by Anne Bishop
“I will bring it back.” He hesitated. Andulvar was too young for that adventure on the river, but why hadn’t Titian been invited? “Jaenelle Saetien and Daemonar are back. Did they tell you they were going to the river?”
Titian nodded. “Daemonar said he didn’t think I’d have fun helping Jaenelle Saetien today, but he promised he’d take me to the river another day so that I could draw the waterfall.”
He and his firstborn were going to have a little chat about sharing information within the family. “Maybe we can all go there some afternoon soon. Your mother and I can make up a hamper and we can have a picnic by the river.”
She gave him that shy but sunny smile—the smile that said she still believed her papa could fix anything.
“Come on.” He vanished the drawing pad and led her back to the eyrie. “Unless your mother caught them in time, your brothers will have everything out of the cold box and half the food in the pantry spread over the kitchen in search of a proper snack. You might as well lay claim to your share.”
She might be gentle and a little shy, but when they walked into the kitchen, she wasn’t afraid to tussle with her cousin or her brothers in order to get what she wanted. As far as he was concerned, that was a first step to her learning that she could also hold her own against the meanness of outsiders.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
“No,” Marian said, tapping the kitchen table. “These are the choices for a snack. Pick from what’s on the table or wait until dinner.”
Daemonar, Jaenelle Saetien, and Andulvar looked away from the cake cooling on the counter.
“But . . . ,” Jaenelle Saetien began.
Marian tapped the table again. “What’s here or nothing.” She watched Lucivar and Titian enter the kitchen. She knew that look on her husband’s face, but she supervised the tussle of who got what, and she noticed how Daemonar didn’t look at his father or sister—and how he fended off his cousin and little brother but let Titian claim the second piece of his favorite treat.
When everyone had made their snack choices, she put a Purple Dusk shield around the cake before walking down the corridor to the laundry room. Considering the Jewels Daemonar and Jaenelle Saetien wore, a Purple Dusk shield wasn’t any kind of barrier, but breaking that shield to get a treat they’d already been told they couldn’t have would have brought Lucivar’s wrath down on their heads.
Lucivar walked into the laundry room moments after she did. After centuries of marriage, she still felt that flutter in the belly when she saw him, still remembered how he’d refused to see her as “just a hearth witch” and had pushed her to find her own strength and stand up for herself—and for him. Being the second-most-powerful man in Kaeleer, he needed someone who could love him without reservations. Someone who could also accept being loved by a man like him.
The Warlord Prince of Askavi. The Demon Prince of Askavi. Their lives had changed when he’d accepted the need to take control of the whole Territory of Askavi instead of just ruling Ebon Rih. She’d never had many friends, even among the Eyriens. Witches from aristo Rihlander families—the other race that lived in Askavi—didn’t have any common ground with a witch whose inclinations leaned toward domestic skills like cooking and keeping a house, and every generation of that short-lived race speculated about why Lucivar Yaslana had married—and stayed married to—someone like her. Outside of Nurian, the Eyrien Healer, the only other Eyrien woman living in the eyries nearby was Dorian, Lord Endar’s wife. There was nothing wrong with Dorian, although the woman seemed dissatisfied with nothing and everything of late, but Marian never felt quite comfortable being around her because she had the same name as Marian’s mother, and memories of her life before Witch saved her and brought her to Kaeleer weren’t something she could set aside.
It wasn’t easy being the wife of the ruler of a Territory, but the man . . . Oh, the man more than made up for any troubles that came with his title.
“Since neither of them needed a Healer, I gather Daemonar and Jaenelle Saetien’s adventure was successful?”
Lucivar huffed out a low laugh. “If that’s the measuring stick, then it was successful.”
Oh, dear. “Do I want to know?”
“No, you really don’t, but I’ll tell you when I get back if they don’t tell you first. As it is, I need to go to Dhemlan and explain this adventure to Daemon.”
