He rested a hand on her shoulder, a connection. “You want to go to this school and study art? Then show me that you can defend my precious daughter. Show me that you can shape protective shields fast enough to block an attack and strong enough to hold you safe until someone who does know how to fight can reach you. When you show me you can do that, then I will see about getting you enrolled in the school and whatever else is required.” His hand tightened on her shoulder, just a little, just enough to warn her he was serious. “There will be rules, witchling, lines that will be drawn about what you can and cannot do. Your uncle Daemon and aunt Surreal will know the conditions I’m setting for you attending the school, and your uncle will have the same authority over you when you’re in his Territory as I do here. If you cross any of those lines, one of us will haul you back here before you have time to spin. You understand me?”
“Yes, Papa.” The smile, shy and slow in coming, became bright enough to dazzle. “I won’t break the rules.”
“There will be people who will try to convince you—or force you—to break them. Maybe they’ll do it just to see if they can push you hard enough to give in. Maybe they’ll do it just to be mean and hurtful.”
“Zoey wouldn’t do that.”
He wasn’t sure if he wanted to hug Daemon or smack him for introducing the two girls. The threesome—Titian, Zoey, and Jaenelle Saetien—made so many plans when they were together in Amdarh, he didn’t know how Daemon got any sleep during those days.
Well, he did know, actually. Daemon, quite sensibly, assigned Scelties to be chaperones and escorts, since the dogs could doze through late-night giggles and innocent foolishness.
“No,” he replied, “I don’t think Lady Zoela would do that, but others will. Don’t let them win, Titian. You hold to who you are.”
“Yes, Papa.” She raised her sparring stick.
Lucivar suppressed a sigh. “All right, witchling. Let’s see what you can do and what still needs some work before you leave home.”
Wondering if Alanar had set him up for an “accidental” meeting with Orian, Daemonar shaped a tight Green shield around himself, then let his awareness flow through what Uncle Daemon called a psychic web, using a touch of power to identify the position of everyone around him within a block of where he stood on Riada’s main street. He couldn’t identify the psychic scent of all of the individuals, but he knew the Eyriens who lived around this village.
Alanar and Tamnar weren’t within the radius of his psychic web, but Orian was. Ever since he’d made the Blood Run, he’d had the uneasy feeling of being hunted whenever he crossed her path, and they seemed to be crossing paths a lot more lately. They were courteous whenever they saw each other on the street or at some event, but they hadn’t been friends for a long time now. He didn’t want anything to do with her physically, and as sure as the sun didn’t shine in Hell, he did not want to serve in any court she formed. Ever.
Besides, he already served a Queen, even if the memory of her was fading among the short-lived races, turning an extraordinary woman and Queen into a story, a legend. She wasn’t a memory or a legend. Not to him. No longer flesh, but Auntie J. was still extraordinary—and powerful.
Abandoning the spot where he was supposed to meet his friends, Daemonar strode to the bakery and went in. Since he’d been coming down to the village anyway, he’d offered to pick up the bread, greens, and other foods the family needed during the three days when his mother stayed home and quiet. His father had priority when it came to fussing over Marian during her moontime, but taking care of errands like this was a subtle way of fussing that appeased his own need to take care of her. He’d already placed an order at The Tavern for two steak-and-ale pies, figuring he could run the rest of his errands and talk to Alanar and Tamnar in the time it would take for the pies to cook.
He’d decided on a loaf of cinnamon swirl to have with tomorrow’s breakfast and was chatting with the baker’s son about which herb-flavored bread Marian would like with the pie and greens when Orian and her latest Rihlander coven of followers walked into the bakery.
“Ladies.” Daemonar gave the young women a nod carefully balanced to indicate respect and also remind them—especially Orian—that he outranked all of them. “If you’d like to place an order . . .” He gestured toward the racks of bread and rolls behind the counter.
“I know what Lady Orian would like to order,” one of the women said, running the tip of her tongue over her upper lip.
The baker’s son blushed, but the female’s blatant crudeness filled Daemonar with hot anger. He was still feeling raw over what he’d learned about the Ring of Obedience, and he responded to the tone and action as a call to battle, not an invitation to the bed.
Adding a little more power to his shield, he turned his back on the women, made his selections, and vanished the loaves after the baker’s son tallied up the purchases and gave him the ledger to initial. Then he turned again and said quietly to Orian, “You want to get out of the way.”
“I’m going to have my Virgin Night soon,” she said.
“That doesn’t have anything to do with me.”
Her skin whitened around her tightly pressed lips. “It could.”
“No. It won’t.” He expanded the Green shield to keep everyone from getting closer than a forearm’s distance from his body. Then he took a step, knowing Orian would brush up against the shield. He gave her a moment to step aside; then he moved toward the door, knocking against the girls who foolishly didn’t get out of his way.
“Daemonar!” Orian shouted. “You shame your mother with that behavior.”
To say that to a man, especially a young man, was a serious insult.
He stopped at the door and looked at her. “Considering your behavior recently, I wouldn’t talk about someone else shaming their family, Lady Orian. I really wouldn’t.”
He walked out of the bakery and spotted Alanar and Tamnar hurrying toward him.
“Do all girls go through a stage when they’re completely out of their minds?” he demanded.
Alanar looked toward the bakery. “Ah, Hell’s fire. Has she started on you again? I thought she’d gotten over that.”
“So did I.” He walked away from the bakery, the other Eyrien males falling in beside him.
“It’s because you’re the only Eyrien aristo Warlord Prince in Kaeleer,” Tamnar said. “I think Orian sees seducing you as a point of honor. Or something.”
“Well, thank the Darkness she isn’t foolish enough to make a play for my father,” Daemonar snapped. “We’d need buckets and shovels to pick up what was left of her after his temper exploded.” He glanced at Alanar’s gray face and stopped walking. “Please tell me your mother hasn’t become so unhinged that she’s thinking in that direction.”
“I don’t know what she’s thinking anymore,” Alanar said bitterly. “Father left, moved someplace around Doun. She didn’t want him around anymore. Said he shamed her, not being a real Eyrien warrior.”
Endar had never been a skilled warrior and would have been among the first to fall on a killing field. When their children were small, Dorian had been pleased that her husband had been hired to teach the Eyrien children instead of being carelessly spent in a fight. Now Dorian was even more obsessed with what a Queen would be entitled to have when she came of age and could form her own court, and every attempt to curb the sense of privilege Dorian encouraged in her daughter had failed.
And no one, not even Lucivar, knew what had shaped the whip that was driving Dorian toward a battle she couldn’t win.