1 / Kaeleer

Banard sat in the private showroom at the back of his shop, sipping tea while he waited for the Lady.

He was a gifted craftsman, an artist who worked with precious metals, precious and semiprecious stones, and the Blood Jewels. A Blood male who wore no Jewel himself, he handled them with a delicacy and respect that made him a favorite with the Jeweled Blood in Amdarh. He always said, “I handle a Jewel as if I were handling someone’s heart,” and he meant it.

Among his clients were the Queen of Amdarh and her Consort, Prince Mephis SaDiablo, Prince Lucivar Yaslana, the High Lord and, his favorite, Lady Jaenelle Angelline.

Which was why he was sitting here long after the shops had closed for the day. As he’d told his wife, when the Lady asked for a favor, why, that was almost like serving her, wasn’t it?

He nearly spilled his tea when he looked up from his musings and saw the shadowy figure standing in the doorway of the private showroom. His shop had strong guard spells and protection spells—gifts from his darker-Jeweled clients. No one should have been able to get this far without triggering the alarms.

“My apologies, Banard,” said the feminine, midnight voice. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Not at all, Lady,” Banard lied as he increased the illumination of the candle-lights around the velvet-covered display table. “My mind was wandering.” He turned to smile at her, but when he saw what she held in her hands, he broke out in a cold sweat.

“There’s something I’d like you to make for me, if you can,” Jaenelle said, stepping into the small room.

Banard gulped. She had changed since he’d last seen her a few months ago. It was more than the Widow’s weeds she was wearing. It was as if the fire that had always burned within her was now closer to the surface, illuminating and shadowing. He could feel the dark power swirling around her—brutal strength offset by a worrisome fragility.

“This is what I’d like you to make,” Jaenelle said.

A piece of paper appeared on the display table.

Banard studied the sketch for several minutes, wondering what he could say, wondering how to refuse gracefully, wondering why she, of all people, would have the thing she held in her hands.

As if understanding his silence and reluctance, Jaenelle caressed the spiraled horn. “His name was Kaetien,” she said softly. “He was the Warlord Prince of the unicorns. He was butchered a few days ago, along with hundreds of his people, when humans came in to claim Sceval as their territory.” Tears filled her eyes. “I’ve known him since I was a little girl. He was the first friend I made in Kaeleer, and one of the best. He gifted me with his horn. For remembrance. As a reminder.”

Banard studied the sketch again. “If I may make one or two suggestions, Lady?”

“That’s why I came to you,” Jaenelle said with a trembling smile.

Using a thin, charcoal pencil, Banard altered the sketch. At the end of an hour of fine-tuning, they were both satisfied.

Alone again, Banard made another cup of tea and sat for a while, studying the sketch and staring at the horn he couldn’t yet bring himself to touch.

What she wanted made would be a fitting tribute for a beloved friend. And it would be an appropriate tool for such a Queen.

2 / Kaeleer

Saetan paced the length of the sitting room Draca had reserved for them at the Keep. Reserved? Confined them to was closer to the truth.

Lucivar abandoned his chair and stretched his back and shoulders. “Why is it that your pacing isn’t supposed to annoy me, but when I start pacing I get chucked into the garden?” he asked dryly.

“Because I’m older and I outrank you,” Saetan snarled. He pivoted and paced to the other side of the room.

From sunset to sunrise. That’s how long it took to make the Offering to the Darkness. It didn’t matter if a person came away from the Offering wearing a White Jewel or a Black, that’s how long it took. From sunset to sunrise.

Jaenelle had been gone three full days.

He had remained calm when the first dawn had passed into late morning because he could still remember how shaky he’d felt after making the Offering, how he’d remained in the altar room of the Sanctuary for hours while he adjusted to the feel of the Black Jewels.

But when the sun began to set again, he’d gone to the Dark Altar in the Keep to find out what had happened to her. Draca had forbidden him entrance, sharply reminding him of the consequences of interrupting an Offering. So he’d returned to the sitting room to wait.

When midnight came and went, he’d tried to reach the Dark Altar again and had found all the corridors blocked by a shield even the Black couldn’t penetrate. Desperate, he’d sent an urgent message to Cassandra, hoping she would be able to break through Draca’s resistance. But Cassandra hadn’t responded, and he’d cursed this evidence of her further withdrawal.

She was tired. He understood that. He came from a long-lived race and had already gone several lifetimes beyond the norm. Cassandra had lived hundreds, had watched the people she’d come from decline, fade, and finally be absorbed into younger, emerging races. When she had ruled, she had been respected, revered.

But Jaenelle was loved.

So Cassandra hadn’t responded. Tersa had.

“Something’s wrong,” Saetan snarled as he passed the couch and low table Tersa hunched over while she arranged puzzle pieces into shapes that had meaning only for her. “It doesn’t take this long.”

Tersa poked a puzzle piece into place and pushed her tangled black hair away from her face. “It takes as long as it takes.”

“An Offering is made between sunset and sunrise.”

Tersa tilted her head, considering. “That was true for the Prince of the Darkness. But for the Queen?” She shrugged.

Cold whispered up Saetan’s spine. What would Jaenelle be like when she was the Queen of the Darkness?

He crouched opposite Tersa, the table between them. She paid no more attention to him than she did to Lucivar’s silent approach.

“Tersa,” Saetan said quietly, trying to catch her attention. “Do you know something, see something?”

Tersa’s eyes glazed. “A voice in the Darkness. A howling, full of joy and pain, rage and celebration. The time is coming when the debts will be paid.” Her eyes cleared. “Leash your fear, High Lord,” she said with some asperity. “It will do her more harm now than anything else. Leash it, or lose her.”

Saetan’s hand closed over her wrist. “I’m not afraid of her, I’m afraid for her.”

Tersa shook her head. “She will be too tired to sense the difference. She will only sense the fear. Choose, High Lord, and live with what you choose.” She looked at the closed door. “She is coming.”

