Lucivar shook his head. "The High Lord asked me to report to him at the Hall. This side trip has delayed that report for a couple of days, so I'd better get my ass there before he decides to take a piece out of it."
"Then I'll go with you."
When they reached the place where they could catch the Winds, Lucivar hesitated. "How is Karla? I didn't get to see her before they left for the Keep."
Daemon stared at the unbroken snow. "She'll live. Jaenelle thinks she can heal the legs enough for Karla to walk again."
"Jaenellethinks she can?" Lucivar paled. "Mother Night, Daemon, ifJaenelle isn't sure, what was done—"
"Don't ask," Daemon said too sharply. He made an effort to soften his voice. "Don't ask. I... don't want to talk about it." But this was Lucivar who was asking, so he tried. "There's no antidote for witchblood. The poison had to be drawn into some part of the body in order to save the internal organs and then drawn out. It ... killed a lot of the muscle, and that muscle had to be..." His gorge rose as he thought of the withered limbs that had been healthy legs.
"Let it go," Lucivar said gently. "Let it go."
They both took a couple of unsteady breaths before Daemon said, "The sooner we make our reports, the sooner we can go home." For him, home wasn't a place, it was a person—and right then, he needed to know that Jaenelle was safe.
6 / Terreille
"Kartane sent a report." Dorothea carefully selected a piece of sugared fruit, took a bite, and chewed slowly just to make Hekatah wait.
"And?" Hekatah finally asked. "Has the Gate in Glacia been secured for our use? Is the village ready for our hand-picked immigrants?"
Dorothea selected another piece of fruit. This time she gave it a couple of delicate licks before answering. "The villagers were eliminated. So were the Eyriens."
"What?How?"
"The messenger who met with Kartane couldn't find out what happened to the Eyriens, only that they had killed the villagers and had, in turn, been killed." She paused. "Lord Hobart's dead as well."
Hekatah stood perfectly still. "And the bitch-Queen, Karla? Was that, at least, successful?"
Dorothea shrugged. "She disappeared during the fighting. But since Ulka died rather... dramatically... one would assume she consumed the poison."
"Then that's the end of her," Hekatah said with a little smile of satisfaction. "Even if someone manages to figure out an antidote for the Hayllian poison in time, the witch-blood will finish things."
"Our plans for Glacia are also finished. Or hasn't that occurred to you?"
Hekatah waved that away. "Considering what wehave achieved, that's a minor inconvenience."
Dorothea dropped the fruit back into the bowl. "We've achievednothing*. "
"You're becoming inflexible, Dorothea," Hekatah said with venomous sweetness. "You're starting to act as old as you look."
Dorothea's blood pounded in her temples, and she wanted—oh, how she wanted—to unleash just a little of the feelings that had been growing more virulent. She hated Hekatah, but she also needed the bitch. So she sat back and inflicted a wound that would hurt much deeper than any physical blow. "At least I still have all my hair. That bald patch is starting to ooze, dearest."
Hekatah automatically lifted a hand to cover the spot. With effort, she lowered it before it reached her head.
The impotent hatred in Hekatah's dull gold eyes scared Dorothea a little but also produced a sense of vicious satisfaction.
"We can make do with sneaking through the other Gates," Hekatah said. "We have something better now."
"And what is that?" Dorothea asked politely.
"The excuse we needed to start the war." Hekatah's smile was pure malevolence.
"I see," Dorothea said, returning the smile.
"The immigrants we had picked to replace the villagers will go to Glacia—just as they would have if Hobart had given us that village as payment for our assistance. We'll also add a few immigrants from other Terreillean Territories. The escorts will be males who don't know where the original village was located. Only the Coach drivers will be told where to drop off the happy families—and that won't be anywhere near a settled area, so there won't be any chance of detection. The escorts will, of course, be dismayed to see no sign of a village waiting for inhabitants." A dreamy look filled Hekatah's eyes. "The company of Eyrien warriors who will be waiting for them will take care of things. The slaughter will be ... horrible. But there will be a couple of survivors who will manage to escape. They'll live long enough to get back to Little Terreille and tell a few people about how Terreilleans are being butchered in Kaeleer. And they'll live long enough to say that two men had been giving the orders—a Hayllian and an Eyrien."
"No one in Terreille will think it's anyone but Sadi and Yaslana," Dorothea said gleefully. "They'll think the High Lord ordered the attack and sent his sons to oversee it."
