by Anne Bishop
Then the parchment vanished, the door opened, and Geoffrey returned.
“I found some information that might be of interest to you,” Geoffrey said. “You can review the material in the private section of the library. Then you will go home.”
Daemon let out a huff of laughter. “I guess I overstepped a few boundaries. Are you going to mention this to my father?”
“That you’re looking into Falonar’s bloodlines? Why should I?”
Messages received and understood, Daemon thought as he and Geoffrey went to the private section of the library.
Geoffrey hadn’t shown him that parchment because he was the High Lord’s son. Geoffrey had shown him that parchment because he was the High Lord’s heir.
EIGHT
Her chest hurt like a wicked bitch, it was damn hard to breathe, and whatever she was lying on was too cold and too hard for any comfort.
Surreal moved her hands slowly, testing the surface beneath her. When her left hand found an edge and then air, she carefully rolled to her side so she wouldn’t fall off whatever she was on. As she pushed herself upright, she felt an odd, painful pressure in her chest, and when she touched the spot . . .
She ripped her shirt open and stared at the rough, swollen, black lump between her breasts. Her muscles clenched, and the thing seemed to swell.
“What in the name of Hell . . . ?”
“Not Hell,” said a lilting, lyrical voice full of caverns and midnight skies. “This is the Misty Place.”
Apt name, Surreal decided as she looked around. Mist and stone, and nothing else except the altar she was sitting on.
“Where, exactly, is the Misty Place?” she asked.
“In the abyss.”
“I’ve never seen it before.”
“Very few can survive this place, and none without invitation.”
What walked out of the mist was female but not human. Medium height, slender, and fair-skinned. An erotically beautiful face framed by a gold mane that was somewhere between fur and hair. Delicately pointed ears and a small spiral horn. Human torso and limbs, but also a fawn’s tail and dainty horse’s hooves. Human hands that had cat’s claws instead of fingernails.
Surreal didn’t recognize the body, but she recognized those sapphire eyes.
Living myth. Dreams made flesh. Witch. This was the Self who lived within Jaenelle’s human skin.
“You brought me here?” Surreal asked. “Why?”
“Because of that.” Witch pointed to the black lump.
“Poison?” She gingerly pressed the skin around the lump. Hell’s fire, it hurt.
“Not a physical poison, but a poison all the same. A poison of the heart. You can’t see it in the physical world, but it will cripple you, Surreal—has been crippling you for months now. So it’s time to cleanse the heart.”
Oh, that didn’t sound good. “Should I lay down so you can cut it out?”
Witch shook her head. “This is up to you now.”
“You expect me to cut it out of myself?”
“Not cut. Push. A kind of birthing, if you prefer.”
“I don’t prefer,” she muttered. “What if I don’t do this?”
“You were in so much emotional pain, you broke the connection between your Self and your body in order to escape. If you don’t heal this now, you won’t be able to mend that separation, and your empty body eventually will wither and die.” Witch bared her teeth and snarled. “Show some balls and do this!”
Surreal bared her teeth and matched Witch’s snarl. Then her chest muscles clenched. The skin at the top of the lump split, and a thick, black pus pushed out of the opening. When she forced her muscles to relax, the pus retreated.
Shit shit shit.
“You have to clean it out, all the way to the core,” Witch said urgently. “If you don’t, your dreams will never find fertile ground.”
“What dreams?”
“The ones you’re not ready to know. The ones I’ve seen in a tangled web.”
The pressure in her chest was becoming unbearable, and she wanted to back down, wanted to say she didn’t care what happened to her body. Then she imagined Lucivar trying to explain to Daemonar why Auntie Surreal never woke up after playing with him. “What do I need to do?”
“Push them out. Let them go. Forgive yourself for what you couldn’t do.”
Surreal shook her head, not understanding. Her chest muscles clenched again. Pus rose, but not far enough.
“Tell me their names,” Witch said as she pointed to the black lump.
“Whose names?”
“The ones you couldn’t save.”
