by Anne Bishop
Tangled webs were the webs of dreams and visions that were used by Black Widows to see what couldn’t be seen in other ways.
Using the second key, she opened the trunk where she stored the tools of the Hourglass Coven—wooden frames and spools of spider silk of various weights, among other less benign tools.
Selecting a frame, Tersa brought it and the box of spools to her worktable. Then she sat on a stool, chose one of the spools of spider silk, and thought about the reason she needed to weave this tangled web.
Her boy was not well. He knew it, but not the cause or how to fix it. Felt the pain that was the body’s way of revealing what heart and mind tried to hide. The source of the pain. That was what she needed to find. Not just for him. Not just for him, but for . . .
Her hands stopped moving as she anchored the last strand of the web. Then she took that mental step to the side—a dangerous step for a witch whose power had been broken long ago and whose mind had shattered when she made the choice to regain some of that power. She needed to take that step to help the boy. Her boy. Daemon. Now she opened herself to the dreams and visions—and when she saw what the pain was trying to reveal, she huffed out a sigh of annoyance.
Growing pains. Her boy was trying to hold back a part of himself that had matured so recently he hadn’t figured out yet how to deal with it. He’d be more successful trying to hold back the sea at high tide. He could do it for a while, just like he could hold back his own nature for a while. But eventually he would have to yield to what he was. If he didn’t, he might damage himself in ways that couldn’t be repaired.
Tersa stared at the tangled web. She wasn’t seeing everything yet. She’d seen the simple answer, the easy answer. But there was more. Did she want to know about the more?
She followed the threads beyond the simple answer and saw the larger vision, saw what it might cost later if she gave her boy the easy answer now.
If her boy’s pain went away, the one person he would need the most wouldn’t be there. The one the winged boy would need wouldn’t be there.
Daemon’s pain was the only key. Could she let her boy suffer now in order to spare him from greater pain later?
“Everything has a price,” she whispered as she retreated from the visions.
Using a thin stick of wood, she destroyed the web, carefully wrapping the spider silk around the wood until the frame was clean. Then she used Craft to snap the web-shrouded wood from the rest of the stick and dropped the used portion into a shallow stone bowl. Another bit of Craft created a tongue of witchfire, which she dropped into the bowl.
Tersa watched wood and spider silk burn until there was nothing left, until even the witchfire was extinguished, having used up the tiny bit of power that had created it.
She returned her tools to the trunk and locked it before she picked up the stone bowl and went downstairs. Witchfire burned anything and everything in its path, so even though it looked extinguished, she would keep watch on the bowl for a while longer before burying the ash in the garden.
Once the Mikal boy was asleep, she would ride the Winds to the Keep and hope the one who could save her boy would answer her call for help.
* * *
* * *
٭Surreal, you’re needed.٭
٭Sadi? Where are you?٭ He was supposed to be picking up Jaenelle Saetien after school. Had that much time passed since he’d left the Hall on some unspecified errand in the village?
٭We’ll be at the Hall in a few minutes.٭
You’re needed. Not Your presence is requested. Not Your presence is required. Those were the phrases of Protocol that were usually used. But this? This sounded like a Warlord Prince summoning his second-in-command.
Which meant she should be heading up to the residential part of the Hall, weapons drawn and ready to meet trouble.
And yet she hesitated as she studied the Black-locked door that she’d discovered at the end of a corridor deep beneath the Hall. She didn’t know what was behind that door, but she was sure that few who walked through that door walked out again.
Better not to know. Especially now.
But these walls on either side of the door were also protected by Black shields, and those shields now served a purpose for her. She didn’t think Sadi came down here often, and she was sure these shields weren’t part of the defensive shields around the Hall. Those Sadi checked every fortnight. But these . . .
Everything had a price. Including power. Especially power. And during a witch’s moontime, she needed to channel her power into the reservoir of her Jewels to lessen the pain. Problem was, when everything was peaceful, daily life didn’t use much Gray power.
She could ask Daemon to drain her Gray Jewel. He’d done it every month during her pregnancy and several months after that to keep her and the baby safe from her own power. But she didn’t want to ask him. She didn’t want to be dependent on anyone right now. Especially him. She could take care of this on her own, as she’d done most of her life.
More than anything, she didn’t want to be vulnerable around the Black more than could be helped.
٭Lady Surreal?٭ Beale called.
Did Beale know what was contained behind that door? Did he know about these corridors? Would he think to look for her here? And would he tell Daemon if he did find her here?
She’d lived in and around the Hall for decades, but she hadn’t discovered this part of the structure until Daemon had gone to the cabin for a couple of days. She’d been restless and had picked up the feel of the Black beneath the cellars. Curious, she had traced the power to that door and the shielded walls. Still curious, and sufficiently cautious, she had carefully coated her Gray power over the Black—and then pushed just enough for the Black to respond to the “attack” and absorb the Gray. She’d moved to another section of the wall and done the same thing, not pushing too hard in case there was an aggressive shield beneath the passive one. Her Gray Jewel had been drained of some of its power, while the Black shield, though thinned, was still intact. She’d hoped the thinning would be put down to a shield naturally fading over time.
