Authors: Anne Bishop
“Fun!” He choked on his anger, since it had no outlet that wouldn’t end in fierce destruction. “You’re turning what we are into a mockery, and you think this is fun?” He turned away from her, his daughter and his Queen, and pressed the heels of his hands against his temples as he struggled for control.
“Saetan…”
Bewilderment. Hurt. She’d come to the Keep to share something amusing and hadn’t been prepared for him to turn on her. How could she? He wasn’t sure if he was lashing out at her as her father or as her former, and still unofficial, Steward.
He turned to look at her, and he also wasn’t sure if it was Jaenelle or Witch who now watched him. No matter. He would have his say.
“We are the Blood, the caretakers of the Realms. We come from various races, but we are no longer a part of those races. We have our own culture that spans those racial cultures. We have our own laws, our own code of honor that landens don’t understand and couldn’t live by even if they tried. We rule the Territories, and we control the lives of all the landens in those Territories. But we are the minority, Jaenelle. Despite the sometimes brutal way we deal with each other, we seldom need to unleash that power and temper against landens
because we are feared.
Because we are a mystery mostly seen from a distance. And now you are turning us into a
cheap entertainment.
”
He choked. Such a long, long life. So many things that he’d done, both good and terrible.
“By letting some children dictate what we are like, you turn us into a safe, insignificant fear. Cobwebs and creaking doors and funny sounds. We become something to laugh at. So I ask you, Lady. What happens when those boys who find us amusing become men and feel they can ignore the laws established for the landens? What happens when they challenge the Warlords who come on behalf of the Queens who rule over their villages? What happens when they gather in force to attack the Blood and discover how vicious—and how complete—the slaughter can be when we fight?”
A long silence. Then Jaenelle said, “Why didn’t you mention this when you first heard about it? You haven’t said anything in the past few weeks while Marian and I have been putting this together.”
“It wasn’t my place to say anything. And, frankly, it hurt too much that it was you, of all people, who was doing this to us.”
Another long silence. “My apologies, High Lord,” Jaenelle said quietly. “I didn’t see this as you did, didn’t consider the consequences if people believed this was anything other than make-believe. We’ll close the house. Put an end to it.”
He shook his head. “You can’t. The idea has already taken root, and the news that
Lady Angelline
”—he saw her wince—“is creating a spooky house as an autumnal entertainment has spread to Blood and landen villages alike. I’m sure Daemon and Lucivar will help you control the crowds—”
“Crowds?” She looked alarmed.
“And Daemon will handle any complaints from the Queens who are dealing with the visitors flooding into the surrounding villages.”
“Complaints? Visitors?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “What did you expect? Just a handful of children from the landen village where the house is located?”
“Well…yes.”
His heart ached with love and exasperation. “Then you really have no idea what you’ve done.” Sighing, he ran his fingers through his hair. “Very well, witch-child. I’ll give you your funny sound. But I want a favor in exchange.”
She tipped her head and waited.
“Somewhere in your spooky house, let there be one thing that will show those children who and what we really are, that will show them what they face when they stand before the Blood.”
“Done.”
“Then let’s find a room that’s a little more private.”
There were only the two of them in the library, but Geoffrey could return at any moment.
His face burned with embarrassment as he walked to the door, and he knew that, even with his light brown skin, color visibly flamed his cheeks. He would do this, not just because Jaenelle asked it of him, but because someone else’s sensibilities were at stake.
“I promise, Papa. No one will know it’s you,” Jaenelle said as she stopped at the door.
“Thank you,” he replied faintly.
She looked at him. Then she looked at the table stacked with books. Her lips curved in a wicked smile. “If you want us to keep pretending that you’re sorting old books whenever we come by to chat, you shouldn’t slam them on the table. We all know you wouldn’t do that to a book that was truly ancient and fragile.”
He closed his eyes and promised himself that he would not whimper. “You all know?”
“Well, I don’t think any of the boyos have figured it out, but all of the coven knows.”
May the Darkness have mercy on me.
“Come on, Papa. Let’s go
bwaa ha ha.
