by Anne Bishop
“Where’s your overcoat?” she demanded. “How am I supposed to get it into that boy’s head that winter is almost here and he needs to wear a coat if you don’t set a good example? And don’t just stand there looking like a fish on a line. Come in and close the door. You’re letting the cold in.”
Some things didn’t change regardless of age and rank, Daemon thought as he obediently closed the door and followed Manny to the kitchen at the back of the cottage.
Two children sat at the pinewood table—his ward, Mikal, and his daughter, Jaenelle Saetien. Morghann sat next to Jaenelle’s chair, wagging her tail in enthusiastic greeting.
Manny bustled about the kitchen, pouring glasses of milk for the children and making coffee for him. And the other adult in the room . . .
“Hello, darling.” Daemon held out a hand to his mother. A broken Black Widow whose mind wandered the borders of the Twisted Kingdom, Tersa was unable to grasp what most people called sanity, but she was still gifted in the Hourglass’s Craft—and she was still powerful in her own way.
“It’s the boy. It’s my boy.” Smiling, she clasped her hands around his. Then she frowned. “You’re cold.” Reaching up, she cupped his face in her hands and studied him. “Not well,” she whispered. “Not well.”
He stepped back, wondering what she had sensed—or seen. “I’m fine,” he lied. “I was sufficiently annoyed when I walked out of a meeting that I forgot to put on my coat. That’s why I’m cold.”
For a moment, he thought Tersa would argue with him. Then her gold eyes filled with the vague look that meant her mind had wandered down another path in the Twisted Kingdom.
“We have nutcakes,” she said. “Manny says the children can each have one.” She looked at him.
Apparently he’d been demoted back to childhood—at least where nutcakes were concerned. “One is sufficient for a treat.” He pulled out a chair opposite Mikal and Jaenelle Saetien and sat, noticing the cautious way Tersa eased into the chair next to him.
When Sylvia, a former Queen of Halaway, had been killed at a house party that was meant as a lethal trap for her sons, Daemon used his positions as patriarch of the SaDiablo family and Warlord Prince of Dhemlan to become Mikal and Beron’s legal guardian in order to carry out Sylvia’s wishes for her sons. Jaenelle Angelline had worked out the details, and even a century later, the arrangement still followed the intentions of both Queens.
“Since I’m special, I should have two nutcakes,” Jaenelle Saetien said, putting one on her plate as she reached for another with her other hand.
“Aaaaaahhhhh, no,” Daemon replied, using Craft to move the plate of treats out of his daughter’s reach. He murmured his thanks to Manny when she placed a large mug of coffee in front of him, and watched his girl pout—and then study him to see if pouting would bring about the desired response of him giving in and letting her have the second nutcake.
Her negotiating to convince him to change his answer when she wanted something wasn’t new, but previously she’d argued with logic and provided reasons that were sometimes fascinatingly skewed, coming as they were from a child’s perspective, and she usually accepted his final answer with a minimum of fuss. This effort to manipulate his feelings had begun right after he hadn’t let her have a special cake—and was an unwelcome ploy. Especially today.
“Something wrong with your lip, witch-child?” he asked mildly.
“I’m special,” she said, still working the pout. “I should get two nutcakes.”
“You’re not that special,” Mikal said, rolling his eyes in a way that was designed to annoy adults—a reminder that the young Warlord had reached the messy years when he was no longer a boy but hadn’t quite settled into the long, fraught decades of being a youth.
Pouting forgotten, Jaenelle Saetien turned on the older boy, who was usually considered a friend as well as family. “I am so. Everyone knows I’m special because I wear Twilight’s Dawn, and no one else can wear that Jewel.”
“Lady Angelline was the first witch to wear a Jewel like that, and her Twilight’s Dawn was a lot more powerful than yours,” Mikal said. “But ever since the Birthright Ceremony, you’ve been acting like a brat and fanning about like you’re better than the rest of us and almost daring the teachers to scold you when you decide you don’t have to do your schoolwork because you’re special.” He slipped out of his chair, stuck his butt out, and wiggled it to demonstrate fanning.
