Bishop, Anne - Dark Jewels 02 - Heir to the Shadows (v1.0)

by Heir to the Shadows [lit]

  Tonight, Greer took a risk and paid for it.

  If he'd had time to use his Jewels, it might have turned out differently, but he'd been allowed to reach the Dark Altar and go through the Gate unchallenged, so he had no reason to expect they'd be waiting for his return. Once he'd left the Sanctuary, the Harpy attacks had come so fast and so fierce all he could do was shield himself and try to escape. Even so, a number of Harpies burned themselves out and vanished to become a whisper in the Darkness. Titian didn't grieve for them. Their twilight existence had dissolved in fierce joy.

  In the end it was one frightened mind against so many enraged ones probing for weakness, while Titian's trained Hounds constantly lunged at the body, forcing Greer to use more and more of the reserved strength in his Jewels to keep them away. The Harpies broke through his inner barriers at the same moment Titian's arrow drove through his body and pinned it to a tree.

  As the Harpies pulled the body away from the tree and began carving up the meat, Titian picked through Greer's mind as delicately as if she were picking the meat from a cracked nut. She saw the children he'd feasted on. She saw the narrow bed, the blood on the sheets, the familiar young face that had been bruised by his maimed hands. She saw Surreal's horn-handled dagger driving into his heart, slicing his throat. She saw him smiling at her when his own knife had slit her throat centuries ago. And she saw where he'd been tonight.

  Titian sheathed the knife and checked the blade of the small ax propped beside her.

  She regretted not bringing him down before he reached Little Terreille. If Greer's assessment of Lord Jorval was correct, the whispers would begin soon.

  A Guardian wasn't a natural being in a living Realm.

  There would always be whispering and wondering—especially when that Guardian was also the High Lord of Hell. And she could guess well enough how the Kaeleer Queens were going to react to the rumors.

  She would visit her kinswomen, tell them what she wanted from them if the opportunity presented itself. That would help.

  Titian picked up her ax. The Harpies moved aside for their Queen.

  The limbs were gone. The torso was empty. The eyes still held a glimmer of intelligence, a glimmer of Self. Not much, but enough.

  With three precise strokes, Titian split Greer's skull. Using the blade, she opened one of the splits until it was wide enough for her fingers. Then she tore the bone away.

  She looked into Greer's eyes. Still enough there.

  Whistling for the pack leader, she walked away, smiling, while the Hound began feasting on the brain.

  7 / Kaeleer

  Saetan brushed his hair for the third time because it gave him something to do. Like buffing his long, black-tinted nails twice. Like changing his jacket and then changing back to the first one.

  He stopped himself from reaching for the hairbrush again, straightened his already straight jacket, and sighed.

  Would the children come?

  He hadn't requested a reply to the invitation because he had wanted to give the children as much time as possible to gather their courage or wear down their elders' arguments—and because he was afraid of what rejection dribbling in day after day might do to Jaenelle.

  As he had promised, he or other members of the family had delivered all the invitations. Some had been left at the child's residence. Most had been left at message stones, the piles of rocks just inside a Territory's border where travelers or traders could leave a message requesting a meeting. He had no idea how messages left in those places reached

  the intended person, and he doubted those children would be here this afternoon. He didn't know what to expect from the children in the accessible Territories. He only hoped Andulvar was right and that little witch from Glacia would be here, stepping on his toes.

  Taking a deep breath that still came out as a sigh, Saetan left his suite to join the rest of the family and Cassandra in the great hall.

  Everyone was there except Jaenelle and Sylvia. Halaway's Queen had been delighted when he'd told her about the party and had used her considerable enthusiasm to browbeat Jaenelle into a shopping trip for a new outfit. They didn't come back with a dress, but he'd had to admit, grudgingly, that the soft, full, sapphire pants and long, flowing jacket were very feminine-looking, even if the skimpy gold-and-silver top worn beneath the jacket. ... As a man, he approved of the top; as a father, it made him grind his teeth.

  As soon as she saw him, Cassandra took his arm and led him away from the other men. "Do you think it's wise for everyone to be out here?" she asked quietly. "Won't it be too intimidating?"

