by Anne Bishop
Uncle Daemon stood in the great hall. His hands, tucked in his trouser pockets, made him look relaxed, but she saw the slightly glazed look in his eyes and realized he wasn’t there to welcome them as much as he was there to inspect every person who walked through the door.
She didn’t want to think about what would happen this time to anyone who didn’t meet with his approval.
“Hello, Uncle Daemon.”
His smile was warm when he leaned down to kiss her cheek. “I’m glad you’re here. You too, Zoey.”
When he gave Zoey a kiss as well, Titian wondered if he felt the flinch.
“Prince Sadi,” Zoey said.
“You’re safe,” he said quietly. “You, Titian, and some of the other girls have been given suites that had belonged to the Queens in the Dark Court. No one can get to you without going through me—and no one will get through me, Zoey. You have my word on that.”
“Thank you,” Weston said quietly, coming up to stand behind Zoey as he kept an eye on the open front door.
Holt approached from the back of the great hall. “Should I show the Ladies to their suites?”
“Let’s wait for a few more,” Daemon replied. “Assuming they decide they’re brave enough to enter.”
A sharp whistle, followed by Lucivar’s voice. “You can enter the Hall on your own, or I can pick you up and toss you over the threshold. Your choice.”
Weston looked alarmed. “He wouldn’t do that, would he?”
“Care to bet on that?” Daemon asked dryly.
“But . . . there are Queens out there.”
“That never stopped him before,” Holt said. “Twenty marks says he tosses one of the Warlord Princes in first.”
Daemon nodded. “I’ll take that bet.”
Titian stared at her uncle as if she’d never seen him before. He and Holt were betting on her father—
The first Warlord Prince came in low and horizontal, landing on his butt and skidding across the polished floor until he was stopped by Uncle Daemon’s shoe.
“Hell’s fire,” Weston breathed. “He really did it.”
Daemon stared at the young man for a moment before moving his shoe and allowing the Warlord Prince to stand up. Then he called in his wallet, removed a twenty-gold mark, and handed it to Holt.
Another whistle sounded outside, following by barking.
*Now they will listen,* Allis said happily.
Titian looked at her uncle, who looked back and shrugged. “It’s always like this. Deal with it.”
Titian had seen a sheepherding contest in Scelt once. The way the other boys and girls hurried into the great hall reminded her of that, especially when the Scelties came in behind them and fanned out to discourage any humans who might try to bolt.
Zoey snorted a laugh.
Lucivar entered the great hall. Beale shut the door. And Black-Jeweled power rolled through the Hall like soft thunder.
“Welcome to SaDiablo Hall.” Uncle Daemon’s voice held welcome and warning. “You’re under my hand now. I strongly suggest you follow the rules.”
Everyone looked at Uncle Daemon, then at her father, then at Beale, and finally at the Scelties. No matter where you turned, there would be someone nearby to make sure you followed the rules.
Titian breathed a sigh of relief.
Holt escorted the girls who were assigned to the Dark Court’s square of rooms, while Helene took the other girls, and Beale escorted the boys to their assigned rooms.
On the way to their rooms, Titian brushed her hand against Zoey’s and felt relief when her friend gripped her hand and held on.
“Uncle Daemon. Everyone calls him the High Lord now,” she whispered.
Zoey thought for a moment and shook her head. “No, that was Prince Sadi in the great hall. I think the High Lord feels . . . different.”
Different . . . and more dangerous. And that would keep them safe.
FIFTY-THREE
Saetien turned toward the door of her room when Shelby made a funny sound, as if not sure if he should bark a welcome or a warning.
The girl who moved toward her had a vague look in her eyes, was partially dressed—and was holding a pair of scissors. Some of her hair had been cut close to the scalp and the rest was a tangled mess.
Saetien’s breath caught as she recognized the vague look and the psychic scent of someone who had been shattered. Not just broken like the other girls she had met yesterday. This girl was a shattered chalice, a broken, mad Black Widow. Like Tersa.
*Jillian?* she called. *Jillian! I’m in my room. I need help!* Then to Shelby, *Stay on the bed and stay quiet.*
*But . . . ,* he began.
*Stay quiet.*
“Is there something I can do for you?” she asked. Like take those scissors before you do more harm?
“I saw you there, standing witness.”
