FOUR
“Come in,” Daemon said, glancing up from the
paperwork on his desk as the study door opened. Leaning back, he
crossed his legs at the knees and steepled his fingers, resting two
of his long black-tinted nails against his chin as he watched
Rainier limp to the visitor’s chair and sit down with exaggerated
care.
That autumn Rainier
and Surreal SaDiablo, along with seven landen children, had been
caught in a trap meant to kill members of the SaDiablo
family.
The spooky house.
Daemon still wasn’t sure whether it was arrogance or a kind of
madness that had led a writer who had discovered his Blood heritage
to try a pissing contest with the darkest-Jeweled Blood in the
Realm. Realizing how close they’d all come to being caught in that
trap had been a sobering lesson. If Lucivar hadn’t been an Eyrien
warrior backed by the strength of his Ebon-gray Jewels, Surreal and
Rainier wouldn’t have gotten out of that damn house. As it was,
three of the children were killed, not to mention all the other
people who had been killed so that they would be the predators in
the game. Surreal had been wounded, and the poison still hadn’t
worked its way out of her body completely. And Rainier . .
.
He was a dancer, Daemon thought sadly. Then he
added, Everything has a
price.
“How’s the leg?”
Daemon asked, even though anyone could see the healing wasn’t going
the way it should. Hell’s fire, Rainier had been walking better a
few weeks ago when he’d joined them for a viewing of Jaenelle and
Marian’s spooky house, an entertainment for children that had been
one of the reasons Jarvis Jenkell had created a deadly version of
the place.
Rainier shrugged, but
his face was pale and strained despite his effort to smile, and
there was a fear in his green eyes that he couldn’t quite hide.
“Some days it’s better than others. I wanted your opinion of
something.”
Trying to change the subject, boyo? All right, I’ll let
you lead this dance. For the
moment.
Using Craft, Rainier
called in a rectangular box and floated it over to the desk,
placing it directly in front of Daemon.
Jewelry box, Daemon
decided, leaning forward to study the flowers and leaves carved
into the top. The box itself was excellent in craftsmanship and
sufficient as a Winsol gift, so when he opened the lid, he whistled
softly.
A gold metalwork
gauntlet. Delicate-looking, if you ignored the talons on the ends
of the articulated fingers. A weapon disguised as a
pretty.
“It’s a Winsol gift
for Surreal,” Rainier said. “Do you think she’ll like
it?”
“It’s beautiful and
deadly,” Daemon replied. “She’ll love it.” He closed the box and
returned it to Rainier before offering the man a
brandy.
Something was wrong
here. Very wrong.
Rainier had been a
dance instructor for years. Hell’s fire, he’d been Jaenelle’s dance
instructor—a young Warlord Prince who had been able to hold his own
with Jaenelle and the coven of young Queens who had been her
closest friends.
Now Rainier worked
for him, and he paid the man a generous salary. But he recognized
Banard’s work. The jeweler made some pieces that wouldn’t beggar an
ordinary man’s pocket for a year, but that custom-made gauntlet
wasn’t one of them.
What was Rainier
trying to prove?
“What are your plans
for Winsol?” Daemon asked.
“I’m going to Dharo
to spend some time with my family,” Rainier replied, his smile
looking sicker than before.
Why? Daemon wondered. They
usually prefer that you keep your distance. Hadn’t Rainier
made a family visit a few weeks ago? Right around the time when
something began to go wrong with the healing of his
leg?
“Unless there’s
something you need from me,” Rainier added.
“No, I don’t—” A
thought occurred to him, and he didn’t think he’d get an honest
answer without inflicting some pain. So he would inflict the
pain.
“It’s come to my
attention that there is a traditional Winsol dance. It would be
prudent for me to learn it.”
“Don’t look to me to
teach you,” Rainier said. “I’m crippled.”
At least he didn’t
have to dig for the bitterness festering inside the other Warlord
Prince.
