Daughter of the Blood (Page 94)

Daemon pulled her into his arms and held her tight. "You convinced her to live there?" he whispered into her hair. "She’ll really be in a decent house with decent clothes and good food and people who will understand?" Her head moved up and down. He sighed. "Then it was worth the worry. A hundred times that would have been worth it."

"That’s what the Priest said—after the scolding."

Daemon smiled against her hair. "Did he say anything else?"

"Lots of things," Jaenelle grumbled. "Something about sitting down comfortably, but I didn’t understand him and he wouldn’t repeat it."

Daemon coughed. Jaenelle raised her head, eyeing him suspiciously. He tried for a bland expression. She looked more suspicious.

Passing footsteps in the corridor made him turn, his body tensed, his eyes fixed on the door.

"You’d better join your sister." He handed her the coat and hat. Before he opened the door, Daemon paused.

"Thank you." It was far from adequate, but it was all he could think of to say. Jaenelle nodded and slipped out the door.

3—Terreille

Daemon had just finished brushing his hair, ready for another day of Winsol activity, when Jaenelle tapped lightly on his door and bounced into the room. He wasn’t sure when his room had become mutual territory, but he was much less casual about the way he dressed—and undressed—than he had been.

Jaenelle bounced up beside him, her eyes fixed on his face. Daemon smiled. "Do I meet with your approval?"

She reached up, brushed her fingers against his cheek, and frowned. "Your face is smooth."

One eyebrow rising, Daemon turned back to the mirror to check his collar. "Hayllian men don’t have facial hair." He paused. "Neither do Dhemlans or Eyriens, for that matter."

Jaenelle still frowned. "I don’t understand."

Daemon shrugged. "Differences in race is all."

"No." Jaenelle shook her head. "If you don’t have to take the hair off the way Philip does, why did Graff say you might serve better if you were shaved? Philip does it hims—"

Daemon’s fist hit the top of the dresser, splitting the wood from end to end. He gripped the edges while he fought for control. The bitch. Thebitch, to make such a suggestion!

"It means something else, doesn’t it?" Jaenelle said in her midnight voice.

"It’s nothing," Daemon growled through clenched teeth.

"What does it mean, Daemon?"

"Leave it alone, Jaenelle."

"Prince."

Daemon’s fist smashed the dresser again. "If you’re so curious, ask your damn mentor!" He turned away, struggling to regain control. After a moment, he turned again, saying, "Jaenelle, I’m sorry."

She was already gone.

4—Hell

Saetan and Andulvar sat around the blackwood desk, drinking yarbarah while waiting for Jaenelle. Saetan had returned to the private study beneath the Hall in order to have some private, concentrated time with Jaenelle for her lessons after discovering thatall of the Kaeleer staff seemed to make their way into his public study on some pretense or other just to say hello to her.

"What’s the lesson to be today?" Andulvar asked.

"How should I know?" Saetan replied dryly.

"You’re the one in charge."

"I’m delighted that someone thinks so."

"Ah." Andulvar refilled his glass and warmed the blood wine. "You’re still annoyed about Tersa?"

Saetan studied his silver goblet. "Annoyed? No." He rested his head against the back of his chair. "But Hell’s fire, Andulvar, trying to keep up with these leaps she makes . . . the enormity of the raw strength it must take to do some of these things. I want her to have a childhood. I want her to do all the silly things young girls do, whatever they are. I want her to be young and carefree."

"She’ll never have a normal childhood, SaDiablo. She knows us, thecildru dyathe, Geoffrey and Draca—and Lorn, whatever and wherever he may be. She’s seen more of Kaeleer than anyone else in thousands of years. How can you hope for a normal childhood?"

"Those thingsare normal, Andulvar," Saetan said wearily, ignoring Andulvar’s grunt of denial. "Do you wish you’d never met her? Don’t scowl at me that way; I know the answer." He leaned forward, resting his folded hands on the desk. "The point is, a child plays with the unicorns in Sceval. A child visits friends in Scelt and Philan and Glacia and Dharo and Narkhava and Dea al Mon—and in Hell—and who knows how many other places. I’ve listened to her stories, the innocent, albeit nerve-racking, adventures of young, strong witches growing up and learning their Craft. No matter where she is when she’s doing those things, she’s a child."

"Then what’s the problem?"

"The only place she never mentions, the only place that doesn’t figure into these adventures of hers, is Beldon Mor. She says nothing about her family."

Andulvar thought about this. "SaDiablo, you’re jealous enough as it is. Would you really want to know that the people who have more claim to her adore her as much as you? Would a child as sensitive to others’ moods as she is be willing to tell you?"

"Jealous?" Saetan hissed. "You think it’s jealousy that makes me want to tear them apart?"

Andulvar eyed his friend before saying cautiously, "Yes, I do."

Saetan snapped away from his desk, rose halfway out of his chair, then reconsidered. "Not jealousy," he said, closing his eyes. "Fear. I keep wondering what happens when she leaves here. I keep wondering about some of the things she’s asked me to teach her, wondering why a child wants to know about some things, wondering why I sometimes hear desperation in her voice or, worse, a chilling anger." He looked at Andulvar. "We survived brutal childhoods and stayed true to the Blood because that’s what we are. Blood. But she . . . Oh, Andulvar, in a few short years she’ll make the Offering, and when she does, she’ll be beyond reach. If she feels isolated from us . . . Do you really want to see Jaenelle in her full, dark glory ruling from the Twisted Kingdom?"

"No," Andulvar said quietly, a faint tremor in his voice. "No, I don’t want to see our waif in the Twisted Kingdom."

"Then—" There was a quiet knock on the door. Saetan and Andulvar exchanged a look. Andulvar’s face settled into a frown. Saetan’s became neutral. "Come."

Both men tensed when Jaenelle walked into the room, the set of her shoulders all the warning they needed.

"High Lord," she said, giving him a regal nod. "Prince Yaslana."