1 / Terreille

Instantly awake, Surreal probed the dark room and the corridors beyond for whatever had disturbed her sleep.

Men’s voices, women’s voices, muted laughter.

No danger she could feel. Still…

A dark, cold ripple, coming from the east, rolled over Chaillot.

Surreal snuggled deeper into the bed, tucking the covers around her. The night was cool, the bed warm, and the sleeping draught Deje had given her gently pulled her back into the dreamless sleep she’d enjoyed for the past few nights.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t looking for her.

Kartane slammed the door of his suite and locked it with a vicious snap of his hand. For an hour he paced his rooms, cursing softly.

It had been a delightful night, spent with a frightened, porcelain-faced girl who had been gratifyingly revolted by everything she’d had to do for him—and everything he had done to her. He had left that private playground relaxed and sated until Robert Benedict had stopped him at the door and told him how delighted, how honored his family was to receive such a gift from Lady SaDiablo. Of course, his bastard brother, Philip, performed consort duties for Lady Angelline, and she probably wouldn’t put him completely aside for a pleasure slave, no matter how celebrated, but they were honored.

Kartane cursed. He’d woven his web of lies to Hayll’s embassy tight enough to ensure that Dorothea, even if she found him quickly, wouldn’t be able to call him back without embarrassment to herself. It also meant he couldn’t bolt now without answering some difficult, and very unwanted, questions. Besides, this had become his favorite playground, and he had planned to stay a while.

He undressed and fell wearily into bed.

There was time. There was time. Daemon wasn’t here.

Yet.

Cassandra stood in the Sanctuary doorway and watched the sun rise, unable to pinpoint the cause of her nervousness. Whatever it was, it was coming over the horizon with the sun.

Closing her eyes and taking a slow, deep breath, she descended to the depth of the Black, took that one mental step to the side that Black Widows were trained to take, and then she stood at the edge of the Twisted Kingdom. With eyes gauzed by the dreamscape of visions, she looked at the sun climbing above the horizon.

She stared for a long moment, then shook her head violently to clear her sight and pressed her body hard against the stone doorway, hoping for support. When she was sure she was truly out of the dreamscape, she went into the Sanctuary, keeping her back to the sun.

She stumbled to the kitchen, hurriedly pulled the curtains across the windows, and sat on the bench by the banked fire, grateful for the dark.

A Black Widow who stood on the edge of the Twisted Kingdom could see the true face behind whatever mask a person wore; she could draw memories from wood and stone to know what happened in a place; she could see warnings about things to come.

The sun, when Cassandra had looked at it through the dreamscape of visions, had been a torn, bloody orb.

Alexandra Angelline studied the room with a critical eye. The wood floor gleamed, the throw rugs were freshly washed, the windows sparkled, the bed linen was crisp and new, and the wardrobe was filled with freshly washed and pressed clothes that hung in a straight row above the polished shoes. She breathed deeply and smelled autumn air and lemon polish.

And something else.

With an angry sigh, she shook her head and turned to her housekeeper. “It’s still there. Faint, but there. Clean it again.”

Lucivar studied the cloudless sky. Heat waves already shimmered up from the Arava Desert in Pruul, but Lucivar shivered, chilled to the bone. His outer senses told him nothing, so he turned inward and instantly felt the cold, dark fury. Nervously licking his lips, he sent a thought on an Ebon-gray spear thread narrowed toward a single mind.

*Bastard?*

Whatever rode the Winds over Pruul passed him and continued west.

*Bastard?*

Cold silence was his only answer.

In Hell, Saetan sat behind the blackwood desk in his private study deep beneath the Hall and stared at the portrait across the room, a portrait he could barely see in the dim light. He’d been sitting there for hours, staring at Cassandra’s likeness, trying to feel something—love, rage—anything that would ease the pain in his heart.

He felt nothing but bitterness and regret.

He watched Mephis open the study door and close it behind him. For a long moment he stared at his eldest son as if he were a stranger, and then turned back to the portrait.

“Prince SaDiablo,” Saetan said, his voice full of soft thunder.

“High Lord?”

Saetan stared at the portrait for several minutes more. He sighed bitterly. “Send Marjong the Executioner to me.”

In a private compartment on a Yellow Web Coach, Daemon Sadi sat across from two nervous Hayllian ambassadors. Behind a face that looked like a cold, beautiful, unnatural mask, his rage was contained but undiminished. He’d said nothing to his escorts throughout the journey. In fact, he’d barely moved since they left Hayll.

Now he stared at a blank wall, deaf to the men’s lowered voices. His right hand continued to seek his left wrist, the fingers gently rubbing back and forth, back and forth, as if needing reassurance that the scar Tersa had gifted him with was still there.

2 / Terreille

Daemon stared out the window as the carriage rolled along the smooth road leading to the Angelline estate, aware that his escort, Prince Philip Alexander, covertly watched him. He’d been relieved when Philip had stopped defensively pointing out things of interest as they rode through Beldon Mor. He understood the man’s defensiveness—Hayllian ambassadors prided themselves on their ability to subtly sneer at the cultural heritage of their host cities—but he was too intrigued by the elusive puzzle that had brushed his mind shortly after arriving in Beldon Mor to give Philip more than terse, civil replies.

A few decades ago, Beldon Mor had probably been a beautiful city. It was still lovely, but he recognized the taint of Hayll’s influence. In a couple more generations, Beldon Mor would be nothing more than a smaller, younger Draega.

But there was an undercurrent beneath the familiar taint, a subtle something that eluded recognition. It had crept up on him during the hours he’d spent at the Hayllian embassy, like a mist one could almost feel but couldn’t see. He’d never experienced anything like it and yet it felt familiar somehow.

“This is all part of the Angelline estate,” Philip said, breaking the silence. “The house will be visible around the next bend.”

Pushing the puzzle aside, Daemon forced himself to show some interest in the place where he would be living.

It was a large, well-proportioned manor house that gracefully fit into its natural surroundings. He hoped the interior decor was as quietly elegant as the exterior. It would be a relief to live in a place that didn’t set his teeth on edge.

