Tangled Webs bj-6 Read online

  Tassle grabbed his pup by the scruff of its neck and stalked off.

  Lucivar looked at the dribble trail of puppy urine he would have to clean up, then looked at his son, whose eyes were now swimming in tears. Sighing, he picked up Daemonar and rubbed the boy’s back to comfort him.

  “Want Mama,” Daemonar sniffled. “Want Mama now.”

  “Me too, boyo. Me too.”

  He took Daemonar into the parlor and settled into the rocking chair. Between the rocking and the soothing spell he wrapped around the boy, it didn’t take long before Daemonar was sound asleep.

  Once he was sure the boy wouldn’t wake, Lucivar called in a bottle of ointment Jaenelle had made up for “everyday ouchies” and rubbed some on the scrape to clean the wound while he used basic healing Craft to make “everything all better.”

  Then he vanished the bottle, rocked his son…and faced the storm raging inside him.

  Not a memory. Not exactly. More like reliving a feeling. He didn’t know where or when, but he was young. Older than Daemonar, but not by much. He was in that small-boy body, sitting on a bench, hunched around himself as the echo of that sound pressed down on his skin, on his bones. Pressed into his heart.

  His father’s voice. But there had been something terrible in that sound.

  There had been agony in that sound.

  His fault. He couldn’t remember why, but he was certain of that.

  Prothvar would know.

  The thought brought tears to his eyes. He blinked them back.

  Prothvar was gone now. Truly gone. He had died on a killing field over fifty thousand years before, in the war between Terreille and Kaeleer, but he had remained, along with Andulvar and Mephis, as one of the demon-dead who continued to guard the Shadow Realm. In a way, the war that Jaenelle had stopped last year had been an extension of that first war, since Hekatah had been behind both conflicts.

  In a way, when Prothvar gave himself to Jaenelle’s webs to help protect the Blood when she unleashed her full power, he had stepped onto the last battlefield of that old war.

  So Prothvar was gone now. Truly gone. So were Andulvar and Mephis.

  Whatever had happened the day Lucivar had caused that sound to thunder out of his father had changed his life, had changed him. He was sure of that. Now he needed to know why.

  There was only one person he could ask.

  He closed his eyes—and felt a single tear roll down his face. He wasn’t sure if the tear was for the boy he had been or the family members who were gone.

  As he rocked his son, the weight of that old memory that was only a feeling settled over him—and smothered everything else.

  Surreal pulled Rainier into the town house’s sitting room the moment he arrived.

  “Did you get one of these?” she asked, holding out a cream-colored invitation.

  “No,” he replied after he read it.

  She watched his expression change into a thoughtful frown. “What?”

  “Well, Jaenelle and Marian both know anyone they invite to view the spooky house will show up—especially anyone from the family—so why set this up like a test of obedience?” He studied her deliberately blank expression. “Queens—especially young Queens—sometimes test their First Circle by making demands that aren’t harmful but also aren’t considerate. The phrasing on this invitation makes this a command to attend, and since the viewing is for this evening, you’re expected to cancel whatever plans or commitments you had made and obey.”

  “Maybe they wanted to make sure the invitations wouldn’t be ignored.”

  “Maybe.” But Rainier didn’t sound convinced.

  It didn’t sound like something Jaenelle or Marian would do, but they could have gotten the jitters about showing the spooky house and hadn’t thought out the phrasing of the invitations.

  Surreal hooked her hair behind her pointed ears. “Doesn’t matter. There isn’t much time to get there, so I’ve asked for a quick meal. We’ll eat in a few minutes. I’m going to change clothes. You talk to Helton and find out where this village is.”

  “Surreal.” Rainier looked a little embarrassed. “I wasn’t invited.”

  “Did you or did you not tell me you would stand as an official escort whenever I needed one?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Then it’s settled. I’m going to change, and you’re going to find out how to get to the spooky house.”

