Heir to the Shadows (15 page)

What would happen to the Blood once that trust was destroyed? All one had to do was look at Terreille to see the answer.

Mephis stood before the desk, his hands clenched. "What are we going to do?"

"I'll take care of it, Mephis," Saetan said too softly. "If Menzar has been free to spread his poison this long, it's because I wasn't vigilant enough to detect him."

"What about all the Queens and their First Circles who also weren't vigilant enough to detect him when he was in their territories? You didn't ignore a warning that had been sent, you
never got
any warning until Sylvia came to you."

"The responsibility is still mine, Mephis." When Mephis

equal to Menzar's wages. The house is leased? Pay the lease for a five-year period."

Mephis crossed his arms. "Without the rent to pay, it will be more money than she's ever had at her disposal."

"It'll give her the time and the means to rest. There's no reason she should pay for her brother's crimes. If her wits have been buried beneath Menzar's manipulation, they'll surface. If she's truly incapable of taking care of herself, we'll make other arrangements."

Mephis looked troubled. "About the execution ..."

"I'll take care of it, Mephis." Saetan came around the desk and brushed his shoulder against his son's.

"Besides, there's something else I want you to do." He waited until Mephis looked at him. "You still have the town house in Amdarh?"

"You know I do."

"And you still enjoy the theater?"

"Very much," Mephis said, puzzled. "I rent a box each season."

"Are there any plays that might intrigue a fifteen-year-old girl?"

Mephis smiled in understanding. "A couple of them next week."

Saetan's answering smile was chilling. "Well-timed, I think. An outing to Dhemlan's capital with her elder brother before her new tutors begin making demands on her time will suit our plans very well."

5 / Terreille

Lucivar's legs quivered from exhaustion and pain. Chained facing the back wall of his cell, he tried to rest his chest against it to lessen the strain on his legs, tried to ignore the tension in his shoulders and neck.

The tears came, slow and silent at first, then building into rib-squeezing, racking sobs of pent-up grief.

The surly guard had performed the beating. Not his back this time but his legs. Not a whip to cut, but a thick leather strap to pound against muscle stretched tight. Working to a slow drum rhythm, the guard had applied the strap with care, making each stroke overlap the one before so that no flesh was missed.

Down and back, down and back. Except for the breath hissing between his teeth, Lucivar had made no sound. When it was finally done, he'd been hauled to his feet—feet too brutalized to take his weight—and fitted with Zuultah's latest toy: a metal chastity belt. It locked tight around his waist but the metal loop between his legs wasn't tight enough to cause discomfort. He'd puzzled over it for a moment before being forced to walk to his cell. There wasn't room for anything but the pain after that. And when he got to the cell, he understood only too well what was supposed to happen.

There was a new, thick-linked chain attached to the back wall. The bottom loop of the belt was pulled through a slot in the band around his waist, and the chain was locked to it. The chain wasn't long enough for him to do anything but stand, and if his legs buckled, it wouldn't be his waist absorbing his weight. No doubt Zuultah was being oiled and massaged while she waited for his scream of agony.

That wasn't reason enough to cry.

Slime mold had begun forming on his wings. Without a cleansing by a Healer, it would spread and spread until his wings were nothing more than greasy strings of membranous skin hanging from the frame.

He couldn't spread his wings in the salt mine without being whipped, and now his hands were chained behind his back each night, locking his wings tight against a body coated with salt dust and dripping with sweat.

He'd told Daemon once he would rather lose his balls than his wings, and he had meant it.

But that wasn't reason enough to cry.

He hadn't seen the sun in over a year. Except for the few precious minutes each day when he was led from his cell to the salt mines and back again, he hadn't breathed clean air or felt a breeze against his skin.

His world had become two dark, stinking holes—and a covered courtyard where he was stretched out on the stones and regularly beaten.

But that wasn't reason enough to cry.

