"She's dead."
"Maybe he was wrong." She took two servings of salad from the bowl and dressed them before sitting down and cutting into her steak. "Eat."
He took his place at the table. "He wouldn't lie to me."
Surreal plopped soured cream onto Daemon's baked potato and gritted her teeth. "I didn't say he lied. I said maybe he was wrong."
Daemon closed his eyes. After a couple of minutes, he opened them and stared at the meal before him. "You fixed dinner."
Gone. Turned down another path in that shattered inner landscape.
"Yes, Daemon," Surreal said quietly, willing herself not to cry. "I fixed dinner. So let's eat it while it's hot."
He helped her with the dishes.
As they worked, Surreal realized Daemon's madness was confined to emotions, to people, to that single tragedy he couldn't face. It was as if Titian had never died, as if Surreal hadn't spent three years whoring in back alleys before Daemon found her again and arranged for a proper education in a Red Moon house. He thought she was still a child, and he continued to fret about Titian's absence. But when she mentioned a book she was reading, he made a dry observation about her eclectic taste and proceeded to tell her about other books that might be of interest. It was the same with music, with art. They posed no threat to him, had no time frame, weren't part of the nightmare of Jaenelle bleeding on that Dark Altar.
Still, it was a strain to pretend to be a young girl, to pretend she didn't see the uncertainty and torment in his golden eyes. It was still early in the evening when she suggested they get some sleep.
She settled into bed with a sigh. Maybe Daemon was as relieved to be away from her as she was from him. On some level he knew she wasn't a child. Just as he knew she'd been with him at Cassandra's Altar.
Mist. Blood. So much blood. Shattered crystal chalices.
You are my instrument.
Words He. Blood doesn't.
She walks among the cildru dyathe.
Maybe he was wrong.
He turned round and round.
Maybe he was wrong.
The mist opened, revealing a narrow path heading upward. He stared at it and shuddered. The path was lined with jagged rock that pointed sideways and down like great stone teeth. Anyone going down the path would brush against the smooth downward sides. Anyone going up ...
He started to climb, leaving a little more of himself on each hungry point. A quarter of the way up, he finally noticed the sound, the roar of fast water. He looked up to see it burst over the high cliff above the path, come rushing toward him.
Not water. Blood. So much blood.
No room to turn. He scrambled backward, but the red flood caught him, smashed him against the stone words that had battered his mind for so long. Tumbling and lost, he caught a glimpse of calm land rising above the flood. He fought his way to that one small island of safety, grabbed at the long, sharp grass, and hauled himself up onto the crumbling ground. Shuddering, he held on to the island of maybe.
When the rush and roar finally stopped, he found himself lying on a tiny, phallic-shaped island in the middle of a vast sea of blood.
Even before she was fully awake, Surreal called in her stiletto.
A soft, stealthy sound.
She slipped out of bed and opened her door a crack, listening.
Nothing.
Maybe it was only Daemon groping in the bathroom.
Gray, predawn light filled the short hallway. Keeping close to the wall, Surreal inspected the other rooms.
The bathroom was empty. So was Daemon's bedroom.
Swearing softly, Surreal examined his room. The bed looked like it had been through a storm, but the rest of the room was untouched. The only clothes missing were the ones she'd given him last night.
Nothing missing from the living area. Nothing missing— damn it!—from the kitchen.
Surreal vanished the stiletto before putting the kettle on for tea.
Tersa used to vanish for days, months, sometimes years before showing up at one of these hideaways. Surreal had intended to move on soon, but what if Daemon returned in a few days and found her gone? Would he remember her as a child and worry? Would he try to find her?
She made the tea and some toast. Taking them into the front room, she curled up on the couch with one of the thick novels she'd bought.
She would wait a few weeks before deciding. There was no hurry. There were plenty of men like the ones who had used Briarwood that she could hunt in this part of Terreille.
