The Queen's Price

SIXTY-THREE

By the end of that first uncomfortable week, the Queens had adjusted to the new addition to their list of tasks. Each of them had had a turn at being the Territory Queen who gave the command for the hand slaps.

The standard assignments for the day were in Prince Sadi’s handwriting. The “extra” command was in someone else’s hand—and always included the instruction to write out the additional assignment in the Queen’s own hand and burn the original with witchfire.

“Convenient,” Zoey muttered as she wrote out the extra instruction. With the original destroyed, there was no proof that these “little disciplines” weren’t the Queen’s idea.

This week, the orders were that two people receive a hard slap on the hand and a third receive a light slap across the face.

What were they supposed to be learning by doing this to their own people? What were they supposed to learn by demanding the Queens who ruled under them do the same to their people?

And if these extras were part of the official lessons, why were these “disciplines” supposed to be done out of the sight of adults?

Titian and Jhett were in Zoey’s court today. So was Raeth. She felt friendly toward the other four students assigned to her, but they weren’t friends. Not like Jhett and Raeth. Not like Titian.

But two of those seven people would receive a hard slap on the hand today, and one would receive a slap on the face. If she didn’t include at least one of her friends in that number, how would the other four feel? Favorites escaped discipline? Favorites weren’t slapped in the face?

Zoey summoned one of her Warlords and asked him to go to the stable for seven pieces of straw. He nodded and hurried off without asking why.

Raeth, being a Warlord Prince, would have asked why—and that was the reason she didn’t give him the assignment.

She summoned Kathlene, who was the Province Queen that day, and issued the day’s tasks that the other Queens had to perform—including the extra part.

Kathlene stared at her.

“Do you want to see the instructions I was given?” Zoey asked.

Kathlene hesitated, then shook her head. “This isn’t right, Zoey.”

“I know. But someone has added this to the lessons.”

“Who?” Kathlene didn’t wait for an answer before bowing and leaving the room.

“Good question,” Zoey muttered. Someone knew about these extras they were supposed to do in secret. But who, exactly, was that someone?

Zoey held seven straws. Her court drew the straws based on their Jewel rank, regardless of caste, to determine who would receive that day’s discipline.

Titian drew a short straw. So did Raeth. So did the Warlord who had been sent to fetch seven pieces of straw.

Feeling sick, Zoey collected the straws and then had those three people draw again.

Raeth drew the short straw.

“Hold out your left hands,” Zoey said.

She slapped Titian’s hand—hard. She slapped the Warlord’s hand—hard. And then she slapped Raeth in the face—and watched his hands curls into fists and his eyes glaze with temper.

“Each of you will discipline three other people in the same way you were just disciplined—by slapping a hand or slapping a face.”

Titian made a wordless protest. The Warlord looked troubled.

Raeth stared at her.

Do it, she thought. Do it.

The instructions were clear. If she, the day’s Territory Queen, complained to one of the instructors or, may the Darkness have mercy, to Prince Sadi, all seven of her people would be physically punished. But she’d read the instructions three times before burning the original with witchfire, and there was nothing in them that said another member of her court couldn’t issue a complaint with the instructors or the Prince.

“We’d better get started,” Zoey said. “Jhett? If you could wait a moment?”

The rest of them left the room.

“Lady Zoela?” Jhett’s formality stung Zoey’s feelings, but it also gave her hope. Jhett wouldn’t stay in a real court with any Queen who acted like this.

“Wood and stone remember,” Zoey said with the same care she’d use when crossing an ice-covered pond. “Isn’t that how Black Widows can see a . . . memory . . . of something that happened in a place?”

Jhett nodded.

“Paper is made of wood.” Zoey licked her lips and wished she had some water for a suddenly dry throat. “Could a Black Widow coax an image out of paper?”

“Like, an image of the sender?”

“Yes.” If it was possible, that could explain why whoever was adding these extra commands wanted the original pieces of paper burned.

“I don’t know,” Jhett finally said. “I’m going to Halaway this afternoon to visit the Sisters living at the Hourglass House. I could inquire.”

“Do that.”

