The Hourglass didn’t divulge what they saw in their tangled webs. Not very often, anyway. And not directly. But a Black Widow never made a suggestion about an action to take without a reason.
“Is it something to do with Cassidy?” he asked.
She didn’t answer.
“Shira . . .” He didn’t know what to ask.
Finally Shira asked quietly, “Who has your loyalty, Prince Ranon? Tell me the list in order.”
His heart ached, but she had asked. Because he would give her nothing less than honesty, the words had to be said. “I love you with everything I am, but my first loyalty is to my Queen. Then you, then our people, then Dena Nehele.”
She sat up and pressed a hand against his face. When he looked at her, she said fiercely, “Remember the order of that list. Hold on to it with everything you are.”
Was she warning him that something might happen to Cassie when they went to the Shalador reserves?
“Hold on to it the same way you’ve held on to your honor,” Shira said.
And that was the answer: Cassidy the Queen came before anything and everything else—his lover, his people, his land.
The visions seen in tangled webs didn’t always come true. Sometimes they were warnings of what might be. Shira was telling him that his choices would make a difference. His choices. And she had told him, without breaking her own code of honor, what his choice had to be.
That night, while Shira slept and he lay awake staring at the dark ceiling of her bedroom, he realized that fear could entwine with hope as well as love, and all he could do was give his best to the two women who were now the center of his life.
CHAPTER 4
Daemon rounded a corner and let out a roar—which only made his quarry pump those little legs faster.
Hell’s fire. He’d only looked away for a minute while he was packing up the things Daemonar would take home. One damn minute! That’s all it had taken for the boy to shoot out of the bedroom like an arrow released from a bow.
Well, if this was going to be their last pissing contest during this visit, he was not going to lose.
He was going to lose.
When he realized the stairs leading down to the informal receiving room—and beyond that, the great hall—were up ahead, heran. The boy was going too fast to get down those stairs without a bad tumble.
Almost in reach. If he couldn’t stop Daemonar . . .
The boy spread those little membranous wings and launched himself over the railing.
Daemon gave a moment’s thought to leaping over the railing and using Craft to make a controlled slide on air, but that wasn’t an easy bit of Craft to do, despite how simple Jaenelle always made it seem, and since it wasn’t something he did on a regular basis—until lately, anyway—a miscalculation could end with a broken leg. Or worse.
At least the door to the great hall was closed, Daemon thought as he pounded down the stairs. At least the little beast didn’t know how to make a pass through a solid object. At least he’d only be chasing a flying boy around a contained space.
Which was when Holt opened the door—and Daemonar dove right at the footman’s head. Startled, Holt dove for the floor, and Daemonar flew past him into the great hall and let out a happy squeal.
Damn! Did someone just open the front door? If Daemonar got outside, it might take hours to catch him.
Leaping over Holt, Daemon skidded into the great hall.
And there was Lucivar, with his arms full of happy boy.
“Hello, boyo,” Lucivar said, giving his bundle of boy a smacking kiss on the cheek.
“Papa! Papa!”
Daemon braced one hand on the wall and sucked in air while he watched the reunion.
“Were you a good boy?” Lucivar asked Daemonar. He gave Daemon what might have been a sheepish look—if it had been anyone else but Lucivar.
“Guess what, Papa! Unka Daemon fell out of a tree!”
Daemon’s face burned with embarrassment.
Lucivar kept his eyes on his son. “What was Uncle Daemon doing in the tree?”
Daemonar suddenly turned shy and began playing with the gold chain that held Lucivar’s Birthright Red Jewel.
“What was Uncle Daemon doing in the tree?” Lucivar asked again.
Daemonar hesitated. “Falling.”
“Uh-huh.”
*Is Marian pregnant?* Daemon asked on a Red psychic thread.
*We won’t know for a few weeks,* Lucivar replied.
You know, you prick, Daemon thought. And Lucivar not giving him a straight answer was an answer.
Lucivar’s gold eyes brightened when Jaenelle stepped into the great hall.
“Hey, boyo.” Jaenelle smiled at Daemonar. “Are you going home without reading one last story with me?”
“No! Put me down, Papa!”
When Lucivar didn’t respond fast enough, Daemonar rammed his feet into his father’s gut and launched himself at Jaenelle.
Too fast, Daemon thought as the boy winged toward Jaenelle. But Daemonar backwinged an arm’s length from his beloved auntie. He dipped and wobbled, but he landed without slamming into Jaenelle.
“Excellent backwinging.” Jaenelle held out her hand as she gave Daemon and Lucivar a warm, amused look. “Come on. We’ll sit in Uncle Daemon’s study and read a story while he and your papa have a little chat.”
When boy and Queen disappeared into the study, Lucivar rubbed his belly. “Well, so much for my minute of being important.”
Daemon didn’t reply. He just crossed the great hall and went into the formal receiving room.
Thank you, Beale, he thought when he saw the tray that held a decanter of brandy and two glasses. Normally he wouldn’t consider a drink before the midday meal, but today . . .
“You’re looking a bit rough, old son,” Lucivar said as he came into the room and closed the door.
Daemon poured himself a hefty glass of brandy and took a generous gulp. “If you got Marian pregnant, you damn well better have a girl, because if you don’t, I will twist your cock off. I swear it.”
When he didn’t get a smart-ass reply, he turned and looked at his brother—and the look on Lucivar’s face made his heart pound. “What’s wrong? Is Marian all right?”
“She’s fine. She’s good. Father is at the eyrie now, pampering her.” Lucivar made a face. “When I do something, it’s fussing. When he does the same damn thing, it’s pampering.”
“He has a way with women,” Daemon said. “Lucivar . . .”
“Was it that hard?” Lucivar asked. “I know the boy is a handful. Hell’s fire, Bastard, I know he is.”
“We did all right,” Daemon said sourly.
Lucivar sighed. “Look, next time I’ll leave him with the Eyriens and—”
“No, you will not.” Daemon’s voice chilled. “You and I were given a particular code of honor when we were very young—a code that isn’t known by many, if any, who come from Terreille. And that is the code of honor our family will live by. So when your boy needs to spend some days away from you, he comes here. Is that understood?”
“Not all Eyriens view honor as something they can bend to suit themselves,” Lucivar said cautiously.
Falonar. The name of Lucivar’s former second-in-command wasn’t spoken, but it hung in the air between them.
Then the moment, and the tension, were gone.
“Look,” Daemon said, setting the brandy aside. “I’m just pissing and moaning. I fell out of a damn tree. I’m entitled to piss and moan. And I feel . . . inadequate.” Hell’s fire, it bruised his ego to admit that.