10 / Kaeleer
Stubbornly ignoring the steady stream of servants flowing past his study door toward the front rooms, Saetan reached for the next report. They were only halfway up the drive. It would be another
quarter hour before the carriage pulled up to the steps. What had Mephis been thinking of when he'd decided to use the landing web at Halaway instead of the one a few yards from the Hall's front door?
Grinding his teeth, he flipped through the report, seeing nothing.
He was the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan, the High Lord of Hell. He should set an example, should act with dignity.
He dropped the report on his desk and left his study.
Screw dignity.
He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall at a point that was midway between his study and the front door. From there he could comfortably watch everything without being stepped on. Maybe.
Fighting to keep a straight face, Saetan listened to Beale accept one implausible excuse after another for why this footman or that maid just had to be in the great hall at that moment.
Intent on their busy chaos and excuses, no one noticed the front door open until a very rumpled Mephis said, "Beale, could you—Never mind, the footmen are already here. There are some packages—"
Mephis glared at the footmen scrambling out the door before he spotted Saetan. Weaving his way through the maids, Mephis walked over to Saetan, braced himself against the wall, and sighed wearily. "She'll be here in a minute. She pounced on Tarl as soon as the carriage stopped to consult him on the state of her garden."
"Lucky Tarl," Saetan murmured. When Mephis snorted, he studied his rumpled son. "A difficult trip?"
Mephis snorted again. "I never realized one young girl could turn an entire city upside down in just five days." He puffed his cheeks. "Fortunately, I'll only have to help with the paperwork. The negotiations will fall squarely into your lap . . . where they belong."
Saetan's eyebrow snapped up. "What negotiations? Mephis, what—"
A few footmen returned, carrying Jaenelle's luggage. The others . . .
Saetan watched with growing interest as smiling footmen
brought in armloads of brown-paper packages and headed for the labyrinth of corridors that would eventually take them to Jaenelle's suite.
"They aren't what you think," Mephis grumbled.
Since Mephis knew he'd been hoping Jaenelle would buy more clothes, Saetan growled in disappointment. Sylvia's idea of appropriate girl clothes hadn't included a single dress, and the only concession she and Jaenelle had made to his insistence that everyone at the Hall dress for dinner was one long black skirt and two blouses. When he had pointed out—and very reasonably, too—that trousers, shirts, and long sweaters weren't exactly feminine, Sylvia had given him a scalding lecture, the gist of it being that whatever a woman enjoyed wearing was feminine and anything she didn't enjoy wearing wasn't, and if he was too stubborn and old-fashioned to understand that, he could go soak his head in a bucket of cold water. He hadn't quite forgiven her yet for saying they would have to look hard to find a bucket big enough to fit his head into, but he admired the sass behind the remark.
Then Jaenelle bounded through the open door, dazzling Beale and the rest of the staff with a smile before politely asking Helene if she could have a sandwich and a glass of fruit juice sent to her suite.
She looks happy, Saetan thought, forgetting about everything else.
After Helene hurried off to th
e kitchen and Beale herded the remaining staff back to their duties, Saetan pushed away from the wall, opened his arms . . . and fought the sudden nausea as Menzar's fantasies and memories flooded his mind. He cringed at the thought of touching Jaenelle, of somehow dirtying the warmth and high spirits that flowed from her. He started to lower his arms, but she walked into them, gave him a rib-squeezing hug, and said, "Hello, Papa."
He held her tightly, breathing in her physical scent as well as the dark psychic scent he'd missed so keenly during the last few days.
For a moment, that dark scent became swift and penetrating.
But when she leaned back to look at him, her sapphire eyes told him nothing. He shivered with apprehension.
Jaenelle kissed his cheek. "I'm going to unpack. Mephis needs to talk." She turned to Mephis, who was still leaning wearily against the wall. "Thank you, Mephis. I had a grand time, and I'm sorry I caused you so much trouble."
Mephis gave her a warm hug. "It was a unique experience. Next time I'll be a little more prepared."
Jaenelle laughed. "You'd take me back to Amdarh?"
"Wouldn't dare let you go alone," Mephis grumped.
