by Anne Bishop
Jaenelle!*
She continued her slow spiral glide deeper into the abyss. He didn't know if she was ignoring him or just couldn't hear him.
Jaenelle! Witch-child!*
His strength was draining too quickly. The abyss pushed against his mind, the pressure quickly turning to pain.
*You're safe, witch-child! Come back! You're safe!*
She slipped farther and farther away from him. But little eddies of power washed back up to him, and he could taste the rage in them.
Chase me, find me. A child's game. He had been sending a message of love and safety into the abyss for two years. Char had been sending an invitation to play during that same time.
Silence.
In another moment, he would have to ascend or he would shatter.
Stillness.
Chase me, find me. Hadn't he really been playing the same game?
He waited, fighting for each second. * Witch-child.*
She slammed into him without warning. Caught in her spiralling fury, he didn't know if they were rising or descending.
He heard glass shatter in the physical world, heard someone scream. He felt something hit his chest, just below his heart, hard enough to take his breath away.
Not knowing what else to do, he opened his inner barriers fully, a gesture of complete surrender. He expected her to crash through him, rip him apart. Instead, he felt a startled curiosity and a feather-light touch that barely brushed against him.
Then she tossed him out of the abyss.
The abrupt return to the physical world left him dizzy, his senses scrambled. That had to be why he thought he saw a tiny spiral horn in the centre of her forehead. That had to be why her ears looked delicately pointed, why she had a golden mane that looked like a cross between fur and human hair. That had to be why his heart felt as if it were beating frantically against someone's hand.
He closed his eyes, fighting the dizziness. When he opened them a moment later, all the changes in Jaenelle's appearance were gone, but there was still that odd feeling in his chest.
Gasping, he looked down as he felt fingers curl around his heart.
Jaenelle's hand was embedded in his chest. When she withdrew her hand, she would pull his heart out with it. No matter. It had been hers long before he'd ever met her. And it gave him an odd feeling of pride, remembering the frustration and delight he'd felt when he'd tried to teach her how to pass one solid object through another.
The fingers curled tighter.
Her eyes opened. They were fathomless sapphire pools that held no recognition, that held nothing but deep, inhuman rage.
Then she blinked. Her eyes clouded, hiding so many things. She blinked again and looked at him. "Saetan?" she said in a rusty voice.
His eyes filled with tears. "Witch-child," he whispered hoarsely.
He gasped when she moved her hand slightly.
She stared at his chest and frowned. "Oh." She slowly uncurled her fingers and withdrew her hand.
He expected her hand to be bloody, but it was clean. A quick internal check told him he would feel bruised for a few days, but she hadn't done any damage. He leaned forward until his forehead rested against hers.
"Witch-child," he whispered.
"Saetan? Are you crying?"
"Yes. No. I don't know."
"You should lie down. You feel kind of peaky."
Shifting his body until it was beside hers exhausted him. When she turned and snuggled against him, he wrapped his arms around her and held on. "I tried to reach you, witch-child," he murmured as he rested his cheek against her head.
"I know," she said sleepily. "I heard you sometimes, but I had to find all the pieces so I could put the crystal chalice back together."
"Did you put it back together?" he asked, hardly daring to breathe.
Jaenelle nodded. "Some of the pieces are cloudy and don't fit quite right yet." She paused. "Saetan? What happened?"
Dread filled him, and he didn't have the courage to answer that question honestly. What would she do if he told her what had happened? If she severed the link with her body and fled into the abyss again, he wasn't sure he would ever be able to convince her to return.
"You were hurt, sweetheart." His arms tightened around her. "But you're going to be fine. I'll help you. Nothing can hurt you, witch-child. You have to remember that. You're safe here."
Jaenelle frowned. "Where is here?"
"We're at the Keep. In Kaeleer."
"Oh." Her eyelids fluttered and closed.
Saetan squeezed her shoulder. Then he shook her. "Jaenelle? Jaenelle, no! Don't leave me. Please don't leave."
