TWO
The Arachnian Queen, the Weaver of Dreams, delicately touched one thread of the web spun by Witch before the living myth became a song in the Darkness. This web had slept many years because the dreams it held had been too unshaped to become flesh. But something had changed, and now the golden spider could sense the whisper of wishes, of longings.
Specific dreamers. Most unusual to tie threads to specific dreamers when the shaping had not yet begun. Too much chance that the dream would never be flesh if one of the dreamers stopped wishing, stopped wanting. But that was why Witch had made the web this way—because these dreamers had to wish long enough, had to want hard enough, even if they weren’t aware of the wanting.
As long as the dreamers gave her something to work with, the Weaver would keep her promise and add to the web Witch had begun. And someday, another Arachnian Queen would add the last strand to this dream.
THREE
Standing in the family parlor of Lucivar’s eyrie, Daemon grinned like a fool and didn’t give a damn. He looked at the Eyrien baby girl in his arms and purred, “Hello, beautiful.”
She studied him with solemn eyes. Then she broke into a grin.
“Hell’s fire,” Lucivar said. “She’s barely out of the womb, and she’s already half-seduced by your voice.”
“As she should be,” Daemon replied, loosening the blanket enough to get a better look at his niece. “Look at those perfect little fingers and those perfect little toes.”
“She is a darling.”
Daemon tucked the blanket around the baby. “Does Surreal know you named your daughter Titian?”
“Not yet. I have to go up to the northern camp tomorrow and most likely will be gone overnight. Surreal is coming here in the morning and will stay with Marian until I get back.”
Had Surreal told him she would be staying in Ebon Rih? Or would he find a note on his desk when he returned to the Hall? Sometimes he had the feeling that she was trying to avoid him, but he didn’t know why. Did she have a lover she didn’t want catching his attention, or was she still pissed off about the woman he’d bedded one night a few weeks ago? Damned hard to tell with her lately.
“Is there trouble?” Daemon asked.
“No, but I’ve already postponed this visit twice while waiting for the witchling to be born.” Lucivar reached for the baby. “Let me have her.”
Daemon took a step back. “Why?”
“Since I helped make her, I get to hold her.”
“You’re sharing.”
Lucivar narrowed his eyes. “Fine. But if she messes her diaper, you’re not handing her back until you clean her up.”
Daemon looked at Titian, who began grinning again the moment she had his full attention. “Tch,” he said. “You have a silly papa. He thinks I’m going to be scared off by a little poop.”
Lucivar snorted. “Suit yourself.”
Daemonar bounded into the parlor. “I get to hold her now.”
“No,” they said.
“Yes, I can,” Daemonar insisted. “Mother said I can.”
“No,” they said.
“Why not?”
“Because we’re older than you, and we outrank you,” Lucivar said. “So we get to hold her.”
“Neither of those things are true about me,” Saetan said as he walked into the parlor. “Hand her over.”
Daemon hesitated, but the gleam in his father’s eyes warned him not to start this particular pissing contest. So he transferred Titian into Saetan’s arms.
“Come on, boyo,” Saetan said to Daemonar. “You can sit over there with me, and we’ll both admire your sister.”
Daemonar gave his father and uncle a surly look that was just shy of an actual challenge. Then he turned his back on them and followed his grandfather.
Daemon held his breath while he watched Saetan cross the room. He didn’t realize Lucivar had done the same thing until he heard his brother’s careful sigh.
“Coffee?” Lucivar asked.
Daemon nodded, then said, “We’ll be in the kitchen if you need us.”
“We’ll be here,” Saetan replied dryly enough to tell them both they had been dismissed.
They retreated to the kitchen.
Plenty of food, Daemon noted as he eyed the various dishes on the counters. “Anything you need?”
“Besides help eating all this before it spoils?” Lucivar asked, letting out a huff of laughter. He poured coffee into two mugs. “No, we have plenty, even if we’re feeding a young male who claims to be hungry again before the dishes from the previous meal leave the table.”
“Judging by the look he gave us, he’s clearly left childhood behind within the past few weeks,” Daemon said, accepting the mug of coffee.
“Yeah, he’s in the ‘push until he gets his ass kicked’ stage, so I can look forward to a couple of decades of continuous pissing contests while he’s making the transition from boy to youth. Once his brain starts working again and he’s allowed the privileges of a young adult male, the pissing contests should lessen to one a week instead of several times a day. Or so I’m told. At first Marian sympathized with him about getting into an argument with me about every damn little thing, but she’s feeling less generous now that she finds herself dealing with a young Warlord Prince trying to fuss over her and give her orders instead of being around a son who takes orders.”
Laughing, they both leaned back against the counter.
“Marian is all right?” Daemon asked. He’d arrived at the eyrie an hour ago and he hadn’t seen her yet.
“She’s fine. Tired, but that’s to be expected. No reason for her not to get some sleep when we’re all here to watch the baby.”
“No reason at all.” Daemon studied Lucivar. “But something is wrong.”
Lucivar turned his head toward the window that looked out over Marian’s garden. “How long are we supposed to pretend, old son?”
“Pretend what?”
“That we don’t know there is something wrong with Father.”
He knew Lucivar would be the one to ask the question, to finally say the words.