Twilight's Dawn dj-9

by Anne Bishop

  When they dropped from the Winds to another landing web, she looked around. “This is SaDiablo Hall, but it’s . . .”

  “In the Dark Realm. At one time, I ruled in all three Realms, so I built the Hall in all three Realms.”

  “Mother Night.” She couldn’t imagine what it had cost to build one of the Halls, let alone three.

  She’d expected the place to be empty. It was a hive of activity. She saw caution in every eye when the demon-dead spotted the High Lord, but there were also smiles and pleasantries. He held what was left of their lives in his hands, and they didn’t forget that.

  Just as he now held hers.

  “Most of the demon-dead remain near the Gate closest to where they lived,” Saetan said quietly. “Some go to specific territories that have been claimed by a particular group, like the Harpies or the cildru dyathe. And some have unfinished business—the novel they never found time to write or the dream of learning to paint that they gave up out of duty to family. Some want to learn to play a musical instrument. Unfinished business. Not with the living; with themselves. I provide a place for them to live, a modest amount of yarbarah for sustenance, and the materials they need. In turn, they take care of this place, and the stronger look after the weaker when it’s needed.”

  “It’s a community of artists,” she said, wishing he would slow down so she could get a better look at the paintings. Some were hung out of kindness. Others were stunning and beautiful.

  “This is what I wanted you to see.” He opened a door and guided her inside.

  The room was divided in half. There were scribbles and colored handprints and primitive drawings covering the set of folding panels that separated the room.

  *It’s less frustrating than trying to clean the walls all the time,* Saetan said.

  Since he was clearly moving to keep them out of sight of whoever was on the other side of the panels, she stifled a laugh.

  “It’s a pretty nice place,” a young male voice said. “There are toys and games and lots of books to read for fun. There are also chores and studies, but those are interesting too. Some of the time.”

  Sylvia smiled. That sounded so much like Mikal.

  Saetan slipped his arm out of hers. After making sure she was steady, he stepped back. *Go ahead. Take a look.*

  Taking hold of the edge of the panel, she eased herself into a position to see the room.

  Thirty children, if not more. None of them had reached adolescence, whatever their race. Among them was a Dhemlan boy sitting on the floor, hugging a stuffed toy.

  Sylvia looked back at Saetan. *Is that . . . ?*

  *Haeze’s brother? Yes.*

  She listened for a minute as the boy in charge explained the rules everyone had to follow in order to be a resident of the Hall.

  Pushing against the panel, she floated back to Saetan. *Who is the Keeper of the Rules?*

  *The first cildru dyathe to choose to live here instead of on their island. Daemon rescued him from the spooky house several years ago and brought him to me. In his way, he’s made the same choice another cildru dyathe made long ago—to be the leader of this band of children and help the others adjust and survive and let go when they’re ready.*

  She caught something the boy said, and looked more closely at the man. *You can’t help the ones who don’t trust adults enough to accept help, but you help these children, don’t you? You’re the one who comes to read them stories or listen to them or give them a hug. Aren’t you?*

  *Some came from loving homes. Others never knew the comfort of a hug. Not from a father or a mother.*

  Everything has a price. Suddenly she knew what he was asking of her in exchange for spending time with her own sons—to be a maternal presence for the children who had never known any. To help them with their unfinished business. To give them a sense of family. With him.

  Linking her arm with his, she tipped her head toward the door. He took them out of the room, then waited for her to indicate a direction. Instead she just looked at him.

  “I asked you once, and I understand better now why you gave me the answer you did,” she said. “But everything has changed, so I’m going to ask again. Will you marry me, Saetan?”

  She saw shock in his eyes, swiftly followed by joy, which was just as swiftly followed by caution.

  “Can you promise me that you won’t stay one day longer than you truly want to?” he asked.

  “I promise you that.”

  “Then I will be honored to be your husband for all the days that come before that day.”

  She threw her arms around him and held him as tightly as he held her.

  “What kind of wedding would you like?” he asked.

  She eased back enough to look at him. “A fast one.”

  EIGHT

  Sylvia had to wait a week for her wedding because Jaenelle wouldn’t allow Beron to travel to the Keep until every tiny part of his ears, eyes, and throat had healed completely. She chafed about the delay, but approved of the reason.

  The Priestess from Riada came to the Keep to perform the marriage ceremony. The food for the living guests had been provided by Mrs. Beale from the Hall and Merry from The Tavern.

  Sylvia’s father and brother had been invited. They weren’t able to smudge that line between the living and the dead and had refused to attend. But her sons were there, along with Marian and Lucivar, Daemonar, Jillian and Nurian, Tersa and Manny, Surreal and Rainier, Daemon and Jaenelle, and plenty of kindred who were also members of this pieced-together family.

  Saetan slipped an arm around her waist and held out a ravenglass goblet of yarbarah. “How are you doing, Lady Sylvia?”

  Accepting the goblet, she narrowed her eyes. “Mikal and Daemonar are about to get into some mischief. They’ve got that look.”

  “You think so?” he asked, laughing softly.

