Heir to the Shadows

Chapter Fifteen

"The first part of our plan is coming along nicely," Hekatah said. "Little Terreille is, at last, justly represented in the Dark Council."

Lord Jorval smiled tightly. Since slightly more than half of the Council members now came from Little Terreille, he could agree that the Territory that had always felt wary of the rest of the Shadow Realm was, at last, "justly" represented. "With all the injuries and illnesses that have caused members to resign in the past two years, the Blood in Little Terreille were the only ones willing to accept such a heavy responsibility for the good of the Realm." He sighed, but his eyes glittered with malicious approval. "We've been accused of favoritism because so many voices come from the same Territory, but when the other men and women who were judged worthy of the task refused to accept, what were we to do? The Council seats must be filled."

"So they must," Hekatah agreed. "And since so many of those new members, who owe their current rise in status to your supporting their appointment to the Council, wouldn't want to find themselves distressed because they didn't heed your wisdom when it came time to vote, it's time to implement the second part of our plan."

"And that is?" Jorval wished she would take off that deep-hooded cloak. It wasn't as if he hadn't seen her before. And why had she chosen to meet in a seedy little inn in Goth's slums?

"To broaden Little Terreille's influence in the Shadow Realm. You're going to have to convince the Council to be more lenient in their immigration requirements. There are plenty of Blood aristos here already. You need to let in the lesser Blood—workers, craftsmen, farmers, hearth-witches, servants, lighter-Jeweled warriors. Stop deciding who can come in by whether or not they can pay the bribes."

"If the Terreillean Queens and the aristo males want servants, let them use the landens," Jorval said in a sulky voice. The bribes, as she well knew, had become an important source of income for a number of Blood aristos in Goth, Little Terreille's capital.

"Landens are demon fodder," Hekatah snapped. "Landens have no magic. Landens have no Craft. Landens are about as useful as Jhin—" She paused. She tugged her hood forward. "Accept Terreillean landens for immigration, too. Promise them privileges and a settlement after service. But bring in the lesser Terreillean Blood as well."

Jorval spread his hands. "And what are we supposed to do with all these immigrants? At the twice-yearly immigration fairs, the other Territories altogether only take a couple dozen people, if that. The courts in Little Terreille are already swelled and there are complaints about the Terreillean aristos always whining about serving in the lower Circles and not having land to rule like they expected. And none of the ones already here have fulfilled their immigration requirement."

"They will have land to rule. They'll establish small, new territories on behalf of the Queens they're serving. That will increase the influence the Queens in Little Terreille have in Kaeleer as well as providing them with an additional source of income. Some of that land is obscenely rich in precious metals and precious gems. In a few years, Little Terreille's Queens will be the strongest force in the Realm, and the other Territories will have to submit to their dominance."

"What land?" Jorval said, failing to hide his exasperation.

"The unclaimed land, of course," Hekatah replied sharply. She called in a map of Kaeleer, unrolled it, and used Craft to keep it flat. One bony finger brushed against large areas of the map.

"That's not unclaimed land," Jorval protested. "Those are closed Territories. The so-called kindred Territories."

"Exactly, Lord Jorval," Hekatah said, tapping the map. "The so-called kindred Territories."

Jorval looked at the map and sat up straighter. "But the kindred are supposed to be Blood. Aren't they?"

"Are they?" Hekatah countered with venomous sweetness.

"What about the human Territories, like Dharo and Nharkhava and Scelt? Their Queens might file a protest on the kindred's behalf."

"They can't. Their lands aren't being interfered with. By Blood Law, Territory Queens can't interfere outside their own borders."

"The High Lord . . ."

Hekatah waved a hand dismissively. "He has always lived by a strict code of honor. He'll viciously defend his own Territory, but he won't step one toe outside of it. If anything, he'll stand against those other Territories if they step outside the Law."

Jorval rubbed his lower lip. "So the Queens of Little Terreille would eventually rule all of Kaeleer."

"And those Queens would be consolidated under one wise, experienced individual who would be able to guide them properly."

Jorval preened.

"Not you, idiot," Hekatah hissed. "A male can't rule a Territory."

"The High Lord does!"

The silence went on so long Jorval began to sweat.

"Don't forget who he is or what he is, Lord Jorval. Don't forget about his particular code of honor. You're the wrong gender. If you tried to stand against him, he would tear you apart. I will rule Kaeleer." Her voice sweetened. "You will be my Steward, and as my trusted right hand and most valued adviser, you will be so influential there won't be a woman in the Realm who would dare refuse you."

Heat filled Jorval's groin as he thought of Jaenelle Angelline.

The map rolled up with a snap, startling him.

"I think we've postponed the amenities long enough, don't you?" Hekatah pushed back the cloak's hood.

Jorval let out a faint scream. Leaping up, he knocked over his chair, then tripped over it when he turned to get away from the table.

As Hekatah slowly walked around the table, Jorval scrambled to his feet. He kept backing away until he ended up pressed against the wall.

"Just a sip," Hekatah said as she unbuttoned his shirt. "Just a taste. And maybe next time you'll remember to provide refreshments."

Jorval felt his bowels turn to water.

She'd changed in the last two years. Before, she'd looked like an attractive woman past her prime. Now she looked like someone had squeezed all the juice out of her flesh.

And the liberally applied perfume didn't mask the smell of decay.

"There's one other very important reason why I'm going to rule Kaeleer," Hekatah murmured as her lips brushed his throat. "Something you shouldn't forget."

"Yes, P-Priestess?" Jorval clenched his hands.

"With me ruling, the Realm of Terreille will support our efforts."

"It will?" Jorval said faintly, trying to take shallow breaths.

"I guarantee it," Hekatah replied just before her teeth sank into his throat.

The new two-wheeled buggy rolled smartly down the middle of the wide dirt road that ran northeast out of the village of Maghre.

Saetan tried—again—to tell Daffodil that he should keep the buggy on the right-hand side of the road. And Daffodil replied—again—that if he did that, Yaslana and Sundance wouldn't be able to trot alongside. He would move over if another wagon came down the road. He knew how to pull a buggy. The High Lord worried too much.

Sitting beside him, Jaenelle glanced at his clenched hands and smiled with sympathetic amusement. "Being the passenger when you're used to having control isn't an easy adjustment to make. Khary thinks kindred-drawn conveyances should have a set of reins attached to the front of the buggy to give the passenger something to hold on to, just to feel more secure."

"Sedatives would be more helpful," Saetan growled. He forced his hands open and pressed them firmly on his thighs, ignoring Lucivar's low chuckle and trying hard not to resent the reins attached to the headstall Sundancer wore.

Much to the humans' chagrin, the kindred had insisted that reins be kept as part of the riding equipment because humans needed something to hold on to when kindred ran and jumped. Fortunately, after the initial shock three years ago when the Scelt people had learned how many Blood races inhabited their island, the humans there had enthusiastically embraced their kindred Brothers and Sisters.

"Aren't we stopping at Morghann and Khary's house?" Jaenelle asked, clapping a hand on top of her head to keep the wide-brimmed straw hat from blowing away.

"They wanted to show us something and said they'd meet us," Lucivar replied. "Sundancer and I will go on ahead and see if they're waiting." He and the Warlord Prince stallion took off cross-country.

Daffodil made a wistful sound but kept trotting down the road. A few minutes later, he turned off the main road and trotted smartly down a long, tree-lined drive.

Jaenelle's eyes lit up. "We're going to see Duana's country house? Oh, it's such a lovely place. Khary mentioned that someone had taken a lease on it and was fixing it up a bit."

Saetan breathed a sigh of relief. Trust Khary to know just how much to say to pique her interest and still not give it away.

It had taken her six months to heal after she went into the Twisted Kingdom to save Daemon two years ago. She had remained at the Keep for the first two months, too ill to be moved. After he and Lucivar brought her back to the Hall, it had taken her another four months to get her physical strength back. During that time, her friends had once again taken up residence at the Hall, resigning from the courts they were serving in so that they could be with her. She had welcomed the coven's presence but had shied away from the boys seeing her—the first show of feminine vanity she had ever displayed.

Bewildered by her refusal to see them, they had settled in to care from a distance and had channeled their energy into looking after the coven. During that time, under his watchful but blind eye, some friendships had bloomed into love: Morghann and Khardeen, Gabrielle and Chaosti, Grezande and Elan, Kalush and Aaron. He'd watched the girls and had wondered if Jaenelle's eyes would ever shine like that for a man. Even if that man was Daemon Sadi.

When Daemon and Surreal didn't show up at the Terreille Keep, he had tried to locate them. After a few weeks, he stopped because there were indications that he wasn't the only one looking for them, and he had decided that failure was preferable to leading an enemy to a vulnerable man. Besides, Surreal was Titian's daughter. Wherever she had chosen to go to ground, she had hidden her tracks well.

And there was another reason he didn't want to stir things up. Hekatah had never returned to the Dark Realm. He suspected she was well hidden in Hayll. As long as she stayed there, she and Dorothea could rot together, but she would also latch on to any sign of his renewed interest in Terreille and hunt down the cause.

"Lucivar and Sundancer made better time than we did," Jaenelle noted as they pulled up in front of the well-proportioned sandstone manor house.

Daffodil snorted.

"No," Saetan said sternly as he helped Jaenelle out of the buggy. "Buggies do not go over fences."

"Especially when the human riding in it doesn't know he's responsible for getting his half over," Jaenelle murmured. She shook out the folds of her sapphire skirt and straightened the matching jacket, too busy to look him in the eye.

Which was just as well.

Jaenelle looked up at the manor house and sighed. "I hope the new tenants will give this place the love it deserves. Oh, I know Duana's busy and prefers living in her country house near Tuathal, but this land needs to be sung awake. The gardens here could be so lovely."

Acknowledging Lucivar's pleased smile, Saetan pulled a flat, rectangular box out of his pocket and handed it to Jaenelle. "Happy birthday, witch-child. From the whole family."

Jaenelle accepted the box but didn't open it. "If it's from the whole family, shouldn't I wait until we're back home to open it?"

Saetan shook his head. "We agreed you should open that here."

Jaenelle opened the box and frowned at the large brass key.

Letting out an exasperated growl, Lucivar turned her around until she was facing the front of the house. "It fits the front door."

Jaenelle's eyes widened. "Mine?" She looked at the front door, then at the key, then back to the front door. "Mine?"

"Well, the family purchased a ten-year lease on the house and land," Saetan replied, smiling. "Duaria said that, short of tearing the house down, you could do whatever you wanted with the place."

Jaenelle gave both of them a choke-hold hug and raced to the door. It flew open before she reached it.

"SURPRISE!"

Smiling at her stunned expression, Saetan pushed her into the house at the same time Khary and Morghann pulled her forward into the crowd.

His throat tightened as he watched Jaenelle being passed from friend to friend for a birthday hug. Astar and Sceron, from Centauran. Zylona and Jonah, from Pandar. Grezande and Elan, from Tigrelan. Little Katrine, from Philarf. Gabrielle and Chaosti, from Dea al Mon. Karla and Morton, from Glacia. Morghann and Khary, from Scelt. Sabrina and Aaron, from Dharo. Kalush, from Nharkhava. Ladvarian and Kaelas. Had the Shadow Realm ever seen a gathering such as this?

The years when the coven and the male circle had gathered at the Hall had passed so swiftly, and the youngsters were no longer children to be cared for, but adults to be met on equal ground. All the boys had made the Offering to the Darkness, and all of them wore dark Jewels. If the strong friendship between Khary, Aaron, and Chaosti survived the demands of young adulthood and serving in different courts, they would be a formidable, influential triangle of strength in the coming years. And the girls were almost ready to make the Offering. When they did . . . ah, the power!

And then there was Jaenelle. What would become of the lovely, gifted daughter of his soul when she made the Offering?

He tried to shake off his mood before she felt it. But today was a bittersweet day for him, which was why the family had celebrated her birthday—together, privately—a couple of days ago.

A roll of thunder silenced the chatter.

"There now," Karla said with a wicked smile. "Let Uncle Saetan give Jaenelle the grand tour while we finish setting out the food. This might be the only chance we'll get to play in the kitchen."

The girls scampered off to the back of the house.

"I think we'd better help them," Khary said, leading the young men, who hustled off to save the house and edibles.

Lucivar promised to be back, muttering something about unhitching Daffodil before the horse tried to do it himself.

"Duana said that any furniture you don't want to use can be tucked in the attics," Saetan said after he and Jaenelle explored downstairs.

Jaenelle nodded absently as they headed upstairs. "I've seen some grand pieces that would be perfect for this place. There was a—" Open-mouthed, she stood in the bedroom doorway and stared at the canopied bed, dresser, tables, and chests.

"The horde downstairs bought this for you. I gather you had admired something similar often enough that they figured you would like it."

Jaenelle stepped into the room and ran her hand over the dresser's silky maple wood. "It's wonderful. All of it's wonderful. But, why?"

