Queen of the Darkness

Chapter Eleven

After tucking the note in the center drawer, Morton locked his desk and frowned. It troubled him that the Sanctuary Priestess hinted at deep concerns but said nothing to the point—especially since that Sanctuary contained a Dark Altar, one of the thirteen Gates that linked the Realms of Terreille, Kaeleer, and Hell.

There had been several troubled—and troubling—messages from the Priestess over the winter months. Supplies missing. Voices late at night. Indications that the Gate had been opened without the Priestess's knowledge or consent.

Of course, the woman had reached an age where insignificant memories might slip away without being noticed. There were reasonable explanations for all the concerns. The supplies might have simply gotten used up but weren't replaced. The young Priestess-in-training might have taken a lover and the late-night voices were an assignation. The Gates ...

That was the item that troubled him—and troubled Karla, too. Were some Terreilleans using the Gate in Glacia to slip into Kaeleer instead of enduring the service fairs? There had always been a few who, by luck or some instinct, had managed to light the black candles in the right order and speak the right spell to open a Gate between the Realms. It was even said in stories that the power contained in those ancient places would sometimes recognize a spirit's need to go home and open the Gate into the right Realm whether the person knew the spell or not. More likely, that person had found the key in some old Craft text. But the other made a better story for the telling during the long winter nights.

So he would go to that little village near the Arcerian border and talk to the Priestess.

Morton checked his pockets to make sure he had a clean handkerchief and a few silver marks so that he could buy a bit of dinner and a round at the tavern. Last, he used the lightest touch of Craft to make sure his Opal Jewel was linked to the Ring of Honor around his organ.

He smiled. Ever since Jaenelle had given the coven similar Rings, the males in the First Circle, by unspoken consensus, had begun wearing theirs all the time. That extra way of being able to decipher feminine moods had annoyed the witches as much as it had pleased the males.

Morton paused at his door, then shook his head. There was no reason to bother Karla. He would go to the village, talk to the Priestess, and then report to his cousin.

Besides, he thought as he left the mansion that was the Queen's residence, Karla's moontime was giving her more discomfort than usual this month. And she'd had minor illnesses on and off all winter—sniffles, a "weather ache" in her joints, light touches of flu. The two Healers who served in Karla's court couldn't find anything wrong that would account for this sudden vulnerability. They had suggested that, perhaps, she had been working too hard and was just worn down. She had dismissed that, saying caustically that she, too, was a Healer, and a Gray-Jeweled one at that. If something was wrong, wouldn't she know it?

Of course she would. But ruling a Territory that had people who still supported Lord Hobart and his ideas of how Blood society should be, Karla might ignore a great deal in order to appear invulnerable. But if it was a more serious illness, she would tell him, wouldn't she? She wouldn't use Craft to hide an illness from other Healers instead of getting help, would she?

Knowing the answer to that, Morton swore. Well, Jaenelle was making her spring tour of the Territories and would be in Scelt in a couple of days. He would send a message to her through Khardeen, formally requesting her services as a Healer on Karla's behalf.

Having made that decision, he caught one of the Winds and rode that psychic path through the Darkness to the Priestess's village.

Despite his kitten's grumble-growl impatience, Kaelas kept to an easy trot. After all, the kitten was only half his size and had half the stride. Even at this easy pace, KaeAskavi had to run every few steps in order to keep up with him.

This journey pleased him because he had never known his own sire. That had not been the Arcerian way. A small coven of Arcerian witches might den near each other for protection and for the different Craft skills each one knew. But the males had been on the outside, viewed as a threat once the kittens were born.

It was true that the Arcerian males who weren't kindred had been known to kill their own kittens, and being kindred didn't eliminate feline instinct or behavior. But the kindred males had resented this exclusion—especially the Warlord Princes. They were allowed to leave meat near their mates' dens, and they could watch their kittens from a distance, but they had never been allowed to play with them or even be the ones to teach them about hunting and Craft.

Having been raised by the Lady and having lived among her human kin, he had resented the exclusion even more. Other kindred males weren't excluded. And human males certainly weren't. They were allowed to play with their kittens and groom them and teach them.

So he had brought his mate to the Hall shortly after Lucivar's kitten had been born. She had recognized another predator, even if he did have wings and only two legs. She had watched Lucivar handle his young one. She had watched the High Lord. And she had observed the human she-cat's—and the Lady's—approval of having the human kitten handled by these full-grown males.

Because of that visit, and because she had felt honored that the Lady had done the naming of her kitten—a name that, in the Old Tongue, meant White Mountain—his mate had warily allowed him into the den soon after KaeAskavi had been born.

So his kitten was learning the Arcerian way of hunting, and the human ways that Lucivar had quietly taught him. That much exposure to humans had whetted KaeAskavi's curiosity about humans—which brought them to the reason for this journey.

While on a solitary prowl, KaeAskavi had wandered too close to a human village in Glacia and had met a human she-kitten. Instead of being afraid of a large predator, she had been delighted with him, and they became friends. After many secret meetings throughout the summer and early winter, the she-cats, both human and feline, had found out about the friendship—and neither had been pleased.

So KaeAskavi had turned to him, wanting his approval of the friendship to this young human female.

In a way that his mate never would, Kaelas could understand his kitten's fascination with the human she-kitten. KaeAskavi was a Warlord Prince, and Warlord Princes found it harder to do without female companionship. It would be many many seasons before KaeAskavi or the little female would look for a mate. If the she-kitten was a suitable friend, why not let them have each other for companions?

Not that he particularly liked humans. He had never forgotten the hunters who had killed his own dam. But some humans were capable of being more than just meat. The ones who belonged to the Lady, for instance. And the Lady's mate. Despite having only two legs and small fangs, there was much that was feline in that one, and he approved.

So he would look at this little female, and, if he thought she could be accepted by the kindred, he would ask the Lady to look at her, too. The Lady would know if this was a proper friend for his kitten.

Suddenly, the wind shifted so that it was coming from the village, still a mile away.

Kaelas froze. Blood and death scented the air.

*Della!* KaeAskavi lunged forward.

With one swipe, Kaelas bowled the kitten over.

*When blood and death are in the air, you do not run toward it,* Kaelas said sternly.

*Della's village!*

Using Craft, Kaelas probed the area around them. The season humans called spring had already come to other lands, but here winter still had fangs—and deep snow.

*Make a den. Stay hidden,* Kaelas ordered.

KaeAskavi snarled, but immediately rolled to a submissive posture when Kaelas stepped toward him.

*I can fight,* KaeAskavi said defiantly.

*You will hide until I call you.* Kaelas waited a moment. *What does the kitten's den look like?*

From KaeAskavi's mind, he received an image of a small human den, open ground, and then a thick stand of trees where KaeAskavi had waited for his friend.

*Stay here,* Kaelas said. *Make the den.*

Kaelas didn't wait to see if KaeAskavi would obey him. Wrapping himself in a sight shield and air walking so that he left no prints in the snow, he headed for the village, his full, ground-eating stride covering the distance within minutes.

The air near the village smelled of fear and desperation as well as blood and death. His sharp ears picked up the sounds of fighting, the clash of human weapons.

He cautiously used Craft to probe the village and bared his fangs in a silent snarl as he detected a Green-Jeweled Warlord Prince. Something about that one's scent...

Reaching a spot in the trees that looked directly on the back of the she-kitten's den, he heard a female scream and a male's roar. Then a window opened. A young human female climbed out the window and jumped into the snow. But when she tried to rise, she fell again, lame.

Kaelas burst out of the trees, charging toward the spot where the she-kitten lay at the same time an Eyrien Warlord came around the corner of the house. Spotting the she-kitten, the Eyrien raised his bloody weapon and moved forward for the kill.

The human male sensed no danger until eight hundred pounds of hatred slammed into him.

Kaelas bit off the arm that held the weapon while his claws tore open the belly. One blast of psychic power burned out the human's mind, finishing the kill.

He paused to bite some clean snow. Like its psychic scent, there was something about this human that tasted like bad meat.

He shook his head, then turned toward the girl, who was staring at the dead male. *Little one,* he growled.

She pushed herself up and looked around desperately. "KaeAskavi?"

*Kaelas,* he said. With the same gentleness he used with his own kitten, he seized her by the middle and loped off with her, heading for the shelter of the trees.

She made no sound. She didn't struggle. He approved of her courage. And now she was an orphan, as he had once been.

Choosing a spot where the snow had drifted deep, he set the girl down on air, quickly dug a small den, set the girl inside it, then covered up most of the entrance. *Stay,* he ordered.

She curled up in a small, shivering ball.

He loped back to the human den and passed through the wall next to the window the girl had come from. The room smelled of her—and other things, bad things.

The door leading into the rest of the den was open. He could see a bloody female arm. Sensing no life, he didn't bother to go over and sniff her to be sure.

He wished Ladvarian was there with him. Despite living almost all of his life among humans, he didn't understand them as well as the dog did. The dog would have known what the little female needed most.

He thought for a moment. She would need human fur. Using Craft, he opened the drawers and wardrobe, and vanished everything inside them.

What else would Ladvarian bring? Looking around the room, he vanished the puffy bedcovering that smelled of feathers. The kitten could be wrapped in that and kept warm. The urgent need to leave this place pushed at him, but he thought for a moment more.

Kindred had little use for things, but...

He saw it, lying next to the bed. At first, he felt blind hatred, but when he went over to sniff the white toy cat, he realized it had been made from fluffy cloth and not Arcerian fur as he'd first thought. It smelled strongly of the she-kitten—and, fainter, the she-cat's smell was there, too. And there was a psychic smell on it, a smell he associated with the Lady. The High Lord had called it love.

Vanishing the toy, he moved cautiously toward the open door. The dead female had a knife still clutched in one hand. She had fought a stronger male in order to save her kitten—as his own dam had fought against the hunters so that he could escape.

He thought, looking at her, that if she could know her kitten was safe and protected, she wouldn't mind the little female being among the Arcerian cats now.

Passing through the back wall of the house, he stopped near the dead Eyrien male. Using Craft, he passed the remains through the first few inches of snow, then pushed them down deep. The snow was stained with blood and gore, but he didn't think anyone would be looking for this one right away. And until they dug up the body, they wouldn't know that the human hadn't been killed by one of his own kind.

Hurrying back to the trees, Kaelas summoned KaeAskavi. *Come quickly... and silently.*

Reaching the makeshift den, he dug out the entrance. Calling in the puffy bedcovering, he laid it on the snow, using two spells he had learned from the Lady—a warming spell on the inside and a spell to keep the covering dry on the outside. Lifting out the she-kitten, he awkwardly wrapped her in the covering.

She just stared.

Feeling uneasy, he sniffed her carefully. She wasn't dead, but he knew those staring, unseeing eyes weren't good.

Sensing KaeAskavi's approach, he lifted his head. He could detect the faint shadowing of the lighter-Jeweled sight shield, and softly growled approval.

*Della!* KaeAskavi sniffed the bundled female.

*Take the she-kitten to my mate,* Kaelas said. *Use the Winds as soon as you reach a thread you can ride. The little one needs help quickly.*

*My dam will not accept a human kitten in her den,* KaeAskavi protested.

*Tell her the human she-cat fought against hunters to save the kitten—and died.*

KaeAskavi stood perfectly still for a moment, then said sadly, *I will tell her.* Carefully gripping the covering with his teeth, he trotted off with the she-kitten.

Kaelas waited, keeping track of them through a psychic thread. When he felt KaeAskavi catch the Wind that would take the young cat closest to the home den, he turned back to the village.

The Green-Jeweled Eyrien Warlord Prince looked upon the carnage with satisfaction. This Gate was now secured for the Dark Priestess's use. She had already selected the sixty pale-skinned, fair-haired people who would replace the ones he and his men had just slaughtered—people she had acquired at the last couple of service fairs. As long as the village looked inhabited and the people appeared to be going about their usual business, he doubted anyone would give any of them a second look. And if a visitor should know the village well enough to realize that the people were all strangers, what was one more corpse?

He turned as the Warlord who was his second-in-command approached. "Did that old bitch Priestess send the message?"

The Warlord nodded. "Sent to Lord Morton, the Glacian Queen's cousin and First Escort."

"And he usually responds to those messages?"

"Yes. And he usually comes alone."

"Then we'd better figure on having company soon. Assign five men with longbows to take up a position behind the landing web."

The Warlord studied the carnage. "If Morton sees this, he might just catch the Winds again and go back to report."

"Then I'll just have to make sure I provide a strong enough lure to get him off the landing web but still within easy range of the bowmen," the Warlord Prince said. "The old Priestess is dead?"

"Yes, Prince."

He heard a faint, pain-filled cry. "And the young Priestess?"

The Warlord smiled viciously. "She's getting the appropriate reward for betraying her own people."

Daemon followed Khardeen into the house. "It was kind of you to invite me to dinner."

"Kindness has nothing to do with it," Khary replied.

"There's no sense having you rattle around by yourself while you're waiting for Jaenelle."

He'd accompanied her for much of the Spring visit to the Kaeleer Territories, but when it came time to visit the kindred, she had gently but firmly suggested that he go on to Scelt, where she would meet him. They would spend a few days here before visiting the rest of the Territories on this side of the Realm. "Well, you didn't have to give up an afternoon to show me around Maghre. I could have wandered about the village by myself."

"That wasn't kindness either," Khary said after requesting coffee and cakes. He settled into a comfortable chair by the fire. "It got me out of the house. As for dinner, it'll be a pleasure talking to someone who isn't going to snarl at me because of a queasy stomach."

"Is Morghann feeling all right otherwise?" Daemon asked, taking the other chair.

"Oh, she's doing fine for a dark-Jeweled witch in the early stages of pregnancy. Or so Maeve tells me often enough." Khary's smile was a bit rueful.

"But a Territory Queen who's suddenly restricted to basic Craft while she carries a babe is not a Lady with a smooth temper."

"Since you both had to stop drinking the contraceptive brew for this to happen, you're not entirely to blame," Daemon said with a smile.

"Ah, but I'm not the one who loses my breakfast. That seems to make a difference. And there are other—frustrations—for her at the moment. You didn't hear the tussle this morning? I'm surprised since your house is barely a half mile from ours. I was sure all of Maghre heard her shouting this morning."

"At you?"

"No, thank the Darkness. At Sundancer." After thanking the maid who brought the tray, Khary poured the coffee. "Morghann wanted to go riding this morning. Maeve, who's the Healer in Maghre, had said it was fine. Jaenelle had said it was fine as long as Morghann felt well enough."

"But?" Daemon said, the coffee cup halfway to his lips.

"Sundancer didn't think it was fine. He said that since mares in foal weren't ridden, he didn't think a human mare in foal should ride."

"Oh, dear," Daemon said—and then laughed. "No wonder you wanted to get out of the house."

The door opened. Morghann scowled at the tray, then at Khary. But she smiled at Daemon.

Setting his cup down, he rose to give her a kiss. In the months since he'd come to Kaeleer, he'd learned the value of these little gestures of affection—and he'd learned to take pleasure in them.

Khary, he noticed with some amusement and a good dollop of sympathy, had also risen but had wisely not tried to approach his wife.

A maid appeared at the door. "Would you be wanting a cup of that herbal tea Maeve made up for you, Lady Morghann?"

"I suppose," Morghann growled.

Giving Khary a quick glance, Daemon put on his best smile. "Darling," he said to Morghann, "I'm so glad you joined us."

"Why?" Morghann said darkly as she took a seat.

"Because Jaenelle's birthday is in a couple of months, and I wanted your advice about a gift."

As they discussed ideas, Morghann became involved enough not to notice she was drinking a Healer's tea instead of coffee. She even nibbled a little piece of nutcake— which meant the men could have some without having the tray dumped over their heads.

At the end of an hour, Morghann rose. "I have some correspondence to take care of. I'll see you at dinner?"

"I look forward to it," Daemon replied.

She kissed his cheek—and then gave Khary a more generous kiss.

Khary waited a minute after the door had closed behind her. He lifted his coffee cup in a salute. "That was very well done, Prince Sadi. My thanks."

Daemon lifted his cup in response. "It was my pleasure, Lord Khardeen."

Morton took a couple of steps away from the landing web and froze, unable to take his eyes off the bodies lying in the snow.

What in the name of Hell had happened?

He felt a mild hum from his Ring of Honor, almost like a question. That snapped him out of his shock enough to create an Opal shield. He almost activated the shield in the Ring, then hesitated. That would summon the other boyos—and alarm Karla. He didn't want to do either of those things. Not yet.

He tried probing the area, but didn't pick up anything that would lead him to believe he was in danger. But he did sense the presence of several living people.

His first reaction was to rush forward to help the survivors. Then his training kicked in. Whatever had happened here was more than he could handle alone. And now that he'd been here for a minute, something more than the slaughter felt wrong about this place.

He took a step back, intending to catch the Winds, head for the nearest village, and bring back help.

As he took another step back, an Eyrien came around the corner of a building and saw him.

"Lord Morton?" the Eyrien called.

Morton didn't recognize the Green-Jeweled Warlord Prince. He tensed, ready to catch the Winds and run.

"Lord Morton!" The Eyrien raised a hand and hurried toward him. "Thank the Darkness, you got Yaslana's message!"

That name was enough to catapult Morton a few feet toward the Eyrien. "What happened here?"

"We're not sure," the Eyrien answered, stopping a few feet away. "Yaslana found tracks heading away from the Dark Altar. He took some of the men and followed them." He looked over Morton's shoulder, his face stamped with concern. "Didn't you bring any Healers?"

"No, I—"

It happened too fast. A blast of the Eyrien's Green-Jeweled power shattered his Opal shield at the same moment three arrows pierced his body. The Ebony shield in Jaenelle's Ring of Honor snapped up around him. Two more arrows hit the shield and turned to dust.

He used Craft to remain standing and cursed himself for a thrice-times fool for not activating the shield in the first place. But there was nothing they could do to him now, not even stop him from walking or crawling back to the landing web and riding the Winds away from there. And the wounds, while painful, weren't that serious. He had an arrow in each leg and one in the left shoulder, but it was high enough ...

He felt a deadly cold filling in his limbs and knew what it had to be. Poison on the arrow tips. But how virulent a poison?

He saw the answer in the Eyrien's cruel smile.

He fell to his knees. No time to give all the warnings he needed to give. No time. So he focused on sending a warning to the person who had always mattered the most to him.

As the body's death closed in on him, he gathered his strength and sent one word. *KARLA!*

Karla sat at her dressing table, one hand braced on the table, the other pressed against her abdomen. The cramps didn't usually last this long, and they weren't usually this painful.

"Here you are," Ulka said sympathetically, setting a steaming mug on the dressing table. "This moontime brew will make you feel different in no time."

"Thanks, Ulka," Karla murmured. She had accepted Ulka into her Third Circle for the same reason she had accepted other witches from Glacia's aristo families—to placate them after she had exiled her uncle, Hobart. And while she didn't personally like Ulka, she had to admit the woman had been a solicitous companion this winter, fussing a little too much over the minor illnesses but having a good instinct of when to gossip and when to stay quiet.

As soon as the brew cooled enough, Karla took a large swallow. Making a disgusted face, she set the mug down. The brew had an odd, rancid taste. Hell's fire, had some of the herbs gotten moldy or gone bad somehow? Then again, a lot of things hadn't tasted quite right to her all winter. Or maybe she'd just gotten spoiled by the delicious-tasting brews Jaenelle made. It didn't matter how it tasted. It wasn't going to ease the pain if it sat in the cup.

As she reached for the mug again, she looked in the mirror. A chill ran through her when she saw the watchful anticipation in Ulka's eyes. "You poisoned it, didn't you?" Karla said flatly.

"Yes," Ulka said, sounding smug and pleased.

Karla felt her body sluggishly gathering itself to fight off the poison. Because she was a Black Widow, she had a stronger tolerance for poisons than other people would have, but even a Black Widow could succumb to a poison her body couldn't recognize or tolerate.

As she stared at the other woman's reflection, she finally knew. All the minor illnesses, all the foods that had tasted a little off. And Ulka always there, being so helpful, acting so concerned. "You've slipped mild poisons into a lot of things this winter."

"Yes."

Poisons which had weakened her body but never made her ill enough to become suspicious—despite having been warned of her own death in the tangled web she'd created last fall. Oh, she'd been careful. She knew too much about poisons not to be. The fact that she hadn't been able to detect the poisons meant that whatever plants had been used weren't native to Glacia. She would have recognized one of those instantly, no matter how it was disguised.

With effort, Karla got to her feet. One moment her legs were full of fiery spikes, the next they were numb. She flooded her body with her Gray strength, accepting the pain her own power caused during her moontime in order to fight the poison.

As one staggering wave of pain ripped through her, she felt the Ebony shield in the ring Jaenelle had given her surround her.

"Why?" Karla asked. How could she have misjudged this bitch so badly? What had she missed?

Ulka pouted. "I thought I would be an important Lady in your court. I should have been in your First Circle, not the Third. "

"A witch who would poison her Queen isn't suitable to serve in the First Circle," Karla said dryly. "It's a question of loyalty."

"I was loyal," Ulka snapped. "But being loyal to you didn't get me anywhere. And then I got a better offer. Once you're gone and Lord Hobart controls Glacia again, I will be an important Lady."

"All you'll be is some man's whore," Karla said flatly.

Ulka's face became ugly. "And you'll be dead! And don't think they won't finish the kill to make sure they're rid of all of you!"

The ring Jaenelle had given her produced a sharp, warning tingle seconds before Morton's warning cry filled her mind.

*KARLA!*

*Morton? Morton!*

Nothing. An emptiness where someone had been for as long as she could remember.

Another kind of cold filled Karla—a cold that fed her body, gave her strength. "You killed Morton," she said too quietly.

"I didn't," Ulka replied. "But he's dead by now."

The bladed Eyrien stick Lucivar had given her was in her hands and whistling through the air before Ulka had time to realize the danger. The blades, honed to a killing edge, swept through Ulka's leg bones as easily as they swept through the woman's wool dress.

Blood gushed. Ulka fell, screaming.

Karla staggered, braced herself. She couldn't use her body this way and fight the poison long enough for ...

For what? With Morton dead, who would be able to reach her fast enough? No matter. She would fight to live for as long as she could. And she had more power at her disposal than her enemies had imagined since she didn't have to use her Gray Jewels to shield herself.

Looking down at Ulka, Karla raised the bladed stick. "Well, bitch, I may not be able to finish the kill, but I can make damn sure you're of no use to anyone when you become demon-dead."

She cut off Ulka's hands, then her head. The last stroke tore through the belly and severed the spine.

Karla staggered back a few steps, away from the growing pool of blood. Sinking to the floor, she carefully stretched out, her right arm wrapped around her belly, her left hand clamped around the bladed stick.

She had seen her own death in her tangled web, and she'd done what she could to change that part of the vision. But if she had to die now, she would accept it.

Dark power washed over her, warming icy limbs. She felt a tendril of power wrap around her and recognized a healing thread helping her fight against the poison.

Cradled by Jaenelle's strength, she turned inward to concentrate on the battlefield her body had become.

Daemon snarled in frustration when he felt the tingling coming from Jaenelle's Ring of Honor. He hadn't yet learned how to interpret all the information that could be absorbed from the Ring. He recognized this particular sensation as a call for help, but had no idea where the call was coming from. "Do you—" he said, turning toward Khardeen.

The intense blankness in Khary's eyes, the sense of focused listening, stopped him from saying anything more.

"Morton," Khary said quietly. "And Karla." He lunged for the door.

Daemon grabbed him. "No. You're needed here."

"That's not the way it works," Khary said sharply. "When one of us needs help—"

"You all take the bait?" Daemon asked just as sharply. "You have a pregnant Queen who can't defend herself without risking a miscarriage. Your place is here. I'll take care of Karla—and Morton." He studied Khary. "Who else will have heard that call for help?"

"Everyone in the First Circle who lives in the western part of Kaeleer. The Ring has more of a range than if we were trying to reach someone on our own, but the alert wouldn't be felt beyond that. However, every male who felt that call for help will relay a warning through a communication thread to the First Circle within his range."

"Then relay this message to the First Circle as fast as you can: 'Stay put. Stand guard.' " Daemon paused. "And locate Jaenelle."

"Yes," Khary said grimly. "The Queens need to be protected. Especially her."

Satisfied, Daemon rushed out of the house and swore. He couldn't reach any of the Winds from here.

He started to run down the drive, then turned toward the sound of pounding hooves. Sundancer slid to a stop beside him.

*I heard the call,* Sundancer said. *You must ride the Winds?*

"Yes."

*I can run faster. Mount.*

Grabbing a fistful of Sundancer's mane, he swung up on the Warlord Prince's bare back.

It was a short but harrowing ride. The stallion chose the fastest route to reach the nearest Winds without regard for what lay in his path, and Daemon's legs were shaking when he slid off Sundancer's back. Before he could say anything, the stallion pivoted and was gone.

*Fight well!* Sundancer said as he raced back to Khary and Morghann's house.

"You can count on it," Daemon replied too softly. Catching the Black Wind, he headed for Glacia.

Kaelas made an effortless leap to the roof of a human den in time to see Morton fall. He snarled silently, the desire to attack warring with the instinct for caution. Slipping down to the depth of his Red Jewel, where he couldn't be detected by the winged males who were there, he opened his mind and carefully let a psychic tendril drift toward Morton.

The first thing he sensed was the Lady's shield. That wasn't a problem. The Lady had made a Ring of Honor for the kindred males, too. So he had the same protection and, more important right now, he had the means to safely slip past that shield.

The moment he did, he knew Morton's body was dead, but he could still sense Morton, very faintly, inside it Morton was a Brother in the Lady's court, and the Brothers looked after each other. That was important. So he would get his Brother away from the enemy and then decide what to do next.

Looking in the opposite direction, he saw the Sanctuary that held the Dark Altar. Near it was a large, old tree that wouldn't wake again. The pale humans would have cut it down and burned it in their fires. They wouldn't need it now.

Using Craft, he opened the Sanctuary door, letting it swing as if it hadn't been latched properly.

Leaping from the roof, he circled around the backs of the human dens, air walking so that he would leave no tracks. Just because the sight shield made him invisible was no reason to be careless. Playing "stalk and pounce" with Lucivar had taught him that.

Thinking of Lucivar, he remembered something else: never show your full strength to an enemy until it was needed.

His Birthright Jewel was the Opal. Morton's Jewel of rank was the Opal. Yes, that might confuse the winged males.

Baring his teeth in what might have been a feline smile, Kaelas unleashed a burst of Opal strength at the dead tree. It exploded. Flaming branches soared through the air in all directions. Another burst of power shattered windows in the dens near the Sanctuary. Another burst of power sent enough snow into the air to form a small blizzard. The last controlled burst of power slammed the Sanctuary door.

The Green-Jeweled Eyrien Warlord Prince had spun around at the first blast, his face twisted with fury. Other males were shouting. When the Sanctuary door slammed, the Eyrien started running, shouting orders.

"What about that bastard?" one of the other men called out.

The Warlord Prince hesitated for a moment. "Leave him. He's not going anywhere. We'll finish the kill after we take care of our new guests."

Kaelas moved forward in stalk position, using all of his senses to keep track of the winged humans. Then, a burst of speed brought him to Morton.

One sniff of the body had him backing away, confused. Morton smelled like poisoned meat. He did not want to set his teeth in poisoned meat. But he had to get Morton away from the winged males.

Moving forward again, he brushed against the Lady's shield, felt it recognize itself in the Ring of Honor he wore and let him in. He put a snug Opal shield around Morton's left arm. When he took that arm between his teeth, the Opal shield was between him and the poisoned meat. Satisfied, he used Craft to float Morton on the air, expanded his sight shield to cover both of them, then raced for the trees.

When he was among the trees, he slowed slightly, but didn't stop until he reached the hiding den KaeAskavi had dug. Releasing Morton's arm, he studied the den. The human would fit easily enough without the pointed sticks— the arrows—poking out. But the Healer would need the stick part to remove the arrow. Wouldn't she?

After a little thought, he used Craft to shear the shafts in half. He tucked Morton into the den and placed the sheared-off shafts next to him. Then he paused again.

He had never seen human Blood become demon-dead. He didn't know how long it would take for Morton to wake and reclaim the dead flesh. But he did know that when Morton woke and found himself in a strange place, he would wonder if the enemy had put him there.

Kaelas pressed a forepaw into the snow near Morton's head, leaving a deep imprint, then put a shield over the print, so that it couldn't be brushed away carelessly. Morton would see the print and understand.

Pleased that he had worked out the complicated thinking required to deal with humans, he covered up the den, leaving a small airhole. A dead human didn't need air, but the freshness would show Morton the easiest place to dig free.

Now to take care of the bad winged males.

After sending out a summons for the dark-Jeweled Arcerian Warlords and Warlord Princes to join him, Kaelas headed back to the village.

Ignoring the official landing web, Daemon dropped from the Winds as close as he could get to Karla's home. The moment he appeared on a street, he wrapped a Black sight shield, psychic shield, and protective shield around himself. He ran a couple of blocks, turned a corner, and stopped.

The street was full of struggling, fighting men. Blasts of Jeweled power made the air smell like lightning. Those who had already drained their Jewels, or had never worn them, were fighting with mundane weapons. He spotted some women, fighting desperately but ineffectively.

So familiar. He didn't need the whiff of rot present in some of the psychic scents to recognize Dorothea's hand in this. He'd seen it too many times in Terreille. Those whose ambition far outstripped their ability would sell their own people for Hayll's "assistance." The fighting would eliminate the strongest males and females, the ones best able to oppose Dorothea, and the ones who were left...

This time he didn't have to be subtle. This time he didn't have to dance around the agony Dorothea would inflict on him if she suspected his interference. But being subtle had become ingrained in him. Besides, a silent predator was the most feared.

Smiling a cold, cruel smile, Daemon slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and glided between clumps of fighters—invisible, undetectable—and left devastation in his wake.

He entered Karla's mansion. The fighting must have started here and spread into the street. He stepped over corpses, homed in on the psychic scents that had a flavor he associated with Dorothea, and killed those fighters so swiftly, so cleanly their opponents froze for a moment, stunned and confused.

A Warlord Prince wearing the badge of the Master of the Guard was fighting off other males near the staircase, using the last of his Jeweled strength to shield himself against three men who were still fresh.

Three flicks of Black power. Three men fell.

As he started up the stairs, Daemon saw the sharp hunter's look in the other Warlord Prince's eyes, saw the moment the man guessed something dangerous was climbing the stairs.

A White-Jeweled Warlord rushed at the Warlord Prince, forcing him to turn toward the enemy who was attacking.

Daemon climbed the stairs. Even exhausted, the Warlord Prince would have no trouble with the Warlord, and it would keep him occupied a little while longer.

No need to hunt for Karla's room. The Ring of Honor led him unerringly, the throbbing against his organ irritating him enough to hone a temper that had already risen to the killing edge.

The door stood open. He saw a hacked-up woman lying on a blood-soaked carpet. He saw five men sending blast after blast of power against the shield surrounding another woman. Karla.

He didn't know who the men were—and didn't care.

Reaching up from the depth of the Black, he slipped under the men's inner barriers and unleashed iced rage, turning their brains into gray dust and consuming their psychic strength, finishing the kill.

He was across the room before they fell. Kneeling beside Karla, he dropped the sight shield and reached out cautiously.

The shield around her held a feral, deadly hunger.

Not sure how to get through the shield, and wondering what he might unleash if he did it incorrectly, Daemon took a deep breath and brought his hand a little closer.

A flick of power against his palm. A tasting. An acceptance.

His hand passed, unharmed, through the shield.

"Karla," he said as his hand closed on her arm. "Karla." Her rasping effort to breathe told him she was still alive. But if she'd gone so deep into a healing sleep that she couldn't hear him...

"Kiss kiss," Karla rasped.

Relief washed through him. He leaned over her so that she could see him without trying to move her head. "Kiss kiss."

"Poisoned," she said. "Can't identify. Bad."

Pushing her robe aside, Daemon laid his left hand on her chest and sent out a careful psychic probe. His knowledge of healing Craft was limited, but he knew about poisons. And he recognized at least part of this one.

"Get your hand ... off my ... tit," Karla said.

"Don't be bitchy," Daemon replied mildly, probing a little more. Her body was fighting it far better than he would have thought possible, but she wouldn't survive without more help than he could give her. He hesitated. "Karla ..."

"About... three hours left. Body... can't fight more..."

Riding the Black Winds, it had taken him almost two hours to get there from Scelt. Pandar and Centauran were closer, but he didn't know Jonah or Sceron as well as he knew Khardeen, and he didn't know if the satyr or centaur Healers could deal with this poison.

Besides, Jaenelle would most likely head for Scelt. And that decided him.

"I'm getting you out of here," he said as he started to lift her. Then he realized her hand was still clamped around the bladed stick. "Sweetheart, let go of the stick."

"Have to clean... the blades. Can't... put a weapon away... without cleaning the blades. Lucivar... would skin me."

Daemon almost gave her his succinct opinion about that, but glancing over his shoulder at the hacked-up woman, he swallowed any criticism he might have had about Lucivar's training methods. "I'll clean the blades. And I promise I'll never tell Lucivar you didn't do it yourself."

Karla's lips curved in the barest of smiles. "You'd be likable if ... you weren't so male."

"My Queen likes me that way," Daemon said dryly. He vanished the bladed stick, carefully lifted Karla, and turned.

Her Master of the Guard blocked the doorway. "What are you doing with my Queen?"

"Taking her away from here," Daemon answered quietly. "She's been poisoned. She needs help."

"We have Healers."

