Bishop, Anne - Dark Jewels 01 - Daughter of the Blood

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Daughter of the Blood

Anne Bishop

Daughter of the Blood

scanned by Ginevra

corrected by b0rdR

Schlechte Zeiten im alten Rom, 70 v. Chr. - gewalttätige Gangs beherrschen die Straßen, sie plündern, morden und

brandschatzen, ohne daß ihnen jemand Einhalt gebietet. Das Leben ist gefährlich und nicht selten kurz. Da findet man

eines Morgens einen ehemaligen Gladiatoren tot auf der Straße. Decius Caecilius Metellus der Jüngere, Kommandant der

örtlichen Polizei, nimmt die Ermittlungen auf. Trotz der allgemeinen Gleichgültigkeit, schamlosen Bestechungsversuchen

und finsteren Drohungen folgt Metellus unbeirrt seiner Spur. Sie führt ihn direkt zur römischen Oberschicht - und damit

mitten hinein in einen Sumpf aus Korruption und Intrigen auf höchster Ebene.

ROC

Published by New American Library, a division of

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First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.

First Printing, March 1998 10 9 8 7 6 5

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REG1STRADA

Printed in the United States of America

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or

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MARKETING DIVISION, PENGUIN PUTNAM INC., 375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014.

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher

and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

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Daughter of the Blood

This EBOOK is not for sale!!!

for

Blair Boone

and Charles de Lint

acknowledgments

Every creative endeavor is a journey of many, especially the creative endeavor we call Life. My thanks to the

friends and neighbors who make that endeavor a joyous one, and to the members of Spin-a-Story Tellers for the

stories shared in performance and around the table. A special thanks to Kathy and Blair Boone, Nadine and

Mike Fallacaro, Pat and Bill Feidner, Neil Schmitz, Grace Tongue, Ellen Datlow, Charles de Lint, Nancy

Kress, Pat York, Laura Anne Oilman, Jennifer Jackson—and you who have picked up this book to share in the

wonder of Story.

jewels

White

Yellow

Tiger Eye

Rose

Summer-sky

Purple Dusk

Opal"

Green

Sapphire

Red

Gray

Ebon-gray Black

"Opal is the dividing line between lighter and darker Jewels because it can be either.

When making the Offering to the Darkness, a person can descend a maximum of three ranks from his/her

Birthright Jewel.

Example: Birthright White could descend to Rose.

blood hierarchy/castes

Males

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landen—non-Blood of any race

Blood male—a general term for all males of the Blood; also refers to any Blood male who doesn't wear Jewels

Warlord—a Jeweled male equal in status to a witch

Prince—a Jeweled male equal in status to a Priestess or a Healer

Warlord Prince—a dangerous, extremely aggressive Jeweled male; in status, slightly lower than a Queen

Females

landen—non-Blood of any race

Blood female—a general term for all females of the Blood; mostly refers to any Blood female who doesn't wear

Jewels

witch—a Blood female who wears Jewels but isn't one of the other hierarchical levels; also refers to any

Jeweled female

Healer—a witch who heals physical wounds and illnesses; equal in status to a Priestess and a Prince

Priestess—a witch who cares for altars, Sanctuaries and Dark Altars; witnesses handfasts and marriages;

performs offerings; equal in status to a Healer and a Prince

Black Widow—a witch who heals the mind; weaves the tangled webs of dreams and visions; is trained in

illusions and poisons

Queen—a witch who rules the Blood; is considered to be the land's heart and the Blood's moral center; as such,

she is the focal point of their society

prologue

Terreille

I am Tersa the Weaver, Tersa the Liar, Tersa the Fool. When the Blood-Jeweled Lords and Ladies hold a

banquet, I'm the entertainment that comes after the musicians have played and the lithesome girls and boys

have danced and the Lords have drunk too much wine and demand to have their fortunes told. "Tell us a story,

Weaver," they yell as their hands pass over the serving girls' rumps and their Ladies eye the young men and

decide who will have the painful pleasure of serving in the bed that night.

I was one of them once, Blood as they are Blood.

No, that's not true. I wasn't Blood as they are Blood. That's why I was broken on a Warlord's spear and became

shattered glass that only reflects what might have been.

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It's hard to break a Blood-Jeweled male, but a witch's life hangs by the hymenal thread, and what happens on

her Virgin Night determines whether she is whole to practice the Craft or becomes a broken vessel, forever

aching for the part of her that's lost. Oh, some magic always remains, enough for day-to-day living and parlor

tricks, but not the Craft, not the lifeblood of our kind.

