Heir to the Shadows

Saetan called in his half-moon glasses, settled them carefully on the bridge of his nose, and picked up the first sheet. "Let me read."



Mephis slammed his hands on the desk. "He's an obscenity!"



Saetan looked over his glasses at his eldest son, betraying none of the anger beginning to bloom. "Let me read, Mephis."



Mephis sprang away from the desk with a snarl and started pacing.



Saetan read the report and then read it again. Finally, he closed the file, vanished the glasses, and waited for Mephis to settle down.



Obscene was an inadequate word for Lord Menzar, the administrator of Halaway's school. Unfortunate accidents or illnesses had allowed Menzar to step into a position of authority at schools in several Districts in Dhemlan—accidents he couldn't be linked to, that had no scent of him. He always showed just enough deference to please, just enough self-assurance to convince others of his ability. And there he would be, carefully undercutting the ancient code of honor and snipping away at the fragile web of trust that bound men and women of the Blood.



What would happen to the Blood once that trust was destroyed? All one had to do was look at Terreille to see the answer.



Mephis stood before the desk, his hands clenched. "What are we going to do?"



"I'll take care of it, Mephis," Saetan said too softly. "If Menzar has been free to spread his poison this long, it's because I wasn't vigilant enough to detect him."



"What about all the Queens and their First Circles who also weren't vigilant enough to detect him when he was in their territories? You didn't ignore a warning that had been sent, younever got any warning until Sylvia came to you."



"The responsibility is still mine, Mephis." When Mephis



equal to Menzar's wages. The house is leased? Pay the lease for a five-year period."



Mephis crossed his arms. "Without the rent to pay, it will be more money than she's ever had at her disposal."



"It'll give her the time and the means to rest. There's no reason she should pay for her brother's crimes. If her wits have been buried beneath Menzar's manipulation, they'll surface. If she's truly incapable of taking care of herself, we'll make other arrangements."



Mephis looked troubled. "About the execution ..."



"I'll take care of it, Mephis." Saetan came around the desk and brushed his shoulder against his son's. "Besides, there's something else I want you to do." He waited until Mephis looked at him. "You still have the town house in Amdarh?"



"You know I do."



"And you still enjoy the theater?"



"Very much," Mephis said, puzzled. "I rent a box each season."



"Are there any plays that might intrigue a fifteen-year-old girl?"



Mephis smiled in understanding. "A couple of them next week."



Saetan's answering smile was chilling. "Well-timed, I think. An outing to Dhemlan's capital with her elder brother before her new tutors begin making demands on her time will suit our plans very well."



5 / Terreille



Lucivar's legs quivered from exhaustion and pain. Chained facing the back wall of his cell, he tried to rest his chest against it to lessen the strain on his legs, tried to ignore the tension in his shoulders and neck.



The tears came, slow and silent at first, then building into rib-squeezing, racking sobs of pent-up grief.



The surly guard had performed the beating. Not his back this time but his legs. Not a whip to cut, but a thick leather strap to pound against muscle stretched tight. Working to a slow drum rhythm, the guard had applied the strap with care, making each stroke overlap the one before so that no flesh was missed. Down and back, down and back. Except for the breath hissing between his teeth, Lucivar had made no sound. When it was finally done, he'd been hauled to his feet—feet too brutalized to take his weight—and fitted with Zuultah's latest toy: a metal chastity belt. It locked tight around his waist but the metal loop between his legs wasn't tight enough to cause discomfort. He'd puzzled over it for a moment before being forced to walk to his cell. There wasn't room for anything but the pain after that. And when he got to the cell, he understood only too well what was supposed to happen.



There was a new, thick-linked chain attached to the back wall. The bottom loop of the belt was pulled through a slot in the band around his waist, and the chain was locked to it. The chain wasn't long enough for him to do anything but stand, and if his legs buckled, it wouldn't be his waist absorbing his weight. No doubt Zuultah was being oiled and massaged while she waited for his scream of agony.



That wasn't reason enough to cry.



Slime mold had begun forming on his wings. Without a cleansing by a Healer, it would spread and spread until his wings were nothing more than greasy strings of membranous skin hanging from the frame. He couldn't spread his wings in the salt mine without being whipped, and now his hands were chained behind his back each night, locking his wings tight against a body coated with salt dust and dripping with sweat.



