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

by Heir to the Shadows [lit]

He was Dujae. Five hundred years ago, he had been the finest artist in Kaeleer. Now he was a demon.

  Saetan knew it was hypocritical to be angry with Dujae for coming here since Mephis, Andulvar, and Prothvar were all frequently in residence at the Hall since Jaenelle had returned with him, and they all had contact with the children. Even so, keeping the Dark Realm separated from the living Realms had always been a knife-edged dance, and he was uncomfortably aware that, even when living, he'd straddled that line. Now with all the children spending the summer at the Hall and the Dark Council pressuring him for an interview with Jaenelle, having demons coming into Kaeleer for an audience with him was beyond tolerance.

  "Twice a month I hold an audience in Hell for any who wish to come before me," he said coldly. "You've no business here, Lord Dujae."

  Dujae stared at the floor, his long, thick fingers pulling at the brim of the shabby blue cap he held in his hands. "I know, High Lord. Forgive me. I should not have come here, but I could not wait."

  Saetan could, and did.

  Dujae crushed the cap in his hands. When he finally looked up, there was only despair in his eyes. "I am so tired, High Lord. There is nothing left to paint, no one to teach, to share with. No purpose, no joy. There is nothing. Please, High Lord."

  Saetan closed his eyes, his anger forgotten. It happened sometimes. Hell was a cold, cruel, blasted Realm, but it

  had its measure of kindness. It was a place where the Blood could make peace with their lives, a suspended time to take care of unfinished business. Some did nothing with that last gift, enduring weeks or years or centuries of tedium before finally fading into the Darkness. Others embraced that time to nurture talents they'd ignored while living or chosen to forsake in order to follow another road. Others, cut off before they were finished, continued as they had lived. Dujae had died in his prime, suddenly, unexpectedly. When he realized he could still paint, he had accepted being demon-dead with a joyous heart.

  Now he was asking Saetan to release him from the dead flesh, to consume the last of his psychic strength and let him become a whisper in the Darkness.

  It happened sometimes. Not often, thankfully, but sometimes the desire to continue faded before the psychic strength. When that happened, a demon came to him and asked for a swift release. And because he was the High Lord, he honored those requests.

  Saetan opened his eyes and blinked hard to clear his vision. "Dujae, are you sure?"

  "I'm—"

  Karla exploded into the room. "That overbearing, overdressed, overscented sewer rat says my drawing is deficient!" Her eyes filled with tears as she flung a sketch pad onto Saetan's desk.

  He vanished his glasses before the sketch pad landed on them.

  "He's a grubby-minded prick," Karla wailed. "This isn't my life's work, this isn't my road. This is supposed to be fun!"

  Saetan surged out of his chair. There had been so many tutors coming and going in the past three weeks he couldn't remember this particular ass's name, but if the man could reduce Karla to tears, he was probably shredding Kalush and Morghann, to say nothing of Jaenelle.

  Dujae reached for the sketch pad.

  "No!" Karla dove for the pad, too upset to remember she could vanish it before Dujae's hand closed around it.

  Her forehead hit Dujae's arm. She stumbled backward

  into Saetan. He wrapped his arms around her and ground his teeth, hating the anguish pouring out of her.

  Dujae studied the sketch. He shook his head slowly. "This is terrible," he rumbled, flipping the pages back to earlier sketches. "Obscene," he roared. He shook the sketch pad at Karla. "You call him sewer rat? You are too kind, Lady. He's a—"

  "Dujae," Saetan warned, first to prevent Dujae from possibly teaching Karla a pithy phrase she didn't already know and second because he'd felt Karla perk up.

  Dujae looked at Saetan and took a deep breath. "He is not a good instructor," he finished lamely.

  Karla sniffed. "You don't think my drawings are good either."

  Dujae flipped to the last sketch. "What is this?" he demanded, stabbing the paper with his finger.

  Karla pulled her shoulders back and narrowed her eyes.

  Saetan stifled a groan and held on tighter.

  "It's a vase," she said coolly.

  "Vase. Bah!" Dujae ripped the page from the pad, crumpled it, and threw it over his shoulder. He pointed at Karla.

  Did Dujae realize just how close his finger was to Karla's teeth?

