by Anne Bishop
“He doesn’t know.” That realization staggered her. “He thinks he’s still holding the leash, that the sexual heat that surrounds him is the same as it’s always been.”
“Yes,” Tersa agreed.
Karla went back to studying the chalice. “Mother Night, he can no longer survive what he is. The only way for him to get through this is if he could somehow dilute the Black power that is an essential part of who and what he is so that he wouldn’t stand so deep in the abyss.” She looked at the mad Black Widow who was Daemon’s mother. “Could he do that?”
“No,” Tersa replied.
“Is there anyone who could do that?”
They looked at each other.
“Until he’s the one who asks for help, there will be no answer,” Tersa said softly.
“Even if he asks, how can he get an answer from someone who doesn’t exist anymore?”
It disturbed her that Tersa didn’t reply. Made her wonder again if, in her madness, Tersa knew something the rest of them didn’t know.
“Could you tell Surreal?” she asked.
“The girl sees the warning signs but does not trust herself or the boy enough to speak. She has chosen not to listen.”
“Can’t you tell Daemon?”
“Tell him what? That madness will break him, and the price will be the destruction of Kaeleer? Should I tell him this when there is nothing he can do to stop it or change it? Even his physical death won’t stop this. Only one thing can stop this.”
“For the pain to become so great that he asks for the impossible.”
“Yes.”
“And Surreal? This will leave deep wounds in her too.”
“Yes. But she could ask for help, for guidance, for counsel—and has not.”
The air shimmered. The vision faded.
* * *
* * *
Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful!
Karla poured a glass of yarbarah and drank it cold.
These weren’t typical dreams and visions. She didn’t usually interact with other people, didn’t have these conversations.
Then again, the two individuals who had invaded the past two visions were also Black Widows, and one was broken and always lived in the Twisted Kingdom, and the other was starting to break and slide into madness.
According to Tersa, telling Daemon would be pointless, but maybe that just depended on who did the telling.
٭Prince Yaslana,٭ she called on a Gray thread. ٭Your presence is required.٭
She’d barely had time to pour and warm another glass of yarbarah before Lucivar walked into her suite. He gave her one sharp look, then scanned the room, stopping when he saw the tangled web still connected to its wooden frame.
“Problem?” he asked.
“How is your brother?”
“Still getting bad headaches. The herb mixture Nurian makes for him relieves the pain to some degree, but she can’t find a physical reason for the headaches.”
No, she wouldn’t, Karla thought.
Lucivar closed the distance between them, his eyes never leaving her face. “You know why this is happening.” It wasn’t a question.
“I know there will be a price to pay before this is resolved, and it may be steep.”
“I won’t sacrifice my wife or children, but anything else . . .”
The Tersa in her vision had been right. If Daemon fell, Lucivar would go with him—and Kaeleer would lie in ruins by the time it was done.
“How is Surreal? Are things all right between her and Sadi?”
A flash of hot anger, swiftly controlled, filled the room.
“This hunt would be easier if you told me what kind of quarry I’m looking for,” Lucivar said.
And this is why the dead shouldn’t interfere with the living. And why Black Widows shouldn’t meddle in other people’s lives unless asked. We have no stake in the consequences of our words.
“I think Daemon’s headaches are being caused by his keeping the sexual heat leashed too tight,” Karla said.
Lucivar looked pointedly at the tangled web, then at her. “That’s it?”
No, that wasn’t all of it, but if Tersa was right about the rest and Daemon had to reach an unendurable threshold of pain in order to keep his mind from shattering, relieving any of the pain could be a mistake. She still felt Lucivar should know at least some of it. Since he wore Ebon-gray, he might see the warning signs of deterioration in Daemon faster than anyone else.
She sighed. “There is some indication that Sadi has . . . damaged . . . his ability to control the heat, and that might be causing some trouble between him and Surreal.”
“Shit.” Lucivar blew out a breath. “Well, it’s Winsol, and in a couple more days all our official obligations will be met and the family will gather for a private celebration. I’ll see if he and I can go off on our own for a few hours during that time. Or as alone as we can be with children and Scelties underfoot.”
Lucivar took a step toward the door.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.”
He turned back. “I’ve known you since you were seventeen. I saw you through your Virgin Night. I know I’m the only man who has ever touched you that way. And I know when you’re lying. Telling me about the sexual heat? You’re just throwing ash in my face, making it hard for me to see the rest. You always talked straight, Karla. The fact that you’re not doing it now means whatever you saw in that web scares you, and there is nothing you or I or anyone else can do about what’s coming. So Daemon and I will do what we’ve always done: wait until we recognize the face of the enemy—and then fight.”
And if the enemy’s face is the one you see in the mirror? “Let’s hope it won’t come to that.”
“You go ahead and hope. I’m going home to sharpen my knives.”
Once Lucivar was away from the Keep, Karla disposed of the tangled web.
Bad choice. Shouldn’t have told him anything, especially during Winsol.
Nothing she could do now except hope that Daemon asked for help before the fighting began, because once it began, help, even if it came, would come too late.
THIRTEEN
Did I leave it too late?