Saetan tried to rise too quickly and winced. He’d overworked his bad leg again. Tugging down the sleeves of his tunic jacket and smoothing back his hair, he wished, futilely, that he’d bathed and changed into fresh clothes. He also wished, futilely, that his heart would stop pounding so hard.

Then the door opened and Jaenelle stood on the threshold.

In the seconds before rational thought fled, his mind registered her hesitation, her uncertainty. It also registered the amount of jewelry she was wearing.

Lorn had gifted her with thirteen uncut Black Jewels. An uncut Jewel was large enough to be made into a pendant and a ring, as well as providing smaller chips that could be used for a variety of purposes. If he was estimating correctly, she’d taken the equivalent of six of those thirteen Jewels in with her when she made the Offering. Six Black Jewels that, somehow, had been transformed into more than Black.

Into Ebony.

No wonder it had taken her so long to make the descent to her full strength. He couldn’t begin to estimate the power at her disposal now. Since the day he’d met her, he’d known it would come to this. She was traveling roads now the rest of them couldn’t even imagine.

What would it do to her?

His choice.

The thought shocked him with its clarity. It freed him to act.

Stepping forward, he offered his right hand.

Wild-shy, Jaenelle slipped into the room, hesitated a moment, then placed her hand in his.

He pulled her into arms, burying his face against her neck. “I’ve been worried sick about you,” he growled softly.

Jaenelle stroked his back. “Why?” She sounded genuinely puzzled. “You’ve made the Offering. You know—”

“It doesn’t usually take three days!”

“Three days!” She jerked back, stumbling into Lucivar, who had come up behind her. “Three days?”

“Do we have to observe Protocol from now on?” Lucivar asked.

“Don’t be daft,” Jaenelle snapped.

Grinning, Lucivar immediately wrapped his left arm around her, pinning her arms to her sides and holding her tight against his chest. “In that case, I propose dunking her in the nearest fountain.”

“You can’t do that!” Jaenelle sputtered, squirming.

“Why not?” Lucivar sounded mildly curious.

The reason she gave was inventive but anatomically impossible.

Since laughing wouldn’t be diplomatic, even if it was prompted by the relief that wearing Ebony Jewels hadn’t changed her, Saetan clenched his teeth and stayed silent.

Tersa, however, finally stirred herself and joined them. Shaking her head, she gave Jaenelle a poke in the shoulder. “There’s no use wailing about it. You’ve taken up the responsibilities of a Queen now, and part of your duties is taking care of the males who belong to you.”

“Fine,” Jaenelle snarled. “When do I get to pound him?”

Tersa tsked. “They’re males. They’re allowed to fuss and pet.” Then she smiled and patted Jaenelle’s cheek. “Warlord Princes especially need physical contact with their Queen.”

“Oh,” Jaenelle said sourly. “Well, that’s just fine then.”

Tersa stretched out on the couch.

“All right, grumpy little cat, you have a choice,” Lucivar said.

“Not one of your choices,” Jaenelle groaned, sagging against him.

“Does either of those choices include food and sleep?” Saetan asked.

“And a bath?” Jaenelle added, wrinkling her nose.

“One does,” Lucivar said, releasing her.

“Then I don’t want to know what the other one is.” Jaenelle rubbed her back. “Your belt buckle bites.”

“So do you.”

Saetan rubbed his temples. “Enough, children.”

Amazingly, they both stopped. Gold and sapphire eyes studied him for a moment before they left the room, arms about each other’s waists.

“You did well, Saetan,” Tersa said quietly.

Picking up a blanket draped over a chair, Saetan tucked it around Tersa and smoothed back her hair. “I had help,” he replied, then laughed softly when she batted at his hand. “Males are allowed to fuss and pet, remember?”

“I’m not a Queen.”

Saetan watched her until she fell asleep. “No, but you are a very gifted, very extraordinary Lady.”

3 / Kaeleer

Telling himself he wasn’t nervous, despite the pounding heart and sweaty palms, Saetan entered the large stone chamber that Draca had indicated was the place where the invited guests were to wait until they were summoned to the Dark Throne. Except for the blackwood pillars that contained the candle-lights and a few long tables against the walls that held assorted beverages, the room was bare of furniture.

Which was just as well since threading their way through seating designed for humans would have made the kindred more tense than they already were, and some species—like the small dragons from the Fyreborn Islands—needed a generous amount of space. Saetan noticed, with growing uneasiness, that all the kindred, not just the ones who had had little or no contact with people, weren’t mingling with the human Blood, even though most of the humans present were friends—or had been before the slaughters. That they were in this closed, confined space at all said a great deal for their devotion to Jaenelle.

That was one worry. Ebon Rih was the Keep’s Territory in Kaeleer—Jaenelle’s Territory now. Ruling Ebon Rih wouldn’t help the kindred or keep the human invaders out of their Territories. Traditionally, the Queen of Ebon Askavi had considerable influence in all the Realms, but would that influence and the innate caution within the Blood not to antagonize a mature dark power be enough? Would any of the fools in Kaeleer’s Dark Council even recognize who they were challenging?

Another worry was who was going to make up Jaenelle’s court. He’d always assumed that the coven and Jaenelle’s male friends would form the First Circle. It wasn’t unprecedented for Queens to serve in a stronger Queen’s court since District Queens served Province Queens who, in their turn, served the Territory Queen. That was the web of power that kept a Territory united.

But Queens who ruled a Territory didn’t serve in other courts. They were the final law of their land and yielded to no one.

In the past week, while Jaenelle rested after making the Offering, her coven, Queens all, had also made the Offering. And every one of them had been chosen as the new Queen of their respective Territories, the former Queens stepping aside and accepting positions in the newly formed courts.

