Heir to the Shadows (8 page)

Saetan closed his golden eyes.
Everything has a price,
he thought.
Everything has a price.
He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. "I truly wish, with all of my being, that she could." He took another deep breath. "What I'm about to tell you must go no further than your cousin. I must have your pledge of silence."

Morton immediately nodded agreement.

"Jaenelle was seriously hurt two years ago. She can't write, she can't communicate in any way. She . . ."

Saetan stopped, then resumed when he was sure he could keep his voice steady. "She doesn't know anyone."

Morton looked ill. "How?" he finally whispered.

Saetan groped for an answer. The change in Morton's expression told him he needn't have bothered.

The boy had understood the silence.

"Then Karla was right," Morton said bitterly. "A male doesn't have to be that strong if he picks the right time."

Saetan snapped upright in his chair. "Is Karla being pressed to submit to a male? At
fifteen?"

"No. I don't know. Maybe." Morton's hands clenched the arms of the chair. "She was safe enough when she lived with the Black Widows, but now that she's come back to the family estate . . ."

"Hell's fire, boy!" Saetan roared. "Even if they don't get along, why isn't your uncle protecting her?"

Morton bit his lip and said nothing.

Stunned, Saetan sank back in his chair. Not here, too. Not in Kaeleer. Didn't these fools realize what was lost when a Queen was destroyed that way?

"You have to go now," Saetan said gently.

Morton nodded and rose to leave.

"Tell Karla one other thing. If she needs it, I'll grant her sanctuary at the Hall and give her my protection.

And you as well."

"Thank you," Morton said. Bowing to Saetan and Andulvar, he left.

Saetan grabbed his silver-headed cane and limped toward the door.

Andulvar got there first and pressed his hand against the door to keep it closed. "The Dark Council will be screaming for your blood if you give another girl your protection."

Saetan didn't speak for a long time. Then he gave Andulvar a purely malevolent smile. "If the Dark Council is so misguided they believe Hobart is a better guardian than I am, then they deserve to see some of Hell's more unusual landmarks, don't you think?"

3 / The Twisted Kingdom

There was no physical pain, but the agony was relentless.

Words lie. Blood doesn't.

You are my instrument.

Butchering whore.

He wandered through a mist-filled landscape full of shattered memories, shattered crystal chalices, shattered dreams.

Sometimes he heard a scream of despair.

Sometimes he even recognized his own voice.

Sometimes he caught a glimpse of a girl with long golden hair running away from him. He always followed, desperate to catch up with her, desperate to explain . . .

He couldn't remember what he needed to explain.

Don't be afraid, he called to her. Please, don't be afraid.

But she continued to run, and he continued to follow her through a landscape filled with twisting roads that ended nowhere and caverns that were strewn with bones and splashed with blood.

Down, always down.

He followed her, always begging her to wait, always pleading with her not to be afraid, always hoping to hear the sound of her voice, always yearning to hear her say his name.

If he could only remember what it was.

4 / Hell

Hekatah carefully arranged the folds of her full-length cloak while she waited for her demon guards to bring her the
cildru dyathe
boy. She sighed with satisfaction as her hands stroked the cloak's fur lining.

Arcerian fur. A Warlord's fur. She could feel the rage and pain locked in his pelt.

The kindred. The four-footed Blood. Compared to humans, they had simple minds that couldn't conceive of greatness or ambition, but they were fiercely protective when they gave someone their loyalty—and equally fierce when they felt that loyalty was betrayed.

She had made a few little mistakes the last time she had tried to become the High Priestess of all the Realms, mistakes that had cost her the war between Terreille and Kaeleer 50,000 years ago. One mistake had been underestimating the strength of the Blood who lived in the Shadow Realm. The other mistake had been underestimating the kindred.

One of the first things she had done after she'd recovered from the shock of being demon-dead was to exterminate the kindred in Terreille. Some went into hiding and survived, but not enough of them. They would have had to breed with landen animals, and over time the interbreeding had probably produced a few creatures who were almost Blood, but never anything strong enough to wear a Jewel.

