Dreams Made Flesh (The Black Jewels #5)

Dreams Made Flesh (The Black Jewels #5) Page 41

Lucivar stood in the street, watching as people scurried in and out of shops, shouting suggestions to each other while they prepared a wedding feast.

Saetan strolled over to join him, a glint of amusement covering vicious anger. “You were right, boyo. She does get feisty when she’s riled.”

“She wasn’t thinking.”

“Are you going to give her time to reconsider?”

“Hell’s fire, no.” Lucivar rubbed the back of his neck. “But where did she get the idea that I was going to go fight jhinkas?” Cobwebby. She’d said something about feeling cobwebby. He knew enough about the Black Widow’s Craft—sweet Darkness, he was related to enough of them—that if she’d said anything like that to him this morning, he would have rushed her to the Keep for help.

He looked into Saetan’s eyes and knew what lay beneath the anger.

“I told your mother that if she interfered again with what was between you and Marian, I would take her to the darkest corner of Hell and leave her there,” Saetan said too softly.

For a moment, he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. No idle threat. Saetan didn’t make idle threats.

“Let it go,” Lucivar said. “I don’t want blood spilled for my wedding.” But I won’t forget this, Luthvian. I will not forget.

Saetan looked away and nodded. When he looked back, he smiled. “Are you going to just stand there, or are you going to get dressed for your wedding?”

“Am I going to have to wear that fancy outfit I acquired when Jaenelle established the Dark Court?” Lucivar demanded.

“Definitely.”

He sighed. “Thought so.”

But he smiled as he raced through the sky toward home.

TWENTY-FOUR

Saetan lingered by the open tavern door. The evening air was chilly this early in the spring, but it hadn’t kept the party from spilling out into the street once the tavern’s main room got too crowded. People danced in the tavern—and they danced in the street. Ale and whiskey, brandy and wine flowed along with the laughter and high spirits.

He winked at Prothvar as the Eyrien Warlord slipped into the room. The sun hadn’t set in time for Prothvar and Andulvar to make the wedding, and Mephis was still on his way here from the Hall, but the family would gather and celebrate tonight.

“You know, don’t you?” Jaenelle asked as she slipped her arm through his.

“I’ll take care of it, witch-child.”

“In that case, I’m going to dance.”

He watched her join the line of dancers, watched her say something to Merry that had them both laughing so hard they missed the first few steps of the dance. He hadn’t been able to make those kinds of friendships, had stood too far apart from the people he ruled. Not by choice; simply because he was who and what he was. But Lucivar, with his hot temper and rough kindness, would have friends who cared about the man. And Marian, with that fire and strength of will beneath her quiet nature, would help him stay connected to the people he ruled.

“High Lord?”

He turned and found the Queen of Riada smiling hesitantly at him, her Consort beside her. “We don’t have an invitation, but we’d like to offer the Prince and his Lady our warmest regards.”

He smiled at them. “It’s an open party. We’d be pleased to have you join us.”

He watched the Queen and her Consort thread their way through the crowd. He saw Jaenelle glance their way and smile. Aristo manners didn’t stand a chance against his daughter. Before those two knew it, they’d be dancing with shopkeepers and helping fill plates as if they did it every day.

Then he looked back at the door and saw her standing there, her eyes hot with suppressed anger. He’d sent her a message as a courtesy because she was Lucivar’s mother. He’d deliberately sent it late as a kindness to his son—and to Marian.

“Luthvian.” It was cold satisfaction to watch her anger change to fear as he walked up to her.

“So,” Luthvian said. “You got your way after all.”

“It wasn’t a contest, Lady.” At least, not for him. He stepped closer, lowered his voice until only she could hear. “I warned you, Luthvian. The only reason you aren’t on your way to Hell is because Lucivar asked me to let it go. I’m going to honor that request—as a wedding present. But if you ever use a spell on Marian again—or try to cast one on Lucivar—I’ll break you. I’ll strip you of your Jewels and your power, strip you down until you have nothing left but basic Craft. And it will be done so fast, no one will be able to stop me.”

She paled but said nothing.

“Now,” Saetan said, fighting to keep his temper reined in. “Will you join us in celebrating your son’s wedding?”

“There’s nothing to celebrate,” she said roughly. Then she turned and walked away.

Lucivar shifted to block Marian’s view. The dark ripples of anger from Saetan and Jaenelle were sufficient warning to tell him who had arrived. He turned slightly so he could watch the door. After what he suspected was a brief, and futile, pissing contest with Saetan, Luthvian walked away.

*She wouldn’t stay?* he asked Saetan on an Ebon-gray spear thread.

*No, she wouldn’t stay.*

*So be it.* It stung that she wouldn’t make the effort to wish him happy, but he wasn’t surprised. She’d tried to drive Marian away, and she’d failed. That would be a sharp little bone in her throat for a long time to come. And the sad truth was, although she was his mother, she wasn’t family.