  He flashed a smile at her as he opened the sitting room door. She returned the smile as she walked past him. Then she bolted up the stairs. But she paused when she reached her bedroom, bothered by Rainier’s comment that the phrasing of the invitation sounded like a test—especially since the invitation arrived just a few minutes before he did, and barely gave them time to grab a quick meal before they had to leave.

  What bothered her even more was the feeling that she’d recently read or heard about someone who had been given a similar kind of test, but she couldn’t remember where—or why.

  The eyrie was quiet. Much too quiet. And there wasn’t a single lamp or candle in use even though the rain and clouds here in Ebon Rih had brought on nightfall sooner than usual.

  Leaving the front door open, Marian removed her cape and hung it on the coat-tree. Using Craft, she created a small ball of witchlight, which she tossed into the middle of the room. Then she called in the hunting knife Lucivar had given her. She handled knives all the time in the kitchen, which was why he’d decided this was a practical weapon for her to carry.

  It felt different—because it was meant for something different. She could accept that. Even embrace it. She had changed enough from the timid hearth witch she had been when she’d first come to Kaeleer that she could—and would—use that knife to protect her family.

  Using Craft to keep the witchlight moving in front of her, Marian crept toward the kitchen. Then she stopped. Sniffed. Brought the witchlight closer to the floor and studied the telltale spots of dried pee that hadn’t been wiped up. She raised her hand and gave the candle-lights inside the lamp on the kitchen table a touch of power.

  The lamp’s soft light filled the kitchen.

  Nothing out of order.

  Moving farther into the eyrie, she passed the room where Lucivar conducted the formal business of being the Prince of Ebon Rih, and continued on into the family rooms.

  And then she found her husband and son in the room they used as a family parlor—a room that was comfortable for adults but could withstand the rough-and-tumble play of an Eyrien boy. Lucivar was in the rocking chair. Daemonar was on his lap. Both were sound asleep.

  Marian studied the doorway. Felt the light presence of power. The shield around this room would alert Lucivar to someone’s presence the moment anyone or anything crossed the threshold. And the moment that happened, even before he was fully awake or had opened his eyes, he would be primed to attack.

  «Lucivar,» she called softly on a psychic thread.

  A change in his breathing, telling her he was awake and aware. He didn’t open his eyes, but he dropped the shield, allowing her into the room.

  She entered the room, brought the ball of witchlight back to her hand, then set it in a bowl made of stained glass that sat on a table near the doorway.

  As she crossed the room, Lucivar opened his eyes. For a moment there was baffled annoyance, as if he’d been angry with her for some reason but now couldn’t remember why. Then he looked at her right hand—and smiled.

  Puzzled by his amusement, she looked down.

  “It was dark and quiet,” she said, huffing out a breath as she vanished the hunting knife.

  Lucivar’s smiled widened. “Worried about me, sweetheart?”

  “Maybe.” She leaned down, resting one hand on his shoulder while the other hand lightly touched her son’s head, and gave Lucivar a soft kiss. “Should I ask why the two of you are tired enough to be asleep at this hour?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  She’d take his word for it.

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nbsp; Lucivar turned his head and looked out the window. “Sun’s down.”

  “It is, yes.”

  He looked down at Daemonar. “Should we wake him up so he’ll sleep later or just put him to bed and accept that tomorrow will start in the wee hours of the morning?”

  “Are you up to dealing with him?”

  “No.” That sounded like a groan. “Besides, I need to fly over to the Keep and see the High Lord.”

  “Then let’s put him to bed. I stopped at The Tavern and picked up some food. We can eat when you get back.”

  Lucivar shifted Daemonar and stood up. “Fair enough.” When they reached the doorway, he stopped.

  “What?” Marian asked.

  Lucivar stared at nothing. “Don’t know. Just…It was an eventful afternoon, and I feel like I’ve forgotten something.”

  Lucivar walked into the small parlor at the Keep and did a quick assessment. Drapes drawn. Fire going, with plenty of wood in the copper basket. A cozy feel for a chilly, rainy night. His father wearing a wool dressing gown over shirt and trousers. Slippers instead of shoes. Hair that was clean but looked as if it had been finger-combed instead of brushed.

