Daughter of the Blood

"No, I'm not. I just wish . . ." That I could have seen him, talked to him, felt the strength of his grip, heard the sound of his voice. That we could have judged each other honestly. We're forced to trust each other because Jaenelle is asking us to, because she trusts.



He caressed Cassandra's hair. "Promise me you'll be careful. Hekatah's searching for Jaenelle. If Dorothea is supporting the effort, he'll know best where to look for danger from that quarter. Whether or not he'll ask us for help will depend on whether or not he trusts us. I want that trust, Cassandra, and not just for Jaenelle's sake. You owe me that much."



CHAPTER TEN



1—Terreille



Why does she ask so damn many uncomfortable questions? Daemon thought, clenching his teeth and staring straight ahead as they walked through the garden. He almost missed Wilhelmina, who was in bed with a cold. At least when her sister was present, Jaenelle didn't ask questions that made him blush.



"You're not going to answer, are you?" Jaenelle asked after a minute of teeth-grinding silence.



"No."



"Don't you know the answer?"



"Whether I know the answer or not is beside the point. It's not something a man discusses with a young girl."



"But you know the answer."



Daemon growled.



"If I were older, would you tell me?" Jaenelle persisted.



There might be a way out of this yet. "Yes, if you were older."



"How old?"



"What?"



"How old would I have to be?"



"Nineteen," he said quickly, beginning to relax. Who knew what sort of questions she might have in seven years, but at least he wouldn't have to answer this one.



"Nineteen?"



Daemon's stomach fluttered. He walked a little faster. The pleased way she said that made him distinctly uncomfortable.



"The Priest said he wouldn't tell me until I was twenty-five," Jaenelle said happily, "but you'll tell me six years sooner."



Daemon skidded to a stop. His eyes narrowed as he regarded the happy, upturned face and clear sapphire eyes. "You asked the Priest?"



Jaenelle looked a little uncomfortable, which made him feel a little better. "Well . . . yes."



Daemon imagined Saetan trying to deal with the same question and fought the urge to laugh. He cleared his throat and tried to look stern. "Do you always ask me the same questions you ask him?"



"It depends on whether or not I get an answer."



Daemon clamped his teeth together in order to keep a wonderfully pithy response from escaping. "I see," he said in a strangled voice. He started walking again.



Jaenelle skipped ahead to examine some leaves. "Sometimes I ask lots of people the same question."



His head hurt. "What do you do if you don't get the same answer?"



"Think about it."



"Mother Night," he muttered.



Jaenelle gathered some of the leaves and then frowned. "There are some questions I'm not allowed to ask again until I'm a hundred. I don't think that's fair, do you?"



Yes!



"I mean," she continued, "how am I supposed to learn anything if people won't tell me?"



"There are some questions that shouldn't be asked until a person is mature enough to appreciate the answers."



Jaenelle stuck her tongue out at him. He responded in kind.



"Just because you're a little older than me doesn't mean you have to be so bossy," she complained.



Daemon looked over his shoulder to see if anyone else was around. There wasn't, so that meant she was referring to him. When did he change from being an elder to being just a little older . . . and bossy?



Impertinent chit. Maddening, impossible . . . how did the Priest stand it? How . . .



Daemon put on his best smile, which was difficult since his teeth were still clenched. "Are you seeing the Priest today?"



Jaenelle frowned at him, suspicious. "Yes."



"Would you give him a message?"



Her eyes narrowed. "All right," she said cautiously. "Come on, I've got some paper in my room." As Jaenelle waited outside his room, Daemon penned his question and sealed the envelope. She eyed it, shrugged, and slipped it into the pocket of her coat. They parted then, he to escort Alexandra on her morning visits, and she to her lessons.



Saetan looked up from his book. "Aren't you supposed to be with Andulvar?" he asked as Jaenelle bounced into his public study. He and Andulvar had decided that, under the guise of studying Eyrien weapons, Andulvar would teach her physical self-defense while he concentrated on Craft weaponry.



