by Anne Bishop
She turned at the doorway and studied him. "What if she sings to his blood as strongly as she sings to yours?"
"Lady." Saetan quietly closed the door on her and locked it. Returning to his desk, he poured a glass of yarbarah and watched the small tongue of fire dance above the desktop, warming the blood wine.
Daemon was a good Warlord Prince, which meant he was a dangerous Warlord Prince.
Saetan drained the glass. He and Daemon were a matched pair. Did he really believe his namesake was a threat to Jaenelle or was it jealousy over having to yield to a potential lover, especially when that lover was also his son? Because he honestly couldn't answer that question, he hesitated to give the order for Daemon's execution.
As yet there was no reason to send for Marjong the Executioner. Daemon was nowhere near Chaillot and, for some reason, Jaenelle didn't wander around Terreille as she did Kaeleer. Perhaps Titian was right about Daemon, but he couldn't take the chance. His namesake had the cunning to ensnare a child and the strength to destroy her.
But if Daemon had to be executed to protect Jaenelle, it wouldn't be a stranger's hand that put him in his grave, He owed his son that much.
PART II
CHAPTER THREE
1—Kaeleer
Saetan smiled dryly at his reflection. His full head of black hair was more silvered at the temples than it had been five years ago, but the lines left in his face by illness and despair had softened while the laugh lines had deepened.
Turning from the mirror, he strolled the length of the second-floor gallery. His bad leg still stiffened if he walked too long, but he no longer needed that damned cane. He laughed softly. Jaenelle was a bracing tonic in more ways than one.
As he descended the staircase that ended in the informal reception room, he noticed the tall, slim woman watching him through narrowed eyes. He also noticed the ring of keys attached to her belt and felt relieved that finding the current housekeeper had been so easy.
"Good afternoon," he said pleasantly. "Are you Helene?"
"And what if I am?" She crossed her arms and tapped her foot.
Well, he hadn't expected an open-armed welcome, but still . . . He smiled at her. "For a staff who's had no one to serve for so long and so little incentive, you've kept the place quite well."
Helene's shoulders snapped back and her eyes glinted with anger. "We care for the Hall because it's the Hall." Her eyes narrowed even further. "And who are you?" she demanded.
He raised an eyebrow. "Who do you think I am?"
"An interloper, that's what I think," Helene snapped, placing her hands on her hips. "One of those who sneaks in here from time to time to gawk and 'soak up the atmosphere.'"
Saetan laughed. "They'd do well not to soak up too much of the atmosphere of this place. Although it was always calmer than its Terreille counterpart. I suppose after so many years away, I am an interloper of sorts, but . . ." He raised his right hand. As the Black Jewel in the ring flashed, there was an answering rumble from the stones of SaDiablo Hall.
Helene paled and stared at him.
He smiled. "You see, my dear, it still answers my call. And I'm afraid I'm about to wreak havoc with your routine."
Helen fumbled a low curtsy. "High Lord?" she stammered.
He bowed. "I'm opening the Hall."
"But . . ."
Saetan stiffened. "There's a problem with that?"
There was a gleam in Helene's gold eyes as she briskly wiped her hands on her large white apron. "A thorough cleaning will help, to be sure, but"—she looked pointedly at the drapes—"some refurbishing would help even more."
The tension drained out of him. "And give you something to be proud of instead of having to make do with an empty title?"
Helene blushed and chewed her lip.
Hiding a smile, Saetan vanished the drop cloths and studied the room. "New drapes and sheers definitely. With a good polishing, the wood pieces will still do, providing the preservation spells have held and they're structurally sound. New sofas and chairs. Plants by the windows. A few new paintings for the walls as well. New wallpaper or paint? What do you think?"
It took Helene a moment to find her voice. "How many rooms are you thinking of restoring?"
"This one, the formal receiving room across the hall, the dining room, my public study, my suite, a handful of guest rooms—and a special suite for my Lady."
"Then perhaps your Lady would like to oversee the redecorating."