  "And whom would you ask to leave?" Saetan replied, knowing full well he was one of the people she thought should be absent.

  After receiving his note, Cassandra had arrived to help with the preparations, but she'd acted too forcedly cheerful, as if she were really preparing for the moment when Jaenelle would face an empty drawing room. Sylvia, on the other hand, had thrown herself into the preparations and had bristled at anyone who dared to express a doubt.

  A wise man would have locked himself in his study and stayed there. Only a fool would have left two witches alone when they were constantly circling and spitting at each other like angry cats.

  When Cassandra didn't answer his question, Saetan took his place in the great hall. Andulvar was one step behind him on his left. Mephis and Prothvar were on Andulvar's left and a little to the side so that they weren't part of the official greetings. Cassandra stood on Saetan's right, one

  step behind. By rights she should have stood beside him, Black with Black, and he was only too aware of why she was using an option of Protocol to distance herself from him.

  Saetan turned toward the sound of feet racing down the staircase in the informal drawing room.

  Sylvia burst into the great hall, looking a little too lovely with her golden eyes shining and her cheeks flushed. "The wolf pups hid Jaenelle's shoes and it took a while to find them," she said breathlessly. "She's on her way down, but I didn't want to be late."

  Saetan smiled at her. "You're not—"

  A clock struck three times.

  Cassandra made a quiet, unhappy sound and stepped away from him.

  For the first time since he'd told her about the party, Sylvia's eyes filled with concern.

  They all stood in the great hall, silently waiting, while Beale stood woodenly by the front door and the footmen who would take the outer garments stared straight ahead.

  The minutes ticked past.

  Sylvia rubbed her forehead and sighed. "I'd better go up—"

  "We don't need any more of your kind of help," Cassandra said coldly as she brushed past Sylvia. "You set her up . for this."

  Sylvia grabbed Cassandra's arm and spun her around. "Maybe I was too enthusiastic, but you did everything but say outright that she would never have a friend for the rest of her life!"

  "Ladies," Saetan warned, stepping toward them.

  "What could you possibly know about wearing the Black?" Cassandra snapped. "I lived with that isolation—"

  "La—"

  boom!

  "Hell's fire," Andulvar muttered.

  boom!

  Beale leaped to open the front door while it was still intact.

  She swept into the great hall, stopping where the sunlight

  coming from the lead glass window above the double doors produced a natural spotlight. Tall and slim, she wore severely tailored, dark blue trousers, a loose jacket, and heeled boots. Her white-blond hair rose in spiky peaks above her head like sculptured ice. Darkened eyebrows and lashes framed ice-blue eyes.

  "Sisters," she said, giving Sylvia and Cassandra a perfunctory nod that couldn't quite be called insolent. Then her eyes raked over Saetan from head to toe.

  Saetan held his breath. Even if Lord Morton hadn't slunk in behind her, he would have bet this was Karla, the young Glacian Queen.

  "Well," Karla said, "you're not bad-looking for a corpse."

  Before he could reply, Jaenelle
's serene but amused voice said, "You're only half-right, darling. He's not a corpse."

  Karla whirled toward the informal drawing room, where Jaenelle leaned against the doorway, her fingers hooked in the jacket thrown over one shoulder.

  Karla let out a screech that raised the hairs on Saetan's neck.

  "You've got tits!" Karla pulled open the blue jacket, revealing a silver, just as skimpy top. "So do I, if you call these lovely little bee stings tits." Smiling the wickedest smile Saetan had ever seen, she turned back to him. "What do you think?"

  He didn't stop to think. "Are you asking if I think they're lovely or if I think they're bee strings?"

  Karla closed the jacket, crossed her arms, and narrowed those ice-blue eyes. "Sassy, isn't he?"

  "Well, he is a Warlord Prince," Jaenelle replied.

  Ice-blue eyes met sapphire eyes. Both girls smiled.

  Karla shrugged. "Oh, all right. I'll be a polite guest." She stepped up to Saetan, and that wicked smile bloomed. "Kiss kiss."

  He refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing him

  wince.

