Authors: Anne Bishop
Tags: #Fantasy fiction, #Fiction, #Fantasy, #General, #Witches, #Epic
Twilight's Dawn (10 page)
“On Winsol, when the gifts are being opened, this is your present,” Saetan said. “Until then, it’s still my box. And it stays locked.”
Fine. Ha! Saetan wore the Black. So did he. He wasn’t going to let . . .
There was some Red power twisted into the Black, changing a simple lock into a deviously elegant puzzle that would have to be untangled in order to open the box.
“You locked my present,” Daemon said, feeling sulky. “I’m an adult, and you locked my present.”
“You’re a son who was about to open a present before it was time to open the present,” Saetan replied mildly. Then he looked pointedly at the hourglass. “Do you really want to argue about this right now?”
He had to think about that for a minute.
“Find the name tag,” Saetan said, taking the box from him.
After handing that over too, he sat back on his heels.
Saetan set the piece of wrapping paper on the box and smoothed out the wrinkles. “You and Lucivar should be the ones handing out the gifts. Each person won’t notice one gift wrapped like this, but anyone handling several . . .”
As he watched, the wrapping paper grew out of the scrap and formed around the box.
“It’s best to work out your own illusion spell for this,” Saetan said. “That way, you’ll be able to do it quickly, since it usually
needs
to be done quickly.”
needs
to be done quickly.”
The illusion spell was good. If he hadn’t seen the paper forming around the box, he doubted he would have noticed the difference in texture. He wasn’t sure how someone “unwrapped” an illusion, but he’d find out on the day.
All the wrappings had been restored, he’d gathered up the rest of the scraps of paper and vanished the disposable gift, and he still had a few grains of sand left in the hourglass when he stood up and brushed himself off.
Saetan vanished the hourglass and returned the chair to its usual spot in the room.
They were both standing there, guarding the mound of perfectly wrapped presents, when Marian and Jaenelle walked into the room.
Jaenelle studied the two of them. Marian walked over to the tree, pursed her lips, then reached between two gifts and picked something up.
“The Prince and I have something to discuss, so we’ll leave you Ladies to finish sorting out the gifts,” Saetan said.
*We have something to discuss?* Daemon asked on a spear thread.
*Yes, we do.*
Judging by Saetan’s tone, he wasn’t expecting a pleasant discussion, but anything was better than staying in that room.
He reached the door when Marian said, “Daemon?”
Saetan left the room. Having no other safe choice, Daemon turned and waited for the Eyrien hearth witch.
There was something purely female about her expression as she walked up to him, adding to the impression that she was laughing at him.
He broke out in a cold sweat.
“You missed a piece,” she whispered as she held up a scrap of wrapping paper.
He took the paper, vanished it—and fled.
Catching up with Saetan, the two men retreated to the study, where Lucivar met them.
“I promised Kaelas and Jaal I’d get them a steer for Winsol dinner if they don’t let Daemonar out of the room where I stashed him,” Lucivar said.
“You promised them the equivalent amount of meat or a live animal?” Saetan asked.
“Apparently it doesn’t taste as good if it’s already cut up,” Lucivar muttered. “Or maybe it wasn’t as much fun to eat. They were a little vague about that.”
“I see.” Saetan delicately cleared his throat. “So you will get them to promise that they won’t eat
their
dinner within sight of the dining room windows, won’t you?”
their
dinner within sight of the dining room windows, won’t you?”
Lucivar’s mouth opened and closed, but no sounds came out.
“Mother Night,” Daemon said. If people lost their appetites because a six-hundred-pound tiger and an eight-hundred-pound Arcerian cat were gorging on a fresh kill, Mrs. Beale would . . .
He wasn’t going to consider what Mrs. Beale would do to him and Lucivar.
“I’m almost sorry I’m going to miss this,” Saetan said with a smile. “Almost.”
In a heartbeat, Lucivar went from stumbling man to warrior. He shifted—one easy side step that effectively blocked any escape through the door.
Daemon moved in the other direction, drawing the eye, keeping the prey focused on what was in front of him instead of the danger behind him.
He and Lucivar had played out this game dozens of times. Hundreds of times. Once they had their prey caught between them . . . Concentrate on one of them, and the other one would be the attacker.
Saetan watched him. Being an intelligent man, he would know exactly what his sons were doing—and what role remained in their little three-person drama.
“I won’t be joining you for Winsol,” Saetan said quietly. “I stopped by today to drop off the gifts—and to tell you I’ll be staying at the Keep.”
“No,” Lucivar said.
“I don’t want to discuss this,” Saetan said, still watching Daemon. “I don’t want to argue about this. I’m asking you to accept this.”
“Why?” Daemon asked softly.
“I love you both. I do. But this . . . frenzy . . . is for young men.”
“Well, Hell’s fire,” Lucivar growled. “We’re not going to drag you to parties and things you don’t want to attend.” He looked at Daemon. “Right?”
“It’s not just that,” Saetan said. Then he raked one hand through his hair and sighed. “I did this. For decades, for centuries, I did this. The large parties. The social functions that I attended because it was expected of me as the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. Houseguests and noise. You both have those responsibilities now, and that’s as it should be. But this year, I want peace during the longest night of the year. I want to walk in solitude through one of the gardens at the Keep. I want this. And I think I’ve earned this.”
