“Oh?”
Bland word, bland voice. But nothing bland in the gold eyes that watched him, assessing. This wasn’t the most terrifying aspect of Daemon Sadi. He’d only seen that once, but he’d never forgotten the feel of being in a room with the Sadist. This was more than his uncle, more like . . .
Prince of the Darkness. High Lord of Hell.
Somehow he’d plucked that thread, and now he had to dance on that knife’s edge.
“She’s been different since she started going to that school,” Daemonar said.
“I’ve been told adolescence is a difficult time for girls.”
“Fine. It’s difficult. Why should that erase reason? It’s like expecting grass to grow on clouds, even though you know it can’t, and then getting pissy because it doesn’t.”
“Well . . .”
“And that damn dress. She comes to Ebon Rih pissing and moaning because she bought this dress for an important dance, a dress that cost—” He took a breath and tried to hold in his criticism. He really did try, but . . . “Hell’s fire, Uncle Daemon, what were you thinking to allow her to buy a dress that costs that much? And then—then—she gets angry because you won’t buy her a second dress when you’d already told her you would only buy one? She knows you. She’s lived with you all her life. She knows you don’t move a line once it’s drawn. And if she’d wanted another dress so much, she could have bought it with her own money! But, no, she’s wailing that everyone else’s father is buying a second dress. Who is everyone? She couldn’t name one girl who was going to have a second dress for the same dance.”
“If you’re done scolding me and storming around the room, perhaps I could explain.”
He hadn’t noticed he’d sprung out of the chair to pace and “storm” around the room. And he hadn’t intended to scold his uncle.
Daemonar blew out a breath and returned to the chair.
“Perhaps I thought that not putting a limit on how much could be spent for a dress would eliminate a source of contention and allow Jaenelle Saetien and Surreal to have an enjoyable time shopping together.”
He considered that for a moment, then nodded. “Good thought. Didn’t work, but it was a good thought.”
“I’m glad you agree.” Dry humor—and something else beneath it. “I don’t have experience with adolescent girls. Not the kind that is useful here. From time to time I discuss things with Beale and Holt, since they were both working at the Hall when your auntie J. and the coven lived with your grandfather.”
Daemonar leaned closer. He loved hearing stories about Auntie J. and the coven and the boyos.
“Saetan had some difficulties dealing with the girls when they were the equivalent of this age,” Daemon continued. “And he was often . . . compelled . . . to negotiate along the lines of ‘I will pay for the new saddle you want if you also buy three new dresses.’ He didn’t get much support from Lady Sylvia about what constituted feminine dress; hence the negotiations. When your aunt and the coven went along with his terms, Saetan was often dismayed to discover that the saddle cost more than the three dresses combined. And just as often the negotiations failed because the girls would simply buy the desired item with their own money and ignore the dresses altogether.
“And then, seemingly overnight, they all became interested in clothes that left no doubt in anyone’s mind that they were women—clothes that were both warning and temptation. Which created a different set of challenges for the men who were committed to keeping them safe.”
“Father and Prince Chaosti would have made sure all of them knew how to use a knife,” Daemonar said.
“Oh, yes, all of the Ladies who lived at the Hall were skilled with a knife,” Daemon agreed. “Some more than others.” He sighed. “But you think this . . . trouble . . . with Jaenelle Saetien is more.”
“Yes, sir. It feels wrong somehow, like she’s imitating what someone else would say instead of being herself. Like she wants to shed who she was, but someone has to be convincing her that being a bitch is desirable.”
“What about Titian?”
Daemonar huffed. “I don’t think Titian notices much beyond her art classes. That’s all she writes about—and singing in a group and learning to play music. I don’t think she’s made many friends, but she seems happy.”
“If you’re right about something being wrong, even if it’s just a group of students who have infatuated Jaenelle Saetien, your presence could stir up trouble that could swing back at you.”
He was counting on it. “I can protect myself, Uncle Daemon.”
“Boyo, even the strongest warrior can make a mistake and let his guard down at the wrong moment. As much as I’m concerned about my daughter, I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“Father would walk into it, even knowing there was trouble. So would you.”
“Yes, we would. Of course, most of the time, we were already in the middle of that kind of fight. Made the choice easier.” Daemon smiled dryly. “And if anything happens to you, your auntie J. . . .”
“Mother Night,” Daemonar breathed.
“And may the Darkness be merciful.”
“I’ll be careful,” he promised.
“Do that—for all our sakes.” Daemon stood. “Why don’t we stretch our legs and walk around the square a couple of times while we discuss what subjects would be of interest to you? Then, in the morning, we’ll go to the school and see about getting you enrolled.”
When Lucivar told Endar and Alanar about his decision to exile Dorian and Orian—and why—Endar’s only response was to request that Lucivar, as the ruler of Ebon Rih, grant him an immediate divorce in order to sever all connection with Dorian. Then he walked out of the communal eyrie.
Alanar drew in a shuddering breath. “Sir, if I’d known Orian was thinking about doing that to Daemonar . . . to anyone . . . and actually had a Ring, I would have told you.”
“I know,” Lucivar replied.
None of the other Eyriens who lived in Ebon Rih had endured wearing a Ring of Obedience, but every man among them had seen what it did, had listened to the screams of strong men crawling to the Queen who controlled them and begging for the pain to stop. The stories about why men like Rothvar and Zaranar had left Terreille had been softened somewhat when the boys were young. But since they were considered men who were approaching their mature strength, the Eyrien warriors had told the stories about the brutality in the courts in Askavi Terreille and why they had left everything they’d known for a chance at a different kind of life.
“Are you settled into the bachelor eyrie?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. Tamnar and I have everything we need,” Alanar replied.
He’d check with Hallevar, the arms master who gave all the young warriors their basic training, to make sure that was true. Alanar might be happy sleeping on a stone floor wrapped in a thin blanket if that got him away from his mother and sister.
After considering what might be helpful to the youngsters without pinching their feeling of independence, he said, “There’s a laundry service in Riada. The women who run it won’t deal with leathers, so you’ll have to clean those yourself, but they’ll handle other clothing and towels and bed linens. You and Tamnar can take your things there to get washed. I’ll pay for it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“The two of you have enough to eat?”
“Yes, sir.” Alanar looked around. “Are we going to have any training today?”