Heir to the Shadows (11 page)

"To Jaenelle," Saetan said.

"To Jaenelle," the others replied.

Then they sighed in unison and swallowed half their tonic.

7 / Kaeleer

Not quite content, Saetan watched the lights of Riada, the largest Blood village in Ebon Rih and the closest one to the Keep, shine up from the valley's fertile darkness like captured pieces of starlight.

He had watched the sun rise today. No, more than that. He had stood in one of the small formal gardens and had actually felt the sun's warmth on his face. For the first time in more centuries than he cared to count, there had been no lancing pain in his temples, no brutal stomach-twisting headache to tell him just how far he had stepped from the living, no weakening in his strength.

He was as physically strong now as when he first became a Guardian, first began walking that fine line between living and dead.

Jaenelle and her tonic had done that. Had done more than that.

He'd forgotten how sensual food could be, and over the past few days had savored the taste of rare beef and new potatoes, of roasted chicken and fresh vegetables. He'd forgotten how good sleep could feel, instead of that semi awake rest Guardians usually indulged in during the daylight hours.

He'd also forgotten how hunger pangs felt or how fuzzy-brained a man could be when he was beyond tired.

Everything has a price.

He smiled cautiously at Cassandra when she joined him at the window. "You look lovely tonight," he said, making a small gesture that took in her long black gown, the open-weave emerald shawl, and the way she'd styled her dusty-red hair.

"Too bad the Harpy didn't bother to dress for the occasion," Cassandra replied tartly. She wrinkled her nose. "She could have at least worn something around her throat."

"And you could have refrained from offering to lend her a high-necked gown," Saetan snapped. Then he clenched his teeth to trap the rest of the words. Titian didn't need a defender, especially after her slur about the delicate sensibilities of prissy aristo witches.

He watched the lights of Riada wink out, one by one.

Cassandra took a deep breath, let it out in a sigh. "It wasn't supposed to be like this," she said quietly.

"The Black were never meant to be Birthright Jewels. I became a Guardian because I thought the next Witch would need a friend, someone to help her understand what she would become after making the Offering to the Darkness. But what has happened to Jaenelle has changed her so much she'll never be normal."

"Normal?Just what do you call 'normal,' Lady?"

She looked pointedly at the corner of the room where Andulvar, Prothvar, Mephis, and Geoffrey were trying to

include Titian in the conversation and keep a respectful distance at the same time.

"Jaenelle just celebrated her fifteenth birthday. Instead of a party and a roomful of young friends, she spent the evening with demons, Guardians—and a Harpy. Can you honestly call that normal?"

"I've had this conversation before," Saetan growled. "And my answer is still the same: for her, that
is
normal."

Cassandra studied him for a moment before saying quietly, "Yes, you would see it that way, wouldn't you?"

He saw the room through a red haze before he got his temper tightly leashed. "Meaning what?"

"You became the High Lord of Hell while you were still living. You wouldn't see anything wrong with her having the
cildru dyathe
for playmates or having a Harpy teach her how to interact with males."

Saetan's breath whistled between his teeth. "When you foresaw her coming, you called her the daughter of my soul. But those were just words, weren't they? Just a way to ensure that I would become a Guardian so that my strength would be at your disposal for the protection of your apprentice, the young witch who would sit at your feet, awed by the attention of the Black-Jewelled Witch. Except it didn't work out that way. The one who came really
is
the daughter of my soul, and she is awed by no one and sits at no one's feet."

"She may be awed by no one," Cassandra said coldly, "but she also
has
no one." Then her voice softened. "And for that, I pity her."

She has me!

The quick, sharp look Cassandra gave him cut his heart.

Jaenelle had him. The Prince of the Darkness. The High Lord of Hell. More than any other reason,
that
was why Cassandra pitied her.

"We should join the others," Saetan said tightly, offering his arm. Despite the anger he felt, he couldn't turn his back on her.

Cassandra started to refuse his gesture of courtesy until she noticed Andulvar's and Titian's cold stares.

