by Anne Bishop
She looked frightened, shocked. Daemonar wanted to smack her for being so obtuse. But Titian looked equally shocked, which reminded him how much the years between them meant in terms of maturity. She might not have repeated the rumors because they were unkind, but she wouldn’t have equated something said at the school being worth an official inquiry.
Only Zoey seemed to have some appreciation of the severity of what was happening in this room tonight.
“I don’t know,” Jaenelle Saetien admitted. “A friend told me about him because she’d heard the rumors and was concerned for Zoey’s safety.”
Zoey snorted. “The coven of malice doesn’t care about anyone but themselves. It was one of them who told you, wasn’t it? I bet they spread the rumor as punishment because Nelson didn’t capitulate to one of them.” She stared at Chaosti. “Do you want their names?”
“We are already aware of the coven of malice,” Chaosti replied.
“Don’t call them that,” Jaenelle Saetien snapped. “It’s mean.”
“It’s accurate, little Sister.”
“Why do you keep calling me that?”
“Surreal is kin to me. Therefore, you are kin to me.”
She looked like she’d been kicked by a draft horse.
Zoey, however, stood and raised her chin. “I’ll be sending a report to Prince Sadi about this.”
Weston groaned. Raine made a sound that might have been a whimper. Daemonar sighed.
Chaosti laughed softly. “That is a Queen’s privilege. I, too, will be sharing my observations about this evening with Prince Sadi.” He looked at everyone in the room. “It is my judgment that the rumors and accusations about this boy, Lord Nelson, were falsely made. Therefore, no one in this room will repeat those rumors and accusations or discuss the content of this meeting with anyone except if officially required by the Queen of Amdarh or the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. Prince Yaslana, what is the penalty for ignoring or defying my judgment?”
“Anyone who repeats the accusations that were made about Lord Nelson or repeats what was said in this room will forfeit his or her tongue,” Daemonar replied.
Zoey flopped back into her chair, clearly not expecting so harsh a penalty.
Chaosti studied her. “Lady Zoela, having stated your intention before I passed judgment, you have my consent to write an official report to Prince Sadi. You must have his consent before you write any other report or discuss this with anyone else.” He looked at Weston. “You may report to the Queen of Amdarh.”
Weston bowed. “If you require nothing else of me, I’ll escort the Ladies back to their rooms.”
“We are done.” Chaosti released the Gray lock on the door and vanished the Gray shield around the room.
When the girls and Weston had left, Daemonar blew out a breath, scrubbed his hands over his face, and muttered, “Mother Night.”
“Under the circumstances, I would recommend a large glass of whiskey—for both of you,” Chaosti said.
“I have a bottle here,” Raine said.
“Then I’ll take my leave.”
“Chaosti . . .” Daemonar wasn’t sure what he wanted to ask. He didn’t need to be sure. Not with a Warlord Prince who had helped train him to fight.
“My knives are very sharp, and I will not falter to extract the price if that is required—no matter who must pay,” Chaosti said.
Daemonar hadn’t expected any other answer, so he’d corner the girls in the morning and make sure they didn’t dismiss what had been said because the sun was shining and things might not sound as serious in the light of day.
Chaosti would not falter in his duty, and he didn’t want any of the girls to learn that lesson the hard way.
Once Chaosti left, Raine poured two large whiskeys and handed one to Daemonar.
“Why did you let me stay?” Raine looked pale.
“I didn’t think you would have witnessed one of these inquiries and judgments before,” Daemonar replied. He took a long swallow of whiskey. “Chaosti is family, too, and he works with my uncle. That’s one reason why his judgment will stand in a Territory that’s not his own.”
“But he’s demon-dead. I picked up that much.”
“He is. When he walked among the living, he was the Warlord Prince of the Dea al Mon, the Children of the Wood. He not only served the Queen of the Dea al Mon, he was also in the Queen of Ebon Askavi’s First Circle.”
“He’s dangerous.”
Daemonar studied his tutor and wondered if he’d shown the man too much. “So are all of the men in my family.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
Jaenelle Saetien sat on Zoey’s bed, her arms wrapped tight around her legs, a soft winter shawl tucked around her. Her aunt Marian’s work—a Winsol gift given to Zoey.
Zoey called in a silver flask, unscrewed the top, and offered it to Jaenelle Saetien. “Weston slipped it to me. I have to give it back in the morning.”
She took a sip, made a face, then handed the flask to Titian, who took a sip and handed it to Zoey.
That first sip of brandy warmed the kernel of ice inside her that had formed when she’d realized that meeting was official, with consequences, and had more to do with who was spreading the rumor than the rumor itself. The second time the flask went round, she gathered the courage to speak.
“Why would Daemonar tell someone like that Warlord Prince?” It bothered her that he had turned this into something official.
“You were accusing Nelson of attempted rape,” Zoey said. “He had to report it to someone. I think he chose Prince Chaosti because the connection with Prince Sadi meant Chaosti had the authority to pass judgment but wasn’t your father or my grandmother.” She capped the flask and vanished it. “They’re going to want the names, Jaenelle Saetien.”
