Heir to the Shadows

Head down and shoulders hunched, Saetan gritted his teeth and forced himself, step by mind-slicing step, toward the bed, where Jaenelle thrashed and screamed.



When he touched her arm, she flung herself away from him.



Barely able to think, Saetan threw himself on top of her and wrapped his arms and legs around her. They rolled on the bed, tangled in the sheets she had shredded with her nails, while she fought and screamed. When she couldn't free her arms and legs, she half twisted in his arms, her teeth snapping a breath away from his throat.



"Jaenelle!" Saetan roared in her ear. "Jaenelle! It's Saetan!"



"Noooooo!"



Drawing on the reserved power in the Black Jewels, Saetan rolled once more, pinning Jaenelle between the bed and his body. He opened his inner barriers and sent out the message that she was safe, that he was with her, knowing if she struck him now, she'd destroy him.



Jaenelle brushed against his vulnerable mind and stopped moving.



Shaking, Saetan rested his cheek against her head. "I'm with you, witch-child," he whispered. "You're safe."



"Not safe," Jaenelle moaned. "Never safe."



Saetan clamped his teeth together, sickened by the images that suddenly flowed into his mind. He saw them all as she had once seen them. Marjane, hanging from the tree. Myrol and Rebecca, handless. Dannie and Dannie's leg. And Rose.



Tears rolled down his face as he held Jaenelle and made those agonizing memories his own. Now he finally understood what she'd endured as a child, what had been done to her, why she had never feared Hell or its citizens. As the memories flowed from her mind to his, he could see the building, the rooms, the garden, the tree.



And he remembered Char coming to him, troubled by a bridge and the maimed children who were traveling over it to thecildru dyathe's island. A bridge Jaenelle had built once between Hell and . . . Briarwood.



The moment he thought the name, he felt Jaenelle's eyes open.



Suddenly there was impenetrable, swirling mist. It parted abruptly, and he looked down into the abyss. Every instinct urged him to flee, to get away from the cold rage and madness spiraling up from the depths.



But woven into the madness and rage were gentleness and magic, too. So he waited at the edge of the abyss for whatever would happen. He wouldn't run from his Queen.



The mist closed in again. He couldn't see her, but he felt her when Jaenelle rose from the abyss. And he shuddered as her sepulchral, midnight whisper rang through his mind.



"Briarwood is the pretty poison. There is no cure for Briarwood."



Then she spiraled back down, and his mind was his own again.



Jaenelle stirred against him. "Saetan?" She sounded so young, so frail, so uncertain.



Saetan kissed her cheek. "I'm here, witch-child," he said hoarsely, cradling her to his chest. He gingerly probed the room, and quickly discovered using Craft wasn't going to be possible until the psychic storm completely faded.



"What ..." Jaenelle said groggily.



"You were having a nightmare. Do you remember?"



A long silence. "No. What was it about?"



Saetan hesitated . . . and said nothing.



A boot scuffed on the balcony outside the open glass door. Someone hurried down the stairs.



Saetan's head snapped up. Since probing for the intruder's identity was useless, he frantically tore at the sheets tangled around his legs and sprang toward the balcony door."prothvar!" He tried to create a ball of witch light to spotlight the garden, but Jaenelle's psychic storm absorbed his power, and the flash of light he managed left him night-blind.



On the far side of the garden, something snarled viciously. A man screamed. There was a brief, furious struggle, a blinding sizzle as the strength of two Jewels was unleashed and absorbed, the sound of odd-gaited footsteps, another snarl, and then a door slamming.



And then silence.



The bedroom door burst open. Saetan pivoted, his teeth bared, as Andulvar sprang into the room, an Eyrien war blade in his hand.



"Stay with her," Saetan snapped. He ran down the balcony stairs, reaching for the spells that would seal the Hall and prevent anyone from leaving. Then he swore. That tidal wave of power had shattered all of his spells—which meant the intruder could find a way out before they could hunt him down. And once he got away far enough from the effects of the storm, he could catch the Winds and just disappear.



"But where were you hiding that I didn't feel your presence before?" Saetan snarled, grinding his teeth in frustration as Prothvar landed beside him in the garden.



The Eyrien Warlord held out a torn black silk scarf. "I found this near the south tower."



Saetan stared at the scarf Greer had worn the first time he came to the Hall. His golden eyes glittered as he turned toward the south tower. "I've been too complacent about Hekatah's games and Hekatah's pets. But this pet has made one mistake too many."



"Hekatah!" Cursing, Prothvar dropped the scarf and wiped his hand on his trousers. Then he smiled. "I don't think her pet left as intact as he came. There are also wolf prints near the south tower."



