by Anne Bishop
She rested a hand against his face. He turned his head just enough to kiss her palm. He felt nothing, but his lips—and heart—still knew exactly where her skin would be, and he wondered if she felt his touch even if he couldn’t feel her.
“My apologies, Prince. I undid all the good Lady Zoela achieved.”
“No, you didn’t. She was just a respite in a jagged day.”
“Then give yourself some quiet time. In the evening, we’ll drain some of the reservoir in the Black.”
He nodded. “I’ll see Titian tomorrow.”
She didn’t kiss him. She never did when she was with him here. That was an intimacy that would have wounded his wife. Even if Surreal never knew why, she would have sensed a difference in him. As long as he could separate wife and lover from Queen, as long as he knew without any doubt that it wasn’t possible for the Queen to be the lover again, he could stay connected to the living and stay married—and faithful to his wife.
Witch walked into her bedroom. The door shut behind her.
Daemon vanished the art supplies and settled into a chair by the window, letting the immense power of his Queen quiet his mind and heart.
FOUR
I don’t want to go!” Sitting beside the pool at the far end of the play yard, Titian pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them.
Jaenelle Saetien sat back on her heels, hooked her black hair behind her delicately pointed ears, and tried to puzzle out her cousin’s behavior. Titian didn’t like adventure the way she did, which she didn’t mind because that was Titian, and they did have fun together. And she could talk to this cousin and say things she couldn’t say to anyone else.
“We’re just going to run some errands for Auntie Marian and pick up the things she needs at the market,” she said. “It won’t take long. I’m not allowed to go by myself, and Daemonar and Andulvar are at the communal eyrie doing their weapons training.” If she’d known Titian was just going to sit there doing nothing, she would have joined the boys in order to do something.
But maybe not. Her cousin looked so unhappy, so maybe having someone there was helpful even if Titian didn’t want to talk about . . . whatever . . . and Jaenelle Saetien couldn’t figure out anything that would make this better. Kind of like one of the Scelties curling up with her when she felt sad and just wanted company.
She could be a Sceltie. But not as bossy.
Maybe not as bossy.
Her ability to stay quiet lasted another minute. “Are you worried that we’ll run into Orian and her friends? They won’t say anything mean.” Not after Daemonar promised to bloody the girl if she jabbed at his sister again.
“I just don’t want to go down to Riada.” The words were close to a wail.
Sighing, Jaenelle Saetien returned to the eyrie and found Auntie Marian in the kitchen. “Titian doesn’t want to go to Riada, but I could go. I go to Halaway on my own all the time.” Well, on her own with a Sceltie as escort.
“That’s Halaway,” Marian replied. “I’m not giving you permission to break your father’s and your uncle’s rules about you going to Riada on your own. And you and Titian aren’t quite old enough to stay here on your own.”
“But . . .” She felt the familiar dark power a moment before someone knocked on the eyrie’s front door. “Papa’s here!”
She ran to the front door as her papa walked into the eyrie. She flung herself at him and hugged him as hard as she could.
“Witch-child?” He returned her hug for a moment before he eased her back enough to look at her. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Titian. Can you help her, Papa?”
He didn’t answer. He simply led her back to the kitchen archway, where Auntie Marian waited.
“Lucivar and some of his men left early this morning,” Marian said. “A Province Queen requested his assistance. The girls were going to run some errands for me in the village, but Titian . . .” She looked at the glass doors that led to the play yard.
“Why don’t you and Jaenelle Saetien go down to Riada and take care of your errands?” Daemon suggested. “I’ll stay here with Titian.”
She wasn’t sure what message passed between the adults, but Auntie Marian nodded and said, “We won’t be long.”
As she and Auntie Marian walked out of the eyrie, Jaenelle Saetien wondered if by asking her papa to help, she was somehow saying Uncle Lucivar couldn’t fix this.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
Since Jaenelle Saetien’s Jewel was unique and, therefore, easy to locate, Daemon waited until his daughter and Marian dropped from the Winds and he could feel their presence in Riada. Then he turned his attention to the girl sitting at the far end of the yard.