"Would you trust them?" Daemon saw the moment's hesitation. "I have no quarrel with you, Prince. Don't force me to go through you."

The other man studied him, focused on the Black-Jeweled Ring. "You're Lady Angelline's Consort."

"Yes."

The man stepped aside. As Daemon passed him, he said quietly, "Please take care of her."

"I will." Daemon paused. "Have you seen Morton?"

The Master of the Guard shook his head.

There was no time to think about Morton or what might have happened to him. "If you see him, tell him I'm taking Karla to Scelt. Don't tell anyone but Morton."

The man nodded. "Come this way. There's a Craft-powered carriage out back. It'll get you to the Winds faster."

The Master of the Guard drove the carriage while Daemon held Karla, using those precious minutes to wrap Black shields around her to protect her during the ride on the Winds. They stopped a few feet from where he had landed.

"May the Darkness embrace you, Prince," the man said.

"And you." Wrapping his arms around Karla, Daemon caught the Black Wind and rode hard toward Scelt.

He stopped once, halfway there, to send a message to Khary. *I'm on my way back with Karla. She's been poisoned. We'll need a Healer and a Black Widow. The best you have.*

*Jaenelle's on her way here,* Khary replied.

That was all he needed to know. He caught the Black Wind again and continued the journey, knowing the sand in the hourglass was trickling away far too fast.

Sight shielded, Kaelas and twenty Arcerian males crouched on the roofs of the human dens, watching the bad winged males move around the village. Some of the dens had lights now that night had closed around them, and he could smell food cooking.

*Meat?* one of the Arcerian Warlords asked.

*No,* Kaelas replied. He felt a ripple of anger run through the other males. *The meat tastes bad.*

*We have come for the hunt but will have no meat to bring back to the home dens?* another male asked irritably.

*We promised the Lady we wouldn't hunt human meat,* a younger male said tentatively.

*These males killed a male who belonged to the Lady,* Kaelas said firmly. *They killed the pale humans who belonged to Lady Karla.*

Another ripple of anger, this time directed at the bad winged males. Arcerians didn't have much use for humans, but they liked Lady Karla and adored the Lady. For them, they would hunt and return to the dens without meat.

The wind shifted slightly, brought a different scent.

*We will take the animals that belonged to the pale humans,* Kaelas said. *The humans do not need them now. It will be payment for work.* He was pleased that he remembered that peculiar human idea. If the Lady snarled at him for taking animals from a human village, he could use those words.

*Payment for work?* a couple of males echoed. Then one of them asked, *This is a human thing?*

*Yes. We kill these bad males, then we can take good meat back to the dens.*

Satisfied, the Arcerians settled down to study their prey.

Kaelas watched the winged males for a minute. *We must hunt fast... and silent.*

*Fast kills,* the others agreed.

Kaelas watched the Green-Jeweled Warlord Prince walk to a den near the Sanctuary. But not for that one.

Jaenelle was waiting for him by the time Daemon reached Khary and Morghann's house.

"She's bleeding too much for this just to be moon's blood," he said abruptly as he rushed into the guest room, followed by Morghann, Khary, and Maeve, the village Healer. "And there's not much time left."

Jaenelle placed a hand on Karla's chest, her eyes focusing on something only she could see. "There's enough," she said too calmly.

Morghann laid a padding of towels on the bed.

Daemon gave her a cold stare as he laid Karla on the bed. Was the woman more worried about her precious linens than about a friend who had been poisoned?

"It'll disturb her less to change a towel than to change the linens," Morghann said quietly, her eyes clearly telling him she knew what he'd been thinking—and had been hurt by it.

There was no time for an apology. Morghann and Maeve stripped off the bloody nightgown and robe, and quickly wiped the blood off Karla's skin. Jaenelle paid no attention to the physical ministrations, remaining focused on the healing.

Daemon was about to tell her what he knew about the poison when he looked down at his blood-soaked sleeve. Memories of being soaked in Jaenelle's blood rushed at him. He ripped off the jacket, then the shirt. Khary took them and handed him a wet cloth.

As he scrubbed the blood off his skin, Jaenelle said, "There were two poisons used. I don't know one of them."

Handing the cloth back to Khary, Daemon moved to the bed. "One of them comes from a plant that only grows in southern Hayll."

Jaenelle looked up, her eyes blank and iced. "Do you know an antidote?" she asked with an odd calm that scared him.

"Yes. But the herbs I have are several years old. I don't know if they'll still be potent enough."

"I can make them potent enough. Make the antidote, Daemon."

"What about the other poison?" he asked as he started clearing a work space on the bedside table.

"It's witchblood."

A chill went through him. Witchblood only grew where a witch had been violently killed—or where she had been buried. Used as a poison, it was virulent and deadly—and usually undetectable.

"You can detect it?" Daemon asked cautiously.

"I can recognize witchblood in any of its forms," Jaenelle replied in her midnight voice.

Another memory rushed at him. Jaenelle staring at the bed of witchblood she had planted in an alcove on the Angelline estate. Did you know that if you sing to them correctly, they'll tell you the names of the ones who have gone?

Even dried into a poison, did the plants tell Witch the names of the ones who were gone?

Locking away the memories, along with his heart, Daemon concentrated on making the antidote.

"Maeve," Jaenelle said, "get some basic plasters ready. We'll have to draw out some of the poison. Morghann, I want you to leave the room. Don't come back for any reason until I tell you."

"But—"

Jaenelle just looked at her.

Morghann hurried out of the room.

"May I stay?" Khary asked quietly. "You three will be involved in the healing. You'll need a free pair of hands to fetch things."

"This won't be easy, Lord Khardeen," Jaenelle said.

Khary paled a little. "She's my Sister, too."

Jaenelle nodded her consent, then leaned over the bed and said so softly Daemon was sure he was the only one close enough to hear, "Arms or legs, Karla?"

The answer, if she got one, was private—Sister to Sister. But it began a healing so gruesome he desperately hoped he would never witness anything like it again.

Kaelas listened to the sounds coming from the room and snarled silently. The Green-Jeweled Eyrien Warlord Prince was mating with the pale female, the young Priestess. Her cries disturbed him. They were not like the sounds the Lady made with Daemon. There was fear and pain in these sounds.

He almost slipped through the Green shield the male had placed around the room, almost decided to repay Morton's death with a fast kill instead of the kind of death that was owed when the female cried, "But I helped you. I helped you! "

Remembering KaeAskavi's she-kitten, who was now an orphan, and all the other pale humans that had belonged to Lady Karla and were now dead, Kaelas took a step back. The female had fouled her own den, had brought in poisoned meat. She deserved this winged male for a mate.

Careful not to disturb the Green shield and alert the male, he placed a Red shield around the room, caging the humans. He added a Red psychic shield so that when the male noticed he was trapped, he wouldn't be able to warn the other winged males.

Slipping out of the building, Kaelas paused, listened. There were more winged males than cats, but that didn't matter. The Green-Jeweled Warlord Prince was the only one of the winged males who wore one of the dark Jewels, and he was already caged. Among the cats here, Kaelas was the only one who wore a Red Jewel, but the shields from the Opal, Green, and Sapphire Jewels the others wore would protect them while they attacked with teeth and claws.

*Now,* Kaelas said.

Silent, invisible, the cats spread out and went hunting.

Chapter Twelve

Lucivar and Falonar stood back at a prudent distance and watched the women at archery practice. Hallevar stood a few feet behind the women, giving instructions that could be heard in the still morning air as clearly as the smack of sticks coming from the arms practice field.

The weather had turned overnight, bringing the warm promise of spring. It wouldn't last, but while it did, Lucivar intended to have the women on the practice field for a couple of hours every morning. This was the first day they were actually aiming an arrow at a target. Watching them would have been amusing if he hadn't felt so edgy.

A day and a half had passed since Daemon's order to "stay put and stand guard" had been relayed through the First Circle—an order which, a couple of hours later, had been reinforced by Jaenelle. The only other message he had received had been equally brief: Karla had been poisoned and Morton was missing.

He would have disregarded the order if Daemon hadn't been with Jaenelle, but he knew that if anyone could protect the Queen better than he could, it was the Sadist.

So he'd stayed... and watched... and waited.

Falonar huffed out a breath as a spattering of arrows made a pathetic attempt to reach the targets. "Do you really think they can do this?" he asked doubtfully.

Lucivar snorted. "During your first six months in the hunting camps, you couldn't hit anything smaller than the side of a mountain."

Falonar just looked at him. "But I didn't whine about taking up time that could be used to air out the bedding. What's the point of pretending they can use a— shit." That when a woman with a bow fully drawn started to turn toward Hallevar as he added instructions. Hallevar leaped forward and shoved her so that the arrow skittered along the grass instead of into the woman next to her.

Lucivar and Falonar both winced at the language Hallevar used to explain that little error.

"Do you see?" Falonar demanded.

"Hallevar didn't learn to leap like that because this was the first time someone had done something so stupid," Lucivar replied. He paused, then added, "What's really biting your ass about this?"

Falonar scuffed a boot over the ground. "If we aren't the warriors and protectors, we don't have much to offer— until a woman is looking for a stud. And that's not easy to stomach."

"Can you cook?" Lucivar asked mildly.

Falonar glared at him. "Of course I can cook. Any Eyrien who's been in the hunting camps knows how to do rough-and-ready cooking."

Lucivar nodded. "Then relax. Just because a woman knows how to catch her own dinner doesn't mean she's going to grow balls any more than you're going to grow tits just because you know how to cook it." He watched Surreal put an arrow into the outer ring of the target and smiled. "Do you want to go over and tell her you don't think she's capable of handling a bow?"

"Not while she's got a weapon in her hand," Falonar muttered.

They jumped when one of the women let out a loud yelp.

Lucivar relaxed when he noticed the way Hallevar was rubbing one hand over his mouth and the woman was surreptitiously rubbing her forearm against her right breast.

"Five minutes of free practice," Hallevar called before hurrying toward the other two men.

"What happened?" Falonar demanded.

"Damnedest thing," Hallevar said, breaking into a wide grin. "Didn't think to warn them about it 'cause... well, Hell's fire, I've never had to consider it before. How was I supposed to know you could catch a tit with a bowstring?"

"Catch a—" Falonar looked at the women—who had all turned to glare at the men. He looked at the ground and cleared his throat—several times. "Bet it stings."

Lucivar felt his jaw muscles cramp with the effort to keep from laughing. "Yes, I'm sure it does. I didn't think to warn Marian when I taught her, and I'd already worked with Jaenelle. But Marian's got ... a bit more chest."

Falonar choked.

Hallevar just nodded solemnly. "That's a fine, respectful way to phrase it—especially when there's a handful of women out there who might just get mad enough to actually hit something if you phrased it any other way."

"Precisely," Lucivar said dryly. "Work them through one more quiver and—"

He was running toward the arms practice field before the first panicked scream could be drowned out by furious shouts. He leaped up on the low stone wall that separated the two fields. Ice formed around his heart when he saw Kaelas give a Green-Jeweled Eyrien Warlord Prince a casual swat that opened up the back of one thigh. The ice became a painful cage when he saw Rothvar and Zaranar running toward the stranger with weapons drawn.

*NO!* he shouted on a spear thread. I’ll gut any man who raises a weapon!*

They skidded to a stop, their shock at his order rivaling their fury. But they, and the other men on the practice field, obeyed.

"Help me!" the stranger yelled as he swung his war blade at Kaelas, trying to keep the cat in front of him while he limped backward toward the other men. "Damn you all to the bowels of Hell, help me!"

Lucivar turned, looked back at the women. *Marian, take all the women up to our eyrie. Close the shutters.*

*Lucivar, what—*

*Do it!*

He strode toward the loose circle of men, Falonar and Hallevar right behind him. A gut-sick satisfaction filled him as he watched how easily Kaelas dodged the stranger's attempts to counterattack—and he wondered what the other men would say if they knew he had been the one who had taught the cat how to move with and against human weapons.

As soon as the Eyrien shifted into a fighting stance, Kaelas charged. The speed and the sheer weight behind the charge knocked the man back several feet. The claws ripped open the Eyrien's shoulders and followed through down the arms, leaving them useless. The cat leaped away and began lazily circling a man barely able to get to his feet.

Falonar looked behind them and cursed softly, viciously. Turning and opening his wings to hide the practice field, he snarled, "Go back with the other women."

"Don't give me any of that—oh, shit," Surreal said as she dodged Falonar and got a good look at the man and cat.

Kaelas continued the light, almost playful swats, inflicting surface wounds that would slowly bleed out his prey. He continued until the Eyrien stranger spread his torn wings and tried to fly. The cat leaped with the man, then landed lightly. The man, with his back ripped open, fell heavily.

"Mother Night," Surreal whispered, "he's playing with that man."

"He's playing," Lucivar said grimly as nerves twisted his belly, "but it's not a game. This is an Arcerian execution."

Surreal understood before Falonar did. Lucivar saw her face tighten—and he saw her eyes fill with cool professional interest.

"Yaslana," Falonar warned.

Lucivar sensed the growing tension in the other men and knew it wouldn't be long before one of them disobeyed his order and joined the "fight." He started to move closer.

Kaelas must have sensed it, too, because the playfulness ended. The Eyrien stranger screamed as the claws ripped his chest open, ripped his thighs to the bone.

"Kaelas," Lucivar said firmly, "that's—" He felt the crackle of Red-Jeweled power as the paw lashed out again. The object flew at him so fast, he instinctively caught it before it slammed into his chest. For a second or two, Lucivar stared at the head that had been severed at the base of the neck. Then he dropped it.

"Mother Night," Surreal said softly.

The Eyrien's right hand, with its Green-Jeweled ring, sailed through the air and plopped on the ground next to the head.

With a full-throated snarl of rage, Kaelas gutted the man, then defecated in the open belly before moving away from the corpse. Finally, he looked at Lucivar. *That one is still inside ... for the High Lord.*

Lucivar tried to swallow. Kaelas had deliberately not finished the kill. *Why?*

*He killed Morton,* Kaelas replied, making the effort to use a communication thread that could be heard by all the humans present. *And he killed the pale humans that belonged to Lady Karla.*

Fury washed through Lucivar, a cleansing fire. *Where?*

An image appeared in his mind, oddly focused but clear enough for him to identify the place. *My thanks, Brother,* he said, using a spear thread directed specifically at the cat.

Kaelas leaped, caught the Winds, and disappeared.

"I've done a lot of things as an assassin," Surreal said, hooking her hair behind her ears, "but I've never shit on the body. Is that some kind of feline quirk?"

"It's the way Arcerians show contempt for an enemy," Lucivar said. He looked at Falonar, who seemed to be fighting not to be sick. A quick glance was enough to confirm that most of the men were doing the same, despite their experience on battlefields. "I don't recognize him. Do you?"

Falonar shook his head.

"I do," Rothvar said heavily as he approached them. "When he found out I was immigrating to Kaeleer, he offered me a place in his company. Said he wasn't going to have to lick any bitch's boots, that he'd be ruling a fine piece of land before a year was out. I never liked him, so I said no. But..." He glanced at the head, then away. "I heard... thought I heard... Did the cat speak true?"

"He wouldn't lie." Lucivar took a deep breath. "Falonar, select four men to go with us." Looking around, he realized Surreal was no longer with them.

Falonar turned, too, and swore. "Damn it, she's probably off someplace puking her guts—"

Surreal leaped over the low stone wall and trotted toward them, a large, dented metal bucket in one hand. When they just looked at her, she huffed and said tartly to Lucivar, "Were you planning to tuck that thing under your arm to take it to the High Lord?"

Lucivar smiled reluctantly. "Thanks, Surreal." He hesitated. His hands were already bloody, but he still hesitated.

She didn't. With another huff, she dumped the head and hand into the bucket, then covered the bucket with a piece of dark cloth.

The men winced. She snarled at them.

Seeing the wariness in Falonar's eyes, Lucivar said, "You have your orders, Prince."

Falonar and Rothvar left with more speed than discretion.

"Tell me he hasn't done as much on a battlefield," Surreal said with a hint of bitterness. "I suppose everything would have been just fine if I'd clung to his arm and begged for smelling salts."

"Don't condemn him out of hand," Lucivar said quietly. "He isn't used to a woman like you."

Surreal turned on him. "And what kind of woman is that?"

"A Dea al Mon witch."

Her smile came slowly, but it was genuine. "I suppose I should have been more tactful." She waved a hand at the bucket, then hesitated. "I'd like to go with you."

"No. I want you to stay here with the other women."

Her eyes frosted. "Why?"

Abruptly impatient, he snarled, "Because you wear the Gray, and I trust you." He waited until he knew she understood. "My eyrie has Ebon-gray shields, but Marian can key them. Don't let anyone in that she doesn't know—for any reason. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Surreal nodded. "All right. But you be careful. If you get hurt, I'll smack you."

Lucivar waited until she was out of earshot before he waved Hallevar over to him. "Send Palanar to my mother's house. He's to escort Lady Luthvian to my eyrie without delay."

Hallevar shifted uneasily. "She'll take a strip out of the boy."

"Tell her it's an order from the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih," Lucivar said. "Then I want you to keep an eye open around here. If you see anything, hear anything, sense anything you don't like, you send one of the boys to the Keep and the other to the Hall for help. The wolf pack will also keep watch. If you see anyone who doesn't live right here, whether you knew them well in Terreille or not, treat them as an enemy. Understand?"

Nodding, Hallevar went off to attend his duties.

A short time later, Lucivar and five of his men were flying toward the Keep.

Lucivar set the metal bucket on the opposite end of the worktable and watched Saetan pour fresh blood into a bowl of simmering liquid. "I thought you would be at the Hall, waiting for the reports to come in."

"Draca sent for me," Saetan replied, lightly stirring the bowl's contents. "What brings you here?"

"Morton is dead."

Saetan's hand hesitated a moment, then resumed stirring. "I know."

Lucivar tensed, then said cautiously, "He's in the Dark Realm?"

"No, he's here. That's why Draca sent for me. He came to report."

Lucivar paced restlessly. "Good. I'll talk to him before—"

"No."

The implacable tone in Saetan's voice stopped him—for a moment. "I don't care if he's demon-dead now."

"He does." Saetan's voice gentled. "He doesn't want to see you, Lucivar. Not any of you."

"Why in the name of Hell not?" Lucivar shouted.

Saetan snarled. "Do you think it's easy making the transition? Do you think anything will be the same for him? He's dead, Lucivar. He's a young man who will never do a great many things now, who is no longer who and what he used to be. There are reasons why the dead remain, for the most part, among the dead."

Lucivar resumed his pacing. "It's not like the First Circle isn't used to being around the demon-dead."

"You didn't know them when they walked among the living," Saetan said softly. "There were no ties with them that needed to be cut. Yes, the ties do need to be cut," he said, overriding Lucivar's protest. "The living have to move on—and so do the dead. If you can't respect that, at least respect the fact that he needs time to adjust before he has to deal with the rest of you."

Lucivar swore softly. "How bad...?"

Saetan set the spoon down and moved to the other end of the table. "The wounds aren't visible when he's dressed. In fact, they wouldn't have been fatal if the arrows hadn't been poisoned."

"Poisoned," Lucivar said flatly as he stared down at the bucket.

"There's not much Morton could tell you, and without more information, even what he knows doesn't help us much."

Lucivar pointed at the bucket. "You may find your answers in there."

Saetan lifted the dark cloth, looked inside the bucket, then let the cloth drop.

"Kaelas," Lucivar said, answering the unspoken question.

"I see," Saetan said quietly. "You're returning to Ebon Rih?"

Lucivar shook his head. "I'm taking a few men to the Dark Altar in Glacia to look around, see if there are any answers there."

"Our Queen's order was quite direct," Saetan said mildly.

"I'll risk her anger."

Saetan nodded. "Then, as Steward of the Court, I formally request that you go to the Dark Altar in Glacia to determine what happened."

"I don't need to hide behind your title," Lucivar snapped.

Saetan smiled dryly. "I'm doing this as much for Jaenelle as for you. This way, she can gracefully back away from having to confront you about disobeying a direct order."

"Oh. In that case..."

"Get going, boyo. Report to me at the Hall. And Prince Yaslana," Saetan added when Lucivar reached the door, "remember Glacia isn't your territory. You're not the law there."

"Yes, sir, I'll remember. We just witness and report."

Seeing the guarded look in Marian's eyes and the way Luthvian managed to convey silently her disapproval of her son's choice of a wife, Surreal wondered how pissed off Lucivar would be if they took his mother into the garden and used her for target practice.

"How did you manage to bake anything this morning?" Nurian, the journeymaid Healer, asked as she accepted a nutcake from the plate Marian was passing around. "And how do you get anything else done after these morning workouts?"

"Oh," Marian said with a shy smile, "I'm used to it by now, and—"

"You're a Healer," Luthvian interrupted, giving Nurian a cool stare. "Your finding it difficult to practice a demanding Craft after these workouts is understandable. But they're hardly an excuse for neglecting one's duties when you're talking about hearth Craft. After all—"

"If you'll excuse us," Surreal said, hauling Luthvian to her feet. "There's something Lady Luthvian and I need to discuss."

"Let go of me," Luthvian snarled as Surreal dragged her out of the room. "You don't treat a Black Widow Healer like she was—"

"A hearth-witch?" Surreal said with venomous sweetness as she shoved Luthvian into the garden.

"Exactly," Luthvian replied darkly. "But I don't suppose a whore —"

"Shut up, bitch," Surreal said too quietly.

Luthvian sucked in air. "You forget your place!"

"No, sugar, that's exactly what I'm not forgetting. You may belong to a higher caste, but my Jewels outrank yours. I figure that evens things out—at least within the family. You don't like me, and that suits me just fine because I don't like you either."

"Crossing a Black Widow isn't wise," Luthvian said softly.

"Crossing an assassin isn't wise either." Surreal smiled when Luthvian's eyes widened. "So let's make this simple. If you make one more disparaging remark about Marian, I'm going to bang your face against the wall until some sense gets knocked into you."

"What do you think Lucivar would say about that?" Luthvian's voice sounded certain, but there was doubt in her eyes.

"Oh," Surreal replied, "I don't think Lucivar would say anything to me." Watching the verbal thrust hit the mark, she felt a brief moment of pity for Luthvian. The woman drove people away, and then seemed bewildered to find herself alone.

"He could have done better," Luthvian grumbled. "He didn't have to settle for a Purple Dusk hearth-witch."

Surreal studied Luthvian. "This doesn't have anything to do with Lucivar, does it? You're embarrassed because your son married a hearth-witch. Marian is just a gentle, caring woman who loves him and whose presence makes him happy. If he had married a Black Widow Healer and was miserable, well, that would have been all right because he had married a woman worthy of a Warlord Prince. Right?" Besides, she added silently, the High Lord approves of his son's choice. Which, she suspected, was the major reason Luthvian never would. "Remember what I said, Luthvian." She started to walk away.

"Just because the High Lord tolerates your using the SaDiablo name doesn't change what you were—and still are," Luthvian said nastily.

Surreal looked over her shoulder. "No," she said, "it doesn't. You would do well to remember that, too."

Lucivar felt the tingle of residual power the moment he stepped off the landing web. While the other Eyriens stared at the dead bodies and muttered uneasily, he kept his eyes on the pressed-down snow a few feet in front of him. He moved toward it, then skirted around it.

"What?" Falonar asked as he avoided the spot, too.

"Morton died there," Lucivar said quietly.

"He's not the only one who died," Rothvar said grimly, looking at the savaged Eyrien corpses.

"No, he's not the only one," Lucivar replied. But he's the one I watched grow from a decent youth into a fine man. "Rothvar, you and Endar—"

If he hadn't spent the past eight years living around kindred, he never would have picked up that particular psychic scent—and wouldn't have known the Arcerian cats were there until it was far too late.

He scanned the village roofs with a seemingly casual eye while he quietly sank to the depth of his Ebon-gray Jewel and probed the area. Eight Arcerians. Two of them Warlord Princes. All of them wearing darker Jewels.

"Keep your hands away from your weapons," Lucivar said, keeping his voice low and even. "We've got company." Moving slowly, he unbelted the short wool cape and opened it to expose his chest and the Ebon-gray Jewel that hung from the chain around his neck. He held his arms out, away from his weapons. "I am Lucivar Yaslana," he said in a loud voice. "I belong to the Lady. And these males belong to me."

*I'm not sensing anything,* Falonar said on a Sapphire spear thread.

*Kindred don't usually announce their presence,* Lucivar said dryly. *Especially the Arcerians.*

*Mother Night!* Falonar looked at the savaged Eyrien bodies. *Those cats are still here? How many?*

*Eight of them. Let's hope they decide we're friends, or this is going to turn into a mess.*

Lucivar waited until his arms began to ache. Finally there was a wary psychic touch. *You are Kaelas's Brother,* said a growling voice.

*And he is my Brother,* Lucivar replied. He lowered his arms.

*Why are you here?* the cat demanded.

*To stand witness for the Lady.*

A long pause. *Kaelas told us to guard this place so that no more bad meat comes through the Gate.*

Lucivar hoped the cats watching him thought the shiver was due to the cold and not the reference to Eyriens being "bad meat." *Kaelas is wise.*

*You look and then go.* That wasn't a question.

Lucivar turned toward his men. He raised his voice to make sure the nearest Arcerian cat would hear the orders. "Raise basic shields."

Five men gave him blank looks followed by swift comprehension. Protective shields snapped up around them.

*Will these shields protect us?* Falonar asked Lucivar, using a Sapphire thread so that the other men couldn't hear him.

*No,* Lucivar replied shortly. "Weapons to hand." He called in his Eyrien war blade, then nodded when the others followed his example. "Kohlvar, you and Endar keep watch at the landing web. Rothvar and Zaranar, take the left side of the village. Falonar, with me." *And if one of the Arcerians actually shows himself, give him the same courtesy you would give any other warrior,* he added on a general spear thread.

They moved slowly, carefully, fully aware that the cats watched every movement, every gesture.

"How did those cats manage to kill this many Eyriens without anyone sounding an alarm?" Falonar asked quietly when they had checked half the houses on their side of the village. It was obvious that a number of the men hadn't suspected a thing before the attack.

"When an Arcerian is hunting, you don't usually know he's there until he kills you," Lucivar replied absently as he quickly checked through another house. There was evidence of at least minimal fighting in all the houses, but that had been Glacian against Eyrien. "That makes them very efficient."

When they reached the living quarters in the Sanctuary, they both stared at the young Priestess—or what was left of her.

"Hell's fire," Falonar said, disgust filling his voice as he backed away from the door. "Well, I guess gang rape is a kind of slow execution. But why keep just this one? And why beat her to death when they'd probably already done enough to kill her?"

"Because the other women fought, while this one expected a different kind of reward," Lucivar replied. When Falonar stared at him with horror-filled eyes, he laughed, a low, nasty sound. "You spent enough time in the Terreillean courts to know how to get dirty, Prince Falonar. Someone had to help that Green-Jeweled bastard go through the Gate to get back to Terreille—or at least keep the old Priestess from realizing the Gate was being used without her knowledge or consent. As for the beating ... I guess when the bastard realized he was trapped in here, he needed to take it out on someone."

"The cat didn't kill him slow enough," Falonar muttered, turning away from the room. "Not nearly slow enough."

I imagine the High Lord will know how to extract the final payment for the debt, Lucivar thought, but he didn't tell Falonar that.

As they left the Sanctuary, Zaranar made a "come here" gesture.

"Rothvar's at the back door," Zaranar said uneasily. "I think you should handle this. All we've done is keep an eye on the doors," he added quickly.

Before Lucivar could move, Kohlvar sent an urgent message. *Prince, there's a Glacian at the landing web who says he's Lady Karla's Master of the Guard. He's got forty guards with him.*

*Tell him to stay put,* Lucivar replied sharply as he and Falonar headed for the back of the house. *I'll talk to him in a few minutes.*

Before he reached the back door, he could hear the nervous snarls coming from inside the house. Rothvar stepped aside. Lucivar started to go in, then stopped abruptly.

The Arcerian Warlord was almost full-grown, so there wasn't much room in the small kitchen for a cat his size to pace. On the table was an odd assortment of food. On the floor was a goat, neatly killed.

When Lucivar took a step toward the goat, the cat pounced on it and snarled.

*Mine,* the cat said.

"All right," Lucivar replied mildly.

The cat seemed puzzled by his easy agreement. *Payment for work.*

Interesting, Lucivar thought. Was this a kindred testing of a human idea? "Since you're guarding this place instead of hunting, it's fair that you be paid with meat."

Relaxing a little, the cat looked at the table. So did Lucivar. There wasn't anything on it he thought a cat would want to eat. "Is that also payment for work?"

*Human food.* The cat made it sound more like a hopeful question.

"Yes, it is."

*A she-kitten would like this food?*

Lucivar rubbed his chin. "I don't know."

The cat growled, but the sound was filled with discouragement. *We burned some meat for her, but she would not eat.* He wrinkled his lips to indicate what he thought of ruining good meat by cooking it. *I promised to bring human food.*

A chill whispered down Lucivar's spine. "A child survived this place?"

*Yes. The she-kitten. KaeAskavi's friend.* The cat studied him, then asked hesitantly, *You will help?*

Lucivar blinked away tears that would only confuse the cat. "Yes, I will help."

"Did we do the right thing?" Daemon asked as he and Lucivar air walked above the deep snow toward the place that was designated as an official landing web. They weren't making that effort just to avoid floundering in waist-high snow; tracks might have shown an enemy where the Arcerian dens were located.

"What else could we do?" Lucivar replied wearily. "The girl has lost her mother, her village, everyone she knew. KaeAskavi's the only friend she has left. There are pockets of fighting going on throughout Glacia, so placing her in another village... There's no guarantee she would survive the next time a place is attacked. Marian and I would take her to live with us, but ..."

Daemon shook his head. "You were right about that. She wouldn't be able to handle being around Eyriens right now." Which was why Lucivar had insisted that Daemon come with him to Arceria in the first place.

"And we can't take her anywhere else," Lucivar added grimly. "Not until we know if this attack was part of Hobart's attempt to regain control of Glacia or if it's something more. You said the girl was physically all right."

"She sprained an ankle, but the Arcerian Healers have the Craft to take care of injured limbs. Other than that, she was... unharmed." He couldn't say the word "rape." He would never forget the fear that had jolted through him when he had crawled into that den and seen Delia—fair-haired, blue-eyed, ten-year-old Delia. She didn't look anything like Jaenelle, except in coloring, but that had been enough to cause the memories of what had happened in Chaillot thirteen years ago to come rushing back at him. His hands had trembled as he'd cautiously examined her for injuries, as he had used a delicate psychic probe to answer that particular question. His hands had also trembled because she had been gripping a stuffed toy cat in one hand and a fistful of KaeAskavi's fur in the other—which meant the cat had been literally breathing down his neck. It was the way she had held on to KaeAskavi that had forced him to leave her there. She needed to feel safe in order to heal—and snuggling up to four hundred pounds of muscle and fur obviously made her feel very safe.

Lucivar rested a hand on Daemon's shoulder. "A few weeks among the Arcerians won't hurt her. At least this way she can be 'mothered' without feeling like she's letting someone take her mother's place."

Daemon nodded. "Are you going back to Ebon Rih?" He had been planning to go to the Keep since Jaenelle was on her way there with Karla and Morghann.

Lucivar shook his head. "The High Lord asked me to report to him at the Hall. This side trip has delayed that report for a couple of days, so I'd better get my ass there before he decides to take a piece out of it."

"Then I'll go with you."

When they reached the place where they could catch the Winds, Lucivar hesitated. "How is Karla? I didn't get to see her before they left for the Keep."

Daemon stared at the unbroken snow. "She'll live. Jaenelle thinks she can heal the legs enough for Karla to walk again."

"Jaenelle thinks she can?" Lucivar paled. "Mother Night, Daemon, if Jaenelle isn't sure, what was done—"

"Don't ask," Daemon said too sharply. He made an effort to soften his voice. "Don't ask. I... don't want to talk about it." But this was Lucivar who was asking, so he tried. "There's no antidote for witchblood. The poison had to be drawn into some part of the body in order to save the internal organs and then drawn out. It ... killed a lot of the muscle, and that muscle had to be..." His gorge rose as he thought of the withered limbs that had been healthy legs.

"Let it go," Lucivar said gently. "Let it go."

They both took a couple of unsteady breaths before Daemon said, "The sooner we make our reports, the sooner we can go home." For him, home wasn't a place, it was a person—and right then, he needed to know that Jaenelle was safe.

"Kartane sent a report." Dorothea carefully selected a piece of sugared fruit, took a bite, and chewed slowly just to make Hekatah wait.

"And?" Hekatah finally asked. "Has the Gate in Glacia been secured for our use? Is the village ready for our hand-picked immigrants?"

Dorothea selected another piece of fruit. This time she gave it a couple of delicate licks before answering. "The villagers were eliminated. So were the Eyriens."

"What? How?"

"The messenger who met with Kartane couldn't find out what happened to the Eyriens, only that they had killed the villagers and had, in turn, been killed." She paused. "Lord Hobart's dead as well."

Hekatah stood perfectly still. "And the bitch-Queen, Karla? Was that, at least, successful?"

Dorothea shrugged. "She disappeared during the fighting. But since Ulka died rather... dramatically... one would assume she consumed the poison."

"Then that's the end of her," Hekatah said with a little smile of satisfaction. "Even if someone manages to figure out an antidote for the Hayllian poison in time, the witch-blood will finish things."

"Our plans for Glacia are also finished. Or hasn't that occurred to you?"

Hekatah waved that away. "Considering what we have achieved, that's a minor inconvenience."

