The Queen's Weapons

ONE

Using Craft, Daemonar Yaslana called in a ball of twine and then considered the puzzle in front of him. After adjusting a couple of pieces for a better fit, he began lashing together the fallen branches he and his cousin had gathered for this harebrained, idiotic, get-their-asses-kicked-for-this idea—an idea that sounded intriguing enough that he might have tried it on his own at another time if he’d been able to talk Jaenelle Saetien out of building a raft today and testing it on the river.

It was a warm summer day, and floating on a raft sounded like fun, but there were rapids downriver and a waterfall. Testing himself against those things on a raft made out of branches and twine appealed to him. After all, he was an Eyrien Warlord Prince, and until he was old enough to test his strength and skill by making the Blood Run, this could be considered practice. Right?

That almost sounded like a reasonable explanation for doing this. He’d have to remember it if—okay, when—his father found out about this adventure. And he’d have to figure out a suitable reason why he wasn’t alone on the raft. Maybe Auntie J. could help with that—if she didn’t give him a whack upside the head before his father had a chance to do it.

Jaenelle Saetien set the next load of branches beside the ones he’d laid out. Then she sighed. “Why can’t we just use Craft to hold the branches together? Tying them is going to take forever.”

“You afraid we’re going to get caught before we get this thing in the water?” he asked, lashing two more branches together.

“Maybe.”

He looked at her. Jaenelle Saetien SaDiablo had the straight black hair and gold eyes of all the long-lived races, but her skin was a lighter, sun-kissed brown and her delicately pointed ears were a sign that some of her bloodline had come from the Dea al Mon, a race of warriors often called the Children of the Wood. She was smart, usually sweet in a feisty kind of way, and she sometimes had more backbone than sense.

Then again, so did he or he wouldn’t be out here helping her build a raft that most likely would break apart when they hit the rapids and waterfall.

“Your father takes calculated risks, not foolish ones,” his grandfather had said once. “He measures risk against his own strength and skill, as well as the strength and skill of the people with him. As you get older, he’ll expect you to do the same.”

“There is a difference between taking a calculated risk and a foolish one,” Daemonar said, echoing words that lingered in his memory. “We take the time to make this ride a calculated risk, or we walk away.”

She wouldn’t walk away. Not completely. If he insisted on walking away today, she’d test a raft and a river at another time in another place without him, and that was unacceptable. She was family, and it was his duty and privilege to honor, cherish, and protect.

“But . . .”

“What are you going to say to our fathers if either of us gets hurt because you were impatient?” he asked.

She sat back on her heels and sighed. “That’s hitting below the belt.”

That was where truth, when it was inconvenient, usually hit.

Jaenelle Saetien might want to try things that were risky, but she would yield if he would get in trouble because of her actions. Well, she would yield most of the time, unless the impulse to do something overwhelmed every bit of common sense that should warn her about how her father would react to a particular scheme.

She was the daughter of the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan, and even though she loved her father, sometimes being the daughter of a powerful man was a burden. Daemonar understood that kind of burden. He was the son of the Warlord Prince of Askavi—the feared Demon Prince of Askavi. Those two men were not only brothers united by family and their service to a Queen unlike any other in the history of the Blood, they were also the most powerful, and dangerous, men in the entire Realm of Kaeleer.

But they were still men, and fathers, and if their children felt a reckless need to explore what could be done with Craft, that inclination must have been inherited from them. Right?

He’d point that out if he had a chance to argue his reasoning for doing this harebrained adventure before his uncle or father killed him flatter than dead.

Jaenelle Saetien sighed again. Then she shrugged, accepting the need to put in the work before having fun, and began helping him piece the branches together to provide the snuggest fit, using Craft to trim them to the best shape while he wrapped power from his Green Birthright Jewel around the twine to make it stronger without making it thicker.

Finally satisfied that the raft was the best one they could make, he secured the last branch. “I guess we’re ready.”

Daemonar looked at Jaenelle Saetien. She looked at him. And they grinned.

He wore a Green Jewel. She wore an extraordinary Birthright Jewel called Twilight’s Dawn, which had a range of Rose to Green power. It had been a gift from Witch, the Queen of Ebon Askavi, the living myth. Auntie J. no longer walked among the living, but she was still his Queen. Would always be his Queen. And that was a secret known only to the other men who also still served her—his father and uncle.

Now Jaenelle Saetien tapped into the Green strength in her Jewel to help him float the raft on air and guide it to the water. He steadied the raft until she stepped on it and had her balance. Then he got on behind her, his legs spread in a fighting stance, his dark membranous wings opened halfway to help them keep the raft balanced. Calling in the last branch they’d collected and hadn’t used, he pushed off from the bank, dropped the branch, and settled his hands on his cousin’s waist.

“This is wonderful!” Jaenelle Saetien said as they floated down the river.

Daemonar scanned the river and the banks, watching one for debris that could snag the raft and upend it and the other for any Eyrien who might have spotted them and sent word to his father on a psychic communication thread.

He felt the change in the river, saw the white water and boulders seconds before Jaenelle Saetien said, “Uh-oh.”

He wrapped an arm around her waist and closed a fist around some of her tunic, wishing she had worn something with a belt. Easier to hold on to someone if they wore a belt. He’d remember that for next time.

“Here we go,” he said as they hit the rapids.

He leaned this way and that way, using his whole body to steer the raft around the boulders as best he could.

Not easy, he thought, exhilarated by the challenge. Not easy, but, sweet Darkness, this is fun.

He saw sky ahead of them and mist from the waterfall. One more tight passage and—

He leaned one way. Missing her cue for the first time, Jaenelle Saetien leaned the other way. Instead of skimming past a boulder, they hit with enough force that it took all the skill he had to keep the raft from flipping and tossing them onto the boulders or into fast-moving water.

They hit another boulder and spun—and the raft began breaking under them, the twine snapping from the strain, despite the coating of Green power.

“Hang on!” he shouted, wrapping both arms around her as the raft reached the end of the rapids and shot over the falls.

They rode the raft down partway. Then the last of the Green power he’d used on the twine burned out, and what was left of the raft fell apart.

Should they go down ahead of all those branches or behind them? Ahead, they’d have all that wood coming at them, and even if he shaped a shield around them, one of them could receive a nasty knock on the head if they surfaced right in front of one of the heavier branches.

Behind, then.

Daemonar spread his wings, pumping hard to get some height—or at least delay the plunge into the pool below long enough for the branches to move downriver.

Jaenelle Saetien was younger than his sister, Titian, but the girls were about the same size. He hadn’t considered either of them large, but, Hell’s fire, it was everything he could do to hold that weight—and he wouldn’t be able to hold her much longer.

Judging the distance to the water, Daemonar created a Green bubble shield around them and folded his wings.

Jaenelle Saetien screamed as they fell.

*Hold . . . ,* he began on a psychic thread.

No time. They hit the water and went down like a stone halfway to the bottom of the pool before the buoyancy of the bubble shield popped them back to the surface. They rolled a bit in the Craft-made bubble before he eliminated the shield and they went under a second time.

“You okay?” he asked when they surfaced.

She tipped her head back and whooped, a sound full of the joy he also felt. “That was wonderful! Daemonar, let’s . . .”

“Hell’s fire,” he muttered when he spotted movement on the riverbank.

“What?” Treading water, she looked in the same direction. “Uh-oh.”

“Yeah. Uh-oh.”

Lucivar Yaslana, the Warlord Prince of Askavi, stood on the bank, watching them. He didn’t shout, didn’t make a come-here motion with his hand. He just watched them.

That could not be good.

“Come on,” Daemonar said. “We’d better not keep him waiting.”

They swam to the bank, fighting the current with every stroke. Well, he fought the current, aiming for the ground where his father waited. Jaenelle Saetien either wasn’t strong enough or wasn’t trying hard enough to reach stern judgment, so the river floated her away from her uncle. Lucivar paced her, letting her struggle—more than necessary, in Daemonar’s opinion—until she finally reached the river’s edge.

Lucivar reached down and pulled her up to the bank.

Daemonar let the current take him to that spot on the bank. When Lucivar reached down, he accepted his father’s hand, unable to decipher the look in those gold eyes. His father had a volatile temper, even by Eyrien standards. It should have been in evidence and wasn’t—and that was a worry.

“It was my fault, Uncle Lucivar,” Jaenelle Saetien said. “It was my idea to build the raft.”

“I figured that.” Lucivar looked them over. Satisfied that there were no apparent injuries, he studied the river and said mildly, “Listen carefully, witchling. If you ever test that river and waterfall again—or any river or waterfall anywhere in Askavi—without my permission, you will be banned from Askavi for a year. All of Askavi, including my home. Do you understand me?”

Daemonar’s jaw dropped, and he imagined his expression matched Jaenelle Saetien’s. No visits for a year?

“But . . . ,” Jaenelle Saetien began.

“Do. You. Understand?”

Oh, Hell’s fire. There was the heat of temper under the mildness.

“Yes, sir,” she replied.

“Then let’s get you home and into dry clothes.” Lucivar wrapped them both in Red shields and took them with him when he caught the Red Wind, one of those psychic roads in the Darkness, and headed back to the Yaslana eyrie.

The Winds were connected to the power in the Jewels the Blood wore. The darker the Wind, the faster you traveled. Traveling on the Red, which Daemonar couldn’t have used on his own since the Red was darker than his Green, they arrived at the eyrie too fast. He wasn’t ready for the reckoning that had to be coming.

When they arrived at the eyrie, Lucivar handed Jaenelle Saetien over to Daemonar’s mother, Marian, then looked at him.

“Get cleaned up. I’ll be waiting for you in my study.”

“Yes, sir.” Nothing else he could say.

“Do I want to know what the two of you were doing?” Marian asked.

“No, Auntie Marian, you really don’t,” Jaenelle Saetien replied.

“I want to know,” Andulvar said, joining them in the large front room.

*I’ll tell you later,* Daemonar said on a psychic spear thread.

He smelled like the river, which wasn’t a bad smell at all, but because he’d be closed in a room with his father and wasn’t sure what kind of discussion they were going to have, Daemonar took a fast shower before getting dressed and reporting to his father’s study.

He usually liked the room in the family eyrie where his father took care of the business of ruling Ebon Rih, the valley that lived in the shadow of the mountain called Ebon Askavi. Also known as the Keep, Ebon Askavi held a vast library, was the repository for the Blood’s history, a sanctuary for the darkest-Jeweled Blood—and the private lair of Witch.

He often did his schoolwork in his father’s study, sitting quietly while Lord Rothvar, Lucivar’s second-in-command, reported on the Blood and landen villages in the valley or received orders for the other Eyriens who protected Ebon Rih. The men knew he listened, and he knew anything they considered private was discussed on a psychic communication thread. He also knew that when Lucivar, who had trouble reading, asked him to read a document out loud, it was as much to give him a glimpse at what it meant to be a leader as it was to help his father.

Maybe someday, if he proved worthy, he would be the one ruling Ebon Rih while Lucivar took care of holding the lines of Blood law and honor throughout the rest of Askavi.

Since he couldn’t measure how much trouble he was in while standing outside the door, Daemonar knocked, waited for permission to enter, and went in.

Lucivar wasn’t sitting behind the desk; he leaned against it and gave the boy a careful study before shaking his head. “Tell me all of it.”

Daemonar told him all of it, from the first glimmer of the idea to building the raft. He even threw in the words about the difference between calculated risks and foolish ones—and heard his father snort in an effort to suppress a laugh.

Still no sign of anger or disappointment or anything except . . . amusement?

“Hold out your arms,” Lucivar said.

Daemonar obeyed and said nothing while Lucivar ran his hands over shoulders and arms before moving around to examine back muscles.

“You are going to be hurting sore by tomorrow, boyo,” Lucivar said. “You don’t have the muscles or the strength yet to carry that much weight safely.”

“I wouldn’t have dropped her,” he replied defensively.

“No, you would have gone down with her, because that’s who you are.” Lucivar came around again and looked Daemonar in the eyes. “Smarter to use Craft and the reservoir of power in your Jewels to lift something that’s too heavy to lift otherwise. So I guess those are the Craft lessons we’ll be working on this week.”

Lucivar’s hands rested on the boy’s shoulders, and the strength and power Daemonar felt in those hands reminded him that he had a lot of growing up to do.

“Did you have fun challenging the rapids?” Lucivar asked, that mild tone still a worry to the boy.

“Yes, sir.” Daemonar grinned. Couldn’t help it.

“Then I guess another thing you need to learn is how to build a better raft.”

He studied his father. “You’re not angry.”

Lucivar stepped back to lean against the desk again. “Well, I can’t get pissy about you and Jaenelle Saetien doing the same thing your aunt Jaenelle and I did. Only we rode those rapids and went over that waterfall on a raft built out of nothing but kindling and Craft. Twice.”

“Twice?” Daemonar’s voice rose to the point of cracking. “Hell’s fire! Doing it once was a dumb-ass thing to do but . . .” He stopped and considered who he was talking to. “I mean . . .”

“It was a dumb-ass idea. Both times. But I imagine I did it for the same reason you did. That sparkle in the eyes that warns you that she’s going to try this with or without you, and the thought of her doing it without whatever skill and strength you can give . . .”

“No.” Daemonar shook his head. “We couldn’t do that.”

Lucivar smiled. “No, we couldn’t do that. But sometimes that means drawing a line and being willing to fight someone you love into the ground if that’s the only way to protect them.” He looked away, seemed to be seeing something that wasn’t in the room. “Jaenelle Saetien reminds me of Jaenelle Angelline in a lot of ways, but they aren’t the same. When it came to Craft and spells and the use of power, my sister was brilliant and could do things no one else in the entire history of the Blood had done. Things no one else will ever do again. Her ideas didn’t always work, but she wasn’t impetuous or careless. Jaenelle Saetien is a child in a way that Jaenelle Angelline never could be, because your cousin is growing up safe under her father’s protection.”

“So are we. Growing up safe.” Uncle Daemon wasn’t the only Warlord Prince who took care of his family.

Lucivar laughed softly, then sobered. “Yeah, you are safe, and I don’t know if you’ll ever appreciate how much that means to me and your uncle. You’ll carry your own scars. That’s part of growing up. But you won’t carry the kind that Daemon and I carry. You won’t have to live with those kinds of scars.”

Serious talk. “Would you tell me about those scars?”

Something about the look in Lucivar’s eyes made him wonder what line he’d just crossed.

“That’s campfire talk,” Lucivar finally said. “Private talk. But not until you’re older.” He pushed away from the desk. “I need to go to Dhemlan. Better your uncle Daemon hear about this adventure from me than from someone else since I know what to say to smooth it over.”

He and his sister, Titian, and his younger brother, Andulvar, were protected in their father’s house, but outside the eyrie . . .

“You should talk to Titian.” The words were out before he considered if he was protecting his sister or betraying a trust. But talk of scars and growing up made him think this wasn’t something he should keep to himself any longer.

“Later,” Lucivar said, heading for the door. “I’ll be back before your bedtimes if Titian wants to talk.”

“No, sir.” Daemonar hesitated when his father turned to face him—an Ebon-gray Warlord Prince responding to the sound of a challenge issued by a Green-Jeweled Warlord Prince. Then he stepped up to the line. “You should talk to her before you go to Dhemlan.”

A crackling silence as the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih studied him.

“It’s that important?” Lucivar finally asked.

Was it? Titian had been excited and happy about her secret, but lately she’d been unhappy and afraid of what Lucivar and Marian would say when they found out. “Yes, sir. I think it is.”

“All right.” Lucivar walked out of the study.

Daemonar bent at the waist and braced his hands on his thighs. Challenging a male as strong and as powerful as his father was a messy way to commit suicide, and even a son couldn’t count on getting away with a challenge without paying a harsh price.

But he had gotten away with it. Sure, he’d argued with his father plenty of times and had even sassed him on occasion, but what was overlooked in a boy—up to a point, anyway—wasn’t tolerated in a youth, especially one who wore a dark Jewel. Even though he was years and years away from that day, the closer he came to being considered an adult, the more dangerous it became to test the temper of the Ebon-gray.

It will be all right, Daemonar thought as he left the study and went into the kitchen to see what his mother might have for a snack. Father will know what to do for Titian.

Spotting his daughter at the far end of the play yard, where a stream filled a small pool before continuing down the mountain, Lucivar considered all the messages—intentional and unintentional—that he’d picked up from Daemonar.

What had been said that had pushed Daemonar to draw a line? A small one, sure, but this was different from their usual pissing contests. The boy knew something about Titian, something that hadn’t been shared with him or Marian.

The boy wasn’t looking to get his sister in trouble in order to draw attention away from his own dumb-ass choice. The demand that he talk to the girl now was . . . protective. Concerned.

Titian was his quiet little witchling, a gentle contrast to her brothers. Why was Daemonar concerned about her?

Lucivar wasn’t trying to approach with any stealth, but Titian was so focused on the paper in front of her, she didn’t realize he was there until his shadow fell over her. Then she gasped, closed the pad of paper, and hunched in on herself as if she’d been caught doing something shameful.

Going down on one knee beside her, Lucivar wondered about the misery he saw in her face.

“What are you doing, witchling?” he asked quietly. “Will you show me?”

“It’s not Eyrien,” she mumbled, glancing up at him.

The tears that filled her eyes ripped his heart. “Okay.”

She opened the pad of paper and looked away from him.

Lucivar frowned at the half-finished drawing of the pool and the flowers Marian had planted to bring some color to a spot they all enjoyed in the summer.

“I’m sorry, witchling. I don’t understand why this makes you unhappy. I think you’ve captured the pool and your mother’s flowers pretty well. I’m not an expert about such things, but I can see the difference in the flowers and—”

“A real Eyrien wouldn’t want to draw flowers,” Titian said.

He ruthlessly leashed the fury rising in him before she sensed it.

Now he knew why Daemonar had pushed at him.

Scars.

The boy had known about the drawings and hadn’t tattled on his sister—and why should he?—but now he needed someone else to know about the hurt. Which meant the hurt was recent.

Lucivar snorted, a dismissive sound. “Whoever said that doesn’t know much about Eyriens.”

Her startled look made him tighten the leash on his temper until it hurt. So. Another Eyrien had slid that needle of doubt into his daughter’s heart.

He ran a hand down her braided black hair. “Listen to me, Titian. Are you listening?” He waited for her nod. “In Terreille, Eyrien girls from the aristo families were the only ones who were given drawing lessons and music lessons, because it was assumed that they would serve in the courts and be companions to the Queens. Some of the boys received lessons, too, but they mostly used the skills they learned to make sketches of the hunting camps or the killing fields as a kind of record of the men and the battles. I can’t tell you what the girls usually drew because I never had much to do with them.”

“We’re aristo,” Titian said in a small voice.

“We certainly are, which is something your uncle Daemon takes pains to remind me of from time to time.” A finger under her chin brought her head up until she looked at him. “Since you want to draw, why are you unhappy?”

“Because you would be disappointed in me when you found out.”

She couldn’t have stunned him more if she’d smacked him with a rock. It took him a moment to find his voice. “Witchling, the only way you could disappoint me is if you allowed someone’s meanness to push you away from doing something you love. If you don’t feel strong enough to meet that meanness on your own, you come to me and I will back you all the way.”

Suddenly his arms were full of a girl doing her best to squeeze the breath out of him.

“Thank you, Papa.”

He didn’t see that he’d done anything to deserve thanks, but he cuddled her and let her sniffle until her feelings settled. His were churning with a fury that needed an outlet, but he’d deal with that later.

“I’m heading out to see your uncle Daemon,” he said. “Would you let me show him your drawings?”

Titian hesitated, then eased out of his arms and handed him the pad. “You’ll bring it back?”

“I will bring it back.” He hesitated. Andulvar was too young for that adventure on the river, but why hadn’t Titian been invited? “Jaenelle Saetien and Daemonar are back. Did they tell you they were going to the river?”

Titian nodded. “Daemonar said he didn’t think I’d have fun helping Jaenelle Saetien today, but he promised he’d take me to the river another day so that I could draw the waterfall.”

He and his firstborn were going to have a little chat about sharing information within the family. “Maybe we can all go there some afternoon soon. Your mother and I can make up a hamper and we can have a picnic by the river.”

She gave him that shy but sunny smile—the smile that said she still believed her papa could fix anything.

“Come on.” He vanished the drawing pad and led her back to the eyrie. “Unless your mother caught them in time, your brothers will have everything out of the cold box and half the food in the pantry spread over the kitchen in search of a proper snack. You might as well lay claim to your share.”

She might be gentle and a little shy, but when they walked into the kitchen, she wasn’t afraid to tussle with her cousin or her brothers in order to get what she wanted. As far as he was concerned, that was a first step to her learning that she could also hold her own against the meanness of outsiders.

“No,” Marian said, tapping the kitchen table. “These are the choices for a snack. Pick from what’s on the table or wait until dinner.”

Daemonar, Jaenelle Saetien, and Andulvar looked away from the cake cooling on the counter.

“But . . . ,” Jaenelle Saetien began.

Marian tapped the table again. “What’s here or nothing.” She watched Lucivar and Titian enter the kitchen. She knew that look on her husband’s face, but she supervised the tussle of who got what, and she noticed how Daemonar didn’t look at his father or sister—and how he fended off his cousin and little brother but let Titian claim the second piece of his favorite treat.

When everyone had made their snack choices, she put a Purple Dusk shield around the cake before walking down the corridor to the laundry room. Considering the Jewels Daemonar and Jaenelle Saetien wore, a Purple Dusk shield wasn’t any kind of barrier, but breaking that shield to get a treat they’d already been told they couldn’t have would have brought Lucivar’s wrath down on their heads.

Lucivar walked into the laundry room moments after she did. After centuries of marriage, she still felt that flutter in the belly when she saw him, still remembered how he’d refused to see her as “just a hearth witch” and had pushed her to find her own strength and stand up for herself—and for him. Being the second-most-powerful man in Kaeleer, he needed someone who could love him without reservations. Someone who could also accept being loved by a man like him.

The Warlord Prince of Askavi. The Demon Prince of Askavi. Their lives had changed when he’d accepted the need to take control of the whole Territory of Askavi instead of just ruling Ebon Rih. She’d never had many friends, even among the Eyriens. Witches from aristo Rihlander families—the other race that lived in Askavi—didn’t have any common ground with a witch whose inclinations leaned toward domestic skills like cooking and keeping a house, and every generation of that short-lived race speculated about why Lucivar Yaslana had married—and stayed married to—someone like her. Outside of Nurian, the Eyrien Healer, the only other Eyrien woman living in the eyries nearby was Dorian, Lord Endar’s wife. There was nothing wrong with Dorian, although the woman seemed dissatisfied with nothing and everything of late, but Marian never felt quite comfortable being around her because she had the same name as Marian’s mother, and memories of her life before Witch saved her and brought her to Kaeleer weren’t something she could set aside.

It wasn’t easy being the wife of the ruler of a Territory, but the man . . . Oh, the man more than made up for any troubles that came with his title.

“Since neither of them needed a Healer, I gather Daemonar and Jaenelle Saetien’s adventure was successful?”

Lucivar huffed out a low laugh. “If that’s the measuring stick, then it was successful.”

Oh, dear. “Do I want to know?”

“No, you really don’t, but I’ll tell you when I get back if they don’t tell you first. As it is, I need to go to Dhemlan and explain this adventure to Daemon.”

Marian braced a hand on one of the laundry tubs and reminded herself that any day that didn’t end with one of her children testing boundaries to the point of needing a Healer . . . was most likely a day when the children were visiting their aunt and uncle and she didn’t hear about whatever it was until much later.

“And Titian?”

Lucivar stepped closer. “She’s fine. She’s inherited some of her mother’s talents but expresses them in a different way.”

Now, that was intriguing.

“I have to go.” Lucivar’s voice sounded low, a little rough. But the kiss he gave her was warm and full of promise. “I may not make it back for dinner, but I’ll be back tonight.”

“And we’ll talk?”

He gave her the lazy, arrogant smile that always meant trouble. “Sure.”

He went out the side door to catch the Winds and ride the Ebon-gray Web to SaDiablo Hall in Dhemlan. She went back to the kitchen to see if there was anything left to put away and was surprised to find Daemonar combining the remaining food into a covered dish to go into the cold box.

He gave her a measuring look that reminded her that he wasn’t a boy anymore—that he was, in so many ways, his father’s son.

“Did Father tell you?” Daemonar asked.

“He left that to you,” she replied.

Another measuring look. Then Daemonar took a clean plate out of the cupboards, selected some of the food he’d been about to store, and set the plate in front of her before fetching glasses of water for both of them.

So she sat and ate and listened while her firstborn told her everything.

Lucivar dropped from the Ebon-gray Wind to the stone landing web in front of SaDiablo Hall. Built thousands of years ago by Saetan Daemon SaDiablo to be his family’s seat, it was an imposing structure of gray stone, with so many wings, rooms, interior courtyards, and gardens the place could be its own village—was, in fact, the main source of income and employment for the adjoining village of Halaway, despite there being only three members of the family in residence.

The Hall was also testimony to the differences between his life and Daemon’s.

His eyrie had as many rooms as a modest mansion, but it was still small enough that Marian took care of the housekeeping and cooking, with help from him and the children. Occasionally she had “helpers” from Riada, the closest Blood village in Ebon Rih, but those were youngsters who wanted to learn hearth Craft from Marian Yaslana—or who were willing to trade time doing chores in exchange for lessons in weaving since Marian was becoming known as a “loom artist.”

For many years, he’d had one home to look after and the valley of Ebon Rih to rule. He also had a Dhemlan estate that had vineyards and made wine, but he didn’t oversee it directly any more than he oversaw the town house in Amdarh, despite having use of one side of the building.

Even now, with him ruling all of Askavi, his home and work were fairly straightforward.

Daemon’s life was so much more complicated.

The Hall, which was Daemon Sadi’s primary residence, employed close to two hundred people to take care of the building, cook the meals, work in the stables, and tend the grounds and all the gardens, both the exterior gardens and the interior courtyards that provided light and greenery to bedrooms, sitting rooms, workrooms, and all the other rooms that massive structure contained.

Besides dealing with the senior staff at the Hall—which, considering the personalities of the senior staff, was sufficiently challenging—Daemon also dealt with the town house and its staff, the family estates in Dhemlan, an estate that was run as a self-sufficient school for half-Blood children, and a school on the Isle of Scelt that trained and educated kindred Scelties. He also owned or co-owned several businesses throughout the Realm of Kaeleer, as well as a few farms and businesses he still supported in Dena Nehele and Shalador Nehele in the Realm of Terreille. Added to that, Daemon took care of the SaDiablo family’s vast wealth, working with his personal man of business and the firm that had been managing some portion of that wealth since Saetan had hired them centuries ago.

That much responsibility might have overwhelmed a lot of men, but Daemon actually enjoyed the work, the challenges of business. They were almost a way for him to relax from the duties of being the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan and dealing with the Dhemlan Queens as well as the Queens who ruled Kaeleer’s other Territories.

They were almost a way for him to rest from the duties of being the High Lord of Hell—a title Daemon had shouldered after Saetan went to the final death. A title, a truth, and a secret that was only known to a few who were among the living. Sadi would give his daughter as much time to grow up as he could before that title cast a shadow over her life. That was a choice Lucivar understood, seeing the shadow his title of Demon Prince now cast on his own children.

Added to the complications of Daemon’s life was the fact that Daemon Sadi had been damaged by a savagely abusive childhood and centuries of being used as a pleasure slave, and his brilliant mind had been broken and repaired three times, the last time leaving him fragile in a way that also made him extremely dangerous to the whole damn Realm.

But Sadi was Lucivar’s brother. He loved the man and would stand with him against anyone—except their Queen.

A psychic probe at the level of the Red told him that Daemon was home and Surreal SaDiablo, Daemon’s Gray-Jeweled partner and second-in-command, was not.

Officially, Surreal was Daemon’s wife, and Sadi gave her everything a wife was entitled to have from a husband, including his body. They loved each other but had never been in love with each other, and that had made the difference when mistakes made on both sides had led to Surreal seeing the full truth about the man she had married and developing a bone-deep fear of some aspects of Daemon’s temper—and it had led Daemon into the cascading self-destruction that had ended with him splintering his mind almost beyond repair.

Daemon asking for help that should have been impossible, from a Queen that almost everyone believed no longer existed in any of the Realms, had saved all of them. Witch had intervened and repaired Daemon’s mind, as she had done twice before. But everything has a price, and having the Queen who was the love of Daemon’s life return, even as a presence without flesh, changed Sadi’s relationship with Surreal.

