Twilight's Dawn

Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful.



“Only my Lady’s pleasure,” he said.



Jaenelle reached up and tugged on his jacket. Obeying the unspoken command, he leaned over and touched his lips to hers.



“Your tone lacks sincerity, Prince,” Jaenelle said. “But since this is your first Winsol as a husband, you’re forgiven.”



Then she kissed him—and he hoped she would have reason to forgive him for a lot of things over the next few days.



TWO



Prince Sadi,



Your presence is requested at your mother’s cottage. Please join me

there after dinner.



SaDiablo



Daemon banged once on the cottage’s front door. It couldn’t be too serious, since he hadn’t been asked to respond immediately. But a command like this from his father was unusual—and “your presence is requested” was a phrase in Protocol that amounted to a command.



And just because it wasn’t “too serious” didn’t mean it wasn’t serious.



Hell’s fire! What could have happened since his visit yesterday morning that required the High Lord to come to Halaway? And why hadn’t he been told about it before Saetan had arrived?



He banged on the door again, then opened it himself, almost clobbering Allista, who had been hurrying to reach it.



“Where?” he snapped, too worried about why he’d been summoned to be polite.



“The parlor,” she replied.



He opened the parlor door—and froze.



His father sat in one of the chairs by the fire, his legs crossed at the knees, his fingers steepled, and the black-tinted nails of his forefingers resting against his chin. His mother stood in front of the other chair, twisting her fingers and looking anxious.



The room looked wrong. He kept his eyes on his father, but he knew the room looked wrong. Then he realized why. He didn’t have an actual memory of the situation, but he was certain that the last time he’d seen his parents positioned like this, he had been much, much younger and much, much shorter.



“Come in, Prince. Sit down,” Saetan said. He looked at Tersa. “Darling, could you bring in some coffee?”



Tersa nodded. “And nutcakes. Boys need something sweet after a scolding.” She gave Daemon a distracted smile as she scurried past him.



Scolding? he thought as his heart settled back to a regular beat and his mind adjusted to the fact that his mother wasn’t hurt or ill. Oh, no. There is not going to be a scolding.



He looked his father in the eyes and said, “I’m an adult.”



Saetan met his look with steely calm. “When you walk out that door, you’re an adult. Right here, right now, you’re a son. Sit.”



He sat. It was humiliating that his body had obeyed that voice before his brain made a decision.



Saetan took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Your mother is concerned about her boys.”



“We didn’t do anything.”



Where in the name of Hell had those words come from? And why had there been a flash of amused panic in Saetan’s eyes before the High Lord regained that steely calm?



“When you and Lucivar were little boys and one of you said that to me, I knew we had something to talk about,” Saetan said. “And we would sit for as long as it took to discuss it.”



Meaning for as long as it took the boy to start squirming beneath the weight of that stare and blurt out whatever it was he had done.



And damn it, that stare still worked.



“It’s nothing,” Daemon said.



“Tersa didn’t summon me here for ‘nothing.’ ”



Daemon considered the alternatives. There were none. Reminding himself that he’d intended to show the gift to Saetan anyway, he called in the globe and set it on the table next to the chair. As the mousie went through its routine, he watched the fingers that had been resting on Saetan’s chin creep up until they were pressed hard between the High Lord’s eyes.



When the spell finished with the mousie squaring its little shoulders, ready to begin again, Saetan lowered his hands and said in a strangled voice, “You’re going to give this to your brother?”



“Yes.”



“I see.” Saetan shook his head and sighed.



Daemon heard the chuckle under the sigh and felt woozy relief wash through him.



“Put that away,” Saetan said, pointing at the globe.



He did, with alacrity.



“You came because of this?” Daemon glanced at the still-closed parlor door. Was Tersa waiting for some kind of signal before coming back into the room?



“Because of what happened in the spooky house, your mother was concerned about making surprises for her boys and wanted my opinion.”



“Boys?” Daemon asked as the significance of the word sank in.



A flood of . . . Not memories. Not exactly. More like he was riding a wave of remembered feelings.



“We were hers when we were young, weren’t we?” Daemon said slowly. “Both of us.”



“Luthvian birthed Lucivar, but Tersa was the one who loved him.” Saetan looked at the fire burning in the hearth. “That was fitting in a way. If Tersa hadn’t insisted that I see Luthvian through her Virgin Night, Lucivar wouldn’t exist. She had as much to do with that conception as the two people who were in the bed that night. So in a very real sense, he is her winged boy.”



Daemon stared at the carpet, trying to sort through feelings that were more elusive than memories. Trying to sort through the tangle of his bond with Lucivar. They had loved each other, hated each other, fought with each other, and fought for each other. There were things he might have done—and things he wouldn’t have done—if Lucivar hadn’t existed, but none of those things would have been worth the price of not having a brother. Especially this brother.



An aftertaste of bitterness filled him. He looked up to find his father watching him.



“Since Tersa was willing to take the cast—off boy, I’m surprised Luthvian . . .” He trailed off.



“The way your mother is now is about how she was then,” Saetan said softly. “Walking the roads of dreams and visions, yes, but not walking so deeply in the Twisted Kingdom that she couldn’t find the borders of sanity. If Tersa could have been persuaded to trade, Luthvian would have taken you in a heartbeat, because even then you were everything she wanted—and everything your brother wasn’t.”



