by Anne Bishop
The cold slipped through Daemon's veins, sweet and deadly. You weren't here. You can't think of it as a betrayal since you weren't here. It didn't matter. A Consort could be nothing more than a physical accommodation. But a husband... "Then where is he?" he asked too softly.
Lucivar twisted the towel. "He didn't survive the consummation."
"You took care of that? Thank you."
"He was dead when I got there." Lucivar closed his eyes and swallowed hard. "Hell's fire, Daemon, she splattered him all over the room." He opened his eyes. The bleakness in them made Daemon shiver. "They gave her a large dose of safframate on top of the other drug."
Daemon's body went completely numb for a moment.
He knew all too well what safframate could do to a person. "You took care of her?" Meaning, you gave her the sex she needed? There was no room in him now to feel jealousy or betrayal, just the desperate hope that Lucivar had done what was needed.
Lucivar looked away. "I took her hunting in Askavi."
Daemon just stared at his brother, letting the magnitude of those words ripen. "You went out with her as bait?"
"What was I supposed to do?" Lucivar snapped. "Let her stay locked up in Ebon Askavi suffering? Bloodletting relieves the pain of safframate as well as sex does." He paused to take a deep breath and regain control. "It wasn't easy, but we survived it."
And that, Daemon realized, was all Lucivar intended to say about a period of time that must have been a nightmare for him.
"She's only been back to Little Terreille a couple of times since then, and then only with a full, armed escort that included me," Lucivar said. "She hasn't been back at all since she formally set up her court."
"I see," Daemon said quietly. "It's almost time to hear her decision. Do you want to get cleaned up?"
"What for?" Lucivar asked with a grim smile. "Once I hear it, I'll probably be back out here anyway."
5 / Kaeleer
"May I help you?"
Osvald, the escort, clenched his teeth, then made an effort to smile as he turned to face the footman. Hell's fire, wasn't there one male in this whole damn place who wasn't spoiling for a fight? "I seem to have gotten turned around, so I thought I'd admire the pictures in this part of the Hall."
"I would be happy to show you the way back to your room," Holt said with frigid courtesy.
In Terreille, he could have had the footman whipped for no better reason than sufficient lack of subservience. In Terreille, servants wouldn't wear their Jewels so blatantly that it forced their social superiors to acknowledge that strength. It galled him that he, who was favored by the High Priestess of Hayll, had to acknowledge that a footman was also an Opal-Jeweled Warlord.
"This way," Holt said just as Wilhelmina stepped out of her room.
Osvald swore silently. If Holt had shown up a few minutes later, he could have had the bitch and gotten out of this place.
Then the large striped cat stepped out of the room and immediately fixed those unblinking eyes on him, making him glad of Holt's presence. When the cat's lips began to lift into a snarl, he didn't need any more urging. He offered Wilhelmina a polite greeting—and felt intensely relieved when she returned it so automatically it sounded like casual familiarity, the kind of automatic response the other bitches in this place only gave to males they knew fairly well. With every other male, there was that slight pause that practically screamed "stranger."
That could work to his advantage, he thought as he followed Holt back to the wing where Alexandra and her entourage had been quartered. It wouldn't seem odd for an escort to deliver a message from one Lady to another— especially if it was assumed he'd been working for that family for a number of years.
Yes, that could work very well.
6 / Kaeleer
*When they work in tandem, they're dangerous,* Andulvar said to Saetan, using an Ebon-gray communication thread.
Looking at Lucivar and Daemon, Saetan understood the distinction Andulvar was making. All Warlord Princes were dangerous, but when two men with complementary strengths became a team... *So were we at their age,* he replied dryly. *We still are.*
*If it ever came down to a fight, I wouldn't want to go up against those two,* Andulvar said thoughtfully.
Any amusement Saetan felt fled with that statement. His heart wanted to shout, They'll never be enemies. They're my children, my sons. But another part of him—the part that had to assess the potential danger of another strong male—couldn't be sure. He had been sure when it had been Lucivar alone. But Daemon...
