The tiny spiral horn in the centre of her forehead. The golden mane that wasn't quite fur and wasn't quite hair. The delicately pointed ears. The hands that had sheathed claws. The legs that changed below the knee to accommodate the small hooves. The stripe of golden fur that ran down her spine and ended at the fawn tail that flicked over her buttocks. The exotic face and those sapphire eyes.
Having been Cassandra's Consort all those years ago, he thought he knew and understood Witch. Now he finally understood that Cassandra and the other Black-Jeweled Queens who had come before her had been called Witch. Jaenelle truly was the living myth, dreams made flesh.
How foolish he'd been to assume all the dreamers had been human.
"Exactly," Witch said softly, coldly.
"You're beautiful," he whispered. And so very, very dangerous.
She stared at him, puzzled, and he realized there would never be a better time to say what he had to say.
"We love you, Lady," he told her quietly. "We've always loved you, and it hurts more than words can express to be locked out of your life. You don't know how hard it was for us to wait for those few precious minutes that you could spend with us, to wonder and worry about you when you were gone, to feel jealous of people who didn't appreciate what you are. Now . . ." His voice broke. He pressed his lips together and took a deep breath. "We surrendered to you a long time ago. Not even you can change that. Do with us what you will." He hesitated, then added, "No, witch-child, we are not grateful for the wall."
He didn't wait for an answer. He left the room as swiftly as he could, tears shining in his eyes.
Behind him came a soft, anguished cry.
He couldn't stand their kindness. He couldn't stand their sympathy and understanding. Geoffrey had warmed a glass of yarbarah for him. Mephis had tucked a lap rug over his legs. Prothvar had stoked the fire to help take away the chill. Andulvar had stayed close to him, silent.
He'd started shaking the moment he had entered the safety of the parlor. He would have collapsed on the floor if Andulvar hadn't caught him and helped him to the chair. They had asked no questions, and except for a hoarsely whispered, "I don't know," he had told them nothing about what had happened—or about what he had seen.
And they had accepted it.
An hour later, feeling somewhat restored physically and emotionally, he still couldn't stand their kindness. What he couldn't stand even more was not knowing what was happening in that workroom.
The parlor door swung open.
Jaenelle stood on the threshold, holding a tray that contained two small carafes and five glasses. All her masks were back in place.
"Draca said you were all hiding in here," she said defensively.
"We're not exactly 'hiding,' witch-child," Saetan replied dryly. "And, if we are, there's room for one more. Want to join us?"
Her smile was shy and hesitant, but her coltish legs swiftly crossed the room until she stood beside Saetan's chair. Then she frowned and turned toward the door. "This room used to be larger."
"Your legs used to be shorter."
"That explains why the stairs feel so awkward," she muttered as she filled two glasses from one carafe and three from the other.
Saetan stared at the glass she gave him. His stomach cringed.
"Um," Prothvar said, as Jaenelle handed out the other glasses.
"Drink it," Jaenelle snapped. "You've all been looking peaky lately." When they hesitated, her voice became brittle. "It's just a tonic."
Andulvar took a sip.
Thank the Darkness for that Eyrien willingness to step onto any kind of battlefield, Saetan thought as he, too, took a sip.
"How much of this do you make at one time, waif?" Andulvar rumbled.
"Why?" Jaenelle said warily.
"Well, you're quite right about us all feeling peaky. Probably wouldn't hurt to have another glass later on."
Saetan started coughing to hide his own dismay and give the others time to school their expressions. It was one thing for Andulvar to step onto the battlefield. It was quite another to drag them all with him.
Jaenelle fluffed her hair. "It starts to lose its potency an hour after it's made, but it's no trouble to make another batch later on."
Andulvar nodded, his expression serious. "Thank you."
Jaenelle smiled shyly and slipped out of the room.
Saetan waited until he was sure she was out of earshot before turning on Andulvar. "You unconscionable prick," he snarled.
"That's a big word coming from a man who's going to have to drink two glasses of this a day," Andulvar replied smugly.
"We could always pour it into the plants," Prothvar said, looking around for some greenery.
"I already tried that," Saetan growled. "Draca's only comment was that if another plant should suffer a sudden demise, she'd ask Jaenelle to look into it."
Andulvar chuckled, giving the other four men a reason to snarl at him. "Everyone expects Hayllians to be devious, but Eyriens are known for their forthright dealings. So when one of us acts deviously . . ."
"You did it so she'd have a reason to check up on us," Mephis said, eyeing his glass. "I thank you for that, Andulvar, but couldn't—"
Saetan sprang to his feet. "It loses its potency after an hour."
Andulvar raised his glass in a salute. "Just so."
Saetan smiled. "If we hold back half of each dose so that it's lost most of its potency and then mix it with the fresh dose . . ."
"We'll have a restorative tonic that has a tolerable potency," Geoffrey finished, looking pleased.
"If she finds out, she'll kill us," Prothvar grumbled.
Saetan raised an eyebrow. "All things considered, my fine demon, it's a little late to be concerned about that, don't you think?"
Prothvar almost blushed.
Saetan narrowed his golden eyes at Andulvar. "But we didn't know it would lose its potency until after you asked for a second dose."
Andulvar shrugged. "Most healing brews have to be taken shortly after they're made. It was worth the gamble." He smiled at Saetan with all the arrogance only an Eyrien male was capable of. "However, if you're admitting your balls aren't as big—"
Saetan said something pithy and to the point.
"Then there's no problem, is there?" Andulvar replied.
They looked at each other, centuries of friendship, rivalry, and understanding reflected in two pairs of golden eyes. They raised their glasses and waited for the others to follow suit.
"To Jaenelle," Saetan said.
"To Jaenelle," the others replied.
Then they sighed in unison and swallowed half their tonic.
Not quite content, Saetan watched the lights of Riada, the largest Blood village in Ebon Rih and the closest one to the Keep, shine up from the valley's fertile darkness like captured pieces of starlight.
He had watched the sun rise today. No, more than that. He had stood in one of the small formal gardens and had actually felt the sun's warmth on his face. For the first time in more centuries than he cared to count, there had been no lancing pain in his temples, no brutal stomach-twisting headache to tell him just how far he had stepped from the living, no weakening in his strength.
He was as physically strong now as when he first became a Guardian, first began walking that fine line between living and dead.
Jaenelle and her tonic had done that. Had done more than that.
He'd forgotten how sensual food could be, and over the past few days had savored the taste of rare beef and new potatoes, of roasted chicken and fresh vegetables. He'd forgotten how good sleep could feel, instead of that semi awake rest Guardians usually indulged in during the daylight hours.