She had tried to humble him, to prove her mastery over his every action, yet each and every day that she’d owned his box, he had found a way to defy her.
Aye, he’d ravished her body whenever she’d issued a command, but he’d never given anything more of himself. He had spoken of her death while his hands delivered expert—unfeeling—pleasure. He had glared at her with hatred while his tongue licked her skin. And yet, memories of his magnificence still had the power to make her shiver with delight.
“Tristan is but a mortal,” she ground out. “He is nothing to you.”
Heather, a mortal herself, took offense. “He is a mortal, yes, but that does not make him a lesser being.”
“He fought for his Great Lord,” Percen said, “and he has fought for me, as well. He killed his enemies without hesitation or regret. He is loyal and trustworthy, a king at heart and a true legend among any race. What are you but a pitiful excuse for flesh, blood and magic? Well, magic no longer,” he added smugly.
Though shaking with the force of her hurt and fury, she ignored his taunts. Percen hoped to humiliate her, nothing more, because she had once spurned him, once spitting in his ugly face and refusing his hand in marriage. She would not allow him to injure her spirit as payment.
“Tristan is all that you claim,” she said. “I admit that. But he is also mine. He belongs to me.”
Heather uttered a tinkling laugh. “He was never, and will never be yours.”
Zirra’s teeth bared as Percen snapped, “Do not fear. One day Tristan will return to our land. One day—when Elliea wills it, not a moment sooner.”
Joy and despair, impatience and delight all pounded through her. “If you bring him back now, I can make him love me. I know I can. He will even thank you for returning him.”
A laugh boomed from Percen, a cruel reverberation that threatened to destroy her pride. “Why do you persist in this? He will never love you. You are not worthy of him.”
I am worthy, she longed to shout, though her features never wavered from their tight, emotionless facade, never revealed a hint of her inner turmoil.
“Get you gone from my sight, woman.” Regally he waved one hand through the air. “Your greed sickens me.”
Fists clenched, teeth now bared, she snarled, “I will find a way to retrieve him, doubt me not. Tristan is mine. My lover. My property. And he will belong to me once again.”
Percen’s nostrils flared at such blatant insolence. “You dare contest my will?”
“I dare,” she said evenly, glaring up at him. “Oh, aye. I dare.”
When the tribunal chamber cleared, Percen glanced at his life-mate, the queen of his heart and soul, the woman who had saved him from destruction. “Mayhap I should have Zirra killed,” he said on a sigh. “Her treachery will only grow.”
“Our son would never forgive you if you hurt her.” Concern flashed over Heather’s aging features, her brown eyes wide. “Did we do the right thing, sending Tristan away?”
“Aye, we did.” A long sigh slipped from his lips. “Worry not, my love. I will think of something to do with Zirra, something that will not upset our son.”
* * *
ZIRRA PACED THE confines of her chamber, her hands fisted in the silkiness of her robe. Every time she turned, her hair whipped against her back. Dark emotions pounded through her, as hot and stifling as the fire burning within the hearth. Heavy clouds, thunderous and gray, covered the four suns, only adding to her riotous mood. With a screech, she kicked a chair from her path and knocked her three-tiered vanity to the floor. Her prized crystal vase shattered, leaving a broken trail of jagged, opalescent shards.
How dare Percen de Locke treat her so shabbily. Oh, how she longed to punish him. To destroy his magic with her own, as he had done to her. Yet, as High Priest of the Druinn, his magic far surpassed hers, and she could do nothing to hurt him or counter his spell. Nothing!
She’d lost her powers. Worse, she’d lost the people’s respect, becoming an amusing cautionary tale to chuckle about over meals. And she’d lost Tristan, just as he’d intended.
I must have Tristan back. He’s mine. In a fit of pique, she lifted a jeweled goblet and hurtled it at the wall, where it thumped and fell unharmed. She’d owned her beautiful slave only a handful of seasons. Such a small amount of time, really, when you lived an endless eternity, yet her need for him had grown to incomprehensible dimensions.
“Where is he?” she cried. What woman owned him now? Touched him? Tasted him? Welcomed his body?
What woman felt the power he incited?
Those thoughts caused tenebrous jealousy to completely awaken from slumber and invite a deep-seated wrath. She felt sick in the pit of her stomach and with another screech of fury, she flung herself atop her bed—the very bed on which she’d last enjoyed Tristan. The silky white cloth enveloped her like a lover’s caress, mocking her. She pounded her fists into the fur-lined mattress.
“He belongs to me. Me!”
A servant entered the chamber, her gaze wide and uncertain, as if she wasn’t sure what fate awaited her. “You called, Sorceress?”
“Nay, I didn’t, you stupid—” Zirra stopped abruptly. All of a sudden, her breathing slowed, her rage eased. The solution was so simply, really, and she wondered why she had not considered it before. There was a Druinn male who would risk Percen’s wrath to help her. Oh, aye. The man hungered for her, after all, and with the proper incentive he would do anything that she asked.
She almost laughed.
“Where is the prince at
