“Yyyeess.”
“Doesn’t seem fair to restrict that opportunity to youngsters from Dhemlan, you being a landowner here and all.”
Hell’s fire. He couldn’t say the training was exclusive among the staff or the youngsters receiving court training, not with the Dharo Boy working with Mrs. Beale, and Prince Raine as one of the instructors, and a Tigre witch and kindred tiger now in residence.
“Liath lives at the Hall,” he said. A weak argument, but it was all he had.
“Everything has a price,” she replied.
“You have a good point.” And he recognized when the prudent choice was to yield. “If you should hear of anyone who would like to be considered for such . . . seasoning . . . send me their information, and I will pass it on to my senior staff to review.”
“If I hear of anyone.” She smiled at him—and he wondered how many packets of information were already prepared and would arrive at the Hall before he returned.
Since Kieran was descended from Morghann and Khardeen and was, therefore, his neighbor, Daemon chose to walk to the manor house. Because Morghann had been the Queen of Scelt, the manor house had been divided into a private residence and rooms to accommodate court business—including the occasional guest who was the Queen’s guest rather than a family guest of Morghann and Khary. When Kieran had been officially acknowledged as the Warlord of Maghre, he’d turned the court side of the house into his residence while keeping some of the rooms for the work of looking after the village. His parents, brother, and sister lived in the family side of the house. The arrangement worked for all of them, and Daemon hoped it would work for Saetien too.
“You have business with Kieran?” Eileen asked once they were settled in the sitting room where she conducted her own kind of business. “Will you have a scone to go with your coffee?”
The question was really a command, so he said, “Thank you. They look delicious. I do have business with Kieran—and I have a favor to ask of you. My daughter has a need to spend some time in Scelt, looking for answers to some particular questions.”
Eileen took her time buttering her scone. “She’ll be coming on her own, your daughter? That’s why she won’t be staying at your house?”
“Yes.”
“And who is supposed to give her these answers?”
Daemon looked at Eileen.
Her eyes widened. “I see. Does he know about this?”
“I’ll talk to him this evening.”
“We can put her up here, but I won’t put up with nonsense.”
“Whatever rules you set for your daughter you can set for mine.” He hesitated. “What I am is hard for her. Who I am and whose will is my life is hard for her. This is all I can do to help her. She believes she needs these answers, but if she breaks your rules, you send her home whether she has her answers or not.”
“A heart quest,” Eileen said softly. “Very well.”
“Thank you.”
“Well, the village does owe you.” She sipped her coffee, then asked so very casually, “How is Liath getting along? Doing well?”
“I’ve barely been home these past few days, but it’s my understanding that Liath is now helping to train a tiger kitten.”
Eileen choked. “Training a tiger?”
“A baby Warlord Prince with claws.”
“Training him to do what?” Her voice rose to such a pitch, the butler knocked on the sitting room door to find out if there was some trouble.
“I don’t know,” Daemon admitted. And that was something he needed to find out very soon.
Daemon found Kieran leaning against the rails of a fence, watching Ryder and Kildare working with some of the young kindred horses. At thirty years old, Kieran was the oldest child of Eileen and Kildare. A lean man with curly brown hair and blue eyes that always held a hint of mischief, he had been the Warlord of Maghre officially for the past five years. Unofficially, his rule began when he was twenty, after he’d made the Offering to the Darkness and come away wearing the Red.
Daemon joined Kieran at the fence.
“Mother tapped me on a psychic thread and told me that your daughter will be staying with us for a while,” Kieran said, watching the horses.
“Yes, she will. She’s looking for some answers.”
Kieran nodded. “There’s an answer I’ve been wanting for a while now.” He looked at Daemon. “I’ve wondered why you always seem to brace when you see me. I think we get along, you and I, and yet there’s this moment of hesitation.”
Gold eyes met blue. “It always takes me that moment to remember you’re Kieran and not Khardeen. You have the look of him, the sound of him, the manners and the way of handling the village that is so like the way he was. He was a good friend, and sometimes it feels like there was no one in between you and him. Things are different here, as they are everywhere else in Kaeleer, but the feel of the village is the same.”
“Ah.” Kieran went back to watching the horses. “I’m pleased to have the answer. It’s a fine compliment.”
They watched Kieran’s brother, Ryder, sweet-talking a filly into . . . Well, Daemon wasn’t sure what she was supposed to be doing, but he was pretty sure she wasn’t supposed to be standing on Ryder’s foot until he handed over a treat.
A Sceltie witch trotted into the corral, on air, grabbed the filly’s tail, and yanked.
Squeal. Kick. Bounce bounce bounce while Ryder moved out of the way of the drama and the Sceltie braced her feet on air and wouldn’t release the filly’s tail until her feet returned to the ground.
Ryder petted and soothed the filly. The Sceltie, with a single grff of warning, trotted to the fence and sat on the top rail, keeping watch.
Daemon pressed his lips together, fighting not to laugh—and terrified that if he laughed, he might be heading home with another Sceltie who was thought to be a bit too managing.
Kieran looked serene. “She doesn’t put up with any nonsense from her own pups and sees no reason to put up with nonsense from any other kind of youngster.”
“I’m not taking her,” Daemon said softly.
“Of that I am sure, since you’d have to fight all the teachers at the village school in order to have her. They pay her wages to come to the school and keep order.”
“Sweet Darkness.”
A brief silence. Then Kieran asked oh so casually, “How is your school coming along?”
“It’s not a school as such.” Quick reply. Defensive reply. Then a realization that he might as well admit defeat since he was asking for a favor himself. “Who did you have in mind?”
“Brenda.”
“Your sister Brenda?”
“Aye.”
“Why?”
“She wants a deeper study of Craft, and she’d like to acquire some court polish but she doesn’t want to do an apprenticeship in a court, serving in a Queen’s Second or Third Circle and fetching lavender water and handkerchiefs. Her words.”
“Are the Queens in Scelt the kind of women who need lavender water and handkerchiefs?” Daemon asked. Granted, he hadn’t met all the Queens in Scelt, but the ones he had met hadn’t struck him as the type of woman who spent half her day on a fainting couch demanding that her First Circle fetch and carry for her.
“No, but someone serving in a court for the first time is required to observe quietly rather than doing—and voicing opinions,” Kieran replied. “Brenda has a hard head and a stubborn will that can match a Sceltie’s when she goes after something she wants. But she also has a generous heart.” He hesitated. “And I think she has a reason for wanting to leave Scelt for a while.”