Daemonar sat at a table near the social room’s sliding glass doors. Grizande had gone into the village with Jhett to visit the recovering Black Widows—and to visit Tersa, although that was implied rather than stated. Since Liath had been growling at humans all morning—and had bitten the hand of one Warlord and then refused to explain what the boy had done to earn the bite—Daemonar had offered to keep an eye on Jaalan. A Green shield around the courtyard kept the tiger confined enough to allow Daemonar to concentrate on his studies while giving the kitten room to play.

Unfortunately, most of the residential squares of rooms had a fountain somewhere in the courtyard and little tigers liked playing in water, even when the weather was chilly.

Wet tiger didn’t smell any better than wet dog, but getting Jaalan to understand that he couldn’t come inside until he was dry . . . He was outside with no one to play with. Bored with the available toys, he kept returning to the fountain to play in the water and pounce on anything that fell in—leaf, twig, feather of a bird that claimed this courtyard as its territory.

The birds weren’t kindred, but sometimes he could swear they knew which individuals they could tease and which ones had the speed and skill to turn them into feathered mush.

Daemonar watched the kitten head back to the fountain and shook his head. When he finished reading this chapter, he’d go out and play with Jaalan long enough to get the kitten dry. Then they could both stay inside until Grizande returned.

Raeth walked into the room, then hesitated when he eyed the books Daemonar had spread out on the table.

“You got a minute?”

Daemonar marked his place and closed the book. “Sure.”

Raeth pulled out a chair and slumped in it.

Anger and hurt pumped out of the younger Warlord Prince. The hurt could fester into something dangerous, and the anger was too close to the surface to dismiss.

Daemonar swallowed impatience as he waited for Raeth to say something. How many times had he interrupted his father while Lucivar was doing some work and then couldn’t say the thing that had been so urgent? And each time, Lucivar had waited, letting him get to the thing in his own time.

“What if a Queen gives you an order and you can’t swallow it?” Raeth finally asked.

“Then don’t swallow it,” Daemonar replied.

“But she’s your Queen.”

“Is she? Can you say that her will is your life? Or is she the Queen you’re serving at this time?”

“A couple of weeks ago, I would have said the first was possible. Now?” Raeth shrugged, a move full of unhappiness.

“What’s happened over the past couple of weeks to change that?” He’d noticed the boyos were all sweating out some anger during sparring practice, but none of them wanted to say what had stirred that anger. Come to think of it, the girls were all off the mark too. Not angry, just . . . off their stride. No, more than that. It was like they were skidding toward the edge of a cliff and unable to stop themselves from going over.

Instead of answering the question, Raeth said, “What would you do?”

“I would draw the line and tell her to take a piss in the wind.” Even if Witch was the one who gave the order? Daemonar leaned closer to the other Warlord Prince. “Don’t accept any order that smears your honor. Any Queen who asks that of you isn’t worthy of your loyalty.”

“What if she’s being squeezed into giving those orders by someone more powerful?”

“Then take your concern to someone powerful enough to do something about it.”

“And if that powerful someone already knows?”

Daemon Sadi would not ask any man to whore his honor. Which meant something was going on that was being carefully hidden from Sadi because it would snap the leash on his temper.

Daemonar leaned back. “Hypothetically, a Warlord Prince has been asked to . . .”

“Slap someone in the face.”

“Without cause?”

“It’s being called discipline, but there’s no justifiable reason for it.”

He nodded. “And this order is coming from . . . ?”

“Territory Queen to Province Queen to District Queens.”

“The Territory Queen is deciding this is to be done?”

“No. Apparently the Territory Queen is given secret orders about this discipline, along with the other assignments for the day.”

“Secret orders given to the Territory Queen by someone who outranks her? Hypothetically.”

“Yes.” Raeth hesitated. “Can’t tell the adults or the whole court will be punished.”

“Adults” meaning the instructors, senior staff, and, most of all, Sadi. “What kind of punishment?”

“That’s not specified. At least, the Warlord Princes haven’t been told what will happen.”

“Did you slap someone?” he asked quietly.

“Was supposed to slap three of the girls, but after the first . . .” Raeth shook his head. “Couldn’t.”

“Will the slap leave a mark?”

“No.” A flash of rage, quickly leashed. “It’s not right, asking us to do that.”

