Leaving the study and moving through the massive structure he’d built as a symbol of his power as well as a family home, he bounded up the stairs and headed for the family wing. He opened a door and his sons, Mephis and Peyton, the two joys of his marriage, rushed forward to greet him.
“Papa!” Peyton said. “Look what we helped Daemon Carpenter make for us!”
“You helped him, did you?” Saetan said as he took a wooden ship from his younger son and gave it the careful inspection that was expected—and wondered if he should offer Daemon Carpenter hazard pay for whatever “help” had been given.
“Well,” Mephis said, “we didn’t actually help him make the ships, but we did make the sails.”
Which explained the badly stitched canvas. But that was the difference between the two boys. Peyton tended to be fiery, dramatic, always leading with his heart, while Mephis thought things through as well as he could before acting, was a little less demonstrative, and more bitingly exact about details.
“That’s helping,” Peyton protested, scowling at his older brother. “Are you going to read us a story?” he asked, turning back to his father.
Saetan blew softly on the sail, using Craft to expand a puff of air into enough to fill the canvas. “No, I don’t think so,” he replied, handing the ship back to Peyton in order to inspect the one Mephis now held up for his approval.
Peyton’s lower lip pushed out in a pout, but before he could start wheedling, Mephis gave him a hard elbow jab in the ribs.
“No,” Saetan said slowly, “as commander of the fleet—”
“How come you get to be commander?” Peyton demanded. “Ow!” That because Mephis’s elbow caught him in the ribs again.
“Because I’m bigger,” Saetan replied. “As I was saying, as commander of the fleet, I think my stalwart captains should test their new ships on the Phantom Sea.”
“Where?” Peyton asked.
“He means the pond,” Mephis said out of the corner of his mouth. “Now, hush.”
“Dangerous place, the Phantom Sea,” Saetan said, his deep voice dropping into a croon while he continued to inspect Mephis’s ship.
“Are there whirlpools, Commander?” Mephis asked.
Peyton frowned at his brother, still young enough that he had to work to catch up.
“Yes, Captain Mephis,” Saetan crooned. “There are the Wailing Whirlpools and the Murky Mists. Challenges for even the most courageous sailors.”
“Are there sea dragons, too?” Peyton asked, his eyes wide.
“What would the Phantom Sea be without sea dragons?” Saetan murmured.
“How’d we get sea dragons in the pond?” Peyton whispered to Mephis.
“Papa’s going to make them for us,” Mephis whispered back.
“Oooh.” Peyton looked up at Saetan, his gold eyes sparkling with anticipation.
“If we’re ready, gentlemen,” Saetan said, handing the ship back to Mephis.
“And I suppose you’re going to end up muddy to the knees and smelling like pond water,” a female voice said.
Saetan turned to face the woman now standing in the doorway. He had no complaints about Lady Broghann, the Purple Dusk-Jeweled witch who was the boys’ governess and teacher, but he was feeling a little too raw to accept a challenge from anyone, especially a woman.
Then he saw the humor in her eyes that balanced the stern tone of voice.
“I expect some mud will be inevitable,” Saetan said solemnly.
“Yay!” Peyton said, only to be elbowed again by Mephis.
Puppy is going to be black-and-blue before he figures out when to keep quiet, Saetan thought.
“Now,” Lady Broghann said. “Don’t go drinking so much grog that you run aground.”
“What’s grog?” Peyton asked, starting to bounce with impatience.
“You would know if you had paid attention to the lesson about sailing,” she replied.
While Peyton’s face scrunched up in thought, Saetan turned away and coughed to clear the laughter from his throat.
Finally able to look suitably grim, he turned back to his captains. “Shall we go?” Then he noticed the boys’ appearance. The trousers were worn to the point of looking shabby, and there was a long tear on the left sleeve of Peyton’s shirt—neatly mended but still apparent. “Why are you wearing those clothes?”
“This is the attire of adventurous sailors,” Lady Broghann said.
Curious, Saetan studied her. “According to . . . ?”
“My mother. I have three younger brothers.”
And her younger brothers had a clever older sister.
“An unquestionable authority,” Saetan said with a small bow.
“What’s grog taste like?” Peyton asked, having circled back to something more interesting than clothes.
“It tastes like milk,” Saetan replied.
“Sailors drink milk?”
“Short ones do.”
While Peyton was working out why Mephis was snickering, Commander Saetan led captains Mephis and Peyton to the Phantom Sea, where they tested their ships against Murky Mists, Wailing Whirlpools . . . and sea dragons.
2
Hekatah stood at the window of her mother’s private receiving room, rubbing her belly to soothe the whelp inside her while she stared at the back garden.
How much did Saetan know? Was the comment about not having to maintain a household simply a comment, or did he know about the little house she kept in Draega for the pretty toy-boys? It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy sex with Saetan. He was an exquisite lover. How could a man who had been Witch’s Consort for years not be exquisite in bed? But he wasn’t as much fun. She couldn’t play with him the way she could the toy-boys. So why shouldn’t she enjoy a romp with a male she could dominate? Besides, it wasn’t like she was doing anything wrong. Fidelity and sexual exclusivity were required of the male in a marriage, not the female. Males served, after all.
