Heir to the Shadows dj-2 Read online

  As soon as the attack on the well had been thwarted and f the shield extended, the witch storm had re-formed over j the building. No longer spread out to cover the whole village and hide the destruction, it had become a tight mass of tangled psychic threads, an invisible cloud full of psychic lightning that sizzled every time it brushed the shield.

  The extra shielding and the constant reinforcement against another's Craft were doing what the Jhinka alone couldn't do – draining him to the breaking point. It would r take another day. Maybe two. After that, weak spots would appear in the shield – spots the witch storm could penetrate to entangle already exhausted minds, spots the Jhinka could ' break through to attack already exhausted bodies.

  He'd briefly toyed with the idea of insisting that Jaenelle return to the Keep for help. He'd dismissed the idea just as quickly. Until the healings were done, nothing and no j one would convince her to leave. If he admitted the shield ' might fail, more than likely she would throw a Black shield around the building, straining a body already overtaxed by the large healing web she'd created to strengthen all the wounded until she could get to them. Totally focused on the healing, she wouldn't give a second thought to driving her body beyond its limits. And he already knew what she would say if he argued with her about the damage she was doing to herself: everything has a price.

  So he'd held his tongue and his temper, determined to hold out until someone from Agio or the Keep came looking for them. Now, in the chill, early dawn, he couldn't find enough

  energy to produce any body heat, so he wrapped his cold hands around the warm mug.

  Randahl sipped his coffee in silence, his back turned toward the village. He was a fair-skinned Rihlander with faded blue eyes and thinning, cinnamon hair. His body had a middle-years thickness but the muscles were still solid, and he had more stamina than the three younger Warlords put together.

  "The women who can are helping out in the kitchen," Randahl said after a few minutes. "They were pleased to get the venison and other supplies you brought with you. They're using most of the meat to make broth for the seriously wounded, but they said they'd make a stew with the rest. You should have seen the sour looks they gave Mari when she insisted that we get the first bowls. Hell's fire, they even whined about giving us this sludge to drink, and me standing right there." He shook his head in disgust. "Damn landens. It's gotten to the point where the little ones run, screaming, whenever we walk into a village. They go around making signs against evil behind our backs, but they squeal loud enough when they need help."

  Lucivar sipped his quickly cooling coffee. "If you feel that way about landens, why did you come to help when the Jhinka attacked?"

  "Not for them. To protect the land. Won't have that Jhinka filth in Ebon Rih. We came to protect the land- and to get those two out." Randahl's shoulders sagged. "Hell's fire, Yaslana. Who would have thought the boy could build a shield like that?"

  "No one in Agio, obviously." Before Randahl could snap a reply, Lucivar continued harshly, "If Mari and Khevin matter to you, why didn't you let them live in Agio instead of leaving them here to be sneered at and slighted?"

  Randahl's face flushed a dull red. "And what would an Ebon-gray Warlord Prince know about being sneered at or slighted?"

  Lucivar didn't know whether he made the decision because he no longer cared what people knew about him or because he wasn't sure he and Randahl would survive. "I grew up in Terreille, not Kaeleer. I was too young to remember my father when I was taken from him, so I grew up being told, and believing, that I was a half-breed bastard, unwanted and unclaimed. You don't know what it's like to be a bastard in an Eyrien hunting camp. Sneered j at?" Lucivar laughed bitterly. "The favorite taunt was 'your father was a Jhinka.' Do you have any idea what that j means to an Eyrien? That you were sired by a male from I a hated race and that your mother must have accepted the mount willingly since she carried you full term and birthed I you? Oh, I think I know how someone like Khevin feels." I

  Randahl cleared his throat. "It shames me to say it, but I it wasn't any easier for him in Agio. Lady Erika tried to I make a place for him in her court. Felt she owed it to him I because her ex-Consort had sired the boy. But he wasn't happy, and Mari and her grandmother were here. So he I came back."

