Hours? Days? A lifetime? He didn’t know how long she worked, how long he endured the healing, before she finally said, “It’s done. Look. And learn.”

Daemon climbed to his feet, having no memory of sinking to the floor next to the altar.

The crystal chalice—his mind, his sanity—had been repaired. Again.

The three posts and leashes that represented his control over his power, his temper, and the Sadist looked as they had before. The fourth post, his sexual heat . . . Cleaned and back to its normal size. But the loops that should have snugged the leashes to the posts were loose, and when he tried to tighten them, he discovered a ring of Witch’s darker power forming a cushion between loop and post, making it impossible for him to tighten the leashes all the way.

“Jaenelle . . .”

She pointed at the chalice. “I did what I could, but even I can’t mend this a fourth time. Daemon, you can’t afford to risk your sanity by being careless with yourself. You wear the Black. If you slide into the Twisted Kingdom, you could be a weapon powerful enough to destroy Kaeleer.”

“Could you break the Black?” As soon as he said the words, he felt everything in him resist the idea. Give up the Black without a fight? Never.

Witch gave him a look that would have shriveled his balls if this wasn’t a dream. “It doesn’t matter if I could. It will not be done, because the Shadow Realm is going to need the Black. Your family, your daughter, are going to need the High Lord.”

He swallowed hard. “War?”

“I don’t know, Daemon. Even I can’t see everything.”

“But enough,” he said quietly.

“Enough to know that the man you are will be needed. Everything you are will be needed.” Her hand moved around the chalice, not touching it, but he still felt her nearness like a caress. “You need to keep the reservoir in your Black Jewel drained enough to make room for the power your body and mind can no longer hold.”

“Not an easy thing to do.”

He saw the question in her eyes. He waited for her to ask why he wasn’t helping Surreal drain her Gray Jewel before her moontime. But Witch didn’t ask. Maybe she already knew.

“I have some thoughts about that.” She pointed at the posts. “As for these . . .”

“They’re too loose.”

A hesitation. “Everything has a price, remember? It may take decades of slow healing before you can hold the leashes as tightly as you used to. It may be never. Your mind is too fragile to exert that kind of force on any part of you right now.”

“At least tighten that one.” Daemon pointed to the leash made of chain and leather.

“I can’t. I’m sorry, Daemon, but I can’t. Not if you are going to stay sane and whole.”

“The Sadist . . .”

“A little more easily provoked, but there are things you can do to help yourself and the people around you.”

She seemed to be struggling to find the words, and that wasn’t like her. “Tell me.”

“You should arrange to have a . . . sanctuary . . . at the Hall, a place different from your bedroom suite. You need a place where you can retreat when people’s response to the sexual heat starts to scrape your temper, because now the aspect of yourself most likely to respond will be the Sadist. You should discuss this with a few people you trust without question, and it must be without question. You will give them an agreed-upon phrase that they will speak if they notice your control slipping. If you hear that phrase, you will not challenge their reason for saying it; you will retreat to your sanctuary and maintain solitude until your control gently returns. If you want a phrase in a language that wouldn’t commonly be spoken, I can help you with that.”

“Maybe the language of the Dea al Mon.” That language wouldn’t be known to many outside the borders of the Territory ruled by the Children of the Wood.

How much of that language had Surreal learned over the years?

“Who should know the phrase?” Witch asked.

“Beale and Holt at the Hall. Chaosti here at the Keep. Lucivar.”

He considered Tersa, since a woman might sense something in him a man wouldn’t, but that would be too much weight for her broken mind to bear. Besides, Tersa would tell him in her own way if she saw trouble. If he’d talked to her all those months ago when she’d first noticed he wasn’t well, maybe he wouldn’t have endured so much pain.

And he wouldn’t be in the Misty Place now, feeling a joyful sorrow at being with Jaenelle again, even in this limited way.

“And Marian,” he said. She had seen—and accepted. He could trust her.

Witch made no comment about him not including Surreal in the list.

He didn’t know what she searched for as she studied his face, looked into his eyes, but she must have found it, because she said, “You need to stay among the living, Prince. You need to stay connected to the living. Do you understand?”

Daughter. Brother. Maybe still a wife. Maybe. “Yes, I understand.”

“If you give me your word that you will do your best to stay connected, I’ll make you a bargain.”

“What bargain?”

“When you’ve set up your sanctuary and talked to the people you named, then we’ll discuss the bargain and what to do about the Black.”

Suddenly he was furious. Coldly, savagely furious. “What difference does any of this make?” He waved at the chalice, at the leashes, at the posts. “Dream. Vision. What difference does it make? The pain will still be there when I wake up. The misery will be there. But I’m expected to survive another day and the day after that and after that for centuries to come.”

“If I am still your Queen, then my will is your life, and, yes, Prince, I expect you to survive. To do more than just survive.”

“Bitch.” Wondering why his temper had slipped the leash—and wondering why it should matter—he turned away from her.

“You asked for my help—and I answered.”

“You’re usually kinder when I dream about you.”

A freezing silence. Then, too softly, “You think this is a dream?”

Something lightly brushed against his upper arm. Then he felt the shivering sensation of his skin parting moments before he felt the pain and . . .

* * *

* * *

Daemon tumbled off the bed.

Panting, he looked at his right arm, at the sleeve of his white silk shirt turning wet and red.

Witch’s midnight voice thundered up from somewhere deep in the abyss. ٭Remembrance. Reminder.٭