“It’s lovely,” Daemon said when they reached the house.

Philip smiled warily. “Yes, it is.”

As he climbed out of the carriage and followed Philip up the steps to the door, Daemon’s nerves tingled. His inner senses stretched. The moment he crossed the threshold, he slid to a stop, stunned.

The psychic scent was almost gone, but he recognized it. A dark scent. A powerful, terrifying, wonderful scent.

He breathed deeply, and the lifetime hunger in him became intense.

She was here. She was here!

He wanted to shout in triumph, but the puzzled, wary expression in Philip’s gray eyes sharpened Daemon’s predatory instincts. By the time he reached Philip’s side, he had thought of half a dozen ways a Gray-Jeweled Prince could quietly disappear.

Daemon smiled, pleased to see Philip’s involuntary shiver.

“This way,” Philip said tersely as he turned and walked toward the back of the house. “Lady Angelline is waiting.”

Daemon slipped his hands into his pockets, settled his face into his bored court expression, and fell into step beside Philip with graceful indifference. As impatient as he was to meet the witches in this family and find the one he sought, it wouldn’t do to make Philip too uneasy, too defensive.

They’d almost reached the door when a man came out of the room. He was fat, florid, and generally unattractive, but there were enough similarities between him and Philip to mark them as brothers.

“So,” Robert Benedict said with a hearty sneer. “This is Daemon Sadi. The girls are most excited to have you here. Most excited.” His eyes folded up into the fat as he gave Philip a nasty smile before turning back to Daemon. “Leland spent the whole morning dressing for the occasion. Philip’s more of a steward now, so he doesn’t have the time to see to the girls’ comfort the way you will.” He rubbed his hands together in malicious glee. “If you’ll excuse me, duty calls.”

Stepping aside to let Robert pass, they stood in silence until the front door closed. Philip was white beneath his summer tan, his breath whistled through his clenched teeth, and he shook with the effort of controlling some strong emotion.

“They’re waiting,” Daemon said quietly.

Philip’s eyes were full of naked hatred. Daemon calmly returned the look. A Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince had nothing to fear from a Gray-Jeweled Prince. Philip at his worst temper wasn’t equal to Daemon at his best, and they both knew it.

“In here,” Philip snapped, leading Daemon into the room.

Trying not to act too eager, Daemon stepped into the sunny room that overlooked an expanse of green lawn and formal gardens, certain that he would know her the moment he saw her.

Seconds later, he swallowed a scream of rage.

There were two women and a girl about fourteen, but the one he sought wasn’t there.

Alexandra Angelline, the matriarch of the Angelline family and the Queen of Chaillot, was a handsome woman with long dark hair just beginning to silver, a fine-boned oval face, and eyes the color of Purple Dusk Jewels. Her clothes were simply cut but expensive. The Blood Opal that hung from her neck was set in a simple gold design. Sitting in a high-backed chair, she held her slender body straight and proud as she studied him.

Daemon studied her in turn. Not a natural Black Widow, but there was a feel about her that suggested she had spent some time in an Hourglass coven. Though why she would begin an apprenticeship and not continue…Unless Dorothea had already begun her purge of Chaillot’s Hourglass covens by then. Eliminating potential rivals was one of the first things Dorothea did to soften a Territory, and other Black Widows were far more dangerous rivals than the Queens because they practiced the same kind of Craft. It didn’t take that many stories whispered in the dark to change a wariness of Black Widows into an active fear, and once the fear set in, the killing began. Once the killing began, the Black Widows would go into hiding, and the only ones who would be trained in their Craft were the daughters born to the Hourglass.

Since she was the sole heir to one of the largest fortunes on Chaillot and the strongest Queen the island had, her continued presence in an Hourglass coven would have been a dangerous risk for them all.

Leland Benedict, Alexandra’s only daughter and Robert’s wife, was a paler, frivolous version of her mother. The frothy neckline and frothy sleeves of her gown didn’t suit her figure, and the hair done too elaborately for the hour of the day made her look more matronly than her mother. Daemon found her air of shy curiosity particularly irritating. The ones who began shyly curious tended to become the cruelest and most vindictive once they discovered what kind of pleasure he could provide. Still, he felt sorry for her. He could almost feel the core of her still molten, still wanting something cleaner, richer, more fulfilling than this caged freedom she had. Then she fluttered her eyelashes at him, and he wanted to strike her.

Last was the girl, Wilhelmina, the only child from Robert’s first marriage. Unlike her father, who had a ruddy complexion and sandy-red hair, she was raven-haired and very fair, with a startling blush in her cheeks and blue-gray eyes. She was a beautiful girl and would become even more so when her body began to fill out and curve. In fact, that was the only flaw Daemon could see in her appearance—she was thin to the point of looking unhealthy. He wondered—as he had wondered in so many other places—if these people, Blood as he was Blood, had any idea of what they were, had any understanding of what wearing the Jewels entailed—not just the pleasures or the power that could be had but the physical and emotional hardships that were part of it too. If the girl wore Jewels darker than the other women in her family, perhaps they didn’t recognize what was so apparent to him.

Anyone who wore the Jewels, especially a child, had a higher metabolism. It was possible, more for a witch because of the physical demands of her moontime than for her male counterparts, to burn up her own body in a matter of days if enough food wasn’t available.

Setting the small chip of Red Jewel that was hidden beneath the rubies in his cuff links to auditory retention, Daemon let his mind drift as Alexandra told him about the household and his “duties.” The Jewel chip would retain the conversation until he was ready to retrieve it. Right now, he had something more important to think about.

Where was she? Who was she? A relation who only visited? A guest who had stayed a few days and recently left? He couldn’t ask anyone. If they didn’t suspect that Witch had been in their presence, his questions, no matter how innocuous, might endanger her. Dorothea already had her cancerous tentacles embedded in Chaillot. If she became aware that this Other had touched the island…No. He couldn’t ask. Until she returned, he would do whatever was required to keep these women satisfied and unsuspecting. But after she returned…

Finally he was shown to his room. It was directly below Alexandra’s apartment and next to a back stairway, since he was mostly here for her pleasure, Leland needing nothing more than an escort when Robert wasn’t available, and Wilhelmina being too young. It was a simple room with a chair, lamp, and writing desk as well as a single bed, a dresser with a mirror hanging above it, a wardrobe—and, Daemon noted gratefully, an adjoining modern bathroom.

