Surreal felt cold. She’d heard this story before. But not in Kaeleer. Not in Dhemlan. “Your friend ate or drank something and began to feel strange. Then someone, probably not the cock, helped her to someplace a bit private where she could rest.”
“She doesn’t remember much after that. Images. Then she was tied down and gagged, and a hood was pulled over her head. Then he came. I think he hit her with a belt, judging by the welts I saw. Hit her buttocks, her legs. He put a hand over her face, blocking her ability to breathe. Just a few seconds at a time, but over and over. She tried to use Craft, she tried to use raw power to strike back, but she said she couldn’t find it—and he was just a little bit stronger. Just enough. And when she was too frightened to think, that’s when he did the rest . . . and broke into her body and broke her power. Shattered her ability to wear her Birthright Jewel, and destroyed the potential of whoever she could have been.”
“She went home and told her parents?”
“No. She came to my home, and my parents and I took her to the District Queen to have the Queen’s Healer make a record of the damage. She couldn’t name the boy. She hadn’t seen him, and all his friends swore he hadn’t gone near her that afternoon.”
“What did her father say?”
“He said she’d been acting the slut, and it wasn’t the boy’s fault if she’d ended up broken,” the speaker said bitterly. “Of course, his wife was wearing new, expensive clothes shortly after that, and he had plenty of money to toss around on wagers. For a while. Then that aristo family left the village, and the wife was no longer able to buy expensive clothes and he was struggling to pay off his bets. Lately, he’s been making cutting remarks about how a girl who only had one chance of getting pregnant and having a child didn’t have much to offer a husband who could help out the family.”
Surreal pushed the tea aside, her stomach too queasy to tolerate food or drink. “Anything else?”
Silence. Then, “When he was . . . pounding . . . himself inside her, he said the descendants of Hayll’s Hundred Families would rule Dhemlan one day, and he was helping to bring that day about a little sooner.”
Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful. This was a connection to the secret acquisition of Hayllian memorabilia and the other obscenities that were being smuggled into Kaeleer. This was confirmation that at least some of the girls had been broken deliberately, like they’d been broken in Terreille.
But who was the bitch who fancied herself to be the next Dorothea SaDiablo?
“How fast can your friend be ready to leave?”
“Anytime. She’ll be running with the clothes on her back and whatever is in her hands.”
“She has to be sure, because there’s no going back,” Surreal said. “Every person who comes to live at the sanctuary . . . A record is made at the Keep as to why the person is there and if her relatives are a danger to her. Or him. There are a few boys there as well.”
“I think her father knew,” the speaker whispered. “I think the aristo paid him to make sure she would be at the party.”
“Have your friend meet me at the edge of the village in an hour. We’re running.”
“Her father may try to stop you if he realizes she’s leaving.”
Surreal smiled. “It’s been a while since I skinned a man alive, but I haven’t forgotten what my mother taught me.”
*SADI!*
Daemon surged to his feet, dropping the stack of invitations he’d been reviewing with Holt—an instinctive response to the fury in Surreal’s voice.
*Surreal?*
*Where are you?*
*The Hall.*
*Stay there. We need to talk.* She broke the communication thread.
Daemon looked at Holt, who looked at him, wary and wide-eyed.
“Problem?” Holt asked.
“Surreal is heading home, and she is pissed.” Daemon resumed his seat. “I don’t know if I’m the cause, but she hasn’t sounded this angry in a long time. You may want to make yourself scarce until I know what this is about.”
“Should I inform Beale to keep the staff away from this part of the Hall?”
“Yes.”
Holt stood and gathered his notes. “I guess there’s no point deciding on invitations.”
“Oh, I’ll look at them and make some preliminary decisions.”
Once Holt was gone, Daemon leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs at the knees, and steepled his fingers, resting the index fingers against his chin—and wondered if Surreal would walk into his study and aim a crossbow at him to make sure she had his undivided attention.
Daemonar hesitated on the town house’s steps, surprised to feel the tug of that fragmented mind.
What was Tersa doing in Amdarh?
The front door of the SaDiablo side of the town house opened. Helton looked at him, then looked toward the park that made up the center of the square. “I think she’s been waiting for you.”
“For me? Are you sure?” More likely, Tersa would be looking for Uncle Daemon, her boy.
“The winged boy’s son. I told her you would be home soon. She walked into the park.”
Daemonar nodded, then crossed the street. The park had a small fountain that provided drinking water for birds and small animals—and children who couldn’t be bothered to go inside when they were thirsty. There were flower beds and benches, stands of trees at either end, and a grassy, open center that had been great for sparring and playing with Scelties or other children.
When he reached the open center, he stood still and opened his first inner barrier just enough to feel that tug again.
There. Beneath the trees.
He strode to that end of the park, then slowed down. Tersa rarely ventured out of Halaway. The familiar village provided touchstones for her broken mind. Amdarh was too busy, too noisy. If she was here . . .
“Tersa?” he called. “Tersa? It’s Daemonar. You wanted to talk to me?”
He waited. He’d learned a long time ago that you couldn’t rush Tersa, especially if she was trying to find a path back to the borders of the Twisted Kingdom.
“How many sides does a triangle have?” She stepped from behind a tree and walked up to him, holding out her hand.
How many times over the years had she asked him this question?
Cupping one hand under hers, he used the forefinger of his other hand to draw three lines on the palm of her hand. Over and over and over.
“A triangle has three sides,” he said. Before she could contradict him, he added, “But a Blood triangle has four sides.” As he traced the shape on her palm, he named the sides. “Steward, Master of the Guard, and Consort—and the one who rules all three.” He pressed his finger in the center of the triangle to indicate the Queen.
“That is not your triangle,” Tersa said. She slipped her hand under his and began tracing lines on his palm. “Father, uncle, nephew. Father, uncle, nephew. Queen’s weapons, all. Dangerous. Deadly. Necessary.” Her finger kept tracing the lines. “Don’t die, young Prince. She will be very displeased if you get careless and die.”
Mother Night. “Have you seen me standing on a killing field, Tersa?”
“Love will bring you to that field. Love . . . and betrayal.”
She released his hand and stepped back. She looked around, suddenly shivering as she wrapped her arms around herself. “Is this Draega?”
Draega? A familiar word from a history lesson? Draega was . . . Ah! The capital city of Hayll, in the Realm of Terreille.
Daemonar felt as if the sun had faded without warning.
“No, Tersa.” He gently put an arm around her shoulders, hoping he wouldn’t frighten her into running. “This is Amdarh, the capital of Dhemlan, in Kaeleer. Your boy’s house is right over there.” He pointed. “I’m pretty sure there are nutcakes today.”