Daughter of the Blood (24 page)

The kitchen was cozy and well ordered. Surreal smiled at the contrast between the feel of this room and the rest of the Sanctuary. The woman, too, seemed more like a gentle hearth-witch than a Sanctuary Priestess as she hummed a cheery little tune while the water heated. Surreal sat in a chair, propped her elbows on the pine table, and watched in amused silence as a plate of nut cakes, a small bowl of fresh butter, and a mug for the tea were placed before her.

When the tea was ready, the woman joined her at the table, a glass of wine in her hand. Suddenly suspicious, Surreal looked pointedly at the tea, the nut cakes, and the butter.

The woman laughed. "At my age, my dietary requirements preclude such things, unfortunately. But test them if it troubles you. I won't be offended. Better you should know I mean you no ill. Else, how can we talk honestly?"

Surreal probed the food and found nothing but what should be there. Picking up a nut cake, she broke it neatly in half, buttered it, and began to eat. While she ate, the woman spoke of general things, telling her about the Dark Altars, how there were thirteen of these great dark places of power scattered throughout the Realm.

The wineglass was empty and Surreal sipped her second cup of tea before the woman said, "Now. You want to know about your mother's people. True?" She stood up and leaned toward Surreal, her hands outstretched to touch .Surreal's face.

Surreal pulled back, long years of caution making her wary.

"Shh," the woman murmured soothingly, "I just want to look."

Surreal forced herself to sit quietly as the woman's hands followed the curves of her face, neck, and shoulders, lifted her long hair, and traced the curve of her ear to its delicate point. When she was done, the woman refilled her wineglass and said nothing for a while, her expression thoughtful, her eyes focused on some other place.

"I can't be certain, but I could tell you what I think."

Surreal leaned forward, trying not to appear too eager and yet holding her breath in anticipation.

The woman's gaze was disconcertingly steady. "There is, however, the matter of the price." She toyed with her wineglass. "It's customary that the price be named and agreed upon before help is given.

Contracts such as these are never broken because, if they are, the price is then usually paid in blood. Do you understand, Sister?"

Surreal took a slow, steadying breath. "What's your price?"

"First, I want you to understand that I'm not asking you to endanger yourself. I'm not asking you to take any risks."

"All right."

The woman placed the stem of the wineglass between her palms and slowly rolled the glass back and forth. "A Warlord Prince has recently come to Chaillot, either into Beldon Mor or an immediate outlying village. I need to know his precise whereabouts, who he's serving."

Surreal itched to call in the stiletto, but she kept her face carefully blank. "Does this Prince have a name?"

"Daemon Sadi."

"No!" Surreal jumped up and paced the room. "Are you mad? No one toys with the Sadist if they want to stay this side of the grave." She stopped pacing and gripped the back of the chair so hard it shook from the tension. "I won't do a contract on Sadi. Forget it."

"I'm not asking you to do anything but locate him."

"So you can send someone else to do the job? Forget it. Why don't you find him yourself?"

"For reasons that are my own, I can't go into Beldon Mor."

"And you've just given me a good reason to get out."

The woman stood up and faced Surreal. "This is very important."

"Why?"

The silence grew between them, straining, draining them both. Finally the woman sighed. "Because he may have been sent here to destroy a very special child."

"You got anything to drink around here besides tea and that wine?"

The woman looked pained and amused. "Will brandy do?"

"Fine," Surreal snapped, dropping back into her chair. "Bring the bottle and a clean mug." When the bottle and mug were placed before her, she filled the mug and slugged back a third of the brandy. "Listen up, sugar," she said tartly. "Sadi may be many things, and the Darkness only knows all that he's done, but he has never,
ever
hurt a child. To suggest that—"

"What if he's forced to?" the woman said urgently.

"Forced to?" Surreal squeaked.
"Forced to?
Hell's fire, who is going to be dumb enough to force the Sadist? Do you know what he does to people who push him?" Surreal drained the mug and filled it again.

"Besides, who would want to destroy this kid?"

"Dorothea SaDiablo."