The boys, too, had come to power. Chaosti was now the Warlord Prince of Dea al Mon and Gabrielle’s Consort. Khardeen, Morghann’s Consort, was the ruling Warlord of Maghre, his home village. After accepting Kalush’s Consort ring, Aaron had become the Warlord Prince of Tajrana, the capital of Nharkhava. Sceron and Elan were the Warlord Princes of Centauran and Tigrelan, serving in the First Circles of Astar’s and Grezande’s courts. Jonah now served as First Escort for his sister, Zylona, and Morton served as First Escort for his cousin Karla.

As feminine voices drifted down the corridor behind him, Saetan headed for the table where Lucivar, Aaron, Khary, and Chaosti were gathered. Geoffrey and Andulvar nodded in greeting but didn’t break away from their conversation with Mephis and Prothvar. Sceron, Elan, Morton, and Jonah were talking to a diminutive Warlord Prince Saetan hadn’t seen before. Little Katrine’s First Escort or Consort?

“The tailor did an excellent job,” Saetan told Lucivar, accepting the glass of warmed yarbarah.

“Uh-huh.” The reply sounded sour, but after a moment Lucivar shook his head and laughed. He put his hand over his heart. “I represent a challenge worthy of good Lord Aldric who, as he happily informed me while he was sticking pins everywhere, had never designed formal attire that had to accommodate wings.”

“Well, now that he has your measurements—” Saetan began.

“Oh, no.” Lucivar shook his head, wearing an expression Saetan recognized all too well from his own dealings with good Lord Aldric. “‘Each fabric has a character of its own, Prince Yaslana,’” Lucivar said, mimicking the tailor’s mournful voice. “‘We must learn how each one will flow around these marvelous additions to your physique.’”

Khary, Aaron, and Chaosti coughed in unison.

“Maybe he just wants to stroke your wings,” Karla said as she joined them. She slid her hand over Saetan’s shoulder and leaned against his back, her sharp chin digging into his other shoulder. “They are impressive. Is it true that the length of your”—her ice-blue eyes flicked to Lucivar’s groin—“is in direct proportion to your wings?”

Lucivar made a very crude sexual gesture.

“Touchy, isn’t he? But not touchable? Ah, well. Kiss kiss.”

“Stuff yourself, Karla,” Lucivar said, baring his teeth in a smile.

Karla laughed. “It’s so good to be back among the surly. A few days ago I said ‘kiss kiss’ and everyone tried to.” She shuddered dramatically, then ruffled Saetan’s hair, cheerfully ignoring the accompanying snarl. “You know what, Uncle Saetan?”

“What?” Saetan replied warily, sipping his yarbarah.

Karla’s wicked smile bloomed. “Since you’re the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan and rule that Territory, and I’m the Queen of Glacia and rule that Territory, now whenever Dhemlan has to deal with Glacia, you get to deal with me.”

Saetan choked.

“Appalling thought, isn’t it, that you’re going to have to deal with all the things you taught me.”

“Mother Night,” Saetan gasped as Karla plucked the glass out of his hand and thumped his back.

“What’d you do to Uncle Saetan?” Morghann asked, accepting a glass of wine from Khary.

“Just reminded him that we’re now the Queens he has to deal with.”

“How unfair, Karla,” Kalush said, joining them. “You should have eased into it instead of springing it on him.”

“How?” Karla frowned. “Besides, he knew it already. Didn’t you?”

Saetan retrieved his glass and drained it to avoid answering. After all the hours he, Geoffrey, Andulvar, and Mephis had spent chewing over the implications of having this particular group of Queens coming into power at this time, none of them had thought of the obvious—that he was going to have to deal with them as Territory Queens.

A gong sounded throughout the Keep. Once. Twice. Thrice. Then, after a pause, a fourth time.

Four times for the four sides of a Blood triangle, the fourth side being what was held within the other three. Like the three males—Steward, Master of the Guard, and Consort—who formed a strong, intimate triangle around a Queen.

At the back of the room, huge double doors opened outward, revealing a dark emptiness.

Paying no attention to the hesitant stirring around him, Saetan set his glass aside, smoothed his hair, and straightened his new clothes. Since Protocol dictated that processions went from light Jewels to dark, first all the males and then the females, he would be at the end of the male line.

So he didn’t realize no one had moved and that everyone was looking at him until Lucivar poked him.

“Protocol dictates—” he began.

“Screw Protocol,” Karla replied succinctly. “You go first.”

When everyone nodded agreement, he slowly walked toward the double doors. Lucivar and Andulvar fell into step on either side of him. Mephis, Geoffrey, and Prothvar followed them.

“What’s in there?” Lucivar asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” Saetan replied. “I’ve never been in this part of the Keep before.” He glanced back at Geoffrey, who shook his head.

They reached the doors and stopped. The lights from the room behind them revealed the first handful of wide, descending steps.

We’ll all break our necks trying to go down without lights.

The thought was barely completed when little sparkles embedded in the dark stone began to glow, growing brighter and brighter.

Like swirls of stars, Saetan thought, his breath catching. Like the poem Geoffrey quoted to him years ago, about the great dragons who had created the Blood. They spiral down into ebony, catching the stars with their tails.

Ebony had once been the poetic term for the Darkness.

Saetan froze, his foot suspended over the first step.

Was it still?

“Something wrong?” Lucivar whispered.

Saetan shook his head and slowly descended, grateful for the solid Eyrien strength on either side of him.

When he reached the bottom step, a second set of double doors swung inward. The midnight-black chamber slowly lightened, the dark giving way to the dawn. The light gradually spread from their end of the chamber to the other. But he noticed, as he moved forward, that it didn’t illuminate the ceiling. At thrice his height, the light gave way to twilight, which, in its turn, yielded once again to the dark.

The back wall began to lighten from either side. Filling the wall, as high as the light reached, was a highly detailed bas-relief. A dreamscape, a nightscape, shapes rising up from and dissolving into others. Kindred shapes. Human shapes. Blending. Entwined. Fierce and beautiful. Ugly and gentle.

