by Anne Bishop
6 / Terreille
"Kartane sent a report." Dorothea carefully selected a piece of sugared fruit, took a bite, and chewed slowly just to make Hekatah wait.
"And?" Hekatah finally asked. "Has the Gate in Glacia been secured for our use? Is the village ready for our hand-picked immigrants?"
Dorothea selected another piece of fruit. This time she gave it a couple of delicate licks before answering. "The villagers were eliminated. So were the Eyriens."
"What? How?"
"The messenger who met with Kartane couldn't find out what happened to the Eyriens, only that they had killed the villagers and had, in turn, been killed." She paused. "Lord Hobart's dead as well."
Hekatah stood perfectly still. "And the bitch-Queen, Karla? Was that, at least, successful?"
Dorothea shrugged. "She disappeared during the fighting. But since Ulka died rather... dramatically... one would assume she consumed the poison."
"Then that's the end of her," Hekatah said with a little smile of satisfaction. "Even if someone manages to figure out an antidote for the Hayllian poison in time, the witch-blood will finish things."
"Our plans for Glacia are also finished. Or hasn't that occurred to you?"
Hekatah waved that away. "Considering what we have achieved, that's a minor inconvenience."
Dorothea dropped the fruit back into the bowl. "We've achieved nothing."
"You're becoming inflexible, Dorothea," Hekatah said with venomous sweetness. "You're starting to act as old as you look."
Dorothea's blood pounded in her temples, and she wanted—oh, how she wanted—to unleash just a little of the feelings that had been growing more virulent. She hated Hekatah, but she also needed the bitch. So she sat back and inflicted a wound that would hurt much deeper than any physical blow. "At least I still have all my hair. That bald patch is starting to ooze, dearest."
Hekatah automatically lifted a hand to cover the spot. With effort, she lowered it before it reached her head.
The impotent hatred in Hekatah's dull gold eyes scared Dorothea a little but also produced a sense of vicious satisfaction.
"We can make do with sneaking through the other Gates," Hekatah said. "We have something better now."
"And what is that?" Dorothea asked politely.
"The excuse we needed to start the war." Hekatah's smile was pure malevolence.
"I see," Dorothea said, returning the smile.
"The immigrants we had picked to replace the villagers will go to Glacia—just as they would have if Hobart had given us that village as payment for our assistance. We'll also add a few immigrants from other Terreillean Territories. The escorts will be males who don't know where the original village was located. Only the Coach drivers will be told where to drop off the happy families—and that won't be anywhere near a settled area, so there won't be any chance of detection. The escorts will, of course, be dismayed to see no sign of a village waiting for inhabitants." A dreamy look filled Hekatah's eyes. "The company of Eyrien warriors who will be waiting for them will take care of things. The slaughter will be ... horrible. But there will be a couple of survivors who will manage to escape. They'll live long enough to get back to Little Terreille and tell a few people about how Terreilleans are being butchered in Kaeleer. And they'll live long enough to say that two men had been giving the orders—a Hayllian and an Eyrien."
"No one in Terreille will think it's anyone but Sadi and Yaslana," Dorothea said gleefully. "They'll think the High Lord ordered the attack and sent his sons to oversee it."
"Exactly."
"Which will prove that all my warnings were justified. And once people start wondering why there has been no word from friends or loved ones..." Dorothea sank back in her chair with a sigh of pleasure. Then she straightened up reluctantly. "We still have to find a way to contain Jaenelle Angelline."
"Oh, with the proper incentive, she'll willingly place herself in our hands."
Dorothea snorted. "What kind of incentive would make her do that?"
"Using someone she loves as bait."
