Queen of the Darkness bj-3

by Anne Bishop

  But there was something else he had to tell her.

  *Jaenelle?*

  There was as much sadness as pleasure in her eyes when she turned and saw him. "What is it, little Brother?"

  *I have a message for you—from the Weaver of Dreams.*

  She went absolutely still, and he was afraid Witch might look right into him and see what he wanted to hide.

  "What is the message?"

  *She said the triangle must stay together in order to survive. The mirror can keep the others safe, but only if they're together.* He hesitated when she just stared at him. *Who is the mirror?*

  "Daemon," she replied absently. "He's his father's mirror."

  She seemed lost for a moment, long enough to make him nervous. *Do you understand the message?*

  "No," she said, looking very pale. "But I'm sure I will."

  9 / Kaeleer

  Luthvian heard her bedroom door open, but she continued stuffing clothes into a travel bag and didn't turn around. Damn Eyrien pup, coming up to her room without permission. And damn Lucivar for insisting that she come to the Keep and insisting that she have an escort. She didn't need an escort—especially not Palanar, who was barely old enough to wipe his own nose.

  As she started to turn around to tell him just that, a caped figure rushed at her. Instantly, instinctively, she threw up a Red shield. A blast of Red power struck her at the same moment, preventing the shield from forming, and the figure was on her. They tumbled to the floor.

  Luthvian didn't realize she'd been knifed until the enemy yanked the blade out of her body.

  Being a Healer, she knew it was bad—a killing wound.

  Furious, knowing she didn't have long, she ripped the hood off her enemy and then stared for a moment, frozen. "You."

  Hekatah rammed the knife into Luthvian's belly. "Bitch," she hissed. "I could have made something of you. Now I'll just turn you into carrion."

  Luthvian tried to fight, tried to scratch and claw, but her arms felt too heavy to lift. She couldn't do anything even when Hekatah's teeth sank into her throat and her blood fed the vile bitch.

  Nothing to be done for the body, but the Self...

  Gathering her strength and her rage, she channeled it into her inner barriers.

  Hekatah pounded against them as she fed, pounded and pounded, trying to blast them open to finish the kill. But Luthvian hung on, letting rage form the bridge between life and death as she poured her strength into her inner barriers. Poured and poured until there was nothing left. Nothing.

  At some point, the pounding stopped, and Luthvian felt a grim satisfaction that the bitch hadn't been able to break through.

  Far, far away, she felt Hekatah roll off her. Somewhere in the vague, misty distance she saw sharp nails descending toward her face.

  The hand stopped before the nails touched her eyes.

  "No," Hekatah said. "If you manage to make the transition to demon-dead, I want you to see what I do to your boy."

  Movement. The bedroom door closed. Silence.

  Luthvian felt herself fading. With effort, she flexed her fingers—just a little.

  Her rage had burned through the transition without her being aware of it, without Hekatah being able to sense it. She was demon-dead, but she didn't have the strength to hold on. Her Self would soon become a whisper in the Darkness. Perhaps, someday, when it had rested and regained some strength, the Self would leave the Darkness and return to the living Realms. Perhaps.

  How many times had Lucivar told her to set up warning shields around the house? And every time he'd tried, she had dismissed it with a sneer. But she'd been secretly pleased that he had tried.

  It had been a test, but she had been the only one who had known that. Every time he had mentioned the shields again after she had dismissed the idea, every time he had endured her sharp tongue while he helped her in some way had been a test to prove that he cared about her.

  Oh, there were times when, seeing the tightness in his face and the coolness in his eyes, she had told herself it would be the last time, the last test. The next time he mentioned the shields, she would do what he wanted so that he would know she cared about him, too.

  Then the next time would come and she would want, would need, just one more test. One more. And one more. Always one more.

  Now there would be no more tests, but her son, her fine Eyrien Warlord Prince, would never know she had loved him.

  All she would have needed was an hour as one of the demon-dead. An hour to tell him. She couldn't even leave him a message. Nothing.

  No. Wait. Maybe she could say the most important thing, the thing that had been chewing at her ever since Surreal had lashed out at her.

