by Anne Bishop
"Since that wasn't an option this time..."
No, Surreal thought as Marian gave her a speculative look. If Lucivar had never suggested an alternative to intercourse, she certainly wasn't going to supply the information.
After a moment, Marian shrugged. "Usually when Jaenelle is his sparring partner, they just keep working through the moves until he's sweated out the tension. But this morning... Jaenelle's relatives showing up like this has put her on edge, too."
"Yeah, seeing her family again isn't a reason to cheer."
Marian stiffened. "Her family lives here."
"Yes," Surreal said after a minute, "I guess they do."
2 / Kaeleer
Wilhelmina walked silently beside Lucivar as he escorted her to her room. She wished he would put his arm around her. Maybe then she would stop shivering. Maybe then she wouldn't feel so afraid.
That was funny. A few hours ago, she'd been terrified of him, especially after she'd seen him and Jaenelle attacking each other with the sticks.
Afterward, she'd tried to slip back to the Hall before anyone noticed because she'd been sure her heart would just burst if any of those Eyrien warriors snarled at her when she couldn't do the exercises properly. But Lucivar had noticed her slinking away. He'd grabbed the back of her tunic and hauled her into the practice circle.
And he'd been kind. While other Eyriens instructed the other women, and Marian and some of the coven had demonstrated the moves, he had worked with her and the girl, Jillian. Never in a hurry, never impatient, his hands firm but gentle when he repositioned her body, his voice always calm and encouraging.
She hadn't expected that from him. And she hadn't expected him to stay with her when she went to meet Alexandra, Leland, and Philip.
She should have said "no" when the High Lord told her they were here and wanted to talk to her. But she'd felt an obligation to see them, since they'd come all this way.
They'd been angry when Lucivar refused to let the Province Queens and the escorts into the room and refused to leave himself. Oh, he'd gone out onto the balcony, but no one was going to forget his presence.
She could tell they had been as insulted as she had been relieved, but they had been glad to see her. They'd all hugged her and complimented her on how pretty she'd become and how worried they had been about her and how much they'd missed her...
And then Alexandra told her not to worry. They would find a way to break the contract and get her out of this place and away from these people. She'd tried to explain that she intended to honor the contract, that the High Lord and Prince Yaslana weren't the monsters Alexandra was trying to make them out to be.
They didn't listen, just as they hadn't listened years ago when her father, Robert Benedict, had tried to force himself on her after Jaenelle disappeared—a few months after he had come down with the illness that had finally killed him. She had run away because she'd been afraid that, one day, no one would hear her screams or, if they did, would ignore them because she was turning into a "difficult" child, just like Jaenelle.
They didn't listen. Because they were so sure they were right, so sure that they knew what was best. Even Philip. He kept telling her that it would be all right now, that Robert was dead so it would be all right. But it wouldn't be, couldn't be, all right because they thought of her as being "damaged" somehow—she could see that in their eyes—and anything she thought or felt or wanted would be colored by that conviction. And because she cared for Philip and knew he would be hurt by it, she couldn't tell them why she really wanted to stay there.
Her fear that they might actually be able to take her away after she'd struggled so hard to get to Kaeleer had escalated to the point where she had leaped up from the couch, and yelled, "No! I don't want to!"
Lucivar was in the room and hurrying her away from them before anyone else could move.
But she couldn't stop shaking, and the fear was eating her alive.
Lucivar's hand came down on her shoulder, stopping her. A moment later, he called in a flask. He vanished the cap, gripped the back of her head with one hand, and held the flask up to her lips.
"If you keep shaking like that, you're going to rip something," he said, sounding annoyed. "Take a sip of this. It'll settle your nerves."
"I don't want a sedative," Wilhelmina said, trying to pull away as desperation swelled inside her. "There's nothing wrong with me."
"Nothing except you've gone way past scared, and that's not good for you." Lucivar paused, studying her. "It's not a sedative, Wilhelmina," he said quietly. "It's Khary's home brew. It's got a kick to it that will mellow you out—and it'll also keep you from breaking apart. Now, hold your nose and swallow."
