“Yes, you are.” A simple statement said with all the conviction he could put in his voice without using a spell to influence her into believing him.
“What if I can’t be a good artist?”
“You would still have fun drawing pictures.” Not the answer she wanted—or needed. He took one of her hands in his. “Witchling . . . can I tell you a secret?”
Titian blinked. “Okay.”
“It’s something your father and I would have told you when you were older, something none of the other children know yet.”
“Okay.”
Careful, old son. Don’t become a burden on a young heart. “Your grandfather was the High Lord of Hell, and he ruled the Dark Realm for a very long time. When he went to the final death and became a whisper in the Darkness, I became the High Lord. I rule the Realm of the dead.”
Her eyes looked huge. “But you’re not dead.”
“Neither was he when he first began to rule Hell.”
She appeared to be thinking very hard, but he had no idea what she was thinking.
“That’s the secret?” she finally said.
Daemon nodded. “Someday everyone will know, but not now. Not yet.”
“But Papa knows?”
“Yes. So does your mother and your aunt Surreal. And a few other grown-ups. Very few.”
“Because people would think you were scary if they knew?”
He expected they would do more than think he was scary. “Yes.”
She nodded. “Some of the Queens and Ladies who come to visit think Papa is scary because he’s called the Demon Prince now. But the people in Riada don’t call him that. It’s important to have a place where people don’t think you’re scary.”
What does this child think about when she’s on her own? And how big a heart does a person need to understand that truth at so young an age?
“Yes. It’s important.” He waited a few moments. “The reason I’m telling you now is because I see the Blood who make the transformation to demon-dead and come to Hell. Some are there for a short time. Some stay a long time. Often they linger because they have unfinished business—something they ignored or put aside while they were living. Many times, sadly, it’s something that would have given them joy while they were alive. Like playing a musical instrument—or drawing.”
He was no longer holding her hand. She was holding his.
“Some of them have talent, and their sketches and paintings are exquisite enough to have been shown in galleries. Some . . . Let’s just say there is joy in the discovery of making an idea tangible.”
“You hang their pictures on the walls, just like the good ones, don’t you?”
His face heated, and he hoped he wasn’t blushing. “I do. There is a gallery at the Hall in Hell where work is displayed. Anyone who wants to is allowed to hang pictures there, whether the work is brilliant or awful, whether it’s charcoal sketches or oil paintings or pencil drawings. For a while, these people can share something that is important to them.” He brushed her hair away from her face. “Don’t wait, Titian. Whether this is a hobby you’ll enjoy throughout your life or something more, don’t wait. And don’t let some girl who is probably envious of your talent stop you. Don’t let her win.”
“Envious?”
“Darling, Queens learn a variety of social skills, including drawing, music, and dancing. That doesn’t mean they have any talent for those activities or continue doing them a minute beyond what is necessary. I think Orian jabbed at you because she couldn’t produce a drawing as good as yours, and she attacked so that you wouldn’t want to draw anymore.”
She didn’t say anything.
“And saying flowers aren’t a proper subject for an Eyrien to draw is a barrel full of crap.”
She gasped at his crudity. “Uncle Daemon!”
“You know who Andulvar Yaslana was, don’t you?”
“The first Demon Prince. He was the founder of our bloodline and a great Eyrien warrior. As good as Papa.” She thought for a moment. “Almost as good.”
Daemon bit back a smile. “That’s the one. A fierce warrior who wore Ebon-gray Jewels, just like your papa. And he ruled Askavi before your papa took over ruling the whole Territory. Sometime soon, I’ll stay an extra day when I’m at the Keep, and you and I will talk to Geoffrey, the historian/librarian, about some pencil drawings Andulvar did. They are very old, and fragile, so they can’t leave the private part of the library, but Geoffrey will show them to us. I will give you three guesses about the subject matter of some of those sketches.”
“Flowers?” Titian guessed.
“Flowers. Now, who, with any honesty, would say that Andulvar Yaslana was not a true Eyrien?”
She’d had enough, maybe even more than she could absorb for now, but he had one more thing.
He called in the artist’s primer. “If you could do me a favor? I’m considering helping an artist get this primer published so that youngsters have some instruction in how to draw objects. Could you try out some of the instructions and examples and let me know if it would be helpful?”
She took the primer and carefully set it with her new supplies. “I can do that.”
Deciding to leave talk about Zoey for another day, Daemon said, “Would you show me your drawings again?”
She called in her drawing pad, and they reviewed the drawings one by one. Some places he recognized from the times he’d gone to some spot or other that Lucivar enjoyed. Some flowers he recognized from the years when he and Jaenelle Angelline spent time at the cabin near Riada. He pointed out techniques she had used for shading that he’d seen in other artists’ work and promised to take her to one of the art galleries in Amdarh the next time she came to visit.
When he sensed Marian and Jaenelle Saetien’s return, he rose and helped Titian to her feet. He almost offered to help her carry the art supplies, but the way she hugged them made him think she wouldn’t surrender them to anyone easily.
By the time they walked into the front room, everyone except Lucivar had returned, and Marian had started preparing the midday meal.
“Uh-uh,” he said when Daemonar and young Andulvar crowded round to see Titian’s presents. “Those are for your sister’s art. These are for you.” He called in a set of the line drawings, another set of colored pencils, and another sharpener.
Young Andulvar was mildly interested in the line drawings. Daemonar wasn’t interested at all. And Jaenelle Saetien? A swirl of emotions dominated by her relief that he had fixed things and Titian looked happier.
“Wash up,” Marian called.
The girls went to Titian’s room to store her supplies. Young Andulvar headed for a bathroom to wash his hands sufficiently that his mother would let him sit at the table.
Daemonar studied Daemon. He studied the boy in turn.
“Did the Lady tell you about the lessons?” Daemonar asked.
“She told me.”
“You’re okay with that?”
Careful. Cautious. This wasn’t a boy asking his uncle; this was a Green-Jeweled Warlord Prince asking the Black.
“There are times when I won’t be able to interact with you,” Daemon said.
“I know. Your healing time is private.”
“Healing time” sounded so benign. Maybe someday it would be. “Yes, it is. But being that it’s you, I can accept the presence of another male in that part of the Keep.” He hoped that was true.
The boy didn’t ask about the time Lucivar spent at the Keep, although most of that time was spent with Karla, reviewing the business of ruling Askavi.