Twilight's Dawn dj-9

by Anne Bishop

  “A dazzling whirl of people for six days. But on the eve of Winsol, just before midnight, Saetan would bring two cups of blooded rum to my sitting room. A toast to the living myth. I always found it embarrassing, being toasted like that. And then we would dance. A court dance. Very formal. Very traditional. A pattern that was only performed during this time of year.

  “The next evening, the longest night of the year, was for family. No visitors. No outsiders. Just Mephis, Prothvar, Uncle Andulvar, Papa, and me. A simple dinner. Afterward, we would open the gifts from each other.”

  “I don’t remember you and the High Lord having a private celebration,” he said.

  “We didn’t these past two years. He stepped aside. For you.”

  “I see,” Daemon said quietly. And he did. The Steward yielding to the Consort. The father yielding to the lover. The fact that he was the lover must have weighed heavily in Saetan’s decision.

  He looked at their reflection in the glass. It was like watching Jaenelle delicately unwrap layers of her heart.

  “What else?” he asked.

  “Those years were a dazzle of people during Winsol,” she said. “A kaleidoscope of colors and faces. Even more so after I became the Queen of Ebon Askavi and had my own list of social events to attend as part of my duties as Queen. But the moment I remember clearly, the moment that stands out from each of those years, is that dance with Saetan.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me.”

  He saw her lips press together in a tight line, could feel her breath shudder in and out. He held her and waited, watching their reflection.

  “One day I’m going to wake up and realize I’ve gotten old.” She lifted her left hand. “You knew when you gave me this ring what the difference in our races would mean.”

  “Some people spend a few years together and then part for one reason or another. Others have a few decades. And other people have a lifetime. I know what the difference in our races means, Lady. I’ll take every day that you’re willing to give me.”

  She nodded. “That’s the point. You have social duties. We have social duties. But I don’t want these days to be a blur of events and faces. I want memories, Daemon. Of you. Of us. I want those clear moments that the heart holds on to. With you.”

  “And with him.”

  “Yes. With him too. You waited seventeen hundred years for the Queen you wanted to serve. Saetan waited fifty thousand.”

  “A few days out of this celebration for just the two of us? That’s really what you want?”

  “Yes, that’s really what I want.”

  Something inside him relaxed. He kissed her temple. “Then that’s what we’ll do. And we can start with this.” He called in a rectangular box and held it out.

  Jaenelle shook her head and turned as she took a step away from him. “We open the gifts on Winsol.”

  Daemon smiled a very special smile—and watched her blush in response to it. “You need to open this one now so you can plan ahead for when you’ll use it.”

  She hesitated, then took the box and opened it.

  Watching her, he swallowed the urge to laugh and wondered how long she would stare at that little bit of nothing.

  Finally she lifted the triangle of richly embroidered gold fabric out of the box. “What . . . ?”

  “The ribbons circle your hips,” he said helpfully.

  “Oh.” She vanished the box and held the triangle in position. “Oh.”

  Seeing that bit of nothing in place, even held over a bulky winter robe, was enough to make his blood simmer.

  “I thought we could have a private dinner sometime during Winsol,” Daemon said. “You could wear that under the dress you had made for our dance in the spooky house. Nothing but that.”

  Even the thought of seeing her in that wisp of a dress made his cock hard.

  Blushing and still looking baffled, she said, “This is my present?”

  He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, leaving her in no doubt about the kind of memories he wanted to make tonight.

  “No, lover,” he purred. “This is my present.”

  SEVEN

  On the third day of Winsol, Daemon walked into Lucivar’s eyrie and caught the boy who half leaped, half flew at him.

  “Unka Daemon!”

  He gave Daemonar a smacking kiss on the cheek. “Hello, boyo. Are you being good?”

  He and the boy both ignored the snarl that came from the kitchen in response to that question.

  “You read me a story?” Daemonar asked.

  “I guess we could read a story after—”

  “You read me a story now?”

  “Let me ask your papa.”

  “We gotta tree. I show you!”

  The boy was damn hard to hold on to once he started wiggling. Daemon put him down and watched him run to the other end of the room where another Craft-made tree sparkled.

  “Look, Unka Daemon!”

  Before Daemon could growl “No,” Daemonar kicked at the wrapped presents.

  Nothing happened.

  Then the front door opened, Marian and Jaenelle walked in, and Daemonar raced to meet them. Since it didn’t look like he was going to go around his uncle, Daemon prudently got out of the way.

  “Auntie J.! Auntie J.! We gotta tree!”

  “I see that,” Jaenelle said, crouching to receive her hugs and kisses. “Do you like the tree I made for the eyrie?”

  “Yes! I read you a story! I read you a story now!”

  “Could we read a story after we eat?” Jaenelle asked. “I’m very hungry.”

  “Okay!”

  Marian smiled and held out a hand. Knowing better than to suggest that he could hang up his own coat, Daemon shucked off his overcoat and handed it to her before going into the kitchen.

  “You put illusion spells of gifts around your tree?” Daemon asked Lucivar.

  “The real gifts are at the Hall,” Lucivar said as he pulled a large casserole out of the oven and set it on the table.