She didn't hold her nose. She did swallow the sip he gave her.
Golden.
It flowed over her tongue like ripe plums and summer heat, pooled in her stomach for a moment, and then flowed into her limbs.
When he offered her another swallow, she took it. That glorious heat melted her fear and produced a sensuous warmth inside her. If she had another sip, she might even feel brave—fiercely, wonderfully brave.
But Lucivar wasn't offering another sip. She wasn't aware that he'd released her, but he had the cap in one hand now and the flask in the other, and he was going to take away that delicious heat.
She snatched the flask and ran down the corridor, whipped around a corner, and guzzled as much as she could before he caught up to her and took it away.
She leaned against the wall and smiled at him. She felt enormously pleased when he took a couple of steps back and watched her warily.
Lucivar sniffed the flask, took a small sip, and said, "Shit."
"That would be a rude thing to do in the corridor."
He swore softly while he capped the flask and vanished it, but it sounded more like laughter. "Come on, little witch. Let's get you settled somewhere while you can still walk."
She walked toward him to prove that she could, but the floor suddenly got lumpy, and she tripped and fell against him.
"I am very brave," she told him, leaning against his chest.
"You are very drunk."
"Mmmm not." Then she remembered the important thing she had to do. The most important thing. "I want to see my sister." She smacked her hand as hard as she could against the surface she was leaning on to emphasize her point. She looked at her stinging hand. "It hurts."
"We'll have matching bruises," Lucivar said dryly.
"Okay."
Muttering, he steered her through the corridors.
She felt so wonderful, she wanted to sing, but all the songs she knew seemed so ... polite. "Do you know any naughty songs?"
"Mother Night," he muttered.
"Don't know that one. How does it go?"
"This way," he said, steering her around a corner.
She got away from him and ran down the corridor, flapping her arms. "I can flyyyyy."
When he caught her again, he wrapped one arm around her waist, knocked once on the door in front of them, and hauled her inside.
"Cat!"
Tears filled Wilhelmina's eyes when Jaenelle walked out of the adjoining room. The warm smile of greeting was all she needed to see.
Slipping out of Lucivar's grip, she stumbled a couple of steps and hugged Jaenelle.
"I've missed you," Wilhelmina said, laughing while tears ran down her face. "I've missed you so much. I'm sorry I wasn't braver. You were my little sister, and I should have looked after you. But you were the one who always looked after me." She leaned back, holding Jaenelle's shoulders for balance. "You're so pretty."
"And you're drunk." Those sapphire eyes stared at Lucivar. "What did you do to her?"
"Her nerves were so strained after meeting your relatives, I was afraid she'd break. So I asked Khary for the strongest brew he had in a flask because I figured she wouldn't take more than a sip." Lucivar winced. "She guzzled half the flask—and it wasn't one of his home brews, it was the concoction you created."
"No no no," Wilhelmina said, shaking her head. "You shouldn't ever drink a gravedigger until he's had a bath." She smiled placidly when Jaenelle and Lucivar just stared at her.
"Mother Night," Lucivar muttered.
"Do you know that song?" Wilhelmina asked Jaenelle.
"What did you have for breakfast?" Jaenelle demanded.
"Water. I was too nervous to eat. But I'm not nervous anymore. I am very brave and fierce."
Lucivar wrapped one hand around her arm. "Why don't you sit on the couch now?"
She headed straight across the room—more or less. When he started to lead her around the table, she dug in her heels.
"I can go through the table," she announced proudly. "I studied my Craft. I want to show Jaenelle that I can do that now."
"You want to do something really challenging?" Lucivar asked. "Then let's walk around the table. Right now, that will be impressive."
"Okay."
Getting around the table was sufficiently challenging, especially since Lucivar kept getting his feet in the way. When she finally reached the couch, she plopped down next to Jaenelle. "I brushed Dejaal, and now he likes me. If I brushed Lucivar, do you think he'd like me, too?"
