Daemon nodded. “I’ll head home in the morning.”
“Marian made a pie this afternoon.”
“Oh? Her pies are usually not up for grabs.”
“If we’re caught helping ourselves, I’ll just blame you.”
Daemon laughed. “That’s fair.”
They found Marian in the kitchen. Half the pie was already divided into four pieces and on plates. The other half was divided in two and still in the dish. She put the plates on a serving tray, then gave Daemon a kiss on the cheek.
“You do realize that that old book isn’t the only one in the Keep that Daemonar would like to have for his own?” She smiled at him. “He’s making a list for you.”
Daemon looked at the remaining half of the pie. “So I get a quarter of the pie as a reward for future endeavors?”
“Something like that.” She picked up the tray and walked out of the kitchen.
Lucivar took two forks out of a drawer, put the pie dish on the table, and said, “Dig in.”
Since Marian’s pies were delicious, and Lucivar wasn’t above taking more than his share from a common dish, Daemon did exactly that.
The Seneschal had done something to the room where Tersa hid to keep her presence undetected until her boy had left the Keep.
Cautious—a feeling she’d never experienced before because of her boy—Tersa returned to the sitting room closest to the metal gate. The door stood open. The tangled web on the table was still intact. And studying that web . . .
Witch turned to look at her. “I know what I see in this web. Tell me what you see.”
Tersa walked up to the table and stood near the Queen. She felt anger burning under ice. Contained. Controlled. For now.
“Malevolence and rot, hidden by youth and a mask of innocence,” Tersa replied. “Choices that will ripple through the Shadow Realm and leave Dhemlan bloody. And a sharp price that will have to be paid.”
“Have you and I ever paid any other kind of price, Sister?” Witch asked.
“No,” Tersa whispered. Then she hesitated before adding, “What the boy saw in the web . . . He will not remember what called to his rage, but he will recognize it when the malevolence begins to crack through the mask of innocence. And then—”
“I will hold him back long enough for him to make a clear choice, to recognize and accept what will come from his actions and what price will have to be paid,” Witch said.
Those sapphire eyes looked beyond the madness of a tangled mind, looked deep and acknowledged all the choices Tersa had already made.
A secret between them, forever contained in the Twisted Kingdom—and in the Misty Place—beyond the reach of anyone else.
“Say the words that are at the core of this tangled web. Speak the truth of what the visions revealed,” Witch said softly.
“If the High Lord hesitates, if he does not shape his rage into a blade for slaughter, a witch like Dorothea SaDiablo will rise in Dhemlan and spread her particular kind of poison, will sink her roots into the hearts of Dhemlan’s people. Another like Dorothea will gain enough power and support to corrupt and then destroy.”
“She is coming?” Witch asked.
Tersa looked at the tangled web. Shaking her head, she reached out and swiped a hand through the strands of spider silk, destroying the vision. “She is already here.”
PART TWO
Weapons Unleashed
TEN
Daemonar stood on the canyon’s edge, looking down at the Blood Run in Askavi Kaeleer. For generations, the Eyrien males in Askavi Terreille had gone to the Blood Run to test their strength and skill, a rite of passage to prove they were ready to be warriors, ready to be men.
The Rihlander friends who were near his equivalent age and on the cusp of reaching their majority thought it was an insane way to prove you had balls enough to be an adult, with adult privileges and responsibilities. Even Beron, who was part of the SaDiablo family, questioned the merits of a custom that required young men to fly the length of a canyon where winds and Winds collided in a dangerous, grueling test of mental and physical strength.
Daemonar understood the reason the custom was questioned. The Blood Run, as the lesser run, held the threads of the lighter Winds, from White to Opal. You had to be able to ride those Winds—or at least the ones that were your Jewel strength or less—while being buffeted by fierce winds that could push you off course enough to have a wing strike the canyon walls or the spears of stone you had to weave through as you dropped from one Wind and caught another.
A grueling test that had been required of every Eyrien male in Terreille.
Some hadn’t survived it. Some had survived but were maimed and lived on the edges of Eyrien society, dregs who were considered useless and had little future—and often went back to the Blood Run to be smashed to pieces and die.
The Blood Run was hard enough. The Khaldharon Run was the ultimate test of the strongest warriors since the Winds that ran through the Khaldharon were the darker Winds, from Green to Black.
Lucivar was the only Eyrien living in Kaeleer who had made the Khaldharon Run. Had, in fact, made the Khaldharon more than once, which was something no other warrior could say.
Someday, after he made the Offering to the Darkness and wore the Jewel that was the reservoir for his mature power, Daemonar would test himself in the Khaldharon. But today, he faced the Blood Run.
Lucivar left the group of Eyrien warriors who had gathered as witnesses and walked over to Daemonar. Still a strong man and still in his prime, but there were some mornings when it was obvious to anyone who noticed—anyone Lucivar allowed to notice—that the damage that had been done when he was younger bothered him more as the years passed, might cost him more when he stepped onto a killing field. It would be a lot of years before anyone could stand against him and survive, but that day would come.
And that was the main reason Daemonar Yaslana was standing at the edge of this canyon, preparing himself for this particular rite of passage. Because when that day came and he took his place at his father’s side, he needed to be acknowledged as a warrior by the rest of the Eyriens living in Kaeleer.
“You don’t have to do this,” Lucivar said.
Daemonar gave his father a crooked smile and looked him in the eyes. “Yes, I do.”
It still surprised him that they were the same height now. Oh, he had the leanness of youth and didn’t have the breadth of shoulders or the muscle of an adult male, but he no longer looked up at his father.
Lucivar huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, you do. And better to do it the traditional way than having you leap into the run unprepared.” A brutal reminder of a recent death.
Daemonar had been preparing for decades, training with the warriors who worked for Lucivar—and training with Lucivar. Learning the aerial dances that were beautiful to watch and damn hard to perform. Spending hours doing precision flying with Lucivar, Rothvar, and Zaranar. More hours practicing with Tamnar and Alanar since the three of them were the only Eyrien males of a comparable age living around Riada.
Tamnar had successfully made the Blood Run some time ago. Alanar had made the Run a couple of months ago. An Eyrien youth who lived around Doun was supposed to make the Run on the same day, but Lucivar had refused to give his permission. He said, and Rothvar had agreed, that the youth needed more practice and seasoning. The youth hotly insisted that he was ready—and just as hotly denied that he was showing up late for his training because he preferred the lessons he was receiving from some of the older Rihlander girls.