by Anne Bishop
Saetan using the formal title caused a chill down Daemon's spine.
"Then shall we get it over with?" Daemon replied as he followed Saetan to the High Lord's official study. He felt one layer of tension ease when Saetan leaned against the front of the blackwood desk instead of sitting behind it.
"Are you aware that your valet is fully shaved?" Saetan asked softly, ominously.
"I'm aware of it," Daemon replied with equal softness.
"There are very few of our laws that, when broken, justify that punishment. All of them are sexual."
"Jazen didn't do anything except be at the wrong place at the wrong time," Daemon snarled. "Dorothea did that to him to entertain her coven."
"Are you sure of that?'
"I was there, High Lord. There wasn't a damn thing I could do for him except slip past the drugs they'd given him to keep him aware and knock him out. His family took care of him for a while, but many of them are in personal service. Once the word got out—and Dorothea always made sure that it did—Jazen would have been considered tainted because, of course, it wouldn't have happened to him if he hadn't deserved it. If he had stayed with his family, they would have lost their positions as well. He's a good man, and a loyal one. He deserved far better than what happened to him."
"I see," Saetan said quietly. He straightened up. "I'll explain the situation to Beale. He'll take care of it."
"How much will you have to tell him?" Daemon asked warily.
"Nothing more than that the maiming was unjustified."
Daemon smiled bitterly. "Do you really think that will change the other servants' opinion of him? That they'll believe it?"
"No, all it will do is suspend judgment until the Lady returns." Saetan looked solemn. "But you have to understand, Prince. If Jaenelle turns against him, there's nothing you or I or anyone else can do or say that will make any difference. In Kaeleer, once you step outside of Little Terreille, Witch is the law. Her decisions are final."
Daemon considered this, then nodded. "I'll accept the Lady's judgment." As he followed Saetan to the dining room, he kept hoping that the woman Jaenelle had become wasn't too different from the child he remembered—and had loved.
2 / Kaeleer
Lord Jorval's heart pounded as he returned to the room where the sandy-haired man with worried gray eyes waited. He sat down behind the desk and clasped his hands together to hide the tremors of excitement.
"Have you already found out where my niece has gone?" Philip Alexander asked.
"I have," Jorval replied solemnly. "When you explained the family connections, I had a suspicion of where to look."
Philip gripped the arms of the chair hard enough to snap wood. "Did she sign a contract with a court in Little Terreille?"
"Unfortunately, no," Jorval said, struggling to put just the right amount of sympathy in his voice. "You must understand, Prince Alexander. We had no way of knowing who she was. A couple of Council members remembered her saying that she was trying to find her sister, but they had assumed the sister had immigrated earlier—and in a sense, that is true. But the Dark Council was never provided with a record of where Jaenelle Angelline came from before the High Lord acquired guardianship over her. There was no reason for them to link the two women, and by the time they began to wonder about the significance of her inquiries, it was too late."
"What do you mean, 'too late'?" Philip snapped.
"She was... persuaded ... to sign a contract with the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih—and he is Lucivar Yaslana."
Satisfaction warmed Jorval as he watched Philip's face pale. "I see you've heard of him. So you can appreciate the danger your niece is in. And it's not just Yaslana, although he's bad enough." He paused, giving Philip time to swallow the hook as well as the bait.
"She's trapped with all three of them, isn't she? She's trapped with Yaslana, Sadi, and the High Lord—just like Jaenelle."
"Yes." Jorval sighed. "To the best of our knowledge, Yaslana took her to SaDiablo Hall in Dhemlan. How long she'll remain there ..." He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. "You may have some chance of slipping her away from the Hall, but once he takes her into the mountains that ring Ebon Jih, it's unlikely you'll ever get her back—at least while there's enough left of her to be worth the risk."
Philip sagged in the chair.
Jorval just waited. Finally, he said, "There is nothing the Dark Council can do officially to help you at this time. However, unofficially, we will do everything in our power to restore Jaenelle Angelline and Wilhelmina Benedict to their rightful family."