Saetan looked at her with horrified amusement. "No doubt she would. However, my Lady will be twelve in four months, and I'd much prefer that she live in a suite I've decorated on her behalf than that I live in a Hall decorated with her somewhat . . . eclectic . . . tastes."
Helene stared at him for a moment but refrained from asking the question he saw in her eyes. "I could have some swatch books brought up to the Hall for you to choose from."
"An excellent idea, my dear. Do you think you can have this place presentable in four months?"
"The staff is rather small, High Lord," Helene said hesitantly.
"Then hire the help you need." Saetan strolled to the door that opened onto the great hall. "I'll meet you again at the end of the week. Is that sufficient time?"
"Yes, High Lord." She curtsied again.
Having been born in the slums of Draega, Hayll's capital, as the son of an indifferent whore, he'd never expected or wanted servants to grovel in his presence. He didn't mention this to Helene because, if he read her right, that was the last curtsy he would ever receive.
At the end of the great hall, he hesitated before opening the door of his public study. He walked around the room, lightly touching the covered furniture, grimacing slightly at his dusty fingertips.
He'd once ruled Dhemlan Kaeleer from this room. Still ruled, he reminded himself. He'd given Dhemlan Terreille to Mephis when he became a Guardian, but not her sister land in the Shadow Realm.
Ah, Kaeleer. It had always been a sweet wine for him, with its deeper magic and its mysteries. Now those mysteries were coming out of the mist once more, and the magic was still strong. Strand by strand, Jaenelle was rebuilding the web, calling them all to the dance.
He hoped she'd be pleased to have the use of this place. He hoped he'd be invited when she established her own court. He wanted to see whom she selected for her First Circle, wanted to see the faces attached to that list of names. Did they know about each other? Or him?
Saetan shook his head and smiled.
Whether she'd intended to or not, his fair-haired daughter of the soul had certainly thrown him back among the living.
2—Terreille
Surreal switched the basket of groceries from one hand to the other and fished her keys out of her trouser pocket as she climbed the stairs to her third-floor apartment. When she reached the landing and saw the dark shape curled up against her door, the keys vanished, replaced by her favorite stiletto.
The woman pushed the matted black hair from her face and staggered to her feet.
"Tersa," Surreal whispered, vanishing the stiletto as she leaped toward the swaying woman.
"You must tell him," Tersa muttered.
Surreal dropped the basket and wrapped her arm around Tersa's waist. After calling in her keys and unlocking the door, she half-carried the muttering woman to the sofa, swearing under her breath at the condition Tersa was in.
She retrieved the basket and locked the door before returning to the sofa with a small glass of brandy.
"You must tell him," Tersa muttered, weakly batting at the glass.
"Drink this. You'll feel better," Surreal said sternly. "I haven't seen him in months. He doesn't have much use for me anymore."
Tersa grabbed Surreal's wrist and said fiercely, "Tell him to beware of the High Priest of the Hourglass. He's not a forgiving man when someone threatens what is his. Tell him to beware of the Priest."
Sighing, Surreal pulled Tersa to her feet and helped the older woman shuffle to the bathroom.
&nb
sp; Tell him? She didn't want to get anywhere near him.
And what was she going to do with Tersa? There were only two beds in the place. She knew better than to give up her own, so Tersa would have to use Sadi's. But Hell's fire, he'd become so sensitive about having a woman in his room, he could tell if there had been a different cleaning woman, even if she came only once. Shit. He wasn't likely to show up—sweet Darkness, please don't let him show up—but if he did and he objected to Tersa's using his bed, he could throw her out.
Surreal stripped off Tersa's tattered clothing. "Come on, Tersa. You need a hot bath, a decent meal, and a good night's sleep."
"You must tell him."
Surreal closed her eyes. She owed him. She never forgot that she owed him. "I'll tell him. Somehow, I'll tell him."
3—Terreille
After several minutes of uncomfortable silence, Philip Alexander shifted on the couch and faced his niece. He reached for her limp hand. She pulled away from his touch.
Frustrated, Philip raked his fingers through his hair and tried, once more, to be reasonable.