No, it wasn’t. Did the author of this game have any understanding of the nature of Warlord Princes? The tempers of the other Warlord Princes might not be close to snapping the leash, but he’d bet his quarterly allowance that Raeth had already sharpened his knives in preparation for a fight. “Whose court are you in today?”

“Zoela’s.”

Hell’s fire. “Keep an eye on Jaalan. I’ll be back in a bit.”

Brenda stared out the window. Something was happening here. A breaking of trust. A curdling of feelings. Oh, all the youngsters were being careful to hide the reason, whatever it was, but the adults noticed. Did the young Queens and their courts think the adults didn’t notice? She wanted to wade in and demand to know what the problem was, but she reluctantly agreed with Raine that they should give the youngsters a chance to figure out how to fix the problem on their own or come to them for help. And he agreed with her that they should keep a sharp eye on the youngsters and intervene if anyone did more than smudge a line that Prince Sadi had drawn for acceptable behavior.

She turned away from the window when someone knocked on her door. “Come in.” She smiled when Neala walked into the room. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Yes, Lady. I need some advice.”

Brenda gestured to two chairs. Once they were settled, she said, “Advice about . . . ?”

“I saw something,” Neala said. “Something I don’t think is right, but it’s hard to know with these odd lessons that have been going on.”

Odd lessons? Brenda felt a prickling beneath her skin. “Something besides Lady Dumm?” She and her selected helpers had gone a bit too far there—and had learned a lesson of their own about how the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan handled some problems—but the maids had aired out the clothes that had been worn that night. Eventually.

“Not like Dumm,” Neala said quietly. “These lessons . . . harm the body a little, but . . .”

But they break trust. Curdle feelings. “Tell me what you saw.”

Brenda listened, saying nothing as pieces came together. When Neala finished, Brenda stood and said, “Come with me.”

With the Scelt maid beside her, she strode through the Hall’s corridors, heading for Prince Sadi’s study.

Daemonar settled into a chair in front of Uncle Daemon’s desk. He wasn’t sure whom he’d be facing a minute from now, but for the moment he was dealing with his uncle.

“Hypothetical question,” he began.

Daemon leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and rested the forefingers against his chin. “Why do you always bring hypothetical questions?”

“I’m curious about things?”

“Uh-huh. Did anything blow up?” A mild, amused question.

“Not physically.”

A chill in the air replaced amusement. “Explain. Hypothetically.”

Daemonar repeated what Raeth had told him, including the part about the Queen’s whole court being punished if the Queen complained to one of the adults.

“Do you think I would have added such an instruction?” Daemon asked too softly.

“Of course not. But someone added those instructions—and they were careful to make sure you wouldn’t find out about it.” Daemonar thought for a moment. “I doubt Brenda or Raine knows about this, although you’ve all probably noticed a degree of idiocy that wasn’t there a couple of weeks ago.”

“That’s one way of putting it. I wondered if shuffling the ‘courts’ every day was too much of an adjustment.” Daemon raised an eyebrow, turning the comment into a question.

Daemonar shrugged. “Maybe give each ‘court’ a week to work together before shuffling who serves which Queen. A day isn’t long enough to figure out who can do what—or who will stand and fight and who will crumble in order to avoid paying a price.”

“Sometimes a day is all you have to make that kind of decision,” Daemon said quietly. “But your point is valid and—”

A thump of fist on wood before Brenda walked into the study, followed by Neala. When she spotted Daemonar, Brenda stopped for a moment, then approached the desk, herding the Scelt maid.

“Neala has something to tell you,” Brenda said.

Daemonar started to push out of his chair. “I’ll—”

“Sit,” Daemon said, turning that one word into a command. He pointed to the other chair. “Neala.”

Brenda stood beside the chair, one hand on Neala’s shoulder. Supportive rather than restraining.

“What do you have to tell me?” Daemon asked.

Daemonar wondered if anyone else could feel the cold anger beginning to rise from the depth of the Black. He figured Brenda, wearing the Green, would notice, but she gave no indication of it.

