Daughter of the Blood

Darkness be merciful!
    Thirteen uncut Black Jewels, Jewels that already glittered with the inner fire of a psychic bond. Having a child bond with one Black Jewel without having her mind pulled into its depths was disturbing enough, but the inner strength required to bond and hold thirteen of them . . . Fear skittered up his spine, raced through his veins.
    Too much power. Too much. Even the Blood weren't meant to wield this much power. Even Witch had never controlled this much power.
    This one did. This young Queen. This daughter of his soul.
    With effort, Saetan steadied his breathing. He could accept her. He could love her. Or he could fear her. The decision was his, and whatever he decided here, now, he would have to live with.
    The Black Jewels glowed. The Black Jewel in his ring glowed in answer. His blood throbbed in his veins, making his head ache. The power in those Jewels pulled at him, demanding recognition.
    And he discovered the decision was an easy one after all—he had actually made it a long, long time ago.
    "Where did you get these, witch-child?" he asked hoarsely.
    Jaenelle hunched her shoulders. "From Lorn."
    "L-Lorn?" Lorn? That was a name from the Blood's most ancient legends. Lorn was the last Prince of the Dragons, the founding race who had created the Blood. "How . . . where did you meet Lorn?"
    Jaenelle withdrew further into herself.
    Saetan stifled the urge to shake the answer out of her and let out a theatrical sigh. "A secret between friends, yes?"
    Jaenelle nodded.
    He sighed again. "In that case, pretend I never asked." He gently rapped her nose with his finger. "But that means you can't go telling him our secrets."
    Jaenelle looked at him, wide-eyed. "Do we have any?"
    "Not yet," he grumped, "but I'll make one up just so we do."
    She let out a silvery, velvet-coated laugh, an extraordinary sound that hinted at the voice she'd have in a few years. Rather like her face, which was too exotic and awkward for her now, but, sweet Darkness, when she grew into that face!
    "All right, witch-child, down to business. Put those away. You won't need them for this."
    "Business?" she asked, scooping up the Jewels and tucking the bags into the folds of her dress.
    "Your first lesson in basic Craft."
    Jaenelle drooped and perked up at the same time.
    Saetan twitched a finger. A rectangular paperweight rose off the blackwood desk and glided through the air until it settled on the low table. The paperweight was a polished stone taken from the same quarry as the stones he'd used to build the Hall in this Realm.
    Saetan positioned Jaenelle in front of the table. "I want you to point one finger at the paperweight . . . like this . . . and move it as far across the table as you can."
    Jaenelle hesitated, licked her lips, and pointed her finger.
    Saetan felt the surge of raw power through his Black Jewel.
    The paperweight didn't move.
    "Try again, witch-child. In the other direction."
    Again there was that surge, but the paperweight didn't move.
    Saetan rubbed his chin, confused. This was simple Craft, something she shouldn't have any trouble with whatsoever.
    Jaenelle wilted. "I try," she said in a broken voice. "I try and try, but I never get it right."
    Saetan hugged her, feeling a bittersweet ache in his heart when her arms wrapped around his neck. "Never mind, witch-child. It takes time to learn Craft."
    "Why can't I do it? All my friends can do it."
    Reluctant to let her go, Saetan forced himself to hold her at arm's length. "Perhaps we should start with something personal. That's usually easier. Is there anything you have trouble with?"
    Jaenelle fluffed her hair and frowned. "I always have trouble finding my shoes."
    "Good enough." Saetan reached for his cane. "Put one shoe in front of the desk and then stand over there."
    He limped to the far side of the room and stood with his back to Cassandra's portrait, grimly amused at giving his new Queen her first Craft lesson under the watchful but unknowing eyes of his last Queen.
    When Jaenelle joined him, he said, "A lot of Craftwork requires translating physical action into mental action. I want you to imagine—by the way, how is your imagination?" Saetan faltered. Why did she look so bruised? He'd only meant to tease a little since he'd already seen that butterfly. "I want you to imagine picking up the shoe and bringing it over here. Reach forward, grasp, and bring it in."
    Jaenelle stretched her arm as far as it would go, clenched her hand, and