“And who do you blame
for that, Rainier?” Daemon asked too softly, leaning back and
steepling his fingers again.
“I don’t blame
anyone,” Rainier snapped. “It happened.”
“Yes, it happened,
because you did what you were supposed to do—defend and
protect.”
“Not well enough.
Three children died and Surreal got poisoned. I didn’t protect them
well enough, and I lost . . .” He swallowed, obviously fighting not
to say more. “I was a dancer. It’s all I’ve ever been. All I wanted
to be. I’ll never be that again.”
“Are you sure?”
Daemon asked.
“Yes, I’m
sure!”
Daemon hesitated, but
it had to be said. “Everything has a price, Prince Rainier. An
escort’s life is always on the line.”
“I know
that.”
“Do you? You were
wounded in battle. It doesn’t matter what the battleground looked
like; that’s the truth of it. You’re not the first man who’s had to
rebuild his life because of battle scars.You won’t be the last.”
Knowing that he wasn’t getting through to the man, Daemon unleashed
some of his own frustration. “You could have lost your leg instead
of losing some mobility. Hell’s fire, Rainier, you could have died in that place.”
“Maybe it would have
been better if I had,” Rainier said softly.
Daemon felt his
temper rise from the depth of his Black Jewel—sweet, cold, and
deadly. Rainier wasn’t stupid. He knew who would be waiting for him
if he got maudlin enough to commit suicide. The boy thought he had
troubles now? Wait until Saetan got done explaining things to the
fool—especially a fool who had helped himself become demon-dead
sooner than he should have.
But it might explain
Rainier buying a gift he really couldn’t afford. And Lucivar needed
to be aware of that possibility.
“What’s the state of
your finances?” Daemon asked.
Rainier blinked. Then
color stained his cheeks. “Frankly, Prince Sadi, that’s none of
your business.”
“I just made it my
business. Do you want to find out how fast I can acquire every
scrap of private information about you, or are you going to answer
the question?”
Rainier squirmed.
“I’m doing all right. I have some savings.”
“Your salary will
continue, paid quarterly as usual,” Daemon said.
“For what?” Rainier
let out a pained laugh. “There’s not much I can do.”
“I have some thoughts
about that, but right now you can make some effort to heal.” Daemon
put enough ice in his voice to have Rainier’s eyes fill with
wariness. “I’ll take care of the rent on your apartment in Amdarh,
as well as any other necessary expenses like food.”
“I don’t need your
charity, and I don’t want your pity,” Rainier snapped.
“You’re not getting
either, so shut up.” But it was becoming clear that someone was
giving Rainier heavy doses of both, and those things could become
more crippling than a damaged leg.
Daemon huffed out a
sigh. “You’re going to have to come to terms with what you can do
physically and what you can’t. I can’t help you with that, but I
can make things easier for a while so that you can concentrate on
healing. You’re a good Warlord Prince, Rainier, and a good escort.
Too good to lose because you’re having trouble finding your
balance.”
Another pained laugh.
“That’s a good way of putting it.”
“After Winsol, you’ll
be spending a few weeks in Ebon Rih with Lucivar.” And may the Darkness have mercy on you. “So I
suggest you visit your family in Dharo and enjoy the
festivities.”
“Am I dismissed?”
Rainier asked, his voice a shade too polite.
“Yes, you’re
dismissed. Happy Winsol, Rainier.”
Rainier pushed
himself to his feet, then leaned on the cane. “Happy Winsol,
Prince.”
Daemon suspected that
he and Rainier were both wishing each other a lot of things at that
moment, and “happy” wasn’t one of them.
He waited until he
was sure he’d given Rainier enough time to leave the Hall. Then he
left his study—and didn’t have to go far, since Beale was waiting
for him.
“Lady Karla requests
your presence,” Beale said.
He’d known when the
Queen of Glacia had arrived. It was hard to miss that particular
psychic scent—and hard to miss the presence of a Gray-Jeweled witch
in his home.
