The House Of Gaian

chamberpots, emptied twice a day, kept the men who had survived the destruction of Wolfram’s great warships from living in their own filth, but there was no privacy. Every time a man unbuttoned his pants to squat over one of those pots, those bastards—those cold-eyed, silent Fae—watched him.
    Their prison inside the warehouse had no walls, just crates no more than waist high to mark the perimeter. Even in chains, it wouldn’t take much effort to get over the crates, but any man who tried to escape was dead before he’d taken two steps, arrows bristling out of his chest and back. The Fae didn’t warn or wound. They simply killed. Baron’s son, minor gentry, soldier, sailor, Inquisitor. It didn’t matter to them.
    There was no way past these cold-eyed Fae. They didn’t speak, not even among themselves, while they stood guard. His men couldn’t get close enough to fight them, and his Inquisitor’s Gift of persuasion had no effect on them. Humans didn’t come into the warehouse—at least, they didn’t come in far enough to be useful to him. And the one time he’d managed to snare a human youth’s will by raising his voice as if to offer encouragement to his fellow prisoners, the young man was pulled out of the warehouse as soon as the Fae realized the human had been ensnared—and a Fae Lord with eyes colder and more dangerous than the sea came in a little while later and told him that if he raised his voice again, they would cut out his tongue and feed it to him.
    He believed the bastard.
    So he nursed his hatred and waited, waited, waited for the enemy to come to him. Because there were barons’ sons and minor gentry among the prisoners, because the baron who ruled this piece of Sylvalan was so young and inexperienced in doling out harsh punishment, a message had been sent to Padrick, the Baron of Breton, to assess the prisoners, to pass judgment.
    The enemy he had failed to punish the last time was coming within his reach. He wasn’t a fool. Killing Padrick would guarantee his own death, but destroying Padrick would be a deep wound to western Sylvalan. And when the Master Inquisitor conquered this part of Sylvalan, Adolfo would hear of it and know his Assistant had served him well to the last breath.

 

     
     

Chapter 40

 

     
     

     
    full moon
     
    Breanna walked into the kitchen and almost walked out again. Too many people. Too much heat. Too much confusion. Too much noise. Keely and Brooke were sitting at one end of the long work table, shelling peas and chattering as if they could actually hear each other. Fiona and Glynis were dealing with some crisis around the stove, which meant they’d give her snappish replies if she asked them what, if anything, was supposed to be done with the big kettles simmering on the stove in the summer kitchen.
    Elinore was at Liam’s house that afternoon, responding to pleas from her son’s housekeeper and butler that someone needed to provide the servants with some instructions for dealing with so many important guests—and Liam’s response to household questions, Elinore had told her dryly, was a distracted look and a promise to look into matters soon ... which meant never.
    She needed to tell some other passably sane adult that Idjit, living up to his name, had gobbled something he shouldn’t have eaten, thrown up on the flagstones in front of the summer kitchen, and one of the boys helping Clay with the horses, too intent on sneaking into the kitchen to grab a snack, had slipped in the mess, hit his head on the edge of a work table, and was now on his way to the village physician with Clay and Falco to have his head stitched up.
    And why was Jean standing in the corner of the kitchen with that smug, I-know-something-you-don’
    t-know smile?
    “Where’s Gran?” Breanna asked, raising her voice enough to be heard.
    Her face flushed with heat, Fiona turned away from the stove. “She went upstairs about an hour ago. She was sitting here, having a cup of tea while we talked about what to serve for the evening meal. She said the tea tasted odd, poured out the rest of it, and went up to her room to lie down for a bit.”
    Breanna headed for the door that led into the rest of the house. Pausing, she looked back. Jean watched her, eyes bright with something Breanna would have called malicious glee.
    Shaking her head, she left the kitchen and walked to the stairs that led up to the bedrooms. She didn’t like Jean—liked the girl even less with