  "You are a Queen, yes?" Dujae continued to roar. "You do this for fun when you are finished with the hard lessons of your Craft, yes? You do this because Ladies must learn many things to be good Queens, yes? You do not make polite, itsy-bitsy drawings." He scrunched up his shoulders, scrunched up his face, tucked his wrist under his chin, and made tiny scratching motions. "Bah!" He pulled Karla out of Saetan's arms, spun her around, engulfed her hand in his own, and began making large, circular motions. "There is fire in your heart, yes? That fire needs charcoal and a large pad to express itself. Then when you want to draw a vase, you draw a vase."

  "B-but—" Karla stammered, watching her hand sweep round and round.

  "That vase you try to draw, that is someone else's vase. Use it as a model. Models are good. Then you draw your

  vase, the one that reveals the fire, the one that says I am a" witch, I am a Queen, I am—" Dujae finally hesitated.

  "Karla," she said meekly.

  "karla!" Dujae roared.

  "What's going on?" Jaenelle asked from the doorway. Gabrielle stood beside her.

  Saetan settled on the corner of his desk and crossed his arms, resigned to whatever the little darlings were about to do.

  Seeing the other girls, Dujae released Karla and stepped back.

  "Do we have any charcoal?" Karla asked, wiping her eyes.

  "We have some, but Lord Stuffy says charcoal is messy and not the proper medium for Ladies," Gabrielle said tartly.

  Saetan stared at Gabrielle and wondered what sort of idiot he'd hired as an art instructor.

  Then he felt the blood rush out of his head. He gripped the desk, willing himself not to faint. He'd never fainted. This would be a very bad time to start.

  With the other girls around them, he hadn't recognized the triangle of power. Karla, Gabrielle, Jaenelle. Three strong Queens who were also natural Black Widows.

  May the Darkness be merciful, he thought. That trio could tear apart anything or anyone—or build anything they wanted.

  "High Lord?"

  Saetan blinked. He took a deep breath. His lungs still worked, sort of. Finally sure he wasn't going to keel over, he looked around. Dujae was the only one left in the room.

  Dujae twisted his cap. "I did not mean to interfere."

  "Too late now," Saetan muttered.

  Three blond heads appeared at the study door.

  "Hey," Karla said. "We've got the charcoal and large sketch pads. Aren't you coming?"

  Dujae continued to twist his cap. "I cannot, Ladies."

  "Why not?" Jaenelle asked as the three of them entered the study.

  Dujae looked beseechingly at Saetan, who refused to look at anything but the point of his shoe.

  "I—I am Dujae, Lady."

  Jaenelle looked pleased. "You painted Descent into Hell"

  Dujae's eyes widened.

  "Why can't you give us drawing lessons?" Gabrielle said.

  "I am a demon."

  Silence.

  Karla cocked a hip and crossed her arms. "What, there's some rule that says drawing has to be taught in the daytime? Besides, the sun's up now and you're here."

  "That's because the Hall retains enough dark power so that sunlight doesn't bother the demon-dead when they're inside," Jaenelle said.

  "So that's not a problem," Karla said.

  "And if you don't want to be here during the daylight hours, candle-lights or balls of witch light would make a room bright enough to work in," Gabrielle said.

  Dujae looked helplessly at Saeta
n. Saetan studied his other shoe.

  "Is your ego so puffed up that it's beneath you to teach a few little witches how to draw?" Karla asked with sweet malevolence.

  "Puffed up? No, no, Ladies, I would be honored but—"

  "But?" Jaenelle asked softly in her midnight voice.

  Dujae shuddered. Saetan shivered.

  "I am a demon."

  Silence.

  Finally Karla snorted. "If you don't want to teach us, just say so, but stop using a paltry excuse to weasel out of it."

  They left, closing the study door behind them.

  Dujae twisted his cap.

  Saetan stared at his shoe. "Dujae," he said quietly, "it takes a strong but sensitive personality to deal with these young Ladies, not to mention talent. If you decide to become their art instructor, I can either provide you with wages which, I admit, aren't much use in the Dark Realm, or you can add whatever you want for your own projects to the list of supplies you'll provide me for them. However, if you decide to decline"—he looked Dujae in the eye— "you can go out there and try to explain it to them."

