Heir to the Shadows (51 page)

Lucivar turned as movement caught his eye.

Jaenelle stood a few feet away, her eyes fixed on the Jhinka.

She wore nothing but the Black Jewel around her neck.

He could understand why. Even her underclothes wouldn't have fit. All the muscle, all the feminine curves she'd gained over the past year were gone. Having no other source of fuel, her body had consumed itself in its struggle to be the receptacle for the power within. Bones pressed against pale, damp, blood-streaked skin. He could count her ribs, could see her hipbones move as she shifted her feet. Her golden hair was dark and stiff with the blood that must have been on her hands when she ran her fingers through it.

Despite that, or perhaps because of it, her face was strangely compelling. Her youth had been consumed in the healing fire, leaving her with a timeless, ageless beauty that suited her ancient, haunted sapphire eyes. It looked like an exquisite mask that would never again be touched by living concerns. •

Then the mask shattered. Her grief and rage flooded through him, sending him careening against the building.

Lucivar grabbed the corner and hung on with a desperation rapidly being consumed by overwhelming fear.

The world spun with sick speed, spun in tighter and tighter spirals, dragging at his mind, threatening to tear him away from any sane anchor. Faster and faster. Deeper and deeper.

Spirals. Saetan had told him something about spirals, but he couldn't see, couldn't breathe, couldn't think.

His shield broke, its energy sucked down into the spiral. The witch storm got pulled in, too, its psychic threads snapping as it tried to remain anchored around the building.

Faster and faster, deeper and deeper, and then the dark power rose out of the abyss, roaring past him with a speed that froze his mind.

Lucivar jerked away from the building and staggered toward Jaenelle. Down. He had to get her down on the ground, had to—

Pop.

Pop pop.

Pop pop pop pop pop.

"mother night!"Adler screamed, pointing toward the hills.

Lucivar wrenched a muscle in his neck as he snapped his head toward the sound of Jhinka bodies exploding.

Another surge of dark power flashed through what was left of the witch storm's psychic threads. They flared, blackened, disappeared.

He thought he heard a faint scream.

Pop pop pop.

Pop pop.

Pop.

It took her thirty seconds to destroy six thousand Jhinka.

She didn't look at anyone. She just turned around and started walking slowly, stiffly toward the other end of the village.

Lucivar tried to tell her to wait for him, but his voice wouldn't work. He tried to get to his feet, not sure how he'd ended up on his knees, but his legs felt like jelly.

He finally remembered what Saetan had told him about spirals.

He didn't fear her but, Hell's fire, he wanted to know what had set her off so that he had some idea of how to deal with her.

Hands pulled at his arm.

Randahl, looking gray-skinned and sick, helped him get to his feet.

They were both panting from the effort it took to reach the building and brace themselves against the stone wall.

Randahl rubbed his eyes. His mouth trembled. "The boy died," he said hoarsely. "She'd just finished healing the last landen. Hell's fire, Yaslana, she healed all three hundred of them. Three hundred in three days. She was swaying on her feet. Mari was telling her she had to sit down, had to rest. She shook her head and stumbled over to where Khevin was lying, and . . . and he just smiled at her and died. Gone.

Completely gone. Not even a whisper of him left."

Lucivar closed his eyes. He'd think about the dead later. There were still things that needed to be done for the living. "Are you strong enough to send a message to Agio?"

Randahl shook his head. "None of us are strong enough to ride the Winds right now, but we're overdue by a day, so someone ought to be out on the roads searching for us."

"When your people arrive, I want Mari escorted to the Hall."

"We can look after her," Randahl replied sharply.

But would Mari want to be looked after by the Blood in Agio?

"Escort her to the Hall," Lucivar said. "She needs time to grieve, and she needs a place where her heart can start to heal. There are some at the Hall who can help her with that."

Randahl looked unhappy. "You think the Dhemlan Blood will be kinder to her than we were?"

Lucivar shrugged. "I wasn't thinking of the Dhemlan Blood. I was thinking of the kindred."