7 / Kaeleer
Chilled to the bone, Saetan listened to Lucivar's and Daemon's reports. He would have liked to believe Lord Hobart had hired a company of Eyriens to help him seize control of Glacia, would have liked to believe Morton's death and the attack on Karla were strictly a Glacian concern. But he'd had other reports in the past twenty-four hours. Two District Queens in Dharo had been killed, along with their escorts. A mob of landens had attacked a kindred wolf pack that had recently formed around a young Queen. While the males were dealing with that threat, some Blood had outflanked them, killed the Queen, and vanished, leaving the landens behind to be slaughtered by the enraged males. In Scelt, a Warlord Prince, a youth still not quite old enough to make the Offering to the Darkness, had been found behind the tavern in his home village. His throat had been slit.
Even more troubling, Kalush had been attacked while walking through a park in Tajrana, her own capital city. The only reason neither she nor her infant daughter had been harmed was because her attackers couldn't break through the protective shield around her—the Ebony shield that was in the ring Jaenelle had given her—and because Aaron, alerted by the link through the Ring of Honor he wore, had arrived riding the killing edge and had destroyed the attackers with a savagery that bordered on insanity.
It didn't take any effort to see the pattern, especially since he recognized it. Fifty thousand years slipped away as if they had never existed. It might have been Andulvar and Mephis sitting there, voicing their concerns about swift, seemingly random attacks to a man who had insisted that, as a Guardian, he could no longer interfere with the affairs of the living. He was still a Guardian, but he was too entangled in the affairs of the living to obey the rules Guardians abided by.
They were going to war.
He wondered if Daemon and Lucivar realized it yet.
And he wondered how many loved ones he would have to assist through the transition to becoming demon-dead this time—and how many would disappear without a trace. Like Andulvar's son, Ravenar. Like his own son, his second son, Peyton.
"Father?" Daemon said quietly.
He realized they were both watching him intently, but it was Daemon he focused on. The son who was a mirror, who was his true heir. The son he understood the best— and the least.
Before he could start to tell them about the other attacks, Beale knocked on the study door and walked in.
"Forgive the intrusion, High Lord," Beale said, "but there's a Warlord here to see you. He has a letter."
"Then take the letter. I don't want to be disturbed at the moment."
"I suggested that, High Lord. He said he needs to deliver it in person."
Saetan waited a moment. "Very well."
Lucivar sprang out of his chair and positioned himself so that he would flank anyone standing near the desk. Daemon rose and resettled himself on a corner of the desk.
The intense warrior and the indolent male. Saetan imagined they had played these roles before—and played them well. With Lucivar's temper so close to the surface, the attention would be on him—but the death blow would come from Daemon.
The Warlord who entered the study was pale, nervous, and sweating. He paled even more when he saw Lucivar and Daemon.
Saetan walked around the desk. "You have a letter for me?"
The Warlord swallowed hard. "Yes, sir." He extended an envelope, the ink a little smeared from his hands.
Saetan probed the envelope. Found nothing. No trace of a spell. No trace of poison. He took it and looked at the Warlord.
"I found that in the guest room desk this morning," the man said hurriedly. "I didn't know it was there."
Saetan looked at the envelope. There was nothing on it except his name. "So you found it this morning. Is that significant?"
"I hope not. I mean—" The man took a deep breath, made an effort to steady himself. "Lord Magstrom is— was—my wife's grandfather. He came to visit us last
fall, just before... Well, before. He seemed disturbed about something, but we weren't paying much attention. My wife... We had just found out for sure that she was pregnant. She'd had a miscarriage the year before, and we were concerned that it might happen again. The Healer says she has to be careful."
Why was the man pleading with him? "Is your wife well?"
"Yes, thank you, she is, but she's had to be careful. Grandfather Magstrom didn't mention the letter. At least, I don't remember him mentioning it, and then, after he... was killed..." The man's hands trembled. "I hope it wasn't something urgent. As soon as I found it, I knew I had to come right away. I hope it wasn't urgent."
"I'm sure it's not," Saetan replied gently. "I expect it's just the usual information Lord Magstrom sent me after a service fair—a confirmation more than anything else."
The man's relief was visible.
Saetan glanced at the Warlord's Yellow Jewel. "May I offer you the use of a Coach to take you home?"
