Disclaimer: Everything you recognize is from Anne Bishop's Black Jewels
Trilogy. The words are mine (duh), the idea for this fic is mine, and I
made up Tersa's last name. That's about it.
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1 Chapter 2
There was a respectful knock at the study door. "Come," Saetan said, gritting his teeth against another one of Dorothea's endless messengers. If nothing else, the woman certainly possessed the ability to irritate him.
As the door opened, he blinked slightly. Flooding the room was not the full, strong psychic scent of one of the Jeweled Blood, but the unmistakable shattered scent of a broken witch. And a Black Widow. What…?
"Sit down, Lady," he said politely as she came into view of the desk. She seemed mostly calm, but her hands clenched her skirt slightly as she sat down, and her face showed a resolve uncommon to a broken witch. "You wished to speak with me?"
"Yes, High Lord," she said quietly. She had the golden skin and eyes of the Dhemlan Blood, but her accent was oddly Hayllian. "There are rumors," she said abruptly. "Rumors on the streets of Draega of your contract with Dorothea SaDiablo."
"Are there?" he murmured.
She licked her lips, looked down, and then lifted her head again. "High Lord, what agreements you choose to make are your own business, and I don't wish to meddle in your private affairs, but I have – I have seen the outcome in a tangled web shortly before I was…" Her shoulders hunched.
He nodded, understanding her meaning. She had woven that tangled web shortly before she was broken. "And what did you see, Lady?" His voice was soft thunder, hiding a growing dread.
She licked her lips again. "I saw – you. Weeping. While Dorothea ripped out your heart. I saw you looking into a mirror. Kneeling in the middle of a study – " She looked around for the first time. "Not this one. Another one. A smaller one. Not as formal. Torn book pages in your fists." She closed her eyes, scrunching them shut as though faced with a blinding light. "And I saw a man. A man with your face. Who wore the Black."
His breath was coming in sharp gasps. She was lying. Please, sweet Darkness, let her be lying.
"And I saw him. Standing. In a bedchamber. Leashed, but not by his choice. Ice on the walls and murder in his eyes." She opened her eyes. They were wide, with the all-too-familiar look of a broken witch on the verge of slipping into the Twisted Kingdom. "That's what I saw, High Lord."
For an instant, she looked as if she wanted to say something more, but then the barriers of her face closed again, and he decided not to press her.
"Thank you, Lady," he said formally.
She cringed at the sound of the formal address. "Please – call me by my name."
He spoke gently, as if to a child. "And what is your name?"
She hesitated, then bit her lip and said, "Tersa."
"Tersa what?"
Another hesitation. "D'Azraelle."
He arched his eyebrows, surprised. "If you don't mind my asking, what was a member of the d'Azraelle family doing in Draega? I was under the impression that no d'Azraelle has been in Hayll for centuries now."
Her shoulders straightened, and all traces of the Twisted Kingdom dropped out of her eyes. "I'd rather not say, High Lord."
He nodded gravely. "Of course, Lady Tersa."
He expected some more response, but all she said was, "Thank you, High Lord," before standing up and walking out the door.
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He stared at Dorothea's messenger, desperately wishing that his headache would go away. "I beg your pardon?"
The man's face was pale as he answered, "The High P-Priestess h-has – which is to say that – I mean – "
Yes, he definitely wished that his headache would go away. "Yes?"
"The High Priestess requests that you inform her of your decision soon, preferably in p-person." Having delivered the message, the man slumped back in his seat with obvious relief.
Finally giving in to the headache, Saetan rubbed his temples. "Did the High Priestess give any specifics?"
"High Lord?"
"Specifics," Saetan began again, spelling out every word as though to a first-year Craft student. "Did the High Priestess specify what date I should reply by?"
The man colored slightly. "No, High Lord."
Saetan choked down a sigh. It really wasn't the man's fault. "Very well. Tell the High Priestess – "
Before he could finish his sentence, however, he felt the study door open, and a familiar psychic scent entering the room. "Lady Tersa," he said, muffling his surprise. Not that he really needed to, as Dorothea's messenger was too busy goggling at Tersa's wild appearance to notice any of the High Lord's reactions, but… "It's a pleasure to see you again."
