Queen of the Darkness bj-3

by Anne Bishop

  That brought protests from Gabrielle and Karla.

  "Wait a minute," Gabrielle said, glancing at Karla, who nodded. "If Jaenelle is hurt and needs a Healer, she should have us."

  "No," Tersa said, her anger breaking free. "She should not have you. You could not look at what was done to that flesh and believe it could still live. But the kindred do not doubt. The kindred will not believe anything else. That is why, if it can be done, they are the ones who can do it." She jumped up and ran out of the room.

  Surreal waited a moment, then followed. She didn't find Tersa, but she found Graysfang hovering nearby, whining anxiously.

  She studied the wolf. Kindred do not doubt. They would sink in and fight for that dream with fangs and claws and never give it up. Well, she would never have a snout that could smell tracks, but she could damn well learn how to be as stubborn as a wolf. She would sink her teeth into the belief that Jaenelle was simply recovering somewhere private after performing an extremely difficult spell. She would sink in and hold on to that.

  For Jaenelle's sake.

  For Daemon's sake.

  And for her own sake, because she wanted her friend to come back.

  Chapter Sixteen

  1 / Kaeleer

  Daemon walked down the steps that led to the garden in the Hall, the garden that had two statues.

  When he woke up from the sedative Surreal and Saetan had given him, he had asked to leave the Keep. They had gone with him. So had Tersa.

  Lucivar hadn't.

  That had been a week ago.

  He wasn't sure what he'd done during the days since. They had simply passed. And at night...

  At night, he crept from his own bed into Jaenelle's because it was the only place he could sleep. Her scent was there, and in the dark, he could almost believe that she was simply away for a little while, that he would wake one morning and find her cuddled up next to him.

  He stared at the statue of the male, with its paw/hand curved protectively above the sleeping woman. Part human, part beast. Savagery protecting beauty. But now he saw something else in its eyes: the anguish, the price that sometimes had to be paid.

  He turned away from it, walked over to the other statue, stared at the woman's face—that familiar, beloved face— for a long, long time.

  The tears came—again. The pain was always there.

  "Tersa keeps telling me that it will be all right, to trust one who sees," he told the statue. "Surreal keeps telling me not to give up, that the kindred will be able to bring you back. And I want to believe that. I need to believe that. But when I ask Tersa about you directly, she hesitates, says it's too soon to know, says the kindred are fighting to hold the dream to the flesh. Fighting to hold the dream to the flesh." He laughed bitterly. "They're not fighting to hold the dream to flesh, Jaenelle. They're fighting to put enough of you together again for there to be something for the dream to come back to. And you knew what would happen, didn't you? When you decided to do this, you knew."

  He paced, circled, came back to the statue.

  "I did it for you," he said quietly. "I bought the time, I played the game. For you." His breathing hitched, came out in a sob. "I knew I would have to do some things that wouldn't be forgiven. I knew it when you asked me to go to Hayll, but I did it anyway. F-for you. Because I was going to come back to you, and the rest of it wouldn't matter. B-because I was coming back to you. But you sent me there knowing you wouldn't be here when I got back, knowing..." He sank to his knees. "You said no sacrifices. You made me promise I wouldn't make any sacrifices. But what do you call this, Jaenelle? What do you call this? When I got back, we were going to get m-married.... And you left me. Damn you, Jaenelle, I did this for you, and you left me. You left me."

  He collapsed on the grass near the statue, sobbing.

  Lucivar rested a fist against the stone wall and bowed his head.

  Mother Night. Daemon had gone into that game expecting to come back for his own wedding. Mother Night.

  He was here because Marian had ripped into him that morning, giving him the full thrust of the temper that lived beneath her quiet nature. She'd told him that, yes, he'd been hurt, but he'd been hurt to save them. She'd asked him if he would have preferred losing a wife or son in truth in order for his feelings to be spared. And she'd told him that the man she had married would have the courage to forgive.

  That had brought him here.

  But now...