With effort, Jaenelle opened her eyes. "Leave? Oh, Saetan, I'm so tired. Do I really have to leave?"
He had to get control of himself. He had to stay calm so that she would feel safe. "You can stay here as long as you want."
"You'll stay, too?"
"I'll never leave you, witch-child. I swear it."
Jaenelle sighed. "You should get some sleep," she murmured.
Saetan listened to her deep, even breathing for a long time. He wanted to open his mind and reach for her, but he didn't need to. He could feel the difference in the body he still held.
So he reached out to Andulvar instead. *She's come back.*
A long silence. *Truly?*
*Truly.* And he would need his strength for the days ahead. *Tell the others. And tell Draca I'll take the cup of fresh blood now.*
5 / Kaeleer
Guided by instinct and a nagging uneasiness, Saetan entered Jaenelle's bedroom at the Keep without knocking.
She stood in front of a large, freestanding mirror, staring at the naked body reflected there.
Saetan closed the door and limped toward her. While she'd been away from her body, there had still been just enough of a link so that she could eat and could be led on gentle walks that had kept her muscles from atrophying. There had still been enough of a link for her body to slowly answer the rhythm of its own seasons.
Blood females tended to reach puberty later than landens, and witches' bodies required even more time to prepare for the physical changes that separated a girl from a woman. Inhibited by her absence, Jaenelle's body hadn't started changing until after her fourteenth birthday. But while her body was still in the early stages of transformation, it no longer looked like a twelve-year-old's.
Saetan stopped a few feet behind her. Her sapphire eyes met his in the mirror, and he had to work to keep his expression neutral.
Those eyes. Clear and feral and dangerous before she slipped on the mask of humanity. And it was a mask. It wasn't like the dissembling she used to do as a child to keep the fact that she was Witch a secret. This was a deliberate effort simply to be human. And that scared him.
"I should have told you," he said quietly. "I should have prepared you. But you've slept through most of the past four days, and I…" His voice trailed off.
"How long?" she asked in a voice full of caverns and midnight.
He had to clear his throat before he could answer. "Two years. Actually, a little more than that. You'll be fifteen in a few weeks."
She said nothing, and he didn't know how to fill the silence.
Then she turned around to face him. "Do you want to have sex with this body?"
Blood. So much blood.
His gorge rose. Her mask fell away. And no matter how hard he looked, he couldn't find Jaenelle in those sapphire eyes.
He had to give her an answer. He had to give her the right answer.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'm your legal guardian now. Your adopted father, if you will. And fathers do not have sex with their daughters."
"Don't they?" she asked in a midnight whisper.
The floor disappeared under his feet. The room spun. He would have fallen if Jaenelle hadn't thrown her arms around his waist.
"Don't use Craft," he muttered through gritted teeth.
Too late. Jaenelle was already floating him to
the couch. As he sank into it, she sat beside him and brushed her shoulder-length hair away from her neck. "You need fresh blood."
"No, I don't. I'm just a little dizzy." Besides, he'd been drinking a cup of fresh human blood twice a day for the past four days – almost as much as he usually consumed in a year.
"You need fresh blood." There was a definite edge in her voice.
What he needed was to find the bastard who had raped her and tear him apart inch by inch. "I don't need your blood, witch-child."
Her eyes flashed with anger. She bared her teeth. "There's nothing wrong with my blood, High Lord," she hissed. "It isn't tainted."
"Of course it isn't tainted," he snapped back.
"Then why won't you accept the gift? You never refused before."
There were clouds and shadows now in her sapphire eyes. It seemed that, for her, the price of humanity was vulnerability and insecurity.
Lifting her hand, he kissed her knuckles and wondered if he could delicately suggest that she put on a robe without her taking offense. One thing at a time, SaDiablo. "There are three reasons I don't want your blood right now. First, until you're stronger, you need every drop of it for yourself. Second, your body is changing from child to woman, and the potency of the blood changes, too. So let's test it before I find myself drinking liquid lightning."
That made her giggle.
"And third, Draca has also decided that I need fresh blood."