Lucivar had endured a brutal childhood, but in some ways, it had been a clean brutality. He hadn't gotten entangled in a court until he was a youth. But Daemon had been raised in Dorothea's court, and he had taken the twisted lessons taught there into himself, had made them a part of himself, and then used them as a weapon.
While he might fight individuals, Lucivar had been able to embrace loyalty to family and court. Saetan strongly suspected that Daemon's loyalty would always be superficial, that the only loyalty the rest of them could count on was his commitment to Jaenelle. Which meant Daemon was capable of doing anything in the name of that loyalty. Which meant this son had to be handled very, very carefully.
It didn't help that Jaenelle was acting like a rabbit to Daemon's fox. With any other man, Saetan might have found this chase amusing. He knew the boyos certainly did, and he understood why they were delighted by her reaction to Daemon. But he didn't think Daemon found it the least bit amusing, and he wondered what would happen when his son's temper finally snapped—and who would suffer because of it.
When Jaenelle entered the study, Saetan put aside the problem that hadn't arrived yet in order to deal with the one already at the door.
"High Lord," Jaenelle said formally.
"Lady," Saetan replied, equally formal.
She took a deep breath and turned to Lucivar. "Prince Yaslana, as First Escort, I want you to arrange for accommodations somewhere along the border of Little Terreille for myself and a limited escort. Not an inn. A private house or a guard station. Somewhere that ensures discretion. Inn can be in whichever Territory you choose. You can decide the time of the meeting—although not within the next three days."
He wasn't standing close enough to her to catch the scent, but he could tell by the sudden blaze in Daemon's eyes and the sharpness in Lucivar's that her moon's blood had started. He wanted to sigh. Hell's fire, how was he supposed to channel Daemon's instinctive aggression while fighting to control his own? Witches were vulnerable during the first three days of their moontimes because they couldn't wear their Jewels or do more than basic Craft without causing themselves physical pain. And when it was his Queen who was vulnerable, a Warlord Prince's temper rode the killing edge during those days.
"You don't have to tell anyone about the arrangements you've made," Jaenelle continued. "Although, out of courtesy, you should inform the Steward, the Master of the Guard, and the Consort. The Steward will contact Lord Jorval to confirm the meeting place in Little Terreille."
"What's the point of setting up a secure place if you're going to go to Little Terreille?" Lucivar asked, but Saetan noticed he was keeping his tone carefully respectful.
"Because I'm going to go to Little Terreille without going to Little Terreille. That will satisfy the court's concerns about my well-being and still allow me to meet with this person."
Lucivar narrowed his eyes, considering. "You could just refuse."
"I have my own reasons for doing this," Jaenelle replied in her midnight voice.
And that, Saetan knew, would decide the matter for Lucivar.
Except Lucivar was still studying her. "If I agree to this, do we get to fuss for the next three days without getting snarled at?"
That's all it took to change the Queen back into a stuttering, snarling younger sister. "Who is 'we'?" she asked ominously.
"The family."
Saetan wondered if anyone else had noticed that the look Daemon gave his brother s
hould have left Lucivar bleeding. And he wondered if Lucivar even realized that, whether he had included or excluded Daemon under the term "family," it wasn't sitting well with the Queen's Consort.
"Papa!" Jaenelle said, whirling around to face him.
"Witch-child?" he replied mildly, but he could feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead as Daemon's face shifted into a cold, unreadable mask.
She stared at him for a moment, then whirled back to Lucivar. "Within reason," she snapped. "And I get to decide what's reasonable."
When Lucivar just grinned at her, she stomped out of the study. The grin faded when he looked at Andulvar. "Since you're the Master of the Guard, she should have asked you to make the arrangements."
Andulvar shrugged. "My ego's not bruised, puppy. She's too good a Queen not to understand the needs of the males who serve her. Right now, you need to make the arrangements more than I do." His smile had sharp edges. "But if you don't inform me of your arrangements, I will be insulted."