As he had anticipated, the conversation at dinner was strained. Alexandra talked about the cultural activities that could be explored in Beldon Mor, and Daemon asked the polite questions expected of him. While Alexandra’s conversation was painstakingly impersonal, Leland was fluttery, nervous, and far too prone to ask leading questions that made her blush no matter how delicately Daemon phrased his answers—if he answered at all. Robert, who had returned unexpectedly for dinner, looked too pleased with the arrangement, made sly comments throughout the meal, and took pains to touch Leland at every opportunity to stress his claim to her. Daemon ignored him, finding Philip’s distress and growing rage at Robert far more interesting.

As dinner wore on, Daemon wished Wilhelmina were there, since she was the one he was most curious about, the one he could most easily tap for information. But she was considered too young to have late dinner and sit with the adults.

Finally free to retire but too restless to sleep, Daemon paced his room. Tomorrow he would begin searching the house. A room where she had slept would still be strong with her psychic scent, even if it had been cleaned. There wasn’t time to waste, but he couldn’t afford to be found prowling around in the early-morning hours his first night there, not now, not when he might finally see, hear, touch what his soul had been aching for his whole life. Blood Law was nothing to him. The Blood were nothing to him. She would be Blood and yet Other, something alien and yet kindred. She would be terrifyingly magnificent.

As he paced his room, undressing in a slow striptease for no one, Daemon tried to imagine her. Chaillot born? Quite probable. Living in Beldon Mor? That would explain the subtle something he’d felt. And if she never physically strayed from the island, that explained why he hadn’t felt her presence anywhere else in the past few years. Wise, certainly cautious to have escaped notice for so long.

He slid into bed, turned off the light…and groaned as an image of a wise, skinny old crone filled his mind.

No, he begged the still night. Sweet Darkness, heed the prayer of one of your sons. Now that she’s so close, let her be young enough to want me. Let her be young enough to need me.

The night gave him no answer, and the sky was a predawn gray before he finally slept.

3 / Terreille

For two days Daemon played the polite, considerate escort as the fluttery Leland made an endless round of calls showing off Lady SaDiablo’s gift. For two nights he prowled the house, his control on his temper fraying from lack of sleep and frustration. He had toured every public room, probed every guest room, flattered and cajoled his way through the servants’ quarters—and had found nothing.

Not quite nothing. He had found the library tucked away on the second floor of the nursery wing. It wasn’t the library visitors saw, or the one the family used. This was the small room that contained volumes on the Craft and, like so many others he had seen in the past few decades, it had the feel of a room that was almost never used.

Almost never.

Silently closing the door, Daemon moved unerringly through the dark, cluttered room to a table in the far corner that held a shaded candle-light. He touched it, stroking downward on the crystal to dim the glow, leaned against the built-in bookcases, and tilted his head back to rest on a shelf.

The scent was strong in this room.

Daemon closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and frowned. Even though it was clean, the room had the dusty, musty smell of old books, but a physical scent wouldn’t obscure a psychic one. That dark scent…Like the body that housed it, a witch’s psychic scent had a muskiness that a Blood male could find as arousing as the body—if not more so. This dark, sweet scent was chillingly clean of that muskiness, and as he continued to breathe deeply, to open himself to that which was stronger than the body, he felt distressed to find it so.

Pushing away from the bookshelves, Daemon extinguished the candle-light and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness before leaving the room. So, she’d spent much of her time in that room, but she must have stayed somewhere. His eyes flicked toward the ceiling as he slipped among the shadows and silently climbed the stairs. The only place left to look was the nursery, the third-floor rooms where Wilhelmina and her governess, Lady Graff, spent most of their days. It was also the only place Philip had vehemently told him to stay away from, since his services weren’t required there.

Daemon glided down the corridor, his probing mind identifying the rooms as he passed: classroom, music room, playroom, Lady Graff’s sitting room and adjoining bedroom (which Daemon immediately turned away from, his lips curling in a snarl, as he caught the wispy scent of erotic dreaming), bathrooms, a couple of guest rooms, Wilhelmina’s bedroom. And the corner room that overlooked the back gardens.

Daemon hesitated, suddenly unwilling to further invade the privacy of children. As was his custom, he had gleaned basic facts about the family before entering service. The Hayllian ambassador, annoyed at being questioned, became quite garrulous once he noticed the cold look in Daemon’s eyes, saying nothing of much interest except that there were two daughters. Daemon had met Wilhelmina.

There was only one room left.

His hand shook as he turned the doorknob and slipped into the room.

The sweet darkness washed over him, but even here it was faint, as though someone had been trying to scrub it away. Daemon pressed his back against the door and silently asked forgiveness for what he was about to do. He was male, he was intruding, and, like her, it would only take a few minutes for his own dark psychic scent to be impressed on the room for anyone to read.

Cautiously lifting one hand, he engaged a candle-light by the bed, keeping it bright enough to see by but dim enough that, he hoped, the light wouldn’t be noticed beneath the bedroom door if someone walked past. Then he looked around, his brow wrinkling in puzzlement.

It was a young girl’s room: white dresser and wardrobe, white canopy and counterpane decorated with little pink flowers covering the four-poster bed, gleaming wood floors with cute throw rugs scattered around.

It was totally wrong.

He opened every drawer of the dresser and found clothing suitable for a young girl, but when he touched it it was like touching a tiny spark of lightning. The bed, too, when he ran his hand lightly over the counterpane, sent a spark along his nerves. But the dolls and stuffed animals—the scent was on them only because they were in this room. If any of them had been rich with her puzzling darkness, he would have taken it back to his room to hold throughout the night. Finally he turned to the wardrobe and opened the doors.