But the Craft can be reclaimed—if one is willing to pay the price.

When I was younger, I fought against that final slide into the Twisted Kingdom. Better to be broken and sane

than broken and mad. Better to see the world and know a tree for a tree, a flower for a flower rather than to look

through gauze at gray and ghostly shapes and see clearly only the shards of one's self.

So I thought then.

As I shuffle to the low stool, I struggle to stay at the edge of the Twisted Kingdom and see the physical world

clearly one last time. I carefully place the wooden frame that holds my tangled web, the web of dreams and

visions, on the small table near the stool.

The Lords and Ladies expect me to tell their fortunes, and I always have, not by magic but by keeping my eyes

and ears open and then telling them what they want to hear.

Simple. No magic to it.

But not tonight.

For days now I have heard a strange kind of thunder, a distant calling. Last night I surrendered to madness in

order to reclaim my Craft as a Black Widow, a witch of the Hourglass covens. Last night I wove a tangled web

to see the dreams and visions.

Tonight there will be no fortunes. I have the strength to say this only once. I must be sure that those who must

hear it are in the room before I speak.

I wait. They don't notice. Glasses are filled and refilled as I fight to stay on the edge of the Twisted Kingdom.

Ah, there he is. Daemon Sadi, from the Territory called Hayll. He's beautiful, bitter, cruel. He has a seducer's

smile and a body women want to touch and be caressed by, but he's filled with a cold, unquenchable rage.

When the Ladies talk about his bedroom skills, the words they whisper are "excruciating pleasure." I don't

doubt he's enough of a sadist to mix pain and pleasure in equal portions, but he's always been kind to me, and

it's a small bone of hope that I throw out to him tonight. Still, it's more than anyone else has given him.

The Lords and Ladies grow restless. I usually don't take this long to begin my pronouncements. Agitation and

annoyance build, but I wait. After tonight, it will make no difference.

There's the other one, in the opposite corner of the room. Lucivar Yaslana, the Eyrien half-breed from the

Territory called Askavi.

Hayll has no love for Askavi, nor Askavi for Hayll, but Daemon and Lucivar are drawn to one another without

understanding why, so wound into each other's lives they cannot separate. Uneasy friends, they have fought

legendary battles, have destroyed so many courts the Blood are afraid to have them together for any length of

time.

I raise my hands, let them fall into my lap. Daemon watches me. Nothing about him has changed, but I know

he's waiting, listening. And because he's listening, Lucivar listens too.

"She is coming."

At first they don't realize I've spoken. Then the angry murmurs begin when the words are understood.

"Stupid bitch," someone yells. "Tell me who I'll love tonight."

"What does it matter?" I answer. "She is coming. The Realm of Terreille will be torn apart by its own foolish

greed. Those who survive will serve, but few will survive."

I'm slipping further from the edge. Tears of frustration spill down my cheeks. Not yet. Sweet Darkness, not yet.

I must say this.

Daemon kneels beside me, his hands covering mine. I speak to him, only to him, and through him, to Lucivar.

"The Blood in Terreille whore the old ways and make a mockery of everything we are." I wave my hand to

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indicate the ones who now rule. "They twist things to suit themselves. They dress up and pretend. They wear

Blood Jewels but don't understand what it means to be Blood. They talk of honoring the Darkness, but it's a lie.

They honor nothing but their own ambition's. The Blood were created to be the caretakers of the Realms. That's

why we were given our power. That's why we come from, yet are apart from, the people in every Territory. The

perversion of what we are can't go on. The day is coming when the debt will be called in, and the Blood will

have to answer for what they've become."

"They're the Blood who rule, Tersa," Daemon says sadly. "Who is left to call in this debt? Bastard slaves like

me?"

I'm slipping fast. My nails dig into his hands, drawing blood, but he doesn't pull away. I lower my voice. He

strains to hear me. "The Darkness has had a Prince for a long, long time. Now the Queen is coming. It may take

decades, even centuries, but she is coming." I point with my chin at the Lords and Ladies sitting at the tables.

"They will be dust by then, but you and the Eyrien will be here to serve."

Frustration fills his golden eyes. "What Queen? Who is coming?"

"The living myth," I whisper. "Dreams made flesh."

