Heir to the Shadows

carefully undercutting the ancient code of honor and snipping away at the fragile web of trust that bound men and women of the Blood.
    What would happen to the Blood once that trust was destroyed? All one had to do was look at Terreille to see the answer.
    Mephis stood before the desk, his hands clenched. "What are we going to do?"
    "I'll take care of it, Mephis," Saetan said too softly. "If Menzar has been free to spread his poison this long, it's because I wasn't vigilant enough to detect him."
    "What about all the Queens and their First Circles who also weren't vigilant enough to detect him when he was in their territories? You didn't ignore a warning that had been sent, you never got any warning until Sylvia came to you."
    "The responsibility is still mine, Mephis." When Mephis
    equal to Menzar's wages. The house is leased? Pay the lease for a five-year period."
    Mephis crossed his arms. "Without the rent to pay, it will be more money than she's ever had at her disposal."
    "It'll give her the time and the means to rest. There's no reason she should pay for her brother's crimes. If her wits have been buried beneath Menzar's manipulation, they'll surface. If she's truly incapable of taking care of herself, we'll make other arrangements."
    Mephis looked troubled. "About the execution ..."
    "I'll take care of it, Mephis." Saetan came around the desk and brushed his shoulder against his son's. "Besides, there's something else I want you to do." He waited until Mephis looked at him. "You still have the town house in Amdarh?"
    "You know I do."
    "And you still enjoy the theater?"
    "Very much," Mephis said, puzzled. "I rent a box each season."
    "Are there any plays that might intrigue a fifteen-year-old girl?"
    Mephis smiled in understanding. "A couple of them next week."
    Saetan's answering smile was chilling. "Well-timed, I think. An outing to Dhemlan's capital with her elder brother before her new tutors begin making demands on her time will suit our plans very well."

5 / Terreille
     
    Lucivar's legs quivered from exhaustion and pain. Chained facing the back wall of his cell, he tried to rest his chest against it to lessen the strain on his legs, tried to ignore the tension in his shoulders and neck.
    The tears came, slow and silent at first, then building into rib-squeezing, racking sobs of pent-up grief.
    The surly guard had performed the beating. Not his back this time but his legs. Not a whip to cut, but a thick leather strap to pound against muscle stretched tight. Working to a slow drum rhythm, the guard had applied the strap with care, making each stroke overlap the one before so that no flesh was missed. Down and back, down and back. Except for the breath hissing between his teeth, Lucivar had made no sound. When it was finally done, he'd been hauled to his feet—feet too brutalized to take his weight—and fitted with Zuultah's latest toy: a metal chastity belt. It locked tight around his waist but the metal loop between his legs wasn't tight enough to cause discomfort. He'd puzzled over it for a moment before being forced to walk to his cell. There wasn't room for anything but the pain after that. And when he got to the cell, he understood only too well what was supposed to happen.
    There was a new, thick-linked chain attached to the back wall. The bottom loop of the belt was pulled through a slot in the band around his waist, and the chain was locked to it. The chain wasn't long enough for him to do anything but stand, and if his legs buckled, it wouldn't be his waist absorbing his weight. No doubt Zuultah was being oiled and massaged while she waited for his scream of agony.
    That wasn't reason enough to cry.
    Slime mold had begun forming on his wings. Without a cleansing by a Healer, it would spread and spread until his wings were nothing more than greasy strings of membranous skin hanging from the frame. He couldn't spread his wings in the salt mine without being whipped, and now his hands were chained behind his back each night, locking his wings tight against a body coated with salt dust and dripping with sweat.
    He'd told Daemon once he would rather lose his balls than his wings, and he had meant it.
    But that wasn't reason enough to cry.
    He hadn't seen the sun in over a year. Except for the few precious minutes each day when he was led from his cell to the salt mines and back again, he hadn't breathed clean air or felt a breeze against his skin. His world had become two dark, stinking holes—and