“I was tidying the social room in the Queen’s square—the square of rooms across the corridor from yours,” Neala explained. “I was standing in plain sight, but it was a shadowy part of the room at that time of the morning, so I doubt Lady Cara noticed me when she slipped into the room. Her bedroom isn’t in this square of rooms, and no one else was about, so she had no business being there. Except it seems she did, because she hurried over to the basket that held the envelopes with the assignments, took one out, carefully lifted the wax seal, and then added another piece of heavy paper. I think she used a bit of Craft to warm the wax enough to seal the envelope again.” Neala hesitated. “Lady Cara was laughing when she left the room.” Another hesitation. “She’s an aristo Lady, so I wasn’t sure it was my place to be telling tales about her making mischief, but after what happened this morning, with Liath biting that boy after the boy slapped one of the girls in the face . . .”

“The boy did what?” Daemon’s voice was quiet and viciously polite.

“Slapped her,” Brenda said. “Obeying the Queen’s orders.”

“Whose orders?” Still quiet. Still viciously polite. But getting colder. Getting closer to the Sadist.

“Not yours,” Daemonar said. “Not Lady Brenda’s or Prince Raine’s or any of the other instructors. Not Beale or Holt.”

Daemon’s glazed gold eyes focused on him. Just him.

Daemonar swallowed hard and chose to dance on the knife’s edge. “If the Queens were doing whatever this is by their own choice, you’d toss them out of the Hall before they had time to squeak. Maybe that’s the intention. Maybe someone is trying to push you into expelling these Queens and the others who are here for court training and protection.”

“There’s sense to what Prince Yaslana is saying,” Brenda said. “You’ve already expelled a couple of girls for crossing some lines.”

“I have,” Daemon agreed.

Daemonar held his breath, hoping that Brenda wouldn’t point out that Cara had been one of Dinah’s friends. Although he wasn’t sure what difference it would make. Sadi would figure out if Cara had acted alone or if she had received those extra instructions from someone else—and he would call in the debt.

“A slap on the hand, a slap in the face,” Daemon said. “Was any other kind of punishment ordered?”

“Not that Raeth mentioned,” Daemonar replied. “I can see why no one growled about the hand slaps. I’ve had my hand slapped plenty of times, so being ordered to do that wouldn’t seem important enough to report to you.”

Daemon stared at him. “Having your mother slap your hand because you were trying to grab half a cake and stuff it in your mouth is significantly different from having a Queen give that order for no reason. One slap is done out of love; the other is done because a Queen wants to inflict pain and doesn’t expect to pay a price.”

“It wasn’t half a cake,” Daemonar muttered. “And I was little when I did that.”

Warmth replaced cold in Daemon’s psychic scent. “But it did make an impression.”

The slap itself hadn’t made as much of an impression as finding his mother crying because she’d had to inflict that slap to stop him from grabbing the cake. No need to mention the crying to Uncle Daemon. Lucivar had said plenty about that at the time.

Daemon turned his attention back to the Scelt maid. “Thank you for reporting this, Neala. You did the right thing. If you notice anything else, please inform Lady Brenda. Or you can report to Beale, Helene, or Holt. I’ll make them aware of this . . . trouble.”

Daemonar pushed out of his chair. “I left Raeth watching Jaalan. I’d better rescue him.”

“Which one would you be rescuing, then?” Brenda asked.

“I guess I’ll find out.”

Brenda and Neala left the study. Daemonar stayed a moment longer. “Is this how it begins? With something that seems so insignificant that no one challenges it?”

“Last week started with a slap on the hand,” Daemon replied. “This week has added a slap in the face. How many steps between that slap and someone being ordered to use a riding crop or belt or whip on someone’s back? Not that many. And once you’ve split someone’s skin, it’s easier justifying taking that next step if the choice is to inflict pain or feel the whip yourself.”

“What are you going to do?”

“As long as it doesn’t escalate, I’ll give the youngsters a couple more days to report this to me or resolve it on their own. Either way, I will find the source of this trouble.”

“Sir.”

“Prince.”

Daemonar hurried to return to the room where he’d left Raeth. Yes, Sadi would find the source. And may the Darkness have mercy on that person.

Daemon waited for Beale, Helene, and Holt to report to his study.

He’d been aware of emotional undercurrents. Hell’s fire, there were thirty-six aristo adolescents living in the Hall—not to mention the servants who were around the same age—so how could there not be emotional undercurrents? But this deliberate . . . corruption . . . of honor. He understood why the other girls hadn’t come to him when that first command had been given, but he felt a sharp disappointment that neither Titian nor Zoey had marched into his study to ask him about it. They should have known he wouldn’t allow even that much physical harm, that he wouldn’t allow any mental or emotional harm to be inflicted on anyone under his protection. Instead, they had submitted to receiving and inflicting physical harm.