“I saw you too,” Saetien said. She hadn’t seen that much. She’d been too busy retching over what Krellis and Dhuran had done to this girl.
“We were in the pretty poison, where debts are paid.” The girl grabbed a fistful of tangled hair and cut it off, dropping it on the floor.
“Maybe you should let someone help you with that.” Saetien gestured to the scissors. “Otherwise, your hair will be uneven.”
“Like the rest of me.” She smiled, but the look in her eyes was strangely feral.
In order to pay her debt to Witch, she needed to become a living memento mori for seven girls who had been damaged by the coven of malice. This girl was one of them. “What’s your name?”
“I am Tersa the Weaver, Tersa the Liar, Tersa the Fool.” The girl cut off another hunk of hair and frowned. “No, she’s the one who stopped me before I got lost following the twisting paths, told me I needed to stay close to the border, told me I needed to listen to the song in the Darkness. Have you heard it? The song is wonderful, so full of joy and pain, rage and celebration. It is beautiful and deadly, and it was the song that filled the place that was the pretty poison.”
Saetien blinked back tears. “I know who you mean.”
“She told me to stop doing this.” The girl pushed up the baggy sleeves of a sweater she must have taken from someone else, revealing the still-healing slices in her arms.
*Jillian!* Saetien pleaded.
“She showed me how to find this place, said that parts of me could heal here.” The girl stared at the scissors, then at her arm.
“Teresa,” Jillian said quietly from the doorway. “What are you doing?”
It was like watching someone sort through pieces of a broken dish to find a specific part of the pattern.
Delora did this, just like someone must have done it to Tersa, Saetien thought.
“Krellis said my hair was beautiful,” Teresa finally said, having found the answer to the question. “He said it was beautiful and made his lust burn, and that’s why he . . .”
Her hands rose. Jillian rushed over and grabbed the scissors before Teresa drove the points into her own face.
Jillian vanished the scissors, then put an arm around Teresa’s shoulders. “Come on,” she said gently. “We’ll go to your room and finish trimming your hair.”
As they turned toward the door, Teresa stopped and looked back at Saetien. “Delora and Hespera didn’t die.”
“I think they did,” Saetien replied, not sure if Teresa would find comfort in that.
“The flesh, yes, but not them. Not yet. They’re still there, somewhere, and they’ll be screaming in the dark, alone, for as long as any of us are screaming. The song carries too many memories of the ones who died in that place, and she is unforgiving because she was one of us. Rage and celebration.” A tear rolled down Teresa’s face. “I think I should try to be part of the celebration.”
“I think she would like that,” Jillian said. Then
to Saetien, *Are you all right?*
Saetien nodded.
*First class starts in an hour. Eyrien sparring sticks.*
*I’ll be there.*
As soon as Jillian led Teresa away and closed the door, Saetien sank on the bed and gathered Shelby in her arms.
*Saeti?* The puppy licked her chin. *She is like Tersa? We know Tersa. We can help her.*
“She needs to heal a bit before she’ll be like Tersa. We need to be careful when we’re around her, help her stay near the border.” And I will take the time to learn who she might have been.
“Come on.” She put Shelby on the floor, then nudged him aside when he became too interested in Teresa’s hair. When her attempt to vanish it failed, she wrapped the hair in one of her towels and took it with her, stopping at the housekeeper’s office to ask how to dispose of it.
Teresa wanted to be a part of the song’s celebration. As Saetien walked outside to find the other Scelties and give Shelby some time to play, she wondered if she could ever pay the debt well enough to no longer be a note in the song’s rage.
FIFTY-FOUR
Daemonar stepped into the large . . . ballroom? . . . and looked around. Either Uncle Daemon wasn’t planning to do any formal entertaining for a while, or this was an auxiliary ballroom. He ran his boot over the wooden floor that was recently buffed but not polished to the equivalent of ice. He considered how the light coming in from the wall of windows could be used to teach someone to fight in sunlight or shadows. He eyed the various hooks and hangers in the walls. Bows would fit over there with quivers of arrows underneath. Eyrien sticks were already stored in that wall rack. If he asked, would Beale be able to uncover targets used for practice, tucked somewhere in the attic?
Maybe this room had been built for a kind of dance that wasn’t social.