As soon as she was gone, Saetan slid an arm around Mephis's shoulders. "Come to my study. You could use a glass of yarbarah."
"I could use a year's sleep," Mephis grumbled.
Saetan led his eldest son to the leather couch and warmed a glass of yarbarah for him. Sitting on a footstool, Saetan rested Mephis's right foot on his thigh, removed the shoe and sock, and began a soothing foot massage. After a few silent minutes, Mephis roused enough to remember the yarbarah and take a sip.
Continuing his massage, Saetan said quietly, "So tell me."
"Where do you want me to start?"
Good question. "Do any of those packages contain clothes?" He couldn't keep the wistful note out of his voice.
Mephis's eyes gleamed wickedly. "One. She bought you a sweater." Then he yelped.
"Sorry," Saetan muttered, gently rubbing the just-squeezed toes while the mutter turned into a snarl. "I don't wear sweaters. I also don't wear nightshirts." He flinched as the words released more memories. Carefully setting Mephis's right foot down, he stripped off the left shoe and sock and began massaging that foot.
"It was difficult, wasn't it?" Mephis asked softly.
"It was difficult. But the debt's been paid." Saetan worked silently for another minute. "Why a sweater?"
Mephis sipped the yarbarah, letting the question hang. "She said you needed to slouch more, both physically and mentally."
Saetan's eyebrow snapped up.
"She said you'd never sprawl on the couch and take a nap if you were always dressed so formally."
Oh, Mother Night. "I'm not sure I know how to sprawl."
"Well, I heartily suggest you learn." Mephis sent the empty glass skimming through the air until it slid neatly onto a nearby table.
"You've got a mean streak in your nature, Mephis," Saetan growled. "What's in the damn packages?"
"Mostly books."
Saetan remembered not to squeeze the toes. "Books? Perhaps my old wits have gone begging, but I was under the impression we have a very large room full of books. Several, in fact. They're called libraries."
"Apparently not these kinds of books."
Saetan's stomach was full of butterflies. "What kind?"
"How should I know?" Mephis grumbled. "I didn't see most of them. I just paid for them. However . . ."
Saetan groaned.
". . . at every bookseller's shop—and we went to every one in Amdarh—the waif would ask for books about Tigrelan or Sceval or Pandar or Centauran, and when the booksellers showed her legends and myths about those places that were written by Dhemlan authors, she would politely—she was always polite, by the way—tell them she wasn't interested in books of legends unless they came directly from those people. Naturally the booksellers, and the crowd of customers that gathered during these discussions, would explain that those Territories were inaccessible places no one traded with. She would thank them for their help, and they, wanting to stay in her good graces and have continued access to my bank account, would say, 'Who is to say what is real and what is not? Who has seen these places?' And she would say, 'I have,' and pick up the books she'd already purchased and be out the door before the bookseller and customers could pick their jaws up from the floor."
Saetan groaned again.
"Want to hear about the music?"
Saetan released Mephis's foot and braced his head in his hands. "What about the music?"
"Dhemlan music stores don't have Scelt folk music or Pandar pipe music or . . ."
"Enough, Mephis." Saetan moaned. "They're all going to be on my doorstep wanting to know what kind of trade agreements might be possible with those Territories, aren't they?"
Mephis sighed, content. "I'm surprised we beat them here."
Saetan glared at his eldest son. "Did anything go as expected?"
"We had a delightful time at the theater. At least I'll be able to go back there without being snarled at." Mephis leaned forward. "One other thing. About music." He clasped his hands and hesitated. "Have you ever heard Jaenelle sing?"
Saetan probed his memory and finally shook his head. "She's got a lovely speaking voice so I just assumed. . . . Don't tell me she's tone-deaf or sings off-key."
"No." There was a strange expression in Mephis's eyes. "She doesn't sing off-key. She. . . . When you hear her, you'll understand."
"Please, Mephis, no more surprises tonight."
Mephis sighed. "She sings witch songs ... in the Old Tongue."