“I don’t have names!”
“Do you think that Warlord Prince already knew the rumors were false?” Titian asked.
“Maybe,” Zoey replied. “Probably. I didn’t see Nelson in class today after Daemonar . . . avalanched . . . on us, so I’m guessing Nelson was quietly removed to have a chat with someone who could command him to open his inner barriers so that he—or she—could look into Nelson’s mind and see everything he’s done.”
Jaenelle Saetien shivered. No thoughts or feelings that were private? Wasn’t that a kind of rape too? Or was it done because that invasion was part of the punishment?
“It’s something I’m going to have to learn how to do,” Zoey said quietly. “As a Queen, that will be one of my duties when required.”
“If someone is falsely accused, that person can ask to stand before a tribunal of Queens, or even the Territory Queen, and have her look into his mind to see the truth,” Titian said. “Before my parents were married, my father was accused of something bad and my mother said the witch accusing him was lying. My mother offered to open her mind to the Queen of Ebon Askavi and reveal the truth, but the witch who made the accusation wasn’t willing to do that and have everyone know she’d been lying since she would have been broken back to basic Craft. I think.” She made an apologetic face at Jaenelle Saetien. “I know you don’t like hearing stories about the Queen, even when the story isn’t really about her.”
“It’s hard to hear about someone who was beyond wonderful when everyone expects you to be like her.” Wasn’t that one of the things she liked about Delora? That the other girl hadn’t met the Queen and couldn’t make comparisons?
Zoey looked concerned. “Jaenelle Saetien, if my grandmother or your father wants to know who told you about Nelson, you have to tell them.”
She shook her head. “I’m not getting anyone else in trouble.”
“That’s the point. Someone is going to ask, and you’ll have to answer. My guess is Delora or Hespera told you about Nelson. They will be required to reveal who told them about the accusation
s, and that person will be asked, and the next person will be asked until the source is found. Someone will hunt for the original source because Daemonar stopped you from spreading the rumor and becoming the source that a lot of students could point to.”
“They were just trying to be a friend, trying to warn you,” Jaenelle Saetien insisted. “If they didn’t believe the rumors, why would they try to get Nelson in trouble?”
Zoey laid a hand on her arm. “Maybe Nelson wasn’t the person they were trying to get into trouble.”
THIRTY-TWO
It made no sense. The rumor should have run through the school like fire. But there wasn’t so much as a whisper. Jaenelle Saetien had tangled with Fat Bat’s brother and had been subdued all day yesterday—and looked cowed today.
Krellis had reported that Nelson hadn’t been in any of his classes yesterday afternoon and had returned to the dorm late in the evening, looking stunned and frightened—and had looked at all the boys with suspicion except for the handful who did morning workouts with the Eyrien. But even they didn’t know what had happened.
No one was talking, and that was not right.
Wondering if she was going to have to break her own rule of having her underlings come to her, Delora almost stepped out of the shadows where she habitually kept watch on the comings and goings on the green when she saw Jaenelle Saetien hurrying toward her.
“You seem out of sorts this morning,” Delora said. “Did something happen?”
“Yes.” Jaenelle Saetien sounded agitated. “I know you meant well. I truly believe you did. But the accusations that were made against Nelson were false, and you shouldn’t repeat them to anyone else or you’ll get into trouble.”
“Oh, I doubt that.”
“You will. An official inquiry was made and judgment was passed.” Jaenelle Saetien hesitated. “You may be summoned to reveal who told you the rumors in the first place. Just tell the truth, and you’ll be all right.”
What in the name of Hell . . . ? “What are you talking about?”
Jaenelle Saetien shook her head. “I’ve already told you more than I should have. I’ll get in big trouble if I say anything more, but I had to warn you that there will be serious consequences for whoever even whispers that rumor now.” She turned away and looked ready to bolt.
“You have to tell me—”
“I can’t! I have to go.”
Shaken, Delora stared after the other girl until she disappeared into the building that held the classrooms. An official inquiry? A judgment was passed? In all the years when she’d played her little dramas to amuse herself or punish someone for not doing what she wanted, no one had made a formal complaint. No one would have dared—and no one would have believed someone who accused thoughtful, charming Delora of some wrongdoing when she was among the first to help search for a lost kitten or to bring a basket of treats to a girl who had been beaten and broken by an ardent lover who lost control.
Who would have even thought to turn a rumor into an official inquiry? Insipid Zoey, that was who. She might have more backbone than Delora had given her credit for, and that was a problem.
How was she supposed to shape things in Dhemlan to her liking if there were official inquiries about every little thing? Zoey could claim the attention of the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan, something that was Delora’s fondest ambition. She’d find a way to wrap Daemon Sadi around her little finger. Yes, she would. She just had to wait until she was old enough to supply the proper incentive, which meant not showing him until then what could be achieved if he had the right partner.
It looked like she would have to . . . diminish . . . Zoey’s influence sooner than she’d planned. That was all right. She had an idea of how to do that and assure that Jaenelle Saetien’s loyalty would never waver again.