The light finally reached the center of the back wall and the Dark Throne. Three wide steps ran around the dais on three sides. On the dais itself was a simple blackwood chair with a high, carved back. Its simplicity said that the power that ruled here had no need for ornamentation or ostentation—especially when it was protected on the right-hand side by a huge dragon head coming out of the stone.

“Mother Night,” Andulvar said in a hushed voice. “She created a sculpture of Lorn’s head.”

“Hell’s fire,” Lucivar whispered. “Where’d she find so many uncut Jewels to make the scales?”

Trembling, Saetan shook his head, unable to speak. Maybe Andulvar couldn’t see the darkness beyond the lit bas-relief from where he stood, a darkness that suggested another large chamber beyond this one. Maybe he couldn’t see the iridescent fire in the dragon’s scales. Maybe he’d forgotten the sound of that ancient, powerful voice. Maybe…

Eyelids slowly opened. Midnight eyes pinned them where they stood.

Geoffrey clutched Saetan’s arm, his fingers digging in hard enough to hurt. “Mother Night, Saetan,” Geoffrey said, his breathing ragged. “The Keep is his lair. He’s been here all the time.”

He hadn’t expected Lorn to be so big. If the body was in proportion to the head…

Dragon scales. The Jewels were dragon scales somehow transformed into hard, translucent stones. Had there been dragons who matched the specific colors of the Jewels or had they all been that iridescent silver-gold, changing color to match the strength of the recipient?

Saetan gingerly touched the Black Jewel around his neck. His Birthright Red and the Black had been uncut Jewels. Were there two missing scales somewhere along the great body that must lie in the next chamber that would have matched his uncut Jewels?

Then he finally understood why there had been a hint of maleness in the uncut Jewels Jaenelle had been gifted with.

Lorn. The great Prince of the Dragons. The Guardian of the Keep.

Needing to get his mind focused on something other than the power that ancient body must contain, Saetan turned to Geoffrey. “His Queen. What was the name of his Queen?”

“Draca,” said a sibilant voice behind them.

They turned and stared at the Keep’s Seneschal.

Her lips curled in a tiny smile. “Her name wass Draca.”

Looking into her eyes, Saetan wondered what subtle spell had been lifted that allowed him to see what he should have guessed long before. Her age, her strength, the uneasiness so many felt in her presence. Which made him think of something else. “Does Jaenelle know?”

Draca made a sound that might have been a laugh. “Sshe hass alwayss known, High Lord.”

Saetan grimaced, then gave in as gracefully as he could. Even if he’d thought to ask, he doubted he’d have gotten an answer. Jaenelle was very good at keeping her own counsel.

“Are they relatives of yours?” Lucivar asked, indicating the Fyreborn dragons who were staring at Lorn.

“You are all relativess,” Draca replied, looking pointedly at Lucivar’s Ebon-gray Jewel. “We created the Blood. All the Blood. Therefore, you are all dragonss under the sskin.”

Saetan glanced at the kindred who were edging closer. “You, of course, would know.” He saw amusement in Draca’s eyes.

“It iss not I who ssayss sso, High Lord. Jaenelle ssayss sso.” Draca looked past them to the Dark Throne.

As one, they turned.

Dressed in that cobwebby black gown and wearing Ebony Jewels, Jaenelle sat serenely in the blackwood chair. Her long golden hair was brushed away from the face that finally revealed its unique beauty.

“The time has come for me to take up my duties as the Queen of Ebon Askavi,” Jaenelle said. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it carried throughout the chamber. “The time has come for me to choose my court.”

A breathless tension filled the chamber.

Saetan concentrated on breathing slowly, steadily. For days he’d been telling himself that court service was for the young and vigorous, that he’d never intended to serve formally, that the unspoken service he performed was enough, that he had experienced serving in the Dark Court at Ebon Askavi when he’d been Cassandra’s Consort.

Except he hadn’t, because, in a way he couldn’t put into words, it hadn’t really been the Dark Court. Not like this one.

And he suddenly understood why Cassandra had withdrawn from them.

This was the court he had waited to serve in. This was the court he’d always craved. He wanted to serve the daughter of his soul, who had finally come into her dark, glorious power.

Witch. The living myth. Dreams made flesh.

This had been his dream.

And Lucivar’s, he realized, seeing the fire in his son’s eyes. Yes, Lucivar would have craved a Queen who could meet his strength.

Jaenelle’s voice pulled him back. “Prince Chaosti, will you serve in the First Circle?”

Gracefully, Chaosti knelt on one knee, a fisted hand over his heart. “I will serve.”

Saetan frowned. How was Chaosti going to serve in Jaenelle’s First Circle when he’d already accepted service in Gabrielle’s First Circle?

“Prince Kaelas, will you serve in the First Circle?”

*I will serve.*

He became more and more puzzled as Jaenelle called out name after name. Mephis, Prothvar, Aaron, Khardeen, Sceron, Jonah, Morton, Elan. Ladvarian, Mistral, Smoke, Sundancer.

And then he, Andulvar, and Lucivar were the only males left standing, and everything in him waited for her next words.

“Lady Karla, will you serve in the First Circle?”

“I will serve.”

Shock ripped through Saetan, quickly followed by pain so intense he didn’t think it would be possible to survive it. She hadn’t forgiven him. At least, not enough.

“Lady Moonshadow, will you serve in the First Circle?”

*I will serve.*

He swallowed hard. He couldn’t react, wouldn’t let the others see the hurt. But if she was going to allow Mephis and Prothvar to serve, why not Andulvar? Why not Lucivar, who already served her?

He barely heard the other names being called out. Gabrielle, Morghann, Kalush, Grezande, Sabrina, Zylona, Katrine, Astar, Ash. On and on until all the witches had accepted a place in the court.

Draca and Geoffrey couldn’t formally serve because they served the Keep itself. If there was comfort knowing that, it was a bitter brew.

