So he asked. And after thinking about it for a minute, she said yes.

TEN

Saetan walked through one of the enclosed gardens at the Keep. Stark at this time of year, but not barren. Life slept beneath the snow, beneath the earth, waiting for the light to return.

The Blood came from the Darkness of the abyss—a power inherited from another race whose time as the guardians of the Realms had ended. So they honored the Darkness that separated them from the landens, that shaped their preferences and needs and desires.

Especially their desires.

“I understand now.”

Jaenelle’s voice came out of the darkness around him.

No, not Jaenelle’s voice, he thought as he turned. Too much midnight in that voice, too much of the abyss.

For a moment, when she took the first step toward him, he saw the Self that lived beneath her skin. Saw the living myth, dreams made flesh.

Not all the dreamers had been human—and neither was Witch.

Then the moment was gone, and Jaenelle, lovely and human, kept walking toward him.

“You should be home with your husband,” Saetan said.

“No, I shouldn’t. Not tonight,” Jaenelle replied. “I understand now.”

“Understand what, witch-child?”

“The private dance on Winsol Eve.”

She took both his hands. Hers were cold, so he put a warming spell on his own to make hers more comfortable.

“We didn’t dance these last two years. But you did. Alone. Just as you did for most of your fifty thousand years. You danced for a dream, for a promise. And every year when you performed the steps of that dance, you renewed your own promise to that dream.”

He closed his eyes, unwilling to look at her because she would see the truth of her words. She was the sweetest, most painful dance of his life. She was the reason for this unnaturally long life.

“Each year, when we performed that dance, you renewed that promise. But it was no longer to a dream. It was to flesh and blood, to a real Queen.”

He had no words for what he felt, so he did something he had done no more than a handful of times during his entire life—he opened all his inner barriers, revealing his heart, his mind, his Self to her without any defenses or shields. As he opened his eyes and stared into her sapphire ones, he realized he wasn’t showing her anything she didn’t already know about him.

“It’s almost midnight,” Jaenelle said. “Dance with me, Saetan. Tonight, let’s both acknowledge a promise made and kept.”

He followed her to one of the sitting rooms. A small bowl of hot blooded rum was on a table, along with two glasses and a crystal music sphere in a brass holder.

He helped her out of her coat, then removed his cape and vanished both.

She wore a black dress made of layers of spidersilk. Widow’s weeds. A dress made for a Black Widow Queen—especially one who had once worn Black Jewels.

Jaenelle raised her hand. Music for the traditional Winsol dance filled the room.

He raised his hand and took the first step of the dance. Fingertips touched fingertips. Hands touched hands.

She was no longer a girl indulging her adopted father. She was no longer a Queen accepting her Steward’s request for a traditional dance. The woman who moved with him tonight understood the weight of his choices—and the importance of this night that marked each year.

So they danced in honor of a dream—and to renew a promise.

ELEVEN

A warm hand rubbing his bare back coaxed Saetan out of a deep sleep. A loving touch, but not a lover’s touch. Sensual without being sexual. Who . . . ?

Then he knew. There was only one person whose psychic scent was so close to his own that it took a moment to pick up the distinctions between them.

“Prince,” he said. It was the best he could do. The way Daemon was rubbing his back made him feel boneless—and brainless. A bit odd for a son to be doing.

That thought roused his paternal suspicions, and that woke up his brain.

“Good evening,” Daemon said. “Did you sleep well?”

Hell’s fire. Every time a son had asked him that, the boy was about to dump a basket of trouble in his lap.

“It’s Winsol,” Saetan said, turning onto his side and propping himself up on one elbow. “Why aren’t you home with your wife?”

“Because my wife is still here,” Daemon replied, resting a hand on his father’s hip.

A sultry voice. Almost a sexual purr. Daemon excelled at using sensuality to intimidate, and right now the boy was doing an excellent job.

Except he wasn’t sure intimidation was the response Daemon intended to evoke.

“Did you enjoy your gift?” Daemon asked.

“My gift?”

“You asked for solitude. We stepped back so you could celebrate Winsol Eve in your own way.”

With Jaenelle. With Witch.

“Lucivar and I talked it over, and we decided that you had a point—and a lesson we wanted to embrace now instead of later.”

“That’s good.” Maybe. He might sound more enthusiastic if he were more awake—and if Daemon’s hand resting on his hip didn’t feel more and more like a cat’s paw pressing on a mouse’s tail.

