Heir to the Shadows (41 page)

"High Lord."

And who was this fool who dared lay hands on the Prince of the Darkness, the High Lord of Hell? No more.
No more.

"Father."

Saetan gulped air, fought to clear his head. Lucivar. Lucivar was pinning his arms to the table.

Someone pounded on the door. "Saetan! Lucivar!"

Jaenelle. Sweet Darkness, not Jaenelle. He couldn't see her now.

"saetan!"

"Please," he whispered. "Don't let her—"

The door shattered.

"Get out, Cat," Lucivar snapped.

"What—"

"out!"

Andulvar's voice. "Go upstairs, waif. We'll take care of this."

Voices arguing, fading.

"Yarbarah?" Lucivar asked after a long, tense silence.

Saetan shuddered, shook his head. Until he was settled, if he tasted blood, he would want it hot from the vein. "Brandy."

Lucivar pressed a glass into his hand.

Saetan gulped the brandy. "You should have gotten out of here."

Lucivar raised his glass with an unsteady hand and offered a wobbly grin. "I've had some experience tangling

with the Black. All in all, you're not too bad. Daemon always scared the shit out of me when he turned savage." He drained his glass and refilled both of them. "I hope you didn't redecorate in here recently.

You're going to have to do it again, but it doesn't look like the room's going to fall in on us."

"The girls didn't like the wallpaper anyway." Ten good reasons to hold his temper. Ten good reasons to unleash it. And always, always, for Blood males like him, the fine line he had to walk to hold on to the balance between two conflicting instincts. "The Harpies executed Greer," he said abruptly. "They have a distinct sensibility when it comes to that sort of thing."

Lucivar nodded.

Steady. He would need to be steady for the days ahead. "Lucivar, see if you can persuade Jaenelle to show you Sceval. You should meet Kaetien and the other unicorns."

Lucivar regarded him steadily. "Why?"

"I have some business I want to take care of. I'll need to stay at the Keep in Terreille for a few days, and I'd prefer it if Jaenelle wasn't around to ask questions or wonder where I was."

Lucivar considered this for a minute. "Do you think you can do it?"

Saetan sighed wearily. "I won't know until I try."

2 / Terreille

Saetan carefully secured his Black-Jeweled ring to the center of the large tangled web. It had taken two days of searching through Geoffrey's Hourglass archives to find the answer. It had taken two more to construct the web. He'd given himself two nerve-fraying days more to rest and slowly gather his strength.

Draca had said nothing when he'd asked for a guest room and workroom at the Terreille Keep, but the workroom had been supplied with a frame large enough to hold the tangled web. Geoffrey had said nothing about the requested books, but he had added a couple of books Saetan wouldn't have thought of.

Saetan took a deep breath. It was time.

Normally a Black Widow needed physical contact to guide someone out of the Twisted Kingdom. But sometimes blood-ties could cross boundaries otherwise impossible to cross, and no one had a stronger tie to Daemon than he did. The tie of father to son; more, the bond of that night at Cassandra's Altar.

And the Blood shall sing to the Blood.

Pricking his finger, Saetan placed a drop of blood on the four anchor threads that held the web to its wooden frame. The blood flowed down the top threads, and up the bottom threads. Just as the drops reached his ring, Saetan lightly touched the Black Jewel, smearing it with blood.

The web glowed. Saetan sang the spell that opened the dreamscape that would lead him to the one he sought.

A tortured landscape, full of blood and shattered crystal chalices.

Taking another deep breath, Saetan focused his eyes on the Black-Jeweled ring and began the inward journey into madness.

*Daemon.*

He raised his head.

The words circled, waiting for him. The edges of the tiny island crumbled a little more.

*
Daemon.*

He knew that voice.
You are my instrument.

*Daemon!*

He looked up. Flattened himself against the pulpy ground.

A hand hovered over him, reached for him. A light-brown hand with long, black-tinted nails. A wrist appeared. Part of a forearm. Straining to reach him.

He knew that voice. He knew that hand. He hated them.

*Daemon, reach for me. I can show you the road back.*

Words lie. Blood doesn't.

The hand shook with the effort to reach him.

*Daemon, let me help you. Please.*

Inches separated them. All he had to do was raise his hand and he could leave this island.

His fingers twitched.

