The Shadow Queen

CHAPTER 11

Gray pressed himself against the big stone gardening shed, his limbs trembling, his heart racing, as if his body were still trying to outrun the nightmares that had filled his sleep last night.

There was a Queen at Grayhaven. He could feel her presence, even out here. She would be living in that suite of rooms, in that room, doing . . . things.

His back muscles, which had never fully healed on the left side, tightened in response to his fear, threatening to spasm and leave him helpless to run, to hide until she lost interest in looking for him.

I’m Grayhaven. I’m Grayhaven!

Theran’s blade. He never betrayed his cousin, had protected Theran in the only way he could. Even when the bitch did those things to him.

He couldn’t remember that. Couldn’t. Theran was living in the mansion now. With her. No secrets. Not anymore. She knew Theran was the real Grayhaven.

He couldn’t get near the house. He had tried because Theran was in there, but he couldn’t get near the house. Talon had brought him food last night, and the men who worked in the stables had let him use their toilet and shower so he wouldn’t have to go near the house.

Her presence tingled under the land, even here at the edge of what had been the formal gardens. He didn’t remember that happening the last time. The gardens had been as close to a safe place as there had been when he’d been a prisoner here. The Queen had him shackled and staked to a long chain, like a pony being put out to graze. Let him stagger around the old gardens—or crawl when his tortured body couldn’t do more. Left him where he could see the dead honey pear tree, the symbol of the Grayhaven Queens who had stood against Dorothea SaDiablo. Dead like their bloodline. Dead for so many years, but kept as a reminder that those Queens had not endured.

Jared had given that honey pear tree to Lia, who had tended it all her life.

Who could say if it was the same tree? But everyone believed it was, and that was all that really mattered.

Hope. Life. Love. All dead, like the tree.

That’s what the last Queen had taught him.

Then Talon had found him, rescued him. And with Talon’s help, Theran had done what he could to help Gray rebuild some kind of life.

He wasn’t what he should have been. He knew that sometimes, could sense that something had been lost.

He would stay here because Theran was here, and Talon was here. But . . .

He felt her presence, felt her psychic scent as a heat against his skin.

But it was a pleasant heat, like beams of sunlight coming through a window on a day in early spring.

He peered around the corner of the shed and saw her walking toward him. But not looking for him. No, she was looking at the land.

Her scent said “Queen,” but she didn’t look like a Queen, wasn’t dressed like a Queen. She looked . . . friendly. And her hair . . .

He watched as she pulled the pins from her hair and it tumbled around her shoulders and down her back.

He’d never seen red hair. He’d read stories where people had red hair, but he’d never seen anyone in real life. And she had spots on her face. Why did she have spots on her face? Such pale skin. What color were her eyes?

With his heart pounding, Gray stepped away from the stone shed and walked toward her slowly, fearfully. It wasn’t safe. It wasn’t. But he wanted, needed, to see the color of her eyes.

Cassidy watched him walk toward her. A good-looking man with a strong physical resemblance to Theran, right down to the dark hair and green eyes. Family, perhaps?

A well-toned body of a physically active adult male. But his psychic scent said “youth,” even “boy,” which was a sure sign of something wrong, and that wasn’t good because inside that body . . .

Warlord Prince. Wild. Wounded.

Mine.

The thought startled her, made her heart pound because it seemed to recognize something about this man that her mind wasn’t ready to acknowledge.

This wasn’t the same feeling of recognition that she’d had with the Warlord Princes who were now in her First Circle. This was different. Personal.

So wounded inside. She could see it in his green eyes now that he was close enough. He looked like he was ready to run, and yet he kept moving toward her as if he couldn’t help himself.

“Hello,” she said quietly. “I’m Cassidy.”

He stopped at the sound of her voice, shifting his weight from one foot to another, not sure if he should get closer or step back.

“I’m Gray,” he finally said, taking another step toward her.

