by Anne Bishop
Or was something scratching at him now because of the boy sitting beside him?
Yes. Daemonar, not Lucivar, was part of that wisp of memory, was part of something . . . dangerous.
Odd that Fharra was putting up barriers about Daemonar attending the school when she’d shown no resistance to having Titian among the students. Did she have a reason for not wanting a Warlord Prince studying at the school? He hadn’t sensed any others within the school grounds, so she might not be comfortable with dealing with a male of that caste. Or was she worried about having a young man with all the arrogance of a trained Eyrien warrior living at the school and observing the instructors and other students?
And wasn’t that exactly why he was helping Daemonar attend this school? To have a warrior who was family walking among the other students and stirring things up enough to discover if Jaenelle Saetien’s behavior was adolescent female drama or something that would require his own kind of savagery?
He would have listened to Fharra for hours, letting her resistance and excuses reveal more and more of what might require his attention, but the boy was getting restless and, being Eyrien, was more inclined to meet a challenge head-on.
“Lady Fharra.” Daemon smiled and watched the woman try to suppress a shiver. “I’m aware that classes started a few weeks ago. I’m aware that my nephew might not have the same foundation of education that your other students enjoyed. That doesn’t mean he is without education. He has studied with several individuals to advance his knowledge of subjects that are of interest to him. And the time he has spent with his father and with me as we’ve gone about our duties as rulers of our respective Territories means he has as good a grounding in the workings of a court as any other student here. Probably more.”
“My concern is that Prince Yaslana will have difficulty catching up with the classwork at this point and might benefit from starting next year,” Fharra said.
“When my daughter and my niece were enrolled a few weeks ago, you assured me that the instructors here were willing to tutor students one-on-one or with two or three other students in order to help them keep up with the classwork. I would think those instructors would be willing to work with a student to create an individual plan of study.”
“That would create more work for the instructors,” Fharra protested.
Daemon’s smile turned colder and sharper—and Daemonar watched him closely now, a warrior alerted to a potential battle.
“Accommodate me,” he said too softly. “Not as the uncle of a new student but as the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan.”
*Uncle Daemon . . . ,* Daemonar began.
*Later.* He stared at Fharra, giving her time to realize he was no longer making a request—and that defying a command from Dhemlan’s ruler would carry a high price. What he found interesting was the change in her psychic scent. That told him she often faced the necessity of accommodating aristos who had wealth and influence and wanted some special consideration. He had the impression she didn’t object to making those accommodations as long as the person hinted there would be some personal benefit for her.
He gave no hints. He simply smiled—and waited.
“Very well.” Fharra’s voice carried brisk annoyance, but her hands shook as she reached for a pen and filled out the admission form. “All students live in the dormitories. In the male dormitory, there is only one room available. It’s a private room.”
“I’m taking care of the cost of my nephew attending the school as well as room and board. So the extra cost of a private room is not a concern.”
“Yes. Well. It’s only available because the fine young Warlord who was supposed to attend this year met with a tragic accident.”
“Would that be the fine young Warlord who had his guts ripped out by the girl he tried to rape?” Daemon asked, his voice so pleasantly sharp, it could make air bleed.
Fharra dropped her pen. “I wasn’t aware . . . I was given to understand . . .” She swallowed hard. “I assure you, Prince, that nothing like that has ever happened at the school. No witch has ever been broken on school grounds.”
That wasn’t the same thing as saying the Blood males attending this school hadn’t persuaded—or forced—girls to have a premature Virgin Night that stripped those girls of their power.
Not something the school could do anything about if it took place off of school grounds. Fharra was right about that.
But there was that wisp of memory.
May the Darkness have mercy on everyone once he caught that wisp and saw all that the memory revealed.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
It wasn’t that Daemon Sadi changed. He just became more of what he was. It was like watching an already sharp blade being honed, stroke by stroke, until it had the edge required for a killing field. It was like watching a mask melt away, revealing the truth underneath.
His father’s temper ran hot. Uncle Daemon’s ran cold, and listening to Sadi explain things to Lady Fharra, Daemonar wasn’t sure the cold was all that accurate a measure of the depth of temper—or what a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince in a cold rage could, or would, do.
“Why do you think she set her heels down about me being here?” Daemonar asked as he and Daemon walked to the book exchange to pick up the books for his classes.
“An excellent question,” Daemon replied, sounding more like his uncle instead of the someone more.
“She seemed genuinely surprised about that Warlord and why he died.”
“She did.”
And that is why she is still alive.
The words weren’t said. Didn’t have to be said.
He felt a lift in his uncle’s mood and temper when they reached the book exchange and perused the books. Daemon’s lips twitched when he noticed two of the books on the required reading list were books he’d arranged to have published because Daemonar had found them at the Keep and wanted his own copies.
He’d been nervous about attending classes here, although he wouldn’t have admitted that to either father or uncle. There were bound to be holes in his education, things the other students had read. But in some subjects, he’d already been taught by the strongest and the best.