Dorothea dropped the fruit back into the bowl. "We've achieved nothing."

"You're becoming inflexible, Dorothea," Hekatah said with venomous sweetness. "You're starting to act as old as you look."

Dorothea's blood pounded in her temples, and she wanted—oh, how she wanted—to unleash just a little of the feelings that had been growing more virulent. She hated Hekatah, but she also needed the bitch. So she sat back and inflicted a wound that would hurt much deeper than any physical blow. "At least I still have all my hair. That bald patch is starting to ooze, dearest."

Hekatah automatically lifted a hand to cover the spot. With effort, she lowered it before it reached her head.

The impotent hatred in Hekatah's dull gold eyes scared Dorothea a little but also produced a sense of vicious satisfaction.

"We can make do with sneaking through the other Gates," Hekatah said. "We have something better now."

"And what is that?" Dorothea asked politely.

"The excuse we needed to start the war." Hekatah's smile was pure malevolence.

"I see," Dorothea said, returning the smile.

"The immigrants we had picked to replace the villagers will go to Glacia—just as they would have if Hobart had given us that village as payment for our assistance. We'll also add a few immigrants from other Terreillean Territories. The escorts will be males who don't know where the original village was located. Only the Coach drivers will be told where to drop off the happy families—and that won't be anywhere near a settled area, so there won't be any chance of detection. The escorts will, of course, be dismayed to see no sign of a village waiting for inhabitants." A dreamy look filled Hekatah's eyes. "The company of Eyrien warriors who will be waiting for them will take care of things. The slaughter will be ... horrible. But there will be a couple of survivors who will manage to escape. They'll live long enough to get back to Little Terreille and tell a few people about how Terreilleans are being butchered in Kaeleer. And they'll live long enough to say that two men had been giving the orders—a Hayllian and an Eyrien."

"No one in Terreille will think it's anyone but Sadi and Yaslana," Dorothea said gleefully. "They'll think the High Lord ordered the attack and sent his sons to oversee it."

"Exactly."

"Which will prove that all my warnings were justified. And once people start wondering why there has been no word from friends or loved ones..." Dorothea sank back in her chair with a sigh of pleasure. Then she straightened up reluctantly. "We still have to find a way to contain Jaenelle Angelline."

"Oh, with the proper incentive, she'll willingly place herself in our hands."

Dorothea snorted. "What kind of incentive would make her do that?"

"Using someone she loves as bait."

Chilled to the bone, Saetan listened to Lucivar's and Daemon's reports. He would have liked to believe Lord Hobart had hired a company of Eyriens to help him seize control of Glacia, would have liked to believe Morton's death and the attack on Karla were strictly a Glacian concern. But he'd had other reports in the past twenty-four hours. Two District Queens in Dharo had been killed, along with their escorts. A mob of landens had attacked a kindred wolf pack that had recently formed around a young Queen. While the males were dealing with that threat, some Blood had outflanked them, killed the Queen, and vanished, leaving the landens behind to be slaughtered by the enraged males. In Scelt, a Warlord Prince, a youth still not quite old enough to make the Offering to the Darkness, had been found behind the tavern in his home village. His throat had been slit.

Even more troubling, Kalush had been attacked while walking through a park in Tajrana, her own capital city. The only reason neither she nor her infant daughter had been harmed was because her attackers couldn't break through the protective shield around her—the Ebony shield that was in the ring Jaenelle had given her—and because Aaron, alerted by the link through the Ring of Honor he wore, had arrived riding the killing edge and had destroyed the attackers with a savagery that bordered on insanity.

It didn't take any effort to see the pattern, especially since he recognized it. Fifty thousand years slipped away as if they had never existed. It might have been Andulvar and Mephis sitting there, voicing their concerns about swift, seemingly random attacks to a man who had insisted that, as a Guardian, he could no longer interfere with the affairs of the living. He was still a Guardian, but he was too entangled in the affairs of the living to obey the rules Guardians abided by.

They were going to war.

He wondered if Daemon and Lucivar realized it yet.

And he wondered how many loved ones he would have to assist through the transition to becoming demon-dead this time—and how many would disappear without a trace. Like Andulvar's son, Ravenar. Like his own son, his second son, Peyton.

"Father?" Daemon said quietly.

He realized they were both watching him intently, but it was Daemon he focused on. The son who was a mirror, who was his true heir. The son he understood the best— and the least.

Before he could start to tell them about the other attacks, Beale knocked on the study door and walked in.

"Forgive the intrusion, High Lord," Beale said, "but there's a Warlord here to see you. He has a letter."

"Then take the letter. I don't want to be disturbed at the moment."

"I suggested that, High Lord. He said he needs to deliver it in person."

Saetan waited a moment. "Very well."

Lucivar sprang out of his chair and positioned himself so that he would flank anyone standing near the desk. Daemon rose and resettled himself on a corner of the desk.

The intense warrior and the indolent male. Saetan imagined they had played these roles before—and played them well. With Lucivar's temper so close to the surface, the attention would be on him—but the death blow would come from Daemon.

The Warlord who entered the study was pale, nervous, and sweating. He paled even more when he saw Lucivar and Daemon.

Saetan walked around the desk. "You have a letter for me?"

The Warlord swallowed hard. "Yes, sir." He extended an envelope, the ink a little smeared from his hands.

Saetan probed the envelope. Found nothing. No trace of a spell. No trace of poison. He took it and looked at the Warlord.

"I found that in the guest room desk this morning," the man said hurriedly. "I didn't know it was there."

Saetan looked at the envelope. There was nothing on it except his name. "So you found it this morning. Is that significant?"

"I hope not. I mean—" The man took a deep breath, made an effort to steady himself. "Lord Magstrom is— was—my wife's grandfather. He came to visit us last fall, just before... Well, before. He seemed disturbed about something, but we weren't paying much attention. My wife... We had just found out for sure that she was pregnant. She'd had a miscarriage the year before, and we were concerned that it might happen again. The Healer says she has to be careful."

Why was the man pleading with him? "Is your wife well?"

"Yes, thank you, she is, but she's had to be careful. Grandfather Magstrom didn't mention the letter. At least, I don't remember him mentioning it, and then, after he... was killed..." The man's hands trembled. "I hope it wasn't something urgent. As soon as I found it, I knew I had to come right away. I hope it wasn't urgent."

"I'm sure it's not," Saetan replied gently. "I expect it's just the usual information Lord Magstrom sent me after a service fair—a confirmation more than anything else."

The man's relief was visible.

Saetan glanced at the Warlord's Yellow Jewel. "May I offer you the use of a Coach to take you home?"

"Oh, I don't want to put you through any bother."

"It's no bother—and with a driver who can ride the darker Winds, you'll be home in time to have dinner with your Lady."

The Warlord hesitated a moment longer. "Thank you. I—don't like to be away from her too long." He looked a little sheepish. "She says I fuss."

Saetan smiled. "You're going to become a father. You're entitled to fuss." He led the man out of the study, gave Beale instructions about the Coach, and returned to Daemon and Lucivar. Using the letter opener on his desk, he carefully slit the envelope. He called in his half-moon glasses, opened the letter, and began to read.

"You got reports from Magstrom about the service fair?" Lucivar asked, accepting the glass of brandy Daemon poured for him.

"No." And the more he read, the less he liked receiving this one. As he read the letter a second time, he barely listened to Daemon's and Lucivar's conversation—until Daemon said something that caught his attention. "What did you say?"

"I said Lord Magstrom had indicated that he was going to send letters to some of the Queens outside of Little Terreille," Daemon repeated, swirling the brandy in his glass. "But after Jorval took over handling my immigration, I was told that the Queens outside of Little Terreille wouldn't consider a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince."

Lucivar snorted. "Jorval probably arranged for the letters not to be sent. Hell's fire, Daemon, you've met the other Territory Queens. They're the coven. If a letter had reached any one of them, she would have had her Steward at the service fair to sign the contract as fast as he could travel."

"Read this," Saetan said, handing the letter to Daemon.

"I don't understand," Daemon said when he'd read half the letter. "Aren't the lists supposed to indicate every immigrant at the service fair?"

"Yes, they are," Lucivar said grimly, reading over Daemon's shoulder. "And you weren't on any of them." He looked at Saetan. "I did mention that at the time."

"Yes, you did," Saetan replied, "but, since Daemon did end up in the Dark Court, I failed to appreciate the significance of that remark."

Daemon handed the letter back to Saetan. "There must have been a list somewhere. Otherwise, how would the Queens in Little Terreille have known I was available?"

Saetan kept his voice mild. "What Queens were those?"

"There were four Queens in Little Terreille who were willing to have me," Daemon said slowly. "Jorval insisted they were the only ones."

"So, if you hadn't met Lucivar by chance..."

Daemon froze. "I would have signed a contract with one of them."

Swearing quietly, Lucivar started to pace.

Saetan just nodded. "You would have signed a contract with one of Jorval’s handpicked Queens, and you would have ended up tucked away somewhere in Little Terreille— with no one else aware that you were there."

"What would have been the point of that?" Daemon said irritably.

"In Little Terreille they use the Ring of Obedience on immigrating males," Lucivar snapped. "That's the point. It would have been Terreille all over again."

"Not necessarily," Saetan said, still keeping his voice mild. "If Daemon was well treated, was handled with care—which I'm sure was part of the agreement—he would have had no reason not to use the strength of his Jewels against an enemy who was threatening the Queen he served. And after the first unleashing of the Black, there would have been no turning back. The lines would have been drawn."

Daemon stared at him.

"What does it matter?" Lucivar said, looking at the two of them uneasily. "Daemon's with us."

"Yes," Saetan said softly, "he is. But where are the other men whose names disappeared from those lists?"

The golden spider studied the two tangled webs of dreams and visions.

More deaths. Many deaths.

It was time.

Remember this web. Remember every strand, every thread.

Throughout the cold season, she had been pulled away from her own dreaming, compelled to study the web that had shaped this living myth, the Queen who was Witch. And she had realized it would not be enough, because living inside the flesh had changed this dream. It was more now. And, somehow, she needed to add that "more" to the web. Without it, Kaeleer's Heart would be gone for too many seasons—and would not be quite the same when the dream returned.

She continued to study the webs.

The brown dog, Ladvarian, was the key. He would be able to bring her the "more" she needed.

Yes. It was time.

She returned to the chamber within the sacred caves, and began to weave the web for dreams that were already made flesh.

Chapter Thirteen

The First Circle of the Dark Court gathered at the Keep. At least, the humans in the First Circle had gathered, Saetan amended as he listened to Khardeen's grim report about the attacks that had taken place in Scelt during the past three weeks. There had been attacks everywhere in the last three weeks. Maybe that was why the kindred hadn't answered Jaenelle's summons to come to the Keep. Maybe the kindred Queens and Warlord Princes didn't dare withdraw their strength away from their own lands. Or maybe it was the beginning of a rift between humans and kindred. Maybe they were withdrawing from what they considered a human conflict in order to save themselves.

But he would have thought Ladvarian, at the very least, would have come so that he could explain things to the rest of the kindred. He would have realized the conflict wouldn't be confined to humans. Hell's fire, kindred had already been attacked.

But Ladvarian wasn't there—and it worried him.

Two other things worried him: the flickers of grief and resignation he was picking up from Andulvar, Prothvar, and Mephis—who had all fought, and died, in the last war between Terreille and Kaeleer—and the fact that Jaenelle had been sitting there for the past two hours with such blankness in her eyes he started to wonder if she hadn't created a simple shadow to fill a space at the table.

"Just defending against these attacks isn't going to save our lands or our people," Aaron said. "There are Terreillean armies gathering against us. If the enemy who's already in Kaeleer gains control of a Gate and opens it for those armies... We need to do something now."

"Yes, you do need to do something," Jaenelle said in a hollow voice. "You need to retreat."

Protests from all sides rose up in a wave of sound.

"You need to retreat," Jaenelle repeated. "And you will send all of the Queens and Warlord Princes in your Territories to the Keep."

Stunned silence met that statement.

"But, Jaenelle," Morghann said after a moment, "the Warlord Princes are needed to lead the fighting. And asking Queens to leave their lands while their people are under attack ..."

"They won't be needed if the people retreat."

"Just how far are we supposed to retreat?" Gabrielle snapped.

"As far as necessary."

Aaron shook his head. "We need to gather our warriors into armies to fight against the Terreilleans and—"

"Kaeleer will not go to war with Terreille," Jaenelle said in her midnight voice.

Chaosti sprang up from his seat. "We're already at war!"

"No, we are not."

"So we're at war with Little Terreille, since that's where these attackers have been hiding," Lucivar growled. "It's the same thing."

Jaenelle's eyes turned to ice. "We're not at war with anyone."

"Cat, you're not thinking—"

"Remember to whom you speak."

Lucivar looked into her eyes and paled. Finally, reluctantly, he said, "My apologies, Lady."

Jaenelle rose. "If there's time to retreat before the attack, do it. If not, keep the fighting to a minimum. Defend for as long as it takes to retreat, but don't attack. And get the Queens and Warlord Princes to the Keep. There will be no exceptions, and I'll accept no excuses."

A long silence filled the room after Jaenelle left.

"She's not thinking clearly," Kalush said reluctantly.

"She's been acting strange since the first attack," Gabrielle snapped, then looked apologetically at Karla.

"It's all right," Karla said slowly, with obvious effort. "She has been acting strange. I've wondered if healing me affected her somehow."

"What's affected her is her aversion to killing," Lucivar snarled. "But she's usually clear-sighted enough to be able to see the obvious. We're at war. Dancing around the word isn't going to change the fact."

"You would defy your Queen?" Daemon asked mildly, almost lazily.

Lucivar's instant, razor-edged tension startled all of them.

What's happening between them? Saetan wondered as Daemon and Lucivar just stared at each other. Seeing the sleepy look in Daemon's eyes, he felt ice wrap around his spine.

"I don't think the Lady understands the repercussions of her order," Lucivar said carefully.

"Oh," Daemon purred, "I think she understands them quite well. You just don't agree with her. That's not sufficient reason to disobey her."

"Considering what you've done in other courts, you're not exactly a model of obedience," Lucivar said with a little heat.

"That's irrelevant. We're talking about you and this court. And I'm telling you, Yaslana, that you will not distress her with defiance or disobedience. If you do..." Daemon merely smiled.

Lucivar shuddered.

After Daemon glided out of the room, Saetan asked, "Is he bluffing?" He became uneasy when Lucivar just stared at the table. "Lucivar?"

"The Sadist doesn't bluff," Lucivar said roughly. "He doesn't need to." He strode out of the room.

"It would seem there's nothing more to discuss," Saetan said, rising from the table. A flick of a glance brought Andulvar, Prothvar, and Mephis to their feet.

Letting the other men precede him, he had almost shut the door when he heard Aaron say, "What do we really know about Daemon Sadi?"

He closed the door silently. When he turned toward the other men, he saw the same question in Andulvar's eyes— and he was no longer sure he had an answer.

"What do we really know about Daemon Sadi?" Aaron said.

Karla let the murmurs of opinion and conversation become a wash of sound as she sank deeper into her own thoughts.

What did they really know about Daemon Sadi?

He was a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince and a natural Black Widow—an explosively dangerous, beautiful-looking man.

He was the High Lord's mirror, but not a perfect reflection.

He was a man who, for most of his life, had been chained in one way or another to Dorothea SaDiablo, Kaeleer's enemy.

He was a man who understood women. Unable to stand the pity in the servants' eyes when they had helped her into the bath the first few days after the healing, she had insisted that she didn't need help. Using Craft, she was able to undress and get herself into the tub but wasn't able to wash herself well enough, especially because the reaction to the poisons was causing her skin to slough off at a grotesque rate. One evening, Daemon had shown up to assist her. She had snapped at him, had told him to go away. His answer, spoken in such a pleasant voice it had taken her a few seconds to comprehend the words, was so creatively obscene she was in the tub being gently, but thoroughly, washed before she could think again. His touch hadn't been impersonal, nor had it been sexual, but by the time he'd started massaging her scalp, she'd been awash in sensual pleasure like she'd never experienced before.

So she understood why the others were worried. A woman could easily become addicted to that touch, would be willing to do a great many things in order to prevent it from being withdrawn. And Jaenelle had been acting strange since the first attack. But she didn't think it had anything to do with Daemon.

There was one other thing she knew about Daemon Sadi, something she had seen in the tangled web that had warned her about her own death: he was the friend who would become an enemy in order to remain a friend.

"What is it about Daemon that scares the shit out of Lucivar?" Andulvar asked as soon as the four men entered a small sitting room in the Keep.

"I don't know," Saetan replied, avoiding their stares by warming a glass of yarbarah over a tongue of witchfire.

He didn't know. Lucivar had always evaded talking about the times he and Daemon had tangled when they'd come together in Terreillean courts. Lucivar had said once that if he had a choice of going up against the Sadist or the High Lord, he would choose the High Lord because he would have some chance of winning.

What was it about that smile of Daemon's that could shake Lucivar so badly? What was it about the Sadist that could make a man as aggressive as Lucivar back down? And what might Daemon's presence in the Keep mean to the rest of them?

"High Lord!" Prothvar jerked Saetan's hand away from the tongue of witchfire just before the yarbarah began to boil.

Saetan put the glass down. The yarbarah wouldn't be drinkable.

"SaDiablo," Andulvar said quietly, "should we be watching our backs?"

It didn't occur to him to offer a reassuring lie. "I don't know."

Ladvarian wearily trotted toward Halaway, responding to a gentle but insistent summons. Every so often, he snarled to vent his frustration and growing anger.

How could a place as big as the Hall not have what he needed? Oh, he'd found plenty of things that were almost right but nothing that was right. That accounted for his frustration. The anger...

The kindred had waited so long for this living myth to come. This one. This special one. And now it was going to be spoiled by humans.

No. It wouldn't be spoiled. The kindred were gathering.

As soon as the Weaver of Dreams told them what to do, they would act.

When he reached the neat cottage in Halaway, he went to the back door and barked once, politely.

Tersa opened an upstairs window. "Come inside, little Brother."

Using Craft, he floated upward to the window and went in. Most of the kindred referred to Tersa as "the Strange One." They meant no disrespect. They recognized that she was a Black Widow who wandered roads most of the Blood would never see. She was special. She had that in common with the Lady.

Even knowing all that didn't prevent his hackles from rising when he stepped into the room.

A low, narrow bed—exactly the kind he had searched for at the Hall. He approached it cautiously and opened his inner and outer senses. It had no smells. There should be human smells as well as a residual psychic scent from the humans who had made the bed, mattress, and bedcovers.

"It has all been cleansed," Tersa said calmly. "There are no psychic scents to interfere with the weaving of dreams."

*The weaving of dreams?* Ladvarian said cautiously.

"That trunk will provide storage and can be used as a bedside table as well. Remember to bring clothing for warm weather as well as clothing for the spring. Favorite things. Clothes that will be strong with her scent, even if they've been cleaned."

Ladvarian backed away. *Why should I bring clothing?*

Tersa smiled and said gently, "Because Witch does not have fur." Her eyes looked into an inner distance, became unfocused and farseeing. "It is almost time for the debts to be paid. Those who survive will serve, but few will survive. The howling... Full of joy and pain, rage and celebration. She is coming." Her eyes focused on him again. "And the kindred will anchor the dream in flesh."

*Yes, Lady,* Ladvarian said respectfully.

Tersa picked up a cobalt-blue bowl from a nearby dresser. Using Craft, she rested the bowl on the air. "When you next see the Weaver of Dreams, tell her this is how to get the 'more' she needs."

Ladvarian shifted his weight restlessly from one paw to the other. The Arachnian Queen had not mentioned Tersa. Why did Tersa know so much about the Arachnian Queen?

Tersa dipped one finger into the bowl. As she raised her hand, a drop of water clung to her finger. Instead of falling, the drop began to expand, like a little bubble of blown glass, a pearl of water. Using her thumbnail, Tersa jabbed a finger on her other hand. A drop of blood welled up on the finger. "And the Blood shall sing to the Blood."

Ladvarian felt the power flowing into that drop of blood.

"Let blood be memory's river." Turning her hand, she brushed the drop of blood against the drop of water. The blood flowed through the water bubble until it was contained inside it.

After placing a protective shield around it, Tersa tucked the water bubble into a small padded box and extended it toward Ladvarian. "Look."

He opened his mind, sent out a tentative psychic probe.

Images, memories flowed past him. Memories of a young girl leading an exhausted woman out of the Twisted Kingdom. Memories of Jaenelle, older, promising to find Daemon. Memories of conversations, laughter, delight in the world. Tersa's memories.

"You will tell the Weaver?" Tersa asked.

Ladvarian vanished the box. *I will tell her.*

"One other thing, little Brother. Don't refuse Lorn's gift. The Weaver will need that, too."

Leaving the door open, Daemon walked into Jaenelle's workroom. She had been spending hours there every day since she'd brought Karla to the Keep to continue the healing, but he didn't think her distraction or the controlled frenzy of her activities had anything to do with Karla. In fact, he was certain he was the only one who had been allowed a glimpse of that frenzy. Something was eating at her, and after the little scene in the meeting room, he was determined to find out what.

"Jaenelle, we need to talk."

She glanced up from the mound of books that filled one table. "I don't have time to talk now, Daemon," she said dismissively.

With a flick of a thought, he slammed the door so hard all the objects in the room jumped—including her.

"Make time," he said too softly. When she started to protest, he cut her off. "I'll do anything for you. Anything. But before I put myself against the rest of the First Circle, I want to know why."

"Kaeleer cannot go to war with Terreille." Her voice trembled.

"Why?"

Hot, angry tears filled her eyes. "Because if we go to war, every person who was in that room will die."

"You don't know that," he snapped.

The tears spilled over, slicing his heart. "Yes, I do."

Daemon rocked back on his heels. She was a very strong, very gifted Black Widow. If she'd seen their deaths in a tangled web of dreams and visions, there was no room for doubt. That explained her resistance.

He took a deep breath to steady himself. "Sweetheart... sometimes killing is necessary. Sometimes it's the only path to take in order to save what is good."

"I know that." Jaenelle slammed a book on the table. "I've spent the past three weeks searching for an answer. No, I've spent longer than that, but time is running out. I can feel it."

"Jaenelle," he said carefully, "you have the strength ..." The look in her eyes was almost hateful, but he pushed on. "A portion of your strength would eliminate a Terreillean army."

"And while I was eliminating that one, six more would be killing the Kaeleer Blood in other Territories. Even if I do destroy them, one army at a time, it won't make any difference."

"You wouldn't be the only one fighting," Daemon insisted, bracing one hand on the table to lean toward her. "Hell's fire, woman, look at the strength of the males in this Realm. Look at the Jewels. The Blacks. The Ebon-grays. The Grays. We have the dominant strength."

"Kaeleer had the dominant strength in the last war, too," Jaenelle replied quietly. "And Kaeleer won—barely, but Kaeleer won. But all those males died. And it didn't make any difference. The taint that fed that war is still in the Blood, even stronger now."

"Hekatah and Dorothea can be destroyed."

Jaenelle moved around the table in order to pace. "It wouldn't do any good at this point. Even if they're destroyed, even if Kaeleer wins the initial war, the Shadow Realm won't win. The taint's too widespread now. Terreille will keep sending armies. Will keep sending them and sending them, and the fighting will go on and on, in Terreille as well as in Kaeleer, until the Blood can't remember who they are or that they were supposed to be the caretakers of the Realms."

"We're at war, Jaenelle," Daemon said earnestly. "It doesn't matter if it's been formally declared or not. We are at war."

"No."

"You have the strength to make the difference. If you unleash—"

"I can't."

"You can."

"I can't."

"WHY NOT?"

She turned on him. "BECAUSE, DAMN YOU, I'M TOO STRONG! If I unleash my strength, it will destroy the Blood. All the Blood. In Terreille. In Kaeleer. In Hell."

Daemon's legs turned to water. Weakly, he pushed aside some books so that he could sit on the table. You had said she was six times stronger than our combined strength. Oh, Father, you were so wrong. Six times? Six hundred times? Six thousand times?

Enough power to wipe the Blood out of existence.

With her arms wrapped around herself, Jaenelle paced. "The Keep is the Sanctuary. It wouldn't be affected. But how many could it hold? A few thousand at most? Who chooses, Daemon? What if the wrong choices are made and the taint is still there, hidden because someone is so damn sure she's right?"

She was thinking of Alexandra. Would anyone have considered Alexandra tainted? Misguided, certainly, but unless they were obviously twisted, the Queens would definitely be among the chosen. And what about someone like Vania? Not tainted the way Jaenelle was talking about, but the kind of woman who could sour the males around her and eventually ruin a land. Exactly the kind of woman Dorothea cultivated.

"The Blood are the Blood," Jaenelle continued. "Two feet, four feet, it doesn't matter. The Blood are the Blood. The gift of Craft came from one source, and it binds all of us."

So not even the kindred could be spared. No wonder this had been ripping her apart.

"Does Kaeleer win?" Daemon asked quietly.

A full minute passed before Jaenelle answered.

"Yes. But the price for winning will be all the Kaeleer Queens and all the Warlord Princes."

Daemon thought about the decent people he had met since he'd come to Kaeleer. He thought about the kindred. He thought about the children. Most of all, he thought about Daemonar, Lucivar's son. If, for some reason, they didn't destroy Dorothea and Hekatah, and those two got their hands on Daemonar... "Do it," he said. "Unleash your strength. Destroy the Blood." Jaenelle's mouth fell open. She stared at him. "Do it," he repeated. "If that's the only way to get rid of the taint Dorothea and Hekatah have spread in the Blood, then, by the Darkness, Jaenelle, show some mercy for those you love and do it."

She began pacing again. "There has to be a way to separate Blood from Blood. There has to be."

A memory teased him, but he couldn't catch hold of it while her frenzied movement seemed to put everything in motion. "Stand still," he snapped.

She came to an abrupt halt and huffed. He raised a hand, commanding silence. The memory continued to tease, but he caught the tail of it. "I think there's a way."

Her eyes widened but she obeyed the command for silence.

"A few centuries ago, there was a Queen called the Gray Lady. When a village she was staying in was about to be attacked by Hayllian warriors, she found a way to separate the villagers from the Hayllians so that when she unleashed her strength, the villagers were spared."

"How did she do it?" Jaenelle asked very quietly.

"I don't know." He hesitated—and wondered why he hesitated. "A man I knew was with her at the time. A few years before his death, he sent a message to me that he had made a written account of the 'adventure' and had left it for me in a safe place. She was a good Queen, the last Queen to hold Dorothea at bay. He wanted her remembered."

Jaenelle leaped at him, grabbed him. "Then you do know how she did it!"

"No, I don't know. I never picked up the written account. I decided to leave it where it was, out of Dorothea's reach."

"Do you think you could find it?" Jaenelle asked anxiously.

"That shouldn't be difficult," Daemon replied dryly as he wrapped his arms around her, suddenly needing to touch her. "He left it with the Keep's librarian."

"I retrieved it from the Terreillean Keep the first time you came to Ebon Askavi with Jaenelle," Geoffrey said as he handed Daemon a carefully wrapped parcel. "I wondered at the time why you didn't ask for it. What made you think of it now?"

The question sounded innocently curious, but there wasn't anything innocent about it.

Looking straight into Geoffrey's black eyes, Daemon smiled. "I just remembered it."

He didn't unwrap it, didn't look at it. He probed it just enough to make sure there weren't any spells hidden in it that would be triggered if someone besides him handled it. Then he gave it to Jaenelle and spent the next several hours denying access to the Queen to just about every member of the First Circle. That had caused hard feelings but was easy enough. No one but the Steward, the Master of the Guard, and the Consort were permitted free access to the Queen's chambers. Lucivar had taken one look at him and had retreated. Stalling Saetan and Andulvar had been much more difficult, and he sensed it wouldn't take many more polite confrontations to erode their trust in him. Considering Jaenelle's behavior lately, he could appreciate their concern. It still hurt.

When he finally returned to her, he found her in her sitting room, her arms wrapped around herself, staring bleakly out the window.

"It didn't help?" he asked softly, resting a hand lightly on her shoulder.

"Actually, it did. I found the answer. I can't do the same thing they did, but I can use it as the foundation for what I need to do."

She turned and kissed him with a desperation that frightened him, but he gave her what she needed. For hours, he gave her what she needed.

When she was finally content just to lie wrapped in his arms, she said, "I love you." And fell asleep.

Despite being physically and emotionally exhausted, Daemon lay awake a long time—and wondered why "I love you" sounded so much like "good-bye."

"The Lady changed her mind," Saetan said formally to the Territory Queens who made up the coven. "You and the males in the First Circle are to remain at the Keep, but the other Queens in your Territories may stay where they are."

"Why are we required to stay?" Chaosti demanded. "Our people are dying. We should be home, preparing to fight."

"Why did she change her mind?" Morghann asked. "What did she say when you asked her?"

Saetan hesitated. "The instructions were relayed by the Consort."

He felt their flickers of anger and their growing suspicion about Daemon. Worse, he had those same feelings.

"The Queen commands," he said, knowing how inadequate that sounded when they were all receiving reports of fighting in their homelands.

"That's fine, High Lord," Aaron said coolly. "The Queen commands. But, obviously, no one has informed the kindred of that fact. None of them who are members of the First Circle have to stay at the Keep."

They all looked at each other as that realization sank in. But it was Karla who finally asked, "Where are the kindred?"

Saetan watched the drops of rain trickle down the window.

When Jaenelle had given the order for all the Queens to come to the Keep, he hadn't protested for one reason: Sylvia. He had wanted her in the Keep where she would be safe.

But now that Jaenelle had changed her mind—or had had it changed for her—he would issue his own orders as the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan and summon all the Dhemlan Queens to the Hall. It was a risk. The Hall didn't have the defenses the Keep had. No place had the defenses the Keep had. But it had been designed to withstand attack, and its defenses were better than anywhere else the Queens might be forced to retreat if the fighting escalated. And it was big enough that the Queens could bring their families with them, bring their children.

He wanted her safe. And her boys, too, Mikal and Beron.

Sassy, opinionated, lovely Sylvia. Mother Night, he loved her.

Even after he realized that the potency of Jaenelle's tonic after she had made the Offering to the Darkness had brought back the hunger of a man—and the ability to satisfy it—he might have resisted becoming Sylvia's lover, might have found the strength to remain just a friend if he hadn't sensed the hurt in her that her last Consort had inflicted. She had shut herself away from sexual pleasure, hadn't been intrigued enough by any man to try again— until she had become friends with him.

They weren't acknowledged lovers. At his insistence, they maintained the illusion in public of being just friends. Oh, his reasons had been very logical, very considerate. He knew Luthvian would be enraged if he openly became another woman's lover, and he hadn't wanted her to take her anger out on the rest of the family—or on Sylvia. And he hadn't wanted people backing away from her because she had chosen a Guardian for a lover.

At first, she had gone along with him, mostly because she was rediscovering the pleasures of the bed, and had been able to accept that he was a lover in the bedroom and a friend outside of it. But gradually, over the past year, she had become more and more unhappy with the secrecy, had wanted an acknowledged relationship.

He had expected her to leave him. Instead, one night during the Winsol celebrations a few months ago, she had asked him to marry her. And, may the Darkness help him, he had wanted to say yes. Had wanted to share a bed with her, a life with her.

But he didn't say yes. Not because of Luthvian or because he was a Guardian, but because of a vague uneasiness that had warned him to take care, to wait. So he had smiled and said, "Ask me next Winsol."

He had understood why, for a few weeks after that, there were no invitations to her bed. He had understood why she was always "busy" when he stopped at her home to spend a little time with the boys.

He had missed the friend far more than he'd missed the lover, but he had missed those hours in her bed.

Then, just a few days before the attack in Glacia, they had gone to Amdarh for a couple of days to spend time together away from everyone else, to try to rebuild their relationship. And they had made love, but he had known as soon as he touched her that, despite wanting him, she was trying to keep her distance from him emotionally, that she was trying to protect herself from being hurt again. Even when she was caught up in her climax, he had known.

Now, staring at the rain, he almost wished he had said "yes" at Winsol, almost wished he had asked her to stand with him before a Priestess when they had arrived in Amdarh. And he wished he could make love with her one more time to erase the unhappiness that had been in the bed with them that last time.

But the conviction had been growing in him for days now that there wouldn't be another chance.

There were things he should have said that night in Amdarh. He'd never really told her how much she meant to him, how much he loved her. He should have. Now he could give her nothing but words, but at least he could give her that much.

Turning away from the window, he sat at the desk and began to write.

Chapter Fourteen

need a favor," Jaenelle said as she moved stiffly to her worktable and picked up two small glass jars.

"You have only to ask," Titian replied. She's been channeling too much power without giving her body time to recover. What is she planning that demands so much?

"A discreet favor."

"Understood."

"I need blood from two people who have been tainted by Dorothea or Hekatah. Preferably one of each."

Titian thought for a very brief moment. "Lord Jorval lives in the capital of Little Terreille, does he not?"

Jaenelle swallowed. Even that seemed to take effort. "Yes, Jorval is in Goth. And so, at the moment, is Kartane SaDiablo."

"Ah." Looking at the exhausted woman, Titian remembered the child Jaenelle had been. And she remembered other things. "Will it matter if neither of them sees the next sunrise?"

A deadly cold filled Jaenelle's sapphire eyes. "No."

Titian smiled. "In that case, with your permission, I'll take Surreal with me. It's time to pay some debts."