Marian carefully set the clear Jewel that held the healing spell into a large mug and poured hot water over it. She immediately turned the five-minute hourglass timer, then struggled to think clearly for a few more minutes.
She’d made it through Winsol, feeling more frail with each passing day. She hadn’t wanted to upset everyone during the Blood’s most important celebration of the year, but she hadn’t fooled the adults in the family. Lucivar, Daemon, and Surreal had said nothing, but they’d all watched her.
Someone should be here to watch her. Why hadn’t she thought of that?
٭Lucivar?٭ She should have said something before he’d left to check on the villages in Ebon Rih. She should have . . . ٭Lucivar!٭
He was beyond the range of a Purple Dusk communication thread.
Nurian, then? But what if Nurian tried to stop her from taking this healing brew because the Healer didn’t understand what it was and Marian didn’t have time to explain?
She wasn’t thinking clearly. Wasn’t thinking . . .
Lucivar. Had to tell him, explain, something . . . in case the healing took a while.
She reached for a square of paper and the pencil she used to leave notes for her family. She looked at the sand running in the hourglass. Almost time.
Unable to hold the pencil properly because her fingers didn’t work right, she tried to form letters, tried to think of what to tell him. Lu . . . ci . . . var . . .
No time to explain, no time to call for help. Either Jaenelle Angelline’s healing spell cured the fading that had begun at baby Andulvar’s birth or . . .
She wouldn
’t think about the alternative. Jaenelle had made the spell, so it would work.
As soon as the last grain of sand fell, she fished the Jewel out of the mug, wrapped it in a kitchen towel, and put the towel in a bowl. Taking bowl and mug with her, she retreated to her workroom. Besides the sewing cabinet, a worktable, and her loom, there were a daybed and a chair where she could rest or read. This was her private space in the eyrie, where she could enjoy solitude when she needed some. Lucivar insisted that no one was allowed to enter without her permission—and that included him.
The room, which usually felt cozy, now seemed impossibly long as she took step by shuffling step to the daybed. She drank the healing brew. When she tried to use Craft to vanish the bowl and mug, she discovered she couldn’t do something even that basic, so she pushed the items under the daybed to keep the room tidy. Had to keep things tidy, had to . . .
She lay down on the daybed, got as comfortable as she could, and pulled up the two quilts she hoped would help her fight the sudden chill that seemed to wrap around her bones.
Then she felt herself fall into rivers and night skies and cold winter winds. Falling, falling, falling. Couldn’t get her wings to open, couldn’t stop the plunge.
She didn’t think she was supposed to feel these things. Which meant she had squandered Jaenelle Angelline’s last gift by waiting until it was too late.
* * *
* * *
Lucivar finished his monthly review with the Master of the Guard in Agio, the Blood village at the northern end of Ebon Rih. A fist of Eyriens who worked for him was assigned to help defend Agio and the landen villages and farms that were under the hand of Agio’s Queen, and he had no reason to doubt their loyalty or their willingness to stand and protect. But even the short-lived Rihlanders hadn’t forgotten the stories about the Eyriens who had given their allegiance to Prince Falonar, Lucivar’s former second-in-command, and who hadn’t given any assistance to Agio’s guards when the Jhinka had attacked. So he sat with the Master of the Guard once a month and listened to what was said—and what wasn’t said.
“Sure you won’t join me for the midday meal?” the Master asked.
“I appreciate the offer, but I have other stops to make,” Lucivar replied.
“Well, then, I’ll see you—” The Master’s eyes narrowed.
Turning, Lucivar watched Rothvar fly toward them. Flying fast.
Rothvar backwinged hard and landed a man-length away, gave Agio’s Master a curt nod as he approached them, then focused on Lucivar. “Anything else that needs doing here, I’ll do it. You need to go home.”
The tone, so close to a command, grated against Lucivar’s temper—and he wondered if Rothvar was starting to turn against him, like Falonar had done.
“I still need—,” Lucivar began.
Rothvar gripped Lucivar’s arm hard, a fast move that had Agio’s Master calling in a fighting knife.
“Lucivar,” Rothvar said with quiet intensity. “You need to go home. Now.”
Lucivar read the concern, the sympathy in Rothvar’s eyes—and felt chilled.
٭Marian,٭ he called. ٭Marian!٭ An Ebon-gray communication thread could reach far beyond the borders of Ebon Rih, but that didn’t help him reach a hearth witch who didn’t answer.
“Nurian?” he asked Rothvar.
“She’s already at your eyrie. She sent me to find you.”
He understood the message. Rothvar could have reached him on a Green psychic thread, could have told him to come home. But a Healer had sent a Warlord to find the Warlord Prince he served and deliver the message in person. That told Lucivar more than the words themselves.
“Go,” Rothvar said.
Lucivar launched himself skyward, caught the Red Wind, which was the darkest Web within easy reach, and flew toward home and the woman who held his heart.