"He'd promise to like you if you stopped stepping on him," Lucivar growled softly while he pulled off her shoes.
"It's Marian's job to brush Lucivar," Jaenelle said solemnly.
"Okay."
"Why don't I have some coffee and toast sent up?" Lucivar said.
Wilhelmina watched Lucivar until he left the room. "I used to think he was scary. But he's just big."
"Uh-huh. Why don't you lie down for a little while?" Jaenelle said.
Wilhelmina obeyed. When Jaenelle finished tucking a blanket around her, she said, "Everyone said you had died, but when they talked to me, they said we had 'lost' you. But I always knew you weren't lost because you told me where to find you. How could you be lost when you knew where you were?"
She looked into Jaenelle's sapphire eyes. The mind behind those eyes was so vast. But she wasn't afraid of that anymore. "You always knew where you were. Didn't you?"
"Yes," Jaenelle replied softly. "I always knew."
3 / Kaeleer
Alexandra paused, took a deep breath, and opened the door without knocking.
The golden-haired woman grinding herbs with a mortar and pestle didn't turn around, didn't indicate in any way that she knew someone was there. A large bowl floated above the worktable, heated by three tongues of witchfire. A spoon lazily stirred the bowl's contents.
Alexandra waited. After a minute, she said in a tight voice, "Could you stop fiddling with that for a minute and say 'hello' to your grandmother? After all, it's been thirteen years since I've seen you."
"A minute or so won't make any difference to a greeting that's waited for thirteen years," Jaenelle replied, pouring the finely ground herbs into the bowl's bubbling contents. "But it will make a difference to this tonic developing the right potency." She half turned, gave Alexandra one slashing glance, then focused her attention on the brew.
Alexandra clenched her teeth, remembering why she had found this granddaughter so different to deal with. Even as a small child, Jaenelle had displayed these gestures of superiority, implying that she had no reason to show respect for her elders or yield to a Queen.
Why? For the first time, Alexandra wondered. She'd always assumed, along with everyone else, that those displays were attempts to compensate for not wearing the Jewels, for being less than the other witches in the family. But, perhaps, they had been a result of someone—like the High Lord—whispering sweet lies into a child's ear until the girl truly believed she was superior.
She shook her head. It was hard to believe that the child who had been unable to do the simplest Craft lessons could grow up to become some terrible, powerful threat to the Realm of Terreille as Dorothea claimed. If that were true, where was the power? Even now, when she was trying to sense Jaenelle's strength, it felt... muted... just as it always had. Distant, which was the way a Blood female who didn't have enough psychic strength to wear a Jewel felt.
That meant Jaenelle was just a pawn in an elaborate game. The High Lord—or, perhaps, the mysterious Queen who ruled this court—wanted a figurehead to hide behind.
"What are you making?" Alexandra asked.
"A tonic for a young boy who's ill," Jaenelle replied, adding a dark liquid to the brew.
"Shouldn't a Healer be doing that?" Hell's fire, are they really letting her make tonics for people?
"I am a Healer," Jaenelle replied tartly. "I'm also a Black Widow and a Queen."
Of course you are.With effort, Alexandra bit back the words. She would remain calm; would forge a bond, somehow, with her younger granddaughter; would remember that Jaenelle had already endured some terrible experiences.
Then Jaenelle finished making the tonic and turned around.
Staring into those sapphire eyes, Alexandra forgot about remaining calm or forging a bond. Staggered by the... something... that looked at her out of those eyes, she groped for an explanation that would fit.
When she found it, she wanted to weep.
Jaenelle was insane. Totally, completely insane. And that monster who ruled here indulged that insanity for his own reasons. He let Jaenelle think she was Healer and a Black Widow and a Queen. He would probably let her give that tonic to a sick little boy, regardless of what the stuff would actually do to a child.
"Why are you here, Alexandra?"
Alexandra shivered at the sound of that midnight voice, then gave herself a mental shake. The child had always indulged in theatrics. "I came to take you and Wilhelmina home."