His eyes roamed her face. When he got close enough, he reached out, almost touching her cheek. Then he snatched his hand back, like a boy who had almost touched the forbidden.

Wondering what he saw that baffled and intrigued him so much, she touched her cheek to see if something was on her skin.

Oh. She wrinkled her nose. “You’ve never seen freckles?”

“Freckles.” He said the word softly, as if it were a fragile gift. “Are they just on your face?”

She knew her cheeks flamed with color. She also knew that, despite the man’s body, it was a boy asking out of curiosity. Still . . .

“I don’t know you well enough to answer that.”

He nodded, accepting.

He was half a head taller than she, if that. It would have been easy enough to look him in the eyes if his own weren’t so busy roaming over her face.

“Did you come out to look at the gardens?” she asked.

He cringed, as if she had scolded him for doing something wrong.

“I tend the gardens. It’s my job now. I don’t stay in the big house. I’m not in the way.”

Who said you were in the way?

His voice had risen to a kind of desperate keening and he looked ready to bolt, so she turned toward what might have been a flower bed at one time. “Well, you’ve certainly got enough work. This land hasn’t been loved in a long time.”

Something changed so suddenly, she gasped in response to that flash of strong emotion. She couldn’t decipher the look in Gray’s eyes, couldn’t get a feel for where he was now, mentally or emotionally. Which wasn’t good because even if he was diminished in some way, he was still a Warlord Prince and he outranked her. She couldn’t tell if the Purple Dusk power she was sensing was from his Birthright Jewel or his Jewel of rank, but either way, it was darker than her Rose.

And then, oddly, she had the feeling that some broken piece inside him suddenly settled back into its rightful place.

A moment after that, it was as if nothing had happened. Except that Gray seemed a little less like a boy.

“No, it hasn’t been loved for a long time,” he said.

Too many feelings. She’d come out here to walk and get away from all the feelings, to do something to settle herself before she went back to the next group of males who would be disappointed in the chosen Queen.

“Do you have a basket or a wheelbarrow?” she asked.

“We have both.”

“Good. I have an hour before the next meeting, so that’s enough time to clear a bit of ground.”

“Clear ground?”

“Weed the flower bed.”

His eyes widened. “You can’t weed.”

“Yes, I can.”

“But . . . you’re the Queen.”

“Yes.”

He rocked back on his heels, clearly at a loss.

“I’m the Queen who lives in this house now, so these are my gardens, right?”

“Yes,” he said warily.

“So these are my weeds. And since I’m the Queen, I can pull weeds if I want to. Right?”

He wasn’t quick to agree. Well, he was a Warlord Prince. They were never quick to agree about anything. Unless it was their idea in the first place.

Finally he said, “You’ll get dirty. It rained last night.”

“I know it rained. Which means the soil will be softer, and the weeds will be easier to pull.”

“But you’ll get dirty.” He frowned at the hem of her skirt, which had already picked up some moisture from brushing the top of the grass.

“I can”—she looked toward the stone shed, saw him stiffen, and looked the other way—“change clothes behind those bushes while you get the wheelbarrow.”

Not giving him time to argue, she hurried behind the bushes, vanished her good clothes, then called in the old shirt and trousers she usually wore for gardening. As she stuffed her legs into the trousers, she caught a heel of her shoe in the hem and hopped for a few steps, saying words her father pretended she didn’t know.

“Should have used Craft, Cassie,” she muttered as she finally got the heel clear of the hem. “Pass the shoe through the cloth and you’re less likely to topple over and fall on your ass.”

Once she got the trousers on, she buttoned up the long-sleeved shirt, and quickly braided her hair, using Craft to secure the end of the braid.

“Good enough,” she muttered as she hurried back to the flower bed, returning at the same time Gray arrived with the rattling wheelbarrow.

“These are a bit rusty, but I found a couple of short-handled claws that are good for loosening soil and digging out weeds,” he said. He hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he kept glancing at her face and then looking away.

Finally he said, “Your skin is very pale.”