He'd been punished before, beaten before, whipped before, locked in dark cells before. He'd been sold into service to cruel, twisted witches before. He'd always responded by fighting with all the savagery within him, becoming such a destructive force they'd send him back to Askavi in order to survive.

He hadn't once tried to escape from Pruul, hadn't once unleashed his volatile temper to rend and tear and destroy. Not that many years ago, Zuultah's and the guards' blood would have been splashed over the walls of this place and he would have stood in the rubble filling the night with an Eyrien battle cry of victory.

But that was when he'd still believed in the myth, the dream. That was when he'd still believed that one day he would meet the Queen who would accept him, understand him, value him. Meeting her had been his dream, a sweet, ever-blooming flower in his soul. The Lady of the Black Mountain. The Queen of Ebon Askavi. Witch.

Then the dream became flesh—and Daemon killed her.

That was reason to grieve. For the loss of the Lady he'd ached to serve, for the loss of the one man he thought he could trust.

Now there was only an emptiness, a despair so deep it covered his soul like the slime mold was covering his wings.

There was only one dream left.

The ache in his chest finally eased. Lucivar swallowed the last sob and opened his eyes.

He'd always known where he wanted to die and how he wanted to die. And it wasn't in the salt mines of Pruul.

Lucivar's legs vibrated from the strain. He sank his teeth into his lower lip until it bled. A couple more hours and the guards would release him to take him to the salt mines. More pain, more suffering.

He would whimper a little, cringe a little. Next week he would cringe a little more when a guard approached. Little by little they would forget what should never be forgotten about him. And then . . .

Lucivar smiled, his lips smeared with blood.

There was still a reason to live.

6 / Terreille

Dorothea SaDiablo stared at her Master of the Guard. "What do you mean you've called off the search?"

"He's not in Hayll, Priestess," Lord Valrik replied. "My men and I have searched every barn, every cottage, every Blood and landen village. We've been down every alley in every city. Daemon Sadi is not in Hayll,
has not been
in Hayll. I would stake my career on it."

Then you've lost."You called off the search without my consent."

"Priestess, I'd give my life for you, but we've been chasing shadows. No one has seen him, Blood or landens. The men are weary. They need to be home with their families for a while."

"And ten months from now an army of mewling brats will be testimony to how weary your men are."

Valrik didn't answer.

Dorothea paced, tapping her fingertips against her chin. "So he isn't in Hayll. Start searching the neighboring Territories and—"

"We've no right to make such a search in another Territory."

"All those Territories stand in Hayll's shadow. The Queens wouldn't dare deny you access to their lands."

"The authority of the Queens ruling those Territories is weak as it is. We can't afford to undermine it."

Dorothea turned away from him. He was right, damn him. But she had to get him to do
something.

"Then you leave me at the mercy of the Sadist," she said with a tearful quiver in her voice.

'Wo, Priestess," Valrik said strenuously. "I've talked to the Masters of the Guard in all the neighboring Territories, made them aware of his bestial nature. They understand their own young are at risk. If they find him in their Territory, he won't get out alive."

Dorothea spun around. "I
never
gave you permission to kill him."

"He's a Warlord Prince. It's the only way we'll—"

"You must not kill him."

Dorothea swayed, pleased when Valrik put his arms around her and guided her to a chair. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pulled his head down until their foreheads touched. "His death would have repercussions for all of us. He must be brought back to Hayll alive. You must at least supervise the search in the other Territories."

Valrik hesitated, then sighed. "I can't. For your sake and the sake of Hayll ... I can't."

A good man. Older, experienced, respected, honorable.

Dorothea slid her right hand down his neck in a sensuous caress before driving her nails into his flesh and pumping all of her venom through the snake tooth.

Valrik pulled back, shocked, his hand clamped against his neck. "Priestess .. ." His eyes glazed. He stumbled back a step.

Dorothea daintily licked the blood from her fingers and smiled at him. "You said you would give your life for me. Now you have." She studied her nails, ignoring Valrik as he staggered out of the room, dying.

Calling in a nail file, she smoothed a rough edge.

