“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.”

“I—I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to.”

She felt the other men moving closer, surrounding her. “If you hurt me, my father—”

The Warlord laughed, a vicious sound. “He sent you here, didn’t he? He knew well enough what’s going to happen. But nobody is going to miss the likes of you.”

She leaped skyward. There wasn’t much room to maneuver under the trees, but she was only a few wingstrokes away from open land—and open sky. If she could get past the Warlords, she might be able to stay ahead of them long enough to catch one of the Winds and . . . head where?

The Black Mountain. If she could reach the Keep, she could beg for sanctuary, and the Warlords couldn’t hurt her.

She’d almost reached the open land when she heard the crack of a whip, felt the leather cut her skin as it wrapped around her ankle. They hauled her back under the cover of the trees—and they were on her, flying around her, letting her flail and struggle and try to fly while their knives and war blades sliced her. Blood flowed from dozens of shallow cuts. When they sliced her wings, she managed a rough landing, but there was nowhere to run, no way to escape.

Ripples of dark power coming closer. Closer.

“Help me!” she screamed. “Please! Help me!”

Laughing, the Warlords grabbed her arms and legs and flipped her over on her back, holding her down. The fifth man dropped to his knees between her legs and ripped her torn, bloody clothes to expose her.

“Hurry up,” another Warlord said, “or the bitch will bleed out before we all have a chance to use her.”

“She’ll last long enough,” the Warlord kneeling between her legs replied as he opened his trousers.

No, Marian thought. No.

“You want to play with a witch?” a midnight voice said quietly. “Then play with me.”

The last thing Marian saw before her vision blurred was the fear on the face of the Warlord in front of her. Then a wave of freezing black rage washed over her, pulling her under. She thought she heard muted screams of agony and terror, then the sounds were gone. Everything was gone . . .

... until she felt a hand close over hers, felt power that wasn’t hers flowing into her. She forced her eyes open and stared at the golden-haired, sapphire-eyed woman kneeling beside her. Stared at the Black Jewel that hung from a chain around the woman’s neck.

“You’re the Queen,” Marian said, barely able to draw enough breath to shape the words.

“Yes, I’m the Queen,” the woman replied.

“I don’t want to die.”

“Then don’t.” The woman placed her other hand on Marian’s forehead.

The dark power closed in around her again, but it was warm now, gentle, a cocoon of soft blankets. Power not her own kept her heart beating, kept her lungs moving.

Her last thought before she surrendered to it was, I’ve seen the Queen of Ebon Askavi.

As soon as Saetan stepped through the Gate, he knew Jaenelle wasn’t in the Keep in Terreille. A moment later, when her psychic scent flooded the corridors, he knew she’d returned—and the control on his temper frayed a bit more.

That she was his Queen didn’t matter. That her power eclipsed his didn’t matter. By the time he was done explaining things, his Lady would be in no doubt about how her Steward felt about her entering Terreille, which was the enemy’s territory, without even one escort going with her.

Then he stepped out of the room that held the Dark Altar and saw her moving toward him, one hand under the blankets wrapped around . . .

He smelled the blood, noted the dangerous, feral look in Jaenelle’s eyes, and felt the heat of his temper chill to cold rage as he rose to the killing edge.

Jaenelle stopped in front of him. She said nothing while he carefully pulled aside a part of the blankets and looked at the young Eyrien woman, while he studied the torn clothing and the slices in her skin that still seeped blood despite the healing web he sensed Jaenelle weaving around her.

“Why?” he asked.

Jaenelle turned her head. “Ask them.”