  “Why couldn’t we have the illusion-spell gifts?” Daemon grumbled.

  “You can keep the real gifts until we open them on Winsol Night or you can keep the boy.”

  “I’ll keep the gifts,” Daemon said too quickly.

  “Smart choice.” Lucivar tipped his neck from side to side to ease the muscles. “Hell’s fire, he’s a handful this year.”

  “I guess Marian won’t let you build a cage.”

  “Not a chance. And whenever I growl about the boy, his grandfather laughs at me.”

  “Seems petty of Father to do that.”

  Lucivar used Craft to slice a loaf of bread and put it and the butter on the table. “You know what’s really scary? The times when Father looks at me and says, ‘You were worse.’ Makes me wonder if I’m getting off easy or if I should start preparing.” He finished setting the table. “Marian and I usually have ale with this meal since it goes well with the casserole, but I can open a bottle of wine for you.”

  “Ale is fine.”

  As Lucivar filled glasses, he said, “How is Yuli? That’s where you were this morning, wasn’t it? At that school?”

  Yuli was an orphan boy he and Jaenelle met while rescuing Surreal and Rainier from Jarvis Jenkell’s spooky house.

  “He’s doing well. Still too afraid of making a mistake and being severely punished for it to relax most of the time—at least, according to the teachers—but Socks isn’t afraid of voicing an opinion about anything, so the Sceltie pup balances out the boy.” Daemon looked around. “Speaking of pups, where are the wolves?”

  “Off doing wolf things, thank the Darkness.” Lucivar raised his voice. “Food’s on the table.”

  Jaenelle and Marian sat on one side of the table, the boy between them. Daemon and Lucivar sat on the other. As the adults talked about small things, Daemon became more and more aware that the boy was too excited by the company and all the festivities, and his misbehav
ior was going to clash with Lucivar’s temper soon.

  Then Jaenelle spoke one quiet sentence in Eyrien, and Daemon saw the proof that Daemonar had made the transition from toddler to boy in the past few weeks. Because Daemonar’s reaction to that voice wasn’t a nephew responding to an aunt; it was a Warlord Prince responding to his Queen.

  Daemonar quieted and began eating properly, glancing often at his father for approval and confirmation that he was behaving as he should.

  The boy was no longer just a small male. He’d been born a Warlord Prince. From now on, the adult males would start treating him like one—and training him like one.

  When the meal ended, Jaenelle and Daemonar went into the family room to read a book and Marian disappeared.

  Lucivar smiled as he cleared the table. “Some days going to the bathroom by yourself is a luxury.”

  Daemon stripped off his black jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “I’ll wash.”

  “Deal. Have you thought about what we’re going to do about Winsol?”

  “I have,” Daemon said as he filled one side of the sink with water. “And I have an idea how we can accomplish it.”

  “The little beast usually naps for a couple of hours after the midday meal, so he’ll probably be sound asleep by the time Jaenelle gets to the last page. We can talk after that.”

  Marian made coffee, Lucivar put Daemonar to bed for his nap, and when the adults gathered in the family parlor, Daemon told them his idea.

  “Yes,” Jaenelle said, smiling.

  “It’s wonderful,” Marian said.

  Lucivar said nothing. He didn’t have to because the look in his eyes said it all.

  EIGHT

  It was late afternoon on the eve of Winsol, and the streets and sidewalks of Amdarh were still crowded. But not with shoppers. These were the merchants who had closed their shops and were now heading home to friends and family.

  An hour from now, the streets would still be crowded, Surreal thought as she opened the carriage door and accepted the assistance of a Warlord who was passing by at that moment, in order to step from carriage to sidewalk. Just one of those things she’d learned to accept about living in Kaeleer: It took less time to accept help you didn’t want or need than it took to explain to the helpful male why you didn’t want or need his help.

  The Warlord escorted her to the door of the building where Rainier lived, wished her a happy Winsol, and continued on his way.

  She didn’t dare look at her driver. Helton had told her to take a footman to serve her, but it seemed silly to drag a second man out in order to run a simple errand.

  Idiot, she thought as she crossed the lobby to the reception desk, where packages or messages could be left for the residents. Next time listen to Helton.

  She smiled at the Warlord at the desk, recognizing him from the times when she’d met Rainier there before an outing because it was on the way instead of him taking the extra time to come to the town house.

  “Lady Surreal,” the Warlord said.

  “Happy Winsol,” she replied. “I’d like to leave a package for Prince Rainier. Could you make sure he gets it when he gets home?”

  A hesitation. “Prince Rainier returned home an hour ago.”

  “But . . .” He’s supposed to be with his family in Dharo.

  Another hesitation. A deliberate pause of a man deciding whether he should meddle. “Perhaps you would like to deliver the package yourself ?”

  Surreal studied the man. “He asked you to tell people he wasn’t in, didn’t he?”

  “He said he didn’t want to be disturbed.”

  I’ll bet he did. She leaned against the desk. “Have I been sufficiently scary during this conversation?”

