Twilight's Dawn

the woman enough sustenance to keep the Self inside the flesh until she had the reassurance that her children were safe. What would have happened to her after that? Most likely, in a few days or weeks, that woman’s power would have faded and she would have become a whisper in the Darkness. Saetan was realistic. He had to be. Hundreds of Blood died every day. He couldn’t take care of all of them personally.
    But he could, and did, protect the living from the dead. And wasn’t that part of Saetan’s—and Daemon’s—anger? No Face was demon-dead and was still hunting in a living Realm, was hunting now in Dhemlan.
    Instead of recognizing the rage growing in two Warlord Princes, she had remained focused on another woman’s fear as if it were her own—even though she knew that woman’s choice would not have been hers. She would have gone to the District Queen or the Province Queen or broken down the door at SaDiablo Hall if that was what it took to get help. She wouldn’t have sacrificed another woman’s child, even at the cost of her own.
    Sylvia lowered the skirt and carefully arranged the folds. She was a spectator now, nothing more. As hard as it was to wait, she had to trust the living to take care of the living.

FIVE

    B eron walked along Halaway’s streets, looking into shop windows and wishing he’d brought along a few coins so he could suggest buying dishes of flavored ice.
    “I have money,” Jaenelle said.
    He looked at her. Long golden hair and sapphire eyes, wearing one of those peculiar outfits that were too big for her. Only fifteen years old, but her eyes were ancient.
    Fifteen? “You’re older now,” he told her.
    “I can be,” she replied cheerfully as she held up a silver mark. “It’s your dream. But at either age, I still have enough money for two bowls of flavored ice.”
    He laughed. It made his throat hurt enough that he really wanted that ice.
    “It’s bad out there,” he said. “But you know that. You knew that before the rest of us did.”
    “There are also strong men out there who will defend and protect,” she said. “They won’t let you come to harm.”
    “I’ve seen his face.”
    “Show me. Let him take shape here.”
    Beron shook his head. “If I show you, you’ll be in danger too.”
    Something brushed against him, muscle and fur hidden within a sight shield. More movement and soft sounds all around them.
    “We won’t be the ones in danger,” Jaenelle said softly.
    The face of the enemy floated in the air before them.
    “He’s rather pretty, isn’t he?” she said. “You would never guess what was hidden under the skin. No matter. Now he doesn’t have any masks to hide behind.”

    Beron opened his eyes. The room looked cloudy, and his ears felt plugged. His heart jumped when someone sat on the bed. He struggled to make his eyes work.
    *Don’t push it,* Jaenelle said on a psychic thread. *Your vision and hearing will improve daily unless you disobey your Healer, being me, and do something stupid, which will give you swollen balls.*
    *Why?* he asked.
    *Because I will kick them.*
    Of course she would. Jaenelle the Healer didn’t tolerate any nonsense or sass.
    *Can you sit up?* she asked.
    *I think so.* She helped him sit up, and being closer helped clear his vision enough to know he was looking at Jaenelle as she was now rather than the girl in the dream.
    *There.* She settled herself on the side of the bed and reached for the two bowls of flavored ice floating on air. She handed him one. *Raspberry. Your favorite.*
    He grinned. *It’s as if you knew I wanted some.*
    She grinned in return. *Imagine that.*

    A voice full of lightning and caverns and midnight skies floated through the Darkness, winding its way through sleep and dreams.
    We know your face , the voice whispered.
    For most, whether they were demon-dead or living, there was a kind of comfort in hearing the words, in being known by that voice.
    We know your face.
    But one man opened his eyes and shivered with fear, knowing his time was running out.

SIX

    D aemon tucked his hands in his trousers pockets. Then, remembering the gesture didn’t belong to the boy whose face he now wore, he withdrew them and asked, “How do I look?”
    Tersa studied him, looking confused in a way that worried him. The mundane world was a fragile thing for his mother, more like an illusion she could interact with than solid ground and living people. For Tersa, the roads of the Twisted Kingdom were far