by Anne Bishop
"I'm scared, Deje," Surreal whispered. "There's something really wrong with him. I can feel it. Once I started running, hoping I was going in the opposite direction, that whole damn continent wasn't big enough. I need a clean place for a while." Surreal looked at Deje, her large eyes full of ghosts. "I need time."
Deje stroked Surreal's hair. "Sure, honey, sure. You take all the time you need. Nobody's going to push you in my house. Come on now, get into bed. I'll bring you something to eat and a little something to help you sleep." She gave Surreal a quick kiss on the forehead and hurried out of the room.
Surreal put on an old, soft nightgown and climbed into bed. It was good to be back at Deje's house, good to be back in Chaillot. Now if only the Sadist would stay away, maybe she could get some sleep.
7—Terreille
Daemon knocked on the kitchen door.
Inside, the spright little tune someone was singing stopped.
Waiting for the door to open, Daemon looked around, pleased to see that the snug little cottage was in good repair. The lawn and flowerbeds were neatly tended. The summer crop in the vegetable garden was almost done, but the healthy vines at one end promised a good crop of pumpkins and winter squash.
Still too early for pumpkins. Daemon sighed with regret while his mouth watered at the memory of Manny's pumpkin tarts.
At the back of the yard were two sheds. The smaller one probably contained gardening tools. The larger one was Jo's woodshop. The old man was probably tucked away in there coaxing an elegant little table out of pieces of wood, oblivious to everything except his work.
The kitchen door remained closed. The silence continued.
Concerned, Daemon opened the door enough to slip his head and shoulders inside and look around.
Manny stood by her worktable, one floury hand pressed to her bosom.
Damn. He should have realized a Warlord Prince's appearance would frighten her. He'd changed enough since he'd last seen her that she might not recognize his psychic scent.
Putting on his best smile, he said, "Darling, if you're going to pretend you're not home, the least you can do is close the windows. The smell of those nut cakes will draw the most unsavory characters."
Manny gave a cry of relief and joy, hustled around the worktable, and shuffle-ran toward the door, her floury hands waving cheerfully in front of her. "Daemon!"
Daemon stepped into the kitchen, slid one arm around the woman's thick waist, and twirled her around.
Manny laughed and flapped her arms. "Put me down. I'm getting flour all over your nice coat."
"I don't care about the coat." He kissed her cheek and set her carefully on her feet. With a bow and a flourish of his wrist, he presented her with a bouquet of flowers. "For my favorite lady."
Misty-eyed, Manny bent her head to smell the flowers. "I'll put these in some water." She bustled around the kitchen, filled a vase, and spent several minutes arranging the flowers. "You go into the parlor and I'll bring out some nut cakes and tea."
Manny and Jo had been servants in the SaDiablo court when he was growing up. Manny had taken care of him, practically raised him. And the darling was still trying.
Hiding a smile, Daemon stuffed his hands in his pockets and scuffed his gleaming black shoe against the kitchen floor. He looked at her through his long black lashes. "What'd I do?" he said in a sad, slightly pouty, little-boy voice. "What'd I do not to deserve a chair in the kitchen anymore?"
Trying to sound exasperated, Manny only laughed. "No use trying to raise you proper. Sit down, then, and behave yourself."
Daemon laughed, lighthearted and boyish, and plunked himself gracelessly into one of the kitchen chairs. Manny pulled out plates and cups. "Although why you want to stay in the kitchen is beyond me."
"The kitchen is where the food is."
"Guess there's some things boys never grow out of. Here." Manny set a glass in front of him.
Daemon looked at the glass, then looked at her.
"It's milk," she added.
"I did recognize it," he said dryly.
"Good. Then drink it." She folded her arms and tapped her foot. "No milk, no nut cakes."
"You always were a martinet," Daemon muttered. He picked up the glass, grimaced, and drank it down. He handed her the glass, giving her his best boyish smile. "Now may I have a nut cake?"
Manny laughed, shaking her head. "You're impossible." She put the kettle on for tea and began transferring the nut cakes to a platter. "What brings you here?"