Daemon still referred to Surreal as his wife. Lucivar couldn’t. Once things had settled down and the routines that were set up to keep Daemon sane were in place, Lucivar discovered there were some lines he couldn’t cross. He loved Surreal like a sister, would defend her against anyone but Daemon, but he saw the differences in Daemon’s relationship with Surreal compared to his relationship with and feelings for Marian.

He and Marian had a marriage—a commitment to each other—in the truest sense of the word. Daemon and Surreal had a partnership that included sex and raising their daughter. But in Surreal’s presence, Daemon couldn’t be everything he was, and the acknowledgment that some distance was required to keep her safe—and keep her fear of him at bay—had stained everything they were to each other for the past few years.

Lucivar shook his head. No point rubbing up against rough stone until you hurt.

The door opened before he had a chance to knock. Beale, the Red-Jeweled Warlord who worked as the Hall’s butler, studied him for a moment before stepping aside.

Beale was one of the people Daemon had entrusted with telling him his control was slipping and he needed some solitary time to regain his balance. Lucivar was another who had accepted that responsibility. It wasn’t unusual for him to show up at the Hall for a meal or a quick visit, but that first meeting between butler and brother always held an unspoken question about the man who was the High Lord of Hell as well as the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan—and who, at his most lethal, was known as the Sadist.

“Prince Sadi is working in his study,” Beale said. “Should I have coffee brought in?”

“Hell’s fire, no,” Lucivar replied. “I’d rather he wasn’t completely sober when I explain this.” He shook his head at Beale’s momentary look of alarm. “The children are fine, and this is nothing you haven’t heard before. Same story, different father.”

“I see. Perhaps I should talk to Mrs. Beale about making something . . . fortifying . . . for the Prince’s dinner. You’ll be staying for dinner?”

It was phrased as a question, but it wasn’t.

“I was hoping to get home for the children’s bedtimes.”

“An early dinner, then. Since the Prince already requested that the meal be kept simple, it shouldn’t be an imposition.”

Lucivar bared his teeth in what could be mistaken as a smile. Beale recognized the warning and wasn’t impressed. Of course, the man was married to Mrs. Beale, who was the cook at the Hall. She was an excellent cook. She was also a large woman who wore a Yellow Jewel and tended to bring her well-honed meat cleaver to any discussion.

“Fine,” Lucivar said. “Please thank Mrs. Beale for accommodating me.”

“It will be a pleasure.”

Shaking his head, Lucivar went to the study, gave the door a quick rap with his knuckles, and walked in. “Hello, Bastard.”

Daemon looked up from a stack of papers and started to smile. Then that beautiful face went completely blank.

“They’re fine.” Wondering how many times he would have to say that today, Lucivar walked up to the large blackwood desk, filled a snifter to the brim with brandy, and set it in front of Daemon. “You’re going to want to slug a good bit of that down before we talk.”

Daemon looked at the brandy, then at him. “But the children are fine?”

Lucivar filled another snifter and settled in the specially designed chair Daemon had made to accommodate an Eyrien’s wings and still provide armrests. “Oh, yeah, old son, they are just fine. And if Father was still around, he’d be laughing himself silly right about now.”

“That doesn’t sound good.” Daemon took a long swallow of brandy. He breathed out a resigned sigh. “Tell me.”

The delay had been enough to give Lucivar the measure of his brother’s mental and emotional health. A jagged feel to Daemon’s psychic scent meant trouble. Since he wasn’t picking up anything like that, he went ahead.

“My son, your daughter, on a raft made of branches and twine, riding rapids and going over a waterfall.”

Daemon’s hand trembled. He set the snifter on the desk before covering his face with his hands. Then he spread his fingers enough to peer at Lucivar and said, “Why?”

“Because it’s the sort of thing those two would find challenging and fun.”

Daemon groaned and rubbed his face briskly before sagging in his chair. “What did you say when you caught them? I’m assuming you caught them?”

“Not much I could say, since Jaenelle Angelline and I built a raft out of kindling and Craft and rode those same rapids and went over that same waterfall.” A beat of silence. “Twice.”

Daemon stared at him. He looked like he was trying to say words, so Lucivar drank brandy and waited.

“Why do it twice?” Daemon finally said.

“Because it was a wicked bitch of a ride—and it was fun. And because Jaenelle had given me that look and that smile—you remember those?—and said, ‘Lucivar, I have a wonderful idea; you’re going to hate it a lot.’” He shrugged. “We were well shielded.”

Daemon drank the brandy like it was water, then took a shuddering breath. That much brandy might make him a little light-headed for a minute or two, but wearing Jewels as dark as the Black or Ebon-gray meant they both burned up alcohol as fast as they burned up food, and even getting a bit tipsy required serious effort.

In fact, the only time they had managed to get stupid drunk since they began wearing the Ebon-gray and Black was on a pub crawl with Jaenelle Angelline. That night—and what they had done—became tilted and fuzzy after Jaenelle started making a drink called a gravedigger.

“What did Father say?” Daemon asked.

“He would have said plenty if I hadn’t told him that the only reason he was angry was because he was jealous that Jaenelle invited me to test the raft instead of him.”

Daemon wheezed.

Lucivar watched his brother. This was going better than he’d hoped. “Father tossed me out of his study—this exact room, in fact—and never spoke of it again. Didn’t allow anyone to speak of it again.” He drank some brandy and waited until Daemon’s face was almost its usual golden brown color. “That’s why we never told him that we tried it again a couple of years later after Jaenelle had perfected blending small objects with Craft to create a raft—or a pallet if you were out in the wild and needed to move someone who was injured.”

Daemon leaned forward, placed his tightly locked hands on the desk, and said, “So our Lady built another raft out of kindling and Craft and the two of you did that asinine stunt again?”

Lucivar snorted. “Not much point doing the same thing again. That last raft was made out of twigs, leaves, and Craft—and shaped to have a bow. Made it easier to maneuver in the rapids.”

“You are a heartless prick,” Daemon snarled. “Is telling me that story supposed to make me feel better?”

“Doesn’t it?”

Daemon’s answer was succinct and very unflattering.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think I took a breath from the moment I saw them go over the falls until they surfaced in the pool below,” Lucivar said.

“Why would they even think to do this?”

“Because we—meaning you and me—had children who are, in every sense, our children.”

Daemon closed his gold eyes. “Mother Night.”

“And may the Darkness be merciful.”

“How is young Andulvar doing?” Daemon said after a moment. “Staying out of trouble?”

“As much as any Eyrien boy that age stays out of trouble.”

“Which means he’s no trouble at all when he’s asleep.” Daemon shook his head and smiled. “Beron has a supporting role in a new play that will be opening in Amdarh soon. If Marian wants to get away from trouble, I would be happy to stand as her escort for an evening at the theater.”

“I’ll let her know and have her make the arrangements with you. She could use an evening for herself.” He would attend the theater with his darling hearth witch or go to musicals or whatever else Marian wanted to attend, but Daemon would discuss the play and the actors and the costumes and sets and all the other things that would interest Marian but had no interest for him. Well, Lord Beron, being Daemon’s legal ward, was of interest to him, but that wasn’t the same thing.

“And your cuddly witchling? How is she?”

Nerves danced under Lucivar’s skin. He pushed out of the chair, set the snifter on the desk, and began to pace.

Daemon came around the desk, immediately on alert. “Prick?”

“Something I want to show you.”

“All right.”

Lucivar called in the drawing pad and handed it to Daemon as he passed the desk. He needed to move, couldn’t quite look at his brother as Daemon examined the drawings and sketches on each page.

“Titian drew these?” Daemon asked.

Lucivar nodded.

“This upsets you?”

“No, it doesn’t upset me!” Lucivar whirled toward the desk and Daemon. So tempting to aim some of the fury churning inside him at a man strong enough to meet it. But his hot fury would be met by Daemon’s cold rage, and that rage could freeze blood. Literally.

He gripped the back of his neck, trying to ease some tension. “I just found out about her drawings before I headed out to see you. She’d been hiding them from us. From me more than Marian. Someone told her a true Eyrien wouldn’t be drawing flowers, and she was afraid I’d be disappointed in her.” That stung more than anything else.

He inhaled warm air—and exhaled in a room that had turned so cold he could see his breath.

Daemon held up a hand. A few moments later, the room returned to its normal temperature—but the brandy left in the snifters had frozen solid.

“My apologies,” Daemon said.

“No need. It took my mind off destroying your furniture to work off some temper.”

“I could ask Beale to find something in the attics that you could rip to shreds.”

Daemon would do it, and that made him smile. “Save it for another time.”

“Do you know who said that about true Eyriens?” Daemon asked too softly.

Lucivar shook his head. Better if he didn’t know. Much better for everyone if Daemon didn’t know. Besides, he’d have a pretty good idea of who had said it the next time Daemonar scrapped with someone. But . . . “How do I fix this, Bastard? I don’t know a damn thing about art, but if my girl wants to draw flowers or wolf pups or rocks or . . .”

“Nudes?” Daemon suggested.

“Not at her age,” Lucivar snapped. Seeing Daemon’s smile, he blew out a breath and began pacing again. “The point is, if she wants to draw, how do I help her?”

“Does she know you’re showing me her work?”

Lucivar nodded.

Daemon looked through the drawings again, then fingered the paper. “Would you allow an indulgent uncle to handle this?”

“How?”

“A gift of better paper and a set of colored pencils. Not so much that she might think we had expectations she couldn’t meet but enough to let her know we want to encourage her interest and she has our support.”

Lucivar felt the tension easing out of his neck and shoulders. “An instructor?” He wasn’t sure where to find one. Were there any artists in Ebon Rih? Would he trust anyone with a sensitive child who was the daughter of the Demon Prince? His sensitive child? Wouldn’t more verbal needles inserted in a vulnerable heart be a subtle way to attack the man?

“Let her play and explore on her own for a while,” Daemon replied. “If she wants a teacher, give her a chance to ask.”

It might take her a while to work up to it, but if Titian wanted something, she would ask.

Daemon closed the pad and handed it to Lucivar. “How early is that early dinner we’re having?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

“Sometimes, Prick, you’re as useful as a boot full of piss.”

Lucivar laughed. “I’ll ask Beale how much time you have to deal with more of those papers.”

Daemon looked at his desk, then headed for the door. “Forget the papers. Holt can scold me in the morning while he pulls out the paperwork and contracts he needs to have me look at first. Let’s take a walk.”

Lord Holt would scold his employer in the morning. That was one of the things that made him a valuable secretary. Like their father, Daemon needed people around him who didn’t fear him. Standing so deep in the abyss, having so much power and so much potential for destruction could leave a man feeling isolated and lonely. And that, as their family’s history had made clear, could lead to mistakes that would have repercussions for centuries.

Having confirmed the time that dinner would be served, they went out for a walk, happy to be in each other’s company.

Surreal dropped from the Green Wind close to the house she owned in Halaway and had once shared with Rainier, a Dharo Warlord Prince who had been Daemon’s secretary for decades. Before that, Rainier had served in the Second Circle of Witch’s court, so he’d been trusted on many levels. For her, he’d been a friend and companion, but never a lover. During all the years they had lived together, she had never asked about his lovers or liaisons and he had never asked about hers.

And they had never spoken of the attraction they had both felt for the beautiful, dangerous man who was fiercely in love with Jaenelle Angelline and wore her wedding ring.

So many things remained unspoken where Daemon Sadi was concerned.

Pulling back from thoughts that wouldn’t do her any good, Surreal gave the house a quick psychic probe to determine who was home. Confirming that the only people currently in residence were the staff, she went around to the kitchen door and knocked. The cooks came and went, as did the maids and personal servants, but the butler and housekeeper worked for her, not her current tenants. That assured her that her property was not mistreated. It only took a minute’s chat with the butler and housekeeper to confirm that the current staff also wasn’t being mistreated in any way.

If informing a potential tenant that they were renting a house from Sadi’s second-in-command didn’t seem like sufficient warning about the consequences of randy behavior that wasn’t consensual, mentioning that she was a highly paid assassin whose mother had been the Queen of the Harpies and had taught her daughter what to do with a knife usually did the trick.

Of course, some potential tenants bolted a minute after learning that about her.

Unfortunately for them, she gave their names to the Province Queens on her next visit to their territories, just in case some fool thought that what couldn’t be seen wouldn’t have a price.

Wanting to postpone her return to the Hall a little longer, Surreal walked to the village’s bookshop and browsed the new selection of books.

The Hall might be the family seat, but it didn’t feel like a home. Not to her. It was too big, too imposing, too full of people who were neither friends nor family in a way that allowed her to simply be herself. The town house in Amdarh, which was Dhemlan’s capital, suited her—a small house in a large city. The Hall suited Daemon, giving him the breathing room he needed to be away from people who might be overwhelmed by his sexual heat and respond in a way that put them, and everyone else, in danger.

And Jaenelle Saetien? A child between. The estate offered her space to ride and walk and explore, either on her own or with a Sceltie or two for company, or with Mikal, who lived with Tersa and was Daemon’s ward. The girl enjoyed physical activities and the protected independence that came from being able to go to the village without an adult in tow. But she also enjoyed the theater and the parks and the shops that were in Amdarh, even if she had less independence in a city that size. She enjoyed mingling with girls from other aristo families when they gathered for some event.

Fortunately, the movement between one residence and the other wasn’t unusual. Sometimes Daemon came with them. Sometimes she planned the time in Amdarh to coincide with his staying at the Keep. Either way, her goal never changed—to keep her daughter safe and let her grow up without the scars that had marked her life, and Daemon’s life . . . and Jaenelle Angelline’s life.

In that, she and Daemon were united.

After purchasing two books, Surreal walked to a dining house. She didn’t offer an explanation for why she was dining out instead of going to the Hall, and no one asked. Everyone in the village knew that Jaenelle Saetien was visiting her cousins in Ebon Rih, and Surreal often had dinner in Halaway, alone, during those times—or when Sadi was also not in residence.

He was there, at the Hall. She could feel the presence of the Black. That dark power ran under the whole village as well as the SaDiablo estate, both a comfort and warning to Halaway’s residents.

Funny how she hadn’t been as aware of it during the years she’d lived in the village.

When she was a child, she’d had a crush on Daemon Sadi, who already was a young man when she met him and had been a pleasure slave for centuries by then. She’d had a girl’s romantic notion of what it would be like to be with him. As a young whore, whose training he had financed because that was the only kind of help she would accept from him at the time, she’d gotten drunk one night and made a mistake that had provoked him into showing her what sex wrapped in cold rage could feel like. That was the night she had brushed against the side of his temper the rest of the Blood called the Sadist.

Then there was the night when Saetan Daemon SaDiablo, Prince of the Darkness and High Lord of Hell, had gone to his final death and become a whisper in the Darkness. She and Daemon came together as a way of dealing with a painful loss. If she hadn’t gotten pregnant that night, maybe they would have become lovers, maybe not. But because Daemon had been taken from his father at so young an age, and because of what had happened to him after that, he couldn’t tolerate her leaving with his child. So she agreed to marry him, and at the time, she’d believed her reasons to be sound.

A mistake. They were good as partners, good as friends. She’d had plenty of time to think about the night that had damaged their marriage and almost destroyed Sadi, and she could admit now, to herself, anyway, that she should have declined when he invited her to play, should have retreated to her room and closed the door. That might have bruised his feelings a bit, but he would have shaken off that particular edge of desire by morning and her refusal wouldn’t have changed things between them. Not like her accepting the invitation had done.

That invitation hadn’t been about sex, as fabulous and terrifying as the sex had been. Not really. Not at the core. That’s what she finally realized after years of struggling to understand why she’d run away instead of confronting Daemon the next morning. She’d run in order to survive because, that night, what Daemon had really offered was to be a husband to her in the same way he had been with Jaenelle, offering everything, holding back nothing. And Daemon holding back nothing . . .

She’d run from him, and she’d run from the truth, was still running in some ways because she was afraid of what would happen to the family, to Dhemlan, to the whole damn Realm if she spoke the truth.

She didn’t want to be a wife in the same way Jaenelle Angelline had been. Couldn’t be a wife in that way. Not to the High Lord of Hell or the Sadist. Sadi’s partner and lover? The Warlord Prince of Dhemlan’s second-in-command? Yes, she could be those things, enjoyed being those things. That woman could aim a crossbow at a man and establish boundaries without hurt or harm. Sadi hadn’t expected his second-in-command or his friend to accept everything he was. But a woman who was his wife in the fullest sense of the word? Oh, yes. He would expect her to accept all of him.

After all, his first wife had done exactly that.

He didn’t want to cause her pain. If she asked to end the marriage, he would let her go. And then? All the women who romanticized what it would be like to be with Daemon, who thought it would be wonderful and exciting to be surrounded by his sexual heat but didn’t understand what it would feel like to be surrounded by it day after day after day, who hadn’t any notion of everything he was . . . They would swarm around him, an irritation that frayed his control until the leashes that held his temper and the Sadist in check snapped.

The slaughter would be horrific.

For everyone’s sake, she couldn’t leave Sadi without the protection of having a wife. But sometimes—often, lately—she wished Jaenelle Angelline hadn’t made being Sadi’s wife look so damn easy.

Daemon felt Surreal’s return to the Hall a few minutes before he felt the departure of the Ebon-gray.

Dhemlans, Eyriens, and Hayllians were the three long-lived races, their life spans measured in thousands of years. Too many years. While generations of other races bloomed and faded like summer flowers, the long-lived grew slowly—spurts of growth followed by long plateaus before reaching the next level of maturity. But races that measured their lives in centuries also needed more time to let go of words or actions that had caused a wound.

On the surface, Lucivar behaved toward Surreal as he’d always done, with a mix of caution for the Gray-Jeweled witch who was a highly skilled assassin and a willingness to fight her into the ground if that was what had to be done. But under the surface, Lucivar was still pissed off that Surreal’s choice to suffer in silence when she’d been overwhelmed by her husband’s sexual heat instead of talking to someone—anyone—had led to Daemon making mistakes that had resulted in his coming too close to shattering his mind again and sliding into the Twisted Kingdom.

There had been hurt on both sides, and if Surreal had talked to him after he’d made the mistake of allowing the Sadist to play as lover, their lives and marriage might have been very different. But they all knew if someone had told him outright that he would have to endure hideous pain for months and almost lose his sanity in order to bring Witch back into his life in any way, he would have done it without a second thought, would have embraced that pain and paid any price.

Not a body he could touch or hold or physically love. Not anymore. But the embrace of mind to mind, to be seen and accepted for everything he was in all his terrible glory, whether he was Daemon Sadi or the High Lord of Hell or the Sadist . . . That had saved him and continued to save him. Jaenelle Angelline, his Queen and the love of his life, might use those different labels to acknowledge aspects of who he was, but she saw no distinction. Sometimes he was more of one thing than the other, but for her he was always Daemon. Just like Saetan had been Saetan, whether he was going by the title of High Lord or Steward of the Dark Court . . . or father.

It hadn’t been her intention, but Surreal’s choices had brought Witch back to Daemon, and for that alone, he had been willing to work hard at being a good husband. A careful husband. Staying connected with the living and working on his marriage had been part of the bargain he’d made with Witch in order to spend time with her at the Keep, where her Self, using the enormous reservoir of power still at her command, could create a shadow of the dream that had lived within flesh.

So he worked on his marriage—or his partnership, as Lucivar called it—with Surreal, and Lucivar worked to let go of the kernel of anger that the Eyrien still felt toward Surreal.

Returning to his suite of rooms in the family wing of the Hall, Daemon took a quick shower and dressed in fresh clothes—his usual black trousers and white silk shirt. He debated for a moment about adding the black jacket, then decided that would look too formal, too official. He wasn’t looking for a report from his second-in-command; he was offering to spend the evening with his wife, doing whatever she wanted to do.

As he styled his thick black hair, he noticed the first threads of silver at the temples. At nineteen hundred years old, he was a little young for his hair to start changing color, but if he ended up with the silver wings at the temples that his father had, well, he wasn’t going to kick about that. Besides, his face, while still beautiful, looked mature now, but it was unlined except for faint lines at the eyes. Laugh lines. Couldn’t kick about acquiring those either.

He studied himself in the mirror over the dresser. Gold wedding ring on his left hand. Black-Jeweled ring on his right hand. Thinking about the woman in the adjoining bedroom, he vanished the pendant that held his Black, replacing it with his Birthright Red. Less intimidating.

Finally he took stock of the leashes—the self-control and self-discipline—that controlled his temper, power, sexual heat . . . and the Sadist. Everything was quietly leashed, comfortably leashed. He couldn’t tighten those leashes anymore to the point of harming himself. A barrier formed from Witch’s power made certain of that.

Since she’d been away for several days, Surreal might not mind the sexual heat that, even leashed, could overwhelm a woman and make her desperate for a lover’s attention.

Only one way to find out.

He knocked on the door between their rooms and waited for her invitation.

She had taken off the matching jacket but still wore the long dress—a simple design in a rich shade of green that looked marvelous with her light brown skin, gold-green eyes, and black hair pulled up with decorative combs to reveal her delicately pointed ears.

“I saw Lucivar as he was heading home,” Surreal said. “Official visit or family visit? Or . . .” She paled. “Hell’s fire, Sadi. The children?”

“They’re fine. Lucivar probably aged a decade by witnessing it, but they had a thrilling adventure riding rapids and going over a waterfall.”

She plunked down on the small sofa in the sitting area of her room. “Mother Night.”

Crossing the room, Daemon sank to his knees in front of her and removed her shoes. “Breathe, darling. Just breathe.”

“Did you when he told you?”

Daemon huffed out a laugh. “Eventually.” His hands moved up her legs, massaging her calves. “If they had been in any real danger, Lucivar would have intervened.”

“And if he’s not around the next time they get an idea?”

“Then this experience has taught them how to protect themselves.” His hands moved higher, his fingertips lightly caressing her outer thighs from knees to hips and back again. Then that teasing butterfly caress moved to the tops of her thighs as he watched her face and read the look in her eyes. When he shifted from sitting on his heels to an upright position, she opened her legs to accommodate him.

He stroked her inner thighs, coming close to the juncture but not touching—not because he was playing with her, but because he was waiting for her invitation.

She leaned forward. One hand fisted in his shirt and pulled him toward her. “Sadi.”

When there was barely a whisper of space between his lips and hers, he resisted the pull and said, “Yes?” A question. A requirement.

“Yes.” Damn you.

He heard the unspoken sentiment, but when his thumb stroked the damp silk and lace of her panties and she gasped, he closed his mouth over hers and let his kiss fill her with the heat of his desire and need. He gave her what her body and emotions told him she wanted—and he loved her until she was too sated to want more.

TWO

Surreal woke at first light and looked at the man sleeping beside her. Maybe still sleeping. His awareness of her was such that he usually woke before she did, sensing some change in her body or her breathing or her psychic scent.

Daemon never fully relaxed anymore when he slept with her. Hadn’t fully relaxed in her bed in years. Just like he wouldn’t go beyond the first indication that he was willing to have sex until she said yes. Not an unspoken agreement either. She had to say it. Even when she initiated that particular dance, she had to tell him she wanted him.

She knew why he did it, but Hell’s fire, who would have thought Daemon Sadi would turn into milquetoast in bed, always asking permission, always assessing her reaction to see if what he was doing pleased her? Remembering the thrilling edge that used to be part of his lovemaking, the difference between the man who should be coming to her bed and the man who was coming to her bed grated.

“Problem?” Daemon asked. His deep voice with its sexual purr made all kinds of promises that wouldn’t be fulfilled.

Maybe she could persuade him to give her a little of the old lover again.

She reached under the covers and closed her hand around his cock. Already hard and ready to be ridden. Fisting one hand in his hair just hard enough to sting, she kept working him with her other hand as she gave him a hard kiss, her tongue tangling with his.

Breaking the kiss, she straddled him. “Yes?” she asked, leaning over him but holding his head down to keep him from kissing her.

“Yes.”

She positioned herself over his cock, eased down just enough for him to feel her opening. Teasing. Tormenting.

“Yes?” she asked sweetly.

“Yes,” he snarled, his gold eyes glazing with a hint of temper.

She sheathed him and rode him—and thought she saw, and felt, a glimmer of the man he used to be.

Daemon tucked into his breakfast with enthusiasm—and wondered what had come over Surreal that morning. It was the first time in a long time that she’d seemed to enjoy being with him instead of being overwhelmed by his sexual heat or disappointed in the careful sex he offered.

“What are your plans for the day?” he asked, slicing into a piece of steak.

“Nothing I can’t change as long as Holt isn’t allowed to scold me for not handing over reports and paperwork,” she replied. “Why?”

“I’m on a hunt. Care to join me?”

She set down her knife and fork, and he saw the Dea al Mon side of her nature shining in her gold-green eyes. Surreal did love a hunt.

“What are we hunting?” she asked.

“Art supplies and artists.”

She blinked. Then she picked up her utensils and resumed eating. “When people talk about critics killing an artist, they don’t mean that literally.” She paused. “Usually. So who are we hunting down and why? Garish colors? Poor design?”

“If that were the case, it would be shortsighted of me to make a kill and have the artist end up in Hell. One doesn’t acquire talent by becoming demon-dead, not if it wasn’t there when the person walked among the living.” Considering the artwork he displayed in the Hall located in the Dark Realm as a kindness to someone fulfilling a dream before becoming a whisper in the Darkness, he knew being dead didn’t unleash any latent talents.

He told her about Titian’s interest in art and Lucivar’s desire to encourage the girl—and his offer to help.

“The art supplies are easy,” Surreal said. “You can find those in Amdarh.”

You, not we.

Daemon swallowed disappointment along with his coffee.

“However, I did cross paths with a couple of artists who might be able to offer some advice,” Surreal continued. “One of them is on my list of things to discuss with you. She expressed an interest in teaching art at the school we run for half-Blood children. I gather a relationship of long duration has ended recently, and she wants to get away from the city where they had lived and make a fresh start.”

“Are there any available cottages or row houses at the school?”

She shook her head. “I checked on my way home. But there are a couple of cottages in the village itself that are available. One is in good condition. The other would need some work, but it has a small building at the back of the garden that I think would work as an artist’s studio. Big windows. Lots of light. I think we should look at the cottages and talk to the artist before you choose the art supplies.”

Daemon smiled. An adventure they could share before his heat became too uncomfortable for her to tolerate and they needed to go their own ways. Again. “Yes. Let’s do that.”

Daemonar and Jaenelle Saetien strolled down Riada’s main street. At least, he hoped they looked like two youngsters who were checking out the shops.

“Why did you want me to walk around the village with you?” Jaenelle Saetien asked. “Are we going to do something?”

She would wander around the countryside for hours, finding all kinds of things that caught her interest whether it was here or at the Hall. But she needed some kind of goal in order to hold her attention when walking around a village.

“You’re my blind,” Daemonar replied, nodding to Lord Zaranar when the Eyrien warrior stepped out of a shop across the street.

“I’m your what?” Jaenelle Saetien said too loudly.

“Hush. Don’t make a fuss. A blind is a way hunters can disguise their presence and not alarm their prey.”

She thought about that. “So you’re hunting?”

“I am.”

“Who? Why?”

“Someone hurt Titian, and I want to have a little chat with that person without my father or Rothvar figuring out who it was.”

She stopped and stared at him. “Who hurt Titian?”

She was only one-quarter Dea al Mon, but she was a scrapper—and her loyalty to family was as fierce as his own.

“I’ll deal with the who,” he replied. “That’s why you and I are walking around Riada this morning, looking in shop windows and ending up at the bakery, where we’ll buy pieces of fudge cake drizzled with chocolate sauce.”

“My payment for being a blind?”

“Sure.” Also something his father could verify if the question arose about what they’d been doing in the village.

“We could go to the bookshop,” Jaenelle Saetien said. “I’ve read all the books I brought with me.”

“I’ll pay for the fudge cake, but I’m not buying a book,” Daemonar said, drawing a line on how much he was willing to spend for her help.

“I didn’t ask you to.” Her voice turned snippy. “I have my own money.”

“All right, then. But let’s go to the variety shop instead. They have some books there.” Just not as many. Best to avoid bookshop temptation if they wanted enough time to eat a piece of fudge cake before they had to head back to the eyrie. His mother expected them home for the midday meal, and being late would spark his father’s temper, something he didn’t want to do since he had important things to discuss with Lucivar.

