The chalice is cracking.

He stopped thinking, let his mind quiet. The facts fell into place, forming the inevitable conclusion.

But it still took him a few more days before he could accept it.

7 / Terreille

After parting with Wilhelmina, Daemon changed into his riding clothes and headed for the stables. He had a free morning, the first since he’d arrived at the Angelline estate, and Alexandra had given him permission to take one of the horses out.

As he reached the stableyard, Guinness, the stable master, gave him a curt wave and continued his instructions to one of the stable lads.

“Going to hack out this morning?” Guinness said when Daemon approached, his gruff manner softened by a faint smile.

“If it’s convenient,” Daemon replied, smiling. Here, like most places where he’d served, he got along well with the staff. It was the witches he was supposed to serve that he couldn’t tolerate.

“Ayah.” Guinness’s eyes slowly rode up Daemon’s body, starting with his boots. “Good, straight, solid legs. Strong shoulders.”

Daemon wondered if Guinness was going to check his teeth.

“How’s your seat?” Guinness asked.

“I ride fairly well,” Daemon replied cautiously, not certain he cared for the faint gleam in Guinness’s eye.

Guinness sucked on his cheek. “Stallion hasn’t been out for a few days. Andrew’s the only one who can ride him, and he’s got a bruised thigh. Can’t let the boy go out with a weak leg. You willing to try?”

Daemon took a deep breath, still suspicious. “All right.”

“Andrew! Saddle up Demon.”

Daemon’s eyebrows shot up practically to his hairline. “Demon?”

Guinness sucked on his cheek again, refusing to notice Daemon’s outraged expression. “Name’s Dark Dancer, but in the stableyard, when we’re out of hearing”—he shot a look at the house—“we call him what he is.”

“Hell’s fire,” Daemon muttered as he crossed the yard to where Andrew was saddling the big bay stallion. “Anything I should know?” he asked the young man.

Andrew looked a bit worried. Finally he shrugged. “He’s got a soft mouth and a hard head. He’s too smart for most riders. He’ll run you into the trees if you let him. Keep to the big open field, that’s best. But watch the drainage ditch at the far end. It’s too wide for most horses, but he’ll take it, and he doesn’t care if he lands on the other side without his rider.”

“Thanks,” Daemon growled.

Andrew grinned crookedly and handed the reins to Daemon. “I’ll hold his head while you mount.”

Daemon settled into the saddle. “Let him go.”

Demon left the stableyard quietly enough, mouthing the bit, considering his rider. Except for showing some irritation at being held to a walk, Demon behaved quite well—until they reached a small rise and the path curved left toward the open field.

Demon pricked his ears and lunged to the right toward a lone old oak tree, almost throwing Daemon from the saddle.

The battle began.

For some perverse reason of his own, Demon was determined to reach the oak tree. Daemon was equally determined to turn him toward the field. The horse lunged, bucked, twisted, circled, fought the reins and bit. Daemon held him in check enough not to be thrown, but, circle by hard-fought circle, the stallion made his way toward the tree.