"Yes, but I wanted to give you this first." She handed him a plain white envelope. "Is Prothvar going to be helping with the lesson?"



"I imagine so," Saetan replied, studying the envelope.



Jaenelle wrinkled her nose. "Boys play rough, don't they?"



He's pushing because he's afraid for you, witch-child. "Yes, I guess they do. Go on now."



She gave him a choke-hold hug. "Will I see you after?"



He kissed her cheek. "Just try to leave without seeing me."



She grinned and bounced out of the room.



Saetan turned the envelope over and over in his hands before finally, carefully, opening the flap. He took out the single sheet of paper, read it, read it again . . . and began to laugh.



When she returned and had plundered her way through the sandwich and nut-cakes that were waiting for her, Saetan handed her the envelope, resealed with black wax. She stuffed it into her pocket, tactfully showing no curiosity about this exchange between himself and Daemon.



After she left, he sat in his chair, a smile tugging at his lips, and wondered what his fine young Prince would do with his answer.



Daemon was helping Alexandra into her cloak when Jaenelle popped into the hallway. He'd spent the day teetering between curiosity and apprehension, regretting his impulsiveness at sending that message. Now he and Alexandra were on their way to the theater, and it wasn't the right time or place to ask Jaenelle about the message.



"You look wonderful, Alexandra," Jaenelle said as she admired the elegant dress.



Alexandra smiled, but her brow puckered in a little frown. It always annoyed her that Jaenelle persisted in addressing everyone on a first-name basis. Except him. "Thank you, dear," she said a bit stiffly. "Shouldn't you be in bed by now?"



"I just wanted to say good night," Jaenelle said politely, but Daemon noticed the slight shift in her expression, the sadness beneath the child mask. He also noticed that she said nothing to him.



They were on their way out the door when he suddenly felt something in his jacket pocket. Slipping his fingers inside, he felt the edge of the envelope, and his throat tightened.



He spent the whole evening surreptitiously touching the envelope, wanting to find an excuse to be alone for a minute so he could pull it out. Years of self-control and discipline asserted themselves, and it wasn't until he left Alexandra drifting into a satisfied sleep and was in his own room that he allowed himself to look at it.



He stared at the black wax. The Priest had read it, then. He licked his lips, took a deep breath, and broke the seal.



The writing was strong, neat, and masculine with an archaic flourish. He read the reply, read it again . . . and began to laugh.



Daemon had written: "What do you do when she asks a question no man would give a child an answer to?"



Saetan had replied: "Hope you're obliging enough to answer it for me. However, if you're backed into a corner, refer her to me. I've become accustomed to being shocked."



Daemon grinned, shook his head, and hid the note among his private papers. That night, and for several nights after, he fell asleep smiling.



2—Terreille



Frowning, Daemon stood beneath the maple tree in the alcove. He had seen Jaenelle come in here a few minutes ago, could sense that she was very nearby, but he couldn't find her. Where . . .



A branch shook above his head. Daemon looked up and swallowed hard to keep his heart from leaping past his teeth. He swallowed again—hard—to keep down the tongue-lashing that was blistering his throat in its effort to escape. All that swallowing made his head hurt. As his nostrils flared in an effort to breathe and his breath puffed white in the cold air, Jaenelle let out her silvery velvet-coated laugh.



"Dragons can do that even if it isn't cold," she said gaily as she looked down at him from the lowest branch, a good eight feet above his head. She squatted on the branch with her arms around her knees and no discernible way to save herself if she overbalanced.



Daemon wasn't interested in dragons, and his heart was no longer trying to leap out—it was trying to crawl into his stomach and hide.



"Would you mind coming down from there, Lady?" he said, astounded that his voice sounded so casual. "Heights make me a bit queasy."



"Really?" Jaenelle's eyebrows lifted in surprise. She shrugged, stood up, and leaped.