  Karla turned away from him and headed for Jaenelle. "You've got some explaining to do. I had to figure out all

  those damn spells by myself." She swept Jaenelle into the drawing room and closed the door.

  Saetan stared at his shoe. "Damn it, she did step on my toes," he muttered before realizing Morton had come close enough to hear him.

  "H-High Lord."

  "Lord Morton, I have only one thing to say to you."

  "Sir?" Morton tried to suppress a shiver.

  Saetan tried to suppress a rueful smile and couldn't. "You have my heartfelt sympathy."

  Morton melted with relief. "Thank you, sir. I could use it."

  "Help yourself to the refreshments in there," Saetan said, making a slight gesture toward the closed door. "And if they start making plans to knock down any walls, let me know."

  bang!

  For one panicked moment, Saetan thought the caution had been made too late. Then he realized someone was, more or less, knocking on the front door.

  If Karla was ice, this one was fire, with her dark red hair flowing down her back, her green eyes flashing, and a swirling gown that looked like an autumn woods in motion. She headed for Saetan but veered when Jaenelle and Karla poked their heads out of the drawing room. Grinning, she held up a cloth bundle. "I wasn't sure if we would end up in the stables or digging in the garden, so I brought some real clothes."

  Saetan stifled a growl. Didn't any of them like to dress up?

  The girls disappeared into the drawing room—and closed the door.

  The youth who'd come in with the fire witch was tall, good-looking, and a couple of years older. He had curly brown hair and blue eyes. Smiling, he extended one hand in informal greeting.

  With his stomach sinking toward his heels, Saetan clasped the offered hand. There were a lot of ways he could describe those blue eyes. They all meant trouble.

  "You must be the High Lord," the young Warlord said

  with a smile. "I'm Khardeen, from the isle of Scelt." He jerked his thumb toward the drawing room. "That's Morghann."

  The drawing room door opened. Jaenelle approached them hesitantly. Then she held out both hands in formal greeting. "Hello, Khary."

  Khary looked at the offered hands and turned back to Saetan. "Did Jaenelle ever tell you about her adventure with my uncle's stone—"

  "Khary," Jaenelle gasped, glancing nervously at Saetan.

  "Hmm?" Khary smiled at her. "Did you know that a proper hug can toss a thought right out of a man's head? It's a well-known fact. I'm surprised you hadn't heard of it."

  Jaenelle had been balanced on the balls of her feet, ready to bolt. Now her heels came down and her eyes narrowed. "Really."

  Watching the two of them, Saetan decided the prudent thing was to stand still and keep his mouth shut.

  Seconds passed. When Jaenelle didn't move, Khardeen turned back to him. "You see, my—"

  Jaenelle moved.

  "You don't have to hug all the air out of me," Khary said as he carefully wrapped his arms around her.

  "Now what were you going to say?" Jaenelle asked ominously.

  "About what?" Khary replied sweetly.

  Laughing, Jaenelle threw her arms around his neck. "I'm glad you came, Khardeen. I've missed you."

  Khary gently untangled himself. "We'll have plenty of time to catch up on things. Right now you'd better get back to your sisters or I'll get the sharp side of Morghann's tongue for the rest of the day."

  "Compared to Karla, Morghann's tongue doesn't have a sharp side."

  "All the more reason then."

  With another nervous glance at Saetan, Jaenelle bolted for the drawing room. She had just reached it when someone knocked on the door. It almost sounded polite. '

  They must have appeared-on the landing web within sec-

  onds of each other and approached the door en masse because he knew this group didn't come from the same Territories. And since they spared him no more than an uneasy glance before focusing on Jaenelle, he was forced to deduce who they were by the names on the invitations.

  The satyrs from Pandar were Zylona and Jonah. The small, pixie-faced darling with the dusky hair and iridescent wings who was perched on Jonah's shoulder was Katrine from Philan, one of the Paw Islands. The black-haired, gray-eyed youth who strongly reminded Saetan of the young wolves now living in the north woods was Aaron from Dharo. Sabrina, a hazel-eyed brunette, was also from Dharo. The two tawny-skinned, dark-striped youngsters were Grezande and Elan from Tigrelan.

