The Queen's Price

TWENTY-THREE

Daemon loved the old house in Scelt because it had been Jaenelle Angelline’s home in a way no other residence had been. When she reached her majority, Saetan had leased this house for her to give her a place of her own. The cabin in Ebon Rih had been another kind of retreat, but this had been Jaenelle’s personal residence in the village of Maghre on the Isle of Scelt. Morghann and Khardeen had been her close friends and neighbors, as well as the rulers of the island and village, respectively. Jaenelle had created the school for Scelties here, and for a few days each season she could pretend she was just another witch living in a charming village surrounded by beautiful countryside that seemed made for a long gallop on a strong horse.

Even when she no longer wore the Black and was no longer the Queen of Ebon Askavi, she was still a Queen. Still the Queen, as far as the Shadow Realm was concerned. Daemon had tried to give her that extraordinary ordinary life she’d always wanted, as much for himself as for her, and while the people around them, out of affection, pretended he and Jaenelle were just aristos coming to spend a few days in their country house, they weren’t just anything—and everyone knew it.

He continued to renew the long-term lease on the house to give Morghann and Khary’s descendants income from the property instead of purchasing the place outright. In return, Lord Kieran and his parents kept an eye on the place and helped solve any problems the small staff who managed the house might have when he was absent.

He’d sent a message to his housekeeper to let her know he’d be arriving for business but wouldn’t be staying overnight. The staff would be disappointed; they didn’t get much of a chance to fuss over him. Not the way the servants at the Hall or any of the other Dhemlan estates got to fuss. That was why, when he arrived at the house, he agreed that he was a fair way to being hungry and would appreciate a bit of a meal before taking care of the business that brought him to Maghre that day. He’d learned the hard way that if he admitted to being hungry, he couldn’t possibly eat enough of what was put before him to satisfy cook and housekeeper—and considering the way someone who wore the Black burned through food, that was saying something.

Having invited his housekeeper to join him and catch him up on the happenings in the village (“Well now, Prince, I’ll just have a cup of tea to keep you company. And maybe one of those scones.”), Daemon ate, praised the food, and made appropriate sounds in response to the village’s doings.

Was Prince Liath doing well, then? That was grand, finding him work to keep him busy. Everyone was fond of Prince Liath.

Yes, everyone was fond of the Green-Jeweled Sceltie Warlord Prince now that he lived on the other side of the Realm and herded someone else.

Daemon fiddled with the handle of his coffee cup, an uncharacteristic sign of nerves that wouldn’t go unnoticed, although the observation wouldn’t travel beyond the house.

“My daughter will be coming to Scelt for a while,” he said carefully. “I’m not sure if it will be a few days or a few weeks.”

“On her own?” the housekeeper asked.

“Yes.”

“Staying here? On her own?”

He heard the disapproval. “No. She’ll be staying with Lord Kieran and his family.”

“Ah. Well, Lady Eileen runs her family with a firm hand. No doubt that will be true for any guests as well.”

He was counting on that.

He rose, intending to head out for his first meeting. But his housekeeper fussed with the dishes and didn’t look at him—and he felt a tickle of warning that the meal had been more than it seemed.

“There’s been talk that you’re training youngsters at the Hall,” she said.

“We’ve always trained youngsters at the Hall,” he countered.

“But you’ve got aristos there now, Queens and such, in the same way your father looked after the Dark Court when the Ladies were young. Or so the stories go.”

“Yyyeess.”

“Doesn’t seem fair to restrict that opportunity to youngsters from Dhemlan, you being a landowner here and all.”

Hell’s fire. He couldn’t say the training was exclusive among the staff or the youngsters receiving court training, not with the Dharo Boy working with Mrs. Beale, and Prince Raine as one of the instructors, and a Tigre witch and kindred tiger now in residence.

“Liath lives at the Hall,” he said. A weak argument, but it was all he had.

“Everything has a price,” she replied.

“You have a good point.” And he recognized when the prudent choice was to yield. “If you should hear of anyone who would like to be considered for such . . . seasoning . . . send me their information, and I will pass it on to my senior staff to review.”

“If I hear of anyone.” She smiled at him—and he wondered how many packets of information were already prepared and would arrive at the Hall before he returned.

Since Kieran was descended from Morghann and Khardeen and was, therefore, his neighbor, Daemon chose to walk to the manor house. Because Morghann had been the Queen of Scelt, the manor house had been divided into a private residence and rooms to accommodate court business—including the occasional guest who was the Queen’s guest rather than a family guest of Morghann and Khary. When Kieran had been officially acknowledged as the Warlord of Maghre, he’d turned the court side of the house into his residence while keeping some of the rooms for the work of looking after the village. His parents, brother, and sister lived in the family side of the house. The arrangement worked for all of them, and Daemon hoped it would work for Saetien too.

