Heir to the Shadows

Realms, mistakes that had cost her the war between Terreille and Kaeleer 50,000 years ago. One mistake had been underestimating the strength of the Blood who lived in the Shadow Realm. The other mistake had been underestimating the kindred.

One of the first things she had done after she'd recovered from the shock of being demon-dead was to exterminate the kindred in Terreille. Some went into hiding and survived, but not enough of them. They would have had to breed with landen animals, and over time the interbreeding had probably produced a few creatures who were almost Blood, but never anything strong enough to wear a Jewel.

The wilder kindred in Kaeleer, however, had withdrawn to their own Territories after the war and had woven countless spells to protect their borders. By the time those fierce defences had faded enough for anyone to survive passing through them, the kindred had become little more than myths.

Hekatah began to pace. Hell's fire! How long could it take for two grown males to catch a boy?

After a minute, she stopped pacing and once again arranged the folds of her cloak. She couldn't allow the boy to see any hint of her impatience. It might make him perversely stubborn. She stroked the cloak's fur lining, letting the feel of it soothe her.

During the centuries while she had waited for Terreille to ripen again into a worthy prize, she had helped the Territory of Little Terreille maintain a thread of contact with the Realm of Terreille. But it was only in the past few years that she'd established a foothold in Glacia via Lord Hobart's ambition.

She had chosen Glacia because it was a northern Territory whose people could be isolated more easily from the Blood in other Territories; it had Hobart, a male whose ambitions outstripped his abilities; and.it had a Dark Altar. So for the first time in a very long time, she had a Gate at her disposal, and a way for carefully chosen males to slip into Kaeleer in order to hunt challenging prey.

That wasn't the only little game she was playing in Kaeleer, but the others required time and patience – and the assurance that nothing would interfere with her ambitions this time.

Which was why she was here on the cildru dyathe's island.

She was just about to question the loyalty of her demon guards when they returned, dragging a struggling boy between them. With a savage curse, they pinned the boy against a tall, flat-sided boulder.

'Don't hurt him,' Hekatah snapped.

'Yes, Priestess,' one of the guards replied sullenly.

Hekatah studied the boy, who glared back at her. Char, the young Warlord leader of the cildru dyathe. Easy enough to see how he had come by that name. How had he been able to save so much of his body from the fire? He must have had a great deal of Craft skill for one so young. She should have realized that seven years ago when she had tangled with him the first time. Well, she could easily fix that misjudgement.

Hekatah approached slowly, enjoying the wariness in the boy's eyes. 'I mean you no harm, Warlord,' she crooned. 'I just need your help. I know Jaenelle walks among the cildru dyathe. I want to see her.'

What was left of Char's lips curled in a vicious smile. 'Not all cildru dyathe are on this island.'

Hekatah's gold eyes snapped with fury. 'You lie. Summon her. Now!'

'The High Lord is coming,' Char said. 'He'll be here any moment.'

'Why?' Hekatah demanded.

'Because I sent for him.'

'Why?'

A strange light filled Char's eyes. 'I saw a butterfly yesterday.'

Hekatah wanted to scream in frustration. Instead, she raised her hand, her fingers curved into a claw. 'If you want your eyes, little Warlord, you'll summon Jaenelle now.'

Char stared at her. 'You truly wish to see her?'

'yes!'

Char tipped his head back and let out a strange, wild ululation.

Unnerved by the sound, Hekatah slapped him to make him stop.

'hekatah!'

Hekatah ran from the fury in Saetan's thundering voice. Then she glanced over her shoulder and stopped, shocked excitement making her nerves sizzle.

Saetan leaned heavily on a silver-headed cane, his golden eyes glittering with rage. There was more silver in the thick black hair, and his face was tight with exhaustion. He looked. . worn-out.

And he was only wearing his Birthright Red Jewel.

She didn't even take the time for a fast descent to gather her full strength. She just raised her hand and unleashed the power in her Red-Jeweled ring at his weak leg.

His cry of pain as he fell was the most satisfying sound she'd heard in years.

'Seize him!' she screamed at her demons.

A cold, soft wind sighed across the island.

The guards hesitated for a moment, but when Saetan tried to get up and failed, they drew their knives and ran toward him.

The ground trembled slightly. Mist swirled around the rocks, around the barren earth.

Hekatah also ran toward Saetan, wanting to watch the knives cut deep, wanting to watch his blood run. A Guardian's blood! The richness, the strength in it! She would feast on him before dealing with that upstart little demon.

A howl rose from the abyss, a sound full of joy and pain, rage and celebration.

Then a tidal wave of dark power flooded the cildru dyathe's island. Psychic lightning set Hell's twilight sky on fire. Thunder shook the land. The howling went on and on.

Hekatah fell to the ground and curled up as tight as she could.

Her demons screamed in nerve-shattering agony.

Go away, Hekatah pleaded silently. Whatever you are, go away.

Something icy and terrible brushed against her inner barriers, and Hekatah blanked her mind.

By the time it faded away, the witch storm had faded with it.

Hekatah pushed herself into a sitting position. Her throat worked convulsively when she saw what was left of her demons.

There was no sign of Saetan or Char.

Hekatah slowly got to her feet. Was that Jaenelle – or what was left of Jaenelle? Maybe she wasn't cildru dyathe. Maybe she had faded from demon to ghost and all that was left was that bodiless power.

It was just as well the girl was dead, Hekatah thought as she caught a White Wind and rode back to the stone building she claimed as her own. It was just as well that whatever was left of Jaenelle would be confined to the Dark Realm. Trying to control that savage power… It was just as well the girl was dead.

Pain surrounded him, filled him. His head felt like it was stuffed with blankets. He clawed his way through, desperate to reach the muffled voices he heard around him: Andulvar's angry rumble, Char's distress.

Hell's fire! Why were they just sitting there? For the first time in two years, Jaenelle had responded to someone's call. Why weren't they trying to keep her within reach?

Because Jaenelle was gliding through the abyss too deep for anyone but him to feel her presence. But he couldn't just descend to the level of the Black and summon her. He had to be near her physically, he had to be with her to coax her into remaining with her body.

'Why did the witch storm hit him so bad?' Char asked fearfully.

'Because he's an ass,' Andulvar growled in reply.

He redoubled his efforts to break through the muffling layers just so he could snarl at Andulvar. Maybe he had been channelling too much of the Black strength without giving his body a chance to recover. Maybe he had been foolish when he'd refused to drink fresh blood to maintain his strength. But that didn't give an Eyrien warrior the right to act like a stubborn, nagging Healer.

Jaenelle would have cornered him until he'd given in.