The Invisible Ring (The Black Jewels #4)

The Invisible Ring (The Black Jewels #4) Page 52

Except there was no promise. And there was no safety. Krelis had finally understood that when he watched five pairs of eyes fill with terror when he left them in that barren room.

He’d always been ambitious. He’d thought it was because he wanted the kind of power that could only be attained by serving in the First Circle of a strong court. Now he knew it was because he’d wanted to be safe. And hewas safe. Safe from the minor Queens who didn’t believe a strong male could be trusted at all unless he was Ringed. Safe from the petty abuse inflicted on males by any witch who wore a darker Jewel. Safe from torments designed to soothe a bitch’s ego.

Safe from everything except Dorothea.

Which meant he wasn’t safe at all.

But she was all he had now. He’d realized that, too, when he’d seen how carefully the guards who were posted outside that barren room had shuttered their expressions, closing him out. He’d betrayed the unspoken understanding that the Master would protect his men from the whims of the witches in the court. They would obey him to escape punishment, but they would never respect him.

With one order, Dorothea had isolated him from everyone but her First Circle—and he’d even be isolated from them if he didn’t succeed brilliantly enough to erase his failure up to this point. If his cousin was subjected to that gruesome maiming, his family would tolerate his presence when he joined them but would never welcome him. His dream of a pretty, placid, broodmare wife would wither and die with his unborn children. He’d be left mounting the whores who worked in the Red Moon houses.

Krelis raised the bottle of brandy to his lips and kept swallowing until he needed to breathe.

He’d find the little bitch before his cousin felt Dorothea’s knife.

And his pet would learn the price of failure.

Chapter Nineteen

“Would you like to play chess?” Jared asked as he set up the game board the innkeeper had provided and tried—hard—not to throw a fine fit of male hysterics. That’s what Lia had called his reaction when her legs had buckled while she’d been pacing the room earlier in the day. Working the stiffness out of them, she’d said. Scaring the shit out ofhim , he’d shouted.

Then his wobbly-legged little Queen had threatened to dump the hot soup that had been part of the midday meal into his lap if he didn’t stop pestering her to take a nap.

He didn’t pester. He never pestered. He wasconcerned . Couldn’t she tell the difference?

“One game,” Jared coaxed, grinding his teeth so he wouldn’t yell at her to sit down. “Just to pass the time.”

Looking much too fragile and very young in the too-large sweater and snug trousers that had belonged to one of the innkeeper’s sons, Lia crossed her arms and gave Jared a stony stare that would have made him nervous if it hadn’t been accompanied by a hint of a pout. “You snarled the last time we played.”

Jared placed one hand over his heart. “I promise not to snarl.” About the game, anyway. “Of course, if you don’t want to play, we could just turn in for the night.”

She snarled at him.

“She who snarls shouldn’t comment on someone else’s little grumbles,” Jared said virtuously.

Her hands balled into fists.

Jared watched her, fighting against the desire to provoke her a little more. In her weakened condition, if she threw a punch at him, she’d probably end up on the floor and would be even madder when he had to help her up.

After he’d finished setting up his red pieces to his satisfaction, Jared reached for the black pieces.

“Mine!” Lia said, sitting down too abruptly for the movement to have been completely intended.

While she set up her pieces, Jared poured a glass of fruit juice for her and a glass of wine for himself.

He’d wrapped himself around her last night, more out of a need to feel each reassuring breath she took than any belief that his presence would help her. This morning, he’d been rudely awakened when her elbow jabbed his belly and she started swearing to do vile things to his most valued body parts if he didn’t let go. When his still-sleepy brain had finally understood the reason for the desperation that laced her curses, he’d made her madder by carrying her into the bathroom.

He’d chuckled at her muttering when he tucked her back into bed and climbed in with her, so pleased to have her alive and well enough to be angry that he never gave a thought to how she might react to having a naked male beside her. He’d cuddled her for an hour.

And he’d held her and cried with her when she asked about Tomas.

He’d tried to spoon-feed her at breakfast.

He’d tried to give her a bath.

He’d mentioned taking a nap every hour or so, politely pointing out that she’d been very ill the night before and needed a lot of rest.

So maybe he’d fussed a bit too much, but he was entitled to fuss. She’d scared him. She’d more than scared him.

But he hadnot pestered.

