by Anne Bishop
Daemon and Wilhelmina were applauding when Cook came in carrying a tray. "I thought you'd like some sandwiches . . ." Her words faded as Daemon, with a dazzling smile, took the tray from her, placed it on a table, and led her to the center of the room. He bowed; with a pleased smile, she curtsied. He swept her into his arms and they waltzed to a Chaillot tune he'd heard at a number of balls. As they whirled about the room, he grinned at the girls, who were whirling around with them.
Then Cook stumbled and moaned, her eyes fixed on the doorway.
"What's the meaning of this?" Graff said nastily as she stepped into the room. She nailed Cook with an icy stare. "You were entrusted to look after the girls for a few short hours, and here I return to find you engaged in questionable entertainment." Her eyes snapped to Daemon's arm, which was still around Cook's waist. She sniffed, maliciously pleased. "Perhaps, when this is reported, Lady Angelline will find someone with culinary talent."
"Nothing happened, Graff."
Daemon shivered at the chilling fury in Jaenelle's too calm voice.
Graff turned. "Well, we'll just see, missy."
"Graff." It was a thunderous, malevolent whisper.
Daemon shook. Every instinct for self-preservation screamed at him to call in the Black and shield himself.
There had been a strange swirling when Graff first appeared that had made him think he was being pulled into a spiral. He'd never felt anything like that before and hadn't realized that Jaenelle was gliding down into the abyss. Now something rose from far below him, something very angry and so very, very cold.
Graff turned slowly, her eyes staring wide and empty.
"Nothing happened, Graff," Jaenelle said in that cold whisper that shrieked through Daemon's nerves. "Wilhelmina and I were in the music room practicing some dance steps. Cook had brought some sandwiches for us and was just leaving when you arrived. You didn't see the Prince because he was in his room. Do you understand?"
Graff's eyebrows drew together. "No, I—"
"Look down, Graff. Look down. Do you see it?"
Graff whimpered.
"If you don't remember what I've told you, that's what you'll see . . . forever. Do you understand?"
"Understand," Graff whispered as spittle dribbled down her chin.
"You're dismissed, Graff. Go to your room."
When they heard a door close farther down the corridor, Daemon led Cook to a chair and eased her into it. Jaenelle said nothing more, but there was pain and sadness in her eyes as she looked at them before going to her room. Wilhelmina had wet herself. Daemon cleaned her up, cleaned up the floor, took the tray of sandwiches back to the kitchen, and dosed Cook with a liberal glass of brandy.
"She's a strange child," Cook said carefully after her second glass of brandy, "but there's more good than harm in her."
Daemon gave her calm, expected responses, allowing her to find her own way to justify what she'd felt in that room. Wilhelmina, too, although embarrassed that he'd witnessed her accident, had altered the confrontation into something she could accept. Only he, as he sat in his room staring at nothing, was unwilling to let go of the fear and the awe. Only he appreciated the terrible beauty of being able to touch without restraint. Only he felt knife-sharp desire.
2—Terreille
Daemon sat on the edge of his bed, a pained, gentle smile tugging his lips. Even with preservation spells, the picture's colors were beginning to fade, and it was worn around the edges. Still, nothing could fade the hint of a brash smile and the ready-for-trouble gleam in Lucivar's eyes. It was the only picture Daemon had of him, taken centuries ago when Lucivar still had an aura of youthful hope, before the years and court after court had turned a handsome, youthful face into one so like the Askavi mountains he loved—beautifully brutal, holding a trace of shadow even in the brightest sunlight.
There was a shy tap on his door before Jaenelle slipped into the room. "Hello," she said, uncertain of her welcome.
Daemon slipped an arm around her waist when she got close enough, Jaenelle rested both hands on his shoulder and leaned into him. The skin beneath her eyes looked bruised, and she trembled a little.
Daemon frowned. "Are you cold?" When she shook her head, he pulled her closer. There wasn't any kind of outside heat that could thaw what chilled her, but after he'd been holding her for a while, the trembling stopped.