Of all the children in their family, Titian was the quiet child, the one content to sit and think or daydream; the one who wondered about so many things but often wasn’t bold enough to ask questions or look for answers. Not yet, anyway.
And she was the one, right now, who was deeply wounded by another girl’s cutting remark and needed protection and help. It didn’t matter that another child might have shrugged off the remark as unimportant—or shrugged off the person, letting any connection fade. It didn’t matter that this whole thing had boiled up from a moment that was childish and petty. For Warlord Princes, the promise to “honor, cherish, and protect” was a serious vow. For him and Lucivar—and Daemonar—the reason for the wound didn’t matter anymore. That verbal wound striking Titian so deep, for whatever reason, did matter.
The fact that a Queen had delivered that wound mattered beyond family. He and Lucivar remembered too well how many men had died because of Queens hurling insults at one another until they insisted that a battle was the only way for them, and their courts, to recover lost status.
Queens needed time to grow up and make mistakes like any other child, but deliberate meanness couldn’t be overlooked or excused because of the girl’s age. Anyone who thought otherwise hadn’t seen what had happened to the Blood in Terreille.
Daemon opened the glass doors and walked the length of the play yard until he reached the small pool.
“Hello, witchling.”
“Uncle Daemon.” She smiled, but he read misery and dullness in her eyes. And some measure of fear.
No wonder this was tearing at Lucivar’s heart. He was just surprised his brother hadn’t sent Orian to Hell yet—living or dead.
After putting a thin shield over his trousers to avoid grass stains, and the subsequent scold from his valet, Daemon sat down next to Titian.
“Your father showed me some of your drawings. I thought they were excellent, especially since you’re self-taught.”
She didn’t look at him, but he could feel her listening.
“I like to draw,” she said in a voice so soft, he had to strain to hear her. “But . . .”
“No buts.” Daemon bumped his arm against hers—his right arm, which carried the four white scars Witch had given him as remembrance and reminder. “You like to draw. But I think this was . . . private. Maybe so your brothers wouldn’t tease you about it?”
“They wouldn’t have teased me.” Titian frowned. “Well, Andulvar might have, but Daemonar would have thumped him if he did.”
That was not surprising. “Being private,” he continued, “you probably didn’t think much about what you used to create your drawings because you were exploring and not quite ready to show your work to other people.” One finger to her chin bringing her head up as a command to look at him. “After seeing your drawings, I did think about it.”
Releasing her, Daemon called in the pads of paper and a decorative box that held one set of colored pencils, the sharpener, and the eraser. “An artist should have the proper tools.”
“Oh.” That was all she said as she examined the pencils and then the different kinds of paper. After carefully setting every
thing to one side, she threw her arms around his neck. “Thank you, Uncle Daemon. Thank you!” Then she sat back. “But I’m not an artist.”
“Yes, you are.” A simple statement said with all the conviction he could put in his voice without using a spell to influence her into believing him.
“What if I can’t be a good artist?”
“You would still have fun drawing pictures.” Not the answer she wanted—or needed. He took one of her hands in his. “Witchling . . . can I tell you a secret?”
Titian blinked. “Okay.”
“It’s something your father and I would have told you when you were older, something none of the other children know yet.”
“Okay.”
Careful, old son. Don’t become a burden on a young heart. “Your grandfather was the High Lord of Hell, and he ruled the Dark Realm for a very long time. When he went to the final death and became a whisper in the Darkness, I became the High Lord. I rule the Realm of the dead.”
Her eyes looked huge. “But you’re not dead.”
“Neither was he when he first began to rule Hell.”
She appeared to be thinking very hard, but he had no idea what she was thinking.
“That’s the secret?” she finally said.