His shock is replaced instantly by a fierce hunger. "You're sure?"

The room is a swirling mist. He's the only thing still in sharp focus. He's the only thing I need. "I saw her in the

tangled web, Daemon. I saw her."

I'm too tired to hang on to the real world, but I stubbornly cling to his hands to tell him one last thing. "The

Eyrien, Daemon."

He glances at Lucivar. "What about him?"

"He's your brother. You are your father's sons."

I can't hold on anymore and plunge into the madness that's called the Twisted Kingdom. I fall and fall among

the shards of myself. The world spins and shatters. In its fragments, I see my once-Sisters pouring around the

tables, frightened and intent, and Daemon's hand casually reaching out, as if by accident, destroying the fragile

spidersilk of my tangled web.

It's impossible to reconstruct a tangled web. Terreille's Black Widows may spend year upon frightened year

trying, but in the end it will be in vain. It will not be the same web, and they will not see what I saw.

In the gray world above, I hear myself howling with laughter. Far below me, in the psychic abyss that is part of

the Darkness, I hear another howling, one full of joy and pain, rage and celebration.

Not just another witch coming, my foolish Sisters, but Witch.

PART 1

chapter one

1 / Terreille

Lucivar Yaslana, the Eyrien half-breed, watched the guards drag the sobbing man to the boat. He felt no

sympathy for the condemned man who had led the aborted slave revolt. In the Territory called Pruul, sympathy

was a luxury no slave could afford.

He had refused to participate in the revolt. The ringleaders were good men, but they didn't have the strength, the

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backbone, or the balls to do what was needed. They didn't enjoy seeing blood run.

He had not participated. Zuultah, the Queen of Pruul, had punished him anyway.

The heavy shackles around his neck and wrists had already rubbed his skin raw, and his back was a throbbing

ache from the lash. He spread his dark, membranous wings, trying to ease the ache in his back.

A guard immediately prodded him with a club, then retreated, skittish, at his soft hiss of anger.

Unlike the other slaves who couldn't contain their misery or fear, there was no expression in Lucivar's gold

eyes, no psychic scent of emotions for the guards to play with as they put the sobbing man into the old, one-

man boat. No longer seaworthy, the boat showed gaping holes in its rotten wood, holes that only added to its

value now.

The condemned man was small and half-starved. It still took six guards to put him into the boat. Five guards

held the man's head, arms, and legs. The last guard smeared bacon grease on the man's genitals before sliding a

wooden cover into place. It fit snugly over the boat, with holes cut out for the head and hands. Once the man's

hands were tied to iron rings on the outside of the boat, the cover

was locked into place so that no one but the guards could remove it.

One guard studied the imprisoned man and shook his head in mock dismay. Turning to the others, he said, "He

should have a last meal before being put to sea."

The guards laughed. The man cried for help.

One by one, the guards carefully shoved food into the man's mouth before herding the other slaves to the

stables where they were quartered.

"You'll be entertained tonight, boys," a guard yelled, laughing. "Remember it the next time you decide to leave

Lady Zuultah's service."

Lucivar looked over his shoulder, then looked away.

Drawn by the smell of food, the rats slipped into the gaping holes in the boat.

The man in the boat screamed.

Clouds scudded across the moon, gray shrouds hiding its light. The man in the boat didn't move. His knees

were open sores, bloody from kicking the top of the boat in his effort to keep the rats away. His vocal cords

were destroyed from screaming.

Lucivar knelt behind the boat, moving carefully to muffle the sound of the chains.

"I didn't tell them, Yasi," the man said hoarsely. "They tried to make me tell, but I didn't. I had that much honor

left."

Lucivar held a cup to the man's lips. "Drink this," he said, his voice a deep murmur, a part of the night.

"No," the man moaned. "No." He began to cry, a harsh, guttural sound pulled from his ruined throat.

"Hush, now. Hush. It will help." Supporting the man's head, Lucivar eased the cup between the swollen lips.

After two swallows, Lucivar put the cup aside and stroked the man's head with gentle fingertips. "It will help,"

he crooned.

"I'm a Warlord of the Blood." When Lucivar offered the cup again, the man took another sip. As his voice got

stronger, the words began to slur. "You're a Warlord Prince. Why do they do this to us, Yasi?"

"Because they have no honor. Because they don't remember what it means to be Blood. The High Priestess of

Hayll's influence is a plague that has been spreading across the Realm for centuries, slowly consuming every

Territory it touches."

