She copied that name—and the ones that followed. Daemonar. Lucivar. Andulvar. Jaalan. Marian. Titian. Zoela. Helene. Nadene. Beale. Mrs. Beale. Holt. Raine.
When it seemed like he wasn’t going to write any more, she wrote a word in her language and looked at him. When he didn’t seem to understand, she pointed in the direction of the Black Mountain. “Her?”
“Witch?”
She nodded.
He wrote the word for the Queen who was more than a Queen. Who was myth and dreams. One name for her, anyway. She copied the word.
Smiling, the Prince called in a strange book of empty lined paper. “This is what students use for their studies. You write in it.”
“Write important . . .” How to ask?
He seemed to know. “Whatever you want. Words you want to know. Things you want to remember. Questions you want to ask. And these”—he called in printed books and set them in front of her—“are how our young learn to read the common tongue. I think they will be a useful way to begin the lessons.”
“Lessons?”
“With me. I’ll be teaching you Craft and Protocol with some of the other girls. The lessons in the common tongue will be with me or with Prince Raine.”
“Daemonar?”
“He can help you learn the common tongue and help you practice the lessons you learn from me.” The Prince paused. “And I’m sure Liath will help too.”
Grizande sighed. “Prince Bossy Stern Teeth.”
Marian let out a hoot of laughter and stopped chopping vegetables. “Who is this Liath?”
The Prince cleared his throat. “A Sceltie Warlord Prince who wears a Green Jewel.”
“Oh, Daemon,” Marian said. “You didn’t.”
“I repeat: Sceltie Warlord Prince who wears a Green Jewel. What makes you think I had any say in this?”
“You own the Hall?” Marian replied.
“You wear Black,” Grizande said, then braced for a slap. She hadn’t been told she could speak.
The Prince looked at Marian, then at Grizande. “I own the Hall, and I wear the Black. Not everyone who lives or works at the Hall is impressed by those truths.”
The tone was dry as dust, but his gold eyes were filled with humor.
Prince Lucivar stood in the archway and looked at the Prince. “You done with her?”
“For the moment,” he replied.
“Good. Come on, witchling. I’ll get you started learning the sparring warm-up.”
Grizande looked at the Prince, not sure who she should obey.
“I thought you were going to help me fix dinner,” Marian said.
“You have him,” Prince Lucivar replied, tipping his head toward the Prince.
“Go on,” the Prince said quietly. “You should learn from the best.”
Grizande vanished the items she’d been given, then followed Prince Lucivar to the large front room.
Daemonar handed her a long, thick stick. “An Eyrien sparring stick.” He took up a position on one side of her.
Prince Lucivar took up a position on the other side. “This is how you begin.”
Daemon had known Marian for centuries, had loved her for being his brother’s wife and also loved her for being Marian. He knew her moods almost as well as Lucivar did.
“Something on your mind?” he asked as he kneaded the dough for the biscuits.
“You are going to help that girl.” It wasn’t a question.
“I am. I’ll keep her safe, Marian, along with the other girls.”
“Are there Tigre in Hell?”
“Why do you ask?”
“She said her mother died a long time ago, but she’s from a short-lived race and she’s young, so it can’t be that many years.”
Daemon continued to knead the dough while he considered how to answer. “If it was a hard death . . .”
“The girl doesn’t need to see the mother, although she desperately needs some affection. But I think Grizande’s mother would appreciate knowing her daughter is safe. Especially if hers was a hard death.”
“The Tigre are almost as reclusive a race as the Dea al Mon. We don’t know what happened in that Territory that has left the descendant of a powerful Queen orphaned and uneducated—and at risk.” He put the dough in a bowl and covered it to let it rise. “I’ll look for Grizande’s family. If any of them are still in the Dark Realm, I will let them know she is safe.”
He washed his hands and didn’t look at her when he asked, “Are you all right with her being here?”
“Don’t be insulting, Daemon,” Marian replied, her voice sharp.
Hit a nerve, he thought. “My apologies, Marian. I wasn’t implying that you wouldn’t welcome—”
“My father sold me to pay off some gambling debts. Did Lucivar ever tell you that? Did Jaenelle?”
“Stop. Please.” He struggled to keep the Sadist from slipping the leash in response to her words. It wouldn’t do any of them any good to have that side of him here tonight.
She ignored the warning. “Sold me to five Warlords so that they could rape me and kill me. For sport.”
“Marian. Please.”
He heard Daemonar talking Grizande through the moves with the stick. He felt Lucivar at his back. Watchful. Wary.
Marian breathed out slowly, but she couldn’t stop. “Titian. Zoey. Grizande. Two have been cherished since birth. One was deemed unimportant—and expendable. Maybe that’s not true. Some of her people made an effort to protect her as best they could. But this stirred up memories. I want to help her heal, Daemon. I want to help her the way Jaenelle and your father helped me. The way Lucivar helped me.”
He gathered her in his arms and swayed gently. “You will help. We all will. Shh, darling. It’s all right.”
Even centuries of being loved couldn’t prevent an old heart wound from opening again and feeling as painful as when the wound had been delivered.
A brush of Ebon-gray power against his first inner barrier.
*You won’t find her father among the living,* Lucivar said. *And you won’t find him in Hell. Saetan made sure the debt Marian’s father owed our family was paid in full.*
*And the rest of Marian’s family?*
*I don’t know. As long as they don’t come here, I won’t ask.*
*Then I won’t actively hunt. But should our paths cross, whatever debt they owe will be paid in full.*
*Thank you, High Lord.* Lucivar cleared his throat. “You going to cuddle my wife all evening, or are we going to get some dinner?”
“Take a piss in the wind, Prick,” Daemon said.
Marian stepped back and patted the skin under her eyes. “Behave. Both of you.”
Lucivar returned to the front room. Marian finished preparing the stew and put the pot on the heat to cook.
“I’ll take care of the biscuits once the dough rises,” Daemon said. “Why don’t you spend a little time in your garden?”
“Are you trying to Sceltie me?”
“No, I was making a suggestion. A Sceltie would have issued a statement and then blocked any attempt you made to do something different.”
A small laugh, but it was a laugh. “Very well. Since you’re suggesting, I would like a little time in the garden.”
After Marian went out to her garden, Daemon waited for Lucivar to join him.
“Problem?” Lucivar asked.
“I have business in Scelt that shouldn’t be delayed, but I don’t want to leave Grizande on her own at the Hall until I have a chance to see how the other girls will react—and how she’ll react to them.”
“She can stay here for a couple of days.”
A tempting solution to one problem. But . . . “Surreal is at the Hall, keeping an eye on things.”
Lucivar stared at him. “You left Surreal with a pack of adolescent girls?”
“She does have that sanctuary now.”