  “Oh, no, Lady, you’ve—” He paused. Considered. Smiled as he opened a wall cabinet behind him, removed a key, and handed it to her. “You were quite forceful in your insistence that I give you the spare key so that you could put the Prince’s gift in his apartment rather than leaving it here at the desk.”

  “Since he’s been on the receiving end of my insistence often enough, he’ll believe the part about my being forceful,” she said with a wink.

  She climbed the stairs slowly and steadily, but she still heard the rasp in her lungs by the time she reached Rainier’s floor. How was he managing the stairs on that leg? Did he have sense enough to float down the stairways?

  Probably not.

  When she reached his door, she took a moment to catch her breath. No point starting a fight if she couldn’t yell at him.

  She vanished the present, unlocked the door, and walked into his parlor, only to find Rainier standing there waiting for the intruder, looking pale and furious.

  “Surreal . . .”

  “You wear Opal; I wear Gray. I outrank you. Shut up.”

  She could feel his temper taking a sharper edge, but he wasn’t a fool. His being a Warlord Prince couldn’t make up for the difference in their power.

  “You were supposed to be visiting your family,” Surreal said.

  “I did visit. Now I’m back.”

  And sounding more bitter than when he’d left.

  “Well, that’s good, actually, because the family is gathering at the Keep for Winsol. You and I will have a quiet dinner at the town house tonight, and tomorrow afternoon we’ll go up to the Keep.”

  “Surreal, it’s a family gathering. I’m not family.”

  “Oh, that’s not a problem.” She walked up to him, smiled, and slugged him in the shoulder hard enough to almost knock him off his feet. “Now you’re an honorary cousin. If you get pissy about this, I’m going to tell Daemon and Lucivar that you didn’t want to be family for Winsol because you didn’t want to be related to them. Won’t that be fun when they show up wanting an explanation?”

  “Bitch.”

  “Boyo, you have no idea.” She gave him a minute to appreciate just how cornered he really was. “So, are you still packed or do you need help?”

  “I can take care of it tomorrow if you want to go back to the town house now,” Rainier said.

  She bared her teeth in a smile. “You and your luggage are coming with me to the town house. Where you’ll be staying tonight.”

  “I’m not going to run away.”

  “Damn right, you’re not. I’m not going to face all of them by myself.”

  He studied her. Then he sighed. “Fine. I’ll swap out some clothes. Give me a few minutes.”

  “Don’t take long. The driver is waiting, and Helton will worry if I’m late.”

  Rainier huffed out a laugh and limped to his bedroom.

  Surreal closed her eyes. He didn’t need tears or pity or whatever else was being dished out. And he wouldn’t get those things. Not at the Keep.

  But he would get the warmth of friends who cared about him. And he wouldn’t be alone for Winsol.

  NINE

  “Are you sure she’s home?” Lucivar asked as Daemon opened the cottage door. “There aren’t any lights on in the sitting room.”

  “Doesn’t mean anything,” Daemon replied, touching the hallway candle-light so they could see as they headed for the kitchen. “Allista left this morning to spend a few days with her family, and Manny is celebrating with friends in the village. Tersa told both of them she was staying home tonight.”

  As they walked into the kitchen, they saw her silhouetted against the open back door, oblivious to the cold air streaming into the cottage.

  “Tersa,” Daemon called softly.

  “It’s the boy,” she said, sounding puzzled as she looked from him to Lucivar. “Both my boys.”

  “Yes,” Daemon said.

  “Why are you here?”

  Lucivar nudged her into the kitchen and closed the door. “We’ve decided to establish some family traditions. Winsol Eve is going to be a time for fathers and daughters to spend together.”

  “And mothers and sons,” Daemon added.

  “So we’re here to spend the evening with our mother,” Luc
ivar said.

  “But . . .” She looked around, as if finally noticing where she was. “There is no food. I should prepare food?”

  “We did that,” Daemon said, calling in several dishes and settling them gently on the kitchen table. “A couple of things need to be heated, and a few other things need the finishing touches.” He took off his overcoat and wrapped it around her, adding a warming spell.

  Did she even realize she was shivering?

  Lucivar pulled out a chair. “You sit down, and we’ll take care of things.”

  “That does not seem fair,” Tersa said. “You are doing all the work.”

  “Fine,” Lucivar said. “You can do the dishes after.”

  “That is not fair!”

  Lucivar grinned at her and winked at Daemon.

  They talked, they laughed, and they ate. And as Tersa’s mind flowed between past and present, they learned more of who they had been when they had been her boys.

  “We’d like to ask a favor,” Daemon said when he set out the plate of baked goods he’d wheedled out of Mrs. Beale. “A special gift we’d like you to give both of us if you can.”

  She looked at them—not with the lucidity of madness, but with clear-sighted eyes. “Ask.”

  So he asked. And after thinking about it for a minute, she said yes.

  TEN

  Saetan walked through one of the enclosed gardens at the Keep. Stark at this time of year, but not barren. Life slept beneath the snow, beneath the earth, waiting for the light to return.

  The Blood came from the Darkness of the abyss—a power inherited from another race whose time as the guardians of the Realms had ended. So they honored the Darkness that separated them from the landens, that shaped their preferences and needs and desires.

  Especially their desires.

  “I understand now.”