Philip got to his feet like a man who had taken a savage beating. "Thank you, Lord Jorval. I will convey this information to my Queen."
"May the Darkness guide and protect you, Prince Alexander."
Jorval waited a full minute after Philip left before he leaned back in his chair and sighed, well satisfied by their meeting. Thank the Darkness that Philip was a Prince. He would worry and brood, but, unlike a Warlord Prince, he would go back to Alexandra Angelline and abide by her decision. And how fortunate that Philip hadn't thought to ask if Yaslana served a Queen—or who she was. Of course, he would have lied if he'd been asked, but how interesting that Philip hadn't considered, even for a moment, that Jaenelle might be a Queen powerful enough to control the males in the SaDiablo family.
As for Alexandra Angelline... She would be useful in distracting the High Lord and dividing loyalties in the court at Ebon Askavi—as long as she didn't realize the real importance of getting Jaenelle away from the Dark Court.
3 / Kaeleer
Daemon wandered through the Hall's first floor rooms, distractedly noting each room's function, his mind too full of impressions he'd received during breakfast. When he came to a door that led to one of the open courtyards, he went outside and paced, hoping that the fresh air and greenery would help clear his head. He'd expected to find the dining room full of people.
After all, the Eyriens would want to eat before going on to whatever plans Lucivar had for them. And he'd expected Khardeen and Aaron to be there and knew they would notice, and understand the significance of, the Consort's ring. He'd been prepared for that. But he hadn't been prepared for the other males who made up the First Circle.
There was Sceron, the Red-Jeweled Warlord Prince of Centauran. The dark-haired centaur had stood near the dining table, eating a vegetable omelet while talking with Morton, a blond-haired, blue-eyed Warlord from Glacia. Then there was the Green-Jeweled Warlord, Jonah, a satyr whose dark pelt covered him from his waist to his cloven hooves but didn't quite cover the parts of him that were blatantly male. There was Elan, a Red-Jeweled Warlord Prince from Tigrelan, who had tawny, dark-striped skin and whose hands ended with sheathed claws. Watching Elan, Daemon would have bet the man had more in common with the dark-striped cat he'd glimpsed from a window than just physical markings.
And then there was Chaosti, the Gray-Jeweled Warlord Prince of the Dea al Mon, with his long silver-blond hair, delicately pointed ears, and slightly too large forest-blue eyes. Every territorial instinct in Daemon had come roaring to the surface at the sight of Chaosti—perhaps because Chaosti was the kind of man who could be a formidable rival no matter what Jewels he wore or perhaps because Daemon saw a little too much of himself in the other man. Only Saetan's presence had kept a sharp-edged greeting from turning into an open confrontation. That meeting had left him edgy, and far too aware of his own inner fragility.
Next came the older, Gray-Jeweled Warlord Prince who had introduced himself as Mephis, his older brother. The room had tilted a bit when Daemon realized that, as Saetan's eldest son, Mephis had been demon-dead for more than 50,000 years. He might have recovered his balance if Prince Andulvar Yaslana and Lord Prothvar Yaslana hadn't walked in at that moment, and the collective shock of the Eyrien males who realized who they must be—and then realized what they must be—hadn't hit him like a runaway wagon. After one raking look at the fearful Eyriens and a murmured comment to the High Lord, the de
mon-dead Warlord Prince and his grandson had left the room.
By that point, Daemon had sincerely wished for brandy instead of coffee—a wish that must have been apparent. The stuff Khardeen had poured into his coffee from a silver flask hadn't been brandy, but it had successfully furred his nerves enough for him to be able to eat.
Still too jangled to enjoy the meal, he'd just finished his modest breakfast when Surreal stormed in, muttering something about it taking more time than expected "to get us brushed." She had looked shocked when she saw Chaosti, who was the only person she had seen who came from the same race as her mother, but the moment he'd moved toward her, she had bared her teeth and announced that the next male who approached her before breakfast was going to get brushed with the edge of a knife.
She, at least, had enjoyed a quiet, and undisturbed, breakfast.
He was just about to leave the room when a tall, slender witch with spiky, white-blond hair walked in, took one look at him, and said loudly enough to be heard in every corner of the Hall, "Hell's fire, he's a Black Widow!"
