by Anne Bishop
“Has the debt been paid?” Lucivar asked.
“It’s been paid,” Chaosti replied. “It’s fortunate for those Warlords that your boy isn’t quite old enough yet to carry a honed knife and only had the wooden practice knife I gave him.” He smiled at Daemon. “As Lucivar shared Eyrien fighting techniques with some of my children and grandchildren, so I have offered instruction to Daemonar in the use of Dea al Mon fighting knives. He had a practice blade. When used with intent, they can be a formidable weapon without being a lethal one. Well, not lethal in the hands of one so young.”
The door opened. Daemonar walked into the room and came to stand before his father. He wore pants he must have left at the Keep after he’d outgrown them, because the legs were high above his ankles and he’d barely managed to close enough buttons on the fly for modesty. And yet everything about him, from the way he stood to the look in his eyes, was a blend of defiance and wariness.
May the Darkness have mercy on any man who had to raise an Eyrien boy.
“I’m not sorry,” Daemonar said.
“Yeah, boyo, I didn’t think you were,” Lucivar replied. He looked pointedly at the boy’s left arm. “Nice shield.”
“It’s blue.”
Lucivar snorted. “You’ll be able to see the damn thing halfway up the mountain.”
Daemonar turned to Daemon. “I told you.”
“So you did,” Daemon replied mildly—and then smiled. “Everything has a price. This will help you remember to consider the odds before you leap into a fight.”
٭You think that’s going to work?٭ Lucivar asked on a Red spear thread.
٭Not likely. He’s your son, after all. He won’t consider the odds a day after the color fades.٭
Lucivar focused on Daemonar again. “You’re going to pay for your share of the damage to the shop out of your allowance.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anything you want to tell us?”
Daemonar shook his head.
“Then make yourself comfortable, boyo. We’ll head home as soon as the storm passes.”
Within a minute Daemonar was sprawled on the rug in front of the hearth, sound asleep.
Daemon watched the boy for a moment, then laughed softly. “He does stop moving once in a while.”
Sighing, Lucivar rested his head on the back of the chair. “Sometimes I wonder how Marian and I had time to make two more with him being the first one.”
The three men talked for a few minutes more before Chaosti rose to take his leave.
“Wait for me,” Daemon said quietly.
Chaosti nodded and left the room.
“Problem?” Lucivar asked.
“No, nothing like that.” Daemon set his mug on the tray. “Unless you need me, I’m going back to the Hall for the night, but I’ll return in the morning.”
“What about . . . ?”
“Unless you need me.”
They looked at each other, so much being understood in the silence.
“We’ll be fine,” Lucivar said. “See you in the morning.”
Daemon left the room. Chaosti held out a note. “This came for you.”
Daemon broke the seal and opened the single sheet of paper. “Lady Perzha has asked me to meet her tomorrow morning. Early.” Tucking the note into his jacket pocket, he headed for the Keep’s Dark Altar—that place that was a Gate between the Realms.
“Is there something you need from me, High Lord?” Chaosti asked, falling into step.
Daemon sighed. Queen’s command. “I need to tell you about some changes I have to make because of a healing that was done today—and to ask you about the sexual heat.”
“A healing? Someone besides the boy?”
Daemon stopped outside the room that held the Dark Altar. “Me.” He hesitated, then asked a question he had never thought he’d ask. “Do you ever hear from Witch?”
Chaosti didn’t reply for a long moment. Finally, “Dreams made flesh cannot become demon-dead. You know that.”
“That much power didn’t disappear when the flesh died,” he whispered. “Witch’s Self is still in the Misty Place—and still here in the Keep.”
“Why do you think that is so?”
Not a denial. Not telling him it wasn’t possible.
Daemon vanished his shirt, then shrugged out of the jacket enough to reveal the gauze bandage around his biceps. “I pissed her off. This was her response.”
A thoughtful silence. “You needed her particular healing skills so much that she reconnected with the living to help you? What needed healing?”
“The crystal chalice—and other things.”
He saw a flash of fear in Chaosti’s eyes, there and gone. Proof enough that the man knew what that meant.
“Was she successful?” Chaosti asked.
“For the most part. But everything has a price.”
“Is this why you need to make some changes?”
“Yes. She said Kaeleer is going to need everything that I am. In order for me to stay sane and be who I am, I need her help. And yours.”
“Then I will give what help I can. After all”—Chaosti smiled and gestured toward Daemon’s arm—“I have no desire to rile my cousin’s temper.”
“I wasn’t trying to rile her,” Daemon muttered. “I thought I was dreaming.”
“Tell me what you need. I will do what I can.” Chaosti looked toward the Altar room. “You have business in Hell?”
“Not tonight. But unless there’s also a storm in Hell that makes riding the Winds dangerous, I can ride the Black Wind back to the Hall and go through the Gate there to return to Kaeleer.”
“Unless you need to return to the Hall right away, why don’t you tell me about these changes you need to make and what help you’d like me to give? Hopefully I will have some answers for you when you return in the morning.”
