I stopped out of arm's length, almost afraid to close the distance. The fear on his face, in the set of his shoulders, was horrible to see. It was as if even standing here was a sort of torture. "I would not force this on you, Amatheon, not if either of us had a choice."

His voice squeezed out from between clenched teeth. "But we have no choices."

I shook my head. "No, none."

It was as if he rebuilt himself before my eyes. He shoved the fear and conflicts down inside somewhere. He worked at it, until his face was smooth and arrogantly handsome once more. His hands clenched tight at his sides were the last thing he brought under control. He uncurled them one painful knuckle at a time, as if the effort were a mighty thing. And maybe it was. There are times when I think that it is harder to master yourself than any other thing on earth.

He let out a breath that shook only a little. "I am ready."

I held my hand out to him, as if I expected a kiss. He hesitated only a moment, then he took my hand in his, and the moment his finger brushed the metal, magic pushed across my skin like a warm wind.

Amatheon jerked back as if it had burned him. His eyes were wide and frightened, but it wasn't from pain. It had felt as good to him as it had to me. I'd have bet money on it.

"The ring has been satisfied," Barinthus said. "Let us have the woman back, and let her fuss with us. The queen wishes us to be perfect for the interviews."

"What of him?" Doyle asked, nodding at Abloec, who was still on his knees, smiling happily, if a little lopsided.

"We will put him to the far side away from the princess. Now, we have cloaks for those with wings." He watched both Sage and Nicca come forward and shrug out of their blankets as Usna brought the folded cloaks. "I look forward to hearing this explained in the queen's presence."

"Has the queen forbidden you from asking such questions?" Doyle asked.

"No, but she has decreed that all such explanations must wait for her ears." The corner of his mouth twitched, as if he were fighting not to smile. "Queen Andais seems to think we are keeping things from her."

"Who is we?" I asked.

"All the court, apparently," he said, and the clear membrane over his eyes flicked into place again. Something had happened in the court, or was happening, that was making Barinthus very nervous.

I wanted to ask what, but couldn't. With Onilwyn and Amatheon there, it was the same as having Cel's ears on the walls. All that we said in front of them would find its way back to Cel's network of allies. Hell's bells, Onilwyn and Amatheon were his allies. What was the queen's purpose sending them to my bed? Was there a plan in her mind, or had her special brand of madness reached some new level? I didn't know, and I couldn't ask while we had people who would report back to her, or back to Cel's people. I could not afford for either side to hear me accuse the queen of being mad. Everyone knew she was, but no one talked of it. No one ever said it out loud. Not unless he was very, very sure he stood among friends.

I looked around the room at the new guards, and at my own men. Sage was being fitted into a golden wool cloak that made him look as if he'd been carved of thick yellow honey. His wings sprang from the back like a stained glass surprise. Sage was not mine. Sidhe, or not, he still owed allegiance to Queen Niceven, and she was not my friend. She was my ally, as long as I could keep her happy, but she was not my friend.

Amatheon would not meet my gaze. Onilwyn did, but only for a moment, before he hid his frightened eyes. He hadn't liked the bite of the ring, and truthfully, neither had I. Usna was helping fit Nicca into a rich violet-red cloak, setting it with a silver and opal brooch. He was too busy joking with Nicca about the wings to notice my glance. Carrow had drawn apart from the others, because he would not be permanent among us. The queen would not waste a guard who wasn't fertile on me.

With only Sage as a question, we could order him out of a room, but if Andais insisted on saddling me with more and more people I did not trust, we'd soon run into someone who would not go meekly from the room so we could plot. Or maybe that was her idea. She'd once tried to send a spy to me, a spy who was acknowledged as her spy. But he'd tried to assassinate me, and she hadn't picked anyone to replace him after he died. Maybe that was it. I looked at the three new guards whom Barinthus hadn't wanted to be here, and thought, yes, that was it. They were her spies. One or all of them were her spies. She'd sent three because she wanted to make certain at least one of them was chosen by the ring. How she would laugh when she found out that all her spies had passed the test.

CHAPTER 23

Half an hour later we were standing on a dais with three microphones standing in the middle of it. Madeline had rallied and gone back to her normal pleasure in being able to boss around some of the most powerful beings left on the planet. Of course, if Madeline Phelps were intimidated by the powerful, or even the scary, she'd never have survived seven years working for Queen Andais. Doyle and Barinthus had finally reminded her that we were on a tight schedule, and allowed her to exchange Galen's much-loved leather jacket for a tailored suit jacket. I'd known Kitto's Day-Glo coat would have to go, but I hadn't realized that jeans and a polo shirt were not acceptable. The problem in Los Angeles was that Kitto was too broad-shouldered for most boys' fashions, but not tall enough for most men's, so his shopping choices were limited. Apparently the queen had thought of that, and to complement the black slacks that we had been able to find, she supplied a jewel-tone long-sleeved silk shirt, but the black jacket she had sent did not fit. It was too broad through the shoulders and long in the arm. Madeline had finally admitted that the jacket looked worse than the shirt by itself. The other men, she had to admit, grudgingly, looked fine. Actually, there wasn't a man among them who ever just looked fine. Fabulous, handsome, amazing, but not fine.

I, on the other hand, needed a shorter skirt. She supplied one that was a fringe of black pleats that barely covered my upper thighs. My penchant for wearing thigh-high hose under any skirt meant that when I moved, the lacy tops flashed. If I wasn't careful how I walked on the raised dais, I'd flash a hell of a lot more than the tops of my hose. I was glad that I'd worn nice black underwear, with no peekaboo lace or holes. If I flashed, at least all they'd see would be solid black satin. Of course with a different skirt, I needed different shoes. Madeline had brought a pair of four-inch spike patent-leather heels. I'm good at it, walking in heels, but I made her promise that I could change before I went out into the snow. Spike heels are not made for snow, unless you want to break an ankle.

I stood on the dais against the wall with Frost on one side and Doyle on the other. The rest of my guards ranged on either side. It was a little like standing in line before a firing squad—though the police stood in a semicircle at the base of the dais, to make sure that it didn't become a real firing squad. Truthfully, unless the queen was keeping big secrets from us, I think the police were there mainly to keep the reporters from rushing the stage. Or maybe that was just my level of discomfort with this many media in one room. It was a near-claustrophobic sensation, as if they were breathing too much of my air.

I'd been doing events like this since I could remember, but ever since my father's death, and the press coverage of his assassination, I'd not been as comfortable with the media. During the most painful event of my life, they had kept asking me, How do you feel, Princess Meredith? My father, whom I adored, had been slaughtered by unknown assassins. How the hell did they think I felt? But the queen didn't allow me to say that to anyone. Not the truth. No, Queen Andais, with her own brother dead, had made me face the media and be royal. I don't think I'd ever hated the fact that I was a princess more than during that year. If you're royal, you aren't allowed to mourn in private. Your pain is paraded across the evening news, the tabloids, the daily papers. Everywhere I looked I saw my father's picture. Everywhere I looked I saw his dead body. In Europe they'd published pictures that the American papers wouldn't touch, and it had been bloody. My father's tall, strong body, reduced to a red ruin. His hair spilled out across the grass like a black cloak, the rest of him nearly unrecognizable.