THIRTY-THREE
Daemon opened a bottle of red wine. He and Surreal were meeting with Lucivar at one of the family’s vineyard estates, so it was appropriate to sample and savor the wine that was produced there. Besides, the bottle he’d opened had been a very good year—a sop for what he expected would be a bitter truth for the three of them.
Surreal walked into the sitting room, looking tired and tense. “I know I’m late,” she snapped. “I had things to do.”
“Actually, you’re not late,” Daemon replied. “Lucivar hasn’t . . . Ah.”
Lucivar walked in behind Surreal and said, “What things?”
She moved to avoid being between them, which made Daemon very interested in—and wary about—what had made her late.
“A respected Warlord in a village,” she said. “Served as a Consort for several Queens when he was younger. Served in several more courts as an escort. In the past few decades, he’s performed the service of seeing witches through their Virgin Nights. He attends only three or four girls a year, accepting the commission if there is enough attraction between him and the girl that she would be receptive to him as her first lover. He has never left a girl feeling disappointed in her first experience, and he has never broken a witch’s power.”
“Until?” Daemon prompted when she didn’t continue.
“Until a couple of months ago. A witch, a natural Black Widow. Someone who could have worn a dark Jewel when she reached maturity. ‘Gifted’ is how her mother described her. She’d been gifted with her understanding of the Hourglass’s Craft.” Surreal prowled the room. “The mother came to this Warlord. Her daughter was a bit young to have her Virgin Night, but there were concerns she didn’t want to discuss that made it imperative to protect her daughter’s power and potential.”
“Shit,” Lucivar said softly. He took the glass of wine Daemon offered and drank half of it.
“Yeah,” Surreal agreed. “I couldn’t find the Warlord. No one has seen him since that night. Speculation, based on his reputation, is that he prepared the girl for her Virgin Night, giving her what he believed was the proper dose of the aphrodisiac brew called Night of Fire. Then he told the girl he would be right back and he left the room, which he’d never done before, so it could be that something—or someone—gave him a reason to step out. The next thing the girl knew, the room was moving in strange ways and a creature with a misshapen face and reeking of evil tied her to the bed . . .”
“And broke her,” Daemon finished.
“What she saw could have been an illusion spell designed to terrify her, or it could have been her reaction to whatever had been added to that Night of Fire. But it didn’t disguise the voice of her father’s cousin—the man whose salacious interest in the girl was the reason for the mother’s concern. Yes, he broke her. Viciously. Then he slipped away, leaving the missing Warlord to take the blame.”
“Did the girl tell anyone about recognizing the man’s voice?” Lucivar asked.
“The girl was half mad by the time she was taken from that bed, and the Healer explained that the girl had latched on to a recognized voice because the cousin was in the house, consoling her father.” Surreal stared at Daemon. “But her mother believed her—and her mother told me.”
Daemon studied his second-in-command. “Where is the father’s cousin now?” He knew by the look in her eyes, but the formality between them when she went hunting in Dhemlan required that he ask.
Surreal bared her teeth in a smile. “Did you know the Hall in the Dark Realm has a dungeon of sorts?”
“I did, yes.” He didn’t use those chambers often, but some executions required extreme privacy.
“Well, he’s there. I expect he’ll have made the transition to demon-dead by the time you get around to having a chat with him.”
He’d have to make inquiries into Dhemlan Warlords who had arrived in Hell a couple of months ago to see if he could locate the missing Warlord. And the first person he would ask about that missing Warlord was the fool waiting for him in Hell’s dungeon.
“The cousin who broke the girl,” Lucivar said.
“Does he have any bloodlines in common with anyone connected to the coven of malice? Was this girl targeted by a man’s lust or because some bitch wanted to eliminate a rival?”
Surreal shrugged, as if uninterested in the question.
That seeming lack of interest was telling—and suspect. Either she was still looking for an answer or she was sharpening her knives for a particular person and didn’t want to tell him.
Lucivar gave her a lazy, arrogant smile. “Did you manage to slip the knife in clean, or did you nick bone and damage the blade?”
She rounded on him, clearly insulted that he challenged her professional skills. “You arrogant prick.”
He raised his glass in a salute. “Now she’s feeling better.” He glanced at Daemon. “Although I could knock her on her ass a couple of times if you think that will help.”
The only way Daemon could describe the sound she made was a squeal with fangs.
He really hoped she wanted to sleep alone tonight.
“Let’s sit down.” He refilled wineglasses, then led them to a round table at one end of the sitting room where adults sometimes played cards or children put together puzzles. The clean wood surface and straight wooden chairs seemed more suitable for a grim discussion.
When they were seated, Daemon didn’t waste time. “We don’t have enough evidence to prove that Delora and her coven of malice are behind the breakings that have happened over the past few years. Either this is just beginning, or these girls—and the boys who are consenting to be their instruments—already know they have to be careful and selective, and they know how to hide their true intentions. They have time. Eliminate a handful of rivals every year, and decades from now, when that coven reaches maturity . . .”
“There won’t be many left to oppose their vision of the Blood,” Lucivar finished.