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

by Heir to the Shadows [lit]

  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.

  He swallowed the giggle, strapped a bit of mental steel to his backbone, and cautiously peered around the doorway.

  Jaenelle stood by a large worktable, her arms crossed and her foot tapping as she frowned at the Craft book hovering above the table. The candlelights on either side of the book gave off a pretty, stained-glass glow, softening the surrounding chaos. The entire room—and everything in it, including Jaenelle—was liberally dusted with lavender, grey, and rose. Only the book was clean. She must have put a shield around it before beginning . . . whatever it was.

  "I really don't think I want to know about this," Saetan said dryly, wondering how Draca was going to react to the mess.

  Jaenelle gave him an exasperated, amused look. "No, you really don't." Then she gave him her best unsure-but-game smile. "I don't suppose you'd like to help anyway?"

  Hell's fire! During all the years when he'd been teaching her Craft and trying to unravel one of these quirky spells after the fact, he'd hoped for just this invitation.

  "Unfortunately," he said, his voice full of wistful regret, "there's something else we have to discuss."

  Jaenelle sat down, on air, hooking her heels on the nonexistent rung of a nonexistent stool, and gave him her full attention.

  He remembered, too late, how unnerving it could be to have Jaenelle's undivided attention.

  Saetan cleared his throat and glanced around the room, hoping for inspiration. Maybe her workroom, with the tools of her Craft around her, was the best place to talk after all.

  He stepped into the room and leaned against the doorframe. A good neutral place, not invading her territory but acknowledging a right to be there. "I'm concerned, witch-child," he said quietly.

  Jaenelle cocked her head. "About what?"

  "About you. About the way you avoid all of us. About the way you're shutting yourself away from everyone."

  Ice filled her eyes. "Everyone has boundaries and inner barriers."

  "I'm not talking about boundaries and inner barriers," he said, not quite able to keep his voice calm. "Of course everyone has them. They protect the inner web and the Self. But you've put up a wall between yourself and everyone else, excluding them from even simple contact."

  "Perhaps you should be grateful for the wall, Saetan," Jaenelle said in a midnight voice that sent a shiver of fear up his spine.

  Saetan. Not Papa. Saetan. And not the way she usually said his name. This sounded like a Queen formally addressing a Warlord Prince.

  He didn't know how to respond to her words or the warning.

  She stepped off her invisible stool and turned away from him, resting her hands on the dusty table.

  "Listen to me," he said, restraining the urgency he felt. "You can't lock yourself away like this. You can't spend the rest of your life in this room creating glorious spells that no one else will see. You're a Queen. You'll have to interact with your court."

  "I'm not going to have a court."

  Saetan stared at her, stunned. "Of course you'll have a court. You're a Queen."

  Jaenelle flashed a look at him that made him cringe. "I'm not required to have a court. I checked. And I don't want to rule. I don't want to control anyone's life but my own."

  "But you're Witch." The moment he said it, the room chilled.

  "Yes," she said too softly. "I am." Then she turned around.

  She dropped the mask of humanity—and the mask called flesh—and let him truly see her for the first time.

  The tiny spiral horn in the centre of her forehead. The golden mane that wasn't quite fur and wasn't quite hair. The delicately pointed ears. The hands that had sheathed claws. The legs that changed below the knee to accommodate the small hooves. The stripe of golden fur that ran down her spine and ended at the fawn tail that flicked over her buttocks. The exotic face and those sapphire eyes.

  Having been Cassandra's Consort all those years ago, he thought he knew and understood Witch. Now he finally understood that Cassandra and the other Black-Jeweled Queens who had come before her had been called Witch. Jaenelle truly was the living myth, dreams made flesh.

  How foolish he'd been to assume all the dreamers had been human.

  "Exactly," Witch said softly, coldly.

  "You're beautiful," he whispered. And so very, very dangerous.

  She stared at him, puzzled, and he realized there would never be a better time to say what he had to say.

  "We love you, Lady," he told her quietly. "We've always loved you, and it hurts more than words can express to be locked out of your life. You don't know how hard it was for us to wait for those few precious minutes that you could spend with us, to wonder and worry about you when you were gone, to feel jealous of people who didn't appreciate what you are. Now . . ." His voice broke. He pressed his lips together and took a deep breath. "We surrendered to you a long time ago. Not even you can change that. Do with us what you will." He hesitated, then added, "No, witch-child, we are not grateful for the wall."

  He didn't wait for an answer. He left the room as swiftly as he could, tears shining in his eyes.

  Behind him came a soft, anguished cry.

