The Queen's Price

TWENTY-EIGHT

Daemonar felt self-conscious about leading the adult men through the warm-up and workout with the Eyrien sparring sticks when his father was one of those adult men. How was he supposed to comment about Lucivar’s fighting skills?

The second time Daemonar almost missed blocking one of Weston’s moves because he wondered what Lucivar thought about the way he’d taught the other men to use the sticks, his father’s sharp whistle called a halt to the workouts.

“You can’t be thinking about my opinions when you have an opponent in front of you,” Lucivar said when the other men left the room. “You do that, you’re going to be kissing dirt—or nursing bruised ribs.”

“You should be leading this workout,” Daemonar said.

“No, I should not. That’s one of your duties. From what I’ve seen, you taught those men the moves as they should be done, and the only thing they need is practice to hone their skills.”

“Is your ankle bothering you?” He’d noticed a couple of moves that weren’t fluid and gave Lucivar’s opponent a potential opening.

“Is that why you retreated from Weston’s advance?” Lucivar gave him a knowing look. “So you’d be close to my left side? But you didn’t comment about the misstep. An instructor should have.”

“You did that deliberately?”

Lucivar smiled. “A different kind of lesson, just for you. You made the right move for a battlefield or a killing field. But here? You should have called me on it—if for no other reason than to prevent a potential injury. You would have if I’d been anyone else.”

Daemonar sighed.

Lucivar laughed. “It’s not easy giving orders to someone who outranks you and is usually the one giving you orders. But sometimes, boyo, that’s what you need to do. I had plenty of opportunities to learn that lesson with your auntie J.” He wrapped a hand around the back of Daemonar’s neck and kissed his forehead. “Get cleaned up and get some breakfast. You have other duties this morning. I’ll take the rest of the sparring lessons.”

“It’s the girls this morning. There will be whining.”

Lucivar gave him a lazy, arrogant smile. “Then I will give them a reason to whine.”

Oh, shit.

Daemonar hurried toward his room, then stopped when he spotted Zoey and her coven heading for the main dining room. He gave Zoey and Titian a nod, then said, “Lady Jhett, your assistance is required.”

Jhett’s eyes widened at the formal request that was actually an order, since he was a Warlord Prince who outranked her. She glanced at Zoey, who had stopped walking the moment she heard the words.

“Is there something we can do for you, Daemonar?” Zoey asked.

“I just need a bit of help from Jhett.”

*But not from me,* Zoey said on a psychic thread, sounding disheartened.

*Not today.*

Zoey hurried away, followed by the other girls. Titian gave him a worried look but said nothing as she linked arms with her friend.

Zoey had stumbled the night Grizande arrived, and she hadn’t regained her balance, and that was a concern. He wasn’t sure why making a mistake had hit her so hard—and that was something he needed to mention to Uncle Daemon.

“What kind of help?” Jhett asked.

“I’m supposed to take Grizande to the village this morning and show her around. And she’s supposed to purchase some clothes. All kinds of clothes.” He had a mother and a sister. He’d seen his share of female underwear being dried on wash day. But he wasn’t his uncle, and helping a girl he barely knew purchase underwear . . . No.

“Ah.” Jhett nodded. Then she gave him a sharp look. “Why me?”

“You’re a Black Widow. Grizande grew up around the Hourglass. I think she’ll be more comfortable around you than with any of the other girls. Also, you live in the same square of rooms. Getting to know you might help her relax around the other girls in Zoey’s coven.”

Jhett nodded again. “Do I have time for breakfast?”

“Sure. I’ll tell Grizande about our plans, and we’ll meet up in an hour?”

She hesitated. “Let’s meet up in the great hall. Zoey is my friend, and she’s still feeling raw about Grizande’s rejection.”

How much to say? “Because of things that happened to him in Terreille, my father doesn’t have much use for Queens as a caste. Grizande doesn’t have much use for Queens either. I suspect her reasons for feeling that way are much the same as his. Pain is a harsh teacher—and scars make sure a person doesn’t forget the lessons.”

