by Anne Bishop
He might have dismissed that gossip except that it finally occurred to him that, perhaps, Jaenelle had been waiting for him, but not in Terreille. He'd let grief cloud his thinking, locking away all but the best memories of the few months he had known her. So he'd forgotten about the ties she already had to Kaeleer.
If she really was in the Shadow Realm, he'd already lost five years he could have spent with her. He wasn't going to spend the next five in some other court, yearning from a distance.
If, that is, she really was alive.
A change in the psychic scents around him pulled him from his thoughts. He looked around and swore under his breath.
He was at the far end of the fairgrounds. Judging by the sky, he'd have to run in order to get back to the administrators' building and make a choice before the bell ending the last day of the fair rang. Even then, he might not have a choice if Jorval wasn't waiting for him.
As he turned to go back, he noticed one of the red banners that indicated a station where court contracts were filled out. There were a few Eyriens standing to one side, and a line of them waiting their turn. But it was the Eyrien warrior watching the proceedings that froze Daemon where he stood.
The man wore a leather vest and the black, skintight trousers favored by Eyrien warriors. His black hair fell to his shoulders, which was unusual for an Eyrien male. But it was the way he stood, the way he moved that felt so painfully familiar.
A wild joy filled Daemon, even as his heart clogged his throat and tears stung his gold eyes. Lucivar.
Of course, it couldn't be. Lucivar had died eight years ago, escaping from the salt mines of Pruul.
Then the man turned. For a moment, Daemon thought he saw the same fierce joy in Lucivar's eyes before it was lost in blazing fury.
Seeing the fury and remembering that the unfinished business between them could only end in blood being spilled, Daemon retreated behind the cold mask he'd lived behind for most of his life and started to walk away.
He'd only gone a few steps before a hand clamped on his right arm and spun him around.
"How long have you been here?" Lucivar demanded.
Daemon tried to shake off the hand, but Lucivar's fingers dug in hard enough to leave bruises. "Two days," Daemon replied with chilly courtesy. He felt the mask slip and knew he needed to get away from here before his emotions spilled over. Right now, he wasn't sure if he would meet Lucivar's anger with tears or rage.
"Have you signed a contract?" Lucivar shook him. "Have you?"
"No, and there's little time left to do it. If you'll excuse me."
Lucivar snarled, tightened his grip, and almost yanked Daemon off his feet. "You weren't on the lists," he muttered as he pulled Daemon toward the table under the red banner. "I checked. You weren't on any of the damn lists."
"I apologize for the incon—"
"Shut up. Daemon."
Daemon clenched his teeth and lengthened his stride to match his brother's. He didn't know what kind of game Lucivar was playing, but he'd be damned if he'd go into it being dragged like a reluctant puppy.
"Look, Prick," Daemon said, trying to balance Lucivar's volatile temper with reason, "I have to—"
"You're signing a contract with the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih."
Daemon let out an exasperated huff. "Don't you think you should discuss it with him beforehand?"
Lucivar gave him a knife-edged look. "I don't usually discuss things with myself, Bastard. Plant your feet."
Daemon felt the ground roll unexpectedly and decided it was good advice. "Have long have you been in Kaeleer?" he asked, feeling weak.
"Eight years." Lucivar hissed as an older Eyrien Warlord signed the contract and stepped away from the table. "Hell's fire. Why is that little maggot taking so long to write a line of information?" He took a step toward the table. Then he turned back, and said too softly, "Don't try to walk away. If you do, I'll break your legs in so many places you won't even be able to crawl."
Daemon didn't bother to respond. Lucivar didn't make idle threats, and in a physical fight, Daemon knew he couldn't beat his Eyrien half brother. Besides, the ground under his feet kept shifting in unexpected ways that threatened his balance.
The Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih. Lucivar was the Warlord Prince of the territory that belonged to Ebon Askavi, the Black Mountain that was also called the Keep—that was also the Sanctuary of Witch.
That didn't necessarily mean anything. The land existed whether a Warlord Prince watched over it or not—or a Queen ruled there or not.
