by Anne Bishop
"Because she's Titian's daughter, finally come home," Aaron said. Then he grinned. "Lady Surreal is about to find out that she now has male relatives from both her bloodlines who are going to make her life their business— and several of those males are Warlord Princes."
Mother Night! "She's never going to tolerate that," Daemon said.
"Well, she's not going to have a lot of choice," Khardeen replied.
"The Blood are matriarchal. Isn't that true in Kaeleer?"
"Of course," Aaron said cheerfully. "But males do have rights and privileges, and we take full advantage of them." He studied Daemon for a moment. "Why don't you try to keep her calm while we keep an eye on Lucivar. If nobody pushes him, he should be able to keep his temper leashed."
"Do you know him that well?" Daemon asked.
He saw the knowledge in their eyes that they had kept carefully masked until now. They knew he was Lucivar's brother. And they knew...
"We all serve in the same court, Prince Sadi," Aaron said quietly. "We all serve in the Lady's First Circle."
Then they walked away from him.
They might as well have shouted it from the rooftops. She's alive!
Joy and trepidation warred inside him, causing his heart to pound too hard, his blood to whip through his veins too fast. She's alive!
But what did she think of him? What did she feel for him?
No answers. Not here. Not yet.
With exaggerated care, Daemon walked over to Surreal. The moment he stopped moving, he swayed like a willow in a heavy wind.
Surreal wrapped her arms around his left arm and planted her feet.
"What's wrong?" she asked quietly, urgently. "Are you ill?"
She, better than anyone, would be able to guess exactly what was wrong, but he wasn't about to admit it. Not now. "I've had almost no sleep and very little food in the past few days," he said.
She narrowed her eyes but accepted the truth that was also a lie. "I can understand that. This place makes my skin crawl."
Daemon tapped into the reservoir of power stored in his Black Jewel. It rushed through his body, and for the first time since he'd seen Lucivar, he felt steady.
Surreal sensed the change in him. She loosened her grip, but still kept one arm companionably linked with his. "Why do you think the old Warlord doing the contracts looked so shocked when I said my family name was SaDiablo? Is that bitch Dorothea that well-known here?"
"I don't know," Daemon said carefully. "But I have heard that the name of the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan is S. D. SaDiablo." This wasn't the time to tell her that the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan was also the High Lord of Hell—and his and Lucivar's father.
"Shit," Surreal muttered. Then she shrugged. "Well, I'm not likely to meet him, and if someone asks, I can just say that we might be distantly related. Very distantly."
Remembering Khardeen's and Aaron's comments, Daemon made a sound that might have been a whimper.
"You sure you're all right?" Surreal asked, studying him.
"I'm fine." Just fine. More than fine. He would believe it, insist on it, until it was true. "Do me a favor. Ask Khardeen or Aaron if we're going to be traveling in the Web Coaches, and then contact Manny so that she and Jazen can meet us there."
She didn't ask why he didn't do it himself, and he was grateful.
Finally, the last Eyrien had signed the contract and moved away from the table. Lucivar, who hadn't moved or said anything since Lord Magstrom started filling out the contracts, called in a clean cloth, wiped the blood off his war blade, vanished both, and walked around the table to sign the contracts.
Holding his bleeding wrist against his chest, Friall wiped his nose on his clean sleeve and said in a sulky voice, "You have to make copies. He can't take the contracts until you make copies."
Lucivar slowly straightened up and turned toward Friall.
A male voice swore softly.
Giving Friall a sharp glance, Magstrom said hurriedly, "I'll give Prince Yaslana blank contracts. The Steward of the Court can make the copies and return them to the Dark Council for the clerks to record." When Friall seemed about to protest, and surely get himself killed, Magstrom added, "I've seen Lord Jorval do this a number of times. He explained that the Stewards could be trusted to make an accurate copy, and it was the only way to expedite getting the immigrants settled in their new homes."
Calling in a thin leather case, Lucivar slipped the contracts inside and then vanished it. He nodded politely at Magstrom, turned to face the waiting immigrants, and snarled, "Let's go."
