Heir to the Shadows

place for the Sadist to go to ground—in more ways than one. Plenty of broken, tumbled rock among those ruins. Some of them should be large enough to use as a makeshift altar. Oh, yes, a very fitting place.
    Smiling, he caught the Red Wind and headed east.   -
    Except for stories about Andulvar Yaslana, Lucivar had never had much interest in history. But Daemon had once
    insisted that SaDiablo Hall in Terreille had been intact until about 1,600 years ago, that something had happened—not an attack, but something—that had broken the preservation spells that had held for more than 50,000 years and had begun the building's decay.
    Treading carefully through the broken ruins, Lucivar thought Daemon might have been right. There was a deep emptiness about the place, as if its energy had been deliberately bled out. The stones felt dead. No, not dead. Starved. Every time he touched one as he made his way toward an inner courtyard, it felt as if the stone was trying to suck his strength into itself.
    He followed the smell of wood smoke, shaking off his uneasiness. He hadn't come here to ponder phantoms. He'd be one soon enough.
    Baring his teeth in a feral smile, he unsheathed the war blade and stepped into the courtyard, staying back from the circle of firelight.
    "Hello, Bastard."
    Daemon slowly looked up from the fire and just as slowly pinpointed the sound. When he finally did, his smile was gentle and weary.
    "Hello, Prick. Have you come to kill me?" Daemon's voice sounded rusty, as if he hadn't spoken for a long time.
    Concern warred with anger until it became another flavor of anger. And the difference in Daemon's psychic scent bothered him. "Yes."
    Nodding, Daemon stood up and removed his torn jacket.
    Lucivar's eyes narrowed as Daemon unbuttoned the remaining buttons on his shirt, pulled the shirt aside to expose his chest, and stepped around the fire to stand where the light best favored the attacker. It felt wrong. Everything felt wrong. Daemon knew enough about basic survival and living off the land—Hell's fire, he had seen to that—to have kept himself in better condition than this. Lucivar studied the dirty, ragged clothes, Daemon's half-starved body shivering in the firelight, the calm, almost hopeful look in those bruised, exhausted eyes, and ground his teeth. The only other person he'd ever met who was that indifferent to her physical well-being was Tersa.
    Maybe Daemon's voice wasn't rusty from disuse but hoarse from screaming himself awake at night.
    "You're caught in it, aren't you?" Lucivar asked quietly. "You're tangled up in the Twisted Kingdom."
    Daemon trembled. "Lucivar, please. You promised you'd kill me."
    Lucivar's eyes glittered. "Do you feel her under you, Daemon? Do you feel that young flesh bruising under your hands? Do you feel her blood on your thighs while you drive into her, tearing her apart?" He stepped forward. "Do you?"
    Daemon cringed. "I didn't . . ." He raised a shaking hand, twisting his fingers in the thick tangle of hair. "There's so much blood. It never goes away. The words never go away. Lucivar, please."

Making sure he had Daemon's attention, Lucivar stepped back and sheathed the war blade. "Killing you would be a kindness you don't deserve. You owe her every drop of pain that can be wrung out of you for the rest of your life and, Daemon, I wish you a very long life."
    Daemon wiped his face with his sleeve, leaving a dirt smear across his cheek. "Maybe the next time we meet you can—"
    "I'm dying," Lucivar snapped. "There won't be a next time."
    There was a flicker of understanding in Daemon's eyes. ,
    Something clogged Lucivar's throat. Tears pricked his eyes. There would be no reconciliation, no understanding, no forgiveness. Just a bitterness that would last beyond the flesh.
    Lucivar limped out of the courtyard as fast as he could, using Craft to support his wounded leg. As he picked his way through the broken stones toward the remains of the landing web, he heard a cry so full of anguish the stones seemed to shudder. He stumbled to the web, gasping and tear-blind, unwilling to turn back, unwilling to leave.
    But just before he caught the Gray Wind that would take him to Askavi and the final run, he looked at the ruins of the Hall and whispered, "Good-bye, Daemon."
    Lucivar stood on the canyon rim at the halfway point in the Khaldharon Run, waiting for the sun to rise enough to light the canyon far below him.
    Craft was the only thing keeping him on his feet