Heir to the Shadows dj-2

by Anne Bishop

  "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-"

  "My nieces attend the Halaway school." The Red Jewel flared beneath Beale's white shirt.

  Saetan sucked air through his teeth. This had to be done quietly. There was nothing the Dark Council could do to him directly, but if whispers of this reached them. . He stared at his Red-Jeweled Warlord butler. "How many know?"

  "Know what, High Lord?" Beale replied gently.

  Saetan continued to stare. Was he mistaken? No. For just a moment, there had been a wild, fierce satisfaction in Beale's eyes. The Beales would say nothing. Nothing at all. But they would celebrate.

  "You'll be in your public study?" B
eale asked.

  Accepting his dismissal, Saetan retreated to his study. As he poured and warmed a glass of yarbarah, he noticed that his hands were shaking from more than the spell he'd cast.

  Hayllian by birth, he had served in Terreillean courts, and had ruled, for the most part, in Terreille and then Hell. Despite his claim to the Dhemlan Territory in Kaeleer, he had been more like an absentee landlord, a visitor who only saw what visitors were allowed to see.

  He knew what Terreille had thought of the High Lord. But this was Kaeleer, the Shadow Realm, a fiercer, wilder land that embraced a magic darker and stronger than Terreille could ever know.

  Thank you, Beale, for the warning, the reminder. I won't forget again what ground I stand on. I won't forget what you've just shown me lies beneath the thin cloak of Protocol and civilized behavior. I won't forget. . because this is the Blood that is drawn to Jaenelle.

  Lord Menzar reached for the knocker but snatched his hand away at the last second. The bronze dragon head tucked tight against a thick, curving neck stared down at him, its green glass eyes glittering eerily in the torchlight. The knocker directly beneath it was a detailed, taloned foot curved around a smooth ball.

  The Dark Priestess should have warned me.

  Grabbing the foot with a sweaty hand, he pounded on the door once, twice, thrice before stepping back and glancing around. The torches created ever-changing shape-filled shadows, and he wished, again, that this meeting could have been held in the daylight hours.

  He waved his hand to erase the useless thought and reached for the knocker again just as the door suddenly swung open. He almost stepped back from the large man blocking the doorway until he recognized the black suit and waistcoat that was a butler's uniform.

  "You may tell the High Lord I'm here."

  The butler didn't move, didn't speak.

  Menzar surreptitiously chewed on his lower lip. The man was alive, wasn't he? Since he knew that many of Halaway's people worked for the Hall in one way or another, it hadn't occurred to him that the staff might be very different once the sun went down. Surely not with that girl here – although that might explain her eccentricities.

  The butler finally stepped aside. "The High Lord is expecting you."

  Menzar's relief at coming inside was short-lived. As shadow-filled as the outer steps, the great hall held a silence that was pregnant with interrupted rustling. He followed the butler to the end of the hall, disturbed by the lack of people. Where were the servants? In another wing, perhaps, or taking their supper? A place this size. . half the village could be here and their presence would be swallowed up.

  The butler opened the last right-hand door and announced him.

  It was an interior room with no windows and no other visible door. Shaped like a reversed L, the long side had large chairs, a low blackwood table, a black leather couch, a Dharo carpet, candle-lights held in variously shaped wrought-iron holders, and powerful, somewhat disturbing paintings. The short leg. .

  Menzar gasped when he finally noticed the golden eyes shining out of the dark. A candle-light in the far corner began to glow softly. The short leg held a large blackwood desk. Behind it were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. The walls on either side were covered with dark-red velvet. It felt different from the rest of the room. It felt dangerous.

  The candlelights brightened, chasing the shadows into the corners.

  "Come where I can see you," said a querulous voice.

  Menzar slowly approached the desk and almost laughed with relief. This was the High Lord? This shrunken, shaking, grizzled old man? This was the man whose name everyone feared to whisper?

  Menzar bowed. "High Lord. It was kind of you to invite me to-"

  "Kind? Bah! Didn't see any reason why I should torture my old bones when there's nothing wrong with your legs." Saetan waved a shaking hand toward the chair in front of the desk. "Sit down. Sit down. Tires me just to watch you stand there." While Menzar made himself comfortable, Saetan muttered and gestured to no one. Finally focusing on his guest, he snapped, "Well? What's she done now?"

  Tamping down his jubilation, Menzar pretended to consider the question. "She hasn't been in school this week," he said politely. "I understand she'll be tutored from now on. I must point out that socializing with children her own age-"

  "Tutors?" Saetan sputtered, thumping his cane on the floor. "Tutors?" Thump. Thump. "Why should I waste my coin on tutors? She's got all the teaching she needs to perform her duties."

  "Duties?"

  Saetan's mouth curved in a leering smile. "Her mind's a bit queered up and she's not much to look at, but in the dark she's sweet enough."

