Everything has a price.
"What about Jaenelle's house in Maghre?" Lucivar asked.
Daemon shook his head. "Let Wilhelmina have it. She's decided to settle in Scelt, and—"
"The house was leased for Jaenelle," Saetan said firmly. "It remains for Jaenelle. If you have no objections to Wilhelmina living there until she finds a place of her own, so be it."
Daemon backed down. He loved that house, too, but he wasn't sure he could ever live there again. And he wasn't really sure if Saetan truly believed Jaenelle was coming back or if his father just wasn't willing to do anything that would acknowledge that she wasn't. After all, it had been two months now with no news of any kind, just Tersa's continued—and useless—assurance that it would be all right. "Is that it?"
He read the message in Saetan's eyes. "I'll be with you in a minute," he said to Lucivar when his brother rose and looked at him.
When they were alone, Saetan said carefully, "I know how you feel about Ebon Askavi now."
Daemon rushed in. "I truly hope you will come to visit, Father, because I'll never set foot in the Keep again."
Saetan said gently, "You have to go one more time. Draca wants to see you."
3 / Kaeleer
"There iss ssomething I want to sshow you." Draca unlocked a door and stepped aside.
Daemon walked into a huge room that was a portrait gallery. Dozens upon dozens of paintings hung on the walls.
At first, he saw only one. The last one.
Unable to look at it, he turned his back to it and began to study the rest of them in order. Some were very, very old, but all of them had been exquisitely done. As he slowly walked around the room, he realized the portraits spanned the species who made up the Blood—and they were all female.
When he reached the last one, he studied Jaenelle's portrait for a long time, then looked at the signature. Dujae. Of course.
He turned and looked at Draca.
"They were all dreamss made flessh, Prince," Draca said gently. "Some only had one kind of dreamer, otherss were a bridge. Thesse were Witch."
"But—" Daemon looked at the portraits again. "I don't see Cassandra's portrait here."
"Sshe wass a Black-Jeweled witch, the Queen of Ebon Asskavi. But sshe wass not Witch. Sshe wass not dreamss made flessh."
He shook his head. "Witch wears the Black. She's always a Black-Jeweled Queen."
"No. That iss not alwayss the dream, Daemon. There have been quiet dreamss and sstrong dreamss. There have been Queenss and ssongmakerss." She paused, waited. "Your dream wass to be Conssort to the Queen of Ebon Asskavi. Iss that not true?"
Daemon's heart began to pound. "I thought they were the same. I thought Witch and the Queen of Ebon Askavi were the same."
"And if they are not?"
Tears stung his eyes. "If they hadn't been the same, if I'd had to choose between the Queen and Jaenelle ... I never would have set foot in this place. Excuse me, Draca. "
He started to rush past her, but he saw her hand move as if to hold him back. He could have avoided her easily, but, being who she was, he couldn't be that disrespectful.
Her ancient hand moved slowly, came to rest on his arm.
"The Queen of Ebon Asskavi iss gone," she said very quietly. "But sshe who iss Kaeleer'ss Heart, sshe who iss Witch, sstill livess."
4 / Kaeleer
"You'll take the income I've provided for you," Saetan snarled as he and Surreal walked through one of the Hall's gardens. He'd thought this would be a simple task, something to occupy a bit of time while he waited for Daemon to return from the Keep.
Surreal snarled back. "I don't need a damn income from you."
He stopped and turned on her. "Are you or are you not family?"
She stepped up to him until they were toe to toe. "Yes, I'm family, but—"
"Then take the damn income!" he shouted.
"Why?" she shouted back.
"Because I love you!" he roared. "And I want to give you that much."
She swore at him.
Hell's fire, why were his children all so stubborn!
He leashed his temper. "It's a gift, Surreal. Please take it."
She hooked her hair behind her ears. "If you're going to put it that way..."
A wolf raised its voice in an odd series of yips and howls.
"That's not Graysfang," Surreal said.
Saetan tensed. "No. It's one of the pack from the north woods."
Worry filled her eyes. "One of them has come back? Why does it sound like that?"
"The Tigre use drums to signal messages—just for fun things, a dance, an impromptu gathering," Saetan replied absently. "The wolves became intrigued by it and developed a few particular howls of their own."
The same series of yips and howls came again.
"Graysfang could have mentioned that," Surreal grumbled. "What's that one mean?"