He could feel Lucivar trembling beside him.

After a moment’s silence, Jaenelle rose and walked down the three steps. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him. He felt her exasperation as she lightly brushed against the first of his inner barriers.

She pushed up her left sleeve and made a small cut in her wrist.

Blood welled and ran.

“Prince Lucivar Yaslana, will you serve as First Escort and Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih?”

Lucivar stared at her for a heartbeat or two, then slowly approached her. “I will serve.” He sank to his knees, held her left hand with his right, and placed his mouth over the wound.

Absolute surrender. Lifetime surrender. By accepting her blood, Lucivar surrendered every aspect of his being for all time. She would rule him, body and soul, mind and Jewels.

It wasn’t long—it was a lifetime—before Lucivar lifted his mouth, rose, and stepped to one side, looking dazed.

Not surprising, Saetan thought. From where he stood, he could smell the heat, the strength that flowed in her veins.

“Prince Andulvar Yaslana, will you serve as Master of the Guard?”

“I will serve,” Andulvar said, approaching her and sinking to his knees to accept the lifeblood.

When Andulvar stepped aside, Jaenelle looked at Saetan. “Prince Saetan Daemon SaDiablo, will you serve as Steward of the Dark Court?”

Saetan approached slowly, searching her eyes for some clue that would tell him which answer she truly wanted. Since he couldn’t ask the question aloud, he reached hesitantly for her mind. *Are you sure?*

*Of course I’m sure,* she replied tartly. *There are times, Saetan, when you’re an idiot. The only reason I waited was so that the three of you would know what you were getting into before you agreed.*

*In that case…* He sank to his knees. “I will serve.”

Just before his mouth closed over the wound, just before his tongue had the first taste of her blood at its mature strength, Jaenelle added, *Besides, who else is going to be willing to referee squabbles?*

Giving her a sharp look, he took the blood. Night sky, deep earth, the song of the tides, the nurturing darkness of a woman’s body. And fire. He tasted all of it, savored it as it washed through him, burned through him, branded him as hers.

He lifted his mouth and brushed a finger over the wound, using healing Craft to seal it and stop the flow of blood. *It needs to be healed properly.*

*Soon.* She withdrew her hand and returned to the Dark Throne.

No, he decided as he got to his feet and heard everyone else rising, this wasn’t a good time for a display of male stubbornness. Besides, the ceremony would be over shortly.

*Notice anything odd about this court?* Lucivar asked him as tension filled the chamber again.

Surprised by the question, Saetan looked at all the solemn, determined faces. *Odd? No. They’re the same…*

It finally struck him. He’d thought of it, discussed it, and then had been so hurt when Jaenelle passed over him that he had failed to see it. The coven had joined the First Circle, and they shouldn’t have because they were Territory Queens…

Karla stepped forward. “My Queen. May I speak?”

“You may speak, my Sister,” Jaenelle replied solemnly.

…and Territory Queens served no one.

Contained fire lit Karla’s ice-blue eyes as she said triumphantly, “Glacia yields to Ebon Askavi!”

Saetan choked on his heart. Mother Night! Karla was making Jaenelle the ruling power of the Territory she was supposed to rule.

Gabrielle stepped forward. “Dea al Mon yields to Ebon Askavi!”

“Scelt yields to Ebon Askavi!” Morghann shouted.

“Nharkhava!” “Dharo!” “Tigrelan!” “Centauran!”

*Sceval!* *Arceria!* *The Fyreborn Islands!*

Someone nudged his back, breaking his stunned silence. “Dhemlan yields to Ebon Askavi!”

He jumped when Andulvar roared, “Askavi yields to Ebon Askavi!”

The shouted names of the Territories that now stood in the shadow of Ebon Askavi finally stopped echoing through the chamber. Then a small voice drifted into their minds.

*Arachna yields to the Lady of the Black Mountain.*

“Mother Night,” Saetan whispered, and wondered if the Weavers of Dreams were spinning their tangled webs across the chamber’s ceiling.

“I accept,” Jaenelle said quietly.

Lucivar briefly squeezed Saetan’s shoulder in amused sympathy. “Should I wish the Steward of this court my congratulations or condolences?” he said quietly.

“Mother Night.” Saetan staggered back a step. Hands grabbed his arms, keeping him upright.

Lucivar laughed softly as he slipped around Saetan. He climbed the steps to the Throne and extended his right hand. Jaenelle rose and placed her left hand over his right. A wide aisle opened up as the new court stepped aside to allow the First Escort to lead his Queen from the chamber.

Starting to follow, Saetan felt something hold him back. Waving Andulvar and the others on, he felt his throat tighten as the kindred shyly blended in with the humans, once more offering their trust.

The chamber emptied, Draca and Geoffrey being the last to leave.

No longer having an excuse, Saetan turned toward Lorn. As they stared at one another, he felt gentle sadness pressing down on him, a sadness all the more terrible because it was cloaked in understanding. He knew then why Lorn had remained apart. He had experienced that kind of sadness, too, when petitioners had stood before him, terrified of the Prince of the Darkness, the High Lord of Hell. He knew how it felt to crave affection and companionship and have it denied because of what he was.

Fingering his Black Jewel, he said, “Thank you.”

*You have made good usse of my gift. You have sserved well.*

Saetan thought of all he’d done in his life. All the mistakes, the regrets. All the blood spilled. “Have I?” he asked quietly, more to himself than Lorn.

*You have honored the Darknesss. You have resspected the wayss of the Blood. You have alwayss undersstood what the Blood were meant to be—caretakerss and guardianss. You have ussed teeth and clawss when teeth and clawss were needed. You have protected your young. The Darknesss hass ssung to you, and you have followed roadss few but the Dragonss have walked. You have undersstood the Blood’ss heart, the Blood’ss ssoul. You have sserved well.*

Saetan took a deep breath. His throat felt too tight to make an answer. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely.