Suddenly she knew what the lump and pus had formed around—the feelings of blame, regret, sorrow. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can,” Witch insisted. “Tell me their names!”
A boy defying an order. Wings. Blood spraying the walls and floor. “Kester.”
Her muscles clenched. Black pus burst out of the lump and soiled her shirt.
She relaxed her muscles and took a breath. Hell’s fire, that stuff smelled putrid.
A boy screaming and screaming. A plucked eye rolling off the shelf.
“Trist,” she cried, bearing down to push out more of the pus. “Ginger.”
“Not your fault,” Witch said.
“I should have been stronger, faster, something.”
“You were injured and then poisoned. You did far more to defend and protect than the enemy had believed possible.” A beat of silence. Then, “Who else didn’t you save?”
The pressure in her chest kept building and building. Now that the wound was open, the older, harder pus was pushing up. “Marjane, who was my friend Deje’s girl. You remember Marjane.”
“Yes, I remember Marjane. I remember Rebecca and Myrol, Dannie and Rose. They were just some of the girls who died in Briarwood.”
More pus burst from the lump as Witch spoke each name.
“They were dead before you knew they existed,” Witch said. “Yet you carry their names. Who else didn’t you save?”
“You.” Panting and sobbing, Surreal looked at the dream whose existence had changed so many lives. “I didn’t get to Briarwood in time to save you.”
“You weren’t in time to save me from the rape, but you got me away from that place, and that saved my life.”
Black pus continued pushing out of her chest, fouling her clothes and the altar. As an assassin, she had killed a lot of men as payment for girls whose names she never knew. She didn’t carry the weight of those girls because she had settled the debt that was owed for their pain, for their loss.
More pressure, but this pus was so old, had been in her for so long, it was rough and hard, scraping the skin around the open sore.
“You’re down to the core,” Witch said. “The last name. Tell me the name of the first girl you didn’t save, the name that has hurt your heart for so many years.”
She clenched her muscles and pushed. Had to get the core out of her or it would all come back.
“Tell me.”
“I don’t know!”
“Then I’ll tell you.” Witch reached out and rested one claw above what was left of the black lump. “Her name was Surreal.”
Pain. Agony. Twelve years old and hiding from whoever had killed her mother. Trying to survive in dirty alleyways. Raped but not broken. She hadn’t been able to protect her body, but she’d been able to protect her Green Birthright power and her inner web. Twelve years old and beginning both careers—whore and assassin.
The hard black core pushed out, pushed out, pushed out until Witch hooked it with a claw and pulled it out the rest of the way.
Surreal lay back. Her chest hurt, and it felt hollow—and it felt clean. For the first time in too many years, she felt clean.
She closed her eyes. The altar felt much warmer and softer now. Comfortable.
“Rest now, Surreal,” Jaenelle said. “Rest.”
She snuggled farther under the spell-warmed cov
ers, breathed an easy sigh, and slept.
NINE
“Daemonar!”
Surreal jerked awake and struggled against the hand pressing on her shoulder, holding her down. Then a tenor voice said, “Be easy, cousin. Be easy. The boy is well.” Then a tenor voice said, “Be easy, cousin. Be easy The boy is well.”
She flopped back, boneless with relief as the voice and words were absorbed. Then she looked at the man who released her shoulder and took her hand, hiding none of the Gray-Jeweled strength behind his gentle touch. Long silver hair and slightly oversized forest blue eyes. Delicately pointed ears and a slender, sinewy build that was much stronger than it looked. “Chaosti?”
The Warlord Prince of the Dea al Mon smiled. “Welcome back.”
Hell’s fire. How long had she been gone?
“Two days,” Chaosti said as if she’d actually asked the question. “It’s been two days since you collapsed.”
Snips of memory. Lucivar leaving her to watch the boy. A hunt for the missing child. Fear that turned into unbearable pain. And . . .
“How much of the eyrie did I wreck before I went down?” she asked.
A sharp, amused smile. “All of it. Every closet, cupboard, and hidey-hole. You were impressively efficient.”