Cassidy wrinkled her nose. “Pale skin goes with the red hair.” Unlike her brother Clayton’s, her skin never changed to that soft gold color when she spent time in the sun. It just went from milk to cooked lobster.

“Your eyes aren’t brown, but they aren’t green either.”

“The color is called hazel. Doesn’t anyone have eyes like that here?”

Gray shook his head. “Brown and blue mostly. Some green. None like yours. They’re pretty.”

A little flutter of feminine pleasure. The only man who had thought anything about her was pretty was her father, and fathers never saw daughters in the same way as other men, so Poppi’s opinion didn’t really count.

Which wasn’t something she would ever say to Poppi.

Gray took a step back, as if he was leaving.

“I know you have other work to do,” Cassidy said, “but could you stay a few minutes and point out some of the good plants?” She wanted him to stay. This place didn’t feel as lonely now that she’d met him.

Another hesitation. “You want me to help?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

“No, I don’t mind.” He seemed to be mulling over a lot more than spending an hour weeding a flower bed. “You should wear a hat to protect your face.”

“Oh, I . . .” He was right, of course. But somehow in the past few minutes he’d made some transition from scared younger boy to bossy older boy. Politely bossy, but she remembered a childhood afternoon visit with her cousin Aaron, which had been her first experience with being around a Warlord Prince of any age, and she still remembered that particular tone of bossiness that no one but a Warlord Prince could achieve.

“Don’t you have a hat?”

“Yes, I have a hat, but . . . You’ll laugh at my hat.”

“I won’t laugh,” Gray said quickly, putting one hand over his heart. Then he thought for a moment and added, “I’ll try not to laugh.”

Good enough.

She called in her gardening hat and plunked it on her head. It was a simple straw hat with a wide brim that kept the sun off her face and neck.

Gray didn’t laugh, but his smile kept getting wider and wider as he studied her hat.

“Why does it have a chunk missing from one side?” he asked.

“Because my brother was teasing me last summer and holding it behind his back—and didn’t notice when the goat snuck up behind him and took a bite out of it.”

His smile got even wider. “Shouldn’t it have ribbons?”

“I use Craft to keep it in place.”

Nodding, and still smiling, he handed her one of the short-handled claws. “I’ll show you what doesn’t belong in this garden.”

Where in the name of Hell did she go? Theran scanned the weed-tangled mess of raised beds that framed a terrace before he headed for the rest of the formal gardens.

She’d said she wanted a little air and would be back shortly. That had been over an hour ago. A meal, and the men, were waiting for her return so they could get on with the rest of these meetings.

Considering how bad everything looked, what could Lady Cassidy find out here that would amuse her for so long?

The answer punched his heart. He lengthened his stride as he headed for the big stone shed. It had held the groundskeeper’s office at one time, but had become a catchall for unwanted tools. He’d helped Gray clear out the smaller room in the shed and put in a cot, a small chest of drawers, and a bookcase.

Gray was used to living rough. So was he. But here, with the mansion in sight, it seemed . . . meaner, coarser.

It was all Gray could tolerate.

If Cassidy thought she could play with a damaged man just because Gray wasn’t able to fight back, she’d find out the truth quick enough. He, Theran, wasn’t fifteen anymore, didn’t—wouldn’t—hide anymore. And Gray wasn’t standing alone anymore, facing something that terrified him.

He spotted Gray and hurried toward his cousin, no longer caring if he found Cassidy. A wheelbarrow full of weeds was on Gray’s left and someone—he caught a glimpse of a straw hat—was on the other side of the wheelbarrow.

“That’s called pearl of wisdom,” Gray said, pointing to a plant. “See? The flower has a sheen like the inside of a shell, and the seedpod looks like a pearl. The flower only blooms for a couple of weeks in the spring.”

“Gray,” Theran called, wondering what servant had befriended his cousin.

Gray looked around, a queer wariness in his eyes before he spotted Theran.