Tersa nodded. "I know." No arrogance in the words; it was a simple statement of fact. Even though he himself was a Black Widow, in the conversations that had followed their first meeting Saetan still hadn't figured out where exactly Tersa got her information.
Besides the fact that the Darkness had a twisted sense of humor.
"Right," the messenger said with a slightly shell-shocked expression. "You were saying?"
"Inform the High Priestess – "
But his sentence was cut off for the second time by the look Tersa gave him. She did not even have to send it on a psychic thread. There was no desire in her gaze; again, it was only a statement of fact. She might as well have been a farmer concluding a deal at market, but her meaning was clear, and he suddenly knew with disturbing clarity what she had seen in her tangled web that she hadn't told him before.
She had seen herself bearing a child. His child.
And he realized further that perhaps the only possible way to keep the child slightly free of Dorothea's taint was to make the mother a Black Widow who was not of Hayll's Hourglass.
The thought sickened him.
But as he looked at Tersa, there was no fear in her face, nor revulsion at being used as a glorified brood mare. There was only quiet acceptance.
She was his choice. The only choice he had.
He looked at the expectantly waiting messenger. "Inform the High Priestess that the mother will be Lady Tersa d'Azraelle, formerly of Hayll's Horglass. Inform her further that we will be in Draega within the week."
The messenger stared at Tersa again, bobbed his head repeatedly, and said, "Very good, High Lord," before bolting from the study.
When the man had gone, they studied each other. Finally, Tersa said, "If you regret your choice – my visions don't have to be yours." She swallowed, and it struck him for the first time how young she was. Oh, she might be ancient by the standards of short-lived races, but by the standards of the long-lived races she was barely out of adolescence.
"I don't take a Black Widow's visions lightly, Lady. Nor do I take you lightly."
Silence. She nodded once and left the study.
Her shattered-glass psychic scent trailed behind her like a banner.
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The messenger cowered in the corner as Hayll's shrieking High Priestess hurled dish after dish at the wall. She spared the man a glance, and then went back to the neat stack of plates on the coffee table. She had more important things to do than placate her servants.
Like smashing every breakable thing she could get her hands on.
"Tell me," crash, "again." Her voice, a normally silky purr, was oddly contrasted by the background noise of breaking pottery.
The man whimpered, clutching his White Jewel like a talisman. "The H- High – th-the High Lord has – " He made a choked sound and began again. "The High Lord has decided upon Lady Tersa d'Azraelle, once of Hayll's Hourglass." Having re-delivered his message, the man cowered further down in his corner as though anticipating the end of the world. Dorothea put down her plate and looked at him, amused.
"Now, really, darling," she said, stepping over to him, "is that the way to behave after doing your duty?"
"No, Priestess," the man breathed in barely audible tones, but his expression said otherwise.
She bent down next to him, putting her mouth next to his ear. "You're probably right, darling," she whispered intimately, "but I can't let this… wonderful… news you've brought me go unrewarded, can I?"
The man shook his head repeatedly. She smiled at him warmly.
"Don't do that; you'll give yourself an injury." Her low, breathy voice seemed at odds with the statement's pragmatism. "Now, where was I?" She stood up and stretched luxuriously. "Ah, yes, an appropriate reward." Clapping her hands, she smiled at her guards as they came into the room. "Take this man and prepare him for a… private entertainment." The man's face paled at the thought of the amusements that Dorothea's coven enjoyed. She looked at him sympathetically. "Oh, don't worry, darling," she said soothingly. "I'm sure that it won't hurt too much when you belong to the Brotherhood of the Quill." She looked at her guards. "Now, take him away."
As the stunned man was dragged out of the room, she sent a delicate psychic thread in his direction. *Tell me, darling, do you know why I'm doing this to you?*
*No, Priestess,* the man responded, voice choked with fear.
She let him wait in uncomfortable silence before answering in a voice tinged with sleek satisfaction. *Because I can.*
Humming to herself, the High Priestess of Hayll turned back to her stack of dinnerware. The High Lord would soon know his mistake… and pay for it.