Well, once they got this sorted out, he knew what lessons these youngsters needed to learn for their own sakes as well as for the safety of the Realm.

Titian hurried to open the door of Zoey’s bedroom just enough for Jhett to slip inside. It had been an awful day, with the instructions getting garbled as they’d been passed from Province Queen to District Queens, who gave the orders to their people. The result of those garbled instructions was that two of the girls had been slapped in the face hard enough to leave a bruise. Arlene and the other apprentice Healers had done what they could to reduce the pain and swelling—and the skin discoloration—instead of hauling the girls to Lady Nadene and having the resident Healer deal with the injuries. But Nadene would have reported to Uncle Daemon, and Zoey wanted a little more time before Uncle Daemon learned about the extra instructions—just enough time for the Queens to find some answers on their own.

“It’s possible,” Jhett said without preamble. “Paper doesn’t usually hold intense emotions like a room where someone was attacked, but a skilled Black Widow could draw out some emotion or recognize a psychic scent.”

“Could you . . . ?” Zoey began.

Jhett shook her head. “I don’t have the skills yet to do that.” She hesitated. “Prince Sadi has that skill. It’s kind of an open secret now among the Hourglass and isn’t supposed to be talked about with anyone who isn’t a Black Widow, but he is a natural Black Widow—the only natural male Black Widow in the history of the Blood, and the only other male Black Widow ever was his father. And Witch was one of Prince Sadi’s teachers in the Hourglass’s Craft.”

Zoey caught her lower lip between her teeth. She trusted Prince Sadi. She did. But she was certain someone was watching the Queens to make sure they followed the secret instructions, and she couldn’t risk harm coming to her people by her breaking the rules and telling him about this.

She couldn’t tell Prince Sadi, because he lived at the Hall, ruled the Hall.

Her breath caught as an idea took shape. But how to get there?

“We should tell Uncle Daemon about this,” Titian said. “He wouldn’t approve of these disciplines. I know he wouldn’t.”

“We have no proof that we’re being given these orders and not making them up on our own,” Zoey protested.

“We could have proof tomorrow or the next day.” Titian took Zoey’s hand. “It’s possible, even likely, that Jhett, Arlene, Laureen, or I will be in the Territory Queen’s court tomorrow. Whoever is in the Territory Queen’s court should offer to burn the instructions. Kathlene, Felisha, and Azara don’t want to do this any more than you do. If a Queen tells someone to burn the original instructions and that person doesn’t do it, then she’s not risking her whole court being punished—because she wasn’t the one who disobeyed.”

“That risks the person who didn’t follow orders.”

“Not if the person takes those instructions to Uncle Daemon before anyone else finds out. And if I’m not the one who is in position to take that paper, I’ll go with whoever has it, because he’ll listen to me. He always has.”

Zoey swallowed hard. She could do this. She would do this. “We should get advice from someone who doesn’t live at the Hall, just in case these disciplines are intentional.”

“Who?” Jhett asked.

Zoey called in a small velvet pouch and removed one gold coin. She held it up. “This mark of safe passage grants me an audience with the Queen of Ebon Askavi. I’ll tell her what is going on here and ask what we should do.”

Titian blinked. “How are you going to get to the Keep?”

“I’ll get there. And I’ll ask someone who can get there a lot faster than I can to go with me.”

Grizande opened her bedroom door and stared at Zoela Queen.

“May I come in?” Zoela Queen asked, her voice hushed.

When Zoela Queen slipped into the room, Jaalan bounded toward her, then stopped when Grizande didn’t give him the signal that this girl was a friend.

“I need a favor,” Zoela Queen said. “I need your help. Can you drive a Coach on the Winds?”

“I can.” Hard to read this girl-Queen. Afraid. Uncertain. But also strong. “Why ask . . . ?” She made a gesture to indicate herself.

“You wear Sapphire, so you could get us there faster than I could travel on my own. And you’re a strong warrior. An honorable witch.”

Grizande studied Zoela Queen. A trap? She didn’t think the girl-Queen knew anyone in Tigrelan. “Where we go?”