The wilder kindred in Kaeleer, however, had withdrawn to their own Territories after the war and had woven countless spells to protect their borders. By the time those fierce defences had faded enough for anyone to survive passing through them, the kindred had become little more than myths.

Hekatah began to pace. Hell's fire! How long could it take for two grown males to catch a boy?

After a minute, she stopped pacing and once again arranged the folds of her cloak. She couldn't allow the boy to see any hint of her impatience. It might make him perversely stubborn. She stroked the cloak's fur lining, letting the feel of it soothe her.

During the centuries while she had waited for Terreille to ripen again into a worthy prize, she had helped the Territory of Little Terreille maintain a thread of contact with the Realm of Terreille. But it was only in the past few years that she'd established a foothold in Glacia via Lord Hobart's ambition.

She had chosen Glacia because it was a northern Territory whose people could be isolated more easily from the Blood in other Territories; it had Hobart, a male whose ambitions outstripped his abilities; and .it had a Dark Altar. So for the first time in a very long time, she had a Gate at her disposal, and a way for carefully chosen males to slip into Kaeleer in order to hunt challenging prey.

That wasn't the only little game she was playing in Kaeleer, but the others required time and patience—and the assurance that nothing would interfere with her ambitions this time.

Which was why she was here on the
cildru dyathe's
island.

She was just about to question the loyalty of her demon guards when they returned, dragging a struggling boy between them. With a savage curse, they pinned the boy against a tall, flat-sided boulder.

"Don't hurt him," Hekatah snapped.

"Yes, Priestess," one of the guards replied sullenly.

Hekatah studied the boy, who glared back at her. Char, the young Warlord leader of the
cildru dyathe.

Easy enough to see how he had come by that name. How had he been able to save so much of his body from the fire? He must have had a great deal of Craft skill for one so young. She should have realized that seven years ago when she had tangled with him the first time. Well, she could easily fix that misjudgement.

Hekatah approached slowly, enjoying the wariness in the boy's eyes. "I mean you no harm, Warlord,"

she crooned. "I just need your help. I know Jaenelle walks among the
cildru dyathe.
I want to see her."

What was left of Char's lips curled in a vicious smile. "Not all
cildru dyathe
are on this island."

Hekatah's gold eyes snapped with fury. "You lie. Summon her.
Now!"

"The High Lord is coming," Char said. "He'll be here any moment."

"Why?" Hekatah demanded.

"Because I sent for him."

"Why?"

A strange light filled Char's eyes. "I saw a butterfly yesterday."

Hekatah wanted to scream in frustration. Instead, she raised her hand, her fingers curved into a claw. "If you want your eyes, little Warlord, you'll summon Jaenelle
now."

Char stared at her. "You truly wish to see her?"

"yes!"

Char tipped his head back and let out a strange, wild ululation.

Unnerved by the sound, Hekatah slapped him to make him stop.

"hekatah!"

Hekatah ran from the fury in Saetan's thundering voice. Then she glanced over her shoulder and stopped, shocked excitement making her nerves sizzle.

Saetan leaned heavily on a silver-headed cane, his golden eyes glittering with rage. There was more silver in the thick black hair, and his face was tight with exhaustion. He looked . . . worn-out.

And he was only wearing his Birthright Red Jewel.

She didn't even take the time for a fast descent to gather her full strength. She just raised her hand and unleashed the power in her Red-Jeweled ring at his weak leg.

His cry of pain as he fell was the most satisfying sound she'd heard in years.

"Seize him!" she screamed at her demons.

A cold, soft wind sighed across the island.

The guards hesitated for a moment, but when Saetan tried to get up and failed, they drew their knives and ran toward him.

The ground trembled slightly. Mist swirled around the rocks, around the barren earth.

Hekatah also ran toward Saetan, wanting to watch the knives cut deep, wanting to watch his blood run.

A Guardian's blood! The richness, the strength in it! She would feast on him before dealing with that upstart little demon.

A howl rose from the abyss, a sound full of joy and pain, rage and celebration.

