“Is my father going to teach you how to fight with it?”
“Daemonar has started teaching me the basics with a wooden blade. Once I’m proficient, your father will add to the instruction.”
Titian had never wanted to learn to fight or use weapons, and her father hadn’t forced her to learn beyond a few basic moves that were more about defense than fighting. Now she wished she’d learned more. But Zoey wasn’t aggressive, so this need to know how to fight puzzled her.
“Why?” she asked.
Zoey looked away, which wasn’t like her since she usually met problems or questions head-on. “Since they share a name, I guess I understand why Jaenelle Saetien doesn’t want to hear the stories about the Queen who was so powerful and so beloved, but I want to know everything I can about the Queen of Ebon Askavi and her court. I want to be strong enough to stand up for myself and my people. I love my grandmother, and I think she’s a wonderful Queen, but the Dark Court is legendary. Every powerful man in the Realm had been connected to that court, your father and Prince Sadi the most powerful among them. I wish I knew what she had studied so that I could study those things too. Sometimes I wish there was a way to talk to her.”
Be careful what you wish for, Zoey, Titian thought as she touched the charm again. She wouldn’t say anything, wouldn’t reveal what remained unspoken but known within her family, but she would ask Daemonar if it might be possible, just once, for one Queen to meet another.
Jaenelle Saetien’s temper spiked when she saw Surreal standing at the railing outside one of the bedroom balconies. Her bedroom, which was away from the rest of the girls.
“Why was I assigned this room?” she demanded. Had Surreal talked to Delora and Hespera? How mortally embarrassing! This party was going from bad to worse and it hadn’t even started.
“We weren’t sure which camp you were in, so you have a room that straddles the line,” Surreal replied.
“You make them sound like enemy forces about to do battle at dawn. They’re two groups of friends who want to find a way to get along.”
Surreal laughed. “Oh, sugar, if you really believe the coven of malice wants to get along with a Queen like Zoey, then you have not been paying attention.” She gave Jaenelle Saetien a strange look. “But I’ve paid attention, and all of my knives are honed. Something for your little friends to think about before they start any trouble.”
“They aren’t going to . . .”
Surreal walked away, not even listening to her.
Her parents were going to spoil this house party!
She went into the bedroom to inspect the clothes that had been brought from her bedroom in the family wing. A couple of her favorite dresses, probably the ones she would have picked for the evening. But she hadn’t been able to choose, had she?
One of Uncle Lucivar’s sayings suddenly popped into her head: kick a pebble, start an avalanche.
If she’d been honest about the guest list, if she’d done the courteous thing and sent a message to her father about being delayed, would everything be different now?
THIRTY-EIGHT
Responding to Beale’s flash of anger, Daemon rose to the killing edge as he strode toward the Hall’s open front door. A slower-burning anger came from Tarl, the head gardener, who stood in the doorway holding a short-handled scythe.
Then Daemon focused on the young Warlord dressed in a messenger’s livery—and the Sadist instantly embraced cold rage.
Everything about the boy felt wrong, but . . . wrong in a way that made him hesitate.
*Saw him arrive, then keep low and quiet for a few minutes before coming to the door,* Tarl said on a psychic thread.
*He said the message was for you, personal and urgent, then tried to hand it to me,* Beale told Daemon. *No stationmaster would send an untrained boy with an urgent message.*
That was true. If there was no one else, the stationmaster would have brought the message himself instead of entrusting it to someone who would wait outside for several minutes before delivering an urgent message to the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan.
Until that moment, he had hoped he’d been wrong about some part—any part—of this sordid game that Jaenelle Saetien had brought into his home along with her friends. Now he had to play his part in the game and hope the bloody and painful result would be worth the cost.
He heard female chatter and giggles as Jaenelle Saetien’s friends came down the stairs to the informal sitting room. Since there was another staircase that provided a more direct route between the guest rooms assigned to the girls and the dining room, the only reason to be near the great hall was if someone knew something was about to happen.
Perfect timing, Daemon thought as some of the girls entered the great hall from the informal sitting room while others crowded the doorway. He indicated that Beale should accept the message. Then he looked at Tarl. *As soon as our little friend is out of sight of our guests, take him to the stables and lock him in. Full shields so he can’t contact anyone. Can you handle that?*
*I can and will,* Tarl replied.
*When he bleats about needing to deliver other messages, which he will if he’s been coached properly, offer to send a message to the stationmaster explaining the delay. But he stays here, isolated, until I know who sent him.*
Tarl stepped out of the way. The messenger bolted, his heels barely crossing the threshold before Beale closed the door, preventing anyone from seeing that the messenger never made it to the landing web to catch one of the Winds and escape.
“What’s going on?” a girl asked loudly.
“Let me through,” Surreal said, coming up behind the girls.
Daemon saw two of the girls look back, roll their eyes, and make no effort to move. He almost smiled when Surreal used an arrow-shaped shield to shove the girls out of her way.
Then he noticed his daughter, who looked horrified—not at the girls’ insolence in refusing to yield to a Gray-Jeweled witch in her own home, but at Surreal taking a direct approach to removing the obstacle. Remembering why he had to play his part, Daemon opened the sealed message.
“Sadi?” One side of Surreal’s long skirt flashed open, revealing the sheathed knife strapped to her thigh.
He handed her the message. She read it and stared at him.
“The special school is under attack?” Fierce anger turned her face hard. “Those children have endured enough. If someone is trying to hurt anyone at the school, I will skin the bastards alive and feed them to the hounds of Hell.”
He wondered if anyone realized Surreal could, and would, do exactly that—especially if he helped her.
When she turned toward the door, Daemon caught her wrist. “You go on ahead and sound the battle cry. Have the District Queens call up every guard under their hands and tell them to be ready to fight. And tell them every girl in their villages is at risk until we say otherwise, and it is their duty to keep those girls safe, no matter who they have to kill. I’ll join you as soon as I take care of things here.” As he let her go, he added on a psychic thread, *I’ll check the school for half-Blood children. You check your sanctuary, just in case the message was real.*
“Lord Holt, have the large Coach brought to the landing web,” Daemon said.
“At once,” his secretary replied, stepping outside.
Since it wasn’t necessary to leave the Hall in order to summon the Coach and driver, Daemon thought Holt’s exit was a bit theatrical, but it gave the Warlord an excuse to scan the grounds around the front of the Hall.