  The last of the group—a petite witch with a lusciously rounded figure, soft brown eyes, and dark brown hair— hugged Jaenelle, shyly approached him, and introduced herself as Kalush from Nharkhava.

  There was a sweetness about her that made Saetan want to cuddle her. Instead, he slid his hands beneath her offered ones in formal greeting, and said, "I'm honored to meet you, Lady Kalush."

  "High Lord." She had a husky voice that would do wonderfully bad things to young men's libidos. He pitied her father.

  Beale, looking slightly dazed, started to close the door when it was yanked out of his grasp.

  Saetan pushed Kalush toward Andulvar and tensed.

  The centaurs walked in.

  The young witch, Astar, headed for the girls. The Warlord Prince continued down the great hall until he was standing in front of Saetan.

  "High Lord." The greeting sounded more like a challenge.

  "Prince Sceron."

  Sceron was a few years older than the others, old enough to have begun filling out the massive shoulders and the powerfully built upper body. The rest of him would have done any stallion proud.

  There was an unasked question in Sceron's eyes, and an anger in him that seemed ready to blaze into rage.

  Jaenelle stepped into that frozen silence, balled her hand into a fist, and drove it into Sceron's upper arm.

  Sceron grabbed her and lifted her until they were eye to eye.

  "That's for not saying hello," Jaenelle said.

  Sceron studied her face and finally smiled. "You are well?"

  "I was better before you rumpled me."

  Laughing, Sceron put her down.

  Someone gasped.

  Saetan felt a shiver run up his spine and looked toward the door.

  Because he hadn't expected them to come, he hadn't thought about how the others would react to their presence. But they had come. The Children of the Wood. The Dea al Mon.

  They both had the slender, sinewy build that was as inherent to their race as the delicately pointed ears. Both wore their silver hair long and unbound. Both had the large, forest-blue eyes, although the girl's had a touch more gray.

  The girl, Gabrielle, stopped just inside the door. The boy—oh, no, it would be extremely foolish to think of Chaosti as a boy—came forward slowly, silently.

  Saetan fought the instincts that always came to the fore at the ap
pearance of an unknown Warlord Prince. Because they hadn't approached him, Elan and Aaron hadn't pricked those instincts. Sceron had just managed to scratch the surface. But this one, calmly staring at him with those large eyes, made all the aggressiveness and territoriality that was part of a Warlord Prine boil to the surface.

  Saetan felt himself rising to the killing edge, and knew Chaosti was also rising, but instinct was driving him too hard to hold it back.

  "Chaosti," Jaenelle said in her midnight voice.

  Chaosti slowly turned to face her.

  "He's my father, Chaosti," Jaenelle said. "By my choice."

  After a long moment, Chaosti placed a hand over his heart. "By your choice, cousin," he replied in a deceptively quiet tenor voice.

  Jaenelle led the girls into the informal drawing room and closed the door.

  The males let out a collective sigh of relief.

  Chaosti turned to face Saetan. "She's been away so long and has been deeply missed. Titian said you weren't to blame, but—"

  "But I'm the High Lord," Saetan said with a trace of bitterness.

  "No," Chaosti replied, smiling coolly, "you are not Dea al Mon."

  Saetan felt his body relax. "Why do you call her 'cousin'?"

  "Gabrielle and I belong to the same clan. Grand mammy Teele is the matriarch. She also adopted Jaenelle." Chaosti's smile turned feral. "So you are kin of my kin—which makes you Titian's kin as well."

  Saetan wheezed.

  Khardeen approached them. "If we want anything to eat, I think we're going to have to fight for it," he said to Chaosti.

  "I'll accept any challenge a male wants to make," Chaosti snapped.

  "The girls are between us and the food."

  Chaosti sighed. "Challenging another male would be easier."

  "Safer, too."

  "Gentlemen," Beale said. "Refreshments are also being served in the formal drawing room."

  "Have you ever heard that red-haired witches have hot tempers?" Khardeen asked as he and Chaosti followed the other males into the formal drawing room.

  "There are no red-haired witches among the Dea al Mon," Chaosti replied, "and they all have hot tempers."