By the time Cassidy, Shira, and Reyhana had finished breakfast, Ranon and Gray were sitting down with Eyota’s elders and Tradition Keepers to explain the court’s decision to create a new Territory. By the time Cassidy and Reyhana had settled at the desk in the Queen’s office to sort and review all the requests and invitations again, the liaisons for the five southern Provinces were meeting with the Warlord Princes in those Provinces to arrange a formal visit with Ranon and Jared Blaed.

By the time the messenger arrived at the Grayhaven estate and delivered the letter from Lady Cassidy to Prince Theran Grayhaven, every Warlord Prince who lived south of the Heartsblood River knew something was about to happen—and they began sharpening their knives.

“Prince Grayhaven.”

“Julien?”

Julien called in a letter and held it out to him. “After you left, Lady Kermilla went into your study and opened the mail. All the mail.”

“Why in the name of Hell would she do that?” The words were out before he could stop himself.

“I wouldn’t know.” The tone said the butler knew quite well why a Queen would go through mail that wasn’t addressed to her—and what happened to a man if she found something she didn’t like. “When this letter arrived, I felt it was best to deliver it to you personally since it has Lady Cassidy’s seal.”

Shucking off his heavy coat, Theran handed it to Julien and took the letter. “I’ll be in my study.”

“Lady Kermilla wanted to be informed the moment you returned home.”

Should I take my time delivering the message? That was the underlying question.

“Inform the Lady that I’ve returned,” Theran said as he walked away.

Kermilla wanted Julien dismissed. Actually, she wanted the man banned from the town because, on his best days, Julien was barely courteous to her. On the days when memories rode him hard, he couldn’t stand being around her. Since she was still a guest, she had to tolerate the butler. Once she became Queen . . .

Problem was, Julien was damn good at his job, took on more than a butler’s typical duties, and by standing between Kermilla and the rest of the staff, was the only reason the other servants hadn’t resigned.

Why was everyone so resistant and so resentful? Yes, she was sometimes difficult or inconsiderate, but maturity and work that made full use of her abilities would soften those edges. Sure she had a temper, but that just meant she had spine and spirit. And that spine and spirit were the reasons Kermilla was the right Queen for Dena Nehele—the one who could represent their land and people with grace and skill.

The servants grumbled on a daily basis, which he didn’t understand since he hadn’t seen Kermilla doing anything that justified the grumbles. He could ignore the servants for the most part, and did—as long as Julien managed to keep them from leaving. Couldn’t anyone understand that it was an anxious time for all of them and the next few weeks would be so critical? Nerves were a bit frayed and tempers were sharper than they would be normally. But once Kermilla had the assurance of her place in Dena Nehele, everything would settle down.

Could he give her any assurance?

The Warlord Princes he’d met with today had listened—and had offered nothing. Not one indication that they would be willing to accept Kermilla, let alone serve her. And not one spark of interest in meeting her. There was wariness over being seen in her company because Talon had declared her an enemy of the current Queen of Dena Nehele, but there wasn’t any sign of the suppressed interest he’d expected once he’d hinted that Talon’s declaration would no longer apply come spring.

What was he supposed to do about that? Having the backing of at least some of the Warlord Princes and minor Queens was crucial.

He riffled through the opened mail. Invitations? Well, he didn’t mind her opening those. Not really. After all, she’d be attending those events with him, so she should have a say in which ones they accepted. But the rest . . .

Uneasiness rippled through him, a warning that something wasn’t good, wasn’t right. Then Kermilla walked into the study, and the uneasiness was buried under his craving to be with her and use everything he was for her pleasure—whatever that pleasure might be. The uneasiness was buried, but not the anger.

“Oh, la, Theran,” Kermilla said. “I was afraid you wouldn’t get back in time. There’s a delightful little party later this afternoon that I must attend and—”

“Why did you open my private correspondence?” He hadn’t realized how much anger he was keeping leashed until he heard the roughness in his voice.

