“Hell’s fire, no,” Lucivar replied. “I’d rather he wasn’t completely sober when I explain this.” He shook his head at Beale’s momentary look of alarm. “The children are fine, and this is nothing you haven’t heard before. Same story, different father.”
“I see. Perhaps I should talk to Mrs. Beale about making something . . . fortifying . . . for the Prince’s dinner. You’ll be staying for dinner?”
It was phrased as a question, but it wasn’t.
“I was hoping to get home for the children’s bedtimes.”
“An early dinner, then. Since the Prince already requested that the meal be kept simple, it shouldn’t be an imposition.”
Lucivar bared his teeth in what could be mistaken as a smile. Beale recognized the warning and wasn’t impressed. Of course, the man was married to Mrs. Beale, who was the cook at the Hall. She was an excellent cook. She was also a large woman who wore a Yellow Jewel and tended to bring her well-honed meat cleaver to any discussion.
“Fine,” Lucivar said. “Please thank Mrs. Beale for accommodating me.”
“It will be a pleasure.”
Shaking his head, Lucivar went to the study, gave the door a quick rap with his knuckles, and walked in. “Hello, Bastard.”
Daemon looked up from a stack of papers and started to smile. Then that beautiful face went completely blank.
“They’re fine.” Wondering how many times he would have to say that today, Lucivar walked up to the large blackwood desk, filled a snifter to the brim with brandy, and set it in front of Daemon. “You’re going to want to slug a good bit of that down before we talk.”
Daemon looked at the brandy, then at him. “But the children are fine?”
Lucivar filled another snifter and settled in the specially designed chair Daemon had made to accommodate an Eyrien’s wings and still provide armrests. “Oh, yeah, old son, they are just fine. And if Father was still around, he’d be laughing himself silly right about now.”
“That doesn’t sound good.” Daemon took a long swallow of brandy. He breathed out a resigned sigh. “Tell me.”
The delay had been enough to give Lucivar the measure of his brother’s mental and emotional health. A jagged feel to Daemon’s psychic scent meant trouble. Since he wasn’t picking up anything like that, he went ahead.
“My son, your daughter, on a raft made of branches and twine, riding rapids and going over a waterfall.”
Daemon’s hand trembled. He set the snifter on the desk before covering his face with his hands. Then he spread his fingers enough to peer at Lucivar and said, “Why?”
“Because it’s the sort of thing those two would find challenging and fun.”
Daemon groaned and rubbed his face briskly before sagging in his chair. “What did you say when you caught them? I’m assuming you caught them?”
“Not much I could say, since Jaenelle Angelline and I built a raft out of kindling and Craft and rode those same rapids and went over that same waterfall.” A beat of silence. “Twice.”
Daemon stared at him. He looked like he was trying to say words, so Lucivar drank brandy and waited.
“Why do it twice?” Daemon finally said.
“Because it was a wicked bitch of a ride—and it was fun. And because Jaenelle had given me that look and that smile—you remember those?—and said, ‘Lucivar, I have a wonderful idea; you’re going to hate it a lot.’” He shrugged. “We were well shielded.”
Daemon drank the brandy like it was water, then took a shuddering breath. That much brandy might make him a little light-headed for a minute or two, but wearing Jewels as dark as the Black or Ebon-gray meant they both burned up alcohol as fast as they burned up food, and even getting a bit tipsy required serious effort.
In fact, the only time they had managed to get stupid drunk since they began wearing the Ebon-gray and Black was on a pub crawl with Jaenelle Angelline. That night—and what they had done—became tilted and fuzzy after Jaenelle started making a drink called a gravedigger.
“What did Father say?” Daemon asked.
“He would have said plenty if I hadn’t told him that the only reason he was angry was because he was jealous that Jaenelle invited me to test the raft instead of him.”
Daemon wheezed.
Lucivar watched his brother. This was going better than he’d hoped. “Father tossed me out of his study—this exact room, in fact—and never spoke of it again. Didn’t allow anyone to speak of it again.” He drank some brandy and waited until Daemon’s face was almost its usual golden brown color. “That’s why we never told him that we tried it again a couple of years later after Jaenelle had perfected blending small objects with Craft to create a raft—or a pallet if you were out in the wild and needed to move someone who was injured.”
Daemon leaned forward, placed his tightly locked hands on the desk, and said, “So our Lady built another raft out of kindling and Craft and the two of you did that asinine stunt again?”
Lucivar snorted. “Not much point doing the same thing again. That last raft was made out of twigs, leaves, and Craft—and shaped to have a bow. Made it easier to maneuver in the rapids.”
“You are a heartless prick,” Daemon snarled. “Is telling me that story supposed to make me feel better?”
“Doesn’t it?”
Daemon’s answer was succinct and very unflattering.
“For what it’s worth, I don’t think I took a breath from the moment I saw them go over the falls until they surfaced in the pool below,” Lucivar said.
“Why would they even think to do this?”
“Because we—meaning you and me—had children who are, in every sense, our children.”
Daemon closed his gold eyes. “Mother Night.”
“And may the Darkness be merciful.”
“How is young Andulvar doing?” Daemon said after a moment. “Staying out of trouble?”
“As much as any Eyrien boy that age stays out of trouble.”
“Which means he’s no trouble at all when he’s asleep.” Daemon shook his head and smiled. “Beron has a supporting role in a new play that will be opening in Amdarh soon. If Marian wants to get away from trouble, I would be happy to stand as her escort for an evening at the theater.”
“I’ll let her know and have her make the arrangements with you. She could use an evening for herself.” He would attend the theater with his darling hearth witch or go to musicals or whatever else Marian wanted to attend, but Daemon would discuss the play and the actors and the costumes and sets and all the other things that would interest Marian but had no interest for him. Well, Lord Beron, being Daemon’s legal ward, was of interest to him, but that wasn’t the same thing.