by Anne Bishop
But she had made sure that Dorothea had seen her. She'd felt the bitch trying to probe her to find out if she was really broken and really pregnant. Apparently the illusion spells had held up because Dorothea gently suggested that she lie down for a while and rest. The bitch was almost drooling over the idea of being able to get her hands on any child sired by Sadi.
She'd go back and hide for a little while, wait until sunset, then put in an appearance so that Hekatah could sniff around her. Then all she had to do was slip past the sentries and the perimeter markers, pick up Marian and Daemonar, and get them home. That was all she... Shit.
She hadn't been paying attention to exactly where she was going—and now found herself staring right into Lucivar's eyes.
He had spent the morning watching her whenever she appeared. It was a good act, but it was just a little off. Not that anyone else would have noticed. Oh, he was sure Dorothea and Hekatah and plenty of the guards had seen broken witches, but he doubted any of them had ever paid any attention to those women after the breaking. He, on the other hand, had taken care of a few of them in a number of courts. He hadn't been able to stop the breaking, but he'd taken care of them afterward. And they all had one thing in common: the first day or two after they were broken, they were cold. They huddled up in shawls and blankets, stayed close to any source of heat that was available to them.
But there was Surreal, wandering through the camp, wearing nothing over a shirt that seemed torn in all the right places to display some impressive bruises. And that made him think about a lot of things.
"You should put on a jacket, sweetheart," he said gently.
"Jacket?" Surreal said feebly while her hands tried to cover some of the rips in the shirt.
"A jacket. You're cold."
"Oh. No I'm—"
"Cold."
She shivered then, but it wasn't from cold, it was from nerves.
"You don't have to carry that bastard's child," Lucivar said quietly. "You can abort it. A broken witch still has that much power. And once you're barren, there's no reason for anyone to look in your direction."
"I can't," Surreal said fearfully. "I can't. He would be so mad at me and..." She looked at the spot where Marian and Daemonar had died.
He wondered if he was wrong, if her mind really was so torn apart she didn't quite feel the cold yet. If that was true, then he understood the fear in her voice now. She was afraid the Sadist would do the same thing to her that he had done to Marian and Daemonar.
But what he saw in her eyes when she looked at him again wasn't fear, it was hot frustration.
The blood in his veins, which had felt so sluggish since he had crawled back to the post two nights ago, raged through him once again.
"Surreal..." He saw Daemon appear on the other side of the circle of bare ground a moment before she did.
With an almost-convincing cry, Surreal ran off.
Lucivar stared at Daemon. From across the distance, Daemon returned the stare.
"You bastard," Lucivar whispered. Daemon wouldn't have heard the words, but it didn't matter. Sadi would know what had been said.
Daemon walked away.
Lucivar leaned his head back against the post and closed his eyes.
If Surreal wasn't broken, if this was all a game, then Marian and Daemonar...
He should have remembered that about the Sadist. He, better than anyone else there, knew how vicious Daemon could be, but the Sadist had never harmed an innocent, had never hurt a child.
He had been waiting for the signal, but the game had begun before Daemon had walked into the camp. Still, he had played his part well—and would continue to do so.
Because understanding and forgiving were two very different things.
6 / Terreille
Drifting in a pain-hazed doze, Saetan felt the cup against his lips. The first swallow he took out of reflex, the second out of greed. As the taste of fresh blood filled his mouth, the Black power in it flowed through him, offering strength.
*Hold on,* a deep voice whispered in his mind. *You have to hold on. Please.*
He heard the weariness in that voice. He heard a son's plea to a father, and he responded. Being the man he was, he couldn't do otherwise. So he pushed his way through the haze of pain.
When he opened his eyes, all he saw was waning daylight, and he wondered if he'd just dreamed the plea he'd heard in Daemon's voice.
But he could still taste the dark, rich, fresh blood.
Closing his eyes again, he let his mind drift.