Jhett sucked in a breath, confirming that she understood what he was saying. “Does anyone else know about Grizande?”

“The adults who serve Prince Sadi know. My father knows. But the students?” He shook his head. “She’ll choose who she tells.”

“It helps that you told me—especially if we’re going to be trying on clothes.”

Daemonar waited until Jhett hurried to join the other girls before he entered the Queen’s square. He found Grizande wandering the courtyard, staying away from the box of sandy earth where Liath was showing Jaalan how the kitten was supposed to use that kind of toilet.

He whistled softly to catch her attention, then jumped from the second-floor balcony, spreading his wings for a controlled drop.

“We’re going to the village this morning,” he said. “My father’s orders. I’m told you need more clothes, and it would be good for you to see some of the shops and get a feel for the village.”

Grizande looked away and shook her head.

Daemonar called in the leather wallet and held it out. “A welcome gift from my family.”

She took the wallet, opened it—and then stared at him.

“Money is a kind of freedom, a kind of safety,” he said quietly. “A shield against hunger, if nothing else. Halaway is a good place to practice using it, because no shopkeeper will try to cheat you or take advantage of you learning something new.”

“A learning.”

She didn’t sound excited about the prospect of having new clothes or spending money. He wondered if she’d ever experienced either of those things.

“I’ve asked one of the girls to help us with the clothes. Jhett. Did you meet her yesterday?”

Grizande shook her head.

“She’s a Sister of the Hourglass.” Daemonar watched Grizande relax and was relieved that he’d made the right choice of assistant. “Once we have the clothes—we can’t come back without them—we’ll visit the village weapons maker to select a gift from me. I figured you could use a good knife.”

That made her purr.

Yesterday Zoey had avoided seeing anyone but her circle of close friends—girls who were curious but wouldn’t ask her to talk about what happened at the Keep. Today she had to have meals with the other Queens and their friends, had to go to classes. Had to pretend nothing had changed.

Everything had changed.

“Zoey?” Titian said softly when they reached the open dining room doors. “Do you want to go back to our rooms?”

She shook her head. Couldn’t act like a coward, even if she did want to hide.

She walked into the dining room. The boys were already in line to fill their plates. They were always the first in line—but to be fair, they always yielded their places as soon as any of the girls approached the table that held the serving dishes. Ladies had first choice, and Queens were given first choice among the distaff.

Most of the boys glanced at her, then looked away and hurriedly filled their plates. The four Warlord Princes gave her a careful look. Raeth dipped his head in the smallest bow before selecting the food for his breakfast.

But the other four Queens hurried up to her.

“We heard you were summoned to the Keep,” Kathlene said, sounding concerned. “Is that true? Did you see . . . her?”

“What’s she like?” Felisha asked. Avid curiosity.

“She’s . . .” Power and mind and knowledge and storms, and not all the dreamers who shaped her were human, and there is no hiding that now. “She’s hard to describe.”

“I’m going to insist that the rest of us have an audience with her,” Dinah said, sniffing. “We’re just as important as you.”

“It wasn’t an audience,” Zoey snapped, aware that even the boys had stopped focusing on food to listen to her. “I was chastised for ignoring some court Protocol, and being in the same room with her when she’s angry is horrible.”

It wasn’t all horrible. But somehow, when Witch had sounded human and . . . ordinary . . . it was more unnerving. And Zoey had wondered—and worried—last night if she’d have the courage to request one of those audiences that had been a gift from Witch.

“What . . .” Azara looked at the other Queens and lowered her voice. “What did you do that was so bad?”

“Lord Beale told me to do something, and I tried to overrule him,” Zoey replied, feeling her face burn with the shame of stepping so far out of line that she’d been summoned for discipline because of it.

“Why shouldn’t you overrule him?” Dinah said loudly. “He’s just the butler.”

“And you’re the bitch-brat who is going to pack her trunks and leave right after breakfast,” Lucivar said, dropping his sight shield.

The boys sucked in a collective breath. The Warlord Princes straightened to attention. The girls just stared at the Warlord Prince of Askavi.

