EIGHT
1
Baffled by the worried glances he’d gotten from the servants and too restless to stay inside, Daemon left the town house shortly after breakfast, walking aimlessly until the shops opened. Then he headed for the bookshop where he could fill an hour or two browsing. Since love stories had lost their appeal, maybe he could find something else Jaenelle would find intriguing—and find something for himself that would catch his interest enough to keep him occupied while he waited for some word from Surreal.
After she left for the Hall yesterday morning, he’d summoned Marcus and had exhausted the energy and patience of his man of business by reviewing every possible business transaction that might come up in the next few weeks. If Surreal succeeded in finding out what was troubling Jaenelle, if she actually managed to fix the problem so that Jaenelle wanted his company again, he wasn’t going to allow anything to intrude on his time with his Lady.
But he needed to keep busy until he heard from her—or from Jaenelle. Maybe he’d contact Lucivar and invite him to dinner. Or go to the Keep and spend a few hours with his father. He’d been choking on his fear of losing Jaenelle but had said nothing to anyone except Surreal. Now . . . Maybe he should get another male’s opinion? But Lucivar would be too blunt and probably have the unfortunate effect of honing a temper that didn’t need honing. Saetan, however, might be able to offer an insight into Jaenelle’s emotional retreat . . . or even an assurance that it was a stage of healing and would pass. Maybe . . . Maybe even talking to Saetan about the nightmare that kept plaguing him might help, although lately, the erotic dreams were giving him more physical and emotional discomfort.
Shaking off those thoughts, he entered the bookshop and smiled at the owner—and wondered why the man’s eyes cooled at the sight of him and the usual smile of greeting looked forced.
“Prince Sadi.” The shopkeeper sounded like he’d swallowed glass. “You’ve come for the books I was holding for you?”
“Yes—and a few others,” Daemon replied, starting to turn away from the counter to browse the shelves. He’d give the love stories to Marian. She and Jaenelle often exchanged books, so he knew she’d enjoy them.
“Very well.”
The reluctance in the shopkeeper’s voice stopped Daemon and had him turning back to study the man.
He doesn’t want me here, Daemon thought, stung by the unexpected reaction to his presence.
Feeling a hint of ice brush the edge of his temper, he walked to a part of the shop where the shelves hid the shopkeeper from view. For the sake of past, and possibly future, courtesy, it was better to keep his distance until the desire to shred the shopkeeper’s skin passed. After all, the man could be upset about something that had nothing to do with him.
Dismissing the shopkeeper for the time being, he began perusing the shelves of fiction, skipping over the love stories and straightforward adventures, and finally stopping at a section that looked interesting.
Pulling a book from the shelf, he read the first page and choked back a laugh. By the time he got to the fourth page, he was leaning comfortably against the shelves and grinning. The heroine was a Blood female named Tracker, a musician by trade, whose companion was a Purple Dusk Sceltie Warlord named Shadow. The village they lived in was clearly modeled on the village of Maghre, and the Warlord who ruled the village and requested their assistance in solving a mystery . . .
Did Khardeen know about these stories? He’d send Khary a brief note this evening. It would be a good way to respond to the note he’d received from the Warlord of Maghre last week. Khary’s note had been nothing more than a few sentences about horses, but he’d understood the significance of the note coming to him rather than Jaenelle. His actions during the time Jaenelle needed to create her spells to save Kaeleer had broken the friendships that had developed between him and the other males in Jaenelle’s First Circle. Since then, they’d all been coldly civil with him. Khary’s note was the first sign of any willingness to try to repair those friendships.
Closing the book, Daemon checked the shelves and found two others by the same author that featured Tracker and Shadow. He took those, too. Even if the mystery part of the story didn’t end up being sufficiently compelling, the author’s understanding of human-kindred relationships was certainly entertaining.
As he crouched to look at another book, he heard two women, speaking in low, urgent tones, walk up to the other side of the shelves.
“It’s true, I tell you,” one woman said.
“I don’t believe it,” the other replied, sounding oddly defiant. “And accusing a man of infidelity without proof is irresponsible.”
