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“It isn’t complicated, Anckar.”
“I’m aware, your majesty, but —”
“Then what is taking so long?” Given Priestly’s skill, the traitor should’ve been found by now. The task wasn’t a difficult one. Or shouldn’t be for Electi warriors. Find the gargoyle. Bring him to her. Ipsalar might be a large city, but it was hers. No one who lived in the shadow of her palace, in the place her magic was the most powerful, would deny her guard the information they needed to —
Anckar cleared his throat. “The House of Scholars.”
“What about it?”
“The Scholars have been…”
“What?”
“Uncooperative.”
Her eyes narrowed. “They dare?”
“The gargoyles are merely protecting one of their own,” he said, watching her, preparing to retreat. “We would do the same.”
“I am their queen.” Magic ghosted beneath the undersides of her nails, threatening to claw free. “No one defies me.”
“My queen, I would advise that we tread carefully with the Scholars. They are well respected by the people. Perhaps, if we change our approach. Might we try —”
“I will not change my approach.” The lethal edge in her tone made Anckar flinch. Unease flared in his scent. Drinking in the delightful smell of fear, she walked toward him. The train of her silk gown hissed over the floor in her wake. His throat bobbed as she stopped within striking distance. “Electi bow to no one, least of all Scholars. Tighten the screws, Anckar. Make them comply, or I will burn the House of Scholars to the ground.”
Head bowed, Anckar nodded.
Raising her hand, she placed her index finger under his chin and tipped his face up. Wary blue eyes met hers as she traced his bottom lip with her fingertip. Her touch made his pupils dilate. Her mouth curved as satisfaction took hold. He wanted her. Was ravenous for her touch, desperate to be invited to her bed, to service her the way Priestly sometimes did. Not that it happened much anymore.
Shifty and evasive, Priestly found ways to avoid her… and his duties. At least of late. A problem, given the lack of contact made him much more difficult to control.
With a hum, she pressed the sharpened point of her fingernail to the corner of his mouth. “And what of the other matter?”
He cleared his throat. “The machine is en route.”
“They didn’t touch it?”
“No, Majesty,” he said, his voice hoarse, his body aroused. “Royal valets packed it up with care, table and all, and put it on a secure transport. The machine will arrive here within the week.”
“Good. Very good, Anckar,” she said, leaning in, giving him hope as her breath whispered against his jaw.
His lips parted.
She nicked the corner of his mouth with her nail. Blood beaded from the small wound. He moaned. She smeared the droplet across his cheek, then dropped her hand and turned away, her mind no longer on her guard, but the Yeomanry. The second the machine was installed in its new chamber, she’d reengage with Isaac. She had a new mission for the human commander—locate the place the Door Master slept. Destroying the witch’s sanctuary would uproot her power, making it more difficult for her to open doors and cross into Azlandia.
“Let me know when the machine arrives and —”
A pricking chill needled across her senses, interrupting her train of thought.
Lyonesse turned her attention inward, searching for the source. Gathering the magical threads, she drew each one to her. She inhaled deep, filling her lungs, then exhaled a continuous, long breath. Mental focus shifted, moving her into a trance-like state. The heat in her veins grew hotter. Her focus narrowed.
A door.
Another door stood open in Azlandia.
With a snarl, Lyonesse strode toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. Moonlight glinted through the glass, showcasing what lay below. Nestled in the valley, far below her royal perch on the mountainside, the towers of Ipsalar stood in the distance. Thick walls rose between massive turrets, protecting the city’s white stucco homes with squared-off roofs.
She clenched her teeth.