“You have business with Kieran?” Eileen asked once they were settled in the sitting room where she conducted her own kind of business. “Will you have a scone to go with your coffee?”

The question was really a command, so he said, “Thank you. They look delicious. I do have business with Kieran—and I have a favor to ask of you. My daughter has a need to spend some time in Scelt, looking for answers to some particular questions.”

Eileen took her time buttering her scone. “She’ll be coming on her own, your daughter? That’s why she won’t be staying at your house?”

“Yes.”

“And who is supposed to give her these answers?”

Daemon looked at Eileen.

Her eyes widened. “I see. Does he know about this?”

“I’ll talk to him this evening.”

“We can put her up here, but I won’t put up with nonsense.”

“Whatever rules you set for your daughter you can set for mine.” He hesitated. “What I am is hard for her. Who I am and whose will is my life is hard for her. This is all I can do to help her. She believes she needs these answers, but if she breaks your rules, you send her home whether she has her answers or not.”

“A heart quest,” Eileen said softly. “Very well.”

“Thank you.”

“Well, the village does owe you.” She sipped her coffee, then asked so very casually, “How is Liath getting along? Doing well?”

“I’ve barely been home these past few days, but it’s my understanding that Liath is now helping to train a tiger kitten.”

Eileen choked. “Training a tiger?”

“A baby Warlord Prince with claws.”

“Training him to do what?” Her voice rose to such a pitch, the butler knocked on the sitting room door to find out if there was some trouble.

“I don’t know,” Daemon admitted. And that was something he needed to find out very soon.

Daemon found Kieran leaning against the rails of a fence, watching Ryder and Kildare working with some of the young kindred horses. At thirty years old, Kieran was the oldest child of Eileen and Kildare. A lean man with curly brown hair and blue eyes that always held a hint of mischief, he had been the Warlord of Maghre officially for the past five years. Unofficially, his rule began when he was twenty, after he’d made the Offering to the Darkness and come away wearing the Red.

Daemon joined Kieran at the fence.

“Mother tapped me on a psychic thread and told me that your daughter will be staying with us for a while,” Kieran said, watching the horses.

“Yes, she will. She’s looking for some answers.”

Kieran nodded. “There’s an answer I’ve been wanting for a while now.” He looked at Daemon. “I’ve wondered why you always seem to brace when you see me. I think we get along, you and I, and yet there’s this moment of hesitation.”

Gold eyes met blue. “It always takes me that moment to remember you’re Kieran and not Khardeen. You have the look of him, the sound of him, the manners and the way of handling the village that is so like the way he was. He was a good friend, and sometimes it feels like there was no one in between you and him. Things are different here, as they are everywhere else in Kaeleer, but the feel of the village is the same.”

“Ah.” Kieran went back to watching the horses. “I’m pleased to have the answer. It’s a fine compliment.”

They watched Kieran’s brother, Ryder, sweet-talking a filly into . . . Well, Daemon wasn’t sure what she was supposed to be doing, but he was pretty sure she wasn’t supposed to be standing on Ryder’s foot until he handed over a treat.

A Sceltie witch trotted into the corral, on air, grabbed the filly’s tail, and yanked.

Squeal. Kick. Bounce bounce bounce while Ryder moved out of the way of the drama and the Sceltie braced her feet on air and wouldn’t release the filly’s tail until her feet returned to the ground.

Ryder petted and soothed the filly. The Sceltie, with a single grff of warning, trotted to the fence and sat on the top rail, keeping watch.

Daemon pressed his lips together, fighting not to laugh—and terrified that if he laughed, he might be heading home with another Sceltie who was thought to be a bit too managing.

Kieran looked serene. “She doesn’t put up with any nonsense from her own pups and sees no reason to put up with nonsense from any other kind of youngster.”

“I’m not taking her,” Daemon said softly.

“Of that I am sure, since you’d have to fight all the teachers at the village school in order to have her. They pay her wages to come to the school and keep order.”

“Sweet Darkness.”

A brief silence. Then Kieran asked oh so casually, “How is your school coming along?”

“It’s not a school as such.” Quick reply. Defensive reply. Then a realization that he might as well admit defeat since he was asking for a favor himself. “Who did you have in mind?”

“Brenda.”

“Your sister Brenda?”

“Aye.”

“Why?”

“She wants a deeper study of Craft, and she’d like to acquire some court polish but she doesn’t want to do an apprenticeship in a court, serving in a Queen’s Second or Third Circle and fetching lavender water and handkerchiefs. Her words.”