“You can’t decide that,” Dinah said. “This isn’t your house.”

Lucivar gave Dinah that smile. “This is the SaDiablo family seat, so this is my home more than it will ever be yours, whether or not I’m in residence. But more than that, Lady, the Hall is working as a court works. You are all little witches in training, and I am the Master of the Guard. That gives me the right to decide that you don’t belong here.” He looked at the girls clustered around Dinah. “And you have until breakfast is finished to decide if you’re leaving, too, or if you’re going to get it through your heads that this bitch-brat shit won’t be tolerated. You’ve had a chance to settle in and get a feel for living at the Hall and understand what is expected of you. There’s a difference between making a mistake and being a bitch. Bitches will not survive in this court.”

“But Prince Sadi . . . ,” Kathlene began, her voice shaking.

“If you cross an unforgivable line, you’d better hope I’m the one coming for you, because if Sadi’s temper goes cold, you have no chance of surviving—and your age won’t make a damn bit of difference to either of us.” He looked at all of them. “And I’m going to recommend that Protocol be enforced everywhere except in your private rooms. That means addressing people by their titles and recognizing the Jewels they wear and what those Jewels mean, regardless of the work those people do. That means addressing each other as you would in any other court. That means sharp discipline if you step out of line.”

Lucivar turned toward the dining room door. “You have anything to say about that?”

Zoey sucked in a breath. She hadn’t realized Prince Sadi had returned—and she wondered if the Green-Jeweled witch who had come in with him was a visitor.

“You’ve said everything that needs to be said,” Daemon replied. “It does seem that the children are not mature enough to appreciate informality within a court setting, so Protocol will be enforced.” He waited a beat. “Anything else I need to know?”

“Nothing that can’t wait,” Lucivar said.

“I’m delighted.” Daemon looked around the room. “Since most of you are here, I’d like to introduce Lady Brenda from the village of Maghre on the Isle of Scelt. She’ll be your new instructor.”

“Sir?” Raeth raised his hand enough to draw Daemon’s and Lucivar’s attention. “What will Lady Brenda be teaching?”

Daemon gave them all an amused smile. “Whatever she wants to teach.”

Brenda let out a hoot of laughter. “It’s going to be like that, is it? Well then, best I unpack and get on with it.”

“Lord Beale.” Daemon looked over his shoulder.

“Prince.”

“Please escort Lady Brenda to her suite and introduce her to Helene. Make sure she has everything she needs.”

“And the Lady’s friend?”

“He’ll be arriving later today. Also make up a guest room for Lord Kieran. I expect he’ll be with us overnight.”

“Very good, Prince.” Beale took a step back. “Lady? If you would follow me . . .”

Brenda looked at Lucivar, then at Daemon. “That’s your brother, is it? Quite a whip hand you’ve got there. But not to worry. When he’s not around, I’m a fair hand with a whip myself.”

“Good to know,” Daemon murmured.

“Eat or don’t eat,” Lucivar said, turning back to all the youngsters. “Lessons start in an hour whether your bellies are full or empty.” He looked at Zoey and Titian. “And before the lessons, the three of us are going to have a chat.”

Mother Night, Zoey thought, sinking into a chair. She watched Lucivar walk out of the dining room with Daemon.

Her emotions spun, her stomach churned, and all she could think was What have I done now?

She gasped when Raeth set a plate down in front of her and took the seat on her right.

“It’s just scrambled eggs and toast,” Raeth said. “You need to eat something, and I figured that would go down and stay down.”

Trent put a dish in front of Titian before circling the table and taking a seat opposite the girls.

Jhett sat next to Trent and gave Zoey a worried look.

“What did Daemonar want?” Titian asked Jhett.

The young Black Widow hesitated. “I’m going to the village with him and Grizande. She needs to buy some clothes and personal items—things a man wouldn’t help a female acquaintance buy.”

Zoey forced herself to swallow a bite of scrambled egg. “That’s good. We should help whenever we can.”