  Not unkempt, he decided. Just comfortable.

  “I wasn’t expecting company,” Saetan said dryly.

  Lucivar shrugged, then eyed the book in Saetan’s lap. “Is Marian going to want to read that book?”

  “Probably.”

  “Is it going to make her cry?”

  “Probably.”

  “Tch.”

  The sound made Saetan smile as he closed the book and set it on a table beside a tray that held a decanter of yarbarah, a decanter of brandy, and two ravenglass goblets. “If you want to live with a woman, you have to ride the currents of her moods, boyo.”

  Lucivar picked up a wooden chair that was tucked against the wall, brought it over to where Saetan was sitting, and straddled it, resting his arms on the back. “We now have a code. If she suspects the story is going to make her cry, Marian puts a polished rock on the table next to her chair. When I see the rock, I’m supposed to let her cry and not make a fuss about it.”

  “Can’t stand to stay in the room when that happens, can you?”

  “No.”

  A long pause. Then Saetan said, “What’s on your mind, Lucivar?”

  He told Saetan about Daemonar and the wolf pup—and saw wariness flicker in his father’s eyes.

  “I don’t remember you,” Lucivar said, feeling cautious. “I don’t remember the early years when you were there. Daemon remembers a little more, I think, and when he tells me about something, I can sometimes fill in the rest, like a story I’ve heard a long time ago.” He paused. “I don’t remember you, but I remember that sound. Even though it came from me this afternoon and it wasn’t the same, not really, I could feel the memory of that sound. It’s more than the usual roar that will stop a boy before he does something stupid.”

  No answer. Just a vicious—and visible—effort at self-control.

  “Come on,” Lucivar said. “You’ve told us plenty of stories about when Daemon and I were young.”

  Still no answer. Then, too softly, “And you need to know about this one?”

  Oh, he didn’t like the phrasing, and he heard the warning, but he nodded. “Yes. I need to hear this one.”

  Saetan turned his head and stared at the fire. Lucivar waited.

  “Even as a little boy, you were a brilliant warrior,” Saetan said, his eyes still focused on the fire. “Andulvar said you were the best he’d ever seen, and when you matured and were a physical match for your instincts, nothing would be able to stand against you.”

  A significant compliment, especially coming from the Demon Prince, but there was more than one kind of fighting, and Andulvar hadn’t looked into Daemon’s eyes when the Sadist had turned cold. If he had, he would have known there was one thing even an Ebon-gray Eyrien Warlord Prince couldn’t stand against and survive.

  “You and Daemon…” Saetan rubbed one finger against his forehead as his mouth curved in a grim smile. “Even so young, you recognized each other’s weakness—or what you thought of as a weakness—and you worked with it. For you, it was words. For him…Mother Night, Lucivar. There were times when I couldn’t decide if I should laugh myself silly or strangle both of you. You tried to teach him how to fight. And there was so much frustration on both sides because you couldn’t understand why your brother couldn’t do what you could do in terms of using physical weapons.”

  “He’s less resistant to learning that side of a fight than he used to be,” Lucivar said. Of course, Jaenelle needing a sparring partner every day in order to continue regaining her strength and muscle was the prime incentive for Daemon learning a few routines that used the Eyrien sticks. And the sparring sticks were only a short step away from learning to use the bladed sticks, which could be as elegantly vicious a weapon as any sword.

  Not that he was going to mention that part to Daemon. Not yet.

  Saetan’s response was a soft snort of laughter. But he still kept his eyes fixed on the fire. “At that time, Daemon wasn’t able to hold his own with you, so Prothvar worked with you, teaching you the moves and how to hold the weapons. He’d even gotten Eyrien weapons made for you, with unhoned blades, so they would be balanced for a child’s hand.”