  She gathered everything that was left of her strength, shaped it into a bubble to hold one thought, then pushed it upward, upward, upward until it rested just outside her inner barriers.

  Lucivar would find it. She knew he would.

  No anchor. Nothing to hold on to. Filled with regrets tempered by one bubble of acknowledged love, she faded away and returned to the Darkness.

  10 / Kaeleer

  Palanar knocked reluctantly on the kitchen door. He supposed being asked to escort Lady Luthvian to the Keep was an honor, but she had made it very clear that she didn't like Eyrien males. So he wasn't really sure if this was Hallevar's way of showing confidence in him or a subtle punishment for something he'd done.

  He opened the door and cautiously poked his head into the kitchen. "Lady Luthvian?"

  She was there, standing near the table, staring at him. Then she smiled and said, "No balls, little warrior?"

  Stung, he stepped into the kitchen. "Are you ready?" he asked, striving to put the same arrogance into his voice that Falonar or Lucivar would have had.

  She looked at the traveling bag next to her, then at him.

  Since when did Luthvian expect a male to carry anything? The last time he'd tried, she'd almost dented his head. Hallevar had been right when he'd said, "Best resign yourself to the fact that a female can change her mind faster than you can fart."

  He took a couple of steps toward her, then stopped again.

  "What's wrong?" she asked suspiciously.

  She stank. That's what was wrong. Really stank. But he wasn't about to say that. Then he noticed she looked a little... strange.

  "What's wrong?" she asked again, taking a step toward him.

  He took two steps back.

  Her face shifted, wavered. For a moment, he thought he saw someone else. Someone he didn't know—and didn't want to know.

  And he remembered something else Hallevar had told him: sometimes running was the smartest thing an inexperienced warrior could do.

  He ran for the door.

  He didn't reach it. Power blasted through his inner barriers. Needles stabbed into his mind, grew hooks and dug deeper, tore out little bits of his Self. His body vibrated from the fierce tug-of-war as he tried to get out the door while she drew him back into the room.

  Helpless, he felt himself turn around—and saw the witch who held him captive. He screamed.

  "You will go exactly where I tell you to go," she said. "Say exactly what I tell you to say."

  "N-n-no."

  Gold eyes glittered in her decayed face, and pain seared him.

  "It's a small task, puppy. And when it's done, I'll set you free."

  She held out a small crystal. It floated through the air. His left hand reached out and took it.

  She told him exactly where to go, exactly what to say, exactly what to do with the spell in the crystal. Then he was turned around again, like a marionette with knotted strings. He walked out the door.

  A warrior would not do this, no matter the price. A warrior would not do this.

  He tried to bring his right hand up to reach his knife. He could cut his throat, cut his wrists, do something to get away from her.

  His hand closed on the hilt.

  *Dying won't save you, little warrior,* the witch said. *I am the
Dark Priestess. You can't escape me that way.*

  His hand dropped to his side, empty.

  *Now go!*

  Palanar spread his wings and flew as fast as he could to do what a warrior would not do.

  It wasn't the wind in his face that made him weep.

  11 / Kaeleer

  Lucivar landed at his eyrie, and shouted, "Marian!" Where in the name of Hell was the woman? he thought as he strode toward the door. She should have arrived at the Keep hours ago.

  He walked through the door, saw the neat pile of traveling bags. His heart stopped for a moment. By the time he felt it beat again, he had risen to the killing edge. "Marian!"

  The eyrie was a big place, but it didn't take him long to give it a thorough search. Marian and Daemonar weren't there. But she had packed, so what had prevented her from leaving? Maybe Daemonar was ill? Had she taken him over to Nurian's eyrie to have the Healer look at him?

  As the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih, his eyrie was set a little apart from the other eyries nestled in the mountain, but it was only a couple of minutes before he landed in front of Nurian's home. Before his feet touched the ground, he knew they weren't there.

  "Lucivar!"

  Lucivar turned as Hallevar hurried up to him. He noticed Falonar and Kohlvar as they walked out of the communal eyrie that was as close as Eyriens came to having inns and taverns. Both men, hearing the agitation in Hallevar's voice, moved toward him.

