Heir to the Shadows (7 page)

"It was Uncle Hobart's consummation prize."

She fingered her short, spiky, white-blond hair. "I've never seen fur like that. It's not white bear."

"I think it's Arcerian cat."

"Arcerian cat?" That couldn't be right. Most Glacians wouldn't hunt in Arceria because the cats were big, fierce predators, and the odds of a hunter not becoming the prey were less than fifty-fifty. Besides, there was something
wrong
with that fur. She could feel it even at this distance. "I'm going to pay my respects."

"Karla." There was no mistaking the warning in Morton's voice.

"Kiss kiss." She gave him a wicked smile and an affectionate squeeze before making her way to the group of women admiring the coat.

It was easy to slip in among them. Some of the women noticed her, but most were intent on the girl's—Karla couldn't bring herself to call her a Sister—hushed gossip.

"—hunters from a faraway place," the girl said.

"I've got a collar made from Arcerian fur, but it's not as luxurious as this," one of the women said enviously.

"These hunters have found a new way of harvesting the fur. Hobie told me after we'd—" She giggled.

"How?"

"It's a secret."

Coaxing murmurs.

Mesmerized by the fur, Karla touched it at the same moment the girl giggled again, and said, "They skin the cat
alive."

She jerked her hand away, shocked numb.
Alive.

And some of the power of the one who had lived in that fur was still there. That's what made it so luxurious.

A witch. One of the Blood Jaenelle had called kindred.

Karla swayed. They had butchered a witch.

She shoved her way out of the group of women and stumbled toward the door. A moment later, Morton was beside her, one arm around her waist. "Outside," she gasped. "I think I'm going to be sick."

As soon as they were outside, she gulped the sharp winter air and started to cry.

"Karla," Morton murmured, holding her close.

"She was a witch," Karla sobbed. "She was a witch and they skinned her alive so that little bitch could—"

She felt a shudder go through Morton. Then his arms tightened, as if he could protect her. And he
would
try to protect her, which is why she couldn't tell him about the danger she sensed every time Uncle Hobart looked at her. At sixteen, Morton had just begun his formal court training.

He was the only real family she had left—and the only friend she had left.

The bitter anger boiled over without warning.

"It's been two years!" She pushed at Morton until he released her. "She's been in Kaeleer for two years, and she hasn't come to visit once!" She began pacing furiously.

"People change, Karla," Morton said cautiously. "Friends don't always remain friends."

"Not Jaenelle. Not with me. That malevolent bastard at SaDiablo Hall is keeping her chained somehow.

I know it, Morton." She thumped her chest hard enough to make Morton wince. "In here, I know it."

"The Dark Council appointed him her legal guardian—"

Karla turned on him. "Don't talk to me about guardians, Lord Morton," she hissed. "I know all about

'guardians.' "

"Karla," Morton said weakly.

" 'Karla,' " she mimicked bitterly. "It's always 'Karla.' Karla's the one who's out of control. Karla's the one who's becoming emotionally unstable because of her apprenticeship in the Hourglass coven. Karla's the one who's become too excitable, too hostile, too intractable. Karla's the one who's cast aside all those delightful simpering manners that males find appealing."

"Males don't find that—"

"And Karla's the one who will gut the next son of a whoring bitch who tries to shove his hand or anything else between her legs!"

"What?"

Karla turned her back to Morton. Hell's fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful. She hadn't meant to say that.

"Is that why you cut your hair like that after Uncle Hobart insisted that you come back to the family estate to live? Is that why you burned all your dresses and started wearing my old clothes?" Morton grabbed her arm and swung her around to face him. "Is it?"

Tears filled Karla's eyes. "A broken witch is a complacent witch," she said softly. "Isn't that true, Morton?"

Morton shook his head. "You wear Birthright Sapphire.

There aren't any males in Glacia who wear a Jewel darker than the Green."

"A Blood male can get around a witch's strength if he waits for the right moment and has help."

Morton swore softly, viciously.

"What if that's the reason Jaenelle doesn't come to visit anymore? What if he's done to her what Uncle Hobart wants to do to me?"

Morton stepped away from her. "I'm surprised you even tolerate me being near you."