* * *
* * *
Jillian walked with baby Andulvar from one end of the front room to the other. Back and forth. Back and forth. The playroom or the family room would have been more comfortable—certainly warmer—but she needed to keep an eye on the other children while Nurian tried to heal Marian, and Daemonar wouldn’t budge from the eyrie’s front room. He just stood there, tears running down his face as he stared at the door, waiting for his father. And Titian clung to her elder brother. So no one was going anywhere until Lucivar returned or Marian . . .
She didn’t know what had happened to Marian. Daemonar had shown up at Nurian’s eyrie in a panic, saying the baby was crying and his mother wouldn’t wake up. While Nurian rushed to Marian’s side the moment they arrived, Jillian had been left to deal with a baby, a frightened girl, and an anguished Warlord Prince who had taken a long step away from being a boy.
As the minutes crawled by, Jillian watched Daemonar Yaslana age and harden, understood that this moment was one of the forges that would shape the steel and hone the blade of the man he would become.
As he met her eyes, she also understood that he would never again back down from a fight. Any kind of fight.
* * *
* * *
Lucivar entered the eyrie with a blast of controlled temper and cold air.
“Papa!” Daemonar took a step toward him.
Lucivar glanced at the boy and kept going, heading deeper into the eyrie. “Give me a minute, boyo. Then we’ll talk.”
He stopped at the doorway of Marian’s workroom and took a moment to leash his temper, his fear, his everything. If Nurian was performing a healing, his power could overwhelm her efforts and destroy a healing web. And that might make the difference in whether Marian survived.
He entered the room carefully. So carefully.
Nurian knelt beside the daybed. She waited until he, too, knelt at his wife’s side.
“I don’t know,” Nurian said. “It’s like she’s fallen into a deep healing sleep, but it doesn’t feel like any kind of healing sleep I could create. It’s more—and it’s powerful.”
“An attack of some kind?” he asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“Can you break it?” Lucivar watched Marian breathe. He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and felt the slow beat of her heart. Too slow?
Nurian shook her head. “Right now there’s a chance she’ll come out of this on her own. I just don’t know what would happen if I interfered with this . . . living death.” She sucked in a breath. “My apologies, Prince. That wasn’t what I meant to say.”
Wasn’t what you meant to say out loud, but it was what you meant, what your Healer’s instincts are telling you.
“Is there anything you need from me?” he asked. “Fresh blood for a healing brew?”
Nurian shook her head again. “Maybe when she wakes, but not right now.”
“Then I’ll see what I can do for the children.”
He left the room as quietly and carefully as he had entered it, but he didn’t go to the front of the eyrie, where Daemonar waited. Instead he went to the bedroom he had shared with Marian since the first time they’d made love. He closed the door and locked it.
Then he gathered everything in him and sent it on an Ebon-gray spear thread to the one person he needed right now.
٭Daemon! Daemon!٭ A hesitation before he admitted who might really be needed. ٭High Lord. Please.٭
* * *
* * *
Looking at Morghann’s hopeful expression and wagging tail, Daemon regretted that he hadn’t used Craft to fetch the novel he’d intended to read for a few minutes before he returned to the stack of reports, post-Winsol social invitations, and a smattering of requests and complaints that were couched as backhanded compliments—not to mention deciding what he wanted to do about a few personal, and highly inappropriate, invitations. But he’d wanted to move instead of using Craft, wanted to stretch his legs by walking up to his suite in the family wing of the Hall.
He hadn’t expected to be ambushed by a different kind of hopeful witch.
٭Play?٭ Morghann asked.
“I can’t, Morghann. I have to work.”
٭More work?٭ Big sigh.
“Why don’t you go out and play with Jaenelle Saetien and Khary? They’re playing in the snow. You would have fun.”
Head down. Tail down. ٭I might do a wrong thing. There might be blame.٭
You’re still fixated on that?
Daemon stifled a sigh and swallowed a hefty measure of guilt. He’d lost count of how many generations of Scelties he’d helped raise, educate, and train, but this was his first experience with an insecure Sceltie. Or was she an overly sensitive Sceltie? Whatever the reason, that one incident with the nutcake a few weeks ago had seriously damaged the friendship between Morghann and Jaenelle Saetien and had made the pup fearful of doing anything without his prior approval.
She was young—that’s what she was. She wouldn’t go through her Birthright Ceremony until spring, so maybe she felt vulnerable.
She felt betrayed—that’s what she felt. He knew it every time Morghann abandoned Jaenelle Saetien in favor of his company. He was the Prince, the power, the adult male who would teach her properly and wouldn’t tell her to do a wrong thing. He made sure his instructions were clear and within her current abilities—and any correction was carefully phrased to rebuild her confidence while still teaching her.
If Morghann had made this choice earlier, he would have let it play out differently, would have accepted Morghann as a friend and companion in the same way that Ladvarian had been a friend and companion—and so much more—to Jaenelle Angelline. But Morghann was clinging to him now because she didn’t trust his daughter, and he needed to help restore that friendship and at least some of that trust if he could.
He sank to his knees, sat back on his heels, and held out a hand. “Come here, little Sister.”
She rushed to him, climbing into his lap and into his arms, happy to be held by the person she trusted more than anyone else.
