“What in the name of Hell are you doing, associating with bastards who would try to blind a child?”
Kenjim growled.
“Garth and Brok are mine.” Kermilla thumped a fist against her chest. “Mine!”
“They tried to blind a child!”
“A stupid landen!” Kermilla shouted. “Who cares about landens?”
He stared at her before saying quietly, “A Queen with honor.”
The insult silenced her. She studied his eyes, felt the sharp heat of his temper. She tried a delicate psychic probe to find out what was under the moment’s temper—and found disgust, disappointment, and contempt.
“If Garth and Brok belong to you, then I don’t.” Kenjim’s voice was dangerously quiet. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, claiming that you’re going to be Queen here—”
“I am going to be Queen! Theran promised me!”
Kenjim let out a huffing laugh that held no humor. “Then he’s as much of a fool as we were.”
Kermilla walked over to the window and stared at nothing. Bardoc was unhappy about this misunderstanding with those stupid guards who were protecting landens, but she could talk him around.
Kenjim, however, was now a danger to her. He wouldn’t be able to turn Theran against her, but his anger could sour the opinion of the Warlord Princes who were coming to meet her. He might even try to ruin her chance of becoming the Queen of Dena Nehele.
She turned back to face him. “Pack your things. You’re returning to Bhak immediately. I’ll have Gallard assign another in the First Circle to stand escort here.”
“As the Lady wishes.” Kenjim’s smile held a sharp, terrible edge. “Before you, I served an honest—and honorable—Queen for five years. But that doesn’t mean I don’t understand the value of negotiating.”
“What does that mean?”
“If you try to smear my reputation by distorting what happened today or by misrepresenting this conversation, I will go to Lady Darlena and counter your report with a charge of mistreatment.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“Wouldn’t I?”
Kermilla paled. As a District Queen, she ruled under the hand of a Province Queen who, in turn, ruled her piece of Dharo under the hand of the Territory Queen. If Kenjim went to Darlena with a charge of mistreatment, more than the Province Queen would be taking a look at her court. And that wouldn’t do at all. Not when spring was so many months away. If Darlena—or even worse, Sabrina—took Kenjim’s side in this and released him from his contract right now, it would break her court, and she wouldn’t have the income from Bhak and Woolskin to support her, as insufficient as it was.
If she asked Theran to kill Kenjim, would he do it without asking questions?
No. Not without questions. Even if Theran would do that for her, Jhorma and Bardoc would insist on some justification—and would insist on her leaving Dena Nehele, which would ruin everything.
Kenjim has already considered that. He knows the knife he’s holding against my throat is sharper than any I can hold against his. I can’t strike against him without hurting myself more.
“Very well,” she said coldly. “We’ll just say that you’ve completed your rotation as escort and are returning to Bhak to take up other duties on behalf of your Queen. Is that satisfactory?”
“Quite satisfactory.”
“In that case, get out.”
He reached for the door but didn’t open it. When he looked at her, she thought she saw regret, maybe even sorrow, in his eyes.
“Do yourself a favor, Kermilla. Cut the acquaintance with those two young Warlords. Stop playing these games. Go back to Bhak and start taking care of what is already yours. If you don’t, I won’t be the only man who walks away from your court.” He opened the door and walked out.
She didn’t go down to dinner that night, claiming a sick headache. And that wasn’t far from the truth, since she had blurred the afternoon with many generous glasses of brandy.
Tonight she would brood and sulk and get gloriously drunk. Tomorrow, when those Warlord Princes came to dinner, she needed to shine.
*B
astard?*
Daemon opened his eyes, not sure if the call that had broken his sleep had been real or part of a dream.
*Bastard?*
Ebon-gray psychic thread. No doubt now that the call was real. *Prick?* He waited. Didn’t get a response. Just a sense of pain running through that psychic thread. *Lucivar?*
*I need help.*
Daemon flung the sheet aside and rolled out of bed, startling Jaenelle. *Where are you?*
*Home.*
*Are you hurt?*
*No. Marian . . .* Pain. Grief.
Mother Night. *I’ll be there as soon as I can.*
He rushed into the adjoining bedroom to dress. Jaenelle rushed in right behind him.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” He pulled on trousers and a shirt that he didn’t bother to button. He grabbed a jacket, shoes, and socks, then vanished them. “Something about Marian.”