  And had endured ostracism from the landens and taunts I from the young Blood males – which explained why the two I Warlords now using Craft to move the Jhinka bodies away from the shield were being kept as far away from Jaenelle as possible.

  Lucivar finally answered the question he saw in Ran- | dahl's eyes. "Two of Lady Angelline's friends were training Khevin."

  Randahl rubbed the back of his neck. "Should have I thought to ask her ourselves. She has a way about her."

  Lucivar smiled wearily. "That she does." And she might! also have some idea of where the young couple might relocate. If they survived.

  For a moment, he allowed himself to believe they | would survive.

  Then the Jhinka returned.

  10 / Kaeleer

  Randahl shaded his eyes against the late afternoon sun and studied the low hills that were black with waiting Jhinka. I "They must have called up all the clans from all the tribes," I he said hoarsely. Then he sagged against the back of the community hall. "Mother Night, Yaslana, there must be five thousand of them out there."

  "More like six." Lucivar widened his stance. It was the only way his tired, trembling legs would keep him upright.

  Six thousand more than the hundreds he'd already killed during the past few days and that witch storm still raging around them, feeding on the shield to maintain its strength and draining him in the process. Six thousand more and no way to catch the Winds because that storm made it impossible to detect those psychic roadways.

  They could shield and they could fight, but they couldn't send out a call for help and they couldn't escape. The food had run out yesterday. The well dried up that morning. And there were still six thousand Jhinka waiting for the sun to sink a little farther behind the low western hills before they attacked.

  "We're not going to make it, are we?" Randahl said.

  "No," Lucivar replied softly. "We're not going to make it."

  In the past three days, he'd drained both Ebon-gray Jewels as well as his Red ring. The Red Jewel around his neck was now the only power reserve they had, and that wasn't going to hold much beyond the first attack. Randahl and the other three had exhausted their Jewels before he and Jaenelle had arrived. There hadn't been enough food or rest to bring any of them back up to strength.

  No, the males weren't going to make it. But Jaenelle had to. She was too valuable a Queen to lose in a trap that, he was convinced, had been set to destroy him.

  Satisfied that he'd lined up every argument that Protocol gave him to make this demand, Lucivar said, "Ask the Lady to join me here."

  No fool, Randahl understood why the request was being made now.

  Alone for a moment, Lucivar rolled his neck and stretched his shoulders, trying to ease the tense, tired muscles.

  It is easier to kill than to heal. It is easier to destroy than to preserve. It is easier to tear down than to build. Those who feed on destructive emotions and ambitions and deny

  the responsibilities that are the price of wielding power can bring down everything you care for and would protect. Be on guard, always.

  Saetan's words. Saetan's warning to the young Warlords and Warlord Princes who gathered at the Hall.

  But Saetan had never mentioned the last part of that warning: sometimes it was kinder to destroy.

  He wasn't strong enough to give Jaenelle a swift, clean death. But even at full strength, Randahl and the other Warlords wore lighter-rank Jewels, and landens had no; inner defense against the Blood. Once Jaenelle and Mari were away from here, once the Jhinka started their final attack, he would make a fast descent, pull up every drop of power he had left, and unleash that force. The landens would die instantly, their minds burned away. Randahl and the others might survive
for a few seconds longer, but not long enough for the Jhinka to reach them.

  And the Jhinka. . they, too, would die. Some of them. A lot of them. But not all of them. He would be left, alone, when the survivors tore him apart. He would make sure of it. He'd fought Jhinka in Terreille. He'd seen what they did to captives. When it came to cruelty, they were an ingenious people. But then, so were many of the Blood.

  Lucivar turned as movement caught his eye.

  Jaenelle stood a few feet away, her eyes fixed on the Jhinka.

  She wore nothing but the Black Jewel around her neck.

  He could understand why. Even her underclothes wouldn't have fit. All the muscle, all the feminine curves she'd gained over the past year were gone. Having no other source of fuel, her body had consumed itself in its struggle to be the receptacle for the power within. Bones pressed against pale, damp, blood-streaked skin. He could count her ribs, could see her hipbones move as she shifted her feet. Her golden hair was dark and stiff with the blood that must have been on her hands when she ran her fingers through it.