She knew there were bad Queens. She did. But until Grizande showed up at the Hall, she’d never met someone whose life had been burned by a bad Queen. She’d never been hated simply because she was a Queen.

What was she supposed to do about that?

And would the other girls blame her for Dinah’s being sent away?

“We have things to discuss,” Daemon said quietly as he and Lucivar crossed the great hall and headed for his study.

“Yes, old son, we do. Let’s start with your new instructor.”

“She’s . . .” How to explain Brenda?

“Oh, I got that part. Bloodlines?”

“Morghann and Khardeen if you go back far enough.”

“Hell’s fire. That explains some of it.”

Daemon made a sound that might have been a laugh. “It does, yes. While I was discussing the trip to Scelt with Saetien, Brenda and Jillian had a chat.”

Lucivar stopped walking and stared at him. “Should I be afraid?”

“ ‘Terrified’ would be closer to the truth of it, especially since they’ll both be living in Dhemlan.”

“Your problem, then.”

“Yes, but apparently you’re my whip hand.”

“Take a piss in the wind.”

Daemon smiled. He could always count on Lucivar being Lucivar.

The front door opened. Surreal walked into the great hall.

“Did you get any sleep last night?” Lucivar asked.

“Enough,” Surreal replied. “Why?”

“As Sadi’s second-in-command, you’re taking Dinah back to whatever District Queen rules the girl’s home village and informing that Queen that the girl is temperamentally unsuitable for training at the Hall, and she and the Province Queen will receive a full report of the girl’s conduct.”

“Who’s going to write this report?” Daemon asked.

“I’ll dictate to you and Holt. He’ll write it down, and you and I will sign it.”

Hell’s fire. There was a lot of temper being held on a tight leash. “What happened here?”

“Let’s talk about it in your study,” Surreal said.

Daemon studied her. Something different about her psychic scent and physical scent. Just enough to make him aware of it.

They went into his study. Lucivar put an Ebon-gray shield around the room to make sure they wouldn’t be interrupted. Then Surreal put an aural shield around the room so they wouldn’t be heard.

“I wasn’t away that long.” Daemon looked at the two of them.

“Dinah needs to go,” Lucivar said.

“I agree,” Surreal said. “She’ll keep stirring things up until someone is killed. And she seems to be aiming most of her venom at Zoey.”

“Then she goes.” Daemon focused on Surreal. “What else? I assume there’s a reason why your psychic scent and physical scent are a little different.”

Her eyes widened. “You can tell?”

“Of course I can tell.” They might live apart most of the time, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t sharply aware of her—and aware of any differences—when they were in the same place.

“Hell’s fire,” she muttered.

Lucivar stared at her. “You tried the tea?”

“Yes, I drank a cup of the tea after Jaenelle confirmed that one cup wouldn’t harm me.” Surreal frowned. “I’ll have to send a note to the Keep and let her know it changes a witch’s psychic scent and physical scent. Although she probably already knows that.”

“Did you drink it before or after I got that mental kick in the ass from Witch, telling me that Grizande was not allowed to drink another cup of that tea?”

“What tea?” Daemon asked.

Surreal ignored the question. Her frown deepened as she looked at Lucivar. “You didn’t notice the difference.”

He shrugged. “It’s a little like how you feel when your moontime begins and a little like how you feel when you’ve had too much wine.” He paused and asked too casually, “Did Marian drink any of that tea?”

“No,” Surreal said quickly. “No, it’s . . . You and Marian and Nurian need to talk to Witch about the tea.”

“What tea?” Daemon asked again.

He listened while Lucivar explained about the secret tea that was made in Tigrelan and quieted a woman’s response to a Warlord Prince’s sexual heat. Then Surreal told them why Witch’s temper had turned cold.

Lucivar paced the study, swearing under his breath. “I’d leave Marian before I’d let her do that to herself.”

Surreal nodded. “That’s one of the reasons why having this show up again pissed off Witch so much.”

Daemon said nothing, but he noticed how carefully Surreal wasn’t looking at him.

You won’t need it, he thought. Since that wasn’t something he wanted to discuss, he said, “Is Grizande settling in?”

