by Anne Bishop
"You used him. He was a friend, and you used him."
Saetan gritted his teeth. "There was no choice."
"There was a choice." She slashed open the chair in front of his desk. "there was a choice!"
His rising temper pushed the fear aside. "To lose you," he said roughly. "To stand back and let your body die and lose you. 1 didn't consider that a choice, Lady. Neither did Daemon."
"You wouldn't have lost me if the body had died. I
would have eventually put the crystal chalice back together and-"
"You're Witch, and Witch doesn't become cildru dyathe. We would have lost you. Every part of you. He knew that."
That stopped her for a moment.
"I gave him all the strength I had. He went too deep into the abyss trying to reach you. When I tried to draw him back up, he fought me and the link between us snapped."
"He shattered his crystal chalice," Jaenelle said in a hollow voice. "He shattered his mind. I put it back together, but it was so terribly fragile. When he rose out of the abyss, anything could have damaged him. A harsh word would have been enough at that point."
"I know," Saetan said cautiously. "I felt him."
The cold rage filled her eyes again. "But you left him there, didn't you, Saetan?" she said too softly. "Briarwood's uncles had arrived at the Altar, and you left a defenseless man to face them."
"He was supposed to go through the Gate," Saetan replied hotly. "I don't know why he didn't."
"Of course you know." Her voice became a sepulchral croon. "We both know. If a timing spell wasn't put on the candles to snuff them out and close the Gate, then someone had to stay behind to close it. Naturally it was the Warlord Prince who was expected to stay."
"He may have had other reasons to stay," Saetan said carefully.
"Perhaps," she replied with equal care. "But that doesn't explain why he's in the Twisted Kingdom, does it, High Lord?" She took a step closer to him. "That doesn't explain why you left him there."
"I didn't know he was in the Twisted Kingdom until-" Saetan clamped his teeth to hold the words back.
"Until Lucivar came to Kaeleer," Jaenelle finished for him. She waved a hand dismissively before he could speak. "Lucivar was in the salt mines of Pruul. I know there was nothing he could do. But you."
Saetan spaced out the words. "Getting you back was the
first requirement. I gave my strength to that task. Daemon would have understood that, would have demanded it."
"I came back two years ago, and there's nothing draining your strength now." Pain and betrayal filled her eyes. "But you didn't even try to reach him, did you?"
"Yes, I tried! damn you, I tried!" He sagged against the desk. "Stop acting like a petty little bitch. He may be your friend, but he's also my son. Do you really think I wouldn't try to help him?" The bitter failure filled him again. "I was so close, witch-child. So close. But he was just out of reach. And he didn't trust me. If he would have tried a little, I would have had him. I could have shown him the way out of the Twisted Kingdom. But he didn't trust me."
The silence stretched.
"I'm going to get him back," Jaenelle said quietly.
Saetan straightened up. "You can't go back to Terreille."
"Don't tell me what I can or can't do," Jaenelle snarled.
"Listen to me, Jaenelle," he said urgently. "You can't go back to Terreille. As soon as she realized you were there, Dorothea would do everything she could to contain you or destroy you. And you're still not of age. Your Chaillot relatives could try to regain custody."
"I'll take that chance. I'm not leaving him to suffer." She turned to leave the room.
Saetan took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Since I'm his father, I can reach him without needing physical contact."
"But he doesn't trust you."
"I can help you, Jaenelle."
She turned back to look at him, and he saw a stranger.
"I don't want your help, High Lord," she said quietly.
Then she walked away from him, and he knew she was doing a great deal more than simply walking out of a room.
Everything has a price.
Lucivar found her in the gardens a couple of hours later" sitting on a stone bench with her hands pressed between her knees hard enough to bruise. Straddling the bench, he
sat as close as he could without touching her. "Cat?" he said softly, afraid that even sound would shatter her. "Talk to me. Please."
"I_" She shuddered.
"You remember."
