Twilight's Dawn (53 page)
Authors: Anne Bishop
Tags: #Fantasy fiction, #Fiction, #Fantasy, #General, #Witches, #Epic
“If he and Jaenelle had had children . . .” Now Marian sighed.
“Yeah. But they didn’t.”
“Not all the women who are interested in being with him are calculating bitches, are they?”
“No, some of them are young, starry-eyed, and love the Prince they see at social functions with all their hearts. But they haven’t seen the cold side of him. They haven’t seen the Sadist. And they think if he made any kind of commitment to them, he would love them the way he loved Jaenelle.”
“She was the love of his life,” Marian said. “He’ll never love another woman the way he loved her.”
“No, he won’t. And sooner or later, any of those starry-eyed girls would break and become bitter under the truth of that. And when they became bitter, he would become colder and more distant—and less capable of giving any woman any kind of affection.” And that would be a waste of a good man.
Marian’s eyes filled with tears. She waved a hand when Surreal touched her shoulder. “Just moods. Happens for a while after the birth. I feel too much.” She looked toward the counter. “And you’d better get that casserole out of the dish while it’s still edible.”
“Shit.” For the next few minutes they busied themselves with putting the food on the table and getting themselves settled.
Marian cut a piece of the crusty bread and handed it to Surreal. “Do you think it’s foolish to wish that Daemon finds someone to love again someday?”
“No,” Surreal said, looking at Titian asleep in her basket. “I don’t think wishing is foolish.”
As the Weaver of Dreams tended the tangled web that Witch had left in the golden spiders’ care, she listened to longings, yearnings, and wishes that resonated with that web—and added more threads.
FIVE
D
aemon had known for three years that this day was coming, but he still wasn’t ready. Week by week, he’d watched his father’s gentle decline—the body getting more frail, the power fading. But the mind was still sharp and strong. That was why Saetan had chosen this day to say his good-byes.
aemon had known for three years that this day was coming, but he still wasn’t ready. Week by week, he’d watched his father’s gentle decline—the body getting more frail, the power fading. But the mind was still sharp and strong. That was why Saetan had chosen this day to say his good-byes.
Why is Grandfather going to leave us?
How were they supposed to answer Daemonar’s question? What were they supposed to say to Mikal and Beron about the man who had loved their mother and protected them after her physical death—and had had the strength to let Sylvia go when she was ready to become a whisper in the Darkness?
Daemon knew what Saetan would say: They were supposed to answer the questions and take care of the living just like every other man who faced this day and all the tomorrows that would come after.
He looked at Lucivar. They were the last ones left in Saetan’s bedroom at the Keep.
Lucivar looked at him. Resistance, denial, and then acceptance flashed in those gold eyes.
“Tell your brother what you know about me,” Saetan told Lucivar.
Lucivar hesitated, then nodded. “I will.” Then to Daemon, “I’ll be nearby.”
Daemon waited until Lucivar left the room before sitting on the edge of the bed.
“You have the letters I wrote to Mikal and Beron?” Saetan asked.
“And the ones for Daemonar and Titian. I also have the ones Sylvia wrote to her sons. I’ll abide by the instructions she gave you and see that the boys get the letters at the appropriate times.”
“Good.” Saetan shifted against the pillows. Then he smiled. “We’ve said our good-byes. I want you to go now and not come back until it’s done.”
“Your body?”
“Most often, the husks of the demon-dead end up nourishing the Dark Realm, but Draca and Geoffrey—and even Lorn—didn’t think that was appropriate for me. So the empty vessel will go to the fire, and the ashes will be mixed with the soil in one of the courtyard gardens here at the Keep.”
“In the same garden as Jaenelle’s ashes?”
“Yes. Sylvia chose a garden at the Hall in Hell, but ...”
“Your place is here, with the daughter of your soul.”
“Yes.”
Show some balls, old son, and do this for him.
“We’re not going to let you linger here alone for a few more days.”
“We’re not going to let you linger here alone for a few more days.”
“I don’t want you here, Daemon. I want a clean break from the family.”
“I know.” He held out his right hand, his Black Jewel glowing with its reservoir of power. “You’re the one who taught me that the High Lord is sometimes merciful.”
And that there can be a price for that mercy.
And that there can be a price for that mercy.
Saetan looked at Daemon’s hand, then looked into his eyes. “Can you live with this?”
He needed a moment to be sure his voice would be steady. “Yes, Father, I can.”
Saetan closed his eyes and held out his hand.
Daemon closed his hands around his father’s. So little power left sustaining that flesh, that mind. So little holding the Self to this life.
The Black absorbed that power between one breath and the next, and Saetan Daemon SaDiablo, Prince of the Darkness and High Lord of Hell, became a whisper in the Darkness.
After tucking Saetan’s hand under the covers, Daemon left the bedroom and went to the sitting room where the others waited.
Daemonar was cuddled up with Surreal. Little Titian was dozing on Marian’s lap. Lucivar stood close to them.
He’d told Saetan the truth. He could live with that particular duty, but he would deal with the grief of that choice in private. The family patriarch took care of his family first and his own heart second.
Lucivar shifted, just enough to catch Surreal’s attention and then Marian’s.
Daemon looked at the women and children, but it was his brother’s eyes that he met and held. “He’s gone.”
Alone in the passenger compartment of the small Coach, Surreal shifted restlessly in her seat. Part of her wished that Sadi had stayed in the compartment with her, distracting her from the grief she wanted to keep at bay a little while longer; the other part was glad he’d chosen to drive the Coach, since riding the Black Winds would get them back to the Hall faster.