"It means there's a message that should be heeded."
The wolf raised its voice again in a different song. Then another wolf joined in. And another. And another.
Listening, he started to cry—and laugh. There was only one reason the wolves raised their voices in quite that way.
Surreal gripped his arm. "Uncle Saetan, what is it?"
"It's a song of celebration. Jaenelle has come back."
5 / Kaeleer
It was early autumn, almost a year since he'd first come to Kaeleer.
Daemon carefully landed the small Coach in the meadow and stepped out. At the edge of the meadow, Ladvarian waited for him.
For weeks, he had raged and pleaded, begged and sworn. It hadn't done any good. Draca had insisted that she didn't know exactly where the kindred had hidden Jaenelle. She had also insisted that the healing was still very delicate and a strong presence—and difficult emotions—could easily interfere. Finally, exasperated, she had suggested that he make himself useful.
So he'd thrown himself into work. And every evening he had written a letter to Jaenelle, telling her about his day, pouring out his love. Two or three times a week, he went to the Keep and annoyed Draca.
Now, finally, the message had come. The kindred had done all they could. The healing wasn't complete, but the rest would take time, and she should be in a warm human den now.
So he'd been told where to bring the Coach that would take Jaenelle back to the Hall.
He crossed the meadow, stopped a few feet in front of Ladvarian. The Sceltie looked too thin, but there was joy— and wariness—in the brown eyes.
"Ladvarian," Daemon said quietly, respectfully.
*Daemon.* Ladvarian shifted uneasily. *Human males... Some human males pay too much attention to the outside.*
He understood the warning, heard the fear. And now he understood why they hadn't let him come sooner—they'd been afraid he wouldn't be able to stand what he saw. They were still afraid.
"It doesn't matter, Ladvarian," he said gently. "It doesn't matter."
The Sceltie studied him. *She is very fragile.*
"I know." Draca had drummed that into him before she'd let him come.
*She sleeps a lot.*
He smiled dryly. "I've hardly slept at all."
Satisfied, Ladvarian turned. *This way. Be careful. There are many guard webs.*
Looking around, he saw the tangled webs that could ensnare a person's mind and draw him into peculiar dreams— or hideous nightmares.
He walked carefully.
They walked for several minutes before they came to a path that led to a sheltered cove. A large tent was set up well back from the waterline. The colored fabric would keep out most of the sun but seemed loosely woven enough to let in air.
Closer to the water were several poorly made sand casties. Watching Kaelas trying to pack sand with one of those huge paws made him smile.
The front flaps of the tent were pulled back, revealing the woman sleeping inside. She wore a long skirt of swirling colors. The amethyst-colored shirt was unbuttoned and had slid to her sides, displaying her from the waist up.
Daemon took one look at her and bolted away from the tent.
He stopped a few yards away and just tried to draw a normal breath while his stomach twisted wildly.
The kindred had done their very best. They had given months of focused, single-minded devotion to produce this much healing. He never ever wanted to know what she had looked like when they had brought her here.
He felt Ladvarian come up behind him. Since the Sceltie had seen what she had looked like, the dog probably couldn't understand his reaction. "Ladvarian..."
*She rose from the healing webs too soon,* Ladvarian said in a voice that was bitter and accusing. *Because of you.*
Daemon turned slowly, his heart bleeding from the verbal wound.
*We tried to tell her you weren't hurt. We tried to tell her that she had to stay down in the healing webs longer. We tried to tell her that the Stra—that Tersa would tell you that she was coming back, that the High Lord would take care of his pup. But she kept saying that you were hurting and that she had promised. She stayed in the webs long enough for her insides to heal and then she rose. But when she saw...*
Daemon closed his eyes. No. Sweet Darkness, no. She would have been in pain, would have suffered. And she wouldn't have if she'd stayed down in the healing webs.
"Tersa did tell me," he said in a broken voice. "Over and over again. But... all I knew for certain was that Jaenelle had promised to marry me and then had left me, and..." He couldn't go on.
*Maybe we could have told you,* Ladvarian said reluctantly after a long silence. *We didn't think humans would believe that she could heal—at least, wouldn't believe enough. But, maybe, if we had told you about all the webs, you could have believed.*
Not likely. No matter how much he would have wanted to believe, the doubts would have crept in—and might have destroyed everything he wanted to save. "Tersa told me it would be all right. I didn't listen."