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

by Heir to the Shadows [lit]

  Dorothea tucked a loose strand of black hair back into the simple coil around her head. "I realize you weren't

  asking my permission, Sister," she purred. "When have you ever asked me for anything?"

  "Remember who you speak to," Hekatah hissed.

  "I never forget," Dorothea replied sweetly. "I have a lodge in the country, about an hour's carriage ride from Draega. I use it for discreet entertaining. You're welcome to stay there as long as you please. The staff is very well-trained, so I do ask that you not make a meal out of them. I'll supply you with plenty of young feasts." Frowning at a fingernail, she called in a nail file and smoothed an edge, studied the result, and smoothed again. Finally satisfied, she vanished the nail file and smiled at Hekatah. "Of course, if my accommodations aren't to your liking, you can always return to Hell."

  Greedy, ungrateful bitch.

  Hekatah opaqued another mirror. Even that little bit of Craft was almost too much.

  This wasn't the way she'd planned to return to Hayll, hidden away like some doddering, drooling relative dispatched to some out-of-the-way property with no one but hard-faced servants for company.

  Of course, once some of her strength returned . . .

  Hekatah shook her head. The amusements would have to come later.

  She considered ringing for a servant to come and put another log on the fire, then dismissed the idea and added the wood herself. Curling up into an old, stuffed chair, she stared at the wood being embraced and consumed by the flames.

  Consumed just like all her pretty plans.

  First the fiasco with the girl. If that was the best Jorval could do, she was going to have to rethink his usefulness.

  Then the Eyrien managed to escape her trap and destroy all those lovely Jhinka that she'd cultivated so carefully. And the backlash of power that had come through her witch storm had done this to her.

  And last, but far from least, was that gutter son of a whore's purge of the Dark Realm. There was no safe haven in Hell now, and no one, no one to serve her. -

  So, for now, she had to accept Dorothea's sneering hospitality, had to accept handouts instead of the tribute that was her due.

  No matter. Unlike Dorothea, who was too busy trying to grab power and gobble up Territories, she had taken a good long look at the two living Realms.

  Let Dorothea have the crumbling ruins of Terreille.

  She was going to have Kaeleer.

  chapter fourteen

  1 / Kaeleer

  Saetan braced his hand against the stonewall, momentarily unbalanced by the double blast of anger that shook the Keep.

  "Mother Night," he muttered. "Now what are they squabbling about?" Mentally reaching out to Lucivar, he met a psychic wall of fury.

  He ran.

  As he neared the corridor that led to Jaenelle's suite of rooms, he slowed to a walk, pressing one hand against his side and swearing silently because he didn't have enough breath to roar. Wouldn't have mattered anyway, he thought sourly. Whatever was provoking his children's tempers certainly wasn't affecting their lungs.

  "Get out of my way, Lucivar!"

  "When the sun shines in Hell!"

  "Damn your wings, you've no right to interfere."

  "I serve you. That gives me the right to challenge anything and anyone that threatens your well being. And that includes you!"

  "If you serve me, then obey me. get our of my way!"

  "The First Law is not obedience—"

  "Don't you dare start quoting. Blood Laws to me."

  "—and even if it was, I still wouldn't stand here and let you do this. It's suicidal!"

  Saetan rounded the corner, shot up the short flight of stairs, and stumbled on the top step.

  In the dimly lit corridor, Lucivar looked like something out of the night-tales landens told their children: dark, spread wings blending into the darkness beyond, teeth bared, gold eyes blazing with battle-fire. Even the blood dripping from the shallow knife slash in his left upper arm made him look more like something other than a living man.

  In contrast, Jaenelle looked painfully real. The short black nightgown revealed too much of the body sacrificed to the power that had burned within her while she'd done the healing in the landen village a week ago. If cared for, the flesh wouldn't suffer that way, not even when it was the instrument of the Black Jewels.

  Seeing the results of her careless attitude toward her body, seeing the hand that held the Eyrien hunting knife shake because she was too weak to hold a blade that, a month ago, she had handled easily, he gave in to the anger rising within him. "Lady," he said sharply.