Saetan raised his head. "Authentic witch songs?"
Mephis's eyes were teary bright. "Not like I've ever heard them sung before, but yes, authentic witch songs."
"But how—" Pointless to ask how Jaenelle knew what she knew. "I think it's time I went up to see our wayward child."
Mephis rose stiffly. He yawned and stretched. "If you find out what all that stuff is that I paid for, I'd like to know."
Saetan rubbed his temples and sighed.
"I bought you something. Did Mephis warn you?" "He mentioned something," Saetan replied cautiously. Her sapphire eyes twinkled as she solemnly handed him the box. Saetan opened it and held up the sweater. Soft, thick,
black with deep pockets. He stripped off his jacket and shrugged into the sweater.
"Thank you, witch-child." He vanished the box and sank gracefully to the floor, finally stretching out his legs and propping himself up on one elbow. "Sufficiently slouched?"
Jaenelle laughed and plopped down beside him. "Quite sufficient."
"What else did you get?"
She didn't quite look him in the eye. "I bought some books."
Saetan eyed the piles of neatly stacked books that formed a large half-circle around her. "So I see." Reading the nearest spines, he recognized most of the Craft books. Copies were either in the family library or in his own private library. Same with the books on history, art, and music. They were the beginning of a young witch's library.
"I know the family has most of these, but I wanted copies of my own. It's hard to make notes in someone else's book."
Saetan experienced a hitch in his breathing. Notes. Handwritten guides that would help explain those breathtaking leaps she made when she was creating a spell. And he wouldn't have access to them. He gave himself a mental shake. Fool. Just borrow the damn book.
It hit him then, a bittersweet sadness. She would want a collection of her own to take with her when she was ready to establish her own household. So few years to savor before the Hall was empty again.
He pushed those thoughts aside and turned to the other stacks, the fiction. These were more interesting since a perusal of her choices would tell him a lot about Jaenelle's tastes and immediate interests. Trying to find a common thread was too bewildering, so he simply filed away the information. He considered himself an eclectic reader. He had no idea how to describe her. Some books st
ruck him as being too young for her, some too gritty. Some he passed over with little interest, others reminded him of how long it had been since he'd browsed through a bookseller's shop for his own amusement. Lots of books about animals.
"Quite a collection," he finally said, placing the last book
carefully on its stack. "What are those?" He pointed to the three books half-hidden under brown paper.
Blushing, Jaenelle mumbled, "Just books."
Saetan raised an eyebrow and waited.
With a resigned sigh, Jaenelle reached under the brown paper and thrust a book at him.
Odd. Sylvia had reacted much the same way when he'd called unexpectedly one evening and found her reading the same book. She hadn't heard him come in, and when she finally did glance up and notice him, she immediately stuffed the book behind a pillow and gave him the strong impression it would take an army to pull her away from her book-hiding pillow and nothing less would make her surrender it.
"It's a romantic novel," Jaenelle said in a small voice as he called in his half-moon glasses and started idly flipping the pages. "A couple of women in a bookseller's shop kept talking about it."
Romance. Passion. Sex.
He suppressed—barely—the urge to leap to his feet and twirl her around the room. A sign of emotional healing? Please, sweet Darkness, please let it be a sign of healing.
"You think it's silly." Her tone was defensive.
"Romance is never silly, witch-child. Well, sometimes it's silly, but not silly." He flipped more pages. "Besides, I used to read things like this. They were an important part of my education."
Jaenelle gaped at him. "Really?"
"Mmm. Of course, they were a bit more—" He scanned a page. He carefully closed the book. "Then again, maybe not." He removed his glasses and vanished them before they steamed up.
Jaenelle nervously fluffed her hair. "Papa, if I have any questions about things, would you be willing to answer them?"
"Of course, witch-child. I'll give you whatever help you want in Craft or your other subjects."
"Nooo. I meant . . ." She glanced at the book in front of him.
Bishop, Anne - Dark Jewels 02 - Heir to the Shadows (v1.0) Page 14