“She needs more clothes,” Lucivar replied. “Daemonar is taking her to the village this morning.”

Daemon raised an eyebrow.

“One of the girls is going with them to help with the underwear,” Lucivar said dryly.

“Of course.”

“Your turn,” Surreal said. “What’s going to happen with Saetien?”

“If she agrees to the terms I set, I’ll escort her to Scelt in three days’ time. She’ll stay with Lord Kieran’s family while she’s on what Lady Eileen called a heart quest.” A beat of silence. “Brenda is Kieran’s sister.”

“A student?” Surreal guessed.

“Instructor.”

“Teaching . . . ?”

“Whatever she tells me she’s going to teach.” Daemon studied the carpet. Nice carpet. Good colors and pattern. “Her kindred friend will be arriving later today. Lord Shaye. A horse.” He blew out a breath. “A mountain of a horse.”

Lucivar narrowed his eyes. “When did you last eat?”

“Had breakfast while I waited for Saetien and Jillian to arrive at the estate,” Daemon replied.

“Sleep?”

“Is a fond memory.”

“Well, Hell’s fire, you’ll be less than useless in another hour. Go to bed, Bastard. Surreal will take the bitch-brat back to her family, and I’ll deal with the rest of the youngsters.”

“And I will be the benign presence,” Daemon murmured.

“Sure,” Lucivar agreed. “Time for a little chat with Zoey and Titian.” He dropped the Ebon-gray shield and walked out of the study.

“This tea . . . ,” Daemon said softly.

Surreal shook her head. “No need to say anything about it.” Then she smiled—or tried to, anyway. “Lucivar’s right. You’re almost asleep on your feet. Get some rest, Sadi. You’re going to need it.”

Might have been a warning. Might have been a threat. Either way, he didn’t argue, especially after he almost ran into Holt when he left his study. His secretary took one look at him and said there was nothing that couldn’t wait. When was there nothing that couldn’t wait when he’d been gone for a couple of days?

When he reached his suite, he put a Black lock on the door and Black shields around the rooms, remembering to leave a Sceltie-sized hole in the shield on the courtyard side. He opened the glass door that led to the balcony, ignoring the brisk air. Breen was still a puppy, and while she could air walk now, she hadn’t progressed to the Craft lessons about passing through a door or wall. As soon as she realized he’d returned, she would come running to greet him. And woe to the man who was in the shower when she arrived and found herself locked out of the room, because then she’d call on the rest of the Scelties for help. He’d watched tragedies in the theater that didn’t have as much pathos as a chorus of Scelties standing outside a closed door that they couldn’t get through.

By the time he got out of the shower and pulled on a pair of pajama bottoms, Breen was in the sitting room, wildly happy to see him.

*Daemon!*

Sitting in a chair, he cuddled her. “How’s my girl? Have you been playing with the other Scelties and having your lessons with Mikal?”

*Yes! And playing with tiger friend.*

Was that safe? She was so small, and the kitten was . . . not small. He had to trust Mikal and the other Scelties to keep her safe when he wasn’t there.

“Breen, I have to sleep.” Daemon put her down and went into his bedroom. He was in bed and drifting toward sleep when he felt her tumble onto the mattress before cuddling against his chest.

He’d got halfway through the thought of telling her to get down and use her own bed when he dropped into sleep.

Lucivar strode toward the training room. A quick psychic probe told him the girls were in the room—minus Zoey and Titian, who were hovering in the corridor waiting for him, and that bitch-brat Dinah, who should be in her room packing. The boys were milling around looking uncertain. Well, with Morris gone and Brenda settling in, he wasn’t sure where the boys were supposed to be—or if Raine was supposed to be teaching this morning. Didn’t really matter. No one’s brains were going to be on lessons today. At least not the kind found in books. So he might as well give them other kinds of lessons.

“Prince Raeth,” he called. “Get the girls started on the warm-up with the sticks.”

“Sir?” The boy sounded like he’d just been ordered to strip naked and leap onto a bed of knives.