In the enormous chamber where the Dark Throne resided, Ladvarian trembled as he looked at Lorn. It wasn't that he was afraid of Lorn—at least, not usually. It was just that Lorn was the Prince of the Dragons, the legendary race who had created the Blood. Lorn was very, very old, and very wise, and very big. Ladvarian was smaller than one of Lorn's midnight eyes. Just then, that made him feel very small.

And then there was Draca, the Keep's Seneschal, who had been Lorn's mate and the Dragon Queen before she had sacrificed her true form in order to give other creatures the Craft.

Sacrifices. No, he would not think about sacrifices. There was not going to be a sacrifice. The kindred would not allow it.

But being summoned here by Lorn and Draca when the Arachnian Queen was so close to finishing that special web of dreams ... It frightened him. If they forbade the kindred from doing this... The kindred would do it anyway, whatever the cost.

*Little Brother,* Lorn said in his deep, quiet, thundering voice.

*Prince Lorn.* Ladvarian was trembling enough for them to see it.

*I have a gift for you, little Brother. Give thiss to the Weaver of Dreamss.*

A flat, beautifully carved box appeared in the air before Ladvarian. When it opened, he saw a simply designed pendant made of white and yellow gold and an equally simple ring. But it was the Jewel in those pieces that made his hackles rise and his ears flatten tight to his head.

It had no color, and yet it wasn't colorless. Restless, it shimmered, hungry to complete its transformation. It tugged at him, seeking a bond with his mind.

He took a step back. As he looked up at Lorn, angry and confused enough to issue a challenge that would have been foolish as well as futile, he realized Lorn's scales had that same translucent shimmer. Knowledge crashed in on him. He took another step back and whined.

*Do not fear, little Brother. It iss a gift. The Weaver will need it for her web.*

Gathering his courage, Ladvarian approached the box. *I have never seen a Jewel like this.*

*And you never will again,* Lorn replied gently. *There will never be another one like it.*

Still cautious, Ladvarian said, *It has no rank. It does not know what it is.*

*It doess not yet know what it iss,* Lorn agreed. *But it doess have a name: Twilight'ss Dawn.*

When Ladvarian was on his way back to Arachna with the box, Draca and Lorn stared at each other.

"You rissk much giving him a Jewel like that," Draca said.

*There iss reasson to rissk much,* Lorn replied. *Witch hass almosst completed her web?*

"Yess." For the first time since she had met Jaenelle, she felt the weight of her years.

*We cannot heal the taint, Draca,* Lorn said softly. *Sshe can.*

"I know. When I gave the gift of magic, I gave it freely, knowing I could never alter what wass done with it." Draca hesitated. "If sshe doess thiss, sshe will be desstroyed."

*Sshe iss Kaeleer'ss Heart. Sshe musst not be desstroyed.* Lorn paused and added softly, *The kindred have alwayss been sstrong dreamerss.*

"Will they be sstrong enough?"

The question neither could answer hung between them.

A stealthy movement and the sudden glow of a small ball of witchlight woke Jorval from an uneasy sleep. "Priestess?"

A hand grabbed his hair, yanked his head up. "No," said the silver-haired woman as her knife cut his throat. "I am vengeance."

"Enough," Daemon said, leading Jaenelle into her sitting room. "You need to rest."

"The web's almost complete. I need to—"

"Rest. If you make an error because you're too exhausted to think clearly, this will all be for nothing." Making a weak attempt to snarl, she collapsed into a chair.

Daemon wanted to rage at her but knew it wouldn't do any good. She had dropped weight she couldn't afford to lose at a frightening speed. Putting obstacles in her path would only force her to waste energy she couldn't spare, so he took the other path.

"You told me a few minutes ago that you still needed a couple of things to complete the web."

"Those things will take time," she protested.

He bent down and kissed her softly, persuasively. When he felt her yield, he murmured against her lips, "We'll have a quiet dinner. Then we'll play a couple of hands of 'cradle.' I'll even let you win."

Her huff of laughter provoked another hunger. His kiss deepened as his hand caressed her breast.

"I think I am hungry," Jaenelle said breathlessly when he finally gave her a chance to speak.

After they had thoroughly satisfied one hunger, they finally sat down to dinner.

Pain woke him.

Kartane opened his eyes. Two fading balls of witchlight provided enough light for him to clearly see that he was outside. Then he realized he was upside down. Someone had tied him upside down.

Something rustled the bushes nearby.

Turning his head a little, he stared at an odd pile of brown clothing, neatly folded.

Suddenly, his heart pounded. Suddenly, it was hard to breathe.

The surrounding shadows shifted just enough for him to see that the odd pile wasn't clothing, it was brown skin.

As he drew in a breath to scream, glowing red eyes appeared in the darkness around him.

Even with her head under the water, Surreal heard Kartane scream.

She popped up out of the water, then immediately lowered herself to her neck. The pool, fed by a hot spring, was delightfully warm, but the air was cool enough to bite.

She heard snarls, a howl, a terrified shriek.

The air wasn't the only thing around there that had a bite.

"So this is Hell," she said, looking around. It was too dark to see much, but the area around the pool had a kind of stark beauty.

"This is Hell," Titian replied, a blissful smile on her face. She straightened up and gave Surreal a searching look. "Has the debt been paid to your satisfaction, Surreal?"

The snarls and shrieks stopped for a moment, then started again.

"Yes," Surreal said, leaning back with a sigh, "I'm satisfied."

"Sometimes the heart reveals more than panes of glass can."

Saetan turned away from the window, tensed, took a step forward, stopped. "Tersa, why are you at the Keep?"

Smiling, Tersa walked across the room and held out a thick envelope. "I came to give you this."

Even before he took the envelope, he knew who it was from. Sylvia always added a drop of lavender oil to her wax seal.

Laying one hand on his shoulder, Tersa kissed him on the lips—a lingering kiss that surprised him. Worried him.

She stepped back. "That was the other part of the message." She was almost at the door before he gathered his wits.

"Tersa, this can't be the only reason you traveled to the Keep."

"No?" she said, looking puzzled. Then, "No, it wasn't."

He waited. She said nothing.

"Darling," he prodded gently, "why are you here?"

Her eyes cleared, and he felt certain that, for the first time in all the centuries he had known her, he was seeing a glimpse of Tersa as she had been before she was broken. She was formidable—and a bit dazzling.

"I'm needed here," she said quietly, then walked out of the room.

He stood there for several minutes, staring at the envelope in his hands. "Show some balls, SaDiablo," he finally muttered as he carefully opened the envelope. "No matter what the letter says, it isn't the end of the world."

It was a long letter. He read it twice before he tucked it away.

He hadn't been able to give Sylvia more than words, but apparently, thankfully, that had been enough.

Dorothea prowled around the room. "Armies are gathering all over Terreille, the Territories in the Shadow Realm have been attacked for weeks now by the people we had hidden in Little Terreille, and Kaeleer still hasn't formally declared war."

"That's because Jaenelle Angelline doesn't have the backbone to go along with her power," Hekatah said as she carefully arranged her full-length cape. "She's just a mouse scurrying around in her hidey-hole while the cats gather for the feast."

"Even a mouse will bite," Dorothea snapped.

"This mouse won't bite," Hekatah replied calmly. "She's too emotionally squeamish to take the step that would begin a full-scale slaughter."

Dorothea wasn't as sure of that as Hekatah seemed to be, but Jaenelle's sparing Alexandra's life after the abduction failed certainly seemed to indicate a lack of the proper temperament. She certainly wouldn't have spared the bitch. That lack in Jaenelle was in their favor, but... "You seem to be forgetting that the High Lord has fangs and isn't the least bit squeamish about using them."

"I forget nothing where Saetan is concerned," Hekatah snarled. "His honor hobbles him, just as it always has, and his own emotional failings will muzzle him. With the right persuasion, he'll tuck his tail between his legs and submit to whatever we require of him."

She hoped that rotting sack of bones was right. They had to eliminate Saetan, Lucivar, and Daemon. When those three were gone, the Terreillean armies would be able to destroy the Kaeleer Queens and Warlord Princes. Entire armies would be slaughtered in the process, but they would win the war. And then she would rule the Realms—after she hurried the Dark Priestess to a well-deserved, and permanent, rest.

Pleased by that thought, Dorothea stopped prowling long enough to notice that Hekatah was preparing to go out. "Where are you going?"

Hekatah smiled malevolently. "To Kaeleer. It's time to collect the first part of the bait that will give us control of Jaenelle Angelline."

Finally admitted to Jaenelle's sitting room, Andulvar studied her and thought of several things he'd like to do to Daemon Sadi. Damn it, the man was her Consort and should have been taking care of her. She was far too thin, and the skin under her eyes was faintly bruised from exhaustion. And there was a queer, almost desperate glitter in her eyes.

"Prince Yaslana," Jaenelle said quietly.

So. It was going to be formal.

"Lady," Andulvar replied stiffly. "Since I'm obviously not here as your uncle, am I here as your Master of the Guard?" When she flinched, he regretted the harshness of his words. She didn't look like she could endure too many more emotional blows.

"I—There's something I need to tell you. And I need your help."

He did his best to soften his tone. "Because I'm your Master of the Guard?"

She shook her head. "Because you're the Demon Prince. After Saetan, you have the most authority in Hell. The demon-dead will listen to you—and follow you."

He went to her and hugged her gently, afraid that if he held on to her the way he wanted to she would shatter. "What is it, waif?"

She eased back just enough to look him in the eyes. "I've found a way to get rid of Dorothea and Hekatah and the taint they've left in the Blood. But the rest of the Blood will be at risk unless the demon-dead are willing to help me."

Thirty minutes later, Andulvar closed the sitting room door, took a couple of steps, then sagged against the wall.

Mother Night.

He didn't doubt the plan would work. Jaenelle wouldn't have said she could do it if she had any doubts. But... Mother Night.

He had fought in the last war between Terreille and Kaeleer. That war had devastated both Realms, and millions had died. And it had made no difference. They were standing on the edge of that same cliff, fighting against a greed and ambition that would simply go to ground again if it wasn't finally, completely eliminated.

Like Mephis and Prothvar, he had known it would be futile to fight another war in the same way. Like them, he had looked around the table when the First Circle argued for a formal declaration of war and had wondered how many would still be among the living when it was over.

Jaenelle hadn't wondered. She had known none of them would survive. Hell's fire, no wonder she had been doing anything she could to keep them in the one place where they would be safe.

And now she had a plan that... Mother Night.

Even after she had told him, there was something about it that hadn't felt quite right —as if she had glossed over something. Saetan would have known what it was, but Saetan...

She was right about that. The coven and the boyos would need Saetan's wisdom and experience to mend the wounds already inflicted on Kaeleer. So he couldn't tell his friend what Jaenelle intended to do, couldn't take the chance that Saetan might choose to throw his strength in with the rest of them instead of staying behind. He couldn't do that because, after everything was over, the High Lord would be needed by the living.

Ladvarian waited in the shadows until he was sure Andulvar was really gone. Then he slipped into Jaenelle's sitting room.

She was staring out the window. He wanted to tell her it would be all right, even though he wasn't sure it would be. Yes, he was. It would be all right. The kindred would not doubt. The kindred would be strong. But he couldn't tell her that because this was a time for fangs and claws. This was a time for killing. And they weren't sure she would be able to kill if they told her what was going to happen afterward.

But there was something else he had to tell her.

*Jaenelle?*

There was as much sadness as pleasure in her eyes when she turned and saw him. "What is it, little Brother?"

*I have a message for you—from the Weaver of Dreams.*

She went absolutely still, and he was afraid Witch might look right into him and see what he wanted to hide.

"What is the message?"

*She said the triangle must stay together in order to survive. The mirror can keep the others safe, but only if they're together.* He hesitated when she just stared at him. *Who is the mirror?*

"Daemon," she replied absently. "He's his father's mirror."

She seemed lost for a moment, long enough to make him nervous. *Do you understand the message?*

"No," she said, looking very pale. "But I'm sure I will."

Luthvian heard her bedroom door open, but she continued stuffing clothes into a travel bag and didn't turn around. Damn Eyrien pup, coming up to her room without permission. And damn Lucivar for insisting that she come to the Keep and insisting that she have an escort. She didn't need an escort—especially not Palanar, who was barely old enough to wipe his own nose.

As she started to turn around to tell him just that, a caped figure rushed at her. Instantly, instinctively, she threw up a Red shield. A blast of Red power struck her at the same moment, preventing the shield from forming, and the figure was on her. They tumbled to the floor.

Luthvian didn't realize she'd been knifed until the enemy yanked the blade out of her body.

Being a Healer, she knew it was bad—a killing wound.

Furious, knowing she didn't have long, she ripped the hood off her enemy and then stared for a moment, frozen. "You."

Hekatah rammed the knife into Luthvian's belly. "Bitch," she hissed. "I could have made something of you. Now I'll just turn you into carrion."

Luthvian tried to fight, tried to scratch and claw, but her arms felt too heavy to lift. She couldn't do anything even when Hekatah's teeth sank into her throat and her blood fed the vile bitch.

Nothing to be done for the body, but the Self...

Gathering her strength and her rage, she channeled it into her inner barriers.

Hekatah pounded against them as she fed, pounded and pounded, trying to blast them open to finish the kill. But Luthvian hung on, letting rage form the bridge between life and death as she poured her strength into her inner barriers. Poured and poured until there was nothing left. Nothing.

At some point, the pounding stopped, and Luthvian felt a grim satisfaction that the bitch hadn't been able to break through.

Far, far away, she felt Hekatah roll off her. Somewhere in the vague, misty distance she saw sharp nails descending toward her face.

The hand stopped before the nails touched her eyes.

"No," Hekatah said. "If you manage to make the transition to demon-dead, I want you to see what I do to your boy."

Movement. The bedroom door closed. Silence.

Luthvian felt herself fading. With effort, she flexed her fingers—just a little.

Her rage had burned through the transition without her being aware of it, without Hekatah being able to sense it. She was demon-dead, but she didn't have the strength to hold on. Her Self would soon become a whisper in the Darkness. Perhaps, someday, when it had rested and regained some strength, the Self would leave the Darkness and return to the living Realms. Perhaps.

How many times had Lucivar told her to set up warning shields around the house? And every time he'd tried, she had dismissed it with a sneer. But she'd been secretly pleased that he had tried.

It had been a test, but she had been the only one who had known that. Every time he had mentioned the shields again after she had dismissed the idea, every time he had endured her sharp tongue while he helped her in some way had been a test to prove that he cared about her.

Oh, there were times when, seeing the tightness in his face and the coolness in his eyes, she had told herself it would be the last time, the last test. The next time he mentioned the shields, she would do what he wanted so that he would know she cared about him, too.

Then the next time would come and she would want, would need, just one more test. One more. And one more. Always one more.

Now there would be no more tests, but her son, her fine Eyrien Warlord Prince, would never know she had loved him.

All she would have needed was an hour as one of the demon-dead. An hour to tell him. She couldn't even leave him a message. Nothing.

No. Wait. Maybe she could say the most important thing, the thing that had been chewing at her ever since Surreal had lashed out at her.

She gathered everything that was left of her strength, shaped it into a bubble to hold one thought, then pushed it upward, upward, upward until it rested just outside her inner barriers.

Lucivar would find it. She knew he would.

No anchor. Nothing to hold on to. Filled with regrets tempered by one bubble of acknowledged love, she faded away and returned to the Darkness.

Palanar knocked reluctantly on the kitchen door. He supposed being asked to escort Lady Luthvian to the Keep was an honor, but she had made it very clear that she didn't like Eyrien males. So he wasn't really sure if this was Hallevar's way of showing confidence in him or a subtle punishment for something he'd done.

He opened the door and cautiously poked his head into the kitchen. "Lady Luthvian?"

She was there, standing near the table, staring at him. Then she smiled and said, "No balls, little warrior?"

Stung, he stepped into the kitchen. "Are you ready?" he asked, striving to put the same arrogance into his voice that Falonar or Lucivar would have had.

She looked at the traveling bag next to her, then at him.

Since when did Luthvian expect a male to carry anything? The last time he'd tried, she'd almost dented his head. Hallevar had been right when he'd said, "Best resign yourself to the fact that a female can change her mind faster than you can fart."

He took a couple of steps toward her, then stopped again.

"What's wrong?" she asked suspiciously.

She stank. That's what was wrong. Really stank. But he wasn't about to say that. Then he noticed she looked a little... strange.

"What's wrong?" she asked again, taking a step toward him.

He took two steps back.

Her face shifted, wavered. For a moment, he thought he saw someone else. Someone he didn't know—and didn't want to know.

And he remembered something else Hallevar had told him: sometimes running was the smartest thing an inexperienced warrior could do.

He ran for the door.

He didn't reach it. Power blasted through his inner barriers. Needles stabbed into his mind, grew hooks and dug deeper, tore out little bits of his Self. His body vibrated from the fierce tug-of-war as he tried to get out the door while she drew him back into the room.

Helpless, he felt himself turn around—and saw the witch who held him captive. He screamed.

"You will go exactly where I tell you to go," she said. "Say exactly what I tell you to say."

"N-n-no."

Gold eyes glittered in her decayed face, and pain seared him.

"It's a small task, puppy. And when it's done, I'll set you free."

She held out a small crystal. It floated through the air. His left hand reached out and took it.

She told him exactly where to go, exactly what to say, exactly what to do with the spell in the crystal. Then he was turned around again, like a marionette with knotted strings. He walked out the door.

A warrior would not do this, no matter the price. A warrior would not do this.

He tried to bring his right hand up to reach his knife. He could cut his throat, cut his wrists, do something to get away from her.

His hand closed on the hilt.

*Dying won't save you, little warrior,* the witch said. *I am the Dark Priestess. You can't escape me that way.*

His hand dropped to his side, empty.

*Now go!*

Palanar spread his wings and flew as fast as he could to do what a warrior would not do.

It wasn't the wind in his face that made him weep.

Lucivar landed at his eyrie, and shouted, "Marian!" Where in the name of Hell was the woman? he thought as he strode toward the door. She should have arrived at the Keep hours ago.

He walked through the door, saw the neat pile of traveling bags. His heart stopped for a moment. By the time he felt it beat again, he had risen to the killing edge. "Marian!"

The eyrie was a big place, but it didn't take him long to give it a thorough search. Marian and Daemonar weren't there. But she had packed, so what had prevented her from leaving? Maybe Daemonar was ill? Had she taken him over to Nurian's eyrie to have the Healer look at him?

As the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih, his eyrie was set a little apart from the other eyries nestled in the mountain, but it was only a couple of minutes before he landed in front of Nurian's home. Before his feet touched the ground, he knew they weren't there.

"Lucivar!"

Lucivar turned as Hallevar hurried up to him. He noticed Falonar and Kohlvar as they walked out of the communal eyrie that was as close as Eyriens came to having inns and taverns. Both men, hearing the agitation in Hallevar's voice, moved toward him.

"Have you seen that pup, Palanar?" Hallevar asked.

Before Lucivar could respond, Falonar jumped in. "Didn't you send him to escort Lady Luthvian to the Keep?"

"I did," Hallevar said grimly. "And told him to get his ass right back here." He looked at Lucivar. "I wondered if he might be dawdling at the Keep to dodge some chores."

"Palanar didn't arrive at the Keep. Neither did Luthvian. Neither did Marian and Daemonar," Lucivar added too quietly.

The other men stiffened.

"I sent him first thing this morning," Hallevar said.

"Any sign of trouble at your eyrie?" Falonar asked sharply.

"No," Lucivar said. "The bags were packed and set near the door." He swore softly, viciously. "Where in the name of Hell did she go?"

"She went to Lady Luthvian's," said a young female voice.

They all turned and stared at Jillian, Nurian's young sister.

She hunched her shoulders and looked ready to bolt back into the eyrie.

Hallevar pointed a finger at the ground a few feet away from him. "Here, little warrior," he said sternly.

Scared now, Jillian crept to the spot, glanced at the large warriors surrounding her, then stared at her feet.

"Make your report," Hallevar said in that tone that, although encouraging, had made every young male who had trained under him snap to attention.

It had the same effect on Jillian. She stood upright and focused on Hallevar. "I was doing my stamina run this morning." She waited until she got Hallevar's approving nod. "And I thought I would take the path to Prince Yaslana's eyrie because I thought, well, maybe Lady Marian would want a little help with Daemonar, that I could look after him for a bit so she could get some of her chores done. It wasn't like I was shirking the rest of my workout or anything, 'cause looking after Daemonar is work."

Despite being worried, Lucivar's lips twitched as he fought not to smile.

"I was almost there when I saw Marian standing at the door talking to Palanar. He looked... sick. He was sweating hard, and ... I don't know. I've never seen anyone look like that. And then Marian jerked like someone had hit her, but Palanar didn't touch her. He said, 'Bring the boy.' She went inside and came back out with Daemonar. Daemonar took one look at Palanar and started howling. You know, that sound Daemonar makes when he doesn't like something?"

Lucivar nodded. He felt a cold sweat forming on his skin.

"Palanar grabbed one of Marian's arms. He kept saying, 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry.'"

"Did he see you?" Lucivar asked too quietly.

Jillian shook her head. "But Marian did. She looked right at me, and her face had the same sick look that Palanar's did, and she said, 'Luthvian's.' Then they left." Having finished her report, her confidence faded as she looked up at the grim-faced men.

"You didn't report this to anyone?" Lucivar asked.

Pale now, Jillian shook her head again. "I—Nurian wasn't home when I got back, and ... I didn't know I was supposed to report," she finished in a barely audible voice.

And would have been reluctant to go to one of the warriors and be casually dismissed because she was female. A few months of living in Kaeleer weren't enough to overcome survival tactics that had been learned from the time she had gotten out of the cradle.

"When a warrior sees something strange, he—or she--should report to—her—superiors," Hallevar said in a firm but gentle voice. "That's one of the ways a young warrior gains experience."

"Yes, sir," Jillian whispered.

"That was a fine first report, Jillian," Lucivar said. "Now go back to your chores."

Jillian's shoulders went back. Her eyes shown with pleasure. "Yes, sir."

None of them spoke until the girl had gone back inside.

"Sounds like a compulsion spell," Falonar said quietly.

"Yes," Lucivar replied grimly, "it does. Falonar, keep an eye on things here."

"You're going to Luthvian's?" Hallevar asked quickly as Lucivar stepped away from them. "Then I'm going with you."

"No, you're not," Falonar said. "Kohlvar, you bring everyone up close to the eyries. Hallevar, you have the most influence with the youngsters. Keep a tight leash on them."

"And where will you be?" Lucivar asked too softly.

Falonar squared off to face him. "I'm going with you."

They found Palanar on the ground outside the kitchen door.

"I'll look after him," Falonar said. "You go on."

Calling in his Eyrien war blade, Lucivar kicked open the kitchen door and lunged into the room. The stink inside gagged him, reminded him too strongly of carrion.

That thought catapulted him through the other downstairs rooms. Finding them empty, he surged up the stairs. He kicked the bedroom door open—and saw Luthvian. He probed the room swiftly to make sure no one was waiting for the moment when he dropped his guard, then he knelt beside the body.

At first he thought she was still alive. The wounds he could see were bad, but there would have been more blood if she had bled out. When he brushed her hair away from her neck, he saw why there wasn't a lot of blood.

He rested a hand on her head. All right. The body was dead, but she was strong enough to make the transition to demon-dead. If there was any sign that she was still there, fresh blood would strengthen her.

He probed cautiously so that he wouldn't punch through her inner barriers and inadvertently finish the kill.

Just outside her inner barriers was an odd little bubble of power. He paused, considered. The bubble had a feeling of emotional warmth that made him suspect. It wasn't the sort of feelings he associated with Luthvian. But there was nothing he could detect that made him believe he would be in danger, so he brushed a psychic tendril against it, lightly.

Lucivar... I was wrong about Marian. You chose well. I wish you both happy.

Tears stung his eyes. He brushed against the inner barriers. They opened with no resistance. He searched for her, searched for the least little flicker of her spirit. Nothing.

Luthvian had returned to the Darkness.

One tear spilled over. "Hell's fire, Luthvian," he said in a broken voice. "Why did you have to wait until you were dead to tell me that? Why—"

"Lucivar!"

He shot to his feet, responding to the grief and anger in Falonar's voice. He paused at the door, looked back. "May the Darkness embrace you, Mother."

Falonar was waiting for him in the kitchen.

"Palanar?" Lucivar asked.

Falonar shook his head. He didn't need to ask about Luthvian. "I saw that." He pointed to a folded sheet of paper on the table.

Lucivar stared at the paper that had his name on it. He didn't recognize the handwriting and felt an instinctive revulsion against touching it. Using Craft, he unfolded the paper, read it, and stormed out the door.

"Lucivar!" Falonar shouted, running after him. "Where are you going?"

"Get back to the eyries," Lucivar said as he strapped the fighting gauntlets over his forearms. "You're in charge now, Prince Falonar."

"Where are you going?"

Lucivar rose to the killing edge, felt the sweet, cold rage wash through him. "I'm going to get my wife and son away from those bitches."

The attack started the moment Falonar returned to the eyries. His Sapphire shield snapped up around him a second before an arrow would have gone through his back. He called in his longbow, nocked an arrow, added a bit of Sapphire power to the head, and let it fly.

He took a moment to probe the area and assess the enemy. Then he swore viciously. There was a full company of Eyrien warriors out there. None of them wore a Jewel darker than the Green, so his Sapphire Jewels would balance the odds a little, but his own warriors were far outnumbered. Every man would go down fighting, but that wasn't going to save the women and children.

"The communal eyrie!" Hallevar shouted as he herded women and children in that direction. "Move! Move!"

Smart move, Falonar thought approvingly as he let another arrow fly. It was big enough to hold all of them and give his warriors one concentrated battleground instead of scattered ones.

His shield deflected a dozen more arrows. Having risen to the killing edge, he embraced the cold rage and fought with a mind cleansed of emotions. His arrows found their targets.

Someone screamed. Looking to his left, he saw Nurian struggling with an Eyrien Warlord. He started to turn, but before he could draw his bow, another warrior rushed at him with a bladed stick. Vanishing the bow and arrow, he called in his own bladed stick and met the attack. As he danced back and looked for an opening, Nurian screamed again.

Screw honor. This was war. When his adversary came at him again, he met the blow with a dirty, nasty maneuver he'd recently learned from Lucivar that dispatched the enemy with a vengeance.

Even as he turned, expecting to be too late to save the Healer, he heard Jillian shout, "Down, Nurian!"

Hearing Jillian changed Nurian from helpless woman to apprentice warrior. She kicked viciously at the Warlord's groin at the same time she threw herself backward. The kick didn't land solidly, but it was enough to startle the man into letting go of her, and the unexpected move threw him off-balance. As he tried to right himself, an arrow whizzed through the air and buried itself in his chest.

Jillian was already nocking another arrow and taking aim while Nurian scrambled to her feet and ran, hunched over to stay out of the line of fire.

He threw a Sapphire shield in front of Jillian just in time to stop the arrows that would have gone right through her. "Retreat!" he shouted, ready to foam at the mouth when Jillian calmly sent another arrow flying. "Damn you, warrior, retreat!"

That startled her, but it was Nurian's shout that made her run.

Ready to cover their retreat, Falonar glanced back—and swore every vicious curse he knew. Nurian was now standing braced to fight with nothing but an Eyrien stick. Not even a bladed stick. What in the name of Hell did the woman think she could do with that? Did she think a warrior was going to come at her barehanded? Fool. Idiot.

He backed toward her, always watching for the next attack. "Retreat," he snarled at her—and then noticed that Jillian, instead of running all the way to the communal eyrie, had stopped halfway there to take up a rearguard position. "Disobey me again and I'll personally whip the skin off your backs. Both of you. Now retreat!"

They responded the same way any Eyrien warrior would have—they ignored the threat and held their positions. So he retreated, forcing them back with him. That they were willing to do. Lucivar must have been out of his mind to think a woman would obey a sensible order. Which made Falonar extremely grateful that Surreal wasn't there. The Darkness only knew how he could have held her back in this fight.

When they got close enough to the communal eyrie, Hallevar grabbed Jillian and Kohlvar practically threw Nurian threw the doorway. Falonar was the last one in. As soon as he crossed the threshold, he filled the doorway with a Sapphire shield so that they would be protected but still have a good view. Some of the men had taken up positions at the shielded downstairs' windows. Others had gone to the upper rooms. The women and children were all huddled in the main community room.

Hallevar joined him at the door. "You think they're regrouping?"

"I don't know."

Behind them, he heard Tamnar say a bit resentfully, "Well, little warrior, looks like you made your first kill."

He and Hallevar both turned and blasted the same message at Tamnar. *SHUT UP!*

The boy flinched, looked shocked at the harsh reprimand, then slunk over to the window Kohlvar guarded.

Jillian stared at them, her normally brown skin an unhealthy gray. "I killed him?"

Before Falonar could phrase a cautious reply, Hallevar snorted. "You just scratched him enough to let Nurian get away."

Some of the tension drained out of the girl. "Oh. That's... Oh."

"You take a backup position over there," Hallevar said, pointing to a far corner of the room.

"Okay," Jillian said, sounding a little dazed.

Falonar turned back to look out the doorway. "She put that arrow right through the bastard's heart," he said, keeping his voice quiet.

"No reason for her to know that right now," Hallevar replied just as quietly. "Let her believe she just nicked him. We can't afford to have her freeze up if it comes down to that."

"If it comes down to that," Falonar said softly as he settled in to wait.

Saetan prowled the corridors of the Keep, too restless to stay in one place, too edgy to tolerate being around anyone.

Lucivar should have been back hours ago. He knew Lucivar had slipped out of the Keep late that morning to find out what was delaying Marian's and Daemonar's arrival, but the afternoon was waning, and there was no sign of any of them.

He doubted anyone else had noticed. The coven and the boyos were gathered in one of the large sitting rooms, just as they had gathered every day since Jaenelle had ordered them to remain at the Keep. So they wouldn't realize Lucivar was gone. And Jaenelle and Daemon... Well, they weren't likely to have noticed either.

Surreal had noticed Lucivar's absence, but she'd shrugged it off, saying he was probably with Prothvar and Mephis. Which made him realize that he hadn't seen either of them lately.

Somehow he had to find a way to make Jaenelle listen to him, had to find out why she was keeping such a stranglehold on all of them. Whether they acknowledged it or not, they were at war. The Queens and males in the First Circle weren't going to tolerate staying there indefinitely while their people were fighting. Something had to change. Someone had to act.

Falonar accepted the mug of ale Kohlvar handed to him.

"Makes no sense," Kohlvar said, shaking his head. "No direct attacks anymore, no efforts at a siege, just a few arrows now and then to make sure we know they're still out there."

"They've got us pinned down," Falonar replied. "We're outnumbered, and they know it."

"But what's the sense of pinning us down?"

We can't go anywhere, Falonar thought. We can't report anything.

"What's the sense?" Kohlvar repeated.

"I don't know. But I expect we'll find out sooner or later."

The answer came at twilight. One Warlord openly approached the communal eyrie, his hands held away from his sides, away from his weapons.

"I have a message," he shouted, holding up a white envelope.

"Put it on the ground," Falonar shouted back.

The Warlord shrugged, set the envelope on the ground, then placed a small rock over it to keep it from blowing away. He walked back the way he had come.

A few minutes later, Falonar watched the Eyrien company take flight.

He waited another hour before he used Craft to bring the envelope to the doorway. Still standing on the other side of the Sapphire shield, he created a ball of witchlight to illuminate the writing, the name of the recipient.

Dread shivered through him. It was the same handwriting as the note that had been left for Lucivar. But this one was addressed to the High Lord.

He called Kohlvar, Rothvar, Zaranar, and Hallevar over. "I'm going to take that to the Keep and give my report."

"Could be a trap," Hallevar said. "They could be waiting for you to make a move."

Yes, he was sure it was a trap—but not for him.

"I don't think they're going to bother us anymore, but maintain a watch. Stay sharp. Don't let anyone in, no matter who they are. I'll stay at the Keep until morning. If I come back before that ... do your best to kill me."

They understood him. If he came back before that, they should assume he was being controlled and respond accordingly.

"May the Darkness protect you," Hallevar said.

Falonar passed through the Sapphire shield. Taking the envelope, he launched himself skyward and headed for the Keep.

Saetan stared at the sheet of paper. Too many feelings crowded him, so he pushed them all aside.

I have your son.

Hekatah

Which also meant she had Marian and Daemonar, since that was the only bait she could have used to provoke Lucivar into going to Hayll.

Now Lucivar was being used as the bait for him.

He understood the game. Hekatah and Dorothea would be willing to trade: him for Lucivar, Marian, and Daemonar.

Of course, they wouldn't let Lucivar go, couldn't let him go. As soon as he got Marian and Daemonar safely out of reach, he'd turn on Hekatah and Dorothea with all the destructive power that was in him.

So this was a false bargain right from the beginning.

He could go to Hayll and destroy Dorothea and Hekatah. Two Red-Jeweled Priestesses were no match for a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince. He could go there, throw a Black shield around Lucivar, Marian, and Daemonar to keep them safe, then unleash his strength—and kill every living thing for miles around him.

But it wouldn't stop the war. Not now. Maybe it never would have. And it was the war that had to be stopped, not just the two witches who had started it.

So he would play their game... because it would finally give him the weapon he needed.

Everything has a price.

He removed the Black-Jeweled pendant and set it on the desk. He removed the Steward's ring from his left hand— the ring that contained the same Ebony shield Jaenelle had put into the Rings of Honor.

Even if Daemon was influencing Jaenelle, even if he was the reason she was resisting a formal declaration of war, even he couldn't stop her reacting. Not to this.

Don't think. Be an instrument.