“Theran!” he said happily.

From the other side of the wheelbarrow, a husky voice said, “Oh, shit. Theran.”

When she popped up, it took him a moment to recognize her. She was the only person in Dena Nehele who had red hair, but it still took him a moment to recognize her.

Not a Queen. Despite her caste, she was not a Queen.

“Has an hour gone by already?” Cassidy asked.

“And then some. We’ve held the midday meal, thinking you would be back soon.” He couldn’t keep the tightness out of his voice, couldn’t even keep it on the right side of respectful.

“My apologies, Prince Theran.” There was a tightness in her voice too as she stood up and vanished that stupid hat. “I’ll wash up and join you as soon as I can. Please tell the men not to wait for me. They shouldn’t have to eat cold food just because I lost track of the time.”

“We live to serve,” Theran said.

She winced and wouldn’t meet his eyes as she hurried back to the mansion.

Theran watched her for a moment, then looked at Gray. “Are you all right?”

That queer wariness was back in Gray’s eyes. “I’m fine.”

What did she do to you? He couldn’t ask, but he knew something wasn’t quite right.

As he turned to go back to the mansion, Gray said, “Theran? She knows the land needs to be loved. The Queens who have been living here haven’t cared about that.”

A message there, but Gray had always had a sensitivity to the land, being more aware of it than the people around him were. That sensitivity had heightened after he’d been rescued.

I’m glad you’re not afraid of her, Gray, Theran thought as he walked back to the mansion, but what kind of Queen cares more about digging in the dirt than taking care of the people?

It took most of the afternoon to meet the Warlords who wanted to be considered for the court. Three belonged to her and were suited to serve in her First Circle. The others wanted status, safety, something else. Whatever it was, they wouldn’t find it with her.

Several Warlords who lived in the town of Grayhaven would be an asset in one of the other twelve circles that made up a court, and she hoped they would accept the offer when the Steward made it on her behalf.

Once she found a Steward. And a Master of the Guard.

And with every man who wasn’t accepted, Theran tensed a little more.

Toward the end of the afternoon the first, and only, Prince arrived. A middle-aged man whose skin sagged as if he’d once been hefty but hadn’t eaten well in quite some time and whose left hand had been broken and badly healed.

“What do you want, Powell?” Archerr asked in a challenging voice.

“I would like to be considered for a position in the court,” Powell replied courteously, looking at Cassidy. “I’m good at organizing schedules and duties.”

“You’re also good at skimming off a percentage of the Queen’s tithes,” Archerr snapped.

“That was never proved,” Ranon snapped in return.

Why would Ranon defend a man accused of stealing from a Queen? Unless the Warlord Prince knew, or suspected, something about Powell that the rest of the men didn’t know.

“Did you steal from the Queen you served?” Cassidy asked.

“Yes,” Powell replied.

Mutters from the Warlords and Warlord Princes who had remained in the room. Snarls from several of the Warlord Princes who were in her First Circle, but she couldn’t tell if they were snarling at Powell or at one another.

“Why?” Cassidy asked.

“The Province Queen I served liked luxury,” Powell said. “Well, they all did, didn’t they? And it was the tithes from the District Queens that had to support those luxuries. It was hard to walk through the town where the Queen lived and see children who were hungry or who were wearing clothes and shoes too patched and torn to be useful. So sometimes a few coins would find their way back to a family for food or clothing.”

“I see,” Cassidy said. “Is that why your hand was broken?”

Powell nodded. “Most people were careful to spread out the spending. One man was not. I claimed to have given the man some coins from my own wages, and the Queen couldn’t prove otherwise. That’s why she had my left hand broken instead of maiming the right hand.”

In Kaeleer, a tribunal of Queens would have known you were lying within minutes, Cassidy thought. But their wrath would have been aimed at the Queen who had mistreated her people and not you.

