“The south has not heard these rumors. There is no sign that the Rose intends to leave. Her court is strong and gathers strength around itself.”
“I have heard the rumor too. Theran Grayhaven wants the Other to rule and will give her our land.”
“There was some . . . strangeness . . . about the way the Rose departed from Grayhaven and ended up with the Shaladorans. It is speculated that it had something to do with the Other Queen.”
“The Rose has brought a young Shaladoran Queen into her court for training. The girl is learning the Old Ways and Protocol. She is respectful and performs her duties well. And there is real affection between the girl and the Rose.”
“The Other also had a young Queen as a companion for a while. Many of the Warlord Princes had strong reservations about the girl’s behavior and her ability to be a good Queen. After seeing her with the Other in Grayhaven, they are of one voice—they will not tolerate her setting up a court in Dena Nehele, not even in the smallest village. They say the girl embraces too much of what was hated in the Queens who were purged by the witch storm.”
“The Other chose such an undesirable Queen for a companion and yet Theran Grayhaven wants her to rule the rest of us?”
“In the Rose, Ranon has found a Queen for his people. If the Other tries to take Dena Nehele, he will fight such a change.”
“Will Jared Blaed?”
Another silence.
Throughout the night they talked—and sometimes they cried. At the first whisper of dawn, the Sapphire spells began to fade, so they vanished their stools, benches, and chairs. They drew the power that had fueled the witchlight and the warming spells back into themselves and prepared for the journey out of the mountains.
As they made their way back home, they thought about the things that had been said, and they all knew one thing: the Black Widows had been right. Come spring, Dena Nehele would either embrace a hopeful beginning—or face a terrible end.
“G
ray?”
A warm hand rubbed his leg just above the knee.
“What . . . ?” Gray opened his eyes. They must have been closed because now he could see Daemon crouching in front of the chair he’d collapsed into when he walked into Daemon’s study.
“Drink this,” Daemon said. “It’s a warm tonic. It will help put some bone back in your legs.”
“Where did the old bone go?”
A pause.
Gray tried to focus on the blurry mug floating in front of him. Too much effort. He let his head fall back against the chair and stared at the ceiling. It wasn’t doing anything. He liked that. A lot.
He was so damn tired. He had never ever, in the whole of his life, been this tired.
How did these men do this every day?
“Gray, did you remember any part of the Protocol that dealt with the First Escort arranging rest periods for the Queen and her escorts?”
“Huh?”
“Obviously not.”
The dry humor in Daemon’s voice told Gray he’d missed something.
“How’s he doing?” Lucivar’s voice. He sounded amused too. “Looking at him, I guess it’s good Jaenelle doesn’t have as much energy as she used to.”
Gray had spent one whole morning and afternoon acting as First Escort to Jaenelle Angelline. He whimpered at the thought of her having more energy.
“It’s all right.” Daemon gave him a soothing pat.
“Dinner is almost ready,” Lucivar said. “Apparently Mrs. Beale figured a few people would want to turn in early tonight, so dinner is being served early too.”
“A good decision on her part,” Daemon said. “Come on, Gray. Maybe some food will help.”
Help what? He’d have to chew it, wouldn’t he? What help was that?
“Gray?”
“In a minute,” he murmured. “Just give me another minute.”
Gray pushed himself to a sitting position, catching the blanket as it slid off his legs. He still felt tired, but he was much better for taking that minute to rest before dinner.
“Good evening.” Daemon closed the book he was reading and set it on the table next to his chair.
“Guess I’m still a little groggy.” Gray tried to tidy his hair by running his fingers through it. “I didn’t see you there. Is it time for dinner?” He looked to one side, then the other. “Wasn’t I sitting in a chair before?
How did I end up on the sofa?”
“Boyo, it’s closing in on midnight, and the rest of us had dinner hours ago. You’re on the sofa because Lucivar and I couldn’t keep you awake long enough to get you any farther. We figured you’d sleep just as well there as anyplace else we could carry you.”