There was a long pause. *Ass sshe iss the daughter of your ssoul, you are the sson of mine.*

Saetan clutched the Jewel around his neck. Did Lorn have any idea what those words meant to him?

It didn’t matter. What mattered was it formed a bond between them, a bridge he could cross. He would finally be able to talk to the keeper of all the Blood’s Craft knowledge. Maybe he’d even find out how Jae—

“If I’m the daughter of Saetan’s soul and he’s the son of yours, does that make you my grandfather?” Jaenelle asked, joining them.

*No,* Lorn replied promptly.

“Why not?”

Hot, dusty-dry air hit them with enough force to push them back a couple of steps.

“I suppose that’s an answer,” Jaenelle grumped. She shook her arms to untangle all the cobwebby strands. “Although I don’t see why you’re getting all snorty about one little granddaughter.”

“And the wide assortment of grandnieces and nephews that come with her,” Saetan muttered under his breath.

Jaenelle gave him a sharp look and her wrists a last shake. “Well, at least you’ve finally met. You should’ve invited him sooner,” she added, giving Lorn an I-told-you-so look.

*He wass not ready. He wass too young.*

Saetan would have protested but Jaenelle beat him to it.

“I was much younger when you invited me,” Jaenelle said.

Saetan pressed an arm against his stomach and tried very hard to keep his expression neutral. But the emotional flavor of baffled male he was picking up from Lorn was making it very difficult.

*I did not invite you, Jaenelle,* Lorn said slowly.

“Yes, you did. Sort of. Well, not as blatantly as Saetan did—”

Saetan clamped his teeth together and made a funny, fizzy noise.

“—but I heard you, so I answered.” She smiled at both of them.

Being smiled at like that was a good reason for a man to panic.

Before he had time to, Jaenelle rapidly headed for the stairs, muttering something about having to be there for the toast, and Lucivar had a very strong hand clamped on his shoulder.

“If Great-grandpapa is finished with you,” Lucivar said with a feral smile, “I’d like you to come upstairs and lean hard on Karla because, Queen of Glacia or not, if she makes one more of those smart-ass remarks about wingspans, I’m going to drop her into a deep mountain lake.”

“Lucivar, this is a dignified occasion,” Saetan said at the same time Lorn said, *I am not your great-grandpapa.*

“No, you’re not,” Lucivar agreed. “But since no one was quite sure how many generations separate them from you—and it’s different for each race or species—it was decided to condense all the generations into one ‘great.’ As for this being a dignified occasion, it was. As for the party that’s waiting for Saetan to make the opening toast, I suspect it’s going to be a lot of things and none of them are going to be remotely close to dignified.” Lucivar looked at them and let out a pitying sigh. “You’re both old enough to know better. And you’ve both known Jaenelle long enough to know better.”

Saetan found himself being steered toward the doors at the other end of the chamber.

“Come on, be a good papa and let Great-grandpapa Dragon get some rest before all the little dragons pile on top of him.”

Reaching the stairs, Saetan thought that the inner doors to the chamber closed just a little too quickly.

*We will talk,* Lorn said softly. *There iss much to talk about.*

Yes, there was, Saetan thought as he entered the upper chamber, accepted a glass of yarbarah, and looked at the animated, laughing faces that now ruled Kaeleer.

He wondered what Lorn thought about the many-strand web Jaenelle had woven over Kaeleer, the web that had called so many races out of the mist they’d hidden in for thousands of years.

And he wondered what the Dark Council was going to think.

4 / Kaeleer

Lord Magstrom rubbed his forehead and wished, violently, that this session of the Dark Council would end soon. Lord Jorval, the First Tribune, had been making soothing noises and deftly evading making firm promises since the first petitioner had stepped into the circle. They all wanted the same thing: assurance that the males sent into the kindred lands that had been granted as human territories wouldn’t be slaughtered by these “Hell-spawned animals.”

The Council couldn’t give such assurances.

The stories told by the few survivors who returned from those first attempts to secure the land had roused a great anger in the people of Little Terreille and demands for retaliation. The piles of mutilated corpses—some partially eaten—that clogged the main street of Goth a few days later when all the males who had gone into kindred lands were mysteriously returned had chilled that anger into furious impotence.

Everyone wanted something done to make these unclaimed lands safe for human occupation. No one wanted to face what was already living in those “unclaimed” lands.

“I assure you, Lady,” Lord Jorval said to the strident petitioner, “we’re doing everything possible to rectify the situation.”

“When I came here, I was promised land to rule and males who knew how to serve properly,” the Terreillean Queen replied angrily.

Lord Magstrom wondered if anyone else had noticed that the majority of Kaeleer-born males, even with the enticement of serving in the First or Second Circle of a Terreillean Queen’s court, resigned with bitter animosity after a few weeks of service. Terreillean males pleaded to serve Kaeleer-born Queens, willing to serve in the Thirteenth Circle as a menial servant if that’s all that was available. Over the past three years, he’d had a few tearfully beg him to approach minor Queens outside of Little Terreille and see if there was any way they could serve in a Territory like Dharo or Nharkhava. They would do anything, they’d told him. Anything.

For some of the younger ones he thought might be acceptable to those Territory Queens, he’d written respectful letters pointing out the men’s skills and their pledged willingness to adapt to the ways of the Shadow Realm. Some had been accepted into service. At each turn of the season, he received brief letters from each of those young men, and all of them expressed their relief and delight in their new life.

But the pleas were getting more desperate as more and more Terreilleans flooded into Little Terreille. And with every plea, with every story he heard about Terreille, he worried more and more about his youngest granddaughter. Even in his small village incidents had already occurred, and it was no longer wise for a woman to travel after dusk without a strong escort. Was that how it had begun in Terreille, with fear and distrust spiraling deeper and deeper until there was no way to stop it?

