As anxiety replaced anger, as he wavered between waiting for her to come to him and going out to find her, he finally caught the quality of the silence, the dangerous silence.
Step by careful step, he retreated to the glass doors.
She was home. That's what mattered. Andulvar and Mephis would be rising with the dusk. Prothvar would rise, too, meet them in the study and tell them what happened.
There was no reason to intrude on her precarious self-control.
Because he didn't want to find out what would happen if the silence shattered.
Prothvar moved as if he'd endured a three-day beating.
Perhaps he had, Saetan thought as he watched the demon-dead Warlord warm a glass of yarbarah.
Prothvar lifted the glass to drink, but didn't. "They're dead."
Mephis made a sound of protest and dismay. Andulvar angrily demanded an explanation.
Saetan, remembering the dangerous silence that had filled the air, barely heard them. If he'd asked her about the wolf print earlier, if Smoke hadn't had to wait so long to reach her . . .
"All of them?" His voice broke, hushing Andulvar and Mephis.
Prothvar shook his head wearily. "Lady Ash and two pups survived. That's all that was left of a strong pack when the hunters were through harvesting pelts."
"They can't be the only kindred wolves left."
"No, Jaenelle said there are others. And we did find two
young wolves from another pack. Two young, terrified Warlords."
"Mother Night," Saetan whispered, sinking into a chair.
Andulvar snapped his wings open and shut. "Why didn't you gather them up and get out of there?"
Prothvar spun to face his grandfather. "Don't you think I tried? Don't you—" He closed his eyes and shuddered. "Two of the dead ones had made the change to demons. They had been skinned and their feet had been cut off, but they still—"
"Enough!" Saetan shouted.
Silence. Brittle, brittle silence. Time enough to hear the details. Time enough to add another nightmare to the list.
Moving as if he would shatter, Saetan led Prothvar to a chair.
They let him talk, let him exorcise the past three days. Saetan rubbed Prothvar's neck and shoulders, giving voiceless comfort. Andulvar knelt beside the chair and held his grandson's hand. Mephis kept the glass of yarbarah filled. And Prothvar talked, grieving because the kindred were innocent in a way the human Blood were not.
Someone else needed that kind of comfort. Someone else needed their strength. But she was still in the garden with the kindred and, like the kindred, was not yet able to accept what they offered.
"Is that all?" Saetan asked when Prothvar finally stopped talking.
"No, High Lord." Prothvar swallowed, choked. "Jaenelle disappeared for several hours before we left. She wouldn't tell me where she'd been or why she'd gone. When I pushed, she said, 'If they want pelts, they'll have pelts.' "
Saetan squeezed Prothvar's shoulders, not sure if he was giving comfort or taking it. "I understand."
Andulvar pulled Prothvar to his feet. "Come on, boyo. You need clean air beneath your wings."
When the Eyriens were gone, Mephis said, "You understand what the waif meant?"
Saetan stared at nothing. "Do you have commitments this evening?"
"No."
"Find some."
Mephis hesitated, then bowed. "As you wish, High Lord."
Silence. Brittle, brittle silence.
Oh, he understood exactly what she'd meant. Beware the golden spider who spins a tangled web. The Black Widow's web. Arachna's web. Beware the fair-haired Lady when she glides through the abyss clothed in spilled blood.
If the hunters never returned, nothing would happen. But they would return. Whoever they were, wherever they'd come from, they would return, and one kindred wolf would die and awaken the tangled web.
The hunters would still get their harvest, would still do the killing and the cutting and the skinning. Only one, confused and frightened, would leave with the bounty, and once he'd returned to wherever he'd come from, then, and only then, would the web release him and show him that the pelts he'd harvested didn't belong to wolf-kind.
4 / Kaeleer
Lord Jorval rubbed his hands gleefully. It was almost too good to be true. A scandal of this magnitude could topple anyone, even someone so firmly entrenched as the High Lord.
Remembering his new responsibilities, Jorval altered his expression to one more suitable to a member of the Dark Council.