  There was panic in Dujae's eyes. There was also only one door out of the study.

  "But, High Lord, I am a demon."

  "Didn't impress them, did it?"

  Dujae sagged. "No." Then he shrugged and smiled. "It has been a long time since I have done portraits, and they have interesting faces, yes? And too much fire to be wasted on polite, itsy-bitsy drawings."

  Saetan waited half an hour before strolling into the great hall. Staying well in the background, he watched the coven.

  The girls were sitting on the floor in a circle, busily sketching a still life of vase, apple, and trinket box. Dujae squatted next to Kalush, explaining something in a rumbling murmur before turning to Morghann, who had a stick of charcoal poised above her sketch pad.

  Jaenelle put down her pad, wiped her fingers on the towel she was sharing with Karla, and approached him, smiling, nothing more than a delightful, delighted woman-child enjoying a creative endeavor.

  Saetan slipped an arm around her waist. "The truth, witch-child," he said quietly. "Was the other one really a bad instructor?"

  Jaenelle ran her finger down the gold chain that held his Birthright Red Jewel. "He wasn't right for us, any of us, and—"

  He wouldn't let her duck her head, wouldn't let her hide the eyes he was learning to read so well, that told him so much. "And?"

  "He was afraid of me," she whispered. "Not just me," she quickly amended. "He didn't like being around Queens. Even Kalush made him uneasy. So he was always saying things like 'ladies' do this and 'ladies' don't do that. Hell's fire, Saetan, we aren't 'ladies,' we don't want to be 'ladies.' We're witches."

  He wrapped his arms around her. "Why didn't you tell me?" He seemed to be asking that a lot lately.

  Jaenelle shrugged. "We hadn't gotten around to telling you that the music instructor and the dancing instructor already bolted this week."

  Saetan let out a chuckling sigh. "Well, lessons and sum-

  mertime are probably a bad combination anyway." He kissed her hair. "Dujae came here because he wanted to be released."

  "Not really. He just needed something to spark his interest again."

  Saetan watched Dujae move around the circle, gesturing, rumbling encouragement, frowning as he studied Karla's sketch before saying something that made her laugh. There was no despair in Dujae's eyes now, no hint of the pain that had driven him to seek out the High Lord.

  "We aren't puppet masters, witch-child," Saetan murmured. "We're very powerful, but we must be careful about pulling strings to make other people dance."

  "Depends on why the strings are being pulled, don't you think?" She looked at him with those ancient sapphire eyes and smiled. "Besides, we just overrode a silly excuse. If it was his time, he would have gone."

  She returned to her spot on the floor, Karla on her right, Gabrielle on her left.

  He returned to his study and waned a glass of yarbarah.

  Puppet masters. Manipulators. Hekatah and her schemes. Jaenelle and her sensitivity to other hearts. Such a fine, fragile line, with intent the only difference.

  He picked up the latest letter from the Dark Council. There was something beneath the terse words that disturbed him, but it was too vague for him to define. He couldn't put them off much longer. A few more weeks at most. What then?

  Such a fine, fragile line.

  What then?

  5 / Kaeleer

  Jaenelle picked up a small vial and tapped three amethyst-colored granules into the large glass bowl on the worktable. "Why are members of the Dark Council coming here?" „ Saetan eyed the thick, bubbling liquid that covered the bottom third of the bowl and sincerely hoped the stuff wasn't a new tonic. "Since my legal guardianship was

  granted by the Council, they want to look in on us to see how we live."

  "If they're members of the Council, they're also Jeweled Blood. They should know how we live." Jaenelle picked up a vial of red powder and held it up to the light.

  Saetan crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. He wouldn't, couldn't tell her about the latest "request" from the Council. Their strident insistence had made it easy to read between the lines. They weren't just coming to look in on a guardian and his ward. They were coming to pass judgment on him.

  "I'm not going to have to wear a dress, am I?" Jaenelle growled as she dipped her little finger into the vial of red powder. Using her nail as a scoop, she tapped the powder into the bowl.

  Saetan bit his tongue before the lie could slip out. "No. They said they wanted to see a normal afternoon."

  Jaenelle looked at him over her shoulder. "Have we ever had a normal afternoon?"