Surreal swore until she could feel the words swirling around the room like smoke. She finally stopped when she noticed the woman's expression of amazed amusement. She took another drink and swore again because her anger burned up the brandy so fast she couldn't feel even a little bit mellow. Thumping the mug down on the table, she ran her hands through her hair. "Lady, you really know how to knife someone in the guts, don't you?" She glared at the woman. If the witch had returned her gaze calmly, Surreal would have knifed her, but when she saw the tears and the pain—and the fear—in those emerald eyes . . .

Titian lying on the floor with her throat slit and the walls thundering the order to run, run, run.

"Look. I owe him. He took care of my mother, and he took care of me. He didn't have to, he just did.

But I'll find him. After that, we'll see." Surreal stood up. "Thanks for the tea."

The woman looked troubled. "What about your mother's people?"

Surreal met her gaze. "If I come back, we'll exchange information. But I'll give you a bit of advice for free. Don't play with the Sadist. He's got a very long memory and a wicked temper. If you give him a reason to, he'll turn you to dust. I'll see myself out."

Surreal left the Sanctuary, caught a Wind, and rode past Chaillot, chasing the setting sun far out into the ocean until she felt weary enough to return to Deje's and be civil to whomever she was supposed to bed that night.

5 /Hell

Saetan toyed with the silver-handled letter opener, keeping his back to the man who stood just inside his study door. "Is it done?"

"Forgive me, High Lord," came the ragged, whispery answer. "I could not do it."

For a flickering second before he turned to face Marjong the Executioner, Saetan wasn't sure if he felt annoyed or relieved. He leaned against his blackwood desk and studied the giant man. It was impossible to read Marjong's expressions because his head and shoulders were always covered with a black hood.

"He is in that misted city, High Lord," Marjong apologized, shifting the huge, double-headed ax from one hand to the other. "I could not reach him to carry out your request."

So. Daemon was in Beldon Mor.

"I can wait, High Lord. If he travels out of the misted city, I—"

"No." Saetan took a slow, steadying breath. "No. Do nothing more unless I specifically request it.

Understood?"

Marjong bowed and left the study.

With a weary sigh, Saetan sank into his chair and slowly spun the letter opener around and around. He picked it up and studied the thin raven glass blade and the beautifully sculpted silver handle. "An effective tool," he said quietly, balancing it on his fingertips. "Elegant, efficient. But if one isn't careful . . ." He pressed one finger against the point and watched a drop of blood well up on the finger pad. "Like you, namesake. Like you. The dance is ours now. Just between us."

6 / Terreille

Daemon's days settled into a routine. Every morning he rose early, exercised, showered, and shared breakfast with Cook in the kitchen. He liked the Angellines' cook, a brisk, warm woman who reminded him of Manny—and who had been as appalled as Manny would have been when he'd asked her consent to have the first meal of the day in the kitchen instead of in the breakfast room with the family. She'd relented when she realized he was going hungry while dancing attendance to Leland's endless stream of nervous requests. Since he joined the family for breakfast anyway, Daemon wryly noted that his breakfast in the kitchen was usually better fare than what was served in the breakfast room.

After breakfast, he met with Philip in the steward's office, where he was grudgingly handed the list of activities for the day. After that was a half hour walk through the gardens with Wilhelmina.

Alexandra had decided that Wilhelmina needed some light exercise before beginning her Craft lessons with Lady Graff, an unspeakably harsh woman whom Daemon had taken an instant dislike to—as she had to him, more because he had ignored her coquettish suggestions than for any other reason. Leland then suggested that Daemon accompany the girl, since Wilhelmina had an unreasonable fear of men and exposure to a Ringed male who couldn't be a threat to her might help relieve her fear. So when the weather permitted, he escorted Wilhelmina around the grounds.

The first few days he attempted conversation, tried to find out her interests, but she skittered away from his attempts while still trying to be a polite young lady. It struck him one morning, when a silence had stretched beyond expected comfort, that this was probably one of the rare times in the day when she had the luxury of her own thoughts. Since she spent most of her time in Graffs steely presence, she. wasn't allowed to "moon about"—a phrase he'd heard Graff use one day in a tone that implied it was a usual scold. So he stopped trying to talk to her, letting her have her solitary half hour while he walked respectfully on her left, hands in his pockets, enjoying the same luxury of having time for his own thoughts.

