Bishop, Anne - Dark Jewels 01 - Daughter of the Blood

by Daughter of the Blood [lit]

  8 / Terreille

  As the slaves were brought up from the salt mines of Pruul, Lucivar turned toward the west. The salt sweat stung the new cuts on his back. The heavy chains that manacled his wrists to his waist pulled at his already aching arms. Still he stood quietly, breathing the clean evening air, watching the last sliver of sun sink beneath the horizon.

  He'd ridden the dark aftershocks that hit Pruul with a lover's passion, using his Ebon-gray strength to fortify those waves and keep them rolling east a little longer. His only regret was not joining Sadi in the bloodletting. Not that the Sadist needed his help. Not that it would be safe to be in the same city with a man that deeply enraged.

  As a frightened guard shook his whip at the slaves to begin leading them to their dark, stinking cells, Lucivar smiled and whispered, "Send them to Hell, Bastard. Send them all to Hell."

  9 / Terreille

  Philip Alexander sat at his desk, his head braced in his hands, staring at the shattered Gray Jewel.

  It had taken—what—a minute? A bare minute to produce so much destruction? Some of the guards had felt it first, a shuddery feeling, like trying to stand against a strong wind that kept growing stronger. Then Leland. Then Alexandra. He'd been puzzled, in those moments, wondering why they had become so pale and still, why they all were straining to hear something. When it hurtled past the Gray, heading downward, he'd had a moment, just a moment, to realize what it was, a moment to throw his arms around Leland and Alexandra, pulling them to the floor, a moment to try to form a Gray shield around the three of them. A moment.

  Then his world exploded.

  He had held on for less than a minute before that titanic explosion of Black strength shattered the Gray and swept him along like driftwood caught in a wave before the wave smashes it into the sand. He'd felt Alexandra try to hold him before she, too, was swept away.

  A minute.

  When it was over, when his head finally cleared . . .

  Of the Hayllian guards who had remained in the hall, all but two were dead or had their minds burned away. Leland and Alexandra, shielded from the first impact, were shaken but all .right. He'd been broken back to the Green, his Birthright Jewel.

  Still in shock, the three of them had staggered from the hall. They had found Graff in the nursery wing, staring empty-eyed at the ceiling, her body twisted and torn almost beyond recognition.

  Most of the staff had come away from the psychic explosion frightened but intact. They'd found them huddled in the kitchen where Cook, with shaking hands, liberally filled cups with brandy.

  Wilhelmina had frightened them. She had sat quietly in the kitchen chair, cheeks glowing with color, eyes flashing. When Philip had asked if she was all right, she had smiled at him and said, "She said to ride it, so I did. She said to ride it."

  In that moment before the world exploded, he had heard a young, commanding female voice shouting "Ride it, ride it," but he hadn't understood—and still didn't. What was more frightening, Wilhelmina now wore a Sapphire Jewel. Somehow, in that chaos, she had made her Offering to the Darkness, too young. Now that inexperienced girl was stronger than any of them.

  Worst of all was the betrayal of Guinness and the stable lads, particularly Andrew. They had fought against the Hayllian guards, holding them up. If they hadn't interfered, Sadi might have been caught and Beldon Mor . . . Well, he had dismissed Guinness and Andrew and the others who'd survived. There was no reason to keep traitors, especially traitors who said . . . who called him . . . That they would side with Sadi against her family!

  Philip closed his eyes, rubbed his aching temples. Who would have thought one man could destroy so much in a minute? Half the Blood in Beldon Mor were dead, mad, or broken.

  Philip let out a sighing sob. His body was almost too weak to wear the Green, but he would recover. That much he would recover.

  Half the Blood. If Sadi had struck again . . .

  But after the ripples had finally passed, there had been no sign of Daemon Sadi.

  And no one knew what had become of Greer.

  10 / Terreille

  Surreal sat with her back against the headboard, sipping from the whiskey bottle she hugged to her chest.

