Chapter 1
Nineteen years after the end of the Black Jewels Trilogy
1/Tereille
Lorn was tall and lean; his face almost beautiful, though extremely handsome might have been a better way of putting it. He had shaggy dark blond hair, and sapphire eyes, eyes that, for some reason, drove women wild. But he was only seventeen. Still a boy, still only wearing his Birthright Jewel. But he had been taken from his home as a young boy, a mere six, and forced to come to Tereille, where he was later trained as a pleasure slave. During the day, he fawned and bowed to witches not as strong as him. During the night…
The night…he stifled a growl.
He barely remembered his father, but he had probably worn a dark Jewel, since Lorn wore the Gray as a Birthright. No one wore the Gray as a Birthright; Red was the darkest Birthright Jewel. Most people couldn't cope with wearing such a dark Jewel so young, but Lorn could. The boy assumed that his mother must also have worn a dark Jewel. But he hardly remembered her at all. Just a halo of golden hair and a silver-coated laugh. His father was darker, stronger, a tall, lean man with black hair and golden eyes.
To keep himself supported through the nights, and the days, Lorn had always fantasized that his father was Deamon Sadi, or, even better, Seatan SaDiablo, and that he wasn't just a bastard little boy, but the true heir to the SaDiablo name. But the fantasies didn't last very long, crumbling around him whenever he heard talk of the real heir. He was supposedly an Ebon-Gray Jeweled Eyrien, the son of Seatan's youngest boy Lucivar Yaslana. Not that there was anything boyish about Yaslana. Sometimes, the game had even earned him a beating from his owner, Hekatah. She was an old woman who always wore a black hood to hide her features, but she was still strong enough to give him bruises. So he had learned to keep his fantasies a secret. But she only rarely used the Ring of Obedience against him.
He had often wondered why she had been so lenient in her punishment to him, though he had never been brave enough to ask. But, one day, she had let something slip, something Lorn knew was important…if he could just figure it out: "Because what your father did to me…if he knew about you…" She had shuddered, and then said no more.
2/Tereille
Arnar wandered aimlessly through the maze of trees and bushes that had overgrown the place in the thirty or so years since it had been in use. He walked through the carrot-patch, under the tree with the perfect branch, past the bush that bore only black roses, and through the secret entrance, into the room where it had all begun. There was still dried blood on the floor, both Jeanelle's and Greer's. The bed was still there, still narrow, still with the straps to tie down hands and feet, but now it was rotting, in complete disrepair. The young Eyrien boy had only come here once before, and the overwhelming history of the place had filled him a psychic energy he had not understood then.
Now, however, he did.
He spread his wings slowly, letting the images run through his mind, letting what had happened here all those years ago happen again in his mind. His mother had never talked about it, never told him anything, really. She had been a Gray-Jeweled Dea al Mon witch, though, unlike most Dea al Mon, she had been generally solitary. The only people she ever really talked to were Arnar's father and a Sapphire-Jeweled kindred wolf. He had inherited most of his looks from her, which made the large wings seem out of place on his slender frame. The other thing he had inherited from her was the SaDiablo name.
After Deamonar Yaslana, the High Lord's grandson, Arnar was the heir. He never really believed anything would come of it, though. Seatan was still alive and kicking, with a wife and stepchildren, and Deamonar wasn't likely to die before Arnar. The older Eyrien was an Ebon-Gray Warlord Prince, while Arnar was only a Sapphire-Jeweled Warlord Prince. He might, after the Offering to the Darkness in two more years, descend to the Ebon-Gray, but he doubted it.
The boy glanced around the room once more, his gold-green eyes looking for something. He found it under the decrepit bed, glinting slightly despite the tarnish that had settled on it.
It was a golden-handled stiletto, its blade now dull, when it had once been sharp. And there was no mistaking the old blood that stained it. Adorning the crosspiece was a crest of two golden stags, their horns intertwining at base of the handle. A Dea al Mon knife. His grandmother's knife.
3/Kealeer
Seatan lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Sylvia was quiet beside him; he knew she was asleep. He was alone with his thoughts, something that he hated. His thoughts, these days, were troubled. His son and true heir, Deamon Sadi, had died shortly after the birth of his own son, and no one knew what, or who, had killed him. Jeanelle had gone into seclusion after the death of her husband, and the disappearance of her son Seatan III eleven years ago. And now he had to run the Court of Ebon Askavi, bad enough usually, but even more now that marauding bands of Hayllians and other races had emerged again. They served some evil purpose, though Seatan didn't know who commanded them. Most likely someone with a personal grudge against him, since his niece Surreal and her lover Falonar had been killed in one of the earlier skirmishes, and his daughter in-law, Marian, had also been killed in a later fight. Surreal's son and daughter as well as Marian's boy would have been killed had they not been visiting the Hall at Hallaway that year.
The worst of it all had been Lucivar's death. Only a year ago, his youngest son had been, as usual, hunting for his wife's killers, and hadn't returned home. No news had been heard of him in the past year, except that he had been involved in a large-scale battle. And no news about Lucivar invariably meant bad news. Either the Eyrien had drastically changed, or was dead.
Seatan considered the latter a much more likely answer.
But he had been counting so much on Lucivar, since he had been Seatan's heir. The High Lord had been relying on him to help with Jeanelle, who would see no one but her adoptive brother, and to sift through the matters of Court and present the more important ones to him, while Lucivar would deal with the more trivial ones himself.
Now Jeanelle would see no one, and Seatan was left by himself in the mire of running a Court he couldn't pretend to have enough power to rule. Sylvia helped as best she could, of course, but she had her own Court to run. Seatan sighed. It was just him; alone.
