by Anne Bishop
She scowled at him.
Black Widow and Healer she might be, but she was also almost grown, with enough of the endearing awkwardness of the young to still remind him of a kitten trying to pounce on a large, hoppy bug.
"So you don't live here all the time?" he asked carefully. Jaenelle shook her head. "The family has several residences in Dhemlan. Most of the time I live at the family seat." She gave him a look he couldn't read. "My father is the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan – among other things."
A man of wealth and position then. Probably not the
sort who'd want a half-breed bastard as a companion for
his daughter. Well, he'd deal with that when the time came.
"Lucivar." She fixed her eyes on the open door and
chewed her lip.
He sympathized with her. This was sometimes the hardest part of the healing, telling the patient honestly what could – and could not – be mended. "The wings are just decorative, aren't they?"
"No!" She took a deep breath. "The injuries were severe. All of them, not just the wings. I've done the healing, but what happens now depends, in large part, on you. I estimate it will take another three months for your back and wings to heal completely." She chewed her lip. "But, Lucivar, there's no margin for error in this. I had to pull everything you had to give for this healing. If you reinjure anything, the damage may be permanent." He reached for her hand, caressed her fingers with his
thumb. "And if I do it your way?" He watched her carefully. There were no false promises in those sapphire eyes.
"If you do it my way, three months from now we'll make the Run."
He lowered his head. Not because he didn't want her to see the tears, but because he needed a private moment to savor the hope.
When he had himself under control again, he smiled at her.
She smiled back, understanding. "Would you like a cup of tea?" When he nodded, she bounced out of the chair and went through the door to the right of the stone hearth.
"Any chance of persuading my Healer to add a bit of food to that?"
Jaenelle's head popped out of the kitchen doorway. "How does a large slice of fresh bread soaked in beef broth sound?"
About as edible as the table leg. "Do I have any choices?"
"No."
"Sounds wonderful."
She returned a few minutes later, helped him shift from the stool to a straight-backed chair that supported his back, then placed a large mug on the pine table. "It's a healing brew."
His lip curled in a silent snarl. Every healing brew he'd ever had forced down his throat had always tasted like brambles and piss, and he'd reached the opinion that Healers made them that way as a penalty for being hurt or ill.
"You don't get anything else until you drink it," Jaenelle added with a distasteful lack of sympathy.
Lucivar lifted the cup and sniffed cautiously. It smelled. . different. He took a sip, held it in his mouth for a moment, then closed his eyes and swallowed. And wondered how she'd distilled into a healing brew the solid strength of the Askavi mountains, the trees and grasses and flowers that fleshed out the earth beneath, the rivers that flowed through the land.
"This is wonderful," he murmured. "I'm pleased you approve."
"Really, it is," he insisted, responding to the laughter in her voice. "These things usually taste awful, and this tastes good."
Her laughter turned to puzzlement. "They're supposed to taste good, Lucivar. Otherwise, no one would want to drink them."
Not being able to argue with that, he said nothing, content to sip the brew. He was even content enough to feel a mild tolerance for the bowl of broth-soaked bread that Jaenelle placed in front of him, a tolerance that sharpened considerably when he noticed the slivers of beef sprinkled over the bread.
Then he noticed she was going to eat the same thing.
"I'm not the only one you drained to the limit in order to do this healing, am I, Cat?" he said quietly, unable to completely mask the anger underneath. How dare she risk herself this way, when there was no one to look after her?
Her cheeks colored faintly. She fiddled with her spoon, poked at the bread, and finally shrugged. "It was worth it."
He stabbed at the bread as another thought occurred to him. He'd let that wait for a moment. He tasted the bread and broth. "Not only do you make a good healing brew, you're also a decent cook."
She smacked the bread with her spoon, sending up a small geyser of broth. Wiping up the mess, she let out a hurt sniff and glared at him. "Mrs. Beale made this. I can't cook."
Lucivar took another mouthful and shrugged. "Cooking isn't that difficult." Then he looked up and wondered if a grown man had ever been beaten to death with a soup spoon.
"You can cook?" she asked ominously. Then she huffed. "Why do so many males know how to cook?"
He bit his tongue to keep from saying, "self-preservation." He ate a couple more spoonfuls of bread and broth. "I'll teach you to cook – on one condition."
"What condition?"
In the moment before he answered, he sensed a brittle fragility within her, but he could only respond as the Warlord Prince he was. "The bed's big enough for both of us,"
he said quietly, aware of how quickly she paled. "If you're not comfortable with that, fine. But if someone's going to sleep in front of the hearth, it's going to be me."
He saw the flash of temper, quickly reined in.
"You need the bed," she said through gritted teeth. "The healing isn't done yet."
"Since there's no one else here to look after you, I, as a Warlord Prince, have the duty and the privilege of overseeing your care." He was invoking ancient customs long ignored in Terreille, but he knew by her frustrated snarl that they still applied in Kaeleer.
"All right," she said, hiding her shaking hands in her lap. "We'll share the bed."
"And the blankets," he added.
The hostile look combined with the suppressed smile told him she wasn't sure what to think about him. That was all right. He wasn't sure, either.
"I suppose you want a pillow, too."