Then a tidal wave of dark power flooded the
cildru dyathe's
island. Psychic lightning set Hell's twilight sky on fire. Thunder shook the land. The howling went on and on.

Hekatah fell to the ground and curled up as tight as she could.

Her demons screamed in nerve-shattering agony.

Go away,
Hekatah pleaded silently.
Whatever you are, go away.

Something icy and terrible brushed against her inner barriers, and Hekatah blanked her mind.

By the time it faded away, the witch storm had faded with it.

Hekatah pushed herself into a sitting position. Her throat worked convulsively when she saw what was left of her demons.

There was no sign of Saetan or Char.

Hekatah slowly got to her feet. Was that Jaenelle—or what was left of Jaenelle? Maybe she
wasn't
cildru dyathe.
Maybe she had faded from demon to ghost and all that was left was that bodiless power.

It was just as well the girl was dead, Hekatah thought as she caught a White Wind and rode back to the stone building she claimed as her own. It was just as well that whatever was left of Jaenelle would be confined to the Dark Realm. Trying to control that savage power. ... It was just as well the girl was dead.

Pain surrounded him, filled him. His head felt like it was stuffed with blankets. He clawed his way through, desperate to reach the muffled voices he heard around him: Andulvar's angry rumble, Char's distress.

Hell's fire! Why were they just sitting there? For the first time in two years, Jaenelle had responded to someone's call. Why weren't they trying to keep her within reach?

Because Jaenelle was gliding through the abyss too deep for anyone but him to feel her presence. But he couldn't just descend to the level of the Black and summon her. He had to be near her physically, he had to be with her to coax her into remaining with her body.

"Why did the witch storm hit him so bad?" Char asked fearfully.

"Because he's an ass," Andulvar growled in reply.

He redoubled his efforts to break through the muffling layers just so he could snarl at Andulvar. Maybe he
had
been channelling too much of the Black strength without giving his body a chance to recover.

Maybe he
had
been foolish when he'd refused to drink fresh blood to maintain his strength. But that didn't give an Eyrien warrior the right to act like a stubborn, nagging Healer.

Jaenelle would have cornered him until he'd given in.

Jaenelle. So close. He might never have another chance.

He struggled harder.
Help me. I have to reach her. Help
— "me."

"High Lord!"

"Hell's fire, SaDiablo!"

Saetan grabbed Andulvar's arm and tried to pull himself into a sitting position. "Help me. Before it's too late."

"You need rest," Andulvar said.

"There isn't time!" Saetan tried to yell. It came out an infuriating croak. "Jaenelle's still close enough to reach."

"What?"

The next thing he knew he was sitting up with Andulvar supporting him and Char kneeling in front of him.

He focused on the boy. "How did you summon her?"

"I don't know," Char wailed. "I don't know. I was just trying to keep Hekatah busy until you came. She kept demanding to see Jaenelle, so I thought . . . Jaenelle and I used to play 'chase me, find me' and that was the sound we used to make. I didn't know she would answer, High Lord. I've called like that lots of times since she went away, and she's never answered."

"Until now," Saetan said quietly. Why now? He finally noticed he was in a familiar bedroom. "We're at the Keep in Kaeleer?"

"Draca insisted on bringing you here," Andulvar said.

The Keep's Seneschal had given him a bedroom near the Queen's suite. Which meant he wasn't more than a few yards away from Jaenelle's body. Just chance? Or could Draca also feel Jaenelle's presence?

"Help me," Saetan whispered.

Andulvar half carried him the few yards down the corridor to the door where Draca waited.

"You will drink a cup of fressh blood when you return," Draca said.

// /
return,
Saetan thought grimly, as Andulvar helped him to the bed that held Jaenelle's frail body.

There might not be another chance. He would bring her back or destroy himself trying.

As soon as he was alone with her, he took Jaenelle's head between his hands, drew every drop of power he had left in his Jewels, and made a quick descent into the abyss until he reached the level of the Black.

Jaenelle!*

She continued her slow spiral glide deeper into the abyss. He didn't know if she was ignoring him or just couldn't hear him.