by Anne Bishop
"There are enough doses in here for the next three days and then some," she said dryly.
"Well, I'd better find out what it does." Daemon held out the mug of coffee.
She opened the vial, tapped it lightly over the mug. The sprinkle of powder dissolved instantly.
He took a sip. A little nutty, just a little sharp. Actually quite—
He wheezed. His body suddenly had a kind of battlefield alertness, a fierce need to move. His mind was no longer hazed by mental fatigue. After the first few explosive seconds, he felt himself settle down, but there remained that bright reservoir of energy.
He drained the mug, waited a few seconds. No physical changes, just the feeling that the reservoir got delightfully bigger.
Jaenelle carefully packed the vial into the box.
"Everything has a price, Daemon," she said firmly.
That sobered him. "It's addictive?"
The look she gave him could have cut a man in half. "No, it is not. I use this sometimes—which you will not mention to any of the family. They'd throw three kinds of fits if they knew. This will keep you going, even if you don't get any food or sleep, but if you don't renew the dose every six hours, your feet are going to go out from under you and you'd better be prepared to sleep for a day."
"In other words, if I miss a dose, I'm not going to be able to flog myself awake again no matter what's going on around me."
She nodded.
"All right, I'll remember."
She held up another vial, this one full of a dark liquid. "This is a tonic for Saetan. I figured he's going to be weakened physically, so I made it strong. It's going to have a kick like a team of draft horses. Add it to an equal amount of liquid—wine or fresh blood."
"If I use the stimulant, can I use my blood for that tonic?"
"Yes," Jaenelle said, almost managing to keep her lips from twitching. "But if you do use your blood, make sure you pour it down his throat before you tell him what it is because it'll kick like two teams of draft horses—and he will not be happy with you for the first couple of minutes."
"Fair enough." He just hoped Saetan would be in good enough condition that he could howl about being dosed.
Jaenelle took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "That's it then."
Daemon set the mug down on the worktable. "I want to supervise making up the food pack. It won't take long. Will you wait for me?"
Her smile didn't reach her haunted sapphire eyes. "I'll wait."
"Prince Ssadi."
Daemon hesitated, turned toward the voice. "Draca." She held out one hand, closed in a loose fist. Obediently, he put his hand under hers. When she opened her hand, colored bangles poured into his—the kind of bangles women sewed on dresses to catch the light.
Baffled, he looked at the bangles, then at her.
"When the time iss right, give thesse to Ssaetan. He will undersstand."
She knows, Daemon thought. She knows, but... No, Draca wouldn't say anything to the coven or the boyos. The Seneschal of Ebon Askavi would keep her own council for her own reasons.
As she walked away, he slipped the bangles into his jacket pocket.
Surreal jumped when the door to her room flew open.
"What in the name of Hell do you think you're doing?" Daemon demanded, slamming the door.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" Surreal snapped. Silently, she swore. A few more minutes and she would have been able to slip away undetected.
"It looks like you're about to ruin several hours of careful planning," Daemon snapped back.
That stopped her. "What planning?" she asked suspiciously.
He swore with a creative vileness that surprised her. "What do you think I've been doing since we got that gift this morning? And what did you think you'd be able to do, going in alone?"
"I've been an assassin for a lot of years, Sadi. I could have—"
"One-on-one kills," he snarled. "That's not going to get you very far in an armed camp. And if you unleash the Gray to get rid of the guards, you can be sure the four people you're going in for will be dead by the time you reach them."
"You don't know—"
"I do know," Daemon shouted. "I grew up under that bitch's control. I do know."
Her anger couldn't match his, especially when he'd been able to put his finger on every doubt she had about succeeding. "You have a better idea?"
"Yes, Surreal, I have a better idea," Daemon replied coldly.
Surreal licked her lips, took a careful breath. "I could help, create a diversion or something. Hell's fire, Daemon, those people are my family, too, the first family I've ever had. They mean something to me. Let me help."
