by Anne Bishop
“Papa?” Jaenelle Saetien climbed into his lap.
“What is it, witch-child?” He wrapped his arms around her, an unspoken promise of protection.
“Beale said that the Lady had to follow the house rules even though she was a Queen and the most special witch in the Realm.”
“That’s true. Your grandfather followed the Old Ways of the Blood, as I do, and he insisted on proper attire for dinner. Ladies wore gowns when there were guests at the Hall, or a simpler dress or a skirt and blouse if it was just family and close friends at the table. If someone came to the table dressed in a way he didn’t feel was appropriate, he would hold the meal until that Lady changed her clothes.”
“Even if it was the Lady?”
“Yes, even if it was the Lady. She wasn’t just his daughter—she was also his Queen, and he still wouldn’t budge when it came to the house rules.”
Jaenelle Saetien crinkled her face. “But she was special.”
“Very special. But Saetan knew that her being special left her feeling isolated and alone sometimes, and he didn’t want her to feel apart from the rest of the Blood. So even though she was special, he treated her as if she were ordinary and insisted that she follow the same rules as the Queens who were her friends and also lived at the Hall. He did that because he loved her.”
“Like you love me?”
He kissed the top of her head. “Exactly like I love you.”
* * *
* * *
“Yeah, yeah, I know it’s not your mother; you’ll just have to make do, boyo.” Lucivar teased the bottle’s nipple into his baby’s mouth. “She doesn’t have any milk to give you, but losing the milk now is a small sacrifice in order to have her in your life for all the years to come.”
After a minute of fussing, baby Andulvar settled down to the business of getting his meal, his eyes focused on his father’s face.
Lucivar smiled. “We’ll take care of her. All of us.”
“Papa?”
His smile warmed even more. “You need something, witchling?”
Titian shook her head as she joined him. She leaned on his shoulder and watched him feed the baby. “Mama will get well?”
“Yeah, she will.”
“I was scared.”
“Me too.”
Titian looked at him as if seeing someone a little different. “Papas don’t get scared.”
“Yes, we do. But when things get scary, the people we love need us to be brave, so we’re brave.”
“Who do you have when you need someone to be brave for you?”
“I have you, witchling,” he said softly. “I have you and your brothers. I have your mother. I have your aunt and uncle.” And I have memories of a very special Lady.
They remained in companionable silence until the baby finished the bottle, but Lucivar sensed there was something on his girl’s mind. The past couple of days had been an emotional beating for all of them, and he just didn’t have the strength to pry right now. Fortunately, Titian, his quiet, somewhat timid little witchling, didn’t require prodding. It might take her a while, but eventually she would tell him whatever was on her mind.
He was about to get up and change the baby’s diaper when she said, “I think Uncle Daemon needs someone to be brave for him.”
Lucivar settled back in the chair. “What makes you think that?”
“Even when he smiled at me, he looked sad. Like Mama did before she fell asleep. When she smiled at me and Daemonar today, she didn’t look sad anymore.”
A chill went through him. “I’ll keep an eye on your uncle Daemon.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Satisfied, she helped him change the baby’s diaper and tuck the boy in for a nap.
He took care of children and chores, encouraged Jillian to go home and rest—and have some time to herself. He waited until Daemonar was playing a quiet game with Titian, and Manny had settled in for a nap. Then he went looking for the one person he hoped could give him some kind of answer.
He felt Tersa’s presence in the eyrie, but he couldn’t find her in the common rooms or the laundry area or the bedrooms or the room that had a pool fed by a hot spring. He even checked his weapons room. Finally, he began searching the storage rooms that were deep in the eyrie—rooms that held the things that weren’t needed but Marian didn’t want to discard yet.
Feeling the chill in the corridors, he realized it had been a while since he’d replenished the power in the warming spells he’d put around these rooms, and made a mental note to do that once everything settled into some semblance of normal.
He opened the door to the last room . . . and walked straight into an illusion created by a tangled web of dreams and visions.
A crystal chalice on a stone altar. Leashes were attached to the stem, leading to four posts.
A Queen holds the leash.
His temper frayed the leash.
He’d used those phrases all his life. Here, in this vision, the leashes were physical things. He studied the leash that was leather braided with chain and instinctively knew what it controlled.
So. These weren’t the leashes that held him.
“Daemon,” he whispered.
Three of the leashes, including the leather and chain, looked normal—looked like he suspected his would look if they were made of something more than discipline, training, and self-control. But the other . . .
“The chalice is breaking again.” Tersa stepped up to the altar. “The vessel can no longer contain all it was meant to contain.”
That other leash cut into the fourth post, which looked soft, bloated. Sick. Pus oozed from splits and created a kind of carapace. Once it covered the whole post, he wasn’t sure anyone would be able to break through without breaking . . .
No. He couldn’t think of that. Wasn’t going to consider that.
“He fights to survive,” Tersa said, pointing to the bloated post. “He fights with instinct, not knowledge.”
