Laurell Hamilton - Nightseer

He said, “And it has always bothered me that I did not have the pleasure of killing you, half-breed.”

Methia motioned the guards forward. They stood to either side of Gabel.

He smiled crookedly. “I have been tried and sentenced. You cannot do it a second time; that is the law.”

Methia said, “I am the law here.”

He did not flinch. “But you, too, follow Cia. You will not kill me in cold blood. I have been punished, and it is not in you to harm me further.”

Methia said nothing. She turned to the guards. “Take him away and guard him. I don’t want him left alone at any time.”

The guards bowed and led him out. Gabel had learned something of diplomacy, for he didn’t protest. He stopped just short of the door. “I hope to see you later, Keleios.”

“I’m sure something could be arranged.”

Methia said, “No, absolutely no dueling on my island. I forbid it, Keleios.”

Keleios shrugged. “You are the Guardian.”

Gabel said, “Another time, perhaps.”

Keleios nodded.

The guards led Gabel away.

Methia nodded at Eroar. “There is no need for introductions between us, Eroar.”

“No, Methia, no introductions.” They clasped hands, and Methia walked to Poth. The cat yawned, baring fangs, then stretched under the woman’s expert hands. “And Gilstorpoth, I see you survived.”

Methia turned to the green demon, now simply sitting on the rocking horse. “And what is this?”

Keleios motioned. The little demon jumped to the ground and scrambled apelike to squat beside her. “This is Groghe, a very lesser demon, whom I ensorcelled. He aided our escape from the Grey Isle.”

Methia paled. “The Grey Isle. I heard only that you were exiled. Nesbit sent you there?”

Keleios nodded, watching her sister’s face carefully. Methia chose to ignore Nesbit’s treachery for something more immediate.

Methia stood very straight. “I would prefer that a demon not be in this castle.”

“Understood.” Keleios knelt beside the demon. “Groghe, I’m going to take the necklace back and free you.” His eyes went wide with fear, and he backed away, claws clutching

the gold necklace to his bony chest. “Oh, no, Master, don’t free me.”

“You are a demon, at least an imp. Your kind aren’t supposed to like serving.”

“I do not, but if you free me, I will be forced back to the bad place.”

“The Grey Isle, you mean?”

He nodded vigorously.

“Why is it a bad place for a demon? Harque is dead; you are free.”

“No, Master, unless ensorcelled most of us would be trapped forever.” He groveled at her feet, hands encircling her knees. “Don’t let me go back there, Master. I don’t want to be entertainment anymore.”

Keleios placed her hands on his shoulder and concentrated. “There is a geas on him, light but strong. He will be forced to return there.” She pried the little demon from her. “Groghe, I will not free you for now.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, Master.” He tried licking her hands, which was a sign of great abasement among demonkind.

“That isn’t necessary, Groghe.”

He looked like an eager puppy.

Methia said, “Well, have him stay out of sight at least.”

“He will.”

Methia pulled a cord by the door, and servants came almost instantly. “The servants will show you to your rooms, get you food, fresh clothes, and baths.”

Methia spoke to one blond serving girl, who scurried away. Methia made it clear that she wished to be alone with Keleios, and the others were ushered out.

The door closed, and they were alone. They stood looking at each other in silence. Methia broke it. “You look awful.”

Keleios looked down at the blood-stained armor. She ran a hand through her tangled hair and laughed. “Still the same Methia. Walking the corridors cloaked rather than let someone see you unprepared.”

Methia smiled, but it did not quite reach her eyes, “I am the same, but you are not.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Isn’t this usually how I came home: armored, sword in hand, bloody?” “No.”

“No.” Keleios started to sit upon the bed but saw her sister wince and stood. “I am also in need of a bath and clean clothes.”

“I wish to talk to you.”

“I know, but we can talk later.”

“Very well, I will join you in your room when you are clean and dressed. I will have food brought up to us.”

Keleios nodded agreement and Methia left. She did not want to talk with Methia, not about Lothor, or demons, or anything. But when one comes home, there are always questions to answer.

She walked out the door, leaving Poth to sleep and Groghe to play with one of Llewellyn’s dolls. His face was crumpled in a frown, concentrating, as he tried to undo the tiny buttons.

The bathing pools ran in precise marbled lines. It was an extravagance of magic to keep them warm and pure, but the enchantment had been set in place when the castle had first been formed. It showed no signs of giving out. Tobin was already wet, hair streaming in almost blood-red lines across his shoulders. Two serving girls helped him, and there was much giggling from all three.

Lothor sat in the hottest bath, steam rising around him. His hair had been combed and was completely unbound. It swept in a white curtain longer than Tobin’s, as long as a woman’s. The tips of it floated on the water. He scowled at her and said, “I thought this was the men’s bath.”

Keleios answered, “We hold to Astranthian customs here, as well as Meltaan. Bath houses cater to both, and there is not room or magic to separate them.”

He hunched in the water, pulling away from the two serving women. He tried to hide himself with a towel. She had to laugh at his discomfort. Two more serving woman came to help her with her armor. “Besides, Lothor, the servants are women; they see you.”

“But they are servants.”

Keleios understood what servants meant to royalty. They were invisible until they did something wrong, “If it will make you more comfortable, I will go farther away.”

He said nothing but glared at her from one silver eye lost in a mist of platinum hair. The servants followed her, and she slid into slightly colder water than she wanted. Keleios had no wish to antagonize him further. If they were to be joined, they would at least need some semblance of friendship.

The water’s heat seeped through her tired body, soaking bruises and minor cuts too small for healing. A blond servant girl began to comb the tangles from Keleios’ long hair.

Keleios turned her head to look at Tobin. He was busy trying to pull a laughing girl into the water with him. Keleios asked, “Tobin, where is Master Eroar?”

The boy stopped teasing the girls long enough to answer. “He said he wanted to cleanse his real form and went off to the dragon pools outside.”

Keleios settled back and let another’s hands soothe away the tangles and aching. The giggling and splashing began once more at Tobin’s pool.

Strong firm hands lathered her hair, and she allowed it, closing her eyes and sinking back against the side.

Warm water cascaded from a pitcher to cleanse the soap from her hair.

Strong fingers began to knead the muscles at her shoulders. Only one pair of hands was soaping her arm, one pair of hands.

She sat up, pulling away from the hands, hair streaming into the water. Lothor knelt beside the pool. There was soap in one hand, and the sleeves of his clean tunic were pushed back, baring muscled forearms. The two servants knelt a short distance away, watching all with nervous eyes.

She resisted the urge to cover herself and faced him squarely, glaring.

Keleios had never seen him dressed in anything but black—black, the color of royalty in Lolth, the color of his god. He was dressed in a silver blue with metallic thread weaving at shoulder and down arms. It softened the alien silver of his eyes, and brought a hint of color to his white skin. “What do you want, Lothor?”