The clothes were a child’s clothes, the shoes were meant for small feet. It had been a while since they’d been worn, and the scent was faint in them, too. The wardrobe itself, however…

Daemon went through it piece by piece, touching everything, growing more hopeful and more frantic with each discarded item. When there was nothing left to check, his trembling fingers slid along the inside walls, his tactile sense becoming a conductor for the inner senses.

Kneeling on the floor, exhausted by disappointment, he leaned forward until his hand touched the far back corner of the wardrobe.

Lightning pulsed through him until he thought his blood would boil.

Puzzled, he cupped his hands and created a small ball of witchlight. He studied the corner, vanished the witchlight, and leaned back on his heels, even more puzzled.

There was nothing there…and yet there was. Nothing his physical senses could engage, but his inner senses insisted something was there.

Daemon reached forward again and shivered.

The room was suddenly, intensely cold.

His thinking was slowed by fatigue, and it took him a full minute to understand what the cold meant.

“Forgive me,” he whispered as he carefully withdrew his hand. “I didn’t mean to invade your private place. I swear by the Jewels it won’t happen again.”

With trembling hands, Daemon replaced the clothes and shoes exactly the way he’d found them, extinguished the candle-light, and silently glided back to his room. Once there, he dug out the bottle of brandy hidden in his own wardrobe and took a long swallow.

It didn’t make sense. He could understand finding her psychic scent in the library. But in the child’s room? Not on the toys, but on the clothes, on the bed-things an adult might handle daily if she took care of the child. When he had made an innocuous comment about there being another daughter, he’d been told, snappishly, that she wasn’t at home, that she was ill.

Was his Lady assuming a Healer’s duties? Had she slept in a cot in the girl’s room in order to be nearby? Where was she now?

Daemon put the brandy away, undressed, and slid into bed. Tersa’s warning about the chalice cracking frayed his nerves, but there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t hunt for her as he had in other courts. She was nearby, and he couldn’t risk being sent away.

Daemon punched his pillow and sighed. When the child returned, his Lady would return.

And he would be waiting.

4 / Terreille

Surreal tilted her head back, smiling at the sun’s warmth on her face and the smell of clean sea air. Her moontime had passed; tonight she would begin working for her keep to pay Deje back for her kindness. But the day was hers, and as she meandered up the path that led to Cassandra’s Altar, she enjoyed the rough landscape, the sun on her back, the crisp autumn wind teasing her long black hair.

When she rounded a bend and saw the Sanctuary, Surreal wrinkled her nose and sighed. She’d trekked all this way to see a ruin. Even though she was just beginning what might be a long, long life, she had already lived enough years to see that places where she had stayed sometimes had become crumbled piles of stone by the time she next returned. What was ancient history for so many was actual memory for her. She found the thought depressing.

Pushing her hair off her face, she stepped through an open doorway and looked around, noting the gaps in the stone walls and the holes in the roof. Sitting in the autumn sun was more appealing than wandering through chilly, barren rooms, so she turned to leave, but when she reached the doorway, she heard footsteps behind her.

The woman who stepped out from the inner chambers wore a tunic and trousers made of a shimmery, dusty black material. Her red hair, which flowed over her shoulders, was held in place by a silver circlet that fit snugly around her head. A Red Jewel hung just above her breasts. Her smile of greeting was warm but not effusive.

“How may I serve you, Sister?” she asked quietly.

The hair, faded of its vibrant color by time, and the lines on the woman’s face spoke of long years, but the emerald eyes and the proud carriage said this was not a witch to trifle with.

“My apologies, Lady.” Surreal met the other’s steady gaze. “I came to see the Altar. I didn’t know someone lived here.”

“To see or to ask?”

Surreal shook her head, puzzled.

“When one seeks a Dark Altar, it’s usually for help that can’t be given elsewhere, or for answers to questions of the heart.”

Surreal shrugged. She hadn’t felt this awkward since her first client at her first Red Moon house, when she realized how little she had learned in all those dirty little back rooms. “I came to…” The woman’s words finally penetrated. Questions of the heart. “I’d like to know who my mother’s people were.”

Surreal suddenly felt a whisper of something that had been there all along, a darkness, a strength she hadn’t been attuned to. As she looked at the Sanctuary again, she realized that the things built around this place were insignificant. The place itself held the power.

The woman’s gaze never wavered. “Everything has a price,” she said quietly. “Are you willing to pay for what you ask?”

Surreal dug into her pocket and extended a handful of gold coins.

The woman shook her head. “Those who are what I am are not paid in that kind of coin.” She turned back toward the doorway she’d come through. “Come. I’ll make some tea and we’ll talk. Perhaps we can help each other.” She went down the passage, letting Surreal leave or follow, as she chose.

Surreal hesitated for a moment before dropping the coins into her pocket and following the woman. It was partly the sudden feeling of awe she had for the place, partly curiosity about what sort of price this witch would require for information, partly hope that she might finally have an answer to a question that had haunted her ever since she’d fully understood how different Titian was from everyone else. Besides, she was good with a knife and she wore the Gray. The place might hold her in awe, but the witch didn’t.

The kitchen was cozy and well ordered. Surreal smiled at the contrast between the feel of this room and the rest of the Sanctuary. The woman, too, seemed more like a gentle hearth-witch than a Sanctuary Priestess as she hummed a cheery little tune while the water heated. Surreal sat in a chair, propped her elbows on the pine table, and watched in amused silence as a plate of nutcakes, a small bowl of fresh butter, and a mug for the tea were placed before her.

When the tea was ready, the woman joined her at the table, a glass of wine in her hand. Suddenly suspicious, Surreal looked pointedly at the tea, the nutcakes, and the butter.

The woman laughed. “At my age, my dietary requirements preclude such things, unfortunately. But test them if it troubles you. I won’t be offended. Better you should know I mean you no ill. Else, how can we talk honestly?”

Surreal probed the food and found nothing but what should be there. Picking up a nutcake, she broke it neatly in half, buttered it, and began to eat. While she ate, the woman spoke of general things, telling her about the Dark Altars, how there were thirteen of these great dark places of power scattered throughout the Realm.