"I remember." She let out a laugh full of knife-sharp edges. "I remember all of it. Marjane, Dannie, Rose. Briarwood. Greer. All of it." She glanced at him. "You've known about Briarwood. And Greer."
Lucivar brushed a lock of hair away from his face. Maybe he should get it cut short, the way Eyrien warriors usually wore it. "Sometimes when you have bad dreams you talk in your sleep."
"So you've both known. And said nothing."
"What could we have said, Cat?" Lucivar asked slowly. "If we had forced someone else to remember something that emotionally scarring, you would have thrown a fit – as well as a few pieces of furniture."
Jaenelle's lips curved in a ghost of a smile. "True." Her smile faded. "Do you know the worst thing about it? I forgot him. Daemon was a friend, and I forgot him. That Winsol, before I was… he gave me a silver bracelet. I don't know what happened to it. I had a picture of him. I don't know what happened to that either. And then he gave everything he had to help me, and when it was done, everyone walked away from him as if he didn't matter."
"If you had remembered the rape when you first came back, would you have stayed? Or would you have fled from your body again?"
"I don't know."
"Then if forgetting Daemon was the price that had to be paid in order to keep those memories at bay until you were strong enough to face them… He would say it was a fair price."
"It's very easy to make statements about what Daemon would say since he's not here to deny them, isn't it?" Tears filled her eyes.
"You're forgetting something, little witch," Lucivar said
sharply. "He's my brother, and he's a Warlord Prince. I've known him longer and far better than you."
Jaenelle shifted on the bench. "I don't blame you for what happened to him. The High Lord-"
"If you're going to demand that the High Lord shoulder the blame for Daemon being in the Twisted Kingdom, then you're going to have to shovel some of that blame onto me as well."
She twisted around to face him, her eyes chilly.
Lucivar took a deep breath. "He came to get me out of Pruul. He wanted me to go with him. And I refused to go because I thought he had killed you, that he was the one who had raped you."
"Daemon?"
Lucivar swore viciously. "Sometimes you can be incredibly naive. You have no idea what Daemon is capable of doing when he goes cold."
"You really believed that?"
He braced bis head in his hands. "There was so much blood, so much pain. I couldn't get past the grief to think clearly enough to doubt what I'd been told. And when I accused him, he didn't deny it."
Jaenelle looked thoughtful. "He seduced me. Well, seduced Witch. When we were in the abyss."
"He what?" Lucivar asked with deadly calm.
"Don't get snarly," Jaenelle snapped. "It was a trick to make me heal the body. He didn't really want me. Her. He didn't…" Her voice trailed away. She waited a minute before continuing. "He said he'd been waiting for Witch all his life. That he'd been born to be her lover. But then he didn't want to be her lover."
"Hell's fire, Cat," Lucivar exploded. "You were a twelve-year-old who had recently been raped. What did you expect him to do?"
"I wasn't twelve in the abyss."
Lucivar narrowed his eyes, wondering what she meant by that.
"He lied to me," she said in a small voice.
"No, he didn't. He meant exactly what he said. If you had been eighteen and had offered him the Consort's
ring,
you would have found that out quick enough." Lucivar stared at the blurry garden. He cleared his throat. "Saetan loves you, Cat. And you love him. He did what he had to do to save his Queen. He did what any Warlord Prince would do. If you can't forgive him, how will you ever be able to forgive me?"
"Oh, Lucivar." Sobbing, Jaenelle threw her arms around him.
Lucivar held her, petted her, took aching comfort from the way she held him tight. His silent tears wet her hair. His tears were for her, whose soul wounds had been reopened; for himself, because he may have lost something precious so soon after it was found; for Saetan, who may have lost even more; and for Daemon. Most of all, for Daemon.
It was almost twilight when Jaenelle gently pulled away from him. "There's someone I need to talk to. I'll be back later."
Worried, Lucivar studied her slumped shoulders and pale face. "Where-" Caution warred with instinct. He floundered.