"Exactly."
"Which will prove that all my warnings were justified. And once people start wondering why there has been no word from friends or loved ones..." Dorothea sank back in her chair with a sigh of pleasure. Then she straightened up reluctantly. "We still have to find a way to contain Jaenelle Angelline."
"Oh, with the proper incentive, she'll willingly place herself in our hands."
Dorothea snorted. "What kind of incentive would make her do that?"
"Using someone she loves as bait."
7 / Kaeleer
Chilled to the bone, Saetan listened to Lucivar's and Daemon's reports. He would have liked to believe Lord Hobart had hired a company of Eyriens to help him seize control of Glacia, would have liked to believe Morton's death and the attack on Karla were strictly a Glacian concern. But he'd had other reports in the past twenty-four hours. Two District Queens in Dharo had been killed, along with their escorts. A mob of landens had attacked a kindred wolf pack that had recently formed around a young Queen. While the males were dealing with that threat, some Blood had outflanked them, killed the Queen, and vanished, leaving the landens behind to be slaughtered by the enraged males. In Scelt, a Warlord Prince, a youth still not quite old enough to make the Offering to the Darkness, had been found behind the tavern in his home village. His throat had been slit.
Even more troubling, Kalush had been attacked while walking through a park in Tajrana, her own capital city. The only reason neither she nor her infant daughter had been harmed was because her attackers couldn't break through the protective shield around her—the Ebony shield that was in the ring Jaenelle had given her—and because Aaron, alerted by the link through the Ring of Honor he wore, had arrived riding the killing edge and had destroyed the attackers with a savagery that bordered on insanity.
It didn't take any effort to see the pattern, especially since he recognized it. Fifty thousand years slipped away as if they had never existed. It might have been Andulvar and Mephis sitting there, voicing their concerns about swift, seemingly random attacks to a man who had insisted that, as a Guardian, he could no longer interfere with the affairs of the living. He was still a Guardian, but he was too entangled in the affairs of the living to obey the rules Guardians abided by.
They were going to war.
He wondered if Daemon and Lucivar realized it yet.
And he wondered how many loved ones he would have to assist through the transition to becoming demon-dead this time—and how many would disappear without a trace. Like Andulvar's son, Ravenar. Like his own son, his second son, Peyton.
"Father?" Daemon said quietly.
He realized they were both watching him intently, but it was Daemon he focused on. The son who was a mirror, who was his true heir. The son he understood the best— and the least.
Before he could start to tell them about the other attacks, Beale knocked on the study door and walked in.
"Forgive the intrusion, High Lord," Beale said, "but there's a Warlord here to see you. He has a letter."
"Then take the letter. I don't want to be disturbed at the moment."
"I suggested that, High Lord. He said he needs to deliver it in person."
Saetan waited a moment. "Very well."
Lucivar sprang out of his chair and positioned himself so that he would flank anyone standing near the desk. Daemon rose and resettled himself on a corner of the desk.
The intense warrior and the indolent male. Saetan imagined they had played these roles before—and played them well. With Lucivar's temper so close to the surface, the attention would be on him—but the death blow would come from Daemon.
The Warlord who entered the study was pale, nervous, and sweating. He paled even more when he saw Lucivar and Daemon.
Saetan walked around the desk. "You have a letter for me?"
The Warlord swallowed hard. "Yes, sir." He extended an envelope, the ink a little smeared from his hands.
Saetan probed the envelope. Found nothing. No trace of a spell. No trace of poison. He took it and looked at the Warlord.
"I found that in the guest room desk this morning," the man said hurriedly. "I didn't know it was there."
Saetan looked at the envelope. There was nothing on it except his name. "So you found it this morning. Is that significant?"
"I hope not. I mean—" The man took a deep breath, made an effort to steady himself. "Lord Magstrom is— was—my wife's grandfather. He came to visit us last fall, just before... Well, before. He seemed disturbed about something, but we weren't paying much attention. My wife... We had just found out for sure that she was pregnant. She'd had a miscarriage the year before, and we were concerned that it might happen again. The Healer says she has to be careful."
Why was the man pleading with him? "Is your wife well?"
"Yes, thank you, she is, but she's had to be careful. Grandfather Magstrom didn't mention the letter. At least, I don't remember him mentioning it, and then, after he... was killed..." The man's hands trembled. "I hope it wasn't something urgent. As soon as I found it, I knew I had to come right away. I hope it wasn't urgent."