He was standing in an enormous cavern somewhere in the heart of Ebon Askavi. Etched in the floor was a huge web lined with silver. In the center where all the tether lines met was an iridescent Jewel the size of his hand, a Jewel that blended the colors of all the other Jewels. At the end of each tether line was an iridescent Jewel chip the size of his thumbnail.
He had been in this place once before, on the night when he had linked with Daemon in order to draw Jaenelle back to her body.
But there was something else in the cavern now.
Stretching across that silver web on the floor were three massive, connected tangled webs that rose from about a foot from the floor to almost twice his height. In the center of each web was an Ebony Jewel.
Witch stood in front of those webs, wearing that black spidersilk gown, holding the scepter that held two Ebony Jewels and the spiral horn Kaetien had gifted her with when he'd been killed five years ago.
Behind the webs were dozens of demon-dead. One of them approached the webs, smiled, then faded. At the moment the person faded, a little star the same color as the person's Jewel bloomed on the middle web.
Puzzled, he moved to get a better look at the tangled webs.
The first one repulsed him. The threads looked swollen, moldy, tainted. At the end of every single tether line of that web was an Ebony Jewel chip.
The middle one was beautiful, filled with thousands of those little colored stars and a sprinkling of Black and Ebony Jewel chips.
The last one was a simple web, perfect in its symmetry, made of gray, ebon-gray, and black threads. It, too, had Black and Ebony Jewel chips that had been carefully placed on the threads to form a spiral.
He glanced at Witch, but she was focused on the task, so he shifted again to watch.
He saw Char, the leader of the cildru dyathe, approach the webs. The boy grinned at him, waved a jaunty good-bye, and faded to become another bright star.
Titian approached him, kissed his cheek. "I'm proud to have known you, High Lord." She walked over to the webs and faded.
As he watched her, something nagged at him. Something about the structure of those webs. But before he could figure it out, Dujae, the artist who had given the coven drawing lessons, approached him.
"Thank you, High Lord," the huge man said. "Thank you for allowing me to know the Ladies. All the portraits I have done of them are at the Hall in Kaeleer now. My gift to you."
"Thank you, Dujae," he replied, puzzled.
As Dujae walked away, Prothvar stepped up. "It's a different kind of battlefield, but it's a good way to fight. Take care of the waif, Uncle Saetan." Prothvar hugged him.
Cassandra came next. Cassandra, whom he hadn't seen since the first party when they had all met the coven and the boyos.
She smiled at him, a sad smile, then pressed her hand against his cheek. "I wish I had been a better friend. May the Darkness embrace you, Saetan." She kissed him. When she faded, a glorious Black star began to shine in the middle web.
"Mephis," he said when his eldest son approached. "Mephis, what—"
Mephis smiled and hugged him. "I was proud to have you for a father, and honored to know you as a man. I'm not sure I ever told you that. I wanted you to know. Good-bye, Father. I love you."
"And I love you, Mephis," he said, holding on hard as he felt grief swell inside him.
When Mephis faded into the web, the only one left of the demon-dead was Andulvar.
"Andulvar
, what's going on?"
"And the Blood will sing to the Blood," Andulvar replied. "Like to like." He looked at the webs. "She found a way to identify those who have been tainted from those who still honor the ways of the Blood. But she needed help to keep those who followed the old ways from being swept away with the rest when she unleashes. That's what the demon-dead will do—our strength will anchor the living. We'll burn out in the doing, but as Prothvar said, it's a good way to fight."
Andulvar smiled at him. "Take care of yourself, SaDiablo. And take care of those pups of yours. Both of them. Just remember that your mirror truly is your mirror. You only have to look to see the truth." Andulvar hugged him. "No man could have asked for a better friend or a better Brother. Hold on. Fight. You have the hardest burden, but your sons will help you."
Andulvar walked to the webs. He spread his dark wings, raised his arms... and faded.
As he blinked back tears, Jaenelle walked over to him. He wrapped his arms around her. "Witch-child ..."
She shook her head, kissed him, and smiled. But her eyes were filled with tears.