“Ebon Askavi.” Zoela Queen held out a gold coin. “I can use this to request an audience.”

“You go to ask wisdom of the Queen who is more than a Queen?”

“Yes.”

A need strong enough to approach Witch? Fear and strength. That made sense now.

“When?”

“Tonight during the quiet hours, after everyone retires and before the first servants report for their duties.”

She’d need help getting a Coach they could use. Which made her wonder . . . “You friend of Daemonar’s sister. Why not ask him?”

Zoela Queen swallowed hard. “He’s a Green-Jeweled Warlord Prince. When someone finds out we’re gone, there might be trouble that could end with someone getting hurt. Daemonar might be needed here to help protect . . .”

To protect his sister, among others. That made sense too. If Daemonar sounded the battle cry, not only would Green step onto the killing field; the Black would join him.

Grizande turned to the pendulum clock and pointed at the number three. “Come to landing web. We go then.”

“I’ll be there.” Zoela Queen hesitated. “Thank you.”

Using the excuse that Jaalan needed garden time, Grizande escorted Zoela Queen out of the glass doors that opened to the inner courtyard. While Jaalan took care of his business, she watched the girl-Queen hurry back to her own room—and the friends waiting for her.

There would be trouble over this. She just wasn’t sure where the trouble would fall.

Daemonar paused for a moment before opening his bedroom door. Only one Sapphire in the Hall, so this wasn’t one of the girls—or one of the boys—who might be looking for a little romance.

“Grizande.” He spread his wings enough to block the doorway.

“Need help.” Quietly spoken words filled with fierce determination. “Need a Coach. Small.”

“Why?” When she hesitated, he gave her a lazy, arrogant smile. “Darling, if you want my help to leave the Hall, you’ll have to tell me why.”

“Zoela Queen needs wisdom from Queen who is more than a Queen. I can drive Coach. I take her to Ebon Askavi.”

Hell’s fire. Uncle Daemon was going to bounce off the ceiling when he heard that. And yet . . . Not a solution most people would consider, but requesting wisdom from the most powerful Queen in the Realms was certainly an active effort to deal with the additional instructions the Queens had been given.

“I’ll get the Coach and bring it to the landing web,” he said. “When?”

“Tonight at . . .” Grizande held up three fingers.

“Okay.”

“You look after Jaalan?”

“You’ll be back by the evening meal. I’ll look after him until then.”

She looked doubtful about getting back that day. He had no doubts at all since he figured Lucivar would be the one driving the Coach back to the Hall.

And once the Demon Prince and the High Lord teamed their skills and tempers to deal with this problem . . . Wouldn’t that be fun?

“Get some sleep,” he said. “If you’re going to be driving a Coach on the Sapphire Winds, you need to be awake and sharp.”

He dozed more than slept. Judging the time, he dressed in warm clothes, went to the building that held the Coaches, and roused one of the men who was on night duty in the stables that held the mares and a couple of foals. He could have taken the small Coach without help, but telling someone he was taking it would cause less trouble in the morning.

There was going to be enough trouble without adding more.

At three o’clock, Daemonar stood outside the Coach he’d positioned on the landing web and waited for Zoey and Grizande. He didn’t wait long. Grizande looked like a warrior prepared for battle. Zoey looked like she was running ahead of an avalanche and wasn’t sure she’d get away.

“A Coach this size is meant for short distances, so it doesn’t have a toilet,” he said, watching Zoey. “I did borrow a bucket from the stables in case one of you needs a container.”

Grizande shot him a look. Yeah, they both knew who might need it.

“There’s also a jug of coffee, a jug of juice, and some food I took from the auxiliary kitchen.” He focused on Grizande. “Eat something if you can.”

“Thank you, Daemonar,” Zoey whispered before she entered the Coach.

“I take care of her,” Grizande said.

He smiled. “I know you will . . . sister.”

She looked startled. Then she gave him a fierce smile, entered the Coach, and closed the door.

He moved away from the landing web but stayed nearby until Grizande used Craft to lift the Coach off the ground and catch the Sapphire Wind.

He’d give the girls a head start before he woke up Uncle Daemon and told him Zoey and Grizande were scampering off to the Keep to have a chat with Witch.