But Lucivar being alive here nourished the hope in Daemon that he had been wrong about Jaenelle's death as well. Had she sent Lucivar to the service fair to look for him? Had one of Lord Magstrom's inquiries reached her after all? Was she...
Daemon shook his head. Too many questions—and this wasn't the time or place to get answers. But, oh, how he began to hope.
As Lucivar approached the table, someone called, "Prince Yaslana. Here are two more for the contract."
Turning toward the voice, Daemon felt the ground shift a little more. Two men, a Sapphire-Jeweled Warlord and a Red-Jeweled Warlord Prince, were pulling two women toward the table. A brown-haired man with a black eye patch and a pronounced limp angrily followed them.
The frightened woman had dark hair, fair skin, and blue eyes. It had been thirteen years since he'd seen Wilhelmina Benedict, Jaenelle's half sister. She had grown into a beautiful woman, but was still filled with the brittle fear she'd had as an adolescent. Her eyes widened when she saw him, but she said nothing.
The snarling woman with the long black hair, light golden-brown skin, delicately pointed ears, and blazing gold-green eyes was Surreal. She had left the island four months ago, giving no explanation except there was something she had to do.
At first, he didn't know the limping man. When he saw the flash of recognition in the man's blue eye, he felt a stab of pain under his heart. Andrew, the stable lad who had helped him escape the Hayllian guards after Jaenelle had been taken back to Briarwood.
"Lord Khardeen. Prince Aaron," Lucivar said, formally greeting the Sapphire-Jeweled Warlord and the Red-Jeweled Warlord Prince.
"Prince Yaslana, these Ladies should be part of the contract," Prince Aaron said respectfully.
Lucivar gave both women a look that could have flayed flesh from bone. Then he looked at Khardeen and Aaron. "Accepted."
Wilhelmina trembled visibly, but Surreal hooked her hair behind her pointed ears and narrowed her eyes at Lucivar. "Look, sugar—"
"Surreal," Daemon said quietly. He shook his head. The last thing any of them needed was Surreal and Lucivar tangling with each other.
Surreal hissed. When she tried to shake off Prince Aaron's hand, the man let her go, then shifted to block any attempt she might make to leave. Eyeing Lucivar with intense dislike, she moved until she stood beside Daemon. "Is that your brother?" she asked in a low voice. "The one who's supposed to be dead?"
Daemon nodded.
She watched Lucivar for a minute. "Is he dead?"
For the first time since he'd arrived in Kaeleer, Daemon smiled. "The demon-dead can't tolerate daylight—at least according to the stories—so I would say Lucivar is very much alive."
"Well, can't you reason with him? I have a mark of safe passage and a three-month visitor's pass. I didn't come here to sign a contract for court service, and the day I jump when that son of a bitch snaps his fingers is the day the sun is going to shine in Hell."
"Don't make any bets on it," Daemon muttered, watching Lucivar study the member of the Dark Council who was filling out the contract.
Before Surreal could reply, Wilhelmina sidled over to them. "Prince Sadi," she said in a voice that trembled on the edge of panic. "Lady."
"Lady Benedict," Daemon replied formally while Surreal nodded in acknowledgment.
Wilhelmina glanced fearfully at Lucivar, who was now talking to the older Eyrien Warlord. "He's scary," she whispered.
Surreal smile
d maliciously and raised her voice. "When a man wears his pants that tight, they tend to pinch his balls, and that tends to pinch his temper."
Aaron, who was standing near them, coughed violently, trying to muffle his laughter.
Seeing Lucivar break off his conversation and head toward them, Daemon sighed and wished he knew a spell that would make Surreal lose her voice for the next few hours.
Lucivar stopped an arm's length away, ignoring the way Wilhelmina shrank away from him, focusing his attention on Surreal. He smiled the lazy, arrogant smile that was usually the only warning before a fight.
Surreal lowered her right hand so that her arm hung at her side.