The wineglass was empty and Surreal sipped her second cup of tea before the woman said, “Now. You want to know about your mother’s people. True?” She stood up and leaned toward Surreal, her hands outstretched to touch Surreal’s face.

Surreal pulled back, long years of caution making her wary.

“Shh,” the woman murmured soothingly, “I just want to look.”

Surreal forced herself to sit quietly as the woman’s hands followed the curves of her face, neck, and shoulders, lifted her long hair, and traced the curve of her ear to its delicate point. When she was done, the woman refilled her wineglass and said nothing for a while, her expression thoughtful, her eyes focused on some other place.

“I can’t be certain, but I could tell you what I think.”

Surreal leaned forward, trying not to appear too eager and yet holding her breath in anticipation.

The woman’s gaze was disconcertingly steady. “There is, however, the matter of the price.” She toyed with her wineglass. “It’s customary that the price be named and agreed upon before help is given. Contracts such as these are never broken because, if they are, the price is then usually paid in blood. Do you understand, Sister?”

Surreal took a slow, steadying breath. “What’s your price?”

“First, I want you to understand that I’m not asking you to endanger yourself. I’m not asking you to take any risks.”

“All right.”

The woman placed the stem of the wineglass between her palms and slowly rolled the glass back and forth. “A Warlord Prince has recently come to Chaillot, either into Beldon Mor or an immediate outlying village. I need to know his precise whereabouts, who he’s serving.”

Surreal itched to call in the stiletto, but she kept her face carefully blank. “Does this Prince have a name?”

“Daemon Sadi.”

“No!” Surreal jumped up and paced the room. “Are you mad? No one toys with the Sadist if they want to stay this side of the grave.” She stopped pacing and gripped the back of the chair so hard it shook from the tension. “I won’t do a contract on Sadi. Forget it.”

“I’m not asking you to do anything but locate him.”

“So you can send someone else to do the job? Forget it. Why don’t you find him yourself?”

“For reasons that are my own, I can’t go into Beldon Mor.”

“And you’ve just given me a good reason to get out.”

The woman stood up and faced Surreal. “This is very important.”

“Why?”

The silence grew between them, straining, draining them both. Finally the woman sighed. “Because he may have been sent here to destroy a very special child.”

“You got anything to drink around here besides tea and that wine?”

The woman looked pained and amused. “Will brandy do?”

“Fine,” Surreal snapped, dropping back into her chair. “Bring the bottle and a clean mug.” When the bottle and mug were placed before her, she filled the mug and slugged back a third of the brandy. “Listen up, sugar,” she said tartly. “Sadi may be many things, and the Darkness only knows all that he’s done, but he has never, ever hurt a child. To suggest that—”

“What if he’s forced to?” the woman said urgently.

“Forced to?” Surreal squeaked. “Forced to? Hell’s fire, who is going to be dumb enough to force the Sadist? Do you know what he does to people who push him?” Surreal drained the mug and filled it again. “Besides, who would want to destroy this kid?”

“Dorothea SaDiablo.”

Surreal swore until she could feel the words swirling around the room like smoke. She finally stopped when she noticed the woman’s expression of amazed amusement. She took another drink and swore again because her anger burned up the brandy so fast she couldn’t feel even a little bit mellow. Thumping the mug down on the table, she ran her hands through her hair. “Lady, you really know how to knife someone in the guts, don’t you?” She glared at the woman. If the witch had returned her gaze calmly, Surreal would have knifed her, but when she saw the tears and the pain—and the fear—in those emerald eyes…

Titian lying on the floor with her throat slit and the walls thundering the order to run, run, run.

“Look. I owe him. He took care of my mother, and he took care of me. He didn’t have to, he just did. But I’ll find him. After that, we’ll see.” Surreal stood up. “Thanks for the tea.”

The woman looked troubled. “What about your mother’s people?”

Surreal met her gaze. “If I come back, we’ll exchange information. But I’ll give you a bit of advice for free. Don’t play with the Sadist. He’s got a very long memory and a wicked temper. If you give him a reason to, he’ll turn you to dust. I’ll see myself out.”

Surreal left the Sanctuary, caught a Wind, and rode past Chaillot, chasing the setting sun far out into the ocean until she felt weary enough to return to Deje’s and be civil to whomever she was supposed to bed that night.

5 / Hell

Saetan toyed with the silver-handled letter opener, keeping his back to the man who stood just inside his study door. “Is it done?”

“Forgive me, High Lord,” came the ragged, whispery answer. “I could not do it.”

For a flickering second before he turned to face Marjong the Executioner, Saetan wasn’t sure if he felt annoyed or relieved. He leaned against his blackwood desk and studied the giant man. It was impossible to read Marjong’s expressions because his head and shoulders were always covered with a black hood.

“He is in that misted city, High Lord,” Marjong apologized, shifting the huge, double-headed ax from one hand to the other. “I could not reach him to carry out your request.”

So. Daemon was in Beldon Mor.

“I can wait, High Lord. If he travels out of the misted city, I—”

“No.” Saetan took a slow, steadying breath. “No. Do nothing more unless I specifically request it. Understood?”

Marjong bowed and left the study.

With a weary sigh, Saetan sank into his chair and slowly spun the letter opener around and around. He picked it up and studied the thin ravenglass blade and the beautifully sculpted silver handle. “An effective tool,” he said quietly, balancing it on his fingertips. “Elegant, efficient. But if one isn’t careful…” He pressed one finger against the point and watched a drop of blood well up on the finger pad. “Like you, namesake. Like you. The dance is ours now. Just between us.”

6 / Terreille

Daemon’s days settled into a routine. Every morning he rose early, exercised, showered, and shared breakfast with Cook in the kitchen. He liked the Angellines’ cook, a brisk, warm woman who reminded him of Manny—and who had been as appalled as Manny would have been when he’d asked her consent to have the first meal of the day in the kitchen instead of in the breakfast room with the family. She’d relented when she realized he was going hungry while dancing attendance to Leland’s endless stream of nervous requests. Since he joined the family for breakfast anyway, Daemon wryly noted that his breakfast in the kitchen was usually better fare than what was served in the breakfast room.