Marian braced a hand on one of the laundry tubs and reminded herself that any day that didn’t end with one of her children testing boundaries to the point of needing a Healer . . . was most likely a day when the children were visiting their aunt and uncle and she didn’t hear about whatever it was until much later.
“And Titian?”
Lucivar stepped closer. “She’s fine. She’s inherited some of her mother’s talents but expresses them in a different way.”
Now, that was intriguing.
“I have to go.” Lucivar’s voice sounded low, a little rough. But the kiss he gave her was warm and full of promise. “I may not make it back for dinner, but I’ll be back tonight.”
“And we’ll talk?”
He gave her the lazy, arrogant smile that always meant trouble. “Sure.”
He went out the side door to catch the Winds and ride the Ebon-gray Web to SaDiablo Hall in Dhemlan. She went back to the kitchen to see if there was anything left to put away and was surprised to find Daemonar combining the remaining food into a covered dish to go into the cold box.
He gave her a measuring look that reminded her that he wasn’t a boy anymore—that he was, in so many ways, his father’s son.
“Did Father tell you?” Daemonar asked.
“He left that to you,” she replied.
Another measuring look. Then Daemonar took a clean plate out of the cupboards, selected some of the food he’d been about to store, and set the plate in front of her before fetching glasses of water for both of them.
So she sat and ate and listened while her firstborn told her everything.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
Lucivar dropped from the Ebon-gray Wind to the stone landing web in front of SaDiablo Hall. Built thousands of years ago by Saetan Daemon SaDiablo to be his family’s seat, it was an imposing structure of gray stone, with so many wings, rooms, interior courtyards, and gardens the place could be its own village—was, in fact, the main source of income and employment for the adjoining village of Halaway, despite there being only three members of the family in residence.
The Hall was also testimony to the differences between his life and Daemon’s.
His eyrie had as many rooms as a modest mansion, but it was still small enough that Marian took care of the housekeeping and cooking, with help from him and the children. Occasionally she had “helpers” from Riada, the closest Blood village in Ebon Rih, but those were youngsters who wanted to learn hearth Craft from Marian Yaslana—or who were willing to trade time doing chores in exchange for lessons in weaving since Marian was becoming known as a “loom artist.”
For many years, he’d had one home to look after and the valley of Ebon Rih to rule. He also had a Dhemlan estate that had vineyards and made wine, but he didn’t oversee it directly any more than he oversaw the town house in Amdarh, despite having use of one side of the building.
Even now, with him ruling all of Askavi, his home and work were fairly straightforward.
Daemon’s life was so much more complicated.
The Hall, which was Daemon Sadi’s primary residence, employed close to two hundred people to take care of the building, cook the meals, work in the stables, and tend the grounds and all the gardens, both the exterior gardens and the interior courtyards that provided light and greenery to bedrooms, sitting rooms, workrooms, and all the other rooms that massive structure contained.
Besides dealing with the senior staff at the Hall—which, considering the pers
onalities of the senior staff, was sufficiently challenging—Daemon also dealt with the town house and its staff, the family estates in Dhemlan, an estate that was run as a self-sufficient school for half-Blood children, and a school on the Isle of Scelt that trained and educated kindred Scelties. He also owned or co-owned several businesses throughout the Realm of Kaeleer, as well as a few farms and businesses he still supported in Dena Nehele and Shalador Nehele in the Realm of Terreille. Added to that, Daemon took care of the SaDiablo family’s vast wealth, working with his personal man of business and the firm that had been managing some portion of that wealth since Saetan had hired them centuries ago.
That much responsibility might have overwhelmed a lot of men, but Daemon actually enjoyed the work, the challenges of business. They were almost a way for him to relax from the duties of being the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan and dealing with the Dhemlan Queens as well as the Queens who ruled Kaeleer’s other Territories.