“May the Darkness have mercy.” Jaenelle ran back to her bedroom, hollering as she went, “Get one of the Coaches. I’m going with you.”
He hesitated, even considered arguing with her. She was still in the days of her moontime when she couldn’t use more than basic Craft without causing herself excruciating pain. But she was a Healer, the best Healer in the whole damn Realm, and she was Lucivar’s sister and Queen. If Marian needed more help than the Eyrien Healer could provide, Jaenelle would step in, no matter the cost.
And this time, as long as her own life wasn’t at risk, he wouldn’t try to stop her.
“I’ll wait for you downstairs.” He was out of the room and running through the Hall to reach the outer door closest to the stables and the building that housed the carriages and Coaches.
The footmen who were on night duty didn’t call to him, but word must have passed as they figured out his direction because Beale was waiting at the outer door for him.
“Because of your haste and the late hour, I assumed the small Coach would be sufficient,” Beale said.
“It’s being brought around to the landing web since that would be more convenient for the Lady.”
Still panting from the run, Daemon nodded. It seemed Beale was thinking a lot more clearly than he was.
“Guess I should have contacted you to begin with.”
“You have other things on your mind.”
He hurried through the corridors, buttoning his shirt as he went, and reached the great hall at the same time Jaenelle came running down the stairs. They raced out the open front door to the Coach on the landing web.
Holt waited beside the Coach, dressed in nothing but a pair of short trousers. As Jaenelle entered the Coach, a basket suddenly appeared beside the footman. He grabbed it and shoved it into Daemon’s hands.
“The best Mrs. Beale could do in the time,” Holt said.
Daemon handed the basket to Jaenelle and took the driver’s seat while Holt closed the door and moved away from the landing web.
Jaenelle took the seat beside Daemon, still holding the basket. “Did Lucivar say anything?”
“He’s scared, he’s grieving, and he’s in pain.”
She didn’t ask anything else.
He raised the Coach off the landing web, caught the Black Wind, and raced to Ebon Rih as fast as the Black could take them.
“Wait until I set this thing down,” Daemon snapped as Jaenelle started to rise from her seat. “If you fall off the damn mountain, you won’t help any of us.”
She gave him a look that normally produced a cold sweat. He ignored the look, just as he ignored the odd way his hands trembled when he remembered the way Lucivar sounded.
Couldn’t think about that. One of them needed to be the warrior who could draw the line and defend it. It didn’t sound like Lucivar was in any shape to defend anything, including himself.
Especially himself.
Daemon opened the Coach door, and they both rocked back from the emotions flooding from the eyrie above them.
“Can you deal with him?” Jaenelle asked.
“I’ll deal.”
She left the Coach and raced up the stairs. He stayed a couple of steps behind her so he wouldn’t trip her. She ran past Lucivar, who was standing in the flagstone courtyard in front of the eyrie—standing so perfectly still, as if even a deep breath might shatter him.
Daemon approached his brother slowly, cautiously. “Lucivar.”
Lucivar continued to stare straight ahead, but one tear slipped down his face.
Daemon did a fast psychic probe of the eyrie and surrounding land. Marian and Nurian, the Eyrien Healer, were inside with Jaenelle. But the other two people he’d expected to find were missing. *Father?* he called on a Black spear thread.
*Daemonar is with me at the Keep,* Saetan said. *Take care of Lucivar.*
*Done.* Knowing the boy was safe, he focused once again on his brother. “Lucivar?”
“Miscarriage.” Lucivar’s voice broke. “We lost the baby.”
Mother Night. “I’m sorry.”
Daemon brushed a finger over Lucivar’s shoulder, an offer of contact with no expectations. A moment later, he was holding on to a sobbing man.
“Is it my fault, Daemon?” Lucivar asked. “Is it my fault?”
“How could it be?” Daemon stroked Lucivar’s hair and added another layer to the soothing spells he was wrapping around his brother.
“Sh-she got pregnant during the rut. You know what we’re like during that time. You know. Maybe I damaged her inside. Maybe . . .”
“Shh.” Daemon rocked him gently. Rocked and soothed. He had a feeling Saetan was doing much the same thing with a frightened little boy. “Shh.”
