Daemon stared at the young man for a moment before moving his shoe and allowing the Warlord Prince to stand up. Then he called in his wallet, removed a twenty-gold mark, and handed it to Holt.
Another whistle sounded outside, following by barking.
*Now they will listen,* Allis said happily.
Titian looked at her uncle, who looked back and shrugged. “It’s always like this. Deal with it.”
Titian had seen a sheepherding contest in Scelt once. The way the other boys and girls hurried into the great hall reminded her of that, especially when the Scelties came in behind them and fanned out to discourage any humans who might try to bolt.
Zoey snorted a laugh.
Lucivar entered the great hall. Beale shut the door. And Black-Jeweled power rolled through the Hall like soft thunder.
“Welcome to SaDiablo Hall.” Uncle Daemon’s voice held welcome and warning. “You’re under my hand now. I strongly suggest you follow the rules.”
Everyone looked at Uncle Daemon, then at her father, then at Beale, and finally at the Scelties. No matter where you turned, there would be someone nearby to make sure you followed the rules.
Titian breathed a sigh of relief.
Holt escorted the girls who were assigned to the Dark Court’s square of rooms, while Helene took the other girls, and Beale escorted the boys to their assigned rooms.
On the way to their rooms, Titian brushed her hand against Zoey’s and felt relief when her friend gripped her hand and held on.
“Uncle Daemon. Everyone calls him the High Lord now,” she whispered.
Zoey thought for a moment and shook her head. “No, that was Prince Sadi in the great hall. I think the High Lord feels . . . different.”
Different . . . and more dangerous. And that would keep them safe.
FIFTY-THREE
Saetien turned toward the door of her room when Shelby made a funny sound, as if not sure if he should bark a welcome or a warning.
The girl who moved toward her had a vague look in her eyes, was partially dressed—and was holding a pair of scissors. Some of her hair had been cut close to the scalp and the rest was a tangled mess.
Saetien’s breath caught as she recognized the vague look and the psychic scent of someone who had been shattered. Not just broken like the other girls she had met yesterday. This girl was a shattered chalice, a broken, mad Black Widow. Like Tersa.
*Jillian?* she called. *Jillian! I’m in my room. I need help!* Then to Shelby, *Stay on the bed and stay quiet.*
*But . . . ,* he began.
*Stay quiet.*
“Is there something I can do for you?” she asked. Like take those scissors before you do more harm?
“I saw you there, standing witness.”
“I saw you too,” Saetien said. She hadn’t seen that much. She’d been too busy retching over what Krellis and Dhuran had done to this girl.
“We were in the pretty poison, where debts are paid.” The girl grabbed a fistful of tangled hair and cut it off, dropping it on the floor.
“Maybe you should let someone help you with that.” Saetien gestured to the scissors. “Otherwise, your hair will be uneven.”
“Like the rest of me.” She smiled, but the look in her eyes was strangely feral.
In order to pay her debt to Witch, she needed to become a living memento mori for seven girls who had been damaged by the coven of malice. This girl was one of them. “What’s your name?”
“I am Tersa the Weaver, Tersa the Liar, Tersa the Fool.” The girl cut off another hunk of hair and frowned. “No, she’s the one who stopped me before I got lost following the twisting paths, told me I needed to stay close to the border, told me I needed to listen to the song in the Darkness. Have you heard it? The song is wonderful, so full of joy and pain, rage and celebration. It is beautiful and deadly, and it was the song that filled the place that was the pretty poison.”
Saetien blinked back tears. “I know who you mean.”
“She told me to stop doing this.” The girl pushed up the baggy sleeves of a sweater she must have taken from someone else, revealing the still-healing slices in her arms.
*Jillian!* Saetien pleaded.
“She showed me how to find this place, said that parts of me could heal here.” The girl stared at the scissors, then at her arm.
“Teresa,” Jillian said quietly from the doorway. “What are you doing?”
It was like watching someone sort through pieces of a broken dish to find a specific part of the pattern.
Delora did this, just like someone must have done it to Tersa, Saetien thought.
“Krellis said my hair was beautiful,” Teresa finally said, having found the answer to the question. “He said it was beautiful and made his lust burn, and that’s why he . . .”
Her hands rose. Jillian rushed over and grabbed the scissors before Teresa drove the points into her own face.
Jillian vanished the scissors, then put an arm around Teresa’s shoulders. “Come on,” she said gently. “We’ll go to your room and finish trimming your hair.”
As they turned toward the door, Teresa stopped and looked back at Saetien. “Delora and Hespera didn’t die.”
“I think they did,” Saetien replied, not sure if Teresa would find comfort in that.
“The flesh, yes, but not them. Not yet. They’re still there, somewhere, and they’ll be screaming in the dark, alone, for as long as any of us are screaming. The song carries too many memories of the ones who died in that place, and she is unforgiving because she was one of us. Rage and celebration.” A tear rolled down Teresa’s face. “I think I should try to be part of the celebration.”
“I think she would like that,” Jillian said. Then to Saetien, *Are you all right?*
Saetien nodded.
*First class starts in an hour. Eyrien sparring sticks.*
*I’ll be there.*
As soon as Jillian led Teresa away and closed the door, Saetien sank on the bed and gathered Shelby in her arms.
*Saeti?* The puppy licked her chin. *She is like Tersa? We know Tersa. We can help her.*
“She needs to heal a bit before she’ll be like Tersa. We need to be careful when we’re around her, help her stay near the border.” And I will take the time to learn who she might have been.
“Come on.” She put Shelby on the floor, then nudged him aside when he became too interested in Teresa’s hair. When her attempt to vanish it failed, she wrapped the hair in one of her towels and took it with her, stopping at the housekeeper’s office to ask how to dispose of it.
Teresa wanted to be a part of the song’s celebration. As Saetien walked outside to find the other Scelties and give Shelby some time to play, she wondered if she could ever pay the debt well enough to no longer be a note in the song’s rage.
FIFTY-FOUR
Daemonar stepped into the large . . . ballroom? . . . and looked around. Either Uncle Daemon wasn’t planning to do any formal entertaining for a while, or this was an auxiliary ballroom. He ran his boot over the wooden floor that was recently buffed but not polished to the equivalent of ice. He considered how the light coming in from the wall of windows could be used to teach someone to fight in sunlight or shadows. He eyed the various hooks and hangers in the walls. Bows would fit over there with quivers of arrows underneath. Eyrien sticks were already stored in that wall rack. If he asked, would Beale be able to uncover targets used for practice, tucked somewhere in the attic?
Maybe this room had been built for a kind of dance that wasn’t social.
Calling in his own sparring stick, Daemonar rolled his shoulders. He still had light shields around the bones that were newly healed, but thank the Darkness, he no longer had the eye-throbbing shield Auntie J. had put around his arm. But, she had added sweetly when she removed that shield, if he didn’t want to light up bright enough to wake up the folks in Halaway every time there was a twinge of pain in that bone, he would take care when he started practicing again with sticks and weapons.