”
Daemon tucked the tip of his tongue between his teeth and bit down hard enough to keep himself from saying something stupid.
If he’d walked in on his father having sex—when Saetan was still physically capable of having sex—it would have been less embarrassing than hearing
that
voice say
“bwaa ha ha.”
“What do you think?” Jaenelle asked.
Eyeing the audio crystal sitting on the corner of his desk, Daemon bit his tongue a little harder and counted to ten—twice—before he said, “It sounds like the High Lord.”
She studied the audio crystal, clearly disappointed. “I don’t want to lose the quality of his voice, but I did try to adjust it so it wouldn’t be recognizable.”
There’s nothing you can do to disguise that voice,
Daemon thought.
Then she perked up, looked more hopeful. “Of course, you
would
recognize his voice, but it’s not likely that anyone else will. Not now that it’s altered a bit.”
Which was when Lucivar walked into the study, carrying Daemonar in a grip that indicated they’d already had one discussion about whether the little beast could run free in the Hall.
“I’m not sure what Marian is working on today, but we were strongly encouraged to leave home,” Lucivar said. “So here we are.”
«We can take him up to the playroom,» Daemon said on an Ebon-gray spear thread.
«You’ve got plenty of shields there and nothing breakable?» Lucivar asked.
«Oh, yes.»
“Well, you’re just in time,” Jaenelle said, beaming at her brother and nephew. “Listen to this.”
“Bwaa ha ha.”
Daemonar squealed and struggled to get free. “Granpapa! Granpapa!”
Not daring to look at anyone, Daemon stared at his shoes and began to understand his father’s fascination with footwear.
Jaenelle sighed. “All right. I’ll work on it.”
Lucivar studied both of them and began backing away. “We’ll just wait in the hall.”
“Ba ha! Ba ha!” Daemonar shouted. “Granpapa, ba ha!”
Once Lucivar and Daemonar were safely on the other side of the door, Jaenelle said, “Do you think Daemonar will forget?”
Not a chance.
“Of course he will. He’s little.”
She gave him a kiss that tasted of a promise for a very interesting evening, then said ruefully, “Thank you for lying.”
He rested his hands on her waist. “You’re welcome.” He hesitated, but a nagging curiosity made him ask. “What were you going to do if he’d refused?”
Jaenelle looked at him and smiled.
Butterflies filled his stomach and tickled unmercifully before turning into heavy, sinking stones.
“Well,” his darling said, “you have a wonderful deep voice too. So if Papa refused, I was going to ask you.”
Saetan walked into the sitting room where he’d asked Geoffrey and Draca, the Keep’s Seneschal, to meet him.
“My friends, this bottle of wine arrived this evening, compliments of Prince Sadi. Since it came from the wine cellar at the Hall, I can assure you it is a very fine vintage, one best enjoyed when shared.”
He called in three glasses and opened the wine.
Draca said nothing until he handed her a glass. “What iss the occassion?”
Saetan grinned. “My son has just realized how much his father loves him.”
SEVEN
D
aemon walked out of the bathroom in the Consort’s suite, noticed the look of apprehension on his valet’s face, and approached the clothes laid out on the bed with a heightened sense of wariness. He studied the gold-checked shirt and dark green trousers, which were
not
his usual white silk shirt and black jacket and trousers. Then he looked at his valet.
“What are those?” he asked.
“Casual attire,” Jazen replied. “You said you were walking down to the village. For exercise.”
“I said I was going to walk to the village instead of taking a carriage because I could use the exercise.” Which, in his mind, wasn’t saying the same thing. “But I’m going down to the village to talk to Sylvia. The Queen of Halaway. At her request.”
“But you’re walking. So you’ll need these.” Jazen held up a pair of shoes that were not Daemon’s usual black, polished-to-a-gleam footwear. “They go with the casual attire.”
Daemon lightly scratched his chin with one black-tinted nail. “I’ve been an adult for quite some time and have handled all kinds of personal details all by myself. I am now the ruler of a whole Territory, which means I make decisions that affect the lives of thousands of people. So why am I no longer capable of choosing my own clothes?”
