He’d only mentioned Zoey’s mother once, and neither Witch nor Karla had responded at the time. Or maybe he hadn’t read the signs correctly.
“Sheela isn’t the only one,” Zhara continued. “The Sisters who tend the witches who are mentally damaged said other Black Widows are more aware of the world than they’ve been in a long time, and all of them mention a song.”
He squeezed her hands in warning. “Zhara.”
“I heard that phrase once. It was at your daughter’s Birthright Ceremony. A song in the Darkness.” Zhara sniffed and looked him in the eyes. “It’s best, I think, not to ask about some things. Or call too much attention to some things. I also think you have a connection to Ebon Askavi that few others can claim.”
“Be careful,” he said too softly.
“What is said here today will not leave this room or be mentioned again.” Zhara nodded toward Garek, who quickly agreed. “I think that song in the Darkness healed you, too, when you fell ill shortly after your daughter’s Birthright Ceremony. And I think that song, somehow, still holds the leash of the most powerful men in Kaeleer.”
“Is that what you think?”
“If a song can hear as well as be heard, please thank her for helping my daughter come home.”
“Thank who?”
Zhara smiled. “Perhaps it’s all just a dream.”
Daemon studied the Queen of Amdarh and knew Zhara would keep her word and never speak of this again. Returning her smile, he said, “Perhaps it is.”
Releasing her hands, he stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a nephew who will be landing on my doorstep in a few hours.”
“Trouble?” Garek asked.
Daemon raised one eyebrow and said dryly, “He’s Eyrien. Of course there’s trouble.”
Lucivar didn’t knock, didn’t give any warning. He just used Craft to blow the front door of Dorian’s eyrie off its hinges. As he walked in, he put an Ebon-gray shield around the eyrie. Then he called in a round-headed club—a useful weapon if a man wanted to break a lot of bones and turn a person into a bloody mess.
Dorian and Orian rushed into the front room that was decorated like a Queen’s waiting room. They both appeared upset, but Orian had a look in her eyes that made him think she knew exactly why he was there.
“Your son just threatened my daughter!” Dorian’s voice was filled with wrath.
Ignoring Dorian, he turned to Orian and snarled, “Where is the Ring of Obedience?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Orian stammered. She tried to look haughty. She stank of fear.
“You told a Warlord Prince that you have a Ring of Obedience. You threatened to use it on him. For that alone, I could drag you out of here and skin you alive. This is your only chance, Orian. Hand over the Ring or die.”
“Orian said no such thing!” Dorian protested.
“Were you there? Did you hear the words?” Lucivar demanded.
“It’s his word against hers.”
“Then let’s bring them both before a tribunal of Queens and have them open their inner barriers to reveal the truth.”
Orian swayed. Dorian put her arms around her daughter.
“I was just teasing,” Orian said. “I didn’t think Daemonar would take it seriously.”
“Liar.”
“How dare you! Orian is a Queen!” Dorian snapped.
“Doesn’t make her any less of a liar.” Lucivar stared at Dorian. “You want your daughter to live? Tell me where you’ve hidden the Ring.”
“I want you to leave,” Dorian said. “Right now!”
He spun, swung the club—and turned a table into kindling.
Orian let out a scream that was more like a squeak. Dorian stumbled away from him, pulling Orian with her.
“Where is it?” he snarled.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Lie to me again, and I’ll use this club on your girl, and there won’t be much left of her when I’m done.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
He bared his teeth. “Tell that to all the Queens I killed.”
Dorian glanced at a small round cabinet with a locked door.
He’d seen that cabinet listed in a delivery of goods when it arrived in Ebon Rih. A year ago? Maybe two? Dorian had said it had come from her family home and had been patched up with Craft so many times it had no worth beyond sentimental value. Rothvar had inspected it carefully and hadn’t sensed anything that didn’t match Dorian’s claim—had, in fact, thought sending it to Dorian was her relatives’ way of pissing on her.
But a man who had been exposed to the brilliance of Jaenelle Angelline and the coven would pay particular attention to the spells around the lock and the door. A man who had spent some time being tutored by Saetan would know that malicious spells could be hidden under benign ones.
What he was sensing now wasn’t Dorian’s work. She didn’t have the power or the skill. But someone did. Was that someone here or still in Terreille?
Wrapping Ebon-gray power around the club, he threw it at the cabinet. His power collided with the power in the various spells with enough force that, if he’d been holding the club, he could have lost the use of part of his arm—for good.
Nothing benign about that.
Lying in the cabinet’s ruins was a wooden box. No spells on it. No lock. Considering what had been around the cabinet, Dorian hadn’t needed anything else to protect whatever the box held. Still, he used Craft to float the box out of the debris, lift the lid, and riffle through the contents.
No Ring of Obedience. Just letters. Lots of letters. Years’ worth of letters. Written in Eyrien.
Dorian had shown him one of these letters from her family. The content was banal and made him wonder why someone would go to the trouble of paying the expense of sending it to Kaeleer. And he’d wondered why her smile had been so sly and satisfied when he’d shown no more than polite interest in her correspondence. Now he knew why.
It looked like his power had smashed more than the spells on the cabinet and had revealed the real messages beneath the other ones.
Lucivar swore silently. Most formal correspondence and business contracts were written in the common tongue used by every race in Kaeleer, and with Marian’s and Daemonar’s help, he’d gotten pretty good at reading such things. But this?
He wouldn’t ask Marian to read these, and until he knew the contents, he didn’t dare go to Ebon Askavi and ask the Lady there who was fluent in Eyrien. The Darkness only knew how Jaenelle would respond when she found out about this. He wanted to have an answer—and a decision—before he told her.
There was one person.
He wrapped an Ebon-gray shield around the box, in case he’d missed a trap. Then he looked at the woman and girl, who looked back with defiance.
“When I know what these letters say, I’ll decide if the two of you are going to be exiled back to Terreille or executed and sent to Hell.”
“You can’t do that,” Dorian said, her voice rising in panic. “Orian has no future in Terreille.”
“I was just teasing,” Orian pleaded. “I didn’t know it was such a bad thing!”
You knew, Lucivar thought, feeling a pang for the young family who had come to Kaeleer centuries ago to escape the very thing Orian now threatened to bring into his Territory.
“Pack up your personal belongings,” he said. “Only what the two of you can carry using Craft. One way or another, I’ll be back at sunrise.”