Saetan swallowed hard. "You're twenty years old today."

Jaenelle raised her right hand and fluffed her hair. "I know that."

"My legal guardianship ends today."

They stared at each other for a long moment.

"What does that mean?" she asked quietly.

"Exactly that. My legal guardianship ends today." He saw her relax as she assimilated the distinction. "You're a young woman now, witch-child, and should have a place of your own. You've always loved Scelt. We thought it would be helpful to have a home base on this side of the Realm as well as the other." When she still didn't say anything, his heart started pounding. "The Hall will always be your home. We'll always be your family—as long as you want us."

"As long as I want you." Her eyes changed.

It took everything he had in him not to sink to his knees and beg Witch to forgive him.

Jaenelle turned away from him, hugging herself as if she were cold. "I said some cruel things that day."

Saetan took a deep breath. "I did use him. He was my instrument. And even knowing what I know, if I had the choice to make again, I would do it again. A Warlord Prince is expendable. A good Queen is not. And, in truth, if we had done nothing and you hadn't survived, I don't think Daemon would have either. I know I wouldn't have."

Jaenelle opened her arms.

He stepped into them and held her tight. "I don't think you've ever realized how strong, how necessary the bond is between Warlord Princes and Queens. We need you to stay whole. That's why we serve. That's why all Blood males serve."

"But it's always seemed so unfair that a Queen can lay claim to a man and control every aspect of his life if she chooses to without him having any say in the matter."

Saetan laughed. "Who says a man has no choice? Haven't you ever noticed how many men who are invited to serve in a court decline the privilege? No, perhaps you haven't. You've had too many other things occupying your time, and that sort of thing is done very quietly." He paused and shook his head, smiling. "Let me tell you an open secret, my darling little witch. You don't choose us. We choose you."

Jaenelle thought about this and growled, "Lucivar's never going to give that damn Ring back, is he?"

Saetan chuckled softly. "You could try to get it back, but I don't think you'd win." He rubbed his cheek against her hair. "I think he'll serve you for the rest of his life, regardless of whether or not he's actually with you."

"Like you and Uncle Andulvar, with Cassandra."

He closed his eyes. "No, not like me and Andulvar."

She pulled back far enough to study his face. "I see. A bond as strong as family."

"Stronger."

Jaenelle hugged him and sighed. "Maybe we should find Lucivar a wife. That way he would have someone else to pester besides me."

Saetan choked. "How unkind of you to dump Lucivar on some unsuspecting Sister."

"But it would keep him busy."

"Consider for a moment the possible consequence of that busyness."

She did. "A houseful of little Lucivars," she said faintly.

They both groaned.

"All right," Jaenelle grumbled. "I'll think of something else."

"You two get lost up here?"

They jumped. Lucivar smiled at them from the doorway.

"Papa was just explaining that I'm stuck with you forever."

"And it only took you three years to figure that out." Lucivar's arrogant smile widened. "You don't deserve the warning, but while you've been up here busily, but futilely, rearranging my life, Ladvarian's been downstairs busily rearranging yours. The exact quote was 'We can raise and train the puppies here.' "

"Who's we?" Jaenelle squeaked. "What puppies? Whose puppies?"

Lucivar stepped aside as Jaenelle flew out of the room, muttering.

Saetan found the doorway blocked by a strong, well-muscled arm.

"You wouldn't have helped her do something that silly, would you?" Lucivar asked.

Saetan leaned against the doorway and shook his head. "If the right woman comes into your life, you won't let her go. I'm the last man who would tell you to compromise. Marry someone you can love and accept as she is, Lucivar. Marry someone who will love and accept you. Don't settle for less."

Lucivar lowered his arm. "Do you think the right man will come into Cat's life?"

"He'll come. If the Darkness is kind, he'll come."

He stood at the edge of the resting place for a long time, studying the details, absorbing the message and the warning. Unlike the other resting places she'd provided for him, this one disturbed him.

It was an altar, a slab of black stone laid over two others. At its center was a crystal chalice that once had been shattered. Even from where he stood, his eyes could trace every fracture line, could see where the pieces had been carefully fitted back together. There were sharp-edged chips around the rim where small pieces had been lost, chips that could cut a man badly. Inside the chalice, lightning and black mist performed a slow, swirling dance. Fitted around the chalice's stem was a gold ring with a faceted ruby. A man's ring.

A Consort's ring.

He finally stepped closer.

If he read the message correctly, she had healed but was soul-scarred and not completely whole. By claiming the Consort's ring, he would have the privilege of savoring what the chalice held, but the sharp edges could wound any man who tried.

However, a careful man . . .

Yes, he decided as he studied the sharp-edged chips, a careful man who knew those edges existed and was willing to risk the wounds would be able to drink from that cup.

Satisfied, he returned to the trail and continued climbing.

Saetan fell out of bed in his haste to find out why Lucivar was roaring so early in the morning.

A part of his mind insisted that he couldn't go charging out of the room wearing nothing but his skin, so he grabbed the trousers he'd dropped over a chair when the birthday party finally wound down but didn't stop to put them on. He wrenched his arm when he tried to open the door that had swollen from last night's rain. Swearing, he gripped the doorknob and, using Craft, tore the door off its hinges.

By then the hallway was stuffed with bodies in various stages of dress. He tried to push past Karla and got a sharp elbow in the belly.

"What in the name of Hell is going on here?" he yelled. No one bothered to answer him because, at that moment, Lucivar stepped out of Jaenelle's bedroom and roared, "CAT!"

Apparently Lucivar didn't have any inhibitions about standing stark naked in front of a group of young men and women. Of course, a man in his prime with that kind of build had no reason to feel inhibited.

And no one in their right mind would tease a man who vibrated with such intense fury.

"Where are Ladvarian and Kaelas?" Lucivar demanded.

"More to the point," Saetan said, pulling on his trousers, "where's Jaenelle?" He looked pointedly at the Ring of Honor that circled Lucivar's organ. "You can feel her through that, can't you?"

Lucivar quivered with the effort to stay in control. "I can feel her, but I can't find her." His fist hammered down on a small table and split it in half. "Damn her, I'm going to whack her ass for this!"

"Who are you to dare say that?" Chaosti snarled, pushing to the front of the group, his Gray Jewel glowing with his gathering power.

Lucivar bared his teeth. "I'm the Warlord Prince who serves her, the warrior sworn to protect her. But I can't protect her if I don't know where she is. Her moon's blood started last night. Do I need to remind you how vulnerable a witch is during those days? Now she's upset—I can feel that much—and her only protection is two half-trained males because she didn't tell me where she was going."

"That's enough," Saetan said sharply. "Leash the anger. NOW!" While he waited, he called in his shoes and stuffed his feet into them. Then he froze Chaosti and Lucivar with a look.

When no one moved, he stepped away from the group and pressed his back against the wall for support. He took a few deep breaths to calm his own temper, closed his eyes, and descended to the Black.

While it was true that witches couldn't channel Jeweled strength during their moon time without pain, that wouldn't stop Jaenelle.

Using himself as a center point, he cautiously pushed his Black-Jeweled strength outward in ever-widening circles, looking for some sense of her that would at least give him an idea of where she was. The circles widened farther and farther, beyond the village of Maghre, beyond the isle of Scelt, until . . .

Kaetien!

He felt fear and horror braiding with anger growing into rage.

Black rage. Spiraling rage. Cold rage.

He started to pull back to escape the psychic storm that was about to explode over Sceval. He strengthened his inner barriers, knowing that it wouldn't help much. Her rage would flood in under his barriers, where he had no protection from it. He just hoped he had enough time to warn the others.

KAETIEN!

As she unleashed the strength of her Black Jewels, Jaenelle's anguished scream filled his head and paralyzed him. A rush of dark power smashed against him, tossing him around like a tidal wave tosses driftwood, at the same time a psychic shield snapped up around Sceval. Then, nothing.

He floated just beyond that shield, scared but oddly comforted—like being safely indoors while a violent storm raged outside.

He must have gotten caught between the conflicting uses of Black power when Jaenelle put up the shield to contain the storm. Clever little witch. And all that psychic lightning had a terrifying kind of beauty. He wouldn't mind just floating here for a while, but he had the nagging feeling there was something he should do. *High Lord.*

Damn troublesome voice. How was he supposed to think when . . . *Father.*

Father. Father. Hell's fire, Lucivar! Up. He had to go up, out of the Black. Had to get his head clear enough to tell Lucivar. . . . Which way was up? Someone grabbed him and dragged him out of the abyss. He sputtered and snarled. Did him as much good as a puppy snarling when it was picked up by the scruff.

The next thing he knew, something was pressed against his lips and blood was filling his mouth.

"Swallow it or I'll knock your damn teeth down your throat."

Ah, yes. Lucivar. Both of him.

His eyes finally focused. He pushed Lucivar's wrist away from his mouth. "Enough." He tried to get to his feet, which wasn't easy with Lucivar holding him down on one side and Chaosti holding him down on the other. "Is everyone all right?"

Karla bent over him. "We're fine. You're the one who fainted."

"I didn't faint. I got caught . . ." He started struggling. "Let me up. If the storm's over, we have to get to Sceval."

"Cat's there?" Lucivar asked, hauling him to his feet.

"Yes." Remembering Jaenelle's anguished scream, Saetan shuddered. "You and I have to get there as soon as possible."

Karla poked a sharp-nailed finger into his bare chest. "We have to get there as soon as possible."

Before he could argue, they'd all disappeared into their rooms.

"If we move, we can get there ahead of the rest of them," Lucivar said quietly as they entered Saetan's bedroom. He called in his own clothes and hurriedly dressed. "Are you strong enough for this?"

Saetan pulled on a shirt. "I'm ready. Let's go."

"Are you strong enough for this?"

Saetan brushed past Lucivar without answering. How could a man answer that question when he didn't know what was waiting for him?

"Mother Night," Saetan whispered. "Mother Night."

He and Lucivar stood on a flat-topped hill that was one of Sceva’s official landing places, the gently rolling land spread out below them. Large meadows provided good grazing. Stands of trees provided shade on summer afternoons. Creeks veined the land with clean water.

He had stood on this hill a handful of times in the past five years, looking down on the unicorns while the stallions kept careful watch over the grazing mares and the foals playing tag.

Now he looked down on a slaughter.

Turning to the north, Lucivar shook his head and swore softly. "This wasn't a few bastards who had come for a horn to take home as a hunting trophy, this was a war."

Saetan blinked away tears. Of all the Blood, of all the kindred races, the unicorns had always been his favorite. They had been the stars in the Darkness, the living examples of power and strength blended with gentleness and beauty. "When the others arrive, we'll split up to look for survivors."

The unicorns attacked at the same moment the coven and the male circle appeared on the hill.

"Shield!" Saetan and Lucivar shouted. They threw Black and Ebon-gray shields around the whole group while the other males formed a protective circle around the coven.

The eight unicorn stallions veered off before they hit the shields head-on, but the power they were channeling through their horns and hooves created blinding-bright sparks as they scraped across the invisible barriers.

"Wait!" Saetan shouted, the thunder in his voice barely competing with the stallions' screams and trumpeted challenges. "We're friends! We're here to help you!"

*You are not friends,* said an older stallion with a broken horn. *You are humans!*

"We're friends," Saetan insisted.

*YOU ARE NOT FRIENDS!* the unicorns screamed. *YOU ARE HUMANS!*

Sceron took a step forward. "The Centauran people have never fought with our unicorn Brothers and Sisters. We do not wish to fight now."

*You come to kill. First you call us Brothers and then you come to kill. No more. NO MORE. This time, we kill!*

Karla stuck her head over Saetan's shoulder. "Damn your hooves and horns, we're Healers. Let us take care of the injured!"

The unicorns hesitated for a moment, then shook their heads and charged the shields again.

"I don't recognize any of them," Lucivar said, "and they're too blood-crazed to listen."

Saetan watched the stallions charge the shields over and over again. He sympathized with their rage, fully understood their hatred. But he couldn't walk away until they were calm enough to listen because more would die if they weren't cared for soon.

And because Jaenelle was among those bodies, somewhere.

Then the unicorns stopped attacking. They circled the group, snorting and pawing the ground, their horns lowered for another charge.

"Thank the Darkness," Khary muttered as a young stallion slowly climbed up the hill, favoring his left foreleg.

Relieved, the girls began murmuring about healing teams.

Watching the young stallion approach, Saetan wished he could share their confidence, but out of all of Kaetien's offspring, Mistral had always been the most wary of humans—and the most dangerous. Necessary traits for a young male who everyone anticipated would be the next Warlord Prince of Sceval, but damned uncomfortable for the man on the receiving end of that distrust.

"Mistral." Saetan stepped forward, raising his empty hands. "You've known all of us since you were a foal. Let us help."

*I have known you,* Mistral said reluctantly.

*That sounds ominous,* Lucivar said on an Ebon-gray spear thread.