  She and Deje had spent the past few hours looking after the other girls, sedating those who needed it, letting the rest get blistering drunk. Deje, her face gray with the strain, had gratefully let Surreal take care of the bodies. Fortunately there weren't many, the day after the Winsol holidays always being a slow time for Red Moon houses. Even so, she'd had to bundle them up in blankets before even the brawniest of Deje's male staff would enter the rooms and lug the bodies out.

  Everyone, including herself, stank of fear.

  But he was, after all, the Sadist.

  It would have been worse, she told herself as she continued to sip the whiskey. It would have been much, much worse, if Jaenelle hadn't shouted that warning to ride it out. Funny. Every witch in Deje's house who wore a Jewel heard that warning and knew on some instinctive level what it meant. The men . . . There wasn't time for Jaenelle to be selective. Some heard her, some didn't. That's all there was to it. Those who didn't were dead.

  What had happened to send him into such a rage? What sort of danger could have provoked that kind of unleashing?

  Maybe the question to ask was, who was in danger?

  Calmed by her own rising anger, Surreal set the whiskey bottle on the nightstand and called in a small leather rectangle. As soon as she was done, she'd get a little sleep. It was unlikely that anything would happen before tonight. The Sadist had seen to that, whether he'd meant to or not.

  With her lips curved in the slightest of smiles, Surreal hummed softly as she slipped the whetstone out of its leather pouch and began sharpening her knives.

  11 / Terreille

  Dorothea watched the flames in the fireplace dance. Any moment now, the Dark Priestess would arrive at the old Sanctuary. Then she could give the bitch the message and return home.

  Who would have thought he could break a Ring of Obedience? Who would have thought, with him being on the other side of the Realm, shattering the Ring could . . .

  How very fortunate that she'd started letting each of the young witches in her coven wear the primary controlling ring for a day, letting them "get the feel" of handling a powerful male, even if he was so far away they couldn't really feel anything at all. How very unfortunate her favorite witch, her little prize who had shown so much potential, had been the one wearing it today.

  Since the body, although empty of the witch herself, still lived, she would have to keep it around for a little while so the others wouldn't realize how disposable they really were. A month or two would be enough. The witch would, of course, be buried with dignity, with full honors commensurate with her Jewels and social rank.

  Dorothea shuddered. Sadi was out there, somewhere, with no leash to hold him. They could try to use the Eyrien half-breed as bait to draw him back, but Yasi was so nicely tucked into Pruul's salt mines, and it would be a shame to pull him out before he was sufficiently broken in body and spirit. Besides, she doubted that even the Eyrien would be sufficient bait this time.

  The sitting room door opened for the hooded figure.

  "You sent for me, Sister?" Hekatah said, making no attempt to keep her annoyance out of her voice. She looked pointedly at the small table, empty of her expected carafe of blood. "It must be important to have made you forget such a paltry thing as refreshment."

  "Yes, it is." You bag of bones. You parasite. All Hayll is in danger now. I am in danger now! Careful not to let her thoughts become apparent, Dorothea held up a note, slipping it in and out of her fingers. "From Greer."

  "Ah," Hekatah said with barely suppressed excitement, "He has some news?"

  "Better than that," Dorothea answered slowly. "He says he has found a way to take care of your little problem."

  12 / Terreille

  Greer sat on the white-sheeted bed in one of Briarwood's private rooms, cradlin
g what was left of his good hand.

  It could have been worse. If that limping stable brat hadn't slashed at him with a knife, slicing through his little finger so it only hung by a thread of skin, he never would have gotten the secondary controlling ring off in time when Sadi broke the Ring of Obedience. In that moment when he'd felt the Black explode, he'd ripped the finger off and flung it away from him. A guard, seeing something hurled toward him, grabbed instinctively, his hand closing around the ring.

  Foolish man. Foolish, foolish man.

  With the Ring of Obedience broken and with no way to know if Sadi had been hurt by the effort, Greer had run to Briarwood, where the healing would be done without questions. It was also the only place the Sadist wouldn't strike at blindly. Here they had some leverage—at least for a few hours more. After that he would be gone, speeding back to Hayll to melt away among the many, encircled by Dorothea's court. Briarwood and its patrons would still be here to quench Sadi's thirst for vengeance.