  Jaenelle spun to face him, weaving a little as she struggled to stay on her feet. Her eyes blazed with battle-fire, too.

  "Daemon's been found."

  Saetan crossed his arms, leaned against the wall, and ignored the challenge in her voice. "So you intend to channel your strength through an already weakened body, create the shadow you've been using to search Terreille, send it to wherever his body is, travel through the Twisted Kingdom until you find him, and then lead him back."

  "Yes," she said too softly. "That's exactly what I'm going to do."

  Lucivar slammed the side of his fist against the wall. "It's too much. You haven't even begun to recover from the healings you did. Let this friend of yours keep him for a couple of weeks."

  "You can't 'keep' someone who's lost in the Twisted Kingdom," Jaenelle snapped. "They don't see or live in the tangible world the way everyone else does. If something spooks him and he slips away from her, it could be weeks, even months before she finds him again. By then it may be too late. He's running out of time."

  "So have her bring him to the Keep in Terreille," Lucivar argued. "We can hold him there until you're strong enough to do the healing."

  '"He's insane, not broken. He still wears the Black. If someone tried to 'hold' you, what sort of memories would that stir up?"

  "She's right, Lucivar," Saetan said calmly. "If he thinks this friend is leading him into a trap, no matter what her real intentions, what little trust he has in her will shatter, and that will be the last time she finds him. At least, while there's anything worth finding."

  Lucivar thumped the wall with his fist. He kept thumping the wall while he swore, long and low. Finally, he rubbed the side of his hand against the other palm. "Then I'll go back to Terreille and get him."

  "Why should he trust you?" Jaenelle said bitterly.

  Pain flared in Lucivar's eyes.

  Saetan felt Jaenelle's inner barriers open just a crack. He didn't stop to think. At the moment when she was torn between anger at and distress for Lucivar, he swept in and out of that crack, tasting the emotional undercurrents.

  So their little witch thought she could force them to yield. Thought she had an emotional weapon they wouldn't challenge.

  She was right. She did.

  But now, so did he.

  "Let her go, Lucivar," Saetan crooned, his voice a purring, soft thunder. Still leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, he tilted his upper body in a mocking bow. "The Lady has us by the balls, and she knows it."

  He felt bitterly pleased to see the wariness in Jaenelle's eyes.

  She looked quickly at both of them. "You're not going to stop me?"

  "No, we're not going to stop you." Saetan smiled malevolently. "Unless, of course, you don't agree to pay the price for our submission. If you refuse, the only way you'll walk out of here is by destroying both of us."

  Such a neat trap. Such sweet bait.

  He confused her, had finally managed to unnerve her.

  She was about to find out how neatly he could spin her into a web.

  "What's your price?" Jaenelle asked reluctantly.

  One casual, flicking glance took in everything from her head to her feet. "Your body."

  She dropped the knife.

  It probably would have cut off a couple of toes if Lucivar hadn't vanished it in midair.

  "Your body, my Lady," Saetan croone
d. "The body you treat with such contempt. Since you obviously don't want it, I'll take it in trust for the one who already has a claim to it."

  Jaenelle stared at him, her eyes wide and blank. "You want me to leave this body? Like I did before?"

  "Leave?" His voice sounded silky and dangerous. "No, you don't have to leave. I'm sure the claimant would be perfectly willing to give you a permanent loan. But it would be a loan, you understand, and you would be expected to give the body the same kind of care you'd give any object lent to you by a friend."

  She studied him for a long time. "And if I don't take care of it? What will you do?"

  Saetan pushed away from the wall.

  Jaenelle flinched, but her eyes never left his.

  "Nothing," he said too softly. "I won't fight with you. I won't use physical strength or Craft to force you. I'll do nothing except keep a record of the transgressions. I'll never ask you for an explanation, and I'll never explain for you. You can try to justify abusing part of what Daemon paid for with dear coin."

  Jaenelle's face turned dead white. Saetan caught her as she swayed and held her against his chest.

  "Heartless bastard," she whispered.

  "Perhaps," he replied. "So what is your answer, Lady?"

  * Jaenelle! You promised!*

  Jaenelle jumped out of his arms, back-pedaled to try to keep her balance, and ended up with her back smacking against the wall.