“Enough,” Daemon said.
Ignoring him, Jaenelle Saetien jumped up, knocking against the table hard enough to slosh milk over the rim of her glass. “You take that back, Mikal!”
“No, I won’t!” Mikal wiggled his butt again. “Brat, brat, brat!”
Daemon felt the rise of power driven by his daughter’s anger, watched Mikal’s eyes widen before the boy wrapped himself in a Rose defensive shield.
The power in Jaenelle Saetien’s Jewel ranged from Rose to Green. If she struck Mikal with anything but the lightest end of her Birthright power, she would break the boy’s shield at the very least. At the worst, she might break a great deal more than a shield.
That he had to consider the possibility that his girl would do such a thing because of a childish squabble disturbed him. That he might have missed the signs that she felt entitled to use her power against anyone, let alone a member of their family, disturbed him in other ways.
“Enough.” Daemon’s deep voice, laced with the power of his Birthright Red Jewel, rolled through the cottage like soft thunder—a warning of a storm gathering on the horizon.
Instantly subdued, the children sat and stared at their plates while Manny wiped up the milk and Tersa . . . He didn’t know what his mother was seeing or hearing.
Daemon reached for a nutcake and met Manny’s eyes. She had been his caretaker when he was a child, before and after Tersa had been driven away by Dorothea SaDiablo, the High Priestess of Hayll in the Realm of Terreille. Manny had looked after him during the years when Dorothea had used him and trained him to be a pleasure slave. She had been the one good constant in his childhood, and she had never taken any sass from him, even after he’d begun wearing the Black.
That she was looking at his daughter with an expression close to dislike told him he needed to find out what was going on when he wasn’t present and make some adjustments.
And at least one adjustment would be made on the way home.
“Are you coming up to ride with us tomorrow, Mikal?” he asked to break the silence.
“Yes, sir, if it’s still all right with you,” Mikal replied, dropping the Rose shield.
“It is.”
“I got a letter from Beron yesterday,” Mikal said, the spat apparently forgotten—at least by the boy. “He’s auditioning for a new play, but he’s planning to come home and visit for a couple of days.” The boy’s excitement over his elder brother’s acting career brightened the room—and calmed Daemon’s temper.
“I’ll have my guest room made up for him,” Manny said. “Make sure he gets a couple of home-cooked meals in him.” She glanced at Daemon. “I imagine Mrs. Beale will be expecting to tuck a couple of meals into him as well.”
“I imagine she will.” He’d check with Holt to find out if he and Surreal were hosting any particular guests while Beron was in Halaway. If not, Manny and Mrs. Beale could arrange between themselves when and where the young actor showed up for meals.
They discussed the theater and what little Mikal knew about the part Beron hoped to win. Daemon didn’t comment about Jaenelle Saetien’s big sighs or continued sulking. And he didn’t say anything when a nutcake vanished from the serving dish.
٭I’ll handle it,٭ he told Manny on a psychic thread before the woman could make a fuss. ٭How long has this behavior been going on? There’s been little sign of this at home.٭ No sign of this outside of the cake incident, and no one had approached him about his gir
l’s behavior when she wasn’t with him.
٭Not that long. Like Mikal said, the young Lady has been full of herself since the Birthright Ceremony,٭ Manny replied. ٭Happens to some youngsters. I expect she’ll grow out of it once her Jewel stops attracting so much attention.٭
٭The sooner she grows out of it, the better.٭
A flash of annoyance from Manny—directed at him for his harsh tone. A flicker of something else from Tersa. That was more of a worry.
٭I agree,٭ Manny finally said. ٭Course, I remember what you and your brother were like when you were around her age, even before you had a reason to feel so full of yourselves.٭
Daemon looked at Manny. ٭May the Darkness spare all of us from a child like that.٭
٭Too late.٭
His lips twitched. Dealing with Daemonar’s energy whenever the boy came to visit left him exhausted and wondering how anyone survived Eyrien children. And left him wondering what Lucivar had been thinking to have three of them. Although Titian really was a darling witchling, and baby Andulvar was still too young to cause too much trouble.
