Bishop, Anne - Dark Jewels 02 - Heir to the Shadows (v1.0)

by Heir to the Shadows [lit]

  While Andulvar read the letter, Saetan looked wearily at the stacks of papers on his desk. It had been months since he'd set foot in the Hall, even longer since he'd granted audiences to the Queens who ruled the Provinces and Districts in his Territory. His eldest son, Mephis, had dealt with as much of the official business of Dhemlan as he could, as he had been doing for centuries, but the rest of it ...

  "Blood-sucking corpse?" Andulvar sputtered.

  Saetan watched with a touch of amusement as Andulvar snarled through the rest of the letter. He hadn't been amused during his first reading, but the signature and the adolescent handwriting had soothed his temper—and added another layer to his sorrow.

  Andulvar flung the letter onto the desk. "Who is Karla, and how does she dare write something like this to you?"

  "Not only does she dare, but the courier is waiting for a reply."

  Andulvar muttered something vicious.

  "As for who she is . . ." Saetan called in the file he usually kept locked in his private study beneath the Hall. He leafed through the papers filled with his notes and handed one to Andulvar.

  Andulvar's shoulders slumped as he read it. "Damn."

  "Yes." Saetan put the paper back in the file and vanished it.

  "What are you going to say?"

  Saetan leaned back in his chair. "The truth. Or part of it. I've kept the Dark Council at bay for two years, denying their not unreasonable requests to see Jaenelle. I've given no explanation for that denial, letting them think what they chose—and I am aware of what they've chosen to think. But her friends? Until now they've been too young, or perhaps not bold enough, to ask what became of her. Now they're asking." He straightened in his chair and summoned Beale, the Red-Jeweled Warlord who worked as the Hall's butler.

  "Bring the courier to me," Saetan said when Beale appeared.

  "Shall I go?" Andulvar asked, making no move to leave.

  Saetan shrugged, already preoccupied with how to word his reply. There hadn't been much contact between Dhemlan and Glacia in the past few years, but he'd heard enough about Lord Hobart and his ties to Little Terreille to decide on a verbal reply instead of a written one.

  Long centuries ago, Little Terreille had been settled by Terreilleans who had been eager for a new life and a new land. Despite that eagerness, the people had never felt comfortable with the races who had been born to the Shadow Realm. So even though Little Terreille was a Territory in Kaeleer, it had looked for companionship and guidance from the Realm of Terreille—and still did, even though most, Terreilleans no longer believed Kaeleer existed because access to this Realm had been so limited for so long. Which meant any companionship and guidance coming from Terreille now was coming from Dorothea, one way or another—and that was reason enough for him to feel wary.

  Saetan and Andulvar exchanged a quick look when Beale showed the courier into the room.

  Andulvar sent a thought on a Red spear thread. *He's a bit young for an official courier.*

  Silently agreeing with Andulvar's assessment, Saetan lifted his right hand. A chair floated from its place by the wall and settled in front of the desk. "Please be seated, Warlord."

  "Thank you, High Lord." The young man had the typical fair skin, blond hair, and blue eyes of the Glacian people. Despite his youth, he moved with the kind of assurance usually found in aristo families and responded with a confidence in Protocol that indicated court training.

  Not your typical courier, Saetan thought as he watched the young man try to control the urge to fidget. So why are you here, boyo?

  "My butler must be having a bad day to overlook introducing you when you entered," Saetan said mildly. He steepled his fingers, his long, black-tinted nails resting against his chin.

  The youth paled a little when he saw the Black-Jeweled ring. He licked his lips. "My name is Morton, High Lord."

  Now you're not quite so sure that Protocol will protect you, are you, boyo? Saetan didn't allow his amusement to show. If this boy was going to approach a dark-Jeweled Warlord Prince, it was better he learn the potential dangers. "And you serve?"

  "I—I don't exactly serve in a court yet."

  Saetan raised one eyebrow. "You serve Lord Hobart?" he asked, his voice a bit cooler.

  "No. He's just the head of the family. Sort of an uncle."