"Maybe the landens are right, then. Maybe the Blood are evil."

Lucivar continued stroking the man's forehead and temples. "No. We are what we are. Nothing more, nothing

less. There is good and evil among every kind of people. It's the evil among us who rule now."

"And where are the good among us?" the man asked sleepily.

Lucivar kissed the top of the man's head. "They've been destroyed or enslaved." He offered the cup. "Finish it,

little Brother, and it will be finished."

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After the man took the last swallow, Lucivar used Craft to vanish the cup.

The man in the boat laughed. "I feel very brave, Yasi."

"You are very brave."

"The rats . . . My balls are gone."

"I know."

"I cried, Yasi. Before all of them, I cried."

"It doesn't matter."

"I'm a Warlord. I shouldn't have cried."

"You didn't tell. You had courage when you needed it."

"Zuultah killed the others anyway."

"She'll pay for it, little Brother. Someday she and the others like her will pay for it all." Lucivar gently

massaged the man's neck.

"Yasi, I—"

The movement was sudden, the sound sharp.

Lucivar carefully let the lolling head fall backward and slowly rose to his feet. He could have told them the plan

wouldn't work, that the Ring of Obedience could be fine-tuned sufficiently to alert its owner to an inner

drawing of strength and purpose. He could have told them the malignant tendrils that kept them enslaved had

spread too far, and it would take a sweeter savagery than a man was capable of to free them. He could have told

them there were crueler weapons than the Ring to keep a man obedient, that their concern for each other would

destroy them, that the only way to escape, for even a little while, was to care for no one, to be alone.

He could have told them.

And yet, when they had approached him, timidly, cautiously, eager to ask a man who had broken free again and

again over the centuries but was still enslaved, all he had said was, "Sacrifice everything." They had gone

away, disappointed, unable to understand he had meant what he'd said. Sacrifice everything. And there was one

thing he couldn't—wouldn't—sacrifice.

How many times after he'd surrendered and been tethered again by that cruel ring of gold around his organ had

Daemon found him and pinned him against a wall, snarling with rage, calling him a fool and a coward to give

in?

Liar. Silky, court-trained liar.

Once, Dorothea SaDiablo had searched desperately for Daemon Sadi after he'd vanished from a court without a

trace. It had taken a hundred years to find him, and two thousand Warlords had died trying to recapture him. He

could have used that small, savage Territory he had held and conquered half the Realm of Terreille, could have

become a tangible threat to Hayll's encroachment and absorption of every people it touched. Instead, he had

read a letter Dorothea sent through a messenger. Read it and surrendered.

The letter had simply said: "Surrender by the new moon. Every day you are gone thereafter, I will take a piece

of your brother's body in payment for your arrogance."

Lucivar shook himself, trying to dislodge the unwelcome thoughts. In some ways, memories were worse than

the lash, for they led to thoughts of Askavi, with its mountains rising to cut the sky and its valleys filled with

towns, farms, and forests. Not that Askavi was that fertile anymore, having been raped for too many centuries

by those who took but never gave anything back. Still, it was home, and centuries of enslaved exile had left him

aching for the smell of clean mountain air, the taste of a sweet, cold stream, the silence of the woods, and, most

of all, the mountains where the Eyrien race soared.

But he was in Pruul, that hot, scrubby desert wasteland, serving that bitch Zuultah because he couldn't hide his

disgust for Prythian, Askavi's High Priestess, couldn't leash his temper enough to serve witches he despised.

Among the Blood, males were meant to serve, not to rule. He had never challenged that, despite the number of

witches he'd killed over the centuries. He had killed them because it was an insult to serve them, because he

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was an Eyrien Warlord Prince who wore Ebon-gray Jewels and refused to believe that serving and groveling

meant the same thing. Because he was a half-breed bastard, he had no hope of attaining a position of authority

within a court, despite the rank of his Jewels. Because he was a trained Eyrien warrior and had a temper that

was explosive even for a Warlord Prince, he had even less hope of being allowed to live outside the social

chains of a court.

And he was caught, as all Blood males were caught. There was something bred into them that made them crave

service, that compelled them to bond in some way with a Blood-Jeweled female.

Lucivar twitched his shoulder and sucked air through his teeth as a lash wound reopened. When he gingerly

touched the wound, his hand came away wet with fresh blood.