He wouldn’t let Lucivar say it, wouldn’t let Lucivar keep thinking that. But it was possible, and they both knew it. That was part of the pain. Until Nurian—or more to the point, Jaenelle—said otherwise, it was a possibility.
The tears finally eased, but Lucivar still clung to him. Since he was facing the eyrie, he saw Jaenelle first.
“Prick,” he whispered.
Lucivar straightened up, wiped his eyes, and turned toward her. Jaenelle studied Lucivar. “If you’ve been out here grieving, that’s fine. If you’ve been out here blaming yourself, you’re going to piss off your wife as well as your sister.”
“Cat . . . ?” Lucivar looked so vulnerable.
“There was nothing you had done before—or could have done now—to change this,” Jaenelle said gently.
“The babe didn’t form right. It couldn’t survive, so Marian’s body released it. A simple and natural thing, despite how much the heart hurts because of it.”
“Marian?” Daemon asked.
“She’ll be fine in every way,” Jaenelle said, still looking at Lucivar. “She needs to rest for a few days—and she needs to grieve without feeling that you see her grief as a kind of blame. Marian lost a baby tonight.
So did you.” She turned her head toward the eyrie. “Nurian has everything cleaned up. Go be with your wife, Lucivar. She needs you.”
Lucivar hesitated. Then he gently touched Jaenelle’s cheek and went into the eyrie.
Daemon slipped an arm around her waist. “Did you tell him the truth?”
She gave him a puzzled look. “Why would I tell him anything else?”
“To spare him if he was responsible for the miscarriage.”
The air around them chilled. “A smart man wouldn’t call a Healer a liar,” she said too softly.
“A smart man also knows that Healers sometimes lie.” He looked in her eyes and waited.
“Healers sometimes lie,” Jaenelle acknowledged. “But not this time. Blaming himself for something that wasn’t his fault and wasn’t anything he could have changed is an indulgence his wife and son can’t afford.
Neither can he. If you can’t help him see that, his father will.”
Interesting. Especially since she sounded absolutely sure of that.
Nurian walked out of the eyrie, looking tired. “I have a healing brew simmering on the stove. Needs another ten minutes.”
“I can finish it,” Jaenelle said.
“I took the linens,” Nurian said, lowering her voice. “Marian asked if I could get them cleansed, but . . .”
Jaenelle shook her head. “A Black Widow might be able to cleanse the psychic residue out of the cloth enough to be acceptable to Marian, but no one is going to be able to cleanse those linens enough for Lucivar to tolerate. We’ll get them replaced.”
“I thought that would be the way of it.” Nurian paused. “Should I wake Jillian and send her to the Keep to watch Daemonar?”
“Let her sleep. It would be better to have her help later in the morning when the High Lord needs to rest. You get some rest too. We’ll be here to look after them.”
“All right. I’ll be back in the morning.”
Spreading her wings, Nurian flew to the eyrie she shared with her younger sister.
“I’d better keep an eye on that brew.” Jaenelle gave Daemon a quick kiss and walked into the eyrie.
He was still standing outside an hour later when Surreal showed up.
“I heard, more or less,” she said as she climbed the last stair and joined him in the courtyard. “So who needs to be babied and who needs to be bullied?”
“What did you hear?”
“Something is wrong with Marian. Lucivar is distraught. Daemonar is staying with Uncle Saetan.” Surreal hooked her hair behind one ear. “And you’re in trouble, by the way. Mostly forgiven because it was clear you had left your brains somewhere between the bedroom and the landing web and couldn’t be relied on right now.”
He stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”
“Apparently there are rules when there is a family crisis. You broke the rules.”
“I wasn’t aware of any,” he said coldly.
“Uh-huh. Uncle Saetan is, and after you arrived here, he contacted Beale, and Beale then informed Mrs.
Beale of where you were and why. Rainier is on his way, but he has to wait for the first round of food Mrs.
Beale has prepared. Chaosti is also on his way, but he’ll stop at the Hall for whatever wasn’t ready when Rainier headed out.”
Hell’s fire. Was any of that supposed to make sense? “Surreal.” “Don’t snarl at me. You’re the one who pissed off your cook by not telling her there was a family emergency and asking her to prepare food so none of us needed to think about that.”
“Marian lost the baby. No one gives a damn about food right now.”