Before Lucivar could snarl about it, Daemon said on a spear thread, *Don’t argue about it. Let it go.*
A slashing look was Lucivar’s only answer.
“That’s really what you want?” Daemon asked Saetan.
“It really is.” Saetan’s smile held a hint of sorrow—not for the decision, but for the argument he anticipated was still to come. “I don’t expect you to understand, but I’m asking you—both of you—to accept. As a gift to me.”
Daemon waited a beat, as if he were discussing it privately with Lucivar. Then he said, “All right. We’ll accept your decision—as our gift.”
“Thank you.” Saetan turned and raised an eyebrow at Lucivar, who reluctantly stepped aside.
The moment the study door closed behind their father, Lucivar turned on Daemon. “Are we really letting him do this? We’re going to let our father be alone for Winsol?”
“Yes, we are,” Daemon replied, moving closer. “He’s feeling his age, Prick. Andulvar, Mephis, and Prothvar are gone. Being here without them is hard. You know that was a large part of his decision to retire to the Keep.”
“They were gone last year too,” Lucivar argued.
“He was taking care of us last year. Me more than you. Jaenelle was so fragile, and I . . .”Wasn’t sure she would survive the winter. Wasn’t sure he would want to survive if she didn’t.
“I know.” Lucivar drew in a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “I don’t like it. He shouldn’t be alone on Winsol. None of them should, when it comes down to it. Geoffrey, Draca. Even Lorn. They shouldn’t be alone. Not for this celebration.”
“They won’t be.”
Lucivar frowned. “But you gave him your word.”
Daemon nodded. “He asked for a solitary Winsol, and we’ll give him that. Or something close to it. But we’ll find a way to give him family too. All of them.”
“When you figure out how to do that, you’ve got me for whatever you need.”
He smiled. “I love you, Prick.”
That lazy, arrogant smile. “Will you still say that if I decide to pour the contraceptive brew down the sink?”
“Yes. But not as often.”
Daemon eyed the plate of fudge that had ended up between Marian and Jaenelle and decided trying to take a piece wasn’t worth losing a hand. So he chose grapes and cheese to go with his after-dinner coffee.
It had been a fairly quiet dinner since Daemonar had fallen asleep halfway through the meal. Now that he wasn’t moving, he looked sweet and cuddly. At some point during the day, he had acquired a string of bells that he was wearing around his neck as his “Jewel.”
Daemon smiled at the sleeping boy. Daemonar had been delighted with the jingling sound. He and Lucivar had been even more delighted when they realized how easy it was to locate the little beast. Neither man had much hope of convincing Marian to make the bells a permanent accessory for the boy, but they were sure going to try to talk her into it.
“So,” Jaenelle said as she selected a piece of fudge. “I think we’re ready for Winsol.”
“I think we are,” Marian agreed.
“And I think the two of you are handling the High Lord’s decision very well,” Daemon said, raising his coffee cup in a salute.
“Decision?” Jaenelle asked. “Oh! That reminds me. Papa did say there was something the two of you needed to talk to us about.”
Daemon felt the meal he’d just eaten solidify into solid rock and sink his stomach to the floor.
*He didn’t,* Lucivar said on a spear thread.
*Oh, I think he did,* Daemon replied. He looked at Jaenelle and Marian—and wondered if he could run fast enough to get out of the room before one or both exploded. “He didn’t say anything to either of you?” “About what?” Jaenelle asked.
“About not joining us for Winsol?”
Their answer was a thunderous silence.
Wearing nothing but a long winter robe, Daemon slipped into the bedroom and joined Jaenelle, who was standing at the glass door that overlooked her private courtyard. Wrapping his arms around her, he drew her back against him to keep her warm and rubbed his cheek against her short golden hair.
“Are you upset about Father’s decision?” he asked.
“A little,” she replied. “But not surprised once I had time to think about it.”
Something more. He could see it in her face, reflected in the glass.
“Before I reached the age of majority, there were parties,” Jaenelle said. “Lots of them. The coven was still living here most of the time. The boyos too. Saetan attended an exhausting number of formal celebrations as the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan and stood as my escort for almost as many others. Then the coven and the boyos would go home to celebrate Winsol with their families.
“A dazzling whirl of people for six days. But on the eve of Winsol, just before midnight, Saetan would bring two cups of blooded rum to my sitting room. A toast to the living myth. I always found it embarrassing, being toasted like that. And then we would dance. A court dance. Very formal. Very traditional. A pattern that was only performed during this time of year.
“The next evening, the longest night of the year, was for family. No visitors. No outsiders. Just Mephis, Prothvar, Uncle Andulvar, Papa, and me. A simple dinner. Afterward, we would open the gifts from each other.”
“I don’t remember you and the High Lord having a private celebration,” he said.
“We didn’t these past two years. He stepped aside. For you.”
“I see,” Daemon said quietly. And he did. The Steward yielding to the Consort. The father yielding to the lover. The fact that he was the lover must have weighed heavily in Saetan’s decision.
He looked at their reflection in the glass. It was like watching Jaenelle delicately unwrap layers of her heart.
“What else?” he asked.
“Those years were a dazzle of people during Winsol,” she said. “A kaleidoscope of colors and faces. Even more so after I became the Queen of Ebon Askavi and had my own list of social events to attend as part of my duties as Queen. But the moment I remember clearly, the moment that stands out from each of those years, is that dance with Saetan.”
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