Something queer filled his eyes as he stared at her. "Yes," he said in a silky croon, "I think you could be very helpful." His voice shifted, became irritated and efficient as he looked over the supplies piled on her bed. "At least you had the good sense to realize you would need to bring your own food and water since you won't be able to trust consuming anything that might be there." He headed for the door. "I'll need a couple more hours. Then we'll go."
"But—" The look he gave her had her backing down. "A couple of hours," she agreed.
It wasn't until he was gone that she began to wonder just what it was she had agreed to do.
Little fool, Daemon thought as he stormed back to Jaenelle's workroom. Idiot. If the kitchen staff hadn't mentioned that Surreal had requested a similar food pack, he wouldn't have known she was planning to go to Hayll, wouldn't have been prepared to deal with her presence. Oh, he could use her help in this game. It hadn't taken him more than a minute to recognize how many ways she could help. But, damn it, if she'd gone in and gotten everyone riled before he arrived... He had to buy Jaenelle seventy-two hours. A straight, clean fight would have gotten the others out, but it wouldn't have done that.
So he would play out his game—and Surreal would have a chance to dance with the Sadist.
He walked into the workroom and snarled at Jaenelle, "I'll need a couple more items."
Her eyes widened when he told her what he wanted, but she didn't say anything except, "I think I'd better give you a Ring that has a shield no one can get through."
Since he figured both Lucivar and Surreal would want to tear his heart out in a few hours' time, he thought that was an excellent idea.
The three of them stood outside the room that held the Dark Altar at the Keep.
Jaenelle hugged Surreal. "May the Darkness embrace you, Sister."
"We'll get them back," Surreal said, returning the hug. "Count on it." Glancing at Daemon, she went into the Altar's room and quietly closed the door.
Daemon just looked at Jaenelle, his heart too full to say anything. Besides, words seemed so inadequate at the moment. He brushed a thumb across her cheek, kissed her gently. Then he took a deep breath. "The game begins at midnight."
"And at midnight, seventy-two hours later, you're going to be riding the Winds back to the Keep in Terreille. No stops, no delays." She paused, waited for him to nod agreement, then added, "Don't ride any Wind darker than the Red. The others will be unstable."
It took effort to keep his jaw from dropping. A strong witch storm could create a disturbance on part of the psychic roadways through the Darkness, could even throw someone off the Web to be lost in the Darkness, but "unstable" sounded much, much worse.
"All right," he finally said. "We'll stay on the Red."
"Daemon," Jaenelle said softly, "I want you to promise me something."
"Anything."
Her eyes filled with tears. It took her a moment to regain control. "Thirteen years ago, you gave everything you had in order to help me."
"And I'll give you everything again," he replied just as softly.
She shook her head fiercely. "No. No more sacrifices, Daemon. Not from you. That's what I want you to promise me." She swallowed hard. "The Keep is going to be the only safe place. I want your promise that, at the appointed hour, you'll be on your way there. No
matter who you have to walk away from, no matter who you have to leave behind, you must get to the Keep before dawn. Promise me, Daemon." She gripped his arm hard enough to hurt. "I have to know you'll be safe. Promise me."
Gently, he removed her hand, then raised it to place a kiss in her palm—and smiled. "I'm not going to do anything that will make me late for my own wedding."
Pain flashed in her eyes, making him wonder if she really wanted to marry him. No. He wouldn't begin to doubt, couldn't afford to doubt. "I'll come back to you," he said. "I swear it."
She gave him a brief, fierce kiss. "See that you do."
She looked pale and exhausted. There were dark smudges under her eyes. She had never looked more beautiful to him.
"I'll see you in a few days."
"Good-bye, Daemon. I love you."
As he approached the Dark Altar that was a Gate between the Realms, he didn't find Jaenelle's last words reassuring.
22 / Kaeleer
Karla eased herself into a chair in Jaenelle's sitting room. She could use Craft to float herself from place to place, and could even stand on her own now for a little while with the help of two canes. But channeling power through her body left her quickly exhausted, and standing made her legs ache. Still, the daily cup of Jaenelle's tonic was working. But she had an uneasy feeling she would need her strength for something else very soon.