“He was seen, in public, with the bitch he’s bedding. How much more proof do you need?”
“I’d heard she was his cousin.”
“Her being one thing doesn’t exclude her being the other.”
A hesitation. “No. I’m certain this is all a dreadful misunderstanding. You only had to look at him last winter to see he was in love with his Queen. He wouldn’t betray her now.”
“We’ll see,” the first woman said darkly.
Her companion sighed. “Did you want a book from this section?”
“No, I just wanted to get away from the shopkeeper to finish telling you what I’d heard. The way he kept shushing us was most annoying—and peculiar. I don’t usually come to this shop, and I’m not sure I will again.”
“Then let’s go. I already have my selections.”
When he no longer sensed the women’s presence in the shop, Daemon stood up and took his books to the counter. As he waited for the shopkeeper to return from another part of the shop, he thought about what he’d overheard.
Poor bastard. An accusation of infidelity could rip a man’s life apart. Marriage was the prized partnership—a commitment of the heart rather than a contract for the body and sexual skills. Being branded unfaithful could not only cost a man his marriage, he could lose his children as well. A few hurtful words could destroy everything that mattered to him.
“Prince.” The shopkeeper approached the counter, gray-faced and trembling.
“What’s wrong?” Daemon asked. “Are you ill?”
“No.” The man swallowed hard. “Is this everything?”
Since the man didn’t want any assistance, at least from him, Daemon waited until the price of the books was tallied and added to his account. Then he initialed the account, vanished the books, and left the shop.
As he walked to Banard’s shop, bafflement shifted into irritation as male acquaintances he passed on the street avoided looking at him or responding to a greeting and the women gave him hostile stares before pointedly looking away, making it clear they didn’t want any connection with him. When he walked into Banard’s shop, the three people already there, including a Priestess who served in Lady Zhara’s court, turned away from the display cases and walked out without saying a word.
“What in the name of Hell is wrong with everyone today?” Daemon snarled as he approached the glass display case that served as a counter.
“You’ve come for the rings?” Banard asked.
“Yes, I’ve come for the rings.”
Banard cupped his hands over the display case. When he lifted his hands, two velvet-lined ring boxes rested on the glass.
Everything else was forgotten as Daemon picked up what he hoped would be Jaenelle’s wedding ring. Simple and fluid, it held a sapphire flanked by rubies.
“It’s perfect,” he murmured, setting it back in its box before examining the other ring. Just a plain gold band. No etching in the gold or fancy embellishments. He didn’t need those things, didn’t want those things. All he wanted, everything he wanted, was what that ring would stand for when Jaenelle put it on his finger.
Closing both boxes, he vanished them and smiled at Banard.
Banard didn’t return the smile. “Some distressing rumors have spread throughout Amdarh.”
Hearing a warning under the words, Daemon inclined his head. “I believe I heard a bit of it this morning. Do you think it’s true?”
“No.”
Banard’s certainty surprised Daemon, but before he could phrase a question, the jeweler added, “You wouldn’t have asked me to make those rings if the rumors were true.”
For a long moment, he just stared at Banard, unable to make sense of the words. Then cold rage flowed through him, sweet and deadly.
“Thank you for telling me,” Daemon said too softly.
As he walked back to the town house, he took mental note of every person who shunned him and every person who made a point of acknowledging him. He saw everything . . . and he saw nothing because the city had faded behind a soft mist that held a terrible clarity.
2
Arms linked, Surreal and Jaenelle strolled to the registration desk at the far end of the two-story atrium that was decorated to feel tranquil and lush—and was a clear signal that pampering Ladies was a serious business.
“Mother Night,” Jaenelle said, looking around with wide eyes. “Are there really enough female indulgences to take up a place this size?”
“You’d be surprised,” Surreal replied, biting back a smile when Jaenelle groaned. The place was built on a much grander scale, but it reminded her of Deje’s Red Moon house in Chaillot, Terreille—and made her wonder, since there were guest rooms, if there were a few accommodations that weren’t advertised. Not that sex was on her list of indulgences right now. Not for herself, anyway.