"If you have time now, we could take a look at a map," Lucivar said.
"You're learning, puppy," Andulvar said as he draped an arm over Lucivar's shoulders and led him out of the study. "You're learning."
When Daemon made no move to leave, Saetan leaned against the blackwood desk. "Something on your mind, Prince?"
"I don't give a damn what familial ties you and Lucivar claim to have with her, I am not her brother," Daemon said too quietly.
"No one said you were. The fact that I'm her adopted father and you happen to be my son is irrelevant. You've never thought of her as a sister, and she's never thought of you as a brother. That hasn't changed."
The chill in Daemon's eyes thawed to bleakness. "She may not think of me as a brother, but she also doesn't want me to be anything else."
Saetan snapped to attention. "That isn't true."
Daemon's soft laugh held bitterness and grief. "It usually takes me less than an hour to seduce a woman when I'm trying. And usually not more than two when I'm not. I can't even get close enough to talk to her most of the time."
Daemon's acknowledged ability to seduce chilled Saetan. Because the people telling the tales didn't know they were talking about his son, he'd heard enough stories about the Sadist to feel uneasy. Those bedroom skills, like the man who wielded them, were a double-edged sword.
If Daemon felt driven enough to use those skills prematurely...
Saetan crossed his arms to hide the slight tremor in his hands. "The boyos find this little chase between you and Jaenelle amusing."
"Do they?" Daemon asked too softly.
"And, I confess, so do I." Or would, if I could be certain you weren't going to go for my throat before I finish this.
Daemon's gold eyes held a bored, sleepy look Saetan knew too well—because there had been times when he had looked into a mirror and seen it in his own eyes.
"Do you?" Daemon asked.
"A couple of days ago, Jaenelle asked for my opinion about the dress she was wearing for dinner."
"I remember it. It's a lovely gown."
"I’m delighted that you appreciated it." Saetan paused. "Can you also appreciate that, in the thirteen years she's lived here, Jaenelle has never been concerned enough about clothes to ask for my opinion about something she was wearing. And can you appreciate that she wasn't asking for my opinion as her Steward or her father but as a man. And I admit that, considering the way that dress fit her, my opinion of it as a father would have differed considerably from my opinion as a man."
Daemon almost smiled.
"She sees you as a man, Daemon. A man, not a male friend. For the first time in her life, she's trying to deal with her own lust. So she's running."
"She's not the only one trying to deal with it," Daemon muttered, but the sleepy look had changed to sharp interest. "I am her Consort. She could just—"
Saetan shook his head. "Do you really think Jaenelle would demand that from you?"
"No." Daemon raked his fingers through his hair. "What can I do?"
"You don't need to do anything more than you're already doing." Saetan thought for a moment. "Do you know how to make a brew to ease moontime discomfort?"
"I know how to make a few of them."
Saetan smiled. "In that case, I suggest that the Consort prepare one for his Lady. I don't think even Jaenelle would disagree about that falling into the category of 'reasonable fussing.' "
7 / Kaeleer
Surreal paused in the dining room doorway and swore under her breath. The only people in the room were Alexandra and her entourage.
Hell's fire. Why couldn't Jaenelle have left well enough alone? The meals had certainly been more relaxed and the conversation more interesting when Alexandra and her people had been taking their meals separately. When she had pointed that out to Saetan, he had informed her it had been Jaenelle's idea to have Alexandra and the others join the rest of them for meals, in the hope that they might acquire some understanding about Kaeleer.
The intention might have been good, Surreal thought crossly as she strode to the table, but the reality was a miserable failure. Not one of them, from Alexandra right down to the least-ranking escort, wanted to understand anything about the Blood in Kaeleer. And the midday meals were the worst since Saetan didn't preside over them.
As she reached the table, the two Province Queens, Vania and Nyselle, gave her looks that mingled smug superiority with disgust. She might have taken it personally if she hadn't known that they looked at all the witches there in exactly the same way—including the Queens who far outranked them.
