Anne Bishop - Queen of Darkness

It had been a test, but she had been the only one who had known that. Every time he had mentioned the shields again after she had dismissed the idea, every time he had endured her sharp tongue while he helped her in some way had been a test to prove that he cared about her.

Oh, there were times when, seeing the tightness in his face and the coolness in his eyes, she had told herself it would be the last time, the last test. The next time he mentioned the shields, she would do what he wanted so that he would know she cared about him, too.

Then the next time would come and she would want, would need, just one more test. One more. And one more. Always one more.

Now there would be no more tests, but her son, her fine Eyrien Warlord Prince, would never know she had loved him.

All she would have needed was an hour as one of the demon-dead. An hour to tell him. She couldn’t even leave him a message. Nothing.

No. Wait. Maybe she could say the most important thing, the thing that had been chewing at her ever since Surreal had lashed out at her.

She gathered everything that was left of her strength, shaped it into a bubble to hold one thought, then pushed it upward, upward, upward until it rested just outside her inner barriers.

Lucivar would find it. She knew he would.

No anchor. Nothing to hold on to. Filled with regrets tempered by one bubble of acknowledged love, she faded away and returned to the Darkness.

Palanar knocked reluctantly on the kitchen door. He supposed being asked to escort Lady Luthvian to the Keep was an honor, but she had made it very clear that she didn’t like Eyrien males. So he wasn’t really sure if this was Hallevar’s way of showing confidence in him or a subtle punishment for something he’d done.

He opened the door and cautiously poked his head into the kitchen. ”Lady Luthvian?”

She was there, standing near the table, staring at him. Then she smiled and said, ”No balls, little warrior?”

Stung, he stepped into the kitchen. ”Are you ready?” he asked, striving to put the same arrogance into his voice that Falonar or Lucivar would have had.

She looked at the traveling bag next to her, then at him.

Since when did Luthvian expect a male to carry anything? The last time he’d tried, she’d almost dented his head. Hallevar had been right when he’d said, ”Best resign yourself to the fact that a female can change her mind faster than you can fart.”

He took a couple of steps toward her, then stopped again.

”What’s wrong?” she asked suspiciously.

She stank. That’s what was wrong. Really stank. But he wasn’t about to say that. Then he noticed she looked a little… strange.

”What’s wrong?” she asked again, taking a step toward him.

He took two steps back.

Her face shifted, wavered. For a moment, he thought he saw someone else. Someone he didn’t know-and didn’t want to know.

And he remembered something else Hallevar had told him: sometimes running was the smartest thing an inexperienced warrior could do.

He ran for the door.

He didn’t reach it. Power blasted through his inner barriers. Needles stabbed into his mind, grew hooks and dug deeper, tore out little bits of his Self. His body vibrated from the fierce tug-of-war as he tried to get out the door while she drew him back into the room.

Helpless, he felt himself turn around-and saw the witch who held him captive. He screamed.

”You will go exactly where I tell you to go,” she said. ”Say exactly what I tell you to say.”

”N-n-no.”

Gold eyes glittered in her decayed face, and pain seared him.

”It’s a small task, puppy. And when it’s done, I’ll set you free.”

She held out a small crystal. It floated through the air. His left hand reached out and took it.

She told him exactly where to go, exactly what to say, exactly what to do with the spell in the crystal. Then he was turned around again, like a marionette with knotted strings. He walked out the door.

A warrior would not do this, no matter the price. A warrior would not do this.

He tried to bring his right hand up to reach his knife. He could cut his throat, cut his wrists, do something to get away from her.

His hand closed on the hilt.

Dying won’t save you, little warrior,the witch said. I am the Dark Priestess. You can’t escape me that way.

His hand dropped to his side, empty.

Now go !

Palanar spread his wings and flew as fast as he could to do what a warrior would not do.

It wasn’t the wind in his face that made him weep.

Lucivar landed at his eyrie, and shouted, ”Marian!” Where in the name of Hell was the woman? he thought as he strode toward the door. She should have arrived at the Keep hours ago.

He walked through the door, saw the neat pile of traveling bags. His heart stopped for a moment. By the time he felt it beat again, he had risen to the killing edge. ”Marian!”

The eyrie was a big place, but it didn’t take him long to give it a thorough search. Marian and Daemonar weren’t there. But she had packed, so what had prevented her from leaving? Maybe Daemonar was ill? Had she taken him over to Nurian’s eyrie to have the Healer look at him?

As the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih, his eyrie was set a little apart from the other eyries nestled in the mountain, but it was only a couple of minutes before he landed in front of Nurian’s home. Before his feet touched the ground, he knew they weren’t there.

”Lucivar!”

Lucivar turned as Hallevar hurried up to him. He noticed Falonar and Kohlvar as they walked out of the communal eyrie that was as close as Eyriens came to having inns and taverns. Both men, hearing the agitation in Hallevar’s voice, moved toward him.

”Have you seen that pup, Palanar?” Hallevar asked.

Before Lucivar could respond, Falonar jumped in. ”Didn’t you send him to escort Lady Luthvian to the Keep?”

”I did,” Hallevar said grimly. ”And told him to get his ass right back here.” He looked at Lucivar. ”I wondered if he might be dawdling at the Keep to dodge some chores.”

”Palanar didn’t arrive at the Keep. Neither did Luthvian. Neither did Marian and Daemonar,” Lucivar added too quietly.

The other men stiffened.

”I sent him first thing this morning,” Hallevar said.

”Any sign of trouble at your eyrie?” Falonar asked sharply.

”No,” Lucivar said. ”The bags were packed and set near the door.” He swore softly, viciously. ”Where in the name of Hell did she go?”

”She went to Lady Luthvian’s,” said a young female voice.

They all turned and stared at Jillian, Nurian’s young sister.

She hunched her shoulders and looked ready to bolt back into the eyrie.

Hallevar pointed a finger at the ground a few feet away from him. ”Here, little warrior,” he said sternly.

Scared now, Jillian crept to the spot, glanced at the large warriors surrounding her, then stared at her feet.

”Make your report,” Hallevar said in that tone that, although encouraging, had made every young male who had trained under him snap to attention.

It had the same effect on Jillian. She stood upright and focused on Hallevar. ”I was doing my stamina run this morning.” She waited until she got Hallevar’s approving nod. ”And I thought I would take the path to Prince Yaslana’s eyrie because I thought, well, maybe Lady Marian would want a little help with Daemonar, that I could look after him for a bit so she could get some of her chores done. It wasn’t like I was shirking the rest of my workout or anything, ’cause looking after Daemonar is work.”