They headed for the variety shop that lived up to its name by having a little of this and some of that—and never the same this and that from one month to the next. He had a better chance of finding his quarry there than in the bookshop since she claimed books were dull—a recent change of opinion—but was always looking for something to buy, despite having limited spending money. He’d helped her out a couple of times to spare her the embarrassment of admitting that she couldn’t afford the item she’d placed on the counter, but he wouldn’t do that again. He saw no reason to help someone who was mean to his sister.

As luck would have it, his quarry and her “court” were coming out of the variety shop as he and Jaenelle Saetien approached it.

“Why don’t you go in and look for a book?” Daemonar suggested quietly. “This won’t take long.”

Jaenelle Saetien nodded to Orian and the handful of Rihlander girls who were with her and went inside the shop.

“Daemonar.” Orian’s smile seemed genuine, but there was a look of expectation in her eyes that he didn’t like—as if she wanted confirmation that her words to Titian had hit their mark.

“Orian,” he replied. He nodded to the other girls. “Ladies.”

“It’s Lady Orian.” She tapped a finger next to her Birthright Summer-sky Jewel. “A Queen is not addressed so informally in public, even by a friend.”

“If we’re playing that game, you should address me as Prince Daemonar—or Prince Yaslana, since I outrank you.”

“It’s not a game,” she snapped. When she spotted Lord Tamnar and her brother, Alanar, across the street, she reined in her temper. “You shouldn’t be disrespectful to a Queen.”

“Respect goes both ways,” he replied, well aware of the two Eyrien Warlords who were watching them. They weren’t moving toward him to intervene. Not yet.

Orian gave him a sharp smile. “How is Titian? I hope she took my advice to heart.”

Bitch. All right, then. Like to like. “You mean the advice that a true Eyrien wouldn’t draw flowers?” He bared his teeth in a smile as he gave her hair, with its natural curl, a pointed look. “Well, I guess you would know about not being true Eyrien.”

The other girls gasped at the insult. Orian looked like he’d stuck a knife in her and twisted the blade.

Good.

He stepped closer to Orian, aware that Tamnar and Alanar were crossing the street and he had only moments left to deliver his message. “I don’t care if you’re a girl. I don’t care if you’re a Queen. If you jab at my sister again, I will bloody you.”

He took a step back and looked at the two Eyrien Warlords, who were his friends. “Tamnar. Alanar.”

“Daemonar,” Tamnar said. He eyed the girls. “Ladies.” Then he focused on Daemonar and asked on a psychic spear thread, *Problem?*

*No, no problem,* he replied. *I think the message was understood.*

He swung around the girls, who scrambled to get out of his way, and walked into the shop. He wasn’t surprised to find Jaenelle Saetien hovering near the door instead of looking at books, but he wondered if she’d intended to try to help him or pull him off Orian if it had ended up a physical fight.

“The books are that way,” he said, pointing to the corner of the shop that held the shelves.

“What you said to Orian about not being true Eyrien,” she said quietly. “That was mean.”

“She deserved it.”

Jaenelle Saetien hesitated. “Uncle Lucivar wouldn’t have said it.”

“True.” But Uncle Daemon would have.

He wasn’t going to get away with this clean, not with Tamnar and Alanar having witnessed his collision with Orian. Alanar wasn’t that much older than him, but Tamnar had made the Blood Run, the first important rite of passage for an Eyrien male, and was on the cusp of making the Offering to the Darkness. Since he was considered an adult and would be held accountable if he said nothing, he would report the incident to Rothvar and let Lucivar’s second-in-command decide if the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih needed to be informed.

So be it.

Despite the limited selection, Jaenelle Saetien found two books of interest, and he found one for himself. By the time they walked out of the shop, Orian and her “court” weren’t in sight. Neither were Tamnar and Alanar. He suspected the Warlords were now escorting the girls to wherever they wanted to go.

He hoped it wasn’t the bakery.

“I think we should split a piece of fudge cake,” Jaenelle Saetien said as they walked into the bakery.

“Why?”

“And I think we should pool our money and buy a full cake and a jar of the chocolate sauce and take it home for the sweet.”

Even if she’d already made something for the after-meal sweet, his mother would appreciate the gesture. “All right.”

He would have let Jaenelle Saetien have more than her share as thanks for her help, but she carefully cut the piece of cake in half—and she was just as careful to pay for half the treat they were bringing home to Marian.

Arriving home a few minutes before the midday meal, Lucivar looked at the fudge cake and jar of sauce on the kitchen counter and said, “Well, everything has a price.”

“What trouble are those two trying to buy their way out of with that?” Marian asked, tipping her head toward the cake and sauce.

He wasn’t sure how to answer that. “I’ll deal with it.”

“Lucivar?” She laid a hand on his arm and studied his face. “You don’t disapprove of whatever Daemonar and Jaenelle Saetien did.”

“What he did.” He hesitated. “I’m not sure. I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same.” But not in the same way, and it was his firstborn’s method of retaliation that gave him an uneasy twitch.

At Daemonar’s age, he’d been fighting to survive in the Eyrien hunting camps, but he wouldn’t have slapped at a Queen in any way, regardless of what she’d said or done. After he’d gotten the first taste of pain that the Queens in Askavi Terreille inflicted on men just because they could hurt anyone under their control? He would have savaged the bitch as lesson and warning.

He had savaged the bitches, and the stories of that savagery were one reason why he had been so feared. Was still so feared.

“He didn’t come home bloody,” Marian said with a sigh. “I guess that’s something.”

“I’m going to wash up.” Lucivar gave her a light kiss. “Don’t worry about it. Nothing but feelings were hurt.”

As he reached the archway that separated the kitchen from the large front room, Marian said, “Sometimes those are the hurts that take the longest to heal.”

He looked back at her. “Yeah, I know.”

Nothing was said during the midday meal. Maybe that meant no one had told his father about the chat he’d had with Orian.

That kernel of hope was crushed as soon as the meal ended and Lucivar looked him in the eyes and said, “My study. Now.”

Wondering what had been said, and if he’d be dealing with his father as his father or as the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih, Daemonar followed Lucivar into the study—and wasn’t sure what to think when Lucivar took one of the seats in front of the large blackwood desk instead of sitting behind it.

He settled in the other seat and tried to look curious and attentive, as if he had no idea why he’d been called into the study. No idea at all. “Sir?”

Lucivar said nothing for a piece of forever. Then, “Endar and Dorian came to Kaeleer with their children during the last service fair, same as Jillian and Nurian. Same as many of the Eyriens who live around Ebon Rih. Everyone who came to those fairs was hoping for a chance at a new life, a better life. In Endar’s case, it was also to protect a daughter who was a Queen—and whose hair made it obvious that there was another race besides Eyrien somewhere in her bloodline.

“You’ve known Orian since you were both toddlers. You’ve played together, gone to school together. From what I could tell, you’ve always gotten along. And yet, today, you gave her a verbal punch in front of her friends. Why?”

Daemonar stared at the floor between his feet and clamped his hands over his knees to keep from fidgeting. He couldn’t lie, and he couldn’t slide around a direct question. “Orian said something mean to Titian, so I said something mean to her so she would know how much it hurt.”

“You said it in front of Orian’s friends.”

“So did she,” Daemonar snapped, meeting his father look for look. “Titian had done a drawing for Mother, and she was so happy until Orian . . .” He stumbled, not sure what Titian had told their father.

“Until Orian said a true Eyrien wouldn’t draw flowers?” Lucivar said.

He nodded. “Titian likes to draw. She really likes to draw. But after Orian said that, she didn’t want anyone to know about her drawings because . . .” Deep breath, in and out. “Because she was afraid you and Mother would be ashamed of her. She cried.”

He watched Lucivar’s eyes glaze, felt the fury rising from the Ebon-gray to brush against the killing edge. Then he watched his father leash that fury and step back from that edge. That gave him the courage to say the rest.

“If I slapped at Orian to let her know she couldn’t get away with being mean to my sister, then that’s between us, that’s between . . . children. But you’re more than Titian’s father, and if you had confronted Orian, it would be seen as an Ebon-gray Warlord Prince calling a Queen to task for her behavior. That would stick in Orian’s craw a lot longer than an insult from me because all the Eyrien males would take notice of that.”

“Did you say anything else?” Lucivar asked.

“I told her if she jabbed at my sister again, I would bloody her.”

Lucivar studied him. “Would you do that?”

“Yes.” No one was allowed to hurt his sister or his brother or his mother—or his father. Not while he could stand and fight.

Lucivar blew out a breath. “All right. Just keep in mind that you and Orian will be living around each other for a lot of years. That will be easier to do if you can remain friendly, or at least civil, with each other.”

“Forgive and forget?” Daemonar said.

Oh, such a queer look in his father’s eyes.

“Forgive, certainly. Eventually. Especially if your uncle finds a way to erase the hurt Titian feels right now. Forget?” Lucivar shook his head. “What Orian said might have been nothing more than showing off to her friends or experiencing a momentary need to feel powerful by making someone else feel small. Or this could be an indication of who she is at her core—something that wasn’t apparent when she was younger. No matter the reason, what she does and says from now on will be weighed in the balance when she becomes old enough to establish an official court. And I need to talk to the Riada Queen about working with Orian and teaching her what it means to be a Queen.”

Lucivar stood, an indication their discussion was over.

“There’s something else,” Daemonar said.

“Oh?”

He wiped suddenly sweaty hands on his thighs. “I would like you to speak to the Queen on behalf of a Brother in the court.” No need to specify which Queen. For the men in their family, there was only one.

“Oh?” Lucivar sat.

“You and Uncle Daemon go to the Keep every month and spend time with Auntie J., but whenever I need to talk to her, I still have to try to reach the Misty Place, and it’s so deep in the abyss, I can’t stay long. That’s not fair. She’s my Queen too. Why can’t I go to the Keep to visit and talk to her? I won’t pester her. And I won’t go there when Uncle Daemon is there because that’s his healing time. But now that I’m not the only one to see her . . .” He hesitated, remembering that he’d kept that secret from his father for a long time before Witch had made her presence known to Lucivar and Daemon.

Lucivar pushed out of the chair. “I’ll think about it.”

That wasn’t a firm yes, but it wasn’t a no.

Daemonar stood. “Thank you, sir.”

Lucivar snorted. “Sure. Come on, boyo. We have things to do.”

As his father rested a hand on his shoulder and led him out of the study, Daemonar said, “What things?”

“Well, I need to talk to Rothvar and the other men as well as the Queen of Riada. You need to keep your cousin out of trouble for the rest of the day.”

He had to find enough things for Jaenelle Saetien to do to keep her from coming up with another wonderful idea? Hell’s fire. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh. And don’t think I don’t know I have the better deal, no matter what Rothvar has to report.”

His father was not wrong.

Lady Cambrya was a moderately successful artist who was currently living in her sister’s guest room while she sorted out where she wanted to go and what she wanted to do. While the paintings she showed them were pleasant, Daemon wouldn’t have purchased them for any of the family residences. It was Cambrya’s other work that intrigued him.

She had taken some of her drawings and traced them as outlines, allowing someone else to fill in the shapes with colors. She’d taken a dozen of those drawings to a printer and had paid to have copies made that she’d intended to sell at harvest fairs. She’d also created an artist’s primer for youngsters interested in art whose families couldn’t afford private instruction. She’d been gathering her courage to approach publishing houses to see about marketing the primer when the Warlord who had been her longtime partner severed their relationship and demanded that she leave the town house they had shared for decades.

Since his name was on the lease, she’d had no choice but to get out as quickly as she could with the possessions that had mattered the most—namely, her art and these potential pieces of work.

As Daemon knew well, relationships could be thorny, and there could have been reasons why her partner had made this choice after being with her for so many years. It wasn’t his business as the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan to interfere with the personal lives of the people he ruled—unless someone crossed a line and made it his business. Still, there was nothing of the bitch about Cambrya and nothing in her psychic scent that scraped his temper. So he wanted to know about the man. Even if it was none of his business as the ruler of Dhemlan, whom he did business with on behalf of the family was quite a different matter.

Aware that Cambrya was struggling against the effects of his leashed sexual heat, Daemon studied the line drawings and the artist’s primer, letting Surreal tell the woman about the school and what they could offer if she accepted an instructor’s position. He acted like he wasn’t giving the conversation more than his nominal attention, but he was very aware of the woman’s emotions. Excitement. Hope. Relief. And a need for some distance from the part of her life that had just ended.

Silence.

He looked at Surreal. She looked at him.

*I think the school would benefit from having her as an instructor,* Surreal said. *And Cambrya would benefit by being there—and perhaps she would find a special friend.*

Oh, Hell’s fire. It took everything he had in him to keep a straight face. Decades ago, one Sceltie—one—came to the school with a boy named Yuli. There had been Scelties at that school ever since. Most of them happily herded everyone, children and teachers alike, but there was usually one that was looking for a poor human who would receive that Sceltie’s undivided attention.

Then again, Cambrya might benefit from having a special friend.

“The position is yours if you want it,” Daemon said. “Lady Surreal can show you the available cottages in the village. If either of them suits you, we will expedite repairs so that you can settle in as quickly as possible.”

“I’m sure either place would be satisfactory,” Cambrya said quickly.

Wounded. As if she needed to apologize for anything that she wanted for herself or for anything that might inconvenience someone else.

He heard that under the words—and he knew Surreal heard it too. That, more than the woman’s artistic ability, was probably the reason Surreal wanted to offer Cambrya the job at the school.

“I’d like to purchase four sets of these line drawings,” he said. “I’d also like to borrow this primer. My niece is interested in drawing. I’d like to see how she would use it. If it does what I think it will, you and I can talk about having copies printed.”

“I don’t know what to say.” Cambrya blinked back tears. “This is more than I’d hoped for when Lady Surreal contacted me.”

No, Daemon thought, seeing a kind of gratitude—and hunger—in her eyes that could turn into a terrible—and lethal—mistake. Don’t.

He was up and moving before either woman could react. *I’ll be outside,* he told Surreal. *Can you finish this?*

*Of course.*

Daemon walked out of the house. For centuries, he’d used the sexual heat that was an inherent part of being a Warlord Prince as a weapon against the bitches who had used him and tried to control him. Now that the heat had matured to its full potency, it was a damned inconvenience—and the price he paid for wearing the Black. The cold, glorious Black.

With the help of his Queen, he’d developed ways to lessen the impact of the heat on the people who worked at the Hall and the family’s town house in Amdarh, had found ways to lessen the discomfort it caused Surreal—mostly by living apart from her some of the time, even when they were both in residence at the Hall. But dealing with other women who might not realize that the heat was not an invitation for any kind of intimacy always strained the leash on his temper—and put an edge on everything he was.

He felt the Sadist waking, felt a dangerous edge to the undercurrent of desire to spend more time with his wife, and knew that wouldn’t be possible. He didn’t go to her bed when desire had that edge. To keep her safe. To keep her fear of him quiet enough that they could live together.

He heard the door open and close behind him and turned just enough to look at Surreal and measure her fear as she walked toward him. There was some, but the woman who had backbone and sass, the witch who was his second-in-command, had that fear under control.

“I’ll return tomorrow and take Cambrya over to the school and show her the cottages.” She held up a package wrapped in brown paper. “And I have the sets of drawings and the primer you wanted.”

He nodded. “Surreal . . .”

“No.” She stepped close to him and lightly touched his face. “Let’s stay at the town house tonight. It’s closer than going back to the Hall. Stay with me, Sadi.”

“I can’t tighten the leashes any tighter than they are. I can’t promise you’ll be safe in the way you want, and need, to be safe.” He hated that she feared him even when simple precautions would keep her safe, but that, too, was the price he paid for being who and what he was.

“I know. But I’d still like you to stay with me tonight. Can’t we try?”

She wanted him to stay with her, to be her lover tonight. He wasn’t picking up anything in her psychic scent that said otherwise.

Then he brushed his lips against hers and felt her shiver. There was fear, but it was mixed with a spike of anticipation and desire. And something else he couldn’t quite name.

“We can try.”

Lucivar spent his first hour at the Keep reviewing the week’s business with Karla, the demon-dead Gray-Jeweled Black Widow Queen who was now the Warlord Prince of Askavi’s administrative second-in-command. Askavi’s Province Queens would have chafed at dealing with Marian—and his darling wife would have been unhappy and uncomfortable dealing with them. But Karla had ruled the Territory of Glacia, had been in the First Circle of the Dark Court at Ebon Askavi—and had been one of Witch’s closest friends. Any Province Queen who sat down with her knew she wouldn’t be intimidated by their bloodlines and wouldn’t be wary of their power because she had known a Queen who had power.

Still knew that Queen.

“I heard your boy slapped at a young Queen,” Karla said once they had reviewed the decisions she had made on his behalf.

Lucivar sighed. “Yeah, he did.” He should have known she would have heard about that. How she knew? That he couldn’t say. But very little happened in Ebon Rih that wasn’t known by the residents of the Keep.

“Did she deserve it?”

“She said something that made his sister cry. As far as he was concerned, that was reason enough.”

Her smile was sharp and in no way friendly.

He didn’t move, but he saw that smile and prepared himself for battle. Ebon-gray could, and would, win against Gray, but Karla wasn’t someone he wanted as an adversary—and not someone he wanted aiming any kind of dagger at his boy.

“Just as well he was the one who tangled with her since they’re the same age or close enough not to matter,” Karla said. “Any one of the boyos in the First Circle would have done the same. Hell’s fire, all of them would have shown up to explain, in their polite and lethal way, that the next time she acted the bitch, they would give her a reason to cry. And then they would have done it.”

Interesting. He hadn’t thought of it in those terms, but Karla was right. He’d known those Warlords and Warlord Princes when they were on the cusp of becoming men. Given a reason, they could have, and would have, committed a devastating social execution without spilling a single drop of blood.

Karla’s smile sharpened a little more. “Unlike her brother, who can be bossy and overbearing because he’s her brother and she has to put up with him, you have to encourage Titian to stand up and fight her own battles—and learn how to get up again after she’s bloodied.”

Lucivar snarled at her, not because he disagreed but because he didn’t like that she was right.

“Of course, knowing her father is standing right behind her, ready to step up and protect her if she needs him, will help her grow a backbone.”

“You don’t think that will keep her dependent?”

“About as dependent as your wife,” Karla said sweetly.

Which meant not at all. Being dependent was very different from depending on someone, and he depended on Marian as much as she depended on him.

“Well, the boy’s actions are something I need to discuss with the Queen.” He pushed out of the chair.

“Daemonar is his father’s son,” Karla said. “And his uncle’s nephew.”

That, more than anything, was the reason he needed to talk to Witch.

He walked through the corridors until he reached the ornate metal gate that separated the Queen’s private rooms from the rest of the Keep. He stayed away from the Queen’s bedroom and the adjoining Consort’s suite. Those rooms had become Daemon’s territory. But the sitting room across from those rooms had become the place where someone could have an audience with the Queen who shouldn’t exist—and yet did.

The body had died decades ago after a long and love-filled life, but the Self—the mind, heart, personality, and power—that was Jaenelle Angelline, and Witch, had remained in a deep part of the abyss she called the Misty Place. There, for decades, she had been a hope, a dream, a song in the Darkness for those who still needed her. For Daemon most of all.

But she’d been more than that for his boy because she’d understood the young Warlord Prince had not had enough time with her when she’d walked among the living and needed more from the Queen whose will was, and would always be, his life.

Lucivar entered the sitting room and waited. She would feel his presence. Whether she chose to respond, well, that was always her choice.

“Is this a social call?” Witch asked.

He turned toward the voice and watched Craft and will and power create a shadow—an almost-tangible illusion of the Self that had lived within the flesh of the extraordinary Queen who had been the living myth, dreams made flesh.

Not all the dreamers had been human. While most of her body looked human, her golden hair was more like fur, and her hands had retractable cat’s claws. There was a small spiral horn on her forehead and a fawn’s tail at the base of her spine. The legs changed below the knees and ended in a delicate horse’s hooves. And she had the delicately pointed ears of the Dea al Mon.

But the ancient sapphire eyes were the same in this form as when her body had been completely human and she had walked among the living. Those eyes had looked at everything he was and seen him clearly, reshaping the violence in him into a weapon that fit her hand—and showing him that being with a Queen could be fun.

Hell’s fire, they’d had fun.

“I need to talk to you about Daemonar,” he said.

Those eyes stared at him. Stared right through him. “I am not taking sides in any of your squabbles.”

He snorted. “Since when?”

The feral sound she made would have scared a full-grown Arcerian cat. Lucivar felt impressed—and wary.

He made a placating gesture—and hoped she let him keep all his fingers. “All right, you never actually took sides when he went to the Misty Place to complain about me. You just helped him adjust his thinking.”

“I can help adjust your thinking,” she said.

He sighed and pressed a hand against the back of his neck to ease tension he hadn’t known was there. He’d always enjoyed these pissing contests, but that wasn’t why he was here tonight.

“I really need to talk to you,” he said quietly. “Start again?”

“Daemonar is all right?” Witch asked.

“He’s fine. He tangled with Orian. That’s one of the things I want to talk about.”

“Orian is the young Eyrien Queen?” She frowned.

As he explained what had happened, he watched her. Jaenelle Angelline had been a powerful Queen and could be dangerous when her temper turned cold. Witch was the feral side of Jaenelle’s temper—and far more dangerous.

“What bothers you about what he did?” she asked in her midnight voice.

He’d stayed still for as long as he could. Now he paced, needing the movement. “If Daemonar had gone after Orian as soon as he’d heard what she’d said to Titian . . . Well, he inherited his temper from me, so it would be hard for me to fault him for that. But he waited, Cat.” So easy to fall back into calling her by the nickname he’d given her. A spitting little cat. At the time, he hadn’t known how close he’d been to the truth of it. “He waited to see if Titian would shrug it off or handle it on her own. But she didn’t fight. The words wounded her to the point where she hid her drawings from Marian and me—even hid the fact that she was drawing because she was afraid we would be ashamed of her, would be disappointed in her.”

His fists clenched. His dark membranous wings flared out to their full span and resettled. His temper was rising hot and ready to burn.

Witch waited quietly, watching him.

If he struck at her, his hand would go through the illusion. If she struck at him, her claws would leave him bleeding. An almost-tangible shadow of her Self meant exactly that—touch only went one way.

“What bothers you about what he did?” she asked again. “That he used words instead of his fists?”

“Yeah, that bothers me. Using words . . . That’s more like something Daemon would do.”

The room chilled, a warning that any criticism of Daemon Sadi had best be said carefully.

He wasn’t trying to criticize his brother; he just needed her to understand so that she would agree to what he wanted from her.

“The boy drew a hard line, and he used the same kind of verbal meanness to punish Orian as she had used on Titian, calculating the amount of hurt his words would cause. Daemon might have done the same, but even when he was young, Sadi had intuitive knowledge about his prey and knew if a verbal warning was sufficient or if he needed to slide in that knife and twist in order to pay a debt. He knew when to draw a soft line and when to gut someone. Daemonar is a blunt blade and hasn’t acquired that skill yet.”

The room warmed back to its previous temperature. “Go on,” Witch said.

Lucivar resumed pacing. “He’s already a strong Warlord Prince. He’s going to be dealing with Queens all his life, and that means he’ll be doing it for centuries. If he reaches his full potential—and I will do everything I can to train him so that he will reach it—he will wear the Gray, and there won’t be many, if any, Queens strong enough to stand up to him. He needs to learn how to deal with Queens and how to deliver a warning when a Queen’s behavior has crossed a line. He needs to learn how someone with his potential strength can take a stand without gutting the opposition—at least initially.”

“So you want . . . ?”

“I want you to train him.” Lucivar looked into those sapphire eyes. “You’re his Queen. Your will is his life—and it always will be. Help me shape him into the man he should be. Hold the leash. Give him the guidance he needs.”

She walked over to the windows and looked out at the terraced gardens that she had helped create when she became the Queen of Ebon Askavi.

“What you’re asking takes time, Lucivar.”

Someone else might have been implying she didn’t want to give that time. He knew the woman, and the Queen—and his sister—better than that.

“I know. That brings me to making a request on behalf of another Brother in the court.”

She turned to look at him, her eyebrows rising. He noticed she didn’t correct him and say there was no longer a court, even if it was an unofficial one now.

“I’m asking, for myself and for my Brother in the court, that you permit Daemonar to visit you here at the Keep instead of him having to go to the Misty Place in order to ask for advice. I understand why you did it that way when he was the only one, and his Self was meeting your Self there. But it’s different now. You’re allowing Daemon and me to be with you here, so why not him? And it would be safer for him.” Lucivar waited a beat. “He promised not to pester you.”

“And you believe him?”

“Of course not. But you’re more than capable of sending him home if he gets underfoot.” He looked down. “Or under hoof.”

Jaenelle huffed out a laugh. Then she sobered. “How will you explain this?”

He gave her the lazy, arrogant smile that always meant trouble. “I’m the Warlord Prince of Askavi. The Demon Prince. I don’t have to explain anything.”

“And what are you, as a husband, going to say to your wife?”

“Oh. Well. I’ll tell Marian, of course. But as far as anyone else is concerned, Daemonar is receiving private instruction. If everyone assumes the instruction is being given by Karla, I have no trouble letting them assume that.”

“In that case, I’d better define the boundaries with Prince Daemonar sooner rather than later.”

Lucivar walked up to her and wished he could touch her, hold her. Saetan had waited thousands of years for this Queen to be born. So had Andulvar, Prothvar, and Mephis. Even supporting one another, the loneliness must have been crushing at times, but they’d endured it in order to be there to serve her. And now she was doing much the same thing—enduring the loneliness of almost being connected to the living in order to support those who needed her.

“I made the choice, Lucivar,” Witch said. “I understood the price I would have to pay.”

Did you? he wondered. “Thank you, Lady.” He stepped back and bowed, a Warlord Prince showing respect and fealty to his Queen.

When he reached the door of the sitting room, she said, “If he does become a pest, it will be your ass that will have bruises in the shape of hoofprints.”

He grinned at her. “I wouldn’t expect it to be any other way.”

“Wake up, boyo.”

Daemonar’s wings flared and his back arched, lifting his chest high enough for him to brace himself on his forearms. “Huh? What?” Why was he sleeping on the floor? And why did his mother sound like Auntie J.?

He blinked. Not his bedroom. Not his family’s eyrie. And yet a familiar place.

Why was he in the Misty Place? He hadn’t been trying to reach Witch’s lair, which probably meant he was in a lot of trouble.

He just wished he was awake enough to remember why he was in trouble.

He climbed to his feet and rubbed sleep from his eyes. “Auntie J.?”

That was when his brain finally engaged and he realized he was wearing nothing but his underpants—a compromise between wearing pajama bottoms like his younger brother and being naked at night like his father. He’d put two and two together and realized his father slept naked in order to easily have sex with his mother. That might not be the only reason, but it was definitely one of the reasons. While he was curious about what sex felt like when you were a man compared to the explorations he did with himself, he was having trouble wrapping his brain around the fact that his father did those . . . things . . . with his mother even though he knew those things were the reason Marian had gotten pregnant and had Andulvar. Well, had him and Titian, too, but he didn’t remember those times, so they didn’t count.

“We’re going to discuss the rules and set some boundaries.”

“Rules? Boundaries?”

She looked amused. Or pissed. He really wished he was more awake. He wondered if that would make a difference, since he had no idea what she was talking about. Then . . . a glimmer of possibility thunked into his brain.

“I heard about your encounter with Lady Orian,” Witch said.

Hell’s fire! “Oh.”

“If she had made that remark to anyone but Titian, would you have said what you said?”

He opened his mouth, intending to assure her that he wouldn’t have been that mean if it had been anyone else. But he stopped and thought and finally said, “Yes. If she’d hurt someone else as much as she hurt Titian, I would have slapped at her the same way.”

Witch nodded. “To the best of your knowledge, was that the first time Orian had been verbally mean to someone?”

“Yes.”

“Then that is not the way you, being a Warlord Prince, should have handled it. A Queen who hurts people by word or deed is a danger to everyone. While there will be times when you have to be the one to draw the line and fight, in this case, you should have had a private word with Orian, or reported her misconduct to Lord Rothvar—or Lady Karla if you didn’t want to approach another Eyrien.”

His temper heated, but he resisted the desire to argue. She was the Queen. His Queen. She wasn’t inviting him to debate his behavior. She had made a statement.

When he offered no argument in his defense, she nodded again—and looked pleased.

“Lucivar has asked that you receive some private training in dealing with Queens and their courts. He’s concerned about your response to Orian because you are already a strong Warlord Prince and you will grow up to be a powerful man.”

“My father didn’t receive that kind of training.” Training sounded bad. It sounded like he was going to be strapped in by rules that would hamstring his ability to protect people he loved.

