Heir to the Shadows (30 page)

Lord Magstrom signed gustily.

Lord Friall stumbled into his chair.

Saetan wondered if he had any bone left in his legs. This was turning into a typical afternoon after all. He scratched the wolf behind the ears. "You understand?" He held up two fingers. "Two plump bunnies for Mrs. Beale. Tarl says there are plenty of them fattening themselves up in the vegetable garden." He gave the wolf a last scratch. "Off with you."

After nuzzling Saetan's hand, the wolf trotted out the door.

"You let a woman like that work here when there are children in the house?" Friall sputtered. "And you keep a wolf for a pet?"

"Mrs. Beale is an excellent cook," Saetan replied mildly.
Besides,
he added silently,
who would have
the balls to dismiss her?
"And the wolf isn't a pet. He's kindred. Several of them live with us. Another sandwich, Lord Magstrom?"

Looking a bit dazed, Lord Magstrom took another sandwich, stared at it for a moment, then set it on his plate.

"What's going on?" Jaenelle asked. Smiling politely at Magstrom and Friall, she settled next to Saetan on the couch.

"We're having bunny stew for dinner instead of chicken."

"Ah. That explains Mrs. Beale." Her lips twitched. "I suppose I should explain human territoriality to the wolves to avoid further misunderstandings."

"At least Mrs. Beale's territory," Saetan said, smiling at his fair-haired daughter, aware that the way Jaenelle sat so close to him was open to misinterpretation.

"Is that your usual way of dressing, Lady Angelline?" Lord Friall asked, once more dabbing his lips with his handkerchief.

Jaenelle looked at the baggy overalls she had acquired from one the gardeners and the white silk shirt Saetan had

unknowingly donated to her wardrobe. She lifted one loose braid and studied the feathers, small bells, and seashells attached to the strips of leather woven into her hair. Then her eyes swept over Friall.

"Sometimes," she said coolly. "Do you always dress like that?"

"Of course," Friall said proudly.

"Why?"

Friall stared at her.

*Remember their delicate sensibilities, witch-child.*

*Screw their delicate sensibilities.*

Saetan flinched. Her mood had shifted.

He dropped one arm around her shoulders. "Lord Magstrom would like to ask you a few questions."

Hopefully the older Warlord felt the emotional currents in the room and would tread carefully.

"Before the interrogation begins, may I ask you something?"

Lord Magstrom fiddled with his cup. "This isn't an interrogation, Lady," he said gently.

"Really?" she said in her midnight voice.

Magstrom shivered. His hand shook as he set his cup on the table.

Hoping to divert her, Saetan groaned theatrically. "What do you want to ask?"

Her sapphire eyes studied him. Concern faded to exasperated amusement. "It isn't that bad."

"That's what you said the last time."

Jaenelle gave him her best unsure-but-game smile. "Dujae wants to know if we can have a wall."

He tried not to panic. "A wall? Dujae wants one of my walls?"

"Yes."

Saetan pressed his fingertips against his temple. Something was clogging his throat. He wasn't sure if it was a shriek or a laugh. "Why does Dujae want a wall?"

"We're going to paint it." She pondered this for a moment. "Well, I guess saying we're going to paint it isn't quite accurate. We're going to draw on it. Dujae says we need to think more expansively and the only way to do

that is to have an expansive canvas to work on and the only thing big enough is a wall."

Uh-huh. "I see." Saetan looked around the tastefully decorated room and sighed. "There are lots of empty rooms here. Why don't you pick one in the same wing as the rumpus room."

Jaenelle frowned. "We don't have a rumpus room."

Saetan tweaked one of her braids. "You wouldn't say that if you'd ever been in the room under it while you were all doing . . . whatever."

Jaenelle gave him a look of amused tolerance. "Thank you, Papa." She bussed his cheek and bounded off the couch.

Saetan grabbed the back of her overalls and pulled her down beside him. "Dujae can wait a bit. Lord Magstrom has a few questions."

The cold fire was back in her eyes, but she settled against him on the couch, her hands demurely in her lap, and gave the two men a look of polite impatience.

Saetan nodded at Lord Magstrom.

