Daughter of the Blood

some things."
    Daemon frowned. "Promised who?"
    "Tersa."
    Daemon counted to ten. "How do you know Tersa?"
    "It was time, Daemon," Jaenelle said, ignoring his question.
    Daemon counted to ten again. "Tersa's very special to me."
    "I know," Jaenelle said quietly. "But you're grown up now, Daemon. You don't really need her anymore. And it was time for her to leave the Twisted Kingdom . . . but she'd been there so long, she couldn't find her way back by herself."
    The room was so cold—not the cold of anger, the cold of fear. Daemon held Jaenelle's hands between his own, taking small comfort from their warmth. He didn't want to understand. He truly did not want to understand. But he did. "You went into the Twisted Kingdom, didn't you?" he said, trying desperately to keep his voice calm. "You walked the roads of madness to find her and led her back to sanity—at least as far as she can come."
    "Yes."
    "Didn't you think—" His voice broke from the strain. "Didn't it occur to you it might be dangerous?"
    Jaenelle looked puzzled. "Dangerous?" She shook her head. "No. It's just a different way of seeing, Daemon."
    Daemon closed his eyes. Did she fear nothing? Not even madness?
    "Besides, I've traveled that far before, so I knew the way back."
    Daemon tasted blood where his teeth had nicked his tongue.
    "But it took a while to find her, and it took a while to convince her it was time to go, that she didn't need to stay inside the visions all the time." Jaenelle gave his hands a little squeeze. "The Priest is going to buy a cottage for her in a little village near the Hall in Kaeleer. She'll have people there who will look after her, and a garden to work in, and Black Widow Sisters to talk to."
    Daemon pulled her into his arms and held her tight. "You convinced her to live there?" he whispered into her hair. "She'll really be in a decent house with decent clothes and good food and people who will understand?" Her head moved up and down. He sighed. "Then it was worth the worry. A hundred times that would have been worth it."
    "That's what the Priest said—after the scolding."
    Daemon smiled against her hair. "Did he say anything else?"
    "Lots of things," Jaenelle grumbled. "Something about sitting down comfortably, but I didn't understand him and he wouldn't repeat it."
    Daemon coughed. Jaenelle raised her head, eyeing him suspiciously. He tried for a bland expression. She looked more suspicious.
    Passing footsteps in the corridor made him turn, his body tensed, his eyes fixed on the door.
    "You'd better join your sister." He handed her the coat and hat. Before he opened the door, Daemon paused.
    "Thank you." It was far from adequate, but it was all he could think of to say. Jaenelle nodded and slipped out the door.

3—Terreille
    Daemon had just finished brushing his hair, ready for another day of Winsol activity, when Jaenelle tapped lightly on his door and bounced into the room. He wasn't sure when his room had become mutual territory, but he was much less casual about the way he dressed—and undressed—than he had been.
    Jaenelle bounced up beside him, her eyes fixed on his face. Daemon smiled. "Do I meet with your approval?"
    She reached up, brushed her fingers against his cheek, and frowned. "Your face is smooth."
    One eyebrow rising, Daemon turned back to the mirror to check his collar. "Hayllian men don't have facial hair." He paused. "Neither do Dhemlans or Eyriens, for that matter."
    Jaenelle still frowned. "I don't understand."
    Daemon shrugged. "Differences in race is all."
    "No." Jaenelle shook her head. "If you don't have to take the hair off the way Philip does, why did Graff say you might serve better if you were shaved? Philip does it hims—"
    Daemon's fist hit the top of the dresser, splitting the wood from end to end. He gripped the edges while he fought for control. The bitch. The bitch, to make such a suggestion!
    "It means something else, doesn't it?" Jaenelle said in her midnight voice.
    "It's nothing," Daemon growled through clenched teeth.
    "What does it mean, Daemon?"
    "Leave it alone, Jaenelle."
    "Prince."
    Daemon's fist smashed the dresser again. "If you're so curious, ask your damn mentor!" He turned away, struggling to regain control. After a moment, he turned again, saying, "Jaenelle, I'm sorry."
    She was already gone.

4—Hell
    Saetan and Andulvar sat around the blackwood desk, drinking yarbarah while waiting for Jaenelle. Saetan had returned to the private study beneath the Hall in order