  Greer lay down on the bed, letting the painkillers lull him into much-needed rest. In a few short hours, the Dark Priestess's little problem would be no more, and Sadi .

  Let the bastard scream.

  13 / Hell

  Saetan made another erratic circuit around his private study.

  He stared at Cassandra's portrait.

  He stared at the tangled web he'd finished a short time ago, at the warning that may have come too late.

  He shook his head slowly, denying what the vision in the tangled web had shown him.

  An inner web still intact. A shattered crystal chalice. And blood. So much blood.

  He had never invaded Jaenelle's privacy. Against his better judgment, against all his instincts, he had never invaded her privacy. But now . . .

  "No," he said with soft malevolence. "You will not take my Queen from me. You will not take my daughter."

  There was only one place from which he could penetrate the mist. Only one place he could use to amplify his strength to reach across the Realm. Only one witch who had the knowledge to help him do it.

  Throwing his cape over his shoulders, he flicked a glance at the door, tearing it off the hinges. Gliding through the deep corridors of the Hall, his rage glazing the rough stones with ice, he brushed past Mephis and Prothvar, seeing no one, seeing nothing but that web.

  "Where are you going, SaDiablo?" Andulvar called, striding to intercept him.

  Saetan snarled softly.

  The Hall trembled.

  Andulvar hesitated for only a moment before setting himself squarely in the path of the High Lord of Hell.

  "Yaslana." The rage had become very quiet, very still.

  This was what they feared in him.

  "You can tell me where you're going, or you can go through me," Andulvar said calmly. Only a tiny muscle tic in his jaw betrayed him.

  Saetan smiled, raising his right hand in a lover's caress. Remembering in time that this man was his friend and also loved Jaenelle, he sheathed the snake tooth, and the hand gently squeezed Andulvar's shoulder.

  "To Ebon Askavi," he whispered as he caught the Black Wind and vanished.

  chapter fifteen

  1 / Terreille

  Surreal dreamed. She and Titian were walking through a woods. Titian was trying to warn her about something, but Surreal couldn't hear her. The woods, Titian, everything, was silenced by the loud, steady pounding of a drum.

  As they reached the edge of the woods, Surreal noticed a tree with a perfect branch, a tree sweating dark red sap.

  Titian walked past the tree across a lawn filled with tall, silvery flowers. As she picked a flower here and there, it turned into a knife, sharp and shining. Smiling, she offered the bouquet to Surreal.

  The drum beat louder, harder.

  Someone was screaming.

  Titian continued walking toward a large, mist-filled rectangle, pointing here and there. Every time she pointed, the mist drew away. Two redheads. A girl with no eyes. A girl with a slit throat whose eyes blazed with impotent fury. A girl with one leg.

  At the far end of the rectangle was a mound of freshly dug earth.

  The drum beat faster.

  Someone was shrieking, enraged and in pain.

  Surreal approached the mound, drawn by something lying over the dirt. As she approached, witchblood began to sprout and bloom, forming a crown around a length of golden hair.

  "No!" Surreal yelled, flinging herself out of the bed. The heartbeat drum pounded against her ribs. The screaming in her head didn't stop.

  2/ Hell

  "You're going to help me," Saetan said, turning to face Draca.

  "To do what, High Lord?" Draca asked. Her unblinking reptilian eyes revealed nothing.

  "Penetrate the mist around Beldon Mor." His golden eyes locked with Draca's, willing her to yield.

  Draca studied him for a long time. "There iss danger?"

  "I believe so."

  "You break faith with her."

  "I'd rather have her hate me than have her lost to all of us," Saetan replied sharply.

  Draca considered this. "Even the Black iss not sso far-reaching. A leasst not the Black you wear, High Lord. The help I can offer will only let you know what iss beyond the misst, to ssee but not to act. To act, you would need to link with another, sspear to sspear."

  Saetan licked his lips, took a deep breath. "There is one there who may help, who may let me use him."

  "Come." Draca led him through the corridors of Ebon Askavi toward a large stairwell that descended into the heart of the mountain.

  As they reached the stairwell, hurrying footsteps made Saetan swing around in challenge.