  "No," Saetan said mournfully. "We have typical afternoons, but I don't think anyone would consider them normal."

  Her silvery, velvet-coated laugh filled the room. "Poor Papa. Well, since I don't have to dress up and simper, I'll try not to offend their delicate sensibilities." She handed him a vial of black powder. "Put a pinch of that in the bowl and stand back."

  The butterflies in his stomach' were having a grand time. "What happens then?"

  Jaenelle laced her fingers. "Well, if I mixed the powders in the right proportions to the spell, it'll create an impressive illusion."

  Saetan looked from his nervously smiling daughter to the bowl on the table to the vial in his hand. "And if you didn't mix them in the right proportions?"

  "It'll blow up the table."

  An hour later, as he lay in a deep, hot bath, soaking the soreness out of his muscles, he had to give her full marks for her fast reflexes and the strength of her protective shields. Except for knocking them both to the floor, the

  explosion hadn't damaged anything in the room—except the glass bowl and the table. And he had to admit that the shape that had started rising out of the bowl had been impressive.

  Two days from now, the Dark Council would come to the Hall. He would show them courtesy and endure their presence because, in the end, it didn't matter what they thought. No one was going to take her away from him. If the Council had to learn that lesson twice, so be it.

  He doubted it would come to that. Remembering the awe-filled moment between the shape starting to rise from the mist and the table exploding, he let out a moan that turned into a chuckle. The Dark Council wanted to spend a typical afternoon with Jaenelle?

  The poor fools would never survive it.

  chapter eight

  1 / Kaeleer

  It started going wrong the moment the two members of the Dark Council walked through the front door, looked around, and shivered.

  SaDiablo Hall was a dark-gray structure that rose above the land and cast a long shadow. He'd built it to be imposing, but hadn't planned on having a stony-faced, Red-Jeweled butler frightening his guests before they even crossed the threshold. As for the chill in the air ... Helene had let him know, with stiff courtesy, what she thought of the Council coming to poke and pry int
o her domain, and all of the servants had spent the day scurrying away from the kitchen and Mrs. Beale.

  Dark-Jeweled houses always had Blood servants, but when all the witches in a household decided to express their displeasure, the phrase "cold comfort" took on a whole new meaning.

  "Good afternoon," Saetan said, coming forward to greet the two men.

  The elder of the two bowed. "We appreciate your taking the time to see us, High Lord. I'm Lord Magstrom. This is Lord Friall."

  Saetan liked Lord Magstrom. A man in his twilight years, he had a kind face framed by a cloud of white hair and blue eyes that probably twinkled most of the time. Those eyes were serious now but not condemning. Lord Mags-

  trom, at least, would make his decision based on his own integrity and honor.

  Lord Friall, on the other hand, had already decided. Weedy-looking for all the hair cream and finery, he kept glancing around with distaste and dabbing his lips with a scented, lace-edged handkerchief.

  Saetan led them to the formal drawing room to the right of the great hall. It was a large room, but the furniture was arranged so that tall, painted screens could be placed across its width to divide it. The screens were in place, making this section appear cozy. The plastered walls were painted ivory. All the pictures were serene watercolors. The furniture was dark but not heavy and comfortably arranged over subtly patterned Dharo carpets. There was a bouquet of fresh flowers on a table near the windows. Saetan watched Lord Magstrom tactfully look over the room and knew the man was as pleased with the tasteful decorations as he was.

  "It's a delightful room, High Lord," Lord Magstrom said as he accepted a seat. "Do you use it often?"

  Saetan shoved his hands into his sweater pockets. "No," he said after a slight but noticeable hesitation. "We don't have many formal guests." He turned toward a movement in the doorway. "Ah, Beale."

  The butler stood in the doorway, empty-handed.

  Saetan raised an eyebrow. "Refreshments for our guests?"

  "They'll be ready momentarily, High Lord." Beale bowed and retreated, leaving the door open.

  Saetan was tempted to close the door but decided against it. No point forcing Beale to demean himself by listening at the keyhole.

  "Have we come at an awkward time?" Lord Friall asked, looking pointedly at Saetan's casual attire while he continued to pat his lips with the scented handkerchief.