“Lucivar?”

Before Marian had a chance to ask him what was wrong, a voice said, “So, Cousin. This is the Lady who captured your heart.”

Lucivar grinned as Marian stared at the Red-Jeweled Eyrien Warlord standing before her. “Sweetheart, this is my cousin, Prothvar Yaslana.”

“Oh, my,” she squeaked.

Prothvar smiled. “I’m hoping my new cousin will honor me with a dance.”

“Wait your turn, puppy,” another male voice said. “This dance is mine.”

He felt her tense, saw her eyes go wide as she stared at the older Eyrien Warlord Prince. “And this is my uncle Andulvar.”

“The Demon Prince,” she whispered.

Her knees buckled. He grabbed her under the arms and hauled her back up. And he saw the hesitation, and a hint of sadness, in Andulvar’s eyes as the older man started to step back.

“The Demon Prince asked me to dance,” Marian said, still wobbling a little. She leaned against his chest and looked up at him. “Do I look all right?”

She looked beautiful. “You have a smudge on your nose.” Adorable, as she scrubbed at the nonexistent smudge. She was still a little wobbly when she gave Andulvar a brilliant smile and held out her hand.

“She’s delightful, Cousin,” Prothvar said as they watched Marian and Andulvar waltz.

“Yes, she is,” Lucivar replied. And she’s mine.

Which is why he cut in on his uncle halfway through the dance. “Mine,” he said, giving Andulvar a hard tap on the shoulder.

“Possessive little puppy, aren’t you?” Andulvar said, stepping aside.

“Damn right,” Lucivar replied as he swept his hearth witch into the dance.

“That was rude,” Marian scolded.

He grinned. “And your point is?”

She huffed—and struggled not to laugh.

He slowed the steps until they were doing little more than swaying in each other’s arms. “Jaenelle suggested we spend a few days at her house in Scelt for a honeymoon.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to inconven—”

“She also said she would talk to the Queen of Sceval so that I could take you there to meet some of the unicorns.”

“Unicorns? Really?”

“If you want. We can do anything you want. You can have anything you want.”

“You,” she said softly. “I want you.”

Her words warmed every part of him. Warmed one part in particular.

He nibbled on her ear and whispered, “Are you going to let me fuss over you tonight?”

She pulled back. Her eyes danced with laughter as she bared her teeth and snarled at him.

His laughter filled the room. He scooped her up and spun her around. When he finally set her on her feet again, she clutched his jacket and swore at him.

He grinned at her as the people around them laughed and applauded. “That’s my feisty hearth witch.”

ZUULAMAN

A story from Saetan’s past

1

Saetan set aside the latest letter from the Zuulaman ambassador, leaned back in the chair behind his blackwood desk, and rubbed his eyes. A half dozen meetings with the man and nothing had changed. The same complaints filled this letter as had filled the last three. He understood the concerns, even sympathized with them up to a point. But he wouldn’t order Dhemlan merchants to buy coral and pearls exclusively from Zuulaman traders at a higher price than other Territories offered to sell sea gems of the same quality. He’d already checked on the complaints that Dhemlan ships were encroaching on the fishing grounds that belonged to the Zuulaman Islands. Hayllian ships were certainly plying the same waters and competing for catches, but the Queens who ruled the fishing towns in Dhemlan were quick to penalize any boat that fished beyond the Territory’s established waters—just as they were quick to send the Warlord Princes who served them out to confiscate the catch of any boat that encroached on Dhemlan’s fishing grounds.

Of course, he hadn’t heard so much as a whisper of complaint about Hayll. Not yet, anyway. Sooner or later, the Zuulaman Queens would become less enamored with Hayll’s Hundred Families—the aristo families that heavily influenced the Hayllian courts if they didn’t rule them outright. He might be Hayllian by birth, might have lived his early years in the slums of Draega, Hayll’s capital, but, thank the Darkness, he’d shed himself of that self-centered race centuries ago. For the most part. He had no interest in the Hundred Families, except to keep a watchful eye on their intrigues to be sure the people he ruled came to no harm because of them.

But that still left him with the problem of dealing with Zuulaman. He was certainly willing to sell them surplus grains, meat, and produce for a reasonable price that wouldn’t beggar Zuulaman’s people, but he wasn’t willing to cut prices to the point that his own people suffered, especially when the islands still had enough arable land to feed their population, despite the fact that they made little effort to care for the land. Which was part of the problem. They overfished their waters, overplanted their farmland, pushed the islands’ resources to the breaking point. Then the Zuulaman Queens complained that they couldn’t sell their surplus, which rightly should have gone to feed their own people—or they complained that they had no surplus, and the pottery and other art forms that were distinct to their people didn’t sell at the prices they wanted. Which wasn’t surprising. No one but aristos with surplus income, or debts enough to ruin their families, could afford the asking price for most of what Zuulaman tried to sell.