Now there wasn’t time for careful draining, not if she didn’t want people to start looking for her—and there was one person in particular she didn’t want finding her down here.
“Shit shit shit.” Surreal unleashed a wash of Gray power along the wall, hitting the Black shield with enough force that she could feel the difference in the shield. If she kept slamming power at that one area until she completely drained the Gray, she might weaken the Black, but the power she needed to release prior to her moontime wasn’t going to make that much difference to the shield.
Couldn’t make that much difference. But if Sadi noticed, if he asked why she was trying to break one of his shields . . .
Which side of Daemon Sadi’s temper would ask? Her husband? The Warlord Prince of Dhemlan? The High Lord of Hell? Or would it be the Sadist who wrapped his arms around her and played a game of pleasure and pain while he asked questions and waited for answers she didn’t want to give?
With any luck, it would take him a while to notice the weakened shield.
He’d notice plenty if she didn’t get her ass moving and find out why she was needed.
By the time she reached the entrance hall, the only person waiting for her was Beale. She opened her first inner barrier, then quickly shut it against the stew of emotions filling the great hall.
“Prince Sadi?” she asked.
“He left for a meeting that was not on his calendar,” Beale replied. “He will not be home for dinner but will be back sometime tonight.”
“Jaenelle Saetien?”
“The young Lady has gone to her room.” Beale hesitated. “Nothing was said, but I had the impression that an infraction of the rules has caused some unhappiness between the Prince and the young Lady. Before he left, he gave the order that the young Lady
was not allowed any dessert or treats for the rest of today and all of tomorrow.”
But he left me to carry out that order, Surreal thought sourly.
“I have informed Mrs. Beale.” Another pause. “And Holt.”
“Did you inform the Scelties?” she asked.
“I think they already know.”
Shit shit shit. That didn’t sound good. “They’re upstairs with Jaenelle Saetien?”
“No. They’ve gone to the stables to play with the horses.”
The girl was upset and the Scelties were not offering company. And Sadi had left for some mysterious meeting. Great. Wonderful. “I’ll sort out what I can.”
As she turned toward the informal sitting room, which held the staircase that led to the family wing of the Hall, Beale said, “Lady Surreal? It’s not my place to say, but the Prince looked . . . unwell.”
“He seemed fine this morning.” And more than fine last night.
“Ah. A passing indisposition.” Beale sounded relieved.
“I’m sure it’s nothing more than that.”
Hurrying toward the family wing, she stopped at Daemon’s suite of rooms first, relieved when she found Jazen, his valet, hanging up freshly laundered silk shirts in the dressing room.
“Prince Sadi,” she said before Jazen could greet her. “If he was ill, would you know?”
Jazen hesitated, and Surreal wondered if it was because the man was considering the question or trying to balance loyalties.
“Some mornings he seems indisposed, but I’ve thought it was due to stiff muscles, since he seems to shake it off after a hot shower. Should I be watching for something?”
“No. Never mind.”
A fully shaved man—mutilated for the entertainment of Dorothea SaDiablo and her cronies—who had had no future until Daemon hired him as a valet, Jazen would be loyal to the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. While he might not say anything to her, if Daemon really was ill, Jazen would say something to someone.
And what she’d told Beale was true: the man had been in fine form last night when he’d come to her bed.
Not finding Jaenelle Saetien in the playroom, she knocked on the girl’s bedroom door and went in without waiting for a response. Her daughter sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed, looking sulky.
Surreal sat on the edge of the bed. “I hear you butted heads with your papa and lost.” No response. “And the penalty for whatever you butted heads about is no dessert or treats for the rest of today and all of tomorrow.”
That got a response. “That’s not fair!”
“Why isn’t it fair?”
The story poured out. Nutcakes. Mikal. Papa being mean about her wanting a second nutcake even though Manny did say just one each. But she was special.
Surreal suspected that the real conflict was buried in the things Jaenelle Saetien didn’t say, but she’d work with this. “You’re lucky it was your papa and not your grandfather who decided the penalty for this nutcakes-and-sass drama. Your grandfather, like your papa, was indulgent about some things and very strict about other things. Very strict. If you’d tried this with him, you’d be lucky if the no-desserts-and-treats order was for less than a week.”
She couldn’t have shocked the girl more if she’d dumped a bucket of ice water over her head.
“Do you want to know what ‘special’ really means, my darling? It means more training, more work, more study, more discipline, more rules. Part of the power you wield is at the level of the Green, and that means you wear a dark Jewel. No one can afford to look away from bad behavior and allow you to become a bitch. Too many people died in wars that were started by bitches who thought they were above the laws, above the rules we live by.”
“It was just a nutcake,” Jaenelle Saetien whispered.
“Was it? Then why aren’t the Scelties here with you?”
The girl didn’t answer.
Surreal nodded, guessing a bit more of what must have happened. “I used to say your papa had a firm no and a soft no when it came to something you wanted to do or have. After today, I think you’re going to find him drawing a harder line, and no matter how pleasantly he says it, from now on, no will mean no, and disobeying him will have consequences.”