By walking into the trap Dorothea and Hekatah had set for him, he was going to unleash the one thing he knew would bring out the explosive, savage side of Jaenelle—his own pain.

Of course, he would never be the same after those two bitches were done with him. He would never...

He opened the desk drawer, caressed the lavender-scented envelope. "Sometimes duty walks a road where the heart can't follow. I'm sorry, Sylvia. It would have been an honor to be your husband. I'm sorry."

He closed the drawer, picked up his cape, and quietly left the Keep.

Daemon glided through the Keep's corridors. He'd spent the past several hours making three months' worth of tonics for Karla, according to the instructions Jaenelle had given him. When he'd questioned her, reminding her that healing tonics that had blood in them would lose their potency over that amount of time, she had told him she had calculated that so the potency would taper off the way it needed to. And when he'd ask why...

Well, it was to be expected that she would be drained by unleashing the amount of power needed to stop Dorothea and Hekatah completely. The fact that it would take her three months to recover worried him. And now that she was so close to finishing... whatever it was ... he was also worried that the boyos might finally slip the leash and throw themselves into battle.

They were feeling too hostile toward him just then to listen to anything he might say, but he hoped Saetan would still be reasonable. He was fairly sure he could say enough for the High Lord to understand that Jaenelle's evasion had a purpose, that all they needed was a few more days. A few more days and the threat to Kaeleer would end, the threat Dorothea and Hekatah had always been to the Blood would end.

He knocked on Saetan's door, then went in cautiously when it was Surreal who said, "Come in."

She was standing behind the small desk. Falonar stood beside her, looking tired and angry. Surreal didn't look tired, and she was a long way past angry. "Look at this," she said.

Even from where he stood, he could see the pendant and the Steward's ring. Slipping his hands into his trouser pockets, he walked around the desk, silently acknowledging the emotional cut when she deliberately moved away from him. He read the message and felt a claw-sharp chill rip down his back.

"Now are you finally going to do something?" Surreal asked, slamming her hands on the desk. "They're not killing strangers anymore. You can't keep your distance anymore. Those bitches have your father and brother."

It cost him dearly, but he managed to get that bored tone in his voice. "Lucivar and Saetan chose to take the risk when they disobeyed orders. It doesn't change anything." Couldn't change anything. Not if Jaenelle was going to save Kaeleer.

"They've also got Marian and Daemonar."

Of course they did. He felt concerned about Marian, but not really worried. If Marian were raped or harmed in any way, not even a Ring of Obedience would stop Lucivar from starting a full-scale slaughter. So he wasn't really worried about Marian, but just the thought of Daemonar in those bitches' hands for even an hour... "There's bound to be some kind of ransom demand," he said dismissively. "We'll see what we can accommodate."

"Accommodate?" Surreal said. "Accommodate? Don't you know what Dorothea and Hekatah will do to them?"

Of course he knew, far better than she did.

Surreal's voice filled with venom. "Are you at least going to tell Jaenelle?"

"Yes, I suppose the Lady will have to be told about this inconvenience." He walked out of the room while Surreal was still sputtering curses.

He wished she had cried. He wished she had shouted, screamed, raged, swore, wept bitterly. He didn't know what to do with this still woman he had cradled on his lap for the past hour.

He had told her as gently as he could. She had said nothing. Just put her head on his shoulder and turned inward, going down so deep into the abyss he couldn't even feel her.

So he held her. Sometimes his hands stroked, caressed— not to arouse her but to relax her. He could have drawn her back with sex, but it would have violated the trust she had in him, and that he wouldn't do. When his hand had rested on her chest, it was to reassure himself that her heart was still beating. Each warm breath against his throat was an unspoken promise that she would return to him.

Finally, after almost two hours had passed, she stirred. "What do you think will happen now?" she asked as if there had been no time at all between the question and his news.

"Even riding the Black Winds, it would have taken Saetan a couple of hours or more to get to Hayll. We don't know when he left—"

"But he would have gotten there by now."

"Yes." He paused, thought it through again. "Lucivar and Saetan aren't the prize. They're the bait. And bait becomes less valuable if it's damaged. So I think they're safe enough for the moment."

"Dorothea and Hekatah expect me to surrender Kaeleer in order to get Lucivar and Papa back, don't they?" When he didn't answer, Jaenelle raised her head and studied him. "No. That would never do, would it? In order to hold on to Kaeteer, they have to be able to control me, use my strength to rule."

"Yes. Lucivar and Saetan are the bait. You're the prize." Daemon brushed her hair away from her face. "How close are you to finishing your... spell?" He knew it was far more than that, but it was as good a word as any.

"A few more hours." She stirred a little more. "I should get back to it."

His hold on her tightened. "Not yet. Sit with me a little while longer. Please."

She relaxed against him. "We'll get them back, Daemon."

Father. Brother. He closed his eyes and pressed his cheek against her head, needing the warmth and contact. "Yes," he murmured, "we'll get them back."

Ladvarian studied the chamber that would be Witch's home for a while. An old carpet that he had brought from the Hall covered the stone floor. He had also taken a couple of lamps that used candle-lights and lots of scented candles. The narrow bed Tersa had given him was in the center of the chamber. The trunk was beside it and held a few changes of clothes, a couple of the books Jaenelle liked to read when she needed to snuggle up and rest for a day, her favorite music crystals, and some grooming things.

He had brought no pictures because three walls and the ceiling of the chamber were covered with layers of healing webs. The back of the chamber was filled with the tangled web of dreams and visions that had shaped the living myth, dreams made flesh, Witch.

*Is it ready?* he respectfully asked the large golden spider who was the Weaver of Dreams.

*Web is ready,* the Arachnian Queen replied, delicately brushing a leg against one of the drops of blood sealed in shielded water bubbles. *I add memories now. But... Need human memories.*

Ladvarian bristled. *She was our dream more than theirs.*

*But theirs, too. Need kindred and human memories for this Witch.*

Ladvarian's heart sank. It had been easy with the kindred. He had told them what was required and that it was for the Lady. That's all the kindred had needed to know. But humans would want to know why, why, why. They would take time to persuade—and time was something he didn't have.

*The Strange One will help you,* the spider said.

*But the Lady knows packs of humans, whole herds of humans. How—*

*The First Circle have strong memories. They will be enough. Ask the Gray Black Widow. For a human, she is a good weaver.*

She meant Karla. Yes. If he could persuade Karla...

*Wait for the right time to ask. After Witch has gone to her own web. The humans will listen better then.*

*I'll go to the Keep now and wait.* Ladvarian looked around one more time. There was nothing left to do. The chamber was ready. The tangled web was ready. The kindred who belonged to the Lady's court were gathered on the Arachnians' island to give their strength to the Weaver's web when the time came.

*One more thing,* the spider said. *Gray dog. You know this dog?*

An image appeared in Ladvarian's mind. *That's Graysfang. He's a wolf.*

*Send him to me. There is something he must learn.*

It was a war camp, not the sort of place he would have looked for Hekatah or Dorothea. Around the wide perimeter, metal stakes had been driven into the ground every few yards. Embedded in the stakes were two crystals, one on each side, spelled so that anything going between them would break their contact with the crystal in the next stake and would alert the guards. The camp itself had clusters of tents for the guards, a few small wooden cabins built close together near the camp's center, and two wooden huts that had heavily barred windows and layers of guard spells around them. In front of the cabins were six thick wooden stakes that had heavy chains attached to them. For prisoners. For bait.

As soon as he walked past the perimeter stakes, they knew he was coming. On the journey there, he had thought again about what he was going to do. He could kill Hekatah and Dorothea. He could unleash the strength of his Black Jewels, destroy everyone in the camp, and take Lucivar, Marian, and Daemonar home. But it wouldn't stop the war. Terreille needed to be confronted with a power that would terrify the people sufficiently that they wouldn't dare fight against it. So it always came back to provoking Jaenelle enough for her to unleash her Ebony power and give the Terreilleans a reason to stay in their own Realm.

As he walked toward the center of the camp, guards followed him. No one approached him or tried to touch him.

Round candle-lights set on top of tall metal poles lit the bloodstained bare ground at the exact center of the camp. Lucivar was chained to the last stake. The lash wounds on his chest and thighs had scabbed over and didn't appear to be deep enough to cause him serious harm. There were bruises on his face, but those, too, would cause no permanent damage.

Saetan stopped at the edge of the light. He hadn't seen Hekatah in ten years—hardly more than a breath of time for someone who had lived as long as he had. And he had known her for most of those years. Even so, despite Dorothea standing beside her, she had withered so much, decayed so much, he wasn't really sure it was her until she spoke.

"Saetan."

"Hekatah." He walked to the center of the bare ground.

"You've come to bargain?" Hekatah asked politely.

He nodded. "A life for a life."

She smiled. "For lives. We'll throw the bitch and the babe into the bargain. We don't really have any use for them."

Did she think he didn't know they would never give up Daemonar? They had been striving for centuries to get a child out of Lucivar or Daemon that they could control and breed in order to bring back a darker bloodline.

"My life for theirs," he said. Everything has a price.

"NO!" Lucivar shouted, struggling against the spelled chains. "Kill them!"

Ignoring Lucivar, he focused on Hekatah. "Do we have a bargain?"

"For a chance to see the High Lord humbled?" Hekatah said sweetly. "Oh, yes, we have a bargain. As soon as you're restrained, I'll set the others free. I swear it on my word of honor."

They ordered him to strip—and he did.

Removing his Black-Jeweled ring, he tossed it on the ground. He had put a tight shield around it so that no one could actually touch it. If he needed to call it back to him, he didn't want their foulness absorbed by the gold.

As two guards chained him to the center post, Hekatah slipped a Ring of Obedience over his organ.

"You look well for someone your age," she said, stepping back to give his naked body a thorough inspection.

He smiled gently. "Unfortunately, darling, I can't say the same about you."

Viciousness twisted Hekatah's face. "It's time you learned a lesson, High Lord." She raised her hand at the same time Dorothea, with a look of perverted glee, raised hers.

Lucivar had once tried to explain to the boyos why a Ring of Obedience could force a powerful male to submit, so Saetan thought he was ready for it.

Nothing could have prepared him for the pain that filled his cock and balls before it spread through his body. His nerves were on fire, while agony settled between his legs. He couldn't fight it, could barely think.

His sons had endured this, had fought against Dorothea's control knowing that this was waiting after every act of defiance. For centuries, they had endured this. How could a man not become twisted by this? How...

He screamed—and kept on screaming until his body just shut down.

Surreal paced back and forth in Karla's sitting room, growing angrier by the minute. She wasn't sure why she'd chosen to vent her frustrations to Karla. Maybe it was because Karla had seemed so damned indifferent to everything that had been happening.

All right, that wasn't fair. The woman was grieving for her cousin, Morton, not to mention that she was slowly recovering from a vicious poisoning. Even so...

"The bastard sounded like it was an inconvenience that would interfere with his manicure," Surreal raged at Karla. " 'We'll see what we can accommodate.' Hell's fire, it's his father and brother!"

"You don't know what he intends to do," Karla said blandly.

The blandness pushed Surreal's temper up another notch. "He doesn't plan to do anything!"

"How do you know?"

Surreal sputtered, swore, paced. "It's as if he and Jaenelle want us to lose this war."

For the first time, temper heated Karla's voice. "Don't be an ass."

"Now, look, sugar—"

"No, you look," Karla snapped. "It's about time all of you looked and thought and remembered a few things. The boyos' instincts are pushing them toward battle. They can't change that any more than they can change being male. And the coven is made up of Queens whose instincts are urging them to protect their people."

"Which is exactly what they should be doing!" Surreal shouted. "And you don't seem to have that problem," she added nastily. Then she glanced at Karla's covered legs and regretted the words.

"When Jaenelle was fifteen," Karla said, "the Dark Council tried to say that Uncle Saetan was unfit to be her legal guardian. They decided to appoint someone else. And she said they could 'when the sun next rises.' Do you know what happened?"

Finally standing still, Surreal shook her head.

"The sun didn't rise for three days," Karla said mildly. "It didn't rise until the Council rescinded their decision."

Surreal sank to the floor. "Mother Night," she whispered.

"Jaenelle didn't want a court, didn't want to rule. The only reason she became the Queen of Ebon Askavi was to stop the Terreilleans who were coming into the kindred Territories and slaughtering the kindred. Do you really think a woman who would do those things has spent the past three weeks wringing her hands and hoping this will all go away? I don't. She needs us here for a reason—and she'll tell us when it's time to tell us." Karla paused. "And I'll tell you one other thing, just between us: sometimes a friend must become an enemy in order to remain a friend."

Karla was talking about Daemon. Surreal thought for a moment, then shook her head. "The way he's been acting—"

"Daemon Sadi is totally committed to Witch. Whatever he does, he does for her."

"You don't know that."

"Don't I?" Karla said too softly.

Black Widow. The words bloomed in Surreal's mind until there wasn't room for anything else. Black Widow. Maybe Karla wasn't indifferent to what was happening. Maybe she had seen something in a tangled web. "Are you sure about Sadi?"

"No," Karla replied. "But I'm willing to consider the possibility that what he says in public may be very different from what he does in private."

Surreal raked her fingers through her hair. "Well, Hell's fire, if Daemon and Jaenelle were planning something, they could at least tell the court."

"I was poisoned by a member of my court," Karla said quietly. "And let's not forget Jaenelle's grandmother, because I'm sure Jaenelle hasn't. So tell me, Surreal, if you were trying to find a way to totally destroy those two bitches, who would you trust?"

"She could have trusted the High Lord."

"And where is he right now?" Karla asked.

Surreal didn't say anything, since they both knew the answer.

"I think it's time to let Jaenelle know you're here," Hekatah said, circling behind Saetan. "I think we should send a little gift."

He felt her grab the little finger of his left hand. He felt the knife cut through skin and bone. And he felt rage when she dropped to her knees and clamped her mouth over the wound to drink his blood. A Guardian's blood.

Gathering his strength, he sent a blast of heat down his arm, psychic fire that cauterized the wound. Hekatah jerked away from him, screaming. While he had the chance, he used a little healing Craft to cleanse the wound and seal up the flesh enough to keep infection at bay.

Hekatah kept screaming. Dorothea rushed out of her cabin. Guards came running from every direction.

Finally the screaming stopped. He heard Hekatah scrabble for something on the ground, then slowly get to her feet. As she circled around him, he saw what the blast of power had done. Since her mouth had been clamped on the wound, the psychic fire had kept going after it cauterized the blood vessels. It had melted part of her jaw, grotesquely reshaping her face.

In one hand, she held his little finger. In the other, she held the knife. "You're going to pay for that," she said in a slurred voice.

"No," Dorothea said, stepping forward. "You said yourself that we have to keep the damage to a minimum until Jaenelle is contained."

Hekatah turned toward Dorothea. Saetan felt sure the sick revulsion on Dorothea's face would drive Hekatah past any ability to think rationally.

"Until Jaenelle is contained," Hekatah said with effort. "But... that doesn't mean ... he can't pay." Turning toward him, she raised her hand.

For the second time, the agony from the Ring of Obedience ripped through him. That was devastating enough. Hearing Lucivar's pain-filled, but still enraged, war cry as Hekatah also punished the son for the deeds of the father produced an agony in him that cut far deeper.

Daemon wished Surreal hadn't been around when Geoffrey brought the small, ornately carved box that had been delivered to the Keep in Terreille. He had suggested that, since the verbal message had said it was a "gift" for Jaenelle, Surreal’s presence wasn't required. She had countered by saying she was family and had just as much right to know what was going on as he or Jaenelle did. Which, unfortunately, was true.

"Do you want me to open it?" he asked Jaenelle when she had just stood there staring at the box for several minutes.

"No," she said too calmly. Using Craft, she flipped the lid off the box.

The three of them stared at the little finger nestled in a bed of silk—a little finger with a long, black-tinted nail.

"Well, sugar, I'd say that message is to the point," Surreal said as she stared at Jaenelle. "How many more pieces do you need to get back before you do something? We're running out of time!"

"Yes," Jaenelle said. "It's time."

She's in shock, Daemon thought. Then he looked at her eyes—and couldn't suppress the shudder. They were sapphire ice. But behind the ice was a Queen who had been pushed far beyond even the cold rage males were capable of unleashing. Because he was looking for it, because he could descend far enough into the abyss to feel it, he sensed that Hekatah's little gift had fully awakened the feral side, the deadly side of Witch. She was no longer a young woman who had received her father's finger as a demand for her surrender; she was a predator studying the bait laid out by an enemy.

Dorothea and Hekatah had seen the young woman. They had no idea who they were really dealing with.

"Come with me," Jaenelle said, lightly touching his arm before she walked out of the room.

Even through his shirt and jacket, her hand felt so cold it burned.

Careful to keep his eyes and expression bland, he looked at Surreal—and felt a little dismayed by the fury that looked back at him. That was when he realized that, despite being chilled to the bone, the room was still warm.

Jaenelle had given no outward warning of the rage just underneath the surface, no indication of power being gathered for a strike. Nothing.

He glanced at the finger again, felt his stomach clench. Then he walked out of the room.

Damn them both, Surreal thought as she stared at the finger in the box. Oh, there had been a little flicker of dismay in Sadi's face when he first saw it, but that had disappeared quickly enough. And from Jaenelle? Nothing. Hell's fire! She had shown more temper and concern when Aaron had been cornered by Vania! At least then there had been that freezing, terrifying rage. But the woman gets a piece of her father sent to her and... nothing. Not a damn thing. No reaction at all.

Well, fine. If that's the way those two wanted to play the game, that was just fine. She wore a Gray Jewel and she was a skilled assassin. There was no reason she couldn't slip into Terreille and get Lucivar and the High Lord—and Marian and Daemonar—away from those two bitches.

Surreal bit her lower lip. Well, getting all of them out in one piece might be a problem.

All right, so she'd think about it a little, work up some kind of plan. At least she was going to do something!

And maybe, while she was thinking, she would mention this little incident to Karla to see if the Black Widow still thought there was more going on than nothing.

By the time Daemon reached her workroom, the ice in Jaenelle's eyes had shattered into razor-edged shards, and he saw something in them that terrified him: cold, undiluted hatred.

"What do you expect will happen now?" Jaenelle asked too calmly.

Daemon slipped his hands into his trouser pockets to hide the trembling. He quietly cleared his throat. "I doubt anything more will happen until the messenger returns to Hayll and reports the delivery of the box. It's almost mid-morning now. They aren't going to expect you to be capable of making any decisions immediately. So we've got a few hours. Maybe a little more than that."

Jaenelle paced slowly. She seemed to be arguing with herself. Finally she sighed—as if she'd lost the argument— and looked at him. "The Weaver of Dreams sent me a message. She said the triangle must remain together in order to survive, that the other two sides weren't strong enough without the strength of the mirror—and the mirror would keep them all safe."

"The mirror?" Daemon asked cautiously.

"You are your father's mirror, Daemon. You're one side of the triangle."

The memory flashed in his mind of Tersa, years ago, tracing a triangle in the palm of his hand, over and over, while she had explained the mystery of the Blood's four-sided triangle.

"Father, brother, lover," he murmured. Three sides. And the fourth side was the triangle's center, the one who ruled all three.

"Exactly," Jaenelle replied.

"You want me to go to Hayll."

"Yes."

He nodded slowly, suddenly feeling like he was on a very thin, shaky footbridge, and one false step would send him plummeting into a chasm he would never escape. "If I walked in to try another exchange of prisoners, that would buy a few more hours."

"I never said anything about you handing yourself over to them," Jaenelle snapped. Her face had been pale since she'd seen Saetan's finger. Now it got paler. "Daemon, I need seventy-two hours."

"Sev—But everything is ready. All you would need to do is gather your strength and unleash it."

"I need seventy-two hours."

He stared at her, slowly coming to terms with what she was telling him. In a controlled dive into the abyss, he could descend to the level of his Black Jewels in a few minutes and gather his full strength. It was going to take her seventy-two hours to do the same thing.

Hell's fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful.

But there was no way for him to ...

He saw the knowledge in her eyes—and fought against the shame it produced in him. He should have known he couldn't hide the Sadist from Witch. And he finally understood what she was asking of him.

Unable to meet her eyes anymore, he turned away and began his own slow prowl around the room.

It was just a game. A dirty, vicious game—the kind the Sadist had always played so well. As he gave that part of himself free rein, the plan took shape as easily as breathing.

But...Everything has a price. If he was going to lose the companionship of almost everyone he had ever cared about, the reward would have to justify the cost.

"I can do this," he crooned, slowly circling around her. "I can keep Dorothea and Hekatah off-balance enough to keep the others safe and also prevent those Ladies from giving the orders to send the Terreillean armies into Kaeleer. I can buy you seventy-two hours, Jaenelle. But it's going to cost me because I'm going to do things I may never be forgiven for, so I want something in return."

He could taste her slight bafflement before she said, "All right."

"I don't want to wear the Consort's ring anymore."

A slash of pain, quickly stifled. "All right."

"I want a wedding ring in its place."

A flash of joy, immediately followed by sorrow. She smiled at him at the same time her eyes filled with tears. "It would be wonderful."

She meant that. So why the sorrow, why the anguish? He would have to deal with that when he got back.

His temper was already getting edgy, dangerous. "I'll take that as a 'yes.' There are things I'll need that I can't create well enough for this game."

"Just tell me what you need, Daemon."

He didn't want to do this. Didn't want to go back to that kind of life, not even for seventy-two hours. He was going to mutilate the life he'd begun to build here, and the coven, the boyos, they would never—

"Do you trust me?" he snapped.

"Yes."

No hesitation, no doubts.

He finally stopped moving and faced her. "Do you know how desperately I love you?"

Her voice shook when she answered, "As much as I love you?"

He held her, held on to her as his lifeline, his anchor. It would be all right. As long as he had her, it would be all right.

Finally, reluctantly, he eased back. "Come on, we've got a lot of work to do."

"That's the last of it," Jaenelle said several hours later. She carefully packed the box that held all the spelled items she had created for him. "Almost the last of it."

Daemon sipped the coffee he had brewed strong enough to bite. Physically, he was tired. Mentally, he was reeling. As Jaenelle created each of the spells he had asked for, he'd had to learn how to use them—which meant she'd explained the process to him as she created one, then had him practice with it while she created the ones he would take with him. She'd reviewed his efforts, given more instructions on how to hone the effect—and never once asked him what he intended to do, for which he was grateful. Of course, he didn't know exactly what she was going to do either. There were some things one Black Widow did not ask another.

Jaenelle held up a vial about the size of her index finger that was filled with dark powder. "This is a stimulant. A strong one. One dose will keep you on your feet for about six hours. You can mix it with any kind of liquid—" She eyed the coffee. "—but if you mix it with something brewed like that it's going to have more kick."

"That's one dose?" Daemon asked. Then he bit his tongue to keep from laughing and wished he could have a picture of the look on her face.

"There are enough doses in here for the next three days and then some," she said dryly.

"Well, I'd better find out what it does." Daemon held out the mug of coffee.

She opened the vial, tapped it lightly over the mug. The sprinkle of powder dissolved instantly.

He took a sip. A little nutty, just a little sharp. Actually quite—

He wheezed. His body suddenly had a kind of battlefield alertness, a fierce need to move. His mind was no longer hazed by mental fatigue. After the first few explosive seconds, he felt himself settle down, but there remained that bright reservoir of energy.

He drained the mug, waited a few seconds. No physical changes, just the feeling that the reservoir got delightfully bigger.

Jaenelle carefully packed the vial into the box.

"Everything has a price, Daemon," she said firmly.

That sobered him. "It's addictive?"

The look she gave him could have cut a man in half. "No, it is not. I use this sometimes—which you will not mention to any of the family. They'd throw three kinds of fits if they knew. This will keep you going, even if you don't get any food or sleep, but if you don't renew the dose every six hours, your feet are going to go out from under you and you'd better be prepared to sleep for a day."

"In other words, if I miss a dose, I'm not going to be able to flog myself awake again no matter what's going on around me."

She nodded.

"All right, I'll remember."

She held up another vial, this one full of a dark liquid. "This is a tonic for Saetan. I figured he's going to be weakened physically, so I made it strong. It's going to have a kick like a team of draft horses. Add it to an equal amount of liquid—wine or fresh blood."

"If I use the stimulant, can I use my blood for that tonic?"

"Yes," Jaenelle said, almost managing to keep her lips from twitching. "But if you do use your blood, make sure you pour it down his throat before you tell him what it is because it'll kick like two teams of draft horses—and he will not be happy with you for the first couple of minutes."

"Fair enough." He just hoped Saetan would be in good enough condition that he could howl about being dosed.

Jaenelle took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "That's it then."

Daemon set the mug down on the worktable. "I want to supervise making up the food pack. It won't take long. Will you wait for me?"

Her smile didn't reach her haunted sapphire eyes. "I'll wait."

"Prince Ssadi."

Daemon hesitated, turned toward the voice. "Draca." She held out one hand, closed in a loose fist. Obediently, he put his hand under hers. When she opened her hand, colored bangles poured into his—the kind of bangles women sewed on dresses to catch the light.

Baffled, he looked at the bangles, then at her.

"When the time iss right, give thesse to Ssaetan. He will undersstand."

She knows, Daemon thought. She knows, but... No, Draca wouldn't say anything to the coven or the boyos. The Seneschal of Ebon Askavi would keep her own council for her own reasons.

As she walked away, he slipped the bangles into his jacket pocket.

Surreal jumped when the door to her room flew open.

"What in the name of Hell do you think you're doing?" Daemon demanded, slamming the door.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Surreal snapped. Silently, she swore. A few more minutes and she would have been able to slip away undetected.

"It looks like you're about to ruin several hours of careful planning," Daemon snapped back.

That stopped her. "What planning?" she asked suspiciously.

He swore with a creative vileness that surprised her. "What do you think I've been doing since we got that gift this morning? And what did you think you'd be able to do, going in alone?"

"I've been an assassin for a lot of years, Sadi. I could have—"

"One-on-one kills," he snarled. "That's not going to get you very far in an armed camp. And if you unleash the Gray to get rid of the guards, you can be sure the four people you're going in for will be dead by the time you reach them."

"You don't know—"

"I do know," Daemon shouted. "I grew up under that bitch's control. I do know."

Her anger couldn't match his, especially when he'd been able to put his finger on every doubt she had about succeeding. "You have a better idea?"

"Yes, Surreal, I have a better idea," Daemon replied coldly.

Surreal licked her lips, took a careful breath. "I could help, create a diversion or something. Hell's fire, Daemon, those people are my family, too, the first family I've ever had. They mean something to me. Let me help."

Something queer filled his eyes as he stared at her. "Yes," he said in a silky croon, "I think you could be very helpful." His voice shifted, became irritated and efficient as he looked over the supplies piled on her bed. "At least you had the good sense to realize you would need to bring your own food and water since you won't be able to trust consuming anything that might be there." He headed for the door. "I'll need a couple more hours. Then we'll go."

"But—" The look he gave her had her backing down. "A couple of hours," she agreed.

It wasn't until he was gone that she began to wonder just what it was she had agreed to do.

Little fool, Daemon thought as he stormed back to Jaenelle's workroom. Idiot. If the kitchen staff hadn't mentioned that Surreal had requested a similar food pack, he wouldn't have known she was planning to go to Hayll, wouldn't have been prepared to deal with her presence. Oh, he could use her help in this game. It hadn't taken him more than a minute to recognize how many ways she could help. But, damn it, if she'd gone in and gotten everyone riled before he arrived... He had to buy Jaenelle seventy-two hours. A straight, clean fight would have gotten the others out, but it wouldn't have done that.

So he would play out his game—and Surreal would have a chance to dance with the Sadist.

He walked into the workroom and snarled at Jaenelle, "I'll need a couple more items."

Her eyes widened when he told her what he wanted, but she didn't say anything except, "I think I'd better give you a Ring that has a shield no one can get through."

Since he figured both Lucivar and Surreal would want to tear his heart out in a few hours' time, he thought that was an excellent idea.

The three of them stood outside the room that held the Dark Altar at the Keep.

Jaenelle hugged Surreal. "May the Darkness embrace you, Sister."

"We'll get them back," Surreal said, returning the hug. "Count on it." Glancing at Daemon, she went into the Altar's room and quietly closed the door.

Daemon just looked at Jaenelle, his heart too full to say anything. Besides, words seemed so inadequate at the moment. He brushed a thumb across her cheek, kissed her gently. Then he took a deep breath. "The game begins at midnight."

"And at midnight, seventy-two hours later, you're going to be riding the Winds back to the Keep in Terreille. No stops, no delays." She paused, waited for him to nod agreement, then added, "Don't ride any Wind darker than the Red. The others will be unstable."

It took effort to keep his jaw from dropping. A strong witch storm could create a disturbance on part of the psychic roadways through the Darkness, could even throw someone off the Web to be lost in the Darkness, but "unstable" sounded much, much worse.

"All right," he finally said. "We'll stay on the Red."

"Daemon," Jaenelle said softly, "I want you to promise me something."

"Anything."

Her eyes filled with tears. It took her a moment to regain control. "Thirteen years ago, you gave everything you had in order to help me."

"And I'll give you everything again," he replied just as softly.

She shook her head fiercely. "No. No more sacrifices, Daemon. Not from you. That's what I want you to promise me." She swallowed hard. "The Keep is going to be the only safe place. I want your promise that, at the appointed hour, you'll be on your way there. No matter who you have to walk away from, no matter who you have to leave behind, you must get to the Keep before dawn. Promise me, Daemon." She gripped his arm hard enough to hurt. "I have to know you'll be safe. Promise me."

Gently, he removed her hand, then raised it to place a kiss in her palm—and smiled. "I'm not going to do anything that will make me late for my own wedding."

Pain flashed in her eyes, making him wonder if she really wanted to marry him. No. He wouldn't begin to doubt, couldn't afford to doubt. "I'll come back to you," he said. "I swear it."

She gave him a brief, fierce kiss. "See that you do."

She looked pale and exhausted. There were dark smudges under her eyes. She had never looked more beautiful to him.

"I'll see you in a few days."

"Good-bye, Daemon. I love you."

As he approached the Dark Altar that was a Gate between the Realms, he didn't find Jaenelle's last words reassuring.

Karla eased herself into a chair in Jaenelle's sitting room. She could use Craft to float herself from place to place, and could even stand on her own now for a little while with the help of two canes. But channeling power through her body left her quickly exhausted, and standing made her legs ache. Still, the daily cup of Jaenelle's tonic was working. But she had an uneasy feeling she would need her strength for something else very soon.

It was the first time since Jaenelle had refused to allow Kaeleer to go to war that Karla had seen her. But even now, when Jaenelle had summoned her and Gabrielle, the Queen of Ebon Askavi was keeping her back to them, just staring out the window.

"I need the two of you to keep the boyos leashed for another few days," Jaenelle said quietly. "It won't be easy, but it's necessary."

"Why?" Gabrielle demanded. "Hell's fire, Jaenelle, we need to gather into armies and fight. Scattered the way we are now, we're barely holding our own and we aren't even fighting the armies that are bound to come in from Terreille, just the Terreilleans who were already in Kaeleer. The bastards. It's time to go to war. We have to go to war. It's not just the people who are dying. The land is being destroyed, too."

"The Queens can heal the land," Jaenelle replied, still not looking at them. "That is the Queens' special gift. And not as many of our people have died as you seem to think."

"No," Gabrielle said bitterly, "they're just dying of shame because they've been ordered to abandon their land."

"They can survive a little shame."

Karla laid a hand on Gabrielle's arm. Trying to keep her voice reasonable, she said, "I don't think there's any choice now, Jaenelle. If we don't stop retreating and start attacking, we aren't going to have a place to take a stand when the Terreillean armies do get here."

"They won't receive orders to enter Kaeleer for a few more days. By then, it won't make any difference."

"Because we'll be forced to surrender," Gabrielle snapped.

Karla's hand tightened on Gabrielle's arm. She didn't have much strength, but the gesture was enough to leash the other Queen's temper—at least for the moment.

"Is Kaeleer finally going to war with Terreille?" she asked.

"No," Jaenelle said. "Kaeleer will not go to war with Terreille."

It was the slight inflection that made ice run through Karla's body. The way Gabrielle's arm tensed under her hand, she knew the other woman had heard it, too.

"Then who is going to war with Terreille?"

Jaenelle turned around.

Gabrielle sucked in her breath.

For the first time, they were seeing the dream beneath the flesh.

Karla stared at the pointed ears that had come from the Dea al Mon, the hands with sheathed claws that had come from the Tigre, the hooves peeking out from beneath the black gown that could have come from the centaurs or the horses or the unicorns. Most of all, she stared at the tiny spiral horn.

The living myth. Dreams made flesh. But, oh, had any of them really thought about who the dreamers had been?

No wonder the kindred love her. No wonder we've all loved her.

Karla quietly cleared her throat to ask the question she suddenly hoped wouldn't be answered. "Who is going to war with Terreille?"

"I am," Witch said.

Chapter Fifteen

Half-blinded by the pain inflicted on him during the past two days, Saetan watched Hekatah approach and give him a long, slow study. Whenever the whim had struck either of them, she and Dorothea had used the Ring of Obedience on him, but more carefully now, stopping just before the moment when he would have fainted from the pain. Worse, for him, they had left him chained to the post through the daylight hours. Already weakened by pain, the afternoon sun had drained his psychic strength and stabbed at his eyes, producing a headache so violent even the pain from the Ring couldn't engulf it.

Bit by bit, pain had chewed away all the revitalizing effects Jaenelle's tonics had produced in him, changing his body back to where it had been when he'd first met her— closer to the demon-dead than to the living.