Daemon turned smoothly as Lucivar approached him and matched the Eyrien's stride.
They had walked like this before, side by side. Not often, because the Terreillean Blood, who were afraid of them individually, were terrified of them when they were together. Even the Ring of Obedience hadn't been enough to stop the destruction they had caused in Terreillean courts.
As they headed for the Coaches that were designed to ride the Winds, Daemon wondered how long they could put off the unfinished business between them.
It was almost full dark by the time they reached the two large, Ebon-gray shielded Coaches at the far end of the landing area.
Lucivar dropped the Ebon-gray shields, opened the door of the first Coach, looked at Daemon, and said, "Get in."
Daemon glanced around. "My servants aren't here yet."
"I'll look for them. Get in."
Looking at Lucivar's still-glazed eyes, and picking up a strained urgency in his brother's psychic scent, Daemon obeyed.
Surreal, Wilhelmina, and Andrew quickly came in behind him, followed by several Eyriens. A minute later, Daemon breathed a sigh of relief as Jazen helped Manny up the steps into the Coach. A couple more Eyriens came in, and then an Ebon-gray shield snapped up around the Coach, effectively locking everyone but Daemon inside, since he was the only one who wore a Jewel darker than Lucivar's.
A Web Coach this size could usually accommodate thirty people, but Eyriens required more room because of their wings. Noticing the lack of seats, Daemon wondered if the Coach was usually used for conveying something other than humans, or if Lucivar, intending to bring Eyriens, had had the usual seats removed. The only thing that could be used for seats were a few sturdy wooden boxes pushed up against the walls, with cushions on top of them and an open front for storage.
After studying the people packed against the walls in order to leave a narrow aisle in the center, Daemon turned his attention to the Coach. At the front was a door that led to the driver's compartment. Maybe one other person could sit with the driver, giving the rest a little breathing room. Moving carefully, Daemon made his way to the short, narrow corridor at the back of the Coach. On the left was a small private room that held a narrow desk and a straight chair, an easy chair and hassock, and a single bed. The room on the right held a sink and toilet.
Daemon was about to step back into the main compartment when he heard Lucivar's voice just outside the Coach's open door.
"I don't give a damn what that sniveling little maggot says," Lucivar snarled.
"Lord Friall's conduct is not in question here," said a voice Daemon recognized as Lord Jorval's. "This will be brought before the Dark Council, and I can assure you we will not be intimidated into ignoring your vicious conduct."
"You have a problem with me, you can take it up with the Steward, the Master of the Guard, or my Queen."
"Your Queen fears you," Jorval sneered. "Everyone knows that. She can't control you properly, and the Steward and Master of the Guard certainly aren't going to demand any restraints on your temper since it suits their purpose so well."
Lucivar's voice lowered to a malevolent hiss. "Just remember, Lord Jorval, that while you and Friall are whining to the Council, I'm going to make the Territory Queens aware that there are some members of the Council who blatantly ignore their own rules about the service fair."
"That is an outright lie!"
"Then Friall is incompetent and shouldn't
be given the task."
"Friall is one of the finest members of the Council!"
"In that case, was he just pissed because he'd expected to get his percentage of the bribes at the table and didn't realize you'd already pocketed them?"
"How dare you!" A long pause followed. "Perhaps Lord Friall was partly responsible for this unfortunate incident, but the Council will stand firm about this other matter."
"And what matter is that?" Lucivar crooned.
"We cannot allow you to have in your service a male who wears Jewels darker than yours."
"The Queens in Little Terreille do it all the time."
"They're Queens. They know how to control males."
"So do I."
"The Council forbids it."
"The Council can go to the bowels of Hell."
Lucivar suddenly filled the Coach's doorway.
"You can't do this!" Jorval yelled from behind him.
Lucivar turned and gave Jorval a lazy, arrogant smile. "I'm an Ebon-gray Warlord Prince. I can do anything I damn well want to." He shut the door in Jorval's face, then glanced at the driver's compartment at the front of the Coach, sending an order on a psychic thread. The Coach immediately lifted.
