Lucivar shuddered.
After Daemon glided out of the room, Saetan asked, "Is he bluffing?" He became uneasy when Lucivar just stared at the table. "Lucivar?"
"The Sadist doesn't bluff," Lucivar said roughly. "He doesn't need to." He strode out of the room.
"It would seem there's nothing more to discuss," Saetan said, rising from the table. A flick of a glance brought Andulvar, Prothvar, and Mephis to their feet.
Letting the other men precede him, he had almost shut the door when he heard Aaron say, "What do we really know about Daemon Sadi?"
He closed the door silently. When he turned toward the other men, he saw the same question in Andulvar's eyes— and he was no longer sure he had an answer.
2 / Kaeleer
"What do we really know about Daemon Sadi?" Aaron said.
Karla let the murmurs of opinion and conversation become a wash of sound as she sank deeper into her own thoughts.
What did they really know about Daemon Sadi?
He was a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince and a natural Black Widow—an explosively dangerous, beautiful-looking man.
He was the High Lord's mirror, but not a perfect reflection.
He was a man who, for most of his life, had been chained in one way or another to Dorothea SaDiablo, Kaeleer's enemy.
He was a man who understood women. Unable to stand the pity in the servants' eyes when they had helped her into the bath the first few days after the healing, she had insisted that she didn't need help. Using Craft, she was able to undress and get herself into the tub but wasn't able to wash herself well enough, especially because the reaction to the poisons was causing her skin to slough off at a grotesque rate. One evening, Daemon had shown up to assist her. She had snapped at him, had told him to go away. His answer, spoken in such a pleasant voice it had taken her a few seconds to comprehend the words, was so creatively obscene she was in the tub being gently, but thoroughly, washed before she could think again. His touch hadn't been impersonal, nor had it been sexual, but by the time he'd started massaging her scalp, she'd been awash in sensual pleasure like she'd never experienced before.
So she understood why the others were worried. A woman could easily become addicted to that touch, would be willing to do a great many things in order to prevent it from being withdrawn. And Jaenellehad been acting strange since the first attack. But she didn't think it had anything to do with Daemon.
There was one other thing she knew about Daemon Sadi, something she had seen in the tangled web that had warned her about her own death: he was the friend who would become an enemy in order to remain a friend.
3 / Kaeleer
"What is it about Daemon that scares the shit out of Lucivar?" Andulvar asked as soon as the four men entered a small sitting room in the Keep.
"I don't know," Saetan replied, avoiding their stares by warming a glass of yarbarah over a tongue of witchfire.
Hedidn't know. Lucivar had always evaded talking about the times he and Daemon had tangled when they'd come together in Terreillean courts. Lucivar had said once that if he had a choice of going up against the Sadist or the High Lord, he would choose the High Lord because he would have some chance of winning.
What was it about that smile of Daemon's that could shake Lucivar so badly? What was it about the Sadist that could make a man as aggressive as Lucivar back down? And what might Daemon's presence in the Keep mean to the rest of them?
"High Lord!" Prothvar jerked Saetan's hand away from the tongue of witchfire just before the yarbarah began to boil.
Saetan put the glass down. The yarbarah wouldn't be drinkable.
"SaDiablo," Andulvar said quietly, "should we be watching our backs?"
It didn't occur to him to offer a reassuring lie. "I don't know."
4 / Kaeleer
Ladvarian wearily trotted toward Halaway, responding to a gentle but insistent summons. Every so often, he snarled to vent his frustration and growing anger.
How could a place as big as the Hall not have what he needed? Oh, he'd found plenty of things that werealmost right but nothing thatwas right. That accounted for his frustration. The anger...
The kindred had waited so long for this living myth to come.This one. This special one. And now it was going to be spoiled by humans.
No. Itwouldn't be spoiled. The kindred were gathering.
As soon as the Weaver of Dreams told them what to do, they would act.
When he reached the neat cottage in Halaway, he went to the back door and barked once, politely.
Tersa opened an upstairs window. "Come inside, little Brother."
Using Craft, he floated upward to the window and went in. Most of the kindred referred to Tersa as "the Strange One." They meant no disrespect. They recognized that she was a Black Widow who wandered roads most of the Blood would never see. She was special. She had that in common with the Lady.
Even knowing all that didn't prevent his hackles from rising when he stepped into the room.
A low, narrow bed—exactlythe kind he had searched for at the Hall. He approached it cautiously and opened his inner and outer senses. It had no smells. There should be human smells as well as a residual psychic scent from the humans who had made the bed, mattress, and bedcovers.