  He couldn't stand their kindness. He couldn't stand their sympathy and understanding. Geoffrey had warmed a glass of yarbarah for him. Mephis had tucked a lap rug over his legs. Prothvar had stoked the fire to help take away the chill. Andulvar had stayed close to him, silent.

  He'd started shaking the moment he had entered the safety of the parlor. He would have collapsed on the floor if Andulvar hadn't caught him and helped him to the chair. They had asked no questions, and except for a hoarsely whispered, "I don't know," he had told them nothing about what had happened—or about what he had seen.

  And they had accepted it.

  An hour later, feeling somewhat restored physically and emotionally, he still couldn't stand their kindness. What he couldn't s
tand even more was not knowing what was happening in that workroom.

  The parlor door swung open.

  Jaenelle stood on the threshold, holding a tray that contained two small carafes and five glasses. All her masks were back in place.

  "Draca said you were all hiding in here," she said defensively.

  "We're not exactly 'hiding,' witch-child," Saetan replied dryly. "And, if we are, there's room for one more. Want to join us?"

  Her smile was shy and hesitant, but her coltish legs swiftly crossed the room until she stood beside Saetan's chair. Then she frowned and turned toward the door. "This room used to be larger."

  "Your legs used to be shorter."

  "That explains why the stairs feel so awkward," she muttered as she filled two glasses from one carafe and three from the other.

  Saetan stared at the glass she gave him. His stomach cringed.

  "Um," Prothvar said, as Jaenelle handed out the other glasses.

  "Drink it," Jaenelle snapped. "You've all been looking peaky lately." When they hesitated, her voice became brittle. "It's just a tonic."

  Andulvar took a sip.

  Thank the Darkness for that Eyrien willingness to step

  onto any kind of battlefield, Saetan thought as he, too, took a sip.

  "How much of this do you make at one time, waif?" Andulvar rumbled.

  "Why?" Jaenelle said warily.

  "Well, you're quite right about us all feeling peaky. Probably wouldn't hurt to have another glass later on."

  Saetan started coughing to hide his own dismay and give the others time to school their expressions. It was one thing for Andulvar to step onto the battlefield. It was quite another to drag them all with him.

  Jaenelle fluffed her hair. "It starts to lose its potency an hour after it's made, but it's no trouble to make another batch later on."

  Andulvar nodded, his expression serious. "Thank you."

  Jaenelle smiled shyly and slipped out of the room.

  Saetan waited until he was sure she was out of earshot before turning on Andulvar. "You unconscionable prick," he snarled.

  "That's a big word coming from a man who's going to have to drink two glasses of this a day," Andulvar replied smugly.

  "We could always pour it into the plants," Prothvar said, looking around for some greenery.

  "I already tried that," Saetan growled. "Draca's only comment was that if another plant should suffer a sudden demise, she'd ask Jaenelle to look into it."

  Andulvar chuckled, giving the other four men a reason to snarl at him. "Everyone expects Hayllians to be devious, but Eyriens are known for their forthright dealings. So when one of us acts deviously ..."

  "You did it so she'd have a reason to check up on us," Mephis said, eyeing his glass. "I thank you for that, Andulvar, but couldn't—"

  Saetan sprang to his feet. "It loses its potency after an hour."

  Andulvar raised his glass in a salute. "Just so."

  Saetan smiled. "If we hold back half of each dose so that it's lost most of its potency and then mix it with the fresh dose . . ."

  "We'll have a restorative tonic that has a tolerable potency," Geoffrey finished, looking pleased.

  "If she finds out, she'll kill us," Prothvar grumbled.

  Saetan raised an eyebrow. "All things considered, my fine demon, it's a little late to be concerned about that, don't you think?"

  Prothvar almost blushed.

  Saetan narrowed his golden eyes at Andulvar. "But we didn't know it would lose its potency until after you asked for a second dose."

  Andulvar shrugged. "Most healing brews have to be taken shortly after they're made. It was worth the gamble." He smiled at Saetan with all the arrogance only an Eyrien male was capable of. "However, if you're admitting your balls aren't as big—"

  Saetan said something pithy and to the point.

  "Then there's no problem, is there?" Andulvar replied.

  They looked at each other, centuries of friendship, rivalry, and understanding reflected in two pairs of golden eyes. They raised their glasses and waited for the others to follow suit.

  "To Jaenelle," Saetan said.

  "To Jaenelle," the others replied.

  Then they sighed in unison and swallowed half their tonic.

  7 / Kaeleer

  Not quite content, Saetan watched the lights of Riada, the largest Blood village in Ebon Rih and the closest one to the Keep, shine up from the valley's fertile darkness like captured pieces of starlight.