  When they'd both been slaves in Terreille, he and Daemon had played games before, had used each other, had hurt each other. Sometimes they'd done it to relieve their own pain, sometimes it had been for a better reason. But they'd always been able to look past those games and forgive the hurt because there had been no one else. They'd fought with each other, but they'd also fought for each other.

  He had other people now, a wider circle to love. A wife, a son. Maybe that had made the difference. He didn't need Daemon. But, Hell's fire, Daemon needed him right now.

  But it was more than that. Thirteen years ago, he had wrongfully accused Daemon of killing Jaenelle. That had been the first hard shove that had ended with Daemon spending eight years in the Twisted Kingdom, lost in madness. And Daemon had forgiven him because, he'd said, he'd already grieved for a brother once and didn't want to do it again.

  Daemon had believed a painful lie for thirteen years. He'd believed one for a couple of days. Marian had been right to rip into him.

  So he would do what he could to mend things, for his own sake as well as for Daemon's. Because, during those long centuries of slavery when they'd had no one but each other, their anger had sometimes flared to moments of hate, but underneath there had always been love.

  Pushing away from the wall, Lucivar walked down the steps, knelt in the grass beside Daemon. He touched his brother's shoulder.

  Daemon looked at him out of a face devastated by grief before lunging into the open arms.

  "I want her back," Daemon cried. "Oh, Lucivar, I want her back."

  Lucivar held on tight as his own tears fell. "I know, old son. I know."

  2 / Kaeleer

  "You're leaving!" Lucivar leaped to his feet and stared at Saetan. "What do you mean, 'leaving'? To go where?" Pacing behind the two chairs in front of the blackwood desk, he pointed an accusing finger at his father. "You are not going to the Dark Realm. There's no one left there. And you are not going to be alone."

  "Lucivar," Saetan said quietly. "Lucivar, please listen."

  "When the sun shines in Hell."

  *Prick,* Daemon said on an Ebon-gray spear thread.

  *And why in the name of Hell are you just sitting there?* Lucivar demanded. *He's your father, too.*

  Daemon bit back exasperation. *Let him talk, Prick. If we don't like what we hear, then we'll do something about it.* "You're leaving because of Sylvia?" he asked Saetan.

  Lucivar froze, swore softly, then settled back into the chair.

  "That's part of it," Saetan said. "A Guardian isn't meant to be among the living. Not that way." He hesitated, then added, "If I stay... I can't stay and be a friend and encourage her to... She deserves to be with someone who can give her more than I can now."

  "You could come to Ebon Rih and live with us," Lucivar said.

  "Thank you, Lucivar, but no. I've..." Saetan took a deep breath. "I've been offered a position at the Keep as assistant historian/librarian. Geoffrey says he's starting to feel his years, and it's my fault that he's had more work now than he's ever had because I'm the one who introduced the coven to the Keep's library, and it's time I started making myself useful."

  "The Keep is only a mountain away from our eyrie," Lucivar said.

  "You will not bring Daemonar to the library."

  Lucivar gave Saetan a sharp smile. "Did you bring me there when I was his age?"

  "Once," Saetan said dryly. "And Geoffrey still reminds me of that little adventure on occasion." He glanced at Daemon. "I'll come and visit both of you, just to find out how much trouble you're ca
using."

  Daemon felt a tension ease. He wanted to see his father, but not at Ebon Askavi. He would never again set foot in the Keep.

  "The family owns three counties in Dhemlan," Saetan said. "I've divided them between you. Daemon, I'm giving you the Hall and all the land and titles that go with it. Lucivar, you'll have the land that's near the Askavi border. The other property you'll own together."

  "I don't need land," Lucivar protested.

  "You're still the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih because the people want you to be the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih. But Daemonar may not want to rule—or you may have other sons or daughters who want a different kind of life. You'll be the caretaker of that land because the SaDiablo family has been the caretaker of that land for thousands of years. Is that understood?"

  "Yes, sir," Lucivar said quietly.

  "And you?" Saetan said, pointedly looking at Daemon.

  "Yes, sir," he replied just as quietly. Well, that explained why Saetan had insisted on spending the past two months teaching him the family business. He'd thought it was just a way to keep him occupied and too busy to think too much.