He smiled that lazy, arrogant smile. "Of course. And I promise not to kick you if you snore."
With her command of the Eyrien language, the girl could have made a Master of a hunting camp blush.
It hit him later, when he was comfortably settled on his belly in the bed, his wings open and gently supported, and Jaenelle and the wolves were out doing walkies – a silly word that struck him as an accurate description of the intricate, furry dance three wolves would perform around her while taking a late afternoon stroll.
He had made the Khaldharon Run intending to die and, instead, not only had survived but had found the living myth, his dreamed-of Queen.
Even as he smiled, the tears began, hot and bitter.
He was alive. And Jaenelle was alive. But Daemon. .
He didn't know what had happened at Cassandra's Altar, or how that sheet had gotten drenched with Jaenelle's blood, or what Daemon had done, but he was beginning to understand what it had cost.
Pressing his face into the pillow to muffle the sobs, squeezing his eyes shut to deny the images his mind con-
jured, he saw Daemon. In Pruul that night, exhausted but determined. In the ruins of SaDiablo Hall in Terreille, burned out by the nightmare of madness and ready to die. He heard again Daemon's frightened, enraged denial. Heard again that anguished cry rising from the broken stones.
If he hadn't been so chained by bitterness that night, if he'd left with Daemon, they would have found a way through the Gates. Together, they would have. And they would have found her and had these years with her, watching her grow up, participating in the experiences that would transform a child into a woman, a Queen.
He would still do that. He would be with her during the final years of that transformation and would know the joy of serving her.
But Daemon. .
Lucivar bit the pillow, muffling his own scream of anguish.
But Daemon
. .
chapter ten
1 / Kaeleer
Lucivar stood at the edge of the woods, not quite ready to step across the line that divided forest shadow from sun-drenched meadow. The day was warm enough to appreciate shade. Besides, Jaenelle was away on some kind of obligatory trip so there was no reason to hurry back.
Smoke trotted up, chose a tree, lifted a leg, and looked expectantly at Lucivar.
"I marked territory a ways back," Lucivar said.
Smoke's snort was a clear indication of what wolves thought about a human's ability to mark territory properly.
Amused, Lucivar waited until Smoke trotted off before stepping into the sunlight and spreading his wings to let them dry fully. The spring-fed pool Jaenelle had shown him wasn't quite warm enough yet, but he'd enjoyed the brisk dip.
He fanned his wings slowly, savoring the movement. He was halfway through the healing. If everything continued to go well, next week he would test his wings in flight. It was hard to be patient, but, at the end of the day, when he felt the good, quiet ache in his muscles, he knew Jaenelle was setting the right pace for the healing.
Folding his wings, Lucivar set off for the cabin at an easy pace.
Lulled by earlier physical activity and the day's warmth, it took him a moment to realize something wasn't right about the way the two young wolves raced toward him.
Jaenelle had taught him how to communicate with the kindred, and he'd been flattered when she'd told him they were highly selective about which humans they would speak to. But now, bracing himself as the wolves ran toward him, he wondered how much their opinion of him depended upon her presence.
A minute later he was engulfed in fur, fighting for balance while the wolf behind him wrapped its forelegs around his waist and pushed him forward and the one in front of him placed its paws on his shoulders and leaned hard against him, earnestly licking his face and whimpering for reassurance.
Their thoughts banged against his mind, too upset to be coherent.
The Lady had returned. The bad thing was going to happen. They were afraid. Smoke guarding, waiting for Lucivar. Lucivar come now. He was human. He would help the Lady.
Lucivar got untangled enough to start walking quickly toward the cabin. They didn't say she was hurt, so she wasn't wounded. But something bad was going to happen. Something that made them afraid to enter the cabin and be with her.
He remembered how uneasy Smoke had been when Jaenelle told them she was leaving for a few days.
Something bad. Something a human would make better.
He sincerely hoped they were right.
He opened the cabin door and understood why the wolves were afraid.
She sat in the rocking chair in front of the hearth, just staring.
The psychic pain in the room staggered him. The psychic shield around her felt deceptively passive, as easy to brush aside as a cobweb. Beneath the passivity, however, lay something that, if unleashed, would extract a brutal price.
Pulling his wings in tight, Lucivar carefully circled around the shield until he stood in front of her.
The Black Jewel around her neck glowed with deadly fire.
He shook, not sure if he was afraid for himself or for her. He closed his eyes and made rash promises to the Darkness to keep from being sick on the spot.
Having lived in Terreille most of his life, he recognized someone who had been tortured. He didn't think she'd been physically harmed, but there were subtle kinds of abuse that were just as destructive. Certainly, her body had paid a terrible price over the past four days. The weight she'd put on had been consumed along with the muscle she'd built up by working with him. Her skin was stretched too tight over her face and looked fragile enough to tear. Her eyes. .
He couldn't stand what he saw in those eyes.
She sat there, quietly bleeding to death from a soul wound, and he didn't know how to help her, didn't know if there was anything he could do that would help her.
"Cat?" he called softly. "Cat?"
He felt her revulsion when she finally looked at him, saw the emotions writhing and twisting in those haunted, bottomless eyes.