  Despite that, or perhaps because of it, her face was strangely compelling. Her youth had been consumed in the healing fire, leaving her with a timeless, ageless beauty that

  suited her ancient, haunted sapphire eyes. It looked like an exquisite mask that would never again be touched by living concerns.

  Then the mask shattered. Her grief and rage flooded through him, sending him careening against the building.

  Lucivar grabbed the corner and hung on with a desperation rapidly being consumed by overwhelming fear.

  The world spun with sick speed, spun in tighter and tighter spirals, dragging at his mind, threatening to tear him away from any sane anchor. Faster and faster. Deeper and deeper.

  Spirals. Saetan had told him something about spirals, but he couldn't see, couldn't breathe, couldn't think.

  His shield broke, its energy sucked down into the spiral. The witch storm got pulled in, too, its psychic threads snapping as it tried to remain anchored around the building.

  Faster and faster, deeper and deeper, and then the dark power rose out of the abyss, roaring past him with a speed that froze his mind.

  Lucivar jerked away from the building and staggered toward Jaenelle. Down. He had to get her down on the ground, had to-

  Pop.

  Pop pop.

  Pop pop pop pop pop.

  "mother night!" Adler screamed, pointing toward the hills.

  Lucivar wrenched a muscle in his neck as he snapped his head toward the sound of Jhinka bodies exploding.

  Another surge of dark power flashed through what was left of the witch storm's psychic threads. They flared, blackened, disappeared.

  He thought he heard a faint scream.

  Pop pop pop.

  Pop pop.

  Pop.

  It took her thirty seconds to destroy six thousand Jhinka.

  She didn't look at anyone. She just turned around and started walking slowly, stiffly toward the other end of the village.

  Lucivar tried to tell her to wait for him, but his voice wouldn't work. He tried to get to his feet, not sure how he'd ended up on his knees, but his legs felt like jelly.

  He finally remembered what Saetan had told him about spirals.

  He didn't fear her but, Hell's fire, he wanted to know what had set her off so that he had some idea of how to deal with her.

  Hands pulled at his arm.

  Randahl, looking gray-skinned and sick, helped him get to his feet.

  They were both panting from the effort it took to reach the building and brace themselves against the stone wall.

  Randahl rubbed his eyes. His mouth trembled. "The boy died," he said hoarsely. "She'd just finished healing the last landen. Hell's fire, Yaslana, she healed all three hundred of them. Three hundred in three days. She was swaying on her feet. Mari was telling her she had to sit down, had to rest. She shook her head and stumbled over to where Khevin was lying, and. . and he just smiled at her and died. Gone. Completely gone. Not even a whisper of him left."

  Lucivar closed his eyes. He'd think about the dead later. There were still things that needed to be done for the living. "Are you strong enough to send a message to Agio?"

  Randahl shook his head. "None of us are strong enough to ride the Winds right now, but we're overdue by a day, so someone ought to be out on the roads searching for us."

  "When your people arrive, I want Mari escorted to the Hall."

  "We can look after her," Randahl replied sharply.

  But would Mari want to be looked after by the Blood in Agio?

  "Escort her to the Hall," Lucivar said. "She needs time to grieve, and she needs a place where her heart can start to heal. There are some at the Hall who can help her with that."

  Randahl looked unhappy. "You think the Dhemlan Blood will be kinder to her than we were?"

  Lucivar shrugged. "I wasn't thinking of the Dhemlan Blood. I was thinking of the kindred."

  Having gotten Randahl's agreement, Lucivar stopped inside the community hall long enough to see Mari and tell her she would be going to the Hall. She clung to him for a few minutes, crying fiercely.

  He held her, giving what comfort he could.

  When two of the landen women, casting defiant looks at the rest, offered to look after Mari, he let her go, sincerely hoping he'd never have to deal with landens again.