  Geoffrey appeared around the corner, followed by Andulvar, Prothvar, and Mephis. Andulvar and Prothvar were dressed for battle. Mephis's anger blazed from his Gray Jewel.

  Saetan flicked a dagger glance at each of them before his eyes and his anger settled on Andulvar. "Why are you here, Yaslana?" Saetan asked in his soft, dangerous croon.

  Andulvar clenched his hands. "That web in your study."

  "Ah, so now you possess the ability to read the Hourglass's webs."

  "I could snap you like kindling!"

  "You'd have to reach me first."

  A slow grin bared Andulvar's teeth. Then the grin faded. "The waif's in trouble, isn't she? That's what the web warned you about."

  "It's not your concern."

  "She doesn't belong just to you, High Lord!" Andulvar roared.

  Saetan closed his eyes. Sweet Darkness, give me the strength. "No," he agreed, letting Andulvar see his pain, "she doesn't belong just to me. But I'm the only one strong enough to do what has to be done, and"—he raised a hand to stop their protests, his eyes never leaving Andulvar's face—"if someone has to stand responsible for what's going to happen, if someone is going to earn her hatred, let it be only one of us so the others can still cherish her—and serve her."

  "Saetan," Andulvar said, his voice husky. "Ah, Saetan. Is there nothing we can do?"

  Saetan blinked rapidly. "Wish me well."

  "Come," Draca said urgently. "The Darknesss ... We musst hurry."

  Saetan followed her down the stairwell to the locked door at the bottom. Pulling a large key from her sleeve, Draca unlocked the door and pushed it open.

  Etched in the floor of the enormous cavern was a huge web lined with silver. In the center where all the tether lines met was an iridescent Jewel the size of Saetan's hand, a Jewel that blended the colors of all the other Jewels. At the end of each silver tether line was an iridescent Jewel chip the size of his thumbnail.

  As Saetan and Draca walked along the edge of the web, the Jewels began to glow. A low hum rose from the web, rising up and up until the cavern throbbed with the sound.

  "Draca, what is this place?" Saetan whispered.

  "It iss nowhere and everywhere." Draca pointed at his feet. "Your feet must be bare. Flessh musst touch the web." When Saetan had stripped off his shoes and socks, Draca pointed to a tether li
ne. "Begin here. Walk sslowly to the center, letting the web draw you into itsself. When you reach the center, possition yoursself behind the Jewel sso you are facing the tether line closesst to Beldon Mor."

  "And then?"

  Draca studied Saetan, her thoughts hidden. "And the Blood sshall ssing to the Blood. Your blood, darkened by your sstrength, will feed the web. You will direct the power from thiss offering sso it iss channeled to the one tether line you need. You musst not break contact with the web once you begin."

  "And then?"

  "And then you will ssee what you have come here to ssee."

  Saetan tapped into the reserve strength in his Black Jewels and stepped on the tether line. The power in the web stabbed into his heel like a needle. He sucked in his breath and began walking.

  Each step drove the power of the web upward. By the time he reached the center, his whole body vibrated with the hum. Keeping one foot in contact with the web, Saetan positioned himself behind the Jewel, his eyes and will focused on that one tether line.

  He held out his right wrist and opened his vein.

  His blood hissed when it hit the Jewel in the center of the web', formed a red mist. The mist twisted into a fine thread and began to inch its way along the tether line.

  Drop by drop, the thread moved toward Chaillot, toward Beldon Mor.

  For a moment it stopped, a finger-length away from the Jewel chip, blocked. Then it crept upward, a red vine climbing an invisible wall, until a handspan above the floor, it was over, flowing back along the tether line.

  He had breached Jaenelle's mist. The moment the blood thread touched the Jewel chip, he would be able to probe Beldon Mor.

  The thread touched the Jewel chip.

  Saetan's eyes widened. "Hell's fire, what—"

  "Don't move!" Draca's voice seemed so far away.

  What had Daemon done? Saetan thought as he picked up the aftertaste of rage. Sinking beneath the cacophony of the lesser Jewels, Saetan searched the Black, the too-still Black. There should have been three minds within his probing reach. There was only one, the one farthest out, the one at the Dark Altar.