“Girls. Warm-up. You. Go.” He pointed at Zoey and Titian. “You two with me.”

He led them around the corner and put an aural shield around the three of them. Then he focused on Zoey. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she replied in a low voice.

“You know that’s shit, and I know that’s shit. So let’s try it again. What’s wrong?”

“Papa,” Titian protested. “Zoey is upset.”

“I can see that, witchling. I want to know why.”

“I failed!” Zoey cried. “How can I rule even a tiny village if I fail at being a Queen?”

Lucivar leaned against a wall and studied this girl who seemed to be shattering right in front of him. “If you’ve reached your age without ever taking any kind of misstep as a Queen, then you have been very sheltered, or very lucky that your instincts didn’t get you into trouble before now. My guess? Your instincts are sound, if inexperienced, and Weston has been very good at protecting you.”

Titian called in a handkerchief and handed it to Zoey.

“Grizande hates me,” Zoey said, sniffling.

He didn’t disagree with that, since it was probably true. “She doesn’t trust you because she’s learned that Queens can’t be trusted. That’s her burden. It has nothing to do with you personally.”

“If I’d listened to Lord Beale . . .”

“Yeah, if you had it would be easier. But you didn’t yield until you were pushed back. At another time, in another place, you may have to stand your ground despite what other people say. But you will have this lesson as a balance for instinct, and the next time—because you are a Queen and there will be a next time—you will make a deliberate choice of whether to yield or to fight, even if that fight is with your own court. You skinned your knee, Zoey. That’s all. Now it’s time to clean the wound and stand up.”

He waited.

“The other girls have been mean,” Titian said when it became obvious that Zoey was still having trouble standing up after what was, in the end, a small mistake.

“ ‘Mean’ as in a physical punch or a verbal one?”

“Words.”

“Sometimes those hurt worse than a fist and take longer to heal.” He waited a beat. “Which girls?” He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t demand. The alarm in his daughter’s eyes told him she knew exactly what would happen if she gave him names. “Anyone besides Dinah?”

“No, Papa.”

Probably true. But the other girls, the other Queens, hadn’t stood up against Dinah’s attack either. Something to think about when it came to the harsh kinds of lessons.

“All right,” Lucivar said. He considered what to say that might help Zoey. “Witchling, just because you’re offering friendship doesn’t mean Grizande is obliged to accept it—or can accept it—from you or any of the other Queens who are living at the Hall. Some scars never heal. For her, being around Queens might be one of them. Or maybe, given time, Grizande will see that people she does trust also trust you and consider you a friend, and she’ll take a chance that you will be different from what she’s known. Do you understand?”

Zoey nodded.

He wasn’t sure she did, but he said, “Go on, then. Sweating will do you both some good.” He dropped the aural shield and watched the two girls hurry away.

Lessons. He thought about some of the lessons Saetan had prepared for the coven. Most were stunningly unsuccessful for their original intent because the coven either laughed themselves silly while trying to perform the scenarios or turned on Saetan with a united anger that told the future Steward of the Dark Court a great deal about the Queens who would rule Kaeleer.

After checking on the youngsters, he didn’t interfere with the workout. Weston was there, and Raeth had the support of all the boys as they paired off to spar with the girls. They were being daintier with the girls than he would have been. He wondered if they would have been so dainty if Dinah had still been among them.

Leaving them to it, Lucivar headed for the places where he would most likely find Beale and Holt. He wanted to ask them about lessons.

Jhett didn’t chatter, for which Daemonar was grateful, but she did point out the spring flowers she recognized and spoke their names as the three of them walked to the village. Grizande repeated the names quietly as she scanned the land around the drive in much the same way Daemonar did—a hunter who enjoyed the scenery but was always aware of other living things and of the potential danger hidden within beauty.

Suddenly Grizande stopped and focused on the trees near the bridge that was the boundary between the Hall’s drive and the village’s road. She growled softly.

Before Daemonar could send out a psychic probe, two minds tapped his first inner barrier. Young. Curious. Individuals who were, for him, a normal part of the estate and didn’t require vigilance.