After breakfast, he met with Philip in the steward’s office, where he was grudgingly handed the list of activities for the day. After that was a half hour walk through the gardens with Wilhelmina.

Alexandra had decided that Wilhelmina needed some light exercise before beginning her Craft lessons with Lady Graff, an unspeakably harsh woman whom Daemon had taken an instant dislike to—as she had to him, more because he had ignored her coquettish suggestions than for any other reason. Leland then suggested that Daemon accompany the girl, since Wilhelmina had an unreasonable fear of men and exposure to a Ringed male who couldn’t be a threat to her might help relieve her fear. So when the weather permitted, he escorted Wilhelmina around the grounds.

The first few days he attempted conversation, tried to find out her interests, but she skittered away from his attempts while still trying to be a polite young lady. It struck him one morning, when a silence had stretched beyond expected comfort, that this was probably one of the rare times in the day when she had the luxury of her own thoughts. Since she spent most of her time in Graff’s steely presence, she wasn’t allowed to “moon about”—a phrase he’d heard Graff use one day in a tone that implied it was a usual scold. So he stopped trying to talk to her, letting her have her solitary half hour while he walked respectfully on her left, hands in his pockets, enjoying the same luxury of having time for his own thoughts.

She always had a destination, although she never seemed to reach it. No matter what paths they took through the gardens, they always ended up at a narrow path that led into a heavily overgrown alcove. Her steps would falter when she reached the place, and then she would rush past it, breathing hard, as if she’d been running for a long time. He wondered if something had happened to her there, something that frightened her, repelled her, and yet drew her back.

One morning when he was lost in thought, thoroughly absorbed with the puzzle his Lady had left him, he realized they’d stopped walking and Wilhelmina had been watching him for some time. They were standing by the narrow path.

“I want to go in there,” she said defiantly, her hands clenched at her sides.

Daemon bit the inside of his lip to keep his face neutral. It was the first spark of life she’d shown, and he didn’t want it squelched by a smile that might be misunderstood as condescension. “All right.”

She looked surprised, obviously expecting an argument. With a timid smile, she led him down the path and through a trellis arch.

The small garden within the garden was completely surrounded by large yews that looked as if they hadn’t been trimmed on this side in several years. A maple tree dominated one end, girdled by a circular iron bench that had been white once, but the paint was now peeling badly. In front of the yews were the remains of flower beds, tangled, weedy, uncared for. But the thing that made his breath catch, made his heart pound too fast, too hard, was the bed of witchblood in the far corner.

Flower or weed, witchblood was beautiful, deadly, and—so legend said—indestructible. The bloodred flowers, with their black throats and black-tipped petals, were in full bloom, as they always were from the first breath of spring to the last dying sigh of autumn.

Wilhelmina stood by the bed, hugging herself and shivering.

Daemon walked over to the bed, trying to understand the pain and hope in Wilhelmina’s face. Witchblood supposedly grew only where a witch’s blood had been spilled violently or where a witch who had met a violent death was buried.

Daemon stepped back, reeling.

Even with the fresh air and the other garden smells, the dark psychic scent was strong there. Sweet Darkness, it was strong there.

“My sister planted these,” Wilhelmina said abruptly, her voice quivering. “One for each. As remembrance.” She bit her lip, her blue eyes wide and frightened as she studied the flowers.

“It’s all right,” Daemon said soothingly, trying to calm the panic rising in her while fighting his own. “I know what witchblood is and what it stands for.” He searched for words that might comfort them both. “This is a special place because of it.”

“The gardeners won’t come here. They say it’s haunted. Do you think it’s haunted? I hope it is.”

Daemon considered his next words carefully. “Where’s your sister?”

Wilhelmina began to cry. “Briarwood. They put her in Briarwood.” The sobs became a brokenhearted keening.

Daemon held her gently while he stroked her hair, murmuring the “words of gentle sorrow” in the Old Tongue, the language of Witch.

After a minute, Wilhelmina pushed him away, sniffling. He handed her his handkerchief and, smiling, took it back when she stared at it, uncertain what to do with it after using it.

“She talks like that sometimes,” Wilhelmina said. “We’d better get back.” She left the alcove and hurried down the path.

Dazed, Daemon followed her back to the house.

Daemon stepped into the kitchen and gave Cook his best smile. “Any chance of a cup of coffee?”

Cook snapped a sharp, angry look in his direction. “If you like.”

Confused by this sudden display of temper, Daemon shrugged out of his topcoat and sat at the kitchen table. As he puzzled over what he’d done to upset her, she thumped a mug of coffee on the table and said, “Miss Wilhelmina was crying when she came in from the garden.”

Daemon ignored the coffee, more interested in Cook’s reaction. “There was an alcove in the garden she wanted to visit.”

The stern look in Cook’s eyes instantly softened, saddened. “Ah, well.” She cut two thick slabs of fresh bread, piled cold beef between them, and set it before him, an unspoken apology.

Daemon took a deep breath. “Cook, what is Briarwood?”

“A foul place, if you ask me, but no one here does,” she snapped, then immediately gave him a small smile.

“What is it?”

With a sigh, Cook brought her own mug of coffee over to the table and sat down across from Daemon. “You’re not eating,” she said absently as she sipped her coffee.

Daemon obediently took a bite out of the sandwich and waited.

“It’s a hospital for emotionally disturbed children,” Cook said. “Seems a lot of young witches from good families become high-strung of a sudden when they start leaving childhood behind, if you understand me. But Miss Jaenelle’s been in and out of that place since she was five years old for no better reason that I could ever see except that she used to make up fanciful stories about unicorns and dragons and such.” She cocked her head toward the front of the house. “They say she’s unbalanced because she’s the only one in the family who doesn’t wear the Jewels, that she tries to make up for not being able to do the Craft lessons by making up stories to get attention. If you ask me, the last thing Miss Jaenelle wants is attention. It’s just that she’s…different. It’s a funny thing about her. Even when she says wild things, things you know can’t be true, somehow…you start to wonder, you know?”

Daemon finished his sandwich and drained his mug. “How long has she been gone?”