"I came to see you." Daemon crossed his legs and steepled his fingers, resting them lightly on his chin.
She glanced up, gasped, and then busily rearranged the cakes.
Puzzled by the stunned look on her face, Daemon watched her rearrange everything twice. Searching for a neutral topic, he said, "The place looks good. Keeping it up isn't too much work for you?"
"The young people in the village help out," Manny said mildly.
Daemon frowned. "Aren't there sufficient funds for a handyman and cleaning woman?"
"Sure there are, but why would I want some other grown woman clumping about my house, telling me how to polish my furniture?" She grinned slyly. "Besides, the girls are willing to help with the heavy work in exchange for pocket money, a few of my special recipes, and a chance to flirt with the boys without their parents standing around watching them. And the boys are willing to help with the outside work in exchange for pocket money, food, and an excuse to strip off their shirts and show their muscles to the girls."
Daemon's laughter filled the kitchen. "Manny, you've become the village matchmaker."
Manny smiled smugly. "Jo's working on a cradle right now for one of the young couples."
"I hope there was a wedding beforehand."
"Of course." Manny said indignantly. She thumped the platter of nut cakes in front of him. "Shame on you, teasing an old woman."
"Do I still get nut cakes?" he asked contritely.
She ruffled his hair in answer and took the kettle off the stove.
Daemon stared into space. So many questions, and no answers.
"You're troubled," Manny said, filling the tea ball.
Daemon shook himself. "I'm looking for information that may be hard to find. A friend told me to beware of the Priest."
Manny slipped the tea ball into the pot to steep. "Huh. Anyone with a lick of sense takes care around the Priest."
Daemon stared at her. She knew the Priest. Were the answers really this close? "Manny, sit down for a moment."
Manny ignored him and hurriedly slid the cups onto the table, keeping out of his reach. "The tea's ready now. I'll call Jo—"
"Who is the Priest?"
"—he'll be glad to see you."
Daemon uncoiled from the chair, clamped one hand around her wrist, and pulled her into the other chair. Manny stared at his hand, at the ring finger that wore no Jeweled ring, at the long, black-tinted nails.
"Who is the Priest?"
"You mustn't talk about him. You must never talk about him."
"Who is the Priest?" His voice became dangerously soft.
"The tea," she said weakly.
Daemon poured two cups of tea. Returning to the table, he crossed his legs and steepled his fingers. "Now."
Manny lifted the cup to her lips but found the tea too hot to drink. She set the cup down again, fussing with its handle until it was exactly parallel to the edge of the table. Finally she dropped her hands in her lap and sighed.
"They never should have taken you away from him," she said quietly, looking at memories. "They never should have broken the contract. The Hourglass coven in Hayll has been failing since then, just like he said it would. No one breaks a contract with the Priest and survives."
"You were supposed to go to him for good that day, the day you got your Birthright Jewel. You were so proud that he was going to be there, even though the Birthright Ceremony was in the afternoon instead of evening like it usually is. They planned it that way, planned to m
ake him come in the harshest light of day, when his strength would be at its lowest."
"After you had your Birthright Red Jewel and were standing with your mother and Dorothea and all of Dorothea's escorts, waiting for the okay to walk out of the ceremonial circle to where he was waiting and kneel to him in service . . . that's when that woman, that cruel, scheming woman said you belonged to the Hourglass, that paternity was denied, that he couldn't have sired you, that she'd had her guards service the Dhemlan witch afterward to ensure she was seeded. It was a warm afternoon, but it got so cold, so awfully cold. Dorothea had all the Hourglass covens there, dozens and dozens of Black Widows, watching him, waiting for him to walk into the circle and break honor with them."
"But he didn't. He turned away."
"You almost broke free. Almost reached him. You were crying, screaming for him to wait for you, fighting the two guards who were holding your arms, your fingers clenched around that Jewel. There was a flash of Red light, and the guards were flung backward. You hurled yourself forward, trying to reach the edge of the circle. He turned, waiting. One of the guards tackled you. You were only a hand span away from the edge. I think if so much as a finger had crossed that circle, he would have swept you away with him, wouldn't have worried anymore if it was good for you to live with him, or to live without your people."