Jaenelle's eyes widened. "Oh, dear. Poor Papa." She bit her lip. "Is it all right if I call you that?" she asked in a small voice.
He put his arms around her and held her close. "I would be honored to be called 'Papa.' " He brushed his lips against her forehead. "The room is a little chilly, witch-child. Do you think you could put on a robe? And slippers?"
"You sound like a parent already," Jaenelle grumbled.
Saetan smiled. "I've waited a long time to fuss over a daughter. I intend to revel in it to the fullest."
"Oh, lucky me," Jaenelle growled.
He laughed. "No. Lucky me."
6 / Kaeleer
Saetan stared at the tonic in the small ravenglass cup and sighed. He had the cup halfway to his lips when someone knocked on the door.
"Come," he said too eagerly.
Andulvar entered, followed by his grandson, Prothvar, and Mephis, Saetan's eldest son. Prothvar and Mephis, like Andulvar, had become demon-dead during that long-ago war between Terreille and Kaeleer. Geoffrey, the Keep's historian/librarian, entered last.
"Try this," Saetan said, holding out the cup to Andulvar.
"Why?" Andulvar asked, eyeing the cup. "What's in it?"
Damn Eyrien wariness. "It's a tonic Jaenelle made for me. She says I'm still looking peaky."
"You are," Andulvar growled. "So drink it."
Saetan ground his teeth.
"It doesn't smell bad," Prothvar said, pulling his wings tighter to his body when Saetan glared at him.
"It doesn't taste bad either," Saetan said, trying to be fair.
"Then what's the problem?" Geoffrey asked, crossing his arms. He frowned at the cup, his black eyebrows echoing his widow's peak. "Are you concerned that she doesn't have the training to make that kind of tonic? Do you think she's done it incorrectly?"
Saetan raised one eyebrow. "We're talking about Jaenelle."
"Ah," Geoffrey said, eyeing the cup with some trepidation. "Yes."
Saetan held the cup out to him. "Tell me what you think."
Andulvar braced his fists on his hips. "Why are you so eager to share it? If there's nothing wrong with it, why won't you drink it?"
"I do. I have. Every day for the past two weeks," Saetan grumbled. "But it's just so damn.. potent." The last word was almost a plea.
Geoffrey accepted the cup, took a small sip, rolled the liquid on his tongue, and swallowed. As he handed the cup to Andulvar, he started gasping and pressed his hands to his stomach.
"Geoffrey?" Alarmed, Saetan grabbed Geoffrey's arm as the older Guardian swayed.
"Is it supposed to feel like that?" Geoffrey wheezed.
"Like what?" Saetan asked cautiously.
"Like an avalanche hitting your stomach."
Saetan sighed with relief. "It doesn't last long, and the tonic does have some astonishing curative powers, but…"
"The initial sensation is a bit unsettling."
"Exactly," Saetan said dryly.
Andulvar studied the two Guardians and shrugged. He took a sip, passed the cup to Prothvar, who took a sip and passed it to Mephis.
When the cup reached Saetan, it was still two-thirds full. He sighed, took a sip, and set the cup on an empty curio table.
Why couldn't Draca fill a table with useless bric-a-brac like everyone else? he thought sourly. At least then there would be a way to hide the damn thing since Jaenelle had put some kind of neat little spell on the cup that prevented it from being vanished.
"Hell's fire," Andulvar finally said.
"What does she put in it?" Mephis said, rubbing his stomach.
Prothvar eyed Geoffrey. "You know, you've almost got some color."
Geoffrey glared at the Eyrien Warlord.
"What did you all want to see me about?" Saetan asked.
That stopped them cold. Then they began talking all at once.
"You see, SaDiablo, the waif-"
"- it's a difficult time for a young girl, I do understand that-"
"- doesn't want to see us-"
"- suddenly so shy-"
Saetan raised his hand to silence their explanations.
Everything has a price. As he looked at them, he knew he had to tell them what the past two weeks had forced him to see. Everything has a price, but, sweet Darkness, haven't we paid enough?
