Karla nodded. “I wonder if that’s why he came to Amdarh to teach at a school here. From what I can see, Rainier was the only Warlord Prince in the family who wore dark Jewels, and that caste has been rare in this bloodline, regardless of what Jewels were worn.”
“Rainier’s family liked him better when he kept his distance,” Surreal said. “That’s why he rarely went back to Dharo to visit—and why he never went back to live there.”
“Anyway,” Karla said. “Everything points to him being an honorable man who can be trusted.”
“Daemonar likes him,” Lucivar said. He felt the Black approaching and turned toward the library door.
Daemon opened the door and took one step inside. “Prince Yaslana, we need to talk.”
Not his brother standing there. Not the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. And not the Sadist. Which left the High Lord of Hell.
He followed Daemon to one of the sitting rooms situated not far from the library. Daemon walked over to a table that held a tray with several cut-crystal decanters and glasses, filled two glasses, and held one out.
He took the glass but didn’t drink.
“I’m sorry, Lucivar.”
He studied Daemon’s eyes. This wasn’t . . . personal. This wasn’t about his wife or children. But Daemon thought it would hurt him and wanted to tell him in private.
“Who?” he asked.
“Orian and Dorian.”
Lucivar sighed. “Hell’s fire, that didn’t take long.”
Daemon took a long swallow of whiskey. “The demon-dead Eyriens who keep watch over Askavi Terreille brought them to Hell. When the two women made the transition to demon-dead, more or less, Chaosti came to get me.”
“More or less?” A fine tremor went through his hand, almost sloshing whiskey over the rim of the glass. He drank half of it, letting the burn steady him.
“I don’t know what they did or said, but the rage behind those executions . . .” Daemon hesitated. “I drained what was left of their power and finished the kill. They’re whispers in the Darkness now.”
“You gave them mercy.”
“That was part of it. Another part was wondering if Orian would become a malevolence like Hekatah became if she was allowed to remain in Hell, hiding until her presence was forgotten.”
He didn’t want to think that about someone he’d watched grow from toddler to young woman. But he also didn’t want to think about the significance of those lists Daemon had made.
He had to think about that. “You’re going after the children.”
“Yes.”
“Because one of them reminds you of Dorothea.”
“Because there was a warning in a tangled web that another like Dorothea was going to rise, cloaked in youth and innocence. Well, she’s come, Prick. Our Queen said I would remember when I needed to remember. Your boy being at that school kept chipping away at the lock on that memory, and seeing that girl . . .” Daemon released a breath in a way that was too controlled, too careful. “That people are collecting Hayllian memorabilia troubles me. That people are romanticizing Dorothea’s cruelty to make it more palatable to those who had never been on the receiving end of that cruelty enrages me. But there is no indication of some widespread conspiracy to start a war here, no threats being made toward the rest of the people in Dhemlan. At least, not by the adults. However, there is a group of youngsters who seem to be actively following the kind of viciousness that Dorothea relished. Maybe their families are the ones who want to remake Dhemlan into another Hayll, or maybe the adults just like to talk about it and it’s the youngsters who have gathered around someone who has the right blend of malevolence and charisma to make it a reality. Either way, I’ve seen the faces of these particular enemies and have to deal with them, no matter the cost.”
A burning in his gut. “If you do this . . .”
“I will be known throughout the Realm as the High Lord of Hell, monstrous and feared.” Daemon smiled bitterly. “It was coming. Had to come. And I would rather it come saving Queens like Zoey and all the other strong young witches than for some lesser reason. I can live with destroying some in order to save the best.”
Lucivar huffed out a breath. “All right. What do we—”
“Me. Not you.”
“Piss on that,” he snapped. “You don’t walk into this alone.”
Daemon drained his glass and refilled it. “I need to be sure they deserve . . . When I destroyed bitches in Terreille, regardless of their age, I was always sure because of what they’d done to me or what I witnessed them do to someone else.”
“Okay. How can we be sure?” The thought of executing girls Titian’s age made him sick. “You think this is why Dorothea managed to grow up to become what she was, to do what she did? Because the Warlord Princes who saw the warning signs didn’t have the balls to carry the weight of those executions?”
“And she had Hekatah whispering in the shadows, nurturing that malevolent side of her nature,” Daemon said. “Be sure you want to carry the weight of this particular war, Lucivar.”
He held out his glass and waited for Daemon to refill it—and wished the whiskey decanter was filled with Chaosti’s home brew. That, at least, would knock him on his ass for a little while.
“If you’re going to do this, I have to carry part of that weight.” He stared into his glass. “My body still carries some of the scars from the beatings, the whippings, the torture. Inside me, I carry other kinds of scars. I still dream about it sometimes. Still feel the burning rage from the drugs they used to try to breed me. Still wake up some nights because I feel my skin part beneath the whip.” He looked at his brother. “You?”
“Sometimes.”
“My boys have seen some of the scars; I tell them stories so they have some understanding about the scars that can’t be seen. And I will stand on a killing field and meet whatever I need to meet in order to prevent them from knowing those things firsthand.”
“Agreed.” Daemon sighed. “Surreal and I are going to look at every girl who was broken in the towns or villages where one of the coven of malice resided. We’re going to find out who did the breaking. The Province Queens know me well enough to know how I’ll react if I find a pattern, so I have to think that there was nothing obvious enough to draw their attention.”
“Wouldn’t have drawn our attention right now if our children weren’t at that school too,” Lucivar said.
“Surreal set up a sanctuary for broken witches where they can receive training and rebuild their lives. She would have noticed eventually that specific kinds of girls were being ‘accidentally’ broken.”
“And she would have honed her knives.” But how many strong witches would have been lost before that?
Daemon smiled. “Of course.”
Lucivar drank the whiskey, then used Craft to float the glass back to the tray. “I’ll have a word with the Province Queens in Askavi, have them look to see if there is a pattern to the girls who aren’t surviving their Virgin Nights with their power and Jewels intact.”
“I’ll set up meetings with the other Territory Queens, give them warning that things could get messy in Dhemlan.”
“Winsol is coming soon.”
“I know. I won’t have enough information to act before then.”
“A last celebration.”
Daemon stepped close and rested his forehead against Lucivar’s. “Let’s hope it’s not the last.” He stepped back. “I’ve asked Chaosti to bring a fist of his men and take the night watch at the school. Weston and Zhara’s guards can take the day watch. We’ll keep the children safe, at least while they’re there.”