Anne Bishop - Daughter of The Blood

Anne Bishop

Daughter of the Blood

Schlechte Zeiten im alten Rom, 70 v. Chr. - gewalttdtige Gangs

beherrschen die Stra?en, sie pl?ndern, morden und brandschatzen,

ohne da?ihnen jemand Einhalt gebietet. Das Leben ist gefdhrlich und

nicht selten kurz. Da findet man eines Morgens einen ehemaligen

Gladiatoren tot auf der Stra?e. Decius Caecilius Metellus der J?ngere, Kommandant derfrtlichen Polizei, nimmt die Ermittlungen auf. Trotz

der allgemeinen Gleichg?ltigkeit, schamlosen Bestechungsversuchen

und finsteren Drohungen folgt Metellus unbeirrt seiner Spur. Sie f?hrt ihn direkt zur rfmischen Oberschicht - und damit mitten hinein in einen Sumpf aus Korruption und Intrigen auf hfchster Ebene.

ROC

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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England 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

Copyright Anne Bishop, 1998 All rights reserved.

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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 transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

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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."

for

Blair Boone

and Charles de Lint

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 Jacksonand 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

landennon-Blood of any race

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

Warlorda Jeweled male equal in status to a witch

Princea Jeweled male equal in status to a Priestess or a Healer

Warlord Princea dangerous, extremely aggressive Jeweled male; in status, slightly lower than a Queen Females

landennon-Blood of any race

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

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

Healera witch who heals physical wounds and illnesses; equal in status to a Priestess and a Prince Priestessa witch who cares for altars, Sanctuaries andDark Altars; witnesses handfasts and marriages; performs offerings; equal in status to a Healer and a Prince

Black Widowa witch who heals the mind; weaves the tangled webs of dreams and visions; is trained in illusions and poisons

Queena 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

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.

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 reclaimedif 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.