“Until he reached the age for his Birthright Ceremony, your father had had your grandfather teaching him the rules that apply to Warlord Princes as well as the Blood’s moral code. Those lessons are the core of Lucivar Yaslana, and he has lived by those rules and that code all his life, even when holding on to Saetan’s lessons cost him dearly. However, the pain and suffering he endured as a slave in Terreille changed him. The core held, and still holds, but it is clothed in savagery quickly unleashed. That is who he is. He wants your education about Queens and courts to be a different experience.”

Witch walked up to him and put her hands on his shoulders. He felt the weight of flesh on flesh, felt the warmth—and wished he could hug her the way he used to when he was young and took such things for granted.

“That is why you will come to the Keep for one hour twice a week from now on to receive that private training . . . with me. There will be forty minutes of focused training. The last twenty minutes will be set aside for you to ask questions or discuss anything you choose.”

Her hands squeezed his shoulders. A light touch, but he felt the prick of her claws.

“Understand me, boyo. This is private training, and you will not talk about it, brag about it, allude to it in any way with anyone except your parents and your uncle. My presence at the Keep . . .”

“I know, Auntie.” Maybe he didn’t see it quite the way she did, but he understood enough about his uncle Daemon to know how the Black would respond if there was a flood of aristo families showing up at the Keep, demanding that their sons receive private training with Witch. As if the Queen was some commodity to be used.

“You and Lucivar fix the time and days when these lessons will be held, and we’ll begin, starting with an alternate way to let a Queen know she’s crossed a line and behaved badly.”

“Thank you, Lady.”

Her lips twitched. She released his shoulders and stepped back. “Time for you to go, boyo.”

Daemonar lifted his head from his pillow.

His bedroom. His family’s eyrie. But he had been in the Misty Place, and Auntie J. had said she was going to train him in how to deal with Queens and courts.

He got up and poured a glass of water from the carafe that sat on the table near the window.

He didn’t think for a moment that Auntie J.’s lessons would be easy. The most powerful Warlord Princes in Kaeleer had served in her court, and the standards for serving in that court would have been high.

Lucivar had helped build the core and the bones of who he was. Witch would shape the flesh of who he would become.

Looking forward to discussing this with his father in the morning, Daemonar drank the water and went back to bed. Because he was excited about the future, it took him an extra minute to fall asleep.

THREE

Surreal quickly dressed in what she thought of as one of her second-in-command outfits: pale green shirt, green waistcoat a few shades deeper, dark trousers with a matching summer-weight coat. She brushed her black hair and used Craft to secure the decorative combs that held the hair away from her face—and revealed the delicately pointed ears.

Then she stared in the mirror and thought, Fool. Have you learned nothing? Why do you keep trying to prove that the line you know you can’t cross doesn’t exist? Why do you keep pretending you can handle him when temper mixed with sex turns dangerous? Is it stubbornness? Leftover professional pride from your years as one of the highest-paid whores in Terreille? Why do this to yourself and to him? Why?

He’d warned her that he wasn’t calm enough for her to feel safe having sex with him, but she had insisted and he had obliged, using his mouth and hand to bring her to a swift climax before he walked out of her bedroom and spent the night in his own room behind Black shields and locks to keep her out.

All she’d done last night was prove he knew her better than she knew herself. At least she could show him that she wasn’t going to run away again. She had enough spine—and pride—to do that.

Surreal rushed down the stairs, handing the coat to Helton on her way to the town house’s breakfast room. She paused at the door long enough to use a psychic tendril to confirm that Daemon was in the breakfast room. Then she walked in.

No warmth or welcome in Daemon’s eyes, but she hadn’t expected any.

Her nerves danced. Who watched her? Sadi? Or the Sadist? His eyes weren’t glazed in the chilling way that was distinctive of the Sadist, but Daemon was definitely in a predatory mood—and his heat was becoming too potent again to be around him in a place the size of the town house. Ignoring her physical response and discomfort, she filled her plate, then sat across from him. After the footman poured her coffee, she thanked the man and told him to leave, giving him the escape that she couldn’t give herself.

“I’ll take Cambrya to the school this morning so that she can look around and meet the staff, and then show her the available cottages.” She took a bite of her omelet. Chewed. Swallowed. “Are you going to pick up the art supplies and then go on to Ebon Rih?”

“I am.” A clipped reply.

“Will you be staying at the Keep for a day or two?” She kept her voice matter-of-fact—just a second-in-command confirming their schedules in case she needed to reach him.

“Yes.”

Last night had unsettled him and sharpened his temper—and no one in Kaeleer could afford to have Daemon Sadi unsettled for long. Even after all these years, his mind was still healing; his sanity was still fragile. If he fell into the Twisted Kingdom, he would inflict devastation on the Realm and on the Blood.

She couldn’t help him mend what had been broken, so his spending time at the Keep was best for all of them.

“When you’re ready to return to the Hall, Jaenelle Saetien should come home with you. She’s had her turn at visiting.”

He nodded.

She couldn’t say he was eating with any enthusiasm, but at least he was eating.

She selected one of the iced cinnamon rolls and took a bite. Still warm . . . and delicious. “Hell’s fire, these are good.” She reached across the table and held it out to him—and hoped her hand wouldn’t shake. “Taste this.”

His eyes never left hers as he leaned forward enough to take a bite. He chewed. Swallowed. And relaxed enough to take a cinnamon roll for himself. “Those are good.”

As she told him her schedule for the next couple of days, she watched him finish most of the food on his plate.

Having eaten her fill, she pushed away from the table and walked around to his side. She gave him a soft kiss that made no demands, then eased back. “Try not to get your brother into too much trouble while you’re in Ebon Rih.”

“That’s like expecting water not to be wet.”

She grinned. “Then you’d better pick up some fudge for Marian before you leave town.”

There was some warmth in his eyes when she stepped away. “An apology before the fact?”

“Absolutely.”

His quiet laugh soothed her. When she left the town house a few minutes later, she almost believed there was a way to mend things between them.

Daemon walked into the art supply shop, saw the way the two shopkeepers—a Blood male and female—almost drooled at the sight of him, and felt his temper sharpen until he stood a heartbeat away from the killing edge. He smiled at them—a cold, cruel smile—and watched lust and greedy anticipation change to fear.

Good. It would annoy Lady Zhara, the Queen of Amdarh, if he splattered these people over the walls—or worse, much worse, if he let the Sadist off the leash to play with them.

“I’m looking for some art supplies for my niece,” he said.

“Of course, Prince,” the man said. “I can show you—”

“No, I’ll show him,” the woman said.

Or I can show you something you’ll remember for the rest of your blighted existence, because once I’m done with your bodies, I will make sure I see you in Hell—and then we can have a proper chat.

“Art supplies for a beginner?” a young voice said. “I can show you, Prince Sadi. I have a list.”

Daemon turned toward the girl standing in the aisle, holding up a piece of paper. About Titian’s age. Sweet smile. Determined smile.

As he breathed in, he sent a tendril of power toward her and caught her psychic scent.

A Queen. He’d seen her before, but where . . . ?

Then he remembered being introduced to Zhara’s granddaughter a few years ago. “Lady Zoela.” He gave her the small nod of respect that a Warlord Prince of his rank would offer to any Queen who wasn’t his own.

She came forward and kept her eyes on his. She was too young to be affected by his sexual heat. The guard who trailed behind her wasn’t that lucky. The heat washed over him, and Daemon was aware of the man’s efforts not to sink to his knees under the weight of unwelcome lust. Then the guard pulled back his shoulders and looked at Daemon, silently acknowledging that he might die in that shop trying to protect the young Queen.

“Want me to show you?” Zoela asked. “I’m just starting drawing lessons, so I have a list of the supplies I’m supposed to purchase. Grandmother said I was old enough to make the selections, so I’m here on my own.” She looked back at the guard and grinned. “Well, not by myself on my own, but I’m making my own choices—unless I ask for advice.”

She delighted everything in him. Wherever she’d been in the shop, she had felt him rising to the killing edge and had come forward—a young Purple Dusk–Jeweled Queen determined to do what she could to quiet that rage.

The guards assigned to her must weep with exhaustion at the end of the day, trying to keep up with, corral, and protect her while she followed her instincts and did her best to embrace the people in her grandmother’s city.

Zoela stepped closer, grabbed his hand, and tugged him down an aisle. “I’ll show you.”

“Thank you, Lady.” What else could he say? She was practicing her lessons in how to be a proper Queen, and it was part of his duties as a Warlord Prince to respond correctly and allow her to have that practice. So he really didn’t have any choice but to follow her.

It occurred to him that Jaenelle Angelline must have run over his father in much the same way when she’d been an equivalent age.

And it occurred to him that he should talk to Zhara about introducing Zoela to Jaenelle Saetien. Knowing his daughter’s sense of adventure and having this glimpse of Zoela, he would offer to pay the bonus he was sure would be required to have any guards accept that escort duty.

“What is your niece’s name?” Zoela asked.

“Titian.”

“That’s a lovely name. My friends call me Zoey.” She looked up at him and smiled—and Daemon wished he could leash his heat tighter and spare the guard that much discomfort. The man didn’t need to waste energy fighting against unwanted sexual desire.

Zoela consulted her list, then turned him and her guard into pack mules while she explained which kind of paper was used with charcoal and which was used for pencils and why one should have a sketch pad of less expensive paper for practice and experimenting and . . . and . . . and . . .

“Lady Zoela.” He wedged the words into her explanations. Did the child never take a breath? “I appreciate the advice, but Titian is just starting to explore drawing pictures. I don’t want to scare her with all of this.”

“My friends call me Zoey.” She looked at him, all innocent sincerity. “Aren’t we friends?”

Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful. Zhara was going to kick his ass for not holding to a formal line—and rightly so. But . . . “Of course we’re friends. You’re helping me choose all these wonderful supplies, aren’t you? But, Zoey? Titian is learning on her own, so which of all these art supplies do you think I should give her first? Right now all she’s using is inexpensive paper and a couple of pencils.”

“No colors?”

Daemon shook his head. Then he used Craft to set the supplies on air and relieve his arm muscles.

“It’s not as much fun without colors.” Frowning, Zoey consulted her list again, then pointed out the supplies Titian absolutely had to have. Then . . . “Maybe she would like watercolors?”

“Maybe as a Winsol gift?” he countered.

She grinned.

The guard sighed.

“Since we’re friends, maybe you could do me a favor?” Daemon called in one set of the line drawings he’d acquired from Cambrya. “I’d like to know if someone would enjoy adding colors to an existing drawing.” He gave her half of the set and then vanished the rest. “See what you think about coloring in a picture when you don’t want to do your own drawings.”

She beamed at him. “Should I send you a report?”

Aahhh . . . “That would be appreciated.”

“Lady, I believe we have everything on your list,” the guard said. His tone came close to pleading. “At least for today.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Zoey replied. “And you’re getting tired.” She led the way to the counter at the front of the shop, where the shopkeepers had been smart enough to remain.

Daemon added a couple more sets of colored pencils and sharpeners to his stack of supplies, floating the whole lot in front of him while the guard continued to play pack mule.

“May the Darkness have mercy on me when she’s old enough to have her own court,” he said in a quiet voice.

“May the Darkness have mercy on me now,” the guard replied.

They looked at each other, then looked away, fighting not to laugh because then they would have to explain why they were laughing.

After paying for his purchases and saying good-bye to Zoey and her guard, Daemon caught the Black Wind and headed for Ebon Askavi. He looked forward to telling Witch about a young Dhemlan Queen who, in a few more centuries, was going to give him trouble of the best kind.

After informing Draca of his arrival, Daemon retreated to the Consort’s suite. While he waited for Witch to appear, he used Craft to heat the water in a mug before adding a tea ball filled with a blend of mint leaves. He didn’t need the healing brew Witch and Karla had created specifically for him—a sedative that was strong enough to relax him and smooth out the savage edges whenever he arrived at the Keep too close to losing control. He wouldn’t need to smooth out those edges if there was an enemy to fight. All that power and temper would have a target. Since it didn’t, he needed to be here, with his Queen. And sometimes he needed to be sedated for a few hours.

Outside of these rooms, he would have fought against being so vulnerable. Even at the Hall, he wouldn’t use anything that diminished his awareness of his surroundings and the presence of potential enemies. But here he was protected in all ways.

“Something changed,” Witch said, walking into his bedroom from her adjoining suite. She could have simply appeared in front of him—and sometimes did—but more often she walked into the room as if she were still flesh and not a shadow. “Considering how the Black rippled through the abyss a few hours ago, I didn’t expect you to arrive here this calm.”

“I wasn’t calm a few hours ago,” he admitted. Then he smiled because just hearing her voice lightened his heart. “But I ran into a young Dhemlan Queen who has a way of crushing edges of temper with happy enthusiasm. She reminded me of you.”

“Oh? And who is this edge crusher?”

“Zoela. Lady Zhara’s granddaughter.” Daemon laughed softly. “One moment I’m ready to kill the shopkeepers for the way they were looking at me, and the next I’m being buried under art supplies for Titian. Zoey, as she is known to her friends, of which I am now one, is taking drawing lessons and was on her own to buy the supplies on her list. Not by herself on her own, since she did have a guard with her—poor man—but she was there without any other adult supervision.”

“Sounds like neither of you had adult supervision.”

“Smart-ass.” He sipped his tea and called in all the art supplies, using Craft to spread them out and float them on air above his bed. He also called in the sets of line drawings and the artist’s primer. “I gave her half a set of these line drawings and asked her to let me know if children would enjoy coloring the pictures. She’s going to send me a report.”

The only way to describe the look on Witch’s face was horrified amusement. “Oh, Hell’s fire, Daemon. You really are still an innocent in some ways.”

Well, that was just insulting. “Am not.”

“You gave a young Queen permission to send you reports about things she feels are important enough that you should be aware of them.”

“One report. One. About these line drawings.”

Her smile turned the bones in his legs to jelly—and not in a good way.

“Zoey would show her reports to Zhara before sending them,” he said.

“Why would she if you didn’t specify that Zhara had to review the reports before sending them to you?”

“Because . . .” He recalled what he’d said in the shop. It wasn’t much. Zoey hadn’t given him a chance to say much. “I just assumed . . .”

“That a young Queen who reminded you of me wouldn’t happily grab the initiative now that she’s been invited to correspond directly with the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan?”

When she put it that way . . . “I did hold firm about the watercolors.”

She sat on air, braced her elbows on her knees, and rested her face in her hands—and looked like she anticipated being told a really good story. “How?”

“I suggested the watercolors should be kept for a Winsol gift.”

She sat up and said in a young voice, “‘But, Grandmother, it would be lovely to learn how to use watercolors. Prince Sadi is giving his niece a set of watercolors for Winsol, and she’s my age.’”

“I didn’t . . .” He set the mug on the serving tray before he dropped it.

Witch’s silvery, velvet-coated laugh filled the room. “Face it, boyo. You were outmaneuvered.”

“She’s a . . . child.”

“A child whose grandmother is a strong woman and a strong Queen. When it comes to teaching another Queen what it means to rule part of a Territory and the people who live under her hand, you couldn’t ask for a better role model than Zhara. And now you’ve had a taste of what it will be like to deal with the next generation of Queens. The good ones, at any rate.”

“I was thinking I should arrange an introduction between Jaenelle Saetien and Zoey. I don’t think they’ve crossed paths yet.”

“Mix up the activities,” Witch said. “If Zoey rides, take them for a ride in one of the parks the next time you’re all in Amdarh. The next day’s activity should be an art gallery or a bookshop—some quieter activity that matches Zoey’s other interests.”

Daemon nodded, but he watched his Queen. She wasn’t making an idle suggestion. “Because . . . ?”

“Because a Queen needs a court, and friendships make up the core of a strong First Circle. Whether the girls are just friendly or become close friends, whether Jaenelle Saetien has any interest in serving in a court, even for a little while, Zoey will need men and women in her First Circle who have similar interests and others who have distinct skills that can be brought into the mix.”

“Do you think Jaenelle Saetien would want to serve in a court? Isn’t it too early to think of these things?”

“Daemon.” Witch gave him a warm smile. “In the end, you’ll have no say in your daughter’s choices. Maybe she’ll serve in a court. Maybe she won’t have any interest in doing so. Maybe she’ll be friends with Zoey. Maybe she won’t. Not your choice or decision, Prince. You’re providing an opportunity. The rest is up to them.” She paused. “Is there a stout lock on your study door?”

“Yeeesss.”

“Then you’ll be fine.”

Oh, that didn’t sound good.

“Your father survived this, and he had the entire coven living with him.”

That sounded worse—and he did not want to think about it. “Which art supplies do you think I should give to Titian to let her know everyone in the family supports her interest in drawing? Right now she’s been using a pencil and cheap paper.”

Witch stood and walked over to the bed. “It would be more fun with colors.” Using Craft, she sorted the supplies into packages. “Start with the colored pencils. You can give her the charcoal another time, and then the pastels.” A beat of silence. “And, of course, the watercolors for Winsol.”

He sighed, but he couldn’t say he minded.

“Speaking of children, how are Beron and Mikal?” Witch asked.

He and Jaenelle Angelline had become Beron’s and Mikal’s legal guardians after Sylvia died and made the transformation to demon-dead—and married Saetan. Jaenelle had made sure Beron had been allowed to go to drama school and train to be an actor, despite his grandfather’s objections. She’d also arranged for Mikal to live with Tersa, an arrangement that had suited everyone over the years. He was still the boys’ legal guardian, but Witch didn’t ask about them often. His time at the Keep was usually spent in the continued healing of his mind and the quiet draining of some of the Black’s reservoir of power to keep him sane and steady. It was not a time for her to show interest in other males, even boys he loved.

“Beron’s doing well,” Daemon said. “He doesn’t always win the second male lead when he auditions for a play, but he’s happy to take a small role, so he’s seldom unemployed. And unlike many young men, regardless of their occupation, he doesn’t spend everything he earns, so he can weather the idle times.” He shrugged. “He shows up at the town house at least once a week for a meal. That works well for everyone. He keeps in touch with me, per his agreement with me, but I also hear about him through Helton—a fact that Beron uses as a roundabout way of telling me things without telling me things. That way I know which young Lady he’s currently escorting around the town without him having to make a formal statement of interest—and without me showing up in Amdarh to ask a few pointed questions about something someone else mentioned.”

“Aristos can be such gossipmongers,” Witch said primly.

Daemon choked on a laugh. Lady Perzha, the former Queen of Little Weeble, had said much the same thing. Still said much the same thing. Having Witch and Perzha agree on something was a little terrifying—and a bit like trying to reason with a rockslide instead of getting out of the way.

“Mikal is growing into a fine young man, into adolescence now and thinking about his future,” Daemon continued. “Depending on the day, he wants to be a butler, since he feels that, while I may own the Hall, Beale is the real power there.”

Witch laughed. “He’s not wrong.”

“Or he wants to be some kind of court administrator, either a secretary like Holt or a Steward, because they also control the day-to-day running of things and people. Or he wants to design and run a hotel for kindred horses so they don’t have to stay in stables with the ordinary horses when they have a reason to deal with humans on an official level. Or maybe it was for all the kindred since he naturally would include Scelties if he was accommodating horses. He was vague about that part.”

It was so gratifying to see her standing there looking flummoxed.

Then he realized why she’d brought up the boys. “Any other young men you would like to discuss?” he asked sweetly.

Flummoxed changed to suspicious—as well it should, since she also used that particular tone of voice to good effect.

“Daemonar will be coming for private lessons twice a week from now on. Lucivar requested it after the boy had words with the young Eyrien Queen.”

The sweetness now had a chill and an edge as the Sadist purred, “Now, why did he do that?” Did Lucivar know the bitch must have been the one who had hurt Titian? Daemonar wouldn’t have gone after the girl otherwise.

“Not your fight, Prince,” Witch warned.

“Not my fight?” He smiled a brutally gentle smile. “When the sun shines in Hell.”

“Not your fight,” she said again. “Daemonar’s response was more than adequate, and anything you and Lucivar did now would be out of line. But Daemonar’s response is the reason Lucivar wants him to have that training—with me. In the sitting room right across the corridor from our suites, since it would be too much of a risk for the boy to stay in the Misty Place long enough to receive lessons. He’s not strong enough, or mature enough, to survive that.”

Daemon looked toward the door to give himself time to quiet his temper and the Sadist. The Queen’s suite, including the sitting room connected to her bedroom, was private, out-of-bounds to everyone but the Queen’s triangle of Steward, Master of the Guard, and Consort—or those who were invited. But there had been sitting rooms within this area of the Keep where the First Circle could gather with the Queen to relax or discuss any concerns.

She was asking him to tolerate the presence of another male. Here. Spending time with his Queen. Asking for his agreement, not telling him he had to swallow this decision even if he choked on it. That difference gave him room to think about who had made this request.

Lucivar. Asking his Queen for help with his son.

“Sometimes Daemonar’s lessons will coincide with your being here for solitary rest,” Witch said. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t disturb you, but you’ll have to tolerate his presence for that hour.”

Could he do it for his brother, for his nephew?

Daemon took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

Not just another male. Not even family, which was important to him. A young Brother in the court. Someone who also needed their Queen.

He looked into her sapphire eyes and relaxed his hold on the leashes that held his temper, his power, his sexual heat—and the Sadist. Even when she’d walked among the living, a part of her had stood too deep in the abyss to be influenced—or frightened—by any aspect of who or what he was.

“If I have trouble with him being here, I will tell you.”

Witch smiled. “Good. Then we’re agreed?”

He nodded, then asked too softly, “Are you sure it’s not my fight?”

“I’m sure.” She gave his arm a thumping pat. “Besides, you already have a young Queen to deal with.”

Yes. He did. Not the same, though.

“Maybe you should suggest that Titian write to Zoey and let her know how she likes working with the colored pencils,” Witch said. “That way you won’t have to be the go-between.”

She rested a hand against his face. He turned his head just enough to kiss her palm. He felt nothing, but his lips—and heart—still knew exactly where her skin would be, and he wondered if she felt his touch even if he couldn’t feel her.

“My apologies, Prince. I undid all the good Lady Zoela achieved.”

“No, you didn’t. She was just a respite in a jagged day.”

“Then give yourself some quiet time. In the evening, we’ll drain some of the reservoir in the Black.”

He nodded. “I’ll see Titian tomorrow.”

She didn’t kiss him. She never did when she was with him here. That was an intimacy that would have wounded his wife. Even if Surreal never knew why, she would have sensed a difference in him. As long as he could separate wife and lover from Queen, as long as he knew without any doubt that it wasn’t possible for the Queen to be the lover again, he could stay connected to the living and stay married—and faithful to his wife.

Witch walked into her bedroom. The door shut behind her.

Daemon vanished the art supplies and settled into a chair by the window, letting the immense power of his Queen quiet his mind and heart.

FOUR

“I don’t want to go!” Sitting beside the pool at the far end of the play yard, Titian pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them.

Jaenelle Saetien sat back on her heels, hooked her black hair behind her delicately pointed ears, and tried to puzzle out her cousin’s behavior. Titian didn’t like adventure the way she did, which she didn’t mind because that was Titian, and they did have fun together. And she could talk to this cousin and say things she couldn’t say to anyone else.

“We’re just going to run some errands for Auntie Marian and pick up the things she needs at the market,” she said. “It won’t take long. I’m not allowed to go by myself, and Daemonar and Andulvar are at the communal eyrie doing their weapons training.” If she’d known Titian was just going to sit there doing nothing, she would have joined the boys in order to do something.

But maybe not. Her cousin looked so unhappy, so maybe having someone there was helpful even if Titian didn’t want to talk about . . . whatever . . . and Jaenelle Saetien couldn’t figure out anything that would make this better. Kind of like one of the Scelties curling up with her when she felt sad and just wanted company.

She could be a Sceltie. But not as bossy.

Maybe not as bossy.

Her ability to stay quiet lasted another minute. “Are you worried that we’ll run into Orian and her friends? They won’t say anything mean.” Not after Daemonar promised to bloody the girl if she jabbed at his sister again.

“I just don’t want to go down to Riada.” The words were close to a wail.

Sighing, Jaenelle Saetien returned to the eyrie and found Auntie Marian in the kitchen. “Titian doesn’t want to go to Riada, but I could go. I go to Halaway on my own all the time.” Well, on her own with a Sceltie as escort.

“That’s Halaway,” Marian replied. “I’m not giving you permission to break your father’s and your uncle’s rules about you going to Riada on your own. And you and Titian aren’t quite old enough to stay here on your own.”

“But . . .” She felt the familiar dark power a moment before someone knocked on the eyrie’s front door. “Papa’s here!”

She ran to the front door as her papa walked into the eyrie. She flung herself at him and hugged him as hard as she could.

“Witch-child?” He returned her hug for a moment before he eased her back enough to look at her. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Titian. Can you help her, Papa?”

He didn’t answer. He simply led her back to the kitchen archway, where Auntie Marian waited.

“Lucivar and some of his men left early this morning,” Marian said. “A Province Queen requested his assistance. The girls were going to run some errands for me in the village, but Titian . . .” She looked at the glass doors that led to the play yard.

“Why don’t you and Jaenelle Saetien go down to Riada and take care of your errands?” Daemon suggested. “I’ll stay here with Titian.”

She wasn’t sure what message passed between the adults, but Auntie Marian nodded and said, “We won’t be long.”

As she and Auntie Marian walked out of the eyrie, Jaenelle Saetien wondered if by asking her papa to help, she was somehow saying Uncle Lucivar couldn’t fix this.

Since Jaenelle Saetien’s Jewel was unique and, therefore, easy to locate, Daemon waited until his daughter and Marian dropped from the Winds and he could feel their presence in Riada. Then he turned his attention to the girl sitting at the far end of the yard.

Of all the children in their family, Titian was the quiet child, the one content to sit and think or daydream; the one who wondered about so many things but often wasn’t bold enough to ask questions or look for answers. Not yet, anyway.

And she was the one, right now, who was deeply wounded by another girl’s cutting remark and needed protection and help. It didn’t matter that another child might have shrugged off the remark as unimportant—or shrugged off the person, letting any connection fade. It didn’t matter that this whole thing had boiled up from a moment that was childish and petty. For Warlord Princes, the promise to “honor, cherish, and protect” was a serious vow. For him and Lucivar—and Daemonar—the reason for the wound didn’t matter anymore. That verbal wound striking Titian so deep, for whatever reason, did matter.

The fact that a Queen had delivered that wound mattered beyond family. He and Lucivar remembered too well how many men had died because of Queens hurling insults at one another until they insisted that a battle was the only way for them, and their courts, to recover lost status.

Queens needed time to grow up and make mistakes like any other child, but deliberate meanness couldn’t be overlooked or excused because of the girl’s age. Anyone who thought otherwise hadn’t seen what had happened to the Blood in Terreille.

Daemon opened the glass doors and walked the length of the play yard until he reached the small pool.

“Hello, witchling.”

“Uncle Daemon.” She smiled, but he read misery and dullness in her eyes. And some measure of fear.

No wonder this was tearing at Lucivar’s heart. He was just surprised his brother hadn’t sent Orian to Hell yet—living or dead.

After putting a thin shield over his trousers to avoid grass stains, and the subsequent scold from his valet, Daemon sat down next to Titian.

“Your father showed me some of your drawings. I thought they were excellent, especially since you’re self-taught.”

She didn’t look at him, but he could feel her listening.

“I like to draw,” she said in a voice so soft, he had to strain to hear her. “But . . .”

“No buts.” Daemon bumped his arm against hers—his right arm, which carried the four white scars Witch had given him as remembrance and reminder. “You like to draw. But I think this was . . . private. Maybe so your brothers wouldn’t tease you about it?”

“They wouldn’t have teased me.” Titian frowned. “Well, Andulvar might have, but Daemonar would have thumped him if he did.”

That was not surprising. “Being private,” he continued, “you probably didn’t think much about what you used to create your drawings because you were exploring and not quite ready to show your work to other people.” One finger to her chin bringing her head up as a command to look at him. “After seeing your drawings, I did think about it.”

Releasing her, Daemon called in the pads of paper and a decorative box that held one set of colored pencils, the sharpener, and the eraser. “An artist should have the proper tools.”

“Oh.” That was all she said as she examined the pencils and then the different kinds of paper. After carefully setting everything to one side, she threw her arms around his neck. “Thank you, Uncle Daemon. Thank you!” Then she sat back. “But I’m not an artist.”

“Yes, you are.” A simple statement said with all the conviction he could put in his voice without using a spell to influence her into believing him.