She gave her daughter a kiss on the forehead and headed for the door to let the girl sulk for a while. Then she went to her own suite and locked the doors so that no one would walk in on her while she paced and wondered if the life she’d built around being Daemon’s wife and the mother of his child was breaking apart around her.
* * *
* * *
٭Prick.٭
The pained whisper on a Red spear thread had Lucivar calling in his Eyrien war blade as he strode out of his home and tried to pinpoint his brother’s location. ٭Bastard?٭
٭Here.٭
He spotted Daemon coming up the stone stairs from the landing area below the eyrie—saw his brother sway.
Vanishing the war blade, Lucivar rushed down the remaining stairs and grabbed Daemon before the man could lose his balance and take a hard fall down the stairs—or even fall off the damn mountain. Securing one of Daemon’s arms around his shoulders, he wrapped his arm around his brother’s waist, closed his fingers around the thin leather belt, and half carried Sadi up to the eyrie.
٭Nurian!٭ The command, sent out on a general psychic thread, thundered over the valley. ٭To my eyrie, now!٭
“What in the name of Hell is wrong with you?” he muttered as they reached the flagstone courtyard in front of his home. Marian stood in the doorway. She met his eyes, nodded, and disappeared into the eyrie.
“Headache,” Daemon whispered.
“Try again, old son.”
“Fine,” Daemon snapped, sounding a bit more like himself. “It’s a wicked bitch of a headache.”
Sadi hadn’t been anywhere in Ebon Rih until he arrived a minute ago, so that begged the question of why he’d made the journey here instead of staying put until the headache had eased.
And the answer was he’d been someplace where he couldn’t afford to be vulnerable.
One thing at a time.
٭Stay out, boyo,٭ Lucivar said when he hauled Daemon into the eyrie and saw his elder son standing in the doorway leading to the shielded yard. If Daemon was suffering from something more than a headache, he wanted the boy out of the way of any . . . unpleasantness.
Marian had the covers of the bed in the primary guest room pulled down. She also had a basin full of water and a cloth on the wide window ledge, and an empty basin floating on air near the bed.
٭Papa? Nurian is here,٭ Daemonar said.
٭Tell her to come back to the guest room. And you stay in the front of the eyrie and keep your sister with you.٭
٭What’s wrong with Uncle Daemon?٭
٭Don’t know yet.٭
Ignoring his brother’s grumbling, Lucivar stripped off Daemon’s black jacket and white silk shirt, then pushed him down on the bed so that Marian could remove the shoes and socks.
“What . . . ?” Nurian stopped on the threshold, her dark, membranous wings folding tight to her body.
“Prince Sadi says he has a headache,” Lucivar said.
“I do have a headache,” Daemon growled.
“Well, let’s take a look.” After a moment’s hesitation, Nurian entered the room, all brisk efficiency—as if being in the same room with the two most powerful men in Kaeleer when one of them was in pain wasn’t the least bit dangerous. “Let’s sit him on that padded bench. It’ll be easier for me to get a good look at everything.”
Nurian and Marian moved the bench from under the window to a spot in the room that allowed Nurian full access to her patient.
“Come on.” Lucivar wrapped a hand around Daemon’s arm and hauled him to his feet.
“You son of a—,” Daemon began.
What he saw in Daemon’s pain-glazed gold eyes scared him to the bone—which was why he gave his brother the lazy, arrogant smile that always promised trouble.
After settling Daemon on the bench, he and Marian left the room and walked to the end of the corridor.
“Was he in a fight?” Marian whispered.
“Don’t think so,” Lucivar replied, keeping his voice low. “But something is wrong.” Had been wrong for a while now.
“I have some soup I made the other day for tender tummies. I’ll heat some up. Nurian might want him to have some nourishment to help fuel her healing brew.”
After Marian headed for the kitchen, Lucivar walked back to the guest room and stood in the corridor, out of sight.
His brother was damaged. Lucivar had known that on some instinctive level from the first time they had met again as youths, neither remembering the childhood years before they’d been taken from their father. Whatever pain and torment he’d endured being a half-breed bastard in the Eyrien hunting camps where he had been trained to fight, it was nothing compared with what Dorothea SaDiablo must have done to Daemon, taking him into her bed while he was still a boy and training him to be a pleasure slave whose service she had sold to the Queens who curried her favor.
Whatever had been done to Daemon during those early decades of his life had shaped and twisted the side of him that became known as the Sadist. Using the sexual heat as an inescapable lure that could seduce anyone, regardless of preference, the Sadist wove pain and pleasure together in a way that broke down his enemies piece by piece. Broke down the mind. Broke down the body. Merciless. Relentless. A raging, brilliant cruelty that lived inside a beautiful face and well-toned body.
He had danced with the Sadist, had been used by the Sadist. Had hated his brother because of those games. But he’d known—on some level he had always known—that the Sadist had shown restraint, had retained a sliver of mercy when they had danced, had tortured him in order to protect him. Had, in fact, loved him.