*If this goes wrong, get everyone else out of here,* Saetan replied. *I'll hold the shield.*

*We still have to find Cat.*

*Get them out, Yaslana.*

*Yes, High Lord.*

Saetan took another step forward. "Mistral, I swear to you by the Jewels that I wear and by my love for the Lady that we mean no harm."

Whatever Mistral thought about a human male laying claim to the Lady was lost when Ladvarian's light tenor pounded into their heads.

*High Lord? High Lord! We have some little ones shielded, but they're scared and won't listen. They keep running into the shield. Jaenelle is crying and won't listen either. High Lord?*

Saetan held his breath. Which would prove stronger— Mistral's loyalty to his own kind or his love for and belief in Jaenelle?

Mistral looked toward the north. After a long moment, he snorted. *The little Brother believes in you. We will trust. For now.*

Desperately wanting to sit down and not daring to show any sign of weakness, Saetan cautiously lowered the Black shield. A moment later, Lucivar dropped the Ebon-gray.

They divided into groups. Khary and Morghann went to help Ladvarian and Kaelas with the foals. Lucivar and Karla headed north from the landing place with Karla as primary Healer, Lucivar as secondary, and the rest of their team scouting for the wounded and providing assistance. Saetan, Gabrielle, and their team headed south.

It hurt to look at the mares' hacked-up bodies. It hurt even worse to see a young colt lying dead over his dam, his forelegs sliced off. There were some he could save. There were many more where all he could do was take away the pain to ease the journey back to the Darkness.

Hours passed as he searched for the foals that might be hidden under their dams. He found yearlings hidden in shallow dips in the land, dips that held a power unlike any he'd ever felt before. He didn't trespass into those places. The young unicorns watched him with terrified eyes as he carefully circled around them looking for wounds. It came to him slowly as he stepped around torn human bodies that any of the unicorns who had reached these places had, at worst, minor cuts or scratches.

He continued to work, ignoring the headache the sun gave him, ignoring the aching muscles and growing fatigue.

His emotions numbed as a defense against the slaughter.

But they weren't numb enough when he found Jaenelle and Kaetien.

"There, my fine Lady," Lucivar said, running one hand down the mare's neck. "It'll feel sore for a few days, but it will heal well."

The mare's colt snorted and pawed the ground until Lucivar gave them a few carrot chunks and a sugar lump.

When the mare and her colt moved off, he helped himself to a long drink of water and half of a cheese sandwich while he waited for the next unicorn to gather the courage to be touched by a human.

May the Darkness bless Khary's equine-loving heart. After a rapid look at the carnage, Khary and Aaron had gone back to Maghre. They'd returned with Daffodil and Sundancer pulling carts loaded with healing supplies, food for the humans, changes of clothes, blankets, and Khary's "bribes"—carrots and sugar lumps.

Seeing Daffodil and Sundancer working confidently with the humans had acted as a balm on the unicorns' fear. The words "I serve the Lady" had produced an even stronger response. On the strength of those words, most of the unicorns had let him touch them and heal what he could.

Taking the last bite of his sandwich, he watched a yearling colt cautiously approach him, its skin twitching as the flies buzzed around the shoulder wound protected by a fading shield.

Lucivar spread his arms, showing empty hands. "I serve—"

The yearling bolted as Sceron's war cry shattered the uneasy truce and Kaelas roared in challenge.

Calling in his Eyrien war blade, Lucivar launched himself skyward.

As he sped toward the man running for the landing place, he coldly ticked off each little scene as it flashed under him: Morghann, Kalush, and Ladvarian herding the foals into the trees; Kaelas pulling a man down and tearing him open; Astar pivoting on her hindquarters as she nocked an arrow in a Centauran bow; Morton shielding Karla and the unicorn she was healing; Khary, Aaron, and Sceron protecting each others' backs as they unleashed the strength of their Jewels in short, controlled bursts that ripped the invading humans apart.

Focusing on his chosen prey, Lucivar unleashed a burst of Ebon-gray power just as the man reached the bottom of the hill.

The man fell, both legs neatly broken, his Yellow Jewel drained.

Lucivar landed at the same moment the old stallion with the broken horn charged the downed man. *Wait!* he yelled as he threw a tight Red shield over the man.

The stallion screamed in rage and pivoted to face Lucivar.

*Wait,* Lucivar said again. *First I want answers. Then you can pound him.*

The stallion snorted but stopped pawing the ground.

Keeping a watchful eye on the stallion, Lucivar dropped the shield. Applying a foot to a shoulder, he rolled the man over onto his back. "This is a closed Territory," he said harshly. "Why are you here?"

"I don't have to answer to the likes of you."

Brave words for a man with two broken legs. Stupid, but brave.

Using the Eyrien war blade, Lucivar pointed to the man's right knee and looked at the stallion. "Once. Right there."

The stallion reared and happily obliged.

"Shall we try this again?" Lucivar asked mildly once the man stopped screaming. "The other knee or a hand next? Your choice."

"You've no right to do this. When this is reported—"

Lucivar laughed. "Reported to whom? And for what? You're an invader waging war on the rightful inhabitants of this island. Who's going to care what happens to you?"

"The Dark Council, that's who." Sweat beaded the man's forehead as Lucivar fingered the war blade. "You've no claim to this land."

"Neither do you," Lucivar said coldly.

"We've a claim, you bat-winged bastard. My Queen and five others were given this island as their new territory. We came here first to settle the territory boundaries and take care of any problems."

"Like the race that's ruled this land for thousands of years? Yes, I can see how that might be a problem."

"No one rules here. This is unclaimed land."

"This is the unicorns' Territory," Lucivar said fiercely.

"I hurt," the man whined. "I need a Healer."

"They're all busy. Let's get back to something more interesting. The Dark Council has no right to hand out land, and they have no right to replace an established race who already has a claim."

"Show me the signed land grant. My Queen has one, properly signed and sealed."

Lucivar gritted his teeth. "The unicorns rule here."

The man rolled his head back and forth. "Animals have no rights to the land. Only human claims are considered legitimate. Anything that lives here now lives by the Queens' sufferance."

"They're kindred," Lucivar said, his voice roughened by feelings he didn't want to name. "They're Blood."

"Animals. Just animals. Get rid of the rogues, the rest might be useful." The man whimpered. "Hurt. Need a Healer."

Lucivar took a step back. Took another. Oh, yes. Wouldn't the Terreillean bitch-Queens just love to ride around on unicorns? It wouldn't bother them in the least that the animals' spirits would have to be broken before they could do it. Wouldn't bother them at all.

Three glorious years of living in Kaeleer couldn't cleanse the 1,700 years he'd lived in Terreille. He tried very hard to put the past aside, but there were nights when he woke up shaking. He could control his mind for the most part, but his body still remembered all too well what a Ring of Obedience felt like and what it could do.

Swallowing hard, Lucivar licked his dry lips and looked at the old stallion. "Start with the arms and legs. It'll take longer for him to die that way."

Vanishing his war blade, he turned and walked away, ignoring the sound of hooves smashing bone, ignoring the screams.

Saetan stumbled over a severed arm and finally admitted he had to stop. Jaenelle's blood-tonic allowed him to tolerate, and enjoy, some daylight, but he still needed to rest during the hours when the sun was strongest. As the morning gave way to afternoon, he'd worked in the shade as much as possible, but that hadn't been enough to counteract the drain strong sunlight caused in a Guardian's body, and he couldn't take the strain of doing so much healing for so many hours.

He had to stop.

Except he couldn't until he found Jaenelle.

He'd tried everything he could think of to locate her. Nothing had worked. All Ladvarian could tell him was she was here and she was crying, but neither Ladvarian nor Kaelas could give him the barest direction of where to search. When he finally got Mistral to understand his concern, the stallion said, "Her grief will not let us find her."

Saetan rubbed his eyes and hoped his fatigue-fogged brain kept working long enough to get him to the camp Chaosti and Elan had set up. He was too tired, too drained. He was starting to see things.

Like the unicorn Queen standing in front of him, who looked like she was made of moonlight and mist, with dark eyes as old as the land.

It took him a minute to realize he could see through her.

"You're—"

*Gone,* said the caressing, feminine voice. *Gone long and long ago. And never gone. Come, High Lord. My Sister needs her sire now.*

Saetan followed her until they reached a circle of low, evenly spaced stones. In the center, a great stone horn rose up from the land. An old, deep power filled the circle. "I can't go there," Saetan said. "This is a sacred place."

*An honored place,* she replied. *They are nearby. She grieves for what she could not save. You must make her see what she did save.*

The mare stepped into the circle. As she approached the great stone horn, she faded until she disappeared, but he still had the feeling that dark eyes as old as the land watched him.

The air shimmered on his right. A veil he hadn't known was there vanished. He walked toward the spot. And he found them.

The bastards had butchered Kaetien. They had cut off his legs, his tail, his genitals. They had sliced open his belly.

They had cut off his horn.

They had cut off his head.

But Kaetien's dark eyes still held a fiery intelligence.

Saetan's stomach rolled.

Kaetien was demon-dead in that mutilated body.

Jaenelle sat next to the stallion, leaning against the open belly. Tears trickled from her staring eyes. Her white-knuckled hands were wrapped around Kaetien's horn.

Saetan sank to his knees beside her. "Witch-child?" he whispered.

Recognition came slowly. "Papa? P-Papa?" She threw herself into his arms. The quiet tears became hysterical weeping. Kaetien's horn scraped his back as she clung to him.

"Oh, witch-child." While he and the others had been searching for survivors, she'd been sitting there all day, locked in her pain.

"May the Darkness be merciful," said a voice behind him.

Saetan looked over his shoulder, feeling every muscle as he turned his head. Lucivar. Living strength that could do what he could not.

Lucivar stared at Kaetien's head and shook himself.

Saetan listened to the swift conversations taking place on spear threads, but he was too tired to make sense out of them.

Lucivar dropped to one knee, took a handful of Jaenelle's blood-matted hair, and gently pulled her head away from Saetan's shoulder. "Come on, Cat. You'll feel better once you've had a sip of this." He pressed a large silver flask against her mouth.

She choked and sputtered when the liquid went down her throat.

"This time swallow it," Lucivar said. "This stuff does less harm to your stomach than it does to your lungs."

"This stuff will melt your teeth," Jaenelle wheezed.

"What did you give her?" Saetan demanded when she suddenly sagged in his arms.

"A healthy dose of Khary's home brew. Hey!"

Saetan found himself braced against Lucivar's chest. He concentrated on breathing for a minute. "Lucivar. You asked if I was strong enough for this. I'm not."

A strong, warm hand stroked his head. "Hang on. Sun-dancer's coming. We'll get you to the camp. The girls will take care of Cat. A few minutes more and you can rest."

Rest. Yes, he needed rest. The headache that was threatening to tear his skull apart was gaining in intensity with every breath.

Someone took Jaenelle out of his arms. Someone half carried him to where Sundancer waited. Strong hands kept him on the stallion's back.

The next thing he knew, he was sitting in the camp wrapped in blankets with Karla kneeling beside him, urging him to drink the witch's brew she'd made for him.

After drinking a second cup, he submitted to being pushed, plumped, and rearranged in a sleeping bag. He snarled a bit at being fussed over until Karla tartly asked how he expected them to get Jaenelle to rest when he was setting such a bad example?

Not having an answer for that, he surrendered to the brew-dulled headache and slept.

Lucivar sipped laced coffee and watched Gabrielle and Morghann lead Jaenelle to a sleeping bag. She stopped, ignoring their coaxing to lie down and rest. Her eyes lost their dull, half-dazed look as her attention focused on Mistral hovering at the edge of the camp, still favoring his wounded left foreleg.

Lucivar felt very thankful that the cold, dangerous fire in her eyes wasn't directed at him.

"Why hasn't that leg been tended?" Jaenelle asked in her midnight voice as she stared at the young stallion.

Mistral snorted and fidgeted. He obviously didn't want to admit he hadn't allowed anyone to touch him.

Lucivar didn't blame him.

"You know how males get," Gabrielle said soothingly. " 'I'm fine, I'm fine, tend the others first.' We were just about to take care of him when you and Uncle Saetan came in."

"I see," Jaenelle said softly, her eyes still pinning Mistral to the ground. "I thought, perhaps, because they were human, you were insulting my Sisters by refusing to let them heal you."

"Nonsense," Morghann said. "Now, come on, set a good example."

Once they got her tucked in, they descended on Mistral.

It would be all right, Lucivar thought dully. It had to be all right. The unicorns and the other kindred wouldn't lose all their trust in humans and retreat again behind the veils of power that had closed them off from the rest of Kaeleer. Cat would see to that. And Saetan . . .

Hell's fire. Until today, he hadn't given much thought to the differences between a Guardian and the living. At the Hall, those differences seemed so subtle.

He hadn't realized strong sun would cause so much pain, hadn't fully appreciated how many years the High Lord had walked the Realms. Oh, he knew how old Saetan was, but today was the first time his father had seemed old.