“What if I can’t be a good artist?”

“You would still have fun drawing pictures.” Not the answer she wanted—or needed. He took one of her hands in his. “Witchling . . . can I tell you a secret?”

Titian blinked. “Okay.”

“It’s something your father and I would have told you when you were older, something none of the other children know yet.”

“Okay.”

Careful, old son. Don’t become a burden on a young heart. “Your grandfather was the High Lord of Hell, and he ruled the Dark Realm for a very long time. When he went to the final death and became a whisper in the Darkness, I became the High Lord. I rule the Realm of the dead.”

Her eyes looked huge. “But you’re not dead.”

“Neither was he when he first began to rule Hell.”

She appeared to be thinking very hard, but he had no idea what she was thinking.

“That’s the secret?” she finally said.

Daemon nodded. “Someday everyone will know, but not now. Not yet.”

“But Papa knows?”

“Yes. So does your mother and your aunt Surreal. And a few other grown-ups. Very few.”

“Because people would think you were scary if they knew?”

He expected they would do more than think he was scary. “Yes.”

She nodded. “Some of the Queens and Ladies who come to visit think Papa is scary because he’s called the Demon Prince now. But the people in Riada don’t call him that. It’s important to have a place where people don’t think you’re scary.”

What does this child think about when she’s on her own? And how big a heart does a person need to understand that truth at so young an age?

“Yes. It’s important.” He waited a few moments. “The reason I’m telling you now is because I see the Blood who make the transformation to demon-dead and come to Hell. Some are there for a short time. Some stay a long time. Often they linger because they have unfinished business—something they ignored or put aside while they were living. Many times, sadly, it’s something that would have given them joy while they were alive. Like playing a musical instrument—or drawing.”

He was no longer holding her hand. She was holding his.

“Some of them have talent, and their sketches and paintings are exquisite enough to have been shown in galleries. Some . . . Let’s just say there is joy in the discovery of making an idea tangible.”

“You hang their pictures on the walls, just like the good ones, don’t you?”

His face heated, and he hoped he wasn’t blushing. “I do. There is a gallery at the Hall in Hell where work is displayed. Anyone who wants to is allowed to hang pictures there, whether the work is brilliant or awful, whether it’s charcoal sketches or oil paintings or pencil drawings. For a while, these people can share something that is important to them.” He brushed her hair away from her face. “Don’t wait, Titian. Whether this is a hobby you’ll enjoy throughout your life or something more, don’t wait. And don’t let some girl who is probably envious of your talent stop you. Don’t let her win.”

“Envious?”

“Darling, Queens learn a variety of social skills, including drawing, music, and dancing. That doesn’t mean they have any talent for those activities or continue doing them a minute beyond what is necessary. I think Orian jabbed at you because she couldn’t produce a drawing as good as yours, and she attacked so that you wouldn’t want to draw anymore.”

She didn’t say anything.

“And saying flowers aren’t a proper subject for an Eyrien to draw is a barrel full of crap.”

She gasped at his crudity. “Uncle Daemon!”

“You know who Andulvar Yaslana was, don’t you?”

“The first Demon Prince. He was the founder of our bloodline and a great Eyrien warrior. As good as Papa.” She thought for a moment. “Almost as good.”

Daemon bit back a smile. “That’s the one. A fierce warrior who wore Ebon-gray Jewels, just like your papa. And he ruled Askavi before your papa took over ruling the whole Territory. Sometime soon, I’ll stay an extra day when I’m at the Keep, and you and I will talk to Geoffrey, the historian/librarian, about some pencil drawings Andulvar did. They are very old, and fragile, so they can’t leave the private part of the library, but Geoffrey will show them to us. I will give you three guesses about the subject matter of some of those sketches.”

“Flowers?” Titian guessed.

“Flowers. Now, who, with any honesty, would say that Andulvar Yaslana was not a true Eyrien?”

She’d had enough, maybe even more than she could absorb for now, but he had one more thing.

He called in the artist’s primer. “If you could do me a favor? I’m considering helping an artist get this primer published so that youngsters have some instruction in how to draw objects. Could you try out some of the instructions and examples and let me know if it would be helpful?”

She took the primer and carefully set it with her new supplies. “I can do that.”

Deciding to leave talk about Zoey for another day, Daemon said, “Would you show me your drawings again?”

She called in her drawing pad, and they reviewed the drawings one by one. Some places he recognized from the times he’d gone to some spot or other that Lucivar enjoyed. Some flowers he recognized from the years when he and Jaenelle Angelline spent time at the cabin near Riada. He pointed out techniques she had used for shading that he’d seen in other artists’ work and promised to take her to one of the art galleries in Amdarh the next time she came to visit.

When he sensed Marian and Jaenelle Saetien’s return, he rose and helped Titian to her feet. He almost offered to help her carry the art supplies, but the way she hugged them made him think she wouldn’t surrender them to anyone easily.

By the time they walked into the front room, everyone except Lucivar had returned, and Marian had started preparing the midday meal.

“Uh-uh,” he said when Daemonar and young Andulvar crowded round to see Titian’s presents. “Those are for your sister’s art. These are for you.” He called in a set of the line drawings, another set of colored pencils, and another sharpener.

Young Andulvar was mildly interested in the line drawings. Daemonar wasn’t interested at all. And Jaenelle Saetien? A swirl of emotions dominated by her relief that he had fixed things and Titian looked happier.

“Wash up,” Marian called.

The girls went to Titian’s room to store her supplies. Young Andulvar headed for a bathroom to wash his hands sufficiently that his mother would let him sit at the table.

Daemonar studied Daemon. He studied the boy in turn.

“Did the Lady tell you about the lessons?” Daemonar asked.

“She told me.”

“You’re okay with that?”

Careful. Cautious. This wasn’t a boy asking his uncle; this was a Green-Jeweled Warlord Prince asking the Black.

“There are times when I won’t be able to interact with you,” Daemon said.

“I know. Your healing time is private.”

“Healing time” sounded so benign. Maybe someday it would be. “Yes, it is. But being that it’s you, I can accept the presence of another male in that part of the Keep.” He hoped that was true.

The boy didn’t ask about the time Lucivar spent at the Keep, although most of that time was spent with Karla, reviewing the business of ruling Askavi.

“We should wash up,” Daemonar said. “If Mother won’t let Papa sit down until he washes his hands, I don’t think she’ll bend that rule for you.”

Daemon laughed. “I know she won’t bend that rule. You go on.”

He walked into the kitchen. Marian put down the platter of sliced meats and looked at him, a question in her eyes.

He kissed her cheek and smiled. “She’ll be fine. I have some thoughts for a couple of outings, both here in Ebon Rih and in Amdarh. In the meantime, Titian is helping me with a project related to art.”

“Helping her uncle.” Marian nodded. “That changes things, doesn’t it?”

“It does.” He washed his hands at the kitchen sink and accepted the towel she handed him. He looked at the table and the various dishes. A simple meal by Marian’s standards. “Can I . . . ?”

“No one fills a plate until everyone is seated,” she said sternly. “And don’t think giving me that but-I’m-starving look will make any difference. I have male children. I am immune to that look.”

“You are so strict.”

“Always.” Then she laughed. And because he was family, she tossed him in with her ravenous horde and let him battle for his share of the food.

There were questions Jaenelle Saetien wanted to ask, things she wanted to know, but she didn’t want Papa to think she was being a brat and fanning about because she was special and thought she could ignore any rules that didn’t suit her. But her teachers and the other grown-ups in Halaway had treated her like she was special because she wore Twilight’s Dawn, and all her friends—except Mikal, but he was part of the family and didn’t count in the same way—had thought she was special.

Or maybe they hadn’t dared tell her that her Birthright Jewel didn’t make her special. Except Mikal, who didn’t hesitate to call her on it. He didn’t say she was fanning about. Not anymore. He’d just point at her, then stick his butt out and wiggle it.

She’d been a brat and had told Morghann to do a wrong thing when the Sceltie had been very young. It hadn’t seemed like such a bad thing at the time, but now that she was a little older, she understood how much trouble a person could cause when she let selfishness rule over kindness. The younger Scelties who were now living at the Hall played with her and kept her company, but went to Papa for training and teaching. Or they went to Holt or Beale to understand about human things. Or they went to Morghann, who taught some of the Scelties how to be a special friend when she wasn’t being Papa’s special friend. But they didn’t want to learn from her because she had told Morghann to do a wrong thing.

She was sorry about breaking trust with the Scelties, but more than that, she sometimes worried that her being a brat during that time was the reason Papa had become so ill and still needed to go for special healing at the Keep twice a month and stay in the sealed suite of rooms at the Hall a couple of days each week.

She loved her mother, but she adored Papa, and she tried very hard not to be a brat or cause trouble or talk about things that would upset him and make him ill again.

Making the raft and going over the waterfall might be considered trouble, but Papa didn’t know about that, and Uncle Lucivar hadn’t seemed all that concerned—and the reason for that made her upset and wasn’t something she could talk about until she got home and could tell Mikal what she’d learned.

“Something on your mind, witch-child?”

They were riding the Winds in a small Coach, and Papa had allowed her to sit in the other driver’s seat instead of in the back, which was wonderful, except Papa tended to ask questions, and even small fibs could have consequences.

But she didn’t want him to think she was being a brat.

“Titian is really happy with the pencils and art paper you bought for her,” she said.

“I’m glad. Lucivar and I are hoping that our encouragement will negate one person’s unkind remark.”

“And the boys liked the drawings they can fill in with color.”

He laughed softly. “I’m not sure about that, but the line was drawn between what is hers and what is theirs.”

She found a loose thread and pulled it—and started unraveling the hem of her shirt until Papa made a snipping motion with his fingers and used Craft to cut the thread.

“What’s on your mind, witch-child?”

His deep voice was still quiet, still pleasant, but the question was no longer an invitation; it was a command to speak.

“How come you never bought drawing stuff for me?” she asked in a small voice.

“You, my darling, have never been shy about telling me when you were interested in something. I didn’t always agree with you pursuing a particular thing, usually because I didn’t think you were old enough. And sometimes you decided you weren’t interested enough in a thing to follow the rules that were part of the deal. I simply assumed that if you were interested in learning to draw, or play a musical instrument, or do any number of activities, you would have pounced on me when I was working in my study and told me all about it.”

“I don’t pounce on you.”

He burst out laughing.

She didn’t think it was that funny.

He finally stopped laughing and cleared his throat. “Yes. Well. If you are interested in trying your hand at drawing, we can visit the art supply shop in Amdarh when we’re in the city later this week and pick up what you would need. If you would like to have an instructor, I will find one. If you would like to invite your friends in Halaway to join you for drawing lessons, I will arrange it. However, if I do arrange for an instructor to provide drawing lessons for any children who are interested, those classes will continue whether you give up on drawing or not. And I will insist that you give the lessons a try for the full measure of a season, and not give up after your first attempt simply because the cat you drew looks like a sausage with ears.”

He gave her a pointed look softened by a smile—a reminder that she often gave up on things if she couldn’t do them perfectly on the first try. Some things. Other things she worked hard to learn. And some things Papa insisted she learn, like basic Protocol and the proper way to do Craft. Papa gave her those lessons and didn’t allow anyone to interrupt their time together, but he wouldn’t let her . . . embellish . . . a spell or alter the way she used Craft to do something until she could show him that she could do the thing the ordinary, proper way. And Protocol was just boooorrrrring. But those lessons had started as soon as she’d acquired her Birthright Jewel, and it was the same thing over and over and over.

She grumbled sometimes, but Papa’s answer was always the same: Among the Blood, Protocol isn’t about following a bunch of tedious rules. Protocol is about survival. Protocol is the way those with less power can survive dealing with the Blood who wear darker Jewels. Without it, there would be slaughter.

Maybe she would ask Uncle Lucivar if the Blood would kill one another if they didn’t have a bunch of stupid rules. No, she’d ask Daemonar if he had to learn Protocol. They didn’t have to do boring lessons whenever she visited; they did things like sparring and exploring and learning about plants and animals. So maybe, if Uncle Lucivar didn’t think things like Protocol were important, she could talk Papa into dropping the boring stuff for lessons that were more interesting.

He was always willing to add lessons, but dropping lessons? Not so much. Not at all, really, until she fulfilled her side of the agreement for having the lessons.

Not knowing what to say about the art lessons, she said nothing.

After a while, Papa called in a set of the line drawings and a decorative box similar to the one he gave Titian. “You could start with these and see if art in some form appeals to you—and also let me know if you think it would appeal to other children. I’m considering giving assistance to the artist who made these in order to have more sets printed.”

When she’d seen them at the eyrie, she’d thought the drawings looked boring, like something to do on a rainy afternoon if you couldn’t find anything else to do. But helping Papa decide on a business matter made the drawings and pencils much more interesting. “I can do that.”

He smiled. “Thank you.”

She hesitated and wondered if her question would touch dangerous territory. “Did the Lady in the Mist like to draw?”

She’d been named for Papa’s father and his Queen, and ever since she ran into trouble for acting like she was special, she’d wondered about how she compared to the most powerful witch in the history of the Blood—and often worried that she was found wanting, especially after what she’d overheard during this visit with her cousins.

It took forever before he replied, but he sounded thoughtful, not upset, when he finally said, “She did. All the Queens who lived at the Hall during that time took drawing, music, and dance lessons. These were considered necessary social skills and restful activities that balanced the Craft lessons and the training required of Queens in order to rule well. The Lady often did charcoal sketches when she had some free time or when the coven gathered and they all decided to spend an afternoon talking and sketching. Some of her drawings were quite good. Others . . . She would laugh when she was done and twist up the paper to use as kindling. Out of all the Queens who ruled during those years, only Lady Kalush, the Queen of Nharkhava, was a gifted watercolor artist. We have a couple of her paintings on display at the Hall.”

Did she want to learn to draw now that she knew Papa’s Queen had taken drawing lessons? Wouldn’t that be another way she’d be competing against someone great and powerful? Besides, drawing meant sitting still.

“I met a young witch about your age,” Papa said. “Lady Zoela, who is Lady Zhara’s granddaughter. She helped me select the art supplies for Titian, and it occurred to me that you might enjoy her company. I could inquire about Zoela coming with us for an outing when we’re in Amdarh.”

“To do drawings?” She wasn’t sure how much fun it would be to spend an afternoon with Zoela if they were going to sit and do drawings.

“I was thinking more along the lines of a ride in the park, if Zoela rides.”

Oh. Maybe this girl would be interesting. And us meant Papa would be doing something with them and not just chaperoning. “That sounds good.”

They didn’t speak for a while. She was just happy to be with him, even if he had to give lots of his attention to guiding the Coach because they were riding the Black Wind.

“So,” he finally said, “what did you do on this visit? Anything interesting?”

“We didn’t do much. Nothing different.” Which was pretty much true, except for that one thing.

He made a sound, like he’d choked on a laugh. “Were the ‘not much’ and ‘nothing different’ before or after you and Daemonar built a raft and went over a waterfall? Because I truly hope that was different from what you usually do.”

Uncle Lucivar must have blabbed. “We’ve never done that before.”

Oddly enough, Papa didn’t seem to find that reassuring—but he did smile.

Lucivar walked around the family room, tidying up. Marian had gone—alone—to the eyrie’s heated pool. Normally, he would have joined her, but he knew by the change in her physical scent and her psychic scent that her moontime was about to start, and his presence this evening bothered her.

That explained some of her emotions after Daemon and Jaenelle Saetien headed home, but he suspected it was bad timing on Daemonar’s part—and the subject that was on the boy’s mind—that had pushed his darling hearth witch too far.

“I guess Uncle Daemon and Auntie Surreal have sex, since they’re married.”

“Yes, they have sex.”

“So he puts his cock inside her?” Not really a question, more just wanting confirmation.

“Yes.”

“But not from behind like the wolves mate.”

From the kitchen archway, where she’d been standing when she’d overheard them, Marian had shouted, “Dinner!”

Yeah, bad timing on the boy’s part.

As they had taken their seats, Marian had snapped at him in front of the children—something she’d never done before—and didn’t even realize it. The boys, however, sat at the table, stunned, while Titian silently slipped into her seat beside Daemonar.

It had been a long few days, and they were all feeling raw to various degrees because of the children’s conflict with Orian, so Lucivar had let it pass without challenge.

He looked around the family room. Everything was back in place except the line drawings and box of colored pencils Daemon had brought for the boys to balance his gift to Titian.

Andulvar had colored in a few parts of one drawing before losing interest. Daemonar hadn’t shown even that much interest. He’d sat with Titian as she looked at the artist’s primer and quietly told him what each lesson demonstrated. The boy would absorb some of the information, but mostly what he’d absorbed was his sister’s excitement and pleasure.

Lucivar looked through the drawings. Was there too much detail for youngsters Andulvar’s age, especially when you didn’t know what the picture was supposed to look like? Although this one . . .

A quick psychic scan of the eyrie told him Marian was still in the heated pool, the boys were in Andulvar’s room, Titian was in her room—and there were no other demands on him this evening.

He settled in a chair and called in the hinged lap desk that his father had given him for Winsol years ago. Made of fine wood by a master carpenter, the top lifted to reveal storage compartments for paper and pens, as well as wax sticks and official and personal seals. He didn’t use it often when he was home. He didn’t see any reason to spoil being outside by bringing out paperwork. But the lap desk came in handy when he was visiting the villages in Ebon Rih and reviewing reports from the Eyrien guard camps and mountain settlements, or needed a flat surface for some reason.

After putting a shield over the wood, he set one of the drawings on the lap desk, selected a couple of pencils in shades of green, and starting filling in spaces. He let his mind drift, absorbed in the colors giving shape to something stark, like the green buds on trees after the barren wood of winter.

A movement at the doorway had him looking up. Titian hesitated, then hurried over to join him. She was dressed in the top and knee-length pants she wore as summer pajamas, which made him wonder how long he’d been sitting there and . . .

Marian was in their bedroom. Had her moontime started enough for her to notice it?

“Something on your mind, witchling?” he asked.

Instead of answering, she used Craft to kneel on air before sitting back on her heels. Standing—or sitting—on air as if it were solid ground wasn’t a bit of Craft that was second nature to her yet, but she was steady. Even so, he created a shield and slipped it under her to catch her if she wobbled and fell.

She studied the part of the drawing he’d filled in, then studied the green pencils. Scrunching her face in fierce concentration, she pointed to part of the drawing. “How did you get that shade of green? None of the pencils are that shade.”

He held up the pencil in his hand, then used it to point at another one. “I used this pencil and that one and smudged the colors together.”

“Why?”

He handed her the pencil to let her hold the two shades of green side by side. “Because that’s how I see the leaves on the trees around that pool we visit on warm summer days.” He looked at the pads on the fingers of his left hand, now stained green from his color smudging, and called in a handkerchief. As he rubbed the color off his fingers, Titian gasped.

“Papa! You can’t use a handkerchief for that. It might stain it, and you can’t blow your nose on a handkerchief with stains.” She called in a cloth and handed it to him. “Mother gave me a couple of old diapers to use as art rags.”

He vanished the handkerchief and accepted the diaper, scrubbing more color off his fingers. Then his curiosity got the better of him. “If it’s clean, why would it matter if the handkerchief was stained?”

“Because you’re the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih and Askavi.”

Apparently, that was supposed to be sufficient explanation.

“Come on, witchling. Time for bed.” Lucivar slipped the drawing into the lap desk’s compartment for papers before vanishing the desk. The pencils and the rest of the drawings were put on a shelf set aside for the children’s games. He escorted Titian to her room and tucked her in before checking on the boys. Andulvar was asleep in bed, which meant Daemonar had hauled his younger brother off the floor before going to his own room.

At Daemonar’s bedroom, Lucivar tapped on the door before opening it just enough to look in. The boy was propped on his side in bed, reading.

“A few more minutes to finish this chapter?” Daemonar asked.

“A few more minutes,” Lucivar agreed. He started to close the door.

“Papa?”

He leaned in—and waited, noting the worry in the boy’s eyes. “Son?”

“Mother smells different.”

Ah, Hell’s fire. “Your mother is fine. You just picked up the scent of moon’s blood. There are rules about men dealing with women during that time—and women include mothers. We’ll talk about the rules in the morning.”

Relief flowed from the boy. “All right.”

Lucivar closed the door and headed for his and Marian’s bedroom, thinking, May the Darkness have mercy on her. And on us until she gets used to having two Warlord Princes who are driven to fuss over her.

Marian was already in bed, maybe even asleep, but she had left a candle-light on low so he could see while he undressed. As soon as he settled in bed, she turned to him, the arm around his waist holding him tight while she rested her head on his shoulder.

“I was a bitch,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“Not a bitch, just a bit bitchy.” He turned his head and kissed her forehead. “Want to tell me what I did to piss you off?”

“It wasn’t you.” She sighed. “I had . . . words . . . with Dorian today when I went to the market.”

“Since I wasn’t informed of a brawl on Riada’s main street, I assume you both kept it to words,” Lucivar said mildly.

“Why would you think we would brawl?” Marian demanded.

“The last time you had words with someone, you and Roxie were tearing into each other—and I, who was just trying to be helpful and rescue you, almost got my balls kicked into my throat and then got slugged in the face.”

“Well, I didn’t know it was you, did I? I felt someone grab me from behind, and I did exactly what you had taught me to do.” She sniffed. “And that was a long time ago, before we were married, and you shouldn’t be remembering it.”

As if he was going to forget it. He’d dodged the kick in the balls and most of Marian’s roundhouse punch after he’d separated the women, but the bruise on his face had still hurt like a wicked bitch.

She wouldn’t have gotten past his guard if he’d thought for a moment that she would try to hit him. He loved her dearly, but he’d never made that mistaken assumption again because his hearth witch could be damn feisty when she was riled.

“You had words with Dorian,” he said. “About . . . ?”

Her fingers dug into his ribs, making him glad she kept her nails short. Even so, he gently pried her fingers off his side and held on to her hand.

“She was offended that Daemonar had insulted Orian in public in front of her friends, and she insisted that he should not only apologize in public but make some amends.”

“Like . . . ?”

“She said he should be Orian’s escort for some dance or other such event—as if our boy is old enough to be doing that. As if that girl is old enough to be thinking about things like that.” She pushed up, struggling out of his hold, and narrowed her eyes at him. “And don’t you think for one moment that Daemonar should oblige either of them in order to soothe Dorian and restore peace in the Eyrien community, because I will loose the hounds of Hell on Riada before I allow that to happen.”

Well . . . shit. If anyone else had said it, he’d think it was a figure of speech, but if Marian Yaslana asked the High Lord of Hell for a couple of Hell hounds in order to cause all sorts of problems, Daemon wouldn’t refuse to help her.

Even as the High Lord, Daemon might be obliging enough to give his brother a warning about what was coming, but Marian was special to him, so he might not do anything beyond keeping her safe while she . . . did whatever she would do with the hounds.

He really hoped this was part of her moontime moodies, and his gentle wife would return in the morning, having forgotten all about Hell’s carnivorous flora and fauna.

“Okay, Daemonar isn’t going to be obliging—and neither am I,” Lucivar said. “Did Dorian say anything about the comments that were made to Titian since that’s what started this?”

“Oh, yes. But Orian’s remarks were just teasing, were harmless. They were an observation that had been kindly meant, but Titian took the words the wrong way because she’s too sensitive and then acted hurt to get her brother to take her side.”

His hand was in her hair and closing into a fist to hold her in place. Marian let out a startled gasp.

“Listen to me, Marian. Are you listening?”

“Y-yes.”

“I know you don’t feel friendly toward Dorian, but up until this clash between Orian and Titian, you’ve gotten along with her well enough. Or is there something you haven’t told me because you didn’t want Endar’s family to be tossed back to Terreille—or end up in Hell?”

He felt her heart beating a fast rhythm as she realized he was worried.

“There’s nothing,” she said. “This all bubbled up because of things said by the children.”

“Then we’ll handle it. But I want your word that you will never tell Daemon what Dorian said about Orian just teasing and Titian being too sensitive.”

“You have my word, but . . . why?”

Lucivar tried to relax his fist and release her, but he couldn’t. “Right now Daemon has a better idea than we do of how deeply those words hurt our girl. And the fact that those words were said by a young Queen? Bitches who inflicted wounds, whether they used knives or whips or words, were the kind of females the Sadist hunted. Especially if they were Queens. If it comes down to that, I would rather have Orian meet my war blade for a clean death than have her destroyed by the Sadist.”

“Mother Night, Lucivar.” Marian searched his eyes. “You’re serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious. And you might want to avoid mentioning Hell hounds being set loose in Riada, even as a jest.”

He’d unnerved her. Might as well shake her the rest of the way. “Your firstborn caught the scent of moon’s blood this evening.”

She tried to pull away from him. He managed to open his hand and release her.

“No.” She shook her head. “No.”

“Yeah. Seemed better to tell you instead of letting you stumble into that change of attitude in the morning.”

“But . . . he’ll start fussing.”

“Yes, he will.” Lucivar gave her that lazy, arrogant smile. “And because you snapped at me at dinner and scared him, you’ll have to let him fuss in order to reassure him that you’re all right otherwise.” Not giving her time to chew on that, he said, “Do you know of any reason why I couldn’t use a clean handkerchief just because it has a stain?”

She looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Hell’s fire, Lucivar. You’re the Warlord Prince of Askavi. You can’t be pulling out a stained handkerchief in front of the Province Queens!”

Had to be a female thing. But just in case it wasn’t, he was not going to put the question to Daemon. “Okay. I just wondered.” He gave her a light kiss and extinguished the candle-light. “Go to sleep, Marian.”

“Is there something I should know about a stained handkerchief?”

He closed his eyes. “Not a thing. Go to sleep.”

“What kind of stain?”

“A no-kind of stain.”

“Are you sure?”

“Woman, will you let me sleep?” Exasperated, he created a ball of witchlight and floated it above the bed in order to glare at her—and caught her smiling at him.

FIVE

The next morning, Lucivar left his eyrie while the children were having breakfast. Lord Endar’s household wouldn’t be up and about earlier than his, but he had a quick stop to make before he confronted Dorian and her daughter.

He flew down to Riada and knocked on the door of the Queen’s residence at an hour of the day that should have had her court bristling at the interruption in their Lady’s private time.

She’d been expecting him, had even anticipated what he’d come to ask—or officially request, since she ruled Riada but was under his hand. He listened to her proposal and agreed with how she wanted to approach a problem that involved Eyriens but would have a serious impact on the Rihland people for generations if the problem wasn’t corrected now. Then he flew to Endar’s eyrie to deliver the terms by which a young Queen would be allowed to continue residing in Askavi.

Endar and Dorian’s son, Alanar, answered the door. Lucivar figured the only reason the boy still held half a pastry in one hand was that he already had so much food crammed in his mouth, he couldn’t fit another crumb in and still breathe.

“Prz,” Alanar said, adding a quick bow to help with the meaning of the sound.

“Chew,” Lucivar said. “Swallow. Then you can fly. If you hit a pocket of air with your mouth stuffed like that, you’ll choke.” Or spew it out, creating a very unpleasant sort of rain for the people below him.

The boy eased past him and went outside.

Shaking his head and wondering how often his own boys stuffed themselves that way when he wasn’t home and they weren’t under Marian’s watchful eyes, Lucivar closed the door and stepped farther into the eyrie’s front room. Unlike the front room in his home, which was uncluttered because he used it as a workout space in bad weather, this one held benches and tables—an arrangement that suggested a waiting area for people requesting an audience.

There were privileges to being a Queen, just as there were privileges attached to being a Warlord Prince. But those privileges came with a price, and if the price wasn’t paid . . .

Endar hurried toward him. “Prince? Did we have a meeting?”

“No, we didn’t. I’m here to speak to Ladies Dorian and Orian. You should stay and hear this so that you know the lines that are being drawn.”

Endar’s brown skin took on a gray hue. “Lines?”

Having come from Askavi Terreille, Endar would have heard the stories about how—and why—Lucivar had earned the reputation of being volatile and savage. And Endar had seen what happened here in Ebon Rih when Lucivar had stood alone on a killing field against the followers of another Warlord Prince. That the Demon Prince was in his home so early in the morning talking about drawing lines would be enough to frighten any sane man.

“Your wife and daughter, Lord Endar.”

“They’re still—”

“Now.”

He knew Endar had sent the message on a psychic thread. He knew the man had conveyed the urgency of the command. But it seemed Orian—or her mother—decided to keep him waiting as a way to test the status of a Queen against the power and temper of the Warlord Prince who ruled the land where they lived.