A few minutes later, Daemon—now wearing an overcoat—escorted Jaenelle Saetien and Morghann out of the village, heading toward SaDiablo Hall. Home. His girl’s mood had changed from sulky to cheerful, but that wouldn’t last long.
He watched girl and Sceltie, not as a doting father but as the Warlord Prince responsible for the well-being of all the Dhemlan people.
Jaenelle Saetien skipped ahead of him, the small brown and white dog trotting beside her. His girl’s delicately pointed ears were the visible proof of the Dea al Mon side of her heritage. The other things that were part of the Dea al Mon weren’t as obvious.
Surreal had been twelve years old the first time she killed a man with a knife. She’d been justified, but it was whispered by the other races in Kaeleer that the Children of the Wood were born knowing what to do with a knife. Surreal’s skill as an assassin was testimony to the truth of the saying.
Her skill had never bothered him. Hell’s fire, he’d taught her some of the nastier death spells. But the temperament and power they both had brought to the making of this child . . .
Everything had a price, including privilege. Perhaps, especially privilege.
He waited until they had crossed the wooden bridge that was the boundary that divided Halaway from the SaDiablo estate, and changed the public road into the Hall’s private drive. Then he snapped his fingers twice and held out his hand. “I’ll take that nutcake, Lady Morghann.”
٭But I am supposed to give it to Jaenelle Saetien when we get back to her room,٭ Morghann said.
Daemon stopped walking and looked at his daughter, who poked her lip out in another pout.
“You were told you could have one nutcake,” he said.
“But I wanted two!” she protested.
“Because you’re special,” he said too softly.
She started to agree, then must have realized the words were a warning. “Don’t you think I’m special?” she asked in a small voice.
“Yes, I do, but that has nothing to do with the Jewel you wear. I think you’re special because you’re my daughter and I love you. I imagine every father feels that way about a daughter. I know your uncle Lucivar feels that way about Titian. But being special, regardless of the reason, doesn’t give you the right to misbehave or ignore your schoolwork—or convince a witch who is younger than you to do something that you know is wrong.”
٭I did a wrong thing?٭ Morghann asked, alarmed.
Daemon ignored the Sceltie and focused on the girl. “I’m disappointed in you, Jaenelle Saetien. You let Morghann believe it was all right to take a nutcake for you. You tried to cheat by letting someone else take something that you wanted—and take the blame if caught.”
٭Blame?٭ Morghann whined. ٭There is blame?٭
“Is that what you want your little Sister to learn from you? That it’s all right to cheat, to take without permission? As long as your hands don’t get dirty, it’s not your fault and you’ll stand back and let someone else take the blame—and the punishment?” The headache, which he’d managed to ignore while he was at Manny’s cottage, surged into sickening pain. He had to leave while he could still ride the Winds.
“It was just a stupid nutcake!” Jaenelle Saetien protested.
“Today it was a nutcake,” he snapped. “What will you ask Morghann to steal tomorrow?”
٭Steal? Scelties do not steal.٭ Morghann stared at Jaenelle Saetien and growled.
“Come on,” Daemon said. “I have an appointment, and you need to get home.”
He started walking, aware that his girl hadn’t moved, was in the throes of some mood that was dangerous for both of them right now.
“If that Lady in the Mist had wanted a second nutcake, I bet you would have given it to her,” Jaenelle Saetien said, her voice rising in a whiny challenge.
Rage whispered through him, savagely cold, burning him right to the marrow. He turned and walked back to his daughter—and whatever she saw in his face had her taking two steps back.
“If you ever again try to use the Lady as a hammer against me, there will be consequences—and they will hurt. She is my Queen, and no one uses her as a weapon. Especially you. Are we clear about that, Lady SaDiablo?”
