aristo males had immediately formed a male council "for the good of the Territory"—a council led by Hobart, a Yellow-Jeweled Warlord who was a distant relation of her father's.
Every Province Queen, after declining to become a figurehead for the council, had also refused to acknowledge the Queen of a small village that the council finally had chosen to rule the Territory. Their refusal had fractured Glacia, but it had also prevented the male council from becoming too powerful or too effective in carrying out their "adjustments" to Glacian society.
Even so, after six years there was an uneasy feel in the air, a sense of wrongness.
Karla didn't have many friends. She was a sharp-tongued, sharp-tempered Queen whose Birthright Jewel was the Sapphire. She was also a natural Black Widow and a Healer. But, since Lord Hobart was now the head of the family, she spent much of her social time with the daughters of other members of the male council—and what those girls were saying was obscene: respectable witches defer to wiser, more knowledgeable males; Blood males shouldn't have to serve or yield to Queens because they're the stronger gender; the only reason Queens and Black Widows want the power to control males is because they're sexually and emotionally incapable of being real women.
Obscene. And terrifying.
When she was younger, she had wondered why the Province Queens and the Black Widows had settled for a stalemate instead of fighting.
Glacia is locked in a cold, dark winter, the Black Widows had told her. We must do what we can to remain strong until the spring returns.
But would they be able to hold out for five more years until she came of age? Would she! Her mother's and her aunt's deaths had not been an accident. Someone had eliminated Glacia's strongest Queen and strongest Black Widow, leaving the Territory vulnerable to ... what?
Jaenelle could have told her, but Jaenelle . . .
Karla clamped down on the bitter anger that had been simmering too close to the surface lately. Forcing her attention away from memories, she studied Hobart's mistress, then jabbed Morton in the ribs again.
"Stop that," he snapped.
Karla ignored him. "Why is she wearing a fur coat indoors?"
"It was Uncle Hobart's consummation prize."
She fingered her short, spiky, white-blond hair. "I've never seen fur like that. It's not white bear."
"I think it's Arcerian cat."
"Arcerian cat?" That couldn't be right. Most Glacians wouldn't hunt in Arceria because the cats were big, fierce predators, and the odds of a hunter not becoming the prey were less than fifty-fifty. Besides, there was something wrong with that fur. She could feel it even at this distance. "I'm going to pay my respects."
"Karla." There was no mistaking the warning in Morton's voice.
"Kiss kiss." She gave him a wicked smile and an affectionate squeeze before making her way to the group of women admiring the coat.
It was easy to slip in among them. Some of the women noticed her, but most were intent on the girl's—Karla couldn't bring herself to call her a Sister—hushed gossip.
"—hunters from a faraway place," the girl said.
"I've got a collar made from Arcerian fur, but it's not as luxurious as this," one of the women said enviously.
"These hunters have found a new way of harvesting the fur. Hobie told me after we'd—" She giggled.
"How?"
"It's a secret."
Coaxing murmurs.
Mesmerized by the fur, Karla touched it at the same moment the girl giggled again, and said, "They skin the cat alive."
She jerked her hand away, shocked numb. Alive.
And some of the power of the one who had lived in that fur was still there. That's what made it so luxurious.
A witch. One of the Blood Jaenelle had called kindred.
Karla swayed. They had butchered a witch.
She shoved her way out of the group of women and stumbled toward the door. A moment later, Morton was beside her, one arm around her waist. "Outside," she gasped. "I think I'm going to be sick."
As soon as they were
Every Province Queen, after declining to become a figurehead for the council, had also refused to acknowledge the Queen of a small village that the council finally had chosen to rule the Territory. Their refusal had fractured Glacia, but it had also prevented the male council from becoming too powerful or too effective in carrying out their "adjustments" to Glacian society.
Even so, after six years there was an uneasy feel in the air, a sense of wrongness.
Karla didn't have many friends. She was a sharp-tongued, sharp-tempered Queen whose Birthright Jewel was the Sapphire. She was also a natural Black Widow and a Healer. But, since Lord Hobart was now the head of the family, she spent much of her social time with the daughters of other members of the male council—and what those girls were saying was obscene: respectable witches defer to wiser, more knowledgeable males; Blood males shouldn't have to serve or yield to Queens because they're the stronger gender; the only reason Queens and Black Widows want the power to control males is because they're sexually and emotionally incapable of being real women.
Obscene. And terrifying.
When she was younger, she had wondered why the Province Queens and the Black Widows had settled for a stalemate instead of fighting.
Glacia is locked in a cold, dark winter, the Black Widows had told her. We must do what we can to remain strong until the spring returns.
But would they be able to hold out for five more years until she came of age? Would she! Her mother's and her aunt's deaths had not been an accident. Someone had eliminated Glacia's strongest Queen and strongest Black Widow, leaving the Territory vulnerable to ... what?
Jaenelle could have told her, but Jaenelle . . .
Karla clamped down on the bitter anger that had been simmering too close to the surface lately. Forcing her attention away from memories, she studied Hobart's mistress, then jabbed Morton in the ribs again.
"Stop that," he snapped.
Karla ignored him. "Why is she wearing a fur coat indoors?"
"It was Uncle Hobart's consummation prize."
She fingered her short, spiky, white-blond hair. "I've never seen fur like that. It's not white bear."
"I think it's Arcerian cat."
"Arcerian cat?" That couldn't be right. Most Glacians wouldn't hunt in Arceria because the cats were big, fierce predators, and the odds of a hunter not becoming the prey were less than fifty-fifty. Besides, there was something wrong with that fur. She could feel it even at this distance. "I'm going to pay my respects."
"Karla." There was no mistaking the warning in Morton's voice.
"Kiss kiss." She gave him a wicked smile and an affectionate squeeze before making her way to the group of women admiring the coat.
It was easy to slip in among them. Some of the women noticed her, but most were intent on the girl's—Karla couldn't bring herself to call her a Sister—hushed gossip.
"—hunters from a faraway place," the girl said.
"I've got a collar made from Arcerian fur, but it's not as luxurious as this," one of the women said enviously.
"These hunters have found a new way of harvesting the fur. Hobie told me after we'd—" She giggled.
"How?"
"It's a secret."
Coaxing murmurs.
Mesmerized by the fur, Karla touched it at the same moment the girl giggled again, and said, "They skin the cat alive."
She jerked her hand away, shocked numb. Alive.
And some of the power of the one who had lived in that fur was still there. That's what made it so luxurious.
A witch. One of the Blood Jaenelle had called kindred.
Karla swayed. They had butchered a witch.
She shoved her way out of the group of women and stumbled toward the door. A moment later, Morton was beside her, one arm around her waist. "Outside," she gasped. "I think I'm going to be sick."
As soon as they were
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