“Buffer” somehow sounded soft and comforting, which were words that suited Marian—when she wasn’t riled.
“So tell me, my Dea al Mon Sister, what kind of wife are you?” Witch asked.
“Sword and shield.” The moment she said the words, she knew they were true.
A warm smile. “So you’ve decided.” Witch paused, as if considering what to say. “You’re not the first witch who chose to marry a Warlord Prince in order to be his sword and shield. That position, while not official since it isn’t always connected to a court, is as valuable a service to the Realm as any other service to a Queen and has much in common with a Queen’s Consort in its duties. Because those duties are intimate, one always hopes for at least affection between the two people if not some kind of love. The details of that arrangement are as individual as the people involved, and those details are no one else’s business. But you have to tell him, Surreal. You have to tell Daemon what to expect from a wife who is a sword and shield.”
“And if he won’t accept it?” she asked softly.
“Why wouldn’t he?” Witch asked just as softly. “It’s what you were when you married him, even if you hadn’t used those words.”
“And then, that night . . .” She didn’t have to be more specific about the night that had changed—and broken—so much. “I ran the next morning in order to survive. I can’t be the Sadist’s lover. I can’t.”
“No, you can’t.”
“But you could.”
“Daemon and I suited each other in every way, including the darkest ways. If he hadn’t survived what had been done to him in Terreille, if he hadn’t managed to reach Kaeleer when he did, I would have never known that kind of love because he was the only one who was able to get past the scars I carry from Briarwood. And he was the only one who had the strength and courage to be a lover to everything I was.”
“If he hadn’t met you, he wouldn’t have known anyone who could love and accept everything he is,” Surreal said.
“As I said, we suited each other in every way.”
And you still do.
“It’s time for you to go. Even the Gray isn’t safe in the Misty Place.” Witch handed the mug back to Surreal. “Tell him where you’re drawing the lines, Surreal. It will be easier for both of you if you do.”
“Maybe I should start tucking my crossbow in bed with me, like Mrs. Beale does with her meat cleaver.”
Witch stared at her, wide-eyed. “Do you ever want Daemon to sleep with you?”
“Well, Beale seems to manage with—”
“Good-bye, Surreal.”
Biting cold.
Surreal blinked. Then she laughed and felt a part of herself begin to heal. Setting the mugs on the tray, she went up to her room to freshen up before her visit with Lady Zhara.
“Thank you for inviting me to ride with you,” Zoey said. “Lord Weston and I ride in the park at least once a week, because I like riding and he’s a good rider, but it’s different riding with another girl. I mean, Weston listens to what I’m saying, but he’s a grown-up male and doesn’t understand what I’m saying half the time.”
Jaenelle Saetien looked over her shoulder at the two men riding far enough behind them not to overhear her conversation with Zoey. That didn’t mean they were unprotected. She knew Papa had light defensive shields ahead of them and on either side to keep them safe. “My papa understands what I’m saying most of the time. That’s not as comfortable as you might think.”
“I think it would be wonderful.”
Zoey’s wistful smile made Jaenelle Saetien feel a little guilty. Papa was supposed to be riding with them, not behind with Zoey’s guard, but there had been something about the light in Zoey’s eyes when she’d looked at Papa that made Jaenelle Saetien reluctant to share him with another person. That was the reason she had emphasized that Zoey was her guest. Papa had yielded—and had looked pleased—but she wondered if he’d known it was because she didn’t want to share him with a Queen, who would be more important simply because she was a Queen.
“That’s why I’m going to send Prince Sadi reports,” Zoey continued. “I think it’s important for Queens to keep the ruler of a Territory informed.”
“What can you tell him? It will be years and years before you rule even a village.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t pay attention to the people who live in Amdarh or notice when someone needs help. I tell my grandmother about what I observe because that is part of my training as a Queen, but sending Prince Sadi a report would be . . . nice.”
“Can’t you tell your own papa?”
Zoey’s lips quivered. “I don’t have a father. I have a sire.”
Jaenelle Saetien gasped. Her hands tightened on the reins, causing her horse—a kindred Warlord—to toss his head and snort. “Sorry,” she murmured, patting his neck. “It’s all right.”
She’d never met anyone who wasn’t one of the kindred who just had a sire instead of a father. “Why?” she asked—and then wondered if she was being too curious. After all, she and Zoey had just met, and this seemed like the kind of heart-deep stuff you only told a good friend.
Unless you didn’t have any good friends?
“He told my grandmother he didn’t want the weight of duty that came with raising a Queen, but he would be there for the Birthright Ceremony so that paternity could be acknowledged,” Zoey said.
“What did your mother say?”
They rode in silence for a forever amount of time before Zoey said, “My mother wasn’t a natural Black Widow, but the Hourglass’s Craft called to her. She was near the end of her apprenticeship when she met my father and they fell in love. My grandmother says my father isn’t a bad man, just a selfish one, but my grandfather said once that my father had been more in love with the status that came from being part of our family than with my mother. I was born while my mother was a journeymaid. One day, she wove a tangled web of dreams and visions, and something went wrong. She didn’t fall into the Twisted Kingdom. She’s not insane, exactly. She’s just . . . gone. Lost in whatever she saw in the tangled web. Grandmother visits her once a week at the healing house that takes care of people whose minds are . . . not right. I only have to visit her for an afternoon every month. That’s hard because I remember who she was, but she doesn’t remember me. She’s still connected to her body enough that she can feed and clothe herself and knows how to use the toilet, but my mother isn’t there. Not really.”
Jaenelle Saetien thought about her own grandmother. Tersa was a broken Black Widow who wandered the roads in the Twisted Kingdom, but she was able to live in Halaway, knew her family and talked to them, and participated in celebrations like Winsol. Mikal lived with Tersa, and Papa wouldn’t have allowed that if Tersa wasn’t a little bit able to look after a boy.
“I’m sorry,” she said—and meant it.
“Me too.”
She hesitated, but Zoey’s life was so different from her own that curiosity won over what Papa might call good manners. “Is that why your papa doesn’t live with you? Because he couldn’t raise a Queen on his own with your mother being lost that way?”
Papa had been very, very ill for a while, but he was getting better, would continue to get better. But if he hadn’t gotten better, would her life be more like Zoey’s? Without either parent? No. Her mother would have stayed, would have protected her, loved her.
Zoey’s smile was bitter and too old for someone their age. “He doesn’t live with us for the same reason he didn’t show up for the Birthright Ceremony, even though he promised he would—he expected to be paid. When he found out Grandmother wasn’t going to provide him with an income, he moved to another Province in Dhemlan. So Grandmother had him listed as my sire in the official registers so that the bloodline would be recorded, but he doesn’t have any say in my life. He’s not a part of my life.”