Gray braced his head in his hands. Weeks of studying, working, traveling to the Keep and to SaDiablo Hall for training. “I failed, didn’t I?”
“You didn’t remember the part about the First Escort being able to insist on rest breaks, but I figure you’ll learn that Protocol fast enough for self-preservation if for nothing else. As for the rest, Lucivar and I agree that the only thing you’re lacking is the finesse that comes from experience. And that you will learn by working beside your Queen.”
Gray raised his head. “Really?”
Daemon smiled. “Really. In fact, I have this for you.” He called in a sheet of paper and used Craft to float it over to Gray. “The High Lord wrote it out, so you can be sure the Protocol is exact for retiring a man from a dominant position in a court and giving that title—and the duties that go with it—to someone else.”
He stared at the words but didn’t try to read them. “When do you think Theran will tell Cassie?”
“The first day of Winsol is a week from now. Unless he’s a complete bastard, he’ll wait until the celebration is over and people are settling into the routine of winter days. He can’t wait much longer than that to start gathering the men who will form a First Circle, but the moment he does more than try to feel out who might be interested in serving Kermilla, every Queen and Warlord Prince is going to know about it
—and Cassie will hear about it. That’s when she should make her declaration of whether she’s going to stay or leave. After that, a lot depends on which Queen the other Queens and Warlord Princes are willing to have rule over their lives.” Daemon stood up. “Come on. We’ll warm up the food Mrs. Beale set aside for you. Then you can get a bit more sleep and be on your way in the morning.” He paused. “My advice is to forget about all of this and enjoy the days of Winsol.”
Gray’s stomach rumbled. He got to his feet, feeling awake enough to be enthusiastic about food.
“There is one other piece of advice I could use,” he said.
Daemon raised an eyebrow. “And what is that?”
“What do you buy a Sceltie for Winsol?”
T
heran fanned out the gold marks. Twenty ten-marks. He’d rarely seen gold marks. The silver marks were easier to come by when the rogues sold game to folks who couldn’t afford to buy meat from the butcher’s shop. Easier to come by and not as noticeable when spent. Usually only aristos—or the twisted Queens and their First Circles—had enough income to use gold marks.
Talon had given him twenty ten-marks for his twentieth birthday—the first and only time he’d held that much spending money. It still felt like a fortune.
After deducting the expenses for the town treasury and the Grayhaven estate, he figured he would have four hundred gold marks as an annual personal income from the town’s tithes. He’d need a few new clothes in the coming months and there would be the expense for the occasional evening’s entertainment, but he knew how to live lean. Hell’s fire, he’d been doing it his whole life. That’s why he had decided to give his Lady half of that income as a special surprise.
Kermilla walked into the sitting room. “The bastard butler said you wanted to see me.”
“He’s not a bastard, Kermilla,” Theran said. “You know it’s unkind to insult a man by saying he has no father.”
She rolled her eyes. “Then let’s say it describes his temper and attitude if you don’t want to besmirch whatever bloodlines he can claim.” Then she saw the gold marks and her breath caught.
He almost reconsidered what he was going to do, but maybe her recent bitchiness was a sign of frustration. There was little society in the town and less public entertainment that she felt was worthy of her notice. And she seemed to find his efforts at lovemaking less and less enjoyable—so much so, he’d stopped asking for sex and decided to wait for her invitation.
“What’s that?” she asked, eyeing the gold marks.
He held them out. “This is for you.”
She took the fanned marks and counted them twice. “Two hundred gold marks? Theran, where did you get this?”
He shrugged and smiled, warmly pleased by the light in her eyes. “I know there hasn’t been much money and the income hasn’t arrived from your village’s tithes. Winsol starts in three days, and I thought you’d enjoy doing a bit of shopping.”
She’d been hinting hard enough that the failure of her Steward to send the income owed to her was making it impossible for her to buy any gifts for her family or to select the expected gifts for her Steward, Master of the Guard, and Consort—or to buy anything for him.
The gift itself wasn’t important. It was the fact that Kermilla wanted to give him one. He hadn’t had a gift from a woman since he’d left his mother when he was seven years old.
