by Anne Bishop
Titian also excused herself. But before she left, she gave Saetan a sly smile. "Living at the Hall with Jaenelle will probably be difficult, High Lord, but not for the reasons you think."
"Mother Night," Saetan muttered before turning to the other men.
Mephis cleared his throat. "Telling the waif she has to leave isn't going to be easy. You don't have to do it alone."
"Yes, I do, Mephis," Saetan replied wearily. "I made her a promise. I'm the one who has to tell her I'm going to break it."
He said good night and slowly made his way through the stone corridors until he reached the stairs that would take him to Jaenelle's suite. Instead of climbing them, he leaned against the wall, shivering.
He had promised her that she could stay. He had promised.
But Lorn had decided.
It was long after midnight before he joined her in the private garden connected to her suite. She gave him a sleepy, relaxed smile and held out her hand. Gratefully, he linked his fingers through hers.
"It was a lovely party," Jaenelle said as they strolled through the garden. "I'm glad you invited Char and Titian." She hesitated. "And I'm sorry it was so difficult for Cassandra."
Saetan gave her a considering look through narrowed eyes.
She acknowledged the look with a shrug.
"How much did you hear?"
"Eavesdropping is rude," she said primly.
"An answer that neatly sidesteps the question," he replied dryly.
"I didn't hear anything. But I felt you all grumbling."
Saetan drifted closer to her. She smelled of wildflowers and sun-drenched meadows and fern-shaded pools of water. It was a scent that was gently wild and elusive, that captivated a male because it didn't try to capture him.
It relaxed him – and slightly aroused him.
Even knowing it was a Warlord Prince's natural response to a Queen he felt emotionally bound to, even knowing he would never cross the distinct line that separated a father's affection from a lover's passion, he still felt ashamed of his reaction.
He looked at her, wanting the sharp reminder of who she was and how young she was. But it was Witch who looked back at him, Witch whose hand tightened on his so that he couldn't break the physical link.
"I suppose even a wise man can sometimes be a fool," she said in her midnight voice.
"I would never-" His voice broke. "You know I would never-"
He saw a flicker of amusement in her ancient, haunted eyes.
"Yes, / know. Do you? You adore women, Saetan. You always have. You like to be near them. You like to touch them." She held up their hands.
"This is different. You're my daughter."
"And so you will keep your distance from Witch?" she asked sadly.
He pulled her into his arms and held her so tightly she let out a breathless squeak. "Never," he said fiercely.
"Papa?" Jaenelle said faintly. "Papa, I can't breathe."
He immediately loosened his hold but didn't let go.
Soft night sounds filled the garden. The spring wind sighed.
"This mood of yours has something to do with Cassandra, doesn't it?" Jaenelle asked.
"A little." He rested his cheek against her head. "We have to leave the Keep."
Her body tensed so much his ached in response.
"Why?" she finally asked, leaning back far enough to see his face.
"Because Lorn has decided we should live at the Hall."
"Oh." Then she added, "No wonder you're moody."
Saetan laughed. "Yes. Well. He does have a way of limiting one's options." He gently brushed her hair away from her face. "I do want to live at the Hall with you. I want that very much. But if you want to live somewhere else or have any reservations about leaving the Keep right now, I'll fight him over it."
Her eyes widened until they were huge. "Oh, dear. That wouldn't be a good idea, Saetan. He's much bigger than you."
Saetan tried to swallow. "I'll still fight him."
"Oh, dear." She took a deep breath. "Let's try living at the Hall."
"Thank you, witch-child," he said weakly.
She wrapped an arm around his waist. "You look a bit wobbly."
"Then I look better than I feel," he said, draping an arm around her shoulders. "Come along, little witch. The next few days are going to be hectic, and we'll both need our rest."
8 / Kaeleer
Saetan opened the front door of SaDiablo Hall and stepped into orchestrated chaos.
Maids flitted in every direction. Footmen lugged pieces of furniture from one room to another for no reason he could fathom. Gardeners trotted in with armloads of freshly cut flowers.