Daemon told him about the headaches and the sex and the heat and the months of pain that had led to the crystal chalice cracking again and Witch’s power restricting his ability to tighten the leashes beyond what she deemed safe after repairing what she could. It surprised him that Chaosti didn’t express much sympathy for Surreal.
“You are nothing now that you haven’t been in all the years I’ve known you—and in all the years Surreal has known you,” Chaosti said. “I can understand how a woman can need to live away from that much power part of the time. Gabrielle needed time away from my Gray Jewels, especially after my sexual heat settled into that last phase. I do not doubt it is harder for a wife or lover to live with the Black.” He paused. “Unless, of course, your wife is the living myth and outranks you to such a degree that she has to be reminded that the Black is a very dark Jewel. We all found it amusing that you had to work so hard sometimes to seduce your wife. Occasionally Gabrielle would nudge Jaenelle and point out that you would like to give your wife some husbandly attention.”
“Enough,” Daemon said, laughing.
Chaosti laughed with him and then sobered. “Her power was vast—is still vast, from what you’ve said. As her Consort and husband, you should have felt the crushing weight of being intimate with someone who wielded that much power.”
“I never did.”
“No, you never did. Neither did the rest of us, even before she somehow set aside all of that power to wear Twilight’s Dawn. Jaenelle never feared you, any more than she feared Uncle Saetan. Maybe that’s one reason why this is harder for you. You didn’t expect Surreal to fear you as a husband. Now you’ll have to find out how much can be mended—and if you both can accept what can’t be mended.”
Daemon nodded. “I’ll be back to talk to Lady Perzha first thing in the morning. Then I’ll return here to talk to Lucivar—and to listen to your suggestions.”
Entering the Altar room, Daemon lit the candles in the four-branched candelabra,
opening the Gate to Hell. Once he reached the Dark Realm, he caught the Black Wind and rode it to Dhemlan and the Gate that stood within the grounds of SaDiablo Hall.
TWENTY-NINE
That girl pushed her thumb into that cake on purpose, and Dillon just laughed like it was funny to ruin someone else’s treat,” Jillian said after telling Surreal the whole story of going to the Sweet Tooth and everything that happened afterward. “Why didn’t he say something to the girl, tell her she was wrong to do that?”
“I don’t know,” Surreal said. “Sometimes a person makes a bad choice. Even the most honorable men make mistakes, Jillian.”
“I guess.” Disillusioned, Jillian watched the rain. It looked like one of those hard, fast storms that rolled down the valley and would be gone in an hour. But for that hour, everyone would be stuck where they were. There was an extra sizzle in the lightning this time, and Prince Yaslana had already sent a command that reached all the Blood in Ebon Rih that no one was to try to ride the Winds or fly until the storm passed.
A regular storm shouldn’t have affected the Webs of power that the Blood used to travel through the Darkness, but that warning meant there was another kind of storm combined with a regular storm. But who was strong enough to make it unsafe to ride the Winds? Not Yaslana, since he was the one who issued the warning, but there was one other man in Ebon Rih right now whose temper might be feeding the storm.
She glanced at Surreal, who looked pale and worried but was trying to hide it. Jillian had seen plenty of adults try to hide the same kind of fear or worry when bringing a sick or injured child to Nurian’s eyrie, so she recognized that look.
“Do you think Dillon has been less than honest with you?” Surreal asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe.” Part of her hoped he could explain it all away the next time she saw him. Part of her remembered how he dismissed her thoughts about things, making her feel her opinions had no value. If her thoughts had no value, if she had no value, then the only reason he wanted to spend time with her was for whatever he could persuade her to give him. That made everything he did a kind of transaction.
She didn’t want to think that of him, because she loved him. Didn’t she?
“It could have been a mistake,” she said, not sure if she was talking about the cakes or about Dillon’s interest in her—and her interest in him.
Surreal smiled, but her gold-green eyes were suddenly bright with tears. “Seems like the day to make them.”
THIRTY
The moment the storm moved on, Surreal left Khary with Jillian and returned to Lucivar’s eyrie, arriving just ahead of the man and the boy.
“Daemonar!” Marian rushed to meet them, then stopped, clearly struggling with whether to treat the boy as a boy—which was what she wanted—or as a warrior youth, which was what he clearly wanted.
Lucivar gave Daemonar a light push. “Hug your mother and apologize for being stupid.”
“I’m sorry, Mother.” Daemonar, as boy and son, threw his arms around Marian. “I’m not sorry I hit the prick-asses, but I’m sorry I upset you.”
Surreal looked past Lucivar, expecting Daemon to walk in behind him.
Titian, Jaenelle Saetien, and Morghann rushed to the front room from wherever they had been playing.
“What happened?” Titian asked.
Daemonar carefully withdrew from his mother’s embrace. “Got in a fight.”
“Why?”
“Don’t have to say.” There was a finality in the boy’s voice that sounded so much like his father, neither girl pushed for details.
But Jaenelle Saetien pointed at Daemonar’s arm. “What’s that?”
“It’s a shield to protect his arm while the bone heals,” Lucivar said.
Marian made a distressed sound.
“It’s pretty,” Jaenelle Saetien said, hooking her black hair behind her delicately pointed ears.