It was the first time since Jaenelle had refused to allow Kaeleer to go to war that Karla had seen her. But even now, when Jaenelle had summoned her and Gabrielle, the Queen of Ebon Askavi was keeping her back to them, just staring out the window.
"I need the two of you to keep the boyos leashed for another few days," Jaenelle said quietly. "It won't be easy, but it's necessary."
"Why?" Gabrielle demanded. "Hell's fire, Jaenelle, we need to gather into armies and fight. Scattered the way we are now, we're barely holding our own and we aren't even fighting the armies that are bound to come in from Terreille, just the Terreilleans who were already in Kaeleer. The bastards. It's time to go to war. We have to go to war. It's not just the people who are dying. The land is being destroyed, too."
"The Queens can heal the land," Jaenelle replied, still not looking at them. "That is the Queens' special gift. And not as many of our people have died as you seem to think."
"No," Gabrielle said bitterly, "they're just dying of shame because they've been ordered to abandon their land."
"They can survive a little shame."
Karla laid a hand on Gabrielle's arm. Trying to keep her voice reasonable, she said, "I don't think there's any choice now, Jaenelle. If we don't stop retreating and start attacking, we aren't going to have a place to take a stand when the Terreillean armies do get here."
"They won't receive orders to enter Kaeleer for a few more days. By then, it won't make any difference."
"Because we'll be forced to surrender," Gabrielle snapped.
Karla's hand tightened on Gabrielle's arm. She didn't have much strength, but the gesture was enough to leash the other Queen's temper—at least for the moment.
"Is Kaeleer finally going to war with Terreille?" she asked.
"No," Jaenelle said. "Kaeleer will not go to war with Terreille."
It was the slight inflection that made ice run through Karla's body. The way Gabrielle's arm tensed under her hand, she knew the other woman had heard it, too.
"Then who is going to war with Terreille?"
Jaenelle turned around.
Gabrielle sucked in her breath.
For the first time, they were seeing the dream beneath the flesh.
Karla stared at the pointed ears that had come from the Dea al Mon, the hands with sheathed claws that had come from the Tigre, the hooves peeking out from beneath the black gown that could have come from the centaurs or the horses or the unicorns. Most of all, she stared at the tiny spiral horn.
The living myth. Dreams made flesh. But, oh, had any of them really thought about who the dreamers had been?
No wonder the kindred love her. No wonder we've all loved her.
Karla quietly cleared her throat to ask the question she suddenly hoped wouldn't be answered. "Who is going to war with Terreille?"
"I am," Witch said.
Chapter Fifteen
1 / Terreille
Half-blinded by the pain inflicted on him during the past two days, Saetan watched Hekatah approach and give him a long, slow study. Whenever the whim had struck either of them, she and Dorothea had used the Ring of Obedience on him, but more carefully now, stopping just before the moment when he would have fainted from the pain. Worse, for him, they had left him chained to the post through the daylight hours. Already weakened by pain, the afternoon sun had drained his psychic strength and stabbed at his eyes, producing a headache so violent even the pain from the Ring couldn't engulf it.
Bit by bit, pain had chewed away all the revitalizing effects Jaenelle's tonics had produced in him, changing his body back to where it had been when he'd first met her— closer to the demon-dead than to the living.
If he could have made a fast transition from Guardian to demon-dead, he might have considered it—the kind of transition Andulvar and Prothvar had made on the battlefield all those long centuries ago. They had both been so deep in battle fury, they hadn't even realized they had received deathblows. If he could have done it that way, he might have. It would be easy enough to slit a vein and bleed himself out, and there would be less pain. But he would be more vulnerable, and without a supply of fresh blood, the sunlight would weaken him to the point that, when Jaenelle finally came, he would be a liability to her instead of finding some way to fight with her.
When Jaenelle finally came. If Jaenelle ever came. She should have reacted by now, should have been there by now—if she was coming at all.