Couldn’t someone provide the knowledge?
“Will he win?” Lucivar asked.
“No. The sand is running in the glass.” An hourglass appeared on the altar, the sand draining into the lower half. “When the last grain falls, not even she will be able to save him.”
“She? You mean Surreal?”
“It is too late for the girl to save him.”
“Then who . . .” Lucivar stared at Tersa. Felt his heart soar for a moment before he considered the danger.
Had the trouble started between Daemon and Surreal when Witch made an appearance at Jaenelle Saetien’s Birthright Ceremony? He’d had the impression that the meeting between Daemon and his Queen, the love of his life, had eased something inside him, had been responsible for Daemon’s ability to be a warmer, more loving husband.
But a onetime meeting wasn’t the same as Witch’s continued presence—assuming that was possible.
How could it be possible?
“Dreams made flesh cannot become demon-dead,” he said. “Saetan was sure of that.”
Tersa watched him.
A presence, but not flesh. They had all believed even that wasn’t possible. Daemon had certainly believed it wasn’t possible.
“If Witch comes back in any way, it will change things between Daemon and Surreal,” he said.
“Everything has a price,” Tersa replied. “And things have already changed. That is why it’s too late for the girl to help him.”
Lucivar studied the bloated post. He’d call in his biggest knife and slice through that leash without giving a damn what would come afterward, but he suspected breaking that leash wouldn’t help anything now. “Who did this to him?”
“He did it to himself. First he did it to help the girl, but everything he could do wasn’t enough. Now he does it to survive.”
>
He considered every person standing on this particular battlefield—and what it might cost each of those people. Then he considered what would happen to Daemon and to the Realm of Kaeleer if they lost this battle.
Only one choice, no matter the price. “How do I find Witch?”
“If the boy asks for her help, she will answer. But only if he asks.”
“Then we have to tell him.”
“We have tried to warn him. He isn’t ready to listen.”
“Then I’ll explain it to him.” With a brotherly fist to the ribs if that was what it took. “He has to ask.”
“What will he ask of her?” Tersa set a bloody knife on the altar. “What will he give, thinking that is the path back to her?”
Lucivar eyed the knife. “He wouldn’t hurt Surreal.”
“Not to ease his own pain, no.”
He felt hemmed in, chained in a way that was far worse than anything he’d endured while he was a slave in Terreille.
“What do we do, Tersa? What can I do?”
“The girl can’t help him now, but she will free him to ask.”
He swallowed frustration. “So we wait and watch them both suffer?”
“Wounds must fester before they are lanced.”
A flash of his temper, hot and pure, filled the room.
Lucivar staggered, spread his wings for balance, and breathed in air that felt like needles of ice stabbing his lungs.
Hell’s fire, it was cold!
And dark.
Creating a ball of witchlight, Lucivar lobbed it toward the center of the room and looked around.
Tersa wasn’t in the room. Not anymore. But there were footprints in the dust, and a tangled web, crumbling to ash now, sat on a table that had been moved to the center of the room.
Tersa had told him what she could.
“We have tried to warn him. He isn’t ready to listen.”
Daemon might not be ready to listen, but he was—and there was another Black Widow within easy reach who might be able to give him answers.
Late that night, while everyone slept, Lucivar flew to the Keep to have a chat with Karla.
* * *
* * *
“Seeing a problem in a tangled web isn’t the same as being able to fix the problem,” Karla said. She’d hoped Daemon would be the one looking for answers, because Lucivar was not going to accept the unpalatable truth.
“You’re a Gray-Jeweled Black Widow,” Lucivar snapped as he prowled a reception room at the Keep. “Why can’t you fix the problem? If it’s a matter of convincing Daemon to let you do some kind of healing, I will haul his ass to the Keep and hold him down for you.”
“I can’t fix this because I wear Gray and he wears Black. He’s beyond my reach, Lucivar. He’s beyond yours. He’s beyond everyone’s reach except his own.” After Lucivar’s description of the vision Tersa showed him, she wasn’t sure that was true anymore. What should have been light, and natural, self-control had turned into something ugly—a kind of self-mutilation. Every tangled web showed Daemon’s condition worsening with frightening speed.
“Tersa said Surreal couldn’t help him now, but she would free him to ask for the help he needs.” Lucivar’s eyes held a cold and bitter look. “Assuming he survives long enough to ask for that help.”
“You can buy him some time by convincing him to drain some of the reservoir in his Black Jewel and keep it drained,” Karla said. “Surreal would be able to help that much unless he’s already draining her Gray prior to her moontimes. You can help him find more ways to use the Black.”
“Sure. He could turn a city or two into rubble. He’d probably sleep much better for a few weeks after unleashing that much of the Black.”
“You could teach him that trick you have of making wood tapers.”
Lucivar didn’t scoff at the idea, which she found encouraging.
“Everything that uses the power Sadi is currently transforming into unneeded sexual heat will slow down the physical damage, maybe even reduce the headaches.”