  Saetan picked up the letter and handed it to Morton. "Read this." He sent a thought to Andulvar. *What's the game? The boy's not experienced enough to—*

  "Nooo," Morton moaned. The letter fluttered to the floor. "She promised me she'd be polite. I told her I'd be waiting for a reply, and she promised." He flushed, then paled. "I'll strangle her."

  Using Craft, Saetan retrieved the letter. Whatever doubts he'd had about motive were gone, but he was curious aboutwhy the question was being asked now. "How well do you know Karla?"

  "She's my cousin," Morton replied in the aggrieved tone of a ruffled male.

  "You have my sympathy," Andulvar said, rustling his dark wings as he shifted in the chair.

  "Thank you, sir. Having Karla like you is better than having her not like you, but . . ." Morton shrugged.

  "Yes," Saetan said dryly. "I have a friend who has a similar effect on me." He chuckled softly at Morton's look of astonishment. "Boyo, even being me doesn't make a difficult witch any less difficult."

  *Especially a Dea al Mon Harpy,* Andulvar sent, amused. *Have you recovered yet from her latest attempt to be helpful?*

  *If you're going to sit there, be useful,* Saetan shot back.

  Andulvar turned to Morton. "Did your cousin keep her promise?" When the boy gave him a blank look, he added, "Was she being polite?"

  The tips of Morton's ears turned red. He shrugged helplessly. "For Karla ... I guess so."

  "Oh, Mother Night," Saetan muttered. Suddenly a thought swooped down on him, and he choked. He used the time needed to catch his breath to consider some rather nasty possibilities.

  When he was finally in control again, he chose his words carefully. "Lord Morton, your uncle doesn't know you're here, does he?" Morton's nervous look was answer enough. "Where does he think you are?"

  "Somewhere else."

  Saetan studied Morton, fascinated by the subtle change in his posture. No longer a youth intimidated by his surroundings and the males he faced, but a Warlord protecting his young Queen. You were wrong, boyo, Saetan thought. You've already chosen whom you serve.

  "Karla . . ." Morton gathered his thoughts. "It isn't easy for Karla. She wears Birthright Sapphire, and she's a Queen and a natural Black Widow as well as a Healer, and Uncle Hobart . . ."

  Saetan tensed at the bitterness in Morton's blue eyes.

  "She and Uncle Hobart don't get along," Morton finished lamely, looking away. When he looked back, he seemed so young and vulnerable. "I know Karla wants her to come visit like she used to, but couldn't Jaenelle just write a short note? Just to say hello?"

  Saetan closed his golden eyes. Everything has a price, he thought. Everything has a price. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. "I truly wish, with all of my being, that she could." He took another deep breath. "What I'm about to tell you must go no further than your cousin. I must have your pledge of silence."

  Morton immediately nodded agreement.

  "Jaenelle was seriously hurt two years ago. She can't write, she can't communicate in any way. She . . ." Saetan stopped, then resumed when he was sure he could keep his voice steady. "She doesn't know anyone."

  Morton looked ill. "How?" he finally whispered.

  Saetan groped for an answer. The change in Morton's expression told him he needn't have bothered. The boy had understood the silence.

  "Then Karla was right," Morton said bitterly. "A male doesn't have to be that strong if he picks the right time."

  Saetan snapped upright in his chair. "Is Karla being pressed to submit to a male? At fifteen?"

  "No. I don't know. Maybe." Morton's hands clenched the arms of the chair. "She was safe enough when she lived with the Blac
k Widows, but now that she's come back to the family estate . . ."

  "Hell's fire, boy!" Saetan roared. "Even if they don't get along, why isn't your uncle protecting her?"

  Morton bit his lip and said nothing.

  Stunned, Saetan sank back in his chair. Not here, too. Not in Kaeleer. Didn't these fools realize what was lost when a Queen was destroyed that way?

  "You have to go now," Saetan said gently.

  Morton nodded and rose to leave.

  "Tell Karla one other thing. If she needs it, I'll grant her sanctuary at the Hall and give her my protection. And you as well."

  "Thank you," Morton said. Bowing to Saetan and Andulvar, he left.

  Saetan grabbed his silver-headed cane and limped toward the door.