"Draca wants to talk with all of us," Andulvar growled

as soon as they approached. He immediately moved away from them, giving himself room to spread his wings. Giving himself room to fight.

Saetan watched him for a moment, then began reinforcing his own considerable defenses. They were different in many ways, but he'd always respected Andulvar's instincts.

Draca entered the room slowly, calmly. Her hands, as usual, were tucked into the long sleeves of her robe. She waited for them to be seated, waited until their attention was centered on her before pinning Saetan with her reptilian stare.

"The Lady iss fifteen today," Draca said.

"Yes," Saetan replied cautiously.

"Sshe wass pleassed with our ssmall offeringss."

It was sometimes difficult to perceive inflections in Draca's sibilant voice, but the words sounded more like a command than a question. "Yes," Saetan said, "I think she was."

A long silence. "It iss time for the Lady to leave the Keep. You are her legal guardian. You will make the arrangementss."

Saetan's throat tightened. The muscles in his chest constricted. "I had promised her that she could stay here."

"It iss time for the Lady to leave. Sshe will live with you at SsaDiablo Hall."

"I propose an alternative," Cassandra said quickly, pressing her fists into her lap. She didn't even glance at Saetan. "Jaenelle could live with me. Everyone knows who—and what—Saetan is, but I—"

Titian twisted around in her chair. "Do you really believe no one in the Shadow Realm knows you're a Guardian? Did you really think your masquerading as one of the living had fooled anyone?"

Anger flared in Cassandra's eyes. "I've always been careful—"

"You've always been a liar. At least the High Lord has been honest about what he is."

"But he
is
the High Lord—and that's the point."

"The
point
is you want to be the one who shapes Jaenelle just like Hekatah wants to shape Jaenelle, to mold her into an image of
your
choosing instead of letting her be what she is."

"How dare you speak to me like that? I'm a Black-Jeweled Queen!"

"You're not my Queen," Titian snarled.

"Ladies."Saetan's voice rolled through the room like soft thunder. He took a moment to steady his temper before turning his attention back to Draca.

"Sshe will live at the Hall," Draca said firmly. "It iss decided."

"Since you haven't discussed this with any of us until now,
who
decided this?" Cassandra said sharply.

"Lorn hass decided."

Saetan forgot how to breathe.

Hell's fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful.

No one argued. No one made so much as a sound.

Saetan realized his hands were shaking. "Could I talk to him? There are some things he may not understand about—"

"He undersstandss, High Lord."

Saetan looked up at the Seneschal of Ebon Askavi.

"The time hass not yet come for you to meet him," Draca said. "But it
will
come." She tipped her head slightly. It was as much deference as she ever showed to anyone. Except, perhaps, to Jaenelle.

They watched her leave, listening to her slow, careful footsteps until the sound faded away completely.

Andulvar let his breath out in an explosive
ffooooh.
"When she wants to cut someone off at the knees, she's got an impressive knife."

Saetan leaned his head against the chair and closed his eyes. "Doesn't she though?"

Cassandra carefully rearranged her shawl and stood up, not looking at any of them. "If you'll excuse me, I'll retire now."

They rose and bid her good night.

Titian also excused herself. But before she left, she gave Saetan a sly smile. "Living at the Hall with Jaenelle will probably be difficult, High Lord, but not for the reasons you think."

"Mother Night," Saetan muttered before turning to the other men.

Mephis cleared his throat. "Telling the waif she has to leave isn't going to be easy. You don't have to do it alone."

"Yes, I do, Mephis," Saetan replied wearily. "I made her a promise. I'm the one who has to tell her I'm going to break it."

He said good night and slowly made his way through the stone corridors until he reached the stairs that would take him to Jaenelle's suite. Instead of climbing them, he leaned against the wall, shivering.

He had promised her that she could stay. He had
promised.

But Lorn had decided.

It was long after midnight before he joined her in the private garden connected to her suite. She gave him a sleepy, relaxed smile and held out her hand. Gratefully, he linked his fingers through hers.

"It was a lovely party," Jaenelle said as they strolled through the garden. "I'm glad you invited Char and Titian." She hesitated. "And I'm sorry it was so difficult for Cassandra."