Jaenelle's lips held a shadow of an understanding smile. "I'm not going anywhere dangerous. I'll still be in Kaeleer. And no, Prince Yaslana, this isn't risky. I'm just going to see a friend."
He let her go, unable to do anything else.
Saetan stared at nothing, holding the pain at bay, holding the memories at bay. If he released his hold and they flooded in… he wasn't sure he would survive them, wasn't sure he would even try.
"Saetan?" Jaenelle hovered near the open study doorway.
"Lady." Protocol. The courtesies given and granted when a Warlord Prince addressed a Queen of equal or darker rank. He'd lost the privilege of addressing her any other way, of being anything more.
When she entered the room, he walked around the desk. He couldn't sit while she was standing, and he couldn't offer her a seat since the rest of the furniture in his study had been destroyed and he hadn't allowed Beale to clear up the mess.
Jaenelle approached hesitantly, her lower lip caught between her teeth, her hands twining restlessly. She didn't look at him.
"I talked to Lorn." Her voice quivered. She blinked rapidly. "He agreed with you that I shouldn't go to Terreille – except the Keep. We decided that I would create a shadow of myself that can interact with people so that I can search for Daemon while my body remains safe at the Keep. I'll only be able to search three days out of every month because of the physical drain the shadow will place on me, but I know someone I think will help me look for him."
"You must do what you think best," he said carefully.
She looked at him, her beautiful, ancient, haunted eyes full of tears. "S-Saetan?"
Still so young for all her strength and wisdom.
He opened his arms, opened his heart.
She clung to him, trembling violently.
She was the most painful, most glorious dance of his life.
"Saetan, I-"
He pressed a finger against her lips. "No, witch-child," he said with gentle regret. "Forgiveness doesn't work that way. You may want to forgive me, but you can't do it yet. Forgiving someone can take weeks, months, years. Sometimes it takes a lifetime. Until Daemon is whole again, all we can do is try to be kind to one another, and understanding, and take each day as it comes." He held her close, savoring the feeling, not knowing when, or if, he'd ever hold her like this again. "Come along, witch-child. It's almost dawn. You need to rest now."
He led her to her bedroom but didn't enter. Safe in his own room, he felt the loneliness already pressing down on him.
He curled up on his bed, unable to stop the tears he'd held back throughout the long, terrible night. It would take time. Weeks, months, maybe years. He knew it would take time.
But, please, sweet Darkness, please don't let it take a lifetime.
4 / Terreille
Surreal walked down the neglected street toward the market square, hoping her icy expression would offset her vulnerable physical state. She shouldn't have used that witch's brew to suppress last month's moon time, but the Hayllian guards Kartane SaDiablo had sent after her had been breathing down her neck then and she hadn't felt safe enough to risk being defenseless during the days when her body couldn't tolerate the use of her power beyond basic Craft.
Damn all Blood males to the bowels of Hell. When a witch's body made her vulnerable for a few days, it also made every Blood male a potential enemy. And right now she had enough enemies to worry about.
Well, she'd pick up a few things at the market and then hole up in her rooms with a couple of thick novels and wait it out.
Stifled, frightened cries came from the alley up ahead.
Calling in a long-bladed knife, Surreal slipped to the edge of the alley and peeked around the corner.
Four large, surly, Hayllian men. And one girl who was barely more than a child. Two of the men stood back, watching, as one of their comrades held the girl and the other's hands yanked her clothes aside.
Damn, damn, damn. It was a trap. There was no other reason for Hayllians to be in this part of the Realm, especially in this part of a dying city. She should just slip back to her rooms. If she was careful, they might not find her. There would be other Hayllians waiting around the places where she might purchase a ticket for a Web Coach, so that was out. And riding the Winds without the protection of a Coach might not be suicidal right now, but it would feel damn close.
But there was that girl. If she didn't intervene, that child was going to end up under those four brutes. Even if someone "rescued" her afterward, she'd be passed from man to man until the constant use or the brutality of one of them killed her.
Taking a deep breath, Surreal rushed into the alley.
