by Anne Bishop
Daemonar would be out there with them for the warm-ups. Maybe even sparring with them. If they did that where they could be seen, she would just curl up and die!
“Jaenelle Saetien?”
Had he been talking all this time? “What?”
Something in his eyes, like he’d seen something that shouldn’t be there. “I’m meeting up with Titian and her friend. Do you want to join us?”
“No. Thank you.”
“Suit yourself.”
“I will.”
He started to walk away, then stopped. “Be careful you don’t suit yourself too much.”
What did that mean?
Jaenelle Saetien watched him walk away. She was glad he hadn’t insisted that she join him and Titian and Zoey.
Wasn’t she?
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
An hour before dawn, Lucivar stood in front of Dorian’s eyrie. She’d raised the door he’d blown off its hinges and rested it against the Ebon-gray shield that covered the doorway, as well as the rest of the eyrie.
The repair was done in a way to elicit sympathy. By itself, the door didn’t keep out the cold but it did keep anyone from easily seeing the front room. By itself, the door’s position was intended to be a message that this was the best the two women could do in the face of his unjust decision.
It was too bad for Dorian that not a single Eyrien had come to the eyrie and seen the message.
He created an opening in the shield the size and shape of the doorway.
The door, which had been leaning on the shield, fell with a crash.
When Dorian and Orian rushed into the front room, all he said was, “It’s time.”
“No!” Dorian protested. “We haven’t finished packing.”
He’d given them sufficient time to gather what they valued the most and could carry by using Craft. He wasn’t interested in delaying tactics or any other kind of game.
Ignoring their increasingly shrill protests, he wrapped Dorian and Orian in Ebon-gray shields that he tethered to himself. Then he flew to Ebon Askavi.
No sign of Endar or Alanar when he arrived at the Keep with his burden. He’d wondered if man and youth would come to say good-bye to wife and sister, but it seemed they already felt enough hurt.
All the way to the Dark Altar, the two women protested their innocence and screamed at his mistreatment of them over something that couldn’t be proved and had been nothing more than foolish words.
Lucivar stopped at the door leading to the Dark Altar, one of the thirteen Gates between the Realms. Nothing he could do for Dorian, but there was one brutal lesson he could give the girl, who was a Queen, one chance to help her understand what she had threatened to do to Daemonar.
Daemon was so much better at this subtle kind of Craft, but . . .
He hit both of them with power shaped into pain—the kind of excruciating, nerve-burning pain inflicted by a Ring of Obedience. He counted off the seconds as the women screamed.
Just a few seconds. So little time compared to what men had endured, but enough, he hoped, for this warning and lesson.
He ended the spell and the pain. Then he walked up to Orian. No defiance there now. Just fear.
“That’s what a Ring of Obedience does,” he said quietly. “That’s what you threatened to do to my son.”
“I didn’t,” she whimpered. “I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did. And now you know how it feels. There are plenty of Eyrien men living in Terreille Askavi who had worn a Ring of Obedience. There are plenty more who witnessed what those men suffered. Orian, the day you so much as hint that you have a device that can be used to control men and force them to be accommodating, all those warriors will sharpen their knives and come for you, and you will not survive to see another sunrise. You could still be a good Queen. . . .”
“I could,” she said. “I will.”
“But not here. I am a weapon that stands against anyone who tries to bring Terreille’s poison into Kaeleer. If you stay, I can’t allow you to survive. Once you get settled in Terreille, don’t let whatever is twisting up your mother destroy you too.”
Lucivar used Craft to open the door and guide his burdens to the Dark Altar. Karla and Chaosti—and Draca—waited for him as witnesses.
“The reassonss for banishment have been recorded in the regissterss,” Draca said. “A ssmall taint on the bloodline that will grow or be forgotten, depending on what the young Queen doess from now on.”
Karla lit the black candles in the four-branched candelabrum, lighting them in the sequence that would open the Gate between Kaeleer and Terreille.
Lucivar walked through the Gate, bringing Dorian and Orian with him—and was followed by Chaosti.
“I’ll wait for you here,” Chaosti said when they reached the Dark Altar in the Keep in Terreille.
So few steps for such a significant journey.
Lucivar nodded and began the long walk through the corridors of the Keep, finally reaching the outer door that opened to a courtyard and the gates where . . .
Memories crowded him, even now.
He used Craft to open the tall wrought-iron gates and float the two women to the other side. Then he closed the gates and put an Ebon-gray lock on them. Finally, he released the shields he’d wrapped around Dorian and Orian.
“You’re standing on the spot where Hekatah SaDiablo was destroyed when the Realms were finally purged of her taint,” he said, swallowing bile. “If you choose to become like her, may the Darkness have mercy on you because the living, and the demon-dead, will have none.” He called in a pouch, vanished it, then called it back in on the other side of the gates. “Twenty thousand gold marks.”
Dorian grabbed the pouch, then caught herself and sniffed. “That’s not a sufficient annual allowance for a Queen.”