Saetan gave her a considering look through narrowed eyes.

She acknowledged the look with a shrug.

"How much did you hear?"

"Eavesdropping is rude," she said primly.

"An answer that neatly sidesteps the question," he replied dryly.

"I didn't
hear
anything. But I
felt
you all grumbling."

Saetan drifted closer to her. She smelled of wildflowers and sun-drenched meadows and fern-shaded pools of water. It was a scent that was gently wild and elusive, that captivated a male because it didn't try to capture him.

It relaxed him—and slightly aroused him.

Even knowing it was a Warlord Prince's natural response to a Queen he felt emotionally bound to, even knowing he would never cross the distinct line that separated a father's affection from a lover's passion, he still felt ashamed of his reaction.

He looked at her, wanting the sharp reminder of who she was and how young she was. But it was Witch who looked back at him, Witch whose hand tightened on his so that he couldn't break the physical link.

"I suppose even a wise man can sometimes be a fool," she said in her midnight voice.

"I would never—" His voice broke. "You know I would never—"

He saw a flicker of amusement in her ancient, haunted eyes.

"Yes, / know. Do you? You adore women, Saetan. You always have. You like to be near them. You like to touch them." She held up their hands.

"This is different. You're my daughter."

"And so you will keep your distance from Witch?" she asked sadly.

He pulled her into his arms and held her so tightly she let out a breathless squeak. "Never," he said fiercely.

"Papa?" Jaenelle said faintly. "Papa, I can't breathe."

He immediately loosened his hold but didn't let go.

Soft night sounds filled the garden. The spring wind sighed.

"This mood of yours has something to do with Cassandra, doesn't it?" Jaenelle asked.

"A little." He rested his cheek against her head. "We have to leave the Keep."

Her body tensed so much his ached in response.

"Why?" she finally asked, leaning back far enough to see his face.

"Because Lorn has decided we should live at the Hall."

"Oh." Then she added, "No wonder you're moody."

Saetan laughed. "Yes. Well. He does have a way of limiting one's options." He gently brushed her hair away from her face. "I do want to live at the Hall with you. I want that very much. But if you want to live somewhere else or have any reservations about leaving the Keep right now, I'll fight him over it."

Her eyes widened until they were huge. "Oh, dear. That wouldn't be a good idea, Saetan. He's
much
bigger than you."

Saetan tried to swallow. "I'll still fight him."

"Oh, dear." She took a deep breath. "Let's try living at the Hall."

"Thank you, witch-child," he said weakly.

She wrapped an arm around his waist. "You look a bit wobbly."

"Then I look better than I feel," he said, draping an arm around her shoulders. "Come along, little witch.

The next few days are going to be hectic, and we'll both need our rest."

8 / Kaeleer

Saetan opened the front door of SaDiablo Hall and stepped into orchestrated chaos.

Maids flitted in every direction. Footmen lugged pieces of furniture from one room to another for no reason he could fathom. Gardeners trotted in with armloads of freshly cut flowers.

Standing in the center of the great hall, holding a
long
list in one hand while conducting the various people and parcels to their rightful places with the other, was Beale, his Red-Jeweled butler.

Somewhat bemused, Saetan walked toward Beale, hoping for an explanation. By the time he'd taken half a dozen steps, he realized that a walking obstacle had not been taken into account in this frenzied dance. Maids bumped into him, their annoyed expressions barely changing upon recognizing their employer, and their "Excuse me, High Lord," just short of being rude.

When he finally reached Beale, he gave his butler a sharp poke in the shoulder.

Beale glanced back, noticed Saetan's stony expression, and lowered his arms. A thud immediately followed, and a maid began wailing, "Now look what you've done."

Beale cleared his throat, tugged his vest down over his

girth, and waited, a slightly flushed but once more imperturbable butler.

"Tell me, Beale," Saetan crooned, "do you know who I am?"

Beale blinked. "You're the High Lord, High Lord."

"Ah, good. Since you recognize me, I must still be in human form."