This was a very serious charge, and the stranger with the maimed hands had admitted that he had no evidence except what he'd seen. After what the High Lord had done to the man's hands before dismissing him from service, it was understandable why he refused to stand before the Dark Council and testify against the High Lord in person. Still, something should be done about the girl.
A strong young Queen, the stranger had said. A Queen who could, with proper guidance, be a great asset to the Realm. All that glorious potential was being twisted by the High Lord's perversions, being forced to submit to ...
Jorval jerked his thoughts away from those kinds of images.
The girl needed someone who could advise her and channel that power in the right direction. She needed someone she could depend on. And since she wasn't that young, maybe she needed more than that from her legal guardian. She might even expect, want, that kind of behavior . . .
But getting the girl away from Saetan would require a delicate touch. And the stranger had warned him about moving too quickly. A Dhemlan Queen could officially protest the High Lord's treatment of the girl, but Jorval didn't know any of them except by name or reputation. No, somehow the Dark Council itself had to be pressured into calling the High Lord to account.
And they could, couldn't they? After all, the Dark Council had granted the High Lord guardianship, and no one had forgotten what he'd done to gain that guardianship. It wouldn't be unusual for the Council to express concern about the girl's welfare.
A few words here. A hesitant question there. Strenuous protests that it was only a foul, unsubstantiated rumor. By the time it finally reached Dhemlan and the High Lord, no one would have any idea where the rumor started. Then they would see if even Saetan could withstand the rage of all the Queens in Kaeleer.
And he, Lord Jorval of Goth, the capital of Little Terreille, would be ready to assume his new and greater responsibilities.
5 / Kaeleer
The pushing turned into a shove. "Wake up, SaDiablo."
Saetan tried to pull the covers over his bare shoulder and pushed his head deeper into the pillows. "Go away."
A fist punched his shoulder.
Snarling, he braced himself on one elbow as Andulvar tossed a pair of trousers and a dressing robe onto the bed.
"Hurry," Andulvar said. "Before it's gone."
Before what was gone?
Rubbing his eyes, Saetan wondered if he might be allowed to splash some water on his face to wake up, but he had the distinct impression that if he didn't dress quickly, Andulvar would drag him through the corridors wearing nothing but his skin.
"The sun's up," Saetan muttered as he pulled on his clothes. "You should have retired by now."
"You were the one who pointed out that Jaenelle's presence has altered the Hall so that demons aren't affected by daylight as long as we stay inside," Andulvar said as he led Saetan through the corridors.
"That's the last time I tell you anything," Saetan growled.
When they reached a second floor room at the front of the Hall, Andulvar cautiously parted the drapes. "Stop grumbling and look."
Giving his eyes a final rub, Saetan braced one hand against the window frame and peered through the opening in the drapes.
Early morning. Clear, sunny. The gravel drive was partially raked. The landing web was swept. But the work looked interrupted, as if something had caused the outdoor staff to withdraw. They were still outside, and he picked up their excitement de
spite their shields. It was as if they were trying, almost hopefully, to go undetected.
Frowning, Saetan looked toward the left and saw a white stallion grazing on the front lawn, its hindquarters facing the windows. Not plain white, Saetan decided. Cream, with a milk-white mane and tail.
"Where did he come from?" Saetan looked inquiringly at Andulvar.
Andulvar snorted softly. "Probably from Sceval."
"What?" Saetan looked outside again at the same moment the stallion raised his head and turned toward the Hall. "Mother Night," he whispered, clutching the drapes. "Mother Night."
The ivory horn rose from the majestic head. Around the horn's base, glinting in the morning sun, was a gold ring. Attached to the ring was an Opal Jewel.
"That's a Warlord Prince having breakfast on your front lawn," Andulvar said in a neutral voice.
Saetan stared at his friend in disbelief. True, Andulvar had seen the stallion first and had time to take in the wonder of it, but was he really so jaded that the wonder could pass so quickly? There was a unicorn on the front lawn! A ... kindred Warlord Prince.
Saetan braced himself against the wall. "Hell's fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful."
"Think the waif knows about him?" Andulvar asked.