Recognizing that as her warning signal, Daemon slipped his hands out of his trouser pockets and shifted slightly, prepared to stop her before she was foolish enough to pull a knife on Lucivar.
"You're Titian's daughter, aren't you?" Lucivar asked.
"What do you care?" Surreal snarled.
Lucivar studied her for a moment. Then he shook his head and muttered, "You're going to be a pain in the ass."
"Then maybe you should let me go," Surreal said with sweet venom.
Lucivar laughed, low and nasty. "If you think I'm going to explain to the Harpy Queen why her daughter's in another court when I was standing here, then you'd better think again, little witch."
Surreal bared her teeth. "My mother is not a Harpy. And I'm not a little witch. And I'm not signing any damn contract that gives you control over me."
"Think again," Lucivar said.
Daemon's hand clamped on Surreal's right forearm. Aaron clamped down on her left arm.
The bell indicating the end of the service fair rang three times.
Surreal swore furiously. Lucivar just smiled.
Then a man's voice, rising in protest, made them all turn their attention toward the table.
Daemon caught sight of the fussily dressed man who was busily straightening papers and ignoring the young Eyrien Warlord.
Snarling, Lucivar strode to the table, slipped through the line of confused, upset Eyriens, and stopped beside the man who was still pretending not to notice any of them.
"Is there a problem, Lord Friall?" Lucivar asked mildly.
Friall shook back the lace at his wrists and continued to gather up his papers. "The bell ending the fair has rung. If these people are still available when you arrive tomorrow for claiming day, you can sign them to a contract under the first-offer rule."
Daemon tensed. Lord Jorval had explained the first-offer rule of the service fair several times. During the fair, immigrants had the right to refuse an offer to serve in a court, or wait to see if another offer was made from a different court, or try to negotiate for a better position. But the day after the service fair was a claiming day. There was only one choice. Immigrants could accept whatever was offered by the first court to fill out a claim for them—and Jorval had implied that any position offered at a claiming was usually a demeaning one—or they could return to Terreille and attempt to come back for the next fair. He had spent two million gold marks in bribes in order to get on the immigration list for this service fair. He had the means to do it again if he dared risk going back to Terreille. But most had spent everything they had for this one chance at a hopefully better life. They would sign a contract for the privilege of crawling if that was the only way to stay in Kaeleer.
"Now, Lord Friall," Lucivar said, still sounding mild, "you know as well as I do that a person has to be accepted before the final bell, but there's an hour afterward for the contracts to be filled out and signed."
"If you want to sign the contract for the ones already listed, you can take them with you now. The others will have to wait until tomorrow," Friall insisted.
Lucivar raised his right hand and scratched his chin.
The rest happened so fast, Daemon didn't even see the move. One moment, Lucivar was scratching his chin. The next, his Eyrien war blade was delicately resting on Friall's left wrist.
"Now," Lucivar said pleasantly, "you can finish filling out that contract or I can cut off your left hand. Your choice."
"Shit," Surreal muttered as she moved closer to Daemon.
"You can't do this," Friall whimpered.
Lucivar's hand didn't seem to move, but a thin line of blood began to flow from Friall's wrist.
"I'll inform the Council," Friall wailed. "You'll be in trouble."
"Maybe," Lucivar replied. "But you'll still be without a left hand. If you're lucky, that's all you'll lose. If you're not..."
A hurried movement made Daemon glance to the left. Lord Magstrom, the Dark Council member he had first talked with, stopped at the other end of the table.
"May I be of some assistance, Prince Yaslana?" the elderly man asked breathlessly.
Lucivar looked up, and Magstrom froze. The color drained from his face.
"Mother Night," Aaron muttered. "He's risen to the killing edge."
Daemon didn't move. Neither did anyone else. A Warlord Prince who had risen to the killing edge was violent and uncontrollable. He wore the Black, the only Jewel darker than Lucivar's Ebon-gray, but any effort he made to try to contain his brother would only snap whatever self-control Lucivar still had. At the very least, Friall would die. At the worst, there would be a slaughter.
"Lord Friall says the contracts can't be filled out after the last bell," Lucivar said with deceptive mildness.
