Daughter of the Blood

Warlord Prince and almost unshakable. Prothvar was a Red-Jeweled Eyrien Warlord, a warrior bred and trained. Andulvar was an Eyrien Warlord Prince who wore the Ebon-gray, the second darkest Jewel. They were all strong men who didn't frighten easily—but now they were frightened.
    Saetan leaned forward, their fear pricking the bubble of indifference he'd sealed himself in a decade ago. His body was weak and he needed a cane to walk, but his mind was still sharp, the Black Jewels still vibrant, his skill in the Craft still honed.
    Suddenly, he knew he would need all that strength and skill to deal with whatever was happening on the cildru dyathe's island.
    Andulvar pulled the cloth off the globe. Saetan just stared, his face full of wonder and disbelief.
    A butterfly. No, not just a butterfly. This was a huge fantasy creature that gently beat its wings within the confines of the globe. But it was the colors that stunned Saetan. Hell was a Realm of forever-twilight, a Realm that muted colors until there was almost no color at all. There was nothing muted about the creature in the globe. Its body was pumpkin orange, its wings an unlikely blend of sky blue, sun yellow, and spring-grass green. As he stared, the butterfly lost its shape, and the colors bled together like a chalk painting in the rain.
    Someone on the cildru dyathe's island had created that glorious piece of magic, had been able to hold the colors of the living Realms in a place that bleached away the vitality, the vibrancy of life.
    "Prothvar threw a shielded globe around this one," Andulvar said.
    "They dissolve almost immediately," Prothvar said apologetically, pulling his dark, membranous wings tight to his body.
    Saetan straightened in his chair. "Bring Char to me, Lord Yaslana." His voice was soft thunder, caressing, commanding.
    "He won't come willingly," Prothvar said.
    Saetan stared at the demon-dead Warlord. "Bring Char to me."
    "Yes, High Lord."
    The High Lord of Hell sat quietly by the fire, his slender fingers loosely steepled, the long nails a glistening black. The Black-Jeweled ring on his right hand glittered with an inner fire.
    The boy sat opposite him, staring at the floor, trying hard not to be frightened.
    Saetan watched him through half-closed eyes. For a thousand years now, Char had been the leader of the cildru dyathe. He'd been twelve, maybe thirteen, when someone had staked him and set him on fire. The will to survive had been stronger than the body, and he'd tumbled through one of the Gates to end up in the Dark Realm. His body was so burned it was impossible to tell what race he had come from. Yet this young demon boy had gathered the other maimed children and created a haven for them, the cildru dyathe's island.
    He would have been a good Warlord if he'd been allowed to come of age, Saetan thought idly.
    Andulvar, Mephis, and Prothvar stood behind Char's chair in a half circle, effectively cutting off any means of escape.
    "Who makes the butterflies, Char?" Saetan asked too quietly.
    There were winds that came down from the north screaming over miles of ice, picking up moisture as they tore over the cooling sea until, when they finally touched a man, the cold, knife-sharp damp seeped into his bones and chilled him in places the hottest fire couldn't warm. Saetan, when he was this calm, this still, was like those winds.
    "Who makes the butterflies?" he asked again.
    Char stared at the floor, his hands clenched, his face twisted with the emotions raging within him. "She's ours." The words burst from him. "She belongs to us."
    Saetan sat very still, cold with the fury rising in him. Until he had an answer, he had no time for gentleness.
    Char stared back, frightened but willing to fight.
    All of Hell's citizens knew the subtle nuances of death, that there was dead and there was dead. All of Hell's citizens knew the one person capable of obliterating them with a thought was their High Lord. Still, Char openly challenged him, and waited.
    Suddenly, something else was in the room. A soft touch. A question running on a psychic thread. Char hung his head, defeated. "She wants to meet you."
    "Then bring her here, Char."
    Char squared his shoulders. "Tomorrow. I'll bring her tomorrow."
    Saetan studied the trembling pride in the boy's eyes. "Very well, Warlord, you may escort her here . . . tomorrow."

4—Hell
    Saetan stood at the reading lectern, the candle-lights spilling a soft glow around him as he leafed through an old Craft text. He