  Andulvar got there first and pressed his hand against the door to keep it closed. "The Dark Council will be screaming for your blood if you give another girl your protection."

  Saetan didn't speak for a long time. Then he gave Andulvar a purely malevolent smile. "If the Dark Council is so misguided they believe Hobart is a better guardian than I am, then they deserve to see some of Hell's more unusual landmarks, don't you think?"

  3 / The Twisted Kingdom

  There was no physical pain, but the agony was relentless.

  Words lie. Blood doesn't.

  You are my instrument.

  Butchering whore.

  He wandered through a mist-filled landscape full of shattered memories, shattered crystal chalices, shattered dreams.

  Sometimes he heard a scream of despair.

  Sometimes he even recognized his own voice.

  Sometimes he caught a glimpse of a girl with long golden hair running away from him. He always followed, desperate to catch up with her, desperate to explain . . .

  He couldn't remember what he needed to explain.

  Don't be afraid, he called to her. Please, don't be afraid.

  But she continued to run, and he continued to follow her through a landscape filled with twisting roads that ended nowhere and caverns that were strewn with bones and splashed with blood.

  Down, always down.

  He followed her, always begging her to wait, always pleading with her not to be afraid, always hoping to hear the sound of her voice, always yearning to hear her say his name.

  If he could only remember what it was.

  4 / Hell

  Hekatah carefully arranged the folds of her full-length cloak while she waited for her demon guards to bring her the cildru dyathe boy. She sighed with satisfaction as her hands stroked the cloak's fur lining. Arcerian fur. A Warlord's fur. She could feel the rage and pain locked in his pelt.

  The kindred. The four-footed Blood. Compared to humans, they had simple minds that couldn't conceive of greatness or ambition, but they were fiercely protective when they gave someone their loyalty—and equally fierce when they felt that loyalty was betrayed.

  She had made a few little mistakes the last time she had tried to become the High Priestess of all the Realms, mistakes that had cost her the war between Terreille and Kaeleer 50,000 years ago. One mistake had been underestimating the strength of the Blood who lived in the Shadow Realm. The other mistake had been underestimating the kindred.

  One of the first things she had done after she'd recovered from the shock of being demon-dead was to exterminate the kindred in Terreille. Some went into hiding and survived, but not enough of them. They would have had to breed with landen animals, and over time the interbreeding had probably produced a few creatures who were almost Blood, but never anything strong enough to wear a Jewel.

  The wilder kindred in Kaeleer, however, had withdrawn to their own Territories after the war and had woven countless spells to protect their borders. By the time those fierce defences had faded enough for anyone to survive passing through them, the kindred had become little more than myths.

  Hekatah began to pace. Hell's fire! How long could it take for two grown males to catch a boy?

  After a minute, she stopped pacing and once again arranged the folds of her cloak. She couldn't allow the boy to see any hint of her impatience. It might make him perversely stubborn. She stroked the cloak's fur lining, letting the feel of it soothe her.

  During the centuries while she had waited for Terreille to ripen again into a worthy prize, she had helped the Territory of Little Terreille maintain a thread of contact with the Realm of Terreille. But it was only in the past few years that she'd established a foothold in Glacia via Lord Hobart's ambition.

  She had chosen Glacia because it was a northern Territory whose people could be isolated more easily from the Blood in other Territories; it had Hobart, a male whose ambitions outstripped his abilities; and .it had a Dark Altar. So for the first time in a very long time, she had a Gate at her disposal, and a way for carefully chosen males to slip into Kaeleer in order to hunt challenging prey.

  That wasn't the only little game she was playing in Kaeleer, but the others required time and patience—and the assurance that nothing would interfere with her ambitions this time.

  Which was why she was here on the cildru dyathe's island.

  She was just about to question the loyalty of her demon guards when they returned, dragging a struggling boy between them. With a savage curse, they pinned the boy against a tall, flat-sided boulder.

  "Don't hurt him," Hekatah snapped.

  "Yes, Priestess," one of the guards replied sullenly.

