Heir to the Shadows

Morton's look of astonishment. "Boyo, even being me doesn't make a difficult witch any less difficult."
    *Especially a Dea al Mon Harpy,* Andulvar sent, amused. *Have you recovered yet from her latest attempt to be helpful?*
    *If you're going to sit there, be useful,* Saetan shot back.
    Andulvar turned to Morton. "Did your cousin keep her promise?" When the boy gave him a blank look, he added, "Was she being polite?"
    The tips of Morton's ears turned red. He shrugged helplessly. "For Karla ... I guess so."
    "Oh, Mother Night," Saetan muttered. Suddenly a thought swooped down on him, and he choked. He used the time needed to catch his breath to consider some rather nasty possibilities.
    When he was finally in control again, he chose his words carefully. "Lord Morton, your uncle doesn't know you're here, does he?" Morton's nervous look was answer enough. "Where does he think you are?"
    "Somewhere else."
    Saetan studied Morton, fascinated by the subtle change in his posture. No longer a youth intimidated by his surroundings and the males he faced, but a Warlord protecting his young Queen. You were wrong, boyo, Saetan thought. You've already chosen whom you serve.
    "Karla . . ." Morton gathered his thoughts. "It isn't easy for Karla. She wears Birthright Sapphire, and she's a Queen and a natural Black Widow as well as a Healer, and Uncle Hobart . . ."
    Saetan tensed at the bitterness in Morton's blue eyes.
    "She and Uncle Hobart don't get along," Morton finished lamely, looking away. When he looked back, he seemed so young and vulnerable. "I know Karla wants her to come visit like she used to, but couldn't Jaenelle just write a short note? Just to say hello?"
    Saetan closed 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