She blinked. Sank her teeth into her lower lip hard enough to draw blood. Blinked again. "Lucivar." Neither a question nor a statement, but an identification painfully drawn up from some deep well inside her. "Lucivar." Tears filled her eyes. "Lucivar?" A plea for comfort.
"Drop the shield, Cat." He watched her struggle to understand him. Sweet Darkness, she was so young. "Drop the shield. Let me in."
The shield dissolved. So did she. But she was in his arms before the first heart-tearing sob began. He settled them in the rocking chair and held her tight, murmuring soothing nothings, trying to rub warmth into icy limbs.
When the sobs eased to sniffles, he rubbed his cheek against her hair. "Cat, I think I should take you to your father's house."
"No!" She pushed at him, struggling to get free.
Her nails could have opened him to the bone. The venom in her snake tooth could have killed him twice over. One surge of the Black Jewels could have blown apart his inner barriers and left him a drooling husk.
Instead, she struggled futilely against a stronger body. That told him more about her temperament than anything else she might have done – and also explained why this had happened in the first place. Her temper had probably slipped once and the result had scared the shit out of her. Now she didn't trust herself to display any anger – even in self-defense. Well, he could do something about that.
"Cat-"
"No." She gave one more push. Then, too weak to fight anymore, she collapsed against him.
"Why?" He could think of one reason she was afraid to go home.
The words spilled out of her. "I know I look bad. I know. That's why I can't go home now. If Papa saw me, he'd be upset. He'd want to know what happened, and I can't tell him that, Lucivar. I can't. He'd be so angry, and he'd have another fight with the Dark Council and they'd just cause more trouble for him."
To Lucivar's way of thinking, having her father explode in a murderous rage over what had been done to her would be all to the good. Unfortunately, Jaenelle didn't share his way of thinking. She'd rather endure something that devastated her than cause trouble between her beloved papa and the Dark Council. That might suit her and the Dark Council and her papa, but it didn't suit him.
"That's not good enough, Cat," he said, keeping his voice low. "Either you tell me what happened, or I bundle you up and take you to your father right now."
Jaenelle sniffed. "You don't know where he is."
"Oh, I'm sure if I create enough of a fuss, someone will be happy to tell me where to find the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan."
Jaenelle studied his face. "You're a prick, Lucivar."
He smiled that lazy, arrogant smile. "I told you that the first time we met." He waited a minute, hoping he wouldn't have to prod her and knowing he would. "Which is it going to be, Cat?"
She squirmed. He could understand that. If someone had cornered him the way he'd cornered her, he'd squirm, too. He sensed she wanted physical distance between them be-
fore explaining, but he figured he'd hear something closer to the truth if she remained captured on his lap.
Finally giving up, she fluffed her hair and signed. "When I was twelve, I was hurt very badly-"
Was that how they had explained the rape to her? Being hurt?
"- and Papa became my legal guardian." She seemed to have a hard time breathing, and her voice thinned until, even sitting that close, he had to strain to hear her. "I woke up – came back to my body – two years later. I… was different when I came back, but Papa helped me rebuild my life piece by piece. He found teachers for me and encouraged my old friends to visit and he u-understood me." Her voice turned bitter. "But the Dark Council didn't think Papa was a suitable guardian and they tried to take me away from him and the rest of the family, so I stopped them and they had to let me stay with Papa."
Stopped them
. Lucivar turned over the possibilities of how she could have stopped them. Apparently, she hadn't done quite enough.
"To placate the Council, I agreed to spend one week each season socializing with the aristo families in Little Terreille."
"Which doesn't explain why you came back in this condition," Lucivar said quietly. He rubbed her arm, trying to warm her up. He was sweating. She still shivered.
"It's like living in Terreille again," she whispered. The haunted look filled her eyes. "No, worse than that. It's like living in-" She paused, puzzled.
"Even aristos in Little Terreille have to eat," he said gently.
Her eyes glazed over. Her voice sounded hollow. "Can't trust the food. Never trust the food. Even if you test it, you can't always sense the badness until it's too late. Can't sleep. Mustn't sleep. But they get to you anyway. Lies are true, and truth is punished. Bad girl. Sick-mind girl to make up such lies."
An icy fist pressed into Lucivar's lower back as he wondered what nightmare in the inner landscape she was wandering through right now.
Capturing her chin between his thumb and finger, Lucivar turned her head, forcing her to look at him. "You're not a bad girl, you're not sick, and you don't lie," he said firmly.
She blinked. Confusion filled her eyes. "What?"
Would she understand if he told her what she'd said? He doubted it. "So the food is lousy and you don't sleep well. That still doesn't explain why you came back in this shape. What did they do to you, Cat?"
"Nothing," she whispered, closing her eyes. Her throat worked convulsively. "It's just that boys expect to be kissed and-"
"They expect what?" Lucivar snarled.
"- I'm f-f-frigid and-"
"Frigid!" Lucivar roared, ignoring her frightened squeak. "You're seventeen years old. Those strutting little sons of whoring bitches shouldn't be trying anything with you that would even bring up the question of whether or not you're 'frigid.' And where in the name of Hell were the chaperons?"