Heir to the Shadows

Mephis gave her a warm hug. "It was a unique experience. Next time I'll be a little more prepared."



Jaenelle laughed. "You'd take me back to Amdarh?"



"Wouldn't dare let you go alone," Mephis grumped.



As soon as she was gone, Saetan slid an arm around Mephis's shoulders. "Come to my study. You could use a glass of yarbarah."



"I could use a year's sleep," Mephis grumbled.



Saetan led his eldest son to the leather couch and warmed a glass of yarbarah for him. Sitting on a footstool, Saetan rested Mephis's right foot on his thigh, removed the shoe and sock, and began a soothing foot massage. After a few silent minutes, Mephis roused enough to remember the yarbarah and take a sip.



Continuing his massage, Saetan said quietly, "So tell me."



"Where do you want me to start?"



Good question. "Do any of those packages contain clothes?" He couldn't keep the wistful note out of his voice.



Mephis's eyes gleamed wickedly. "One. She bought you a sweater." Then he yelped.



"Sorry," Saetan muttered, gently rubbing the just-squeezed toes while the mutter turned into a snarl. "I don't wear sweaters. I also don't wear nightshirts." He flinched as the words released more memories. Carefully setting Mephis's right foot down, he stripped off the left shoe and sock and began massaging that foot.



"It was difficult, wasn't it?" Mephis asked softly.



"It was difficult. But the debt's been paid." Saetan worked silently for another minute. "Why a sweater?"



Mephis sipped the yarbarah, letting the question hang. "She said you needed to slouch more, both physically and mentally."



Saetan's eyebrow snapped up.



"She said you'd never sprawl on the couch and take a nap if you were always dressed so formally."



Oh, Mother Night. "I'm not sure I know how to sprawl."



"Well, I heartily suggest you learn." Mephis sent the empty glass skimming through the air until it slid neatly onto a nearby table.



"You've got a mean streak in your nature, Mephis," Saetan growled. "What's in the damn packages?"



"Mostly books."



Saetan remembered not to squeeze the toes. "Books? Perhaps my old wits have gone begging, but I was under the impression we have a very large room full of books. Several, in fact. They're called libraries."



"Apparently not these kinds of books."



Saetan's stomach was full of butterflies. "What kind?"



"How should I know?" Mephis grumbled. "I didn'tsee most of them. I just paid for them. However . . ."



Saetan groaned.



". . . at every bookseller's shop—and we went to every one in Amdarh—the waif would ask for books about Tigrelan or Sceval or Pandar or Centauran, and when the booksellers showed her legends and myths about those places that were written by Dhemlan authors, she would politely—she was always polite, by the way—tell them she wasn't interested in books of legends unless they came directly from those people. Naturally the booksellers, and the crowd of customers that gathered during these discussions, would explain that those Territories were inaccessible places no one traded with. She would thank them for their help, and they, wanting to stay in her good graces and have continued access to my bank account, would say, 'Who is to say what is real and what is not? Who has seen these places?' And she would say, 'I have,' and pick up the books she'd already purchased and be out the door before the bookseller and customers could pick their jaws up from the floor."



Saetan groaned again.



"Want to hear about the music?"



Saetan released Mephis's foot and braced his head in his hands. "What about the music?"



"Dhemlan music stores don't have Scelt folk music or Pandar pipe music or . . ."



"Enough, Mephis." Saetan moaned. "They're all going to be on my doorstep wanting to know what kind of trade agreements might be possible with those Territories, aren't they?"



Mephis sighed, content. "I'm surprised we beat them here."



Saetan glared at his eldest son. "Didanything go as expected?"



"We had a delightful time at the theater. At least I'll be able to go backthere without being snarled at." Mephis leaned forward. "One other thing. About music." He clasped his hands and hesitated. "Have you ever heard Jaenelle sing?"



Saetan probed his memory and finally shook his head. "She's got a lovely speaking voice so I just assumed. . . . Don't tell me she's tone-deaf or sings off-key."



"No." There was a strange expression in Mephis's eyes. "She doesn't sing off-key. She. . . . When you hear her, you'll understand."



"Please, Mephis, no more surprises tonight."



Mephis sighed. "She sings witch songs ... in the Old Tongue."



