Shalador's Lady

appeal.
    “Theran?”
    Dredging up a smile, he turned toward the door. Kermilla was wrapped in a shawl and a sulky mood.
    The shawl wasn’t one he’d seen before, and he wondered if that was because it was something she tended to wear in the spring or if he was going to receive an apology and a bill from one of the merchants.
    “Why are you wasting time?” Kermilla asked. “Why aren’t you bringing the Warlord Princes here so that I can choose my court?”
    “It’s complicated, Kermilla.” He’d been trying to work out a way for everyone to get something, even if he couldn’t give her what she really wanted.
    “It’s not complicated, Theran. Just tell them.” She walked over to the table where he’d set a few papers down. Giving him a defiant look, she moved until she could read as much of the top page as was visible around the fist-sized rock serving as a paperweight.
    “I can’t tell them anything.”
    Since it wasn’t interesting, she gave up on trying to read the top page. “You’re the darkest-Jeweled Warlord Prince in this miserable excuse of a Territory. Of course you can tell them.”
    He bristled, insulted on behalf of his people and his land.
    Then he tightened the leash and forced himself to keep his temper out of this conversation.
    “You think it’s simple,” he said with strained patience. “It’s not.”
    “Keeps you in control, doesn’t it?”
    He stared at her. Where was that bitterness coming from?
    “You control the money, so I can’t buy anything without coming to you first,” she said.
    “Would you like me to show you the accounts and how much is still owed the merchants from the last time you went shopping without being ‘controlled’?” he asked.
    “You control access to the other Warlord Princes and the aristo families, so I can’t make friends on my own or establish any bonds with other men that don’t go through you.”
    “That’s not true.”
    “You treat me like a child, but I’m not a child.”
    “Kermilla—”
    “ I’m a Queen, damn you! I’m a Queen, and I’m the one who should be controlling the purse and the men and the land! Me! Not you!” She grabbed the rock. “Not you!”
    She threw the rock.
    He didn’t know—would never know—if her aim had been bad or if she hit exactly what she had intended to hit.
    The rock missed him completely and struck the old wish pot that held the honey pear tree.
    For a long moment they stared at each other.
    She looked magnificent in her fury, and he wanted, more than anything, to yield to her temper and her will.
    Then he looked down at the pot that was now in pieces and the honey pear tree lying in the spilled dirt, its roots exposed to the too-cold air.
    “Julien!” he shouted. “ Julien! ”
    When the butler appeared in the doorway, Theran said, “The pot broke. See what you can find to replace it and do what you can for the honey pear tree.”
    Julien disappeared.
    Theran picked up part of the broken pot, a piece about the size of his fully stretched hand.
    “Oh, Theran.” Kermilla stood there, looking pretty and contrite. “I’m sorry I threw that rock, but you made me so angry.”
    He could feel something breaking inside him, and he needed to get away from her, from everyone.
    She studied him. “I know you were fond of it but, Theran, it was just an old pot.”
    Something inside him breaking, breaking.
    “It wasn’t an old pot, Kermilla. It was a family heirloom, and because of who it belonged to, it was priceless.”
    Her mouth fell open in shock.
    And a truth ripped through him and left him bleeding.
    He walked away from her and passed by Julien as the butler rushed back to the tree. He didn’t allow himself to think or to feel until he was safely behind the locked door of his study.
    Then he set the remnant of the wish pot on his desk, sat down . . . and cried.

CHAPTER 47
    TERREILLE
    F or a day and a half, Theran tried to reconcile a dream and a hard truth, but no matter how he looked at it, it came down to choosing between two loves.
    It is better to break your own heart than to break your honor.
    He finally understood Talon’s words.
    Kermilla mattered more to him than anyone he had ever known. But in the end, Dena Nehele mattered more. So he made his choice and wrote the letters that would bring the Warlord Princes to Grayhaven.
    He still wanted Kermilla. Mother Night, how he wanted her! But every time he wavered, he looked at the two objects he’d placed on his