Daughter of the Blood

"High Lord." Char's voice rang with pride. "Come see our tree."



Saetan came forward slowly and placed his hands over Char's. He studied the tree. A single tear slipped down his cheek, and his lips trembled. "Ah, children," he said huskily, "it's truly a magnificent tree. And your decorations are wonderful."



They smiled at him, shyly, tentatively.



Without thinking, Saetan put his arm around Char's shoulders and hugged him close. The boy jerked back, caught himself, and then hesitantly put his arms around Saetan and hugged him in return.



"You know who gave us the tree, don't you?" Char whispered.



"Yes, I know."



"I've never . . . most of us have never . . ."



"I know, Char." Saetan squeezed Char's shoulder once more. He cleared his throat. "They seem a bit . . . dull . . . compared with this, but there are gifts for you to put beneath the tree."



Char rubbed his hand across his face. "She said it would only last the thirteen days of Winsol, but that's all they ever last, isn't it?"



"Yes, that's all they ever last."



"High Lord." Char hesitated. "How?"



Saetan smiled tenderly at the boy. "I don't know. She's magic. I'm only a Warlord Prince. You can't expect me to explain magic."



Char smiled in return, a smile from one man to another.



Saetan called in the six boxes. "I'll leave these in your keeping." One finger gently stroked Char's burned, blackened cheek. "Happy Winsol, Warlord." He turned and glided quickly toward the path. As he passed the first bend, a sound came from a smattering of voices. When it was repeated, it was a full chorus.



"Happy Winsol, High Lord."



Saetan choked back a sob and hurried back to the Hall.



7—Hell



"You did tell me to give a Winsol gift to someone who might not get one, so . . . well . . ." Jaenelle nervously brushed her fingers along the edge of Saetan's blackwood desk.



"Come here, witch-child." Saetan gently hugged her. Putting his lips close to her ear, he whispered, "That was the finest piece of magic I've ever seen. I'm so very proud of you."



"Truly?" Jaenelle whispered back.



"Truly." He held her at arm's length so he could see her face. "Would you share the secret?" he asked, keeping his voice lightly teasing. "Would you tell an old Warlord Prince how you did it?"



Jaenelle's eyes focused on his Red Birthright Jewel hanging from its gold chain. "I promised the Prince, you see."



"See what?" he asked calmly as his stomach flip-flopped.



"I promised that if I was going to do any dream weaving I'd learn from the best who could teach me."



And you didn't come to me? "So who taught you, witch-child?"



She licked her lips. "The Arachnians," she said in a small voice.



The room blurred and spun. When it stopped revolving, Saetan gratefully realized he was still sitting in his chair. "Arachna is a closed Territory," he said through clenched teeth.



Jaenelle frowned. "I know. But so are a lot of places where I have friends. They don't mind, Saetan. Truly."



Saetan released her and locked his hands together. Arachna. She'd gone to Arachna. Beware the golden spider that spins a tangled web. There wasn't a Black Widow in all the history of the Blood who could spin dream webs like the Arachnians. The whole shore of their island was littered with tangled webs that could pull in unsuspecting—and even well-trained—minds, leaving the flesh shell to be devoured. For her to blithely walk through their defenses . . .



"The Arachnian Queen," Saetan said, fighting the urge to yell at her. "Whom did she assign to teach you?"



Jaenelle gave him a worried little smile. "She taught me. We started with the straight, simple webs, everyday weaving. After that . . ." Jaenelle shrugged.



Saetan cleared his throat. "Just out of curiosity, how large is the Arachnian Queen?"



"Um . . . her body's about like that." Jaenelle pointed at his fist.



The room tilted. Very little was known about Arachna—with good reason, since very few who had ever ventured there had returned intact—but one thing was known: the larger the spider, the more powerful and deadly were the webs.



"Did the Prince suggest you go to Arachna?" Saetan asked, desperately trying to keep the snarl out of his voice.



Jaenelle blinked and had the grace to blush. "No. I don't think he'd be too happy if I told him."



Saetan closed his eyes. What was done was done. "You will remember courtesy and Protocol when you visit them, won't you?"



"Yes, High Lord," Jaenelle said, her voice suspiciously submissive.



Saetan opened his eyes to a narrow slit. Jaenelle's sapphire eyes sparkled back at him. He snarled, defeated, Hell's fire, if he was so outmaneuvered by a twelve-year-old girl, what in the name of Darkness was he going to do when she was full grown?



