Daughter of the Blood (Page 86)

"It’s not like trying to sort through Opals or Red from a distance to find a particular person." Jaenelle had that harried, amused look. "Daemon, the only other Ebon-gray is Andulvar, and he doesn’t live in Terreille anymore. Who else can it be?"

Daemon sighed. He didn’t understand, but he was relieved to know.

"May I have a copy of that picture?"

"Why?" Jaenelle gave him a look that made him wince. "All right."

"And one of you, too?"

"I don’t have one of me."

"We could get one."

"Why—never mind. Is there a reason for this?"

"Of course."

"I don’t suppose you’d tell me what it is?"

Jaenelle raised one eyebrow. It was such a perfect imitation, Daemon choked back a laugh.Serves me right, he thought wryly. "All right," he said, ruefully shaking his head.

"Soon?"

"Yes, Lady, soon."

Jaenelle skipped away, turned, gave him a feather-light kiss on the cheek, and was gone.

Raising one eyebrow, Daemon looked at the closed door. He looked at the picture. "You stupid Prick," he said fondly. "Ah Lucivar, you would have had such fun with her."

3—Hell

Saetan leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Why?"

"Because I’d like one."

"You said that before. Why?"

Jaenelle loosely clasped her hands, looked at the ceiling, and said in a prim, authoritative voice, "’Tis not the season for questions."

Saetan choked. When he could breathe again, he said, "Very well, witch-child. You’ll have a picture."

"Two?"

Saetan gave her a long, hard look. She gave him her unsure-but-game smile. He sighed. There was one unshakable truth about Jaenelle: Sometimes it was better not to know. "Two."

She pulled a chair up to the blackwood desk. Resting her elbows on the gleaming surface, her chin propped in her hands, she said solemnly, "I want to buy two frames, but I don’t know where to buy them."

"What kind do you want?"

Jaenelle perked up. "Nice ones, the kind that open like a book."

"Swivel frames?"

She shrugged. "Something that will hold two pictures."

"I’ll get them for you. Anything else?"

She was solemn again. "I want to buy them myself, but I don’t know how much they cost."

"Witch-child, that’s not a problem—"

Jaenelle reached into her pocket and pulled something out. Resting her loosely closed fist on the desk, she opened her hand. "Do you think if you sold this, it would buy the frames?"

Saetan gulped, but his hand was steady when he picked up the stone and held it up to the light. "Where did you get this, witch-child?" he asked calmly, almost absently.

Jaenelle put her hands in her lap, her eyes focused on the desk. "Well . . . you see . . . I was with a friend and we were going through this village and some rocks had fallen by the road and a little girl had her foot caught under one of the rocks." She scrunched her shoulders. "It was hurt, the foot I mean, because of the rock, and I . . . healed it, and her father gave me that to say thank you." She added hurriedly, "But he didn’t say I had to keep it." She hesitated. "Do you think it would buy two frames?"

Saetan held the stone between thumb and forefinger. "Oh, yes," he said dryly. "I think it will be more than adequate for what you want."

Jaenelle smiled at him, puzzled.

Saetan struggled to keep his voice calm. "Tell me, witch-child, have you received other such gifts from grateful parents?"

"Uh-huh. Draca’s keeping them for me because I didn’t know what to do with them." She brightened. "She’s given me a room at the Keep, just like you gave me one at the Hall."

"Yes, she told me she was going to." He smiled at her obvious relief that he wasn’t offended. "I’ll have the pictures and frames for you by the end of the week. Will that be satisfactory?"

Jaenelle bounced around the desk, strangled him, and kissed his cheek. "Thank you, Saetan."

"You’re welcome, witch-child. Off with you."

Jaenelle bumped into Mephis on her way out. "Hello, Mephis," she said as she headed wherever she was headed.

Even Mephis. Saetan smiled at the bemused, tender expression on his staid, ever-so-formal eldest son’s face.

"Come look at this," Saetan said, "and tell me what you think."

Mephis held the diamond up to the light and whistled softly. "Where did you get this?"

"It was a gift, to Jaenelle, from a grateful parent."

Mephis groped for the chair. He stared at the diamond in disbelief. "You’re joking."

Saetan retrieved the diamond, holding it between thumb and forefinger. "No, Mephis, I’m not joking. Apparently, a little girl got her foot caught under a rock and hurt it. Jaenelle healed it, and the grateful father presented her with this. And, apparently, this is not the first such gift that’s been bestowed upon her for such service." He studied the large, flawless gem.

"But . . . how?" Mephis sputtered.

"She’s a natural Healer. It’s instinctive."

"Yes, but—"

"But the real question is, what really happened?" Saetan’s golden eyes narrowed.

"What do you mean?" Mephis said, puzzled.

"I mean," Saetan said slowly, "the way Jaenelle told the story, it didn’t sound like much. But how severe an injury by how large a rock, when healed, would make a father grateful enough to give up this?"

4—Kaeleer

"Witch-child, since a list of your friends would be as long as you are tall, you can’t possibly give each of them a Winsol gift. It’s not expected. You don’t expect gifts from all of them, do you?"

"Of course not," Jaenelle replied hotly. She slumped in the chair. "But they’re my friends, Saetan."

And you are the best gift they could have in a hundred lifetimes.

"Winsol is the celebration of Witch, the Blood’s remembrance of what we are. Gifts are condiments for the meat, and that’s all."

Jaenelle eyed him skeptically—and well she should. How many times over the past few days had he caught himself daydreaming of what it would be like to celebrate Winsol with her? To be with her at sunset when the gifts were opened? To share a tiny cup of hot blooded rum with her? To dance, as the Blood danced at no other time of the year, for the glory of Witch? The daydreams were bittersweet. As he walked through the corridors of the Kaeleer Hall watching the staff decorate the rooms, laughing and whispering secrets; as he and Mephis prepared the benefaction list for the staff and all the villagers whose work directly or indirectly served the Hall; as he did all the things a good Prince did for the people who served him, a thought rubbed at him, rubbed and rubbed: She would be spending that special day with her family in Terreille, away from those who were truly her own.