“Since early spring. She put a flea in all their ears this last time. That’s why they’ve left her there so long.”

Daemon’s lip curled in disgust. “What could a child possibly say that would make them want to lock her up like that?”

“She said…” Cook looked nervous and upset. “She said Lord Benedict wasn’t her father. She said Prince Philip…”

Daemon let out an explosive sigh. Yes, from what he’d observed of the dynamics of this family, a statement like that would throw them all into a fury. Still…

Cook gave him a long, slow look and refilled the mugs. “Let me tell you about Miss Jaenelle.

“Two years ago, the Warlord my daughter was serving decided he wanted a prettier wench and turned my daughter out, along with the child she’d borne him. They came here to me, not having any other place to go, and Lady Alexandra let them stay. My girl, being poorly at the time, did some light parlor work and helped me in the kitchen. My granddaughter, Lucy—the cutest little button you ever saw—stayed in the kitchen with me mostly, although Miss Jaenelle always included her in the games whenever the girls were outside. Lucy didn’t like being out on her own. She was afraid of Lord Benedict’s hunting dogs, and the dog boys, knowing she was scared, teased her, getting the dogs all riled up and then slipping them off the leash so they’d chase her.

“One day it went too far. The dogs had been given short rations because they were going to be taken out and they were meaner than usual, and the boys got them too riled up. The pack leader slipped his leash, took off after Lucy, and chased her into the tackroom. She tripped, and he was on her, tearing at her arm. When we heard the screams, my daughter and I came running from the kitchen, and Andrew, one of the stable lads, a real good boy, came running too.

“Lucy was on the floor, screaming and screaming with that dog tearing at her arm, and all of a sudden, there was Miss Jaenelle. She said some strange words to the dog, and he let go of Lucy right away and slunk out of the tackroom, his tail between his legs.

“Lucy was a mess, her arm all torn up, the bone sticking up where the dog had snapped it. Miss Jaenelle told Andrew to get a bucket of water quick, and she knelt down beside Lucy and started talking to her, quiet-like, and Lucy stopped screaming. Andrew came back with the water, and Miss Jaenelle pulled out this big oval basin from somewhere, I never did notice where it came from. Andrew poured the water in the basin, and Miss Jaenelle held it for a minute, just held it, and the water started steaming like it was over a fire. Then she put Lucy’s arm in the basin and took some leaves and powders out of her pocket and poured them in the water. She held Lucy’s arm down, singing all the while, quiet. We just stood and watched. No point taking the girl to a Healer, even if we could have scraped up the coin to pay a good one. I knew that. That arm was too mangled. The best even a good Healer could have done was cut it off. So we watched, my daughter, Andrew, and me. Couldn’t see much, the water all bloody like it was.

“After a while, Miss Jaenelle leaned back and lifted Lucy’s arm out of the basin. There was a long, deep cut from her elbow to her wrist…and that was all. Miss Jaenelle looked each of us in the eye. She didn’t have to say anything. We weren’t about to tell on her. Then she handed me a jar of ointment, my daughter being too upset to do much. ‘Put this ointment on three times a day, and keep it loosely bandaged for a week. If you do, there’ll be no scar.’

“Then she turned to Lucy and said, ‘Don’t worry. I’ll talk to them. They won’t bother you again.’

“Prince Philip, when he found out Lucy’d gotten hurt because the dogs were chasing her, gave the dog boys a fierce tongue-lashing; but that afternoon I saw Lord Benedict pressing coins into the dog boys’ hands, laughing and telling them how pleased he was they were keeping his dogs in such fine form.

“Anyway, by the next summer, my daughter married a young man from a fine, solid family. They live in a little village about thirty miles from here, and I visit whenever I can get a couple of days’ leave.”

Daemon looked into his empty mug. “Do you think Miss Jaenelle talked to them?”

“She must have,” Cook replied absently.

“So the boys stopped teasing Lucy,” Daemon pressed.

“Oh, no. They went right on with it. They weren’t punished for it, were they? But the dogs…After that day, there was nothing those boys could do to make the dogs chase Lucy.”

Late that night, unable to sleep, Daemon returned to the alcove. He lit a black cigarette and stared at the witchblood through the smoke.

She has come.

He’d spent the evening reviewing the facts he had, turning them over and over again as if that would change them. It hadn’t, and he didn’t like the conclusion he had reached.

My sister planted these. As remembrance.

A child. Witch was still a child.

No. He was misinterpreting something. He had to be. Witch wore the Black Jewels.

Maybe he’d gotten the information mixed up. Maybe Wilhelmina was the younger sister. He’d still been fighting to regain his emotional control when he’d arrived at the Hayllian embassy in Beldon Mor. It would make more sense if Jaenelle was almost old enough to make the Offering to the Darkness. She’d be on the cusp of opening herself to her mature strength, which would be the Black Jewels.

But the bedroom, the clothes. How could he reconcile those things with the power he’d felt when she’d healed his back after Cornelia tied him to the whipping posts?

She talks like that sometimes.

He could count on both hands the people still able to speak a few phrases of the Blood’s true language. Who could have taught her?

He shied away from the answer to that.

It’s a hospital for emotionally disturbed children.

Could a child wear a Jewel as dark as the Black without becoming mentally and emotionally unbalanced? He’d never heard of anyone being gifted with a Birthright Jewel that was darker than the Red.

The chalice is cracking.

He stopped thinking, let his mind quiet. The facts fell into place, forming the inevitable conclusion.

But it still took him a few more days before he could accept it.

7 / Terreille

After parting with Wilhelmina, Daemon changed into his riding clothes and headed for the stables. He had a free morning, the first since he’d arrived at the Angelline estate, and Alexandra had given him permission to take one of the horses out.

As he reached the stableyard, Guinness, the stable master, gave him a curt wave and continued his instructions to one of the stable lads.

“Going to hack out this morning?” Guinness said when Daemon approached, his gruff manner softened by a faint smile.

“If it’s convenient,” Daemon replied, smiling. Here, like most places where he’d served, he got along well with the staff. It was the witches he was supposed to serve that he couldn’t tolerate.