  He found Jaenelle a few steps outside the village boundary, curled up into a tight ball, making desperate little sounds.

  He dropped to his knees and cradled her in his arms.

  "I didn't want to kill," she wailed. "That's not what the Craft is for. That's not what my Craft is for."

  "I know, Cat," Lucivar murmured. "I know."

  "I could have put a shield around them, holding them in until we got help from Agio. That's what I meant to do, but the rage just boiled out of me when Khevin… I could feel their minds, could feel them wanting to hurt. I couldn't stop the anger. I couldn't stop it."

  "It's the drugs, Cat. The damn things can scramble your emotions for a long time, especially in a situation like this."

  "I don't like killing. I'd rather be hurt than hurt someone else."

  He didn't argue with her. He was too exhausted and her emotions were too raw. Nor did he point out that she'd reacted to a friend's pain and death. What she couldn't, or wouldn't, do for her own sake she would do for someone she cared for.

  "Lucivar?" Jaenelle said plaintively. "I want a bath."

  That was just one of the things he wanted. "Let's go home, Cat."

  11 / Terreille

  Dorothea SaDiablo sank into a chair and stared at her unexpected guest. "Here? You want to stay her?" Had the bitch looked into a mirror lately? How was she supposed to explain a desiccated walking corpse that looked like it had just crawled out of an old grave? "Not here in your precious court," Hekatah replied, her fleshless lips curling in a snarl. "And I'm not asking for your permission. I'm telling you that I'm staying in Hayll and require accommodations."

  Telling. Always telling. Always reminding her that she never would have become the High Priestess of Hayll without Hekatah's guidance and subtle backing, without Hekatah pointing out the rivals who had too much potential and would thwart her dream of being a High Priestess who was so strong even the Queens yielded to her.

  Well, she was the High Priestess of Hayll, and after centuries of twisting and savaging males who, in turn, did their own share of savaging, there were no dark-Jeweled Queens left in Terreille. There were no Queens, no Black Widows, no other Priestesses equal to her Red Jewel. In some of the smaller, more stubborn Territories, there were no Jeweled Blood at all. Within another five years, she would succeed where Hekatah had failed – she would be the High Priestess of Terreille, feared and revered by the entire Realm.

  And when that day came, she would have something very special planned for her mentor and adviser.

  Dorothea settled back in her chair and suppressed a smile. Still, the
bag of bones might have a use. Sadi was still out there somewhere, playing his elusive, teasing game. Although she hadn't felt his presence in quite some time, every time she opened a door, she expected to find him on the other side waiting for her. But if a Red-Jeweled Black Widow High Priestess was staying at the country lodge she kept for more vigorous and imaginative evenings, and if he happened to become aware of a witch living there quietly. . well, her psychic scent permeated the place and he might not take the time to distinguish between the scent of the place and the occupant's psychic scent. It would be a shame to lose the building, but she really didn't think there would be anything left of it by the time he was done.

  Of course, there wouldn't be anything left of Hekatah, either.

  Dorothea tucked a loose strand of black hair back into the simple coil around her head. "I realize you weren't asking my permission, Sister," she purred. "When have you ever asked me for anything?"

  "Remember who you speak to," Hekatah hissed.

  "I never forget," Dorothea replied sweetly. "I have a lodge in the country, about an hour's carriage ride from Draega. I use it for discreet entertaining. You're welcome to stay there as long as you please. The staff is very well-trained, so I do ask that you not make a meal out of them. I'll supply you with plenty of young feasts." Frowning at a fingernail, she called in a nail file and smoothed an edge, studied the result, and smoothed again. Finally satisfied, she vanished the nail file and smiled at Hekatah. "Of course, if my accommodations aren't to your liking, you can always return to Hell."

  Greedy, ungrateful bitch.

  Hekatah opaqued another mirror. Even that little bit of Craft was almost too much.

  This wasn't the way she'd planned to return to Hayll, hidden away like some doddering, drooling relative dispatched to some out-of-the-way property with no one but hard-faced servants for company.