"I think it's time to send Jaenelle another little gift," Hekatah said, her girlish voice now slurred by the misshapen jaw. "Another finger?" She used the same tone another woman might use when trying to decide the merits of serving one dish over another at dinner. "Perhaps a toe this time. No, too insignificant. An eye? Too disfiguring. We don't want her to start thinking you've become too repulsive to rescue." Her eyes focused on his balls—and she smiled. "It's dead meat now, but it will still be useful for this anyway."
He didn't react. Wouldn't allow himself to react. It was dead meat now—the last part revitalized, the first part to die. He wouldn't react. And he wouldn't think of Sylvia. Not now. Not ever again.
With their eyes locked on each other, Hekatah stepped closer, closer. One of her hands stroked him, caressed him, closed around him to hold him for the knife.
An enraged shriek tore through the normal nighttime sounds.
Hekatah jumped back and whirled toward the sound.
Surreal came flying into the camp as if she'd been tossed by a huge hand. Her feet hit the ground first, but she couldn't stop the forward momentum. She tucked and rolled, coming up on her knees facing the darkness beyond the area illuminated by candle-lights.
"YOU COLD-BLOODED, HEARTLESS BASTARD!" Surreal screamed. "YOU GUTLESS SON OF A WHORING BITCH!"
Dorothea burst out of her cabin, shouting, "Guards! Guards!"
The guards rushed in from three sides of the camp. No one came out of the darkness facing them.
"GUARDS!" Dorothea shouted again.
From out of that darkness, a deep, amused voice said, "They aren't going to answer you, darling. They've been permanently detained."
Daemon Sadi stepped out of the darkness, stopping at the edge of the light. His black hair was a little wind-mussed. His hands were casually tucked in his trouser pockets. His black jacket was open, revealing the white silk shirt that was unbuttoned to the waist. The Black Jewel around his neck glittered with power. His golden eyes glittered, too.
Seeing that queer glitter in Daemon's eyes, Saetan shivered. Something was wrong here. Very wrong.
Hekatah turned halfway, resting the knife against Saetan's belly. "Take one more
step and I'll gut him—and kill the Eyrien, too."
"Go ahead," Daemon said pleasantly as he walked into the camp. "It'll save me the trouble of arranging a couple of careful accidents, which I would have had to have done soon anyway since the Steward and the First Escort were becoming... troublesome. So, you kill them, I destroy you— and then I return to Kaeleer to console the grieving Queen. Yes, that will work out quite nicely. You'll be blamed for their deaths, and Jaenelle will never look at me and wonder why I'm the only male left whom she can depend on."
"You're forgetting about the Master of the Guard," Hekatah said.
Daemon smiled a gentle, brutal smile. "No, I haven't. I didn't forget about Prothvar or Mephis either. They're no longer a concern."
For a moment, Saetan thought Hekatah had gutted him. But while the wound wasn't physical, the pain was. "No," he said. "No. You couldn't have."
Daemon laughed. "Couldn't I? Then where are they, old man?"
Because he had wondered the same thing, Saetan couldn't answer that. But he still found himself denying it. "You couldn't have. They're your family."
"My family," Daemon said thoughtfully. "How convenient that they decided to become 'family' after I became the Consort to the strongest Queen in the history of the Blood."
"That's not true," Saetan said, straining forward despite the knife Hekatah still held against his belly. It was mad to be arguing about this, but all his instincts shouted at him that it had to be now, that there might not be another chance to alter that look in Daemon's eyes.
"Isn't it?" Daemon said bitterly. "Then where were they 1,700 years ago when I was a child? Where were you? Where were any of you during all the years between then and now? Don't talk to me about family, High Lord."
Saetan sagged against the post. Mother Night, every worry he'd had about Daemon's loyalty was coming true.
"How very touching," Hekatah sneered. "Do you expect us to believe that? You're your father's son."
Daemon's gold eyes fastened on Hekatah. "I think it's more accurate to say I'm the man my father might have been if he'd had the balls for it."