An upward slash opened one man from armpit to collarbone. She swung her arm, just missing the girl's face, and managed to get in a shallow slash across the other's chest while she tried to pull the girl away.
Then the other two men joined the fight.
Diving under a fist that would have pulped one side of her head, Surreal rolled, sprang up, took two running steps and, because no one tried to stop her from going deeper into the alley, spun around.
A dead end behind her, and the Hayllians blocking the only way out.
Surreal looked at the girl, wanting to express her regret.
Smiling greedily as one of the unwounded men dropped a small bag of coins into her hands, the girl pulled her clothes together and hurried out of the alley.
Mercenary little bitch.
Surreal tried hard to remember the other girls she'd helped over the past five years, but remembering them didn't diminish the overwhelming sense of betrayal. Well, she'd come full circle. She'd come up from living in stinking alleys. Now she'd die in one, because she wasn't about to let Kartane SaDiablo truss her up and hand her over as a present to the High Priestess of Hayll.
The men stepped forward, smiling viciously.
"Let her go."
The quiet, eerie, midnight voice came from behind her.
Surreal watched the men, watched surprise, uneasiness, and fear harden into a look that always meant pain for a woman.
"Let her go," the voice said again.
"Go to Hell," the largest Hayllian said, stepping forward.
A mist rose up behind the men, forming a wall across the alley.
"Just slit the bitch's throat and be done with it," the man with the shoulder wound said.
"Can't have any fun and games with the half-breed, so the other will have to learn some manners," the largest man said.
Thick mist suddenly filled the alley. Eyes, like burning red gems, appeared, and something let out a wet-sounding snarl.
Surreal screamed breathlessly as a hand clamped on her left arm.
"Come with me," said that terrifyingly familiar midnight voice.
The mist swirled, too thick to see the person guiding her through it as easily as if it were clear water.
More snarls. Then high-pitched, desperate screams.
"W-what-" Surreal stammered.
"Hell Hounds."
To the right of her, something hit the grou
nd with a wet plop.
Surreal tried hard to swallow, tried hard not to breathe.
The next step took them out of the mist and back to the welcome sight of the neglected street.
"Are you staying around here?" the voice asked.
Surreal finally looked at her companion and felt a stab of disappointment immediately followed by a sense of relief. The woman was her height, and the body in the form-fitting black jumpsuit, though slender, definitely didn't belong to the child she remembered. But the long hair was golden, and the eyes were hidden behind dark glasses.
Surreal tried to pull away. "I'm grateful you got my ass out of that alley, but my mother told me not to tell strangers where I live."
"We're not strangers, and I'm sure that's not all Titian told you."
Surreal tried again to pull away. The hand on her arm clamped down harder. Finally realizing she still held a weapon in her other hand, Surreal swung the knife, bringing it down hard on the woman's wrist.
The knife went through as if there was nothing there and vanished.
"What are you?" Surreal gasped.
"An illusion that's called a shadow."
"Who are you?"
"Briarwood is the pretty poison. There is no cure for Briarwood." The woman smiled coldly. "Does that answer your question?"
Surreal studied the woman, trying to find some trace of
the child she remembered. After a minute, she said, "You really are Jaenelle, aren't you? Or some part of her?"
Jaenelle smiled, but there was no humor in it. "I really am." A pause. Then, "We need to talk, Surreal. Privately."
Oh, yes, they needed to talk. "I have to go to the market first."
The hand with the dagger-sharp, black-tinted nails tightened for a moment before releasing her. "All right."
Surreal hesitated. Snarls and crunching noises came out of the mist behind them. "Don't you have to finish the kill?"
"I don't think that'll be a problem," Jaenelle said dryly. "Piles of Hound shit aren't much of a threat to anyone."
Surreal paled.
Jaenelle's lips tightened. "I apologize," she said after a minute. "We all have facets to our personalities. This has brought out the nastier ones in mine. No one will enter the alley and nothing will leave. The Harpies will arrive soon and take care of things."