"Thank you for being my father. It was glorious, Saetan." Then she leaned close and whispered in his ear, "Take care of Daemon. Please. He'll need you."
She didn't fade into the web, she just disappeared.
Wiping the tears with the back of his hand, he approached the webs and studied them carefully.
The first web, the moldy web, were the Blood tainted by Dorothea and Hekatah. The second web, with all its Jewel stars, were the Blood who still honored the old ways. The third web, with its spiral, was Witch.
As he continued to study the webs, he began to shake his head, slowly at first, then faster and faster. "No, no, no, witch-child," he muttered. "You can't connect them like this. If you unleash your full strength ..."
It would blast through the large Ebony Jewel in the center of the first web, travel through all the strands, sweep up all the minds that resonated with those strands, then hit all the Ebony chips, meeting a smaller portion of itself in a devastating collision of power that would destroy anyone caught in it. Then it would continue on to the next web, barely diminished.
The middle web, with all those thousands of beads of power, would provide tremendous resistance as her strength swept through it. The demon-dead, providing a shield and anchor for the living, would absorb some of her power as it flooded over them, but not all of those thousands of beads of power would be enough. That unleashed strength would continue on to the third web and...
The power would flow through that perfect symmetry, burn out the web, and shatter every Jewel chip as it came blasting back through the spiral. And once the last Jewel chip shattered, the only thing left to reabsorb the rest of the power would be...
"NO, witch-child," he shouted, turning round and round, searching for her. "No! A backlash like that will rip you apart! Jaenelle!"
He turned back to the webs. Maybe, if he could link himself to Witch's web somehow, draw every drop of reserve power out of his Birthright Red Jewels and his Black... Maybe he could shield her enough to keep her safe when the rest of that explosion of power came screaming back at her.
He took a step forward...
... and everything faded.
Saetan opened his eyes. Deep twilight. Almost night.
A dream? Just a dream? No. He had been a Black Widow too long not to know the difference between a dream and a vision. But it was fading. He couldn't quite remember, and there was something about that vision that was desperately important for him to remember.
That was when he noticed Daemon standing a few feet in front of him, watching him with frightening intensity.
Just remember that your mirror truly is your mirror. You only have to look to see the truth.
Andulvar's words. Andulvar's warning.
So, with eyes blinded by tears, he looked at his mirror, his namesake, his true heir. And saw.
Still watching him, Daemon reached into his jacket pocket. His hand came out as a loose fist. He opened his fingers, tipped his hand.
Little colored bangles, the kind women sewed on dresses to catch the light, spilled to the ground.
Saetan stared at them. They chilled him, but he couldn't say why.
And when he looked up again at Daemon ... He could almost hear the unspoken plea to think, to know, to remember. But his mind was still too full of the other vision that had turned elusive.
Daemon walked away.
Saetan closed his eyes. Bangles and webs. If he could find the connection, he would also find the answers.
7 / Terreille
Surreal swore silently as she stared at the perimeter stakes. There had to be a trick to getting past them. Hell's fire, Daemon had gotten them into the camp without anyone realizing it, but she'd still been too stunned by his shift into the Sadist to pay much attention. And he'd gotten Marian and Daemonar out without anyone realizing it.
Could it be as simple as jumping over them so the contact between the crystals wasn't broken? No, she would have remembered that.
"What are you doing out here?" a voice demanded.
Shit.
She turned to face the sentry who was moving toward her. She was too far away from the camp for anyone to believe she was just a broken witch wandering around. But she had to try to convince this bastard. Or kill him quietly. If she ended up in a fight and used her Gray Jewels, Daemon would know she'd run into trouble and alter the rest of his plans. And that would allow those bitches to realize they'd been tricked and really start the war.
"The hut's lost," she said, waving her hand in a vague gesture.
He came closer, his eyes full of suspicion and doubt. "Answer me, bitch. Why are you out here?"