The question was answered by a wild, joyous whoop as Jaenelle sprinted across the gravel drive and slid to a stop a foot away from that magnificent, deadly horn.
The stallion arched his neck, raised his tail like a white silk banner, and danced around Jaenelle for a minute. Then he lowered his head and nuzzled her palms.
Saetan watched them, hoping nothing would disturb the lovely picture of a girl and unicorn meeting on a clear summer morning.
The picture shattered when Smoke streaked across the lawn.
The stallion knocked Jaenelle aside, laid his ears back, lowered that deadly horn, and began pawing the ground. Smoke skidded to a stop and bared his teeth in challenge.
Jaenelle grabbed a handful of the unicorn's mane and thrust out her other hand to stop Smoke. Whatever she said made the animals hesitate.
Finally, Smoke took a cautious step forward. The unicorn did the same. Muzzle touched muzzle.
Looking amused but exasperated, Jaenelle mounted the unicorn—and then scrambled to keep her seat when he took off at a gallop.
He stopped abruptly and looked back at her.
Jaenelle fluffed her hair and said something.
The stallion shook his head.
She became more emphatic.
The stallion shook his head and stamped one foot.
Finally, looking annoyed and embarrassed, she wrapped her hands in the long white mane and settled herself on his back.
The stallion walked away from the Hall, staying on the grass next to the drive. When they turned back toward the Hall, he changed to an easy canter. When they started the second loop, Smoke joined them.
"Come on," Saetan said.
He and Andulvar hurried to the great hall. Most of the house staff were pressed against the windows of the drawing rooms on either side of the hall, and Beale was peering through a crack in the front door.
"Open the door, Beale."
Startled by Saetan's voice, Beale jerked away from the door.
Pretending he didn't see Beale struggling to assume a proper stoic expression, Saetan swung the door open and stepped out while Andulvar stayed in the shadowy doorway.
She looked beautiful with her wind-tossed golden hair and her face lit from within by happiness. She belonged on a unicorn's back with a wolf beside her. He felt a pang of regret that she was cantering over a clipped lawn instead of in a wild glade. It was as if, by bringing her here, he had somehow clipped her wings—and he wondered if it were true. Then she saw him, and the stallion turned toward the door.
Reminding himself that he wore the darker Jewel, Saetan tried to relax—and couldn't. A Blood Prince, even a wolf, would accept his relationship with Jaenelle simply because he, a Warlord Prince, claimed her. Another Warlord Prince would challenge that claim, especially if it might interfere with his own, until the Lady acknowledged it.
As he went down the steps to meet them, Saetan felt the challenge being issued from the other side of the mental hedge, a demand that he acknowledge the stallion's prior claim. He silently met the challenge, opening himself just enough for the other Warlord Prince to feel his strength. But he didn't deny the unicorn's claim to Jaenelle.
Interested, the stallion pricked his ears.
"Papa, this is Prince Kaetien," Jaenelle said as she stroked the stallion's neck. "He was the first friend I made in Kaeleer."
Oh, yes. A very prior claim. And not one to be taken lightly. In the Old Tongue, "kaetien" meant "white fire," and he didn't doubt for a moment that the name fit this four-footed Brother.
"Kaetien," Jaenelle said, "this is the High Lord, my sire."
Kaetien backed away from the Saetan, his ears tight to his head.
"No, no," Jaenelle said hurriedly. "He's not that one. He's my adopted sire. He was the friend who was teaching me Craft, and now I'm living with him here."
The stallion snorted, relaxed.
Watching them, Saetan kept his feelings carefully hidden. He wouldn't push—yet—but sometime soon he and Kaetien were going to have a little talk about Jaenelle's sire.
Kaetien pawed the gravel as two young grooms slowly approached. The older of the two brushed his fingers against his cap brim. "Do you think the Prince would like some feed and a little grooming?"
Jaenelle hesitated, then smiled as she continued to stroke Kaetien's neck. "I should have my breakfast now," she said quietly. She tried to finger-comb her hair and made a face. "And I could use some grooming myself."
Kaetien tossed his head in what could be interpreted as agreement.
