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"The middle of the night is the best time, don't you think?" Daemon replied too calmly, shrugging into his black jacket.
"No, I don't. At least wait until dawn."
"I'm Hayllian. This is Chaillot. I'd be a bit too conspicuous in daylight." Daemon looked around the empty little room, lifted his shoulders in a dismissive shrug, took a comb from his coat pocket, and pulled it through his thick black hair. When he was done, he slipped his elegant, long-nailed hands into his trouser pockets and raised an eyebrow as if asking, Well?
Surreal studied the tall, trim but muscular body in its perfectly tailored black suit. Sadi's golden-brown skin was gray-tinged from exhaustion, his face looked haggard, and the skin around his golden eyes was puffy. But even now he was still more beautiful than a man had a right to be.
"You look like shit," she snapped.
Daemon flinched, as if her anger had cut him. Then he tried to smile. "Don't try to turn my head with compliments, Surreal."
Surreal clenched her hands. The only thing to throw at him was the tray with the tea and sandwiches on it. Seeing the clean cup and the untouched food ignited her temper. "You fool, you didn't eat anything!"
"Lower your voice unless you want everyone to know I'm here."
Surreal paced back and forth, snarling every curse she could remember.
"Don't cry, Surreal."
His arms were around her, and beneath her cheek was cool silk.
"I'm not crying," she snapped, gulping back a sob.
She felt rather than heard his chuckle. "My mistake." His lips brushed her hair before he stepped away from her.
Surreal sniffed loudly, wiped her eyes on her sleeve, and pushed her hair from her face. "You're not strong enough yet. Daemon."
"I'm not going to get any better until I find her," Daemon said quietly.
"Do you know how to open the Gates?" she asked. Those thirteen places of power linked the Realms of Terreille, Kaeleer, and Hell.
"No. But I'll find someone who does know." Daemon took a deep breath. "Listen, Surreal, and listen well. There are very few people in the entire Realm of Terreille who can connect you in any way with me. I've made the effort to make sure of that. So unless you stand on the roof and announce it, no one in Beldon Mor will have a reason to look in your direction. Keep your head down. Keep a rein on that temper of yours. You've done more than enough. Don't get yourself in any deeper—because I won't be around to help you out of it."
Surreal swallowed hard. "Daemon . . . you've been declared rogue. There's a price on your head."
"Not unexpected after I broke the Ring of Obedience."
Surreal hesitated. "Are you sure Cassandra took Jaenelle to one of the other Realms?"
"Yes, I'm sure of that much." he said softly, bleakly.
"So you're going to find a Priestess who knows how to open the Gates and follow them."
"Yes. But I have one stop to make first."
"This isn't a good time for social calls," Surreal said tartly.
"This isn't exactly a social call. Dorothea can't use you against me because she doesn't know about you. But she knows about him, and she's used him before. I'm not going to give her the chance. Besides, for all his arrogance and temper, he's a damn good Warlord Prince."
Weary, Surreal leaned against the wall. "What are you going to do?"
Daemon hesitated. "I'm going to get Lucivar out of Pruul."
4 / Kaeleer
Saetan appeared on the small landing web carved into the stone floor of one of the Keep's many outer courtyards. As he stepped off the web, he looked up.
Unless one knew what to look for, one only saw the black mountain called Ebon Askavi, only felt the weight of all that dark stone. But Ebon Askavi was also the Keep, the Sanctuary of Witch, the repository of the Blood's long, long history. A place well and fiercely guarded. The perfect place for a secret.
Damn Hekatah,he thought bitterly as he slowly crossed the courtyard, leaning heavily on his cane.Damn her and her schemes for power. Greedy, malicious bitch. He'd stayed his hand in the past because he felt he owed her something for bearing his first two sons. But that debt had been paid. More than paid. This time, he would sacrifice his honor, his self-respect, and anything else he had to if that was the price he had to pay to stop her.
"Saetan."
Geoffrey, the Keep's historian/librarian, stepped from the shadow of the doorway. As always, he was neatly dressed in a slim black tunic and trousers and bare of any ornamentation except his Red Jewel ring. As always, his black hair was carefully combed back, drawing a person's eyes to the prominent widow's peak. But his black eyes looked like small lumps of coal instead of highly polished stone.
As Saetan walked toward him, the vertical line between Geoffrey's black eyebrows deepened. "Come to the library and have a glass of yarbarah with me," Geoffrey said.
Saetan shook his head. "Later perhaps."
Geoffrey's eyebrows pulled down farther, echoing his widow's peak. "Anger has no place in a sickroom. Especially now. Especially yours."
The two Guardians studied each other. Saetan looked away first.
Once they were settled into comfortable chairs and Geoffrey had poured a warmed glass of the blood wine for each of them, Saetan forced himself to look at the large blackwood table that dominated the room. It was usually piled with history, Craft, and reference books Geoffrey had pulled from the stacks—books the two men had searched for touchstones to understand Jaenelle's casual but stunning remarks and her sometimes quirky but awesome abilities. Now it was empty. And the emptiness hurt.
"Have you no hope, Geoffrey?" Saetan asked quietly.
"What?" Geoffrey glanced at the table, then looked away. "I needed . . . occupation. Sitting there, each book was a reminder, and . . ."
"I understand." Saetan drained his glass and reached for his cane.
Geoffrey walked with him to the door. As Saetan went into the corridor, he felt a light, hesitant touch and turned back.
"Saetan ... do you still hope?"
Saetan considered the question for a long moment before giving the only answer he could give. "I have to."
Cassandra closed her book, rolled her shoulders wearily, and scrubbed her face with her hands. "There's no change. She hasn't risen out of the abyss—or wherever it is she's fallen. And the longer she remains beyond the reach of another mind, the less chance we have of ever getting her back."
Saetan studied the woman with dusty-red hair and tired emerald eyes. Long, long ago when Cassandra had been Witch, the Black-Jeweled Queen, he had been her Consort and had loved her. And she, in her own way, had cared for him—until he made the Offering to the Darkness and walked away wearing Black Jewels. After that, it was more a trading of skills—his in the bed for hers in the Black Widow's Craft—until she faked her own death and became a Guardian. She had played her deathbed scene so well, and his faith in her as a Queen had been so solid, it had never occurred to him that she had done it to end her reign as Witch—and to get away from him.