Of course, the rest of them were feeling pretty beaten physically and emotionally, so it wasn't much of a yardstick to measure by.

Khary squatted beside him and splashed some of the home brew into the already heavily laced coffee. "There's something bothering our four-footed Brothers," he said quietly. "Something more than that." He waved a hand at the still, white bodies lying within sight.

The unicorns hadn't cared what happened to the human bodies—except to insist that the intruders not remain in their land—but they had been vehement about not moving the dead unicorns. The Lady would sing them to the land, they had said. Whatever that meant.

But as the wounded mares and foals had been led to this side of the landing hill, the surviving stallions had become more and more upset.

"Ladvarian might know," Lucivar said, sipping his coffee. He sent out a quiet summons. A few minutes later, the Sceltie trotted wearily into the camp.

*Moonshadow's missing,* Ladvarian said when Lucivar asked him. *Starcloud was getting old. Moonshadow was going to be the next Queen. She wears an Opal Jewel. One of the mares said she saw humans throw ropes and nets around Moonshadow, but she didn't see where they went.*

Lucivar closed his eyes. From what he could tell, all of the Blood males who had invaded Sceval had worn lighter Jewels, but enough of them with spelled nets and ropes could control an Opal-Jeweled Queen. Were the spelled nets preventing her from calling to the others, or had she been taken off the island altogether?

"I'll be back before twilight," he said, handing the cup to Khary.

"Watch your back," Khary said softly. "Just in case."

Lucivar flew north. As he flew, he kept sending the same message: He served the Lady. The Lady was at a camp near the landing hill. Healers were with the Lady.

He saw a few small herds of unicorns, who ran for the trees as best they could as soon as they sensed him.

He saw a lot of still, white bodies.

He saw even more exploded human corpses, and thanked the Darkness that Jaenelle had somehow kept her rage confined to this island.

And he wondered about the pockets of power he kept sensing as he flew over woods and clearings. Some were faint; others much stronger. He was turning away from an especially strong one that was in the trees to his left when something grabbed him. Something angry and desperate.

Using his Birthright Red, he broke the contact, but it took effort.

*You serve the Lady,* said a harsh male voice.

Lucivar hovered, breathing hard. *I serve the Lady,* he agreed cautiously. *Do you need help?*

*She needs help.*

Landing, he allowed the power to guide him through the trees until he reached its source. In a hollow, a mare lay tangled in nets and ropes, breathing hard and sweating.

"Ah, sweetheart," Lucivar said softly.

While most of the unicorns were some shade of white, there were a few rare dappled grays. This mare was a pale pewter with a white mane and tail. An Opal Jewel hung from a silver ring around her horn.

She was not only a Queen, she was also a Black Widow. The only combination that was rarer was the Queen/Black Widow/Healer. He never heard of a witch like that when he'd lived in Terreille. In Kaeleer, there were only three— Karla, Gabrielle, and Jaenelle.

Standing very still, Lucivar slowly spread his dark, membranous wings. He'd heard enough disparaging remarks about "human bats" in his life to recognize the advantage his wings might give him now. Wings, like hooves and fur, were usually part of the kindred's domain.

"Lady Moonshadow," he said, keeping his voice low and soothing, "I am Prince Lucivar Yaslana. I serve the Lady. I'd like to help you."

She didn't reply, but the panic in her eyes gradually receded.

He walked toward her, gritting his teeth as the male power surrounding her swelled, then ebbed.

"Easy, sweetheart," he said, crouching beside her. "Easy."

Her panic spiked when his hand touched her withers.

Lucivar swore silently as he cut the nets and ropes. They'd tried to break her, tried to shatter her inner web. The only difference between what the Terreillean bastards had tried to do to her and what they usually did to human witches was physical rape. Maybe that's why they hadn't succeeded before Jaenelle had unleashed the Black. They hadn't been able to use their best weapon.

"There now," Lucivar said as he tossed the last of the ropes away. "Come on, sweetheart. On your feet. Easy now."

Step by step, he coaxed her out of the trees and into the clearing. Her fear increased with every step she took away from that power-filled hollow. He needed to get her to the camp before her fear finished what those bastards had started. A radial line from the Rose Wind was close enough to catch, and he could certainly guide and shield her for the short trip, but how to convince her to trust him that much?

"Mistral's going to be very glad to see you," he said casually.

*Mistral?* Her head swung around. He dodged the horn before it impaled him. *He is well?*

"He's at the camp with the Lady. If we ride the Rose Wind, we'll get there before twilight."

Pain and sorrow filled her thoughts. *The lost ones must be sung to the land at twilight.*

Lucivar suppressed a shiver. Suddenly he very much wanted to be back in the camp. "Shall we go, Lady?"

Everyone had returned to the camp, physically weary and heartsore.

Everyone except Lucivar.

As he drank the restorative brew Karla had made for him, Saetan tried not to worry. Lucivar could take care of himself; he was a strong, fit, well-trained warrior; he knew his limitations, especially after extending himself so much today; he wouldn't do anything foolish like try to take on a gang of Blood-Jeweled males alone just because he was pissed about the kindred deaths.

And tomorrow the sun would rise in the west.

"He's fine," Jaenelle said quietly as she settled next to him on one of the logs the boys had dragged from somewhere to provide seats around the fire. Tucking the spell-warmed blanket around herself, she smiled ruefully. "The Ring's supposed to let me monitor his spikes of temper. I hadn't realized I'd messed up somewhere when I created it until Karla, Morghann, Grezande, and Gabrielle bitched about my setting a bad precedent since all the boyos want a Ring that works like that." Her voice took on a hint of whine. "I always thought it was just extraordinary intuition that he always showed up whenever I felt grumpy. He certainly never hinted it was anything more than that."

"He's not an idiot, witch-child," Saetan replied, sipping his brew to hide his smile.

"That's debatable. But why did he have to go and tell the others?"

He understood why the Queens were annoyed. The foundation of any official court was twelve males and a Queen. Through the Ring of Honor, a Queen could monitor every nuance of a male's life. But because the Queens respected the privacy of the males who served them and because no woman in her right mind would want to keep track of the emotional currents of that many men, they usually adjusted their monitoring to block out everything but things like fear, rage, and pain—the kinds of feelings that indicated the wearer needed help.

Each man, however, only had to keep track of one Queen.

He'd have to talk to Lucivar about the self-imposed limits of that kind of monitoring. He'd be interested in where his son drew the line.

"Speaking of the pain in the ass who's not an idiot," Jaenelle said, pointing to the two figures walking slowly toward the camp.

Mistral bugled wildly. *Moonshadow! Moonshadow!*

He took off at a gallop. At least, he tried to.

As Mistral leaped forward, Gabrielle jumped up from her seat on the other log, reached out, closed her hand as if she'd grabbed something, and jerked her hand up.

Mistral hung in the air, his legs flailing.

Gabrielle's arm shook from the effort of holding that much weight suspended, even if she was using Craft. Watching her, Saetan decided he and Chaosti needed to have a chat very soon. A witch who could pull a trick like that after an exhausting day of healing was a Lady who needed careful handling.

"If you gallop on that leg, I'll knock you silly," Gabrielle said.

*It's Moonshadow!*

"I don't care if it's the Queen of the unicorns or your mate," Gabrielle replied hotly. "You're not galloping on that leg!"

"Actually," Jaenelle said with a dry smile, "she's both."

"Well, Hell's fire," Gabrielle set Mistral down but didn't let go.

"Gabrielle," Chaosti said in that coaxing tone of voice Saetan labeled male-soothing-female-temper. "She's his mate. He's been worried. I wouldn't want to wait if it were you. Let him go."

Gabrielle glared at Chaosti.

"He'll walk," Chaosti said. "Won't you, Mistral?"

Mistral wasn't about to turn down allies, even if they did have only two legs. *I'll walk.*

Reluctantly, Gabrielle released him.

Mistral plodded toward Moonshadow, his head down like a small boy who's been scolded and hasn't yet gotten away from the scolder's watchful eyes.

"Now see what you did," Khary said. "You made his horn wilt."

"I'll bet your horn wilts too when you're scolded," Karla said with a wicked smile.

Before Khary could reply, Jaenelle set her cup down and said quietly, "It's time."

Everyone became subdued as she walked into the trees. "Do you know what's supposed to happen?" Lucivar asked Saetan when he reached the camp and sat down next to his father.

Saetan shook his head. Like everyone else in the camp, he couldn't take his eyes off the mare. "Mother Night, she's beautiful."

"She's also a Black Widow Queen," Lucivar said dryly, watching Mistral escort his Lady. "Well, if someone's going to get kicked for fussing, better him than me."

Saetan laughed softly. "By the way, your sister has something she wants to discuss with you." When he didn't get a response, he looked at his son. "Lucivar?"

Lucivar's mouth hung open, his eyes fixed on the trees to Saetan's left—the trees Jaenelle had walked into a few minutes before.

He turned . . . and forgot how to breathe. She wore a long, flowing dress made of delicate black spidersilk. Strands of cobwebs dripped from the tight sleeves. Beginning just above her breasts, the dress became an open web framing her chest and shoulders. Black Jewel chips sparkled with dark fire at the end of each thread.

Black-Jeweled rings decorated both hands. Around her neck was a Black Jewel centered in a web made of delicate gold and silver strands.

It was a gown made for Jaenelle the Witch. Erotic. Romantic. Terrifying. He could feel the latent power in every thread of that gown. And he knew then who had created it: the Arachnians. The Weavers of Dreams.

Saying nothing, Jaenelle picked up Kaetien's horn and glided toward open ground, the gown's small train flowing out behind her.

Saetan wanted to remind her that it was her moon time, that she shouldn't be channeling her power through her body right now. But he remembered that, behind the human mask, Witch had a tiny spiral horn in the center of her forehead, so he said nothing.

She spent several minutes walking around, looking at the ground as if she wanted a particular site.

Finally satisfied, she faced the north. Raising Kaetien's horn to the sky, she sang one keening note. She lowered her hands, pointed the horn at the ground, and sang another note. Then she swept her arms upward and began to sing in the Old Tongue.

Witch song.

Saetan felt it in his bones, felt it in his blood.

A ghostly web of power formed under her bare feet and swiftly spread across the land. Spread and spread and spread.

Her song changed, became a dirge filled with sorrow and celebration. Her voice became the wind, the water, the grass, the trees. Circling. Spiraling.

The still, white bodies of the dead unicorns began to glow. Mesmerized, Saetan wondered if, viewed from above, the glowing bodies would look like stars that had come to rest on sacred ground.

Perhaps they were. Perhaps they had.

The song changed again until it became a blend of the other two. Ending and beginning. From the land and back to the land.

The unicorn bodies melted into the earth.

Kindred didn't come to the Dark Realm. Now he knew why. Just as he knew why humans would never easily settle in kindred Territories without the kindred's welcome. Just as he knew what had created those pockets of power he'd avoided so carefully.

Kindred never left their Territories, they became part of it. What strength was left in each of them became bound with the land.

The ghostly web of power faded.

Jaenelle's voice and the last of the daylight faded.

No one moved. No one spoke.

Coming back to himself, Saetan realized Lucivar's arm was around his shoulders.

"Damn," Lucivar whispered, brushing away tears.

"The living myth," Saetan whispered. "Dreams made flesh." His throat tightened. He closed his eyes.

He felt Lucivar leave him and reach for something.

Opening his eyes, he watched Lucivar support Jaenelle into the camp. Her face was tight with pain and exhaustion, but there was peace in her sapphire eyes.

The coven gathered around her and led her into the trees.

Talking quietly, the boys stirred the pots of stew, sliced bread and cheese, gathered bowls and plates for the evening meal.

Beyond the firelight, the unicorns settled down for the night.

Khary and Aaron took bowls of stew and water out to where Ladvarian and Kaelas were keeping watch over the foals.

When the girls returned, Jaenelle was dressed in trousers and a long, heavy sweater. She gave Lucivar a halfhearted snarl when he wrapped her in a spell-warmed blanket and settled her on the log next to Saetan, but she didn't grumble about the food he brought.

They all talked quietly as they ate. Small talk and gentle teasing. Nothing about what they'd done today or what still waited for them tomorrow. Despite their best efforts, they'd covered a very small part of Sceval, and only Jaenelle knew how many unicorns lived there.

Only Jaenelle knew how many had been sung back to the land.

"Saetan?" Jaenelle said, resting her head against his shoulder.

He kissed her forehead. "Witch-child?"

She didn't respond for so long he thought she'd dozed off. "When does the Dark Council next meet?"

Lord Magstrom tried to keep his mind on the petitioner standing in the circle, but she had the same complaints as the seven petitioners before her, and he doubted the twenty petitioners after her would have anything different to say to the Dark Council.

He had thought that, when he became Third Tribune, his opinions might carry a little more weight. He had hoped his position would help quell the continued, whispered insinuations about the SaDiablo family.