Shit shit shit. “Didn’t find the boy.” A small ache in her chest where the black lump had been.
“He and his furry brothers used the wolf pups’ newly learned skill of sight shielding to give themselves an advantage in the game of hide-and-seek. If you’d been aware of that, he would have remained hidden only for as long as you chose to let him have the advantage. As it was, Daemonar is very sorry he scared his auntie Surreal. Whenever he’s slipped away from us, we’ve found him outside this door, hugging an armful of his books, waiting for you to wake up so he can read you a story.”
“He can’t read yet.”
“I know. But it’s the only thing he can do to take care of you.”
Tears stung her eyes. She blinked them away. “Is there any reason I can’t get up?”
“None.” Chaosti squeezed her hand gently. “But there is something I’d like you to think about before you see the others.”
She studied his face, but she couldn’t read him as well as she could read Lucivar. “Think about what?” she asked warily.
“Coming to Dea al Mon for a visit with your mother’s clan. Grand-mammy Teele would like to have some time with you.” He hesitated. “While we waited for your return, Lucivar and I discussed the training he wanted you to have and why he wanted you to have it. I agree with the why—”
Of course he did. He’d been just as upset with her for not shielding before going into the spooky house as Lucivar had been—and just as adamant that she polish her defensive skills.
“—but I think a different how and where would suit you better.”
She blinked at him. “Say that again?”
“You’re not Eyrien. While learning the Eyrien way of fighting is physically beneficial, it’s not natural to who and what you are.”
“Because I’m Dea al Mon.”
“Yes.”
Hadn’t she thought along similar lines the day she’d clashed with Falonar in The Tavern?
“I’d like to make that visit, and I’d like some training with you, if you’re willing. But not just yet.” Weighing loyalties and confidences, she decided Chaosti was as much family to Lucivar as she was. “Something is going on here.”
“Lucivar’s decision to have some of the Eyriens leave Ebon Rih is not your concern, cousin.”
“No, it’s not, but he needs someone watching his back until they’re gone.”
“Isn’t that what his second-in-command is supposed to do?”
“That’s what a second-in-command is supposed to do,” she agreed. “But there’s more than one way to stab a man in the back.”
“Like striking at his family?” Chaosti tipped his head to indicate the other people in the eyrie.
She nodded. “Or good friends like Merry and Briggs.”
“Not wounds Lucivar would recover from easily,” Chaosti said.
“If at all.”
“Do you want me to stay?”
“No. But it wouldn’t hurt to have the Eyriens in Riada get a look at another side of the SaDiablo family.”
“Lucivar is with the other men now. I’ll go over there and personally give him the news that you’ve recovered.”
“Yeah. About that.” He helped her sit up, then pulled the covers away so she could swing her legs over the side of the bed. “Was Marian upset about me tearing up the place?”
“She said it has given her an opportunity to look at what’s been stored and pass along what is no longer needed.”
Meaning the hearth witch must have been shocked when she’d returned to her home. “Shit.”
He laughed as he helped her to her feet and bundled her into a robe. She didn’t need that much help. She was sure of it. But she wasn’t feeling steady enough to argue with a Warlord Prince and take care of herself.
He helped her to the bathroom, then helped her to the kitchen, where Jaenelle and Marian were talking.
“You’re looking wobbly, sugar,” Jaenelle said. “But you’ll do.” She sounded amused, but Surreal heard approval beneath the amusement.
“Jaenelle!” Marian scolded. “Be nice.”
“Instead of honest?” Jaenelle asked innocently.
Marian narrowed her eyes at Jaenelle, then gave Surreal a brilliant smile. “We’re glad you’re feeling better. Are you hungry?”
Surreal’s stomach growled. They all laughed.
“Auntie Srell!”
One moment she was standing on her own feet. The next, Daemonar flung himself at her and would have knocked her down if Chaosti hadn’t caught her. He positioned a chair behind her and laughed in her ear as he said, “We really do need to work on your defensive skills, cousin.”
She would have said something sharp and concise, but she was being hugged breathless by the boy in her lap.