  "Have you seen that pup, Palanar?" Hallevar asked.

  Before Lucivar could respond, Falonar jumped in. "Didn't you send him to escort Lady Luthvian to the Keep?"

  "I did," Hallevar said grimly. "And told him to get his ass right back here." He looked at Lucivar. "I wondered if he might be dawdling at the Keep to dodge some chores."

  "Palanar didn't arrive at the Keep. Neither did Luthvian. Neither did Marian and Daemonar," Lucivar added too quietly.

  The other men stiffened.

  "I sent him first thing this morning," Hallevar said.

  "Any sign of trouble at your eyrie?" Falonar asked sharply.

  "No," Lucivar said. "The bags were packed and set near the door." He swore softly, viciously. "Where in the name of Hell did she go?"

  "She went to Lady Luthvian's," said a young female voice.

  They all turned and stared at Jillian, Nurian's young sister.

  She hunched her shoulders and looked ready to bolt back into the eyrie.

  Hallevar pointed a finger at the ground a few feet away from him. "Here, little warrior," he said sternly.

  Scared now, Jillian crept to the spot, glanced at the large warriors surrounding her, then stared at her feet.

  "Make your report," Hallevar said in that tone that, although encouraging, had made every young male who had trained under him snap to attention.

  It had the same effect on Jillian. She stood upright and focused on Hallevar. "I was doing my stamina run this morning." She waited until she got Hallevar's approving nod. "And I thought I would take the path to Prince Yaslana's eyrie because I thought, well, maybe Lady Marian would want a little help with Daemonar, that I could look after him for a bit so she could get some of her chores done. It wasn't like I was shirking the rest of my workout or anything, 'cause looking after Daemonar is work."

  Despite being worried, Lucivar's lips twitched as he fought not to smile.

  "I was almost there when I saw Marian standing at the door talking to Palanar. He looked... sick. He was sweating hard, and ... I don't know. I've never seen anyone look like that. And then Marian jerked like someone had hit her, but Palanar didn't touch her. He said, 'Bring the boy.' She went inside and came back out with Daemonar. Daemonar took one look at Palanar and started howling. You know, that sound Daemonar makes when he doesn't like something?"

  Lucivar nodded. He felt a cold sweat forming on his skin.

  "Palanar grabbed one of Marian's arms. He kept saying, 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry.'"

  "Did he see you?" Lucivar asked too quietly.

  Jillian shook her head. "But Marian did. She looked right at me, and her face had the same sick look that Palanar's did, and she said, 'Luthvian's.' Then they left." Having finished her report, her confidence faded as she looked up at the grim-faced men.

  "You didn't report this to anyone?" Lucivar asked.

  Pale now, Jillian shook her head again. "I—Nurian wasn't home when I got back, and ... I didn't know I was supposed to report," she finished in a barely audible voice.

  And would have been reluctant to go to one of the warriors and be casually dismissed because she was female. A few months of living in Kaeleer weren't enough to overcome survival tactics that had been learned from the time she had gotten out of the cradle.

  "When a warrior sees something strange, he—or she--should report to—her—superiors," Hallevar said in a firm but gentle voice. "That's one of the ways a young warrior gains experience."

  "Yes, sir," Jillian whispered.

  "That was a fine first report, Jillian," Lucivar said. "Now go back to your chores."

  Jillian's shoulders went back. Her eyes shown with pleasure. "Yes, sir."

  None of them spoke until the girl had gone back inside.

  "Sounds like a compulsion spell," Falonar said quietly.

  "Yes," Lucivar replied grimly, "it does. Falonar, keep an eye on things here."

  "You're going to Luthvian's?" Hallevar asked quickly as Lucivar stepped away from them. "Then I'm going with you."

  "No, you're not," Falonar said. "Kohlvar, you bring everyone up close to the eyries. Hallevar, you have the most influence with the youngsters. Keep a tight leash on them."

  "And where will you be?" Lucivar asked too softly.