“Ayah.” Guinness’s eyes slowly rode up Daemon’s body, starting with his boots. “Good, straight, solid legs. Strong shoulders.”

Daemon wondered if Guinness was going to check his teeth.

“How’s your seat?” Guinness asked.

“I ride fairly well,” Daemon replied cautiously, not certain he cared for the faint gleam in Guinness’s eye.

Guinness sucked on his cheek. “Stallion hasn’t been out for a few days. Andrew’s the only one who can ride him, and he’s got a bruised thigh. Can’t let the boy go out with a weak leg. You willing to try?”

Daemon took a deep breath, still suspicious. “All right.”

“Andrew! Saddle up Demon.”

Daemon’s eyebrows shot up practically to his hairline. “Demon?”

Guinness sucked on his cheek again, refusing to notice Daemon’s outraged expression. “Name’s Dark Dancer, but in the stableyard, when we’re out of hearing”—he shot a look at the house—“we call him what he is.”

“Hell’s fire,” Daemon muttered as he crossed the yard to where Andrew was saddling the big bay stallion. “Anything I should know?” he asked the young man.

Andrew looked a bit worried. Finally he shrugged. “He’s got a soft mouth and a hard head. He’s too smart for most riders. He’ll run you into the trees if you let him. Keep to the big open field, that’s best. But watch the drainage ditch at the far end. It’s too wide for most horses, but he’ll take it, and he doesn’t care if he lands on the other side without his rider.”

“Thanks,” Daemon growled.

Andrew grinned crookedly and handed the reins to Daemon. “I’ll hold his head while you mount.”

Daemon settled into the saddle. “Let him go.”

Demon left the stableyard quietly enough, mouthing the bit, considering his rider. Except for showing some irritation at being held to a walk, Demon behaved quite well—until they reached a small rise and the path curved left toward the open field.

Demon pricked his ears and lunged to the right toward a lone old oak tree, almost throwing Daemon from the saddle.

The battle began.

For some perverse reason of his own, Demon was determined to reach the oak tree. Daemon was equally determined to turn him toward the field. The horse lunged, bucked, twisted, circled, fought the reins and bit. Daemon held him in check enough not to be thrown, but, circle by hard-fought circle, the stallion made his way toward the tree.

Fifteen minutes later, the horse gave up and stood with his shaking legs spread, his head down, and his lathered sides heaving. Daemon was sweat-soaked and shivering from exhaustion, and slightly amazed that his arms were still in their sockets.

When Daemon gathered the reins once more, Demon laid back his ears, prepared for the next round. Curious about what would happen, Daemon turned them toward the tree and urged the horse onward.

Demon’s ears immediately pricked forward, his neck arched, and his step became high-spirited sassy.

Daemon didn’t offer any aids, letting the horse do whatever he wanted. Demon circled the tree over and over, sniffing the air, alert and listening…and growing more and more upset. Finally the stallion bugled angrily and launched himself toward the path and the field.

Daemon didn’t try to control him until they headed for the ditch. He won that battle—barely—and when Demon finally slowed down, too tired to fight anymore, Daemon turned him toward the stable.

The stable lads stared openmouthed as Daemon rode into the yard. Andrew quickly limped up and took the reins. Guinness shook his head and strode across the yard, grasped Daemon’s arm as he slid wearily from the saddle, and led him to the small office beside the tackroom.

Pulling glasses and a bottle from his desk, Guinness poured out a two-finger shot and handed it to Daemon. “Here,” he said gruffly, pouring a glass for himself. “It’ll put some bone back in your legs.”

Daemon gratefully sipped the whiskey while rubbing the knotted muscles in his shoulder.

Guinness looked at Daemon’s sweat-soaked shirt and rubbed his bristly chin with his knuckles. “Gave you a bit of a time, did he?”

“It was mutual.”

“Well, at least he’ll still respect you in the morning.”

Daemon choked. When he could breathe again, he almost asked about the tree but thought better of it. Andrew was the one who rode Demon.

After Guinness left to check on the feed, Daemon walked across the yard to where Andrew was grooming the horse.

Andrew looked up with a respectful smile. “You stayed on him.”

“I stayed on him.” Daemon watched the boy’s smooth, easy motions. “But I had some trouble with him by a certain tree.”

Andrew looked flustered. The hand brushing the stallion stuttered a little before picking up the rhythm again.

Daemon’s eyes narrowed, and his voice turned dangerously silky. “What’s special about that tree, Andrew?”

“Just a tree.” Andrew glanced at Daemon’s eyes and flinched. He shifted his feet, uneasy. “It’s on the other side of the rise, you see. The first place out of sight of the house.”

“So?”

“Well…” Andrew looked at Daemon, pleading. “You won’t tell, will you?” He jerked his head toward the house. “It could cause a whole lot of trouble up there if they found out.”

Daemon fought to keep his temper reined in. “Found out what?”

“About Miss Jaenelle.”

Daemon shifted position, the motion so fluid and predatory that Andrew instantly stepped back, staying close to the horse as if for protection. “What about Miss Jaenelle?” he crooned.

Andrew gnawed on his lip. “At the tree…we…”

Daemon hissed.

Andrew paled, then flushed crimson. His eyes flashed with anger, and his fists clenched. “You…you think I’d…”

“Then what do you do at that tree?”

Andrew took a deep breath. “We change places.”

Daemon frowned. “Change places?”

“Change horses. I’ve got a slight build. The pony can carry me.”

“And she rides…?”

Andrew put a tentative hand on the stallion’s neck.

Daemon exploded. “You little son of a whoring bitch, you put a young girl up on that?”

The stallion snorted his displeasure at this display of temper.

Common sense and dancing hooves won out over Daemon’s desire to throttle the stable lad.

Caught between the stallion and the angry Warlord Prince, Andrew’s lips twitched with a wry smile. “You should see her up on that. And he takes care of her, too.”

Daemon turned away, his anger spent. “Mother Night,” he muttered, shaking his head as he walked toward the house and a welcome hot shower. “Mother Night.”