She always had a destination, although she never seemed to reach it. No matter what paths they took through the gardens, they always ended up at a narrow path that led into a heavily overgrown alcove.

Her steps would falter when she reached the place, and then she would rush past it, breathing hard, as if she'd been running for a long time. He wondered if something had happened to her there, something that frightened her, repelled her, and yet drew her back.

One morning when he was lost in thought, thoroughly absorbed with the puzzle his Lady had left him, he realized they'd stopped walking and Wilhelmina had been watching him for some time. They were standing by the narrow path.

"I want to go in there," she said defiantly, her hands clenched at her sides.

Daemon bit the inside of his lip to keep his face neutral. It was the first spark of life she'd shown, and he didn't want it squelched by a smile that might be misunderstood as condescension. "All right."

She looked surprised, obviously expecting an argument. With a timid smile, she led him down the path and through a trellis arch.

The small garden within the garden was completely surrounded by large yews that looked as if they hadn't been trimmed on this side in several years. A maple tree dominated one end, girdled by a circular iron bench that had been white once, but the paint was now peeling badly. In front of the yews were the remains of flower beds, tangled, weedy, uncared for. But the thing that made his breath catch, made his heart pound too fast, too hard, was the bed of witch blood in the far corner.

Flower or weed, witch blood was beautiful, deadly, and— so legend said—indestructible. The blood-red flowers, with their black throats and black-tipped petals, were in full bloom, as they always were from the first breath of spring to the last dying sigh of autumn.

Wilhelmina stood by the bed, hugging herself and shivering.

Daemon walked over to the bed, trying to understand the pain and hope in Wilhelmina's face. Witch blood supposedly grew only where a witch's blood had been spilled violently or where a witch who had met a violent death was buried.

Daemon stepped back, reeling.

Even with the fresh air and the other garden smells, the dark psychic scent was strong there. Sweet Darkness, it was strong there.

"My sister planted these," Wilhelmina said abruptly, her voice quivering. "One for each. As remembrance." She bit her lip, her blue eyes wide and frightened as she studied the flowers.

"It's all right," Daemon said soothingly, trying to calm the panic rising in her while fighting his own. "I know what witch blood is and what it stands for." He searched for words that might comfort them both.

"This is a special place because of it."

"The gardeners won't come here. They say it's haunted. Do you think it's haunted? I hope it is."

Daemon considered his next words carefully. "Where's your sister?"

Wilhelmina began to cry. "Briarwood. They put her in Briarwood." The sobs became a brokenhearted keening.

Daemon held her gently while he stroked her hair, murmuring the "words of gentle sorrow" in the Old Tongue, the language of Witch.

After a minute, Wilhelmina pushed him away, sniffling. He handed her his handkerchief and, smiling, took it back when she stared at it, uncertain what to do with it after using it.

"She talks like that sometimes," Wilhelmina said. "We'd better get back." She left the alcove and hurried down the path.

Dazed, Daemon followed her back to the house.

Daemon stepped into the kitchen and gave Cook his best smile. "Any chance of a cup of coffee?"

Cook snapped a sharp, angry look in his direction. "If you like."

Confused by this sudden display of temper, Daemon shrugged out of his topcoat and sat at the kitchen table. As he puzzled over what he'd done to upset her, she thumped a mug of coffee on the table and said, "Miss Wilhelmina was crying when she came in from the garden."

Daemon ignored the coffee, more interested in Cook's reaction. "There was an alcove in the garden she wanted to visit."

The stern look in Cook's eyes instantly softened, saddened. "Ah, well." She cut two thick slabs of fresh bread, piled cold beef between them, and set it before him, an unspoken apology.

Daemon took a deep breath. "Cook, what is Briarwood?"

"A foul place, if you ask me, but no one here does," she snapped, then immediately gave him a small smile.

"What is it?"

With a sigh, Cook brought her own mug of coffee over to the table and sat down across from Daemon.