Free The Black Queen (Book 6) by Kristine Kathryn Rusch Page B

had been: brilliant and manipulative and talented.
    She wouldn’t manipulate him today, even if he hadn’t made that decision years ago. She wanted to marry the Nyeian beside her, and have babies with the weasly twerp. Dilute the Black line so badly that no one would recognize those children as part of the Black Family. He would not have approved the match no matter how much she manipulated him.
    He hadn’t done well by his daughter. Her resemblance to Jewel, his sister, had always made him cool toward her. And that had been a mistake. Lyndred was the only member of his immediate family with enough Vision to lead the Fey. Black Blood did indeed run thin through him, and he was aware enough to know it.
    The sun disappeared behind a cloud that loomed over the large stone buildings. It seemed like a sign. Better to take care of things. His daughter had waited long enough.
    Bridge turned, and resisted the urge to go to his desk. Standing behind the solid mahogany, he would have a barrier between himself and this man—this boy—who believed he could marry into the Black Family. But Bridge needed no barrier to hide behind. Not in this instance.
    So, he kept his hands clasped behind his back and raised his chin slightly, knowing the power the stance gave him. The older he had gotten, the more he looked like his grandfather: craggy features in leathery skin, black hair with just a touch of silver, a thin mouth that sometimes spoke of meanness. The main difference was in the eyes. Rugad’s eyes had a brilliance that Bridge’s never would. He had known that even as a boy, when he had seen his father stand beside his grandfather. The look of the Black Family was a uniform one—it was easy to see that the men were father and son—but his father’s eyes didn’t have that brilliant ruthlessness in them either. And that somehow dulled his features, made him seem like a lesser man, even though that was the only difference.
    Bridge tried to will his grandfather’s forcefulness into his own expression now. He had to be doing pretty well, because the fop sitting next to his daughter cringed.
    Bridge took a step forward. His daughter had chosen a typical Nyeian. The boy had pasty skin and no muscle tone. He wore his brown hair long, the edges just brushing the frilly white collar that accented the pallor of his face. He was dressed in the Nye formal style: a tight embroidered jacket over a white shirt that had ruffles on the neck and sleeves. His pants were velvet and were tucked into a pair of thigh-high boots with fringe at the top.
    Lyndred sat beside him on a matching wooden chair, clutching one of his long hands in her own. She wore standard Fey warrior clothes: a simple leather jerkin over breeches, with her hair braided down her back, not because she wanted to, but because Bridge wouldn’t let her in the palace if she dressed like a Nyeian.
    “Daddy,” she said again. “I thought you agreed to meet with us.”
    “I agreed to meet with you,” he said.
    She tilted her head slightly, like a cat examining him. She had the sharpness in her eyes, like his grandfather’s, like Jewel’s. Only unlike them, she didn’t use it. She seemed determined to live a normal Nye life: parties all evening, shopping all day, children trussed in three layers of clothing even on hot afternoons.
    “Then you also agreed to meet with Rupert,” she said.
    Rupert. What kind of name was that? It was a Nyeian name, one that wouldn’t work in battle, just like all the other Nyeian names he had heard. Percival, Rupert, Chauncey. He couldn’t imagine shouting those names in the heat of the moment.
    Names were important things. The Fey had always known that, and had chosen their children’s names accordingly. Many Fey adopted the naming tradition of the conquered countries: Bridge and Jewel had been named according to the L’Nacin tradition of using descriptive words for names. But Bridge was aware that his name was symbolic as well and that part