Queen of the Darkness (6 page)

Questionable food smells that he caught in passing sharpened an already keen temper by reminding him that he’d eaten almost nothing in the past two days. The clash of strong perfumes mingled with equally strong body odors helped him remember why he hadn’t eaten.

More than that, the inability to sleep and the lack of appetite were due to the questions that had no answers. At least, not here.

It had taken him five years after walking out of the Twisted Kingdom to come to Kaeleer. There had been no hurry. Jaenelle had not been waiting for him as she had promised when she had marked the trail to lead him out of madness. He
still
didn’t know what had really happened when he had tried to bring Jaenelle out of the abyss in order to save her body. His memories of that night, thirteen years ago, were still jumbled, still had pieces missing. He had a vague memory of someone telling him that Jaenelle had died—that the High Lord had tricked another male into being the instrument that had destroyed an extraordinary child.

So when Jaenelle
hadn’t
been on the island where Surreal and Manny had kept him safe and hidden, and when Surreal had told him about the shadow Jaenelle had created in order to bring him out of the Twisted Kingdom

He had spent the past five years believing that he had killed the child who was his Queen; had spent the past five years believing that she had used the last of her strength to bring him out of madness so that he would call in the debt owed to her; had spent the past five years honing his Craft skills and allowing his mind to heal as much as it could for only one reason: to come to Kaeleer and destroy the man who had used him as the instrument—his father, the High Lord of Hell.

But now that he was here

Gossip and speculation about the witches in the Shadow Realm flowed through this place, currents of thoughts easily plucked from the air. The currents that had unnerved him as he’d walked around the fair yesterday were the speculations about a strange, terrifying witch that could see a man’s soul in a glance.

According to the gossip, anyone who signed a contract outside of Little Terreille was brought before this witch, and anyone found wanting didn’t live to see another sunrise.

He might have dismissed that gossip except that it finally occurred to him that, perhaps, Jaenelle
had
been waiting for him, but not in Terreille. He’d let grief cloud his thinking, locking away all but the best memories of the few months he had known her. So he’d forgotten about the ties she already had to Kaeleer.

If she really
was
in the Shadow Realm, he’d already lost five years he could have spent with her. He wasn’t going to spend the next five in some other court, yearning from a distance.

If, that is, she really
was
alive.

A change in the psychic scents around him pulled him from his thoughts. He looked around and swore under his breath.

He was at the far end of the fairgrounds. Judging by the sky, he’d have to run in order to get back to the administrators’ building and make a choice before the bell ending the last day of the fair rang. Even then, he might not have a choice if Jorval wasn’t waiting for him.

As he turned to go back, he noticed one of the red banners that indicated a station where court contracts were filled out. There were a few Eyriens standing to one side, and a line of them waiting their turn. But it was the Eyrien warrior watching the proceedings that froze Daemon where he stood.

The man wore a leather vest and the black, skintight trousers favored by Eyrien warriors. His black hair fell to his shoulders, which was unusual for an Eyrien male. But it was the way he stood, the way he moved that felt so painfully familiar.

A wild joy filled Daemon, even as his heart clogged his throat and tears stung his gold eyes.
Lucivar.

Of course, it couldn’t be. Lucivar had died eight years ago, escaping from the salt mines of Pruul.

Then the man turned. For a moment, Daemon thought he saw the same fierce joy in Lucivar’s eyes before it was lost in blazing fury.

Seeing the fury and remembering that the unfinished business between them could only end in blood being spilled, Daemon retreated behind the cold mask he’d lived behind for most of his life and started to walk away.

He’d only gone a few steps before a hand clamped on his right arm and spun him around.

”How long have you been here?” Lucivar demanded.

Daemon tried to shake off the hand, but Lucivar’s fingers dug in hard enough to leave bruises. ”Two days,” Daemon replied with chilly courtesy. He felt the mask slip and knew he needed to get away from here before his emotions spilled over. Right now, he wasn’t sure if he would meet Lucivar’s anger with tears or rage.

”Have you signed a contract?” Lucivar shook him. ”Have you?”

”No, and there’s little time left to do it. If you’ll excuse me.”