Standing in the center of the great hall, holding a long list in one hand while conducting the various people and parcels to their rightful places with the other, was Beale, his Red-Jeweled butler.
Somewhat bemused, Saetan walked toward Beale, hoping for an explanation. By the time he'd taken half a dozen steps, he realized that a walking obstacle had not been taken into account in this frenzied dance. Maids bumped into him, their annoyed expressions barely changing upon recognizing their employer, and their "Excuse me, High Lord," just short of being rude.
When he finally reached Beale, he gave his butler a sharp poke in the shoulder.
Beale glanced back, noticed Saetan's stony expression, and lowered his arms. A thud immediately followed, and a maid began wailing, "Now look what you've done."
Beale cleared his throat, tugged his vest down over his
girth, and waited, a slightly flushed but once more imperturbable butler.
"Tell me, Beale," Saetan crooned, "do you know who I am?"
Beale blinked. "You're the High Lord, High Lord."
"Ah, good. Since you recognize me, I must still be in human form."
"High Lord?"
"I don't look like a freestanding lamp, for example, so no one's going to try to tuck me into a corner and put a couple of candle-lights in my ears. And I won't be mistaken for an animated curio table that someone will leash to a chair so I don't wander off too far."
Beale's eyes bugged out a bit but he quickly recovered. "No, High Lord. You look exactly as you did yesterday."
Saetan crossed his arms and took his time considering this. "Do you suppose if I go into my study and stay there, I might escape being dusted, polished, or otherwise rearranged?"
"Oh, yes, High Lord. Your study was cleaned this morning."
"Will I recognize it?" Saetan murmured. He retreated to his study and sighed with relief. It was all the same furniture, and it was all arranged the same way.
Slipping out of the black tunic-styled jacket, he tossed it over the back of a chair, settled into the leather chair behind his desk, and rolled up the sleeves of his white silk shirt. Looking at the closed study door, he shook his head, but his eyes were a warm gold and his smile was an understanding one. After all, he had brought this on himself by telling them in advance.
Tomorrow, Jaenelle was coming home.
chapter four
1 / Hell
"That gutter son of a whore is up to something. I can feel it."
Deciding it was better to say nothing, Greer sat back in the patched chair and watched Hekatah pace.
"For two glorious years he's barely been felt, let alone seen in Hell or Kaeleer. His strength was waning. I know it was. Now he's back, residing at the Hall in Kaeleer. Residing. Do you know how long it's been since he's made his presence felt in one of the living Realms?"
"Seventeen hundred years?" Greer replied.
Hekatah stopped pacing and nodded. "Seventeen hundred years. Ever since Daemon Sadi and Lucivar Yaslana were taken away from him." She closed her gold eyes and smiled maliciously. "How he must have howled when Dorothea denied him paternity at Sadi's Birthright Ceremony, but there was nothing he could do without sacrificing his precious honor. So he slunk away like a whipped dog, consoling himself that he still had the child Hayll's Black Widows couldn't claim." She opened her
eyes and hugged herself. "But Prythian had already gotten to the boy's mother and told her all those wonderful half-truths one can tell the ignorant about Guardians. It was one of the few things that winged sow has ever done right." Her pleasure faded. "So why is he back?"
"Could-" Greer considered, shook his head.
Hekatah tapped her fingertips against her chin. "Has he
found another darling to replace his little pet? Or has he finally decided to turn Dhemlan into a feeding ground? Or is it something else?"
She walked toward him, her swaying hips and coquettish smile making him wish he'd known her when he could have done more than just appreciate what her movements implied.
"Greer," she crooned as she slipped her arms around his neck and pressed her breasts against him. "I want a little favor."
Greer waited, wary.
Hekatah's coquettish smile hardened. "Have your balls shrivelled up so quickly, darling?"
Anger flashed in Greer's eyes. He hid it quickly. "You want me to go to the Hall in Kaeleer?"