Nineteen years after the end of the Black Jewels Trilogy
1/Tereille
Lorn was tall and lean; his face almost beautiful, though extremely handsome might have been a better way of putting it. He had shaggy dark blond hair, and sapphire eyes, eyes that, for some reason, drove women wild. But he was only seventeen. Still a boy, still only wearing his Birthright Jewel. But he had been taken from his home as a young boy, a mere six, and forced to come to Tereille, where he was later trained as a pleasure slave. During the day, he fawned and bowed to witches not as strong as him. During the night…
The night…he stifled a growl.
He barely remembered his father, but he had probably worn a dark Jewel, since Lorn wore the Gray as a Birthright. No one wore the Gray as a Birthright; Red was the darkest Birthright Jewel. Most people couldn't cope with wearing such a dark Jewel so young, but Lorn could. The boy assumed that his mother must also have worn a dark Jewel. But he hardly remembered her at all. Just a halo of golden hair and a silver-coated laugh. His father was darker, stronger, a tall, lean man with black hair and golden eyes.
To keep himself supported through the nights, and the days, Lorn had always fantasized that his father was Deamon Sadi, or, even better, Seatan SaDiablo, and that he wasn't just a bastard little boy, but the true heir to the SaDiablo name. But the fantasies didn't last very long, crumbling around him whenever he heard talk of the real heir. He was supposedly an Ebon-Gray Jeweled Eyrien, the son of Seatan's youngest boy Lucivar Yaslana. Not that there was anything boyish about Yaslana. Sometimes, the game had even earned him a beating from his owner, Hekatah. She was an old woman who always wore a black hood to hide her features, but she was still strong enough to give him bruises. So he had learned to keep his fantasies a secret. But she only rarely used the Ring of Obedience against him.
He had often wondered why she had been so lenient in her punishment to him, though he had never been brave enough to ask. But, one day, she had let something slip, something Lorn knew was important…if he could just figure it out: "Because what your father did to me…if he knew about you…" She had shuddered, and then said no more.
2/Tereille
Arnar wandered aimlessly through the maze of trees and bushes that had overgrown the place in the thirty or so years since it had been in use. He walked through the carrot-patch, under the tree with the perfect branch, past the bush that bore only black roses, and through the secret entrance, into the room where it had all begun. There was still dried blood on the floor, both Jeanelle's and Greer's. The bed was still there, still narrow, still with the straps to tie down hands and feet, but now it was rotting, in complete disrepair. The young Eyrien boy had only come here once before, and the overwhelming history of the place had filled him a psychic energy he had not understood then.
Now, however, he did.
He spread his wings slowly, letting the images run through his mind, letting what had happened here all those years ago happen again in his mind. His mother had never talked about it, never told him anything, really. She had been a Gray-Jeweled Dea al Mon witch, though, unlike most Dea al Mon, she had been generally solitary. The only people she ever really talked to were Arnar's father and a Sapphire-Jeweled kindred wolf. He had inherited most of his looks from her, which made the large wings seem out of place on his slender frame. The other thing he had inherited from her was the SaDiablo name.
After Deamonar Yaslana, the High Lord's grandson, Arnar was the heir. He never really believed anything would come of it, though. Seatan was still alive and kicking, with a wife and stepchildren, and Deamonar wasn't likely to die before Arnar. The older Eyrien was an Ebon-Gray Warlord Prince, while Arnar was only a Sapphire-Jeweled Warlord Prince. He might, after the Offering to the Darkness in two more years, descend to the Ebon-Gray, but he doubted it.
The boy glanced around the room once more, his gold-green eyes looking for something. He found it under the decrepit bed, glinting slightly despite the tarnish that had settled on it.
It was a golden-handled stiletto, its blade now dull, when it had once been sharp. And there was no mistaking the old blood that stained it. Adorning the crosspiece was a crest of two golden stags, their horns intertwining at base of the handle. A Dea al Mon knife. His grandmother's knife.
3/Kealeer
Seatan lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Sylvia was quiet beside him; he knew she was asleep. He was alone with his thoughts, something that he hated. His thoughts, these days, were troubled. His son and true heir, Deamon Sadi, had died shortly after the birth of his own son, and no one knew what, or who, had killed him. Jeanelle had gone into seclusion after the death of her husband, and the disappearance of her son Seatan III eleven years ago. And now he had to run the Court of Ebon Askavi, bad enough usually, but even more now that marauding bands of Hayllians and other races had emerged again. They served some evil purpose, though Seatan didn't know who commanded them. Most likely someone with a personal grudge against him, since his niece Surreal and her lover Falonar had been killed in one of the earlier skirmishes, and his daughter in-law, Marian, had also been killed in a later fight. Surreal's son and daughter as well as Marian's boy would have been killed had they not been visiting the Hall at Hallaway that year.
The worst of it all had been Lucivar's death. Only a year ago, his youngest son had been, as usual, hunting for his wife's killers, and hadn't returned home. No news had been heard of him in the past year, except that he had been involved in a large-scale battle. And no news about Lucivar invariably meant bad news. Either the Eyrien had drastically changed, or was dead.
Seatan considered the latter a much more likely answer.
But he had been counting so much on Lucivar, since he had been Seatan's heir. The High Lord had been relying on him to help with Jeanelle, who would see no one but her adoptive brother, and to sift through the matters of Court and present the more important ones to him, while Lucivar would deal with the more trivial ones himself.
Now Jeanelle would see no one, and Seatan was left by himself in the mire of running a Court he couldn't pretend to have enough power to rule. Sylvia helped as best she could, of course, but she had her own Court to run. Seatan sighed. It was just him; alone.