He bared his teeth in a bitter smile. What was that old saying? A wish, offered with blood, is a prayer to the

Darkness.

He closed his eyes, raised his hand toward the night sky, and turned inward, descending into the psychic abyss

to the depth of his Ebon-gray Jewels so that this wish would remain private, so that no one in Zuultah's court

could hear the sending of this thought.

Just once, I'd like to serve a Queen I could respect, someone I could truly believe in. A strong Queen who

wouldn't fear my strength. A Queen I could also call a friend.

Dryly amused by his own foolishness, Lucivar wiped his hand on his baggy cotton pants and sighed. It was a

shame that the pronouncement Tersa had made seven hundred years ago had been nothing more than a mad

delusion. For a while, it had given him hope. It had taken him a long time to realize that hope was a bitter thing.

"Hello?"

Lucivar looked toward the stables where the slaves were quartered. The guards would make their nightly check

soon. He'd take another minute to savor the night air, even if it smelled hot and dusty, before returning to the

filthy cell with its bed of dirty, bug-infested straw, before returning to the stink of fear, unwashed bodies, and

human waste.

"Hello?"

Lucivar turned in a slow circle, his physical senses alert, his mind probing for the source of that thought.

Psychic ! communication could be broadcast to everyone in an area—like shouting in a crowded room—or

narrowed to a single Jewel rank or gender, or narrowed even further to a single mind. That thought seemed

aimed directly at him.

There was nothing out there except the expected. Whatever it was, it was gone.

Lucivar shook his head. He was getting as skittish as the landens, the non-Blood of each race, with their

superstitions about evil stalking in the night.

"Hello?"

Lucivar spun around, his dark wings flaring for balance as he set his feet in a fighting stance.

He felt like a fool when he saw the girl staring at him, wide-eyed.

She was a scrawny little thing, about seven years old. Calling her plain would have been kind. But, even in the

moonlight, she had the most extraordinary eyes. They reminded him of a twilight sky or a deep mountain lake.

Her clothes were of good quality, certainly better than a beggar child would wear. Her gold hair was done up in

sausage curls that indicated care even if they looked ridiculous around her pointed little face.

"What are you doing here?" he asked roughly.

She laced her fingers and hunched her shoulders. "I-I heard you. Y-you wanted a friend."

"You heard me?" Lucivar stared at her. How in the name of Hell had she heard him? True, he had sent that

wish out, but on an Ebon-gray thread. He was the only Ebon-gray in the Realm of Terreille. The only Jewel

darker than his was the Black, and the only person who wore that was Daemon Sadi. Unless . . .

No. She couldn't be.

At that moment, the girl's eyes flicked from him to the dead man in the boat, then back to him.

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"I have to go," she whispered, backing away from him.

"No, you don't." He came toward her, soft-footed, a hunter stalking his prey.

She bolted.

He caught her within seconds, heedless of the noise the chains made. Looping a chain over her, he wrapped an

arm around her waist and lifted her off her feet, grunting when her heel banged his knee. He ignored her

attempts to scratch, and her kicks, while bruising, weren't the same kind of deterrent one good kick in the right

place would have been. When she started shrieking, he clamped a hand over her mouth.

She promptly sank her teeth into his finger.

Lucivar bit back a howl and swore under his breath. He dropped to his knees, pulling her with him. "Hush," he

whispered fiercely. "Do you want to bring the guards down on us?" She probably did, and he expected her to

struggle even harder, knowing there was help nearby.

Instead, she froze.

Lucivar laid his cheek against her head and sucked air. "You're a spitting little cat," he said quietly, fighting to

keep the laughter out of his voice.

"Why did you kill him?"

Did he imagine it, or did her voice change? She still sounded like a young girl, but thunder, caverns, and

midnight skies were in that voice. "He was suffering."

"Couldn't you take him to a Healer?"

"Healers don't bother with slaves," he snapped. "Besides, the rats didn't leave enough of him to heal." He pulled

her tighter against his chest, hoping physical warmth would make her stop shuddering. She looked so pale

against his light-brown skin, and he knew it wasn't simply because she was fair-skinned. "I'm sorry. That was

cruel."

When she started struggling against his hold, he raised his arms so that she could slip under the chain between

his wrists. She scrambled out of reach, spun around, and dropped to her knees.

They studied each other.

"What's your name?" she finally asked.