Daemon nodded. “Someday everyone will know, but not now. Not yet.”
“But Papa knows?”
“Yes. So does your mother and your aunt Surreal. And a few other grown-ups. Very few.”
“Because people would think you were scary if they knew?”
He expected they would do more than think he was scary. “Yes.”
She nodded. “Some of the Queens and Ladies who come to visit think Papa is scary because he’s called the Demon Prince now. But the people in Riada don’t call him that. It’s important to have a place where people don’t think you’re scary.”
What does this child think about when she’s on her own? And how big a heart does a person need to understand that truth at so young an age?
“Yes. It’s important.” He waited a few moments. “The reason I’m telling you now is because I see the Blood who make the transformation to demon-dead and come to Hell. Some are there for a short time. Some stay a long time. Often they linger because they have unfinished business—something they ignored or put aside while they were living. Many times, sadly, it’s something that would have given them joy while they were alive. Like playing a musical instrument—or drawing.”
He was no longer holding her hand. She was holding his.
“Some of them have talent, and their sketches and paintings are exquisite enough to have been shown in galleries. Some . . . Let’s just say there is joy in the discovery of making an idea tangible.”
“You hang their pictures on the walls, just like the good ones, don’t you?”
His face heated, and he hoped he wasn’t blushing. “I do. There is a gallery at the Hall in Hell where work is displayed. Anyone who wants to is allowed to hang pictures there, whether the work is brilliant or awful, whether it’s charcoal sketches or oil paintings or pencil drawings. For a while, these people can share something that is important to them.” He brushed her hair away from her face. “Don’t wait, Titian. Whether this is a hobby you’ll enjoy throughout your life or something more, don’t wait. And don’t let some girl who is probably envious of your talent stop you. Don’t let her win.”
“Envious?”
“Darling, Queens learn a variety of social skills, including drawing, music, and dancing. That doesn’t mean they have any talent for those activities or continue doing them a minute beyond what is necessary. I think Orian jabbed at you because she couldn’t produce a drawing as good as yours, and she attacked so that you wouldn’t want to draw anymore.”
She didn’t say anything.
“And saying flowers aren’t a proper subject for an Eyrien to draw is a barrel full of crap.”
She gasped at his crudity. “Uncle Daemon!”
“You know who Andulvar Yaslana was, don’t you?”
“The first Demon Prince. He was the founder of our bloodline and a great Eyrien warrior. As good as Papa.” She thought for a moment. “Almost as good.”
Daemon bit back a smile. “That’s the one. A fierce warrior who wore Ebon-gray Jewels, just like your papa. And he ruled Askavi before your papa took over ruling the whole Territory. Sometime soon, I’ll stay an extra day when I’m at the Keep, and you and I will talk to Geoffrey, the historian/librarian, about some pencil drawings Andulvar did. They are very old, and fragile, so they can’t leave the private part of the library, but Geoffrey will show them to us. I will give you three guesses about the subject matter of some of those sketches.”
“Flowers?” Titian guessed.
“Flowers. Now, who, with any honesty, would say that Andulvar Yaslana was not a true Eyrien?”
She’d had enough, maybe even more than she could absorb for now, but he had one more thing.
He called in the artist’s primer. “If you could do me a favor? I’m considering helping an artist get this primer published so that youngsters have some instruction in how to draw objects. Could you try out some of the instructions and examples and let me know if it would be helpful?”
She took the primer and carefully set it with her new supplies. “I can do that.”
Deciding to leave talk about Zoey for another day, Daemon said, “Would you show me your drawings again?”
She called in her drawing pad, and they reviewed the drawings one by one. Some places he recognized from the times he’d gone to some spot or other that Lucivar enjoyed. Some flowers he recognized from the years when he and Jaenelle Angelline spent time at the cabin near Riada. He pointed out techniques she had used for shading that he’d seen in other artists’ work and promised to take her to one of the art galleries in Amdarh the next time she came to visit.