“Papa . . .”
“Are. We. Clear?”
“Y-yes.”
He walked away. Had to walk away.
“Papa!” Jaenelle Saetien wailed as she ran to catch up to him. “I’m sorry, Papa.”
The tears were probably real, but the headache was a storm pounding his temples and consuming his control, so all he could do was hand her a handkerchief and keep moving until he got her to the Hall and could place her in Surreal’s care before he . . .
٭Surreal,٭ he called on a Gray psychic thread. ٭Surreal, you’re needed.٭
He knew she was at the Hall. He always knew where she and Jaenelle Saetien were, not only because he was so attuned to their psychic scents, but because Surreal was the only individual in the surrounding area who wore the Gray, and Jaenelle Saetien’s Jewel was unmistakable.
٭Sadi?٭ Surreal sounded wary. ٭Where are you?٭
٭We’ll be at the Hall in a few minutes.٭ He broke the link between them before she picked up on the pain. He wasn’t the only one who was attuned to his partner, and he didn’t want her asking questions that might give her cause to worry before he could provide reassuring answers—or at least some kind of answer.
Assuming she still felt enough for him beyond sex to worry.
Surreal wasn’t in the great hall when he walked in, but Beale was there. The Red-Jeweled Warlord who served as the Hall’s butler looked attentive, as if merely there to follow an order, but Daemon sensed the tight Red shield around the man. Red couldn’t survive a strike from the Black, but Beale being prepared for a strike told him his flash of cold anger hadn’t been as contained as he’d thought.
He wasn’t so steeped in pain that he couldn’t appreciate that Beale’s response to him was the same as Mikal’s had been to Jaenelle Saetien—and for much the same reason—but it made him wonder why Surreal wasn’t there, armed and waiting for him. Unless she thought, for whatever reason, that she, and not Jaenelle Saetien, was the reason for the anger?
“Look after Jaenelle Saetien until Lady Surreal is available,” Daemon told Beale. “And please convey my apologies to Mrs. Beale for not giving her more notice, but I have a meeting that won’t wait and I will not be back in time for dinner.”
Beale allowed himself a tiny frown of concern. “A meeting, Prince? Lord Holt didn’t mention anything on your calendar this evening.”
“It wasn’t on my calendar, but it can’t be delayed.” Daemon backed away from his butler, from his daughter, from the wife who hadn’t made an appearance yet. “I will be back tonight.”
٭Convey one other thing to my wife,٭ he said on a Red spear thread, and gave Beale instructions that, even if not understood, would be followed by everyone who worked at the Hall.
As Daemon walked to the stone landing web in front of the house, he noticed Morghann trotting in the direction of the stables.
٭Morghann,٭ he called as gently as he could.
٭I did a wrong thing,٭ the Sceltie whined. ٭There is blame.٭
٭Jaenelle Saetien did a wrong thing. You made a small mistake. We can talk about the correct thing to do when I get back.٭
She didn’t reply, just kept trotting toward the stables.
He’d been too harsh. Being a few months away from her Birthright Ceremony, Morghann was still considered a puppy, which meant she depended on what humans told her was correct behavior, and Jaenelle Saetien telling her to do a “wrong thing” had shaken the Sceltie’s confidence—at least for a little while. Morghann would forgive the girl—Scelties were forgiving of human mistakes, as he had reason to know—but she wouldn’t forget. And she might never fully trust again. He wouldn’t know how deep that break in trust went until he tried to fix it.
But right now something else needed to be fixed.
* * *
* * *
Tersa returned to the cottage next to Manny’s, where she and the Mikal boy lived. The Mikal boy had stayed with Manny to do his schoolwork and help with some of the chores he did around both cottages. No one would wonder about her for a while.
For long enough.
She climbed the attic stairs, then fumbled with the keys she kept on a chain she usually left in a drawer in her dresser. But today she had tucked the chain in a pocket, had felt she’d needed to have the keys handy. She unlocked the door, entered the attic, then locked the door behind her.