Endar was sweating by the time woman and girl made their appearance. Lucivar just waited.

“Prince Yaslana,” Dorian said, “how unexpected.”

Meaning, How rude of you to show up so early.

Lucivar waited.

“But it’s a delightful surprise,” Orian added.

The disrespectful undertone in her voice scraped at his temper and made it hard for him to remember that she and Daemonar were the same age, which meant the girl was riding the rough air and long years of adolescent emotions. But that disrespectful undertone being directed toward an Ebon-gray Warlord Prince also made it easy for him to remember what it had been like when the Queens in Terreille had thought they could get away with anything just because they were Queens.

Lucivar waited, assessing the females as members of the Eyrien community—and as adversaries. He kept his temper leashed, but when he finally spoke, his voice was sharp enough to sting—a tone every Eyrien warrior who worked for him recognized as a warning that, if challenged, his temper wouldn’t stay leashed, and his response would be brutal and bloody. “When I say now, I don’t mean after you’re done primping—or until you’ve delayed long enough to test me.”

The look in Dorian’s eyes confirmed that that was exactly what she’d been trying to do—test how far he would yield because her daughter was a Queen. The look of anticipation in Orian’s eyes made him wonder if the girl had been tainted to the point that she was already beyond saving. But he remembered the bright-eyed toddler she had been, and he wasn’t willing to give up on her, although he didn’t think she would thank him for the restrictions he was about to place on her life—or the indelicate ways he was prepared to assure her obedience.

If the only way to shake her out of whatever belief was taking root was to scare the shit out of her now, so be it. “When I say now, I mean now, and you will do well to remember that in the future. I am the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih. I am the Demon Prince of Askavi. For the sake of every other person living in Askavi, and especially here in Ebon Rih, whether they are landen or Blood, I will not allow you to test me again.”

“If this is about Titian being . . . ,” Orian began.

“It’s not about Titian. Not anymore. The wounds you inflicted will heal or scar as they will, and there is nothing you can do about that.” He stared at her until she squirmed. “This is about you, Orian, and what kind of Queen you will be. This is about whether or not you will survive. If you follow the path you seem to be on right now, of thinking that a Queen can do and be anything she pleases, then you won’t be looking at forming a court when you come of age. At best, you’ll be looking at exile or, more likely, execution. If you are what your behavior of the past few days suggests you are, then I will be meeting you on a killing field—and I will destroy you in order to protect everyone else.”

“Prince, please,” Endar begged.

He heard fear in the father’s voice. He saw shock in the mother’s eyes—and in the daughter’s.

“You will report to the Queen of Riada every afternoon from now on,” Lucivar said. “You will be given lessons in Protocol since your behavior this morning tells me that you have not received that necessary part of your education—or have been told, for some reason, that those rules don’t apply to Queens.” He ignored Dorian’s outraged gasp at the insult, which confirmed the truth of his words. “You will also receive the training necessary to understand your responsibilities and duties as a Queen. You will accompany Riada’s Queen whenever she desires your presence in order to observe how a court works—even if that means canceling your own plans. The only days you will be excused from the training are the first three days of your moontime. If you lie even once because you’re feeling pissy or defiant, and claim your moon’s blood started when it hasn’t, I will haul you down to Riada to face whatever discipline the Lady’s court demands—and I will be here every time after that to make sure you’re being honest.”

“That’s insulting,” Dorian snapped. “You would humiliate a Queen?”

“I’m informing her—and you—of the consequences of a lie. If she’s humiliated, it’s because she made a bad choice and has to pay the price.”

“You’re calling my wife’s and my daughter’s honor into question,” Endar said, sounding as if he’d received a gut wound.

“Yes. I am.” Lucivar regretted hurting the man, but he’d come here to keep what was said private in order to spare Endar and his family from being isolated from the other Eyriens—because no one wanted to be on the wrong side of a line drawn by the Demon Prince.

“What about your son?” Dorian said. “What about what he said to a Queen?”

“He said nothing to a Queen. He insulted Orian in the same way she had insulted Titian, matching hurt for hurt. But he, too, is going to receive additional training because of this incident.” He focused on Orian. “You’re dismissed.”

“But . . . ,” the girl protested.

“You’re dismissed.”

“Orian, do as you’re told,” Endar said.

Lucivar waited until Orian left the front room. Then he put an aural shield around the room because he suspected the girl would try to listen to them. When that was done, he turned to Dorian. “I haven’t had a quarrel with you until now. I would prefer not to have one because you don’t want to enter into a fight with me. You really don’t. Whatever ambition you’re planting on the back of your daughter being a Queen, tear it out by the roots, Dorian. Tear it out now, for her sake. Or have you forgotten what it was like to live in Terreille?”

“I’ve forgotten nothing,” Dorian snapped. Then her eyes filled with tears. “What’s wrong with wanting better for your children? What’s wrong with wanting Orian to be someone people will respect and deem important?”

“She’s a Queen,” Lucivar replied. “She’s already important. Whether she’ll be respected will depend on whether or not she’s a good Queen. I won’t let a bitch hold so much as one man or an acre of land. Not in Askavi.” He looked at Endar. “Orian is expected in Riada after the midday meal. You should make sure she gets there.”

“If that is all, Prince?” Dorian spat out the words.

He released the aural shield and waited until the woman left the room before turning toward the door.

Endar looked miserable. “Could I have done something?”

Lucivar started to shrug off the question, then paused to consider. “Orian is centuries away from forming a court. Why this sudden need for the girl to be important? What’s scraping your wife’s heart, Endar?”

“I don’t know.” Endar sighed. “I think she’s disappointed in me, in my being a teacher. Eyriens always considered it demeaning work unless a man was so physically damaged in battle that he could no longer fight.”

“That was in Terreille. This is Ebon Rih in Kaeleer.” He studied the man who’d had to work hard to improve his own education in order to teach the Eyrien children. “Has anyone said that to you? Implied that your work wasn’t valued in the Eyrien community?” Anyone besides your wife?

“No, but it’s hard to shake off generations of beliefs. What was a relief to Dorian when our children were younger now seems a source of embarrassment to her. Maybe that’s why she’s become obsessed with what Orian will be able to do once she’s old enough to establish her court—and is always talking about how the girl should be setting up an unofficial court now.”

“Unless Orian is befriending the Eyrien youngsters who live around Doun, her unofficial court would be made up of Rihlanders, and that court will change every few years as those girls grow up and look toward serving in official courts or following other adult pursuits.”

Endar hesitated. “I think Dorian expects Daemonar to join Orian’s court when she forms one and feels he should be eager to escort his Queen around the village now.”

Oh, his boy would be thrilled if he could escort his Queen around the village. But Witch wasn’t going to stroll around Riada, and whether he spent some time serving in another court or not, Daemonar would never consider any other Queen to be his Queen and have his absolute loyalty. Knowing that, Lucivar considered his words carefully. “They’re growing up and taking separate roads. Orian shouldn’t think of Daemonar as anything more than a childhood friend she used to play with. If she, or Dorian, thinks he’ll be more, she’s setting herself up for disappointment.” Or worse.

Endar made a sad sound. “I figured Orian put an arrow through the heart of that friendship the moment I heard what she’d said to Titian. Daemonar wouldn’t remain friends with someone who did that. Not even a girl who was a Queen.”

“Keep trying to find out what’s wrong with Dorian. If she keeps pushing, she and Orian are both heading into rough winds and jagged canyons. And if you need help, ask me.”

As he flew to the communal eyrie to do a bit of sparring and review the day’s tasks with Rothvar, Lucivar wondered about the reason for this change in Dorian’s behavior.

Since he maintained a psychic web that kept him quietly aware of everyone within the boundaries of the SaDiablo estate, Daemon felt Jaenelle Saetien’s continued agitation long before she reached his study, and resigned himself to an unpleasant afternoon.

His own fault for allowing his daughter’s emotions to adjust the day’s plans—not only his plans but also those of the Province Queen whom he’d intended to see that afternoon. Now he would have to see the woman before she headed out for her own evening commitments.

Lucivar wouldn’t have let a child’s emotions get in the way of scheduled lessons. Lucivar would have let the child sulk or grumble or wheedle or cry or shout and be angry. What he wouldn’t have done was let the child reschedule the lessons because she had to do something terribly important but wouldn’t tell him what it was. He would have sat there, waiting for the storm to pass, and then turned the hourglass that indicated the length of the lesson. And if another lesson followed that? So be it, and whatever plans the child had made with friends were either postponed or forfeit. End of discussion.

It was lowering to admit it, but Jaenelle Saetien seemed to thrive better in the Yaslana household than she did with him at the Hall. Then again, she was only there for a week when she went to visit. The Darkness only knew how much she would clash with Lucivar if she stayed longer. Since he and Lucivar set up rules for the children that applied to both households, maybe it was the way they upheld the rules that made a difference?

Living at the Hall was different from living at the eyrie. Different in size, different in the way they lived. Sometimes Daemon wondered if Jaenelle Saetien would be better off living in Amdarh with Surreal, except Surreal traveled so much as his second-in-command, visiting the family estates as well as checking in with Dhemlan’s District Queens and Province Queens. He needed to stay at the Hall most of the time for everyone’s safety. That meant he took responsibility for Jaenelle Saetien’s education, whether it was overseeing what she was learning at the school in Halaway or giving her lessons in Craft and Protocol.

He suspected her lessons in Craft and Protocol were going to be a problem today.

Something had happened shortly before he and Jaenelle Saetien left Lucivar’s eyrie to return to the Hall, something she didn’t want to tell him about. Something more than the things they had discussed on the way home. But that something had been the source of her growing unhappiness last night and had turned into agitation this morning, so he’d given her time to think about it or work through it. Gave her every opportunity to talk to him about it.

Now that agitation was going to bump up against the rescheduled lesson time, and he couldn’t make further adjustments to the day. But how could he deny her the space to regain her emotional balance when he required the same thing? How could he say her feelings weren’t as important as scheduled lessons because her feelings wouldn’t put the Blood in danger if she lost control?

And what would he be teaching her if he buckled under her drama and emotions instead of insisting that she fulfill her tasks within the family, even if those tasks were simply showing up for her lessons?

As Jaenelle Saetien flung the door open and rushed into his study, Daemon looked at the clock on the corner of his desk and said mildly, “You’re late, witch-child.”

“Mikal’s here, and I really, really need to go out riding with him,” she said, sounding breathless.

“You really, really need to stay here so that we can do your Craft and Protocol lessons,” he countered.

“Papa! This is important.”

Daemon hesitated—and cursed himself for the hesitation.

After he’d been taken away from his father immediately after his Birthright Ceremony, nothing he’d wanted or needed had been important. Now everything in him wanted his daughter to have what was important to her. But giving her everything she believed was important at a particular moment was as bad for her as being given nothing—and he fought that inner battle almost daily because she was just a little older than he had been when Dorothea had put a Ring of Obedience on him and . . .

He shoved those thoughts away. He couldn’t allow memories of his life at that age color his decisions about Jaenelle Saetien’s life and what she needed rather than wanted.

“Why can’t you talk to Mikal for a few minutes here?” he asked. “Or ask him to come in after his ride and talk to you after your lessons?”

“Because I can’t.” Her voice turned wheedling. “We’ll just take a short ride, and I can have my lessons after that. Please, Papa.”

Knowing how long she could stretch out a short ride, he said, “Let’s see your schedule.”

“What?”

“Your schedule,” he repeated patiently. “That thing you and I work out each week so that we both know when your required appointments, which include lessons, are going to take place, as well as the social invitations you chose to accept and what you need to do in preparation for those invitations.”

“I don’t know where it is,” she mumbled.

Daemon doubted that was true, but he called in his copy of her schedule and turned it around so that she could read it. He pointed to the lessons that had been crossed out that morning and written in for the afternoon.

For now, actually.

Then he pointed to the outing she had arranged before she had gone to Ebon Rih. “You and your friends are supposed to see a play in the village this afternoon. It starts at a specific time. When we spoke this morning, you asked me to adjust your lesson time so that you would still be able to change clothes, meet your friends, and arrive at the theater before the play started.”

“I know, but talking to Mikal is important.”

“Important enough to give up going to the play?”

She stared at him. “I can get to the play on time!”

“Your lessons take two hours, witch-child. We do this three times a week. You know this. You’ll be home from the play in time for dinner. Mikal can join us, and you can talk to him then.”

“I need to talk to him now.”

She wasn’t going to listen to him, so he accepted that she was going to experience the emotional equivalent of skinned knees. “Very well. Your Craft lesson will start one hour from now. I will tell you when half the time for the ride is gone so that you know when to return. Your lessons will not be cut short. If you’re late, you won’t go to the play. Is that understood?”

“Yes,” she said, rushing out of the study.

Had she understood? Not likely. But she would.

He sighed and rubbed the ache that was building at his temples. A minute later, Beale tapped on the study door, walked in, and placed a large mug of specially blended tea on the desk.

“Trouble?” Beale asked as Holt tapped on the door and walked in.

Daemon looked at the two men who were his consultants when it came to dealing with children. They not only had the benefit of observing how Saetan had dealt with Jaenelle Angelline and the coven; they had nieces and nephews as examples of “normal” behavior.

“Maybe I expect too much,” he said. “She’s still a child with a slippery concept of time.”

“Yes, she’s a child, but would you care to bet on whether or not the young Lady knows exactly how long it will take her to change into her outfit and get down to the village in order to have time to chatter with her friends before taking their seats for the play?” Holt asked.

Phrased that way, it was a sucker’s bet, and he knew it. “How much?”

“Five gold marks.”

Daemon looked at Beale. “And you?”

“The same.”

Definitely a sucker’s bet. “Fine.”

Holt walked out, whistling.

Beale hesitated, then said quietly, “Under similar circumstances, if your father had already yielded once to accommodate a youngster’s request to reschedule lessons, he would not have given up one minute of lesson time, even if it meant a youngster had to forfeit going to a play and spending time with friends.”

“Thank you, Beale.” Now Daemon hesitated. “I can’t always be here for her.”

“That is true, Prince, but you can’t apologize for what you need to do for everyone’s sake, including hers, by giving in and letting the young Lady have her way.”

Another hard truth, Daemon thought as he drank the tea and read through some of the letters Holt had left on his desk that morning.

“Let’s ride to the pond,” Jaenelle Saetien said.

Mikal gave her a long look. “We could get back in time if we ride to the pond and turn right around.”

“In time?”

“For your lessons. I asked the Prince if you needed to be back at a specific time, and he told me you had lessons this afternoon before you go to the play with your friends.”

She gasped. “Why’d you ask him about that?”

“Because you were acting strange, and I wondered if you were trying to get out of your lessons for some reason. Because you said you wanted to talk, but you’re not talking. And most of all, because I’m old enough now to be held accountable if I’m essentially standing escort.”

“Well, you’re not standing escort. We’re just friends taking a ride.”

“And more than anything else,” Mikal continued, “the Prince gives me lessons in Craft and Protocol. He’s your father, so you don’t think anything about it, but it’s a privilege to be trained by him, and I don’t want to lose that privilege. So when he says the time is half gone, we’re turning back.”

“I don’t have to turn back if I don’t want to.”

“Then you’re walking home because the horses and I will turn back.”

She pouted. “You’re being mean, and this is important.”

*Then talk,* he said on a psychic thread.

This flavor of impatience with her was new, and she didn’t like it. And she’d counted on being able to ride away from the Hall and then dismount and talk because she didn’t want the horses to go back to the stables and blab to her father. And she didn’t want to talk on a psychic thread because it didn’t feel the same as saying words out loud. And they weren’t even riding. They were just sitting on horses that were walking around.

But Mikal had stated his intentions, and she knew he wouldn’t budge, so she took a deep breath and told him about going to the river with Daemonar and making a raft and riding it through the rapids and over the waterfall.

*Hell’s fire,* Mikal said when she finished. *You did that and Lucivar saw you? And you can still sit on a horse today?* He whistled. *You’re lucky he didn’t get mad enough to make the river steam.*

*He couldn’t get mad,* she replied with enough bitterness to have Mikal staring at her. *I heard Uncle Lucivar talking to Auntie Marian and Papa before Papa and I got in the Coach to come home. He couldn’t get mad at Daemonar and me because he’d done the same thing with the Queen. I thought this was my idea, that this was a new adventure that nobody had done before, but she did it first! She always does things first!*

*I doubt the Lady and Prince Yaslana were the first people to have gone over a waterfall. Maybe not quite that way, but—*

*Everything I do, she’s done first, but she was the Queen and important, so she did it better. Everyone thinks so.* Even Papa, she added silently, hoping it wasn’t true.

Mikal was quiet for a too-long time. *Lady Angelline did a lot of things better than anyone else—did some things even better than the High Lord, and he was very powerful. She did some things no one else had ever done before or will ever do again. But that was Lady Angelline.*

*I can’t be like her.*

*Nobody can.*

*Witch-child,* Papa said. His sudden presence on a psychic thread startled her so much, she almost fell out of the saddle. *You should be on your way back to the Hall if you want to get cleaned up and change clothes after your lessons and still reach the theater in time to meet your friends.*

Mikal gave her a sharp look. *Should we be turning back now?*

*There’s time.*

They rode for another minute before Mikal turned his horse toward the Hall.

*Mikal! We’re not finished talking!*

*Then talk fast.*

*I just . . . I’m not fanning around, okay?*

*Okay.*

*I want something that is mine, just mine. Something the Queen hadn’t done before I thought of it, something she’d never done. I want to do something and not have people say they remember when she had done that same thing.*

Mikal looked thoughtful. *The High Lord once said everything a child does is a new discovery for the child and a familiar story for the adults. That’s why children survive. There is a precedent for the young being courageous to the point of being stupid. Face it, Jaenelle Saetien. If Lucivar hadn’t gone over that waterfall with Lady Angelline, he would have killed you and Daemonar flatter than dead.*

She thought maybe she would have preferred a fierce scolding for doing something that was just her own than acceptance because the Queen had done it.

Maybe she would have preferred that. Maybe.

Daemon knew Jaenelle Saetien had returned to the Hall with a few minutes to spare, not only because he had sensed the presence of Twilight’s Dawn but because Mikal had poked his head into the study to confirm the time for his own lessons the following day and to ask permission to spend a day in Amdarh the following week in order to visit Beron, who had promised to take him around to a few places in the city.

Without asking what places the brothers would be visiting—Helton would be given an itinerary before the boys left the town house—Daemon confirmed the date. The family already had plans to be in Amdarh this week, so if he couldn’t make another trip to the city that soon, he’d send Holt as an escort for Mikal.

That much decided, Daemon reviewed the next report—and waited. The clock ticked, ticked, ticked.

Jaenelle Saetien finally showed up, washed and dressed in the clothes she’d chosen for attending an afternoon play at the theater—and forty minutes late for her first lesson.

Offering no comment or criticism, Daemon came around the desk and indicated she should join him on the side of the study that was furnished for informal meetings, with its long sofa, comfortable chairs, and tables. He called in an hourglass that measured an hour and turned it to start the sand running in the glass. Setting it on the table in front of the sofa, he said pleasantly, “Shall we begin?”

She eyed the hourglass. “Maybe we should do the lessons this evening. There isn’t time to do them now.”

“There is plenty of time. One hour of basic Craft and one hour of Protocol.”

“But . . .”

“I rearranged a meeting with a Province Queen to make this time available for your lessons. I’ll be heading out for that meeting as soon as your mother gets home, so it isn’t possible to do lessons this evening. Therefore, we will do them now, at the time you had requested.” He waited a beat. “Shall we begin?”

The Craft lesson was more of a disaster than he’d anticipated. She pouted; she sulked; she became weepy and claimed she couldn’t do what he wanted her to do. Since they were reviewing making a ball of witchlight—something he knew she could do—he persisted until the last grain of sand fell.

Before she could jump up and head for the door, he turned the hourglass and said pleasantly, “Now for the lesson in Protocol.”

Surreal dropped from the Green Wind to the landing web in front of the Hall, then hesitated when she saw Beale standing in the open doorway.

“Should I assume you’re just taking the air?” she asked as she crossed the gravel drive to stand with him.

“That assumption will do,” he replied.

A shriek came from the direction of Daemon’s study. Since it came from behind a closed door and she had the full length of the great hall between her and that closed door, the sound had to be uncomfortable for anyone inside the room.

“I thought Jaenelle Saetien was seeing a play with some of her friends in the village.”

“After ignoring some agreed-upon rescheduling that she herself requested, the young Lady still thought her father would shorten the Craft and Protocol lessons in order for her to reach the village in time to see the play. I believe she has just realized that she will not reach the theater in time to see anything.”

“Oh, Hell’s fire.” Surreal raked her fingers through her hair, then caught the decorative comb before it fell to the ground. “How long can we stand out here taking the air?”

The study door opened. Jaenelle Saetien stormed out, spun around, and screamed, “You’re the meanest papa in the whole Realm! You ruined everything by making me do those stupid lessons! I never get to have fun!”

“This from the child who wasn’t killed flatter than dead for going over a waterfall on a raft,” Surreal murmured. She eyed the Hall’s butler. “I guess you heard about that.”

“We heard enough.”

Using a light psychic probe, Surreal followed her daughter’s vigorous journey to the family wing. The distance between the great hall and the family wing was such that she shouldn’t have been able to hear a door slam. But she did.

“I guess that’s one Craft lesson that took hold,” she said cheerfully as she stepped inside. “I’d better check on the other participant of this to-do.”

It unnerved her to walk into the study and see Daemon standing near his desk, a half-filled glass of brandy held in a hand that trembled.

“Sadi?” She kept her voice quiet—and she kept the study door open.

“I’m the meanest papa in the whole Realm.”

He sounded hurt. She wanted to smack him for that, so she walked up to him, took the brandy, and swallowed down half of it. “That’s today. Tomorrow it will be someone else’s turn.” She handed back the glass. “I take it the lessons went badly?”

“Oh, I think the lesson about being on time for lessons if one wants to go to a social activity made an impression,” he replied. “I’m sorry to leave you with this, but I have an appointment with a Province Queen that I need to keep, and I won’t be back in time for dinner.”

Odd time for Daemon to make an appointment, unless . . .

Ah. If he’d inconvenienced someone besides himself in order to accommodate Jaenelle Saetien, that explained some of his hurt over being called mean because she hadn’t lived up to her side of the agreement. “So what else have we learned from this?”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’ve learned that there are days when I’m going to be wrong no matter what I do.”

“Hmm. In that case, I’ll postpone Jaenelle Saetien’s crossbow lessons a while longer.”

A huff of laughter before he said dryly, “Yes. Thank you for that.” He hesitated, then gave her a light kiss. “I’ll be back this evening.”

But you won’t ask to spend the night with me, she thought as he walked out of the study. After the fracas with Jaenelle Saetien, he wouldn’t feel easy about sleeping with her in case his temper took on too much of an edge.

At least she’d been able to quiet some of his emotional storm. Now she’d see what she could do to settle her daughter’s mood before the girl gave her father a reason to cancel the trip to Amdarh—and the ride in the park with Lady Zoela.

SIX

Surreal broke open a warm biscuit and added generous portions of butter and berry jam, as well as a dollop of fresh whipped cream, before taking a bite.

She didn’t know what had been said yesterday when Jaenelle Saetien had gone to Manny’s cottage, no doubt to complain about having the meanest papa in the Realm, but the girl had come home chastened to the point of apologizing to Daemon for saying mean things to him when it was her own fault that she hadn’t gone to the play with her friends. The apology had smoothed things over between man and girl, and the three of them had spent an enjoyable evening together after arriving in Amdarh.

Daemon finished his coffee, then pushed his chair away from the breakfast table. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us? It’s a refreshing morning for a ride.”

Surreal gave him a sharp smile. “It rained last night, so refreshing means riding under drippy leaves. No, thank you. Besides, Zhara invited me to join her for coffee and pastries, served with a hefty side of information exchange and a dollop of gossip. That is my idea of refreshing.”

He laughed softly. “Well, aren’t you sassy?”

“I’m not the one who will spend the morning with two giggling girls.”

“That’s a matter of opinion.”

“Watch it, Sadi.”

Daemon walked around to her side of the table and gave her an affectionate kiss—a kiss that might have become warmer if Jaenelle Saetien hadn’t appeared in the doorway of the breakfast room and said, “Come on, Papa! We’re going to be late!”

“I guess someone has developed a new appreciation for being on time,” Surreal whispered.

“I guess someone has,” he whispered back. He gave her another quick kiss before he and Jaenelle Saetien left the town house.

Surreal poured herself another cup of coffee, then let it go cold.

How could she tell Daemon that she wanted to be his second-in-command and his occasional lover but not his wife?

Maybe she was putting too much emphasis on the word “wife.” Or the wrong emphasis. For a Warlord Prince, what was a wife, anyway? A buffer against the unwanted attention of other women. Oh, she could be other things as well, but a weapon that was always honed for war needed someone to keep bloody conflicts to a minimum. That buffer was usually a wife or a Queen—or both. Especially when the Warlord Prince wore a dark Jewel.

“Both,” she whispered. At the time of Witch’s return, she’d been so scared or angry, so desperately trying to survive the emotional storm caused by Daemon’s growing instability combined with his increased sexual heat, that she hadn’t appreciated what the Queen had meant about being a buffer between herself and Sadi. Hadn’t appreciated that her partnership with Sadi wasn’t her only partnership.

Leaving the breakfast room, she found Helton and requested a fresh pot of coffee, two mugs, and cream and sugar. An unusual request since she drank her coffee black, but Helton didn’t ask who might be joining her. She couldn’t have given him an answer even if he’d asked.

When he brought the tray to the morning room, where she took care of correspondence whenever she was in Amdarh, she thanked him and locked the door behind him—then put a Gray shield around the room.

She wasn’t sure how this worked, even though it had happened a few times. Wasn’t sure it would work with her being at the town house. But she fixed the two mugs of coffee, then held them and closed her eyes as she descended into the abyss to the level of the Gray.

*Lady. Sister. Can we talk?*

That moment of biting cold. When Surreal opened her eyes, she stood in the Misty Place.

A moment later, Witch appeared, wearing a sleeveless sapphire dress that reached midthigh. “Hello, Surreal.”

“Hello, sugar. It’s been a while.”

Witch smiled, but she looked puzzled. “You could come to the Keep if you want to talk. Most days, that would be safer.”

“No time to travel today.” And I want to do this before I lose my nerve. Surreal held out one mug. “I brought coffee.” She hesitated. “Can you drink coffee now?”

“No, but I appreciate the thought.” Witch took the mug. “What brings you here?”

“I don’t want to be a proper wife.”

“Well, thank the Darkness for that. I hope you smacked whoever said you needed to be.”

Surreal blinked. Then she tried again to explain something she wasn’t sure how to say. “Sadi needs a wife. We can agree on that.”

“Yes, he does, and yes, we can.”

“But I’m not suited to be a . . . a buffer. As a wife, Marian is a buffer between Lucivar and the rest of the Blood.”

“Buffer” somehow sounded soft and comforting, which were words that suited Marian—when she wasn’t riled.

“So tell me, my Dea al Mon Sister, what kind of wife are you?” Witch asked.

“Sword and shield.” The moment she said the words, she knew they were true.

A warm smile. “So you’ve decided.” Witch paused, as if considering what to say. “You’re not the first witch who chose to marry a Warlord Prince in order to be his sword and shield. That position, while not official since it isn’t always connected to a court, is as valuable a service to the Realm as any other service to a Queen and has much in common with a Queen’s Consort in its duties. Because those duties are intimate, one always hopes for at least affection between the two people if not some kind of love. The details of that arrangement are as individual as the people involved, and those details are no one else’s business. But you have to tell him, Surreal. You have to tell Daemon what to expect from a wife who is a sword and shield.”

“And if he won’t accept it?” she asked softly.

“Why wouldn’t he?” Witch asked just as softly. “It’s what you were when you married him, even if you hadn’t used those words.”

“And then, that night . . .” She didn’t have to be more specific about the night that had changed—and broken—so much. “I ran the next morning in order to survive. I can’t be the Sadist’s lover. I can’t.”

“No, you can’t.”

“But you could.”

“Daemon and I suited each other in every way, including the darkest ways. If he hadn’t survived what had been done to him in Terreille, if he hadn’t managed to reach Kaeleer when he did, I would have never known that kind of love because he was the only one who was able to get past the scars I carry from Briarwood. And he was the only one who had the strength and courage to be a lover to everything I was.”

“If he hadn’t met you, he wouldn’t have known anyone who could love and accept everything he is,” Surreal said.

“As I said, we suited each other in every way.”

