"Saetan."
Geoffrey, the Keep's historian/librarian, stepped from the shadow of the doorway. As always, he was neatly dressed in a slim black tunic and trousers and bare of any ornamentation except his Red Jewel ring. As always, his black hair was carefully combed back, drawing a person's eyes to the prominent widow's peak. But his black eyes looked like small lumps of coal instead of highly polished stone.
As Saetan walked toward him, the vertical line between Geoffrey's black eyebrows deepened. "Come to the library and have a glass of yarbarah with me," Geoffrey said.
Saetan shook his head. "Later perhaps."
Geoffrey's eyebrows pulled down farther, echoing his widow's peak. "Anger has no place in a sickroom. Especially now. Especially yours."
The two Guardians studied each other. Saetan looked away first.
Once they were settled into comfortable chairs and Geoffrey had poured a warmed glass of the blood wine for each of them, Saetan forced himself to look at the large blackwood table that dominated the room. It was usually piled with history, Craft, and reference books Geoffrey had pulled from the stacks—books the two men had searched for touchstones to understand Jaenelle's casual but stunning remarks and her sometimes quirky but awesome abilities. Now it was empty. And the emptiness hurt.
"Have you no hope, Geoffrey?" Saetan asked quietly.
"What?" Geoffrey glanced at the table, then looked away. "I needed . . . occupation. Sitting there, each book was a reminder, and . . ."
"I understand." Saetan drained his glass and reached for his cane.
Geoffrey walked with him to the door. As Saetan went into the corridor, he felt a light, hesitant touch and turned back.
"Saetan ... do you still hope?"
Saetan considered the question for a long moment before giving the only answer he could give. "I have to."
Cassandra closed her book, rolled her shoulders wearily, and scrubbed her face with her hands. "There's no change. She hasn't risen out of the abyss—or wherever it is she's fallen. And the longer she remains beyond the reach of another mind, the less chance we have of ever getting her back."
Saetan studied the woman with dusty-red hair and tired emerald eyes. Long, long ago when Cassandra had been Witch, the Black-Jeweled Queen, he had been her Consort and had loved her. And she, in her own way, had cared for him—until he made the Offering to the Darkness and walked away wearing Black Jewels. After that, it was more a trading of skills—his in the bed for hers in the Black Widow's Craft—until she faked her own death and became a Guardian. She had played her deathbed scene so well, and his faith in her as a Queen had been so solid, it had never occurred to him that she had done it to end her reign as Witch—and to get away from him.
Now they were united again.
But as he put his arms around her, offering her comfort, he felt that inner withdrawal, that suppressed shudder of fear. She never forgot he walked dark roads that even she dared not travel, never forgot that the Dark Realm had called him High Lord while he still had been fully alive.
Saetan kissed Cassandra's forehead and stepped away. "Get some rest," he said gently. "I'll sit with her."
Cassandra looked at him, glanced at the bed, and shook her head. "Not even you can make the reach, Saetan."
Saetan looked at the pale, fragile girl lying in a sea of black silk sheets. "I know."
As Cassandra closed the door behind her, he wondered if, despite the terrible cost, she derived some small satisfaction from that fact.
He shook his head to clear his mind, pulled the chair closer to the bed, and sighed. He wished the room weren't so impersonal. He wished there were paintings to break up the long walls of polished black stone. He wished there was a young girl's clutter scattered on the blackwood furniture. He wished for so much.
But these rooms had been finished shortly before that nightmare at Cassandra's Altar. Jaenelle hadn't had the chance to imprint them with her psychic scent and make them her own. Even the small treasures she'd left here hadn't been lived with enough, handled enough to make them truly hers. There was no familiar anchor here for her to reach for as she tried to climb out of the abyss that was part of the Darkness.
Except him.
Resting one arm on the bed, Saetan leaned over and gently brushed the lank golden hair away from the too-thin face. Her body was healing, but slowly, because there was no one inside to help it mend. Jaenelle, his young Queen, the daughter of his soul, was lost in the Darkness—or in the inner landscape called the Twisted Kingdom. Beyond his reach.