Lucivar snarled, tightened his grip, and almost yanked Daemon off his feet. ”You weren’t on the lists,”

he muttered as he pulled Daemon toward the table under the red banner. ”I checked. You weren’t on any of the damn lists.”

”I apologize for the incon—”

”Shut up. Daemon.”

Daemon clenched his teeth and lengthened his stride to match his brother’s. He didn’t know what kind of game Lucivar was playing, but he’d be damned if he’d go into it being dragged like a reluctant puppy.

”Look, Prick,” Daemon said, trying to balance Lucivar’s volatile temper with reason, ”I have to—”

”You’re signing a contract with the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rib.”

Daemon let out an exasperated huff. ”Don’t you think you should discuss it with him beforehand?”

Lucivar gave him a knife-edged look. ”I don’t usually discuss things with myself, Bastard. Plant your feet.”

Daemon felt the ground roll unexpectedly and decided it was good advice. ”Have long have you been in Kaeleer?” he asked, feeling weak.

”Eight years.” Lucivar hissed as an older Eyrien Warlord signed the contract and stepped away from the table. ”Hell’s fire. Why is that little maggot taking so long to write a line of information?” He took a step toward the table. Then he turned back, and said too softly, ”Don’t try to walk away. If you do, I’ll break your legs in so many places you won’t even be able to crawl.”

Daemon didn’t bother to respond. Lucivar didn’t make idle threats, and in a physical fight, Daemon knew he couldn’t beat his Eyrien half brother. Besides, the ground under his feet kept shifting in unexpected ways that threatened his balance.

The Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih. Lucivar was the Warlord Prince of the territory that belonged to Ebon Askavi, the Black Mountain that was also called the Keep—that was also the Sanctuary of Witch.

That didn’t necessarily mean anything. The land existed whether a Warlord Prince watched over it or not—or a Queen ruled there or not.

But Lucivar being alive here nourished the hope in Daemon that he had been wrong about Jaenelle’s death as well. Had she sent Lucivar to the service fair to look for him? Had one of Lord Magstrom’s inquiries reached her after all? Was she...

Daemon shook his head. Too many questions—and this wasn’t the time or place to get answers. But, oh, how he began to hope.

As Lucivar approached the table, someone called, ”Prince Yaslana. Here are two more for the contract.”

Turning toward the voice, Daemon felt the ground shift a little more. Two men, a Sapphire-Jeweled Warlord and a Red-Jeweled Warlord Prince, were pulling two women toward the table. A brown-haired man with a black eye patch and a pronounced limp angrily followed them.

The frightened woman had dark hair, fair skin, and blue eyes. It had been thirteen years since he’d seen Wilhelmina Benedict, Jaenelle’s half sister. She had grown into a beautiful woman, but was still filled with the brittle fear she’d had as an adolescent. Her eyes widened when she saw him, but she said nothing.

The snarling woman with the long black hair, light golden-brown skin, delicately pointed ears, and blazing gold-green eyes was Surreal. She had left the island four months ago, giving no explanation except there was something she had to do.

At first, he didn’t know the limping man. When he saw the flash of recognition in the man’s blue eye, he felt a stab of pain under his heart. Andrew, the stable lad who had helped him escape the Hayllian guards after Jaenelle had been taken back to Briarwood.

”Lord Khardeen. Prince Aaron,” Lucivar said, formally greeting the Sapphire-Jeweled Warlord and the Red-Jeweled Warlord Prince.

”Prince Yaslana, these Ladies should be part of the contract,” Prince Aaron said respectfully.

Lucivar gave both women a look that could have flayed flesh from bone. Then he looked at Khardeen and Aaron. ”Accepted.”

Wilhelmina trembled visibly, but Surreal hooked her hair behind her pointed ears and narrowed her eyes at Lucivar. ”Look, sugar—”

”Surreal,” Daemon said quietly. He shook his head. The last thing any of them needed was Surreal and Lucivar tangling with each other.

Surreal hissed. When she tried to shake off Prince Aaron’s hand, the man let her go, then shifted to block any attempt she might make to leave. Eyeing Lucivar with intense dislike, she moved until she stood beside Daemon. ”Is that your brother?” she asked in a low voice. ”The one who’s supposed to be dead?”

Daemon nodded.

She watched Lucivar for a minute.
”Is
he dead?”