That none of the Territory Queens outside of Little Terreille believed there was any truth in those whispers should have told the Council something. That the Dark Council's judgments had been respected and trusted by all of the Blood races for all the years the High Lord and Andulvar Yaslana had served in the Council should have told them even more—especially since it was no longer true.

Lord Jorval was First Tribune now, and it was disturbing how easily he shaped other Council members' opinions.

And now this.

"How can I settle the territory granted to me when my men are being slaughtered before they even set up camp?" the Queen petitioner demanded. "The Council has to do something!"

"The wilderness is always dangerous, Lady," Lord Jorval said smoothly. "You were warned to take extra precautions."

"Precautions!" The Queen quivered in outrage. "You said these beasts, these so-called kindred had a bit of magic."

"They do."

"That wasn't just a bit of magic they were using. That was Craft!"

"No, no. Only the human races are Blood, and only the Blood has the power to use Craft." Lord Jorval looked soulfully at the Council members seated on either side of the large chamber. "But, perhaps, since we know so little about them, we were not fully aware of the extent of this animal magic. It may be that the only way our Terreillean Brothers and Sisters will be able to secure the land granted to them is if the Kaeleer Queens they're serving are willing to send in their own warriors to clear out these infestations."

And every Queen who sent assistance would expect a higher percentage of the profit from the conquered land, Magstrom thought sourly. He was about to antagonize the rest of the Council—again—by reminding the members that the Dark Council had been formed to act as arbitrators to prevent wars, not to provoke them. Before he could speak, a midnight voice filled the Council chamber.

"Infestations?" Jaenelle Angelline strode toward the Tribunal's bench and stopped just outside the petitioner's circle, flanked by the High Lord and Lucivar Yaslana. "Those infestations you speak of, Lord Jorval, are kindred. They are Blood. They have every right to defend themselves and their land against an invading force."

"We're not invading!" the petitioning Queen snapped. "We went in to settle the unclaimed land that was granted to us by the Dark Council."

"It's not unclaimed," Jaenelle snarled. "It's kindred Territories."

"Ladies." Lord Jorval had to raise his voice to be heard over the muttering of Council members and petitioners. "Ladies!" When the Council and the petitioners subsided, Lord Jorval smiled at Jaenelle. "Lady Angelline, while it's always a pleasure to see you, I must ask that you not disrupt a Council meeting. If there is something you wish to bring before the Council, you must wait until the petitioners who have already requested an audience have been heard."

"If all the petitioners have the same complaint, I can save the Council a great deal of time," Jaenelle replied coldly. "Kindred Territories are not unclaimed land. The Blood have ruled there for thousands of years. The Blood still rule there."

"While it pains me to disagree," Lord Jorval said gently, "there are no Blood in these 'kindred territories.' The Council has studied this matter most diligently and has reached the conclusion that, while these animals may be thought of as 'magical cousins,' they are not Blood. One must be human to be Blood. And this Council was formed to deal with the Blood's concerns, the Blood's rights."

"Then what are the centaurs? What are the satyrs? Half-human with half rights?" No one answered. "I see," Jaenelle said too softly.

Lord Magstrom's mouth felt parched. His tongue felt shriveled. Did no one else remember what had happened the last time Jaenelle Angelline had stood before the Council?

"Once the Blood are established in these Territories, they will look after the kindred. Any disagreements can then be brought to the Council by the human representatives for those Territories."

"You're saying that the kindred require a human representative before they're entitled to any consideration or any rights?"

"Precisely," Lord Jorval said, smiling.

"In that case, I am the kindred's human representative."

Lord Magstrom suddenly felt as if a trap had been sprung. Lord Jorval was still smiling, still looked benign, but Magstrom had worked with him enough to recognize the subtle, underlying cruelty in the man.

"Unfortunately, that isn't possible," Lord Jorval said. "This Lady's claim may be under dispute"—he nodded at the petitioning Queen—"but you have no claim whatsoever. You don't rule these Territories. Your rights are not being infringed upon. And since neither you nor yours are affected by this, you have no justifiable complaint. I must ask you now to leave the Council chambers."

Lord Magstrom shuddered at the blankness in Jaenelle's eyes. He sighed with relief when she walked out of the Council chamber, followed by the High Lord and Prince Yaslana.

"Now, Lady," Lord Jorval said with a weary smile, "let's see what we can do about your rightful petition."

"Bastards," Lucivar snarled as they walked toward the landing web.

Saetan slipped an arm around Jaenelle's shoulders. Lucivar's open anger didn't worry him. Jaenelle's silent withdrawal did.

"Don't fret about it, Cat," Lucivar continued. "We'll find a way around those bastards and keep the kindred protected."

"I'm not sure there is a legitimate way around the Council's decision," Saetan said carefully.

"And you've never stepped outside the Law? You've never overruled a bad decision by using strength and temper?"

Saetan clenched his teeth. In trying to explain why the family had difficulties with the Dark Council, someone must have told Lucivar why the Council made him Jaenelle's guardian. "No, I'm not saying that."

"Are you saying kindred aren't important enough to fight for because they're animals?"

Saetan stopped walking. Jaenelle drifted a little farther down the flagstone walk, away from them.

"No, I'm not saying that, either," Saetan replied, struggling to keep his voice down. "We have to find an answer that fits the Council's new rules or this will escalate into a war that tears the Realm apart."

"So we sacrifice the nonhuman Blood to save Kaeleer?" Smiling bitterly, Lucivar opened his wings. "What am I, High Lord? By the Council's reckoning of who is human and who is not, what am I?"

Saetan took a step back. It could have been Andulvar standing there. It had been Andulvar standing there all those years ago. When honor and the Law no longer stand on the same side of the line, how do we choose, SaDiablo?

Saetan rubbed his hands over his face. Ah, Hekatah, you spin your schemes well. Just like the last time. "We'll find a legitimate way to protect the kindred and their land."

"You said there wasn't a legitimate way."

"Yes, there is," Jaenelle said softly as she joined them. She leaned against Saetan. "Yes, there is."

Alarmed by how pale she looked, Saetan held her against him, stroking her hair as he probed gently. Nothing physically wrong except the fatigue brought on by overwork and the emotional stress of tallying the kindred deaths. "Witch-child?"

Jaenelle shuddered. "I never wanted this. But it's the only way to help them."

"What's the only way, witch-child?" Saetan crooned.

Trembling, she stepped away from him. The haunted look in her eyes would stay with him forever.

"I'm going to make the Offering to the Darkness and set up my court."

Chapter Sixteen

Banard sat in the private showroom at the back of his shop, sipping tea while he waited for the Lady.

He was a gifted craftsman, an artist who worked with precious metals, precious and semiprecious stones, and the Blood Jewels. A Blood male who wore no Jewel himself, he handled them with a delicacy and respect that made him a favorite with the Jeweled Blood in Amdarh. He always said, "I handle a Jewel as if I were handling someone's heart," and he meant it.

Among his clients were the Queen of Amdarh and her Consort, Prince Mephis SaDiablo, Prince Lucivar Yaslana, the High Lord and, his favorite, Lady Jaenelle Angelline.

Which was why he was sitting here long after the shops had closed for the day. As he'd told his wife, when the Lady asked for a favor, why, that was almost like serving her, wasn't it?

He nearly spilled his tea when he looked up from his musings and saw the shadowy figure standing in the doorway of the private showroom. His shop had strong guard spells and protection spells—gifts from his darker-Jeweled clients. No one should have been able to get this far without triggering the alarms.

"My apologies, Banard," said the feminine, midnight voice. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"Not at all, Lady," Banard lied as he increased the illumination of the candlelights around the velvet-covered display table. "My mind was wandering." He turned to smile at her, but when he saw what she held in her hands, he broke out in a cold sweat.

"There's something I'd like you to make for me, if you can," Jaenelle said, stepping into the small room.

Banard gulped. She had changed since he'd last seen her a few months ago. It was more than the Widow's weeds she was wearing. It was as if the fire that had always burned within her was now closer to the surface, illuminating and shadowing. He could feel the dark power swirling around her—brutal strength offset by a worrisome fragility.

"This is what I'd like you to make," Jaenelle said.

A piece of paper appeared on the display table.

Banard studied the sketch for several minutes, wondering what he could say, wondering how to refuse gracefully, wondering why she, of all people, would have the thing she held in her hands.

As if understanding his silence and reluctance, Jaenelle caressed the spiraled horn. "His name was Kaetien," she said softly. "He was the Warlord Prince of the unicorns. He was butchered a few days ago, along with hundreds of his people, when humans came in to claim Sceval as their territory." Tears filled her eyes. "I've known him since I was a little girl. He was the first friend I made in Kaeleer, and one of the best. He gifted me with his horn. For remembrance. As a reminder."

Banard studied the sketch again. "If I may make one or two suggestions, Lady?"

"That's why I came to you," Jaenelle said with a trembling smile.

Using a thin, charcoal pencil, Banard altered the sketch. At the end of an hour of fine-tuning, they were both satisfied.

Alone again, Banard made another cup of tea and sat for a while, studying the sketch and staring at the horn he couldn't yet bring himself to touch.

What she wanted made would be a fitting tribute for a beloved friend. And it would be an appropriate tool for such a Queen.

Saetan paced the length of the sitting room Draca had reserved for them at the Keep. Reserved? Confined them to was closer to the truth.

Lucivar abandoned his chair and stretched his back and shoulders. "Why is it that your pacing isn't supposed to annoy me, but when I start pacing I get chucked into the garden?" he asked dryly.

"Because I'm older and I outrank you," Saetan snarled. He pivoted and paced to the other side of the room.

From sunset to sunrise. That's how long it took to make the Offering to the Darkness. It didn't matter if a person came away from the Offering wearing a White Jewel or a Black, that's how long it took. From sunset to sunrise.

Jaenelle had been gone three full days.

He had remained calm when the first dawn had passed into late morning because he could still remember how shaky he'd felt after making the Offering, how he'd remained in the altar room of the Sanctuary for hours while he adjusted to the feel of the Black Jewels.

But when the sun began to set again, he'd gone to the Dark Altar in the Keep to find out what had happened to her. Draca had forbidden him entrance, sharply reminding him of the consequences of interrupting an Offering. So he'd returned to the sitting room to wait.

When midnight came and went, he'd tried to reach the Dark Altar again and had found all the corridors blocked by a shield even the Black couldn't penetrate. Desperate, he'd sent an urgent message to Cassandra, hoping she would be able to break through Draca's resistance. But Cassandra hadn't responded, and he'd cursed this evidence of her further withdrawal.

She was tired. He understood that. He came from a long-lived race and had already gone several lifetimes beyond the norm. Cassandra had lived hundreds, had watched the people she'd come from decline, fade, and finally be absorbed into younger, emerging races. When she had ruled; she had been respected, revered.

But Jaenelle was loved.

So Cassandra hadn't responded. Tersa had.

"Something's wrong," Saetan snarled as he passed the couch and low table Tersa hunched over while she arranged puzzle pieces into shapes that had meaning only for her. "It doesn't take this long."

Tersa poked a puzzle piece into place and pushed her tangled black hair away from her face. "It takes as long as it takes."

"An Offering is made between sunset and sunrise."

Tersa tilted her head, considering. "That was true for the Prince of the Darkness. But for the Queen?" She shrugged.

Cold whispered up Saetan's spine. What would Jaenelle be like when she was the Queen of the Darkness?

He crouched opposite Tersa, the table between them. She paid no more attention to him than she did to Lucivar's silent approach.

"Tersa," Saetan said quietly, trying to catch her attention. "Do you know something, see something?"

Tersa's eyes glazed. "A voice in the Darkness. A howling, full of joy and pain, rage and celebration. The time is coming when the debts will be paid." Her eyes cleared. "Leash your fear, High Lord," she said with some asperity. "It will do her more harm now than anything else. Leash it, or lose her."

Saetan's hand closed over her wrist. "I'm not afraid of her, I'm afraid for her."

Tersa shook her head. "She will be too tired to sense the difference. She will only sense the fear. Choose, High Lord, and live with what you choose." She looked at the closed door. "She is coming."

Saetan tried to rise too quickly and winced. He'd overworked his bad leg again. Tugging down the sleeves of his tunic jacket and smoothing back his hair, he wished, futilely, that he'd bathed and changed into fresh clothes. He also wished, futilely, that his heart would stop pounding so hard.

Then the door opened and Jaenelle stood on the threshold.

In the seconds before rational thought fled, his mind registered her hesitation, her uncertainty. It also registered the amount of jewelry she was wearing.

Lorn had gifted her with thirteen uncut Black Jewels. An uncut Jewel was large enough to be made into a pendant and a ring, as well as providing smaller chips that could be used for a variety of purposes. If he was estimating correctly, she'd taken the equivalent of six of those thirteen Jewels in with her when she made the Offering. Six Black Jewels that, somehow, had been transformed into more than Black.

Into Ebony.

