Heir to the Shadows (38 page)

Lucivar closed his eyes. No wonder his paternity had never been registered. Who would have believed a woman who claimed to be seeded by the High Lord? And if anyone
had
believed her, imagine the panic that would have caused. Saetan still walked the Realms. Mother Night!

Had Daemon ever learned who had sired them? He would have been pleased with
this
paternal bloodline.

The thought lanced through him. He locked it away.

At least there was one thing he was still sure of. Maybe. He looked at Geoffrey, afraid of either answer.

"I'm still a bastard."

Geoffrey sighed. "I'm reluctant to pull the rest of the ground out from under you but, no, you're not. He formally registered you the day after you were born. Here, at the Keep."

He wasn't a bastard. They . . . "Daemon?" Had he said it out loud?

"Registered as well."

Mother Night. They weren't bastards. He scrambled, clawing for solid ground that kept turning into quicksand under him. "Doesn't make any difference since no one else knew."

"Have you ever been encouraged to play stud, Lucivar?"

Encouraged, pressured, imprisoned, punished, drugged, beaten, forced. They'd been able to use him, but they'd never been able to breed him. He'd never known if the reason was physical or if, somehow, his own rage had kept him sterile. He'd wondered sometimes why they'd wanted his seed so badly.

Knowing who had sired him and the potential strength of any offspring he might produce. . . . Yes, they'd overlook a great deal to have him sire offspring for specific covens, specific aristo houses with failing bloodlines.

He gulped the yarbarah. Cold, it tasted thick. Shaking

and choking, he wondered if his stomach was going to stay down.

A small water glass and another decanter appeared. "Here," Geoffrey said as he quickly filled the glass and shoved it into Lucivar's hand. "I believe whiskey is the proper drink for this kind of shock."

The whiskey cleansed his mouth and burned all the way down. He held out the glass for a refill.

By the time he drained his fourth glass, he was still shaking, but he also felt fuzzy and numb. He liked fuzzy and numb.

"What did you do to Lucivar?" Jaenelle asked, dropping the book on the table. "I thought I was the only one who made him look like that." *

"Fuzzy and numb," Lucivar murmured, resting his head against her.

"So I see," Jaenelle replied, petting him.

A soft warmth surrounded him. That felt nice, too.

"Come on, Lucivar," Jaenelle said. "Let's tuck you into a bed."

He didn't want her to think four paltry glasses of whiskey could put him under the table, so he stood up.

The last things he clearly remembered seeing before the room began moving in unpredictable ways were Geoffrey's gentle smile and the understanding in Jaenelle's eyes.

4 / Kaeleer

Jaenelle was gone before he woke the next morning, leaving him to deal with a throbbing head and the emotional upheaval on his own. When he'd found out she'd left him at the Keep, he'd come close to hating her, silently accusing her of being cold, cruel, and unfeeling.

He spent the two days she was gone exploring the Keep and the mountain called Ebon Askavi. He returned for meals because he was expected to, spoke only when required, and retreated to his room each evening. The wolves offered silent company. He petted and brushed them and, finally, asked the question that had bothered him.

Yes, Smoke told him reluctantly, Lucivar had cried. Heart pain. Caught-in-a-trap pain. The Lady had petted and petted, sung and sung.

It had been more than a dream, then.

In one of the dreamscapes Black Widows spun so well, Jaenelle had met the boy he had been and had drawn the poison from the soul wound. He had wept for the boy, for the things he hadn't been allowed to do, for the things he hadn't been allowed to be. But he didn't weep for the man he'd become. "Ah, Lucivar," she'd said regretfully as they'd walked through the dreamscape. "I can heal the scars on your body, but I can't heal the scars of the soul. Not yours, not mine. You have to learn to live with them. You have to choose to live beyond them."

He couldn't remember anything else in the dream. Perhaps he wasn't meant to. But because of it, he didn't weep for the man he'd become.

Lucivar and Jaenelle stood on the wall of one of the Keep's outer courtyards, looking out over the valley.