Jaenelle dismounted and ran up the steps. Then she spun around, her hands on her hips and fire in her eyes. "I did not fall off! I just wasn't balanced."
Kaetien looked at her and snorted.
"My legs are not weak, there's nothing wrong with my seat, and I'll thank you to keep your nose in your own feed bag! / do so eat!" She looked at Saetan. "Don't I?" She narrowed her eyes. "Don't I?"
Since silence was his safest choice, Saetan didn't reply.
Jaenelle narrowed her eyes a little more and snarled, "Males."
Satisfied, Kaetien followed the grooms to the stables.
Muttering under her breath, Jaenelle stomped past Andulvar and Beale and headed for the breakfast room.
With a cheerful whuff, Smoke continued his morning rounds.
"He deliberately baited her," Andulvar said from the doorway.
"It would seem so," Saetan agreed, chuckling. They headed for the breakfast room—slowly. "But isn't it comforting to know that some of our Brothers have developed a wonderful knack for badgering her."
"That particular Brother probably knows how much ground he can cover in a flat-out gallop."
Saetan smiled. "I imagine they both know."
She was sitting at the breakfast table, shredding a piece of toast.
Saetan cautiously took a seat on the opposite side of the table, poured a cup of tea, and felt grateful toast was the only thing she seemed interested in shredding.
"Thanks for backing me up," she said tartly.
"You wouldn't want me to lie to another Warlord Prince, would you?"
Jaenelle glared at him. "I'd forgotten how bossy Kaetien can be."
"He can't help it," he said soothingly. "It's part of what he is."
"Not all unicorns are bossy."
"I was thinking of Warlord Princes."
She looked startled. Then she smiled. "You should know." She reached for another piece of toast and began shredding it, her mood suddenly pensive. "Papa? Do you really think they'd come?"
His hand stuttered but he got the cup to his lips. "Your human friends?" he asked calmly.
She nodded.
He reached across the table and covered her restless han
ds with his. "There's only one way to find out, witch-child. Write the invitations, and I'll see that they're delivered."
Jaenelle wiped her hands on her napkin. "I'm going to see how Kaetien's doing."
Saetan picked at his breakfast steak for a while, drank
another cup of tea, and finally gave up. He needed to talk to someone, needed to share the apprehension and excitement fizzing in his stomach. He'd tell Cassandra, of course, but their communication was always formal now and he didn't want to be formal. He wanted to yip and chase his tail. Sylvia? She liked Jaenelle and would welcome the news—all the news—but it was too early to drop in on her.
That left him with one choice.
Saetan grinned.
Andulvar would be comfortably settled in by now. A punch in the shoulder would do him good.
6 / Hell
Titian cleaned her knife with a scrap from the black coat while the other Harpies hacked up the meat and tossed the pieces to the pack of Hounds waiting in a half circle around the body.
The body twitched and still feebly struggled, but the bastard could no longer scream for help and the muted sounds he made filled her with satisfaction. A demon couldn't feel pain the way the living did, but pain was a cumulative thing, and he hadn't been dead long enough for his nerves to forget the sensation.
A Harpy tossed a large chunk of thigh toward the pack. The pack leader snatched it in midair and backed away with his prize, snarling. The rest of the pack re-formed the half circle and waited their turn. The Hound bitches watched their pups gnaw at fingers and toes.
Demons weren't usually the Hell Hounds' meat. There was better prey for these large, black-furred, red-eyed hunters, prey as native to this cold, forever-twilight Realm as the Hounds themselves. But this demon's flesh was saturated with too much fresh blood—blood Titian knew hadn't come from voluntary offerings.
It had taken a while to hunt him down. He hadn't strayed far from Hekatah since the High Lord had made his request. Until tonight.
There were no Gates in Hekatah's territory, and the clos-
est two were now fiercely guarded. One was beside the Hall, a place Hekatah no longer dared approach, and the other was in the Harpies' territory, Titian's territory. Not a place for the unwary, no matter how arrogant. That meant Hekatah and her minions had to travel a long distance on the Winds to reach another Gate, or they had to take risks.
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