It also meant she needed to make some decisions faster.
There was something wrong with Sadi, something more than the grief they were all feeling. That
something
had begun three years ago, shortly after they’d learned that Saetan had stopped drinking yarbarah and was allowing his power to fade—and, with it, the body that had been sustained by that power for more than fifty thousand years. Since then, Daemon had become increasingly withdrawn. Not from the family. He played with Daemonar and Titian, responded to Marian with warmth and love, and seemed the same as he’d always been with Lucivar. But she’d noticed he’d become colder and more calculating when he escorted a woman to a social event—and more often than not, the woman didn’t get as much as a good-night kiss, let alone anything more intimate.
something
had begun three years ago, shortly after they’d learned that Saetan had stopped drinking yarbarah and was allowing his power to fade—and, with it, the body that had been sustained by that power for more than fifty thousand years. Since then, Daemon had become increasingly withdrawn. Not from the family. He played with Daemonar and Titian, responded to Marian with warmth and love, and seemed the same as he’d always been with Lucivar. But she’d noticed he’d become colder and more calculating when he escorted a woman to a social event—and more often than not, the woman didn’t get as much as a good-night kiss, let alone anything more intimate.
At first she’d worried that the coldness was her fault. After some internal debate, and with Marian’s encouragement, she’d told Sadi why she’d been so pissed off with him about the bitch he’d bedded shortly before Titian was born. He’d accepted her explanation, even said he understood. But he began withdrawing from physical contact with everyone but the family.
She had been available whenever he needed a companion for a social obligation, and that had kept the bitches who lusted for ambition away from him. Had her presence also kept away the women who lusted for
him
?
him
?
Sadi hadn’t had sex in three years? Well, neither had she. That wasn’t the point. The point was he’d begun building a wall between himself and everyone else since the day he knew his father was leaving them, and she was worried about what would happen to him if that wall became so thick that no one could reach him.
But right now, there wasn’t anything she could do. Daemon was closed off with the Warlord who was supposed to be their driver, and she didn’t want to think about anything except her own aching heart and the man who had been a wonderful father to all of them.
He had managed the SaDiablo family’s wealth and estates for close to a century. He had been the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan for almost as long. And he had explored a Realm that few among the living had seen—and fewer still could survive. But until a few hours ago, he had still been a son, had still been the heir, had still had the illusion that he could hand all the duties and responsibilities back to the man who had shouldered them for a very, very long time.
Now the illusion was gone and it was time to officially shoulder two other titles: patriarch of the SaDiablo family—and High Lord of Hell.
Daemon escorted Surreal to the large sitting room in the family wing of the Hall. He thought she’d been steady enough when they’d left the Keep, but maybe he shouldn’t have left her alone in the Coach. Maybe she’d been pushing grief away as fiercely as he’d been.
This sitting room had a lived-in shabbiness seen nowhere else in the Hall, a kind of broken-in comfort. Only family and close friends were invited to this room. Bookshelves held the books of immediate interest, cupboards held toys for Titian and games for Daemonar and Mikal, and there were separate cupboards for the Scelties’ toys and chewies. There was a hodgepodge of sofas, chairs, lamps, and tables, and a round table that served as a game table as well as a place to have a light meal.
It was a private room that wasn’t meant to be seen by any but the most trusted.
“Beale is bringing up something to eat,” Daemon said, watching Surreal weave around the room, barely avoiding the furniture. The last time he’d seen her this way, the last time he’d spent time with her in this room while she’d cried and sworn and ripped a chair to pieces before she’d fallen into an exhausted sleep, was the night after Rainier died and was taken to the Keep to make the transition to demon-dead.
“I’m not hungry.” Her voice was stripped of emotion.
“I’m not either, but we should both try to eat.”
She moved as if she were drunk, but that lack of grace was caused by exhaustion and the grief finally breaking through her control.
“Do you remember the first time the High Lord kicked you out of his study?” Daemon asked.
“He kicked you out too,” she grumbled as tears slid down her face.
“Because of you.”
“It wasn’t my fault Kaelas helped Graysfang get past the shields I’d put around my bedroom.”
“You didn’t see Saetan’s face when you said you’d rather have a wolf in your bed than a man because a wolf could lick his own balls.”
She laughed a little and wiped at the tears, but they kept flowing. “He let me be family. I wasn’t, not by birth or blood, but he didn’t care about that. He treated me like family, hugging and scolding and . . .”
The effort to hold back a sob seemed to break her completely.
“Surreal.” Daemon gathered her up and held her close. Not a child who needed protection. Not anymore. If he’d protected her at times in her life, she had also protected him. And Jaenelle. They had circled around it for a lot of years, but he recognized that he and Surreal had developed a partnership committed to Jaenelle.
“That stupid bastard!” Surreal cried. “I want to kick his ass for dying on us!”
“So do I,” he said, holding her tighter as his eyes filled with tears. “So do I. But it was time for him to go.”
“That’s not the point.”
That little bit of snarl helped her regain some emotional balance. When she eased back, he let her go—and felt strangely hollow.
“Surreal . . .”
She scooted around him, heading for the bathroom adjoining the sitting room. “I’m going to wash my face. If Beale hears me sniffling, he’ll have ten Healers up here trying to listen to my chest. My lungs healed decades ago, but if I so much as sneeze, he’s there with sweaters and blankets. And Helton is even worse about . . .”
Whatever else she said was lost when she closed the bathroom door.
Calling in a handkerchief, Daemon wiped his own face and was sufficiently tidy when Beale brought in the tray.
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