“You got married.”
He studied Jazen’s face. “That wasn’t a smart-ass remark, was it?”
“No, Prince. The Lady thinks you look stunning in your usual attire, but she felt a change of pace once in a while would be good for you.”
“I see.”
While Jazen went into the bathroom to “tidy up,” Daemon shucked off the bathrobe and got dressed. There wasn’t much to tidy, but he didn’t need an audience when he dressed or undressed—unless it was Jaenelle—and Jazen, who had been viciously castrated when he’d lived in Hayll, didn’t need to see a whole male and be reminded of what he had lost.
By the time Jazen came back into the Consort’s bedroom, Daemon was dressed and inspecting a cloth bag full of broken biscuits that had been left beside the clothes.
“No!” Jazen said a moment before Daemon popped a piece into his mouth.
His gold eyes narrowed. “Since they were here with my walking attire, I assumed these were treats for the walk.”
“They are,” Jazen assured him. “But not for you,” he finished, hunching his shoulders.
Ah, Hell’s fire.
Daemon opened the bedroom door and stood in the doorway, not ready to commit himself by stepping out of the room.
Five furry little bodies waited in the corridor. Five little tails wagged happy greetings. Five little Sceltie minds yapped at him just outside his inner barriers.
«Walkies?» «Walkies!» «We go with you!»
He got bumped into the corridor when Jazen shut the door behind his back.
“Fine,” he said, vanishing the sack of treats. “Let’s go for walkies.”
The first challenge came when he reached the bottom of the stairs and was stopped by the wails and
arooo
s coming from the top of the stairs. Apparently the puppies could get up the stairs by themselves but couldn’t get back down.
So it was up the stairs, gather a pup in each hand, down the stairs, set the pups on the floor. He could have used Craft to float all five Scelties and bring them down at one time, but…
Exercise, Sadi. You were taking this walk for the exercise.
Two more trips, and they were all heading for the great hall and the front door.
Where Beale was waiting for him, holding a water dish and a pitcher of water. A footman opened the door, and five bundles of fuzzy scampered outside, yipping for him to hurry up.
Daemon vanished the bowl and pitcher. “Thank you, Beale.”
“Enjoy your walk, Prince. I have asked Tarl to bring around one of the small gardening wagons.”
Daemon just raised an eyebrow and waited.
“It is a long walk for short legs,” Beale said. His expression didn’t change, but there was a definite twinkle in his eyes. “I think you will find the wagon more convenient for the walk home.”
When he’d be pulling that wagon full of five snoozing puppies.
“I am a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince and the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. I haven’t imagined being those things, have I?”
“No, Prince,” Beale replied. “You have not imagined those things. You are the most powerful male in Dhemlan.”
Nodding, Daemon walked to the door.
“However…”
He stopped. Twisted at the waist to look back at Beale.
“After the Lady came to live with him here at the Hall, the High Lord quite often asked the same question.”
Sylvia looked at the puppies. She looked at her younger son, Mikal. Then she pointed at the door. “Outside in the yard. And
stay
in the yard. That is not only a request from your mother; it is an order from your Queen.”
Boy and puppies scampered outside.
“Does that work?” Daemon asked. “Using both titles?”
“It usually gives me an extra fifteen minutes before I have to check on him and stop whatever mischief he was about to get into.” She brushed at her hair and seemed surprised when it came to an abrupt end.
“New haircut?” he asked, keeping his voice neutral. It was short and sassy and made her look more…athletic…than the longer, more elegant style he was accustomed to seeing on Lady Sylvia.
“New clothes?” she countered.
“I got married,” he replied dryly.
“We did notice.”
Shadows in her eyes behind the amusement.
“Why?” he asked softly, looking at her hair. But he knew.
“I needed to look different.” She touched her hair again. “I didn’t want to look in the mirror anymore and see the woman who had been the High Lord’s lover.”
She walked into the family parlor. He followed.
“I loved him,” she said. “I still do. I’ve sat in this room through a lot of long nights, thinking about what happened last year and why he chose to step away from day-to-day living—and from me.”