The next plate hit the wall.
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1 Chapter 2
There was a respectful knock at the study door. "Come," Saetan said, gritting his teeth against another one of Dorothea's endless messengers. If nothing else, the woman certainly possessed the ability to irritate him.
As the door opened, he blinked slightly. Flooding the room was not the full, strong psychic scent of one of the Jeweled Blood, but the unmistakable shattered scent of a broken witch. And a Black Widow. What…?
"Sit down, Lady," he said politely as she came into view of the desk. She seemed mostly calm, but her hands clenched her skirt slightly as she sat down, and her face showed a resolve uncommon to a broken witch. "You wished to speak with me?"
"Yes, High Lord," she said quietly. She had the golden skin and eyes of the Dhemlan Blood, but her accent was oddly Hayllian. "There are rumors," she said abruptly. "Rumors on the streets of Draega of your contract with Dorothea SaDiablo."
"Are there?" he murmured.
She licked her lips, looked down, and then lifted her head again. "High Lord, what agreements you choose to make are your own business, and I don't wish to meddle in your private affairs, but I have – I have seen the outcome in a tangled web shortly before I was…" Her shoulders hunched.
He nodded, understanding her meaning. She had woven that tangled web shortly before she was broken. "And what did you see, Lady?" His voice was soft thunder, hiding a growing dread.
She licked her lips again. "I saw – you. Weeping. While Dorothea ripped out your heart. I saw you looking into a mirror. Kneeling in the middle of a study – " She looked around for the first time. "Not this one. Another one. A smaller one. Not as formal. Torn book pages in your fists." She closed her eyes, scrunching them shut as though faced with a blinding light. "And I saw a man. A man with your face. Who wore the Black."
His breath was coming in sharp gasps. She was lying. Please, sweet Darkness, let her be lying.
"And I saw him. Standing. In a bedchamber. Leashed, but not by his choice. Ice on the walls and murder in his eyes." She opened her eyes. They were wide, with the all-too-familiar look of a broken witch on the verge of slipping into the Twisted Kingdom. "That's what I saw, High Lord."
For an instant, she looked as if she wanted to say something more, but then the barriers of her face closed again, and he decided not to press her.
"Thank you, Lady," he said formally.
She cringed at the sound of the formal address. "Please – call me by my name."
He spoke gently, as if to a child. "And what is your name?"
She hesitated, then bit her lip and said, "Tersa."
"Tersa what?"
Another hesitation. "D'Azraelle."
He arched his eyebrows, surprised. "If you don't mind my asking, what was a member of the d'Azraelle family doing in Draega? I was under the impression that no d'Azraelle has been in Hayll for centuries now."
Her shoulders straightened, and all traces of the Twisted Kingdom dropped out of her eyes. "I'd rather not say, High Lord."
He nodded gravely. "Of course, Lady Tersa."
He expected some more response, but all she said was, "Thank you, High Lord," before standing up and walking out the door.
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He stared at Dorothea's messenger, desperately wishing that his headache would go away. "I beg your pardon?"
The man's face was pale as he answered, "The High P-Priestess h-has – which is to say that – I mean – "
Yes, he definitely wished that his headache would go away. "Yes?"
"The High Priestess requests that you inform her of your decision soon, preferably in p-person." Having delivered the message, the man slumped back in his seat with obvious relief.
Finally giving in to the headache, Saetan rubbed his temples. "Did the High Priestess give any specifics?"
"High Lord?"
"Specifics," Saetan began again, spelling out every word as though to a first-year Craft student. "Did the High Priestess specify what date I should reply by?"
The man colored slightly. "No, High Lord."
Saetan choked down a sigh. It really wasn't the man's fault. "Very well. Tell the High Priestess – "
Before he could finish his sentence, however, he felt the study door open, and a familiar psychic scent entering the room. "Lady Tersa," he said, muffling his surprise. Not that he really needed to, as Dorothea's messenger was too busy goggling at Tersa's wild appearance to notice any of the High Lord's reactions, but… "It's a pleasure to see you again."