“You’re muttering already,” Lia grumbled, watching him through narrowed eyes. She tossed her hair over her shoulders and picked up the glass of fruit juice.

Her hair was like a soft, dark cloud, Jared thought, sipping his wine. She’d let him brush it after her bath—had to let him brush it because, after a few strokes, her arms had felt too heavy to lift. Daemon had drawn most of the venom out of her, but her body still felt the deep fatigue of fighting to survive on top of the demands she’d made of it during the ambush. While he’d brushed her hair, he’d woven a soothing spell around her that Daemon had taught him during the year they’d been in the same court. It had put her to sleep for a couple of hours.

Remembering that, he grinned.

“What?” Lia said. “Did you put something in the fruit juice?”

“Of course not,” Jared huffed. “Roll the dice. Let’s play.”

She rolled a five for a Summer-sky Queen. He rolled a three for a Tiger Eye. Giving her a sassy grin, he opened by moving one of his Black Widows.

Several moves later, he began to worry about the change in her game. Her Queen remained in the background while her stronger pieces—especially the Black Widows and Warlord Princes—were doing most of the defending, supporting the weaker pieces who only captured one of his when there was no possibility of an exchange. Again and again, she retreated, giving up more ground and growing more timid each time he captured one of her pieces.

And all the while, her Queen did nothing.

Her brash courage might have enraged him when the instincts bred into Blood males howled to defend the female, but seeing her act timid and uncertain produced a deeper anger—and a deeper kind of fear.

Losing Tomas had produced an emotional wound that would heal in time, but she’d carry the scar of it the rest of her life. And there would be more scars. Dena Nehele’s continued freedom would be paid for in blood.

Her mind knew it, but her heart couldn’t accept it yet.

And he couldn’t allow her the luxury of thinking retreat would keep her people safe.

He moved one of his Warlords to threaten a Blood male pawn. If she moved her Queen to challenge, he’d let the pawn go. If she didn’t . . .

It felt like half the night had passed before she hesitantly moved her Queen. Her hand trembled a little, and her face lost the little color she’d gained throughout the day.

Wanting to distract her and give himself time to choose a move that would seem a logical alternative to capturing the pawn, he said, “Does your grandmother really look that intimidating?”

Lia had just taken a sip of juice when he asked the question. She clamped a hand over her mouth until she managed to swallow. “Gran?” she finally gasped. Then she started laughing.

Jared moved a Priestess nearer to the protection of his Sanctuary.

“Hey!” Lia huffed, sitting forward. “No fair moving a piece when I’m too teary-eyed to see you do it.” She frowned when she figured out his move.

Before she could comment, he gave her another nudge. “Is she?”

Lia caught her lower lip between her teeth. “Well, thoseare the clothes she wears when she has to travel outside our borders. And shedoes look impressive when she wears her Queen clothes, but—”

“Queen clothes?” Jared interrupted. He held up a hand. “Move first, then explain Queen clothes.”

Lia scooted a Warlord Prince across the board.

Not sure if that was meant to do something besides move a piece, Jared studied the board for a minute but didn’t make a move.

“That’s what Gran calls the fancy gowns and things she wears once or twice a month to keep her First Circle happy,” Lia said. “She says, if males really don’t notice female fashions the way they swear they don’t, then why do they start drooling like a dog with a large soup bone whenever women wear evening gowns?”

Jared choked on his wine. “We don’t drool.”

“No? Oh. Well, that’s good. One of my cousins had this big dog who drooled buckets and always wanted to put his head in your lap. She—my cousin, that is—wanted to train the dog to put his head into just the boys’ laps so they’d have to explain why the fronts of their trousers were wet, but she only got to the lap part and not the boy part before the adult males in the family found out about it and roared. So we all got drooled on.”

Wondering if he’d had a game plan when he started, Jared moved a Prince to support a Healer. “If she only wears Queen clothes once or twice a month, what does she wear the rest of the time?”

“Um.” Lia moved her other Warlord Prince. “Well, clothes like this.” She pinched a bit of sweater between her thumb and forefinger. “Papa says that if you enter a large room full of people and there’s one woman there who looks like she should be out weeding the garden, she’s probably the Queen. Prince Harland—”

“Who?”

“Gran’s lover. He says—”

“Herwhat?”

“Lover. He’s also her Consort. Anyway, he says a Queen is a Queen no matter what she wears—”