"The hut's lost," she repeated, doing her best to imitate the way Tersa's mind tended to meander. She pointed. "It should be near that fuzzy post, but it wandered off."
The sentry looked in that direction. "That's a tree, you stupid bitch. Now—" He stopped, raked her body with his eyes, then smiled. Looking around to make sure no one else was nearby, he reached for her.
She took a step back, placed a protective hand over her abdomen, and shook her head. "Can't touch another male. He'll get mad at me if I touch another male."
The sentry gave her an evil grin. "Well, he's not going to know, is he?"
Surreal hesitated. That would certainly get her close enough to ram a knife between his ribs, but it would also take time she didn't have. The Gray Jewels then, and a fast kill—and may the Darkness help Sadi with whatever was going to happen in the camp afterward.
*Down, Surreal!*
She felt hind legs brush against her back as she dove.
A moment later, the sentry lay dead, his throat torn out.
A sight shield faded, revealing the blood-splashed wolf.
"Graysfang?" Surreal whispered. She touched the Jewel beneath her shirt. Gray's fang. The High Lord had been right.
Skirting the dead sentry, she reached for the wolf.
*Wait,* Graysfang said.
That's when she saw the small golden bump between his ears. The bump lifted, floated to the nearest perimeter stake, and uncurled its legs.
Surreal stared at the small gold spider as it busily spun a simple tangled web between two of the stakes. When it was done, it picked its way to the center of the web.
The sentry vanished. There was no trace of blood on the ground.
*They will not find him now,* Graysfang said. *They can only see what the web lets them see.* He gently closed his teeth around Surreal's arm and started tugging her.
"What about the spider?"
*She will stay to guard the web. Hurry, Surreal.*
She shook her arm free of his teeth. It would be easier to keep up with him if she wasn't hunched over. Switching to a communication thread, she asked, *What are you doing here? How did you get through the perimeter stakes?*
*Humans are foolish. The meat trail is unguarded. Too many legs moving on the trail. The
humans got tired of baring their fangs when it was only meat.*
Meat trail? Oh, game trail. *How did you know about the trail? How did you find me?*
*The Weaver of Dreams told me to learn the two-legged cat's scent and follow his tracks. He is a good hunter,* Graysfang added with approval. *There is much feline in him. Kaelas says so.*
Sadi, with the predatory grace even the kindred recognized. Graysfang had followed Sadi. *Who's this Weaver?* She got a quick image of a large golden spider—and stumbled.
Damn fool of an idiot wolf. It was bad enough that he had gone to Arachna and brought a small spider back with him. But to deal with the Queen...
*She asked me, Surreal,* Graysfang said meekly when she snarled at him. *It's a bad thing to refuse the Weaver.*
Surreal gritted her teeth and picked up the pace. *We'll talk about it later.*
As soon as she saw the game trail, she recognized the place. This was where Daemon had brought them through the camp's perimeter. *I couldn't have found this place again by myself.*
*You have a small snout,* the wolf said kindly. *You cannot smell tracks.*
Surreal looked at Graysfang—at Gray's fang—and smiled.
"Let's go," she whispered. "Do you know the way to the shack?"
*I know.*
An hour later, she, Marian, Daemonar, and Graysfang were riding the Red Wind to the Keep.
8 / Terreille
"I think it's time we had a little talk," Hekatah said, trying to smile coyly at Daemon.
"Really?"
Oh, the arrogance, the surliness, the meanness in that voice. If his father had been even half the man the son was...
"It takes so long for a Realm to recover from a war, it would be foolish to go through with it if it can be avoided," she said, reaching up to caress his face as she wove a seduction spell around him.
He stepped back. "Don't ever touch me without my permission," he snarled softly. "Not even Jaenelle is allowed to touch me without my permission."
"And she submits?"
He smiled that cold, brutal smile. "She submits to a great many things—and begs for more."
Hekatah looked into his glazed eyes and shivered with excitement. The air was filled with the earthy tang of sex. She had him. He just didn't know it yet. "A partnership would serve us both well."