“Your request has been noted,” Lord Jorval said, making a gesture that indicated dismissal. “Will the next—”

The doors at the end of the chamber blew open with a force that sent them crashing into the walls.

Jaenelle Angelline glided into the Council chamber, once again standing outside the petitioner’s circle, once again flanked by the High Lord and Prince Lucivar Yaslana. Along the edges of her black, cobwebby gown’s low neckline were dozens of Black Jewel chips glittering with dark fire. Around her neck was a Black—Black?—Jewel set in a necklace that looked like a spider’s web made of delicate gold and silver strands. In her hands…

Lord Magstrom’s hands shook.

She held a scepter. The lower half was made of gold and silver and had two Black-looking Jewels inset above the hand-hold. The upper half of the scepter was a spiraled horn.

Fingers pointed at the horn. Murmurs filled the chamber.

“Lady Angelline, I must protest your interrupting—” Jorval began.

“I have something to say to this Council,” Jaenelle said coldly, her voice carrying over the others. “It will not take long.”

The murmurs grew louder, more forceful.

“Why is she allowed to have a unicorn’s horn?” the dismissed Terreillean Queen shouted. “I wasn’t allowed to have one as compensation for my men being killed.”

There was no expression on the High Lord’s face as he looked at the Terreillean Queen. Lucivar, however, didn’t try to hide his loathing.

“Silence.” Jaenelle didn’t raise her voice, but the undisguised malevolence in it hushed everyone. She looked at the Terreillean Queen and spoke five words.

Lord Magstrom knew enough of the Old Tongue to recognize the language but not enough to understand. Something about remembering?

Jaenelle caressed the horn, stroking it from base to tip and back down. “His name was Kaetien,” she said in her midnight voice. “This horn was a gift, freely given.”

“Lady Angelline,” Jorval said, pounding on the Tribunal’s bench as he tried to regain order.

From the seats closest to the Tribunal’s bench, Lord Magstrom heard harsh voices talking about some people who thought they could ignore the authority of the Council.

Jaenelle swung the scepter in an arc, holding it for a moment when the horn pointed at the floor before swinging it up until it pointed at the chamber ceiling.

A cold wind whipped through the chamber. Thunder shook the building. Lightning came down from the ceiling and entered the unicorn’s horn.

Dark power filled the chamber. Unyielding, unforgiving power.

When the thunder finally stopped, when the wind finally died, the shaking members of the Dark Council climbed back into their seats.

Jaenelle Angelline stood calmly, quietly, the scepter once again held in both hands. The unicorn’s horn was unmarked, but Magstrom could see the flashes of lightning now held within those Black-but-not-Black Jewels, could feel the power waiting to be unleashed.

“Hear me,” Jaenelle said, “because I will say this only once. I have made the Offering to the Darkness. I am now the Queen of Ebon Askavi.” She pointed the scepter at the Tribunal’s bench.

Lord Magstrom shook. The horn was pointing straight at him. He held his breath, waiting for the strike. Instead, a rolled parchment tied with a blood-red ribbon appeared in front of him.

“That is a list of the Territories that yielded to Ebon Askavi. They now stand in the shadow of the Keep. They are mine. Anyone who tries to settle in my Territory without my consent will be dealt with. Anyone who harms any of my people will be executed. There will be no excuses and no exceptions. I will say it simply so that the members of this Council and the intruders who thought to take land they had no right to claim can never say they misunderstood.” Jaenelle’s lips curled into a snarl. “STAY OUT OF MY TERRITORY!”

The words rang through the chamber, echoing and reechoing.

Her sapphire eyes, eyes that didn’t look quite human, held the Tribunal for a long moment. Then she turned and glided out of the Council chamber, followed by the High Lord and Prince Yaslana.

Magstrom’s hands shook so hard it took him four tries to untie the blood-red ribbon. He unrolled the parchment, ignoring the fact that he should have given it to Jorval as First Tribune.

Name after name after name after name. Some he’d heard of as stories his grandmother used to tell him. Some he’d heard of as “unclaimed land.” Some he’d never heard of at all.

Name after name after name.

At the bottom of the parchment, above Jaenelle’s signature and black-wax seal, was a map of Kaeleer, the Territories that now stood in the shadow of the Keep shaded in.

Except for Little Terreille and the island that had been granted to the Dark Council centuries ago, the Shadow Realm now belonged to Jaenelle Angelline.

Magstrom looked at the graceful, calligraphic signature. She had stood before the Council twice as a maid, and twice they had ignored the warnings of what she would become. Now they had to deal with a Queen who would not tolerate mistakes.

He shuddered and looked at the seal. In the center was a mountain. Overlaying the mountain was a unicorn’s horn. Around the edge of the seal were five words in the Old Tongue.

A small piece of folded paper suddenly appeared on top of the seal. Magstrom grabbed it at the same moment Jorval pulled the parchment out of his hands. While Jorval and the Second Tribune read the list to the rest of the Council, their voices quivering more and more as they realized what it meant, Magstrom unfolded the paper, keeping it hidden.

A masculine hand had written the same five words that were on the seal. Below them was the translation.

For remembrance. As a reminder.

Magstrom looked up.

The High Lord stood just outside the open chamber doors.

Magstrom nodded slightly and vanished the paper, relieved no one had noticed that Saetan had remained behind to give him that message.

He would take the warning to heart and send a message home tonight. His two older granddaughters had made happy marriages outside of Little Terreille. He’d tell Arnora, his youngest granddaughter, to go to one of her sisters’ homes immediately. Once she was there, surely there would be some way of persuading the new Queen of Dharo or Nharkhava to permit her to stay.

Half-listening to the Council’s indignant, frightened babbling, Magstrom felt a flicker of hope for Arnora’s future. He didn’t know the new Queens, but he knew someone who did.

After all the whispers, after all the stories, he thought it was fitting irony that the one person he could go to who would sympathize with his concerns and assist him was the High Lord of Hell.