His hands loosely clasped on the arms of the chair, Lord Magstrom smiled at Jaenelle. "Is art a favorite study of yours, Lady Angelline?" he asked politely. "I have a granddaughter about your age who enjoys

'mucking about with colors,' as she puts it."

At the mention of a granddaughter, Jaenelle looked at Lord Magstrom with interest. "I enjoy drawing, but not as much as music," she said after a moment's thought. "Much more than mathematics." She wrinkled her nose. "But then, anything's better than mathematics."

"Arnora holds mathematics in the same high regard," Lord Magstrom said seriously, but his blue eyes twinkled.

Jaenelle's lips twitched. "Does she? A sensible witch."

"What other subjects do you enjoy?"

"Learning about plants and gardening and healing and weaponry and equitation is fun . . . and languages.

And dancing. Dancing's wonderful, don't you think? And of course there's Craft, but that's not really a lesson, is it?"

"Not really a lesson?" Lord Magstrom looked startled.

He accepted another cup of coffee. "With so much studying, you don't have much time to socialize," he said slowly.

Jaenelle frowned and looked at Saetan.

"I believe Lord Magstrom is referring to dances and other public gatherings," he said carefully.

Her frown deepened. "Why do we need to go out for dancing? We've got enough people here who play instruments and we dance whenever we want to. Besides, I promised Morghann I'd spend a few days in Scelt with her when they have the harvest dances, and Kalush's family invited me to go to the theater with them, and Gabrielle—"

"Dujae," Friall said tightly. "Dujae is teaching you to draw?"

Saetan squeezed Jaenelle's shoulder but she shrugged away from him.

"Yes, Dujae is teaching me to draw," Jaenelle said, the chill back in her voice.

"Dujae is dead."

"For centuries now."

Friall dabbed at his lips. "You study drawing with a demon?"

"Just because he's a demon doesn't make him less of an artist."

"But he's a
demon"

Jaenelle shrugged dismissively. "So are Char and Titian and a number of my other friends. Who I call a friend is no business of yours, Lord Friall."

"No business," Friall sputtered. "It most certainly
is
the Council's business. It was a show of faith that the Council allowed something like the High Lord to keep a young girl in the first place—"

"Somethinglike the High Lord?"

"—and to soil a young girl's sensibilities by forcing her to consort with demons—"

"He never forces me.
No one
forces me."

"—and submit to his own lustful attentions—"

The room exploded.

There was no time to think, no time to protect himself from the spiraling fury rising out the abyss.

Drawing everything he could from his Black Jewels, Sae-

tan threw himself on Jaenelle as she lunged for Friall. Wild, vicious sounds erupted from her as she fought to break free and reach the Warlord, who stared at her in shock while windows shattered, paintings crashed to the floor, plaster cracked as psychic lightning scored the walls, and the furniture was ripped to pieces.

Hanging on grimly, Saetan let the room go, using his strength to shield the other men, using himself as a buffer between Jaenelle's rage and flesh. She wasn't trying to hurt him. That was the terrifying irony. She was simply trying to get past the barriers he was placing between her and Friall. He opened his mind, intending to press against her inner barriers and force her to feel a little of the pain he was enduring. But there were no barriers. There was only the abyss and a long, mind-shattering fall.

*Please, witch-child.
Please!*

She came at him with frightening speed, cocooned him in black mist, and then brought him up to the depth of the Red Jewel before she turned and glided back down into the comfortable sanctuary of the abyss.

Silence.

Stillness.

His head throbbed mercilessly. His. tongue hurt. His mouth was full of blood. He felt too brittle to move.

But his mind was intact.

She loved him. She wouldn't deliberately hurt him. She loved him.

Pulling that thought around his bruised mind and battered body like a warm cloak, Saetan surrendered to oblivion.

Lord Magstrom woke to a none-too-gentle slap. Blinking to clear his vision, he focused on the dark wings and stern face.

"Drink this," the Eyrien snapped, shoving a glass into Magstrom's hands. He stepped back, fists braced on his hips. "Your companion is finally coming around. He's lucky to be here at all."

Magstrom gratefully sipped his drink and looked around. Except for the chairs he and Friall were sitting in, the room

was empty. The painted screens that divided the room were gone. The furniture on the other side was tumbled but intact. If not for the black streaks on the ivory walls that looked like lightning gone to ground, he might have thought they'd been moved to a different room, that it had been a hallucination of some kind.