  He had watched the sun rise today. No, more than that. He had stood in one of the small formal gardens and had actually felt the sun's warmth on his face. For the first time in more centuries than he cared to count, there had been no lancing pain in his temples, no brutal stomach-twisting headache to tell him just how far he had stepped from the living, no weakening in his strength.

  He was as physically strong now as when he first became a Guardian, first began walking that fine line between living and dead.

  Jaenelle and her tonic had done that. Had done more than that.

  He'd forgotten how sensual food could be, and over the past few days had savored the taste of rare beef and new potatoes, of roasted chicken and fresh vegetables. He'd forgotten how good sleep could feel, instead of that semi awake rest Guardians usually indulged in during the daylight hours.

  He'd also forgotten how hunger pangs felt or how fuzzy-brained a man could be when he was beyond tired.

  Everything has a price.

  He smiled cautiously at Cassandra when she joined him at the window. "You look lovely tonight," he said, making a small gesture that took in her long black gown, the open-weave emerald shawl, and the way she'd styled her dusty-red hair.

  "Too bad the Harpy didn't bother to dress for the occasion," Cassandra replied tartly. She wrinkled her nose. "She could have at least worn something around her throat."

  "And you could have refrained from offering to lend her a high-necked gown," Saetan snapped. Then he clenched his teeth to trap the rest of the words. Titian didn't need a defender, especially after her slur about the delicate sensibilities of prissy aristo witches.

  He watched the lights of Riada wink out, one by one.

  Cassandra took a deep breath, let it out in a sigh. "It wasn't supposed to be like this," she said quietly. "The Black were never meant to be Birthright Jewels. I became a Guardian because I thought the next Witch would need a friend, someone to help her understand what she would become after making the Offering to the Darkness. But what has happened to Jaenelle has changed her so much she'll never be normal."

  "Normal? Just what do you call 'normal,' Lady?"

  She looked pointedly at the corner of the room where Andulvar, Prothvar, Mephis, and Geoffrey were trying to

  include Titian in the conversation and keep a respectful distance at the same time.

  "Jaenelle just celebrated her fifteenth birthday. Instead of a party and a roomful of young friends, she spent the evening with demons, Guardians—and a Harpy. Can you honestly call that normal?"

  "I've had this conversation before," Saetan growled. "And my answer is still the same: for her, that is normal."

  Cassandra studied him for a moment before saying quietly, "Yes, you would see it that way, wouldn't you?"

  He saw the room through a red haze before he got his temper tightly leashed. "Meaning what?"

  "You became the High Lord of Hell while you were still living. You wouldn't see anything wrong with her having the cildru dyathe for playmates or having a Harpy teach her how to interact with males."

  Saetan's breath whistled between his teeth. "When you foresaw her coming, you called her the daughter of my soul. But those were just words, weren't they? Just a way to ensure that I would become a Guardian so that my strength would be at your disposal for the protection of your apprentice, the young witch who would sit at your feet, awed by the attention of the Black-Jewelled Witch. Except it didn't work out that way. The one who came really is the daughter of my soul, and sh
e is awed by no one and sits at no one's feet."

  "She may be awed by no one," Cassandra said coldly, "but she also has no one." Then her voice softened. "And for that, I pity her."

  She has me!

  The quick, sharp look Cassandra gave him cut his heart.

  Jaenelle had him. The Prince of the Darkness. The High Lord of Hell. More than any other reason, that was why Cassandra pitied her.

  "We should join the others," Saetan said tightly, offering his arm. Despite the anger he felt, he couldn't turn his back on her.

  Cassandra started to refuse his gesture of courtesy until she noticed Andulvar's and Titian's cold stares.

  "Draca wants to talk with all of us," Andulvar growled

  as soon as they approached. He immediately moved away from them, giving himself room to spread his wings. Giving himself room to fight.

  Saetan watched him for a moment, then began reinforcing his own considerable defenses. They were different in many ways, but he'd always respected Andulvar's instincts.

  Draca entered the room slowly, calmly. Her hands, as usual, were tucked into the long sleeves of her robe. She waited for them to be seated, waited until their attention was centered on her before pinning Saetan with her reptilian stare.

  "The Lady iss fifteen today," Draca said.

  "Yes," Saetan replied cautiously.

  "Sshe wass pleassed with our ssmall offeringss."

  It was sometimes difficult to perceive inflections in Draca's sibilant voice, but the words sounded more like a command than a question. "Yes," Saetan said, "I think she was."

  A long silence. "It iss time for the Lady to leave the Keep. You are her legal guardian. You will make the arrangementss."

  Saetan's throat tightened. The muscles in his chest constricted. "I had promised her that she could stay here."

  "It iss time for the Lady to leave. Sshe will live with you at SsaDiablo Hall."