5 / Kaeleer

“I never wanted to rule,” Jaenelle said as she and Saetan strolled through the Keep’s moonlit gardens. “I never wanted power over anyone’s life but my own.”

Saetan slipped an arm around her waist. “I know. That’s why you’re the perfect Queen to rule Kaeleer.” When she looked puzzled, he laughed softly. “You’re the one person who can weave all the separate strands into a unified web while still encouraging every strand to remain distinct. If you promise not to snarl at me, I’ll tell you a secret.”

“What? Okay, okay. I promise not to snarl.”

“You’ve been ruling Kaeleer unofficially for years now, and you’re probably the only person who hasn’t realized it.”

Jaenelle snarled, then muttered, “Sorry.”

Saetan laughed. “Forgiven. But knowing that should be some comfort. I doubt there’s going to be much difference between the official Dark Court and the unofficial one that was formed the first summer the coven and the boyos descended on the Hall and made it a second home.”

Jaenelle brushed her hair away from her face. “Well, if that’s true, then you really were an idiot not to have realized you would become the Steward since you’ve been the unofficial Steward for at least as long as I’ve been the unofficial Queen.”

Since there was no good way to respond to that, he didn’t.

“Saetan…” Jaenelle nibbled her lower lip. “You don’t think they’ll start acting differently now, do you? It’s never made a difference before, but…the coven and the boyos aren’t going to start acting subservient, are they?”

Saetan raised an eyebrow. “I’m surprised any of you know the word, let alone what it means.” He hugged her. “I wouldn’t worry about it. I think Lucivar’s about as subservient as he’s going to get.”

Jaenelle leaned against him and groaned. Then she perked up a bit. “Well, that’s one good thing about forming the court. At least I found something for him to do that’ll keep him from being underfoot and badgering me all the time.”

Saetan started to reply, then thought better of it. She was entitled to a few illusions—especially since they wouldn’t last long.

Jaenelle yawned. “I’m going in. I’m telling the bedtime story tonight.” She kissed his cheek. “Good night, Papa.”

“Good night, witch-child.” He waited until she’d gone inside before heading for the far end of the garden.

“The waif turned in early?” Andulvar asked, falling into step.

“She’s doing the bedtime story and howl-along,” Saetan replied.

“She’ll be a good Queen, SaDiablo.”

“The best we’ve ever had.” They walked in silence for a couple of minutes. “The bitch has gone to ground again?”

Andulvar nodded. “Plenty of indications that she’s got her hooks firmly into the Dark Council, but no sign of her. Hekatah was always good at staying out of the nastiness once she got it started. It still surprises me that she managed to get herself killed in the last war between the Realms.” He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “It must be biting Hekatah’s ass that the waif’s got the kind of power over a Realm that she’s always wanted.”

“Yes, it must be. So stay sharp, all right?”

“We should warn all the boyos before they return to their own Territories so they know what to look for in case she tries to come in from another direction.”

“Agreed. But if the Darkness is kind, we’ll have some time for these youngsters to get some ground under their feet before we have to deal with another of Hekatah’s schemes.”

“If the Darkness is kind.” Andulvar cleared his throat. “I know why you’ve wanted to wait, and I know who you’ve been waiting for, but, Saetan, Jaenelle’s a grown woman and she’s the Queen now. The triangle should be complete. She should have a Consort.”

Saetan rested his arms on the top of the garden’s stone wall. A soft, night wind sang through the pines beyond the garden. “She already has a Consort,” he said quietly, firmly. “As First Escort, Lucivar can stand in for most of a Consort’s duties and be the third side of the triangle until…” His voice faded.

“If ever, SaDiablo,” Andulvar said with gentle roughness. “Until someone wears the Consort’s ring, every ambitious buck in the Realm—and not a few of them being straight from Terreille—is going to be trying to slip into her bed for the power and prestige he’ll gain by being her Consort. She needs a good man, Saetan, not a memory. She needs a strong, flesh-and-blood man who’ll warm her bed at night because he cares about her.”

Saetan stared at the land beyond the garden. “She has a Consort.”

“Does she?” When Saetan didn’t answer, Andulvar patted his shoulder and walked away.

Saetan stayed there a long time, listening to the night wind’s song. “She has a Consort,” he whispered. “Doesn’t she?”

The night wind didn’t answer.

6 / The Twisted Kingdom

He climbed.

The land wasn’t as twisted here or as steep, but the mist-wisps that filled the hollows sometimes covered the trail, leaving him with the unsettling feeling that nothing existed below his knees.

As time passed, he realized the place felt familiar, that he had explored these roads before when he had been strong and whole. He had entered the borderland that separated sanity from the Twisted Kingdom.

The air held a dew-fresh softness. The light was gentle, like early morning. Somewhere nearby, birds chirped and twittered the day awake, and in the distance was the sound of heavy surf.

His crystal chalice was almost intact. During the long climb, the fragments had fit into place, one by one. There were a few slivers, a few memories missing. One in particular. He couldn’t remember what he had done the night Jaenelle had been brought to Cassandra’s Altar.

As he passed between two large stones that stood like sentinels, one on either side of the trail, the mist rose up around him.

Ahead of him were the water, the birds, the smell of rich earth, the warmth of the sun—and her promise that she would be waiting for him.

Ahead of him was sanity.

But there was also knowledge there, pain there. He could feel it.

Daemon.

A familiar voice, but not the one he longed to hear. He sorted through his memories until he could attach a name to the voice.

Manny. Talking to someone about toast and eggs.

Daemon.

He knew that voice, too. Surreal.

A part of him ached for ordinary conversation, for simple things like toast and eggs. A part of him was very afraid.

He took a step backward…and felt a door gently close behind him.

The stone sentinels had become a high, solid wall.

He leaned against it, trembling.

No way back.

Daemon.

Gathering up his shredded courage, he walked toward the voices, toward the promise.

Walked out of the Twisted Kingdom.