She could almost see the wounds the truth had left on his heart. There was nothing she could do now about the truth, but there
was
something she could do about the wounds. "You're family."

"I'm
male."

"You're Morton. The exception to the rule."

Morton hesitated, then opened his arms. "Want a hug?"

Stepping into his arms, Karla held him as fiercely as he held her.

"Listen," he said hoarsely. "Write a letter to the High Lord and ask him if Jaenelle could come for a visit.

Ask for a return reply."

"The Old Fart will never let me send a courier to SaDiablo Hall," Karla muttered into his shoulder.

"Uncle Hobart isn't going to know." Morton took a deep breath. "I'll deliver the letter personally and wait for an answer."

Before Morton could offer his handkerchief, Karla stepped back, sniffed, and wiped her face on the shirt she'd taken from his wardrobe. She sniffed again and was done with paltry emotions.

"Karla," Morton said, eyeing her nervously. "You will write a
polite
letter, won't you?"

"I'll be a polite as I can be," Karla assured him.

Morton groaned.

Oh, yes. She would write to the High Lord. And, one way or another, she would get the answer she wanted.

Please. Sweet Darkness, please be my friend again. I miss you. I need you.Drawing on the strength of her Sapphire Jewels, Karla flung one word into the Darkness. *Jaenelle!*

"Karla?" Morton said, touching her arm. "The banquet is about to start. We need to put in an appearance, if only for a little while."

Karla froze, not even daring to breathe. *Jaenelle?*

Seconds passed.

"Karla?" Morton said.

Karla took a deep breath and exhaled her disappointment. She took the arm Morton offered and went back into the banquet hall.

He stayed close to her for the rest of the evening, and she was grateful for his company. But she would have traded his caring and protection in an instant if that faint but so very dark psychic touch she'd imagined had been real.

2 / Kaeleer

When Andulvar Yaslana settled in the chair in front of the blackwood desk in Saetan's public study, Saetan looked up from the letter he'd been staring at for the past half hour. "Read this," he said, handing it to Andulvar.

While Andulvar read the letter, Saetan looked wearily at the stacks of papers on his desk. It had been months since he'd set foot in the Hall, even longer since he'd granted audiences to the Queens who ruled the Provinces and Districts in his Territory. His eldest son, Mephis, had dealt with as much of the official business of Dhemlan as he could, as he had been doing for centuries, but the rest of it ...

"Blood-sucking corpse?"Andulvar sputtered.

Saetan watched with a touch of amusement as Andulvar snarled through the rest of the letter. He hadn't been amused during his first reading, but the signature and the adolescent handwriting had soothed his temper—and added another layer to his sorrow.

Andulvar flung the letter onto the desk. "Who is Karla, and how does she dare write something like this to you?"

"Not only does she dare, but the courier is waiting for a reply."

Andulvar muttered something vicious.

"As for who she is . . ." Saetan called in the file he usually kept locked in his private study beneath the Hall. He leafed through the papers filled with his notes and handed one to Andulvar.

Andulvar's shoulders slumped as he read it. "Damn."

"Yes." Saetan put the paper back in the file and vanished it.

"What are you going to say?"

Saetan leaned back in his chair. "The truth. Or part of it. I've kept the Dark Council at bay for two years, denying their not unreasonable requests to see Jaenelle. I've given no explanation for that denial, letting them think what they chose—and I am aware of what they've chosen to think. But her friends?

Until now they've been too young, or perhaps not bold enough, to ask what became of her. Now they're asking." He straightened in his chair and summoned Beale, the Red-Jeweled Warlord who worked as the Hall's butler.

"Bring the courier to me," Saetan said when Beale appeared.

"Shall I go?" Andulvar asked, making no move to leave.

Saetan shrugged, already preoccupied with how to word his reply. There hadn't been much contact between Dhemlan and Glacia in the past few years, but he'd heard enough about Lord Hobart and his ties to Little Terreille to decide on a verbal reply instead of a written one.