“A pack of kindred wolves lives in the north woods,” Daemonar explained. “They hunt on the estate, and they will defend anyone who belongs to the Hall. You’re sensing two juveniles who are out exploring. You’re both new, and they’re curious about meeting you if you’re now part of the Hall’s pack. Is that all right?”

Jhett didn’t look sure about meeting wolves, but Grizande nodded. Of course she did. Her little brother was a tiger.

A short whistle was all it took to have the youngsters trotting over to meet them. Daemonar was familiar, so they acknowledged him first with licks and a quick sniff. The females were more interesting, Grizande more than Jhett because she carried Jaalan’s scent on her clothes as well as her own.

*Play?* one of the wolves asked on a general communication thread.

Daemonar shook his head. “We have to go to the village now. Maybe later.”

Grizande said, “Later is long time?”

Whining from the wolves. If they sensed that the girl would rather play with them than go to the village, they would make a fuss to get him to agree to playtime.

“Later is after the midday meal.” He had no idea what Grizande was supposed to be doing this afternoon—or what he was supposed to do—but it would be good for kindred to meet kindred before kitten and wolves stumbled into one another.

Grizande sighed. The wolves sighed. Jhett sighed—but Daemonar didn’t think she sighed for the same reason.

He herded the females across the bridge. The wolves stayed behind.

“Do you know how to swim?” Daemonar asked.

“Yes,” Jhett said.

Grizande nodded. “Tigrelan. Deep rivers. Must swim.”

“Tigers like to swim too. There’s a small lake on the estate. In the summer, we go there to swim.”

“Wolves swim?”

“They do.”

For the rest of the walk to Halaway, he told them the story of how Prince Smoke came to the Hall looking for Jaenelle Angelline and how his pack was invited to live in the north woods and how Smoke’s descendants had lived there ever since—a link to the kindred wolves who held their own Territory, which was closed to humans.

“We’ll start at this shop,” Jhett said when they reached Halaway’s business district, which was the village’s main street.

Daemonar glanced at the shop. It wasn’t the one he’d have chosen. *Jhett, my father and uncle are paying for Grizande’s clothes, so . . .*

That was as far as he got before Jhett turned to Grizande and said, “It’s not the shop for fancy clothes and lingerie, but it has basic clothing of good quality. I came here a couple of weeks ago to fill the gaps in my own wardrobe.”

Grizande braced as if preparing for battle. She looked at Daemonar.

He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Jhett knows what you Ladies need. You two take care of that. I’ll wait out here.”

“You do not like inside?” Grizande asked.

“It’s a clothing shop for females. I am not needed inside.” And he’d keep insisting on that for as long as Uncle Daemon let him.

The girls went inside. Daemonar stood on the sidewalk with his back to the shop’s window. If he hadn’t been standing escort, he would have gone to the bookshop a few doors down the street. Or to the bakery to pick up something for Manny and Tersa. There was nothing in the bakery that wasn’t made at the Hall by one group of cooks or the other, but sometimes the novelty of eating something that wasn’t made at the Hall appealed to him. And bringing a box from the bakery tended to catch Tersa’s interest. Persuading her to eat was often a challenge, and her health was still fragile after she almost bled out a few months ago when she’d created several tangled webs to give warning of the troubles that were coming. He could usually get a few bites of food down her if he arrived with treats from the bakery. And Mikal would consume anything that was left when he arrived home, so nothing would turn stale, let alone go to waste.

Two of the guards who served Halaway’s current Queen rode up.

“Standing escort for a couple of Ladies from the Hall,” he said before they asked the question. He tipped his head. “They’re shopping.”

The younger guard looked amused and sympathetic. The older one leaned in his saddle, and Daemonar approached.

“We heard one of them is . . . ,” the guard began.

“From Tigrelan, yes,” Daemonar replied. “A tiger kitten came with her. A Warlord Prince.”

The guard studied him. “Been a while since we’ve had visitors from that Territory.”

“They’re receiving their training at the Hall. An instructor from Scelt has also just arrived.”