When he sensed Marian and Jaenelle Saetien’s return, he rose and helped Titian to her feet. He almost offered to help her carry the art supplies, but the way she hugged them made him think she wouldn’t surrender them to anyone easily.
By the time they walked into the front room, everyone except Lucivar had returned, and Marian had started preparing the midday meal.
“Uh-uh,” he said when Daemonar and young Andulvar crowded round to see Titian’s presents. “Those are for your sister’s art. These are for you.” He called in a set of the line drawings, another set of colored pencils, and another sharpener.
Young Andulvar was mildly interested in the line drawings. Daemonar wasn’t interested at all. And Jaenelle Saetien? A swirl of emotions dominated by her relief that he had fixed things and Titian looked happier.
“Wash up,” Marian called.
The girls went to Titian’s room to store her supplies. Young Andulvar headed for a bathroom to wash his hands sufficiently that his mother would let him sit at the table.
Daemonar studied Daemon. He studied the boy in turn.
“Did the Lady tell you about the lessons?” Daemonar asked.
“She told me.”
“You’re okay with that?”
Careful. Cautious. This wasn’t a boy asking his uncle; this was a Green-Jeweled Warlord Prince asking the Black.
“There are times when I won’t be able to interact with you,” Daemon said.
“I know. Your healing time is private.”
“Healing time” sounded so benign. Maybe someday it would be. “Yes, it is. But being that it’s you, I can accept the presence of another male in that part of the Keep.” He hoped that was true.
The boy didn’t ask about the time Lucivar spent at the Keep, although most of that time was spent with Karla, reviewing the business of ruling Askavi.
“We should wash up,” Daemonar said. “If Mother won’t let Papa sit down until he washes his hands, I don’t think she’ll bend that rule
for you.”
Daemon laughed. “I know she won’t bend that rule. You go on.”
He walked into the kitchen. Marian put down the platter of sliced meats and looked at him, a question in her eyes.
He kissed her cheek and smiled. “She’ll be fine. I have some thoughts for a couple of outings, both here in Ebon Rih and in Amdarh. In the meantime, Titian is helping me with a project related to art.”
“Helping her uncle.” Marian nodded. “That changes things, doesn’t it?”
“It does.” He washed his hands at the kitchen sink and accepted the towel she handed him. He looked at the table and the various dishes. A simple meal by Marian’s standards. “Can I . . . ?”
“No one fills a plate until everyone is seated,” she said sternly. “And don’t think giving me that but-I’m-starving look will make any difference. I have male children. I am immune to that look.”
“You are so strict.”
“Always.” Then she laughed. And because he was family, she tossed him in with her ravenous horde and let him battle for his share of the food.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
There were questions Jaenelle Saetien wanted to ask, things she wanted to know, but she didn’t want Papa to think she was being a brat and fanning about because she was special and thought she could ignore any rules that didn’t suit her. But her teachers and the other grown-ups in Halaway had treated her like she was special because she wore Twilight’s Dawn, and all her friends—except Mikal, but he was part of the family and didn’t count in the same way—had thought she was special.
Or maybe they hadn’t dared tell her that her Birthright Jewel didn’t make her special. Except Mikal, who didn’t hesitate to call her on it. He didn’t say she was fanning about. Not anymore. He’d just point at her, then stick his butt out and wiggle it.
She’d been a brat and had told Morghann to do a wrong thing when the Sceltie had been very young. It hadn’t seemed like such a bad thing at the time, but now that she was a little older, she understood how much trouble a person could cause when she let selfishness rule over kindness. The younger Scelties who were now living at the Hall played with her and kept her company, but went to Papa for training and teaching. Or they went to Holt or Beale to understand about human things. Or they went to Morghann, who taught some of the Scelties how to be a special friend when she wasn’t being Papa’s special friend. But they didn’t want to learn from her because she had told Morghann to do a wrong thing.
