by Anne Bishop
He had been right. There were many, many ways for a man to die. Even as good as she was, she still had to make some effort to dispose of a body. The Sadist, however, never left the smallest trace.
Surreal stumbled into the shower and sighed as her tight muscles relaxed under the pounding hot water. At least there didn't seem to be any danger of stumbling upon him while she stayed in Beldon Mor.
4—Hell
Even the fierce pounding on his study door couldn't compete with Prothvar's unrestrained cursing and Jaenelle's shrieks of outrage.
Saetan closed the book on the lectern. There was a time, and not that long ago, when no one wanted to open that door, let alone pummel it into kindling. Easing himself onto a corner of the blackwood desk, he crossed his arms and waited.
Andulvar burst into the room, his expression an unsettling blend of fear and fury. Prothvar came in right behind him, dragging Jaenelle by the back of her dress. When she tried to break his grip, he grabbed her from behind and lifted her off her feet.
"Put me down, Prothvar!" Jaenelle cocked her knee and pistoned her leg back into Prothvar's groin.
Prothvar howled and dropped her.
Instead of falling, Jaenelle executed a neat roll in the air before springing to her feet, still a foot above the floor, and unleashing a string of profanities in more languages than Saetan could identify.
Saetan forced himself to look authoritatively neutral and decided, reluctantly, that this wasn't the best time to discuss Language Appropriate for Young Ladies. "Witch-child, kicking a man in the balls may be an effective way to get his attention, but it's not something a child should do." He winced when she turned all her attention on him.
"Why not?" she demanded. "A friend told me that's what I should do if a male ever grabbed me from behind. He made me promise."
Saetan raised an eyebrow. "This friend is male?" How interesting.
Before he could pursue it further, Andulvar rumbled ominously, "That's not the problem, SaDiablo."
"Then what is the problem?" Not that he really wanted to know.
Prothvar pointed at Jaenelle. "That little . . . she . . . tell him!"
Jaenelle clenched her hands and glared at Prothvar. "It was your fault. You laughed and wouldn't teach me. You knocked me down."
Saetan raised one hand. "Slow down. Teach you what?"
"He wouldn't teach me to fly," Jaenelle said accusingly.
"You don't have wings!" Prothvar snapped.
"I can fly as well as you can!"
"You haven't got the training!"
"Because you wouldn't teach me!"
"And I'm damn well not going to!"
Jaenelle flung out an Eyrien curse that made Prothvar's eyes pop.
Andulvar's face turned an alarming shade of purple before he pointed to the door and roared,"OUT!"
Jaenelle flounced out of the study with Prothvar limping after her.
Saetan clamped a hand over his mouth. He wanted to laugh. Sweet Darkness, how he wanted to laugh, but the look in Andulvar's eyes warned him that if he so much as chuckled, they were going to engage in a no-holds-barred brawl.
"You find this amusing," Andulvar rumbled, rustling his wings.
Saetan cleared his throat several times. "I suppose it's difficult for Prothvar to find himself on the losing end of a scrap with a seven-year-old girl. I didn't realize a warrior's ego bruises so easily."
Andulvar's grim expression didn't change.
Saetan became annoyed. "Be reasonable, Andulvar. So she wants to learn to fly. You saw how well she balances on air."
"I saw a lot more than that," Andulvar snapped.
Saetan ground his teeth and counted to ten. Twice. "So tell me."
Andulvar crossed his muscular arms and stared at the ceiling. "The waif's friend Katrine is showing her how to fly, but Katrine flies like a butterfly and Jaenelle wants to fly like a hawk, like an Eyrien. So she asked Prothvar to teach her. And he laughed, which, I admit, wasn't a wise thing to do, and she—"
"Got her back up."
"—jumped off the high tower of the Hall."
There was a moment of silence before Saetan exploded. "What?"
"You know the high tower, SaDiablo. You built this damned place. She climbed onto the top of the wall and jumped off. Do you still find it amusing?"
Saetan clamped his hands on the desk. His whole body shook. "So Prothvar caught her when she fell."