  He'd welcomed the work, especially when he realized that Saetan had shouldered the burden of helping Geoffrey with a far more difficult task. He and Lucivar had been told the results, but he knew he couldn't have tolerated accumulating the information.

  Over forty percent of the Blood in Terreille were gone. Completely gone. Another thirty percent had been broken back to basic Craft. The Blood who were left in Terreille were reeling from the devastation—and the sudden freedom.

  He hadn't asked what had happened to Alexandra, Leland, and Philip—and Saetan hadn't offered the information. Or if he had, it had only been to Wilhelmina.

  The numbers were about the same in Little Terreille as they were for the Realm of Terreille. But the rest of Kaeleer was mostly untouched—except for Glacia. Karla was struggling to reunite her people and re-form her court. The taint Dorothea and Hekatah had spread in the Blood might have been destroyed, but the scars remained.

  Everything has a price.

  "What about Jaenelle's house in Maghre?" Lucivar asked.

  Daemon shook his head. "Let Wilhelmina have it. She's decided to settle in Scelt, and—"

  "The house was leased for Jaenelle," Saetan said firmly. "It remains for Jaenelle. If you have no objections to Wilhelmina living there until she finds a place of her own, so be it."

  Daemon backed down. He loved that house, too, but he wasn't sure he could ever live there again. And he wasn't really sure if Saetan truly believed Jaenelle was coming back or if his father just wasn't willing to do anything that would acknowledge that she wasn't. After all, it had been two months now with no news of any kind, just Tersa's continued—and useless—assurance that it would be all right. "Is that it?"

  He read the message in Saetan's eyes. "I'll be with you in a minute," he said to Lucivar when his brother rose and looked at him.

  When they were alone, Saetan said carefully, "I know how you feel about Ebon Askavi now."

  Daemon rushed in. "I truly hope you will come to visit, Father, because I'll never set foot in the Keep again."

  Saetan said gently, "You have to go one more time. Draca wants to see you."

  3 / Kaeleer

  "There iss ssomething I want to sshow you." Draca unlocked a door and stepped aside.

  Daemon walked into a huge room that was a portrait gallery. Dozens upon dozens of paintings hung on the walls.

  At first, he saw only one. The last one.

  Unable to look at it, he turned his back to it and began to study the rest of them in order. Some were very, very old, but all of them had been exquisitely done. As he slowly walked around the room, he realized the portraits spanned the species who made up the Blood—and they were all female.

  When he reached the last one, he studied Jaenelle's portrait for a long time, then looked at the signature. Dujae. Of course.

  He turned and looked at Draca.

  "They were all dreamss made flessh, Prince," Draca said gently. "Some only had one kind of dreamer, otherss were a bridge. Thesse were Witch."

  "But—" Daemon looked at the portraits again. "I don't see Cassandra's portrait here."

  "Sshe wass a Black-Jeweled witch, the Queen of Ebon Asskavi. But sshe wass not Witch. Sshe wass not dreamss made flessh."

  He shook his head. "Witch wears the Black. She's always a Black-Jeweled Queen."

  "No. That iss not alwayss the dream, Daemon. There have been quiet dreamss and sstrong dreamss. There have been Queenss and ssongmakerss." She paused, waited. "Your dream wass to be Conssort to the Queen of Ebon Asskavi. Iss that not true?"

  Daemon's heart began to pound. "I thought they were the same. I thought Witch and the Queen of Ebon Askavi were the same."

  "And if they are not?"

  Tears stung his eyes. "If they hadn't been the same, if I'd had to choose between the Queen and Jaenelle ... I never would have set foot in this place. Excuse me, Draca. "

  He started to rush past her, but he saw her hand move as if to hold him back. He could have avoided her easily, but, being who she was, he couldn't be that disrespectful.

  Her ancient hand moved slowly, came to rest on his arm.

  "The Queen of Ebon Asskavi iss gone," she said very quietly. "But sshe who iss Kaeleer'ss Heart, sshe who iss Witch, sstill livess."

