The Queen's Price

TWENTY-FOUR

A long time ago, before he’d been known as Butler, he had lived in Beldon Mor, the capital city of Chaillot in the Realm of Terreille. He’d been young and alone, desperate and angry. So very angry when he’d learned a brutal truth. But he’d had no recourse against aristos who were corrupt to the very core of their Selves. He couldn’t save what had already been destroyed, wasn’t sure he could do anything to save himself.

Then one night, when he was drunk and sick, a young woman—a broken witch—dressed for a fancy evening wandered into the mouth of the alleyway where he’d collapsed.

“The Chaillot girl knows about the pretty poison. You should talk to her.”

“They’re all Chaillot girls!”

“Only one lives in the Black Mountain. At least, that’s what some of the girls whispered.”

He’d had sense enough left to sight shield before a man rushed up to the girl, grabbed her arm hard enough to bruise, and pulled her away from the alleyway, saying, “Bad enough you act like a fool without you talking to yourself now.”

Only one lived in the Black Mountain.

“I need to talk to the Chaillot girl!”

When he finally reached Ebon Askavi and was taken through the Gate to the Keep in Kaeleer, he’d shouted the words that had shaped his life ever after.

That Chaillot girl’s ancient sapphire eyes looked through him, seeing everything. She didn’t ask who he was or where he came from. She already knew. Just like she knew why he had come to the Keep looking for her. She didn’t allow anyone, not even the High Lord of Hell, to ask him questions about himself or his past or how he knew the living myth, and he never chose to tell anyone.

At his request—and hers—he spent a few years studying a variety of subjects, including some that were conducted in very private surroundings. During that time, he also served short apprenticeships in a variety of courts, learning the structure of service and observing the various personalities of the Queens who ruled the Shadow Realm. After he made the Offering to the Darkness, he learned how to mask the power in his Green Jewel so that people thought his Birthright Purple Dusk was his Jewel of rank.

At one time or another, he had worked for most of the Queens who had served in the Dark Court’s First Circle. He never served any of them, but he’d worked for them, taking on assignments for weeks or months at a time in order to be a Queen’s eyes and ears—and sometimes her knife. His credentials had been as substantial as water written on wind, but they had carried the seal of the Queen of Ebon Askavi, and the Dark Court accepted that that was all they needed to know about him.

Decades later, when he was finally ready to settle down, he’d been offered an assignment that would allow him to live in Maghre. Not all his reasons for accepting were benign, but no one had known that. Still didn’t know that.

Perhaps didn’t know that.

He’d gone by many names over the years, but when he settled down in Maghre, he also settled on the name he’d liked the best because of the way it had sounded when she’d said it.

Butler.

Butler rose a few minutes before sundown—the start of his “day”—and felt the presence of the Black. Hard not to notice when that dark power was in the village. The only question, for him, was why Sadi was there. The meetings with the Scelties and humans who ran the school followed a predictable schedule, as did the deliveries of yarbarah to him.

It wasn’t the right time for a meeting or a delivery, which meant something had happened to bring Sadi to Maghre. Or was it the High Lord who was approaching the cottage that had once belonged to Lady Fiona? It had been Butler’s residence for centuries, being part of the agreement when he’d taken over management of Fiona’s literary works.

His next-to-last assignment—and a welcome one. But it was unusual for one of the demon-dead to stay among the living. Not unheard of, especially if you were connected to the SaDiablo family in any way, but it was unusual.

He stood in the cottage’s doorway and watched that beautiful, lethal man glide toward his home. The man stopped at the front gate in the white picket fence that surrounded the cottage and the flower gardens. The property held several more acres, including pasture for the horses that used to pull the pony cart for Fiona. He’d kept the small barn in good repair, just like he’d kept the cottage in good repair, making the same improvements that were being made in other village homes. But he hadn’t had a need for a pony cart or the horses, so those things were gone.

In truth, he was tidying up. It was time to go—to Hell, if that’s what he wanted, or to Ebon Askavi. He hadn’t seriously considered working at the Keep and extending his existence a little longer until that power had thundered through the Shadow Realm again, warning everyone that Witch had returned. Now he felt impatient to find a successor, but he hadn’t found the right person yet.

Butler walked to the gate. “High Lord.” When he didn’t get a response, he said, “Or is this a visit from Prince Sadi?”

“Sadi,” Daemon replied. “I’ve come to ask a favor.”

He opened the gate. “Then you’d best come in.” He led the way into the cottage, then looked over his shoulder. “I’ve a bottle or two of regular wine, if you’d like a drink.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’ve had plenty to eat and drink today” was the dry reply.

They went into the kitchen, where Butler poured and warmed a glass of yarbarah, the blood wine. “Did you keep count of how many cups of tea you drank and how many scones you ate today?”

“I’m better off not knowing.”

Butler turned, intending to go to the parlor, where he usually conducted business with the living.

Daemon took a seat at the kitchen table.

Not sure what that meant, Butler took the seat opposite Sadi. “A favor, you said.”

