Daughter of the Blood (25 page)

"You're not eating," she said absently as she sipped her coffee.

Daemon obediently took a bite out of the sandwich and waited.

"It's a hospital for emotionally disturbed children," Cook said. "Seems a lot of young witches from good families become high-strung of a sudden when they start leaving childhood behind, if you understand me.

But Miss Jaenelle's been in and out of that place since she was five years old for no better reason that I could ever see except that she used to make up fanciful stories about unicorns and dragons and such."

She cocked her head toward the front of the house.
"They
say she's unbalanced because she's the only one in the family who doesn't wear the Jewels, that she tries to make up for not being able to do the Craft lessons by making up stories to get attention. If you ask me, the last thing Miss Jaenelle wants is attention.

It's just that she's . . . different. It's a funny thing about her. Even when she says wild things, things you know can't be true, somehow . . . you start to wonder, you know?"

Daemon finished his sandwich and drained his mug. "How long has she been gone?"

"Since early spring. She put a flea in
all
their ears this last time. That's why they've left her there so long."

Daemon's lip curled in disgust. "What could a child possibly say that would make them want to lock her up like that?"

"She said ..." Cook looked nervous and upset. "She said Lord Benedict wasn't her father. She said Prince Philip ..."

Daemon let out an explosive sigh. Yes, from what he'd observed of the dynamics of this family, a statement like that
would
throw them all into a fury. Still . . .

Cook gave him a long, slow look and refilled the mugs. "Let me tell you about Miss Jaenelle.

"Two years ago, the Warlord my daughter was serving decided he wanted a prettier wench and turned my daughter out, along with the child she'd borne him. They came here to me, not having any other place to go, and Lady Alexandra let them stay. My girl, being poorly at the time, did some light parlor work and helped me in the kitchen. My granddaughter, Lucy—the cutest little button you ever saw—stayed in the kitchen with me mostly, although Miss Jaenelle always included her in the games whenever the girls were outside. Lucy didn't like being out on her own. She was afraid of Lord Benedict's hunting dogs, and the dog boys, knowing she was scared, teased her, getting the dogs all riled up and then slipping them off the leash so they'd chase her.

"One day it went too far. The dogs had been given short rations because they were going to be taken out and they were meaner than usual, and the boys got them too riled up. The pack leader slipped his leash, took off after Lucy, and chased her into "the tack room. She tripped, and he was on her, tearing at her arm. When we heard the screams, my daughter and I came running from the kitchen, and Andrew, one of the stable lads, a real good boy, came running too.

"Lucy was on the floor, screaming and screaming with that dog tearing at her arm, and all of a sudden, there was Miss Jaenelle. She said some strange words to the dog, and he let go of Lucy right away and slunk out of the tack room, his tail between his legs.

"Lucy was a mess, her arm all torn up, the bone sticking up where the dog had snapped it. Miss Jaenelle told Andrew to get a bucket of water quick, and she knelt down beside Lucy and started talking to her, quiet-like, and Lucy stopped screaming. Andrew came back with the water, and Miss Jaenelle pulled out this big oval basin from somewhere, I never did notice where it came from. Andrew poured the water in the basin, and Miss Jaenelle held it for a minute, just held it, and the water started steaming like it was over a fire. Then she put Lucy's arm in the basin and took some leaves and powders out of her pocket and poured them in the water. She held Lucy's arm down, singing all the while, quiet. We just stood and watched. No point taking the girl to a Healer, even if we could have scraped up the coin to pay a good one. I knew that. That arm was too mangled. The best even a good Healer could have done was cut it off. So we watched, my daughter, Andrew, and me. Couldn't see much, the water all bloody like it was.

"After a while, Miss Jaenelle leaned back and lifted Lucy's arm out of the basin. There was a long, deep cut from her elbow to her wrist . . . and that was all. Miss Jaenelle looked each of us in the eye. She didn't have to say anything. We weren't about to tell on her. Then she handed me a jar of ointment, my daughter being too upset to do much. 'Put this ointment on three times a day, and keep it loosely bandaged for a week. If you do, there'll be no scar.'

"Then she turned to Lucy and said, 'Don't worry. I'll talk to them. They won't bother you again.'