The room in the dormitory was more spacious than he’d expected and looked out over the green. Each floor of the dorm had its own hygiene facilities with several toilets contained in narrow stalls and a shower room that had plenty of space but offered no privacy. He was used to the lack of privacy since the communal eyrie had the same kind of shower arrangement. The toilet stalls could be an easy way to trap someone, but putting a Green shield with a little added sizzle around a stall would stop anyone who wanted to cause trouble. Not that he expected anyone here to cause trouble. Shielding when he was vulnerable would be done to soothe his father’s and uncle’s tempers.
He called in the two trunks and unpacked while Daemon watched him. Some clothes in the small dresser, some hung up in the closet. Didn’t take him long. One of the sparring sticks he’d brought with him rested in a corner of the room. The rest of the weapons that were small enough to fit into a trunk and the special books he’d brought were arranged in one trunk, which he vanished. He put the novels he’d bought for fun reading in the other trunk, along with a spare blanket. That trunk he placed against one wall—in plain sight. The books for classes went in the narrow bookcase next to the desk.
Daemon watched him—and said nothing. Then he smiled, a smile that held warmth and amusement. “Helton informed me that you should bring your laundry to the town house the evening before washday.”
“I can wash my own clothes,” Daemonar said, although he wasn’t sure where students could do that. “And Helton wouldn’t inform you of anything, Uncle Daemon.” Unlike Beale, the butler at the Hall, who was a Red-Jeweled Warlord and informed Prince Sadi of a great many things.
“It was worded as a suggestion but didn’
t leave much room for interpretation. Neither did the suggestion that you could have a decent dinner at the town house that evening. He mentioned that Beron often had dinner at the town house the evening before washday and sometimes stayed the night to get a decent breakfast in the morning.”
“Uh-huh. Are Titian and Jaenelle Saetien also coming for dinner one night a week so they don’t expire from eating whatever slop is served at the school?”
“It was suggested that the young Ladies could come to dinner on another night.”
“So they have a different washday than the men in the family?”
“Apparently.”
There was a reading chair in the room. It looked comfortable but it wasn’t built to accommodate Eyrien wings. Still, it would work for visitors. Did work for visitors, since Daemon was sitting in it.
Daemonar straddled the wooden desk chair. “Are all servants this pushy, or do the pushy ones end up working for you because they know you’ll put up with it?”
“Because they think I’m weak?” Daemon asked too softly.
“Because they know you’re strong and you’re not intimidated by them showing their own strength.”
Daemon stared at him. Daemonar shrugged. Neither of them mentioned Mrs. Beale and her meat cleaver and how everyone in the family, except Marian, was intimidated by the Hall’s cook.
A knock on the door.
As Daemonar went to open it, he noticed how Daemon sat with his legs crossed at the knees, his fingers with those long black-tinted nails steepled and lightly resting against his chin. Would anyone outside the family recognize the danger in that pose?
The visitor turned out to be Prince Raine, a young instructor from Dharo who had just started at the school that year and had been assigned to be Daemonar’s tutor in three areas of study.
Had Prince Raine volunteered for the extra work or, because he was the newcomer, had the work no one else wanted been piled on him?
“Picked up your books, I see,” Raine said. He handed Daemonar a piece of heavy paper with a neatly written list. “These are the times for your classes and tutorials.” A glance at Daemon, whose glazed eyes were fixed on the man. “I understand that you wanted the tutorials to be free study, but it might be beneficial to use one of our study times to answer any questions you might have from your other classes.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” Daemonar replied. “Thank you, sir.”
Prince Raine hesitated, then gave Daemonar a strained smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.” Daemonar saw the man out of the room, then turned to his uncle. “Problem?”
“Not for me.” Daemon rose. “Do you want to find out what slop is served in the dining hall or come with me to a steakhouse for a decent meal?”
“What happens if the food here is very good?”
Daemon laughed. “If that’s the case, I hope you, at least, are smart enough not to mention that within hearing of anyone who works at the town house or at the Hall.”
The laughter faded. Daemon stepped close to him and wrapped a hand around the back of his neck, a gesture his uncle had in common with his father.
“If there is trouble here, I want to know about it,” Daemon said. “I don’t care if you think you can, or should, handle it yourself. I don’t care if you do handle it yourself. If there is trouble, you will tell me.”
“Because it’s not just about me.”
“That’s correct.”
As they walked to the steakhouse, Daemonar observed how people reacted to the man beside him. Some people were wary, but most of the people were unafraid and smiled at the two of them or gave a nod of greeting that didn’t ask for attention. Uncle Daemon might not notice all the people who had no reason to be wary of him, but Daemonar was certain Prince Sadi made note of the people who might have a reason to fear his temper.
Daemon Sadi and Lucivar Yaslana maintained a veneer of civilized behavior, but they didn’t hide the first layer of truth about what they were, even when they walked down a street. They were Warlord Princes born to stand on killing fields. They were predators. They were dangerous.
