Daughter of the Blood (Page 92)

Daemon shook his head. "Something’sthere, but it isn’t Jaenelle. It looks like her, talks like her, plays the obedient daughter." Daemon looked at Saetan, his eyes haunted. "But what makes Jaenelle Jaenelle isn’t there." He laughed scornfully. "Her family has been most gratified that she’s been behaving so well and not embarrassing them when the girls are presented to guests." He played with his wineglass. "I’m afraid something has happened to her."

"Unlikely." Fascinated, Saetan watched the anger melt from Daemon’s face. He liked the man he saw beneath it.

"How can you be sure?" Daemon asked hopefully. "Have you seen something like that before?"

"Not quite like that, no."

"Then how—"

"Because, namesake, what you’re describing is called a shadow, but there’s no one in any of the Realms, including me, who has the Craft to create a shadow that’s so lifelike—except Jaenelle."

Daemon sipped his wine and brooded for a minute. "What, exactly, is a shadow?"

"Basically, a shadow is an illusion, a recreation of an object’s physical form." Saetan looked pointedly at Daemon, who shrank in his chair just a little. "Some children have been known to create a shadow in order to appear to be asleep in their beds while they are really off having adventures that, if discovered, would prevent them from comfortably sitting down for a week." He saw the briefest flicker of memory in Daemon’s eyes and the beginning of a wry smile. "That’s a first-stage shadow and is stationary. A second-stage shadow can move around, but it has to be manipulated like a puppet. That kind of shadow looks solid but can’t be felt, doesn’t have tactile capabilities. The third-stage shadow, which is the strongest I’ve ever heard of being achieved, has one-way tactile ability. It can touch but can’t be touched. However, it, too, must be manipulated."

Daemon thought this over and shook his head. "This is more."

"Yes, this is much, much more. This is a shadow so skillfully created that it can act independently through expected routines. I don’t imagine the conversation’s stimulating"—that made Daemon snort—"but it does mean the originator can be doing something entirely different."

"Such as?"

"Ah," Saetan said as he refilled their glasses, "thatis the interesting question."

Daemon’s eyes flashed with relieved anger. "Why would she create one?"

"As I said,that is the interesting question."

"Is that it? We just wait?"

"For now. But whoever gets to her first gets to go up one side of her and down the other. Twice."

A slow smile curled Daemon’s lips. "You’re worried."

"You’re damn right I’m worried," Saetan snapped. Now that he didn’t have to rein in Daemon’s temper, he felt free to unleash his own. "Who in the name of Hell knows what she’s up to this time?" He slumped in his chair, snarling.

Daemon leaned back in his chair and laughed.

"Don’t be so amused, boy.You deserve a good kick in the ass."

Daemon blinked. "Me?"

Saetan leaned forward. "You. The next time you suggest she get proper instruction before trying something, you’d damn well better remember to add that I’m the one to give the proper instruction."

"What—"

"Dream weaving. Do you remember dream weaving, namesake?"

Daemon paled. "I remember. But I—"

"Told her to be instructed by the best. Which she did."

"Then what—"

"Have you ever heard of Arachna?"

Daemon got paler. "That’s a legend," he whispered.

"Most of Kaeleer’s a legend, boy," Saetan roared. "That hasn’t stopped her from meeting somevery interesting individuals."

They glared at one another. Finally Daemon said with menacing quiet, "Like you?"

Damn, this boy was fun! Saetan took a deep breath and sighed dramatically. "I used to be interesting," he said mournfully. "I used to be respected, even feared. My study was a private sanctuary no one willingly entered. But I’ve gotten long in the tooth"—Daemon flicked a startled glance at his mouth—"and now I have demons pounding on my door, some upset because she hasn’t visited with them, some upset because she has. My cook backs me into corners, wanting to know if the Lady will be coming today so her favorite meat pie can be prepared. And I have merchants cluttering up my doorstep, cringingly seeking an audience, actually relieved to be in my presence while they wring their hands and pour out their tales of woe."

Daemon, who had become more and more amused, frowned slightly. "The demons and the cook I understand. Why the merchants?"

Saetan let out another dramatic sigh, but his eyes glowed with dark amusement. "I opened a blanket account for her in Kaeleer."

Daemon sucked in his breath. "You mean . . ."

"Yes."

"Mother Night."

"That’s the kindest thing that’s been said to me on that score." Enjoying the drama, Saetan continued, "And it’s going to get worse. You do realize that?"

"Worse?" Daemon said suspiciously. "Why will it get worse?"

"She’s only twelve, namesake."

"I know," Daemon almost moaned.

"Just consider what sort of mischief she’ll have the capacity to get into when she’s seventeen and has her own court."

Daemon groaned, but there was a sharp, hopeful look in his eyes. "She can have her own court at seventeen? And fill it?"

Ah, namesake. Saetan sat quietly for a moment, thinking of a politic way to explain. "Most positions can be filled then." Daemon’s instant bitterness stunned him.

"Of course you’ll want better for her than a whore who’s serviced almost every Queen in Terreille," Daemon said, refilling his wineglass.

"That isn’t what I meant," Saetan said, despairing that any explanation now might seem a poor bone.

"Then what did you mean?" Daemon snapped.

"What if, at seventeen, she isn’t ready for a consort?" Saetan countered softly. "What if it takes a few more years before she’s ready for the bed? Will you hold an empty office, becoming comfortable and familiar while lesser men intrigue her because they’re strangers? Time has great magic, namesake, if you know how to play the game."

"You talk as though it’s decided," Daemon said quietly, with only an aftertaste of bitterness.

"It is . . . as far as I’m concerned."

Daemon’s naked, grateful look was agony.