  Falonar squared off to face him. "I'm going with you."

  They found Palanar on the ground outside the kitchen door.

  "I'll look after him," Falonar said. "You go on."

  Calling in his Eyrien war blade, Lucivar kicked open the kitchen door and lunged into the room. The stink inside gagged him, reminded him too strongly of carrion.

  That thought catapulted him through the other downstairs rooms. Finding them empty, he surged up the stairs. He kicked the bedroom door open—and saw Luthvian. He probed the room swiftly to make sure no one was waiting for the moment when he dropped his guard, then he knelt beside the body.

  At first he thought she was still alive. The wounds he could see were bad, but there would have been more blood if she had bled out. When he brushed her hair away from her neck, he saw why there wasn't a lot of blood.

  He rested a hand on her head. All right. The body was dead, but she was strong enough to make the transition to demon-dead. If there was any sign that she was still there, fresh blood would strengthen her.

  He probed cautiously so that he wouldn't punch through her inner barriers and inadvertently finish the kill.

  Just outside her inner barriers was an odd little bubble of power. He paused, considered. The bubble had a feeling of emotional warmth that made him suspect. It wasn't the sort of feelings he associated with Luthvian. But there was nothing he could detect that made him believe he would be in danger, so he brushed a psychic tendril against it, lightly.

  Lucivar... I was wrong about Marian. You chose well. I wish you both happy.

  Tears stung his eyes. He brushed against the inner barriers. They opened with no resistance. He searched for her, searched for the least little flicker of her spirit. Nothing.

  Luthvian had returned to the Darkness.

  One tear spilled over. "Hell's fire, Luthvian," he said in a broken voice. "Why did you have to wait until you were dead to tell me that? Why—"

  "Lucivar!"

  He shot to his feet, responding to the grief and anger in Falonar's voice. He paused at the door, looked back. "May the Darkness embrace you, Mother."

  Falonar was waiting for him in the kitchen.

  "Palanar?" Lucivar asked.

  Falonar shook his head. He didn't need to ask about Luthvian. "I saw that." He point
ed to a folded sheet of paper on the table.

  Lucivar stared at the paper that had his name on it. He didn't recognize the handwriting and felt an instinctive revulsion against touching it. Using Craft, he unfolded the paper, read it, and stormed out the door.

  "Lucivar!" Falonar shouted, running after him. "Where are you going?"

  "Get back to the eyries," Lucivar said as he strapped the fighting gauntlets over his forearms. "You're in charge now, Prince Falonar."

  "Where are you going?"

  Lucivar rose to the killing edge, felt the sweet, cold rage wash through him. "I'm going to get my wife and son away from those bitches."

  12 / Kaeleer

  The attack started the moment Falonar returned to the eyries. His Sapphire shield snapped up around him a second before an arrow would have gone through his back. He called in his longbow, nocked an arrow, added a bit of Sapphire power to the head, and let it fly.

  He took a moment to probe the area and assess the enemy. Then he swore viciously. There was a full company of Eyrien warriors out there. None of them wore a Jewel darker than the Green, so his Sapphire Jewels would balance the odds a little, but his own warriors were far outnumbered. Every man would go down fighting, but that wasn't going to save the women and children.

  "The communal eyrie!" Hallevar shouted as he herded women and children in that direction. "Move! Move!"

  Smart move, Falonar thought approvingly as he let another arrow fly. It was big enough to hold all of them and give his warriors one concentrated battleground instead of scattered ones.

  His shield deflected a dozen more arrows. Having risen to the killing edge, he embraced the cold rage and fought with a mind cleansed of emotions. His arrows found their targets.

  Someone screamed. Looking to his left, he saw Nurian struggling with an Eyrien Warlord. He started to turn, but before he could draw his bow, another warrior rushed at him with a bladed stick. Vanishing the bow and arrow, he called in his own bladed stick and met the attack. As he danced back and looked for an opening, Nurian screamed again.

  Screw honor. This was war. When his adversary came at him again, he met the blow with a dirty, nasty maneuver he'd recently learned from Lucivar that dispatched the enemy with a vengeance.