A pity to lose such an excellent Master of the Guard and a bother to have to replace him. She vanished the nail file and smiled. But at least Valrik, by example, would teach his successor a very necessary lesson: too much honor could get a man killed.

7 / Kaeleer

Saetan balled the freshly ironed shirt in his hands, massaging it into a mass of wrinkles. He shook it out.

grimly satisfied with the results, and slipped it on.

He hated this. He had always hated this.

His black trousers and tunic jacket received the same treatment as the shirt. As he buttoned the jacket, he smiled wryly. Just as well he'd insisted that Helene and the rest of the staff take the evening off. If his prim housekeeper saw him dressed like this, she'd consider it a personal insult.

A strange thing, feelings. He was preparing for an execu-

tion and all he felt was relief that his appearance wouldn't bruise his housekeeper's pride.

No, not all. There was anger at the necessity and a simmering anxiety that, because of what he was about to do, he might look into sapphire eyes and see condemnation and disgust instead of warmth and love.

But she was with Mephis in Amdarh. She'd never know about tonight.

Saetan called in the cane he had put aside a few weeks ago.

Of course Jaenelle would know. She was too astute not to understand the meaning behind Menzar's sudden disappearance. But what would she think of him? What would it mean to her?

He had hoped—such a bittersweet thing!-—that he could live here quietly and not give people reason to remember too sharply who and what he was. He had hoped to be just a father raising a Queen daughter.

It had never been that simple. Not for him.

No one had ever asked him why he'd been willing to fight on Dhemlan Terreille's behalf when Hayll had threatened that quiet land all of those long centuries ago. Both sides had assumed that ambition had been the driving force within him. But what had driven him had been far more seductive and far simpler: he had wanted a place to call home.

He had wanted land to care for, people to care for, children—his own and others—to fill his house with their laughter and exuberance. He had dreamed of a simple life where he would use his Craft to enrich, not destroy.

But a Black-Jeweled, Black Widow Warlord Prince who was already called the High Lord of Hell couldn't slip into the quiet life of a small village. So he'd named a price worthy of his strength, built SaDiablo Hall in all three Realms, ruled with an iron will and a compassionate heart, and yearned for the day when he would meet a woman whose love for him was stronger than her fear of him.

Instead, he had met and married Hekatah.

For a while, a very short while, he'd thought his dream had come true—until Mephis was born and she was sure he wouldn't walk away, wouldn't forsake his child. Even then, having pledged himself to her, he had tried to be a good husband, had tried even harder to be a good father. When she conceived a second time, he'd dared to hope again that she cared for him, wanted to build a life with him. But Hekatah had been in love only with her ambitions, and children were her payment for his support. It wasn't until she carried their third child that she finally understood he would never use his power to make her the undisputed High Priestess of all the Realms.

He never saw his third son. Only pieces.

Saetan closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and cast the small spell tied to a tangled web of illusions that he'd created earlier in the day. His leg muscles trembled. He opened his eyes and studied hands that now looked gnarled and had a slight but noticeable shake. "I hate this." He smiled slowly. He sounded like a querulous old man.

By the time he made his way to the public reception room, his back ached from being unnaturally hunched and his legs began to burn from the tension. But if Menzar was smart enough to suspect a trap, the physical discomfort would help hide the web's illusions.

Saetan stepped into the great hall and hissed softly at the man standing silently by the door. "I told you to take the evening off." There was no power in his voice, no soft thunder.

"It would not be appropriate for you to open the door when your guest arrives, High Lord," Beale replied.

"What guest? I'm not expecting anyone tonight."

"Mrs. Beale is visiting with her younger sister in Halaway. I will join them after your guest arrives, and we will dine out."

Saetan rested both hands on the cane and raised an eyebrow. "Mrs. Beale dines out?"

Beale's lips curved up a tiny bit. "On occasion. With reluctance."

Saetan's answering smile faded. "Join your lady, Lord Beale."

"After your guest has arrived."

"I'm not expect—"