“That’s not an annual allowance, Dorian. That’s a onetime resettlement gift, given in memory of the woman and girl who came to Kaeleer looking for a better life. It’s more than enough to pay for food and lodgings until you find work.” He raised his voice to override Dorian’s protest that she, the mother of a Queen, should not be required to work. “You’ll receive nothing else from me . . . except this.” The document floated in front of her. “Endar’s request for an immediate divorce was granted and has been recorded in the registers at the Keep in Kaeleer. He is no longer bound to you in any way—or you to him.”
He walked away from their screams and cries and curses.
That camp in Hayll during those awful hours before the purge. Dorothea and Hekatah so sure they were going to have control of the Realms. Marian and Daemonar—and the Sadist—in that place.
He hadn’t set foot in Terreille since that time. He hoped with everything in him that he wouldn’t have to again.
When he returned to the Dark Altar, Chaosti held out a flask. He didn’t ask what it contained, didn’t really care at that moment. He just drank—and then wished he’d asked because his throat burned, his stomach melted, his lungs crisped, and the room did one slow spin before his body burned off enough of the stuff for him not to be staggeringly drunk. Which should have been impossible.
“Too strong?” Chaosti asked.
“Hell’s fire, what is that?” All right, throat and lungs were working, and his stomach was intact—he hoped. His voice was raspy, but he had one.
“It’s been a while, but I attempted to re-create Lord Khardeen’s home brew. I thought you might find it beneficial.”
“Mother Night.” Lucivar handed back the flask. “It’s been a long time since something came close to knocking me on my ass.”
“This Realm holds bad memories for you.”
“Terrible memories.”
“Leave them here, Lucivar, and go home to what you’ve built since then.”
Lucivar nodded. Chaosti lit the ca
ndles and opened the Gate, and the two of them returned to the Keep in the Shadow Realm.
TWENTY-ONE
Prince Raine handed the assignment back to Daemonar. “When you said you had read those two books, I thought you were one of those students who made claims about scholarship without any substance to back up those claims. But what you wrote for the assignment tells me you’ve not only read the books, you’ve thought about the lessons they contain.”
Daemonar felt the question in the pause that followed. He thought for a moment about how to answer without revealing too much. “My family has a strong connection to the Keep. Before he became a whisper in the Darkness, my grandfather had been the assistant historian/librarian. Once I was old enough to appreciate the library, I was allowed to read anything an adult felt I could understand. And when I had questions or got myself into trouble, as Eyrien boys tend to do, I was given things to read that would address the trouble or teach me the lessons I needed for the next stage of my training.”
Raine had an odd smile. “It’s not just book learning to you, is it?”
“A Warlord Prince’s training starts early,” Daemonar replied. “It has to.”
Raine leaned back against his desk. “You’ve been here a week now. Any problems with your classes?”
“No, sir. A bit different in the rhythm of things, and I’ve wondered about the amount of reading each instructor assigns since it seems like half the males in the classes don’t even try to read the assignments and the other half can’t finish all of it—including me. But it’s the half that tries and doesn’t finish who are criticized, and the ones who are too busy with social prancing to do any work receive no reprimand at all.” He shrugged. “Not the Eyrien way of teaching. Then again, the consequences of not learning how to handle a war blade properly are more severe than not reading a couple of chapters.”
Raine coughed. “I can see the difference.”
Daemonar sensed a curiosity in this man, who came from one of the short-lived races. Living among the Dhemlan race was a new experience, and maybe that allowed Raine to be less prejudiced about “uneducated warriors” who settled everything with a fight.
“Would you like to feel the difference?” he asked.
Raine looked alarmed. “What?”
“Titian, Zoey, and I work out with the Eyrien sparring sticks in the morning before getting ready for classes.”
“I couldn’t spar.”
Daemonar laughed. “No, sir, you couldn’t. Not right off, anyway. But that’s not where someone starts. You could join us for the warm-up moves and observe the sparring.”
Raine hesitated. “Instructors aren’t supposed to socialize with students.”
“I’ve noticed instructors joining students for a ride in the park or participating in some kind of sport. This wouldn’t be any different.”
A smile. “Early, you said? Does that explain your attire for this tutorial?”
He returned the smile. “It does. Herding girls who want to try just one more move is a job for a Sceltie, not a brother who’s ignored because he’s not allowed to nip.”
Raine choked back a laugh. “Then you’d better get yourself washed and properly attired for your classes. And . . . I might join you tomorrow morning, just to observe.”
Daemonar vanished his assignment and the books, then headed for the dormitory to take a shower and get ready for the more pompous instructors he had to deal with that day.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
“The bat is in the shower,” Clayton said, hurrying back to where Krellis and Dhuran waited.
Krellis felt his guts rumble. Felt a need that was becoming urgent.
Perfect.
The three of them slipped into the bat’s room. One trunk with a few novels and spare clothes. Clayton and Dhuran moved the trunk away from the wall while Krellis pulled all the clothes out of the dresser. The clothes in the closet followed, along with the books in the bookcase.