"And risk losing you?" Hekatah pouted. "No, darling, there's no need for you to go to that nasty Hall. We have a loyal ally living in Halaway. He's wonderful at sifting out tidbits of information. Talk to him." Balancing on her toes, she lightly kissed Greer's lips. "I think you'll like him. You're two of a kind."
2 / Kaeleer
Beale opened the study door. "Lady Sylvia," he announced as he respectfully stepped aside for Halaway's Queen.
Meeting her in the middle of the room, Saetan offered both hands, palms down. "Lady."
"High Lord," she replied, placing her hands beneath his, palms up in formal greeting, leaving wrists vulnerable to nails.
Saetan kept his expression neutral, but he approved of the slight pressure pushing his hands upward, the subtle reminder of a Queen's strength. There were some Queens who deeply resented having to live with the bargain that the Dhemlan Queens in Terreille and Kaeleer had made with him thousands of years ago in order to protect the Dhemlan Territory in Terreille from Hayll's encroachment, who deeply resented being ruled by a male. There were
some who had never understood that, in his own way, he had always served a Queen, that he had always served Witch.
Fortunately, Sylvia wasn't one of them.
She was the first Queen bora in Halaway since her great-grandmother had ruled, and she was the pride of the village. The day after she had formed her court, she had come to the Hall and had informed him with forceful politeness that, while Halaway might exist to serve the Hall, it was her territory and they were her people, and if there was anything he wanted from her village she would do her utmost to honor his request – provided it was reasonable.
Saetan now offered her a warm but cautious smile as he led her to the half of his study that was furnished for less formal discussions.
After watching her perch on the edge of one of the overstuffed chairs, he took a seat on the black leather couch, putting the width of the low blackwood table between them. He picked up the decanter of yarbarah, filled one of the raven glass goblets, and warmed it slowly over a tongue of witch fire before offering it to her.
As soon as she took the glass, he busily prepared one for himself so that he wouldn't insult her by laughing at her expression. She probably had the same look when one of her sons tried to hand her a large, ugly bug that only a small boy could find delightful.
"It's lamb's blood," he said mildly as he leaned back and crossed his legs at the knee.
"Oh." She smiled weakly. "Is that good?"
Her voice got husky when she was nervous, he noted with amusement.
"Yes, that's good. And probably far more to your liking than the human blood you feared was mixed with the wine."
She took a sip, trying hard not to gag.
"It's an acquired taste," Saetan said blandly. Had Jaenelle tasted the blood wine yet? If not, he'd have to correct that omission soon. "You've piqued my curiosity." He altered his deep voice so that it was coaxing, soothing. "Very few
Queens would willingly have an audience with me at midnight, let alone request one."
Sylvia carefully set her goblet on the table before pressing her hands against her legs. "I wanted a private meeting, High Lord."
"Why?"
Sylvia licked her lips, took a deep breath, and looked him in the eye. "Something's wrong in Halaway. Something subtle. I feel. ." She frowned and shook her head, deeply troubled.
Saetan wanted to reach out and smooth away the sharp vertical line that appeared between her eyebrows. "What do you feel?"
Sylvia closed her eyes. "Ice on the river in the middle of summer. Earth leeched of its richness. Crops withering in the fields. The wind brings a smell of fear, but I can't trace the source." She opened her eyes and smiled self-consciously. "I apologize, High Lord. My former Consort used to say I made no sense when I explained things."
"Really?" Saetan replied too softly. "Perhaps you had the wrong Consort, Lady. Because I understand you all too well." He drained his goblet and set it on the table with exaggerated care. "Who among your people is being harmed the most?"
Sylvia took a deep breath. "The children."
A vicious snarl filled the room. It was only when Sylvia nervously glanced toward the door that Saetan realized the sound was coming from him. He stopped it abruptly, but the cold, sweet rage was still there. Taking a shuddering breath, he backed away from the killing edge.
"Excuse me." Giving her no time to make excuses to leave, Saetan walked out of his study, ordered refreshments, and then spent several minutes pacing the great hall until he had repaired the frayed leash that kept his temper in check. By the time he rejoined her, Beale had brought the tea and a plate of small, thin sandwiches.
