Queen of the Sylphs

A ROYAL THREAT

The assassin stared at Solie, eyes wide. He finally realized she knew what he was feeling. Or probably he thought she was reading his mind. She saw—
felt
—him shudder and try to draw within himself so as not to give any more away.

It was too late.

“How many?” Alcor had once sent two battlers to kill her, and when that hadn’t worked, he sent three more and an army. What would it be this time? “Two? Three? Four?” She stared into their captive’s ashen face. His brown eyes were dilated and wide, irises surrounded by white. “
Four
more assassins?” She glanced at Mace. “There are four more of them.”

Other books by L. J. McDonald:

The Battle Sylph

The Shattered Sylph

“The Worth of a Sylph” in
A Midwinter Fantasy

QUEEN
OF
THE
SYLPHS

L. J. M
C
D
ONALD

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Epilogue

About the Author

DORCHESTER PUBLISHING

Published by

Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

200 Madison Avenue

New York, NY 10016

Copyright © 2011 by L. J. McDonald

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Trade book ISBN: 978-1-4285-1216-0

E-book ISBN: 978-1-4285-1198-9

First Dorchester Publishing, Co., Inc. edition: September 2011

The “DP” logo is the property of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

Printed in the United States of America.

Visit us online at
www.dorchesterpub.com
.

Dedication

To all the real friends in my life, only some of whom I have room to name. I hope that the rest of you know who you are. To my husband, Oliver, who is my best friend. To Andrew M, Andrew MJ, Amy, Blandine, Daniel, Ennien, Frank, Gene, Jane, John, Kelly, Perry, and always, always, to Eda.

Acknowledgments

A lot of people have said that even though it’s the author who writes the novel, no book is written in a vacuum. That’s true. I owe a lot to my husband, Oliver, who tossed ideas for the plot and the world around with me and suffered through reading my first draft. I owe my beta readers, Kelly Chang and Gene Kinney, who pointed out my periodic stupidities. Any errors still in there can be blamed on me of course, not them.

I also want to thank my agent, Michelle Grakowski at Three Seas Literary Agency for helping me navigate the bizarre world of novel contracts and publication. Along with her is my thanks to the great people at Dorchester, from the copy editor to the promotions manager and the cover artist, all of whom helped to bring the Sylph world to life. Most of all, I want to thank my editor, Chris Keeslar, who took a book I wrote purely because I want to write, and believed it was something that other people would actually want to read. It’s because of him that you’re holding this novel right now.

QUEEN
OF
THE
SYLPHS

Prologue

The battle sylphs watched.

It was market day in Sylph Valley, and a large caravan had arrived with merchants from Eferem and Yed. There were several hundred new people in the town, all jostling and shouting their way through the myriad merchant stalls, and that had brought out the Valley’s defenders. Above the crush, sixteen battle sylphs crouched atop poles bearing the Valley’s unlit night lanterns, each perched like a giant blue and gold bird. Used to the outwardly human creatures, the people of the Valley went on their way, only glancing up periodically. The newcomers, however, gaped in amazement.

In turn, the battlers didn’t appear to pay attention to any of the humans, but that wasn’t true. They watched the outsiders with an intentness that bordered on obsession. They didn’t like change and given their own way, no one new would be allowed into the Valley unless they were cleared first; but that would limit trade. Without commerce, the town couldn’t grow, and if the town didn’t grow, it wouldn’t survive. They had no allies. Theirs was a settlement against the world.

Seated on his heels with his hands resting lightly on his knees, Mace studied the main street and considered their position. There were those who would trade with Sylph Valley, certainly, but other kingdoms who agreed with their queen’s philosophy? So far, none even acknowledged her. The merchants who came to this place weren’t the representatives of their kings, after all. In the case of Eferem, Mace had no doubt that they were coming directly against their king’s command. The Valley was a good place to trade, for their queen made sure everything was kept fair. No one was cheated in the Valley. No one tried. Not with battlers watching.

Mace shifted on his pole, watching the crowd with more than his eyes. To anyone who saw him like this, he was a tall, heavy-boned man of indeterminate age with short, thinning hair and a face not given to smiling. His form held more power than beauty, he knew, but had a certain hard confidence that appealed to women. He never took advantage of that, not anymore. His loyalty was unquestioned—to the queen, who commanded him before all, and to the Widow Lily Blackwell, who owned both his body and his love. Each of the battlers had a woman, and they would take no other while that woman lived. It was for the women that the battlers guarded the Valley. For the hive.

As the day wore on, Mace studied everyone making his or her way down the street and felt their emotions. Amusement, contentment, impatience, worry: a tapestry of feelings. A thousand washed through him but left him unmoved. Empathy was something battle sylphs had in abundance. Compassion they had not at all.

Mace searched for anger, for violence and hate. A man about to cause harm would broadcast that, giving himself away to any sylph. The elemental and healer sylphs wouldn’t react except to run, but battlers would attack. If a man felt rage, they came. If a woman felt fear, they came. Even the queen wouldn’t deny them that, for it was their deepest instinct. Battlers protected their hive. It had always been that way.

Below, in an ordinary travel tunic with a pack on his back, a man passed through the market without noticing Mace’s silent perch. The man felt . . . determined. He was eyeing the elemental sylphs who walked in the form of children. First came surprise, then contempt. He viewed with disgust the women who wore clothes like men and bartered or sold as equals.

Mace leaned forward, balanced unnaturally on his toes. He glanced over at the other battlers, who were watching the newcomer as well, their emotions interested. Mace nodded at the closest, a blue-haired and nervous creature named Claw.

We follow,
he said silently into his fellow battler’s mind.

Claw nodded spastically. He was a shivering, broken creature who’d been ruined by years of slavery. Mace would never send him on a mission alone, but even if Lily hadn’t said to include him, Claw still had his uses. He was a battle sylph and nothing would change that.

Mace jumped down, landing easily before a woman carrying a basket of potatoes. She yelped and nearly dropped it, staring up at him in fright. Mace just nodded and set off, making his way through the crowd.

Whether they knew him or not, people got out of his way. The battlers here all wore the same clothes, a gold-trimmed blue uniform that made it easy for them to be identified. The queen felt it was kinder than the aura of hatred they otherwise projected, which she believed wasn’t needed, not in the Valley. Mace wasn’t inclined to argue, even if arguing with a queen or a master were comprehensible to him. People here knew what the uniforms meant. Those who didn’t quickly learned.