When Daemon took a step to reenter the main compartment, Lucivar shifted in front of him, effectively blocking the mouth of the corridor. Accepting the unspoken order, Daemon slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and leaned against the wall.
When he felt sure that Lucivar was through giving his silent instructions to whoever was driving the Coaches, he used an Ebon-gray spear thread to ask, *Will this get you into trouble?*
*No,* Lucivar replied. He looked over the immigrants. Every one of them quickly looked away in order to avoid meeting his eyes.
*Won't this Council send a demand for some kind of discipline?*
*They'll send it. The Steward will read it, probably show it to the Master of the Guard, and then they'll ignore it.*
Daemon realized his breathing was too quick, too shallow, but he couldn't change it as he forced himself to ask the next question. *Will they show it to your Queen?*
*No,* Lucivar said slowly. *They won't mention this to the Queen if they can avoid it. And if they can't, they'll try to minimize it without lying outright.*
*Why?*
*Because the Dark Council has pushed her before, and the results scared the shit out of everyone.* Lucivar shifted. "We're away from Goth," he said, raising his voice slightly. "Make yourselves as comfortable as you can. It'll be a couple of hours before we get to where we're going."
"Aren't we going to Ebon Rih?" someone asked.
"Not yet." Lucivar stepped into the small corridor, forcing Daemon to move back. He slid the door to the private compartment open, said, "Inside," and went through the doorway sideways to accommodate his wings.
Daemon followed reluctantly and slid the door closed.
Lucivar stood at one end of the room. Daemon remained at the door.
Lucivar took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "I'm sorry I lashed out at you. I wasn't angry with you. I—Damn it, Daemon, I checked every list I could think of, and I must have missed your name. If it wasn't for blind luck, you would've ended up in another court, and there might have been no way to get you out of that contract."
Daemon felt one layer of tension ease. He forced his lips to curve in a smile. "Well, luck favored us this time." Then he looked, really looked, at Lucivar, and the smile became genuine. "You're alive."
Lucivar returned the smile. "And you're sane."
Daemon felt a tremor run through his body and tightened his self-control. Tears stung his eyes. "Lucivar," he whispered.
He didn't know which of them moved first. One moment they were standing as far away from each other as they could in the small room, the next they were in each other's arms, holding on as if their lives depended on it.
"Lucivar," Daemon whispered again, pressing his face against his brother's neck. "I thought you were dead."
"Hell's fire, Daemon," Lucivar said softly, hoarsely, "we couldn't find you. We didn't know what happened to you. We looked. I swear, we did look for you."
"It's all right," Daemon stroked Lucivar's head. "It's all right."
Lucivar's arms tightened around him so hard his ribs ached.
Daemon's hand fisted in Lucivar's hair. "Lucivar ... I know there are things that need to be settled between us. But can we put them aside, just for a little while?"
"We can put them aside," Lucivar said quietly.
Daemon stepped back. Using his thumbs, he gently wiped the tears from Lucivar's face. "We'd better join the others." He turned and reached for the door.
Standing behind him, Lucivar's left hand gripped Daemon's left arm. Daemon placed his right hand over it for a moment. As his fingers slid away from Lucivar's, he looked down, and the significance of what he'd seen but hadn't really seen finally hit him.
"Daemon," Lucivar said urgently. "There's one thing I need to tell you. I think you may already know, but you need to hear it."
She's alive! Another tremor went through Daemon's body. "No," he said. "Not now." He slid the door open and stumbled into the corridor. Barely keeping his balance, he went into the bathroom and Black-locked the door. His body shook violently. His stomach twisted viciously. Leaning over the sink, he fought the need to be sick.
Too late.
If he had tried to find her five years ago, when he'd first returned from the Twisted Kingdom, maybe it would have been different. If he had searched for the High Lord and at least tried to find out what had really happened that night at Cassandra's Altar...
Too late.
