed, Nyx demands an explanation.
Reed limps over to a chair and sinks down into it. His head falls into a lax hand. “Fallon told you that Phaedra had her only child killed.” He can’t be blunter than that. There is no need to deny it, to think that to say the words aloud are propaganda against the Queen. He can only see the Master of the Guards’ boots from his position. Reed does not bother with correction.
“Fallon was jealous that the Queen wanted other lovers.”
Like yourself? He does not voice those words.
“Fallon shared the Queen’s bed only once, Nyx. And he came to me after that night and said he would never do so again. That was at the start of his career. I also know that Phaedra did not ask Fallon to attend her in that way again. She had taken an official Consort and was pregnant within the year.”
Silence.
Reed remembers that Fallon had always believed that Phaedra’s child could have been his, though she acknowledged the paternity as her Consort’s—who had, surprisingly, been a generous-hearted man. The Consort understood Fallon’s suspicions and allowed the Master of the Guard to become close to the boy—to act as a second father. That’s why, when the Consort died, Fallon took Phaedra’s son under his wing and became the child’s personal guardian in everyone’s eyes but Phaedra’s.
The boy’s death had ripped Fallon apart. The Master of the Guard could not, would not, accept that the child’s death had been fate or just a tragic accident. Phaedra had miscalculated Fallon’s reaction, though Reed had warned her.
He shivers, feeling cold—as if Fallon’s ghost hangs over him.
“Fallon loved that boy like his own,” Reed supplies gravely. “When the boy died, Fallon could not rest until he discovered why. And he did, unfortunately.”
Reed looks up then, meets the dark, unreadable eyes of the Master of the Guard. “The boy was to return from his schooling for the holidays. Phaedra wanted his Coach to meet with an accident by the river. I arranged it.”
Condemning words—ones that he has never spoken aloud until now.
Nyx only response is “Why?”
“The Queen needed time to regain the support of the people of Ciraea. We bought her that time.” At a terrible price.
Nyx turns away from Reed, back stiff. “If you are lying to me, I will rip out your tongue. Then your heart.”
“And if I am not?” he asks softly.
The man does not answer. The Master of the Guard unlocks the door and strides from the room. Reed is left, an almost empty husk, to wonder if telling Nyx had been the right decision after all.
“Hey, son, you look familiar.”
“I am not your son,” replies the Warlord Prince.
“Now don’t get testy with an old man, boyo. I was just making talk. Still, your face… you from Mist Falls?”
“No” is the answer grated between teeth. The stranger pushes away from the counter of the shop, selects another bottle and sets it down next to his purchases with a heavy hand.
But the shop-owner won’t stop staring at him. “Passing through then?”
He grunts. “On business. I live south of here.”
“Ah.” The shop-owner gives him a total for the supplies and is promptly paid. The bagged items are vanished.
Just before the stranger can fully exit the store, securing his coat more tightly about him, the old man calls out, “Now I know who you look like!”
A tense pause.
The man is still talking. “—look just like the Queen herself, why—”
“Shut. Up.” The words are said so ominously that the man instantly obeys. The Warlord Prince growls, “If you ever say that again, I’ll break your neck.”
The shop door rattles on its hinges as it is slammed shut. Jakob, trying to suck in enough air, steps onto the busy street. He does not glance at his surroundings, only shoves his hands into his pockets, head down, and walks into the crowd. His figure becomes another unremarkable blur amongst many.
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- [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