“I have to trust that the people who serve me will work for the good of Dena Nehele,” Cassidy said to Powell. “I understand your reasons, and I can’t say you were wrong. But everyone is going to be living lean for a while, and tithes will be necessary to support the court and take care of the expenses that come with the court. If you think someone is being tithed unfairly, I need to know. But the amount of the tithe, unfair or not, will be my decision. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Lady. That is understood,” Powell said.

“In that case, are you willing to wear the Steward’s ring?”

Silence. Disbelief from Theran that he didn’t bother to hide. Surprise from the other men in her First Circle. Except for Ranon. He looked thoughtful.

“I would be honored to serve as your Steward,” Powell said.

A commotion at the back of the room. Anger and resistance coming from the men nearest the door. Anger and a flash of worry coming from Ranon.

Vae launched herself into the men, using shields to plow a wide path that left several men staggering to keep their balance.

*Bad males!* Vae shouted. *Bad!*

The men glanced at the platform, then stepped away, since Cassidy wasn’t calling Vae off.

A woman, a witch, approached the platform.

“Your kind shouldn’t be here,” Theran said at the same time Ranon said, “Shira.”

He loves her, Cassidy thought, watching Ranon’s effort to remain neutral. But he didn’t want her to come here. Why?

“I have as much right to be here as you do, Theran Grayhaven,” Shira said. Her omitting his title was a deliberate slap in the face. “You can trace your bloodline back to Jared. I can trace my bloodline back to Jared’s cousin Shira. So if I don’t belong here, neither do you.”

Since that particular verbal slap left Theran speechless, Cassidy jumped in. “What can I do for you, Sister?”

Shira looked at her. “I want to offer my services. I’m a fully qualified Healer and—”

“That’s not all you are,” Theran snapped.

No, that wasn’t all Shira was. The hourglass pendant she wore above her Summer-sky Jewel proclaimed her to be something more powerful—and more dangerous—than a Healer.

“I’m not ashamed of what I am,” Shira said.

“Why should you be?” Cassidy asked. “You’ve completed your training in the Hourglass’s Craft?” The question was a formality. The pendant Shira wore, with all the gold dust in the bottom half of the hourglass, indicated a Black Widow who had completed her training and could spin the tangled webs of dreams and visions, as well as help people caught in the Twisted Kingdom. The Black Widows were also the caste of witches who were well versed in the making and use of poisons.

“Her kind were outlawed generations ago,” Theran said.

“You’re a natural Black Widow?” Cassidy asked Shira.

“That’s the only kind there are in Dena Nehele,” Shira replied.

“The penalty for training anyone in that Craft is execution,” Theran said.

Ranon snarled at Theran.

“Gentlemen,” Cassidy said, using Craft to enhance her voice. She waited until they had all quieted down. Then waited until a couple of Warlords got done swearing after Vae nipped them because they didn’t quiet fast enough to suit the Sceltie.

“I’m here because you wanted a Queen who knows the Old Ways of the Blood, who lives by the Old Ways of the Blood, and who will require that you live by that Protocol and code of honor. That means a good many things that you knew no longer apply.” Cassidy turned in her chair and looked at Theran. “You say Black Widows were outlawed. How many of the Queens who controlled Dena Nehele had Black Widows in their courts? My guess is all of them did. What was outlawed were the Black Widows who wouldn’t serve in those courts. The ones whose skills would endanger a Queen who was hated.

“We’re going back to the Old Ways, gentlemen, and in the Old Ways the Hourglass is an honored caste of witches. They are not outlaws. Their training is not outlawed.” Cassidy turned to look at Shira. “If you accept the position of court Healer, you would have to reside here. Are you prepared to do that?”

“I am,” Shira replied.

“Then welcome to the court, Sister.”

*You’re forgetting something, Lady,* Theran said. *We don’t have a court. There are only eleven males.*

*No,* Cassidy said, *there’s—* Gray, she finished silently.

He wasn’t going to be part of her court. Couldn’t be part of her court. Not as he was.