"You didn't make it. You were too young, and they were too strong."
"So he left. Went to that house you keep visiting, the house you and your mother lived in, and destroyed the study. Tore the books apart, shredded the curtains, broke every piece of furniture in the room. He couldn't get the rage out. When I finally dared open the door, he was kneeling in the middle of the room, his chest heaving, trying to get some air, a crazy look in his eyes."
"He finally got up and made me promise to look after you and your mother, to do the best I could. And I promised because I cared about you and her, and because he'd always been kind to me and Jo."
"After that, he disappeared. They took your Red Jewel and put the Ring of Obedience on you that night. You wouldn't eat. They told me I had to make you eat. They had plans for you and you weren't going to waste away. They locked Jo up in a metal box, put him out where there wasn't any shade and said he'd get food and water when I got you to eat. When I got you to eat two days in a row, they'd let him out."
"For three days you wouldn't eat, no matter how I begged. I don't think you heard me at all during those days. I was desperate. At night, when I'd go out and stand as close to the box as I was allowed, I'd hear Jo whimpering, his skin all blistered from touching that hot metal. So I did something bad to you. I dragged you out one morning and made you look at that box. I told you you were killing my man out of spite, that he was being punished because you were a bad boy and wouldn't eat, and if he died I would hate you forever and ever."
"I didn't know Dorothea had run your mother off. I didn't know I was all you had left. But you knew. You felt her go."
"You did what I said. You ate when I told you, slept when I told you. You were more a ghost than a child. But they let Jo out."
Manny wiped the tears from her face with the edge of her apron. She took a sip of cold tea.
Daemon closed his eyes. Before coming here, he'd gone to that crumbling, abandoned house he'd once lived in, searching for answers as he did every time he was in this part of the Realm. Memories, so elusive and traitorous, always teased him when he walked through the rooms. But it was the wrecked study that really drew him back, the room where he could almost hear a deep, powerful voice like soft thunder, where he could almost smell a sharp, spicy, masculine scent, where he could almost feel strong arms around him, where he could almost believe he had once been safe, protected, and loved.
And now he finally knew why.
Daemon slipped his hand over Manny's and squeezed gently. "You've told me this much, tell me the rest."
Manny shook her head. "They did something so you would forget him. They said if you ever found out about him, they'd kill you." She looked at him, pleading. "I couldn't let them kill you. You were the boy Jo and I couldn't have."
A door in his mind that he'd never known existed began to open.
"I'm not a boy anymore, Manny," Daemon said quietly, "and I won't be killed that easily." He made another pot of tea, put a fresh cup in front of her, and settled back in his chair. "What was . . . is his name?"
"He has many names," Manny whispered, staring at her cup.
"Manny." Daemon fought for patience.
"They call him the Seducer. The Executioner."
He shook his head, still not understanding. But the door opened a little wider.
"He's the High Priest of the Hourglass."
A little wider.
"You're stalling," Daemon snapped, clattering the cup against the saucer. "What's my father's name? You owe me that. You know what it's been like for me being a bastard. Did he ever sign the register?"
"Oh, yes," she said hurriedly. "But they changed that page. He was so proud of you and the Eyrien boy. He didn't know, you know, about the girl being Eyrien. Luthvian, that was her name. She didn't have wings or scars where wings were removed. He didn't know until the boy was born. She wanted to cut the wings off, raise the boy as Dhemlan maybe. But he said no, in his soul the boy was Eyrien, and it would be kinder to kill him in the cradle than to cut his wings. She cried at that, scared that he really would kill the babe. I think he would have if she'd ever done anything that might have damaged the wings. He built her a snug little cottage in Askavi, took care of her and the boy. He would bring him to visit sometimes. You'd play together . . . or fight together. It was hard to tell which. Then she got scared. She told me Prythian, Askavi's High Priestess, told her he only wanted the boy for fodder, wanted a supply of fresh blood to sup on. So she gave the boy to Prythian to hide, and ran away. When she went back for him, Prythian wouldn't tell her where he was, just laughed at her, and—"
"Manny," Daemon said in a soft, cold voice. "For the last time, who is my father?"
