Anne Bishop - Tangled Webs

There had been agony in that sound.

His fault. He couldn’t remember why, but he was certain of that.

Prothvar would know.

The thought brought tears to his eyes. He blinked them back.

Prothvar was gone now. Truly gone. He had died on a killing field over fifty thousand years before, in the war between Terreille and Kaeleer, but he had remained, along with Andulvar and Mephis, as one of the demon-dead who continued to guard the Shadow Realm. In a way, the war that Jaenelle had stopped last year had been an extension of that first war, since Hekatah had been behind both conflicts.

In a way, when Prothvar gave himself to Jaenelle’s webs to help protect the Blood when she unleashed her full power, he had stepped onto the last battlefield of that old war.

So Prothvar was gone now. Truly gone. So were Andulvar and Mephis.

Whatever had happened the day Lucivar had caused that sound to thunder out of his father had changed his life, had changed him. He was sure of that. Now he needed to know why.

There was only one person he could ask.

He closed his eyes—and felt a single tear roll down his face. He wasn’t sure if the tear was for the boy he had been or the family members who were gone.

As he rocked his son, the weight of that old memory that was only a feeling settled over him—and smothered everything else.

Surreal pulled Rainier into the town house’s sitting room the moment he arrived.

“Did you get one of these?” she asked, holding out a cream-colored invitation.

“No,” he replied after he read it.

She watched his expression change into a thoughtful frown. “What?”

“Well, Jaenelle and Marian both know anyone they invite to view the spooky house will show up—especially anyone from the family—so why set this up like a test of obedience?” He studied her deliberately blank expression. “Queens—especially young Queens—sometimes test their First Circle by making demands that aren’t harmful but also aren’t considerate. The phrasing on this invitation makes this a command to attend, and since the viewing is for this evening, you’re expected to cancel whatever plans or commitments you had made and obey.”

“Maybe they wanted to make sure the invitations wouldn’t be ignored.”

“Maybe.” But Rainier didn’t sound convinced.

It didn’t sound like something Jaenelle or Marian would do, but they could have gotten the jitters about showing the spooky house and hadn’t thought out the phrasing of the invitations.

Surreal hooked her hair behind her pointed ears. “Doesn’t matter. There isn’t much time to get there, so I’ve asked for a quick meal. We’ll eat in a few minutes. I’m going to change clothes. You talk to Helton and find out where this village is.”

“Surreal.” Rainier looked a little embarrassed. “I wasn’t invited.”

“Did you or did you not tell me you would stand as an official escort whenever I needed one?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Then it’s settled. I’m going to change, and you’re going to find out how to get to the spooky house.”

He flashed a smile at her as he opened the sitting room door. She returned the smile as she walked past him. Then she bolted up the stairs. But she paused when she reached her bedroom, bothered by Rainier’s comment that the phrasing of the invitation sounded like a test—especially since the invitation arrived just a few minutes before he did, and barely gave them time to grab a quick meal before they had to leave.

What bothered her even more was the feeling that she’d recently read or heard about someone who had been given a similar kind of test, but she couldn’t remember where—or why.

The eyrie was quiet. Much too quiet. And there wasn’t a single lamp or candle in use even though the rain and clouds here in Ebon Rih had brought on nightfall sooner than usual.

Leaving the front door open, Marian removed her cape and hung it on the coat-tree. Using Craft, she created a small ball of witchlight, which she tossed into the middle of the room. Then she called in the hunting knife Lucivar had given her. She handled knives all the time in the kitchen, which was why he’d decided this was a practical weapon for her to carry.

It felt different—because it was meant for something different. She could accept that. Even embrace it. She had changed enough from the timid hearth witch she had been when she’d first come to Kaeleer that she could—and would—use that knife to protect her family.

Using Craft to keep the witchlight moving in front of her, Marian crept toward the kitchen. Then she stopped. Sniffed. Brought the witchlight closer to the floor and studied the telltale spots of dried pee that hadn’t been wiped up. She raised her hand and gave the candle-lights inside the lamp on the kitchen table a touch of power.

The lamp’s soft light filled the kitchen.

Nothing out of order.

Moving farther into the eyrie, she passed the room where Lucivar conducted the formal business of being the Prince of Ebon Rih, and continued on into the family rooms.

And then she found her husband and son in the room they used as a family parlor—a room that was comfortable for adults but could withstand the rough-and-tumble play of an Eyrien boy. Lucivar was in the rocking chair. Daemonar was on his lap. Both were sound asleep.

Marian studied the doorway. Felt the light presence of power. The shield around this room would alert Lucivar to someone’s presence the moment anyone or anything crossed the threshold. And the moment that happened, even before he was fully awake or had opened his eyes, he would be primed to attack.

«Lucivar,» she called softly on a psychic thread.

A change in his breathing, telling her he was awake and aware. He didn’t open his eyes, but he dropped the shield, allowing her into the room.

She entered the room, brought the ball of witchlight back to her hand, then set it in a bowl made of stained glass that sat on a table near the doorway.

As she crossed the room, Lucivar opened his eyes. For a moment there was baffled annoyance, as if he’d been angry with her for some reason but now couldn’t remember why. Then he looked at her right hand—and smiled.

Puzzled by his amusement, she looked down.

“It was dark and quiet,” she said, huffing out a breath as she vanished the hunting knife.

Lucivar’s smiled widened. “Worried about me, sweetheart?”

“Maybe.” She leaned down, resting one hand on his shoulder while the other hand lightly touched her son’s head, and gave Lucivar a soft kiss. “Should I ask why the two of you are tired enough to be asleep at this hour?”

“You don’t want to know.”

She’d take his word for it.

Lucivar turned his head and looked out the window. “Sun’s down.”

“It is, yes.”

He looked down at Daemonar. “Should we wake him up so he’ll sleep later or just put him to bed and accept that tomorrow will start in the wee hours of the morning?”

“Are you up to dealing with him?”

“No.” That sounded like a groan. “Besides, I need to fly over to the Keep and see the High Lord.”

“Then let’s put him to bed. I stopped at The Tavern and picked up some food. We can eat when you get back.”

Lucivar shifted Daemonar and stood up. “Fair enough.” When they reached the doorway, he stopped.

“What?” Marian asked.

Lucivar stared at nothing. “Don’t know. Just…It was an eventful afternoon, and I feel like I’ve forgotten something.”

Lucivar walked into the small parlor at the Keep and did a quick assessment. Drapes drawn. Fire going, with plenty of wood in the copper basket. A cozy feel for a chilly, rainy night. His father wearing a wool dressing gown over shirt and trousers. Slippers instead of shoes. Hair that was clean but looked as if it had been finger-combed instead of brushed.