They were almost a way for him to rest from the duties of being the High Lord of Hell—a title Daemon had shouldered after Saetan went to the final death. A title, a truth, and a secret that was only known to a few who were among the living. Sadi would give his daughter as much time to grow up as he could before that title cast a shadow over her life. That was a choice Lucivar understood, seeing the shadow his title of Demon Prince now cast on his own children.
Added to the complications of Daemon’s life was the fact that Daemon Sadi had been damaged by a savagely abusive childhood and centuries of being used as a pleasure slave, and his brilliant mind had been broken and repaired three times, the last time leaving him fragile in a way that also made him extremely dangerous to the whole damn Realm.
But Sadi was Lucivar’s brother. He loved the man and would stand with him against anyone—except their Queen.
A psychic probe at the level of the Red told him that Daemon was home and Surreal SaDiablo, Daemon’s Gray-Jeweled partner and second-in-command, was not.
Officially, Surreal was Daemon’s wife, and Sadi gave her everything a wife was entitled to have from a husband, including his body. They loved each other but had never been in love with each other, and that had made the difference when mistakes made on both sides had led to Surreal seeing the full truth about the man she had married and developing a bone-deep fear of some aspects of Daemon’s temper—and it had led Daemon into the cascading self-destruction that had ended with him splintering his mind almost beyond repair.
Daemon asking for help that should have been impossible, from a Queen that almost everyone believed no longer existed in any of the Realms, had saved all of them. Witch had intervened and repaired Daemon’s mind, as she had done twice before. But everything has a price, and having the Queen who was the love of Daemon’s life return, even as a presence without flesh, changed Sadi’s relationship with Surreal.
Daemon still referred to Surreal as his wife. Lucivar couldn’t. Once things had settled down and the routines that were set up to keep Daemon sane were in place, Lucivar discovered there were some lines he couldn’t cross. He loved Surreal like a sister, would defend her against anyone but Daemon, but he saw the differences in Daemon’s relationship with Surreal compared to his relationship with and feelings for Marian.
He and Marian had a marriage—a commitment to each other—in the truest sense of the word. Daemon and Surreal had a partnership that included sex and raising their daughter. But in Surreal’s presence, Daemon couldn’t be everything he was, and the acknowledgment that some distance was required to keep her safe—and keep her fear of him at bay—had stained everything they were to each other for the past few years.
Lucivar shook his head. No point rubbing up against rough stone until you hurt.
The door opened before he had a chance to knock. Beale, the Red-Jeweled Warlord who worked as the Hall’s butler, studied him for a moment before stepping aside.
Beale was one of the people Daemon had entrusted with telling him his control was slipping and he needed some solitary time to regain his balance. Lucivar was another who had accepted that responsibility. It wasn’t unusual for him to show up at the Hall for a meal or a quick visit, but that first meeting between butler and brother always held an unspoken question about the man who was the High Lord of Hell as well as the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan—and who, at his most lethal, was known as the Sadist.
“Prince Sadi is working in his study,” Beale said. “Should I have coffee brought in?”
“Hell’s fire, no,” Lucivar replied. “I’d rather he wasn’t completely sober when I explain this.” He shook his head at Beale’s momentary look of alarm. “The children are fine, and this is nothing you haven’t heard before. Same story, different father.”
“I see. Perhaps I should talk to Mrs. Beale about making something . . . fortifying . . . for the Prince’s dinner. You’ll be staying for dinner?”
It was phrased as a question, but it wasn’t.
“I was hoping to get home for the children’s bedtimes.”
“An early dinner, then. Since the Prince already requested that the meal be kept simple, it shouldn’t be an imposition.”
Lucivar bared his teeth in what could be mistaken as a smile. Beale recognized the warning and wasn’t impressed. Of course, the man was married to Mrs. Beale, who was the cook at the Hall. She was an excellent cook. She was also a large woman who wore a Yellow Jewel and tended to bring her well-honed meat cleaver to any discussion.
“Fine,” Lucivar said. “Please thank Mrs. Beale for accommodating me.”