"I'm called Yasi." He laughed when she wrinkled her nose. "Don't blame me. I didn't choose it."

"It's a silly word for someone like you. What's your real name?"

Lucivar hesitated. Eyriens were one of the long-lived races. He'd had 1,700 years to gain a reputation for being

vicious and violent. If she'd heard any of the stories about him . . .

He took a deep breath and released it slowly. "Lucivar Yaslana."

No reaction except a shy smile of approval.

"What's your name, Cat?"

"Jaenelle."

He grinned. "Nice name, but I think Cat suits you just as well."

She snarled.

"See?" He hesitated, but he had to ask. Zuultah's guessing he'd killed that slave and knowing for sure would

make a difference when he was stretched between the whipping posts. "Is your family visiting Lady Zuultah?"

Jaenelle frowned. "Who?"

Really, she did look like a kitten trying to figure out how to pounce on a large, hoppy bug. "Zuultah. The Queen

of Pruul."

"What's Pruul?"

"This is Pruul." Lucivar waved a hand to indicate the land around them and then swore in Eyrien when the

chains rattled. He swallowed the last curse when he noticed the intense, interested look on her face. "Since

you're not from Pruul and your family isn't visiting, where are you from?" When she hesitated, he tipped his

head toward the boat. "I can keep a secret."

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"I'm from Chaillot."

"Chai—" Lucivar bit back another curse. "Do you understand Eyrien?"

"No." Jaenelle grinned at him. "But now I know some Eyrien words."

Should he laugh or strangle her? "How did you get here?"

She fluffed her hair and frowned at the rocky ground between them. Finally she shrugged. "Same way I get to

other places."

"You ride the Winds?" he yelped.

She raised a finger to test the air.

"Not breezes or puffs of air." Lucivar ground his teeth. "The Winds. The Webs. The psychic roads in the

Darkness."

Jaenelle perked up. "Is that what they are?"

He managed to stop in mid-curse.

Jaenelle leaned forward. "Are you always this prickly?"

"Most people think I'm a prick, yes."

"What's that mean?"

"Never mind." He chose a sharp stone and drew a circle on the ground between them. "This is the Realm of

Terreille." He placed a round stone in the circle. "This is the Black Mountain, Ebon Askavi, where the Winds

meet." He drew straight lines from the round stone to the circumference of the circle. "These are tether lines."

He drew smaller circles within the circle. "These are radial lines. The Winds are like a spider web. You can

travel on the tether or the radial lines, changing direction where they intersect. There's a Web for each rank of

the Blood Jewels. The darker the Web, the more tether and radial lines there are and the faster the Wind is. You

can ride a Web that's your rank or lighter. You can't ride a Web darker than your Jewel rank unless you're

traveling inside a Coach being driven by someone strong enough to ride that Web or you're being shielded by

someone who can ride that Web. If you try, you probably won't survive. Understand?"

Jaenelle chewed on her lower lip and pointed to a space between the strands. "What if I want to go there?"

Lucivar shook his head. "You'd have to drop from the Web back into the Realm at the nearest point and travel

some other way."

"That's not how I got here," she protested.

Lucivar shuddered. There wasn't a strand of any Web around Zuultah's compound. Her court was deliberately

in one of those blank spaces. The only way to get here directly from the Winds was by leaving the Web and

gliding blind through the Darkness, which, even for the strongest and the best, was a chancy thing to do.

Unless . . .

"Come here, Cat," he said gently. When she dropped in front of him, he rested his hands on her thin shoulders.

"Do you often go wandering?"

Jaenelle nodded slowly. "People call me. Like you did."

Like he did. Mother Night! "Cat, listen to me. Children are vulnerable to many dangers."

There was a strange expression in her eyes. "Yes, I know."

"Sometimes an enemy can wear the mask of a friend until it's too late to escape."

"Yes," she whispered.

Lucivar shook her gently, forcing her to look at him. "Terreille is a dangerous place for little cats. Please, go

home and don't go wandering anymore. Don't . . . don't answer the people who call you."

"But then I won't see you anymore."

Lucivar closed his gold eyes. A knife in the heart would hurt less. "I know. But we'll always be friends. And it's

not forever. When you're grown up, I'll come find you or \ you'll come find me."

Jaenelle nibbled her lip. "How old is grown up?"

Yesterday. Tomorrow. "Let's say seventeen. It sounds like forever, I know, but it's really not that long." Even

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