He'd heard of Andulvar Yaslana, the Demon Prince. He knew it was a measure of his own terror that he found shivering comfort in having an Ebon-gray-Jeweled demon standing over him. "The High Lord?" he asked.

Andulvar stared at him. "He almost shattered the Black trying to keep you safe. He's exhausted, but he'll recover with a few days of rest." Then he snorted. "Besides, it'll give the waif an excuse to dose him with one of her restorative tonics, and that, thank the Darkness, should keep her from thinking too much about what happened."

"What did happen?"

Andulvar nodded at Friall. Beale was still waving smelling salts under Friall's nose, but the butler's expression strongly suggested he'd rather toss the intruder onto the drive and be done with it. "He pissed her off. Not a smart thing to do."

"Then she's unstable? Dangerous?"

Andulvar slowly spread his dark wings. He looked huge. And there was no concern in his gold eyes, only an unspoken threat.

"Simply by being Blood, we're all dangerous, Lord Magstrom," Andulvar growled softly. "She belongs to the family, and we belong to her. Never forget that." He folded his wings and crouched beside Magstrom's chair. "But in truth, Saetan's the only thing that stands between you and her. Don't forget that either."

An hour later, Magstrom and Friall's coach rolled down the well-kept drive, then onto the road that ran through Halaway.

It was dusk on a late summer afternoon. Wildflowers painted meadows with bright colors. Trees stretched their branches high above the road, creating cool tunnels. It was beautiful land, lovingly tended, shadowed for thousands of years by SaDiablo Hall and the man who ruled there.

Shadowed and protected.

Magstrom shivered. He was a Warlord who wore Summer-sky Jewels. He acted as the caretaker of the village where he'd been born and where he'd contentedly spent his life. Until he'd been asked to serve on the Dark Council, his dealings with those who wore darker Jewels had been diplomatic and, fortunately, seldom. The Blood in Goth, Little Terreille's capital, were interested in court intrigue, not in a village that looked across a river into the wooded land of Dea al Mon.

But now a curtain had been drawn back, just a little, and he had seen dark power, truly dark power.

Saetan's the only thing that stands between .you and her.

The girl had to stay with the High Lord, Magstrom thought as the coach rolled through Halaway to the landing web where they would catch the Winds and go home. For all their sakes, she had to stay.

Saetan woke slowly as someone settled on the end of his bed. Grunting, he propped himself up on one elbow and stroked the candle-light on the bedside table just enough to dimly light the room.

Jaenelle sat cross-legged on his bed, her eyes haunted, her face pinched and pale. She handed him a glass. "Drink this. It'll help soothe your nerves."

He took a sip and then another. It tasted of moonlight, summer heat, and cool water. "This is wonderful, witch-child. You should have a glass yourself."

"I've had two." She tried to smile but couldn't quite manage it. She fluffed her hair and bit her lower lip.

"Saetan, I don't like what happened today. I don't like what. . . almost happened today."

He drained the glass, set it on the bedside table, and reached for her hand. "I'm glad. Killing should never be easy, witch-child. It should leave a scar on your soul. Sometimes it's necessary. Sometimes there's no choice if we're trying to defend what we cherish. But if there's an alternative, take it."

"They'd come here to condemn you, to hurt you. They had no right."

"I've been insulted by fools before. I survived."

Even in the dim light he saw her eyes change.

"Just because he was using words instead of a knife, you can't dismiss it, Saetan. He hurt you."

"Of course he hurt me," Saetan snapped. "Being accused of—" He closed his eyes and squeezed her hand. "I don't tolerate fools, Jaenelle, but I also don't kill them for being fools. I simply keep them out of my life." He sat up and took her other hand. "I am your sword and your shield, Lady. You don't have to kill."

Witch studied him with her ancient, haunted sapphire eyes. "You'll take the scars on your soul so that mine remains unmarked?"

"Everything has a price," he said gently. "Those kinds of scars are part of being a Warlord Prince.

You're at a crossroads, witch-child. You can use your power to heal or to harm. It's your choice."

"One or the other?"

He kissed her hand. "Not always. As I said, sometimes destruction is necessary. But I think you're more suited to healing. It's the road I'd choose for you."