That he was a natural Black Widow—and, besides Saetan, the only male Black Widow—was something he'd been able to successfully hide for all the centuries since his body had reached sexual maturity, just as he'd been able to hide the snake tooth and venom sack beneath the ring-finger nail of his right hand. Whatever he had done instinctively to suppress other Black Widows' ability to detect him had failed him now, when there was nothing he could do about such a public betrayal.
The tension in the room had faded when Saetan replied mildly, "Well, Karla, he is my son, and he is the Consort."
The witch's surprise had changed to sharp speculation. "Oh," she said. "In that case ..." A slow, wicked smile bloomed. "Kiss kiss."
Brushing past Lucivar, he had escaped from the dining room and had spent the past hour wandering through the Hall, trying to get his churning thoughts and emotions under control.
"Are you lost?"
Daemon glanced over to where Lucivar leaned against a doorway. "I'm not lost," he snapped. Then he stopped pacing and sighed. "But I am very confused."
"Of course you are. You're male." Grinning at Daemon's snarl, Lucivar stepped into the courtyard. "So if one of the darlings in the coven offers to explain things to you, don't take her up on it. She'll sincerely be trying to help, but by the time she's done 'unconfusing' you, you'll be banging your head against a wall and whimpering."
"Why?"
"Because for every five rules you'd learned in Terreille about a male's proper behavior in a court, the Kaeleer Blood know only one of them—and they interpret it very differently."
Daemon shrugged "Obedience is obedience."
"No, it's not. For Blood males, the First Law is to honor, cherish, and protect. The second is to serve. The third is to obey."
"And if obedience interferes with the first two laws?"
"Toss it out the window."
Daemon blinked. "You actually get away with that?"
Lucivar scratched the back of his head and looked thoughtful. "It's not so much a question of getting away with it. For Warlord Princes, it's almost a requirement of court service. However, if you ignore an order from the Steward or the Master of the Guard, you'd better be sure you can justify your action and be willing to accept the consequences if they won't accept it, which is rare. I got into more trouble with the High Lord as my father than as the Steward."
Father. Steward. The ties of family and court.
"Why are you here, Prick?" Daemon asked warily. "Why aren't you at the practice field observing the warriors you selected?"
"I was looking for you because you didn't show up at the practice field." Lucivar shifted slightly, balancing his weight.
Not yet, Daemon thought. Not now. "And because we have unfinished business," he said slowly.
"And because we have unfinished business." Lucivar took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "I accused you of killing Jaenelle. I accused you of viler things than that. I was wrong, and it cost you your sanity and eight years of your life."
Daemon looked away from the regret and sadness in Lucivar's eyes. "It wasn't your fault," he said softly. "I was already fragile."
"I know. I sensed that—and I used it as a weapon."
Remembering the fight they'd had that night in Pruul, Daemon closed his eyes. Lucivar's fury hadn't hurt him as much as his own fear that the accusations might possibly be true. If he'd been sure of what had happened at Cassandra's Altar, the fight would have ended differently. Lucivar wouldn't have spent more years in the salt mines of Pruul, and he wouldn't have spent eight years in the Twisted Kingdom.
Daemon opened his eyes and looked at his brother, finally understanding that Lucivar wasn't offering to meet him on a killing field for something he had done, but as reparation for whatever pain he'd suffered in the Twisted Kingdom. Oh, Lucivar would fight, and fight hard because he had a wife and a young son to consider, but he wouldn't hesitate if Daemon demanded it, even knowing what the outcome would be when Ebon-gray faced Black.
He also knew why Lucivar was forcing the issue. His brother didn't want the wife and child weighed in the balance, didn't want Daemon to have enough time to develop feelings for them before making this decision. Following the old ways of the Blood, if he forgave this debt now, he couldn't demand reparation later. Otherwise, they would always be wary of each other, always feel the need to guard their backs while waiting for the unexpected strike.