"Oh, I don't want to put you through any bother."
"It's no bother—and with a driver who can ride the darker Winds, you'll be home in time to have dinner with your Lady."
The Warlord hesitated a moment longer. "Thank you. I—don't like to be away from her too long." He looked a little sheepish. "She says I fuss."
Saetan smiled. "You're going to become a father. You're entitled to fuss." He led the man out of the study, gave Beale instructions about the Coach, and returned to Daemon and Lucivar. Using the letter opener on his desk, he carefully slit the envelope. He called in his half-moon glasses, opened the letter, and began to read.
"You got reports from Magstrom about the service fair?" Lucivar asked, accepting the glass of brandy Daemon poured for him.
"No." And the more he read, the less he liked receiving this one. As he read the letter a second time, he barely listened to Daemon's and Lucivar's conversation—until Daemon said something that caught his attention. "What did you say?"
"I said Lord Magstrom had indicated that he was going to send letters to some of the Queens outside of Little Terreille," Daemon repeated, swirling the brandy in his glass. "But after Jorval took over handling my immigration, I was told that the Queens outside of Little Terreille wouldn't consider a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince."
Lucivar snorted. "Jorval probably arranged for the letters not to be sent. Hell's fire, Daemon, you've met the other Territory Queens. They're the coven. If a letter had reached any one of them, she would have had her Steward at the service fair to sign the contract as fast as he could travel."
"Read this," Saetan said, handing the letter to Daemon.
"I don't understand," Daemon said when he'd read half the letter. "Aren't the lists supposed to indicate every immigrant at the service fair?"
"Yes, they are," Lucivar said grimly, reading over Daemon's shoulder. "And you weren't on any of them." He looked at Saetan. "I did mention that at the time."
"Yes, you did," Saetan replied, "but, since Daemon did end up in the Dark Court, I failed to appreciate the significance of that remark."
Daemon handed the letter back to Saetan. "There must have been a list somewhere. Otherwise, how would the Queens in Little Terreille have known I was available?"
Saetan kept his voice mild. "What Queens were those?"
"There were four Queens in Little Terreille who were willing to have me," Daemon said slowly. "Jorval insisted they were the only ones."
"So, if you hadn't met Lucivar by chance..."
Daemon froze. "I would have signed a contract with one of them."
Swearing quietly, Lucivar started to pace.
Saetan just nodded. "You would have signed a contract with one of Jorval’s handpicked Queens, and you would have ended up tucked away somewhere in Little Terreille— with no one else aware that you were there."
"What would have been the point of that?" Daemon said irritably.
"In Little Terreille they use the Ring of Obedience on immigrating males," Lucivar snapped. "That's the point. It would have been Terreille all over again."
"Not necessarily," Saetan said, still keeping his voice mild. "If Daemon was well treated, was handled with care—which I'm sure was part of the agreement—he would have had no reason not to use the strength of his Jewels against an enemy who was threatening the Queen he served. And after the first unleashing of the Black, there would have been no turning back. The lines would have been drawn."
Daemon stared at him.
"What does it matter?" Lucivar said, looking at the two of them uneasily. "Daemon's with us."
"Yes," Saetan said softly, "he is. But where are the other men whose names disappeared from those lists?"
8 / Kaeleer
The golden spider studied the two tangled webs of dreams and visions.
More deaths. Many deaths.
It was time.
Remember this web. Remember every strand, every thread.
Throughout the cold season, she had been pulled away from her own dreaming, compelled to study the web that had shaped this living myth, the Queen who was Witch. And she had realized it would not be enough, because living inside the flesh had changed this dream. It was more now. And, somehow, she needed to add that "more" to the web. Without it, Kaeleer's Heart would be gone for too many seasons—and would not be quite the same when the dream returned.
She continued to study the webs.
The brown dog, Ladvarian, was the key. He would be able to bring her the "more" she needed.
Yes. It was time.
She returned to the chamber within the sacred caves, and began to weave the web for dreams that were already made flesh.