  Hekatah studied the boy, who glared back at her. Char, the young Warlord leader of the cildru dyathe. Easy enough to see how he had come by that name. How had he been able to save so much of his body from the fire? He must have had a great deal of Craft skill for one so young. She should have realized that seven years ago when she had tangled with him the first time. Well, she could easily fix that misjudgement.

  Hekatah approached slowly, enjoying the wariness in the boy's eyes. "I mean you no harm, Warlord," she crooned. "I just need your help. I know Jaenelle walks among the cildru dyathe. I want to see her."

  What was left of Char's lips curled in a vicious smile. "Not all cildru dyathe are on this island."

  Hekatah's gold eyes snapped with fury. "You lie. Summon her. Now!"

  "The High Lord is coming," Char said. "He'll be here any moment."

  "Why?" Hekatah demanded.

  "Because I sent for him."

  "Why?"

  A strange light filled Char's eyes. "I saw a butterfly yesterday."

  Hekatah wanted to scream in frustration. Instead, she raised her hand, her fingers curved into a claw. "If you want your eyes, little Warlord, you'll summon Jaenelle now."

  Char stared at her. "You truly wish to see her?"

  "yes!"

  Char tipped his head back and let out a strange, wild ululation.

  Unnerved by the sound, Hekatah slapped him to make him stop.

  "hekatah!"

  Hekatah ran from the fury in Saetan's thundering voice. Then she glanced over her shoulder and stopped, shocked excitement making her nerves sizzle.

  Saetan leaned heavily on a silver-headed cane, his golden eyes glittering with rage. There was more silver in the thick black hair, and his face was tight with exhaustion. He looked . . . worn-out.

  And he was only wearing his Birthright Red Jewel.

  She didn't even take the time for a fast descent to gather her full strength. She just raised her hand and unleashed the power in her Red-Jeweled ring at his weak leg.

  His cry of pain as he fell was the most satisfying sound she'd heard in years.

  "Seize him!" she screamed at her demons.

  A cold, soft wind sighed across the island.

  The guards hesitated for a moment, but when Saetan tried to get up and failed, they drew their knives and ran toward him.

  The ground trembled slightly. Mist swirled around the rocks, around the barren earth.

  Hekatah also ran toward Saetan, wanting to watch the knives cut deep, wanting to watch his blood run. A Guardian's blood! The richness, th
e strength in it! She would feast on him before dealing with that upstart little demon.

  A howl rose from the abyss, a sound full of joy and pain, rage and celebration.

  Then a tidal wave of dark power flooded the cildru dyathe's island. Psychic lightning set Hell's twilight sky on fire. Thunder shook the land. The howling went on and on.

  Hekatah fell to the ground and curled up as tight as she could.

  Her demons screamed in nerve-shattering agony.

  Go away, Hekatah pleaded silently. Whatever you are, go away.

  Something icy and terrible brushed against her inner barriers, and Hekatah blanked her mind.

  By the time it faded away, the witch storm had faded with it.

  Hekatah pushed herself into a sitting position. Her throat worked convulsively when she saw what was left of her demons.

  There was no sign of Saetan or Char.

  Hekatah slowly got to her feet. Was that Jaenelle—or what was left of Jaenelle? Maybe she wasn't cildru dyathe. Maybe she had faded from demon to ghost and all that was left was that bodiless power.

  It was just as well the girl was dead, Hekatah thought as she caught a White Wind and rode back to the stone building she claimed as her own. It was just as well that whatever was left of Jaenelle would be confined to the Dark Realm. Trying to control that savage power. ... It was just as well the girl was dead.

  Pain surrounded him, filled him. His head felt like it was stuffed with blankets. He clawed his way through, desperate to reach the muffled voices he heard around him: Andulvar's angry rumble, Char's distress.

  Hell's fire! Why were they just sitting there? For the first time in two years, Jaenelle had responded to someone's call. Why weren't they trying to keep her within reach?

  Because Jaenelle was gliding through the abyss too deep for anyone but him to feel her presence. But he couldn't just descend to the level of the Black and summon her. He had to be near her physically, he had to be with her to coax her into remaining with her body.

  "Why did the witch storm hit him so bad?" Char asked fearfully.