Having gotten Randahl's agreement, Lucivar stopped in-

side the community hall long enough to see Mari and tell her she would be going to the Hall. She clung to him for a few minutes, crying fiercely.

He held her, giving what comfort he could.

When two of the landen women, casting defiant looks at the rest, offered to look after Mari, he let her go, sincerely hoping he'd never have to deal with landens again.

He found Jaenelle a few steps outside the village boundary, curled up into a tight ball, making desperate little sounds.

He dropped to his knees and cradled her in his arms.

"I didn't want to kill," she wailed. "That's not what the Craft is for. That's not what
my
Craft is for."

"I know, Cat," Lucivar murmured. "I know."

"I could have put a shield around them, holding them in until we got help from Agio. That's what I meant to do, but the rage just boiled out of me when Khevin ... I could feel their minds, could feel them wanting to hurt. I couldn't stop the anger. I couldn't
stop
it."

"It's the drugs, Cat. The damn things can scramble your emotions for a long time, especially in a situation like this."

"I don't like killing. I'd rather be hurt than hurt someone else."

He didn't argue with her. He was too exhausted and her emotions were too raw. Nor did he point out that she'd reacted to a friend's pain and death. What she couldn't, or wouldn't, do for her own sake she would do for someone she cared for.

"Lucivar?" Jaenelle said plaintively. "I want a bath."

That was just one of the things he wanted. "Let's go home, Cat."

11 / Terreille

Dorothea SaDiablo sank into a chair and stared at her unexpected guest. "Here? You want to stay
her?"
Had the bitch looked into a mirror lately? How was she supposed to explain a desiccated walking corpse that looked like it had just crawled out of an old grave? "Not here in your precious court,"

Hekatah replied, her

fleshless lips curling in a snarl. "And I'm not asking for your permission. I'm
telling
you that I'm staying in Hayll and require accommodations."

Telling. Always telling. Always reminding her that she never would have become the High Priestess of Hayll without Hekatah's guidance and subtle backing, without Hekatah pointing out the rivals who had too much potential and would thwart her dream of being a High Priestess who was so strong even the Queens yielded to her.

Well, she
was
the High Priestess of Hayll, and after centuries of twisting and savaging males who, in turn, did their own share of savaging, there were no dark-Jeweled Queens left in Terreille. There were no Queens, no Black Widows, no other Priestesses equal to her Red Jewel. In some of the smaller, more stubborn Territories, there were no Jeweled Blood at all. Within another five years, she would succeed where Hekatah had failed—she would be
the
High Priestess of Terreille, feared and revered by the entire Realm.

And when that day came, she would have something very special planned for her mentor and adviser.

Dorothea settled back in her chair and suppressed a smile. Still, the bag of bones might have a use. Sadi was still out there somewhere, playing his elusive, teasing game. Although she hadn't felt his presence in quite some time, every time she opened a door, she expected to find him on the other side waiting for her. But if a Red-Jeweled Black Widow High Priestess was staying at the country lodge she kept for more vigorous and imaginative evenings, and if he happened to become aware of a witch living there quietly . . . well, her psychic scent permeated the place and he might not take the time to distinguish between the scent of the place and the occupant's psychic scent. It would be a shame to lose the building, but she really didn't think there would be anything left of it by the time he was done.

Of course, there wouldn't be anything left of Hekatah, either.

Dorothea tucked a loose strand of black hair back into the simple coil around her head. "I realize you weren't

asking my permission, Sister," she purred. "When have you ever
asked
me for anything?"

"Remember who you speak to," Hekatah hissed.

"I never forget," Dorothea replied sweetly. "I have a lodge in the country, about an hour's carriage ride from Draega. I use it for discreet entertaining. You're welcome to stay there as long as you please. The staff is very well-trained, so I do ask that you not make a meal out of them. I'll supply you with plenty of young feasts." Frowning at a fingernail, she called in a nail file and smoothed an edge, studied the result, and smoothed again. Finally satisfied, she vanished the nail file and smiled at Hekatah. "Of course, if my accommodations aren't to your liking, you can always return to Hell."

Greedy, ungrateful bitch.