But he could have been—should have been—if he had been whole.

Ranon looked at the men on the platform, his expression grim. He too must have just realized they didn’t have an official court.

“Is the other Warlord Prince still planning to present himself?” Ranon asked.

Theran shot him a hostile look. “He is.” A glance at the windows. “He’ll be here as soon as the sun sets.”

And this Warlord Prince, whoever he is, is the reason the men who weren’t selected have been waiting.

Folding her hands on the table, Cassidy looked at the windows at the other end of the room.

“He’ll be here soon,” her cousin Aaron had said, glancing out a window. “The sun has almost set.”

She knew what it signified when someone wasn’t usually available before sunset. So she knew what these men were waiting for.

He arrived within minutes after the sun had gone down, too soon to have taken care of his own needs. An older man, maimed by battles. Sapphire Jewel, which made him the dominant male. But it was more than that. As she watched him approach, she also watched the other men and had a flash of insight gleaned from her months in the Dark Court. She’d seen the men in that First Circle, including her cousin Aaron, step aside for Andulvar Yaslana with the same respect the men in this room were showing this demon-dead Warlord Prince. He had trained them, had been an honorary uncle or a surrogate father to many of them.

They had survived because of what he’d taught them.

He looked straight ahead while he walked the length of the room, finally looking at her when he reached the edge of the platform.

She felt the punch of that connection—and felt the same wariness she saw in his eyes. He hadn’t expected to feel that pull. Neither had she. She would have accepted him into the First Circle because of the feelings she was sensing from her other males, but she hadn’t expected him to belong to her.

She watched him climb the stairs, then rose when he approached the table.

Protocol. Her insides were quivering because he was, without question, the most dangerous man in the room. But she knew the words and the rituals, not just for dealing with a Warlord Prince, but for dealing with the demon-dead.

“Prince,” she said.

“Lady.” He tipped his head in a slight bow. “I am Talon.” His eyes narrowed as he studied her face. “Do you know what I am?”

She smiled slightly. “My Master of the Guard.”

He couldn’t hide his surprise. “I am honored, Lady, but that wasn’t what I meant.”

“You’re demon-dead. I’m aware of that.”

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“Why should it?” She saw a heat in Talon’s eyes. A hunger. That was a danger with having one of the demon-dead walking among the living. “Prince Theran, would you bring in a bottle of yarbarah? I’m sure Prince Talon would appreciate a glass.”

“A bottle of what?” Theran asked.

Cassidy frowned at Theran. “Yarbarah. The blood wine.”

Blank expression. And Talon’s expression was equally blank.

Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful.

“You’re unfamiliar with that particular vintage?” Cassidy asked Talon.

“Can’t say I’ve heard of it,” he replied warily.

“Well, then.” What had he been consuming if he didn’t know about yarbarah?

Best not to think about that because she was certain that whatever had been given had not been given according to the Protocol and rituals that had been created for transactions between the living and the demon-dead.

She called in the simple wooden box her father had made for the gift the High Lord had given her when she’d finished her apprenticeship in the Dark Court. Pressing the two spots on the sides to release the latches, she removed the cover, revealing the small silver cup and silver-handled knife. She set the cup on the table, pushed up her left sleeve, and, before anyone knew for certain what she intended, picked up the knife and opened a vein in her wrist.

A wash of sounds and protests was drowned out by the snarl of a Sceltie who knew her Craft.

*Stay!* Vae growled. *This is ceremony!*

Ceremony. Ritual. Sometimes formal, sometimes casual, but always, always precise in the intention.

As soon as the cup was filled, she turned the blade of the knife flat against her wrist, hiding the wound as she used the Healing Craft she’d been taught to seal this kind of cut.

Setting the knife on the table, she held out the cup to Talon. “Freely offered,” she said, knowing every man in the room would remember the words. “Freely taken.”

Talon hesitated, then took the cup, his hunger apparent in his face. “You honor me, Lady.”