He wondered if she'd told Saetan about the music room incident. He looked at her again and knew the answer. She hadn't told the Priest. She hadn't gone roaming for three days. She'd been locked in her cold misery, alone, wondering if there was any living thing that wouldn't fear her. He had come to the Black as a young man, but mature and ready, and even then living that far into the Darkness had been unsettling. For a child who had never known anything else, who had been traveling strange, lonely roads since her first conscious thought, who tried so hard to reach toward other people while suppressing what she was . . . But she couldn't suppress it. She would always shatter the illusion when challenged, would always reveal what lay beneath.
Daemon intently studied the face that, in turn, studied the picture he still held. He sucked in his breath when he finally understood. He wore the Black; Jaenelle was the Black. But with her, the Black was not only dark, savage power, it was laughter and mischief and compassion and healing . . . and snowballs.
Daemon kissed her hair and looked at the picture. "You would have gotten along well with him. He was always ready to get into trouble." He was rewarded with a ghost of a smile.
She studied the picture. "Now he looks more like what he is." Her eyes narrowed, and then she shot an accusing look at him. "Wait a minute. You said he was your brother."
"He was." Is. Would always be.
"But he's Eyrien."
"We had different mothers."
There was a strange light in her eyes. "But the same father."
He watched her juggling the mental puzzle pieces, saw the moment when they all clicked.
"That explains a lot," she murmured, fluffing her hair. "He isn't dead, you know. The Ebon-gray is still in Terreille."
Daemon blinked. "How—" He sputtered. "How do you know that?"
"I looked. I didn't go anywhere," she added hurriedly. "I didn't break my promise."
"Then how—" Daemon shook his head. "Forget I said that."
"It's not like trying to sort through Opals or Red from a distance to find a particular person." Jaenelle had that harried, amused look. "Daemon, the only other Ebon-gray is Andulvar, and he doesn't live in Terreille anymore. Who else can it be?"
Daemon sighed. He didn't understand, but he was relieved to know.
"May I have a copy of that picture?"
"Why?" Jaenelle gave him a look that made him wince. "All right."
"And one of you, too?"
"I don't have one of me."
"We could get one."
"Why—never mind. Is there a reason for this?"
"Of course."
"I don't suppose you'd tell me what it is?"
Jaenelle raised one eyebrow. It was such a perfect imitation, Daemon choked back a laugh. Serves me right, he thought wryly. "All right," he said, ruefully shaking his head.
"Soon?"
"Yes, Lady, soon."
Jaenelle skipped away, turned, gave him a feather-light kiss on the cheek, and was gone.
Raising one eyebrow, Daemon looked at the closed door. He looked at the picture. "You stupid Prick," he said fondly. "Ah Lucivar, you would have had such fun with her."
3—Hell
Saetan leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Why?"
"Because I'd like one."
"You said that before. Why?"
Jaenelle loosely clasped her hands, looked at the ceiling, and said in a prim, authoritative voice, "'Tis not the season for questions."
Saetan choked. When he could breathe again, he said, "Very well, witch-child. You'll have a picture."
"Two?"
Saetan gave her a long,
hard look. She gave him her unsure-but-game smile. He sighed. There was one unshakable truth about Jaenelle: Sometimes it was better not to know. "Two."
She pulled a chair up to the blackwood desk. Resting her elbows on the gleaming surface, her chin propped in her hands, she said solemnly, "I want to buy two frames, but I don't know where to buy them."
"What kind do you want?"
Jaenelle perked up. "Nice ones, the kind that open like a book."
"Swivel frames?"
She shrugged. "Something that will hold two pictures."
"I'll get them for you. Anything else?"
She was solemn again. "I want to buy them myself, but I don't know how much they cost."
"Witch-child, that's not a problem—"
Jaenelle reached into her pocket and pulled something out. Resting her loosely closed fist on the desk, she opened her hand. "Do you think if you sold this, it would buy the frames?"
Saetan gulped, but his hand was steady when he picked up the stone and held it up to the light. "Where did you get this, witch-child?" he asked calmly, almost absently.