Andulvar snorted. "He almost killed her. When she jumped off, he dove over the side after her. Unfortunately, she was standing, on the air, less than ten feet below the ledge. When he went over the side, he barreled into her and took them both down almost three quarters of the way before he came out of the dive."
"Mother Night," Saetan muttered.
"And may the Darkness be merciful. So what are you going to do! "
"Talk to her," Saetan replied grimly as he flicked a thought at the door and watched it open smoothly and swiftly. "Witch-child."
Jaenelle approached him, her anger now cooled to the unyielding determination he'd come to recognize all too well.
Fighting to control his temper, Saetan studied her for a moment. "Andulvar told me what happened. Have you anything to say?"
"Prothvar didn't have to laugh at me. I don't laugh at him."
"Flying usually requires wings, witch-child."
"You don't need wings to ride the Winds. It's not that different. And even Eyriens need a little Craft to fly. Prothvar said so."
He didn't know which was worse: Jaenelle doing something outrageous or Jaenelle being reasonable.
Sighing, Saetan closed his hands over her small, frail-looking ones. "You frightened him. How was he to know you wouldn't just plummet to the ground?"
"I would have told him," she replied, somewhat chastened.
Saetan closed his eyes for a moment, thinking furiously. "All right. Andulvar and Prothvar will teach you the Eyrien way of flying. You, in turn, most promise to follow their instructions and take the training in the proper order. No diving off the tower, no surprising leaps from cliffs . . ." Her guilty look made his heart pound in a very peculiar rhythm. He finished in a strangled voice, ". . . no testing on the Blood Run . . . or any other Run until they feel you're ready."
Andulvar turned away, muttering a string of curses.
"Agreed?" Saetan asked, holding his breath.
Jaenelle nodded, unhappy but resigned.
Like the Gates, the Runs existed in all three Realms. Unlike the Gates, they only existed in the Territory of Askavi. In Terreille, they were the Eyrien warriors' testing grounds, canyons where winds and Winds collided in a dangerous, grueling test of mental and physical strength. The Blood Run held the threads of the lighter Winds, from White to Opal. The other . . .
Saetan swallowed hard. "Have you tried the Blood Run?"
Jaenelle's face lit up. "Oh, yes. Saetan, it's such fun." Her enthusiasm wavered as he stared at her.
Remember how to breathe, SaDiablo."And the Khaldharon?"
Jaenelle stared at the floor.
Andulvar spun her around and shook her. "Only a handful of the best Eyrien warriors each year dare try the Khaldharon Run. It's the absolute test of strength and skill, not a playground for girls who want to flit from place to place."
"I don't flit!"
"Witch-child," Saetan warned.
"I only tried it a little," she muttered. "And only in Hell."
Andulvar's jaw dropped.
Saetan closed his eyes, wishing the sudden stabbing pain in his temples would go away. It would have been bad enough if she'd tried the Khaldharon Run in Terreille, the Realm furthest from the Darkness and the full strength of the Winds, but to make the Run in Hell . . . "You will not make the Runs until Andulvar says you're ready!"
Startled by his vehemence, Jaenelle studied him. "I scared you."
Saetan circled the room, looking for something he could safely shred. "You're damn right you scared me."
She fluffed her hair a
nd watched him. When he returned to the desk, she performed a respectful, feminine curtsy. "My apologies, High Lord. My apologies, Prince Yaslana."
Andulvar grunted. "If I'm going to teach you to fly, I might as well teach you how to use the sticks, bow, and knife."
Jaenelle's eyes sparkled. "Sceron is teaching me the crossbow, and Chaosti is showing me how to use a knife," she volunteered.
"All the more reason you should learn Eyrien weapons as well," Andulvar said, smiling grimly.
When she was gone, Saetan looked at Andulvar with concern. "I trust you'll take into account her age and gender."
"I'm going to work her ass off, SaDiablo. If I'm going to train her, and it seems I have no choice, I'll train her as an Eyrien warrior should be trained." He grinned maliciously. "Besides, Prothvar will love being her opponent when she learns the sticks."
Once Andulvar was gone, Saetan settled into his chair behind the blackwood desk, unlocked one of the drawers, and pulled out a sheet of expensive white parchment half filled with his elegant script. He added three names to the growing list: Katrine, Sceron, Chaosti.