  Prothvar hadn’t told him that. Oh, he’d been told his demon-dead “cousin,” who was Andulvar’s grandson, had been his sparring partner when he was a child, but he hadn’t known Prothvar had been that involved in his early education. And he wondered what had happened to those small weapons. His mother had probably thrown them away when she’d given him to the High Priestess of Askavi in order to hide him from Saetan—and then had lost him herself.

  “You were staying at the Hall with me for a few days, and Prothvar was staying as well to work with you.”

  A quiver in Saetan’s voice, quickly banished by that vicious—and visible—self-control.

  “He had always been so careful around you and Daemon to use illusion spells to hide the worst of it, even though he always wore a leather vest as well. I don’t know how you did it, but you talked him into showing you his death wounds. I suppose that was inevitable. He was an older cousin, a seasoned warrior who had died on a killing field, and you were still young enough to see the romance of battle rather than the grim and bloody reality.”

  Lucivar didn’t move. Hardly dared to breathe.

  One hundred men walked off the field. Fifteen of them were dead.

  The opening lines of the story of the Demon Prince’s last battle, the decisive battle in the war that had almost destroyed Terreille and Kaeleer fifty thousand years ago. Eyriens had been telling that story for generations, but he had heard a little of it from the men who had been there. So he knew about Andulvar and Prothvar fighting in the battle—and being the leaders of the army that had stood on the pivotal killing field that had ended Hekatah SaDiablo’s attempt to take control of the two living Realms. They were both so immersed in riding the killing edge and winning that battle, they never felt the blows that should have brought them down, just made the transition to demon-dead between one heartbeat and the next—and tore out their enemies’ throats, gorging on the blood to sustain their own dead flesh as they kept killing and killing and killing.

  Only one side walks away from a killing field. Even though they were no longer among the living, the fact that Andulvar and Prothvar Yaslana walked off that field changed the history of two Realms.

  “Nothing would have come of it,” Saetan said softly, “if you hadn’t come running into my study right after that. You looked so excited, I thought you were coming in to tell me about a new move you had learned or to watch some flying trick you had mastered. Instead, you asked me when you could get your own death wounds. And in that moment, looking at my brilliant little boy, I saw Andulvar and Prothvar as they had looked when they walked off that killing field. I saw Mephis when he first arrived in the Dark Realm, having died
that same day. And I remembered the pain of searching for Peyton and Ravenar—and never knowing what had happened to either of them. But it was Andulvar and Prothvar I saw most of all, and I could see you with them—as a boy, as a grown man—walking off a killing field but no longer among the living. And there were no words for that kind of pain. Just a sound.”

  Lucivar closed his eyes. The words squeezed his chest until he ached.

  He had stood on killing fields—and sometimes he had been the only one to walk away. So he could see it clearly. No visible lines defined the space, but a warrior could feel it, knew exactly where the line began, knew the shape of the field. Once a man stepped onto one of those fields, he was committed to the battle. There was no turning back, no walking away. Because of that, a killing field embraced a savagery that transcended anything that could be found on a battlefield. For Warlord Princes, there was a clear distinction between those two things.

  After he’d come to live at the Hall and serve Jaenelle, he’d walked in on Prothvar one evening before his cousin was dressed. Before the illusion spells were in place. He had looked at those wounds with the eyes of a warrior—and the fact that Prothvar had walked away from that killing field had told him more about the man as a warrior than all the stories he’d heard in the hunting camps. As a youth, he’d thought those stories about Prothvar’s abilities had been exaggerated, as stories tend to be.

  As a man, seeing his cousin’s body, he’d understood those stories hadn’t told the half of it.

  He could picture Prothvar and Andulvar as if he were standing next to Saetan waiting for them to cross the line and step off the killing field.

  Waiting for them.

  In that moment, as a suspicion floated through his mind, he imagined he could feel the brush of Daemon’s lips against his ear and hear his brother’s voice.

  Words can be a weapon, and our father is very skilled with that particular blade. Look—and see clearly. Within what he didn’t say is the reason he didn’t want to tell you the story.

  So he considered the story he’d just heard. And he considered the few things Andulvar had said about that battle.