"Jaenelle didn't heal." When no one responded, he wondered if he'd actually said it out loud.
"Explain, SaDiablo," Andulvar rumbled. "Her body is alive, and now that she's returned to it, it will get stronger."
"Yes," Saetan replied softly. "Her body is alive."
"Since she's obviously capable of doing more than basic Craft, her inner web must be intact," Geoffrey said.
"Her inner web is intact," Saetan agreed. Hell's fire. Why was he prolonging this? Because once he actually said it, it would be real.
He watched the knowledge – and the anger – fill Andulvar's eyes.
"The bastard who raped her managed to shatter the crystal chalice, didn't he?" Andulvar said slowly. "He shattered her mind, and that pushed her into the Twisted Kingdom." Pausing, he studied Saetan. "Or did it push her somewhere else?"
"Who knows what lies deep in the abyss?" Saetan said bitterly. "I don't. Was she lost in madness or simply walking roads the rest of us can't possibly comprehend? I don't know. I do know she is more and less and different than she was, and there are some days when it's hard to find anything left of the child we knew. She told me that she'd put the crystal chalice back together, and from what I can tell, she has. But she doesn't remember what happened at Cassandra's Altar. She doesn't remember anything that took place during the few months before that night. And she's hiding something. That's part of the reason she's withdrawing from us. Shadows and secrets. She's afraid to trust any of us because of those damn shadows and secrets."
Mephis finally broke the long silence. "Perhaps," he said slowly, "if she could be persuaded to see us in one of the public rooms, just for a few minutes at a time, it might help rebuild her trust in us. Especially if we don't push or ask any difficult questions." He added sadly, "And is being locked within herself while she lives in her body really any different than being lost in the abyss?"
"No," Saetan said softly. "It's not." It was a risk. Mother Night, was it a risk! "I'll talk to her."
Andulvar, Prothvar, Mephis, and Geoffrey left after agreeing to meet him in one of the "smaller parlors. Saetan waited for several minutes before walking the few yards that separated his room from the Queen's suite. Once Jaenelle established her court, no males but her Con
sort, Steward, and Master of the Guard would be permitted in this wing unless they were summoned. Not even her legal guardian.
Saetan knocked quietly on her bedroom door. When he got no answer, he peeked into the room. Empty. He checked the adjoining sitting room. That was empty, too.
Running his fingers through his hair, he wondered where his wayward child had gone. He could sense that she was nearby. But he'd also learned that Jaenelle left such a strong psychic scent, it was sometimes difficult to locate her. Perhaps it had always been that way, but they'd never spent more than an hour or two together at any given time. Now her presence filled the huge Keep, and her dark, delicious psychic scent was a pleasure and a torment. To feel her, to yearn with all one's heart to embrace and serve her, and to be locked out of her life…
There could be no greater torture.
And it wasn't just for Andulvar, Mephis, Prothvar, and Geoffrey that he was willing to risk her emotional stability by asking for contact. There was one other, lately never far from his thoughts. If she didn't heal emotionally, if she could never endure a man's touch. .
He wasn't the key that could unlock that final door. There was much he could do, but not that. He wasn't the key.
Daemon Sadi was.
Daemon. . Daemon, where are you? Why haven't you come?
Saetan was about to retrace his steps, intending to find Draca – she always knew where everyone was in the Keep- when a sound made him turn toward a half-open door at the end of the corridor.
As he walked toward it, he noticed how much better his leg felt since Jaenelle started dosing him with her tonic. If he could stomach it for a couple more weeks, he'd be able to put the cane away – and hopefully the tonic with it.
He had almost reached the door when someone inside the room let out a startled squawk. There was a loud pop fizz boosh, and then a lavender, gray, and rose cloud belched out of the room, followed by a feminine voice muttering, "Damn, damn, and double damn!"
The cloud began a slow descent to the floor.
Saetan held out his hand and stared at the chalky lavender, grey, and rose flecks that covered his skin and shirt cuff. Butterflies churned in his stomach, and they tickled, leaving him with an irrational desire to giggle and flee.