“We decided to give the first six days of Winsol to our public obligations as rulers of Dhemlan and Ebon Rih. Winsol Day will be for family. And the last six days will be private. Quiet. Jaenelle and I are going to Scelt for a couple of days, and then tuck in at the Hall.”

“That’s good,” Saetan said. And it was.

“Today, being Winsol, is for family,” Daemon said. “All of us, together. Here at the Keep.”

“All ... ?”

Sounds just outside the bedroom door. Then Daemonar shouted, “Wake up, Granpapa! Wake up!”

He heard Lucivar’s rumble, followed by giggles and squeals that moved away from the door.

“All of us,” Daemon said. “Even Tersa.”

Honoring the day with his children without the intrusion of the world and its demands. He felt foolishly sentimental—and very happy.

“Just family,” he said, his voice husky as he remembered the family members who were no longer with him.

“And Rainier. It seems he was going to be alone tonight, so Surreal declared him an honorary cousin for the occasion.”

Too much sentiment, too much feeling. And it wasn’t just him. The sensuality was a game, but having the family gathered like this meant a great deal to Daemon too.

Figuring they both needed a moment to step back from deep feelings, he said, “You got through this much of the day without opening any gifts?” If they’d managed that with a boy Daemonar’s age in their midst, they had steel balls and no nerves.

Daemon twitched his shoulders. “We let him open his, and the adults each opened one of theirs.”

Saetan studied his son—the flushed skin, the sudden avoidance of looking him in the eyes. “So. How long did it take Daemonar to get the bug out of the box?”

Daemon’s expression went absolutely blank. Then he muttered, “We found it before Marian did.”

He could picture Lucivar and Daemon scrambling around to find the exploding beetle before Marian—or Surreal—found it. Since he didn’t think either man was going to find anything amusing about that little adventure—at least for another decade or two—he’d wait until he was safely in the shower before he laughed at them.

“Then it sounds like Daemonar likes his gift. What about you?” He twisted around to plump up the pillows. “Since you were so eager to open it a few days ago, I assume you opened the gift I gave you.”

When there was no response, he stopped plumping pillows and looked at Daemon’s sulky expression. “Didn’t you like your gift?”

“I don’t know,” Daemon growled. “I haven’t been able to unravel the Craft lock you put on the damn box.”

Saetan blinked. He’d used that same lock on his sons’ gifts when they were young. It used to take Daemon less than five minutes to unravel the thing.

Winsol gifts weren’t just found in the boxes. They were the moments, and memories, treasured by the heart. Like this one.

He tried to swallow the butterflies tickling his throat. Seeing the look on Daemon’s face, he tried hard.

Then he gave up, plopped back on the pillows—and laughed.

SHADES OF HONOR

This story takes place before the events in The Shadow Queen.

ONE

Prince Falonar stood outside his eyrie, restlessly opening and closing his dark, membranous wings as he stared down at the village of

Riada. Within minutes of her arrival, he’d felt Gray-Jeweled power ripple through the village and up the mountains like a challenge—or a warning.

Surreal SaDiablo had returned to Ebon Rih.

He had made two mistakes when he came to Kaeleer two years ago. The first was agreeing to serve Lucivar Yaslana, whom he’d despised from the moment they’d met as boys training in the same hunting camp. He’d thought he could swallow taking Lucivar’s orders for five years in exchange for living in Ebon Rih and being in a position to catch the attention of the Queen of Ebon Askavi. He’d been confident that she would see the value of having a true aristo Eyrien Warlord Prince in her First Circle and take over his service contract. Serving in the same court as Yaslana would have rubbed him a bit raw, but he would have accepted having to treat Lucivar as an equal—at least until he could persuade the Queen to find another way for Lucivar to serve her that would keep the man away from Askavi, leaving the Eyriens free to live without the constant embarrassment of acknowledging a half-breed bastard. Whether Yaslana’s Hayllian father acknowledged him now or not, Lucivar would always be a bastard with no standing in Eyrien society. And nothing would change the fact that Lucivar was a half-breed, and being a half-breed was, in many ways, even worse than being a bastard.

Desperate to find a position in Kaeleer and avoid being sent back to Terreille, Falonar had signed the five-year service contract, gambling that he wouldn’t be under Lucivar’s control for most of it. But the following spring, Witch had unleashed her power to purge the Realms of Dorothea and Hekatah SaDiablo’s taint, and she’d been injured so severely by the backlash of her own power that she was no longer capable of ruling Ebon Askavi. That left Falonar with the choice of bending to Lucivar’s will for the full term of the contract or being tossed back to Terreille, where he had no future of any kind.