But not, he hoped, beyond his love.
With his hand resting on her head, Saetan closed his eyes and made the inner descent to the level of the Black Jewels. Slowly, carefully, he continued downward until he could go no further. Then he released his words into the abyss, as he had done for the past three weeks.
*You're safe, witch-child. Come back. You're safe.*
5 / Terreille
A hand caressed his arm, gently squeezed his shoulder.
Lucivar's temper flared at being pulled from the little sleep his pain-filled body permitted him each night. The chains that tethered his wrists and ankles to the wall weren't long enough for him to lie down and stretch out, so he slept crouched, his buttocks braced against the wall to ease the strain in his legs, his head resting on his crossed forearms, his wings loosely folded around his body.
Long nails whispered over his skin. The hand squeezed his shoulder a little harder. "Lucivar," a deep voice whispered, husky with frustration and weariness. "Wake up, Prick."
Lucivar raised his head. The moonlight coming through the cell's window slit wasn't much to see by, but it was enough. He looked at the man bending over him and, for just a moment, was glad to see his half brother. Then he bared his teeth in a feral smile. "Hello, Bastard."
Daemon released Lucivar's shoulder and stepped back, wary. "I've come to get you out of here."
Lucivar slowly rose to his feet, snarling softly at the noise the chains made. "The Sadist showing consideration? I'm touched." He lunged at Daemon, but the leg irons hobbled his stride, and Daemon glided away, just out of reach.
"Not a very enthusiastic greeting, brother," Daemon said softly.
"Did you really expect a greeting at all, brother?" Lucivar spat.
Daemon ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. "You know why I couldn't do anything to help you before now."
"Yes, I know why," Lucivar replied, his deep voice changing to a lethal croon. "Just as I know why you came here now."
Daemon turned away, his face hidden in the shadows.
"Do you really think setting me free will make up for it, Bastard? Do you really think I'll ever forgive you?"
"You have to forgive me," Daemon whispered. Then he shuddered.
Lucivar narrowed his gold eyes. There was an unexpected fragility in Daemon's psychic scent. At another time, it would have worried him. Now he saw it as a weapon. "You shouldn't have come here, Bastard. I swore I'd kill you if you accepted that offer, and I will."
Daemon turned to face him. "What offer?"
"Maybe trade is a better word. Your freedom for Jaenelle's life."
"I didn't accept that offer!"
Lucivar's hands closed into fists. "Then you killed her for the fun of it? Or didn't you realize she was dying under you until it was too late?"
They stared at each other.
"What are you talking about?" Daemon asked quietly.
"Cassandra's Altar," Lucivar answered just as quietly while his rage swelled, threatening to break his self-control. "You got careless this time. You left the sheet—and all that blood."
Swaying, Daemon stared at his hands. "So much blood," he whispered. "My hands were covered with it."
Tears stung Lucivar's eyes. "Why, Daemon? What did she do to deserve being hurt like that?" His voice rose. He couldn't stop it. "She was the Queen we had dreamed of serving. We had waited for her for so long. You butchering whore, why did you have to kill her?"
Lucivar held his breath, wanting to believe. "Then where is she?"
Daemon hesitated, looked confused. "I don't know. I'm not sure."
Pain tore through Lucivar as fiercely as it had after he had probed the dried blood on the sheet. "You're not sure," he sneered. "You. The Sadist. Not sure where you buried the kill? Try a better lie."
"She's not dead!" Daemon roared.
There was a shout nearby, followed by the sound of running feet.
Daemon raised his right hand. The Black Jewel flashed. Outside the stables where the slaves were quartered, someone let out an agonized shriek. And then there was silence.
Knowing it wouldn't take that long for the guards to find enough courage to enter the stables, Lucivar bared his teeth and pushed to find a crippling weak spot. "Did you just throw her down and take her? Or did you seduce her, lie to her, tell her you loved her?"