  Menzar tried not to stare. The Dark Priestess's friend had hinted, but. . He'd seen no bite marks on the girl's neck. Well, there were other veins. What else might Saetan be doing – or what might she be required to do for him while he supped from a vein? Menzar could imagine several things. They all disgusted him. They all excited him.

  Menzar clamped one hand over the other to keep them still. "What about the tutors?"

  Saetan waved his hand, dismissing the words. "Had to say something when that bitch Sylvia came sniffing around asking about the girl." He narrowed his eyes. "You strike

  me as a very discerning man, Lord Menzar. Would you like to see my special room?"

  Menzar's heart smashed against his chest. If he invites you to his private study, make an excuse, any excuse to leave. "Special room?"

  "My special, special room. Where the girl and I… play."

  Menzar was about to refuse, but the doubts and the warnings melted away. The High Lord was just a lecherous old man. But no doubt a connoisseur of things Menzar had only read about. "I'd like that."

  The walk through the corridors was painfully slow. Saetan went down flights of stairs crab wise, muttering and cursing. Every time Menzar became uneasy about their descent, a leering grin and a highly erotic tidbit vanished the doubts again.

  They finally arrived at a thick wooden door with a lock as big as a man's fist. Menzar waited restlessly while Saetan's shaking hand fit the key into the lock, and then he had to help the High Lord push the heavy door open. Who helped the High Lord at other times? That butler? Did the girl follow him into the room like a well-trained pet or was she restrained? Did Saetan require assistance? Did that butler watch while he… Menzar licked his lips. The bed must be like… he couldn't even begin to imagine what the bed in this playroom would be like.

  "Come in, come in," Saetan said querulously.

  The torchlight from the corridor didn't penetrate the room. Standing at the doorway, once more uncertain, Menzar strained his eyes to see the furnishings, but the room was filled with a thick, full darkness, a waiting darkness, something more than the absence of light.

  Menzar couldn't decide whether to step back or step forward. Then he felt a phantom something whisper past him, leaving a mist so fine it almost wasn't there. But that mist was full of many things, and in his mind he saw a bouquet. of young faces, the faces of all the witches whose spirits he had so carefully pruned. He'd always considered himself a subtle gardener, but this room offered more. Much, much more.

  He stepped inside, drawn toward the center of the room by small phantom hands. Some playfully tugged, some caressed. The last one pressed firmly against his chest, stopping him from taking another step, before sliding down his belly and disappearing just before it reached his expectation.

  His disappointment was as sharp as the sound of the lock snapping into place.

  Cold. Dark. Silent.

  "H-High Lord?"

  "Yes, Lord Menzar," said a deep voice that rolled through the room like soft thunder. A seductive voice, caressing in the dark.

  Menzar licked his lips. "I must be going now."

  "That isn't possible."

  "I have another appointment."

  Slowly the darkness changed, lessened. A cold, silver light spread along the stone walls, floor, and ceiling, following the radial and tether lines of an i
mmense web. On the back wall hung a huge, black metal spider, its hourglass made of faceted rubies. Attached to the silver web embedded in the stone were knives of every shape and size.

  The only other thing in the room was a table.

  Menzar's sphincter muscles tightened.

  The table had a high lip and channels running to small holes in the corners. Glass tubing ran from the holes to glass jars.

  Stop this. Stop it. He was letting his own fear beat him. He was letting this room intimidate him. That old man certainly wasn't intimidating. He could easily brush aside that doddering old fool.

  Menzar turned around, ready to insist on leaving.

  It took him a long moment to recognize the man leaning against the door, waiting.

  "Everything has a price, Lord Menzar," Saetan crooned. "It's time to pay the debt."

  The water swirling into the drain finally ran clear. Saetan twisted the dials to stop the hard spray that had been pounding him. He held on to the dials for balance, resting his head on his forearm.

  It wasn't over. There were still the last details to attend to.

  He toweled himself briskly, dropped the towel on the narrow bed as he passed through the small bedroom adjoining his private study deep beneath the Hall in the Dark Realm. A carafe of yarbarah waited for him on the large blackwood desk. He reached for it, hesitated, then called in a decanter of brandy. He filled a glass almost to the rim and drank it down. The brandy would give him a fierce headache, but it would also soften the edges, blur the memories and twisted fantasies that had burst from Menzar's mind like pus from a boil.

  Brandy also didn't taste like blood, and the taste, the smell of blood wasn't something he could tolerate tonight.

  He poured his second glass and stood naked in front of the unlit hearth, staring at Dujae's painting Descent into Hell. A gifted artist to have captured in ambiguous shapes that mixture of terror and joy the Blood felt when first entering the Dark Realm.

  He poured his third glass. He had burned the clothes he'd worn. He had never been able to tolerate keeping the clothing worn for an execution. Some part of the fear and the pain always seemed to weave itself into the cloth. To be assaulted by it afterward. .