*Daemon, trust me. I can help you.*

Blood. So much blood. A sea of it. He would drown in it. Because he'd trusted that voice once and he'd done something . . . he'd done . . .

*liar!*he screamed. Til never trust you!*

*Daemon.* An anguished plea.

*never!*

The hand began to fade.

Fear swamped him. He didn't want to be alone in this sea of blood with the words circling, waiting to slice into him again and again. He wanted to grab the hand and hold tight, wanted whatever lies might ease this pain for a little while.

But he owed someone this pain because he'd done something . . .

Butchering whore.

That voice, that hand had tricked him into hurting someone. But, sweet Darkness, how he wanted to trust, wanted to hold on.

*Daemon.* A whisper of sound.

The hand faded, withdrew.

He waited.

The words circled and circled. The island crumbled a little more.

He waited. The hand didn't return.

He pressed himself against the pulpy ground and wept in relief.

Saetan sank to his knees. The threads of the tangled web were blackened, crumbling. He caught his ring as it fell from the center of the web and slipped it on his finger.

So close. A hand span at most. A moment of trust. That's all it would have taken to begin the journey out of that pain and madness.

That's all it would have taken.

Stretching out on the cold stone floor, Saetan pillowed his head on his arms and wept bitterly.

3 / Kaeleer

Saetan looked at Lucivar and shook his head.

"Well," Lucivar said, his voice tight, "you tried." After a minute he added, "You're wanted in the kitchen."

"In the kitchen? Why?" Saetan asked as Lucivar herded him toward Mrs. Beale's undisputed territory.

Lucivar smiled and dropped a friendly hand on Saetan's shoulder.

The gesture filled him with foreboding. "How was your trip?"

"Traveling with Cat is an experience."

"Do I really want to know about this?"

"No," Lucivar said cheerfully, "but you're going to anyway."

Jaenelle sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor. A brown-and-white Sceltie puppy tumbled about in front of her. Her lap was full of a large, white . . . kitten?

"Hello, Papa," Jaenelle said meekly.

*Papa High Lord,* said the puppy. When Saetan didn't answer, the puppy looked at Jaenelle. *Papa High Lord?*

"Kindred." Saetan cleared his throat. His voice went back to a deep baritone. "The Scelties are kindred?"

"Not all of them," Jaenelle said defensively.

"About the same ratio of Blood to landen as other species," Lucivar said, grinning. "You're taking this a lot better than Khardeen did. He sat down in the middle of the road and became hysterical. We had to drag him over to the side before he got run over by a cart."

A muffled chuckle-snort came from the direction of the worktable where Mrs. Beale was busily chopping up some meat.

"And with that one little explanation, the humans suddenly realized why some of the Scelties matured so late and had a longer life span," Lucivar added with annoying cheerfulness. "After Ladvarian made it clear that Cat belonged to him—"

*Mine!* said the puppy.

The kitten lifted a large, white, furry paw and squashed the puppy.

*Ours!* said the puppy, wriggling out from beneath the paw.

"—we fixed a strong sedative for the Warlord who had just discovered that his bitch was also a Priestess."

"Mother Night." Saetan switched to a Red spear thread. *Why does a male Sceltie have a name with an Eyrien feminine ending?*

*That's what he said his name is. Who am I to argue?* "After that," Lucivar continued, "Khary dragged us to Tuathal to see Lady Duana, who had a few pointed things to say about not being told there were kindred in her Territory."

Yes, he was sure the Queen of Scelt would have had quite a few things to say—and would have a few more to say to
him.

Jaenelle hid her face in the kitten's fur.

Lucivar, damn his soul, seemed to be enjoying this now that he could dump it into someone else's lap.

Since Jaenelle wasn't jumping into the conversation, Lucivar continued the tale. "In the invigorating discussion that followed, it came out that there are also two breeds of horses who are kindred."

Saetan swayed. Lucivar propped him up.

The Scelts were noted horsemen. Khary's and Morgh-ann's families especially were passionate about horses.

"Imagine how surprised people were when they discovered their horses could talk back to them,"

Lucivar said.

Saetan knelt beside Jaenelle. At least if he fainted now he wouldn't fall so far. "And our feline Brother?"

