When he opened his eyes, the oval of grass was empty. He slowly opened his hand. The lines were already fading, the small cut healed.

“Tersa?”

Her voice came back to him, distant and fading. “The lover is the father’s mirror. The Priest…He will be your best ally or your worst enemy. But the choice will be yours.”

“Tersa!”

Almost gone. “The chalice is cracking.”

“Tersa!”

A surge of rage honed by terror rushed through him. Closing his hand, he swung his arm straight and shoulder-high. The shock of his fist connecting with one of the trees jarred him to his heels. Daemon leaned against the tree, eyes closed, forehead pressed to the trunk.

When he opened his eyes, his black coat was covered with gray-green ashes. Frowning, Daemon looked up. A denial caught in his throat, strangling him. He stepped back from the tree and sat down on the bench, his face hidden in his hands.

Several minutes later, he forced himself to look at the tree.

It was dead, burned from within by his fury. Standing among the green living things, its gray skeletal branches still reached for its partner. Daemon walked over to the tree and pressed his palm against the trunk. He didn’t know if there was a way to probe it to see if sap still ran at its core, or if it had all been crystallized by the heat of his rage.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. Gray-green dust continued to fall from the upper branches. A few minutes ago, that dust had been living green leaves. “I’m sorry.”

Taking a deep breath, Daemon followed the path back the way he’d come, hands in his pockets, head down, shoulders slumped. Just before leaving the park, he turned around and looked back. He couldn’t see the tree, but he could feel it. He shook his head slowly, a grim smile on his lips. He’d buried more of the Blood than they would ever guess, and he mourned a tree.

Daemon brushed the ash from his coat. He’d have to report to Dorothea soon, tomorrow at the latest. There were two more stops he wanted to make before presenting himself at court.

6 / Terreille

“Honey, what’ve you been doing to yourself? You’re nothing but skin and bones.”

Surreal slumped against the reception desk, grimaced, and sucked in her breath. “Nothing, Deje. I’m just worn out.”

“You been letting those men make a meal out of you?” Deje looked at her shrewdly. “Or is it your other business that’s run you down?”

Surreal’s gold-green eyes were dangerously blank. “What business is that, Deje?”

“I’m not a fool, honey,” Deje said slowly. “I’ve always known you don’t really like this business. But you’re still the best there is.”

“The best female,” Surreal replied, wearily hooking her long black hair behind her pointed ears.

Deje put her hands on the counter and leaned toward Surreal, worried. “Nobody paid you to dance with…Well, you know how fast gossip can fly, and there was talk of some trouble.”