“Human?”

Daemonar bit back a smile at the hope in the guard’s voice. He understood the reason for that hope all too well. “Yes. A Green-Jeweled witch from Maghre.”

“Well.” The guard straightened in the saddle. “Well then.”

He hadn’t actually seen the new instructor. While he and Grizande had waited in the great hall for Jhett, Holt had pulled him aside and told him the basics.

“Does she know Liath?” he had asked.

“They’re . . . acquainted,” Holt had replied.

The way Holt had said that was not reassuring.

He watched the street, nodded to people he knew, turned down invitations from young men and women to join them for a drink at the coffeehouse. Turned down a different kind of invitation from an adult woman who should have known better—and who had paled when he reminded her that he needed his father’s or his uncle’s consent before having sex.

There were a couple of women in the village who were attached to the Queen’s court and provided a discreet service. There were a couple of men attached to the court who provided the same service. After all, needs didn’t begin in the marriage bed. But the no-sex-without-consent rule applied to all the youngsters living at the Hall. The staff needed permission from Beale or Helene—and anyone who had met Mrs. Beale and her meat cleaver might think long and hard about approaching Beale for permission. Everyone else required permission from Uncle Daemon. Or Lucivar or Aunt Surreal, depending on who was in charge that day.

Given those choices? Better to wait and talk to Uncle Daemon. Definitely.

It was a long hour before the girls walked out of the shop. Grizande looked a little stunned, but Jhett seemed pleased.

“Why don’t we walk down the street for a bit so you can see where some of the other shops are located?” Daemonar said. “Then I’d like to . . .” He trailed off when he spotted Tersa looking into a shop window.

Nothing unusual about Tersa wandering the village on her own. Nothing at all. Although “on her own” wasn’t quite accurate, since Keely, the Sceltie Black Widow who lived with Tersa, accompanied her whenever she left the cottage. If Tersa was in any kind of distress, everyone would know about it.

“Come on.” He didn’t wait to see if the girls followed him. He just strode down the street toward the mad, broken Black Widow who was Uncle Daemon’s mother—and the mother of Lucivar’s heart.

She turned away from the window and smiled as he approached. “It’s the winged boy.”

He was the winged boy. “My winged boy” meant Lucivar. “The boy” or “my boy” was Uncle Daemon.

“Hello, Tersa.” Daemonar kissed her cheek.

“You have brought friends?”

“Yes. This is Jhett.”

“Little Sister.” Tersa’s gold eyes focused on the young Black Widow—and her voice held a warning that she had slipped a little ways from the border of the Twisted Kingdom.

Keely, alert but not alarmed, watched Tersa.

“And this is Grizande,” Daemonar finished.

“Tiger girl.”

Grizande put a hand on her chest. “I am Tigre.”

Tersa nodded. “Tiger girl. Power and grace. You hear the song of the bright dark star. The one who had your name and bloodline, she heard that song too. Others will hear, and the web that connected Kaeleer before will connect it again.” She stepped toward Grizande and pressed her hand over the girl’s. “Your claws are sharp. You will need them. Learn from the ones whose claws are sharper than yours. They are within your reach. Learn, little tiger. Learn—and survive.”

Mother Night, Daemonar thought.

Grizande barely breathed when Tersa stepped back.

Jhett looked stunned . . . and scared . . . and mesmerized.

Tersa looked at him and smiled. “It’s the winged boy.”

Relieved that her mind had returned to the border, he smiled. “Yes, Tersa.”

“This shop sells treats. You will come back to the cottage, and we will have treats.”

“All right. Should we go inside the shop and select a few?” Daemonar asked.

“Cake. And beef flakies. Tiger girls need to be strong, just like winged boys.”

Daemonar glanced at the girls. “Tersa? Jhett isn’t Tigre.”

Tersa patted his face. “There is more than one kind of tiger.” She went into the shop.

“You okay?” Daemonar asked Jhett.

She swallowed hard and nodded. He didn’t believe her, but he let it go—for now—and walked into the bakery to help Tersa select the treats.