  Saetan studied Jaenelle's guilty expression and began to feel maliciously cheerful. Noting that Lucivar had come up

  on her blind side, he turned his attention toward the annoyed, half-grown Sceltie and the silent, but equally annoyed, Arcerian kitten who now weighed as much as Lucivar and still had five more years to grow. "What did the Lady promise?" he asked Ladvarian. *You promised to eat and sleep and read books and take easy walkies until you healed,* Ladvarian said accusingly, staring at Jaenelle.

  "I am," Jaenelle stammered. "I did." * You've been playing with Lucivar.* Lucivar stepped away from the wall so that they could see his left arm. "She was playing rough, too." Ladvarian and Kaelas snarled at Jaenelle. "This is different," Jaenelle snapped. "This is important. And I wasn't playing with Lucivar. I was fighting with him."

  "Yes," Lucivar agreed mournfully. "And all because I thought she should be resting instead of pushing herself until she collapsed." Ladvarian and Kaelas snarled louder. *For shame, Lady,* Saetan said, using a Black thread to keep the conversation private. *Breaking a promise to your little Brothers. Care to agree to my terms now, or shall we all snarl a bit longer?*

  Her venomous look was not only an answer but a good indication of how often she lost these kinds of "discussions" once Ladvarian and, therefore, Kaelas made up their furry little minds about something.

  "My Brothers." Saetan tipped his head courteously toward Ladvarian and Kaelas. "The Lady would never break a promise without good reason. Despite the risks to her own well-being, she has pledged herself to a delicate task, one that cannot be delayed. Since this promise was made before the one she made to you, we must yield to the Lady's wishes. As she said, this is important."

  *What's more important than the Lady?* Ladvarian demanded.

  Saetan didn't answer. Jaenelle squirmed. "My . . . mate ... is trapped in the

  Twisted Kingdom. If I don't show him the way out, he'll be destroyed."

  *Mate?* Ladvarian's ears perked up. His white-tipped tail waved once, twice. He looked at Saetan. * Jaenelle has a mate?*

  Interesting that the Sceltie looked to him for confirmation. Something to keep in mind in the future.

  "Yes," Saetan said. "Jaenelle has a mate."

  "She won't have if she's delayed much longer," Jaenelle warned.

  They all politely stepped aside and watched her painfully slow journey down the corridor.

  Saetan had no doubt that she would use Craft to float her body as soon as she was out of their sight, which would put more strain on her physically but would also speed her journey to the Dark Altar that stood within Ebon Askavi. And except for being carried, that was the only way she was going to reach the Gate that would take her to the Keep in Terreille.

  After Ladvarian and Kaelas had trotted off to tell Draca about the Lady's mate, Saetan turned to Lucivar. "Come into the healing workroom. I'll take care of that arm."

  Lucivar shrugged. "It's not bleeding anymore."

  "Boyo, I know the Eyrien drill as well as you do. Wounds are cleansed and healed." *And I want to talk to you in a shielded room away from furry ears.*

  "Do you think she'll make it?" Lucivar asked a few minutes later as he watched Saetan clean the shallow knife wound.

  "She has the strength, the knowledge, and the desire. She'll bring him out of the Twisted Kingdom."

  It wasn't what Lucivar meant, and they both knew it.

  "Why didn't you stop her? Why are you letting her risk herself?"

  Saetan bent his head, avoiding Lucivar's eyes. "Because she loves him. Because he really is her mate."

  Lucivar was silent for a minute. Then he sighed. "He always said he'd been born to be Witch's lover. Looks like he was right."

  2 / Terreille

  Surreal watched Daemon prowl the center of the overgrown maze and wondered how much longer she would be able to keep him here. He didn't trust her. She couldn't trust him. She'd found him about a mile from the ruins of SaDiablo Hall, weeping silently as he watched a house burn to the ground. She didn't ask about the burning house, or about the twenty freshly butchered Hayllian guards, or why he kept whispering Tersa's name over and over.