"Why? For the past thirteen years, you thought I was dead. Since that was far more convenient for you than having me alive, why didn't you just continue to pretend I was dead?"
"We weren't pretending," Alexandra said hotly. Jaenelle's words hurt, mostly because they were true. It had been easier mourning a dead child than dealing with the difficult girl. But she would never admit that. "We thought you were dead, that Sadi had killed you."
"Daemon would never have hurt me."
But you would— and did.That was the message underneath the cold, flat reply.
"Leland is your mother. I'm your grandmother. We're your family, Jaenelle."
Jaenelle shook her head slowly. "This body can trace its bloodline to you. That makes us related. It doesn't make us family." She moved toward the door. When she was just about to pass Alexandra, she stopped. "You apprenticed with an Hourglass coven for a little while, didn't you? Before you had to make the choice between becoming a Black Widow and becoming Chaillot's Queen."
Alexandra nodded, wondering where this was leading.
"You learned enough to make the simplest tangled webs, the kind that would absorb a focused intent and draw that object to you. Isn't that true?" When she nodded again, Jaenelle's eyes filled with sadness and understanding. "How many times did you sit before one of those webs dreaming that something would help you keep Chaillot safe from Hayll's encroachment?"
Alexandra couldn't speak, could barely breathe.
"Has it ever occurred to you that that may be the answer to the riddle? Saetan was also an intense dreamer. The difference is that when the dream appeared, he recognized it." Jaenelle opened the door. "Go home, Alexandra. There's nothing—and no one—for you here."
"Wilhelmina," Alexandra whispered.
"She'll fulfill the eighteen months of her contract. After that, she can do as she pleases." There was something awful and ironic about Jaenelle's smile. "The Queen commands it."
Alexandra took a deep breath. "I want to see this Queen."
"No, you don't," Jaenelle replied too softly. "You don't want to stand before the Dark Throne." She paused. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to finish this tonic. It's simmered long enough."
Dismissed. As casually as that, she was being dismis
sed.
Alexandra left the workroom, relieved to be away from Jaenelle. She found one of the inner gardens and settled on a bench. Maybe the sun would take away the chill that had seeped into her bones. Maybe then she could believe she was shaking from cold and not because Jaenelle had mentioned something she had never told anyone.
Her paternal grandmother had been a natural Black Widow. That's what had drawn Alexandra to the Hourglass in the first place. But by then, the aristo Blood in Chaillot were already starting to whisper about Black Widows being "unnatural" women, and the other Queens and the Warlord Princes would never have chosen a Queen who was also a witch of the Hourglass covens.
So she left her apprenticeship and, a few years later when her maternal grandmother stepped down, became the Queen of Chaillot. But during her first few years as Queen, she had secretly woven those simple tangled webs. She had dreamed that something or someone would appear in her life that would help her fight against Hayll's undermining of Chaillot society. At the time, she had thought it would be a Consort—a strong male who would support and help her. But no man like that had ever appeared in her life.
Then, when her Black Widow grandmother had been dying, Alexandra had been given what she came to think of as the riddle. What you dream for will come, but if you're not careful, you'll be blind until it's too late.
So she had waited. She had watched. The dream hadn't come. And she would not, could not, believe that a disturbed, eccentric child had been the answer to the riddle.
4 / Kaeleer
As he stared out the window, he reached inside his shirt and fingered the slim glass vial that hung from a chain around his neck. The High Priestess of Hayll had assured him that she and the Dark Priestess had woven the strongest spells they knew to keep him undetected. So far, they had worked. No one sensed he was anything more than another escort Alexandra Angelline had brought with her. He was just a bland man, almost invisible. That suited him perfectly.
It had sounded so easy when he'd been given the assignment. Find the target, drug her so that she would be complacent, and then slip her out of the Hall to the men who would be waiting just beyond the boundaries of the estate. When he'd seen the size of the place, he'd thought it would be even easier.