And, in a way, hadn't the debt already been paid? His years in the Twisted Kingdom balanced against Lucivar's years in the salt mines of Pruul. His grief when he believed Lucivar was dead balanced against Lucivar's grief over Jaenelle's supposed death by Daemon's hand. And if their positions had been reversed, would he have believed any differently or acted any differently?
"Is that the only unfinished business between us?" Daemon asked.
Lucivar nodded cautiously.
"Then let it go, Prick. I've already grieved for the loss of my brother once. I don't want to do it again."
They studied each other for a minute, weighing the things that went beyond words. Finally, Lucivar relaxed. His smile was lazy, arrogant, and so irritatingly familiar that Daemon smiled in return.
"In that case, Bastard, you're late for practice," Lucivar said, gesturing Daemon toward a door.
"Kiss my ass," Daemon growled, falling into step.
"Not a good suggestion, old son. I have a tendency to bite, remember?" Smiling, Lucivar massaged his upper arm. "So does Marian. She tends to get feisty when she's riled."
Seeing the warmth and pleasure in Lucivar's eyes, Daemon ruthlessly suppressed a surge of envy.
Finally reaching an outside door, they headed for the Eyriens gathered at the far end of the expansive lawn.
"By the way," Lucivar said, "while you were brooding—"
"I wasn't brooding," Daemon snarled.
"—you missed the fun this morning."
Daemon clenched his teeth. He wouldn't ask. Wouldn't. "What fun?"
"See the embarrassed-looking wolf standing by himself?"
Daemon looked at the gray-furred animal watching a group of women going through some kind of exercise with Eyrien sticks. "Yes."
"Graysfang wants to be Surreal's friend. He's young and he doesn't have much experience with humans, especially the females. Apparently, in an effort to strengthen that friendship and improve his understanding of females, he joined Surreal while she was taking a shower. Since her head was under the water at the moment, she didn't realize he was there until he stuck his nose where he shouldn't have."
"That would have improved his understanding of females," Daemon said dryly.
"Exactly. Then, when he whined that he had soap in his fur, she dragged him all the way into the shower and washed him. So now he smells like flowers."
Daemon bit his lip. "There's an easy remedy for that."
Lucivar cleared his throat. "Well, there usually would be, but as soon as they got outsid
e, she threatened to smack him if he got dirty."
"Everything has a price," Daemon said in a choked voice. Noticing the woman Surreal was talking to, he gave Lucivar a sharp nudge. "Should Marian be doing something that strenuous during her moon time?"
Lucivar hissed. "Don't you start." He stopped walking and studied the women through narrowed eyes. "I told her she could do one round of the warmup drill. She'll sneak a little more in under the guise of demonstrating the moves, but after that she'll be content to rest."
Daemon looked at the women and then at Lucivar. "You told your wife how much she could do?"
"Of course I didn't tell my wife," Lucivar said indignantly. "Do I look like a fool? The Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih told a witch who lives in his territory."
"Ah. That's different."
"Damn right it is. If I told my wife, she would have tried to dent my head with a stick."
Daemon laughed as they continued toward the Eyrien warriors. "Now I am sorry I missed it."
Lucivar focused his attention on Falonar and Rothvar, who had just stepped into the practice circle, while Daemon watched Surreal and Marian go through a couple of moves.
"Who is she?" Daemon asked when the spiky-haired witch joined the other women.
Lucivar glanced at the women, then turned his attention back to the Eyrien warriors. "That's Karla, the Queen of Glacia. She's a Black Widow Queen and a Healer. One of three who have a triple gift."
A triple gift and a big mouth, Daemon thought darkly.
"You're excused from the practice today, but I'll expect you to be on time tomorrow," Lucivar said.
Daemon sputtered. "I am not going to drill with sticks against Eyrien warriors."
Lucivar snorted and looked at Daemon's feet. "I've got some boots that will fit you until you can get your own made."
"I'm not doing this."
"Until the official transfer is made, I own the contract you signed, old son. You've got no choice."
Daemon swore quietly, viciously.
Lucivar started to step away from him to speak to Falonar.
"Give me one good reason why I should put myself through this," Daemon demanded through clenched teeth.