If he could have made a fast transition from Guardian to demon-dead, he might have considered it—the kind of transition Andulvar and Prothvar had made on the battlefield all those long centuries ago. They had both been so deep in battle fury, they hadn't even realized they had received deathblows. If he could have done it that way, he might have. It would be easy enough to slit a vein and bleed himself out, and there would be less pain. But he would be more vulnerable, and without a supply of fresh blood, the sunlight would weaken him to the point that, when Jaenelle finally came, he would be a liability to her instead of finding some way to fight with her.

When Jaenelle finally came. If Jaenelle ever came. She should have reacted by now, should have been there by now—if she was coming at all.

"I think it's time to send Jaenelle another little gift," Hekatah said, her girlish voice now slurred by the misshapen jaw. "Another finger?" She used the same tone another woman might use when trying to decide the merits of serving one dish over another at dinner. "Perhaps a toe this time. No, too insignificant. An eye? Too disfiguring. We don't want her to start thinking you've become too repulsive to rescue." Her eyes focused on his balls—and she smiled. "It's dead meat now, but it will still be useful for this anyway."

He didn't react. Wouldn't allow himself to react. It was dead meat now—the last part revitalized, the first part to die. He wouldn't react. And he wouldn't think of Sylvia. Not now. Not ever again.

With their eyes locked on each other, Hekatah stepped closer, closer. One of her hands stroked him, caressed him, closed around him to hold him for the knife.

An enraged shriek tore through the normal nighttime sounds.

Hekatah jumped back and whirled toward the sound.

Surreal came flying into the camp as if she'd been tossed by a huge hand. Her feet hit the ground first, but she couldn't stop the forward momentum. She tucked and rolled, coming up on her knees facing the darkness beyond the area illuminated by candle-lights.

"YOU COLD-BLOODED, HEARTLESS BASTARD!" Surreal screamed. "YOU GUTLESS SON OF A WHORING BITCH!"

Dorothea burst out of her cabin, shouting, "Guards! Guards!"

The guards rushed in from three sides of the camp. No one came out of the darkness facing them.

"GUARDS!" Dorothea shouted again.

From out of that darkness, a deep, amused voice said, "They aren't going to answer you, darling. They've been permanently detained."

Daemon Sadi stepped out of the darkness, stopping at the edge of the light. His black hair was a little wind-mussed. His hands were casually tucked in his trouser pockets. His black jacket was open, revealing the white silk shirt that was unbuttoned to the waist. The Black Jewel around his neck glittered with power. His golden eyes glittered, too.

Seeing that queer glitter in Daemon's eyes, Saetan shivered. Something was wrong here. Very wrong.

Hekatah turned halfway, resting the knife against Saetan's belly. "Take one more step and I'll gut him—and kill the Eyrien, too."

"Go ahead," Daemon said pleasantly as he walked into the camp. "It'll save me the trouble of arranging a couple of careful accidents, which I would have had to have done soon anyway since the Steward and the First Escort were becoming... troublesome. So, you kill them, I destroy you— and then I return to Kaeleer to console the grieving Queen. Yes, that will work out quite nicely. You'll be blamed for their deaths, and Jaenelle will never look at me and wonder why I'm the only male left whom she can depend on."

"You're forgetting about the Master of the Guard," Hekatah said.

Daemon smiled a gentle, brutal smile. "No, I haven't. I didn't forget about Prothvar or Mephis either. They're no longer a concern."

For a moment, Saetan thought Hekatah had gutted him. But while the wound wasn't physical, the pain was. "No," he said. "No. You couldn't have."

Daemon laughed. "Couldn't I? Then where are they, old man?"

Because he had wondered the same thing, Saetan couldn't answer that. But he still found himself denying it. "You couldn't have. They're your family."

"My family," Daemon said thoughtfully. "How convenient that they decided to become 'family' after I became the Consort to the strongest Queen in the history of the Blood."

"That's not true," Saetan said, straining forward despite the knife Hekatah still held against his belly. It was mad to be arguing about this, but all his instincts shouted at him that it had to be now, that there might not be another chance to alter that look in Daemon's eyes.

"Isn't it?" Daemon said bitterly. "Then where were they 1,700 years ago when I was a child? Where were you? Where were any of you during all the years between then and now? Don't talk to me about family, High Lord."

Saetan sagged against the post. Mother Night, every worry he'd had about Daemon's loyalty was coming true.

"How very touching," Hekatah sneered. "Do you expect us to believe that? You're your father's son."

Daemon's gold eyes fastened on Hekatah. "I think it's more accurate to say I'm the man my father might have been if he'd had the balls for it."

"Don't listen to him," Dorothea said suddenly. "It's a trick, a trap. He's lying."

"It seems to be his day for it," Surreal muttered bitterly.

Giving Surreal a brief, dismissive glance, Daemon shifted his attention to Dorothea. "Hello, darling. You look like a hag. It suits you."

Dorothea hissed.

"I brought you a present," Daemon said, glancing at Surreal again.

Dorothea looked at Surreal's pointed ears and sneered. "I've heard of her. She's nothing but a whore."

"Yes," Daemon agreed mildly, "she's a first-class slut who will spread her legs for anything that will pay her. She's also your granddaughter. Kartane's child. The only one he'll ever sire. The only continuation of your bloodline."

"No slut is my granddaughter," Dorothea snarled.

Daemon raised one eyebrow. "Really, darling, I thought that would be the convincing argument. The only difference between you is she's under a male most of the time while you're on top of him. But your legs are spread just as wide." He paused. "Well, there is one other difference. Since she was getting paid for it, she had to acquire some skill in bed."

Dorothea shook with rage. "Guards! Seize him!"

Twenty men surged forward, then dropped in their tracks.

Daemon just smiled. "Perhaps I should kill the rest of them now to eliminate further annoyances."

Hekatah carefully lowered the knife. "Why are you here, Sadi?"

"Your little schemes are interfering with my plans, and that annoys me."

"Terreille is going to war with Kaeleer. That's hardly a 'little scheme.' "

"Well, that all depends on whether you have the power to win, doesn't it?" Daemon crooned. "However, I'm not interested in ruling a Realm that's been devastated by a war, so I decided it was time we had a little talk."

Dorothea jumped forward. "Don't listen to him!"

"How can you rule a Realm?" Hekatah asked, ignoring Dorothea.

Daemon's smile became colder, crueler. "I control the witch who has the strength to kill every living thing in the Realm of Terreille."

"NO!" Saetan shouted. "You do not control the Queen." When Daemon's eyes fixed on him, he started to shiver again.

"Don't I?" Daemon purred. "Haven't you wondered why she didn't respond to the 'gift,' High Lord? Oh, she was greatly distressed. Hasn't done anything but weep since your finger arrived. But she isn't here—and she isn't going to be because she values having my cock inside her more than she values you. Any of you." For the first time, Daemon glanced at Lucivar.

Saetan shook his head. "No. You can't do this, Daemon."

"Don't tell me what I can do. You had your chance, old man, and you didn't have the balls to take it. Now it's my turn, and I intend to rule."

"That's just another lie," Dorothea snapped. "You've never been interested in ruling."

Daemon turned searing, cold anger on her. "What would you know about what I wanted, bitch? You never offered me a chance to rule anything. You just wanted to use my strength without ever offering anything in return."

"I did offer you something!"

"What? You? You had your use of me, Dorothea. How could you imagine enduring more of that would be any kind of reward?"

"You bastard! You—" She took a step toward him, her hand raised like a claw.

A blow from a phantom hand knocked her off her feet. She fell on top of Surreal, who swore viciously and pushed her off.

Tearing his eyes away from Daemon, Saetan looked at Hekatah—and realized she was shaking, but it wasn't from anger.

"What is it you want, Sadi?" Hekatah said, unable to keep her voice steady.

A long, chilling moment passed before Daemon turned his attention back to her. "I came to negotiate on my Queen's behalf."

"I told you," Dorothea muttered—but she didn't try to get up.

"And what will you tell your Queen?" Hekatah asked.

"That I arrived too late to save any of them. I'm sure I can prod her into a suitably violent reaction."

"She'll destroy more than us if she unleashes that kind of power."

Daemon's smile was a satisfied one. "Exactly. She'll destroy everything. And once all of you are gone... Well, there will have to be a few more battles in Kaeleer to eliminate the more troublesome males in the court. But after that, I think things will settle down quite nicely." He turned and started to walk away.

He'll never get her to destroy everyone in Terreille, Saetan thought, closing his eyes against the sick feelings churning in his stomach. He'll never twist her that much. Not Jaenelle.

"Wait," Hekatah said.

Saetan opened his eyes.

Daemon was almost at the edge of the light. Turning, he raised one eyebrow in inquiry.

"Was that the only reason you came here?" Hekatah asked.

Daemon glanced at Lucivar again and smiled. "No. I thought I would settle a few debts while I was here."

Hekatah returned the smile. "Then, perhaps. Prince, we do have something to talk about. But not right now. Why don't you indulge yourself while I—while Dorothea and I think about how we might settle this amicably between us."

"I'm sure I can find something amusing to do to pass the time," Daemon said. He walked out of the light, disappeared into the darkness.

Hekatah looked at Saetan. It wasn't possible for him to keep his feelings hidden right now, to keep his face blank.

Dorothea got to her feet and pointed at Surreal. "Secure that bitch," she snapped at a couple of guards. Then she turned to Hekatah. "You can't really believe Sadi."

"The High Lord does," Hekatah said quietly. "And that's very interesting." She hissed when Dorothea started to protest. "We'll discuss this in private."

She walked to her cabin with Dorothea reluctantly following.

After chaining Surreal to the post on Saetan's left, the guards gathered up the dead men, and, with uneasy glances at the surrounding darkness, finally returned to their duties.

"Your son's a cold-blooded bastard," Surreal said quietly.

Saetan thought about the look in Daemon's eyes. He thought about the man he should have known well—and didn't know at all. Closing his eyes, he rested his head against the post, and said, "I only have one son now—and he's Eyrien."

"Hello, Prick."

Lucivar turned his head, watched Daemon glide out of the darkness and circle around to stand directly in front of him.

He had watched that initial game closely, waiting for some sign from Daemon that it was time to attack. The spelled chains couldn't have held him by themselves, and, unlike Saetan, the pain from the Ring of Obedience didn't debilitate him for long—at least, it didn't drain him the way it seemed to drain the High Lord. No, what had made him hold back and wait was the threat to Marian and Daemonar. There was always a guard inside the far hut that was being used as one of the prisons, and that guard had orders to kill his wife and son if he broke free. So he had waited, especially after Saetan had surrendered to those two bitches, because he had realized that Saetan had known there wouldn't be an exchange, had walked in expecting to become a prisoner, and had had a reason for doing it.

So when he saw Daemon, he figured the game was about to begin. But now, seeing that bored, sleepy, terrifying look... He'd danced with the Sadist enough times in the past to know that look meant they were all in serious trouble.

"Hello, Bastard," he said carefully.

Daemon stepped closer. His fingertips drifted up Lucivar's arm, over the shoulder, traced the collarbone.

"What's the game?" Lucivar asked quietly. Then he shivered as Daemon's fingers drifted up his neck, along his jaw.

"It's simple enough," Daemon crooned, brushing a finger over Lucivar's lower lip. "You're going to die, and I'm going to rule." He met Lucivar's eyes and smiled. "Do you know what it's like in the Twisted Kingdom, Prick? Do you have any idea? I spent eight years in that torment because of you."

"You forgave the debt," Lucivar snarled softly. "I gave you the chance to settle it, and you chose to forgive it."

Daemon's hand gently settled on Lucivar's neck. He leaned forward until his lips almost brushed Lucivar's. "Did you really think I would forgive you?"

From the far hut, they both heard a child's outraged howl.

Daemon stepped back. Smiled. Slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. "You're going to pay for those years, Prick," Daemon said softly. "You're going to pay dearly."

Lucivar's heart pounded in his throat as Daemon glided toward the hut that held Marian and Daemonar. "Bastard? Bastard, wait. I'm the one who owes the debt. You can't... Daemon? Daemon!"

Daemon walked into the hut. A moment later, the guard hurried out.

"DAEMON!"

A few minutes after that, Lucivar heard his son scream.

Dorothea's hands closed into fists. "I'm telling you, it's a trick of some kind. I know Sadi."

"Do you?" Hekatah snapped.

I think it's more accurate to say I'm the man my father might have been if he'd had the balls for it.

Yes, she had been able to sense the ruthlessness, the ambition, the cruel sexuality in Daemon Sadi. It frightened her a little. It excited her even more.

"He's never been interested in using his strength to acquire power. He fought against every attempt I made to bring him around."

"That's because you handled him wrong," Hekatah snarled. "If you had doted on Sadi the way you had doted on that excuse for a son—"

"You used to think it was amusing that I was playing bedroom games with the High Lord's boy. You said it would make a man out of him."

And it had. It had honed Sadi's cruelty, his taste for perverse pleasure. She had sensed that, too. Just as she had sensed that it wouldn't be easy to get around his deep hatred for Dorothea. Well, she wouldn't let that interfere with her own ambitions. Besides, Dorothea was becoming difficult, unreliable. She would have had to eliminate the bitch after the war was won anyway.

"I tell you, he's up to something," Dorothea insisted. "And you're just letting him wander around the camp to do who knows what."

"What am I supposed to do?" Hekatah snapped. "Without any leverage, we can't go up against the Black and expect to win."

"We've got leverage," Dorothea said through clenched teeth.

Hekatah let out a nasty laugh. "What leverage? If he really has destroyed Andulvar, Prothvar, and Mephis, he's not going to squirm because Saetan's guts are spilling out on the ground."

"You picked the wrong man, the wrong threat," Dorothea said irritably, waving a hand. "He may not give a damn about Saetan, but he's always buckled when Lucivar was threatened. Lucivar's been the one chain we could count on to hold Sadi. If you threatened—" She paused, sniffed, looked toward the door, and said uneasily, "What's that smell?"

"What's that smell?" Surreal muttered. It was well past midnight. Were the guards roasting some meat for tomorrow's meals? Possibly, but she couldn't imagine anyone wanting to eat anything that smelled that vile. "Do you smell it?" She turned her head to look at Saetan—and didn't like what she saw. Not one little bit. Since Daemon walked out of the camp the first time, the High Lord had just been staring straight ahead. Just staring. "Uncle Saetan?"

He turned his head, slowly. His eyes focused on her—too slowly.

Checking to make sure there weren't any guards around at the moment, she leaned toward him as much as she could. "Uncle Saetan, this isn't exactly the time to start taking mental side trips. We've got to think of a way to get out of here."

"I'm sorry you're here, Surreal," he said in a worn-out voice. "Truly, I am sorry."

Me, too."Lucivar's got the physical strength, and I can handle myself in a fight, but you've got the experience to come up with a plan that can use that strength to our best advantage."

He just looked at her. The smile that finally curved his lips was gently bitter. "Sweetheart... I've gotten very old in the past two days."

She could see that, and it scared her. Without him, she wasn't sure they could get out of there.

Hearing a door open, she immediately straightened up and looked away from him.

"Hell's fire," Dorothea said irritably, "what's that smell?" She stepped between the posts that held Saetan and Surreal.

Surreal clenched her teeth. She wore a Gray Jewel; Dorothea wore a Red. It would be easy enough to slip under Dorothea's inner barriers and weave a death spell—something nasty so that, when it triggered, the screams and confusion might give them a chance to get away.

She began a careful descent so that no one would notice it, but before she reached the depth of her Gray Jewel, another door opened.

The vile smell intensified, making her gag.

Daemon Sadi strolled out of the prison hut, his hands in his trouser pockets. He kept moving until he reached the center of the lighted area. He didn't look at them. His glittering eyes were focused intently on Lucivar, who stared back at him.

No one dared move.

Finally, Daemon looked toward the prison hut and said pleasantly, "Marian, darling, come out and show your foolish husband the price for my years in the Twisted Kingdom."

Two naked... things... floated out of the hut into the light. An hour ago, they had been a woman and a small boy. Now...

Surreal began panting in an effort to keep her stomach down. Mother Night, Mother Night, Mother Night.

Marian's fingers and feet were gone. So was the long, lovely hair. Daemonar's eyes were gone, as well as his hands and feet. Their wings were so crisped, the slight movement of floating made pieces break off. And their skin...

Smiling that cold, cruel smile, the Sadist released his hold on Marian and Daemonar. The little boy hit the ground with a thump and began screaming. Marian landed on the stumps of her feet and fell. When she landed, her skin split, and...

Not blood, Surreal realized as she stared with numb, sick fascination. Cooking juices oozed out from those splits in the skin.

The Sadist hadn't just burned them, he had cooked them—and they were still alive. Not even demon-dead, alive.

"Lucivar," Marian whispered hoarsely as she tried to crawl toward her husband. "Lucivar."

Lucivar screamed, but the scream of pain changed to an Eyrien war cry. Chains snapped as he exploded away from the post, charging right at Daemon. When he had covered half the distance, a hard psychic blow knocked him off his feet, sent him rolling back toward the post. He surged to his feet, rushed at Daemon again—and was struck down again. And again. And again.

When he couldn't get to his feet, he crawled toward Daemon, his teeth bared, his eyes filled with hate.

Sadi reached down, grabbed Daemonar's arm, and twisted it off the way another man would twist off a drumstick.

That got Lucivar to his feet. When he charged this time, he slammed into a Black shield and went to his knees.

Daemon just watched him and smiled.

He tried to break through the shield, tried to smash his way through it, claw his way through it, battered himself against it—and finally just braced himself against it, crying.

"Daemon," he pleaded. "Daemon... show a little mercy."

"You want mercy?" Daemon replied gently. With predatory speed, he stepped on Daemonar's head.

The skull smashed like an eggshell.

Daemon walked over to Marian, who was still whispering, still trying to crawl. Even over Lucivar's anguished howls, the rest of them could hear the bones snap when Daemon stepped on her neck.

Using Daemonar's arm as a pointer, Sadi gestured elegantly at the two bodies, all the while watching Lucivar and smiling. "They're both still strong enough to make the transition to demon-dead," he said pleasantly. "It's doubtful the brat is going to remember much of anything, but your wife's last thoughts of you... How kindly will she remember you, Prick, knowing you were the cause of this?"

"Finish it," Lucivar begged. "Let them go."

"Everything has a price, Prick. Pay the price, and I'll let them go."

"What do you want from me," Lucivar said in a broken voice. "Just tell me what you want from me."

Daemon's smile turned colder, meaner. "Prove you can be a good boy. Crawl back to the post."

Lucivar crawled.

Two of the guards who had been standing beyond the lighted area, watching, approached Lucivar and helped him to his feet while two others replaced the broken chains.

They were very gentle with him when they secured him to the post.

Lucivar looked at Daemon with grief-dulled eyes. "Satisfied?"

"Yes," Daemon said too softly. "I'm satisfied."

Surreal felt a flick of dark power, then another. She reached out to Marian, almost terrified that her psychic touch would get an answer. But there was nothing, no one, left.

That was when she finally realized she was crying, had been crying.

Dropping Daemonar's arm, Sadi used a handkerchief to meticulously wipe the grease from his hand. Then, walking over to Surreal, he used the same handkerchief to wipe the tears from her face.

She almost puked on him.

"Don't waste your tears on them, little witch," Daemon said quietly. "You're next."

She watched him walk away, disappear once more into the darkness. I may be next, you cold-hearted bastard, but I won't go down without a fight. I can't win against you, but I swear by all that I am that I won't go down without a fight.

Saetan closed his eyes, unable to bear the sight of the still figures lying a few feet away from him.

I knew he was dangerous, but I didn't know he had this in him. I helped him, encouraged him. Oh, witch-child, what kind of monster did I allow into your bed, into your heart?

As soon as they returned to Hekatah's cabin, Dorothea fell into the nearest chair. She had done some cruel, vicious things in her life, but this...

She shuddered.

Hekatah braced her hands on the table. "Do you still think he'll buckle if we threaten Lucivar?" she asked in a shaky voice.

"No," Dorothea replied in a voice just as shaky. "I don't know what he'll do anymore." For centuries, the Blood in Terreille had called him the Sadist. Now she finally understood why.

Karla watched Tersa build strange creations with brown wooden building blocks. She was grateful for the older woman's presence, and knew Gabrielle felt the same way.

Jaenelle had disappeared shortly after she had talked to them. They, in turn, had talked to the rest of the coven, only telling them that the boyos needed to be held back for a few more days. They hadn't told the others about Witch's intention of going to war with Terreille—alone. They had understood the unspoken command when Jaenelle had finally shown them the dream that lived beneath the human skin.

So the coven, unhappy but united, had rounded up the boyos before any of them could slip the leash. It hadn't been easy, and the males' hostility toward what they considered a betrayal had been vicious enough to make Karla wonder if any of the marriages in the First Circle would survive. Some of those marriages might have been destroyed right there and then if Tersa hadn't come along and scolded the boyos for their lack of courtesy. Since the males weren't willing to attack her, they had given in.

Almost twenty-four hours of enforced togetherness hadn't made things any easier, but it was the only way to ensure the males' continued presence. Even by the Keep's standards, the sitting room the coven had chosen as a place of confinement was a large room with several clusters of furniture and lots of pacing room—and it wasn't big enough. The coven mostly kept to the chairs and couches to avoid being snarled at by a pacing male. And when the boyos weren't pacing, they were huddled together, muttering.

"How many days are we going to have to do this?" Karla muttered to herself.

"As many as it takes," Tersa replied quietly. She studied her newest creation for a minute, then knocked it down.

The wooden blocks clattered on the long table in front of the couch, but no one jumped this time, having gotten used to the noise. No one even paid much attention to Tersa's odd creations. The boyos, in an attempt to prove they could be courteous, had admired and inquired about the first few... structures... but when Tersa's replies became more and more confusing, they finally backed off and left her alone.

In fact, Karla would have bet they weren't paying attention to much of anything going on in the room—until Ladvarian came in and trotted over to her.

The Sceltie looked unbearably weary, and there was a deep sadness in his brown eyes—and just a bit of an accusation.

*Karla?* Ladvarian said.

"Little Brother," Karla replied.

Two bowls appeared on the small table next to Karla's chair. One was filled with...

Karla carefully picked one up, studied it.

... bubbles of water that had protective shields around them to form a kind of skin. The other bowl had one red bubble.

*I need a drop of blood from each of you,* Ladvarian said.

"Why?" Karla asked as she studied the bubble. It was a brilliant little piece of Craft.

*For Jaenelle.*

Hearing that, Chaosti jumped in. "If Jaenelle wants something from us right now, she can ask us herself."

"Chaosti," Gabrielle hissed.

Chaosti snarled at her.

Ladvarian cringed at the anger in the room, but his eyes never left Karla.

"Why?" Karla asked.

"Why why why," Tersa said irritably as she knocked over the building blocks. "Humans can't even give a little gift without asking why why why. It is for your Queen. What more do you need to know?" Then, as if the outburst had never happened, she began arranging blocks again.

Karla shivered as she stared at Ladvarian. There were two ways to interpret "for Jaenelle." Either the dog was just the courier and was bringing these drops of blood to Jaenelle because she needed them for something ... or Ladvarian wanted them for Jaenelle. But how to ask the right questions and get something more than an evasive answer. Because she was certain Ladvarian would become evasive if she pushed too hard.

"I'm not sure I can give you a drop of blood, little Brother," Karla said carefully. "My blood is still a bit tainted from the poison."

"That will have no effect on this," Tersa said absently as she used Craft to hold blocks in the air. "But what is in your heart... Yes, that will affect a great deal."

"Why?" Karla asked—and then winced when Tersa just looked at her. She turned her attention back to Ladvarian. "So, that's all we have to do? Just put a drop of blood into each bubble?"

*When you give the blood, you must think about Jaenelle. Good thoughts,* he added in a growl as he glanced at the other males.

Karla shook her head. "I don't understand. Why—"

"Because the Blood will sing to the Blood," Tersa answered quietly. "Because blood is the memory's river."

Exasperated, Karla looked at Tersa, but it was the structure that caught her eye first.

A spiral. A glistening black spiral.

Then the brown wooden blocks crashed down on the table.

*Karla,* Gabrielle said softly.

*I saw it.* She looked at Tersa, who looked back at her with frighteningly clear-sighted eyes. She knows. Mother Night, whatever is going to happen... Tersa knows. And so does Ladvarian.

And knowing that much, there was no longer any need to ask "why."

Glancing at Ladvarian for permission, Karla sent out the most delicate psychic tendril she could create and lightly touched the red bubble.

Ladvarian, as a puppy, being taught by Jaenelle to air walk. Being brushed and petted. Being taught...

She backed away. Those memories were private, the best he had to give.

She swallowed hard—and tasted tears. "What Jaenelle is trying to do... Is it dangerous?"

*Yes,* Ladvarian answered.

"Have other kindred given this gift?"

*All the kindred who know her.*

And I'll bet none of them asked why why why.Karla looked at the rest of the First Circle. No trace of anger. Not anymore. They would think about Jaenelle's actions over the past few weeks and reach the right conclusion.

"All right, little Brother," Karla said. Before she could use her thumbnail to prick a finger, Gabrielle touched her shoulder.

"I think..." Gabrielle hesitated, took a deep breath. "I think this should be done as ritual."

So that it would be as powerful as they could make it. "Yes, you're right." Karla set the clear bubble back into the bowl.

"I'll get what we need," Gabrielle said.

"I'll go with you," Morghann said.

As Gabrielle and Morghann walked past the males, Chaosti and Khary reached out, each one giving his wife a gentle touch of apology before stepping aside.

With a weary sigh, Ladvarian moved out of the way and lay down.

Tersa stood up.

"Tersa?" Karla said. "Aren't you going to give the gift?"

Those clear-sighted eyes looked into her. Then Tersa smiled, said, "I already have," and left the room.

That was enough to tell Karla who had shown the kindred how to create those brilliant little pieces of Craft.

Watching the males shift places and take up their usual protective stance, Karla's eyes filled with tears, and she wished, futilely, that Morton could have been standing among them.

We'll be all right, she thought when she saw Aaron wrap his arms around Kalush. The harsh words will be forgiven, and we'll be all right.

But would Jaenelle?

"It's your turn, little bitch," Daemon said as he unfastened the chains from the post.

Surreal stared at him. It was after midnight—was, in fact, almost twenty-four hours since he had killed Marian and Daemonar. The day had been quiet enough. Sadi had prowled around the camp, making everyone nervous, and Dorothea and Hekatah had played least-in-sight.

"What are you going to do with the bitch?" Dorothea said, approaching the posts.

Until now.

Daemon looked at Dorothea and smiled. "Well, darling, I'm going to use her to give you what you've always wanted."

"Meaning what?" Dorothea asked uneasily.

"Meaning," Daemon purred, "that I'm going to break your slut of a granddaughter. And then I'm going to mount her until she's seeded with my child. She's ripe for it. It'll catch. And I'll make sure she has all the incentive she needs not to try to abort it. Your bloodline and me, Dorothea. Exactly what you've wanted from me. And all you'll have to overlook is the fact that the result might have pointed ears."

Laughing, he dragged Surreal into the same hut that had held Marian and Daemonar.

She waited until he had turned to close the door before she called in her stiletto and launched herself at him. He spun around, raised an arm to block the knife. She twisted, bringing the knife in under his arm, intending to drive it between his ribs up to the hilt. Instead, the knife hit a shield, slid right past him, and went into the door.

Before she could yank the knife out of the wood, Daemon grabbed her, shoved her back to the center of the small room. Screaming, she launched herself at him again. He caught her hands and roughly pushed her back until her knees hit the edge of the narrow bed. She went down with him on top of her.

He rolled off immediately, sprang to his feet. "That's enough."

She leaped off the bed and hurled every curse she knew at the top of her lungs before she lunged at him again.

He pushed her away and swore viciously. "Damn it, Surreal, that's enough."

"If you think I'm going to spread my legs for you, you'd better think again, Sadist."

"Shut up, Surreal," Daemon said quietly but intensely.

She felt the shields go up around the hut. Not just a Black protective shield but a Black aural shield as well. Which meant no one could hear what was happening inside.

He took a deep breath, raked his fingers through his hair. "Well," he said dryly, "that little performance ought to convince the bitches that something is happening in here."

She had been gathering herself to spring at him again, intending to go for his balls this time. But that tone and those words sounded so... Daemon... that she paused. And remembered Karla's warning about a friend who becomes an enemy in order to remain a friend.

He eyed her, then approached warily. "Let's see your wrists."

She held out her hands, watching him—and saw the fury in his eyes when he snapped off the manacles and looked at the raw skin underneath.

Surreal huffed. "Damn it, Sadi, what kind of game are you playing?"

"A vicious one," he replied, calling in a leather box. He looked through it, pulled out a jar, and handed it to her. "Put that on your wrists."

She opened the jar, sniffed. A Healer's ointment. While she applied it to her wrists, he called in another box. There were several balls of clay sitting in nests of paper. Two of the nests were empty.

"Do you still have the food pack you brought?"

"Yes. I haven't had a chance to eat any of it," she added tartly.

"Then eat something now," he said, still looking through the box. "I'd give you some from mine, but I gave most of it to Marian."

A chill went down Surreal's spine. There was a funny buzzing in her head. "To Marian?"

"Do you remember the shack we stopped at when we got to Hayll?"

"Yes." Of course she remembered it. It was a couple of miles away from the camp. That was where Daemon had changed into the Sadist. One minute he had been carefully explaining about the sentries and the perimeter stakes that would alert the guards, and the next thing she knew, she was tied up and he was purring threats about how she should have stayed under Falonar and stayed out of his way. He had scared her, badly. And the fact that he had made her furious now. "You could have told me, you son of a bitch."

He looked up. "Would you have been as convincing?"

She bristled, insulted. "You're damn right I would have been."

"Well, we're going to have a chance to find out. You said you wanted to help, Surreal. That you were willing to be a diversion."

She had said that, but she'd thought she would have known when she was being a diversion. "So?"

"So now you will be." He approached her, held up a small gold hoop. "Listen carefully. This will produce the illusion that you're broken." He slipped the hoop through one of the links of the necklace that held her Gray Jewel. "No one will be able to detect that you're still wearing the Gray unless you use it. If you do need to use it, then don't hesitate. I'll figure out some way to deal with things here."

"The High Lord will know I'm not broken."

Daemon shook his head as he turned back to search for something else in the box. "You'd have to wear Jewels darker than the Black to be able to detect that spell."

Darker than the Black? Sadi couldn't make a spell like that. Which meant...

Mother Night.

"This"—Daemon held up a tiny crystal vial before attaching it to the necklace—"will convince anyone who thinks to check that you're not only fertile but you're now pregnant. A Healer would be able to tell within twenty-four hours," he added, answering her unspoken question.

Lifting the necklace, Surreal studied the vial. "You asked Jaenelle to create an illusion that I was pregnant with your child?"

She saw his face tighten.

Yes, he had asked Jaenelle. And it had hurt him to ask.

Looking to change the subject, she pointed to the balls of clay. "What are those?"

"The raw spells to create shadows."

Shadows. Illusions that could be made to fool someone into believing the person in front of them was real.

"Marian and Daemonar," she said weakly, staring at the two empty nests of paper.

"Yes," he replied sharply.

She hissed at him. "You didn't trust me, a whore, to put on a good show, but you figured Lucivar would be convin—" Her voice trailed away. "He doesn't know, does he?"

"No," Daemon said quietly, "he doesn't know."

Her legs weakened so abruptly, she sat on the floor. "Hell's fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful."

"I know." Daemon hesitated. "I'm buying time, Surreal. I have got to buy enough time and still get everyone out of here. In order to make Dorothea and Hekatah believe Marian and Daemonar were dead, Lucivar had to believe it."

"Mother Night." Surreal rested her forehead on her knees. "What's worth paying a price like this?"

"My Queen needs the time in order to save Kaeleer."

"Oh, shit, Sadi." She looked up at him. "Tell me something. Even though you knew it was an illusion, how did you keep your stomach down afterward?"

He swallowed hard. "I didn't."

"You're mad," she muttered as she climbed to her feet.

"I serve," he said sharply.

Sometimes, for a male, it amounted to the same thing.

"All right," she said as she hooked her hair behind her pointed ears. "What do you need me to do?"

He hesitated, then started to hedge. "It's dangerous."

"Daemon," she said patiently, "what do you need?" When he still didn't answer, she took a guess. "You want me to wander around the camp whimpering and looking like a woman who's been raped out of her mind and is now terrified of what will happen to her if she miscarries the child that was produced from that rape. Right?"

"Yes," he said faintly.

"And then what?"

"Marian and Daemonar are at that shack. Slip out of camp tomorrow night, pick them up, and then go to the Keep. Don't stop, don't go anywhere else. Get to the Keep. You'll have to ride the Red Wind. The darker ones are unstable."

"Un—Never mind, I don't want to know about that." She thought everything through carefully. Yes, she could play this out. A woman that broken would spend a lot of time hiding, so letting people get glimpses of her throughout the day would be enough—and would hide the fact that she had disappeared.

Daemon reached for one of the balls of clay.

"What's that for?" Surreal asked.

"You would have fought for as long as you could," Daemon said, not looking at her. "You would look like you'd fought. After I create the illusion, you can carry this and—"

"No." Surreal shrugged out of her jacket and started unbuttoning her shirt. "You can't play all of this out with illusions. Not if you want to convince Dorothea and Hekatah long enough to buy the time Jaenelle needs."

His eyes turned hard yellow. "I'll give up a great deal for this, Surreal, but I'm not going to break my vow of fidelity."