"I'm sure he misunderstood," Magstrom replied quickly. "There's an hour's leniency after the last bell in order to fill out the papers." When Lucivar said nothing, he took a careful breath. "Lord Friall seems to be indisposed. With your permission, I will finish filling out the contracts."
By this time, the white lace around Friall's left wrist was a wet, bright red. Snot ran from the man's nose as he wept silently.
At Lucivar's slight nod, Magstrom pulled the papers away from the small pool of blood on the table and picked up the pen lying next to them. Retreating to the other end of the table, Magstrom sat down.
Lucivar raised his left hand and pointed at Daemon. "He's first."
Magstrom filled out the top of the contract and then looked at Daemon expectantly. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead.
Move, damn you, move. For a tense moment, Daemon's body refused to obey. When his legs finally started working, he had the chilling sensation that he was walking on thin, cracked ice where one false step could lead to disaster.
"Daemon Sadi," Magstrom said quietly, writing the name in neat script. "From Hayll, isn't that right?"
"Yes," Daemon replied. To his own ears, his voice sounded hoarse, hollow. If Magstrom noticed, the man gave no indication.
"When we met, I recall that you said you wore a dark Jewel, but I don't remember which one."
When he'd met with Magstrom, he'd said the Red was his Birthright Jewel, but he had evaded mentioning his Jewel of rank. There could be no evading now. "The Black."
Magstrom looked up, his eyes wide with shock. Then he quickly filled in the space on the paper. "And you brought two servants?"
"Manny is a White-Jeweled witch. Jazen is a Purple Dusk Warlord."
Magstrom wrote down the information, then turned the contract around. "Just sign here and then put your initials in the spaces for the other two signatures to indicate that you accept responsibility for your servants." As Daemon bent down to sign the contract, he whispered, "This court would have been my choice for you. You belong here."
Saying nothing, Daemon stepped away from the table to make room for Surreal. He glanced once at Lucivar, whose glazed gold eyes just stared at him.
"Name?" Magstrom asked.
"Surreal."
When she didn't say anything else, Magstrom said gently, "While they are not often used in Kaeleer, it is customary to formally record a family name."
Surreal stared at him. Then she smiled maliciously. "SaDiablo."
Magstrom gasped. Khardeen and Aaron gaped at her for a moment before turning away from the
table.
Daemon closed his eyes and didn't listen to the rest of her answers. Since she was Kartane SaDiablo's bastard daughter, she had probably intended it as a slap against his mother, Dorothea. There was no reason for her to know that the name had meaning in Kaeleer.
"Hell's fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful," two voices said in unison.
Daemon opened his eyes. Aaron and Khardeen stood in front of him, watching Surreal move away from the table.
Aaron looked at him. "Is that really her family name?"
Daemon hesitated. He didn't know what kind of stigma being a bastard carried in Kaeleer, and he owed Surreal too much to reveal a potentially vulnerable spot. "The man who sired her goes by that name," he replied cautiously.
"What do you think we should do?" Aaron asked Khardeen.
"Sell tickets," Khardeen replied promptly. "And then find a safe place to watch the explosion."
Their amusement at Surreal's expense made Daemon's temper flash. "Is this going to be a problem?"
"You could say that," Khardeen said gleefully. Then he settled his face into a serious expression. "You see, what Lady Surreal hasn't realized yet is that by formally declaring herself as part of the SaDiablo family, she's just acquired Lucivar as a cousin."
"And if you think Lucivar has a dominating personality with other males, you should see him with the women in the family," Aaron added.
And with Jaenelle?
The question went unspoken because he didn't want to see a blank expression on their faces when they heard the name—and because he wasn't sure what he would do if he saw recognition. It would be better to ask Lucivar that question—in private. And the questions he now had about women and family... Those, too, would be asked later.
"And we're not even going to try to imagine what's going to happen when she tangles with the males on the Dea al Mon side of her family," Khardeen said.
"Why should they be involved at all?" Daemon asked.