Jaenelle put her hands in her lap, her eyes focused on the desk. "Well . . . you see . . . I was with a friend and we were going through this village and some rocks had fallen by the road and a little girl had her foot caught under one of the rocks." She scrunched her shoulders. "It was hurt, the foot I mean, because of the rock, and I . . . healed it, and her father gave me that to say thank you." She added hurriedly, "But he didn't say I had to keep it." She hesitated. "Do you think it would buy two frames?"
Saetan held the stone between thumb and forefinger. "Oh, yes," he said dryly. "I think it will be more than adequate for what you want."
Jaenelle smiled at him, puzzled.
Saetan struggled to keep his voice calm. "Tell me, witch-child, have you received other such gifts from grateful parents?"
"Uh-huh. Draca's keeping them for me because I didn't know what to do with them." She brightened. "She's given me a room at the Keep, just like you gave me one at the Hall."
"Yes, she told me she was going to." He smiled at her obvious relief that he wasn't offended. "I'll have the pictures and frames for you by the end of the week. Will that be satisfactory?"
Jaenelle bounced around the desk, strangled him, and kissed his cheek. "Thank you, Saetan."
"You're welcome, witch-child. Off with you."
Jaenelle bumped into Mephis on her way out. "Hello, Mephis," she said as she headed wherever she was headed.
Even Mephis. Saetan smiled at the bemused, tender expression on his staid, ever-so-formal eldest son's face.
"Come look at this," Saetan said, "and tell me what you think."
Mephis held the diamond up to the light and whistled softly. "Where did you get this?"
"It was a gift, to Jaenelle, from a grateful parent."
Mephis groped for the chair. He stared at the diamond in disbelief. "You're joking."
Saetan retrieved the diamond, holding it between thumb and forefinger. "No, Mephis, I'm not joking. Apparently, a little girl got her foot caught under a rock and hurt it. Jaenelle healed it, and the grateful father presented her with this. And, apparently, this is not the first such gift that's been bestowed upon her for such service." He studied the large, flawless gem.
"But . . . how?" Mephis sputtered.
"She's a natural Healer. It's instinctive."
"Yes, but—"
"But the real question is, what really happened?" Saetan's golden eyes narrowed.
"What do you mean?" Mephis said, puzzled.
"I mean," Saetan said slowly, "the way Jaenelle told the story, it didn't sound like much. But how severe an injury by how large a rock, when healed, would make a father grateful enough to give up this?"
4—Kaeleer
"Witch-child, since a list of your friends would be as long as you are tall, you can't possibly give each of them a Winsol gift. It's not expected. You don't expect gifts from all of them, do you?"
"Of course not," Jaenelle replied hotly. She slumped in the chair. "But they're my friends, Saetan."
And you are the best gift they could have in a hundred lifetimes.
"Winsol is the celebration of Witch, the Blood's remembrance of what we are. Gifts are condiments for the meat, and that's all."
Jaenelle eyed him skeptically—and well she should. How many times over the past few days had he caught himself daydreaming of what it would be like to celebrate Winsol with her? To be with her at sunset when the gifts were opened? To share a tiny cup of hot blooded rum with her? To dance, as the Blood danced at no other time of the year, for the glory of Witch? The daydreams were bittersweet. As he walked through the corridors of the Kaeleer Hall watching the staff decorate the rooms, laughing and whispering secrets; as he and Mephis prepared the benefaction list for the staff and all the villagers whose work directly or indirectly served the Hall; as he did all the things a good Prince did for the people who served him, a thought rubbed at him, rubbed and rubbed: She would be spending that special day with her family in Terreille, away from those who were truly her own.
The one small drop of comfort was that she would also be with Daemon.
"What should I do?"
Jaenelle's question brought him back to the present. He lightly rubbed his steepled fingers against his lips. "I think you should select one or two of your friends who, for whatever reason, might be left out of the celebrations and festivities and give gifts to them. A small gesture to one who otherwise will have nothing will be worth a great deal more than another gift among many."
Jaenelle fluffed her hair and then smiled. "Yes," she said softly, "I know exactly the ones who need it most."