She stopped moving toward the desk. She lowered her head and looked at him through her lashes while her mouth shifted into its sexy pout. “I was just trying to help. And I wanted to learn. You’re always telling me that I need to learn more about Dena Nehele.”

“You learn by talking . . .” Listening. “. . . or asking. Not by violating someone’s privacy.”

“Violating?” She widened her eyes. “That’s a harsh word. I just looked at a few silly old letters.”

“No, it’s not a harsh word.” He fanned the stack of letters and the uneasiness returned. *Julien? How many letters did you put on the desk this morning?*

*Five invitations and seven letters.*

Theran counted them again, then moved them to make sure nothing was hidden.

Five invitations—and five letters.

“What happened to the other two letters, Kermilla?” he asked. Before she could lie to him, he added, “There were seven letters delivered. There are five here now. Where are the other two?”

“They were very rude.” She enhanced the pout. “I burned them.”

“You burned letters addressed to me?”

“They were rude.”

“I don’t give a damn how rude they were. You had no business reading them, let alone burning them!”

Her eyes flashed with temper. “Nothing is hidden from a Queen, Prince. Nothing.”

A cold fist wrapped around his spine—and squeezed. “Those letters. Who were they from?”

She tossed her head and said dismissively, “I don’t remember.”

His temper slipped the leash for a moment and thundered through the room, knocking a painting off the wall and sending several useless porcelain figurines crashing to the floor.

No color in her face. Fear in her eyes.

“Who were they from?” he snarled.

“Ferall and . . . I don’t remember the other name. I don’t!”

Ferall. Mother Night. He hadn’t expected to get any response from Ferall. He couldn’t ask the man to send the letter again. And outside of being “rude,” which could mean anything, he had no idea what kind of answer he’d been given to his carefully worded inquiries. He knew Ferall wouldn’t serve Kermilla, but he wanted some assurance the other Warlord Prince wouldn’t actively go after Dena Nehele’s new Queen.

“Don’t do it again,” he said, breaking the seal on Cassidy’s letter. “I don’t give a damn what you think a Queen is entitled to do. Any correspondence addressed to me is private. You don’t open it without my consent. Is that clear?”

She pulled her shoulders back and raised her chin, the picture of wounded dignity. “Perfectly clear.”

He began reading Cassidy’s letter. No, not a letter. Some kind of official document that . . .

“Theran, what about the invitation for this afternoon?” Kermilla asked. “It’s really important that I—”

“You bitch,” he snarled. “You cold-blooded bitch.”

“Theran!” She sounded shocked.

He rushed out of the study and roared to release some temper. “Julien! My coat!”

Julien hurried to the entranceway, holding the coat open. “Prince?”

Vanishing the document, Theran shoved his arms into the coat sleeves. *I’ll be gone for the rest of the day,* he said on a spear thread when Kermilla rushed into the entranceway. *Hold on to any mail or messages until I return.*

*Done,* Julien said.

And when he returned he would put Green shields and locks around his study. Kermilla would be insulted, but better that than another error in judgment.

“Theran?” Kermilla’s voice was a blend of distress and whiny-bitchy that he hadn’t heard before. “Where are you going? What about our invitation to—”

“Send your regrets,” he snapped as he headed for the door. “I have an appointment.” With the Queen, he added silently.

“What did you see?” Cassidy asked. “Or can’t the vision be shared?”

Shira looked at her for a long time. Then the Shalador witch finished putting away her Hourglass supplies before saying, “Endings and beginnings. I think most of us left in the Hourglass have seen the end of Dena Nehele—and wept for it. Some of us saw hope and a new beginning, but it wasn’t always there in the visions, so we knew the end was coming but couldn’t be sure if anything good would follow.”

“And now?”

“I used to see orchards of honey pear trees growing out of the bodies of the men who had fallen in the killing fields.”

“Mother Night,” Cassidy whispered.

“Sometimes, in nightmares, I would pick the fruit off one tree. I would bite into one of the pears, and it was better than anything I’d ever tasted before. Then I would look down and see Ranon’s face. The tree was growing out of what was left of Ranon.”

“Shira . . .”