“Make sure everything is watered down,” he told the other two.
After Clayton and Dhuran emptied their bladders, Krellis dropped his pants, squatted over the trunk, and smiled. “Let’s give Prince Daemonar a proper welcome.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
Securing the loin wrap around his hips, Daemonar left the men’s facilities and headed back to his room—and noticed how Krellis, Dhuran, and Clayton hovered nearby, as if waiting for something.
The smell hit him as soon as he walked into his room.
He hurried to the trunk and lifted the lid, then took a step back.
Urine soaked his books and clothes, and in the center of the trunk was a stinking pile of shit.
His temper didn’t snap the leash. His lessons with Auntie J. had given him control of a volatile temper that would one day match his father’s, but the burning clarity of fury shaped the choice of what he needed to do. Because this wasn’t just about him. He recognized that the moment he swung into the hallway and saw the look on Krellis’s face. And in that look, he also saw the faces of the younger boys who had been cowed by the school’s bullies—younger boys who would be taught to participate in cruelty in order to escape being a victim.
The sun would shine in Hell before a prick-ass like Krellis turned him into a victim.
Daemonar gave no warning when he walked out of his room. He wrapped himself in a Green shield a heartbeat before he grabbed Krellis by the arm and neck and dragged the prick-ass into his room—and shoved Krellis’s face into the still-warm shit.
Krellis struggled as Daemonar dragged him back across the room and threw him into the hallway. He used Craft to close the trunk and vanish it, then left his room, not bothering to close the door, and strode through the hallway and out of the dormitory, wearing nothing but the loin wrap.
*Prince Sadi, you’re needed at the school,* he called on a Green psychic thread as he headed for the building that held most of the classrooms as well as Lady Fharra’s office.
It didn’t matter if the Black showed up. Daemonar could, and would, deal with this problem the Eyrien way.
He marched past Lady Fharra’s assistant, shoved open the office door, and kept going until he reached the desk. Lady Fharra stood behind the desk and two of the more priggish instructors stood to one side.
He called in the trunk so that it hovered over the desk—and let it fall, smashing the bits and pieces that had been on the desk’s surface. Using Craft, he flipped the trunk’s lid, revealing the soiled contents.
Lady Fharra stumbled back. The instructors called in handkerchiefs to hold over their noses and mouths.
“What is the meaning of this?” Lady Fharra demanded.
“I’m wondering the same thing,” a deep voice crooned from the doorway.
He knew even before he turned and saw the glazed sleepy eyes—saw the sweetly murderous smile. Daemon Sadi was a heartbeat away from the killing edge.
No. It wasn’t his uncle or the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan or even the High Lord of Hell who had risen to the killing edge in response to his call.
Daemonar shivered—and hoped the Sadist thought it was from being inadequately dressed.
Sadi glided into the room and looked into the trunk.
“I’ve just been informed that this Eyrien assaulted another student,” one of the instructors said. “A fine boy from a good family. He’s been taken to the school’s Healer.”
“Is that what you did?” Sadi asked too mildly. “Assaulted another boy?”
“The shit belongs to Lord Krellis,” Daemonar replied. “I just returned it.”
“And the piss?”
Be careful. Be careful. The Sadist is capable of doing anything. “I can’t say for sure.” And he wasn’t about to guess right now.
“Well, there are ways to find out.”
Sadi called in two glass str
aws about the length of his hand. Using Craft, he cut out a section of urine-soaked cloth from each end of the trunk’s contents, then wrapped the cloth around the straws. Then he slipped witchfire into each straw—and waited as the witchfire burned.
Screams in the corridor. Had to be Dhuran and Clayton coming to find out what would happen to him and report back to Krellis.
*Sir,* Daemonar said, knowing he was dancing on the knife’s edge by calling attention to himself. *Uncle, that’s enough. Please.*
The Sadist looked at him. Just looked at him. But the witchfire disappeared—and the screaming changed to cries and loud whimpers.
“The pain is quite real, but there is no actual physical damage,” Sadi said in a terrifyingly pleasant tone of voice. “This time. Should it become necessary to discipline those two again . . .”
No one was foolish enough to speak.
“This is what is going to happen,” Sadi said. “Effective immediately, my nephew will reside at the family town house and be what you call a day student. You implied that all the students reside at the school. I have since learned that is not the case. So Daemonar will reside with the family and attend classes during the day. You will adjust his schedule to accommodate that.” He looked at Fharra and his smile became colder—and crueler. “Should my daughter or niece experience this kind of teasing, you and I and all the instructors will have a little chat, and I expect the survivors to be more vigilant about curbing pranks in the future.”
Daemonar felt his knees grow weak. He’d seen a glimpse of this side of his uncle now and then since that day at the Keep when he’d encountered the Sadist, but this was the first time he’d seen the kind of punishment that side of Daemon’s temper could, and would, inflict on someone.
“The school will absorb the cost of replacing all the damaged books,” Sadi continued. “I will take care of replacing the clothes.”
Lady Fharra nodded, too frightened to do anything else.