  She'd taken his hand, caught the Winds, and brought him here. Whoever had owned this estate had either abandoned it by choice or had been forced out or killed when Dhemlan Terreille had finally caved in to Hayll's domination. Now Hayllian guards used the manor house as a barracks for the troops who were teaching the Dhemlan people about the penalties of disobedience.

  Daemon had watched passively while she'd used illusion spells to fill in the gaps in the hedges that would lead to the center of the maze. He'd said nothing when she created a double Gray shield around their hiding place.

  His passive obedience had melted away when she called in the small web Jaenelle had given her and placed four drops of blood in its center to awaken it, turning it into a signal and a beacon.

  He'd started prowling after that, started smiling that cold, familiar, brutal smile while she waited. And waited. And waited.

  "Why don't you call your friends, Little Assassin?" Daemon said as he glided past the place where she sat with her knees up and her back against the hedge. "Don't you want to earn your pay?"

  "There's no pay, Daemon. We're waiting for a friend."

  "Of course we are," he said too softly as he made another circuit around the center of the maze. Then he stopped and looked at her, his gold eyes filled with a glazed, cold fire. "She liked you. She asked me to help you. Do you remember that?"

  "Who, Daemon?" Surreal asked quietly.

  "Tersa." His voice broke. "They burned the house Tersa had lived in with her little boy. She had a son, did you know that?"

  Hell's fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful. "No, I didn't know that."

  Daemon nodded. "But that bitch Dorothea took him from her, and she went far, far away. And then that bitch put a Ring of Obedience on the little boy and trained him to be a pleasure slave. Took him into her bed and,. . ." Daemon shuddered. "You're blood of her blood."

  Surreal scrambled to her feet. "Daemon. I'm not like Dorothea. I don't acknowledge her as kin."

  Daemon bared his teeth. "Liar," he snarled. He took a step toward her, his right thumb flicking the ragged ring-finger nail. "Silky, court-trained liar." Another step. "Butchering whore."

  As he raised his right hand, Surreal saw a tiny, glistening drop fall from the needlelike nail under the regular nail. She dove to his left, calling in her stiletto as she fell. He was on her before she hit the ground. She screamed when he broke her right wrist. She scr
eamed again when he clamped his left hand over both of her wrists, grinding bones.

  "Daemon," she said, breathless and panicked as his right hand closed around her throat. "Daemon."

  Surreal gulped back a sob of relief at the sound of that familiar midnight voice.

  Hope and horror filled Daemon's eyes as he slowly raised his head. "Please," he whispered. "I never meant. . . . Please.'" He threw his head back, let out a heart-shattering cry, and collapsed.

  Using Craft, Surreal rolled him off her and sat up, cradling her broken wrist. Dizzy and nauseous, she closed her eyes as she felt Jaenelle approach. "I realize arriving a few seconds sooner would have made a less dramatic entrance, but I would've appreciated it more." "Let me see your wrist."

  Surreal looked up and gasped. "Hell's fire, what happened to you?"

  During the other times when Jaenelle's "shadow" had joined Surreal to search for Daemon, it had been impossible to guess she wasn't a living woman unless you tried to touch her. No one would mistake this transparent, wasted creature for something that walked the living Realms. But the sapphire eyes were still filled with their ancient fire, and the Black Jewels still glowed with untapped strength. Jaenelle shook her head and wrapped her hands around Surreal's wrist. A flash of numbing cold was followed by a steadily growing warmth. Surreal felt the bones shift and set.

  Jaenelle's transparent hands pulsed, fading and returning again and again! For a moment, she faded completely, her Black Jewels suspended as if waiting for her return.

  When she reappeared, her eyes were filled with pain and she panted as if she couldn't draw a full breath.

  "Collapsing," Jaenelle gasped. "Not now. Not yet." Her transparent body convulsed. "Surreal, I can't finish the healing. The bones are set, but . . ." A tooled, leather wristband hovered in the air. Jaenelle slipped it over Surreal's wrist and snapped it shut. "That will help support it until it heals."

  Surreal's left forefinger traced the stag head set in a circle of flowering vines—the same stag that was a symbol for Titian's kin, the Dea al Mon.

  Before she could ask Jaenelle about the wristband, something heavy hit the ground nearby. A man cursed softly.