“I’m sorry, Auntie Srell!”
“I know you are, boyo.” She gingerly put her arms around him. “I know.”
“Let Auntie Surreal sit by herself now and have something to eat,” Jaenelle said.
Daemonar scrambled off Surreal’s lap and into the chair next to hers. “Mama made good soup. You eat some. You eat too, Auntie J.!”
*Hell’s fire,* Surreal said on a Gray psychic thread aimed at Jaenelle. *He’s already got the bossy attitude.*
*Uh-huh.* Jaenelle set the table. *A Warlord Prince is born a Warlord Prince. Doesn’t take long for the personality traits of that caste to show up.*
*Any chance of me taking a bath by myself?*
*Only if you wait until nap time.* Jaenelle brought the bread and butter to the table while Marian ladled the soup.
They ate quietly. Surreal saw the fatigue in Jaenelle’s and Marian’s eyes, felt the fatigue in her own body. The past two days had been hard on all of them.
*One more step, Surreal,* Jaenelle said quietly. *You’ve cleansed your heart. In a day or two, when you’re feeling stronger, let Lucivar give you a chance to cleanse the past from your body.*
*I don’t understand.*
*You will.*
The door of the communal eyrie opened.
Since he was sparring with Zaranar, Lucivar didn’t look toward the door, but he noticed the refreshing scent of crisp, clean air—and he noticed the psychic scent of the male who entered.
Chaosti’s presence didn’t break his concentration, but it broke everyone else’s, including Zaranar’s. By rights, Lucivar should have thumped the man for getting distracted when an adversary stood in front of him, but he understood why Zaranar instinctively turned toward the door, so he deliberately stepped away, ending the sparring match.
Even when Chaosti was relaxed and wearing his Birthright Green Jewel, as he was now, there was something wild about his physical and psychic scents that made other men wary.
That had been true of the young man Lucivar had met years ago, and it was more true of the mature leader who protected the people and land of the Dea al Mon. Hell’s fire, even Daemon recognized Chaosti as a serious adversary, despite the difference in the strength of Black against Gray.
It was fortunate for the Realm of Kaeleer that one man was married to Jaenelle and the other was related to Jaenelle. That connection was the only reason they were easy being in a room with each other—at least after the first minute, when they both struggled to leash their predatory natures.
So Lucivar didn’t take advantage of Zaranar’s distraction. Instead, he vanished his sparring stick and waited for Chaosti to cross the large room and join him.
No anger. No distress. But Lucivar didn’t feel the tight muscles in his shoulders relax until Chaosti smiled.
“Surreal is awake,” Chaosti said. “And since your boy has to divide his attention among his three favorite women, she’ll have some chance to eat in peace.”
Lucivar grinned. Surreal was back. Thank the Darkness for that.
“I’ve heard the Dea al Mon are skilled fighters,” Falonar said with a tight smile. “The most feared warriors in the Realm. Would you be willing to give us a demonstration?”
Chaosti turned toward Falonar. “The Dea al Mon and Eyriens don’t fight in the same way. I don’t think you would find our weapons impressive compared to your own.”
Having seen Dea al Mon weapons, Lucivar didn’t agree with that, but he recognized the diplomacy of a warrior who didn’t want to offend his hosts.
“Lucivar is quite free with teaching others how to use Eyrien weapons,” Falonar said. “I assumed he’d shown you.”
Why does that bother you? Lucivar wondered as he absorbed the odd note in Falonar’s voice.
“He did,” Chaosti replied. Then he shrugged. “If you’ll find it of interest.”
“It isn’t necessary,” Lucivar said, not liking the undercurrent of emotions that put an unsettling bite in the air.
He didn’t object to the suggestion itself. After all, he’d enjoyed sparring with centaurs and satyrs as well as the Dea al Mon, not to mention playing stalk and pounce with Kaelas and Jaal. Pitting his skills against someone who had received a different kind of training had added zest to familiar workouts. But there was something about Falonar’s suggestion that felt off.