Anne Bishop - Shalador's Lady

He rode into the landen part of town and stared at the craftsmen’s courtyard where Cassidy had defended a landen family against a Warlord and his two sons.

People’s eyes hadn’t been accepting and dull then.

To avoid Kermilla and the questions he couldn’t answer, he walked around the Grayhaven estate, slogging on slushy paths and riding trails until his trousers were soaked and his legs ached. Or he’d stare at the flower beds Gray had restored, at the spring flowers that had already bloomed or would bloom in a couple more weeks, according to Julien. And more often, he would end up in front of the bed full of witchblood, remembering the day they all discovered what it was—and what it meant.

The days ticked by, and soon there would be no days left. He had to make a choice before the other Warlord Princes made it for him.

A gorgeous spring day. Sweet air and sun that gave warmth as well as light.

Theran stood on the terrace, enjoying this teasing hint of the days to come. It was still too early in the season for the land to shrug off winter altogether, but this was a day to savor.

And there, tucked in the shelter of the terrace’s raised beds, was the little honey pear tree, which had survived the winter.

He heard the terrace door open and knew without turning who was there. Her psychic scent was irresistible even on a day like today when her physical presence had less than no appeal.

“Theran?”

Dredging up a smile, he turned toward the door. Kermilla was wrapped in a shawl and a sulky mood.

The shawl wasn’t one he’d seen before, and he wondered if that was because it was something she tended to wear in the spring or if he was going to receive an apology and a bill from one of the merchants.

“Why are you wasting time?” Kermilla asked. “Why aren’t you bringing the Warlord Princes here so that I can choose my court?”

“It’s complicated, Kermilla.” He’d been trying to work out a way for everyone to get something, even if he couldn’t give her what she really wanted.

“It’s not complicated, Theran. Just tell them.” She walked over to the table where he’d set a few papers down. Giving him a defiant look, she moved until she could read as much of the top page as was visible around the fist-sized rock serving as a paperweight.

“I can’t tell them anything.”

Since it wasn’t interesting, she gave up on trying to read the top page. “You’re the darkest-Jeweled Warlord Prince in this miserable excuse of a Territory. Of course you can tell them.”

He bristled, insulted on behalf of his people and his land.

Then he tightened the leash and forced himself to keep his temper out of this conversation.

“You think it’s simple,” he said with strained patience. “It’s not.”

“Keeps you in control, doesn’t it?”

He stared at her. Where was that bitterness coming from?

“You control the money, so I can’t buy anything without coming to you first,” she said.

“Would you like me to show you the accounts and how much is still owed the merchants from the last time you went shopping without being ‘controlled’?” he asked.

“You control access to the other Warlord Princes and the aristo families, so I can’t make friends on my own or establish any bonds with other men that don’t go through you.”

“That’s not true.”

“You treat me like a child, but I’m not a child.”

“Kermilla—”

“I’m a Queen, damn you!I’m a Queen, and I’m the one who should be controlling the purse and the men and the land! Me! Not you!” She grabbed the rock. “Not you!”

She threw the rock.

He didn’t know—would never know—if her aim had been bad or if she hit exactly what she had intended to hit.

The rock missed him completely and struck the old wish pot that held the honey pear tree.

For a long moment they stared at each other.

She looked magnificent in her fury, and he wanted, more than anything, to yield to her temper and her will.

Then he looked down at the pot that was now in pieces and the honey pear tree lying in the spilled dirt, its roots exposed to the too-cold air.

“Julien!” he shouted. “Julien!”

When the butler appeared in the doorway, Theran said, “The pot broke. See what you can find to replace it and do what you can for the honey pear tree.”

Julien disappeared.

Theran picked up part of the broken pot, a piece about the size of his fully stretched hand.

“Oh, Theran.” Kermilla stood there, looking pretty and contrite. “I’m sorry I threw that rock, but you made me so angry.”

He could feel something breaking inside him, and he needed to get away from her, from everyone.

She studied him. “I know you were fond of it but, Theran, it was just an old pot.”

Something inside him breaking, breaking.

“It wasn’t an old pot, Kermilla. It was a family heirloom, and because of who it belonged to, it was priceless.”

Her mouth fell open in shock.

And a truth ripped through him and left him bleeding.

He walked away from her and passed by Julien as the butler rushed back to the tree. He didn’t allow himself to think or to feel until he was safely behind the locked door of his study.

Then he set the remnant of the wish pot on his desk, sat down . . . and cried.

For a day and a half, Theran tried to reconcile a dream and a hard truth, but no matter how he looked at it, it came down to choosing between two loves.

It is better to break your own heart than to break your honor.

He finally understood Talon’s words.

Kermilla mattered more to him than anyone he had ever known. But in the end, Dena Nehele mattered more. So he made his choice and wrote the letters that would bring the Warlord Princes to Grayhaven.

He still wanted Kermilla. Mother Night, how he wanted her! But every time he wavered, he looked at the two objects he’d placed on his desk—objects that reminded him of the difference between two Queens.

One was the piece from the broken wish pot.

The other was a leather-bound copy of Jared’s story.

Two days later, twenty-seven Warlord Princes walked into a meeting room at Grayhaven.

This time, Theran didn’t stand on a platform to address them. This time, he didn’t try to stand as their leader. This time, they told him what he had to do.

Kermilla huffed and tsk ed and made unhappy sounds as she pushed dress after dress aside. She had to have some new clothes. When she became Queen, she couldn’t be seen in these old things!

And she was finally going to be Queen. The Warlord Princes had come. Theran hadn’t said anything about this meeting, but she’d seen the men arriving. Theran would give them a stern talking-to first, and then he’d request her presence so that she could select her court. She really didn’t want a First Circle made up completely of Warlord Princes—they were so prickly!—but she’d settle for it to get the court established and then select more congenial men for her Second Circle. And once she was Queen, she could select a man with better training for her bed.

Not that she wasn’t still fond of Theran, but he was better suited to being a First Escort or her Master of the Guard. He just didn’t have the proper skills to be a Consort—or even a lover.

So important to make the right impression this time. So important to look like what these men wanted.

But how was she supposed to do that with these clothes?

Alone again, Theran closed his eyes and swayed as the pain raked through him.

It was done. The Warlord Princes would help him save what was left of Dena Nehele.