Chapter Thirteen
1 / Kaeleer
The First Circle of the Dark Court gathered at the Keep. At least, the humans in the First Circle had gathered, Saetan amended as he listened to Khardeen's grim report about the attacks that had taken place in Scelt during the past three weeks. There had been attacks everywhere in the last three weeks. Maybe that was why the kindred hadn't answered Jaenelle's summons to come to the Keep. Maybe the kindred Queens and Warlord Princes didn't dare withdraw their strength away from their own lands. Or maybe it was the beginning of a rift between humans and kindred. Maybe they were withdrawing from what they considered a human conflict in order to save themselves.
But he would have thought Ladvarian, at the very least, would have come so that he could explain things to the rest of the kindred. He would have realized the conflict wouldn't be confined to humans. Hell's fire, kindred had already been attacked.
But Ladvarian wasn't there—and it worried him.
Two other things worried him: the flickers of grief and resignation he was picking up from Andulvar, Prothvar, and Mephis—who had all fought, and died, in the last war between Terreille and Kaeleer—and the fact that Jaenelle had been sitting there for the past two hours with such blankness in her eyes he started to wonder if she hadn't created a simple shadow to fill a space at the table.
"Just defending against these attacks isn't going to save our lands or our people," Aaron said. "There are Terreillean armies gathering against us. If the enemy who's already in Kaeleer gains control of a Gate and opens it for those armies... We need to do something now."
"Yes, you do need to do something," Jaenelle said in a hollow voice. "You need to retreat."
Protests from all sides rose up in a wave of sound.
"You need to retreat," Jaenelle repeated. "And you will send all of the Queens and Warlord Princes in your Territories to the Keep."
Stunned silence met that statement.
"But, Jaenelle," Morghann said after a moment, "the Warlord Princes are needed to lead the fighting. And asking Queens to leave their lands while their people are under attack ..."
"They won't be needed if the people retreat."
"Just how far are we supposed to retreat?" Gabrielle snapped.
"As far as necessary."
Aaron shook his head. "We need to gather our warriors into a
rmies to fight against the Terreilleans and—"
"Kaeleer will not go to war with Terreille," Jaenelle said in her midnight voice.
Chaosti sprang up from his seat. "We're already at war!"
"No, we are not."
"So we're at war with Little Terreille, since that's where these attackers have been hiding," Lucivar growled. "It's the same thing."
Jaenelle's eyes turned to ice. "We're not at war with anyone."
"Cat, you're not thinking—"
"Remember to whom you speak."
Lucivar looked into her eyes and paled. Finally, reluctantly, he said, "My apologies, Lady."
Jaenelle rose. "If there's time to retreat before the attack, do it. If not, keep the fighting to a minimum. Defend for as long as it takes to retreat, but don't attack. And get the Queens and Warlord Princes to the Keep. There will be no exceptions, and I'll accept no excuses."
A long silence filled the room after Jaenelle left.
"She's not thinking clearly," Kalush said reluctantly.
"She's been acting strange since the first attack," Gabrielle snapped, then looked apologetically at Karla.
"It's all right," Karla said slowly, with obvious effort. "She has been acting strange. I've wondered if healing me affected her somehow."
"What's affected her is her aversion to killing," Lucivar snarled. "But she's usually clear-sighted enough to be able to see the obvious. We're at war. Dancing around the word isn't going to change the fact."
"You would defy your Queen?" Daemon asked mildly, almost lazily.
Lucivar's instant, razor-edged tension startled all of them.
What's happening between them? Saetan wondered as Daemon and Lucivar just stared at each other. Seeing the sleepy look in Daemon's eyes, he felt ice wrap around his spine.
"I don't think the Lady understands the repercussions of her order," Lucivar said carefully.
"Oh," Daemon purred, "I think she understands them quite well. You just don't agree with her. That's not sufficient reason to disobey her."
"Considering what you've done in other courts, you're not exactly a model of obedience," Lucivar said with a little heat.