"Saetan?"



"Jaenelle."



She held out a brightly though clumsily wrapped package with a slightly mangled bow. "Happy Winsol, Saetan."



His hand shook a little as he took the package and laid it gently on the desk. "Witch-child, I—"



Jaenelle threw her arms around his neck and squeezed. "Draca said it was all right to open your gift before Winsol because I should only wear it at the Keep. Oh, thank you, Saetan. Thank you. It's the most wonderful dress. And it's black." She studied his face. "Wasn't I supposed to tell you I already opened it?"



Saetan hugged her fiercely. You, too, Draca. You, too, are not as cold as you pretend to be. "I'm glad it pleases you, witch-child. Now." He turned to her package.



"No," Jaenelle said nervously. "You should wait for Winsol."



"You didn't," he gently teased. "Besides, you won't be here for Winsol,  so . . ."



"No, Saetan. Please?"



It piqued his curiosity that she would give him something and not want to be there when he opened it. However, tomorrow was Winsol, and he didn't want her leaving him feeling heartsore. Adeptly turning the conversation to the mounds of food being prepared at the Kaeleer Hall and broadly hinting that Helene and Mrs. Beale just might be willing to parcel some out before the next day, he sent her on her way and leaned back in his chair with a sigh.



The package beckoned.



Saetan Black-locked the study door before carefully unwrapping the package. His heart did a queer little jig as he stared at the back of one of the swivel frames he had purchased for her. Taking a deep breath, he opened the frame.



In the left side was a copy of an old picture of a young man with a hint of a brash smile and a ready-for-trouble gleam in his eyes. The face would have changed by now, hardened, matured. Even so.



"Lucivar," he whispered, blinking away tears and shaking his head. "You had that look in your eyes when you were five years old. It would seem there are some things the years can't change. Where are you now, my Eyrien Prince."



He turned to the picture on the right, immediately set the frame on the desk, leaned back in his chair and covered his eyes. "No wonder," he whispered. "By all the Jewels and the Darkness, no wonder." If Lucivar was a summer afternoon. Daemon was winter's coldest night. Sliding his hands from his face, Saetan forced himself to study the picture of his namesake, his true heir.



It was a formal picture taken in front of a red-velvet background. On the surface, this son of his was not a mirror—he far exceeded his father's chiseled, handsome features—but beneath the surface was the recognizable, chilling darkness, and a ruthlessness Saetan instinctively knew had been honed by years of cruelty.



"Dorothea, you have recreated me at my worst."



And yet . . .



Saetan leaned forward and studied the golden eyes so like his own, eyes that seemed to look straight at him. He smiled in thanks and relief. Nothing would ever undo what Dorothea had done to Daemon, what she had turned him into, but in those golden eyes was a swirling expression of resignation, amusement, irritation, and delight—a cacophony of emotions he was all too familiar with. It could only mean one thing: Jaenelle had maneuvered Daemon into this and had gone with him to make sure it was done to her satisfaction.



"Well, namesake," Saetan said quietly as he positioned the frame on the corner of his desk, "if you've accepted the leash she's holding, there's hope for you yet."



8—Terreille



For Daemon, Winsol was the bitterest day of the year, a cruel reminder of what it had been like to grow up in Dorothea's court, of what had been required of him after the dancing had fired Dorothea's and Hepsabah's blood.



His stomach tightened. The stone he sharpened his already honed temper on was the knowledge that the one witch he wanted to dance with, the only one he would gladly surrender to and indulge was too young for him—for any man.



He celebrated Winsol because it was expected of him. Each year he sent a basket of delicacies to Surreal. Each year he sent gifts to Manny and Jo—and to Tersa whenever he could find her. Each year there were the expected, expensive gifts for the witches he served. Each year he got nothing in return, not even the words "thank you."



But this year was different. This year he'd been caught up in a whirlwind called Jaenelle Angelline—as impossible to deflect as she was to stop—and he had become an accomplice in all sorts of schemes that, even in their innocence, had been thrilling. When he had dug in his heels and balked at one of her adventures, he'd been dragged along like a toy so well loved it didn't have much of its stuffing left. With his defenses breached, with his temper dulled and battered by love and his coldness trampled by mischief, he had briefly thought to appeal to the Priest for help until, with amused dismay, he realized the High Lord of Hell was probably faring no better than he.