“She’s waiting for
you in her suite,” Beale added.
“And Lady
Angelline?”
“The Lady has gone to
the Keep. She intends to be back in time for dinner, but said if
she was late, you should start without her.”
Not likely, but he
didn’t need to say it, since it was already understood by the
household staff.
Daemon made his way
through the Hall’s corridors to the section that held the family’s
suites of rooms. When Jaenelle was fifteen, the coven came to spend
a summer, reuniting with the special friend they thought had been
lost. The coven—and the boyos who also came for that afternoon tea
and never quite went home again—had been given suites. Even now,
when those Ladies were the Queens of their own Territories, those
suites were still theirs, a second home and a place where they
still gathered as friends and Sisters.
Karla’s suite looked
out over Jaenelle’s courtyard. He knocked on Karla’s door and
didn’t get an answer. His hand hovered over the door’s handle, but
he tried another approach before reacting as if something was
wrong.
*Karla?* he called on
a psychic thread.
*Come on through,*
she replied. *I’m down in the courtyard.*
He entered her
sitting room and hurried to the glass doors that led out to the
balcony. He paused then, reassured when he saw her standing near
the drained fountain, her face raised to the sun. Moving more
leisurely, he went down the nearest set of stairs and joined
her.
“Kiss kiss,” Karla
said, giving him a wicked smile.
Raising the hand she
offered, he kissed her knuckles.
“Darling, isn’t it a
bit cold out here?” he asked.
“Your blood must be
thin if you think this is cold. Which you wouldn’t notice as much
if you put on a coat.”
At least he had put a
shield on his shoes to keep his feet dry and protect the
leather.
She linked her arm in
his and sighed. “Glacia’s winter has too much bite for me a lot of
days, so I wanted to take advantage of spending a little time
outside in softer weather.”
“Meaning a
little snow on the ground and air that
doesn’t freeze your lungs?” Daemon asked dryly.
“Exactly.”
He felt her shiver
and led her to the stairs. “Enough.”
“Bossy.”
“Protective.”
“Bossy.”
He bared his teeth
and said, “Kiss kiss,” which made her laugh.
He didn’t know if it
was proof of Beale’s uncanny timing or if Karla had made the
request earlier, but they entered the sitting room moments before
Holt brought a tray of coffee and pastries.
“You look good,”
Daemon told her as he poured coffee for both of them.
And she did, despite
her face having thinned and aged a decade more than her years.
Whether that aging was due to the task of ruling Glacia or a result
of the poisoning she’d survived two years ago, he couldn’t
tell.
“Flattery will not
get you the last nutcake,” Karla said, taking the cup he offered.
“I do feel good most of the time. Oh, my legs feel the weather, so
there are uncomfortable days, but unlike people whose brains are
attached to their penises, I’ve actually done what I was told to do
in order to get better and keep my legs as healthy as they can
be.”
Shit. “So this isn’t
a social call?”
“Jaenelle asked me to
come and look at Rainier. Provide a second opinion as a
Healer.”
Daemon stiffened.
“Jaenelle asked for a second
opinion?”
“Tells you something
is wrong, doesn’t it?” Karla sipped her coffee. “Doesn’t matter
what Jewels she wears; Jaenelle is the most brilliant Healer in the
entire Realm. If she can’t heal something, it can’t be healed. I’m
testimony to what she can do. I shouldn’t have survived that brew
of poisons I was given when my uncle Hobart tried to regain control
of Glacia. And having survived, I shouldn’t be as healthy as I
am.”
“Do you . . .” Daemon
swallowed some coffee to wet a suddenly dry throat. “Do you
sometimes wish she’d let you die? You wouldn’t be walking with a
cane, wouldn’t have weak legs, if you’d made the transition to
demon-dead.”
“That’s your cock
talking,” Karla said.
“It is n—” He
stopped. Thought. “Rainier.”