Jaenelle's fingers tightened in the kitten's fur. Her eyes held a dark, dangerous look. "Kaelas is Arcerian.

He's an orphan. His mother was killed by hunters."

Kaelas. In the Old Tongue, the word meant "white death." It usually referred to a kind of snowstorm that came with little warning—swift, violent, and deadly.

Saetan switched to a spear thread again. *I suppose no one named him, either.*

*Nope,* Lucivar replied.

Saetan didn't like the sober caution in Lucivar's tone. He reached out to pet the kitten.

Kaelas took a swipe at him.

"Hey!" Jaenelle said sharply. "Don't swat the High Lord."

Kaelas snarled, displaying an impressive set of baby teeth. The claws weren't anything to shrug off either.

"Here you are, sweeties," Mrs. Beale cooed, setting two bowls on the kitchen floor. "Some meat and warm milk."

Saetan eyed his cook. This was the same woman who always cornered him whenever the wolf pups chased the bunnies through her garden? Then he looked at the bowl of chopped meat and frowned. "Isn't that the cold roast you were going to serve for lunch?"

Mrs. Beale glared at him. Lucivar prudently stepped behind him.

Abandoning the kitchen to Mrs. Beale and her charges, Saetan headed for his suite. Lucivar went with him.

"The puppy's cute," Saetan said. If that was the best he could do, he definitely needed to rest.

"Don't let puppy cute fool you," Lucivar said quietly. "He's a Warlord, and there's a shrewd intelligence inside that furry little head. Combine that with a large Warlord Prince predator and you've got a partnership that needs to be handled with care."

Saetan stopped at the door of his suite. "Lucivar, just how big do Arcerian cats get?"

Lucivar grinned. "Let's just say you ought to start putting strengthening spells on the furniture now."

"Mother Night," Saetan muttered, stumbling to his bed. The paperwork on his desk could wait. He didn't need to look for trouble.

He'd just started to doze off when he felt eyes staring at him. Rolling over, Saetan blinked at Ladvarian and Kaelas. Someone—he snorted—had already taught Ladvarian to air walk. True, the puppy wobbled, but he was, after all, a

Puppy-Groaning, Saetan rolled back over, hoping they would

go away.

Two bodies landed on the bed. Well, he didn't have to worry about rolling over on the Sceltie. He wasn't going to roll anywhere with Kaelas pressed against his back—except, perhaps, onto the floor.

And where was Jaenelle?

The Lady, he was told, was taking a bath. They wanted a nap. Since Papa High Lord was taking a nap, they would stay with him.

With grim determination, Saetan closed his eyes.

He didn't need to look for trouble. It had just pounced on him.

1 / Kaeleer

Carrying a glass globe and a small glass bowl, both cobalt blue, Tersa walked a few feet into her backyard, her bare feet sinking into ankle-deep snow. The full moon played hide-and-seek among the clouds, much as the vision had eluded her throughout the day. She had lived within visions for so many centuries, she understood that this one needed to be given a physical shape before revealing itself.

Letting her body be the dreamscape's instrument, she used Craft to sail the globe and bowl through the air. When they reached the center of the lawn, they settled quietly into the snow.

She took a step toward them, then looked down. Her nightgown brushed the snow, disturbing it. That wouldn't do. Pulling it off, she tossed it near the cottage's back door and walked toward the globe and bowl. She stopped. Yes. This was the right place to begin.

One long stride to keep the snow pristine between her shuffled footsteps from the cottage and the footsteps that would guide the vision. Placing one foot carefully in front of the other, heel to toe, she waited. There was something else, something more.

Using Craft to sharpen a fingernail, she cut the instep of each foot deep enough for the blood to run freely. Then she walked the vision's pattern. When it brought her back to her first footstep, she leaped to reach the snow disturbed by shuffled footsteps.

As she turned to see the pattern, the journey maid Black Widow who was staying with her for a few weeks called out, "Tersa? What are you doing outside at this time of night?"

Snarling, Tersa whirled back to face the young witch.

The journey maid studied her face for a moment. Fetching the discarded nightgown, she tore it into strips, wrapped Tersa's feet to absorb the blood, then moved aside.

Urgency pushed Tersa up the stairs to her bedroom. Opening the curtains, she looked down at the yard and the lines she had drawn in the snow with her blood.