And you still do.

“It’s time for you to go. Even the Gray isn’t safe in the Misty Place.” Witch handed the mug back to Surreal. “Tell him where you’re drawing the lines, Surreal. It will be easier for both of you if you do.”

“Maybe I should start tucking my crossbow in bed with me, like Mrs. Beale does with her meat cleaver.”

Witch stared at her, wide-eyed. “Do you ever want Daemon to sleep with you?”

“Well, Beale seems to manage with—”

“Good-bye, Surreal.”

Biting cold.

Surreal blinked. Then she laughed and felt a part of herself begin to heal. Setting the mugs on the tray, she went up to her room to freshen up before her visit with Lady Zhara.

“Thank you for inviting me to ride with you,” Zoey said. “Lord Weston and I ride in the park at least once a week, because I like riding and he’s a good rider, but it’s different riding with another girl. I mean, Weston listens to what I’m saying, but he’s a grown-up male and doesn’t understand what I’m saying half the time.”

Jaenelle Saetien looked over her shoulder at the two men riding far enough behind them not to overhear her conversation with Zoey. That didn’t mean they were unprotected. She knew Papa had light defensive shields ahead of them and on either side to keep them safe. “My papa understands what I’m saying most of the time. That’s not as comfortable as you might think.”

“I think it would be wonderful.”

Zoey’s wistful smile made Jaenelle Saetien feel a little guilty. Papa was supposed to be riding with them, not behind with Zoey’s guard, but there had been something about the light in Zoey’s eyes when she’d looked at Papa that made Jaenelle Saetien reluctant to share him with another person. That was the reason she had emphasized that Zoey was her guest. Papa had yielded—and had looked pleased—but she wondered if he’d known it was because she didn’t want to share him with a Queen, who would be more important simply because she was a Queen.

“That’s why I’m going to send Prince Sadi reports,” Zoey continued. “I think it’s important for Queens to keep the ruler of a Territory informed.”

“What can you tell him? It will be years and years before you rule even a village.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t pay attention to the people who live in Amdarh or notice when someone needs help. I tell my grandmother about what I observe because that is part of my training as a Queen, but sending Prince Sadi a report would be . . . nice.”

“Can’t you tell your own papa?”

Zoey’s lips quivered. “I don’t have a father. I have a sire.”

Jaenelle Saetien gasped. Her hands tightened on the reins, causing her horse—a kindred Warlord—to toss his head and snort. “Sorry,” she murmured, patting his neck. “It’s all right.”

She’d never met anyone who wasn’t one of the kindred who just had a sire instead of a father. “Why?” she asked—and then wondered if she was being too curious. After all, she and Zoey had just met, and this seemed like the kind of heart-deep stuff you only told a good friend.

Unless you didn’t have any good friends?

“He told my grandmother he didn’t want the weight of duty that came with raising a Queen, but he would be there for the Birthright Ceremony so that paternity could be acknowledged,” Zoey said.

“What did your mother say?”

They rode in silence for a forever amount of time before Zoey said, “My mother wasn’t a natural Black Widow, but the Hourglass’s Craft called to her. She was near the end of her apprenticeship when she met my father and they fell in love. My grandmother says my father isn’t a bad man, just a selfish one, but my grandfather said once that my father had been more in love with the status that came from being part of our family than with my mother. I was born while my mother was a journeymaid. One day, she wove a tangled web of dreams and visions, and something went wrong. She didn’t fall into the Twisted Kingdom. She’s not insane, exactly. She’s just . . . gone. Lost in whatever she saw in the tangled web. Grandmother visits her once a week at the healing house that takes care of people whose minds are . . . not right. I only have to visit her for an afternoon every month. That’s hard because I remember who she was, but she doesn’t remember me. She’s still connected to her body enough that she can feed and clothe herself and knows how to use the toilet, but my mother isn’t there. Not really.”

Jaenelle Saetien thought about her own grandmother. Tersa was a broken Black Widow who wandered the roads in the Twisted Kingdom, but she was able to live in Halaway, knew her family and talked to them, and participated in celebrations like Winsol. Mikal lived with Tersa, and Papa wouldn’t have allowed that if Tersa wasn’t a little bit able to look after a boy.

“I’m sorry,” she said—and meant it.

“Me too.”

She hesitated, but Zoey’s life was so different from her own that curiosity won over what Papa might call good manners. “Is that why your papa doesn’t live with you? Because he couldn’t raise a Queen on his own with your mother being lost that way?”

Papa had been very, very ill for a while, but he was getting better, would continue to get better. But if he hadn’t gotten better, would her life be more like Zoey’s? Without either parent? No. Her mother would have stayed, would have protected her, loved her.

Zoey’s smile was bitter and too old for someone their age. “He doesn’t live with us for the same reason he didn’t show up for the Birthright Ceremony, even though he promised he would—he expected to be paid. When he found out Grandmother wasn’t going to provide him with an income, he moved to another Province in Dhemlan. So Grandmother had him listed as my sire in the official registers so that the bloodline would be recorded, but he doesn’t have any say in my life. He’s not a part of my life.”

That was so sad. “But you have your grandfather.”

Zoey’s smile warmed. “Yes, I do. And my grandmother. And Weston.”

Jaenelle Saetien hesitated, but only for a moment. “And my papa. He’ll read your reports—and he’ll help you if you need help.”

The horses snorted.

“I think they’re bored with walking.” She gave Zoey a mischievous look. “We can—”

“Canter, not gallop,” Papa said, his deep voice rolling over the distance between them.

Zoey’s eyes widened. “How did he know?”

Jaenelle Saetien focused on the space between her horse’s ears. “The horses are kindred. I think Papa was telling them, not us.”

“Oh.” Zoey looked at the mare she was riding. “Kindred? I didn’t realize. How . . . ?”

That was as far as Zoey got before the horses lifted into a canter.

Daemon watched the two girls and resisted the temptation to ask the horses what they were discussing. If the mare and stallion he’d asked to be the girls’ mounts had decided the human chatter wasn’t interesting, he didn’t want to give them a reason to pay attention. Keeping anything private in a household with Scelties was a near impossibility, but the dogs eventually learned that they didn’t have to tell him everything that his daughter was doing or saying—just the things that might threaten her well-being in one way or another. Since he resisted crossing that line with the Scelties, he wasn’t going to smudge the line with the horses.

“So serious,” he murmured.

“Your invitation to ride this morning means a great deal to Lady Zoela,” Weston said. “She was excited enough to enlist her maid, her grandmother’s maid, and her grandmother into helping her select a riding outfit.” A beat of silence. “She even asked for my opinion.”

Daemon swallowed a laugh. “Hell’s fire, man. It’s just a ride in the park.”

“To Zoey, it’s more than that.”

After a quick psychic probe to assure himself that nothing was amiss around them, he gave his attention to the other man.

“You know about Lady Zhara’s family,” Weston said.

“Some things,” he replied. “I know her daughter is a Black Widow lost in a tangled web and, so far, even the most skilled Sisters of the Hourglass haven’t been able to bring her back.”

When he’d first heard about Zhara’s daughter, he’d considered if his being a natural Black Widow who wore the Black could help their family. In the end, he admitted he didn’t have the skill—and he couldn’t risk his own fragile sanity. He could weave a tangled web and see the dreams and visions, but he was always careful not to look too deeply into a vision—or step too far into the Twisted Kingdom. He’d climbed out of madness once with Witch’s help. And having a mother who always lived on the border of the Twisted Kingdom was a daily reminder of the price she’d chosen to pay in order to regain some of her Craft.

But times had changed. There were two skilled Black Widows residing at the Keep now. Their knowledge hadn’t been available to him when Zoey’s mother slipped into the visions. Maybe there was something he could do now.

At what price? Zoey’s mother wasn’t the only Black Widow to be trapped in a tangled web. If he convinced Karla and Witch to help one woman, how many more would want the same help?

Slippery choices. He was whole and sane because Witch had intervened to heal him when he needed her the most. She had come back for him. Not only for him, since she had maintained contact with Daemonar because she was the boy’s Queen, but she had returned enough to be a presence at the Keep for him, Daemonar, and Lucivar—and for Karla, who had informed them all that she wasn’t going to put up with dealing with so much wiggle-waggle unless she had someone sensible to talk to.

Since she was Lucivar’s administrative second-in-command, no one had dared to argue.

“Even girls from aristo families will fawn over a girl who is a Queen,” Weston said. “But when the girl’s mother is . . . lost . . . and her father is something of a scandal . . . Children can be cruel. Maybe that was a reflection of what they picked up from the adults around them, but the end result was the same. Zoey had become more and more isolated living at Lady Zhara’s country estate, even though there were a lot of things she enjoyed about country life. Bringing her here to live in Amdarh . . . I think Lady Zhara hoped to give Zoey a fresh start at a new school.”

Daemon hadn’t detected loneliness in the girl when he’d met her at the art supplies shop, but he’d been so much on edge, he’d responded to the Queen. Now he wondered how much her delight in assisting him had covered other feelings.

“Jaenelle Saetien faces similar challenges,” Daemon said. “A girl with an unusual Jewel who comes from the family that has ruled Dhemlan for thousands of years. Sometimes it’s hard for her to maintain her balance.”

“But there are a few who accept the girl for who she is.”

“A few.” Most of them were either family or had fur, but he didn’t tell Weston that part.

Then he had a thought. Zhara would try to skin him alive if he made that introduction, but the girl, as girl and Queen, might benefit from having a special friend.

Another quick check on the girls. Still so serious.

“Is this your assignment in Zhara’s court? To be Zoey’s primary guard?” he asked.

Weston nodded. “Zoey’s paternal grandfather and mine are cousins. I was already serving in Lady Zhara’s court when Zoey’s father decided to stay in his current lover’s bed instead of attending his daughter’s Birthright Ceremony. The day after the ceremony, I asked to be assigned to Zoey.”

“Family.” That explained some things about the casual give-and-take between girl and guard.

*We are bored.* That from the Warlord who was Jaenelle Saetien’s mount. *Our little humans are done talking about sad things and need to run to be happy.*

Daemon saw the look on his daughter’s face and let his voice roll through the park. “Canter, not gallop.”

The horses didn’t wait. They lifted into a canter as the girls’ delighted laughter floated back to the two men.

*We are not running. Why aren’t we running?* The stallion carrying Daemon had recently made the Offering to the Darkness and was now a Sapphire-Jeweled Warlord Prince. Not a male who was inclined to put up with nonsense from his rider—no matter who was on his back.

Besides, the girls were getting a bit too far ahead of their escorts.

“Shall we join the girls?” he said.

“Is that your way of telling me our mounts will be joining the girls whether we’re still on them or not?”

Daemon nodded a moment before both horses shot forward like they’d reached the starting line for a race. Once the men were riding alongside the girls, the horses slowed to a walk and headed back to the SaDiablo town house, where the riders were encouraged to dismount so that the horses could return to the stables and enjoy a snack.

Having never been encouraged to dismount in quite that way—having a horse use Craft to shove him out of the saddle when he didn’t move quickly enough on his own—Weston looked a little dazed as he stood on the sidewalk and watched the horses trot away. Zoey, on the other hand . . .

Even at the risk of raising Zhara’s ire, Daemon thought Zoey would benefit from some personal experience with the kindred.

After changing her clothes, Jaenelle Saetien chose a book from her current stack of reading material and went downstairs to find Papa. He wasn’t in his study, which surprised her, since he always had business papers to read or letters to write to the managers of the family’s various estates. He wasn’t in the morning room or the sitting room either. Just when she became uneasy and wondered if he’d left without saying anything, she found him in the informal sitting room that looked out over the town house’s back garden.

He wore casual black trousers and a deep green shirt that had a soft gray pattern, like wisps of smoke, and his feet were bare, the soft house shoes dropped near the sofa where he sat reading a letter from the stack in his lap. He looked amused by something in the letter. When he looked up and saw her, his smile warmed and deepened.

She sat on his right side, so close she could feel the heat from his body, could breathe in his scent—a scent that, today, meant safety. And love.

Zoey’s story about her sire brought home the truth that, even when she felt cross with Papa, he still loved her and would be there if she really needed him, whatever the price.

She intended to read her book while he read his letters. She often cuddled next to him in the evening, reading her book while he read one of his, although, if she asked, he would read her a story like he’d done when she was younger. But she didn’t feel content. Instead, a thought scratched at her, and she wasn’t sure which would be worse—getting an answer or always wondering what the answer might be.

“Papa?” she asked after he put aside the first letter.

“Witch-child?” he replied as he broke the wax seal on the next letter.

“Should I write reports for you?”

She braced for him to tell her she was being foolish because she wouldn’t have anything interesting to say, not like Zoey, who was a Queen. Not that Papa had ever made her feel foolish when she asked a question, but . . .

He stared out the window at the garden beyond. Quiet. Thoughtful. Then he said, “If something troubled you and you weren’t comfortable talking about it directly, you could write it down for me to read. Otherwise, I would hope that you could sit down and tell me whatever was on your mind.”

“Zoey is going to write reports to send to you.”

“Zoey doesn’t live with us, and she doesn’t live near the Hall.” He put an arm around her. “I receive reports from Dhemlan’s Queens informing me about any concerns they have regarding things happening in their territories, but the Queen of Halaway comes up to the Hall once a month. We sit in my study and have coffee and whatever treats Mrs. Beale has made that day, and we talk about the village and the people. She rarely writes a report because she’s just down the road, and I’m in the village several times a week to see Tersa and Manny, and I spend a few minutes chatting with her Steward or Master of the Guard. Those chats are just as valuable as the reports.” He gave her a hug. “It’s a question of distance.”

Jaenelle Saetien leaned against Papa. “Zoey doesn’t have a papa who listens to her.”

“I know,” he replied softly.

“And her mother . . . That’s so sad.”

“Yes, it is sad.”

She looked up. “You’ll read her reports?”

“I will read her reports.”

“And we’ll all be friends?”

“If you and Zoey like each other and want to spend time together, then, yes, we can all be friends.”

She hesitated, then asked her final question. “Do you wish that I was a Queen?”

“Never.”

His firm, and instant, answer surprised her.

“A Queen is bound by her caste. Everything in her pushes her to rule something, regardless of whether it’s large or small. No matter what other talents she has, or what she might have wanted to be, she is first, and always, a Queen. There were boundaries around Zoey’s life from the moment she was born. But you, my darling, can be anything you want to be, can follow your dreams to do whatever work gives you joy. I’ve always been happy that you have that choice.”

“So many choices,” she said quietly.

“We make our life out of choices. Do we like the color green better than blue? Or strawberries better than radishes? Small things or big things, eventually those choices shape who we are.” He kissed the top of her head. “But you don’t have to choose everything today. Except whether you want to eat strawberries or radishes, which taste very different but are both red.”

She giggled. “That’s silly.”

Satisfied, she opened her book. Papa went back to reading his letters. When her mother came home, the three of them talked for a little while. Then Papa put on regular shoes and he and her mother went outside to walk around the back garden together. Jaenelle Saetien watched them, the way they talked—so serious!—and the way Papa held her mother’s hand.

Sometimes her mother and Papa didn’t get along. Sometimes Papa had to live apart from them even when he was still at the Hall. But today, as they walked back to the house, they looked happier with each other—and she had made a new friend.

SEVEN

A month later, Daemon rode the Black Wind to Amdarh for an early-morning meeting with his second-in-command, whose terse summons made him a little wary. Surreal had returned to the town house a couple of days ago and Jaenelle Saetien was at the Hall, where he was supposed to be the parent on duty for the next several days, since he’d been away from home so much these past few weeks.

After being told Surreal was on her way downstairs to meet him, he entered the breakfast room and sat down. Then he looked at the two letters Helton placed next to his plate with a care and precision that gave him a good idea of how much trouble he was in.

“Couldn’t those wait until I’ve had breakfast?” he asked.

“Lady Surreal also received a letter this morning,” Helton replied. “Hers was marked Urgent and came from the Queen of Amdarh. I thought you would want the letters that were delivered at the same time—by the Queen’s Master of the Guard.”

Hell’s fire. Sending the Master out before dawn to deliver letters seemed a bit excessive.

Then Surreal strode into the breakfast room, a letter in one hand. “Sadi, what in the name of Hell did you do?”

“Do?” He might have gotten away with sounding as if no one should be concerned if Helton hadn’t chosen to make a hasty retreat from the room, almost slamming the door in his hurry to leave the field of this particular battle.

Not that there should be a battle.

Daemon broke a corn muffin in half and took his time buttering it. “You summoned me to Amdarh, remember?”

Surreal sat opposite him. “I requested your presence because yesterday two of the Ladies in Zhara’s First Circle approached me and hinted that you were the cause of considerable agitation in the Queen’s family. I thought it best to find out why. Then this letter arrived before any reasonable person should be awake.” She dropped the letter on the table and leaned toward him. “You shoved a Prince into Zhara’s court without consulting her?”

“I did no such thing. I merely introduced Zoey to a young Prince whose company I thought she would enjoy.”

“A Sceltie Prince.”

“But not a Warlord Prince. That would have been excessive.”

Surreal narrowed her eyes and said nothing when he poured a cup of coffee and set it in front of her. Then, “Have I met this one?”

“No.” And thank the Darkness for that. “He’s been at the school in Scelt.”

“Is he the reason you’ve spent so much time in Scelt these past few weeks?”

“One of the reasons.” The main reason. Princes didn’t have the aggression and volatile temper of a Warlord Prince, but Trace’s driving desire to manage things, combined with a Sceltie’s passion for herding, had had the instructors at the Sceltie school pleading with Daemon to find the youngster a place where all that energy could be put to use. And since the youngster had come away with an Opal Jewel after the Birthright Ceremony and had the potential to wear the Red when he matured, finding work for that Prince had been a priority.

It wasn’t his fault that Trace and Zoey had adored each other at first sight.

Surreal folded Zhara’s letter and vanished it. After filling her plate, she gave his unread letters a pointed look.

Probably best if he read them before they discussed anything.

Daemon picked up the letter from Lord Weston and broke the seal.

Prince Sadi,

I am sure that Lady Zhara will appreciate your gesture after she’s had a few more days to adjust to the new member of her household. Until then, may I suggest, man to man, that you absent yourself from the city to avoid a vigorous discussion with Amdarh’s Queen. You should also be aware that the teachers at Zoey’s school may want to have an equally vigorous chat with you. It seems Prince Trace has firm opinions about proper education, and he has named you as his source for the Right Thing to Do.

Zoey meeting Trace is the best thing that has happened to her in quite some time, and you have my wholehearted thanks for bringing this about.

Sincerely,

Weston

Postscript: Please burn this letter after you’ve read it.

Daemon folded the letter, then called in a stone bowl. Holding the letter over the bowl, he created a tongue of witchfire and watched the paper swiftly burn to ash.

“What . . . ?” Surreal asked.

Daemon merely smiled and opened the next letter.

Dear Prince Sadi,

Trace is so smart! When we went to school yesterday—Weston too—my teacher said students weren’t allowed to bring pets to school, and Trace told her he was an escort just like Weston, only he was a Sceltie and a Prince, and he would wait for me in the room set aside for escorts. Except then he decided he should be learning too, but my studies would be too hard for him right now. So he found the classroom for the younger students and sat in an empty chair in the front and participated in the reading lesson. And he did as well as the other students! He was also quick to snarl at a couple of boys who weren’t paying attention to the teacher. At least, that’s what Weston told me after school. The teacher had called him after Trace cornered the boys and put up a shield to keep them in the corner and told them bad sheep had to stay in the pen until they learned how to behave. I guess Weston had to negotiate with the teacher and Trace about how much time bad sheep had to stay penned.

I’m not sure if anything else happened because Weston didn’t tell me, but there was a loud burst of laughter from the escorts’ room a couple of times yesterday.

At recess, some of the girls came over to talk to me. They really wanted to meet Trace, but they were nice to me too.

I think Grandmother is a little miffed because Trace wanted to know what time I should wake up and go to bed and go outside and play. He said you had taught him how to read clocks, so he should know these things in case my human family forgets to tell me. I don’t think Grandmother or Grandfather—or Weston—will forget, but it’s so much fun to have a friend like Trace, and I don’t feel so alone now.

Thank you, Prince. I’ll take good care of Trace, and he’ll take good care of me.

Sincerely,

Zoey (Lady Zoela)

Daemon folded Zoey’s letter and vanished it. Then he quietly cleared his throat. “If there’s nothing else, I think I’ll return to the Hall.”

“You might not want to be that easy to find,” Surreal suggested.

“It’s one Sceltie.” He had good reason to know that it was, at best, a feeble defense.

“Uh-huh. I seem to remember you lobbing that argument at Lucivar after a few of Jillian and Khary’s adventures. And look what happened in Little Weeble.”

He would rather not think about that. Really rather not.

Lucivar would forgive him for that misstep. Someday. Besides, Lucivar had agreed to the arrangement, so it wasn’t all his fault.

Being the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan meant he couldn’t tuck tail and run. At least, he couldn’t be obvious about it.

“I’ll return to the Hall,” he said. “I don’t want to leave Jaenelle Saetien on her own for too long.”

“I’ll stay here for a couple more days and provide a sympathetic ear.”

“Thank you.”

She laughed. “The sympathetic ear is not for you, Sadi.”

“It’s one Sceltie.” He imagined that someone kicking the pebble that starts an avalanche said much the same thing.

EIGHT

Tersa wandered the streets of Halaway, shivering. With effort, she focused on some of the people going in and out of shops. Coats. The significance of coats was . . . Couldn’t remember. Didn’t matter.

“Tersa.”

Her boy glided toward her, smiling. But the look in his gold eyes? Concern. Yes.

Did he know? No, someone in the village must have told him she was wandering. Had someone asked her something? Had she answered in a way that had caused enough concern for them to summon him?

Couldn’t remember. Couldn’t hear past that sound.

“Darling, put this on. It’s chilly today, and you’re not dressed warmly enough.” Her boy helped her into a coat. His coat by the scent rising from the material, warmed by his body and by warming spells that he must have added for her sake.

No amount of outside warmth could stop this shivering. Tersa turned and grabbed fistfuls of her boy’s white silk shirt. “You must tell the Queen.”

His hands closed over hers. “Tell her what?”

“I still hear them. The footsteps are getting closer.”

When he tried to question her, she shook her head and allowed him to lead her back to her cottage. She had given the answer and had to trust that he would deliver it.

Delora linked arms with Hespera as the two girls walked along the perimeter of the lawn where the afternoon party was taking place. She had dressed in her best party frock, not to impress her hosts—they were minor aristos who had recently moved to this part of Dhemlan and embraced country life—and certainly not to impress the girl who was the reason for this celebration. No, she’d worn it to please her father so that he could boast that she was the brightest and prettiest girl in the Province. She could do no wrong when he believed other men envied him for having such a daughter, and she liked to keep it that way.

“What do you think of Dahlia?” Hespera asked, indicating the girl who was talking to one of the older boys while cuddling the kitten that had been one of her gifts.

“She’s . . . adequate,” Delora replied. “But she has a selfish streak that I don’t think will suit us for being friends.”

“Selfish?”

“I admired the fancy comb in her hair and asked if I could borrow it. She said no.”

“It is a gift she just received today,” Hespera pointed out.

“So?”

“Is the comb going to fall out and go missing?”

“Oh, no,” Delora said. “I’ve decided it isn’t pretty enough for me to wear.”

“I don’t see Zoela here,” Hespera said after a minute. “Don’t tell me the little Queen wasn’t invited. I think Dahlia’s parents invited every aristo girl in the Province who is the same age as darling Dahlia.”

“I heard Lady Zhara brought Zoela to the city and is going to have her live there now. Just as well. Zoela really isn’t our kind of aristo. She’s almost a rube.” And not a girl who looked the other way when rules were bent, let alone broken. That was a shame. Having a Queen as a good friend would have been useful. But there were other girls, other Queens. It was just a matter of choosing the right kind of friends. Blood sings to Blood. Like calls to like. And if a person didn’t fit with her? Well, someone had to be the prey in the games she enjoyed the most.

She and Hespera split up as they reached the tables set out with platters of food. They moved in and around the adults, smiling and polite, as they selected a small amount of delicacies and were encouraged to take more. She looked away, blushingly shy, when complimented on her dress—and she laughed silently when she overheard a Warlord who was going flabby in middle age tell her father how delightful it was to see a girl her age who was so well-behaved.

An hour later, Dahlia began looking for her kitten, who wasn’t in the shielded basket where she’d put it while she had something to eat.

Delora and Hespera rushed to help with the search.

“I’m sure we’ll find him,” Delora said, putting an arm around Dahlia. “A small thing like that couldn’t have gone far.” She stayed with the other girl as they looked for the kitten, staining her party frock by getting on her hands and knees to check under bushes.

No sign of the kitten. Nothing. Gone.

As Delora led weeping Dahlia toward the house, she said very quietly, “It’s too bad about the kitten, but it could have been worse. If your baby brother had gone missing, that would have been a tragedy.”

Dahlia stared at Delora. Delora patted the girl’s shoulder and smiled sympathetically.

The party continued a while longer, mostly because one didn’t invite this many aristos—and have a sufficient number deign to attend—and then ask them to leave before the usual time.

After receiving praise for their efforts to find the kitten, Delora and Hespera linked arms and made another circuit around the lawn.

“Do you think anyone will find the kitten?” Hespera asked.

Delora didn’t even glance at the large tree or the roots that were lifted above the ground. Didn’t need to look to know that no one would check around the trees carefully enough to spot any sign that the ground had been disturbed. She passed by the tree and imagined she could still hear faint, desperate mewing.

“Perhaps someone will someday.” She gave her best friend a brilliant smile. “But not in time.”

Lucivar slipped into the communal eyrie after dinner, not sure why Hallevar had acted so cagey about wanting to see him this evening. The crusty old arms master had been one of his own trainers in the Askavi Terreille hunting camps and was now teaching the Eyrien youngsters in Ebon Rih how to handle weapons—and was the sort of man who usually said whatever was on his mind.

When Lucivar saw Rothvar waiting with Hallevar, he hesitated. He didn’t want to think Rothvar had turned on him or that Hallevar had betrayed him, but his previous second-in-command had not been an honorable man and had managed to hide that truth for several years.

“Figured you should both hear this,” Hallevar said. “I didn’t promise the boy I’d keep quiet about it, so I’m not breaking trust.”

Lucivar approached slowly. “All right.”

“It comes down to the traffic and trade between Kaeleer and Terreille,” Rothvar said.

“Some people have always come through the Gates, and I guess there’s always been some trading.” Lucivar couldn’t imagine wanting anything from Terreille, but that didn’t mean other people felt the same way.

“Just because someone left Terreille doesn’t mean there aren’t ties,” Rothvar said. “Some of the Eyriens living here have family that either stayed in Terreille by choice or didn’t get to the service fairs before the purge that cleansed the Realms. News from family can have a powerful pull.” He looked Lucivar in the eyes. “Not for me—I was glad to leave that pus-riddled Realm—but for some.”

“Are we talking about anyone in particular?”

“Dorian,” Hallevar said. “Alanar overheard Dorian and Endar arguing over some letters she received from family still living in Terreille. The boy doesn’t know what the letters said, just that it sounded like Dorian had been sending and receiving letters for a while now and his father was upset about it.”

“People in Terreille poisoning the well out of spite?” Rothvar suggested. “Or preparing the ground for a battle to help the family’s Queen gain control of some territory?”

Hallevar snorted. “Endar brought his family to Kaeleer because it’s obvious the girl has a bit of a short-lived race in her bloodline, and Eyriens in Terreille wouldn’t have accepted her as a Queen they were willing to serve.”

“That was before the purge,” Lucivar said. “Now?” It was a possibility. Train the girl here and then return to Terreille to set up a court. Except anyone who thought Daemonar would follow Orian to Terreille was a fool. More likely, set up the daughter’s court as the means of bringing the rest of the family to Kaeleer.

“Ask around,” he said. “Find out what you can about Dorian’s family. My impression was they weren’t aristo, but they might have unrealistic expectations about what they can gain from having a Queen in the family—especially if they’re looking to reconcile with Dorian for some kind of profit.”

What sort of profit they thought to gain from Endar was anyone’s guess. But it could explain Dorian’s interest in setting a hook into the Yaslana family. He—or one of his children—had the kind of wealth that could support a Queen’s court in style.

He’d send them to Hell—and to the High Lord—before he let that happen.

After thanking Hallevar for bringing this to his attention, Lucivar walked out with Rothvar.

“Might be nothing more than letters from home,” Rothvar said. “Might not have anything to do with Dorian feeling sour about her life.”