Daemon shifted in his seat, an almost unprecedented sign of nerves. “My daughter needs to regain her balance, needs to find her potential, her place among the Blood. Hopefully that will help her reconnect to her family in some way—or help her find where she belongs if not with us. It was suggested that she look for the answers here, in Scelt.” A hesitation. “It was suggested that she’ll find her own truths by finding out about Wilhelmina Benedict.”

“No.” He didn’t have to think about his answer for even a moment.

Daemon called in a piece of heavy paper with a seal embossed in the lower right-hand corner and held it out.

Butler, it’s time. J.

His last assignment. The one he’d been waiting to carry out. She’d said he’d know when it had arrived.

But why did it have to be this?

“So you want me to tell your daughter a pretty story about two sisters?” he asked, not bothering to hide his anger.

“No, I want you to tell her the truth uncensored,” Daemon replied. “Whatever that may be.”

“You don’t know?”

“No. I know something happened between them, and Wilhelmina left the Hall because of it. But we’d been preparing for war, and afterward . . .” Daemon sighed. “Afterward nothing and no one mattered to me until Ladvarian and the rest of the kindred brought Jaenelle back. All my father said months later was that Wilhelmina was residing in Maghre. He arranged for her to have a modest annual income that would be paid out while she walked among the living and would extend to two generations beyond.”

Daemon leaned back in his chair. “My father hated Wilhelmina Benedict. He never said why his feelings changed toward her. I know he didn’t feel that way when she first arrived in Kaeleer.”

“And now you want me to stir up a past long forgotten by most, when there are still some among the living who are thankful it’s forgotten,” Butler said.

“Eileen called this a heart quest.”

“You told her about this?”

Daemon nodded. “Saetien will be staying with Lady Eileen and Lord Kildare while she’s here.”

A heart quest. He couldn’t refuse, but he wondered whose heart would break by the time it was done. “All right. But I do it my way.”

“I didn’t expect you to do it any other way,” Daemon replied.

“As long as you understand that.”

“I understand that everything has a price, and the price for the help I’m requesting for my daughter may be steep.”

But do you understand who might have to pay that price?

Butler, it’s time. J.

Her will was his life.

“So,” Butler said, wanting to end this meeting on a lighter note. “Who’s going back to the Hall with you in exchange for your girl being here?”

“Possibly Lady Brenda,” Daemon replied after a moment.

Will some walls in the Hall crumble when she crosses the threshold? “Well, that’s grand, but you should tell your stable to have a box stall ready for your other guest. If Brenda is going to the Hall, Lord Shaye won’t be far behind.”

Daemon blinked. “And Shaye is . . . ?”

“A kindred Warlord, but not your average-sized riding horse. He’s fairly attached to Brenda.”

“I see.”

“He got along well with Liath, so the two of them won’t be at odds with each other.”

“I’m delighted.”

Butler swallowed a laugh. “Your father handled all this.”

“So everyone keeps telling me. I’m beginning to think my father was out of his mind for taking on the coven and all the kindred who showed up. At least . . .” Daemon stopped.

“Not sure who else might have shown up on your doorstep since you were home last?” Butler guessed.

“Not sure at all.”

Much later that evening, Daemon stood outside the manor house with Kieran and his family. He didn’t say a word about the trunks and boxes and parcels Kildare and Ryder were packing into the small Coach he’d used for this trip. He was tempted to suggest a few more items Brenda might need for her stay at the Hall, just to be sure there wouldn’t be room for the other guest who would be joining them. Kieran solved that problem by offering to drive a Coach designed to carry horses and personally deliver Brenda’s friend.

Lord Shaye was . . . large . . . and pure black like his sire. Nowhere near as big as his dam, but he was definitely more substantial than a typical riding horse.

Daemon might have made a weak joke about the stud needing a ladder if the stud and the dam hadn’t been in the yard to see their son off on his first adventure beyond the village and the Isle of Scelt. Somehow he didn’t think a witch and a Warlord would appreciate the joke, and he couldn’t assume that, being horses, they wouldn’t understand—and be insulted by—such a comment.

*They’re devoted to each other,* Kieran said on a spear thread. *She won’t tolerate another stallion, and he won’t cover another mare. They have three offspring younger than Shaye.*

Who was he to offer a comment about family? And the horses’ psychic scents were too similar to Eileen’s and Kildare’s as they hugged their daughter and wished her well for him to think they were anything less than family.

“Lady Brenda, if you have everything you need, at least for now, we should be going,” Daemon said.

“I’ll write,” Brenda said as she gave her mother one more hug. “I will.”

Daemon met Eileen’s eyes and dipped his head in a tiny nod, receiving a nod in return. Even if the daughters forgot to write, the parents would know what was going on.

He invited Brenda to join him in the front of the Coach, not because he wanted company but because there wasn’t any other comfortable place for her to sit.

As he caught the Black Winds and began the journey back to Dhemlan, he wondered how many trunks and bags and boxes Saetien would deem necessary for a visit of a few weeks.