For the first time since he’d arrived in Kaeleer, Daemon smiled. ”The demon-dead can’t tolerate daylight—at least according to the stories—so I would say Lucivar is very much alive.”

”Well, can’t you reason with him? I have a mark of safe passage and a three-month visitor’s pass. I didn’t come here to sign a contract for court service, and the day I jump when that son of a bitch snaps his fingers is the day the sun is going to shine in Hell.”

”Don’t make any bets on it,” Daemon muttered, watching Lucivar study the member of the Dark Council who was filling out the contract.

Before Surreal could reply, Wilhelmina sidled over to them. ”Prince Sadi,” she said in a voice that trembled on the edge of panic. ”Lady.”

”Lady Benedict,” Daemon replied formally while Surreal nodded in acknowledgment.

Wilhelmina glanced fearfully at Lucivar, who was now talking to the older Eyrien Warlord. ”He’s scary,”

she whispered.

Surreal smiled maliciously and raised her voice. ”When a man wears his pants that tight, they tend to pinch his balls, and that tends to pinch his temper.”

Aaron, who was standing near them, coughed violently, trying to muffle his laughter.

Seeing Lucivar break off his conversation and head toward them, Daemon sighed and wished he knew a spell that would make Surreal lose her voice for the next few hours.

Lucivar stopped an arm’s length away, ignoring the way Wilhelmina shrank away from him, focusing his attention on Surreal. He smiled the lazy, arrogant smile that was usually the only warning before a fight.

Surreal lowered her right hand so that her arm hung at her side.

Recognizing that as
her
warning signal, Daemon slipped his hands out of his trouser pockets and shifted slightly, prepared to stop her before she was foolish enough to pull a knife on Lucivar.

”You’re Titian’s daughter, aren’t you?” Lucivar asked.

”What do you care?” Surreal snarled.

Lucivar studied her for a moment. Then he shook his head and muttered, ”You’re going to be a pain in the ass.”

”Then maybe you should let me go,” Surreal said with sweet venom.

Lucivar laughed, low and nasty. ”If you think I’m going to explain to the Harpy Queen why her daughter’s in another court when I was standing here, then you’d better think again, little witch.”

Surreal bared her teeth. ”My mother is
not
a Harpy. And I’m not a little witch. And I’m not signing any damn contract that gives you control over me.”

”Think again,” Lucivar said.

Daemon’s hand clamped on Surreal’s right forearm. Aaron clamped down on her left arm.

The bell indicating the end of the service fair rang three times.

Surreal swore furiously. Lucivar just smiled.

Then a man’s voice, rising in protest, made them all turn their attention toward the table.

Daemon caught sight of the fussily dressed man who was busily straightening papers and ignoring the young Eyrien Warlord.

Snarling, Lucivar strode to the table, slipped through the line of confused, upset Eyriens, and stopped beside the man who was still pretending not to notice any of them.

”Is there a problem, Lord Friall?” Lucivar asked mildly.

Friall shook back the lace at his wrists and continued to gather up his papers. ”The bell ending the fair has rung. If these people are still available when you arrive tomorrow for claiming day, you can sign them to a contract under the first-offer rule.”

Daemon tensed. Lord Jorval had explained the first-offer rule of the service fair several times. During the fair, immigrants had the right to refuse an offer to serve in a court, or wait to see if another offer was made from a different court, or try to negotiate for a better position. But the day after the service fair was a claiming day. There was only one choice. Immigrants could accept whatever was offered by the first court to fill out a claim for them—and Jorval had implied that any position offered at a claiming was usually a demeaning one—or they could return to Terreille and attempt to come back for the next fair. He had spent two million gold marks in bribes in order to get on the immigration list for this service fair. He had the means to do it again if he dared risk going back to Terreille. But most had spent everything they had for this one chance at a hopefully better life. They would sign a contract for the privilege of crawling if that was the only way to stay in Kaeleer.

”Now, Lord Friall,” Lucivar said, still sounding mild, ”you know as well as I do that a person has to be accepted before the final bell, but there’s an hour afterward for the contracts to be filled out and signed.”

”If you want to sign the contract for the ones already listed, you can take them with you now. The others will have to wait until tomorrow,” Friall insisted.