  The boys had barely taken a step before they were flanked by Scelties and blocked by Kaelas. In that moment, Sylvia saw three male heads turn in that direction—Daemon, Lucivar, and Rainier.

  She pressed her lips together to keep from laughing aloud, since Mikal looked so annoyed at having his fun stopped before it started.

  She took a sip of the yarbarah, then handed back the goblet. “I appreciate the sentiment, and the dress is gorgeous, but Jaenelle shouldn’t have harassed the dressmakers to get it made for the wedding.” The wedding ring, a square-cut ruby with flanking diamonds, had come from Banard’s shop. It wasn’t custom-made like the dress, but it had been chosen with care.

  “My darling, Jaenelle would never harass a dressmaker or be as demanding about fit and style.”

  Sylvia brushed a hand over the rich red fabric. “Then who ... ?”

  “Daemon, however, makes up for being demanding by knowing exactly what he wants—and being a very generous patron of some of Amdarh’s more exclusive establishments.”

  She felt the room tip a little when she considered the rest of the wedding gift. “The lingerie? Jaenelle or Surreal chose that. Didn’t they?”

  Saetan just looked at her.

  “Oh, Hell’s fire.”

  “Has it occurred to you yet that Daemon and Lucivar are now your stepsons?”

  “Don’t threaten me on my wedding day, SaDiablo.”

  He burst out laughing.

  A minute later, Jaenelle came up to them and gave Sylvia a bright smile that would have scared her right down to her toes if she’d still had any.

  “I need to borrow your wife,” Jaenelle told Saetan. “Lady Sylvia and I need to have a little chat.”

  NINE

  Daemon picked up the first letter from the thick stack on his desk and swore softly. The swearing became more vigorous and creative as he worked his way through the stack. By the time Rainier walked into the study to go over the week’s assignments, Daemon was one wrong word away from exploding.

  “What in the name of Hell are these?” he roared, dropping the letters on the blackwood desk.

  Rainier winced. “Ah.
I was hoping to get here before you saw those.”

  “And they are?”

  “Just what they seem—offers from District Queens all around Dhemlan to become the new Queen of Halaway. And the same offer from a few young Queens from other Territories.”

  “I know who rules in my Territory, Rainier. Some of these women rule towns or cities that are larger—and more profitable—than a small village, and others already rule a handful of villages. They’re going to give up that income to rule Halaway?”

  Rainier looked uncomfortable. “You read the letters? Of course you did.”

  “So I know that the letters addressed to the Province Queen, of which there are few, are sincere offers to add Halaway to the villages under the Ladies’ rule because every village needs to be held by someone. But most of these . . .”

  He stopped. Even after more than a decade of marriage, he still felt the raw fury of a vulnerable man whose reputation could be compromised. But that was his state of mind, and he had no right to whip Rainier with that fury.

  “Why did we get these at all?” he asked through gritted teeth. “Shouldn’t a committee from the village or the Province Queen sort through these and present me with a short list for final approval?”

  “Normally it would be done that way,” Rainier said. “But, Prince, your reaction to these letters—and they are only letters—is exactly why no one else is willing to make a choice. No one wants to be held responsible for whatever Queen ends up living on your doorstep—especially if she proves to be too friendly a neighbor.”

  Daemon took in a deep breath and blew it out.

  “If I were you, I would put those aside,” Rainier said. “When I spoke with Sylvia’s First Circle yesterday, they said they had been talking to a particular Lady about becoming Halaway’s Queen and were hopeful that she would accept. She’s supposed to give them her answer today.”

  “She’s one of these?” He pointed to the stack of letters.

  “I don’t know, but judging by how much care they were taking in what they said, they want this particular Queen.”

  “If they feel that strongly, I’ll certainly make an effort not to interfere, as long as the Lady doesn’t think ruling Halaway means having access to my bed,” Daemon said as the study door opened and Jaenelle walked in.

  “That might be a problem,” she said cheerfully. “Rainier, the Prince and I need to talk.”

  Rainier looked at her, then at Daemon, and limped out of the room as fast as he could, closing the door behind him.

  Jaenelle settled in the visitor’s chair and smiled at Daemon. “Sit down, Prince.”

  His stomach clenched, but he obeyed.

  “Sylvia’s First Circle asked me to take her place as the Queen of Halaway,” Jaenelle said. “This morning I accepted and signed a five-year contract.”

  Daemon’s jaw dropped. “But ... you don’t want to rule. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard you say that over the years.”

  She looked embarrassed. “Apparently, what I say and what I do are not the same things, and I’ve been the only one who hasn’t noticed that.”

  Oh, shit. Who was the fool who told her?

  “Ladvarian says that Scelties and Queens are meant to herd. It is our nature, and denying our nature is foolish. When I ruled Kaeleer, that was a heavy burden, even with all the other Queens to help me. And after I was hurt, it took me a long time to heal, and my becoming well was the most important thing. And I had a mate, and it was also important that I spend a lot of time with him and play. But now it’s time for me to work again, and officially ruling the small village right next to my home won’t be much different from what I already do. Or so says the Sceltie.”

  He couldn’t think of one thing he dared to say.

