Dark Jewels Series 12: A Dream of Ebon-Gray Wings

SAETAN

Beautiful. There had never been anything so perfect since the world was made.

Dark curls- so silky. His fingers and toes- so small! Saetan had never seen anything so small before. His face- scarlet from wailing displeasure. The poor thing was starving after all that work. Being born was difficult.

He smiled at the mother of his fourth son... but the grin slid off his face at the utter hatred upon hers. Jewel glowing angrily, Luthvian's eyes were fixed on tiny wings, her face twisted by revulsion.

Saetan looked as well, seeing only his son.

Lucivar.

LUTHVIAN

Monster.

Somehow, she had given birth to a monster.

In the mirror, she touched the white streak of her hair. She fingered her Jewel as tears stung her eyes.

He was sweet now, just a little thing, and so gentle all the time. But she could feel the Warlord Prince in him surfacing whenever she did something he disliked. Late meals, smacking his hands for tugging on her hair... it was there in the sleepy, glazed gold of his baby eyes.

She had to do something about him. She didn't know what, but something.

"Lucivar," she whispered. "My little Lucivar..."

JAENELLE

Warlord Prince.

Savagely beautiful, an ebony mane falling unbound around massive shoulders, muscles shifting beneath golden-brown skin...

She felt his power, dark, but not dark as the other she sensed far-off, or the one near her demon-dead Warlord. She ached with fierce love for him- absolute, all-consuming.

It made no sense. He'd just killed a man. Why should she love this bat-winged Warlord Prince?

Then she saw herself reflected in his eyes: blond, blue-eyed, ugly, too thin... and she saw love in his eyes as well, somehow.

"Who are you?" She seemed to ask with her soul. His soul answered.

"Lucivar."

MARIAN

Lucivar.

That was his name. He wore the Ebon-Grey. He was the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih, the First Escort to the Queen of the Black Mountain, the son of the Healer Luthvian and the High Lord of Hell.

She watched him as he went a round with the practice sticks. Liquid grace, savage beauty, violent passion- all of it wrapped up in the form of one Warlord Prince. The practice stick swung around hard enough to sting the air, colliding with the other stick hard enough to make Marian wince.

Warrior, brother, lover, Warlord Prince.

Lucivar was her husband.

LUCIVAR

Perfect.

He'd never seen anything so incredibly fragile and tiny in his entire life. He'd seen children, of course, and innocent witches destroyed on the spears of tainted males. They were fragile, as well. But they were not innocent.

This small creation was innocent and pure and perfect. Such tiny toes and fingers, soft hair and sweet eyes...

He looked at his wife's face. Her eyes were bright with tears. Happy tears, rolling like wet diamonds down her cheeks. She was staring at the wings on their son's back. He looked as well, and saw his beautiful son, who might one day wear the Ebon-Gray as well. Who would one day be a proud Eyrian warrior.

Daemonar.

Dark Jewels Series 04: A Rose Among the Ashes

Up at dawn; the sky burns red at the horizon, and mist hangs heavy over her father's Eyrie. She gets the water for her sisters' early-morning wash, makes her father his coffee, fills the wash tubs, and starts working while nibbling on some dry, dark bread. She hangs the wash out to dry.

Late morning, and she must set the table; there are guests for lunch today. Use the rose-spray porcelain, and pour the yarbarah in the crystal wineglasses. All the dishes spotless, the table scrubbed clean and covered by the pressed, dark green tablecloth.

Keep the soup from burning; pull the loaves of bread from the oven. Searing heat on her face as she checks the cakes to make sure they're done. She can feel the skin stretching in the heat.

Scrub the floors, the harsh lye-soap burning her hands, the stone floor scraping at her knees. The frosty winds chill her to the bone, raising gooseflesh, as it blows through the cracks in the door. She'll have to fix those.

She hauls water from the well, chops the firewood, and waits on the guests. Mends her sisters' and her mother's clothes, as well as her father's. She hopes she does this well enough that she won't get a swat, or worse, a whipping. She washes all the dishes from dinner, ignoring the leers from her father's friends as they play cards and gamble money.

She never has time for herself, time to eat, and to rest, and to read.

She must then scrub the table and wash the table cloth, sweep the floors again, take in the wash drying out on the line. She folds the laundry and puts it away. She makes sure that there's enough food in the pantry for tomorrow, since tomorrow is Market Day and she must go with her mother to get what the household requires.

Then she trudges up to her bedroom in the attic, and falls into bed, sighing, and shivering with the cold from the cracks in the ceiling. She never does get around to fixing their kitchen door.

She's so cold, she grabs all her blankets and lays down in front of the fireplace, feeling the heat warming her.

She pulls out the uncut Rose Jewel from around her neck and stares at it in wonder. In a few days, she'll be old enough; old enough to make the Offering to the Darkness, and walk away three levels deeper in strength, three levels darker. She can do it in just a few days... then her parents will be proud of her, and no longer work her like a drudge.

She falls asleep in front of the hearth, ashes on her cheeks and the tip of her nose, and her wings curled up to prevent them from freezing. A soft wind swirls down the chimney, and ashes whoosh from the fireplace, touching down on her like soft snow, soft as gray silk. She sighs in her sleep, and her Jewel glows a soft rose color among the ebon-gray of the ash.