“Today I saw orchards of honey pear trees growing out of rich soil. Soil, Cassie. Not the bodies of our dead. And even though I couldn’t see them, I could hear men talking and laughing, and I knew they were alive and helping with the harvest.” Shira undid the Craft holding her hair up and let that dark hair flow around her shoulders. “You’re the difference. Dena Nehele will break, and Shalador Nehele will rise. A new beginning.”

“There could still be war,” Cassidy said. “Those honey pears might still grow out of the bodies of the dead.”

“That’s a possibility,” Shira agreed. “But before, it was a certainty.”

Gray rode into the landen community with Ranon and wondered if this meeting was really necessary. Prudent, sure. But necessary? They’d used a small Coach that Ranon could handle so that they could ride the Opal Winds together. The news still arrived at the southern and western reserves ahead of them.

They were given the courtesy of being allowed to deliver their message to an assembly of elders and Tradition Keepers since they had made the journey. After their meeting in the western reserve, they were gently shooed home. Shalador’s decision was made. They would stand with the Queen. Ranon and Jared Blaed should return home and tend to Shalador’s Lady.

So they were back in Eyota in time to make this last visit and be home for dinner.

They rode in slowly, in part to give the guard on duty time to sense their presence but mostly because they could hear a dog barking and children laughing and squealing.

“Cows and sheep?” Gray asked, reining in before they reached the floating balls of green witchlight.

“Looks like it,” Ranon agreed.

Gray watched JuliDee evade the Sceltie and dart away from the corral of white witchlight. “Wynne doesn’t seem to be doing too well.”

“Wynne isn’t trying very hard,” Ranon replied dryly. “I imagine if there was a reason to round up these ‘sheep,’ they’d be rounded up.”

James Weaver came out of one of the workshops and raised a hand in greeting as they dismounted.

“We were all putting away our tools and having a glass of ale as an end to the day. Would you join us? Or would you prefer something hot?”

“Ale would be fine,” Ranon replied. They tied their horses to a post and followed James into one of the workshops. Potter and Tanner were there. So was James’s son, Rand, but the youngster got some signal from his father and excused himself.

Small glasses of ale were poured. Gray wondered if it was the cost of the ale that prevented them from enjoying a larger glass. Then he realized this wasn’t about drinking. This was a ritual among them that acknowledged a day’s work—and the freedom to work without fear.

“There is something we felt you need to know,” Gray said. He explained the court’s decision to break from Dena Nehele and form a new Territory, just as he’d been explaining it all day—and would explain it when he and Ranon met the Warlord Princes living in the five southern Provinces.

James looked at Potter and Tanner, then rubbed the back of his neck. “We thank you for the courtesy of telling us.”

Ranon studied the men. “You already knew.”

“In a way,” Potter said. “But we appreciate you translating it into human.”

Gray looked at Ranon. Ranon looked at Gray. Together they said, “Human?”

James said, “The message we got earlier today was ‘We don’t like the other Queen. We’re keeping Cassie. So her males are going to be busy for a while marking her territory.’ ”

“Marking—” Ranon choked. Then he blushed.

Potter nodded. “Of course, the boys wanted to know what that meant, so Duffy demonstrated and . . .”

Gray hunched his shoulders and groaned. “How many women are mad at us?”

James grinned. “As long as you don’t pee on any of the houses, I think you’ll be all right.”

He couldn’t see them, but he recognized the psychic scents of Archerr and Shaddo. And he felt Talon’s presence.

And he felt insulted that he’d been “escorted” here by a guard.

Before he could bang on the door again—or break it down—it opened.

“Prince Theran,” Dryden said too courteously to be courteous.

“I want to see Cassidy.”

“If you will wait here, I will see if the Lady is at home.”

“Don’t give me that crap,” Theran snapped, bracing a hand against the door. “She’ll see me, and she’ll see me now.”

Dryden’s eyes blazed with anger, but his face and voice retained the butler poise. “I will see—”

*Theran? Theran! You will wait in the visitors’ parlor and be polite.*

Theran shoved at the door. “Shut up, Vae.”