No wonder it had taken her so long to make the descent to her full strength. He couldn't begin to estimate the power at her disposal now. Since the day he'd met her, he'd known it would come to this. She was traveling roads now the rest of them couldn't even imagine.

What would it do to her?

His choice.

The thought shocked him with its clarity. It freed him to act.

Stepping forward, he offered his right hand.

Wild-shy, Jaenelle slipped into the room, hesitated a moment, then placed her hand in his.

He pulled her into arms, burying his face against her neck. "I've been worried sick about you," he growled softly.

Jaenelle stroked his back. "Why?" She sounded genuinely puzzled. "You've made the Offering. You know—"

"It doesn't usually take three days!"

"Three days!" She jerked back, stumbling into Lucivar, who had come up behind her. "Three days?"

"Do we have to observe Protocol from now on?" Lucivar asked.

"Don't be daft," Jaenelle snapped.

Grinning, Lucivar immediately wrapped his left arm around her, pinning her arms to her sides and holding her tight against his chest. "In that case, I propose dunking her in the nearest fountain."

"You can't do that!" Jaenelle sputtered, squirming.

"Why not?" Lucivar sounded mildly curious.

The reason she gave was inventive but anatomically impossible.

Since laughing wouldn't be diplomatic, even if it was prompted by the relief that wearing Ebony Jewels hadn't changed her, Saetan clenched his teeth and stayed silent.

Tersa, however, finally stirred herself and joined them. Shaking her head, she gave Jaenelle a poke in the shoulder. "There's no use wailing about it. You've taken up the responsibilities of a Queen now, and part of your duties is taking care of the males who belong to you."

"Fine," Jaenelle snarled. "When do I get to pound him?"

Tersa tsked. "They're males. They're allowed to fuss and pet." Then she smiled and patted Jaenelle's cheek. "Warlord Princes especially need physical contact with their Queen."

"Oh," Jaenelle said sourly. "Well, that's just fine then."

Tersa stretched out on the couch.

"All right, grumpy little cat, you have a choice," Lucivar said.

"Not one of your choices," Jaenelle groaned, sagging against him.

"Does either of those choices include food and sleep?" Saetan asked.

"And a bath?" Jaenelle added, wrinkling her nose.

"One does," Lucivar said, releasing her.

"Then I don't want to know what the other one is." Jaenelle rubbed her back. "Your belt buckle bites."

"So do you."

Saetan rubbed his temples. "Enough, children."

Amazingly, they both stopped. Gold and sapphire eyes studied him for a moment before they left the room, arms about each other's waists.

"You did well, Saetan," Tersa said quietly.

Picking up a blanket draped over a chair, Saetan tucked it around Tersa and smoothed back her hair. "I had help," he replied, then laughed softly when she batted at his hand. "Males are allowed to fuss and pet, remember?"

"I'm not a Queen."

Saetan watched her until she fell asleep. "No, but you are a very gifted, very extraordinary Lady."

Telling himself he wasn't nervous, despite the pounding heart and sweaty palms, Saetan entered the large stone chamber that Draca had indicated was the place where the invited guests were to wait until they were summoned to the Dark Throne. Except for the blackwood pillars that contained the candle-lights and a few long tables against the walls that held assorted beverages, the room was bare of furniture.

Which was just as well since threading their way through seating designed for humans would have made the kindred more tense than they already were, and some species—like the small dragons from the Fyreborn Islands—needed a generous amount of space. Saetan noticed, with growing uneasiness, that all the kindred, not just the ones who had had little or no contact with people, weren't mingling with the human Blood, even though most of the humans present were friends—or had been before the slaughters. That they were in this closed, confined space at all said a great deal for their devotion to Jaenelle.

That was one worry. Ebon Rih was the Keep's Territory in Kaeleer—Jaenelle's Territory now. Ruling Ebon Rih wouldn't help the kindred or keep the human invaders out of their Territories. Traditionally, the Queen of Ebon Askavi had considerable influence in all the Realms, but would that influence and the innate caution within the Blood not to antagonize a mature dark power be enough? Would any of the fools in Kaeleer's Dark Council even recognize who they were challenging?

Another worry was who was going to make up Jaenelle's court. He'd always assumed that the coven and Jaenelle's male friends would form the First Circle. It wasn't unprecedented for Queens to serve in a stronger Queen's court since District Queens served Province Queens who, in their turn, served the Territory Queen. That was the web of power that kept a Territory united.

But Queens who ruled a Territory didn't serve in other courts. They were the final law of their land and yielded to no one.

In the past week, while Jaenelle rested after making the Offering, her coven, Queens all, had also made the Offering. And every one of them had been chosen as the new Queen of their respective Territories, the former Queens stepping aside and accepting positions in the newly formed courts.

The boys, too, had come to power. Chaosti was now the Warlord Prince of Dea al Mon and Gabrielle's Consort. Khardeen, Morghann's Consort, was the ruling Warlord of Maghre, his home village. After accepting Kalush's Consort ring, Aaron had become the Warlord Prince of Tajrana, the capital of Nharkhava. Sceron and Elan were the Warlord Princes of Centauran and Tigrelan, serving in the First Circles of Astar's and Grezande's courts. Jonah now served as First Escort for his sister, Zylona, and Morton served as First Escort for his cousin Karla.

As feminine voices drifted down the corridor behind him, Saetan headed for the table where Lucivar, Aaron, Khary, and Chaosti were gathered. Geoffrey and Andulvar nodded in greeting but didn't break away from their conversation with Mephis and Prothvar. Sceron, Elan, Morton, and Jonah were talking to a diminutive Warlord Prince Saetan hadn't seen before. Little Katrine's First Escort or Consort?

"The tailor did an excellent job," Saetan told Lucivar, accepting the glass of warmed yarbarah.

"Uh-huh." The reply sounded sour, but after a moment Lucivar shook his head and laughed. He put his hand over his heart. "I represent a challenge worthy of good Lord Aldric who, as he happily informed me while he was sticking pins everywhere, had never designed formal attire that had to accommodate wings."

"Well, now that he has your measurements—" Saetan began.

"Oh, no." Lucivar shook his head, wearing an expression Saetan recognized all too well from his own dealings with good Lord Aldric. " 'Each fabric has a character of its own, Prince Yaslana,'" Lucivar said, mimicking the tailor's mournful voice. " 'We must learn how each one will flow around these marvelous additions to your physique.' "

Khary, Aaron, and Chaosti coughed in unison.

"Maybe he just wants to stroke your wings," Karla said as she joined them. She slid her hand over Saetan's shoulder and leaned against his back, her sharp chin digging into his other shoulder. "They are impressive. Is it true that the length of your"—her ice-blue eyes flicked to Lucivar's groin—"is in direct proportion to your wings?"

Lucivar made a very crude sexual gesture.

"Touchy, isn't he? But not touchable? Ah, well. Kiss kiss."

"Stuff yourself, Karla," Lucivar said, baring his teeth in a smile.

Karla laughed. "It's so good to be back among the surly. A few days ago I said 'kiss kiss' and everyone tried to." She shuddered dramatically, then ruffled Saetan's hair, cheerfully ignoring the accompanying snarl. "You know what, Uncle Saetan?"

"What?" Saetan replied warily, sipping his yarbarah.

Karla's wicked smile bloomed. "Since you're the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan and rule that Territory, and I'm the Queen of Glacia and rule that Territory, now whenever Dhemlan has to deal with Glacia, you get to deal with me."

Saetan choked.

"Appalling thought, isn't it, that you're going to have to deal with all the things you taught me."

"Mother Night," Saetan gasped as Karla plucked the glass out of his hand and thumped his back.

"What'd you do to Uncle Saetan?" Morghann asked, accepting a glass of wine from Khary.

"Just reminded him that we're now the Queens he has to deal with."

"How unfair, Karla," Kalush said, joining them. "You should have eased into it instead of springing it on him."

"How?" Karla frowned. "Besides, he knew it already. Didn't you?"

Saetan retrieved his glass and drained it to avoid answering. After all the hours he, Geoffrey, Andulvar, and Mephis had spent chewing over the implications of having this particular group of Queens coming into power at this time, none of them had thought of the obvious—that he was going to have to deal with them as Territory Queens.

A gong sounded throughout the Keep. Once. Twice. Thrice. Then, after a pause, a fourth time.

Four times for the four sides of a Blood triangle, the fourth side being what was held within the other three. Like the three males—Steward, Master of the Guard, and Consort—who formed a strong, intimate triangle around a Queen.

At the back of the room, huge double doors opened outward, revealing a dark emptiness.

Paying no attention to the hesitant stirring around him, Saetan set his glass aside, smoothed his hair, and straightened his new clothes. Since Protocol dictated that processions went from light Jewels to dark, first all the males and then the females, he would be at the end of the male line.

So he didn't realize no one had moved and that everyone was looking at him until Lucivar poked him.

"Protocol dictates—" he began.

"Screw Protocol," Karla replied succinctly. "You go first."

When everyone nodded agreement, he slowly walked toward the double doors. Lucivar and Andulvar fell into step on either side of him. Mephis, Geoffrey, and Prothvar followed them.

"What's in there?" Lucivar asked quietly.

"I don't know," Saetan replied. "I've never been in this part of the Keep before." He glanced back at Geoffrey, who shook his head.

They reached the doors and stopped. The lights from the room behind them revealed the first handful of wide, descending steps.

We'll all break our necks trying to go down without lights.

The thought was barely completed when little sparkles embedded in the dark stone began to glow, growing brighter and brighter.

Like swirls of stars, Saetan thought, his breath catching. Like the poem Geoffrey quoted to him years ago, about the great dragons who had created the Blood. They spiral down into ebony, catching the stars with their tails.

Ebony had once been the poetic term for the Darkness.

Saetan froze, his foot suspended over the first step.

Was it still?

"Something wrong?" Lucivar whispered.

Saetan shook his head and slowly descended, grateful for the solid Eyrien strength on either side of him.

When he reached the bottom step, a second set of double doors swung inward. The midnight-black chamber slowly lightened, the dark giving way to the dawn. The light gradually spread from their end of the chamber to the other. But he noticed, as he moved forward, that it didn't illuminate the ceiling. At thrice his height, the light gave way to twilight, which, in its turn, yielded once again to the dark.

The back wall began to lighten from either side. Filling the wall, as high as the light reached, was a highly detailed bas-relief. A dreamscape, a nightscape, shapes rising up from and dissolving into others. Kindred shapes. Human shapes. Blending. Entwined. Fierce and beautiful. Ugly and gentle.

The light finally reached the center of the back wall and the Dark Throne. Three wide steps ran around the dais on three sides. On the dais itself was a simple blackwood chair with a high, carved back. Its simplicity said that the power that ruled here had no need for ornamentation or ostentation—especially when it was protected on the right-hand side by a huge dragon head coming out of the stone.

"Mother Night," Andulvar said in a hushed voice. "She created a sculpture of Lorn's head."

"Hell's fire," Lucivar whispered. "Where'd she find so many uncut Jewels to make the scales?"

Trembling, Saetan shook his head, unable to speak. Maybe Andulvar couldn't see the darkness beyond the lit bas-relief from where he stood, a darkness that suggested another large chamber beyond this one. Maybe he couldn't see the iridescent fire in the dragon's scales. Maybe he'd forgotten the sound of that ancient, powerful voice. Maybe . . .

Eyelids slowly opened. Midnight eyes pinned them where they stood.

Geoffrey clutched Saetan's arm, his fingers digging in hard enough to hurt. "Mother Night, Saetan," Geoffrey said, his breathing ragged. "The Keep is his lair. He's been here all the time."

He hadn't expected Lorn to be so big. If the body was in proportion to the head . . .

Dragon scales. The Jewels were dragon scales somehow transformed into hard, translucent stones. Had there been dragons who matched the specific colors of the Jewels or had they all been that iridescent silver-gold, changing color to match the strength of the recipient?

Saetan gingerly touched the Black Jewel around his neck. His Birthright Red and the Black had been uncut Jewels. Were there two missing scales somewhere along the great body that must lie in the next chamber that would have matched his uncut Jewels?

Then he finally understood why there had been a hint of maleness in the uncut Jewels Jaenelle had been gifted with.

Lorn. The great Prince of the Dragons. The Guardian of the Keep.

Needing to get his mind focused on something other than the power that ancient body must contain, Saetan turned to Geoffrey. "His Queen. What was the name of his Queen?"

"Draca," said a sibilant voice behind them.

They turned and stared at the Keep's Seneschal.

Her lips curled in a tiny smile. "Her name wass Draca."

Looking into her eyes, Saetan wondered what subtle spell had been lifted that allowed him to see what he should have guessed long before. Her age, her strength, the uneasiness so many felt in her presence. Which made him think of something else. "Does Jaenelle know?"

Draca made a sound that might have been a laugh. "Sshe hass alwayss known, High Lord."

Saetan grimaced, then gave in as gracefully as he could. Even if he'd thought to ask, he doubted he'd have gotten an answer. Jaenelle was very good at keeping her own counsel.

