Heir to the Shadows

Blood in Goth, Little Terreille's capital, were interested in court intrigue, not in a village that looked across a river into the wooded land of Dea al Mon.
    But now a curtain had been drawn back, just a little, and he had seen dark power, truly dark power.
    Saetan's the only thing that stands between .you and her.
    The girl had to stay with the High Lord, Magstrom thought as the coach rolled through Halaway to the landing web where they would catch the Winds and go home. For all their sakes, she had to stay.
    Saetan woke slowly as someone settled on the end of his bed. Grunting, he propped himself up on one elbow and stroked the candle-light on the bedside table just enough to dimly light the room.
    Jaenelle sat cross-legged on his bed, her eyes haunted, her face pinched and pale. She handed him a glass. "Drink this. It'll help soothe your nerves."
    He took a sip and then another. It tasted of moonlight, summer heat, and cool water. "This is wonderful, witch-child. You should have a glass yourself."
    "I've had two." She tried to smile but couldn't quite manage it. She fluffed her hair and bit her lower lip. "Saetan, I don't like what happened today. I don't like what. . . almost happened today."
    He drained the glass, set it on the bedside table, and reached for her hand. "I'm glad. Killing should never be easy, witch-child. It should leave a scar on your soul. Sometimes it's necessary. Sometimes there's no choice if we're trying to defend what we cherish. But if there's an alternative, take it."
    "They'd come here to condemn you, to hurt you. They had no right."
    "I've been insulted by fools before. I survived."
    Even in the dim light he saw her eyes change.
    "Just because he was using words instead of a knife, you can't dismiss it, Saetan. He hurt you."
    "Of course he hurt me," Saetan snapped. "Being accused of—" He closed his eyes and squeezed her hand. "I don't tolerate fools, Jaenelle, but I also don't kill them for being fools. I simply keep them out of my life." He sat up and took her other hand. "I am your sword and your shield, Lady. You don't have to kill."
    Witch studied him with her ancient, haunted sapphire eyes. "You'll take the scars on your soul so that mine remains unmarked?"
    "Everything has a price," he said gently. "Those kinds of scars are part of being a Warlord Prince. You're at a crossroads, witch-child. You can use your power to heal or to harm. It's your choice."
    "One or the other?"
    He kissed her hand. "Not always. As I said, sometimes destruction is necessary. But I think you're more suited to healing. It's the road I'd choose for you."
    Jaenelle fluffed her hair. "Well, I do like making healing brews."
    "I noticed," he said dryly.
    She laughed, but the amusement quickly faded. "What will the Dark Council do?"
    He leaned back on his pillows. "There's nothing they can do. I won't let them take you away from your family and friends."
    She kissed his cheek. The last thing she said before she left his bedroom was, "And I won't let them put more scars on your soul."
    2 / Kaeleer
    He had expected it, even prepared for it. It still hurt.
    Jaenelle stood silently in the petitioner's circle, her fingers demurely laced in front of her, her eyes fixed on the seal carved into the front of the blackwood bench where
    the Tribunal sat. She wore a dress she had borrowed from one of her friends, and her hair was pulled back in a tight, neat braid.
    Knowing the Council watched his every move, Saetan stared at nothing, waiting for the Tribunal to begin their vicious little game.
    Because he had anticipated the Council's decision, he'd allowed no one but Andulvar to come with them. Andulvar could take care of himself. He would take care of Jaenelle. The moment the Tribunal announced the Council's verdict, the moment Jaenelle protested and turned to him for help . . .
    Everything has a price.
    Over 50,000 years ago, he'd been instrumental in creating the Dark Council. Now he'd destroy it. One word from her, and it would be done.
    The First Tribune began to speak.
    Saetan didn't listen. He scanned the faces of the Council. Some of the witches looked more troubled than angry. But most of their eyes glittered like feral, slithery things gathered for the kill. He knew some of them. Others were new, replacements for the fools who had challenged him once before in this room. As he watched them watching him, his regret at his decision to destroy them trickled away. They had no right to take his daughter away