Saetan raised his head. "Authentic witch songs?"



Mephis's eyes were teary bright. "Not like I've ever heard them sung before, but yes, authentic witch songs."



"But how—" Pointless to ask how Jaenelle knew what she knew. "I think it's time I went up to see our wayward child."



Mephis rose stiffly. He yawned and stretched. "If you find out what all that stuff is that I paid for, I'd like to know."



Saetan rubbed his temples and sighed.



"I bought you something. Did Mephis warn you?" "He mentioned something," Saetan replied cautiously. Her sapphire eyes twinkled as she solemnly handed him the box. Saetan opened it and held up the sweater. Soft, thick,



black with deep pockets. He stripped off his jacket and shrugged into the sweater.



"Thank you, witch-child." He vanished the box and sank gracefully to the floor, finally stretching out his legs and propping himself up on one elbow. "Sufficiently slouched?"



Jaenelle laughed and plopped down beside him. "Quite sufficient."



"What else did you get?"



She didn't quite look him in the eye. "I bought some books."



Saetan eyed the piles of neatly stacked books that formed a large half-circle around her. "So I see." Reading the nearest spines, he recognized most of the Craft books. Copies were either in the family library or in his own private library. Same with the books on history, art, and music. They were the beginning of a young witch's library.



"I know the family has most of these, but I wanted copies of my own. It's hard to make notes in someone else's book."



Saetan experienced a hitch in his breathing. Notes. Handwritten guides that would help explain those breathtaking leaps she made when she was creating a spell. And he wouldn't have access to them. He gave himself a mental shake.Fool. Just borrow the damn book.



It hit him then, a bittersweet sadness. She would want a collection of her own to take with her when she was ready to establish her own household. So few years to savor before the Hall was empty again.



He pushed those thoughts aside and turned to the other stacks, the fiction. These were more interesting since a perusal of her choices would tell him a lot about Jaenelle's tastes and immediate interests. Trying to find a common thread was too bewildering, so he simply filed away the information. He considered himself an eclectic reader. He had no idea how to describe her. Some books struck him as being too young for her, some too gritty. Some he passed over with little interest, others reminded him of how long it had been since he'd browsed through a bookseller's shop for his own amusement. Lots of books about animals.



"Quite a collection," he finally said, placing the last book



carefully on its stack. "What are those?" He pointed to the three books half-hidden under brown paper.



Blushing, Jaenelle mumbled, "Just books."



Saetan raised an eyebrow and waited.



With a resigned sigh, Jaenelle reached under the brown paper and thrust a book at him.



Odd. Sylvia had reacted much the same way when he'd called unexpectedly one evening and found her reading the same book. She hadn't heard him come in, and when she finally did glance up and notice him, she immediately stuffed the book behind a pillow and gave him the strong impression it would take an army to pull her away from her book-hiding pillow and nothing less would make her surrender it.



"It's a romantic novel," Jaenelle said in a small voice as he called in his half-moon glasses and started idly flipping the pages. "A couple of women in a bookseller's shop kept talking about it."



Romance. Passion. Sex.



He suppressed—barely—the urge to leap to his feet and twirl her around the room. A sign of emotional healing? Please, sweet Darkness, please let it be a sign of healing.



"You think it's silly." Her tone was defensive.



"Romance is never silly, witch-child. Well, sometimes it's silly, but notsilly." He flipped more pages. "Besides, I used to read things like this. They were an important part of my education."



Jaenelle gaped at him. "Really?"



"Mmm. Of course, they were a bit more—" He scanned a page. He carefully closed the book. "Then again, maybe not." He removed his glasses and vanished them before they steamed up.



Jaenelle nervously fluffed her hair. "Papa, if I have any questions about things, would you be willing to answer them?"



"Of course, witch-child. I'll give you whatever help you want in Craft or your other subjects."



"Nooo. I meant . . ." She glanced at the book in front of him.



Hell's fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be mer-



ciful. The whole prospect filled him with delight and dread. Delight because he might be able to help her paint a different emotional canvas that would, he hoped balance the wounds the rape had caused. Dread because, no matter how knowledgeable he was about any subject, Jaenelle always viewed things from an angle totally outside his experience.



Menzar's thoughts, Menzar's imaginings flooded his mind again.