Jaenelle pointed to the village below them. "Riada is the largest village in Ebon Rih. Agio is at the northern end of the valley. Doun is at the southern end. There are also several landen villages and a number of independent farmsteads, Blood and landen." She brushed stray hairs from her face. "Outside of Doun, there's a large stone house. The property's surrounded by a stone wall. You can't miss it."

He waited. "Is that where we're going?" he finally asked.

"I'm going back to the cabin. You're going to that house."

"Why?"

She kept her eyes fixed on the valley. "Your mother lives there."

A large, three-story, stone house. A low stone wall separating two acres of tended land from the wildflowers and grasses. Vegetable garden, herb garden, flower gardens", rock garden. In one corner, a stand of trees that whispered, "forest."

A solid place that should have welcomed. A place that gave no comfort. Conflicting emotions too familiar, even after all this time.

Sweet Darkness, don't let it be her.

Of course, it was her. And he wondered why she had abandoned him when he was so young he couldn't remember her and then tolerated his visits as a youth without ever once hinting that she was his mother.

He pushed the kitchen door wide open but remained outside. Until he crossed the threshold, she wouldn't realize he was there. How many times had he suggested that she extend her territorial shield a few feet beyond the stone walls she lived in so she'd have some warning of an intruder? One time less than she'd rejected the suggestion.

Her back was to the door as she fussed with something on the counter. He recognized her anyway by that distinctive white streak in her black hair and the stiff, angry way she always moved.

He stepped into the kitchen. "Hello, Luthvian."

She whirled around, a long-bladed kitchen knife in her hand. He knew it wasn't personal. She'd caught the psychic scent of a grown male and had reached automatically for a knife.

She stared at him, her gold eyes growing wider and wider, filming with tears. "Lucivar," she whispered.

She took a step toward him. Then another. She made a funny little sound between a laugh and a sob.

"She did it. She actually did it." She reached for him.

Lucivar flicked a glance at the knife and didn't move toward her.

Confusion swiftly changed to anger and changed back again. He saw the moment she realized she was pointing a knife at him.

Shaking her head, Luthvian dropped the knife on the kitchen table.

Lucivar stepped farther into the kitchen.

Her tear-bright eyes roamed over him, not like a Healer studying her Sister's Craft but like a woman who truly cared. She pressed one trembling hand against her mouth and reached for him with the other.

Hopeful, heart full, he linked his hand with hers.

And she changed. As she always did, had done since the first time the youth she'd tolerated like a stray-turned-sometimes-pet showed up on her doorstep wearing the traditional dress of an Eyrien warrior, and he'd learned, painfully, that the Black Widow Healer he'd thought of as a friend didn't feel the same way about him after she could no longer call him "boy" and believe it.

Now, as she backed away from him, her eyes filled with wary distrust, he realized for the first time how young she was. Age and maturity became slippery things for the long-lived races. There was rapid growth followed by long plateaus. The white streak in her hair, her Craft skills, her temper and attitude had all helped him believe she was a mature woman granting him her company, a woman centuries older than he. And she was centuries older—and had been just old enough to breed and successfully carry a child to term.

"Why do you despise Eyrien males so much?" he asked quietly.

"My father was one."

Sadly, she didn't have to explain it any better than that.

Then he saw her do what she'd done a hundred times before—subtly shift the way her eyes focused. It was as if she created a sight shield that vanished his wings and left him without the one physical attribute that separated Eyriens from Dhemlans and Hayllians.

Swallowing his anger and a small lump of fear, he pulled out a kitchen chair and straddled it. "Even if I'd lost my wings, I'd still be an Eyrien warrior."

Moving restlessly around the kitchen, Luthvian picked up the knife and shoved it back in the knife rack.

"If you'd grown up someplace where males learned how to be decent men instead of brutes—" She wiped her hands on her hips. "But you grew up in the hunting camps like the rest of them. Yes, even without your wings, you'd still be an Eyrien warrior. It's too late for you to be anything else."

He heard the bitterness, the sorrow. He heard the things that were unsaid. "If you felt that strongly, why didn't you

do something?" He kept his voice neutral. His heart was being bruised to pulp.