"Jaenelle, we're not doing this to be cruel. You're a sick little girl, and we want to help you get better."
"I'm not sick," Jaenelle said softly, staring straight ahead.
"Yes, you are." Philip kept his voice firm but gentle. "You can't tell the difference between make-believe and the real world."
"I know the difference."
"No, you don't," Philip insisted. He rubbed his forehead. "These friends, these places you visit . . . they aren't real. They were never real. The only reason you see them is because you're not well."
Pain, confusion, and doubt filled her summer-sky blue eyes. "But they feel so real," she whispered.
Philip pulled her close to him, grateful that she didn't push him away. He hugged her as if that would cure what years of treatment hadn't. "I know they feel real to you, sweetheart. That's the problem, don't you see? Dr. Carvay is the leading healer for—"
Jaenelle twisted out of his arms. "Carvay is not a healer, he's—"
"Jaenelle!" Philip took a deep breath. "That's exactly what we're talking about. Making up vicious stories about Dr. Carvay isn't going to help you. Making up stories about magical creatures—"
"I don't talk about them anymore."
Philip sighed, frustrated. That was true. She'd been cured or had outgrown those fantasies, but the stories she made up now were a different coat cut from the same cloth. A much more dangerous coat.
Philip rose and straightened his jacket. "Maybe . . . maybe if you work hard and let Dr. Carvay help you, you'll be cured this time and will be able to come home for good. In time for your birthday."
Jaenelle gave him a look he couldn't decipher.
Philip guided her to the door. "The carriage is outside. Your father and grandmother will go with you, help you get settled."
As he watched the carriage disappear down the long drive, Philip sincerely hoped that this time would be the last time.
4—Kaeleer
Saetan sat behind the blackwood desk in his public study, a half-empty wineglass in his hand, and looked around the refurbished room.
Helene had worked her hearth-Craft well. Not only were the rooms he had requested to be refurbished done, but most of the public rooms and an entire wing of the living quarters as well. That she'd hired practically the whole village of Halaway to accomplish it . . . Well, they all needed a purpose. Even him. Especially him.
A sharp rapping on the door finally drew his attention. "Come," he said, draining the wineglass.
Helene gave the room a satisfied look before approaching the desk and squaring her shoulders. "Mrs. Beale wants to know how much longer she should hold dinner."
"An excellent meal such as Mrs. Beale has prepared shouldn't be wasted. Why don't you and the others enjoy her efforts?"
"Then your guest isn't coming?"
"Apparently not."
Helene put her hands on her hips. "A hoyden, that's what she is, not to have the manners at least to send her regrets when—"
"You forget yourself, madam," Saetan snarled softly. There was no mistaking the anger in his words, or the threat.
Helene shrank from the desk. "I . . . I beg your pardon, High Lord."
Somewhat mollified, Saetan took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "If she couldn't come, she had her reasons. Don't judge her, Helene. If she's here and you have some complaint about serving her, then come to me and I'll do what I can to alleviate the problem. But don't judge." He slowly walked to the door. "Keep sufficient staff on hand to serve any guests who may arrive. And keep a record of who comes and goes—especially anyone who inquires about the Lady. No one enters here without identifying themselves beforehand. Is that clear?"
"Yes, High Lord," Helene answered.
"Enjoy your dinner, my dear." Then he was gone.
Saetan walked the long stone corridor toward his private study deep beneath the Hall in the Dark Realm. He had abandoned the small apartment adjoining it, having returned to his suite several floors above, but as the days and weeks had passed, he found himself returning, and staying. Just in case.
A slight figure stepped away from the shadows near the study door. Anxiety rolled out of the boy in waves as Saetan unhurriedly unlocked the door and beckoned him in. A glance at the candlelights produced a soft glow, blurring the room's edges and relieving the feeling of immense power that filled the room he'd occupied for so long.
"Would you join me in a glass of yarbarah, Char?" Without waiting for an answer, Saetan poured a glass from the decanter on his desk and warmed it with a little tongue of fire. He handed the glass to Char.
