“You said it in front of Orian’s friends.”
“So did she,” Daemonar snapped, meeting his father look for look. “Titian had done a drawing for Mother, and she was so happy until Orian . . .” He stumbled, not sure what Titian had told their father.
“Until Orian said a true Eyrien wouldn’t draw flowers?” Lucivar said.
He nodded. “Titian likes to draw. She really likes to draw. But after Orian said that, she didn’t want anyone to know about her drawings because . . .” Deep breath, in and out. “Because she was afraid you and Mother would be ashamed of her. She cried.”
He watched Lucivar’s eyes glaze, felt the fury rising from the Ebon-gray to brush against the killing edge. Then he watched his father leash that fury and step back from that edge. That gave him the courage to say the rest.
“If I slapped at Orian to let her know she couldn’t get away with being mean to my sister, then that’s between us, that’s between . . . children. But you’re more than Titian’s father, and if you had confronted Orian, it would be seen as an Ebon-gray Warlord Prince calling a Queen to task for her behavior. That would stick in Orian’s craw a lot longer than an insult from me because all the Eyrien males would take notice of that.”
“Did you say anything else?” Lucivar asked.
“I told her if she jabbed at my sister again, I would bloody her.”
Lucivar studied him. “Would you do that?”
“Yes.” No one was allowed to hurt his sister or his brother or his mother—or his father. Not while he could stand and fight.
Lucivar blew out a breath. “All right. Just keep in mind that you and Orian will be living around each other for a lot of years. That will be easier to do if you can remain friendly, or at least civil, with each other.”
“Forgive and forget?” Daemonar said.
Oh, such a queer look in his father’s eyes.
“Forgive, certainly. Eventually. Especially if your uncle finds a way to erase the hurt Titian feels right now. Forget?” Lucivar shook his head. “What Orian said might have been nothing more than showing off to her friends or experiencing a momentary need to feel powerful by making someone else feel small. Or this could be an indication of who she is at her core—something that wasn’t apparent when she was younger. No matter the reason, what she does and says from now on will be weighed in the balance when she becomes old enough to establish an official court. And I need to talk to the Riada Queen about working with Orian and teaching her what it means to be a Queen.”
Lucivar stood, an indication their discussion was over.
“There’s something else,” Daemonar said.
“Oh?”
He wiped suddenly sweaty hands on his thighs. “I would like you to speak to the Queen on behalf of a Brother in the court.” No need to specify which Queen. For the men in their family, there was only one.
“Oh?” Lucivar sat.
“You and Uncle Daemon go to the Keep every month and spend time with Auntie J., but whenever I need to talk to her, I still have to try to reach the Misty Place, and it’s so deep in the abyss, I can’t stay long. That’s not fair. She’s my Queen too. Why can’t I go to the Keep to visit and talk to her? I won’t pester her. And I won’t go there when Uncle Daemon is there because that’s his healing time. But now that I’m not the only one to see her . . .” He hesitated, remembering that he’d kept that secret from his father for a long time before Witch had made her presence known to Lucivar and Daemon.
Lucivar pushed out of the chair. “I’ll think about it.”
That wasn’t a firm yes, but it wasn’t a no.
Daemonar stood. “Thank you, sir.”
Lucivar snorted. “Sure. Come on, boyo. We have things to do.”
As his father rested a hand on his shoulder and led him out of the study, Daemonar said, “What things?”
“Well, I need to talk to Rothvar and the other men as well as the Queen of Riada. You need to keep your cousin out of trouble for the rest of the day.”
He had to find enough things for Jaenelle Saetien to do to keep her from coming up with another wonderful idea? Hell’s fire. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh. And don’t think I don’t know I have the better deal, no matter what Rothvar has to report.”
His father was not wrong.
Lady Cambrya was a moderately successful artist who was currently living in her sister’s guest room while she sorted out where she wanted to go and what she wanted to do. While the paintings she showed them were pleasant, Daemon wouldn’t have purchased them for any of the family residences. It was Cambrya’s other work that intrigued him.
She had taken some of her drawings and traced them as outlines, allowing someone else to fill in the shapes with colors. She’d taken a dozen of those drawings to a printer and had paid to have copies made that she’d intended to sell at harvest fairs. She’d also created an artist’s primer for youngsters interested in art whose families couldn’t afford private instruction. She’d been gathering her courage to approach publishing houses to see about marketing the primer when the Warlord who had been her longtime partner severed their relationship and demanded that she leave the town house they had shared for decades.
Since his name was on the lease, she’d had no choice but to get out as quickly as she could with the possessions that had mattered the most—namely, her art and these potential pieces of work.
As Daemon knew well, relationships could be thorny, and there could have been reasons why her partner had made this choice after being with her for so many years. It wasn’t his business as the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan to interfere with the personal lives of the people he ruled—unless someone crossed a line and made it his business. Still, there was nothing of the bitch about Cambrya and nothing in her psychic scent that scraped his temper. So he wanted to know about the man. Even if it was none of his business as the ruler of Dhemlan, whom he did business with on behalf of the family was quite a different matter.
Aware that Cambrya was struggling against the effects of his leashed sexual heat, Daemon studied the line drawings and the artist’s primer, letting Surreal tell the woman about the school and what they could offer if she accepted an instructor’s position. He acted like he wasn’t giving the conversation more than his nominal attention, but he was very aware of the woman’s emotions. Excitement. Hope. Relief. And a need for some distance from the part of her life that had just ended.
Silence.
He looked at Surreal. She looked at him.
*I think the school would benefit from having her as an instructor,* Surreal said. *And Cambrya would benefit by being there—and perhaps she would find a special friend.*
Oh, Hell’s fire. It took everything he had in him to keep a straight face. Decades ago, one Sceltie—one—came to the school with a boy named Yuli. There had been Scelties at that school ever since. Most of them happily herded everyone, children and teachers alike, but there was usually one that was looking for a poor human who would receive that Sceltie’s undivided attention.
Then again, Cambrya might benefit from having a special friend.
“The position is yours if you want it,” Daemon said. “Lady Surreal can show you the available cottages in the village. If either of them suits you, we will expedite repairs so that you can settle in as quickly as possible.”
“I’m sure either place would be satisfactory,” Cambrya said quickly.
Wounded. As if she needed to apologize for anything that she wanted for herself or for anything that might inconvenience someone else.