He'd told Daemon once he would rather lose his balls than his wings, and he had meant it.



But that wasn't reason enough to cry.



He hadn't seen the sun in over a year. Except for the few precious minutes each day when he was led from his cell to the salt mines and back again, he hadn't breathed clean air or felt a breeze against his skin. His world had become two dark, stinking holes—and a covered courtyard where he was stretched out on the stones and regularly beaten.



But that wasn't reason enough to cry.



He'd been punished before, beaten before, whipped before, locked in dark cells before. He'd been sold into service to cruel, twisted witches before. He'd always responded by fighting with all the savagery within him, becoming such a destructive force they'd send him back to Askavi in order to survive.



He hadn't once tried to escape from Pruul, hadn't once unleashed his volatile temper to rend and tear and destroy. Not that many years ago, Zuultah's and the guards' blood would have been splashed over the walls of this place and he would have stood in the rubble filling the night with an Eyrien battle cry of victory.



But that was when he'd still believed in the myth, the dream. That was when he'd still believed that one day he would meet the Queen who would accept him, understand him, value him. Meeting her had been his dream, a sweet, ever-blooming flower in his soul. The Lady of the Black Mountain. The Queen of Ebon Askavi. Witch.



Then the dream became flesh—and Daemon killed her.



That was reason to grieve. For the loss of the Lady he'd ached to serve, for the loss of the one man he thought he could trust.



Now there was only an emptiness, a despair so deep it covered his soul like the slime mold was covering his wings.



There was only one dream left.



The ache in his chest finally eased. Lucivar swallowed the last sob and opened his eyes.



He'd always known where he wanted to die and how he wanted to die. And it wasn't in the salt mines of Pruul.



Lucivar's legs vibrated from the strain. He sank his teeth into his lower lip until it bled. A couple more hours and the guards would release him to take him to the salt mines. More pain, more suffering.



He would whimper a little, cringe a little. Next week he would cringe a little more when a guard approached. Little by little they would forget what should never be forgotten about him. And then . . .



Lucivar smiled, his lips smeared with blood.



There was still a reason to live.



6 / Terreille



Dorothea SaDiablo stared at her Master of the Guard. "What do you mean you've called off the search?"



"He's not in Hayll, Priestess," Lord Valrik replied. "My men and I have searched every barn, every cottage, every Blood and landen village. We've been down every alley in every city. Daemon Sadi is not in Hayll,has not been in Hayll. I would stake my career on it."



Then you've lost."You called off the search without my consent."



"Priestess, I'd give my life for you, but we've been chasing shadows. No one has seen him, Blood or landens. The men are weary. They need to be home with their families for a while."



"And ten months from now an army of mewling brats will be testimony to how weary your men are."



Valrik didn't answer.



Dorothea paced, tapping her fingertips against her chin. "So he isn't in Hayll. Start searching the neighboring Territories and—"



"We've no right to make such a search in another Territory."



"All those Territories stand in Hayll's shadow. The Queens wouldn't dare deny you access to their lands."



"The authority of the Queens ruling those Territories is weak as it is. We can't afford to undermine it."



Dorothea turned away from him. He was right, damn him. But she had to get him to dosomething. "Then you leave me at the mercy of the Sadist," she said with a tearful quiver in her voice.



'Wo, Priestess," Valrik said strenuously. "I've talked to the Masters of the Guard in all the neighboring Territories, made them aware of his bestial nature. They understand their own young are at risk. If they find him in their Territory, he won't get out alive."



Dorothea spun around. "Inever gave you permission to kill him."



"He's a Warlord Prince. It's the only way we'll—"



"You must not kill him."



Dorothea swayed, pleased when Valrik put his arms around her and guided her to a chair. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pulled his head down until their foreheads touched. "His death would have repercussions for all of us. He must be brought back to Hayll alive. You must at least supervise the search in the other Territories."



Valrik hesitated, then sighed. "I can't. For your sake and the sake of Hayll ... I can't."



A good man. Older, experienced, respected, honorable.



Dorothea slid her right hand down his neck in a sensuous caress before driving her nails into his flesh and pumping all of her venom through the snake tooth.