Tersa nodded. "I know." No arrogance in the words; it was a simple statement of fact. Even though he himself was a Black Widow, in the conversations that had followed their first meeting Saetan still hadn't figured out where exactly Tersa got her information.
Besides the fact that the Darkness had a twisted sense of humor.
"Right," the messenger said with a slightly shell-shocked expression. "You were saying?"
"Inform the High Priestess – "
But his sentence was cut off for the second time by the look Tersa gave him. She did not even have to send it on a psychic thread. There was no desire in her gaze; again, it was only a statement of fact. She might as well have been a farmer concluding a deal at market, but her meaning was clear, and he suddenly knew with disturbing clarity what she had seen in her tangled web that she hadn't told him before.
She had seen herself bearing a child. His child.
And he realized further that perhaps the only possible way to keep the child slightly free of Dorothea's taint was to make the mother a Black Widow who was not of Hayll's Hourglass.
The thought sickened him.
But as he looked at Tersa, there was no fear in her face, nor revulsion at being used as a glorified brood mare. There was only quiet acceptance.
She was his choice. The only choice he had.
He looked at the expectantly waiting messenger. "Inform the High Priestess that the mother will be Lady Tersa d'Azraelle, formerly of Hayll's Horglass. Inform her further that we will be in Draega within the week."
The messenger stared at Tersa again, bobbed his head repeatedly, and said, "Very good, High Lord," before bolting from the study.
When the man had gone, they studied each other. Finally, Tersa said, "If you regret your choice – my visions don't have to be yours." She swallowed, and it struck him for the first time how young she was. Oh, she might be ancient by the standards of short-lived races, but by the standards of the long-lived races she was barely out of adolescence.
"I don't take a Black Widow's visions lightly, Lady. Nor do I take you lightly."
Silence. She nodded once and left the study.
Her shattered-glass psychic scent trailed behind her like a banner.
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The messenger cowered in the corner as Hayll's shrieking High Priestess hurled dish after dish at the wall. She spared the man a glance, and then went back to the neat stack of plates on the coffee table. She had more important things to do than placate her servants.
Like smashing every breakable thing she could get her hands on.
"Tell me," crash, "again." Her voice, a normally silky purr, was oddly contrasted by the background noise of breaking pottery.
The man whimpered, clutching his White Jewel like a talisman. "The H- High – th-the High Lord has – " He made a choked sound and began again. "The High Lord has decided upon Lady Tersa d'Azraelle, once of Hayll's Hourglass." Having re-delivered his message, the man cowered further down in his corner as though anticipating the end of the world. Dorothea put down her plate and looked at him, amused.
"Now, really, darling," she said, stepping over to him, "is that the way to behave after doing your duty?"
"No, Priestess," the man breathed in barely audible tones, but his expression said otherwise.
She bent down next to him, putting her mouth next to his ear. "You're probably right, darling," she whispered intimately, "but I can't let this… wonderful… news you've brought me go unrewarded, can I?"
The man shook his head repeatedly. She smiled at him warmly.
"Don't do that; you'll give yourself an injury." Her low, breathy voice seemed at odds with the statement's pragmatism. "Now, where was I?" She stood up and stretched luxuriously. "Ah, yes, an appropriate reward." Clapping her hands, she smiled at her guards as they came into the room. "Take this man and prepare him for a… private entertainment." The man's face paled at the thought of the amusements that Dorothea's coven enjoyed. She looked at him sympathetically. "Oh, don't worry, darling," she said soothingly. "I'm sure that it won't hurt too much when you belong to the Brotherhood of the Quill." She looked at her guards. "Now, take him away."
As the stunned man was dragged out of the room, she sent a delicate psychic thread in his direction. *Tell me, darling, do you know why I'm doing this to you?*
*No, Priestess,* the man responded, voice choked with fear.
She let him wait in uncomfortable silence before answering in a voice tinged with sleek satisfaction. *Because I can.*
Humming to herself, the High Priestess of Hayll turned back to her stack of dinnerware. The High Lord would soon know his mistake… and pay for it.
The next plate hit the wall.