The boy's hand shook as he took the glass, and his eyes were filled with fear.
Uneasy, Saetan warmed a glass for himself before settling into the other chair by the fire.
Char drank quickly, a momentary smile on his lips as he savored the last mouthful. He glanced at the High Lord, at the face that seldom betrayed any flicker of emotion, and looked away. He tried to speak, but no sound came out. Clearing his throat, he tried again. "Have you seen her?" he asked in a cracked whisper.
Saetan sipped the blood wine before answering. "No, Char, I haven't seen her in three months. And you?"
Char shook his head. "No, but . . . something's been happening on the island. Others have come."
Saetan leaned forward. "Others? Not children?"
"Children, yes, but . . . something happens when they come. They don't come through the Gates, or find the island by riding the Winds. They come . . ." Char shook his head, stumbling for the words.
Saetan dropped his voice into a deep, soothing croon. "Will you let me in, Char? Will you let me see?" Char's relief was so intense, it made Saetan more uneasy. Leaning back in his chair, he reached for the boy's mind, found the barriers already opened, and followed Char to the memory of what he had seen that had troubled him so much.
Saetan expelled his breath in a hiss of recognition and severed the link as quickly as he could without harming the boy.
When had Jaenelle learned to do that?
"What is it?" Char asked.
"A bridge," Saetan answered. He drained his glass and poured another, surprised that his hand was steady, since his insides were shaking apart. "It's called a bridge."
"It's very powerful."
"No, the bridge itself has no power." He met Char's troubled look and allowed the boy to see the turmoil he felt. "However, the one who made the bridge is very powerful." He put the glass down and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his steepled fingers brushing his chin. "Where do these children come from? Do they say?"
Char licked his lips. "From a place called Briarwood. They won't say if it's a village or a town or a Territory. They say a friend told them about the island, showed them the road." He hesitated, suddenly shy. "Would you come and see? Maybe . . . you'd understand."
"Shall we go now?" Saetan rose, tugging on his jacket's sleeves.
&
nbsp; Char stared at the floor. "It must be an awful place, this Briarwood." He looked up at Saetan, his troubled eyes pleading for some comfort. "Why would she go to such an awful place?"
Pulling Char to his feet, Saetan put an arm around the boy's thin shoulders, more troubled than he wanted to admit when Char leaned into him, needing the caress. Locking the study door, he kept his pace slow and steady as he fed the boy drop after psychic drop of strength and the feeling of safety. When Char's shoulders began to straighten again, Saetan let his arm casually drop away.
Three months. There had been no word from her for three months. Now children were traveling over a bridge to the cildru dyathe's island.
Jaenelle's new skill would have intrigued him more if Char's question hadn't been pounding in his blood, throbbing in his temples.
Why would she go to such an awful place? Why, why, why?
And where?
5—Terreille
"Briarwood?" Cassandra warmed two glasses of yarbarah. "No, I've never heard of Briarwood. Where is it?" She handed a glass to Saetan.
"In Terreille, so it's probably on Chaillot somewhere." He sipped the blood wine. "Maybe a small town or village near Beldon Mor. You wouldn't have a map of that damned island, would you?"
Cassandra blushed. "Well, yes. I went to Chaillot. Not to Beldon Mor," she added hurriedly. "Saetan, I had to go because . . . well, something strange has been happening. Every once in a while, there's a sensation on the Webs, almost as if . . ." She made a frustrated sound.
"Someone was plucking them and then braiding the vibrations," Saetan finished dryly. He and Geoffrey had spent hours poring over Craft books in the Keep's library in order to figure out that much, but they still couldn't figure out how Jaenelle had done it.
"Exactly," Cassandra said.
Saetan watched her call in a map and spread it on the kitchen table. "What you've been sensing is a bridge that Jaenelle built." He deftly caught the glass of yarbarah as it fell from her hand. Setting both glasses on the table, he led her to a bench by the hearth and held her, stroking her hair and crooning singsong words. After a while, she stopped shaking and found her voice.