She looked at him, emotions flashing through her eyes. Resignation. Anxiety. Fear. She pulled a chair close to his and sat down. "I had to, Lucivar," she said, pleading. "Giving you to Prythian was a mistake, but at the time I thought it was the only way to hide you from—"

him.

She touched his hand and then pulled away as if burned. "I wanted to keep you safe. She promised you would be safe," she added bitterly. Then her voice turned eager. "But you're here now, and we can be together." She waved her hand, silencing him before he could speak. "Oh, I know about the immigration rule, but I've been here long enough to count as a Kaeleer witch. The work wouldn't be hard, and you'd have plenty of time to be out on the land. I know you like that." She smiled too brightly. "You wouldn't even have to live in the house. We could build a small cabin nearby so that you would have privacy."

Privacy for what? he wondered coldly as the inside kitchen door opened. He felt walls and chains closing in on him.

"What do you want, Roxie?" Luthvian snapped.

Roxie stared at him, her lips turning up in a pouty smile. "Who are you?" she asked, eyeing him hungrily.

"None of your business," Luthvian said tightly. "Get back to your lessons.
Now."

Roxie smiled at him, her finger tracing the V neckline of her dress. It made his blood burn, but not the way she imagined.

Lucivar's hands curled into fists. He'd smashed that look off a lot of faces over the centuries. There was battle-fire in the voice he kept low and controlled. "Get the slut out of here before I break her neck."

Roxie's eyes widened in shock.

Luthvian surged out of her chair, tossed Roxie out of the kitchen, and slammed the door.

Fine tremors ran through him. "Well, now I know why I need privacy. It would be an extra selling point for your school, wouldn't it? Your students would have the use of

a strong Warlord Prince. You could assure fretful parents that their daughters would have a safe Virgin Night. I wouldn't dare provide anything else since the witch I serve has to be served
to her
satisfaction."

"It wouldn't be like that," Luthvian insisted, gripping the back of a chair. "You'd get something out of it, too. Hell's fire, Lucivar, you're a Warlord Prince. You need sexual relief on a regular basis just to keep your temper in check."

"I've never needed it before," he snarled, "and I don't need it now. I can keep my temper in check just fine— when I choose to."

"Then you don't choose to very often!"

"No, I don't. Especially when I'm being forced into a bed."

Luthvian smashed the chair against the table. She bared her teeth. "Forced to. Oh, yes, it's such an onerous task to give a little pleasure, isn't it? Forced to! You sound like—"

your father.

He'd tolerated her temper before, withstood her tantrums before. He'd tried to be understanding. He was trying hard now. What he couldn't understand was why a man like the High Lord had ever wanted to mount and breed such a troubled young woman.

"Tell me about my father, Luthvian."

Desperation and a keening rage flooded the kitchen. "It's past. It's done. He's not part of our lives."

"Tell me."

"He didn't want us!
He didn't love us!
He threatened to slit your throat in the cradle if I didn't do what he wanted." The length of the table stood between them. She stood there, shaking, hugging herself.

So young. So troubled. And he couldn't help her. They would destroy each other inside of a week if he tried to stay here with her.

She gave him a wavering smile. "We can be together. You can stay—"

"I'm already in service." He hadn't meant for it to come out so harshly, but it was kinder than saying he would never serve her.

Vulnerability crystallized into rejection, rejection froze

into rage. "Jaenelle," Luthvian said, her voice dangerously empty. "She has a gift for wrapping males around her little finger." She braced her hands on the table. "You want to know about your father? Go ask precious Jaenelle. She knows him better than I ever did."

Lucivar snapped to his feet, knocking the chair over. "No."

Luthvian smiled with pleased malice. "Be careful how you play with your sire's toys, little Prince. He just might snip your balls off. Not that it would matter."

Never taking his eyes off her, Lucivar righted the chair and backed away to the outer kitchen door.

Years of training kept him surefooted as he crossed the threshold. One more step. Two.

The door slammed in his face.

A moment later, he heard dishes smashing on the floor.

She knows him better than I ever did.

It was late afternoon by the time he reached the cabin. He was dirty, hungry, and shaking from physical and emotional fatigue.