She politely refused the sandwiches and didn't touch the tea he poured for her. Her uneasiness scraped at his temper. Hell's fire, he hated seeing that look in a woman's eyes.
Sylvia licked her lips. Her voice was very husky. "I'm
their Queen. It's my problem. I shouldn't have troubled you with it."
He slammed the cup and saucer down on the table so hard the saucer broke in half. Then he put some distance between them, giving himself room to pace but always staying close enough so that she couldn't reach the door before he did.
It shouldn't matter. He should be used to it. If she'd been afraid of him from the moment she stepped into the room, he could have handled it. But she hadn't been afraid. Damn her, she hadn't been afraid.
He spun around, keeping the couch and the table between them. "I have never harmed you or your people," he snarled. "I've used my strength, my Craft, my Jewels, and, yes, my temper to protect Dhemlan. Even when I wasn't visible, I still looked after you. There are many services – including highly personal services – that I could have required of you or any other Queen in this Territory, but I've never made those kinds of demands. I've accepted the responsibilities of ruling Dhemlan, and, damn you, I have never abused my position or my power."
Sylvia's brown skin was bleached of its warm, healthy color. Her hand shook when she lifted her cup to take a sip of tea. She set the cup down, lifted her chin, and squared her shoulders. "I met your daughter recently. I asked her if she found it difficult living with your temper. She looked genuinely baffled, and said, 'What temper?' "
Saetan stared at her for a moment, then the anger drained away. He rubbed the back of his neck, and said dryly, "Jaenelle has a unique way of looking at a great many things."
Before he could summon Beale, the teapot and used cups vanished. A moment later a fresh pot of tea appeared on the table, along with clean cups and saucers and a plate of pastries.
Saetan gave the door a speculative look before returning to the couch. He poured another cup of tea for Sylvia and one for himself.
"He didn't bring them in," Sylvia said quietly.
"I noticed," Saetan replied – and wondered just how close his butler was standing to the study door. He put an aural shield around the room.
"Maybe he felt intimidated."
Saetan snorted. "Any man who is happily married to Mrs. Beale isn't intimidated by anyone – including me."
"I see your point." Sylvia picked up a sandwich and took a bite.
Relieved that her color was back and she was no longer afraid, he picked up his tea and leaned back. "I'll find out what's happening in Halaway. And I'll stop it." He sipped his tea to cover his hesitation, but the question had to be asked. "When did it start?"
– Sylvia looked at him sharply. "Your daughter isn't the cause, High Lord. I met her only briefly one afternoon when Mikal, my youngest son, and I were out walking; but I know she isn't the cause." She fiddled with her cup, nervous again. "But she may be the catalyst. Maybe it's fairer to say that it's her presence that has made me aware of it."
Saetan held his breath, waiting. Coaxing Jaenelle to try the Halaway school for the last few weeks before summer had been difficult. He'd hoped reconnecting with other children might stir her interest in contacting her old friends. Instead, she'd become more withdrawn, more elusive. And the politely phrased queries from Lord Menzar about her formal education – or lack of it – had dismayed him because, except for the Craft he had taught her, he had no idea how her education had been structured. But with each day since they'd come to the Hall, he had seen the threads he was trying to weave between himself and her unravel as fast as he could weave them, and he had had no idea, no clue as to why that was so. Until now.
"Why?"
Sylvia, lost in her own thoughts, stared at him, puzzled.
"Why is she the catalyst?" Saetan repeated.
"Oh." The vertical line between Sylvia's eyebrows reappeared as she concentrated. "She's. . different."
Don't lash out at her, Saetan reminded himself. Just listen.
"Beron, my older son, has some classes with her, and we've talked. Not that your household is fodder for gossip, but she puzzles him so he asks me things."
"Why does she puzzle him?"
She nibbled on a sandwich, considering. "Beron says she's very shy, but if you can get her to talk, she says the most amazing things."