"Prince Philip, when he found out Lucy'd gotten hurt because the dogs were chasing her, gave the dog boys a fierce tongue-lashing; but that afternoon I saw Lord Benedict pressing coins into the dog boys'

hands, laughing and telling them how pleased he was they were keeping his dogs in such fine form.

"Anyway, by the next summer, my daughter married a young man from a fine, solid family. They live in a little village about thirty miles from here, and I visit whenever I can get a couple of days' leave."

Daemon looked into his empty mug. "Do you think Miss Jaenelle talked to them?"

"She must have," Cook replied absently.

"So the boys stopped teasing Lucy," Daemon pressed.

"Oh, no. They went right on with it. They weren't punished for it, were they? But the dogs . . . After that day, there was nothing those boys could do to make the dogs chase Lucy."

Late that night, unable to sleep, Daemon returned to the alcove. He lit a black cigarette and stared at the witch blood through the smoke.

She has come.

He'd spent the evening reviewing the facts he had, turning them over and over again as if that would change them. It hadn't, and he didn't like the conclusion he had reached.

My sister planted these. As remembrance.

A child. Witch was still a child.

No. He was misinterpreting something. He
had
to be. Witch wore the Black Jewels.

Maybe he'd gotten the information mixed up. Maybe Wiihelmina was the younger sister. He'd still been fighting to regain his emotional control when he'd arrived at the Hayllian embassy in Beldon Mor. It would make more sense if Jaenelle was almost old enough to make the Offering to the Darkness. She'd be on the cusp of opening herself to her mature strength, which would be the Black Jewels.

But the bedroom, the clothes. How could he reconcile those things with the power he'd felt when she'd healed his back after Cornelia tied him to the whipping posts?

She talks like that sometimes.

He could count on both hands the people still able to speak a few phrases of the Blood's true language.

Who could have taught her?

He shied away from the answer to that.

It's a hospital for emotionally disturbed children.

Coulda child wear a Jewel as dark as the Black without becoming mentally and emotionally unbalanced?

He'd never heard of anyone being gifted with a Birthright Jewel that was darker than the Red.

The chalice is cracking.

He stopped thinking, let his mind quiet. The facts fell into place, forming the inevitable conclusion.

But it still took him a few more days before he could accept it.

7 / Terreille

After parting with Wilhelmina, Daemon changed into his riding clothes and headed for the stables. He had a free morning, the first since he'd arrived at the Angelline estate, and Alexandra had given him permission to take one of the horses out.

As he reached the stableyard, Guinness, the stable master, gave him a curt wave and continued his instructions to one of the stable lads.

"Going to hack out this morning?" Guinness said when Daemon approached, his gruff manner softened by a faint smile.

"If it's convenient," Daemon replied, smiling. Here, like most places where he'd served, he got along well with the staff. It was the witches he was supposed to serve that he couldn't tolerate.

"Ayah." Guinness's eyes slowly rode up Daemon's body, starting with his boots. "Good, straight, solid legs. Strong shoulders."

Daemon wondered if Guinness was going to check his teeth.

"How's your seat?" Guinness asked.

"I ride fairly well," Daemon replied cautiously, not certain he cared for the faint gleam in Guinness's eye.

Guinness sucked on his cheek. "Stallion hasn't been out for a few days. Andrew's the only one who can ride him, and he's got a bruised thigh. Can't let the boy go out with a weak leg. You willing to try?"

Daemon took a deep breath, still suspicious. "All right."

"Andrew! Saddle up, Demon." Daemon's eyebrows shot up practically to his hairline. "Demon?"

Guinness sucked on his cheek again, refusing to notice Daemon's outraged expression. "Name's Dark Dancer, but in the stableyard, when we're out of hearing"—he shot a look at the house—"we call him what he is."

"Hell's fire," Daemon muttered as he crossed the yard to where Andrew was saddling the big bay stallion. "Anything I should know?" he asked the young man.

Andrew looked a bit worried. Finally he shrugged. "He's got a soft mouth and a hard head. He's too smart for most riders. He'll run you into the trees if you let him. Keep to the big open field, that's best.