“Might not,” Lucivar agreed. “But distance can make some things look better, just like stories can gloss over a truth to make it less ugly.”

“Or less frightening?”

“You don’t think the stories about me are frightening?”

“They are.” Rothvar lowered his voice. “They’re still not close to the truth about you. I’ve worked alongside you enough years now to have figured that out. There may come a time when I can’t stand with you, Lucivar, but I’ll never stand on the other side of a line against you. You need to know that, here and now.”

Lucivar stepped aside and spread his wings. “Then let’s hope we never find that line.”

Tomorrow he would go to the Keep and ask Geoffrey for whatever was available about Dorian’s bloodlines. Now, as he flew home, he wondered if Marian had received any letters—and he wondered what he would do if she had.

Daemon waited until Jaenelle Saetien fell asleep before riding the Black Wind to the Keep, leaving his girl in the care of Beale and Holt. It was the same arrangement they had worked out for the times when Surreal wasn’t at the Hall and he needed the solitude of staying in his father’s old suite, with the layers of Black shields keeping everyone away from him while he regained his self-control and emotional balance.

As he waited in the sitting room across from the Queen’s and Consort’s suites, he thought about the change in Surreal since they had taken that walk in the town house’s back garden. Not a change so much as a return of the woman he had known.

“I tried to be something I wasn’t, and it hurt both of us,” she’d said. “I thought I wanted to be a wife, but that night when you invited me to play and offered everything you were, when you showed me what it would be like to be with you without any barriers . . . I can’t be a wife to that man, Sadi. It’s taken me years to realize I felt safe enough to be with you because a part of you was still Jaenelle’s husband. Witch’s husband. Even when we didn’t know she was here in some way, you were always going to be her husband.”

“Is that your way of saying you want to leave?” he’d asked quietly.

“No, that’s my way of saying I want to be a different kind of wife, the kind that suits my nature.” A hesitation. “I’ll be your sword and shield, Sadi. I’m the sword.” She raised her left hand so that he could see her wedding ring. “This is your shield. As long as you have a wife and you wear a wedding ring, you’ll have at least some of the companionship you need—and a reason to refuse any companionship you don’t want.”

“You want to be celibate?”

“Hell’s fire, no.” Another hesitation. “I want to be the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan’s second-in-command. I want to be Daemon Sadi’s lover. But I can’t be lover to the Sadist or . . .”

“Or the High Lord of Hell?” he finished.

“Yes.”

He nodded. Not so different from where they had started.

“And I know Sadi as a lover has a bit of an edge, so you can stop asking permission before you do every damn thing. It’s annoying.”

“How will I know if that edge is too much?”

“You’ll feel my knife against your ribs.”

“You could just tell me to stop.”

“I like my way better.”

He laughed softly and took her hand. “Of course you do.”

“Daemon?” Witch said as she walked into the sitting room.

He turned to look at the Queen who was his life. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For helping Surreal set the boundaries of what she wants to give as a wife and what she expects in return.”

“Can you accept those boundaries?” she asked quietly.

“I can.” He smiled dryly. “Actually, it’s a relief to know where the lines are drawn.” I can accept that from her. It would have destroyed me if you’d needed those lines.

Not something he would say. Not something he needed to say. Not to her.

She stepped closer and studied him. “It doesn’t feel like you need to drain the Black or need my help regaining your balance. And I don’t think Surreal defining the terms of your marriage brought you here at this time of night. So I have to wonder what’s really on your mind, Prince?”

“Tersa asked me to deliver a message. She said the footsteps are getting closer.” Seeing the feral light that came into Witch’s eyes, Daemon smiled a cold smile. “What does it mean?”

“The approach of a potential enemy.”

“Who? Where?”

“I don’t know. The only thing I see in the tangled webs I’ve woven is the need to prepare. Tersa is the one who has felt the approach of an enemy, one who is not yet on the horizon, let alone close enough to be seen and recognized.”

“Have other Black Widows seen anything?”

Witch shook her head. “There have been no whispers, Prince. Nothing. But Tersa has always been more farseeing than most.”

“An enemy that well hidden?” He stepped close and bent his head until his lips were a breath away from touching hers—if he could have felt her lips under his. “Use me,” the Sadist crooned.

She placed a hand on his chest, over his heart, and pushed just enough to have him ease back.

“When the time comes,” Witch said. “One of Saetan’s regrets was that Mephis and Peyton had to live with the truth of what he was while they were still young, that they felt the weight of it before they were old enough to understand. Give your daughter as much time as you can before Kaeleer has to acknowledge the truth of all that you are.”

“What will you do?”

She gave him a smile that held some regret. “I’ll help forge a weapon to stand beside you in this fight.”

NINE

Tersa wandered through rooms and corridors in the Keep, muttering, “Wrong place. Wrong place. Can’t see what must be seen until I find the right place.”

She’d stopped hearing the footsteps approaching when she wove a tangled web. Now she felt something that scratched at her bones and filled her dreams with figures made of shrouded mist and voices that screeched and screamed—and laughed. The laughter was the worst because it almost sounded familiar. But the tangled webs she’d woven lately told her nothing more than her dreams, except that she was in the wrong place because the right place held lethal cold and deadly heat that would ensnare—and then kill.

Tersa pushed open an ornate metal gate, took a few steps into that part of the Keep—and froze as something very male and predatory became aware of her presence.

Lethal cold. Deadly heat. Her boy—but not her boy. This was the predator who knew how to turn pleasure into a kind of fatal pain a person would beg to feel until it was no longer possible to beg for anything except to be allowed to die. And even that wouldn’t free a person from his attention. Not anymore.

As the sexual heat washed over her, wrapped around her, she braced a hand against the wall. She should have been immune to that part of him, but that safety was now erased by the cold rage braided with the heat.

Intruder.

Yes, she was. And she wasn’t the only one. Another male, familiar to her, had already scraped at the predator’s control with his presence.

This threat, this bone-deep fear of someone she loved was the element her tangled webs had been missing. She needed those things, needed to be here to spin the web that would let her see the visions clearly.

Tersa hurried into a sitting room closest to the gate and closed the door.

Tables. Chairs. Sofas. A gathering place for a First Circle.

Yes. It would do.

Choosing a table with an empty surface, she called in a wooden frame and her spools of spider silk and began to weave a tangled web of dreams and visions.

Lethal cold. Deadly heat. Voices that screeched and screamed. And one voice whose laughter was filled with joyful malevolence.

She had barely time to attach the last thread, hadn’t even taken that one mental step to the side when the web revealed the visions the previous webs had kept hidden.

Tersa sucked in a breath. Much was still hidden and wouldn’t be revealed until the enemy’s shape—a shape that would be shrouded by deceit for many years—crossed paths with that lethal cold and deadly heat. And then . . .

*He is coming.*

A whisper of warning spoken in a midnight voice.

She hesitated. He was a Black Widow. He could—and would—read what was revealed in her tangled web.

As her trembling hand reached out to break the strands of spider silk, she felt that Black power moving swiftly toward her. Leaving the web intact, she fled from her son, running out of the room and past the metal gate, knowing he wouldn’t follow her once she was no longer in the Queen’s part of the Keep.

She found another sitting room and curled up on a sofa, shivering, to wait for Witch’s summons.

Daemon prowled the Consort’s suite, stared at the unlocked door that would give him freedom, then turned away to pace to the windows and stare at the Queen’s private garden. He had promised, had given his word he would remain in his suite when that other male came here for lessons.

Not just another male. Nephew. Daemonar. Not a rival. Just a boy the Queen wanted to train because the boy would become a strong man one day—if he could tolerate the boy’s presence enough to let the boy live.

He paced and prowled, prowled and paced in a room that seemed to be shrinking with every circuit he made from door to windows, windows to door.

Had to stay away. Had to stay here. He’d tolerated the arrangement the first few times he and the boy had been here at the same time, had even been able to join the boy, and two other Warlord Princes, in a sitting room beyond the Queen’s part of the Keep to talk about the lesson.

This time it felt different. He didn’t understand why, but it felt different.

Still unwilling to break his promise, Daemon turned away from the door leading into the corridor—and the small sitting room directly across from the Queen’s suite—and tried the door that opened into Witch’s bedroom. It was unlocked, which gave him some relief.

He walked into the room, walked over to the bed, and ran a hand over the covers, breathing in the various scents. A hint of scent, physical and psychic, from the witches who tended the Keep and kept these rooms clean drifted up from the sheets and bedcovers. Nothing else in Witch’s room except her own psychic scent—and his. No indication that the other male was trying to stake a claim in his territory.

Nephew. Daemonar. Not a rival. A Brother in the court. So hard to remember that today because something was scratching at him. Had been scratching at him.

Returning to his own room, Daemon removed the cufflinks from his shirt and tossed them on the dresser, then undid the buttons one . . . by . . . one. He shrugged the material off his shoulders, letting the shirt fall to the floor. Today even silk abraded his skin.

He would stay in his room. He would keep his promise. The boy was no threat to him—or to her.

He shaped his Red Birthright power into a psychic probe that rippled through the Queen’s part of the Keep. Rippled over the boy. Rippled over . . .

Intruder.

Smiling a cold, cruel smile, Daemon unleashed his sexual heat and sent it out to touch everyone in this part of the Keep—to ensnare everyone who foolishly entered his territory. And yet . . .

He recognized her tangled mind and her psychic scent. How could he not recognize her? But today even she was an intruder.

One person where there should be none besides himself and his Queen? That he could tolerate. Had to tolerate. He’d given her his word. But two? Two?

Standing in the corridor with no memory of choosing to leave his suite, Daemon stared at the sitting room door, then turned away. After wrapping a sight shield around himself, he located the intruder and headed for that room.

He was several man-lengths away when she bolted from the room and ran past the metal gate that marked the boundary of his territory.

Letting her go, he went into the sitting room to figure out what she had been doing in there—and spotted the tangled web.

Dropping the sight shield, he wrapped a tight Black shield around himself. Then he approached the table and carefully probed the wooden frame and the spools of spider silk. Nothing dangerous about those things. No spells or traps laid for the unwary. Which left the tangled web itself.

He braced one hand on the table, his long black-tinted nails cutting into the wood, and took that mental step to the side to see what the tangled web revealed.

A minute later, he stepped back, stepped away, his rage so huge it rolled through the entire Keep and so cold that ice formed on the windows, looking like frozen streaks of lightning.

The enemy had no face. Not yet. But . . .

He turned away from the web and headed back to the small sitting room across from the Queen’s suite.

. . . the male who had invaded his territory was part of it, and he would know why, even if it meant taking the boy’s body and mind apart piece by piece in order to find out.

He opened the sitting room door and stared at the boy. Nephew, yes. Brother in the court, yes.

It didn’t matter. What mattered—all that mattered—was the boy was somehow connected with a laugh filled with joyful malevolence, and that sound—that sound—had been laced through all the pain and fear and misery of his childhood until he became old enough and strong enough to fight back. To be the destroyer instead of the destroyed.

He stepped into the room. The boy looked up—and the Sadist smiled a sweetly murderous smile.

Sitting cross-legged on a padded bench near one of the large windows, Daemonar carefully opened the old book of scenarios to the page he had marked with a ribbon. The scenarios—exercises using actual experiences as examples of what to do or not do—were nothing like the books Lord Endar had acquired for the lessons he gave the Eyrien children. From what the Rihlander boys said about their lessons, Daemonar figured they didn’t have a book like this either.

Why didn’t anyone in Askavi have a book like this now? Protocol was important, and knowing what to do in a court was important, but this information was equally useful. Prince Chaosti admitted that teachers among the Dea al Mon had a book similar to this, but the scenarios were read aloud and then discussed because there wasn’t one correct answer since the answer changed depending on who was the dominant power at that moment.

The books he was using for his lessons with Auntie J. couldn’t leave the Keep. Some were too old and fragile. Others were too valuable to be removed from the Keep’s library. It was a concession made by Geoffrey as a favor to Auntie J. that Daemonar was allowed to keep the books in this room and read them here.

That was one of the reasons he always arrived early for his lessons. The other reason . . . Well, he wasn’t sure if he was doing it for himself or for her, but he thought maybe Auntie J. wouldn’t feel as lonely if there was someone in the part of the Keep where she stayed. He wasn’t sure she was lonely, and he wasn’t sure she couldn’t leave or if her Self could leave but the shadow wouldn’t take shape outside this part of the Keep or in the Misty Place. He knew his mother sometimes wanted to be alone—really, physically alone—but other times she enjoyed what she called quiet company, when she would be reading or doing some needlework and the rest of them, his father included, would be working on one of those puzzles that were broken into pieces and had to be put back together.

So he came early to be quiet company if Auntie J. wanted company, or just to read more of the scenarios—and to figure out who would be the best adult to approach for getting new copies of this kind of book made so that he could take one home.

His first choice would be Uncle Daemon because his uncle enjoyed books and appreciated the knowledge they held and might see the value of having more young men, especially Warlord Princes, learn lessons Daemonar was sure were important. But even when Prince Sadi joined him and his father and Prince Chaosti to talk about the scenarios and how they would have responded and the choices they actually had made in similar circumstances, Sadi felt . . . strange. Not sick. Just . . . strange. A little off.

The men noticed, but they didn’t act differently toward the Prince. They were just . . . watchful. The Prince knew. Of course he knew. But, like Lucivar and Chaosti, he pretended not to notice, pretended that everything was the way it always was between them.

His father had said Uncle Daemon felt that way because he was still rising from the healing time, still fitting back into his skin. And that made sense, because Uncle Daemon often joined them for dinner on his last evening at the Keep, and Daemonar had never sensed that strangeness. A difference of a few hours, no more than that, but enough time for his uncle to be—

The door opened and someone walked into the sitting room. Daemonar looked up.

The Warlord Prince who looked at him, whose mouth curved in a sweetly murderous smile, wore his uncle’s face but wasn’t his uncle. He knew that with everything in him.

Remember your lessons. Remember. Remember.

Daemonar swallowed hard to keep fear, and his midday meal, from rising. “Good afternoon, Prince. I’m here for my lesson with the Lady.”

No response. No reply. Just that smile and gold eyes that looked glazed and sleepy.

Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful. The Prince was riding the killing edge—and he was the target.

He wanted to uncross his legs in order to have some chance of moving when the strike came. Because it was going to come. He had no doubts about that. But he knew it would come faster if he made any kind of move.

The Prince took another step into the room. Power—and something else, something more and just as deadly—washed over Daemonar. Sadi wore nothing above his waist except the pendant that held his Black Jewel. A solid body with defined muscles. Not bulky, more . . . sculpted.

Daemonar felt his face heat. Why would he think such a thing about his uncle? It was true, but why would he think it?

And the scars on the right biceps. Thin white ridges marking the golden brown skin.

He’d seen those white ridges plenty of times, but today, here and now, he understood that Witch’s claws had given Sadi those scars.

The Prince—no, that was too tame a word for the man who glided across the room toward him—stared at him in a way that made his heart beat too fast, made fear threaten to swallow sense. He wanted to run, but if he moved now, he wouldn’t survive long enough to take another breath, to feel his heart take one more beat.

“Prince.” Witch’s midnight voice was equal parts threat and command.

Sadi—or whoever lived inside that skin right now—stopped moving, but his eyes and rage remained focused on Daemonar.

Witch appeared beside Sadi. “You gave me your word, Daemon. Your word.”

The Prince turned his head just enough to focus those glazed eyes on her—and he snarled.

“He is mine, Prince, as you are mine.”

Sadi snarled again. Louder.

Witch waved a hand as if to erase the words. “Not exactly as you are mine, but he is mine as his father is mine. You know this, Daemon. You know this.”

Silence. Daemonar held his breath. Whatever discussion was going on between Sadi and Witch was taking place on a private psychic thread, but whatever was said had Sadi turning fully to face her, had Witch resting her hand over his heart, her claws barely pricking the skin.

Sadi breathed in. Breathed out. And said, “Your will is my life.”

“Yes,” Witch replied softly. “And I am asking you to obey my will.”

Sadi hesitated, as if he wanted to turn once more to the other male in the room. Then he walked out of the sitting room.

Moments later, Daemonar heard another door close.

“Come on, boyo, you have to go.” Witch closed a hand around his arm and hauled him to his feet.

Daemonar almost dropped the book. Just managed to close it without tearing any pages. “But . . . our lesson.”

“Not today.” She pulled him toward the door.

“Auntie J.! The book!”

“Take it home with you.”

The words shocked him enough that he stopped resisting and kept pace with her. Take the book out of the Keep? A book Geoffrey had barely allowed to leave the library?

“You can’t be here today,” Witch said. “Chaosti will stay with you until your father arrives to escort you home.”

His father here at the Keep when Uncle Daemon was acting so strange? No.

“I can go home by myself,” he said.

“Not today.” She sounded grim—and worried.

Prince Chaosti stood on the other side of the metal gate that separated Witch’s private area from the rest of the Keep.

“Do you know?” Chaosti asked softly.

“Not yet,” she replied. She looked at the big sitting room that was closest to the gate. “But I will.”

She gave Daemonar’s arm a light squeeze. “Wait for your father, boyo.”

Daemonar looked back in the direction of the Queen’s and Consort’s suites. “Will you be safe, Auntie J.?”

She smiled. “I’ll be safe.” She took a step back—and faded away.

“Come, little Brother,” Chaosti said. “Give Sadi a chance to regain control.”

As soon as Daemonar walked past the metal gate, he felt the other familiar presence. “What is Tersa doing here?”

“I think that is a question between Tersa and the Queen,” Chaosti replied.

“What if Uncle Daemon . . . ?”

“Draca will look after Tersa.” Chaosti tapped the top of the book. “What have you got there?”

“A book I was reading. Auntie J. said I could take it home.” He was sure she meant he could borrow it, not keep it. He’d take extra care with it too. Maybe Geoffrey would let him borrow other books if he took extra care with this one.

Chaosti sat with him for an hour, discussing some of the scenarios, before his father arrived. Lucivar stared at him for a long moment. Just stared.

“Father?” Wondering if he had done something wrong, Daemonar waited.

“This was unusual,” Chaosti said quietly. “Unforeseen.”

“But it can happen again,” Lucivar said.

“Yes, it can happen again. He is who, and what, he is.”

Lucivar nodded. Then he held out a hand. “Time to go, boyo.”

“Are we going home?” Daemonar asked. Something about the look on his father’s face—a look that might be fear.

Lucivar didn’t reply, just kept moving until they walked out of the Keep and stood in one of the open areas where Coaches carrying visitors and scholars could land.

“Are we going home?” Daemonar asked again.

Lucivar shook his head. “We’ll go to the hunting eyrie for a little while. This is a private talk. Just you and me.” He took a deep breath, let it out in a shuddering sigh. “There are things you need to know about your uncle Daemon.”

Calm and once more in control, Daemon stood on the flagstones outside of Lucivar’s home and waited to see if the door would open. Lucivar knew he was there. If his brother chose to shut him out tonight, he would accept it.

“He is part of it! I saw that much. I know that much!”

“Maybe,” Witch had replied when his rage had been purged enough that he could speak—and listen. “Or maybe he is part of it because he is a weapon that fits my hand. Like you, Prince.”

Queen’s weapon. Like him. Like Lucivar. Power and temper shaped to do a Queen’s will.

She said he hadn’t hurt the boy. He wanted to believe that. Whether or not the door to the eyrie opened or remained closed would tell him if she was right.

The door opened. Lucivar stood there, watching him.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Daemon walked across the flagstones and stopped in front of his brother. “I’d like to speak to Daemonar, if you’ll give your consent.”

He recognized the wariness in Lucivar’s eyes. He’d seen it enough times before when Yaslana had brushed against the Sadist. It stung to see that look now, even if it was deserved.

“Not alone,” Lucivar finally said.

“Not alone,” he agreed.

Lucivar didn’t step out of the doorway to give him room to enter the eyrie. “I told him who, and what, you are. And some—enough—of the why.”

He nodded. Lucivar’s choice wasn’t unexpected, but the boy’s response? He had no way to gauge what Daemonar might think about him being the High Lord of Hell—or the Sadist.

Lucivar stepped back. “We’ll talk in my study.”

Daemon followed his brother. He could sense the presence of Marian and the children, but no one came out to greet him.

Once they were in the study, Daemon settled in one of the visitors’ chairs. Lucivar leaned against the front of the blackwood desk, leaving the other chair for Daemonar.

A minute later, the boy joined them.

“Your uncle would like to talk to you,” Lucivar said.

Daemonar nodded and took the other chair.

Daemon wondered what the boy was looking for in that careful study of his face.

Then Daemonar said, “You don’t feel strange anymore. At the Keep today, you felt strange. Not like you.”

“Not like you know me, but that is also who I am,” Daemon replied. “Your father has told you who, and what, I am.”

“Yes. But that’s not always who you are.”

“You’re wrong, boyo. It’s always who I am. It’s just not the part of me that is usually seen.”

The boy pressed his hands between his knees and seemed to be thinking hard. “Like Papa always being the Demon Prince now, but not always being the Demon Prince?”

“Like that, but . . . more.”

“So that’s why you stay with Auntie J. at the Keep? Not just for healing, but because you can be all that you are when you’re with her?”

“Yes.”

“And she isn’t scared of you when you’re all that you are because she can be even scarier?”

Daemon blinked, not sure how to answer that. “Well . . .”

“The scars on your arm. I didn’t understand until today that Auntie J. gave them to you.”

“Yes, well . . .”

Daemonar leaned forward. “How much stupid did you have to do to get her that mad at you?”

Lucivar coughed and looked away.

Daemon stared at the boy, speechless.

“It’s just . . . I get a whack upside the head sometimes for being stupid, but it would be good to know how much stupid I’d have to do to get her that mad at me.”

“Probably more than you would ever think to do,” Daemon finally said, not daring to look at Lucivar. “I argued when I should have listened and got her very riled.”

Daemonar nodded. “She gets That Look when you don’t listen. Mother has that look, too, but not like Auntie J.”

The boy was taking this better than he’d hoped, accepting so much that so many others couldn’t—wouldn’t—accept. “Is there anything you’d like to ask me?”

Daemonar didn’t say anything for almost too long. Then the boy called in a book and held it out. “It’s old and fragile, and I have to bring it back to the Keep’s library.”

Lucivar straightened. “You aren’t supposed to take the books that belong to the Keep.”

“Auntie J. told me to take it home.”

Daemon opened the book to the page marked with a ribbon.

“These are the scenarios,” Daemonar said, looking at both men. “The ‘if you saw this happen, or if someone did this to you, what would you do?’ exercises.”

“Yes,” Daemon replied. “We’ve talked about some of these.”

“I go to the Keep before my lessons in order to read that book.” Daemonar pointed to the book, in case everyone else couldn’t figure out which book was under discussion. “And maybe my being there for extra time today bothered you. But if I had a copy of the book to keep at home, then I could read it here. It’s a really good book, Uncle Daemon. And useful. And not just for me. Titian and Andulvar would learn from it too. And Jaenelle Saetien when she came to visit.”

“You gave this some thought, didn’t you, boyo?” Daemon murmured.

“Yes, sir.”

Daemon carefully closed the book and gave it back to Daemonar. “Let me ask around and see if there are other books like this that might already be available in another Territory. If not, we’ll see about getting copies of this one made.”

“Okay.”

“Anything else?”

“No, sir.”

Lucivar tipped his head toward the door. “Go on.”

Giving them a big smile, Daemonar left the study.

Daemon looked at Lucivar. Lucivar looked at him and said, “A Sceltie couldn’t have boxed you in better. What are you going to do if that kind of book of lessons isn’t available anymore?”

It probably wasn’t. Or if there were similar books out there, they didn’t have the exercises that Witch specifically wanted Daemonar to consider.

Daemon pushed out of the chair. “It looks like Marcus and Holt are going to investigate the availability of a publishing house that might be for sale or figure out what I’ll need to do to create a new one.”

“You feeling that guilty about this afternoon?”

“How is Titian getting on with the artist’s primer?”

“She’s excited about it, talks about what she’s learned.” Lucivar laughed. “I guess the boy isn’t the only one who has boxed you in. I doubt there is a publisher in Dhemlan who wouldn’t publish one book as a favor to the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. But publishing art primers and long-forgotten books that won’t make a profit?”

“Yeah.” Daemon smiled wryly. “One way or another, I’m going to include a publishing house in the family holdings. Something small and eclectic, so Marcus doesn’t shake his head and look mournful every quarter when we review the accounts or sigh too much if the endeavor doesn’t at least pay for itself.” He growled. “It’s not like I can’t afford to take a financial loss on one business when I’m adding it to the holdings to gain another kind of profit.”

“Well, you have my total support, Bastard.”

“But not your help.”

“Hell’s fire, no. Now, if you want to talk about establishing a shop for finely made weapons . . .”

“Take a piss in the wind, Prick.”

Lucivar laughed again, then rested a hand on Daemon’s shoulder. “You all right now? This afternoon . . . Hell’s fire, Daemon. The cold rage in you . . . I thought we were preparing for war.”

“We are. I am.” Daemon looked into Lucivar’s eyes. “I don’t remember what I saw in a tangled web. Once I felt calmer, I wasn’t permitted to go back into the sitting room and look again. But the Sadist’s response to what had been seen . . .”

“When?” Lucivar asked.

“I don’t know. But Daemonar will be part of it.”

“On which side of the line?”

“Hopefully ours.” Daemon rested his forehead against Lucivar’s. “I’m sorry I frightened him this afternoon, but I’m glad you told him about me. He needs to know. More than the other children, he needs to know. As a young male, he needs to be careful around me, especially when he’s at the Keep.”

“Nothing we can do until the storm is on the horizon.”

“Be vigilant.”

“Yeah. We can do that.” Lucivar eased back. “You staying at the Keep tonight?”

Daemon nodded. “I’ll head home in the morning.”

“Marian made a pie this afternoon.”

“Oh? Her pies are usually not up for grabs.”

“If we’re caught helping ourselves, I’ll just blame you.”

Daemon laughed. “That’s fair.”

They found Marian in the kitchen. Half the pie was already divided into four pieces and on plates. The other half was divided in two and still in the dish. She put the plates on a serving tray, then gave Daemon a kiss on the cheek.

“You do realize that that old book isn’t the only one in the Keep that Daemonar would like to have for his own?” She smiled at him. “He’s making a list for you.”

Daemon looked at the remaining half of the pie. “So I get a quarter of the pie as a reward for future endeavors?”

“Something like that.” She picked up the tray and walked out of the kitchen.

Lucivar took two forks out of a drawer, put the pie dish on the table, and said, “Dig in.”

Since Marian’s pies were delicious, and Lucivar wasn’t above taking more than his share from a common dish, Daemon did exactly that.

The Seneschal had done something to the room where Tersa hid to keep her presence undetected until her boy had left the Keep.

Cautious—a feeling she’d never experienced before because of her boy—Tersa returned to the sitting room closest to the metal gate. The door stood open. The tangled web on the table was still intact. And studying that web . . .

Witch turned to look at her. “I know what I see in this web. Tell me what you see.”

Tersa walked up to the table and stood near the Queen. She felt anger burning under ice. Contained. Controlled. For now.

“Malevolence and rot, hidden by youth and a mask of innocence,” Tersa replied. “Choices that will ripple through the Shadow Realm and leave Dhemlan bloody. And a sharp price that will have to be paid.”

“Have you and I ever paid any other kind of price, Sister?” Witch asked.

“No,” Tersa whispered. Then she hesitated before adding, “What the boy saw in the web . . . He will not remember what called to his rage, but he will recognize it when the malevolence begins to crack through the mask of innocence. And then—”

“I will hold him back long enough for him to make a clear choice, to recognize and accept what will come from his actions and what price will have to be paid,” Witch said.

Those sapphire eyes looked beyond the madness of a tangled mind, looked deep and acknowledged all the choices Tersa had already made.

A secret between them, forever contained in the Twisted Kingdom—and in the Misty Place—beyond the reach of anyone else.

“Say the words that are at the core of this tangled web. Speak the truth of what the visions revealed,” Witch said softly.

“If the High Lord hesitates, if he does not shape his rage into a blade for slaughter, a witch like Dorothea SaDiablo will rise in Dhemlan and spread her particular kind of poison, will sink her roots into the hearts of Dhemlan’s people. Another like Dorothea will gain enough power and support to corrupt and then destroy.”

“She is coming?” Witch asked.

Tersa looked at the tangled web. Shaking her head, she reached out and swiped a hand through the strands of spider silk, destroying the vision. “She is already here.”