Daughter of the Blood
Page 57
"You're dismissed, Graff. Go to your room."
When they heard a door close farther down the corridor, Daemon led Cook to a chair and eased her into it. Jaenelle said nothing more, but there was pain and sadness in her eyes as she looked at them before going to her room. Wilhelmina had wet herself. Daemon cleaned her up, cleaned up the floor, took the tray of sandwiches back to the kitchen, and dosed Cook with a liberal glass of brandy.
"She's a strange child," Cook said carefully after her second glass of brandy, "but there's more good than harm in her."
Daemon gave her calm, expected responses, allowing her to find her own way to justify what she'd felt in that room. Wilhelmina, too, although embarrassed that he'd witnessed her accident, had altered the confrontation into something she could accept. Only he, as he sat in his room staring at nothing, was unwilling to let go of the fear and the awe. Only he appreciated the terrible beauty of being able to touch without restraint. Only he felt knife-sharp desire.
2—Terreille
Daemon sat on the edge of his bed, a pained, gentle smile tugging his lips. Even with preservation spells, the picture's colors were beginning to fade, and it was worn around the edges. Still, nothing could fade the hint of a brash smile and the ready-for-trouble gleam in Lucivar's eyes. It was the only picture Daemon had of him, taken centuries ago when Lucivar still had an aura of youthful hope, before the years and court after court had turned a handsome, youthful face into one so like the Askavi mountains he loved—beautifully brutal, holding a trace of shadow even in the brightest sunlight.
There was a shy tap on his door before Jaenelle slipped into the room. "Hello," she said, uncertain of her welcome.
Daemon slipped an arm around her waist when she got close enough, Jaenelle rested both hands on his shoulder and leaned into him. The skin beneath her eyes looked bruised, and she trembled a little.
Daemon frowned. "Are you cold?" When she shook her head, he pulled her closer. There wasn't any kind of outside heat that could thaw what chilled her, but after he'd been holding her for a while, the trembling stopped.
He wondered if she'd told Saetan about the music room incident. He looked at her again and knew the answer. She hadn't told the Priest. She hadn't gone roaming for three days. She'd been locked in her cold misery, alone, wondering if there was any living thing that wouldn't fear her. He had come to the Black as a young man, but mature and ready, and even then living that far into the Darkness had been unsettling. For a child who had never known anything else, who had been traveling strange, lonely roads since her first conscious thought, who tried so hard to reach toward other people while suppressing what she was . . . But she couldn't suppress it. She would always shatter the illusion when challenged, would always reveal what lay beneath.
Daemon intently studied the face that, in turn, studied the picture he still held. He sucked in his breath when he finally understood. He wore the Black; Jaenelle was the Black. But with her, the Black was not only dark, savage power, it was laughter and mischief and compassion and healing . . . and snowballs.
Daemon kissed her hair and looked at the picture. "You would have gotten along well with him. He was always ready to get into trouble." He was rewarded with a ghost of a smile.
She studied the picture. "Now he looks more like what he is." Her eyes narrowed, and then she shot an accusing look at him. "Wait a minute. You said he was your brother."
"He was." Is. Would always be.
"But he's Eyrien."
"We had different mothers."
There was a strange light in her eyes. "But the same father."
He watched her juggling the mental puzzle pieces, saw the moment when they all clicked.
"That explains a lot," she murmured, fluffing her hair. "He isn't dead, you know. The Ebon-gray is still in Terreille."
Daemon blinked. "How—" He sputtered. "How do you know that?"
"I looked. I didn't go anywhere," she added hurriedly. "I didn't break my promise."
"Then how—" Daemon shook his head. "Forget I said that."
"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?"
When they heard a door close farther down the corridor, Daemon led Cook to a chair and eased her into it. Jaenelle said nothing more, but there was pain and sadness in her eyes as she looked at them before going to her room. Wilhelmina had wet herself. Daemon cleaned her up, cleaned up the floor, took the tray of sandwiches back to the kitchen, and dosed Cook with a liberal glass of brandy.
"She's a strange child," Cook said carefully after her second glass of brandy, "but there's more good than harm in her."
Daemon gave her calm, expected responses, allowing her to find her own way to justify what she'd felt in that room. Wilhelmina, too, although embarrassed that he'd witnessed her accident, had altered the confrontation into something she could accept. Only he, as he sat in his room staring at nothing, was unwilling to let go of the fear and the awe. Only he appreciated the terrible beauty of being able to touch without restraint. Only he felt knife-sharp desire.
2—Terreille
Daemon sat on the edge of his bed, a pained, gentle smile tugging his lips. Even with preservation spells, the picture's colors were beginning to fade, and it was worn around the edges. Still, nothing could fade the hint of a brash smile and the ready-for-trouble gleam in Lucivar's eyes. It was the only picture Daemon had of him, taken centuries ago when Lucivar still had an aura of youthful hope, before the years and court after court had turned a handsome, youthful face into one so like the Askavi mountains he loved—beautifully brutal, holding a trace of shadow even in the brightest sunlight.
There was a shy tap on his door before Jaenelle slipped into the room. "Hello," she said, uncertain of her welcome.
Daemon slipped an arm around her waist when she got close enough, Jaenelle rested both hands on his shoulder and leaned into him. The skin beneath her eyes looked bruised, and she trembled a little.
Daemon frowned. "Are you cold?" When she shook her head, he pulled her closer. There wasn't any kind of outside heat that could thaw what chilled her, but after he'd been holding her for a while, the trembling stopped.
He wondered if she'd told Saetan about the music room incident. He looked at her again and knew the answer. She hadn't told the Priest. She hadn't gone roaming for three days. She'd been locked in her cold misery, alone, wondering if there was any living thing that wouldn't fear her. He had come to the Black as a young man, but mature and ready, and even then living that far into the Darkness had been unsettling. For a child who had never known anything else, who had been traveling strange, lonely roads since her first conscious thought, who tried so hard to reach toward other people while suppressing what she was . . . But she couldn't suppress it. She would always shatter the illusion when challenged, would always reveal what lay beneath.
Daemon intently studied the face that, in turn, studied the picture he still held. He sucked in his breath when he finally understood. He wore the Black; Jaenelle was the Black. But with her, the Black was not only dark, savage power, it was laughter and mischief and compassion and healing . . . and snowballs.
Daemon kissed her hair and looked at the picture. "You would have gotten along well with him. He was always ready to get into trouble." He was rewarded with a ghost of a smile.
She studied the picture. "Now he looks more like what he is." Her eyes narrowed, and then she shot an accusing look at him. "Wait a minute. You said he was your brother."
"He was." Is. Would always be.
"But he's Eyrien."
"We had different mothers."
There was a strange light in her eyes. "But the same father."
He watched her juggling the mental puzzle pieces, saw the moment when they all clicked.
"That explains a lot," she murmured, fluffing her hair. "He isn't dead, you know. The Ebon-gray is still in Terreille."
Daemon blinked. "How—" He sputtered. "How do you know that?"
"I looked. I didn't go anywhere," she added hurriedly. "I didn't break my promise."
"Then how—" Daemon shook his head. "Forget I said that."
"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?"