"Are they relatives of yours?" Lucivar asked, indicating the Fyreborn dragons who were staring at Lorn.

"You are all relativess," Draca replied, looking pointedly at Lucivar's Ebon-gray Jewel. "We created the Blood. All the Blood. Therefore, you are all dragonss under the sskin."

Saetan glanced at the kindred who were edging closer. "You, of course, would know." He saw amusement in Draca's eyes.

"It iss not I who ssayss sso, High Lord. Jaenelle ssayss sso." Draca looked past them to the Dark Throne.

As one, they turned.

Dressed in that cobwebby black gown and wearing Ebony Jewels, Jaenelle sat serenely in the blackwood chair. Her long golden hair was brushed away from the face that finally revealed its unique beauty.

"The time has come for me to take up my duties as the Queen of Ebon Askavi," Jaenelle said. Her voice wasn't loud, but it carried throughout the chamber. "The time has come for me to choose my court."

A breathless tension filled the chamber.

Saetan concentrated on breathing slowly, steadily. For days he'd been telling himself that court service was for the young and vigorous, that he'd never intended to serve formally, that the unspoken service he performed was enough, that he had experienced serving in the Dark Court at Ebon Askavi when he'd been Cassandra's Consort.

Except he hadn't, because, in a way he couldn't put into words, it hadn't really been the Dark Court. Not like this one.

And he suddenly understood why Cassandra had withdrawn from them.

This was the court he had waited to serve in. This was the court he'd always craved. He wanted to serve the daughter of his soul, who had finally come into her dark, glorious power.

Witch. The living myth. Dreams made flesh.

This had been his dream.

And Lucivar's, he realized, seeing the fire in his son's eyes. Yes, Lucivar would have craved a Queen who could meet his strength.

Jaenelle's voice pulled him back. "Prince Chaosti, will you serve in the First Circle?"

Gracefully, Chaosti knelt on one knee, a fisted hand over his heart. "I will serve."

Saetan frowned. How was Chaosti going to serve in Jaenelle's First Circle when he'd already accepted service in Gabrielle's First Circle?

"Prince Kaelas, will you serve in the First Circle?"

*I will serve.*

He became more and more puzzled as Jaenelle called out name after name. Mephis, Prothvar, Aaron, Khardeen, Sceron, Jonah, Morton, Elan. Ladvarian, Mistral, Smoke, Sundancer.

And then he, Andulvar, and Lucivar were the only males left standing, and everything in him waited for her next words.

"Lady Karla, will you serve in the First Circle?"

"I will serve."

Shock ripped through Saetan, quickly followed by pain so intense he didn't think it would be possible to survive it. She hadn't forgiven him. At least, not enough.

"Lady Moonshadow, will you serve hi the First Circle?"

*I will serve.*

He swallowed hard. He couldn't react, wouldn't let the others see the hurt. But if she was going to allow Mephis and Prothvar to serve, why not Andulvar? Why not Lucivar, who already served her?

He barely heard the other names being called out. Gabrielle, Morghann, Kalush, Grezande, Sabrina, Zylona, Katrine, Astar, Ash. On and on until all the witches had accepted a place in the court.

Draca and Geoffrey couldn't formally serve because they served the Keep itself. If there was comfort knowing that, it was a bitter brew.

He could feel Lucivar trembling beside him.

After a moment's silence, Jaenelle rose and walked down the three steps. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him. He felt her exasperation as she lightly brushed against the first of his inner barriers.

She pushed up her left sleeve and made a small cut in her wrist.

Blood welled and ran.

"Prince Lucivar Yaslana, will you serve as First Escort and Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih?"

Lucivar stared at her for a heartbeat or two, then slowly approached her. "I will serve." He sank to his knees, held her left hand with his right, and placed his mouth over the wound.

Absolute surrender. Lifetime surrender. By accepting her blood, Lucivar surrendered every aspect of his being for all time. She would rule him, body and soul, mind and Jewels.

It wasn't long—it was a lifetime—before Lucivar lifted his mouth, rose, and stepped to one side, looking dazed.

Not surprising, Saetan thought. From where he stood, he could smell the heat, the strength that flowed in her veins.

"Prince Andulvar Yaslana, will you serve as Master of the Guard?"

"I will serve," Andulvar said, approaching her and sinking to his knees to accept the lifeblood.

When Andulvar stepped aside, Jaenelle looked at Saetan. "Prince Saetan Daemon SaDiablo, will you serve as Steward of the Dark Court?"

Saetan approached slowly, searching her eyes for some clue that would tell him which answer she truly wanted. Since he couldn't ask the question aloud, he reached hesitantly for her mind. *Are you sure?*

*Of course I'm sure,* she replied tartly. *There are times, Saetan, when you're an idiot. The only reason I waited was so that the three of you would know what you were getting into before you agreed.*

*In that case . . . * He sank to his knees. "I will serve."

Just before his mouth closed over the wound, just before his tongue had the first taste of her blood at its mature strength, Jaenelle added, *Besides, who else is going to be willing to referee squabbles?*

Giving her a sharp look, he took the blood. Night sky, deep earth, the song of the tides, the nurturing darkness of a woman's body. And fire. He tasted all of it, savored it as it washed through him, burned through him, branded him as hers.

He lifted his mouth and brushed a finger over the wound, using healing Craft to seal it and stop the flow of blood. *It needs to be healed properly.*

*Soon.* She withdrew her hand and returned to the Dark Throne.

No, he decided as he got to his feet and heard everyone else rising, this wasn't a good time for a display of male stubbornness. Besides, the ceremony would be over shortly.

*Notice anything odd about this court?* Lucivar asked him as tension filled the chamber again.

Surprised by the question, Saetan looked at all the solemn, determined faces. *Odd? No. They're the same . . . *

It finally struck him. He'd thought of it, discussed it, and then had been so hurt when Jaenelle passed over him that he had failed to see it. The coven had joined the First Circle, and they shouldn't have because they were Territory Queens . . .

Karla stepped forward. "My Queen. May I speak?"

"You may speak, my Sister," Jaenelle replied solemnly.

. . . and Territory Queens served no one.

Contained fire lit Karla's ice-blue eyes as she said triumphantly, "Glacia yields to Ebon Askavi!"

Saetan choked on his heart. Mother Night! Karla was making Jaenelle the ruling power of the Territory she was supposed to rule.

Gabrielle stepped forward. "Dea al Mon yields to Ebon Askavi!"

"Scelt yields to Ebon Askavi!" Morghann shouted.

"Nharkhava!"

"Dharo!"

"Tigrelan!"

"Centauran!"

*Sceval!*

*Arceria!*

*The Fyreborn Islands!*

Someone nudged his back, breaking his stunned silence. "Dhemlan yields to Ebon Askavi!"

He jumped when Andulvar roared, "Askavi yields to Ebon Askavi!"

The shouted names of the Territories that now stood in the shadow of Ebon Askavi finally stopped echoing through the chamber. Then a small voice drifted into their minds.

*Arachna yields to the Lady of the Black Mountain.*

"Mother Night," Saetan whispered, and wondered if the Weavers of Dreams were spinning their tangled webs across the chamber's ceiling.

"I accept," Jaenelle said quietly.

Lucivar briefly squeezed Saetan's shoulder in amused sympathy. "Should I wish the Steward of this court my congratulations or condolences?" he said quietly.

"Mother Night." Saetan staggered back a step. Hands grabbed his arms, keeping him upright.

Lucivar laughed softly as he slipped around Saetan. He climbed the steps to the Throne and extended his right hand. Jaenelle rose and placed her left hand over his right. A wide aisle opened up as the new court stepped aside to allow the First Escort to lead his Queen from the chamber.

Starting to follow, Saetan felt something hold him back. Waving Andulvar and the others on, he felt his throat tighten as the kindred shyly blended in with the humans, once more offering their trust.

The chamber emptied, Draca and Geoffrey being the last to leave.

No longer having an excuse, Saetan turned toward Lorn. As they stared at one another, he felt gentle sadness pressing down on him, a sadness all the more terrible because it was cloaked in understanding. He knew then why Lorn had remained apart. He had experienced that kind of sadness, too, when petitioners had stood before him, terrified of the Prince of the Darkness, the High Lord of Hell. He knew how it felt to crave affection and companionship and have it denied because of what he was.

Fingering his Black Jewel, he said, "Thank you."

*You have made good usse of my gift. You have sserved well.*

Saetan thought of all he'd done in his life. All the mistakes, the regrets. All the blood spilled. "Have I?" he asked quietly, more to himself than Lorn.

*You have honored the Darknesss. You have resspected the wayss of the Blood. You have alwayss undersstood what the Blood were meant to be—caretakerss and guardianss. You have ussed teeth and clawss when teeth and clawss were needed. You have protected your young. The Darknesss hass ssung to you, and you have followed roadss few but the Dragonss have walked. You have undersstood the Blood'ss heart, the Blood'ss ssoul. You have sserved well.*

Saetan took a deep breath. His throat felt too tight to make an answer. "Thank you," he said hoarsely.

There was a long pause. *Ass sshe iss the daughter of your ssoul, you are the sson of mine.*

Saetan clutched the Jewel around his neck. Did Lorn have any idea what those words meant to him?

It didn't matter. What mattered was it formed a bond between them, a bridge he could cross. He would finally be able to talk to the keeper of all the Blood's Craft knowledge. Maybe he'd even find out how Jae—

"If I'm the daughter of Saetan's soul and he's the son of yours, does that make you my grandfather?" Jaenelle asked, joining them.

*No,* Lorn replied promptly.

"Why not?"

Hot, dusty-dry air hit them with enough force to push them back a couple of steps.

"I suppose that's an answer," Jaenelle grumped. She shook her arms to untangle all the cobwebby strands. "Although I don't see why you're getting all snorty about one little granddaughter."

"And the wide assortment of grandnieces and nephews that come with her," Saetan muttered under his breath.

Jaenelle gave him a sharp look and her wrists a last shake. "Well, at least you've finally met. You should've invited him sooner," she added, giving Lorn an I-told-you-so look.

*He wass not ready. He wass too young.*

Saetan would have protested but Jaenelle beat him to it.

"I was much younger when you invited me," Jaenelle said.

Saetan pressed an arm against his stomach and tried very hard to keep his expression neutral. But the emotional flavor of baffled male he was picking up from Lorn was making it very difficult.

*I did not invite you, Jaenelle,* Lorn said slowly.

"Yes, you did. Sort of. Well, not as blatantly as Saetan did—"

Saetan clamped his teeth together and made a funny, fizzy noise.

"—but I heard you, so I answered." She smiled at both of them.

Being smiled at like that was a good reason for a man to panic.

Before he had time to, Jaenelle rapidly headed for the stairs, muttering something about having to be there for the toast, and Lucivar had a very strong hand clamped on his shoulder.

"If great-grandpapa is finished with you," Lucivar said with a feral smile, "I'd like you to come upstairs and lean hard on Karla because, Queen of Glacia or not, if she makes one more of those smart-ass remarks about wing-spans, I'm going to drop her into a deep mountain lake."

"Lucivar, this is a dignified occasion," Saetan said at the same time Lorn said, *I am not your great-grandpapa.*

"No, you're not," Lucivar agreed. "But since no one was quite sure how many generations separate them from you— and it's different for each race or species—it was decided to condense all the generations into one 'great.' As for this being a dignified occasion, it was. As for the party that's waiting for Saetan to make the opening toast, I suspect it's going to be a lot of things and none of them are going to be remotely close to dignified." Lucivar looked at them and let out a pitying sigh. "You're both old enough to know better. And you've both known Jaenelle long enough to know better."

Saetan found himself being steered toward the doors at the other end of the chamber.

"Come on, be a good papa and let great-grandpapa dragon get some rest before all the little dragons pile on top of him."

Reaching the stairs, Saetan thought that the inner doors to the chamber closed just a little too quickly.

*We will talk,* Lorn said softly. *There iss much to talk about.*

Yes, there was, Saetan thought as he entered the upper chamber, accepted a glass of yarbarah, and looked at the animated, laughing faces that now ruled Kaeleer.

He wondered what Lorn thought about the many-strand web Jaenelle had woven over Kaeleer, the web that had called so many races out of the mist they'd hidden in for thousands of years.

And he wondered what the Dark Council was going to think.

Lord Magstrom rubbed his forehead and wished, violently, that this session of the Dark Council would end soon. Lord Jorval, the First Tribune, had been making soothing noises and deftly evading making firm promises since the first petitioner had stepped into the circle. They all wanted the same thing: assurance that the males sent into the kindred lands that had been granted as human territories wouldn't be slaughtered by these "Hell-spawned animals."

The Council couldn't give such assurances.

The stories told by the few survivors who returned from those first attempts to secure the land had roused a great anger in the people of Little Terreille and demands for retaliation. The piles of mutilated corpses—some partially eaten—that clogged the main street of Goth a few days later when all the males who had gone into kindred lands were mysteriously returned had chilled that anger into furious impotence.

