“We’ll finish this later,” Dorian said.
She disliked confrontation, couldn’t hold on to anger. She’d end up doing more work to make up for her show of defiance—and nothing would change.
As she walked through the kitchen doorway, her father raised his hand as if to cuff her, but she hurried past him and stayed ahead of him until they were outside the eyrie. Then he caught up to her and grabbed her arm hard enough to bruise.
She saw temper in his face, but it made her think of a scared bully rather than a dangerous Eyrien Warlord. Still, a scared bully could become dangerous if he needed to convince himself that he was strong.
He started to speak, then held back, clearly deciding to ignore a household squabble since it wouldn’t interfere with what he wanted.
Using Craft, he called in a thick envelope and handed it to her. “Messenger’s waiting for that. Needs it before the day begins at court, so don’t be dawdling.”
“If it’s so important, why don’t you deliver it?” Marian said.
His fingers dug into her arm. “Don’t sass me, girl. Just do as you’re told.” His other hand pointed at a small wood in the valley below. “He’ll be waiting for you there. You fly down, then take the path through the woods.”
“And if I don’t find him?”
“He’ll find you.” He released her arm with enough force that she staggered a couple of steps to keep her balance. “Get on with it.”
Vanishing the envelope, she moved farther away from him before she spread her wings and launched herself skyward. She forgot him as she pumped her wings to take her up into the pale dawn sky, dismissed the troubles waiting for her at home as she focused on the joy of soaring over the land. She loved flying—loved the feel of it, the freedom of it. When she was in the air, she could almost believe her dreams were possible. A home of her own, with a garden big enough to grow food, flowers, and the herbs and other plants she could sell to Healers for their special brews. A place of her own, where her hearth-skills wouldn’t be dismissed and she wouldn’t have to tiptoe around male temper and moods.
It was nothing more than a dream. Her Purple Dusk Jewels didn’t give her enough power or status to keep her safe from stronger males if she were on her own. She didn’t have the temperament to cope with the cruelty and vicious games that were played in the courts and in aristo houses, so there was no point thinking she could work in one of them. If her mother turned her out, she’d end up working somewhere for room and board and little else. Or, worse, she could end up begging for a place in one of the large eyries that stabled the warriors who served in the Eyrien Queens’ courts. She’d seen some of the women who did the cooking and laundry in those eyries—and who were expected to take care of other needs as well. She wouldn’t survive long in one of those places. So it always came back to accepting that she would be her mother’s unpaid help.
But she still wished for something better.
Blinking back tears—and telling herself it was the wind that created them—she looked up . . . and saw the Black Mountain in the distance.
Ebon Askavi. The Keep. Rumors had been flying recently that there was a Queen there now—a powerful, terrible, Black-Jeweled Queen. But no one had actually seen her. No one could say for certain.
She paused, moving her wings to hover, unable to look away from that mountain. Unable to shake the feeling that something was aware of her, watching her. From that mountain.
Heart pounding, she shook her head to pull her gaze away from the Keep, folded her wings, and did a fast dive toward the woods in the valley. She was an unimportant hearth witch. There was no reason for anyone to look in her direction.
Unless it had something to do with the envelope her father wanted delivered to a messenger without the court he served in being aware of it.
Pulling out of the dive, she glided to the edge of the woods, then backwinged to land lightly on the path. She’d deliver the envelope and go home. Once she was safely back in her mother’s kitchen, she’d convince herself that the uneasiness growing in her was her own doing, that there wasn’t something in the woods that made her want to turn and run, that she wasn’t sensing ripples of dark power far, far, far below the strength of her Purple Dusk Jewel—ripples of power that were rising up from the abyss and coming toward her.
She kept to a fast walk, afraid to run because that would incite a predator’s instinct to hunt. And there were predators out there, somewhere. She was certain of it.
She’d almost reached the other end of the small woods when an Eyrien Warlord stepped out of the trees and spread his wings to block the path. Four other Warlords stepped out of the trees behind her.
“You have a message for me?” the first Warlord asked.
They were all wearing clothes that were old but of good quality. The kind of quality only aristo families could afford. That didn’t make her feel easier.
“Well?” he demanded.
Calling in the envelope, she walked toward him until she was close enough to hand him the envelope by extending her arm its full length.
He snatched it from her, tore it open, read the first page quickly, then tossed all of it aside. When he looked at her, his smile was amused and cruel.
“The message wasn’t meant for you?” Marian said, backing away from him.
“Oh, it was for me. You’re the payment, witchling.”