But Warlord Princes were a law unto themselves, and a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince might not think the status of a wedding ring was sufficient reason to overlook his wife’s lovers.
Her mother, Martella, entered the room, unhappiness and embarrassment rolling off her in waves.
“We had to go to a different butcher, so the Darkness only knows what the cook will set before us for the evening meal. And the bastard demanded payment before he’d hand over the meat!” Martella’s mouth thinned to a petulant line. “I had to return the pearl brooch I’d bought last week in order to pay for the meat.” She sighed as she joined Hekatah at the window. “Your . . . husband . . . is being difficult about assisting the family, isn’t he?”
“He says he won’t make another loan because the extra million gold marks he gave Father wasn’t used for the estates as they’d agreed.”
“How could it be?” Martella cried. “Your brothers wanted that new carriage and team of horses, and then there was that payment that the Queen demanded we make because that witch was broken when Caetor got a little too enthusiastic about enjoying himself.”
“Didn’t she tell him she was virgin?” Hekatah asked.
“Well, of course she did. But she wasn’t anyone important . Nothing would have come of it if her family hadn’t gone to the Queen and made a formal accusation. And they said it was rape, insisting the girl hadn’t agreed to have sex. The Queen gave your father and Caetor a choice: They could pay all the Healer’s expenses and make a settlement as compensation for breaking the girl and stripping her of her Jeweled power, or Caetor could stand before a tribunal of Queens to determine if the accusation of rape was justified. The only reason she offered a choice was because the girl is a nobody and Caetor is from one of Hayll’s Hundred Families.” Bitterness filled Martella’s voice. “The question wouldn’t have come up at all if we still had the wealth we deserve. But I suppose we can’t expect your husband to understand aristo concerns.”
Hekatah felt the verbal slice. Her family’s opinion of her marriage was divided. “Saetan” was a common name among the lower social classes. Hell’s fire! Even one of the footmen who worked at the family’s house here in Draega was named Saetan. And “SaDiablo” wasn’t even a twig on a branch of any of the Hundred Families. She’d searched when she’d considered him as a mate. Her mother and aunts had searched. He seemed to have come out of nowhere when he built SaDiablo Hall in Dhemlan and made the bargain with the Dhemlan Queens in both Terreille and Kaeleer to protect their people and lands in exchange for being the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan—the ruler of both Dhemlan Territories. Socially unacceptable, he was still a Black-Jeweled Hayllian Warlord Prince who had wealth and power—two things she coveted. So she’d studied him until she was certain how to approach her quarry. She’d worked hard to dazzle him, to intrigue him, to convince him that the Jewels he wore and the power he wielded were insignificant compared to her feelings for the man.
But the wedding ring hadn’t brought her what she’d thought to get from the bargain. Despite what she’d said, she’d wanted to bend the strength of those Black Jewels to her will, had wanted him to wield all that dark power on her behalf. Instead, she’d gotten the man. A man who followed the Blood’s code of honor, even though he was powerful enough to do anything he wanted and no one could oppose him. Of course, no one really knew what he could do with the Black Jewels. Telling people he was the High Lord of Hell was a nice fillip for a reputation of temper that had never actually been seen. Not that she believed it for a moment. After all, she knew the man.
No, Saetan wasn’t aristo. Would never be aristo. Would never appreciate the wants and needs of any of the Hundred Families.
“There’s still Zuulaman,” Martella said. “The commission we’ll receive from the new trade agreements with Dhemlan will help restore our status among the Hundred Families.”
Hekatah rubbed her belly. She hadn’t told her mother and aunts yet that Saetan was being stubborn about the new trade agreements. But Hayll was entitled to whatever Dhemlan could offer. After all, if Saetan hadn’t made the bargain with the Dhemlan Queens, that Territory would have become the property of the Hundred Families. Since he had interfered, they would have to get what was owed them another way.
She smiled at her mother. “I think it’s time to give my husband more incentive to take the trade agreements with Zuulaman seriously.”
3
Saetan dropped the papers on his desk and stared at the Ambassador. “Is this your Queen’s idea of a joke?”
“It is the trade agreement between Zuulaman and Dhemlan,” the Ambassador replied calmly.
“This is shit, and you know it,” Saetan snarled. “Zuulaman expects the Dhemlan Queens to hand over the surplus from all the harvests as well as a percentage of the livestock, pay a tithe on every product made by the Dhemlan people, and add a ‘market’ fee for anything that comes from other Territories that is not bought through a Zuulaman merchant. Have you all lost your minds? The Dhemlan Queens will never agree to this.”
“They will if you insist upon it. You rule here. You are the law here. If you sign the agreement, they have to comply or suffer the consequences.”