"I do love her." Daemon's eyes held a shadow of doubt, a hint of fear. "I had to lie. She wouldn't listen to me. I had to lie."
"And then you seduced her to get close enough for the kill."
Daemon exploded into motion. He paced the small cell, fiercely shaking his head. "No," he said through gritted teeth. "No, no, no!" He spun around, grabbed Lucivar's shoulders, and shoved him against the wall. "Who told you she was dead? who?"
Lucivar snapped his arms up, breaking Daemon's grip. "Dorothea."
Pain flashed over Daemon's face. He stepped back. "Since when do you listen to Dorothea?" he asked bitterly. "Since when do you believe that lying bitch?"
"I don't."
"Then why—"
"Words lie. Blood doesn't." Lucivar waited for Daemon to absorb the implication. "You left the sheet, Bastard," he said savagely. "All that blood. All that pain."
"Stop," Daemon whispered, his voice shaking. "Lucivar, please. You don't understand. She was already hurt, already in pain, and I—"
"Seduced her, lied to her, raped a twelve-year-old girl."
"No!"
"Did you enjoy it, Bastard?"
"I didn't—"
"Did you enjoy touching her?"
"Lucivar, please—"
"did you?"
"yes!"
With a howl of rage, Lucivar threw himself at Daemon with enough force to snap the chains—but not fast enough. He crashed to the floor, scraping the skin from his palms and knees. It took a minute for him to get his breath back. It took another minute for him to understand why he was shivering. He stared at the thick layer of ice that covered the cell's stone walls. Then he slowly got to his feet, swaying on shaking legs, feeling a bitterness so deep it lacerated his soul.
Daemon stood nearby, his hands in his trouser pockets, his face an expressionless mask, his golden eyes slightly glazed and sleepy.
"I hate you," Lucivar whispered hoarsely.
"At the moment, brother, the feeling is very mutual," Daemon said too calmly, too gently. "I'm going to find her, Lucivar. I'm going to find her just to prove she isn't dead. And after I find her, I'm going to come back and tear out your lying tongue."
Daemon disappeared. The front of the cell exploded.
Lucivar dropped to the floor, his wings tight to his body, his arms protecting his head while pebbles and sand rained down on him.
There were more shouts now. More running feet.
Lucivar sprang to his feet as the guards poured through the opening. He bared his teeth and snarled, his gold eyes shining with rage. The guards took one look at him and backed out of the cell. For the rest of the night, they blocked the opening but didn't try to enter.
Lucivar watched them, his breath whistling through clenched teeth.
He could have fought his way past the guards and followed Daemon. If Zuultah had tried to stop him by sending a bolt of pain through the Ring of Obedience around his organ, Daemon would have unleashed his strength against her. No matter how bitterly they fought with each other, he and Daemon were always united against an outside enemy.
He could have followed and forced the battle that would have destroyed one or both of them. Instead he remained in the cell.
He had sworn that he would kill Daemon, and he would. But he couldn't quite bring himself to destroy his brother. Not yet.
chapter Two
1 / Terreille
The knocking sounded forceful, urgent. Dorothea SaDiablo hid her shaking hands in the folds of her nightgown and positioned herself in. the middle of her bedroom, her back to the single candle-light that dimly lit the room.
She had been searching for Daemon Sadi for seven months now. In the hard light of day, with her court all around her, she could almost convince herself that he wouldn't come to Hayll, that he would stay in whatever hole he'd found to hide in. But at night, she was certain she would open a door or turn a corner and find him waiting. He would spin out the pain beyond even her imagining, and then he would kill her. The insult underneath that violence was that he wouldn't destroy her for all the things she'd done to him, he would destroy her because of that child.
That damned child. Hekatah's obsession, the High Lord's reappearance, Greer's death, her son Kartane's mysterious illness, Daemon's fury, Lucivar's sudden hatred for his half brother—all of it came back to that girl.
The doorknob turned. The door opened an inch.
"Priestess?" a male voice called softly.