Then Vania looked at the doorway, and her expression changed to predatory delight.
Glancing over, Surreal saw Aaron pause in the doorway—and decided that a man who had been told the date of his execution looked pretty much the same way. Figuring that he didn't need another woman staring at him, she turned her attention to the table.
The first point of interest was the way this group had split. Alexandra, Philip, and Leland were sitting at one end of the table. Nyselle was sitting at the other end, her Consort and the escorts ranged around her. Vania's Consort sat on his Lady's left, looking unhappy. The chair on Vania's right was empty, as were the ones across from her.
The second point of interest was the serving dishes on the table. Breakfast and the midday meal were usually set out on the huge sideboard so that everyone could fill a plate and take a seat as they pleased. Dinner was the only meal that had a set starting time, and was the only meal where the footmen served the food. This midday meal had been set out family-style, as if only a small number of people were expected.
That was fine, Surreal thought as she began filling her plate from the closest serving dishes. That was just fine — as long as everyone else was going hungry to avoid eating with the guests. But if she found out that another midday meal was being quietly served elsewhere, she was going to have a few things to say to someone about not being told.
"May I sit with you?" Aaron asked quietly as he joined her.
She was about to make a tart reply about there being plenty of chairs when she saw the hunted look in his eyes.
As if her noticing him had given him some kind of permission, he shifted closer to her. Close enough for her to feel the way his muscles quivered with the strain of keeping strong emotions tightly leashed.
"Why don't you sit over here, Aaron?" Vania said, giving him a coy smile while she patted the chair on her right.
Well, that more than explained the hunted look.
During the time Surreal had been at the Hall, she'd observed that the males—from the most menial male servant right up to the High Lord—had some very particular ideas about what was considered acceptable physical distance, and the cold courtesy they could all turn on a woman was usually an effective determent when that distance wasn't respected. The males in the First Circle not only tolerated being approached and touched by all of the witches in the First Circle, they welcomed that friendly intimacy. But they didn't
welcome it from anyone else.
He considers me one of them, she realized, feeling a jolt of pleasure at the acceptance. He considers me safe. Because of that, her "Of course," in reply to his question was as soothing as she could make it. Which, for some reason, distressed him.
I was a good whore, she thought as she picked up the serving fork and the carving knife from the platter holding the roasted turkey. A damned good whore. So why is it that, all of a sudden, males are impossible to figure out?
"Would—"
Surreal turned her head to look at Aaron, the carving knife poised over the turkey. "You weren't going to suggest that I don't know how to handle a knife, were you, sugar?"
Aaron's eyes widened. "I would never be so foolish as to suggest that a Dea al Mon witch didn't know how to handle a knife," he said, sounding suspiciously meek. "I was going to ask if you would mind cutting a slice for me."
"Of course you were," she replied tartly. She felt something in him relax and swore silently about perverse male behavior. Then again, she mused as she cut the turkey breast, maybe the males were just so used to that blend of tart and sweet in a witch's personality, they could relax around it. It could be an acquired taste, like pickleberries.
The thought made her chuckle.
After placing the serving fork and carving knife back on the platter, she settled down to eat. There wasn't much conversation, which suited her just fine—especially since all of Vania's remarks were aimed at Aaron and his replies had become curt to the point of rudeness.
Hoping to break, or at least change, the tension that was getting thicker by the minute, Surreal looked up, intending to ask Alexandra when she and her party were going to leave. But she didn't say anything because she found herself looking straight at Vania. There was a nasty kind of anger in the woman's eyes directed right at Aaron.
After toying with her food for a minute, Vania pushed her plate away and smiled coyly. "I declare, I'm just too tired to eat right now. Aaron was so stimulating this morning."
It took Surreal a moment too long to understand that remark.
With a howl of rage, Aaron lunged across the table, grabbed Vania by the hair, and yanked her forward. His left hand closed on the carving knife and swung it toward her throat.