But watch the drainage ditch at the far end. It's too wide for most horses, but he'll take it, and he doesn't care if he lands on the other side without his rider."

"Thanks," Daemon growled.

Andrew grinned crookedly and handed the reins to Daemon. "I'll hold his head while you mount."

Daemon settled into the saddle. "Let him go."

Demon left the stableyard quietly enough, mouthing the bit, considering his rider. Except for showing some irritation at being held to a walk, Demon behaved quite well— until they reached a small rise and the path curved left toward the open field.

Demon pricked his ears and lunged to the right toward a lone old oak tree, almost throwing Daemon from the saddle.

The battle began.

For some perverse reason of his own, Demon was determined to reach the oak tree. Daemon was equally determined to turn him toward the field. The horse lunged, bucked, twisted, circled, fought the reins and bit. Daemon held him in check enough not to be thrown, but, circle by hard-fought circle, the stallion made his way toward the tree.

Fifteen minutes later, the horse gave up and stood with his shaking legs spread, his head down, and his lathered sides heaving. Daemon was sweat-soaked and shivering from exhaustion, and slightly amazed that his arms were still in their sockets.

When Daemon gathered the reins once more, Demon laid back his ears, prepared for the next round.

Curious about what would happen, Daemon turned them toward the tree and urged the horse onward.

Demon's ears immediately pricked forward, his neck arched, and his step became high-spirited sassy.

Daemon didn't offer any aids, letting the horse do whatever he wanted. Demon circled the tree over and over, sniffing the air, alert and listening . . . and growing more and more upset. Finally the stallion bugled angrily and launched himself toward the path and the field.

Daemon didn't try to control him until they headed for the ditch. He won that battle—barely—and when Demon finally slowed down, too tired to fight anymore, Daemon turned him toward the stable.

The stable lads stared openmouthed as Daemon rode into the yard. Andrew quickly limped up and took the reins. Guinness shook his head and strode across the yard, grasped Daemon's arm as he slid wearily from the saddle, and led him to the small office beside the tack room.

Pulling glasses and a bottle from his desk, Guinness poured out a two-finger shot and handed it to Daemon. "Here," he said gruffly, pouring a glass for himself. "It'll put some bone back in your legs."

Daemon gratefully sipped the whiskey while rubbing the knotted muscles in his shoulder.

Guinness looked at Daemon's sweat-soaked shirt and rubbed his bristly chin with his knuckles. "Gave you a bit of a time, did he?"

"It was mutual."

"Well, at least he'll still respect you in the morning."

Daemon choked. When he could breathe again, he almost asked about the tree but thought better of it.

Andrew was the one who rode Demon.

After Guinness left to check on the feed, Daemon walked across the yard to where Andrew was grooming the horse.

Andrew looked up with a respectful smile. "You stayed on him."

"I stayed on him." Daemon watched the boy's smooth, easy motions. "But I had some trouble with him by a certain tree."

Andrew looked flustered. The hand brushing the stallion stuttered a little before picking up the rhythm again.

Daemon's eyes narrowed, and his voice turned dangerously silky. "What's special about that tree, Andrew?"

"Just a tree." Andrew glanced at Daemon's eyes and flinched. He shifted his feet, uneasy. "It's on the other side of the rise, you see. The first place out of sight of the house."

"So?"

"Well . . ." Andrew looked at Daemon, pleading. "You won't tell, will you?" He jerked his head toward the house. "It could cause a whole lot of trouble up there if they found out."

Daemon fought to keep his temper reined in. "Found out what?"

"About Miss Jaenelle."

Daemon shifted position, the motion so fluid and predatory that Andrew instantly stepped back, staying close to the horse as if for protection. "What about Miss Jaenelle?" he crooned.

Andrew gnawed on his lip. "At the tree ... we ..."

Daemon hissed.

Andrew paled, then flushed crimson. His eyes flashed with anger, and his fists clenched. "You . . . you think I'd ..."

"Then what
do
you do at that tree?"

Andrew took a deep breath. "We change places."

Daemon frowned. "Change places?"

"Change horses. I've got a slight build. The pony can carry me."

"And she rides . . . ?"

Andrew put a tentative hand on the stallion's neck.