With the parchment safely locked away again, Saetan leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples. That list disturbed him because he didn't know what it meant. Children, yes. Friends, certainly. But all from Kaeleer. She must be gone for hours at a time in order to travel those distances, even on the Black Wind. What did her family think about her disappearances? What did they say? She never talked about Chaillot, her home, her family. She evaded every question he asked, no matter how he phrased it. What was she afraid of?
Saetan stared at nothing for a long time. Then he sent a thought on an Ebon-gray spear thread, male to male. "Teach her well, Andulvar. Teach her well."
5—Hell
Saetan left the small apartment adjoining his private study, vigorously toweling his hair. His nostrils immediately flared and the line between his eyebrows deepened as he stared at the study door.
Harpies had a distinctive psychic scent, and this one, patiently waiting for him to acknowledge her presence, made him uneasy.
Returning to the bedroom, he dressed swiftly but carefully. When he was seated behind the blackwood desk, he released the physical and psychic locks on the door and waited.
Her silent, gliding walk brought her swiftly to the desk. She was a slender woman with fair skin, oversized blue eyes, delicately pointed ears, and long, fine, silver-blond hair. She was dressed in a forest-green tunic and pants with a brown leather belt and soft, calf-high boots. Attached to the belt was an empty sheath. She wore no Jewels, and the wound across her throat was testimony to how she had died. She studied him, as he studied her.
The tension built in the room.
Harpies were witches who had died by a male's hand.
No matter what race they originally came from, they were more volatile and more cunning than other demon-dead witches, and seldom left their territory, a territory that even demon-dead males didn't dare venture into. Yet she was here, by her own choice. A Dea al Mon Black Widow and Queen.
"Please be seated, Lady," Saetan said, nodding to the chair before the desk. Without taking her eyes off him, she sank gracefully into the chair. "How may I help you?"
When she spoke, her voice was a sighing wind across a glade. But there was lightning in that voice, too. "Do you serve her?"
Saetan tried to suppress the shiver her words produced, but she sensed it and smiled. That smile brought his anger boiling to the surface. "I'm the High Lord, witch. I serve no one."
Her face didn't change, but her eyes became icy. "Hell's High Priestess is asking questions. That isn't good. So I ask you again, High Lord, do you serve her?"
"Hell has no High Priestess."
She laughed grimly. "Then no one has informed Hekatah of that small detail. If you don't serve, are you friend or enemy?"
Saetan's lip curled into a snarl. "I don't serve Hekatah, and while we were married once, I doubt she considers me a friend."
The Harpy looked at him in disgust. "She's important only because she threatens to interfere. The child, High Lord. Do you serve the child? Are you friend or enemy?"
"What child?" An icy dagger pricked his stomach.
The Harpy exploded from the chair and took a swift turn around the room. When she returned to the desk, her right hand kept rubbing the sheath as if searching for the knife that wasn't there.
"Sit down." When she didn't move, the thunder rolled in his voice. "Sit down."
Hekatah was suspicious of recent activities, and rumors of a strange witch appearing and disappearing from the Dark Realm had sharpened her interest. But he had no control of where Jaenelle went or who she saw. If the Harpies knew of her, then who else knew? How long would it be before Jaenelle followed a psychic thread that would lead her straight into Hekatah's waiting arms? And was this Harpy a friend or an enemy? "The child is known to the Dea al Mon," he said carefully.
The Harpy nodded. "She is friends with my kinswoman Gabrielle."
"And Chaosti."
A cruel, pleased smile brushed her lips. "And Chaosti. He, too, is a kinsman."
"And you are?"
The smile faded. Cold hatred burned in her eyes. "Titian." She swept her eyes over his body and then leaned back in the chair. "The one who broke me . . . he carries your family name but not your bloodline. I was barely twelve when I was betrayed and taken from Kaeleer. He took me for his amusement and broke me on his spear. But everything has a price. I left him a legacy, the only seed of his that will ever come to flower. In the end, he'll pay the debt to her. And when the time comes, she'll serve the young Queen."