"It's settled, then." A paper-wrapped parcel lifted from the corner of his desk and came to rest in front of Jaenelle. "As you requested."
Jaenelle's smile widened as she took the parcel and carefully unwrapped it. The soft glow in her eyes melted century upon century of loneliness. "You look splendid, Saetan."
He smiled tenderly. "I do my best to serve, Lady." He shifted in his chair. "By the way, the stone you gave me to sell—"
"Was it enough?" Jaenelle asked anxiously. "If it wasn't—"
"More than enough, witch-child." Remembering the expression on the jeweler's face when he brought it in, it was hard not to laugh at her concern. "There were, in fact, a good number of gold marks left over. I took the liberty of opening an account in your name with the remainder. So anytime you want to purchase something in Kaeleer, you need only sign for it, have the store's proprietor send the bill to me at the Hall, and I'll deduct it from your account. Fair enough?"
Jaenelle's grin made Saetan wish he'd bitten his tongue. The Darkness only knew what she might think to purchase. Ah, well. It was going to be just as much of a headache for the merchants as it was going to be for him—and he found the idea too amusing to really mind.
"I suppose if you did want to get an unusual gift, you could always get a couple of salt licks for the unicorns," he teased.
He was stunned by the instant, haunted look in her eyes.
"No," Jaenelle whispered, all the color draining from her face. "No, not salt."
He sat for a long time after she left him, staring at nothing, wondering what it was about salt that could distress her so much.
5—Kaeleer
Draca stepped aside to let Saetan enter. "What do you think?"
Saetan whistled softly. Like all the rooms in the Keep, the huge bedroom was cut out of the living mountain. But unlike the other rooms, including the suite Cassandra had once had, the walls of this room had been worked and smoothed to shine like ravenglass. A wood floor peeked out from beneath immense, thick, red-and-cream patterned rugs that could only have come from Dharo, the Kaeleer Territory renowned for its cloth and weaving. The four-poster blackwood bed could comfortably sleep four people. The rest of the furniture—tables, nightstands, bookcases, storage cupboard—was also blackwood. There was a dressing room with wardr
obes and storage cupboards of cedar, and a private bath with a sunken marble tub—black veined with red—a large shower stall, double sinks, and a commode enclosed in its own little room. On the other side of the bedroom was a door leading into a sitting room.
"It's magnificent, Draca," Saetan said as his eyes drank in the odds and ends scattered on the tables—a young girl's treasures. Fingering the lid of a box that had an intricate design created from a number of rare woods, he opened it and shook his head, partly amused and partly stunned. One finger idly stirred the contents of the box, stirred the little seashells that had obviously come from widely distant beaches, stirred the diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and sapphires that were no more than pretty stones to a child. He closed the box and turned, one eyebrow rising in amusement.
Draca lifted her shoulders in the merest hint of a shrug. "Would you have it otherwisse?"
"No." He looked around. "This room will please her. It's truly a dark sanctuary, something she'll need more and more as the years pass."
"Not all ssanctuariess are dark, High Lord. The room you gave her pleasess her, too." For the first time in all the years he'd known her, Draca smiled. "Sshall I desscribe it to you? I have heard about it often enough."
Saetan looked away, not wanting her to see how pleased he was.
"I wanted to sshow you the Winssol gift I have for her." Draca retreated into the dressing room and returned holding a wisp of black. She spread it out on the bed's satin coverlet. "What do you think?"
Saetan stared at the full-length dress. There was a lump in his throat he couldn't swallow around, and the room was suddenly misty. He fingered the black spidersilk. "Her first Widow's weeds," he said huskily. "This is what she should wear for Winsol." He let the silk slip through his fingers as he turned away. "She should be with us."
"Yess, sshe sshould be with her family."
"She will be with her family," Saetan said bitterly. He laughed, but that was bitter, too. "She'll be with her grandmother and mother . . . and her father."
"No," Draca said gently. "Not with her father. Now, finally, doess sshe have a father."
Saetan took a deep breath. "I used to be the coldest bastard to ever have walked the Realms. What happened?"