Daemon stiffened, and the air chilled in response to his temper.



Saetan smiled. “Same response, all these centuries later.”



“She didn’t try to talk Tersa into trading?” The word choked him, sounding too much like the years of slavery that would never be forgotten.



“Luthvian didn’t like your brother, so you didn’t like her. Hell’s fire, Daemon. Sometimes you took my breath away when Luthvian tried to coax you into doing something with her. Just you and her. You were barely old enough to string words together in a complete sentence, and you were still so coldly and cuttingly polite there was no doubt how you felt about her.”



Good.



Saetan studied him. “Being Warlord Princes, the two of you are bound to feel territorial about anyone who matters to you, and subtle challenges and bristling are not unexpected when those territories overlap, especially when the individuals are still getting used to sharing. But for Tersa’s sake, I need to know if it’s more than that. So I want an answer to a question: Do you have a problem with Lucivar spending time with your mother?”



“Our mother.” The moment Daemon said the words, something in him settled. Things that were the most precious, the most important, were shared cautiously, if at all. Their years of slavery had taught him and Lucivar that hard lesson. Sooner or later, Lucivar would have told him about visiting Tersa. Of that he was certain. “Tersa is our mother.”



“Fine, then. We’ll all have coffee and nutcakes, and I’ll reassure Tersa that making these little Winsol surprises won’t get her boys into too much trouble.”



“Wait.” Daemon held up a hand. “What did Lucivar ask her to make? Aren’t you going to tell me?”



His father just looked at him—and laughed.



THREE



After giving the door to the butler’s pantry a perfunctory knock, Daemon walked into the room and wasn’t sure who was more flustered—himself or Beale.



Good manners dictated that he walk out of the room as if he’d seen nothing. Curiosity had him closing the door and asking, “Are the acoustics good in this room?”



Beale lowered the flute and said, “It’s a private place to practice.”



There was enough emphasis and bite to the word “private” to tell Daemon that if he’d been a boy instead of a grown man—regardless of being the High Lord’s son—he would have been booted out the door, and that boot would have had the strength of Beale’s leg behind it.



“Beale . . .” Daemon looked around the pantry. Two rolltop desks, side by side, shelves of the best silver, the bottles of wine that were anticipated to be needed for the next few days.



Hell’s fire, the Hall had at least one music room. Why was the man hiding out here to practice?



“I suppose this is a practical place to practice whenever you have a few minutes between your duties,” Daemon said, feeling a sudden need to choose his words with care. In no way did he want to imply that Beale might be shirking his duties. “But surely you have some free time in the evenings, even with all the preparations needed because the Lady and I will have a more demanding social calendar than usual.”



Beale gave him a measuring look. Daemon wasn’t sure against what standard he was being measured—and he was even less sure that he measured up to that standard.



At last Beale said, “We do have free time, even with the increased activity at the Hall. The High Lord always insisted that everyone working here have some time for their own lives. Since there are so many who work at the Hall, and so many who reside here as well, we are our own community and have our own entertainments. Several people play musical instruments, so we have a musical evening each week and give a performance once a season. Those who enjoy reading have literary discussions. There are also weekly card games. Since the Hall allows several beginning positions to be used as a training ground for Blood who have chosen to work in domestic service, such activities provide the younger staff with opportunities to enjoy society without needing to go to the village. And because the rules at the Hall are so strict—and strictly kept—the penalties for mistakes while playing cards are not so great.”



“Like a youngster gambling away all his wages,” Daemon said.



“Exactly.”



Feeling awkward, Daemon looked away. “I’ve owned the Hall for a year now. Should I have known about this?”



Beale laid the flute in its case. “Taking care of the interests of the SaDiablo family is not a small task, Prince. Neither is taking care of Dhemlan. And you’ve also had the equally demanding—and more important—task of helping the Lady regain her health. I don’t think last Winsol you were able to think much beyond those things.”



Astute assessment, Daemon thought, nodding.



“This year the Lady is well and you’ve settled into the routine of ruling Dhemlan, so your own view of the world can now widen.”



He started to agree. Then he noticed a look in Beale’s eyes and rocked back on his heels to reassess all the information he’d been given during this little chat.



“So what duties am I ready to assume?” he asked warily.



Beale smiled. “The servants’ Winsol party is held on the first evening of Winsol. There is dancing later, but the evening begins with a short musical program. The High Lord and the Lady would join us for that part of the evening before going on to their own engagement. And they would sing one of the traditional Dhemlan songs for Winsol, a lovely one about the warmth of family on the darkest night. Last year, the High Lord came down and sang it for us.”



“Is the Lady coming down this year to sing it for you?” Daemon asked.



“Yes, she’s already said she would.”



He nodded. His singing voice wouldn’t hold up to professional standards, but he could carry a tune and read music, so he did well enough for at-home entertainment. “Do you have the music?”



“I do.” Beale opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a small stack of sheet music. “The top one is the Dhemlan song. The next one is a song the Lady and the High Lord used to sing for guests. It is in the Old Tongue.”



Daemon groaned. The Old Tongue was a liquid kind of language, beautiful to hear and damned difficult to learn.



“Perhaps if you learned the music, you could accompany one of them?” Beale suggested.

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