And ever since he’d made the Blood Run, they had quietly acknowledged that he was ready to stand on those fields with them.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
“What’s the rube doing back here?” Dhuran said. “Isn’t having one of those bats at the school bad enough?”
Delora wanted to slap Dhuran for calling attention to the Eyrien because Jaenelle Saetien turned around and said, “That’s my cousin Daemonar.” Then she muttered, “Why is he back here?”
“Probably visiting his sister,” Delora said.
“Maybe.” And off Jaenelle Saetien went across the green to talk to the Eyrien.
“He’s not visiting,” Leena said. “I heard he’s attending classes here and Prince Raine has been assigned as his special tutor.”
“Going to try to teach the bat how to read?” Clayton said, sniggering.
“Hold your tongue,” Delora said sharply. “We don’t want Jaenelle Saetien to feel obliged to defend her lesser relations.”
“He was given Silas’s room,” Krellis said, coming up to stand beside Delora. “My source in Lady Fharra’s office said she’s concerned that he isn’t going to fit in with the rest of us and might cause trouble when he finally figures that out, but she wasn’t able to persuade Prince Sadi to send the Eyrien to another school.”
Borsala sniffed. “Fharra shouldn’t have let the first bat attend our school. I wrote to my mother and told her all about it. She was quite appalled that Fharra is lowering standards.”
“Titian might prove useful,” Delora replied. She turned to Krellis. “Why didn’t Silas come back to school?”
Krellis looked grim. “He’s dead. The girl he’d picked for some fun killed him. He must have given her the wrong dose of the party favor and she turned savage.”
“Hell’s fire,” Clayton muttered.
“Silas was from an aristo family,” Hespera said. “That girl was insignificant. She’s been punished, hasn’t she?”
Krellis shook his head. “Lady SaDiablo investigated and decided Silas was at fault. Besides, among the Blood, there is no law against murder—especially when the killing is considered self-defense.”
Delora felt a rising fury burn through her as she watched Jaenelle Saetien and the Eyrien boy. Nothing malleable about the boy, and he could ruin all the careful work she’d already done grooming Jaenelle Saetien to be one of her kind of aristo. “Blaming aristos for having a bit of fun won’t do. It won’t do at all.”
“We can’t change that,” Hespera said.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Delora smiled as she continued to watch Jaenelle Saetien and the Eyrien. “We just need to find the right tool to rupture some family bonds.”
Now Krellis smiled. “I might have found the right tool for that.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
“Daemonar?” Jaenelle Saetien ran up to her cousin. “What are you doing here?”
“Getting a feel for the school grounds and the location of everything,” he replied, smiling.
“Why? Are you looking for Titian?” Or are you checking up on me to report to Papa?
“Titian is in the potting shed. Pottery barn?” He shrugged and pointed. “She’s that way, apparently up to her elbows in mud, so I’m heading over to see her and let her know where I’ll be.”
“Where you’ll be?”
“I’m taking some classes here. I have a room in the male dormitory.” Daemonar studied her. “Is that a problem?”
“No, I’m just surprised.” Because it still stung that he’d criticized her about wanting a second dress for the dance, she added, “I didn’t think you were interested in attending classes with other people.”
“I figure
d I’d expand my education, in more ways than just books.”
In other words, he’d expect her to introduce him to her friends even though she already knew those friends had no interest in being around him.
She felt a twinge of disloyalty. Daemonar had always been her best ally, her partner in mischief—and the one who pulled her back before she got into too much trouble with Papa and Uncle Lucivar. But status among the Blood was three-pronged—Jewel rank, caste, and social influence. Daemonar respected Jewel rank and caste, but he shrugged off the social aspect as insignificant. The girls and boys who were at this school soon would be the social power of Dhemlan. He didn’t care about that, but she did. She wanted to dazzle. She wanted to shine. She wanted so much sophisticated gloss she was beyond comparison with anyone else.
She wanted to be like Delora, commanding the social stage and setting the standard for what was interesting and fashionable. Deciding what behavior was acceptable and what was not. They’d had long discussions already about why aristos shouldn’t be bound to the same rules as the rest of the Blood. Some rules didn’t apply to Warlord Princes because of their nature. Why shouldn’t aristos enjoy the same kind of leniency?
She was tired of rules. She wanted to make her own decisions, not be hemmed in by rules that were only there to get in the way of her being who she wanted to be.
Daemonar would interfere with all her dreams of social prominence. She could see it so clearly, but she knew him. He’d decided to go to this school, and nothing she said would change his mind.
She would just have to be too busy to spend much time with him. That shouldn’t be hard to do. She and Titian and Zoey had been friends for years, spending days at the town house laughing and talking. She barely saw them since they started school. She felt bad that the other girls had made fun of Titian and called her a fat bat, but Titian and Zoey could be such rubes, despite their bloodlines. They went to classes and did their schoolwork and thought pottery class was great fun. And, Mother Night, the embarrassment when she’d seen them doing the Eyrien warm-up exercises with the sparring sticks!