“Yeah,” Lucivar said. “Slow down the damage, reduce the headaches. Until the thing that pushes him over the edge.”
Karla floated to a spot in front of him. “If he asks for information, for advice, for anything, I will do what I can. For him. For all of you.”
“Is that why you’re here at the Keep now?”
“Yes.”
The sharp smile that started to curve his lips faded.
“Things were seen and promises were made, Lucivar.”
He looked away. “Did she see this?”
“No, I don’t think so. I think what Witch saw was fairly simple and didn’t require help from any but the living. But Sadi turned it into something complicated. Not on purpose.”
“Instinct, not knowledge.”
Karla nodded. “What I don’t understand is why Surreal didn’t call him on it. She must have seen some change in him.”
“I don’t know. She says nothing is wrong.” Lucivar started to walk away, then stopped. “If you see another warning . . .”
“I’ll let you know.”
The way he looked at her, he seemed to be searching for something. “Do you see Witch, Karla?”
“No. Regardless of what happens, I don’t expect that to change.”
“Would you want it to?”
“Yes, I would. But I don’t expect it will change.”
She didn’t ask if he would want to see Witch again, but she wondered what answer he would give.
* * *
* * *
Pain was a familiar and faithful lover.
Daemon lay in bed, his eyes closed, and waited for the healing brew to ease the headache that had started as a dull ache during dinner and then turned savage soon after Mikal and Jaenelle Saetien had gone to bed.
No physical reason for this pain, which meant the cause lay beyond the flesh. A spell of some kind? Or a stealthy attack on his inner barriers? No. He would have recognized the attempt even if he didn’t immediately home in on the source.
“Breathing room, Sadi.”
He’d had a dream about Karla a while ago, but he couldn’t remember what it was or why it occurred to him now. Something to do with posts and leashes and the . . . wiggle-waggle?
He huffed out a soft laugh. Trust Karla to make a man’s cock sound like an embarrassing toy.
“You’re too damn dangerous to indulge in being foolish.”
How was he being foolish? How . . .
A sheet as soft as a wish covered his body, whispering pleasure with every small movement. Sensual, not sexual. Inviting him to relax, to rest, to let go of his fierce control just a little. Just enough.
He couldn’t get a sense of the sexual heat, couldn’t tell if it was banked or burning, but the collar attached to the leashes—the collar that had become a tight metal band—relaxed, letting him breathe again. Letting him rest.
“Sadi.”
A warm hand caressing his chest. Warm lips brushing against his.
Sensual, yes, but gaining the tang of sex. Pulling him away from the place where he could rest.
“Sadi.”
Daemon shook off the dream as his body responded to Surreal’s touch, to her need.
“I love you,” she said as she kissed his mouth, his face. “I do love you. Don’t go away.”
He gathered her in his arms and returned her kisses, her caresses. “I’m here, Surreal. I’m right here. Easy, love. Easy.”
She couldn’t be easy. It was like she was caught up in a female version of the rut, barely catching her breath after one orgasm before she was on him again, wanting more—needing more. Relentless.
He obliged her with sex for hours before she fell into an exhausted sleep. And he wondered what it was about him, about them, that she wanted so
much from him and yet wept in her sleep.
PART TWO
SIXTEEN
Dillon considered his diminishing options. He’d spent the winter going from one Rihland town to the next, extracting money from aristo fathers whose daughters’ reputations were becoming tattered by their taste for activities that made even powerful relatives wary of using their influence to keep those reputations intact. He’d also spent the winter searching for something so elusive he was no longer sure it existed. Love? That feeling was nothing more than a vicious myth, especially when paired with aristo girls. Acceptance? An empty lure. Besides, did he really want to spend his life among women with brittle laughs and men who needed to be cruel to someone in order to have a hard cock at night?
Not all aristos were like that. At least, he’d believed that until he’d made that one life-changing mistake. Now he couldn’t seem to find anyone who wasn’t brittle or a bully.
Maybe he needed to go somewhere less fashionable. Somewhere where the minor branches of aristo houses went to live because they could be the important somebodies in a place full of nobodies.
In fact, there were some distant cousins on his mother’s side who lived in a place like that. The valley where they lived was famous, but the village itself was rustic at best—at least according to his mother. Those cousins had come for a visit once. The boy, Terrence, had been about his age and they’d gotten along well. And he remembered Terrence’s mother as a kind woman. Even if she’d heard about his sullied honor, he didn’t think she would close the door in his face once she knew he had nowhere else to go.
Unlike his own mother.
A last chance. He needed to pick the right girl, someone young enough to be flattered by his attention, connected enough to provide him with some status when they handfasted, but not too connected. He’d had his fill of aristo bitches.
But Hell’s fire, how long could he endure rusticating in a village?
“As long as I have to,” Dillon muttered.
That much decided, he packed his trunks again and bought a ticket on a Coach that would take him to the village of Riada in the valley called Ebon Rih.