“It will be a pleasure.”
Shaking his head, Lucivar went to the study, gave the door a quick rap with his knuckles, and walked in. “Hello, Bastard.”
Daemon looked up from a stack of papers and started to smile. Then that beautiful face went completely blank.
“They’re fine.” Wondering how many times he would have to say that today, Lucivar walked up to the large blackwood desk, filled a snifter to the brim with brandy, and set it in front of Daemon. “You’re going to want to slug a good bit of that down before we talk.”
Daemon looked at the brandy, then at him. “But the children are fine?”
Lucivar filled another snifter and settled in the specially designed chair Daemon had made to accommodate an Eyrien’s wings and still provide armrests. “Oh, yeah, old son, they are just fine. And if Father was still around, he’d be laughing himself silly right about now.”
“That doesn’t sound good.” Daemon took a long swallow of brandy. He breathed out a resigned sigh. “Tell me.”
The delay had been enough to give Lucivar the measure of his brother’s mental and emotional health. A jagged feel to Daemon’s psychic scent meant trouble. Since he wasn’t picking up anything like that, he went ahead.
“My son, your daughter, on a raft made of branches and twine, riding rapids and going over a waterfall.”
Daemon’s hand trembled. He set the snifter on the desk before covering his face with his hands. Then he spread his fingers enough to peer at Lucivar and said, “Why?”
“Because it’s the sort of thing those two would find challenging and fun.”
Daemon groaned and rubbed his face briskly before sagging in his chair. “What did you say when you caught them? I’m assuming you caught them?”
“Not much I could say, since Jaenelle Angelline and I built a raft out of kindling and Craft and rode those same rapids and went over that same waterfall.” A beat of silence. “Twice.”
Daemon stared at him. He looked like he was trying to say words, so Lucivar drank brandy and waited.
“Why do it twice?” Daemon finally said.
“Because it was a wicked bitch of a ride—and it was fun. And because Jaenelle had given me that look and that smile—you remember those?—and said, ‘Lucivar, I have a wonderful idea; you’re going to hate it a lot.’” He shrugged. “We were well shielded.”
Daemon drank the brandy like it was water, then took a shuddering breath. That much brandy might make him a little light-headed for a minute or two, but wearing Jewels as dark as the Black or Ebon-gray meant they both burned up alcohol as fast as they burned up food, and even getting a bit tipsy required serious effort.
In fact, the only time they had managed to get stupid drunk since they began wearing the Ebon-gray and Black was on a pub crawl with Jaenelle Angelline. That night—and what they had done—became tilted and fuzzy after Jaenelle started making a drink called a gravedigger.
“What did Father say?” Daemon asked.
“He would have said plenty if I hadn’t told him that the only reason he was angry was because he was jealous that Jaenelle invited me to test the raft instead of him.”
Daemon wheezed.
Lucivar watched his brother. This was going better than he’d hoped. “Father tossed me out of his study—this exact room, in fact—and never spoke of it again. Didn’t allow anyone to speak of it again.” He drank some brandy and waited until Daemon’s face was almost its usual golden brown color. “That’s why we never told him that we tried it again a couple of years later after Jaenelle had perfected blending small objects with Craft to create a raft—or a pallet if you were out in the wild and needed to move someone who was injured.”
Daemon leaned forward, placed his tightly locked hands on the desk, and said, “So our Lady built another raft out of kindling and Craft and the two of you did that asinine stunt again?”
Lucivar snorted. “Not much point doing the same thing again. That last raft was made out of twigs, leaves, and Craft—and shaped to have a bow. Made it easier to maneuver in the rapids.”
“You are a heartless prick,” Daemon snarled. “Is telling me that story supposed to make me feel better?”
“Doesn’t it?”
Daemon’s answer was succinct and very unflattering.
“For what it’s worth, I don’t think I took a breath from the moment I saw them go over the falls until they surfaced in the pool below,” Lucivar said.