"It has all been cleansed," Tersa said calmly. "There are no psychic scents to interfere with the weaving of dreams."
*The weaving of dreams?* Ladvarian said cautiously.
"That trunk will provide storage and can be used as a bedside table as well. Remember to bring clothing for warm weather as well as clothing for the spring. Favorite things. Clothes that will be strong with her scent, even if they've been cleaned."
Ladvarian backed away. *Why should I bring clothing?*
Tersa smiled and said gently, "Because Witch does not have fur." Her eyes looked into an inner distance, became unfocused and farseeing. "It is almost time for the debts to be paid. Those who survive will serve, but few will survive. The howling... Full of joy and pain, rage and celebration. She is coming." Her eyes focused on him again. "And the kindred will anchor the dream in flesh."
*Yes, Lady,* Ladvarian said respectfully.
Tersa picked up a cobalt-blue bowl from a nearby dresser. Using Craft, she rested the bowl on the air. "When you next see the Weaver of Dreams, tell her this is how to get the 'more' she needs."
Ladvarian shifted his weight restlessly from one paw to the other. The Arachnian Queen had not mentioned Tersa. Why did Tersa know so much about the Arachnian Queen?
Tersa dipped one finger into the bowl. As she raised her hand, a drop of water clung to her finger. Instead of falling, the drop began to expand, like a little bubble of blown glass, a pearl of water. Using her thumbnail, Tersa jabbed a finger on her other hand. A drop of blood welled up on the finger. "And the Blood shall sing to the Blood."
Ladvarian felt the power flowing into that drop of blood.
"Let blood be memory's river." Turning her hand, she brushed the drop of blood against the drop of water. The blood flowed through the water bubble until it was contained inside it.
After placing a protective shield around it, Tersa tucked the water bubble into a small padded box and extended it toward Ladvarian. "Look."
He opened his mind, sent out a tentative psychic probe.
Images, memories flowed past him. Memories of a young girl leading an exhausted woman out of the Twisted Kingdom. Memories of Jaenelle, older, promising to find Daemon. Memories of conversations, laughter, delight in the world. Tersa's memories.
"You will tell the Weaver?" Tersa asked.
Ladvarian vanished the box. *I will tell her.*
"One other thing, little Brother. Don't refuse Lorn's gift. The Weaver will need that, too."
5 / Kaeleer
Leaving the door open, Daemon walked into Jaenelle's workroom. She had been spending hours there every day since she'd brought Karla to the Keep to continue the healing, but he didn't think her distraction or the controlled frenzy of her activities had anything to do with Karla. In fact, he was certain he was the only one who had been allowed a glimpse of that frenzy. Something was eating at her, and after the little scene in the meeting room, he was determined to find out what.
"Jaenelle, we need to talk."
She glanced up from the mound of books that filled one
table. "I don't have time to talk now, Daemon," she said dismissively.
With a flick of a thought, he slammed the door so hard all the objects in the room jumped—including her.
"Make time," he said too softly. When she started to protest, he cut her off. "I'll do anything for you.Anything. But before I put myself against the rest of the First Circle, I want to know why."
"Kaeleer cannot go to war with Terreille." Her voice trembled.
"Why?"
Hot, angry tears filled her eyes. "Because if we go to war, every person who was in that room will die."
"You don't know that," he snapped.
The tears spilled over, slicing his heart. "Yes, I do."
Daemon rocked back on his heels. She was a very strong, very gifted Black Widow. If she'd seen their deaths in a tangled web of dreams and visions, there was no room for doubt.That explained her resistance.
He took a deep breath to steady himself. "Sweetheart... sometimes killing is necessary. Sometimes it's the only path to take in order to save what is good."
"I know that." Jaenelle slammed a book on the table. "I've spent the past three weeks searching for an answer. No, I've spent longer than that, but time is running out. I can feel it."
"Jaenelle," he said carefully, "you have the strength ..." The look in her eyes was almost hateful, but he pushed on. "A portion of your strength would eliminate a Terreillean army."
"And while I was eliminating that one, six more would be killing the Kaeleer Blood in other Territories. Even if I do destroy them, one army at a time, it won't make any difference."
"You wouldn't be the only one fighting," Daemon insisted, bracing one hand on the table to lean toward her. "Hell's fire, woman, look at the strength of the males in this Realm. Look at the Jewels. The Blacks. The Ebon-grays. The Grays. We have the dominant strength."
