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Authors: Anne Bishop
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his golden eyes. Everything has a price, he thought. Everything has a price. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. "I truly wish, with all of my being, that she could." He took another deep breath. "What I'm about to tell you must go no further than your cousin. I must have your pledge of silence."
Morton immediately nodded agreement.
"Jaenelle was seriously hurt two years ago. She can't write, she can't communicate in any way. She . . ."
Saetan stopped, then resumed when he was sure he could keep his voice steady. "She doesn't know anyone."
Morton looked ill. "How?" he finally whispered.
Saetan groped for an answer. The change in Morton's expression told him he needn't have bothered.
The boy had understood the silence.
"Then Karla was right," Morton said bitterly. "A male doesn't have to be that strong if he picks the right time."
Saetan snapped upright in his chair. "Is Karla being pressed to submit to a male? At fifteen?"
"No. I don't know. Maybe." Morton's hands clenched the arms of the chair. "She was safe enough when she lived with the Black Widows, but now that she's come back to the family estate . . ."
"Hell's fire, boy!" Saetan roared. "Even if they don't get along, why isn't your uncle protecting her?"
Morton bit his lip and said nothing.
Stunned, Saetan sank back in his chair. Not here, too. Not in Kaeleer. Didn't these fools realize what was lost when a Queen was destroyed that way?
"You have to go now," Saetan said gently.
Morton nodded and rose to leave.
"Tell Karla one other thing. If she needs it, I'll grant her sanctuary at the Hall and give her my protection.
And you as well."
"Thank you," Morton said. Bowing to Saetan and Andulvar, he left.
Saetan grabbed his silver-headed cane and limped toward the door.
Andulvar got there first and pressed his hand against the door to keep it closed. "The Dark Council will be screaming for your blood if you give another girl your protection."
Saetan didn't speak for a long time. Then he gave Andulvar a purely malevolent smile. "If the Dark Council is so misguided they believe Hobart is a better guardian than I am, then they deserve to see some of Hell's more unusual landmarks, don't you think?"
3 / The Twisted Kingdom
There was no physical pain, but the agony was relentless.
Words lie. Blood doesn't.
You are my instrument.
Butchering whore.
He wandered through a mist-filled landscape full of shattered memories, shattered crystal chalices, shattered dreams.
Sometimes he heard a scream of despair.
Sometimes he even recognized his own voice.
Sometimes he caught a glimpse of a girl with long golden hair running away from him. He always followed, desperate to catch up with her, desperate to explain . . .
He couldn't remember what he needed to explain.
Don't be afraid, he called to her. Please, don't be afraid.
But she continued to run, and he continued to follow her through a landscape filled with twisting roads that ended nowhere and caverns that were strewn with bones and splashed with blood.
Down, always down.
He followed her, always begging her to wait, always pleading with her not to be afraid, always hoping to hear the sound of her voice, always yearning to hear her say his name.
If he could only remember what it was.
4 / Hell
Hekatah carefully arranged the folds of her full-length cloak while she waited for her demon guards to bring her the cildru dyathe boy. She sighed with satisfaction as her hands stroked the cloak's fur lining.
Arcerian fur. A Warlord's fur. She could feel the rage and pain locked in his pelt.
The kindred. The four-footed Blood. Compared to humans, they had simple minds that couldn't conceive of greatness or ambition, but they were fiercely protective when they gave someone their loyalty—and equally fierce when they felt that loyalty was betrayed.
She had made a few little mistakes the last time she had tried to become the High Priestess of all the Realms, mistakes that had cost her the war between
Morton immediately nodded agreement.
"Jaenelle was seriously hurt two years ago. She can't write, she can't communicate in any way. She . . ."
Saetan stopped, then resumed when he was sure he could keep his voice steady. "She doesn't know anyone."
Morton looked ill. "How?" he finally whispered.
Saetan groped for an answer. The change in Morton's expression told him he needn't have bothered.
The boy had understood the silence.
"Then Karla was right," Morton said bitterly. "A male doesn't have to be that strong if he picks the right time."
Saetan snapped upright in his chair. "Is Karla being pressed to submit to a male? At fifteen?"
"No. I don't know. Maybe." Morton's hands clenched the arms of the chair. "She was safe enough when she lived with the Black Widows, but now that she's come back to the family estate . . ."
"Hell's fire, boy!" Saetan roared. "Even if they don't get along, why isn't your uncle protecting her?"
Morton bit his lip and said nothing.
Stunned, Saetan sank back in his chair. Not here, too. Not in Kaeleer. Didn't these fools realize what was lost when a Queen was destroyed that way?
"You have to go now," Saetan said gently.
Morton nodded and rose to leave.
"Tell Karla one other thing. If she needs it, I'll grant her sanctuary at the Hall and give her my protection.
And you as well."
"Thank you," Morton said. Bowing to Saetan and Andulvar, he left.
Saetan grabbed his silver-headed cane and limped toward the door.
Andulvar got there first and pressed his hand against the door to keep it closed. "The Dark Council will be screaming for your blood if you give another girl your protection."
Saetan didn't speak for a long time. Then he gave Andulvar a purely malevolent smile. "If the Dark Council is so misguided they believe Hobart is a better guardian than I am, then they deserve to see some of Hell's more unusual landmarks, don't you think?"
3 / The Twisted Kingdom
There was no physical pain, but the agony was relentless.
Words lie. Blood doesn't.
You are my instrument.
Butchering whore.
He wandered through a mist-filled landscape full of shattered memories, shattered crystal chalices, shattered dreams.
Sometimes he heard a scream of despair.
Sometimes he even recognized his own voice.
Sometimes he caught a glimpse of a girl with long golden hair running away from him. He always followed, desperate to catch up with her, desperate to explain . . .
He couldn't remember what he needed to explain.
Don't be afraid, he called to her. Please, don't be afraid.
But she continued to run, and he continued to follow her through a landscape filled with twisting roads that ended nowhere and caverns that were strewn with bones and splashed with blood.
Down, always down.
He followed her, always begging her to wait, always pleading with her not to be afraid, always hoping to hear the sound of her voice, always yearning to hear her say his name.
If he could only remember what it was.
4 / Hell
Hekatah carefully arranged the folds of her full-length cloak while she waited for her demon guards to bring her the cildru dyathe boy. She sighed with satisfaction as her hands stroked the cloak's fur lining.
Arcerian fur. A Warlord's fur. She could feel the rage and pain locked in his pelt.
The kindred. The four-footed Blood. Compared to humans, they had simple minds that couldn't conceive of greatness or ambition, but they were fiercely protective when they gave someone their loyalty—and equally fierce when they felt that loyalty was betrayed.
She had made a few little mistakes the last time she had tried to become the High Priestess of all the Realms, mistakes that had cost her the war between
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