  “As much as I’d like to kick his furry ass for what he said, Ladvarian was right. It’s time for me to have my own flock again.”

  “A new court?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Sylvia’s First Circle doesn’t belong to me in the truest sense, but they’re good men who are committed to Halaway, and we’ll work well together to take care of the village and its people.” She hesitated. “And they’re willing to accommodate the things Sylvia and I want for Mikal and Beron.”

  Ah. Now he was hearing a reason that made sense. Then he remembered something about Sylvia’s First Circle that made him brace involuntarily for pain. Jaenelle was a Queen—and no matter who their husbands might be, Queens had privileges.

  “Consort?” he asked.

  She gave him a sharp look. Her voice was equally sharp. “The Warlord Prince of Dhemlan does not become the Consort of a District Queen and serve in her court—no matter who she is. Hopefully my husband will be willing to escort me to formal functions when required.”

  “Which will leave an opening in the Queen’s Triangle.” There would be plenty of men who would come sniffing around once Jaenelle became Queen, for ambition’s sake if for nothing else.

  She fluffed her hair. “I was thinking of asking Rainier to stand as First Escort to fill that side of the Triangle. I didn’t think you would object, since you already treat him as your stand-in when you can’t accompany me to an event.”

  He felt his face heat even as he felt the ache around his heart ease. “It’s not that I don’t trust you.”

  She smiled. “I know. For all the strength and power of your caste, Warlord Princes have their weak spots. On occasion, because you love so deeply, you will feel insecure. That is as much a part of your nature as ruling is a part of mine. As long as you remember that I love you, we’ll be fine.”

  He nodded and searched for a way to step back from discussing her new court. “What about Mikal and Beron?”

  “Ah. Mikal is easy. We’re doing a little decorating of the guest bedroom in Tersa’s cottage so that it will be Mikal’s room.”

  “And Tildee’s,” he added.

  “And Tildee’s. In exchange for being allowed to live with Tersa, Mikal has promised to do his assigned chores and his schoolwork and not try to smudge the truth with Tersa the way he sometimes did with his mother, because doing that would upset Tersa’s hold on the mundane world. Since you are the patriarch of the family and he is now officially family, he answers to you, and any discipline that may be required comes from you.”

  “Good to know,” he muttered. “And Beron?”

  “That’s trickier,” she hedged.

  “Why? He can live here with us. There is plenty of room.”

  “He doesn’t want to live here with us.”

  Daemon sat back, crossed his legs at the knees, steepled his fingers, and raised one eyebrow in polite query.

  “I see,” Jaenelle said. “The nervous husband is gone, and the Prince is back.”

  He waited.

  “The Queen’s residence is Beron’s home. He doesn’t want to leave it. Not yet. And there are advantages to letting him stay there. For one, I won’t be living there—not most of the time, although I will have a suite of rooms and will stay overnight on occasion. With my husband.”

  Daemon’s lips twitched.

  “Having Beron stay there also means that I’ll be able to justify keeping on the whole staff, since there will be someone in residence.”

  “A boy his age living alone? I don’t think so.”

  “He’s not a boy. He’s an adolescent youth who is almost old enough to attend school on his own.”

  “Almost old enough isn’t old enough.”

  She narrowed those sapphire eyes.

  He tapped a finger against his chest. “Patriarch of the family, remember?”

  “He’ll be old enough in five years,” she said tightly.

  Which explained the length of her contract.

  “Jaenelle . . .”

  “The next five years will be a proving ground. The three of us will work out the rules and restrictions. If Beron violates any of the big rules, he’ll be packed up and will have to live here with us and be held to a short leash. S
ince Surreal and Rainier live in the village half of the time, they can drop by and check on him, day or night.”

  “Not to mention that the court will be working in the other half of the residence most days.” Daemon nodded.

  “If he acts like a responsible young man, at the end of that five years, he’ll be allowed to go to Amdarh and train in the work of his choice.”

  “Which is?”

  She studied him, as if trying to judge how he would respond even before she said the words.

  “He wants to be an actor. He wants to perform onstage. He’s had a passion for it since the first time he was given a part in a school play. He’s talked about this for as long as I’ve known him. It’s what he wants to do, Daemon. A life dream.”

  That explained her fury when Jaenelle discovered how the Healer had damaged Beron, and why she had been so fierce about restoring his voice, hearing, and vision to exactly what they had been before the damage.

  And it explained something else. “His grandfather disapproves?”

  “It’s not a profession suitable for a Queen’s son. Beron should be training to serve in a court or apprentice for some other suitable occupation.”

  “Which is nothing Beron wants.”

  “No. That disapproval has caused a strain in the relationship between grandfather and grandson. While Sylvia was alive, she supported Beron’s choice, encouraging him to audition for the plays performed in the village. With her gone, there would have been no buffer, especially if he had gone to live with Sylvia’s father. Beron doesn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, but he wouldn’t have backed down from what he wants. Eventually he would have rebelled and chosen a reckless path that would have done him irreparable harm.”

  Daemon sat forward. She sounded too certain, which meant she’d seen something in a tangled web. “Couldn’t you have told me some of that when you asked me to deny Sylvia’s father custody of her sons?”