"I know," she replied quietly. "That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?" Daemon snapped.

She took a deep breath to steady herself. "You have to make the bruises real."

Calling in the bowl, Ladvarian placed it carefully on the chamber floor and watched the Arachnian Queen delicately touch the little bubbles now filled with blood and memories.

*Is good,* the spider said with approval. *Good memories. Strong memories. As strong as kindred.*

Ladvarian looked at the bowl that sat in front of the huge tangled web. There were still a lot of the kindred's gifts left in the bowl. It wasn't a fast thing the Weaver was doing.

*You must rest,* the spider said as she selected a bubble from the humans' offerings and floated up to a thread in the web. *All kindred must rest. Must be strong when the time comes to anchor the dream to flesh.*

*Will you have enough time to add all the memories?* Ladvarian asked respectfully.

The Weaver of Dreams didn't reply for a long time. Then, *Enough. Just enough.*

The whimpering wasn't all feigned.

But, Hell's fire, Surreal thought as she wandered aimlessly around the camp, she hadn't expected to have to goad Daemon quite that much before he finally got down to business. And she'd understood that the anger behind his teeth and hands was because he'd had to touch a woman besides Jaenelle in a few intimate places. But, shit, he didn't have to bite her breast quite that hard.

On the other hand, he had chosen his marks very carefully. Judging by the look in people's eyes when they saw her, the bruises were impressive, but none of them impeded movement or would freeze a muscle if she had to fight.

The hardest part had been seeing the hatred in Saetan's eyes. She'd wanted to tell him. Oh, how she'd wanted to say something, anything, to get that look out of his eyes. And she might have if Daemon hadn't chosen that moment to glide by and make a devastatingly cutting remark. After that, throughout the rest of the morning, she had avoided the High Lord—and she hadn't dared get anywhere near Lucivar.

But she had made sure that Dorothea had seen her. She'd felt the bitch trying to probe her to find out if she was really broken and really pregnant. Apparently the illusion spells had held up because Dorothea gently suggested that she lie down for a while and rest. The bitch was almost drooling over the idea of being able to get her hands on any child sired by Sadi.

She'd go back and hide for a little while, wait until sunset, then put in an appearance so that Hekatah could sniff around her. Then all she had to do was slip past the sentries and the perimeter markers, pick up Marian and Daemonar, and get them home. That was all she... Shit.

She hadn't been paying attention to exactly where she was going—and now found herself staring right into Lucivar's eyes.

He had spent the morning watching her whenever she appeared. It was a good act, but it was just a little off. Not that anyone else would have noticed. Oh, he was sure Dorothea and Hekatah and plenty of the guards had seen broken witches, but he doubted any of them had ever paid any attention to those women after the breaking. He, on the other hand, had taken care of a few of them in a number of courts. He hadn't been able to stop the breaking, but he'd taken care of them afterward. And they all had one thing in common: the first day or two after they were broken, they were cold. They huddled up in shawls and blankets, stayed close to any source of heat that was available to them.

But there was Surreal, wandering through the camp, wearing nothing over a shirt that seemed torn in all the right places to display some impressive bruises. And that made him think about a lot of things.

"You should put on a jacket, sweetheart," he said gently.

"Jacket?" Surreal said feebly while her hands tried to cover some of the rips in the shirt.

"A jacket. You're cold."

"Oh. No I'm—"

"Cold."

She shivered then, but it wasn't from cold, it was from nerves.

"You don't have to carry that bastard's child," Lucivar said quietly. "You can abort it. A broken witch still has that much power. And once you're barren, there's no reason for anyone to look in your direction."

"I can't," Surreal said fearfully. "I can't. He would be so mad at me and..." She looked at the spot where Marian and Daemonar had died.

He wondered if he was wrong, if her mind really was so torn apart she didn't quite feel the cold yet. If that was true, then he understood the fear in her voice now. She was afraid the Sadist would do the same thing to her that he had done to Marian and Daemonar.

But what he saw in her eyes when she looked at him again wasn't fear, it was hot frustration.

The blood in his veins, which had felt so sluggish since he had crawled back to the post two nights ago, raged through him once again.

"Surreal..." He saw Daemon appear on the other side of the circle of bare ground a moment before she did.

With an almost-convincing cry, Surreal ran off.

Lucivar stared at Daemon. From across the distance, Daemon returned the stare.

"You bastard," Lucivar whispered. Daemon wouldn't have heard the words, but it didn't matter. Sadi would know what had been said.

Daemon walked away.

Lucivar leaned his head back against the post and closed his eyes.

If Surreal wasn't broken, if this was all a game, then Marian and Daemonar...

He should have remembered that about the Sadist. He, better than anyone else there, knew how vicious Daemon could be, but the Sadist had never harmed an innocent, had never hurt a child.

He had been waiting for the signal, but the game had begun before Daemon had walked into the camp. Still, he had played his part well—and would continue to do so.

Because understanding and forgiving were two very different things.

Drifting in a pain-hazed doze, Saetan felt the cup against his lips. The first swallow he took out of reflex, the second out of greed. As the taste of fresh blood filled his mouth, the Black power in it flowed through him, offering strength.

*Hold on,* a deep voice whispered in his mind. *You have to hold on. Please.*

He heard the weariness in that voice. He heard a son's plea to a father, and he responded. Being the man he was, he couldn't do otherwise. So he pushed his way through the haze of pain.

When he opened his eyes, all he saw was waning daylight, and he wondered if he'd just dreamed the plea he'd heard in Daemon's voice.

But he could still taste the dark, rich, fresh blood.

Closing his eyes again, he let his mind drift.

He was standing in an enormous cavern somewhere in the heart of Ebon Askavi. Etched in the floor was a huge web lined with silver. In the center where all the tether lines met was an iridescent Jewel the size of his hand, a Jewel that blended the colors of all the other Jewels. At the end of each tether line was an iridescent Jewel chip the size of his thumbnail.

He had been in this place once before, on the night when he had linked with Daemon in order to draw Jaenelle back to her body.

But there was something else in the cavern now.

Stretching across that silver web on the floor were three massive, connected tangled webs that rose from about a foot from the floor to almost twice his height. In the center of each web was an Ebony Jewel.

Witch stood in front of those webs, wearing that black spidersilk gown, holding the scepter that held two Ebony Jewels and the spiral horn Kaetien had gifted her with when he'd been killed five years ago.

Behind the webs were dozens of demon-dead. One of them approached the webs, smiled, then faded. At the moment the person faded, a little star the same color as the person's Jewel bloomed on the middle web.

Puzzled, he moved to get a better look at the tangled webs.

The first one repulsed him. The threads looked swollen, moldy, tainted. At the end of every single tether line of that web was an Ebony Jewel chip.

The middle one was beautiful, filled with thousands of those little colored stars and a sprinkling of Black and Ebony Jewel chips.

The last one was a simple web, perfect in its symmetry, made of gray, ebon-gray, and black threads. It, too, had Black and Ebony Jewel chips that had been carefully placed on the threads to form a spiral.

He glanced at Witch, but she was focused on the task, so he shifted again to watch.

He saw Char, the leader of the cildru dyathe, approach the webs. The boy grinned at him, waved a jaunty good-bye, and faded to become another bright star.

Titian approached him, kissed his cheek. "I'm proud to have known you, High Lord." She walked over to the webs and faded.

As he watched her, something nagged at him. Something about the structure of those webs. But before he could figure it out, Dujae, the artist who had given the coven drawing lessons, approached him.

"Thank you, High Lord," the huge man said. "Thank you for allowing me to know the Ladies. All the portraits I have done of them are at the Hall in Kaeleer now. My gift to you."

"Thank you, Dujae," he replied, puzzled.

As Dujae walked away, Prothvar stepped up. "It's a different kind of battlefield, but it's a good way to fight. Take care of the waif, Uncle Saetan." Prothvar hugged him.

Cassandra came next. Cassandra, whom he hadn't seen since the first party when they had all met the coven and the boyos.

She smiled at him, a sad smile, then pressed her hand against his cheek. "I wish I had been a better friend. May the Darkness embrace you, Saetan." She kissed him. When she faded, a glorious Black star began to shine in the middle web.

"Mephis," he said when his eldest son approached. "Mephis, what—"

Mephis smiled and hugged him. "I was proud to have you for a father, and honored to know you as a man. I'm not sure I ever told you that. I wanted you to know. Good-bye, Father. I love you."

"And I love you, Mephis," he said, holding on hard as he felt grief swell inside him.

When Mephis faded into the web, the only one left of the demon-dead was Andulvar.

"Andulvar, what's going on?"

"And the Blood will sing to the Blood," Andulvar replied. "Like to like." He looked at the webs. "She found a way to identify those who have been tainted from those who still honor the ways of the Blood. But she needed help to keep those who followed the old ways from being swept away with the rest when she unleashes. That's what the demon-dead will do—our strength will anchor the living. We'll burn out in the doing, but as Prothvar said, it's a good way to fight."

Andulvar smiled at him. "Take care of yourself, SaDiablo. And take care of those pups of yours. Both of them. Just remember that your mirror truly is your mirror. You only have to look to see the truth." Andulvar hugged him. "No man could have asked for a better friend or a better Brother. Hold on. Fight. You have the hardest burden, but your sons will help you."

Andulvar walked to the webs. He spread his dark wings, raised his arms... and faded.

As he blinked back tears, Jaenelle walked over to him. He wrapped his arms around her. "Witch-child ..."

She shook her head, kissed him, and smiled. But her eyes were filled with tears.

"Thank you for being my father. It was glorious, Saetan." Then she leaned close and whispered in his ear, "Take care of Daemon. Please. He'll need you."

She didn't fade into the web, she just disappeared.

Wiping the tears with the back of his hand, he approached the webs and studied them carefully.

The first web, the moldy web, were the Blood tainted by Dorothea and Hekatah. The second web, with all its Jewel stars, were the Blood who still honored the old ways. The third web, with its spiral, was Witch.

As he continued to study the webs, he began to shake his head, slowly at first, then faster and faster. "No, no, no, witch-child," he muttered. "You can't connect them like this. If you unleash your full strength ..."

It would blast through the large Ebony Jewel in the center of the first web, travel through all the strands, sweep up all the minds that resonated with those strands, then hit all the Ebony chips, meeting a smaller portion of itself in a devastating collision of power that would destroy anyone caught in it. Then it would continue on to the next web, barely diminished.

The middle web, with all those thousands of beads of power, would provide tremendous resistance as her strength swept through it. The demon-dead, providing a shield and anchor for the living, would absorb some of her power as it flooded over them, but not all of those thousands of beads of power would be enough. That unleashed strength would continue on to the third web and...

The power would flow through that perfect symmetry, burn out the web, and shatter every Jewel chip as it came blasting back through the spiral. And once the last Jewel chip shattered, the only thing left to reabsorb the rest of the power would be...

"NO, witch-child," he shouted, turning round and round, searching for her. "No! A backlash like that will rip you apart! Jaenelle!"

He turned back to the webs. Maybe, if he could link himself to Witch's web somehow, draw every drop of reserve power out of his Birthright Red Jewels and his Black... Maybe he could shield her enough to keep her safe when the rest of that explosion of power came screaming back at her.

He took a step forward...

... and everything faded.

Saetan opened his eyes. Deep twilight. Almost night.

A dream? Just a dream? No. He had been a Black Widow too long not to know the difference between a dream and a vision. But it was fading. He couldn't quite remember, and there was something about that vision that was desperately important for him to remember.

That was when he noticed Daemon standing a few feet in front of him, watching him with frightening intensity.

Just remember that your mirror truly is your mirror. You only have to look to see the truth.

Andulvar's words. Andulvar's warning.

So, with eyes blinded by tears, he looked at his mirror, his namesake, his true heir. And saw.

Still watching him, Daemon reached into his jacket pocket. His hand came out as a loose fist. He opened his fingers, tipped his hand.

Little colored bangles, the kind women sewed on dresses to catch the light, spilled to the ground.

Saetan stared at them. They chilled him, but he couldn't say why.

And when he looked up again at Daemon ... He could almost hear the unspoken plea to think, to know, to remember. But his mind was still too full of the other vision that had turned elusive.

Daemon walked away.

Saetan closed his eyes. Bangles and webs. If he could find the connection, he would also find the answers.

Surreal swore silently as she stared at the perimeter stakes. There had to be a trick to getting past them. Hell's fire, Daemon had gotten them into the camp without anyone realizing it, but she'd still been too stunned by his shift into the Sadist to pay much attention. And he'd gotten Marian and Daemonar out without anyone realizing it.

Could it be as simple as jumping over them so the contact between the crystals wasn't broken? No, she would have remembered that.

"What are you doing out here?" a voice demanded.

Shit.

She turned to face the sentry who was moving toward her. She was too far away from the camp for anyone to believe she was just a broken witch wandering around. But she had to try to convince this bastard. Or kill him quietly. If she ended up in a fight and used her Gray Jewels, Daemon would know she'd run into trouble and alter the rest of his plans. And that would allow those bitches to realize they'd been tricked and really start the war.

"The hut's lost," she said, waving her hand in a vague gesture.

He came closer, his eyes full of suspicion and doubt. "Answer me, bitch. Why are you out here?"

"The hut's lost," she repeated, doing her best to imitate the way Tersa's mind tended to meander. She pointed. "It should be near that fuzzy post, but it wandered off."

The sentry looked in that direction. "That's a tree, you stupid bitch. Now—" He stopped, raked her body with his eyes, then smiled. Looking around to make sure no one else was nearby, he reached for her.

She took a step back, placed a protective hand over her abdomen, and shook her head. "Can't touch another male. He'll get mad at me if I touch another male."

The sentry gave her an evil grin. "Well, he's not going to know, is he?"

Surreal hesitated. That would certainly get her close enough to ram a knife between his ribs, but it would also take time she didn't have. The Gray Jewels then, and a fast kill—and may the Darkness help Sadi with whatever was going to happen in the camp afterward.

*Down, Surreal!*

She felt hind legs brush against her back as she dove.

A moment later, the sentry lay dead, his throat torn out.

A sight shield faded, revealing the blood-splashed wolf.

"Graysfang?" Surreal whispered. She touched the Jewel beneath her shirt. Gray's fang. The High Lord had been right.

Skirting the dead sentry, she reached for the wolf.

*Wait,* Graysfang said.

That's when she saw the small golden bump between his ears. The bump lifted, floated to the nearest perimeter stake, and uncurled its legs.

Surreal stared at the small gold spider as it busily spun a simple tangled web between two of the stakes. When it was done, it picked its way to the center of the web.

The sentry vanished. There was no trace of blood on the ground.

*They will not find him now,* Graysfang said. *They can only see what the web lets them see.* He gently closed his teeth around Surreal's arm and started tugging her.

"What about the spider?"

*She will stay to guard the web. Hurry, Surreal.*

She shook her arm free of his teeth. It would be easier to keep up with him if she wasn't hunched over. Switching to a communication thread, she asked, *What are you doing here? How did you get through the perimeter stakes?*

*Humans are foolish. The meat trail is unguarded. Too many legs moving on the trail. The humans got tired of baring their fangs when it was only meat.*

Meat trail? Oh, game trail. *How did you know about the trail? How did you find me?*

*The Weaver of Dreams told me to learn the two-legged cat's scent and follow his tracks. He is a good hunter,* Graysfang added with approval. *There is much feline in him. Kaelas says so.*

Sadi, with the predatory grace even the kindred recognized. Graysfang had followed Sadi. *Who's this Weaver?* She got a quick image of a large golden spider—and stumbled.

Damn fool of an idiot wolf. It was bad enough that he had gone to Arachna and brought a small spider back with him. But to deal with the Queen...

*She asked me, Surreal,* Graysfang said meekly when she snarled at him. *It's a bad thing to refuse the Weaver.*

Surreal gritted her teeth and picked up the pace. *We'll talk about it later.*

As soon as she saw the game trail, she recognized the place. This was where Daemon had brought them through the camp's perimeter. *I couldn't have found this place again by myself.*

*You have a small snout,* the wolf said kindly. *You cannot smell tracks.*

Surreal looked at Graysfang—at Gray's fang—and smiled.

"Let's go," she whispered. "Do you know the way to the shack?"

*I know.*

An hour later, she, Marian, Daemonar, and Graysfang were riding the Red Wind to the Keep.

"I think it's time we had a little talk," Hekatah said, trying to smile coyly at Daemon.

"Really?"

Oh, the arrogance, the surliness, the meanness in that voice. If his father had been even half the man the son was...

"It takes so long for a Realm to recover from a war, it would be foolish to go through with it if it can be avoided," she said, reaching up to caress his face as she wove a seduction spell around him.

He stepped back. "Don't ever touch me without my permission," he snarled softly. "Not even Jaenelle is allowed to touch me without my permission."

"And she submits?"

He smiled that cold, brutal smile. "She submits to a great many things—and begs for more."

Hekatah looked into his glazed eyes and shivered with excitement. The air was filled with the earthy tang of sex. She had him. He just didn't know it yet. "A partnership would serve us both well."

"But you already have a partner, Hekatah—one I will not deal with in any way."

She waved a hand dismissively. "She can be taken care of easily enough." She paused. "Darling Dorothea hasn't been sleeping well. I think I'll give her a little cup of something that will help."

He stared at her with those glazed eyes, a man aroused to the point of being frightening—and terribly exciting.

"In that case..." Daemon's hands cupped her face. His lips brushed against hers.

She was disappointed by the gentleness—until he really kissed her. Mean, dominating, unforgiving, demanding, painfully exciting.

But she was demon-dead. Her body couldn't respond that way, couldn't...

She drowned in that kiss, staggered by sensations her body hadn't felt in centuries.

He finally raised his head.

She stared at him. "How... It isn't possible."

"I think we've just proved that's a lie," Daemon crooned. "I punish women who lie to me."

"Do you?" Hekatah whispered, swaying. She couldn't look away from the cruel pleasure in his eyes. "I'll take care of Dorothea."

He kissed her again. This time she felt the mockery in the gentleness. There was nothing gentle about him. Nothing.

"I'll take care of Dorothea," she said again. "And then we'll be partners."

"And I promise you, darling," Daemon purred, "you're going to get everything you deserve."

Dorothea woke up late in the morning and groaned at the pain in her belly. It felt like a year's worth of moontime cramps had settled in her gut. She couldn't get sick now. Couldn't. Maybe a cup of herbal tea or some broth. Hell's fire, she was cold. Why was she so damn cold?

Shivering, she dragged herself out of bed—and fell.

After the shock came fear as she remembered the brew Hekatah had made for her last night. To help her sleep. What had she been thinking of not to test something that came from Hekatah's hand?

She hadn't been thinking. Hadn't...

That bitch. That walking piece of carrion must have used a compulsion spell on her to get her to drink it—and then to forget that she'd been ordered to drink it.

Her muscles constricted, twisted.

Not sick. Poisoned.

She needed help. She needed...

Her cabin door opened and closed.

Gasping from the effort, she rolled onto her side and stared at Daemon Sadi.

"Daemon," she whimpered, trying to hold out a hand toward him. "Daemon... help..."

He just stood there, studying her. Then he smiled. "Looks like witchblood was part of last night's little brew," he said pleasantly.

She couldn't draw a full breath. "You did this. You did this."

"You were becoming a problem, darling. It's nothing personal."

She felt the pain of the insult even through the physical pain. "Hekatah..."

"Yes," Daemon purred, "Hekatah. Now, don't worry, darling. I've put an aural and a protective shield around your cabin, so you'll be quite undisturbed for the rest of the day."

He walked out of the cabin.

She tried to crawl to the door, tried to scream for help. Couldn't do either.

It didn't take long for her world to become nothing but pain.

Daemon closed the door of the prison hut he'd been using whenever he needed to stay somewhere for a little while. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he withdrew the Jewels he'd gone to Dorothea's cabin to retrieve—Saetan's Black ring; Lucivar's pendant, ring, and Ring of Honor. He knew her well, knew exactly where to probe for a hiding place. It hadn't taken him more than a minute to slip around her guard spells and lift the Jewels while he stood there and talked to her.

He studied the Jewels and sighed with relief. Both men had put strong shields around the jewelry before handing them over to those bitches, so there was no way the pieces could have been tampered with or tainted. Still...

Setting the Jewels into the washbasin, he poured water over them, added some astringent herbs for cleansing, then let them soak.

This would be the last day, the last night. He could endure it that much longer. Had to endure it.

He closed his eyes. Soon, sweetheart. A few more hours and I'll be on my way home, on my way back to you. And then we'll be married.

Picturing Jaenelle slipping the plain gold wedding ring onto his finger, he smiled.

And then he remembered the seduction spell Hekatah had woven around him. Oh, he'd been aware of it, could have easily broken it—but he had let his body respond to it while he touched Hekatah. Kissed Hekatah. Hated Hekatah.

Just a game. A nasty, vicious game.

He barely made it to the chamber pot before he was quietly, but thoroughly, sick.

"It's your turn, Prick."

Because he was looking for it, because he knew what to look for, Lucivar saw the sick desperation in Daemon's eyes.

So he remained passive while Daemon unchained him and led him into the other prison hut, the one closest to them. And he stayed impassive while Daemon feverishly rumpled the small bed.

Then he let out an anguished Eyrien war cry that startled Daemon badly enough to fall onto the bed.

"Hell's fire, Prick," Daemon muttered as he stood up.

"Convincing enough?" Lucivar asked mildly.

Daemon froze.

All the masks dropped away. Lucivar saw a man physically and emotionally exhausted, a man barely able to stay on his feet.

"Why?" he asked quietly.

"I had to buy Jaenelle some time. I needed your hate to do it."

That simple. That painful. Daemon would regret it, deeply regret it, but he wouldn't hesitate to rip out his brother's heart if that's what Jaenelle needed from him. Which was exactly what he had done.

"You're here with Jaenelle's consent," Lucivar said, wanting the confirmation.

"I'm here at her command."

"To play out this game."

"To play out this game," Daemon agreed quietly.

Lucivar nodded, let out a bitter laugh. "Well, Bastard, you've played a good game." He paused, then said coldly, "Where are Marian and Daemonar?"

Daemon's hand shook a little as he raked his fingers through his hair. "Since Surreal didn't have to blast anyone with the Gray to get away from here, I have to assume she safely reached the hiding place where I had left them. They're all at the Keep by now."

Lucivar let that sink in, allowed himself a moment's relief and joy. "So now what happens?"

"Now I create a shadow of you, and you head for the Keep. Stay on the Red Wind. The darker ones are unstable."

Shadows. Daemon never could have created shadows that convincing. Not by himself. And Jaenelle... Jaenelle, having grown up around Andulvar and Prothvar, would have expected an Eyrien warrior to be able to accept the pain of the battlefield, no matter what that battlefield looked like.

"What do you need?" Lucivar asked.

Daemon hesitated. "Some hair, skin, and blood."

"Then let's play the game through."

They worked together in silence. The only sound Lucivar made during that time was a sigh of relief when Daemon slipped the Ring of Honor over his cock and used it to remove the Ring of Obedience in a way that wouldn't be detected.

Putting on the Ebon-gray Jewels Daemon had returned to him, he watched the final steps to the spell that would create a shadow of himself. And shuddered when he saw the tormented, anguished creature whose lips were pulled back in a rictus grin.

"Hell's fire, Bastard," Lucivar said, feeling queasy. "What was it you did to me that I would have ended up looking like that?"

"I don't know," Daemon replied wearily. "But I'm sure Hekatah can imagine something." He hesitated, swallowed hard. "Look, Prick, for once in your life, just do as you're told. Get to the Keep. Everyone who matters the most to you is waiting for you there."

"Not everyone," Lucivar said softly.

"I'll get the High Lord out." Daemon waited.

Lucivar knew what Daemon was waiting for, what he hoped for. He wanted to be told that Saetan wasn't the only one left who mattered.

Lucivar said nothing.

Daemon looked away, and said wearily, "Let's go. There's one more game to play."

Saetan stared at the bangles lying on the ground. Why had Daemon made such a point of them? And why did they chill him so much?

He hissed in frustration, then jolted at the sibilant sound.

"You wish to undersstand thiss?" Draca had asked.

Bangles floating in a tank of water. Draca holding an egg-shaped stone attached to a thin silk cord. "A sspiral."

The stone moving in a circular motion, spiraling, spiraling, until all the water was in motion, all the bangles caught.

"A whirlpool," Geoffrey had said.

"No," Draca had replied. "A maelsstrom.... Sshe will almosst alwayss sspiral.... You cannot alter her nature.... But the maelsstrom.... Sshield her, Ssaetan. Sshield her with your sstrength and your love and perhapss it will never happen."

"And if it does?" he had asked.

"It will be the end of the Blood."

End of the Blood.

End of...

Those bangles weren't a message from Daemon, they were a warning from Draca. Jaenelle was spiraling down to her full strength to unleash the maelstrom. The end of the Blood. Was that why she had insisted that the First Circle remain at the Keep? Because it would be the only place that could withstand that devastating power? No. Jaenelle didn't like to kill. She wouldn't destroy all the Blood if she could...

Damn it. Damn it, he needed to draw that vision back. Needed to see those webs again in order to remember that one important thing that was eluding him. Deliberately eluding him. A veil had been drawn across that vision to keep him from remembering that one thing until it was too late.

But if she was going to unleash the maelstrom, what in the name of Hell was Daemon doing here?

Stalling. Buying time. Keeping Dorothea and Hekatah distracted. Playing games to... Marian and Daemonar. Then Surreal. He'd heard Lucivar cry out a couple of hours ago, but there had been no sign of him since then. Which only left...

A shadow fell across the bangles.

He looked up into Daemon's glazed eyes.

"It's time to dance," Daemon crooned.

He might have said something, but he could smell Hekatah nearby. So he let Daemon lead him into the prison hut, said nothing while he was tied to the bed.

When Daemon stretched out beside him, he whispered, "When does the game end?"

Daemon tensed, swallowed hard. "In a couple more hours," he said, keeping his voice low. "At midnight." He laid a hand gently on Saetan's chest. "Nothing's going to happen. Just—"

They both heard someone brush against the door, both knew who was listening.

Saetan shook his head. Everything has a price. "Make it convincing, Daemon," he whispered.

He saw the sick resignation and the apology in Daemon's eyes before his son kissed him.

And he learned why the Blood called Daemon the Sadist.

Saetan lay on his side, staring at the wall.

Daemon had actually done very little. Very little. But he'd managed to convince that bitch who had hovered outside the door that a son was raping his own father without actually doing anything that would prevent either of them from being able to look the other in the eye. A rather impressive display of skill.

And very brief. He'd been concerned about that, but when Daemon walked out of the hut, he'd heard a murmured comment and Hekatah's delighted, abrasive laugh.

So, while Daemon continued to prowl and keep the camp on edge, he'd had time to rest, to gather his strength, to think.

The game ended at midnight. What was the significance of midnight? Well, it was called the witching hour, that moment suspended between one day and the next. And it would be seventy-two hours from the time Daemon appeared in the camp.

Saetan jerked upright. Seventy-two hours.

Confined to a sitting room in the Keep, he had paced. "From sunset to sunrise. That's how long an Offering takes. For the White, for the Black, that's how long it takes."

"For the Prince of the Darkness," Tersa had said as she pushed around the pieces of a puzzle. "But for the Queen?"

When Jaenelle had made the Offering to the Darkness, it had taken her three days. Seventy-two hours.

"Mother Night," he whispered, shifting into a sitting position.

The door opened. Daemon rushed in and dropped a bundle of clothing on the bed.

Before Saetan could say anything, one of Daemon's hands was clamped behind his head and the other was holding a cup to his lips, pouring warm liquid down his throat. He had no choice but to swallow or choke. He swallowed. A moment later, he wished he had choked.

"Hell's fire, what did you just give me?" he gasped as he bent over and pressed his forehead to his knees.

"A tonic," Daemon said, vigorously rubbing Saetan's back.

"Stop that," Saetan snapped. He turned his head just enough to glare at Daemon. "Whose tonic?"

"Jaenelle's—with my blood added."

Saetan swore softly, viciously, with great sincerity.

Daemon winced and muttered, "She said it would kick like two teams of draft horses."

"Only someone who's never had to drink one of these little tonics would describe it that mildly."

Daemon went down on his knees in front of Saetan and busily undid the chains. "I couldn't search for your clothes, so I brought you these. They should fit well enough."

Saetan gritted his teeth as Daemon massaged his legs and feet. "Where did you get them?"

"Off a guard. He won't be needing them."

"Damn things probably have lice."

"Deal with it," Daemon growled. Taking a ball of clay out of his jacket pocket, he rolled it into a stubby cylinder, then carefully forced the Ring of Obedience to open enough to slide off Saetan's organ. It clamped down on the clay with the same viciousness it had clamped down on flesh.

Setting the cylinder on the bed, Daemon glanced at Saetan's organ and sucked in a breath.

"It doesn't matter," Saetan said quietly. "I'm a Guardian. I'm past that part of my life."

"But—" Daemon pressed his lips together. "Get these on." After helping Saetan into the trousers, he knelt again to deal with the socks and boots. "It's almost midnight. We'll be cutting it close since we've got to cover a bit of ground in order to reach the nearest strand of the Winds. But in a few more hours, we'll be at the Keep. We'll be home."

The desperate eagerness in Daemon's eyes tore the veil off the vision.

Two webs. One moldy, tainted. The other beautiful, full of shining beads of power.

She had found a way to separate those who lived by the ways of the Blood from those who had been perverted by Hekatah and Dorothea.

But the third web.

She was a Queen, and a Queen wouldn't ask for what she herself wouldn't give. And perhaps it was also the only selfish thing she'd ever done. By sacrificing herself, she wouldn't have to carry the burden of all the lives she was about to destroy. But...

He doesn't know. You didn't tell him. He came here expecting you to be waiting for him when he got back. Oh, witch-child.

Which is why she had asked him to take care of Daemon, why she had known he would need to.

Maybe it wasn't too late. Maybe there was still a way to stop it, to stop her.

"Let's go," he said abruptly.

Daemon put a sight shield over both of them, and they slipped away from the camp.

By the time they reached the place where they could catch the Winds, a cold, sharp wind had begun to blow.

Saetan stopped, drew a breath through his mouth, tasted the air.

"It's just the wind," Daemon said.

"No," Saetan replied grimly, "it's not. Let's go."

Two hours later, Hekatah burst into Dorothea's cabin, waving a stubby clay cylinder. "We've been tricked. They're all gone. That thing in the prison hut isn't Lucivar, it's some kind of illusion. And Saetan ..." She hurled the cylinder across the room. "That bastard Sadi lied to us."

Lying on the floor where she'd been all day, Dorothea stared at Hekatah. As her bowels released more bloody flux, she started to laugh.

A storm had been gathering all night—thunder, lightning, wind. Now, as dawn approached, the wind had turned fierce, sounding almost as if it had a voice. "Come," Tersa said, helping Karla over to a couch. "You must lie down now. Morghann, come over here and lie on the floor."

"What's going on?" Khardeen asked as Morghann obediently lay down on the floor near the couch. He retrieved a pillow and slipped it under his wife's head.

"It would be better for all of you to sit on the floor. Even the Keep will feel this storm."

The First Circle glanced at each other uneasily and obeyed.

"What is it?" Karla asked when Tersa placed an arm protectively over her and rested the other hand on Morghann's shoulder.

"The day has come for the debts to be called in and for the Blood to answer for what they've become."

"I don't understand," Karla said. "What does the storm mean?"

Lightning flashed. The wind howled.

Tersa closed her eyes—and smiled. "She is coming."

He'd cut it too close. He hadn't expected the ride on the Winds to be that rough or that Saetan's physical endurance would give out so fast—or his own. They'd had to drop from the Red Wind to the Sapphire and finally, on the last part of the journey, down to the Green.

They couldn't land at the Keep itself. Some kind of shields had come down all around the place. So he'd homed in on Lucivar's Ebon-gray Jewel—and the one small place in the shields that Lucivar was using his Jewels to keep open—and dropped them from the Winds as close as he could. It hadn't been close enough, not for two exhausted men trying to scramble up a steep mountain path.

Now, with the gate in sight and Lucivar's mental urging to hurry, Daemon half carried Saetan up the slope, fighting a fierce, howling wind for every step.

Almost there. Almost. Almost.

The sky was getting lighter. The sun would lift above the horizon at any moment.

Hurry. Hurry.

"Saetan! SAE-TANNNN!"

Daemon looked behind them. Hekatah was scrambling up the slope. The bitch must have ridden the Red Wind all the way in order to get there right behind them.

Not wasting his breath to swear, he picked up the pace as best as could, dragging Saetan with him.

"Sadi!" Hekatah screamed. "You lying bastard!"

"MOVE!" Lucivar shouted. He was using Craft to hold the gate open, straining physically and mentally to keep it from closing and locking them out.

Closer. Almost there. Almost.

Daemon grabbed the bars of the gate, used the strength in his Black Jewel to hold it open. "Get him inside," he said, shoving Saetan at Lucivar. Then he turned and waited.

Hekatah came up the slope, stopped a few feet away. "You lying bastard."

Daemon smiled. "I didn't lie, darling. I told you you were going to get everything you deserved." He let go of the gate. It slammed shut, and the last shield came down over it.

As he turned and ran across the open courtyard, he heard Hekatah screaming. And he heard a wild howling, a sound full of joy and pain, rage and celebration.

He crossed the threshold into the safety of the Keep a moment before Jaenelle unleashed the maelstrom.