She snarled at him. A moment later, someone else snarled. Behind him.

Purple Dusk against Green? He could take her down. But he was having trouble getting a sense of the Sceltie behind him.

If it was a Sceltie behind him.

The memory of those two big cats flashed through his mind.

“Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’ll wait and be polite.”

Dryden and Vae escorted him to the visitors’ parlor. Dryden left. Vae stood guard—until Gray walked into the room.

How could a man change so much in a few months? Theran wondered. He recognized the face because it was so similar to his own. But he didn’t recognize the look in those green eyes—or that blend of power and assurance that was now part of Gray’s psychic scent.

“Cassie is not available,” Gray said. “Is there something I can do for you?”

It was the coldness in that voice that jabbed his temper. He called in the document and held it up. “Can you explain this?”

Gray flicked a glance at the paper. “You don’t want to be First Escort. I do. You don’t want to serve Cassie. I do.”

Theran’s jaw dropped. “You? Hell’s fire, Gray. Do you know what you’ve done?”

“Yes, I do.”

Kermilla will never forgive him. “You know Kermilla is going to become Queen in a couple of months. Signing on to serve Cassidy now is a slap in the face. She’ll never consider you for any kind of position in her court.”

“And I wouldn’t consider taking one,” Gray replied.

“Do you know what’s required of a man to stand as First Escort? Gray, you can’t do this.”

“I’ve spent the past few months training to be a First Escort, and I’m qualified to serve Queen and court in that position. What kind of training do you have, Theran?”

“I don’t see why you’re acting so pissy about this,” Gray said. “You’re up in Grayhaven. We’re down here. You haven’t fulfilled your duties to Queen or court for months now.”

“I wasn’t dancing to Cassidy’s tune, no, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been working for the good of Dena Nehele.”

“That’s a matter of opinion.”

Stung past insult, Theran vanished the document and took a step back. Gray had made his choice, and may the Darkness have mercy on him.

“Is your position in the court official yet?” Theran asked.

Gray nodded. “I signed the contract this morning.”

Mother Night.

“Well, I guess I’m free to—”

“You still have a contract with this court,” Gray said. “You’re still in the First Circle.”

“Under the circumstances, I think it’s best if I resign.”

“You rule the town of Grayhaven on the Queen’s behalf. If you ask to be dismissed from the court and Cassidy grants the request, you not only give up your place in the court, you also give up the town and its tithes.”

Theran felt the blood drain out of his head. The only reason Kermilla was allowed to stay anywhere in Dena Nehele was that he ruled Grayhaven. If he lost the town, she could be driven out—or killed. He couldn’t risk that. Not when Cassidy’s contract would end in a couple of months, freeing him from these chains.

“You’re turning into a bastard, Gray.”

Gray smiled—and Theran saw the man who was comfortable around Daemon Sadi and Lucivar Yaslana—and the High Lord of Hell. Sadi couldn’t have played this hand any better.

“I guess I should call you Jared Blaed from now on,” Theran said.

“I guess you should.”

When he walked out of the boardinghouse, the Scelties were gone. So were Archerr and Shaddo. But Talon stood at the edge of the street, waiting for him.

“I’ll walk you back to the landing web,” Talon said.

“That’s not necessary.”

“Yes, it is.”

They walked halfway back before Theran spoke. “How did it go so wrong?”

“Everyone wants the same thing. They just aren’t seeing the same answer,” Talon replied.

“I’m worried about what’s going to happen to Gray.”

“Jared Blaed can take care of himself.”

“Why did he have to do this now?”

“He’s following his heart. Isn’t that what you’re doing?”

“That’s not the same.”

“No one ever thinks it is.”

They didn’t speak again until they reached the landing web.

“Take care of yourself, boy,” Talon said.

“Talon . . .” What could he say to keep the people who mattered to him out of harm’s way? “Cassidy isn’t going to be ruling for much longer.”

A long silence. Then Talon said quietly, “No, Cassidy isn’t going to be ruling Dena Nehele for much longer.”