“Yes.
Rainier.”
He set his cup down
on the table in front of the sofa. “He won’t come all the way back,
will he?”
“No, his leg will
never be what it was. It will never support him the way it did
before that Eyrien war blade cut through all that muscle and half
the bone. If he’d gone down and stayed down, any of us—Gabrielle,
me, Jaenelle—could have healed him and brought him almost all the
way back. Maybe so close to all the way back he could do whatever
he wanted to on that leg as long as he gave it some care. But he
slapped shields around his leg and kept fighting.”
“He did what he had
to do.”
“I know. But that leg
will never be the same because of it, and he knows
that.”
“Does
he?”
“Yes, he does. He’s
fighting it, Daemon. I don’t know what he’s doing or why, but I can
see the results. Jaenelle has had to rebuild that bone and muscle
so many times, there is almost nothing left to work with. Something
is riding him, and riding him hard, but if he doesn’t stop damaging
that leg, he really will be crippled.”
“He’s not a fool,”
Daemon said.
“No,” Karla said
quietly. “He’s scared. That’s worse.”
“Anything I can
do?”
She shook her head.
“No, there’s nothing you can do. And there is nothing I can do that
Jaenelle hasn’t done.”
“Maybe having a leg
so damaged there is no possible way to dance is easier for him than
a leg that is almost whole but not whole enough.”
“Maybe, but I
wouldn’t have thought Rainier was that much of an ass.” Karla
selected a pastry. “Is he still going for this extra training with
Lucivar?”
“He’s going. And he’s
already been told if he doesn’t show up on his own, Lucivar will
hunt him down and drag him all the way to Ebon Rih.”
“Well, then. I’m sure
things will get sorted out—one way or another.”
Since he could
imagine how things would get sorted out if Rainier started a
pissing contest with Lucivar, he changed the subject. “How is
Della? Is she excited about Winsol?”
Karla laughed. “She’s
more excited that I’ve agreed to let her start learning basic
healing.”
Daemon took a
nutcake. “Training doesn’t usually start so early, does it? She’s
still a girl.” A girl who had lost her mother when her entire
village had been slaughtered by Eyriens working for Dorothea and
Hekatah SaDiablo. A girl who had been rescued by Arcerian cats and
spent months with them, living wild, before being adopted by
Karla.
“She’s not a natural
Healer—wasn’t born to that caste—but she has good instincts and a
keen interest. She wants to specialize in healing
kindred.”
He tried to keep a
straight face—and couldn’t. “Does she practice her bedside manner
on KaeAskavi?”
“Every chance she
gets. Which is another reason I’m here today. If you want to know
about kindred, you ask Jaenelle. Of course, Della and KaeAskavi are
only together these days when we’re at the country house. The house
in Sidra is too frustrating for him.”
“City streets would
be hard for a cat that size.”
“Oh, it isn’t the
confined space,” Karla said, a wicked twinkle in her glacier blue
eyes. “It’s the frustration of having all that prey wandering
around and not being allowed to catch and eat any of
it.”
“We’re talking about
horses, right?”
“You know better than
that.”
Mother
Night.
“So,” Karla said, “we
have a plate of goodies and a pot of coffee, and I have another
hour to visit before I have to be heading back home. Why don’t you
tell me all the things you don’t want the coven to
know?”
Since he’d rather
chew off his own hand than get backed into that particular corner, he took the easy way out—he
put the nutcake back on the plate and gave her all of the
goodies.
“Coward,” Karla
said.
“Damn
right.”
She laughed. “Even if
you are a cock, you’re all right, Sadi.” She held out the plate.
“Here. We’ll share. No gossip required.”
“Why do you need to
go back so soon? Glacia is on the other side of the Realm, and
that’s a long way to come to spend so little time here. You and
Jaenelle haven’t had an evening together in quite a while.” Putting
a touch of persuasion and a hint of seduction in his voice, he
purred, “Stay. You can head back early in the morning. I’ll arrange
for a driver and Coach so you can work or nap on the way home.