He could hold on. He would hold on. His mind was far more fragile than he allowed anyone to realize. Oh, it was intact. He had lost a few memories, a few small shards of the crystal chalice, but he was whole, and he was sane. But the healing would never be complete because he had lost the one person he needed to complete it. It hadn't mattered when he had only wanted to stay in one piece long enough to destroy the High Lord. It didn't really matter now. He could survive long enough to see her, just once.
There was nothing else he could do. If it had been any other man, he would have used everything he was and everything he knew in order to be her lover. If it had been any other man. But not Lucivar. He wouldn't become his brother's rival.
So he couldn't let Lucivar tell him what he desperately needed to hear. Not because he didn't want to know for sure that Jaenelle was alive, but because he wasn't ready to be told about the gold wedding ring on Lucivar's left hand.
3 / Kaeleer
Surreal pushed the last of the cushioned boxes together to form a bench against one wall. "Sit down, Manny," she said to the older woman.
"Wouldn't be right," Manny said. "A servant shouldn't be sitting."
Surreal gave her a slashing look. "Don't be an ass. You're a 'servant' because that's the only way Sadi could bring you with him."
Manny tightened her lips in disapproval. "No need for you to be using that kind of language, especially with children around. Besides, I was a servant for a good many years. It was an honest living and nothing I'm ashamed of."
Unlike me?Surreal wondered. She had never denied that she had been a very successful whore for centuries before she quit thirteen years ago, no longer able to stomach the bedroom games. That night at Cassandra's Altar had left its mark on all of them.
Manny's feelings about women who worked in Red Moon houses were ambivalent. What would she think if she knew about Surreal's other profession? How comfortable would the older woman have been if she had known that Surreal had been—and still was—a very successful assassin?
Didn't matter. They had become friends during the two years when Daemon had been rising out of the Twisted Kingdom, but after he regained his sanity, Manny had made a mental shift, treating both of them to the domestic affection that existed between a special servant and an aristo child. Daemon hadn't noticed anything odd about this behavior; mayb
e Manny had always treated him like that. But it had annoyed Surreal, who had grown up hard and fast on the streets. It had also given her a lot of practice in dealing with Manny's set opinions.
"Look," she said very softly. "Lady Benedict's servant doesn't look like he can stand up for two hours without being in pain. If you sit down, you can badger him into sitting."
A few minutes later, Manny, Andrew, Wilhelmina Benedict, and Surreal were sitting on the makeshift bench.
Surreal glanced at the remaining space on her right. Where in the name of Hell was Sadi? He wasn't as mentally stable as he pretended to be, and seeing Lucivar must have been a shock. But what had the Eyrien thought about seeing his half brother again? After Jaenelle disappeared thirteen years ago, Daemon had gone to Pruul, intending to get Lucivar out of the salt mines. For some reason, Lucivar had refused to go with him. She had always suspected, because of what Daemon wouldn't say, that there had been a vicious collision of tempers and that a rift had formed between them. And she had always suspected that the reason for that rift had begun, like so many other things, at Cassandra's Altar.
The driver's compartment door slid open. Lord Khardeen stepped out and glanced at the Eyriens, who tensed at his appearance. Saying nothing, he walked to the end of the makeshift bench and sat down beside Surreal.
Directly across from them was the woman with the two young children. They had the brown skin, gold eyes, and black hair that was typical of the three long-lived races, but the little girl's hair had a slight, natural curl. Surreal wondered if the girl's hair indicated that one of the parent's bloodlines wasn't pure Eyrien, if those curls had betrayed a secret, and if that was the reason these people had left their home Territory.
The older boy stayed close to his mother, but the little girl smiled at Khardeen and took a couple of steps toward him.
"Woofer," she said happily, holding out a worn stuffed animal.
Khardeen leaned forward and smiled. "That he is. What's his name?"
"Woofer." She gave the toy a squeezing hug. "Mine."
"Right you are."
Watching Khardeen apprehensively, the woman reached for the little girl. "Orian, don't bother the Warlord."