Calling in his own sparring stick, Daemonar rolled his shoulders. He still had light shields around the bones that were newly healed, but thank the Darkness, he no longer had the eye-throbbing shield Auntie J. had put around his arm. But, she had added sweetly when she removed that shield, if he didn’t want to light up bright enough to wake up the folks in Halaway every time there was a twinge of pain in that bone, he would take care when he started practicing again with sticks and weapons.
He knew better than to call his auntie’s bluff, so he put a skintight shield over both forearms. Then he began to move through the warm-up while he waited to see who would show up. This was a beginner’s class in fighting. Well, sparring. Fighting would come later. But this was offered to the instructors whom Uncle Daemon had hired, as well as the staff at the Hall.
He’d gone through the warm-up once when Prince Raine walked in. Not unexpected, since the instructor had been joining his little group for these exercises while they’d been at the Amdarh school.
“Sparring sticks are over there.” Daemonar nodded to the stack. His father had sent twenty for the adults and boys and twenty-four that were a little shorter and lighter for the girls. Clearly Lucivar had indulged in a flight of optimism to think there would be that many who would get up this early in order to sweat and earn bruises.
Mikal was next, followed by a handful of Scelties.
“You all sit over there and watch,” Mikal said. “And no chewing on sparring sticks or arrows. If you do that, you won’t be allowed to herd anything for a whole day.”
“Is that a serious punishment?” Raine asked Daemonar, coming up close enough to, he hoped, not be heard.
Daemonar nodded. “For a Sceltie? Oh, yeah. Just wait until the girls start spending too much time in the bathroom getting ready for class and get nipped in the shower.”
Raine turned away and cleared his throat. Loudly.
Two of the younger instructors came in next. One had been at the Amdarh school. Daemonar didn’t know where Uncle Daemon had found the other Warlord.
Weston and Holt came in together. At least with Weston present, there was one other man experienced in fighting, even if the sparring sticks were unfamiliar to the Dhemlan sword and shield, which was Weston’s new position.
And then . . .
“Uncle Daemon?”
The black cotton trousers were loose and designed for movement. The sleeveless cotton shirt . . . Well, laborers wore shirts like that, and it wasn’t that different from the clothing Mikal, Raine, and Holt were wearing, but on his uncle the simple clothes looked more like a uniform of battle—and they weren’t new.
“I promised your father.” The sound was more growl than words.
Oh, he would have loved to have eavesdropped on that discussion. And he wondered if the demanded promise, and Uncle Daemon’s compliance, had to do with Witch now taking on a form tangible enough to touch—and hug.
“Don’t think for a moment that I don’t need you, because I do,” Lucivar had said the night before Daemonar left Ebon Rih. “But right now Daemon needs you more.”
Daemonar acknowledged each man, then said, “Let’s form a circle, and I’ll show you the moves we use in the warm-up for sparring with Eyrien sticks.”
The men found a place in the circle. Daemon took the place on Daemonar’s left, a subtle acknowledgment that, in this room, his nephew was the dominant male.
The family had scattered and was coming back together in a different pattern. But the triangle around the Queen of Ebon Askavi would hold, and all of Kaeleer would have swords and shields—and strong young Queens—because of them.
Smiling, Daemonar looked at the other men. “Shall we begin?”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks to Blair Boone for continuing to be my first reader and for providing encouragement and feedback in the story’s roughest stage; to Debra Dixon for being second reader; to Doranna Durgin for maintaining the Web site; to Adrienne Roehrich for running the official fan page and Ashley Laxton for running the Anne Bishop Fan Group and Spoiler Fan Group pages on Facebook; to Jennifer Crow for being a sounding board and sharing so many interesting bits of information; to Anne Sowards and Jennifer Jackson for the feedback that helps me write a better story; to all the publicity and marketing folks at PRH who help get the book into readers’ hands; and to Pat Feidner for always being supportive and encouraging.
And a special thanks to all the people who let me know how much my stories helped them through difficult times. You’re the reason I kept showing up at the writing desk to do what I do.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
New York Times bestselling author Anne Bishop is a winner of the William L. Crawford Memorial Fantasy Award, presented by the International Association for the Fantastic in the Arts, for The Black Jewels Trilogy. She is also the author of the Ephemera series, the Tir Alainn trilogy, the Novels of the Others, and the World of the Others novels--including Wild Country and Lake Silence. She lives in upstate New York.
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