“Are the Queens in Scelt the kind of women who need lavender water and handkerchiefs?” Daemon asked. Granted, he hadn’t met all the Queens in Scelt, but the ones he had met hadn’t struck him as the type of woman who spent half her day on a fainting couch demanding that her First Circle fetch and carry for her.

“No, but someone serving in a court for the first time is required to observe quietly rather than doing—and voicing opinions,” Kieran replied. “Brenda has a hard head and a stubborn will that can match a Sceltie’s when she goes after something she wants. But she also has a generous heart.” He hesitated. “And I think she has a reason for wanting to leave Scelt for a while.”

“Oh?”

“If it had been more than disappointment and a bruised heart because someone wasn’t what he’d seemed, I would have taken care of it before now. Which isn’t to say that Brenda hadn’t taken care of things at the time and didn’t tell the family. But I think that’s part of the reason she doesn’t want to deal with an official court. She says that’s no place for a country girl.”

“Morghann was a country girl as well as a strong Territory Queen,” he pointed out.

Kieran gave him a look that asked a question without saying the words.

Daemon shook his head. “Brenda wouldn’t fit in with the rest of the female students. They’ve lived centuries more than she has, but emotionally they’re still girls. Your Brenda is a woman.”

Kieran focused on the horses. “Ah. Well.”

Daemon heard the disappointment beneath the acceptance. “So what can she teach?”

A hesitation before Kieran looked at him. “Teach?”

“Yes, teach. I have room for another instructor, and I see no reason why I can’t share some of what I’ve learned about Craft with the other adults at the Hall. In fact, one of the instructors is a Prince from Dharo who has a family connection to Prince Rainier and came to Dhemlan out of curiosity about a man who had served in Jaenelle’s Second Circle.” Another thought occurred to him. “Lucivar’s Jillian is working at a sanctuary Surreal set up for girls who need a safe place. She’s . . . Well, I think she’s like an older sister the girls can talk to and ask about things they might not be easy asking an adult about. Perhaps Brenda could do something like that. There are five young Queens in residence. They’re not enemies, but they aren’t friends with each other. Not in the way that Jaenelle and the coven were friends.”

“Rivals?” Kieran asked.

Were they? “Let’s just say they’re still sorting themselves out.”

A beat of silence. “Lucivar’s Jillian?”

Daemon winced. “I’ll thank you to forget I phrased it that way. We’re just . . . Jillian is ready to have her Virgin Night, and we’re feeling a bit . . . possessive.”

Oh, the twinkle in Kieran’s eyes. “You’re having a party afterward?”

“A quiet celebration the next evening, if she’s up to it then.” He could feel the ground turning slippery. He just didn’t know why.

“Our Brenda had her Virgin Night. Significant event in a witch’s life, with her power and Jewels hanging in the balance. Father and I thought as you did—a quiet celebration with family and a few of Brenda’s close friends.” Kieran shook his head. “Ah, no. Brenda wanted a dance with plenty of food and music. She said she understood the importance of not having her Jewels and power always at risk, but she didn’t see what all the fuss was about when it came to the act itself. The man’s cock would stand at attention and do the deed, she’d bleed a little, and that would be that. Not much difference between that and a stallion covering a kindred mare the first time, and the kindred didn’t make a fuss about it.” He sighed. “Mother convinced her to stay in her room and rest that afternoon, to ‘appease male sensibilities.’ And that evening we had a party and danced until sunrise.”

Daemon stared at him. “That’s not . . .”

“That’s our Brenda. Country girl who has grown up watching stallions cover mares,” Kieran said. “The concern about a Virgin Night—and the reason for that concern—seems to be confined to the Blood in the human races. Or maybe it’s that the mature kindred females provide a sharp motivation for good behavior and attack any male who tries to mate with an unwilling female. Such attacks are usually crippling and often lethal.”

Daemon shook his head. “I saw too many witches who were broken when I lived in Terreille. I’ve seen the girls in Dhemlan who were broken by the coven of malice. I can’t be dismissive about the risks.”

“Nor should you be. But if Jillian is more like Brenda, she might not view the transaction with the same measure of alarm that you do.” Kieran’s eyes twinkled again. “Of course, knowing who’s paying attention to the proceedings will make any man with a desire to live take extra care in how he performs his duty.”

“Actually, Surreal is making the arrangements for Jillian, and she’s the one who will be there.”

“That’s really not any better.”

No, it wasn’t. Not from a man’s point of view.

And this wasn’t a subject he wanted to think about. Not today. “I have a couple of other stops to make, so I’d better get on with them.” He hoped the other stops wouldn’t hold any surprises—or require him to add to the number of the Hall’s residents. “If Brenda wants to come to the Hall, I’ll find a place for her as an instructor.”

“Thank you, Prince. I’ll let her know.”

Daemon looked at Kieran and wondered if Brenda already had her clothes packed.