"The Prince of the Darkness."
A little wider.
"Manny."
"The Priest is the High Lord, don't you understand?" Manny cried.
"His name."
"No."
"His name, Manny."
"To whisper the name is to summon the man."
The door blew open and the memories poured out.
Daemon stared at his hands, stared at the long, black-tinted nails.
Mother Night.
He swallowed hard and shook his head. It wasn't possible. As much as he would like to believe it, it wasn't possible. "Saetan," he said quietly. "You're telling me my father is Saetan?"
"Hush, Daemon, hush."
Daemon leaped up, knocking the chair over. "No, I will not hush. He's dead, Manny. A legend. An ancestor far removed."
"Your father."
"He's dead. "
Manny licked her lips and closed her eyes. "One of the living dead. One of the ones called Guardians."
Daemon righted the chair and sat down. He felt ill. No wonder Dorothea used to beat him when he would nurse the hurt of being excluded by pretending that Saetan was his father. It hadn't been pretend after all. "Are you sure?" he asked finally.
"I'm sure."
Daemon laughed harshly. "You're mistaken, Manny. You must be. I can't imagine the High Lord of Hell bedding that bitch Hepsabah."
Manny squirmed.
Memories kept pouring over him, puzzle pieces floating into place.
"Not Hepsabah," he said slowly, feeling crushed by the magnitude of the lies that had made up his life. No, not Hepsabah. A Dhemlan witch . . . who'd been driven out of the court. "Tersa." He braced his head in his hands. "Who else could it be but Tersa."
Manny reached toward him but didn't touch him. "Now you know."
Daemon's hands shook as he lit a black cigarette. He watched the smoke curl and rise, too weary to do anything else. "Now I know." He closed his eyes and whispered, "M
y best ally or my worst enemy. And the choice will be mine. Sweet Darkness, why did it have to be him?"
"Daemon?"
He shook his head and tried to smile reassuringly.
He spent another hour with Manny and Jo, who had finally come in from the woodshop. He entertained them with slightly [unclear] stories about the Blood aristos he'd served in various courts and told them nothing about his life. It would hurt him beyond healing if Manny ever thought of him as Hayll's Whore.
When he finally left, he walked for hours. He couldn't stop shaking. The pain of a lifetime of lies grew with each step until his rage threatened to tear apart what was left of his self-restraint.
It was dawn when he caught the Red Wind and rode to Draega.
For the first time in his life, he wanted to see Dorothea.
CHAPTER FIVE
1—Terreille
As Kartane SaDiablo walked from his suite to the audience rooms, he wondered if he'd fortified himself with one glass of brandy too many before appearing before his mother and making a formal return to her court. If not, the whole damn court was acting queer. The Blood aristos scurried through the halls, eyes darting ahead and behind them as they traveled in tight little clusters. The males in the court usually acted like that, jostling and shoving until one of them was pushed to the front and offered as the sacrifice. Being the object of Dorothea's attention, whether she was pleased with a man or angry, was always an unpleasant experience. But for the women to act that way as well . . .
When he saw a servant actually smile, he finally understood.
By then it was too late.
He felt the cold as he swung around a corner and skidded to a stop in front of Daemon. He'd stopped trying long ago to understand his feelings whenever he saw Daemon—relief, fear, anger, envy, shame. Now he simply wondered if Daemon was finally going to kill him.
Kartane retreated to the one emotional gambit he had left. He pulled his lips into a sneering smile and said, "Hello, cousin. "
"Kartane." Daemon's toneless court voice, laced with boredom.
"So you've been called back to court. Was Aunt Hepsabah getting lonely?" That's it. Remind him of what he is.