Two swallows. That was all the cup held. But blood freely offered had a different flavor from blood that was soured by fear.

Talon recognized the difference, even if he wasn’t quite sure of the reason.

He set the cup on the table with great care.

“Is that dog going to bite me if I heal your wrist?” Shira asked.

In answer, Cassidy held out her wrist, all the permission her Healer needed.

As soon as Shira finished the healing, Cassidy vanished the cup, knife, and box, preferring to clean them in private.

She looked at Theran. Was he relieved a formal court was established? Upset about her offering her blood to Talon? She couldn’t read him, couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

And she suddenly felt too tired to care.

“Gentlemen, it’s been a long day. Prince Powell, please send the Province Queens my regrets and ask them to meet me tomorrow morning.”

Tense silence.

“Aren’t the Province Queens aware that the Warlord Princes chose a Territory Queen?” Cassidy asked.

“There are no Province Queens,” Talon said.

“All Territories are divided into Provinces and Districts,” Cassidy said. “There must be Province Queens.”

“They all died two years ago,” Talon said. “The psychic storm that swept through Terreille took all of them.”

Cassidy sank into the chair behind the table. “District Queens?”

“A few,” Talon said. “The ones who are too old or weak to be a threat to anyone. Or the ones too young to form a court and rule anything.”

Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful. She’d thought the Warlord Princes of Dena Nehele had gone outside their own Territory because there wasn’t a Queen they were willing to have rule over all of them. Theran hadn’t said there weren’t any Queens to help her.

She pressed both hands flat against the table and closed her eyes. What was she supposed to do?

Poppi laying out the pieces of wood, the nails and screws, the tools.

“When you’re not sure of what you’ve got, Kitten, lay it all out and take a look,” he said. “Then you decide if you can make something out of what you’ve got, even if it wasn’t the thing you had in mind. Or you figure out what else you need in order to make what you want.”

“Prince Powell,” Cassidy said, keeping her eyes closed because it was easier to deal with them all when she imagined she was talking to Poppi or her brother, Clayton. “I need a map of Dena Nehele that will show me the whole of the Territory and the Provinces. Then I need maps of each Province that will show me all the towns, villages, and cities, both Blood and landen.”

“I’ll look in the Steward’s office and see what I can find,” Powell said.

“Then I need a list of all the Queens in Dena Nehele, where each one lives, and what Jewels she wears. That includes the girls who aren’t yet old enough to rule. I also need a list of the Warlord Princes, where they live, and their rank. Prince Talon, you’ll be in charge of obtaining that information.”

“That won’t be easy,” Ranon said. “The Shalador Queens who are left survived by not making their whereabouts known. None of them are going to want to be on a hunting list.”

Cassidy opened her eyes and looked at Ranon. “Then you’ll have to convince them.”

A flash of something in his dark eyes told her how deeply his loyalties were being challenged—and his choice would tell her whether she could trust him.

He looked in her eyes and said, “Your will is my life.”

“Anything else?” Cassidy asked. When no one spoke, she pushed her chair back and stood up. “In that case, gentlemen, I would prefer to dine in my rooms this evening, so I’ll bid you a good evening. Lady Shira, would you join me?”

Shira looked startled and stammered her answer. “It would be my pleasure, Lady.”

Cassidy didn’t give Theran time to protest or even think to offer himself as escort, which he should have done. She didn’t care how it looked or what the men thought. She hustled Shira out of the room, and the only person who made an effort to catch up to them was Vae.

“You didn’t want to dine with your court?” Shira asked.

“Not tonight,” Cassidy replied.

“Are you feeling tired because of the blood loss?”

*She is just tired of talking to males,* Vae said, trotting ahead of them. *You are female, so you are not yappy like males.*

Vae turned a corner, leading the way back to Cassidy’s suite. The two women walked in silence for a minute. Then Shira said, “Is she always so honest?”

Cassidy sighed. “She’s a Sceltie.”