*You musst wake,* said a deep, sibilant voice. *You musst wake.*

Daemon opened his eyes. It took him a moment to understand why everything looked a little... strange... and readjust. It took him another moment to confirm that he was still distantly linked to his body—and that his body was lying on the cold stone floor of the Keep where he and Lucivar and Saetan had fallen when Jaenelle unleashed her full strength.

*You are the triangle who helped sshape the web of dreamss. Now you musst hold the dream. There iss not much time.*

Groaning, he sat up and looked around. And was instantly wide-awake.

Mother Night, where are we?

He reached over Saetan's prone body and shook Lucivar.

*Hell's fire, Bastard,* Lucivar said. He raised his head. *Shit.*

Both of them reached for Saetan, shook him awake.

*Father, wake up. We're in trouble,* Daemon said.

*Now what?* Saetan growled. He raised himself up on his elbows. His eyes widened. *Mother Night.*

*And may the Darkness be merciful,* Lucivar added. *Where are we?*

*Somewhere in the abyss. I think.*

Climbing carefully to their feet, they looked around.

They were standing on the edge of a deep, wide chasm. Stretching across the chasm was an Opal web. Below them were webs the colors of the darker Jewels. Above them were webs the colors of the lighter Jewels.

*What are we doing here?* Lucivar asked.

*We're the triangle who helped shape the dream,* Daemon said. *We're supposed to hold the dream.*

*Don't go cryptic on me, Bastard,* Lucivar growled.

Daemon snarled at him.

Saetan raised his hand. They both fell silent.

*Who told you that?* Saetan asked.

*A sibilant voice.* Daemon paused. *It sounded like Draca, but it was male.*

Saetan nodded. *Lorn.* He looked around again.

Far, far, far above them, lightning flashed.

*Why did Jaenelle ask you to come to Hayll, Daemon?* Saetan asked.

*She said that the triangle had to remain together in order to survive. That the mirror had the strength to keep the other two safe.*

*She saw that in a tangled web?*

*No. The Weaver of Dreams told her.*

Lucivar began to swear.

Saetan's look was sharp, penetrating, thoughtful.

The lightning flashed a little closer.

*Father, brother, lover,* Saetan said softly.

Daemon nodded, remembering the triangle Tersa had traced on his palm. *The father came first. The brother stands between.* When they both looked at him, he shifted uneasily. *Something Tersa said once.*

*Warnings from Tersa, the Arachnian Queen, and Draca,* Saetan said. *A man might ignore one at his own peril, but all three?* He shook his head slowly. *I think not.*

The lightning flashed a little closer.

*That's all well and good,* Lucivar growled, *but I would prefer a straightforward order.*

*Thesse webss are the besst magic I can give you,* Lorn said irritably. *Usse them to hold the dream. If sshe breakss through all of them, sshe will return to the Darknesss. You will losse her.*

Lucivar puffed out a breath. *That's clear enough. So where—* He looked up as the lightning flashed again. *What's that?*

They all looked up, waited for the next flash—and saw the small dark speck plummeting toward the webs.

*Jaenelle,* Daemon whispered.

*She'll rip right through them,* Saetan said. *We'll have to use our own strength to try to slow her speed.*

*All right,* Lucivar said. *How do we go?*

Saetan looked at Daemon, then at Lucivar. *Father, brother, lover.* He didn't wait for an answer. He exploded upward, racing to intercept Witch before she hit the White web.

Lucivar watched for a moment, then turned to the webs, his eyes narrowed. *If she hits them in the center, she'll break through them. So we'll roll her.* He clamped a hand on Daemon's shoulder, pointed with the other hand. *Not so close to the edge that you'll risk hitting the chasm walls, but away from the center. Then twist and roll while you're using your own strength as a brake.*

Daemon looked at the webs. *What will that do?*

*For one thing, the counter-movement should slow the speed. And if she gets wrapped in the webs—*

*We'll form a cocoon of power.*

Lucivar nodded. *I’ll go up to the Rose. I don't know how much strength Saetan has left. If he's still able to hold her, I can add my strength to his. If not ... *

*Where should I be?* Daemon asked, willing to defer to Lucivar's ability and fighting experience.

*The Green. I should be able to hold her that far.* Lucivar hesitated. *Good luck, Bastard.*

*And you, Prick.*

Lucivar soared upward.

A moment later, Daemon heard Saetan's roar of defiance as the White web shattered. In the flash, he could see two small figures falling, falling.

He floated down to the Green web.

The Yellow web shattered. Then the Tiger Eye.

He heard Lucivar's war cry.

As the Rose web shattered, he saw a twirl of color as Lucivar rolled, fighting against the speed of the fall.

They hit the Summer-sky. Holding on to Witch's legs, Lucivar rolled the other way, catching most of the web before they crashed through.

The Purple Dusk. The Opal.

Daemon met him halfway between the Opal and the Green.

*Let go, Prick, before you shatter the Ebon-gray.*

With a cry that was part defiant, part pain, and part fear, Lucivar let go.

Rage filled Daemon. Love drove him. He and Witch hit the Green web. He rolled, but he didn't have Lucivar's skill. They broke through close to the middle of the web. He kept rolling so that when they hit the Sapphire, they were close to the edge. He rolled the other way, wrapping her in the web's power.

They broke through the Sapphire, but they weren't falling as fast now. He had a little more time to brace, to plan, to pour the strength of his Black Jewels into fighting the fall.

They hit the Red, rolled, clung for a second before falling to the Gray. Only half the Gray strands broke immediately. He strained back as hard as he could. When the other half broke, he rolled them upward while the web swung them down toward the Ebon-gray. He pulled against the swing, slowing it, slowing it.

When the other side of the Gray broke, they sailed down to the Ebon-gray. The web sagged when they landed, then stretched, then stretched a little more before the strands began to break.

His Black Jewels were almost drained, but he held on, held on, held on as they floated onto the Black web.

And nothing happened.

Shaking, shivering, Daemon stared at the Black web, not quite daring to believe.

It took him a minute to get his hands to unlock from their grip. When he was finally able to let go, he floated cautiously above the web. Near her shoulder, he noticed two small broken strands. Very carefully, he smoothed the Black strands over the other colors that cocooned her.

He could barely see her, only just enough to make out the tiny spiral horn. But that was enough. *We did it,* he whispered as his eyes filled. *We did it.*

*Yess,* Lorn said very quietly. *You have done well.* Daemon looked up, looked around. When he looked back at Witch, she faded. Everything faded.

Saetan opened his eyes, tried to move, and found himself trapped by two warm bodies curled up around him. His sons.

Oh, witch-child. I hope it was worth the price.

He tried to move again, growled when he couldn't, and finally jabbed Lucivar with an elbow.

Lucivar just growled back and cuddled closer.

He shoved at Lucivar again because he couldn't, even in this small way, push Daemon aside. Not now.

Lucivar's growl turned into a snarl, but he finally stirred. And that woke Daemon.

"I'm delighted you find me such a comfortable pillow," Saetan said dryly, "but a man my age prefers not to sleep on a cold stone floor."

"Neither does a man my age," Lucivar grumbled, getting to his feet. He rolled his shoulders, stretched his back.

Daemon sat up with a groan.

Watching him, Saetan saw the light fill Daemon's eyes, the joy, the eagerness. It broke his heart.

He accepted Daemon's help in getting to his feet—and noted Lucivar's coolness toward his brother. That would change. Would have to change. But Lucivar wouldn't be approachable until he'd seen Marian and Daemonar, so there was no point in sparking that Eyrien temper. Besides, he was too damn tired to take on Lucivar right now.

As he walked to the doors, they fell into step on either side of him.

Twilight. The whole day had passed.

They walked across the open courtyard. Lucivar opened the gate.

A gust of wind made something flutter, catching Saetan's attention. A scrap of cloth from a woman's gown. Hekatah's gown.

He didn't mention it.

"I don't have the strength right now," he said quietly. "Would you two..."

Lucivar looked toward the south, Daemon toward the north. After a minute, their faces had the same grim, deliberately calm expression.

"There are a few Blood," Daemon said slowly. "Not many."

"The same," Lucivar said.

A few. Only a few. Sweet Darkness, let them get a different answer in Kaeleer. "Let's go home."

He felt the difference as soon as they walked through the Gate between the Realms. When they walked out of the Altar Room, Daemon and Lucivar both looked in the direction that would lead them to the First Circle—and the others.

He turned in the opposite direction, not quite ready to deal with what was going to come. "Come with me." Reluctantly, they obeyed.

He led them to a low-walled terrace that overlooked Riada, the closest Blood village.

Daemon looked down at the village. Lucivar looked in the direction of the Eyrien community.

Daemon sighed with relief. "I don't know how many people had lived there yesterday, but there are still a lot of Blood there."

"Falonar!" Lucivar cried. He looked at them and grinned. "The whole community. They're all right. Badly shaken up, but all right."

"Thank the Darkness," Saetan whispered. The tears came, as much from pride as grief. Prothvar had said it was a different kind of battlefield but a good one to fight on. He'd been right. It was a worthy battlefield. Instead of seeing more friends join the demon-dead, they had gone knowing those friends would live. Char, Dujae, Morton, Titian, Cassandra, Prothvar, Mephis, Andulvar. He would miss them. Mother Night, how he would miss them. "And the Blood shall sing to the Blood. You sang the song well, my friends. You sang it well."

He would have to tell Lucivar and Daemon—and Surreal—about this, too. But not yet. Not now.

He dreaded it, but he knew he couldn't hold either of them back much longer. "Come on, puppies. I'm sure the coven's going to have a few things to say about this."

It was worse than he'd expected.

The coven and the boyos fell all over Lucivar, who had his arms wrapped around Marian and Daemonar. Daemon they greeted with cool reserve. Except Karla, who had said, "Kiss kiss," and then had kissed him. And Surreal, who had given Daemon a cool stare, and said, "You look like shit, Sadi." He would have lashed out at her for that if Daemon hadn't commented dryly that her compliments were as effusive as ever—and if she hadn't grinned at the remark.

And Tersa, who had held her son's face between her hands and looked into his eyes. "It will be all right, Daemon," she had said gently. "Trust one who sees. It will be all right."

Saetan wasn't sure Daemon noticed the coolness, wasn't sure he even noticed who had greeted him and who hadn't. His eyes kept scanning the room for someone who wasn't there—someone who wasn't going to be there.

He was trying to think of a reasonable excuse to get Daemon away from the others when Geoffrey appeared at the door. "Your presence is requested at the Dark Throne. Draca would like to see you."

As they filed out of the room, Saetan stepped in beside Lucivar. "Stay close to your brother," he said quietly.

"I think it would be better—"

"Don't think, Prince, just follow orders."

Lucivar gave him a measuring look, then moved ahead to catch up with Daemon.

Surreal tucked her arm through his. "Lucivar's pissed?"

"That's one way of putting it," Saetan replied dryly.

"If you think it will help, I could give him a good kick in the balls. Although I have a feeling that when Marian realizes what he's pissed about, she'll do a better job than either of us can."

Saetan let out a groaning chuckle. "Now that will be interesting." Then he sobered. "Daemon played the same game with you."

"Yes, he did. But sometimes the best way to fool an enemy is to convince a friend."

"Your mother said almost the same thing to me once— after she punched me."

"Really?" Surreal smiled. "It must run in the family."

He decided it was better not to ask her to clarify that.

Baffled, Daemon waited for whatever announcement Draca was going to make. Not that it mattered. He would have to slip away to Amdarh in the next few days, talk to that jeweler, Banard, about designing a wedding ring for Jaenelle. He'd gotten her some earrings there for Winsol and had liked what he'd seen of the man's work.

Her birthday would be coming up soon. Would she mind having a wedding on her birthday? Well, maybe he would. He didn't really want to share the celebration of their wedding day with anything else. But they could have it soon after that. She would still be tired, still be recovering from this spell, but they could find a quiet place for the honeymoon. It didn't matter where.

Where was she? Maybe she was already in her room, recovering. Maybe that's what Draca was going to tell them—that Jaenelle had prevented the war, that Kaeleer was safe. As soon as this announcement was over, he'd slip up to her room and snuggle in next to her. Well, he'd take a bath first. He wasn't exactly smelling his best at the moment.

Where was she?

Then he looked at Lorn and felt a flicker of uneasiness.

No. They had saved her. The triangle had saved her. She'd expended so much of herself, had risen so far out of herself she'd been plummeting back down, but they had stopped the fall. They had stopped the fall.

Lucivar came up beside him, close enough to brush shoulders with him. Saetan stepped up on his other side with Surreal close by.

Draca picked something up from the Throne's seat, hesitated, then turned to face them.

Daemon froze.

She was holding Jaenelle's scepter. But the metal was all twisted, and the two Ebony Jewels were shattered. Not just drained. Shattered. So was the spiral horn.

"The Queen of Ebon Asskavi iss gone," Draca said quietly. "The Dark Court no longer existss."

Someone began screaming. A scream full of panic, rage, denial, pain.

It wasn't until Lucivar and Saetan grabbed him and held him back that he realized the person who was screaming was himself.

"What was the point of it?" Gabrielle demanded angrily while the tears fell unheeded. "What was the point of offering the memories if they weren't going to do any good?"

Surreal raked her fingers through her hair and decided smacking someone probably wasn't going to help much. Well, it would make her feel better. Thank the Darkness she and Uncle Saetan had been able to heavily sedate Daemon. He couldn't have tolerated any of this right now.

She would have liked to have found out more about this memory thing, but she was more intrigued by the fact that Tersa seemed too calm and undisturbed—and also a little angry. It would take someone mucking up something very important to make Tersa angry.

"Yes, Tersa," Karla said testily, "what was the point?"

"Blood is the memory's river. And the Blood shall sing to the Blood," Tersa replied.

Gabrielle said something succinct and obscene.

"Shut up, Gabrielle," Surreal snapped.

Tersa was sitting on the long table in front of the couch, next to a pile of wooden building blocks. Surreal crouched down beside her. "What were the memories for?" she asked quietly.

Tersa brushed her tangled hair away from her face. "To feed the web of dreams. It was no longer complete. It had lived, it had grown."

"But she's gone!" Morghann wailed.

"The Queen is gone," Tersa said with some heat. "Is that all she was to you?"

"No," Karla said. "She was Jaenelle. That was enough."

"Exactly," Tersa said. "It is still enough."

Surreal jolted, hardly daring to hope. She touched Tersa's hand, waited until she was sure she had the woman's attention. "The Queen is gone, but Jaenelle isn't?"

Tersa hesitated. "It's too soon to know. But the triangle kept the dream from returning to the Darkness, and now the kindred are fighting to hold the dream to the flesh."

That brought protests from Gabrielle and Karla.

"Wait a minute," Gabrielle said, glancing at Karla, who nodded. "If Jaenelle is hurt and needs a Healer, she should have us."

"No," Tersa said, her anger breaking free. "She should not have you. You could not look at what was done to that flesh and believe it could still live. But the kindred do not doubt. The kindred will not believe anything else. That is why, if it can be done, they are the ones who can do it." She jumped up and ran out of the room.

Surreal waited a moment, then followed. She didn't find Tersa, but she found Graysfang hovering nearby, whining anxiously.

She studied the wolf. Kindred do not doubt. They would sink in and fight for that dream with fangs and claws and never give it up. Well, she would never have a snout that could smell tracks, but she could damn well learn how to be as stubborn as a wolf. She would sink her teeth into the belief that Jaenelle was simply recovering somewhere private after performing an extremely difficult spell. She would sink in and hold on to that.

For Jaenelle's sake.

For Daemon's sake.

And for her own sake, because she wanted her friend to come back.

Chapter Sixteen

Daemon walked down the steps that led to the garden in the Hall, the garden that had two statues.

When he woke up from the sedative Surreal and Saetan had given him, he had asked to leave the Keep. They had gone with him. So had Tersa.

Lucivar hadn't.

That had been a week ago.

He wasn't sure what he'd done during the days since. They had simply passed. And at night...

At night, he crept from his own bed into Jaenelle's because it was the only place he could sleep. Her scent was there, and in the dark, he could almost believe that she was simply away for a little while, that he would wake one morning and find her cuddled up next to him.

He stared at the statue of the male, with its paw/hand curved protectively above the sleeping woman. Part human, part beast. Savagery protecting beauty. But now he saw something else in its eyes: the anguish, the price that sometimes had to be paid.

He turned away from it, walked over to the other statue, stared at the woman's face—that familiar, beloved face— for a long, long time.

The tears came—again. The pain was always there.

"Tersa keeps telling me that it will be all right, to trust one who sees," he told the statue. "Surreal keeps telling me not to give up, that the kindred will be able to bring you back. And I want to believe that. I need to believe that. But when I ask Tersa about you directly, she hesitates, says it's too soon to know, says the kindred are fighting to hold the dream to the flesh. Fighting to hold the dream to the flesh." He laughed bitterly. "They're not fighting to hold the dream to flesh, Jaenelle. They're fighting to put enough of you together again for there to be something for the dream to come back to. And you knew what would happen, didn't you? When you decided to do this, you knew."

He paced, circled, came back to the statue.

"I did it for you," he said quietly. "I bought the time, I played the game. For you." His breathing hitched, came out in a sob. "I knew I would have to do some things that wouldn't be forgiven. I knew it when you asked me to go to Hayll, but I did it anyway. F-for you. Because I was going to come back to you, and the rest of it wouldn't matter. B-because I was coming back to you. But you sent me there knowing you wouldn't be here when I got back, knowing..." He sank to his knees. "You said no sacrifices. You made me promise I wouldn't make any sacrifices. But what do you call this, Jaenelle? What do you call this? When I got back, we were going to get m-married.... And you left me. Damn you, Jaenelle, I did this for you, and you left me. You left me."

He collapsed on the grass near the statue, sobbing.

Lucivar rested a fist against the stone wall and bowed his head.

Mother Night. Daemon had gone into that game expecting to come back for his own wedding. Mother Night.

He was here because Marian had ripped into him that morning, giving him the full thrust of the temper that lived beneath her quiet nature. She'd told him that, yes, he'd been hurt, but he'd been hurt to save them. She'd asked him if he would have preferred losing a wife or son in truth in order for his feelings to be spared. And she'd told him that the man she had married would have the courage to forgive.

That had brought him here.

But now...

When they'd both been slaves in Terreille, he and Daemon had played games before, had used each other, had hurt each other. Sometimes they'd done it to relieve their own pain, sometimes it had been for a better reason. But they'd always been able to look past those games and forgive the hurt because there had been no one else. They'd fought with each other, but they'd also fought for each other.

He had other people now, a wider circle to love. A wife, a son. Maybe that had made the difference. He didn't need Daemon. But, Hell's fire, Daemon needed him right now.

But it was more than that. Thirteen years ago, he had wrongfully accused Daemon of killing Jaenelle. That had been the first hard shove that had ended with Daemon spending eight years in the Twisted Kingdom, lost in madness. And Daemon had forgiven him because, he'd said, he'd already grieved for a brother once and didn't want to do it again.

Daemon had believed a painful lie for thirteen years. He'd believed one for a couple of days. Marian had been right to rip into him.

So he would do what he could to mend things, for his own sake as well as for Daemon's. Because, during those long centuries of slavery when they'd had no one but each other, their anger had sometimes flared to moments of hate, but underneath there had always been love.

Pushing away from the wall, Lucivar walked down the steps, knelt in the grass beside Daemon. He touched his brother's shoulder.

Daemon looked at him out of a face devastated by grief before lunging into the open arms.

"I want her back," Daemon cried. "Oh, Lucivar, I want her back."

Lucivar held on tight as his own tears fell. "I know, old son. I know."

"You're leaving!" Lucivar leaped to his feet and stared at Saetan. "What do you mean, 'leaving'? To go where?" Pacing behind the two chairs in front of the blackwood desk, he pointed an accusing finger at his father. "You are not going to the Dark Realm. There's no one left there. And you are not going to be alone."

"Lucivar," Saetan said quietly. "Lucivar, please listen."

"When the sun shines in Hell."

*Prick,* Daemon said on an Ebon-gray spear thread.

*And why in the name of Hell are you just sitting there?* Lucivar demanded. *He's your father, too.*

Daemon bit back exasperation. *Let him talk, Prick. If we don't like what we hear, then we'll do something about it.* "You're leaving because of Sylvia?" he asked Saetan.

Lucivar froze, swore softly, then settled back into the chair.

"That's part of it," Saetan said. "A Guardian isn't meant to be among the living. Not that way." He hesitated, then added, "If I stay... I can't stay and be a friend and encourage her to... She deserves to be with someone who can give her more than I can now."

"You could come to Ebon Rih and live with us," Lucivar said.

"Thank you, Lucivar, but no. I've..." Saetan took a deep breath. "I've been offered a position at the Keep as assistant historian/librarian. Geoffrey says he's starting to feel his years, and it's my fault that he's had more work now than he's ever had because I'm the one who introduced the coven to the Keep's library, and it's time I started making myself useful."

"The Keep is only a mountain away from our eyrie," Lucivar said.

"You will not bring Daemonar to the library."

Lucivar gave Saetan a sharp smile. "Did you bring me there when I was his age?"

"Once," Saetan said dryly. "And Geoffrey still reminds me of that little adventure on occasion." He glanced at Daemon. "I'll come and visit both of you, just to find out how much trouble you're causing."

Daemon felt a tension ease. He wanted to see his father, but not at Ebon Askavi. He would never again set foot in the Keep.

"The family owns three counties in Dhemlan," Saetan said. "I've divided them between you. Daemon, I'm giving you the Hall and all the land and titles that go with it. Lucivar, you'll have the land that's near the Askavi border. The other property you'll own together."

"I don't need land," Lucivar protested.

"You're still the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih because the people want you to be the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih. But Daemonar may not want to rule—or you may have other sons or daughters who want a different kind of life. You'll be the caretaker of that land because the SaDiablo family has been the caretaker of that land for thousands of years. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," Lucivar said quietly.

"And you?" Saetan said, pointedly looking at Daemon.

"Yes, sir," he replied just as quietly. Well, that explained why Saetan had insisted on spending the past two months teaching him the family business. He'd thought it was just a way to keep him occupied and too busy to think too much.

He'd welcomed the work, especially when he realized that Saetan had shouldered the burden of helping Geoffrey with a far more difficult task. He and Lucivar had been told the results, but he knew he couldn't have tolerated accumulating the information.

Over forty percent of the Blood in Terreille were gone. Completely gone. Another thirty percent had been broken back to basic Craft. The Blood who were left in Terreille were reeling from the devastation—and the sudden freedom.

He hadn't asked what had happened to Alexandra, Leland, and Philip—and Saetan hadn't offered the information. Or if he had, it had only been to Wilhelmina.

The numbers were about the same in Little Terreille as they were for the Realm of Terreille. But the rest of Kaeleer was mostly untouched—except for Glacia. Karla was struggling to reunite her people and re-form her court. The taint Dorothea and Hekatah had spread in the Blood might have been destroyed, but the scars remained.

Everything has a price.

"What about Jaenelle's house in Maghre?" Lucivar asked.

Daemon shook his head. "Let Wilhelmina have it. She's decided to settle in Scelt, and—"

"The house was leased for Jaenelle," Saetan said firmly. "It remains for Jaenelle. If you have no objections to Wilhelmina living there until she finds a place of her own, so be it."

Daemon backed down. He loved that house, too, but he wasn't sure he could ever live there again. And he wasn't really sure if Saetan truly believed Jaenelle was coming back or if his father just wasn't willing to do anything that would acknowledge that she wasn't. After all, it had been two months now with no news of any kind, just Tersa's continued—and useless—assurance that it would be all right. "Is that it?"

He read the message in Saetan's eyes. "I'll be with you in a minute," he said to Lucivar when his brother rose and looked at him.

When they were alone, Saetan said carefully, "I know how you feel about Ebon Askavi now."

Daemon rushed in. "I truly hope you will come to visit, Father, because I'll never set foot in the Keep again."

Saetan said gently, "You have to go one more time. Draca wants to see you."

"There iss ssomething I want to sshow you." Draca unlocked a door and stepped aside.

Daemon walked into a huge room that was a portrait gallery. Dozens upon dozens of paintings hung on the walls.

At first, he saw only one. The last one.

Unable to look at it, he turned his back to it and began to study the rest of them in order. Some were very, very old, but all of them had been exquisitely done. As he slowly walked around the room, he realized the portraits spanned the species who made up the Blood—and they were all female.

When he reached the last one, he studied Jaenelle's portrait for a long time, then looked at the signature. Dujae. Of course.

He turned and looked at Draca.

"They were all dreamss made flessh, Prince," Draca said gently. "Some only had one kind of dreamer, otherss were a bridge. Thesse were Witch."

"But—" Daemon looked at the portraits again. "I don't see Cassandra's portrait here."

"Sshe wass a Black-Jeweled witch, the Queen of Ebon Asskavi. But sshe wass not Witch. Sshe wass not dreamss made flessh."

He shook his head. "Witch wears the Black. She's always a Black-Jeweled Queen."

"No. That iss not alwayss the dream, Daemon. There have been quiet dreamss and sstrong dreamss. There have been Queenss and ssongmakerss." She paused, waited. "Your dream wass to be Conssort to the Queen of Ebon Asskavi. Iss that not true?"

Daemon's heart began to pound. "I thought they were the same. I thought Witch and the Queen of Ebon Askavi were the same."

"And if they are not?"

Tears stung his eyes. "If they hadn't been the same, if I'd had to choose between the Queen and Jaenelle ... I never would have set foot in this place. Excuse me, Draca. "

He started to rush past her, but he saw her hand move as if to hold him back. He could have avoided her easily, but, being who she was, he couldn't be that disrespectful.

Her ancient hand moved slowly, came to rest on his arm.

"The Queen of Ebon Asskavi iss gone," she said very quietly. "But sshe who iss Kaeleer'ss Heart, sshe who iss Witch, sstill livess."

"You'll take the income I've provided for you," Saetan snarled as he and Surreal walked through one of the Hall's gardens. He'd thought this would be a simple task, something to occupy a bit of time while he waited for Daemon to return from the Keep.

Surreal snarled back. "I don't need a damn income from you."

He stopped and turned on her. "Are you or are you not family?"

She stepped up to him until they were toe to toe. "Yes, I'm family, but—"

"Then take the damn income!" he shouted.

"Why?" she shouted back.

"Because I love you!" he roared. "And I want to give you that much."

She swore at him.

Hell's fire, why were his children all so stubborn!

He leashed his temper. "It's a gift, Surreal. Please take it."

She hooked her hair behind her ears. "If you're going to put it that way..."

A wolf raised its voice in an odd series of yips and howls.

"That's not Graysfang," Surreal said.

Saetan tensed. "No. It's one of the pack from the north woods."

Worry filled her eyes. "One of them has come back? Why does it sound like that?"

"The Tigre use drums to signal messages—just for fun things, a dance, an impromptu gathering," Saetan replied absently. "The wolves became intrigued by it and developed a few particular howls of their own."

The same series of yips and howls came again.

"Graysfang could have mentioned that," Surreal grumbled. "What's that one mean?"

"It means there's a message that should be heeded."

The wolf raised its voice again in a different song. Then another wolf joined in. And another. And another.

Listening, he started to cry—and laugh. There was only one reason the wolves raised their voices in quite that way.

Surreal gripped his arm. "Uncle Saetan, what is it?"

"It's a song of celebration. Jaenelle has come back."

It was early autumn, almost a year since he'd first come to Kaeleer.

Daemon carefully landed the small Coach in the meadow and stepped out. At the edge of the meadow, Ladvarian waited for him.

For weeks, he had raged and pleaded, begged and sworn. It hadn't done any good. Draca had insisted that she didn't know exactly where the kindred had hidden Jaenelle. She had also insisted that the healing was still very delicate and a strong presence—and difficult emotions—could easily interfere. Finally, exasperated, she had suggested that he make himself useful.

So he'd thrown himself into work. And every evening he had written a letter to Jaenelle, telling her about his day, pouring out his love. Two or three times a week, he went to the Keep and annoyed Draca.

Now, finally, the message had come. The kindred had done all they could. The healing wasn't complete, but the rest would take time, and she should be in a warm human den now.

So he'd been told where to bring the Coach that would take Jaenelle back to the Hall.

He crossed the meadow, stopped a few feet in front of Ladvarian. The Sceltie looked too thin, but there was joy— and wariness—in the brown eyes.

"Ladvarian," Daemon said quietly, respectfully.

*Daemon.* Ladvarian shifted uneasily. *Human males... Some human males pay too much attention to the outside.*

He understood the warning, heard the fear. And now he understood why they hadn't let him come sooner—they'd been afraid he wouldn't be able to stand what he saw. They were still afraid.

"It doesn't matter, Ladvarian," he said gently. "It doesn't matter."

The Sceltie studied him. *She is very fragile.*

"I know." Draca had drummed that into him before she'd let him come.

*She sleeps a lot.*

He smiled dryly. "I've hardly slept at all."

Satisfied, Ladvarian turned. *This way. Be careful. There are many guard webs.*

Looking around, he saw the tangled webs that could ensnare a person's mind and draw him into peculiar dreams— or hideous nightmares.

He walked carefully.

They walked for several minutes before they came to a path that led to a sheltered cove. A large tent was set up well back from the waterline. The colored fabric would keep out most of the sun but seemed loosely woven enough to let in air.

Closer to the water were several poorly made sand casties. Watching Kaelas trying to pack sand with one of those huge paws made him smile.

The front flaps of the tent were pulled back, revealing the woman sleeping inside. She wore a long skirt of swirling colors. The amethyst-colored shirt was unbuttoned and had slid to her sides, displaying her from the waist up.

Daemon took one look at her and bolted away from the tent.

He stopped a few yards away and just tried to draw a normal breath while his stomach twisted wildly.

The kindred had done their very best. They had given months of focused, single-minded devotion to produce this much healing. He never ever wanted to know what she had looked like when they had brought her here.

He felt Ladvarian come up behind him. Since the Sceltie had seen what she had looked like, the dog probably couldn't understand his reaction. "Ladvarian..."

*She rose from the healing webs too soon,* Ladvarian said in a voice that was bitter and accusing. *Because of you.*

Daemon turned slowly, his heart bleeding from the verbal wound.

*We tried to tell her you weren't hurt. We tried to tell her that she had to stay down in the healing webs longer. We tried to tell her that the Stra—that Tersa would tell you that she was coming back, that the High Lord would take care of his pup. But she kept saying that you were hurting and that she had promised. She stayed in the webs long enough for her insides to heal and then she rose. But when she saw...*

Daemon closed his eyes. No. Sweet Darkness, no. She would have been in pain, would have suffered. And she wouldn't have if she'd stayed down in the healing webs.

"Tersa did tell me," he said in a broken voice. "Over and over again. But... all I knew for certain was that Jaenelle had promised to marry me and then had left me, and..." He couldn't go on.

*Maybe we could have told you,* Ladvarian said reluctantly after a long silence. *We didn't think humans would believe that she could heal—at least, wouldn't believe enough. But, maybe, if we had told you about all the webs, you could have believed.*

Not likely. No matter how much he would have wanted to believe, the doubts would have crept in—and might have destroyed everything he wanted to save. "Tersa told me it would be all right. I didn't listen."

More silence. Then, *It is hard to listen when your paw is caught in a trap.*

That understanding, that much forgiveness, hurt. He looked at the Sceltie, needing to see the truth. "Ladvarian... did I cripple her?"

*No,* Ladvarian said gently. *She will heal, Prince. She is healing more and more every day. It will just take longer.*

Daemon walked back to the tent, stepped inside.

This time, he only saw Jaenelle.

*She's all there,* Ladvarian said anxiously.

Nodding, Daemon slipped off his shoes and jacket, then carefully stretched out beside her, propped on one elbow so that he could look at her. He reached out, tentatively brushed his fingers over her short golden hair, almost afraid to touch even that much. She was so fragile. So terribly, terribly fragile. But alive.

*We had to crop her fur.*

Considering the condition she must have been in, it was a practical solution to grooming problems the kindred must have faced.

His fingers brushed over her cheek. Her face, although horribly thin, was the same.

Then he noticed the Jewel resting on her chest. At first, he thought it was a Purple Dusk. Then, in its depths, he saw glints of Rose, Summer-sky, and Opal. Green, Sapphire, and Red. Gray and Ebon-gray. And just a hint of Black.

*It's called Twilight's Dawn,* Ladvarian said. *There's no other Jewel like it.* Then the Sceltie retreated, leaving him alone with her.

He watched her while she slept. Just watched her. After a while, he found the courage to let his fingers explore a little.

Ladvarian was right. She was all there, but she was barely more than a thin sheath of skin over organs and bones.

As one finger delicately traced her nipple, he stopped, thought about the open shirt, then looked at the beach where Ladvarian stood near Kaelas, watching him. *She didn't know I was coming, did she?*

*No,* Ladvarian replied.

He didn't have to ask why. If he hadn't been able to accept what he saw, the kindred would never have told her he had come—and Ladvarian would have taken her somewhere else, to someone else to heal over the winter months.

He knew his answer to that. He loved her, and all he wanted was to be with her. But, despite what Ladvarian had said... because of what Ladvarian had said... he was no longer sure she would want him.

Then she stirred a little, and he knew he wasn't going anywhere unless she sent him away.

Carefully bracing himself so that he wouldn't hurt her, he leaned over and brushed his lips against hers.

He raised his head. Her haunted sapphire eyes stared at him.

"Daemon?" There was so much uncertainty in her voice.

"Hello, sweetheart," he said, his voice husky with the effort not to cry. "I've missed you."

Her hand moved slowly, with effort, until it rested against his face. Her lips curved into a smile. "Daemon."

This time, when she said his name, it sounded like a promise, like a lovely caress.