  4 / Kaeleer

  "You'll take the income I've provided for you," Saetan snarled as he and Surreal walked through one of the Hall's gardens. He'd thought this would be a simple task, something to occupy a bit of time while he waited for Daemon to return from the Keep.

  Surreal snarled back. "I don't need a damn income from you."

  He stopped and turned on her. "Are you or are you not family?"

  She stepped up to him until they were toe to toe. "Yes, I'm family, but—"

  "Then take the damn income!" he shouted.

  "Why?" she shouted back.

  "Because I love you!" he roared. "And I want to give you that much."

  She swore at him.

  Hell's fire, why were his children all so stubborn!

  He leashed his temper. "It's a gift, Surreal. Please take it."

  She hooked her hair behind her ears. "If you're going to put it that way..."

  A wolf raised its voice in an odd series of yips and howls.

  "That's not Graysfang," Surreal said.

  Saetan tensed. "No. It's one of the pack from the north woods."

  Worry filled her eyes. "One of them has come back? Why does it sound like that?"

  "The Tigre use drums to signal messages—just for fun things, a dance, an impromptu gathering," Saetan replied absently. "The wolves became intrigued by it and developed a few particular howls of their own."

  The same series of yips and howls came again.

  "Graysfang could have mentioned that," Surreal grumbled. "What's that one mean?"

  "It means there's a message that should be heeded."

  The wolf raised its voice again in a different song. Then another wolf joined in. And another. And another.

  Listening, he started to cry—and laugh. There was only one reason the wolves raised their voices in quite that way.

  Surreal gripped his arm. "Uncle Saetan, what is it?"

  "It's a song of celebration. Jaenelle has come back."

  5 / Kaeleer

  It was early autumn, almost a year since he'd first come to Kaeleer.

  Daemon carefully landed the small Coach in the meadow and stepped out. At the edge of the meadow, Ladvarian waited for him.

  For weeks, he had raged and pleaded, begged and sworn. It hadn't done any good. Draca had insisted that she didn't know exactly where the kindred had hidden Jaenelle. She had also insisted that the healing was still very delicate and a strong presence—and difficult emotions—could easily interfere. Finally, exasperated, she had suggested that he make himself useful.

  So he'd thrown himself into work. And eve
ry evening he had written a letter to Jaenelle, telling her about his day, pouring out his love. Two or three times a week, he went to the Keep and annoyed Draca.

  Now, finally, the message had come. The kindred had done all they could. The healing wasn't complete, but the rest would take time, and she should be in a warm human den now.

  So he'd been told where to bring the Coach that would take Jaenelle back to the Hall.

  He crossed the meadow, stopped a few feet in front of Ladvarian. The Sceltie looked too thin, but there was joy— and wariness—in the brown eyes.

  "Ladvarian," Daemon said quietly, respectfully.

  *Daemon.* Ladvarian shifted uneasily. *Human males... Some human males pay too much attention to the outside.*

  He understood the warning, heard the fear. And now he understood why they hadn't let him come sooner—they'd been afraid he wouldn't be able to stand what he saw. They were still afraid.

  "It doesn't matter, Ladvarian," he said gently. "It doesn't matter."

  The Sceltie studied him. *She is very fragile.*

  "I know." Draca had drummed that into him before she'd let him come.

  *She sleeps a lot.*

  He smiled dryly. "I've hardly slept at all."

  Satisfied, Ladvarian turned. *This way. Be careful. There are many guard webs.*

  Looking around, he saw the tangled webs that could ensnare a person's mind and draw him into peculiar dreams— or hideous nightmares.

  He walked carefully.

  They walked for several minutes before they came to a path that led to a sheltered cove. A large tent was set up well back from the waterline. The colored fabric would keep out most of the sun but seemed loosely woven enough to let in air.

  Closer to the water were several poorly made sand casties. Watching Kaelas trying to pack sand with one of those huge paws made him smile.

  The front flaps of the tent were pulled back, revealing the woman sleeping inside. She wore a long skirt of swirling colors. The amethyst-colored shirt was unbuttoned and had slid to her sides, displaying her from the waist up.