Wolf. Saetan stared at the south tower. A wolf and Greer. Bait and an abductor? But that snarl, that clash of Jewels.



A movement on the balcony caught his eye.



Jaenelle looked down at them. Andulvar's arm was around her shoulders, tucking her close to his left side. His right hand still held the large, wicked-looking war blade.



"Papa, what's wrong?" Jaenelle called.



With a nod to Saetan, Prothvar vanished the scarf and slipped into the shadows to stand guard.



Saetan slowly crossed the garden and climbed the stairs, frustrated that the lingering effects of the witch storm made it impossible for him to use Craft to keep anyone else from reaching her rooms.



Andulvar stepped back as Jaenelle flung herself into Saetan's arms. He kissed her head, and the three of them went into her bedroom.



"What happened?" Jaenelle said, shivering as she watched Andulvar close the balcony doors and physically lock them.



That she had to ask indicated too much about her state of mind. Saetan hesitated. "It was nothing, witch-child," he finally said, holding her close. "An unexplained noise." But was it something she had seen or felt that had triggered those memories?



Andulvar and Saetan exchanged a look. The Eyrien Warlord Prince looked pointedly at the bed, then at the balcony doors.



Saetan nodded slightly. "Witch-child, your bed's a bit... rumpled. Since it's so late, rather than waking a maid to change it, why don't you stay in my room tonight?"



Jaenelle's head snapped up. There was shock, wariness, and fear in her eyes. "I could make up the bed."



"I'd rather you didn't."



Saetan felt her reach for his mind and waited. Unless she deliberately picked his thoughts, he could keep the reason for his concern from her but not the feeling of concern.



Jaenelle withdrew from him and nodded.



Relieved that she was still willing to trust him, Saetan led her to his suite across the hall and tucked her into his bed. After Andulvar left to check the south tower, he poured and warmed a glass of yarbarah, and settled into a chair nearby. A long time later, Jaenelle's breathing evened out, and he knew she was asleep.



A wolf, he thought as he watched over her. A friend or an enemy?



Saetan closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. The headache was subsiding, but the past hour had left him exhausted. Still, he kept seeing that print in the garden, a spelled message someone was supposed to understand.



But that snarl,that clash of Jewels.



Saetan snapped upright in the chair and. stared at Jaenelle.



Not all the dreamers who had shaped this Witch had been human.



It fit. If it was true, it all fit.



Maybe, since Jaenelle hadn't gone to see her old friends, they were starting to come to her.



6 / Hell



Hekatah screamed at Greer, "What do you mean she's alive?"



"Just what I said," Greer replied as he inspected his torn arm. "The girl he's keeping at the Hall is that pale bitch granddaughter of Alexandra Angelline."



"But you destroyed her!"



"Apparently she survived."



Hekatah paced the small, dirty, sparsely furnished room. It couldn't be true. It just couldn't. She glanced at Greer, who was slumped in a chair. "You said it was dark, difficult to see. You never got into the room itself. It couldn't be the same girl. He told you she walked among thecildru dyathe."



"He called her Jaenelle," Greer said, examining his foot.



Hekatah's eyes widened. "He lied about it." Her face turned ugly with rage and hate. "That gutter son of a whorelied about it\"



Then she remembered that terrifying presence on thecildru dyathe's island. If the girl was really alive, she could still be shaped into the puppet Queen whom Hekatah needed to rule the Realms.



Hekatah ran her fingers over a scarred table. "Even if she survived physically, she's of little use to me if she has no power."



Cradling his torn arm, Greer took the bait. "She still has power. There was a fierce witch storm filling that room. It began before the High Lord entered. The Darkness only knows how he survived it."



Hekatah frowned. "What was he doing in her room at that hour?"



Greer shrugged. "It sounded like they were rolling around on the bed, and it wasn't a friendly tussle."



Hekatah stared at Greer but didn't see him. She saw Saetan, hot-blooded and hungry, easing his appetites—allhis appetites—with that young, dark-blooded witch who should have belonged to her. A Guardian was still capable of that kind of pleasure. A Guardian ... who valued honor. Oh, he could try to ignore the scandal and condemnation, but by the time she was done, she'd create such a firestorm around him even his most loyal servants would hate him.



But it had to be done delicately so that, unlike that fool Menzar, Saetan wouldn't be able to trace it back to her.



Hekatah studied Greer. The torn muscle in his forearm could be hidden by a coat, but that foot. . . . Whether it was snapped off and replaced with something artificial or left on and laced into a high boot, the dragging walk would be obvious—as were the maimed hands. A pity such a useful servant was so deformed and, therefore, so conspicuous. But he'd be able to perform this one last assignment. In fact, his deformities would work in her favor.