Giddy relief was swiftly replaced by anger. "Come in," she snapped.
Lord Valrik, Dorothea's Master of the Guard, entered the room and bowed. "Forgive the intrusion at this hour,
Priestess, but I felt you should know about this immediately." He snapped his fingers, and two guards entered, holding a man roughly by the arms.
Dorothea stared at the young Hayllian Blood male cowering between the guards. Little more than a boy really. And pretty. Just the way she liked them. Too much the way she liked them.
She took a step toward the youth, pleased at the fear in his glazed eyes. "You don't serve in my court," she purred. "Why are you here?"
"I was sent, Priestess. I was t-told to please you."
Dorothea studied him. The words sounded flat, forced. Not his words at all. There were some kinds of compulsion spells that could force a person into performing a specific set of tasks, even against his will.
She took another step toward him. "Who sent you?"
"He didn't tell me his—"
Before he could finish, Dorothea called in a dagger and drove it into his chest. Her attack was so fast and so vicious, the guards were pulled down with the youth. Then she unleashed the strength of her Red Jewel against his pitifully inadequate inner barriers and burned out his mind, leaving no one, leaving nothing to come back and haunt her.
"Take that to the woodlands beyond the city for whatever wants the carrion," she said through clenched teeth.
The guards grabbed the body and hurried out, Valrik following them.
Dorothea paced, clenching and unclenching her hands. Damn, damn, damn! She should have probed the youth's mind before destroying him so completely, should have found out for certain who had sent him. But this had to be Sadi's work! That bastard was toying with her, trying to wear down her vigilance, trying to catch her off guard.
She hid her face in her shaking hands.
Sadi was out there. Somewhere. Until he was dead. . . . No! Not dead. There would be no hope of controlling him then, and once he was demon-dead, he would surely join forces with the High Lord. And she had never forgotten the threat Saetan had made, his voice rising out of a swirling nightmare: when Daemon Sadi died, Hayll would die.
Finally exhausted, Dorothea returned to her bed. She hesitated a moment, then extinguished the candle-light completely. There was more safety in full darkness—if there was any safety at all.
Dorothea threw back her cloak's hood and took a deep breath before entering the small sitting room in the old Sanctuary. Hekatah was already sitting before the unlit hearth, h
er hood pulled up to hide her face. An empty ravenglass goblet sat on the table in front of her.
Dorothea called in a silver flask and set it beside the goblet.
Hekatah let out an annoyed sniff at the size of the flask, but pointed one finger at it. The flask opened and lifted from the table. Its hot, red contents poured into the goblet, which then glided through the air to Hekatah's waiting hand. She drank deeply.
Dorothea clenched her hands and waited. Finally out of patience, she snapped, "Sadi is still on the loose."
"And each day will hone his temper a little more," Hekatah said in that girlish voice that always seemed at odds with her vicious nature.
"Exactly."
Hekatah sighed like a sated woman. "That's good."
"Good?" Dorothea exploded from the chair. "You don't know him!"
"But I do know his father."
Dorothea shuddered.
Hekatah set the empty goblet on the table. "Calm yourself, Sister. I'm weaving a delicious web for Daemon Sadi, a web he won't escape from because he won't want to escape."
Dorothea went back to her chair. "Then he can be Ringed again."
Hekatah laughed softly, maliciously. "Oh, no, he'd be useless to us Ringed. But don't worry. He'll be hunting bigger prey than you." She wagged a finger at Dorothea. "I've been very busy on your behalf."
Dorothea pressed her lips together, refusing to take the bait.
Hekatah waited a minute. "He'll be going after the High Lord."
Dorothea stared. "Why?"
"To avenge the girl."
"But Greer is the one who destroyed her!"
"Sadi doesn't know that," Hekatah said. "By the time I'm done telling him the sad tale of why this happened to the girl, the only thing he'll want to do is tear out Saetan's heart. Naturally the High Lord will protest such action."
Bishop, Anne - Dark Jewels 02 - Heir to the Shadows (v1.0) Page 3