“Oh, Theran!”
Kermilla threw her arms around him and kissed him with enough heat to fire his blood. Before he could get another good taste of her, she backed away, wagging a finger at him while she smiled playfully.
“That’s for later,” she said. “Now I have to see what’s left in the shops.”
“Don’t spend it all in one place,” he said, trying to keep his voice light but hoping she heard the warning to spend carefully.
“Silly man,” she said as she danced out of the parlor.
A few minutes later, he looked out a window and saw her heading down the drive in the pony cart with one of the stable lads as her driver. He also saw a man in a messenger’s livery walking up the drive. Not a messenger from the town. One of them would have come on horseback. This man must have ridden the Winds and arrived at the landing web just beyond Grayhaven’s gates.
He started to go to his study, then turned and headed for the front door. Any message coming here was most likely for him anyway. No point having Julien track him down when he could be on hand.
He timed it so it looked like he was passing through the entranceway on his way to the stairs when Julien opened the door and took the message.
The messenger’s tone sounded courteous, but there was clearly something on the man’s mind. Theran saw hot anger in the eyes that stared at him before Julien shut the door and handed him the wax-sealed heavy paper.
Theran broke the seal and opened the message—and wished he’d waited until he’d reached the privacy of his study.
“Trouble?” Julien asked.
He shook his head. “Already taken care of.”
“I know what that phrase means—a bitch got buried. Will anyone weep?”
The coldness of Julien’s words stung him.
He went into his study and locked the door. Just a physical lock, just an indication he wanted no company and no one disturbing him.
He read the words again and again. As he sat there through the morning, staring at letters and reports and seeing nothing, he was glad he’d given Kermilla the gold marks—glad she would find some sweetness in what would be a bitter day.
Kermilla rode back through the Grayhaven gates, her color high with the pleasure of a long morning in the shops. She glanced at the basket of packages in the back of the pony cart and felt a prick of guilt, which was easily dismissed. It wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t had anything new in weeks, months, forever. So she’d gotten a bit extravagant buying things for herself—like that gorgeous red dress that cost ninety gold marks.
Of the two hundred gold marks Theran had given her that morning, she had ten left. She’d meant to be careful, she really had, but it felt so good to have money again that she couldn’t stop herself from buying all the things she’d been denied.
She’d regained some control at the end when she realized she had to come back with some packages that were gifts for other people—things she could let Theran see. He didn’t have to know that she’d grabbed a few things off the shelves of a shop an aristo wouldn’t normally enter and had put those gifts into the boxes of the things she’d bought for herself in the only aristo merchant shop left in the whole dung-heap town. If he noticed that the quality of the goods didn’t match the implied quality of the box, he would blame the merchant.
She’d known he was being stingy and had been holding back on giving her any money. But she’d worn him down until he finally acknowledged that she deserved a Queen’s due—and a Queen’s income.
Theran was like her father in that way. He’d grumped and grumbled about her spending, had asked her—almost begged her sometimes—to be less extravagant, but he always ended up giving her the marks she needed to pay for the clothes or the entertainments that were vital to bringing herself to the notice of the men who had enough reputation and potential to form a court around her and provide her with a place to rule that would, in turn, provide her with the income she deserved.
Theran wouldn’t be happy that she’d spent all the marks he’d given her, but she’d wiggle more out of him.
“Good afternoon, Julien.” She kept her tone frigidly polite.
“I trust you had a pleasant outing,” he replied.
No matter how cold she made her voice, the damn butler would match it—and then add just a little more ice.
“Prince Theran is in his study,” Julian said. “He asked that you join him there when you returned.”
She handed him the basket of packages. “Take these up to my room, if that won’t interfere too much with your other duties.”
He tipped his head in a bow that was less than he should have given her.
She knocked on the door and felt a quiver of uneasiness when she heard the click of the lock turning before the door opened.
Theran stood halfway between his desk and the door, as if he couldn’t decide where he was supposed to be.“You enjoyed yourself?” he asked.