Stay.”
She blinked at him.
Then blinked again. “Hell’s fire, you’re good. I could feel my
bones starting to melt.”
He smiled at her and
let the spells fade.
“I had said I
might stay over,” Karla said. “But I
didn’t want to make it a certainty.”
“Are you worried
about Della being home alone?”Would any of the Blood who had
supported Karla’s uncle and survived the fighting two years ago try
to hurt the girl?
“Yes, but not for the
reasons you may be thinking. You’ve got that look in your eyes,
Sadi. The ‘I’m ready to bristle and attack—where’s the enemy?’
look.”
“So what is the
concern?” he asked too softly. Because she was right—he wouldn’t
think twice about going to Glacia and eliminating any problems that
might be plaguing Karla or a young girl.
“Prince Hagen, my
Master of the Guard, likes children but has none of his own. So
Della has found a surrogate father and he has found a
daughter.”
“Then what’s the
problem?”
“Rules have a way of
getting . . . lost . . . when I’m gone for more than a day. It’s
the most amazing thing. No one can remember why vegetables are
supposed to be part of a meal. No one can tell time to figure out
when a girl Della’s age should go to bed. On the other hand, the
man can be so strict about other things, I’d swear he took lessons
from Uncle Saetan.”
“So while Auntie
Karla is away . . .”
“They’ll have a good
time.” She sighed with too much drama. “Fine. I’ll
stay.”
“And I’ll be more
than happy to entertain you with gossip.” Just
not about me. He took the nutcake. “Why did Jaenelle go to
the Keep?”
Karla hesitated
before answering. “I think she wanted a second
opinion.”
“Witch-child.” Saetan
leaned against the blackwood table in the Keep’s private library
and crossed his arms. He hadn’t known what would cause it, but he’d
known this day would come. And because he’d known, he tightened the
leash on his temper a little more. It was almost Winsol. He didn’t
want a fight to smear the celebrations.
But there was going
to be a fight. He could read that truth in the way she moved and
the look in her eyes.
“Should I start
sorting books?” he asked.
She looked at the
empty table and smiled as she shook her head.
It had been a useful
ploy, pretending to sort old books while some member of his
extended family eased into talking about whatever the trouble was.
Useful until he’d discovered the coven knew it was a ploy and were
pretending right along with him.
None of the boyos,
including his own sons, had figured out the deception, which
embarrassed him a little on behalf of his gender. On the other
hand, with them it was still a useful tool.
“No, there’s no need
to sort books,” Jaenelle said. She hesitated. “Papa, there’s
something I want to ask you.”
“Subject?”
“Rainier.”
Not what he’d
expected. He relaxed a little.
“He’s not healing the
way he should.”
She grabbed her
golden hair and pulled hard enough to make him wince.
“Maybe it’s because I
can’t . . . because I’m not . . .”
“No,” he said softly,
a clear enough warning to anyone who knew him. And Jaenelle, his
daughter and Queen, knew him.
She lowered her hands
and looked him in the eyes. “Maybe if I took back the
power—”
“No.” Saetan straightened, then lowered his arms so
that his fingers rested lightly along the edge of the table. “That
part of your life is done.”
“I didn’t lose the
Ebony like everyone thought. Maybe I can—”
“Damn you to the
bowels of Hell, you will not do
this.”
He saw the change in
her and recognized the instant when it was Witch staring at him
through Jaenelle’s sapphire eyes.
“You don’t know why
things are different, High Lord,” Witch said in her midnight
voice.
“Yes, I do, Lady. I
went to Arachna. I met the Weaver of Dreams. I saw the tangled web
that made dreams into flesh. And I saw that one slender strand of
spider silk that changed the dream when she came back to us. There
was another dreamer. You.”
She stepped back,
wary now. “How long have you known?”