Hekatah opaqued another mirror. Even that little bit of Craft was almost too much.

This wasn't the way she'd planned to return to Hayll, hidden away like some doddering, drooling relative dispatched to some out-of-the-way property with no one but hard-faced servants for company.

Of course, once some of her strength returned . . .

Hekatah shook her head. The amusements would have to come later.

She considered ringing for a servant to come and put another log on the fire, then dismissed the idea and added the wood herself. Curling up into an old, stuffed chair, she stared at the wood being embraced and consumed by the flames.

Consumed just like all her pretty plans.

First the fiasco with the girl. If that was the best Jorval could do, she was going to have to rethink his usefulness.

Then the Eyrien managed to escape her trap and destroy all those lovely Jhinka that she'd cultivated so carefully. And the backlash of power that had come through her witch storm had done
this
to her.

And last, but far from least, was that gutter son of a whore's purge of the Dark Realm. There was no safe haven in Hell now, and no one,
no one
to serve her. -

So, for now, she had to accept Dorothea's sneering hospitality, had to accept handouts instead of the tribute that was her due.

No matter. Unlike Dorothea, who was too busy trying to grab power and gobble up Territories, she had taken a good long look at the two living Realms.

Let Dorothea have the crumbling ruins of Terreille.

She was going to have Kaeleer.

1 / Kaeleer

Saetan braced his hand against the stonewall, momentarily unbalanced by the double blast of anger that shook the Keep.

"Mother Night," he muttered.
"Now
what are they squabbling about?" Mentally reaching out to Lucivar, he met a psychic wall of fury.

He ran.

As he neared the corridor that led to Jaenelle's suite of rooms, he slowed to a walk, pressing one hand against his side and swearing silently because he didn't have enough breath to roar. Wouldn't have mattered anyway, he thought sourly. Whatever was provoking his children's tempers certainly wasn't affecting their lungs.

"Get out of my way, Lucivar!"

"When the sun shines in Hell!"

"Damn your wings, you've no right to interfere."

"I serve you. That gives me the right to challenge anything and anyone that threatens your well being.

And that includes you!"

"If you serve me, then obey me.get ourof my way!"

"The First Law is not obedience—"

"Don't you dare start quoting. Blood Laws to me."

"—and even if it was, I still wouldn't stand here and let you do this. It's suicidal!"

Saetan rounded the corner, shot up the short flight of stairs, and stumbled on the top step.

In the dimly lit corridor, Lucivar looked like something out
of
the night-tales landens told their children: dark, spread wings blending into the darkness beyond, teeth bared, gold eyes blazing with battle-fire.

Even the blood dripping from the shallow knife slash in his left upper arm made him look more like something other than a living man.

In contrast, Jaenelle looked painfully real. The short black nightgown revealed too much of the body sacrificed to the power that had burned within her while she'd done the healing in the landen village a week ago. If cared for, the flesh wouldn't suffer that way, not even when it was the instrument of the Black Jewels.

Seeing the results of her careless attitude toward her body, seeing the hand that held the Eyrien hunting knife shake because she was too weak to hold a blade that, a month ago, she had handled easily, he gave in to the anger rising within him. "Lady," he said sharply.

Jaenelle spun to face him, weaving a little as she struggled to stay on her feet. Her eyes blazed with battle-fire, too.

"Daemon's been found."

Saetan crossed his arms, leaned against the wall, and ignored the challenge in her voice. "So you intend to channel your strength through an already weakened body, create the shadow you've been using to search Terreille, send it to wherever his body is, travel through the Twisted Kingdom until you find him, and then lead him back."

"Yes," she said too softly. "That's exactly what I'm going to do."

Lucivar slammed the side of his fist against the wall. "It's too much. You haven't even begun to recover from the healings you did. Let this friend of yours keep him for a couple of weeks."

"You can't 'keep' someone who's lost in the Twisted Kingdom," Jaenelle snapped. "They don't see or live in the tangible world the way everyone else does. If something spooks him and he slips away from her, it could be weeks, even months before she finds him again. By then it may be too late.
He's running
out of time."