Saetan exhaled slowly. "How many others know about the child?"
"Too many . . . or not enough. It depends upon the game."
"This isn't a game!" He became very still. "Let me in."
Loathing twisted Titian's face.
Saetan leaned forward. "I understand why being touched by a male disgusts you. I don't ask this lightly . . . or for myself."
Titian bit her lip. Her hands dug into the chair. "Very well."
Focusing his eyes on the fire, Saetan made the psychic reach, touched the first inner barrier, and felt her recoil. He patiently waited until she felt ready to open the barriers for him. Once inside, he drifted gently, a well-mannered guest. It didn't take long to find what he was looking for, and he broke the link, relieved.
They didn't know. Titian wondered, guessed too close. But no one outside his confidence knew for sure. A strange child. An eccentric child. A mysterious, puzzling child. That would do. His wise, cautious child. But he couldn't help wondering what experience had made her so cautious so young.
He turned back to Titian. "I'm teaching her Craft. And I serve."
Titian looked around the room. "From here?"
Saetan smiled dryly. "Your point's well taken. I've grown tired of this room. Perhaps it's time to remind Hell who rules."
"You mean who rules in proxy," Titian said with a predatory smile. She let the words linger for a moment. "It's good you're concerned, High Lord," she acknowledged reluctantly. "It's good she has so strong a protector. She's fearless, our Sister. It's wise to teach her caution. But don't be deceived. The children know what she is. She's as much their secret as their friend. Blood sings to Blood, and all of Kaeleer is slowly turning to embrace a single dark star."
"How do you know about the children?" Saetan asked suspiciously.
"I told you. I'm Gabrielle's kinswoman."
"You're dead, Titian. The demon-dead don't mingle with the living. They don't interfere with the concerns of the living Realms."
"Don't they, High Lord? You and your family still rule Dhemlan in Kaeleer." She shrugged. "Besides, the Dea al Mon aren't squeamish about dealing with those who live in the forever-twilight of the Dark Realm." Hesitating, she added, "And our young Sister doesn't seem to understand the difference between the living and the dead."
Saetan stiffened. "You think knowing me has confuse
d her?"
Titian shook her head. "No, the confusion was there before she ever knew of Hell or met a Guardian. She walks a strange road, High Lord. How long before she begins to walk the borders of the Twisted Kingdom?"
"There's no reason to assume she will," Saetan replied tightly.
"No? She will follow that strange road wherever it leads her. What makes you think a child who sees no difference between the living and the dead will see a difference between sanity and the Twisted Kingdom?"
"NO!" Saetan leaped out of his chair and went to stand before the fire. He tried to suppress the thought of Jaenelle sliding into madness, unable to cope with what she was, but the anxiety rolled from him in waves. No one else in the history of the Blood had worn the Black as a Birthright Jewel. No one else had had to shoulder the responsibility—and the isolation—that was part of the price of wearing so dark a Jewel at so young an age.
And he knew she had already seen things a child shouldn't see. He had seen the secrets and shadows in her eyes.
"Is there no one in Terreille you can trust to watch over her?"
Saetan let out a pained laugh. "Who would you trust, Titian?"
Titian rubbed her hands nervously on her trousers.
She was barely a woman when she died, he thought with tender sadness. So frail beneath all that strength. As they all are.
Titian licked her lips. "I know a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince who sometimes looks after those who need help. If approached, he might—"
"No," he said harshly, pride warring with fear. How ironic that Titian considered Daemon a suitable protector. "He's owned by Hekatah's puppet, Dorothea. He can be made to comply."
"I don't believe he'd harm a child."
Saetan returned to his desk. "Perhaps not willingly, but pain can make a man do things he wouldn't willingly do."
Titian's eyes widened with understanding. "You don't trust him." She thought it over and shook her head. "You're wrong. He's—"
"A mirror." Saetan smiled as she drew in a hissing breath. "Yes, Titian. He's blood of my blood, seed of my loins. I know him well . . . and not at all. He's a double-edged sword capable of cutting the hand that holds him as easily as he cuts the enemy." He led her to the door. "I thank you for your counsel and your concern. If you hear any news, I would appreciate being informed."