“A while now. Before
you and Daemon married.” He paused, then added dryly, “Well,
between the secret wedding and the public one, anyway. The
point—and I hope you believe I will do what I say—is that my
daughter has the life she wanted for herself, and taking back the
Ebony would ruin that life.” And there was no certainty—none at
all—that Jaenelle could still be a vessel for that much power, that
taking back the Ebony wouldn’t kill her. “So you need to understand
that I will fight my Queen into the ground in order to protect my
daughter’s life. Witch-child, you never wanted that kind of power,
so the only way you will take it back is by going through me.
You’ll have to destroy me completely, because I will fight you with
everything I am.”
Her face turned
alarmingly pale. “You mean that.”
“Yes, I mean that.
Everything has a price, Lady. That will be the price if you try to
reclaim the Ebony.”
A heartbeat. Another.
Then he was no longer facing Witch. It was Jaenelle studying him
with haunted eyes.
“But . . . Rainier,”
she said.
“I’ll remind you of a
few things you’ve obviously forgotten.” His voice slipped into that
tightly controlled scolding tone that could intimidate any child. Even this one. “When you were seventeen,
you put Lucivar back together. Considering the condition he was in
when Prothvar brought him to your cottage in Ebon Rih, he shouldn’t
have survived at all. But you not only healed the broken bones and
internal damage; you rebuilt his wings out of the few healthy
scraps that were left.”
“I wore the Black
then and had a reservoir of thirteen Jewels to tap,” Jaenelle said,
her voice full of frustration. “And Lucivar was all-or-nothing.
Systemic healing. He came out of it whole or he died.”
“The Black isn’t
Ebony,” Saetan said. “You’ve never used Ebony for healing because
it was too dark, too powerful. You used the Black.”
“Well, Twilight’s
Dawn isn’t the Black,” she snapped.
“No, but there is a
Black thread in your Jewel. Compared to a true Black, you’ve got a
thimbleful of power at that level, but it’s there. You also have
two Black-Jeweled Warlord Princes and an Ebon-gray Warlord Prince
who would have given you whatever power you needed for a healing
web. And if you’d needed that kind of strength to add to a healing
brew, Daemon or Lucivar would have given you the blood. The power
was available, witch-child. This has nothing to do with the Jewels
you no longer wear.”
“Then why isn’t
Rainier healing?” Jaenelle paced, circled—and began snarling in a
way that made Saetan wish he could put a shield between them
without insulting her. “He was healing. He was.”
“Could he dance
again?”
“Yes!” She paused.
Thought. “Not everything. Not the demanding dances he and I used to
do sometimes as a special performance. His leg muscles will never
be able to support that kind of demand. But all the social dances,
yes. All the kinds of dances he taught.” She looked cold and
bitter. “But he’s done enough damage to those muscles now that he
won’t be able to do that.”
“Then whatever is
wrong with Rainier has nothing, or little, to do with the healing
itself,” Saetan said quietly. “I don’t think it’s his leg that
needs to heal so much as his heart.”
He opened his arms.
She stepped into the embrace and held on.
“Would you like some
advice?” he asked.
She
nodded.
“Let Lucivar deal
with Rainier.”
She raised her head
and narrowed her eyes. “Why?”
“Because I think
Lucivar will be able to figure out the right motivation to help
Rainier heal.”
“Lucivar will scare
the shit out of him.”
“Precisely.”
She laughed and
rested her head on his shoulder.
He savored the
embrace. Since the day he’d met her—a seven-year-old girl who had
walked through Hell without fear—he’d had to share her with so many
others. Quiet moments when it was just the two of them had been
rare, and he cherished every one.
“Papa?”
“Witch-child?”
“I won’t destroy the
life your daughter dreamed of having.”
His breath caught.
“Is that a promise?”
“Would you see a
promise like that as a gift?”
“Yes, I
would.”
She looked at him and
smiled. “Then it’s a promise.”