Long centuries ago, Little Terreille had been settled by Terreilleans who had been eager for a new life and a new land. Despite that eagerness, the people had never felt comfortable with the races who had been born to the Shadow Realm. So even though Little Terreille was a Territory in Kaeleer, it had looked for companionship and guidance from the Realm of Terreille—and still did, even though most, Terreilleans no longer believed Kaeleer existed because access to this Realm had been so limited for so long. Which meant any companionship and guidance coming from Terreille now was coming from Dorothea, one way or another—and that was reason enough for him to feel wary.

Saetan and Andulvar exchanged a quick look when Beale showed the courier into the room.

Andulvar sent a thought on a Red spear thread. *He's a bit young for an official courier.*

Silently agreeing with Andulvar's assessment, Saetan lifted his right hand. A chair floated from its place by the wall and settled in front of the desk. "Please be seated, Warlord."

"Thank you, High Lord." The young man had the typical fair skin, blond hair, and blue eyes of the Glacian people. Despite his youth, he moved with the kind of assurance usually found in aristo families and responded with a confidence in Protocol that indicated court training.

Not your typical courier,Saetan thought as he watched the young man try to control the urge to fidget.

So why are you here, boyo?

"My butler must be having a bad day to overlook introducing you when you entered," Saetan said mildly.

He steepled his fingers, his long, black-tinted nails resting against his chin.

The youth paled a little when he saw the Black-Jeweled ring. He licked his lips. "My name is Morton, High Lord."

Now you're not quite so sure that Protocol will protect you, are you, boyo?Saetan didn't allow his amusement to show. If this boy was going to approach a dark-Jeweled Warlord Prince, it was better he learn the potential dangers. "And you serve?"

"I—I don't exactly serve in a court yet."

Saetan raised one eyebrow. "You serve Lord Hobart?" he asked, his voice a bit cooler.

"No. He's just the head of the family. Sort of an uncle."

Saetan picked up the letter and handed it to Morton. "Read this." He sent a thought to Andulvar.

*What's the game? The boy's not experienced enough to—*

"Nooo," Morton moaned. The letter fluttered to the floor. "She promised me she'd be polite. I told her I'd be waiting for a reply, and she promised." He flushed, then paled. "I'll strangle her."

Using Craft, Saetan retrieved the letter. Whatever doubts he'd had about motive were gone, but he was curious aboutwhy the question was being asked now. "How well do you know Karla?"

"She's my cousin," Morton replied in the aggrieved tone of a ruffled male.

"You have my sympathy," Andulvar said, rustling his dark wings as he shifted in the chair.

"Thank you, sir. Having Karla like you is better than having her not like you, but . . ." Morton shrugged.

"Yes," Saetan said dryly. "I have a friend who has a similar effect on me." He chuckled softly at Morton's look of astonishment. "Boyo, even being me doesn't make a difficult witch any less difficult."

*Especially a Dea al Mon Harpy,* Andulvar sent, amused. *Have you recovered yet from her latest attempt to be helpful?*

*If you're going to sit there, be useful,* Saetan shot back.

Andulvar turned to Morton. "Did your cousin keep her promise?" When the boy gave him a blank look, he added, "Was she being polite?"

The tips of Morton's ears turned red. He shrugged helplessly. "For Karla ... I guess so."

"Oh, Mother Night," Saetan muttered. Suddenly a thought swooped down on him, and he choked. He used the time needed to catch his breath to consider some rather nasty possibilities.

When he was finally in control again, he chose his words carefully. "Lord Morton, your uncle doesn't know you're here, does he?" Morton's nervous look was answer enough. "Where does he think you are?"

"Somewhere else."

Saetan studied Morton, fascinated by the subtle change in his posture. No longer a youth intimidated by his surroundings and the males he faced, but a Warlord protecting his young Queen.
You were wrong,
boyo,
Saetan thought.
You've already chosen whom you serve.

"Karla . . ." Morton gathered his thoughts. "It isn't easy for Karla. She wears Birthright Sapphire, and she's a Queen and a natural Black Widow as well as a Healer, and Uncle Hobart . . ."

Saetan tensed at the bitterness in Morton's blue eyes.

"She and Uncle Hobart don't get along," Morton finished lamely, looking away. When he looked back, he seemed so young and vulnerable. "I know Karla wants her to come visit like she used to, but couldn't Jaenelle just write a short note? Just to say hello?"