Daemonar and Titian looked at their cousin like they couldn’t believe she didn’t understand how terrible this was, and said in unison, “It’s blue.”
Titian reached out but didn’t quite touch the shield. “Could you put another shield over it to hide the color?”
Daemonar looked disgusted. “Already tried that. It made the color brighter.”
Surreal studied Lucivar, who was struggling to keep a straight face.
“The color doesn’t matter,” Lucivar drawled. “Daemonar won’t be doing any hunting or weapons training until the bone fully heals.”
“Papa!” Daemonar sounded horrified by that prospect.
“But you and I will be spending your training time reviewing how to properly shield before and during a fight.”
“Yes, sir.”
٭Healing requires food,٭ Morghann said. ٭Daemonar should eat. We will eat with him, to keep him company.٭
Lucivar turned away, coughing.
Marian stared at Morghann, who just wagged her tail and looked hopeful.
“Fine,” Marian said, glancing at Surreal and Lucivar. “We’ll have a snack while I start preparing dinner.” She led the yappy horde into the kitchen.
As soon as they were alone, Surreal hurried over to Lucivar. “Where is Daemon? Was he at the Keep? Why didn’t he come back with you?”
“He went to the Hall for the night. He’ll be back in the morning.”
“I have to talk to him. Can you keep Jaenelle Saetien?”
“Surreal . . . Leave him alone tonight.” A warning, not a suggestion.
Shaking her head, she rushed out of the eyrie and went down to the landing web so fast she almost lost her footing on the wet stairs. Then she caught the Gray Wind and headed for SaDiablo Hall.
* * *
* * *
Daemon waited while Beale and Holt absorbed what he’d just told them about the headaches, the healing, and what needed to be done. Neither man asked how a Queen who shouldn’t have existed anymore was still present in some way and still giving orders. Maybe they were so relieved to know her strength was still balancing his that they didn’t want to know how it was possible, only that it was.
“There is the suite of rooms deep beneath the Hall,” Beale said. “I believe your father stayed there when he needed a particular kind of solitude. However, I would recommend using the bedroom suite he used when the Queen lived here. You would have sunlight and fresh air. The other suites around that square are empty now, so you could easily put Black shields around the whole square and have access to the garden. I think that would feel less like . . .” The butler finally stumbled on the words.
“Like a cage?” Daemon said.
“Yes, Prince. There is no need to feel walled up in stone when you require solitude for your well-being and ours.”
“That suite would be far enough away from the family quarters you’re using now,” Holt said. “The Black—or the heat—shouldn’t cause problems for Lady Surreal at that distance, especially with Black shields around the rooms.”
He had considered his father’s private study deep beneath the Hall, but Beale had the right of it. He didn’t think feeling walled in would do anything good for his continued healing or control. But if he put Black shields around the whole square of rooms that overlooked the same garden as his father’s suite, he would have the isolation necessary without feeling confined. And he would have another safe way to use the Black.
“Ask Helene to get that suite ready,” Daemon said. “I don’t know how soon or how often I’ll need it.”
“If you’ll permit my discussing this with Mrs. Beale in general terms, she can consider what kind of foods she can prepare that you could heat or eat as is,” Beale said. “I would bring the meals to you.”
“The less interaction, the better,” Daemon replied. “Until we know . . .” He almost felt like himself, but he didn’t have a sense of how much control he had over his power and temper—or an
ything else.
Beale nodded. “Until we know.”
* * *
* * *
Surreal’s abrupt arrival at the Hall startled Beale.
“Is he here?” she demanded. A psychic probe would have given her the answer, but she didn’t want to do anything that might seem like a challenge.
“He’s in his suite,” Beale replied, sounding uncharacteristically flustered. “We weren’t expecting you. The Prince said he would take a plate of whatever Mrs. Beale had prepared for the staff’s dinner, but I can tell her that you’ve returned as well and—”
“Just fix two plates, if there’s enough to spare.” There would be plenty. No one who worked at the Hall went hungry. “We can eat in the family room.” In many ways, that room was where their life together had begun, because that was where they’d been when grief over Saetan’s final death turned into a physical need to give and receive comfort.
Maybe that subtle reminder would help her talk to him.
Hurrying to their suites in the family wing, she knocked on the door of Daemon’s bedroom and walked in before giving him a chance to reply—or deny her entrance—and only then remembered why she shouldn’t be alone in that room with him ever again.
“Surreal?” He didn’t sound angry that she had followed him home, but he also didn’t sound pleased to see her. “Why are you here?”
I live here. Don’t I?
Instead of the tailored black trousers and jacket paired with the white silk shirt—his usual choice of attire—he wore a white cotton pullover. The casual trousers were black but loose. And he wore house slippers instead of his usual polished shoes. Nothing unusual about Daemon being dressed so casually for an evening at home. He’d learned years ago that such clothes were easier to clean after dealing with baby poop or little-girl puke. But, somehow, seeing him like this . . .
Relaxed. At least, he had been until she’d walked into the room. She braced for the feel of his sexual heat washing over her, but the heat was banked to a sensual warmth, like it had been the day of Jaenelle Saetien’s Birthright Ceremony.
