Tangled Webs
What bothered her even more was the feeling that she’d recently read or heard about someone who had been given a similar kind of test, but she couldn’t remember where—or why.
The eyrie was quiet. Much too quiet. And there wasn’t a single lamp or candle in use even though the rain and clouds here in Ebon Rih had brought on nightfall sooner than usual.
Leaving the front door open, Marian removed her cape and hung it on the coat-tree. Using Craft, she created a small ball of witchlight, which she tossed into the middle of the room. Then she called in the hunting knife Lucivar had given her. She handled knives all the time in the kitchen, which was why he’d decided this was a practical weapon for her to carry.
It felt different—because it was meant for something different. She could accept that. Even embrace it. She had changed enough from the timid hearth witch she had been when she’d first come to Kaeleer that she could—and would—use that knife to protect her family.
Using Craft to keep the witchlight moving in front of her, Marian crept toward the kitchen. Then she stopped. Sniffed. Brought the witchlight closer to the floor and studied the telltale spots of dried pee that hadn’t been wiped up. She raised her hand and gave the candle-lights inside the lamp on the kitchen table a touch of power.
The lamp’s soft light filled the kitchen.
Nothing out of order.
Moving farther into the eyrie, she passed the room where Lucivar conducted the formal business of being the Prince of Ebon Rih, and continued on into the family rooms.
And then she found her husband and son in the room they used as a family parlor—a room that was comfortable for adults but could withstand the rough-and-tumble play of an Eyrien boy. Lucivar was in the rocking chair. Daemonar was on his lap. Both were sound asleep.
Marian studied the doorway. Felt the light presence of power. The shield around this room would alert Lucivar to someone’s presence the moment anyone or anything crossed the threshold. And the moment that happened, even before he was fully awake or had opened his eyes, he would be primed to attack.
"Lucivar," she called softly on a psychic thread.
A change in his breathing, telling her he was awake and aware. He didn’t open his eyes, but he dropped the shield, allowing her into the room.
She entered the room, brought the ball of witchlight back to her hand, then set it in a bowl made of stained glass that sat on a table near the doorway.
As she crossed the room, Lucivar opened his eyes. For a moment there was baffled annoyance, as if he’d been angry with her for some reason but now couldn’t remember why. Then he looked at her right hand—and smiled.
Puzzled by his amusement, she looked down.
“It was dark and quiet,” she said, huffing out a breath as she vanished the hunting knife.
Lucivar’s smiled widened. “Worried about me, sweetheart?”
“Maybe.” She leaned down, resting one hand on his shoulder while the other hand lightly touched her son’s head, and gave Lucivar a soft kiss. “Should I ask why the two of you are tired enough to be asleep at this hour?”
“You don’t want to know.”
She’d take his word for it.
Lucivar turned his head and looked out the window. “Sun’s down.”
“It is, yes.”
He looked down at Daemonar. “Should we wake him up so he’ll sleep later or just put him to bed and accept that tomorrow will start in the wee hours of the morning?”
“Are you up to dealing with him?”
“No.” That sounded like a groan. “Besides, I need to fly over to the Keep and see the High Lord.”
“Then let’s put him to bed. I stopped at The Tavern and picked up some food. We can eat when you get back.”
Lucivar shifted Daemonar and stood up. “Fair enough.” When they reached the doorway, he stopped.
“What?” Marian asked.
Lucivar stared at nothing. “Don’t know. Just…It was an eventful afternoon, and I feel like I’ve forgotten something.”
Lucivar walked into the small parlor at the Keep and did a quick assessment. Drapes drawn. Fire going, with plenty of wood in the copper basket. A cozy feel for a chilly, rainy night. His father wearing a wool dressing gown over shirt and trousers. Slippers instead of shoes. Hair that was clean but looked as if it had been finger-combed instead of brushed.
Not unkempt, he decided. Just comfortable.
“I wasn’t expecting company,” Saetan said dryly.
Lucivar shrugged, then eyed the book in Saetan’s lap. “Is Marian going to want to read that book?”
“Probably.”
“Is it going to make her cry?”
“Probably.”
“Tch.”
The sound made Saetan smile as he closed the book and set it on a table beside a tray that held a decanter of yarbarah, a decanter of brandy, and two ravenglass goblets. “If you want to live with a woman, you have to ride the currents of her moods, boyo.”
Lucivar picked up a wooden chair that was tucked against the wall, brought it over to where Saetan was sitting, and straddled it, resting his arms on the back. “We now have a code. If she suspects the story is going to make her cry, Marian puts a polished rock on the table next to her chair. When I see the rock, I’m supposed to let her cry and not make a fuss about it.”
“Can’t stand to stay in the room when that happens, can you?”
“No.”
A long pause. Then Saetan said, “What’s on your mind, Lucivar?”
He told Saetan about Daemonar and the wolf pup—and saw wariness flicker in his father’s eyes.
“I don’t remember you,” Lucivar said, feeling cautious. “I don’t remember the early years when you were there. Daemon remembers a little more, I think, and when he tells me about something, I can sometimes fill in the rest, like a story I’ve heard a long time ago.” He paused. “I don’t remember you, but I remember that sound. Even though it came from me this afternoon and it wasn’t the same, not really, I could feel the memory of that sound. It’s more than the usual roar that will stop a boy before he does something stupid.”
No answer. Just a vicious—and visible—effort at self-control.
“Come on,” Lucivar said. “You’ve told us plenty of stories about when Daemon and I were young.”
Still no answer. Then, too softly, “And you need to know about this one?”
Oh, he didn’t like the phrasing, and he heard the warning, but he nodded. “Yes. I need to hear this one.”