“Would that be the fine young Warlord who had his guts ripped out by the girl he tried to rape?” Daemon asked, his voice so pleasantly sharp, it could make air bleed.
Fharra dropped her pen. “I wasn’t aware . . . I was given to understand . . .” She swallowed hard. “I assure you, Prince, that nothing like that has ever happened at the school. No witch has ever been broken on school grounds.”
That wasn’t the same thing as saying the Blood males attending this school hadn’t persuaded—or forced—girls to have a premature Virgin Night that stripped those girls of their power.
Not something the school could do anything about if it took place off of school grounds. Fharra was right about that.
But there was that wisp of memory.
May the Darkness have mercy on everyone once he caught that wisp and saw all that the memory revealed.
It wasn’t that Daemon Sadi changed. He just became more of what he was. It was like watching an already sharp blade being honed, stroke by stroke, until it had the edge required for a killing field. It was like watching a mask melt away, revealing the truth underneath.
His father’s temper ran hot. Uncle Daemon’s ran cold, and listening to Sadi explain things to Lady Fharra, Daemonar wasn’t sure the cold was all that accurate a measure of the depth of temper—or what a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince in a cold rage could, or would, do.
“Why do you think she set her heels down about me being here?” Daemonar asked as he and Daemon walked to the book exchange to pick up the books for his classes.
“An excellent question,” Daemon replied, sounding more like his uncle instead of the someone more.
“She seemed genuinely surprised about that Warlord and why he died.”
“She did.”
And that is why she is still alive.
The words weren’t said. Didn’t have to be said.
He felt a lift in his uncle’s mood and temper when they reached the book exchange and perused the books. Daemon’s lips twitched when he noticed two of the books on the required reading list were books he’d arranged to have published because Daemonar had found them at the Keep and wanted his own copies.
He’d been nervous about attending classes here, although he wouldn’t have admitted that to either father or uncle. There were bound to be holes in his education, things the other students had read. But in some subjects, he’d already been taught by the strongest and the best.
The room in the dormitory was more spacious than he’d expected and looked out over the green. Each floor of the dorm had its own hygiene facilities with several toilets contained in narrow stalls and a shower room that had plenty of space but offered no privacy. He was used to the lack of privacy since the communal eyrie had the same kind of shower arrangement. The toilet stalls could be an easy way to trap someone, but putting a Green shield with a little added sizzle around a stall would stop anyone who wanted to cause trouble. Not that he expected anyone here to cause trouble. Shielding when he was vulnerable would be done to soothe his father’s and uncle’s tempers.
He called in the two trunks and unpacked while Daemon watched him. Some clothes in the small dresser, some hung up in the closet. Didn’t take him long. One of the sparring sticks he’d brought with him rested in a corner of the room. The rest of the weapons that were small enough to fit into a trunk and the special books he’d brought were arranged in one trunk, which he vanished. He put the novels he’d bought for fun reading in the other trunk, along with a spare blanket. That trunk he placed against one wall—in plain sight. The books for classes went in the narrow bookcase next to the desk.
Daemon watched him—and said nothing. Then he smiled, a smile that held warmth and amusement. “Helton informed me that you should bring your laundry to the town house the evening before washday.”
“I can wash my own clothes,” Daemonar said, although he wasn’t sure where students could do that. “And Helton wouldn’t inform you of anything, Uncle Daemon.” Unlike Beale, the butler at the Hall, who was a Red-Jeweled Warlord and informed Prince Sadi of a great many things.
“It was worded as a suggestion but didn’t leave much room for interpretation. Neither did the suggestion that you could have a decent dinner at the town house that evening. He mentioned that Beron often had dinner at the town house the evening before washday and sometimes stayed the night to get a decent breakfast in the morning.”
“Uh-huh. Are Titian and Jaenelle Saetien also coming for dinner one night a week so they don’t expire from eating whatever slop is served at the school?”
“It was suggested that the young Ladies could come to dinner on another night.”
“So they have a different washday than the men in the family?”
“Apparently.”
There was a reading chair in the room. It looked comfortable but it wasn’t built to accommodate Eyrien wings. Still, it would work for visitors. Did work for visitors, since Daemon was sitting in it.
Daemonar straddled the wooden desk chair. “Are all servants this pushy, or do the pushy ones end up working for you because they know you’ll put up with it?”
“Because they think I’m weak?” Daemon asked too softly.
“Because they know you’re strong and you’re not intimidated by them showing their own strength.”
Daemon stared at him. Daemonar shrugged. Neither of them mentioned Mrs. Beale and her meat cleaver and how everyone in the family, except Marian, was intimidated by the Hall’s cook.
A knock on the door.
As Daemonar went to open it, he noticed how Daemon sat with his legs crossed at the knees, his fingers with those long black-tinted nails steepled and lightly resting against his chin. Would anyone outside the family recognize the danger in that pose?
The visitor turned out to be Prince Raine, a young instructor from Dharo who had just started at the school that year and had been assigned to be Daemonar’s tutor in three areas of study.
Had Prince Raine volunteered for the extra work or, because he was the newcomer, had the work no one else wanted been piled on him?
“Picked up your books, I see,” Raine said. He handed Daemonar a piece of heavy paper with a neatly written list. “These are the times for your classes and tutorials.” A glance at Daemon, whose glazed eyes were fixed on the man. “I understand that you wanted the tutorials to be free study, but it might be beneficial to use one of our study times to answer any questions you might have from your other classes.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” Daemonar replied. “Thank you, sir.”
Prince Raine hesitated, then gave Daemonar a strained smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.” Daemonar saw the man out of the room, then turned to his uncle. “Problem?”
“Not for me.” Daemon rose. “Do you want to find out what slop is served in the dining hall or come with me to a steakhouse for a decent meal?”
“What happens if the food here is very good?”
Daemon laughed. “If that’s the case, I hope you, at least, are smart enough not to mention that within hearing of anyone who works at the town house or at the Hall.”
The laughter faded. Daemon stepped close to him and wrapped a hand around the back of his neck, a gesture his uncle had in common with his father.
“If there is trouble here, I want to know about it,” Daemon said. “I don’t care if you think you can, or should, handle it yourself. I don’t care if you do handle it yourself. If there is trouble, you will tell me.”