Everyone wanted something done to make these unclaimed lands safe for human occupation. No one wanted to face what was already living in those "unclaimed" lands.

"I assure you, Lady," Lord Jorval said to the strident petitioner, "we're doing everything possible to rectify the situation."

"When I came here, I was promised land to rule and males who knew how to serve properly," the Terreillean Queen replied angrily.

Lord Magstrom wondered if anyone else had noticed that the majority of Kaeleer-born males, even with the enticement of serving in the First or Second Circle of a Terreillean Queen's court, resigned with bitter animosity after a few weeks of service. Terreillean males pleaded to serve Kaeleer-born Queens, willing to serve in the Thirteenth Circle as a menial servant if that's all that was available. Over the past three years, he'd had a few tearfully beg him to approach minor Queens outside of Little Terreille and see if there was any way they could serve in a Territory like Dharo or Nharkhava. They would do anything, they'd told him. Anything.

For some of the younger ones he thought might be acceptable to those Territory Queens, he'd written respectful letters pointing out the men's skills and their pledged willingness to adapt to the ways of the Shadow Realm. Some had been accepted into service. At each turn of the season, he received brief letters from each of those young men, and all of them expressed their relief and delight in their new life.

But the pleas were getting more desperate as more and more Terreilleans flooded into Little Terreille. And with every plea, with every story he heard about Terreille, he worried more and more about his youngest granddaughter. Even in his small village incidents had already occurred, and it was no longer wise for a woman to travel after dusk without a strong escort. Was that how it had begun in Terreille, with fear and distrust spiraling deeper and deeper until there was no way to stop it?

"Your request has been noted," Lord Jorval said, making a gesture that indicated dismissal. "Will the next—"

The doors at the end of the chamber blew open with a force that sent them crashing into the walls.

Jaenelle Angelline glided into the Council chamber, once again standing outside the petitioner's circle, once again flanked by the High Lord and Prince Lucivar Yaslana. Along the edges of her black, cobwebby gown's low neckline were dozens of Black Jewel chips glittering with dark fire. Around her neck was a Black—Black?—Jewel set in a necklace that looked like a spider's web made of delicate gold and silver strands. In her hands . . .

Lord Magstrom's hands shook.

She held a scepter. The lower half was made of gold and silver and had two Black-looking Jewels inset above the hand-hold. The upper half of the scepter was a spiraled horn.

Fingers pointed at the horn. Murmurs filled the chamber. "Lady Angelline, I must protest your interrupting—" Jorval began.

"I have something to say to this Council," Jaenelle said coldly, her voice carrying over the others. "It will not take long."

The murmurs grew louder, more forceful. "Why is she allowed to have a unicorn's horn?" the dismissed Terreillean Queen shouted. "I wasn't allowed to have one as compensation for my men being killed."

There was no expression on the High Lord's face as he looked at the Terreillean Queen. Lucivar, however, didn't try to hide his loathing.

"Silence."Jaenelle didn't raise her voice, but the undisguised malevolence in it hushed everyone. She looked at the Terreillean Queen and spoke five words.

Lord Magstrom knew enough of the Old Tongue to recognize the language but not enough to understand. Something about remembering?

Jaenelle caressed the horn, stroking it from base to tip and back down. "His name was Kaetien," she said in her midnight voice. "This horn was a gift, freely given."

"Lady Angelline," Jorval said, pounding on the Tribunal's bench as he tried to regain order.

From the seats closest to the Tribunal's bench, Lord Magstrom heard harsh voices talking about some people who thought they could ignore the authority of the Council. Jaenelle swung the scepter in an arc, holding it for a moment when the horn pointed at the floor before swinging it up until it pointed at the chamber ceiling.

A cold wind whipped through the chamber. Thunder shook the building. Lightning came down from the ceiling and entered the unicorn's horn.

Dark power filled the chamber. Unyielding, unforgiving power.

When the thunder finally stopped, when the wind finally died, the shaking members of the Dark Council climbed back into their seats.

Jaenelle Angelline stood calmly, quietly, the scepter once again held in both hands. The unicorn's horn was unmarked, but Magstrom could see the flashes of lightning now held within those Black-but-not-Black Jewels, could feel the power waiting to be unleashed.

"Hear me," Jaenelle said, "because I will say this only once. I have made the Offering to the Darkness. I am now the Queen of Ebon Askavi." She pointed the scepter at the Tribunal's bench.

Lord Magstrom shook. The horn was pointing straight at him. He held his breath, waiting for the strike. Instead, a rolled parchment tied with a blood-red ribbon appeared in front of him.

"That is a list of the Territories that yielded to Ebon Askavi. They now stand in the shadow of the Keep. They are mine. Anyone who tries to settle in my Territory without my consent will be dealt with. Anyone who harms any of my people will be executed. There will be no excuses and no exceptions. I will say it simply so that the members of this Council and the intruders who thought to take land they had no right to claim can never say they misunderstood." Jaenelle's lips curled into a snarl. "STAY OUT OF MY TERRITORY!"

The words rang through the chamber, echoing and reechoing.

Her sapphire eyes, eyes that didn't look quite human, held the Tribunal for a long moment. Then she turned and glided out of the Council chamber, followed by the High Lord and Prince Yaslana.

Magstrom's hands shook so hard it took him four tries to untie the blood-red ribbon. He unrolled the parchment, ignoring the fact that he should have given it to Jorval as First Tribune.

Name after name after name after name. Some he'd heard of as stories his grandmother used to tell him. Some he'd heard of as "unclaimed land." Some he'd never heard of at all.

Name after name after name.

At the bottom of the parchment, above Jaenelle's signature and black-wax seal, was a map of Kaeleer, the Territories that now stood in the shadow of the Keep shaded in. Except for Little Terreille and the island that had been granted to the Dark Council centuries ago, the Shadow Realm now belonged to Jaenelle Angelline.

Magstrom looked at the graceful, calligraphic signature. She had stood before the Council twice as a maid, and twice they had ignored the warnings of what she would become. Now they had to deal with a Queen who would not tolerate mistakes.

He shuddered and looked at the seal. In the center was a mountain. Overlaying the mountain was a unicorn's horn. Around the edge of the seal were five words in the Old Tongue.

A small piece of folded paper suddenly appeared on top of the seal. Magstrom grabbed it at the same moment Jorval pulled the parchment out of his hands. While Jorval and the Second Tribune read the list to the rest of the Council, their voices quivering more and more as they realized what it meant, Magstrom unfolded the paper, keeping it hidden.

A masculine hand had written the same five words that were on the seal. Below them was the translation.

For remembrance. As a reminder.

Magstrom looked up.

The High Lord stood just outside the open chamber doors.

Magstrom nodded slightly and vanished the paper, relieved no one had noticed that Saetan had remained behind to give him that message.

He would take the warning to heart and send a message home tonight. His two older granddaughters had made happy marriages outside of Little Terreille. He'd tell Arnora, his youngest granddaughter, to go to one of her sisters' homes immediately. Once she was there, surely there would be some way of persuading the new Queen of Dharo or Nharkhava to permit her to stay.

Half-listening to the Council's indignant, frightened babbling, Magstrom felt a nicker of hope for Arnora's future.

He didn't know the new Queens, but he knew someone who did.

After all the whispers, after all the stories, he thought it was fitting irony that the one person he could go to who would sympathize with his concerns and assist him was the High Lord of Hell.

"I never wanted to rule," Jaenelle said as she and Saetan strolled through the Keep's moonlit gardens. "I never wanted power over anyone's life but my own."

Saetan slipped an arm around her waist. "I know. That's why you're the perfect Queen to rule Kaeleer." When she looked puzzled, he laughed softly. "You're the one person who can weave all the separate strands into a unified web while still encouraging every strand to remain distinct. If you promise not to snarl at me, I'll tell you a secret."

"What? Okay, okay. I promise not to snarl."

"You've been ruling Kaeleer unofficially for years now, and you're probably the only person who hasn't realized it."

Jaenelle snarled, then muttered, "Sorry."

Saetan laughed. "Forgiven. But knowing that should be some comfort. I doubt there's going to be much difference between the official Dark Court and the unofficial one that was formed the first summer the coven and the boyos descended on the Hall and made it a second home."

Jaenelle brushed her hair away from her face. "Well, if that's true, then you really were an idiot not to have realized you would become the Steward since you've been the unofficial Steward for at least as long as I've been the unofficial Queen."

Since there was no good way to respond to that, he didn't.

"Saetan . . ." Jaenelle nibbled her lower lip. "You don't think they'll start acting differently now, do you? It's never made a difference before, but . . . the coven and the boyos aren't going to start acting subservient, are they?"

Saetan raised an eyebrow. "I'm surprised any of you know the word, let alone what it means." He hugged her. "I wouldn't worry about it. I think Lucivar's about as subservient as he's going to get."

Jaenelle leaned against him and groaned. Then she perked up a bit. "Well, that's one good thing about forming the court. At least I found something for him to do that'll keep him from being underfoot and badgering me all the time."

Saetan started to reply, then thought better of it. She was entitled to a few illusions—especially since they wouldn't last long.

Jaenelle yawned. "I'm going in. I'm telling the bedtime story tonight." She kissed his cheek. "Good night, Papa."

"Good night, witch-child." He waited until she'd gone inside before heading for the far end of the garden.

"The waif turned in early?" Andulvar asked, falling into step.

"She's doing the bedtime story and howl-along," Saetan replied.

"She'll be a good Queen, SaDiablo."

"The best we've ever had." They walked in silence for a couple of minutes. "The bitch has gone to ground again?"

Andulvar nodded. "Plenty of indications that she's got her hooks firmly into the Dark Council, but no sign of her. Hekatah was always good at staying out of the nastiness once she got it started. It still surprises me that she managed to get herself killed in the last war between the Realms." He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. "It must be biting Hekatah's ass that the waif's got the kind of power over a Realm that she's always wanted."

"Yes, it must be. So stay sharp, all right?"

"We should warn all the boyos before they return to their own Territories so they know what to look for in case she tries to come in from another direction."

"Agreed. But if the Darkness is kind, we'll have some time for these youngsters to get some ground under their feet before we have to deal with another of Hekatah's schemes."

"If the Darkness is kind." Andulvar cleared his throat.

"I know why you've wanted to wait, and I know who you've been waiting for, but, Saetan, Jaenelle's a grown woman and she's the Queen now. The triangle should be complete. She should have a Consort."

Saetan rested his arms on the top of the garden's stone wall. A soft, night wind sang through the pines beyond the garden. "She already has a Consort," he said quietly, firmly. "As First Escort, Lucivar can stand in for most of a Consort's duties and be the third side of the triangle until . . ." His voice faded.

"If ever, SaDiablo," Andulvar said with gentle roughness. "Until someone wears the Consort's ring, every ambitious buck in the Realm—and not a few of them being straight from Terreille—is going to be trying to slip into her bed for the power and prestige he'll gain by being her Consort. She needs a good man, Saetan, not a memory. She needs a strong, flesh-and-blood man who'll warm her bed at night because he cares about her."

Saetan stared at the land beyond the garden. "She has a Consort."

"Does she?" When Saetan didn't answer, Andulvar patted his shoulder and walked away.

Saetan stayed there a long time, listening to the night wind's song. "She has a Consort," he whispered. "Doesn't she?"

The night wind didn't answer.

He climbed.

The land wasn't as twisted here or as steep, but the mist-wisps that filled the hollows sometimes covered the trail, leaving him with the unsettling feeling that nothing existed below his knees.

As time passed, he realized the place felt familiar, that he had explored these roads before when he had been strong and whole. He had entered the borderland that separated sanity from the Twisted Kingdom.

The air held a dew-fresh softness. The light was gentle, like early morning. Somewhere nearby, birds chirped and twittered the day awake, and in the distance was the sound of heavy surf.

His crystal chalice was almost intact. During the long climb, the fragments had fit into place, one by one. There were a few slivers, a few memories missing. One in particular. He couldn't remember what he had done the night Jaenelle had been brought to Cassandra's Altar.

As he passed between two large stones that stood like sentinels, one on either side of the trail, the mist rose up around him.

Ahead of him were the water, the birds, the smell of rich earth, the warmth of the sun—and her promise that she would be waiting for him.

Ahead of him was sanity.

But there was also knowledge there, pain there. He could feel it.

Daemon.

A familiar voice, but not the one he longed to hear. He sorted through his memories until he could attach a name to the voice.

Manny. Talking to someone about toast and eggs.

Daemon.

He knew that voice, too. Surreal.

A part of him ached for ordinary conversation, for simple things like toast and eggs. A part of him was very afraid.

He took a step backward . . . and felt a door gently close behind him.

The stone sentinels had become a high, solid wall.

He leaned against it, trembling.

No way back.

Daemon.

Gathering up his shredded courage, he walked toward the voices, toward the promise.

Walked out of the Twisted Kingdom.