"There's something I'd like you to make for me, if you can," Jaenelle said, stepping into the small room.
Banard gulped. She had changed since he'd last seen her a few months ago. It was more than the Widow's weeds she was wearing. It was as if the fire that had always burned within her was now closer to the surface, illuminating and shadowing. He could feel the dark power swirling around her—brutal strength offset by a worrisome fragility.
"This is what I'd like you to make," Jaenelle said.
A piece of paper appeared on the display table.
Banard studied the sketch for several minutes, wondering what he could say, wondering how to refuse gracefully, wondering why she, of all people, would have the thing she held in her hands.
As if understanding his silence and reluctance, Jaenelle caressed the spiraled horn. "His name was Kaetien," she said softly. "He was the Warlord Prince of the unicorns. He was butchered a few days ago, along with hundreds of his people, when humans came in to claim Sceval as their territory." Tears filled her eyes. "I've known him since I was a little girl. He was the first friend I made in Kaeleer, and one of the best. He gifted me with his horn. For remembrance. As a reminder."
Banard studied the sketch again. "If I may make one or two suggestions, Lady?"
"That's why I came to you," Jaenelle said with a trembling smile.
Using a thin, charcoal pencil, Banard altered the sketch. At the end of an hour of fine-tuning, they were both satisfied.
Alone again, Banard made another cup of tea and sat for a while, studying the sketch and staring at the horn he couldn't yet bring himself to touch.
What she wanted made would be a fitting tribute for a beloved friend. And it would be an appropriate tool for such a Queen.
Saetan paced the length of the sitting room Draca had reserved for them at the Keep. Reserved? Confined them to was closer to the truth.
Lucivar abandoned his chair and stretched his back and shoulders. "Why is it that your pacing isn't supposed to annoy me, but when I start pacing I get chucked into the garden?" he asked dryly.
"Because I'm older and I outrank you," Saetan snarled. He pivoted and paced to the other side of the room.
From sunset to sunrise. That's how long it took to make the Offering to the Darkness. It didn't matter if a person came away from the Offering wearing a White Jewel or a Black, that's how long it took. From sunset to sunrise.
Jaenelle had been gone three full days.
He had remained calm when the first dawn had passed into late morning because he could still remember how shaky he'd felt after making the Offering, how he'd remained in the altar room of the Sanctuary for hours while he adjusted to the feel of the Black Jewels.
But when the sun began to set again, he'd gone to the Dark Altar in the Keep to find out what had happened to her. Draca had forbidden him entrance, sharply reminding him of the consequences of interrupting an Offering. So he'd returned to the sitting room to wait.
When midnight came and went, he'd tried to reach the Dark Altar again and had found all the corridors blocked by a shield even the Black couldn't penetrate. Desperate, he'd sent an urgent message to Cassandra, hoping she would be able to break through Draca's resistance. But Cassandra hadn't responded, and he'd cursed this evidence of her further withdrawal.
She was tired. He understood that. He came from a long-lived race and had already gone several lifetimes beyond the norm. Cassandra had lived hundreds, had watched the people she'd come from decline, fade, and finally be absorbed into younger, emerging races. When she had ruled; she had been respected, revered.
But Jaenelle was loved.
So Cassandra hadn't responded. Tersa had.
"Something's wrong," Saetan snarled as he passed the couch and low table Tersa hunched over while she arranged puzzle pieces into shapes that had meaning only for her. "It doesn't take this long."
Tersa poked a puzzle piece into place and pushed her tangled black hair away from her face. "It takes as long as it takes."
"An Offering is made between sunset and sunrise."
Tersa tilted her head, considering. "That was true for the Prince of the Darkness. But for the Queen?" She shrugged.
Cold whispered up Saetan's spine. What would Jaenelle be like when she was the Queen of the Darkness?
He crouched opposite Tersa, the table between them. She paid no more attention to him than she did to Lucivar's silent approach.
"Tersa," Saetan said quietly, trying to catch her attention. "Do you know something, see something?"
Tersa's eyes glazed. "A voice in the Darkness. A howling, full of joy and pain, rage and celebration. The time is coming when the debts will be paid." Her eyes cleared. "Leash your fear, High Lord," she said with some asperity. "It will do her more harm now than anything else. Leash it, or lose her."
Saetan's hand closed over her wrist. "I'm not afraid of her, I'm afraid for her."
Tersa shook her head. "She will be too tired to sense the difference. She will only sense the fear. Choose, High Lord, and live with what you choose." She looked at the closed door. "She is coming."
Saetan tried to rise too quickly and winced. He'd overworked his bad leg again. Tugging down the sleeves of his tunic jacket and smoothing back his hair, he wished, futilely, that he'd bathed and changed into fresh clothes. He also wished, futilely, that his heart would stop pounding so hard.
Then the door opened and Jaenelle stood on the threshold.
In the seconds before rational thought fled, his mind registered her hesitation, her uncertainty. It also registered the amount of jewelry she was wearing.
Lorn had gifted her with thirteen uncut Black Jewels. An uncut Jewel was large enough to be made into a pendant and a ring, as well as providing smaller chips that could be used for a variety of purposes. If he was estimating correctly, she'd taken the equivalent of six of those thirteen Jewels in with her when she made the Offering. Six Black Jewels that, somehow, had been transformed into more than Black.
Into Ebony.
No wonder it had taken her so long to make the descent to her full strength. He couldn't begin to estimate the power at her disposal now. Since the day he'd met her, he'd known it would come to this. She was traveling roads now the rest of them couldn't even imagine.
What would it do to her?
His choice.
The thought shocked him with its clarity. It freed him to act.
Stepping forward, he offered his right hand.
Wild-shy, Jaenelle slipped into the room, hesitated a moment, then placed her hand in his.
He pulled her into arms, burying his face against her neck. "I've been worried sick about you," he growled softly.
Jaenelle stroked his back. "Why?" She sounded genuinely puzzled. "You've made the Offering. You know—"
"It doesn't usually take three days!"
"Three days!" She jerked back, stumbling into Lucivar, who had come up behind her. "Three days?"
"Do we have to observe Protocol from now on?" Lucivar asked.
"Don't be daft," Jaenelle snapped.
Grinning, Lucivar immediately wrapped his left arm around her, pinning her arms to her sides and holding her tight against his chest. "In that case, I propose dunking her in the nearest fountain."
"You can't do that!" Jaenelle sputtered, squirming.
"Why not?" Lucivar sounded mildly curious.
The reason she gave was inventive but anatomically impossible.
Since laughing wouldn't be diplomatic, even if it was prompted by the relief that wearing Ebony Jewels hadn't changed her, Saetan clenched his teeth and stayed silent.
Tersa, however, finally stirred herself and joined them. Shaking her head, she gave Jaenelle a poke in the shoulder. "There's no use wailing about it. You've taken up the responsibilities of a Queen now, and part of your duties is taking care of the males who belong to you."