1 / Kaeleer

Saetan, along with the rest of the family, lingered at the dinner table, reluctant to have the meal and the camaraderie end.

At least some good had come from that unpleasant night last week. Jaenelle’s nightmare had lanced the festering wound of those suppressed memories, easing a little of her emotional pain. He knew that soul wound wasn’t healed, but for the first time since she’d returned from the abyss, she was more like the child they remembered than the haunted young woman she’d become.

“I think Beale would like to clear the table,” Jaenelle said quietly, glancing at the butler standing at the dining room door.

“Then why don’t we have coffee in the drawing room,” Saetan suggested, pushing his chair back.

When Jaenelle walked toward the door, followed by Mephis, Andulvar, and Prothvar, he lingered a moment longer. It was so good to hear her laugh, so good to—

A movement at the window caught his attention. Immediately probing for the intruder, he took a step back when strangely scented, feral emotions pushed against his mind, challenging him, daring him to touch.

Anger. Frustration. Fear. And then…

The howl stopped conversations midword as Andulvar and Prothvar spun around, their hunting knives drawn. Saetan barely noticed them, too intent on Jaenelle’s reaction.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, tipped her head back, and howled. It wasn’t an exact imitation of the wolf’s howl. It was eerier somehow because it turned into witchsong. A wild song.

And he realized, with a shivering sense of wonder, that she and the wolf had sung this song before, that they knew how to blend those two voices to create something alien and beautiful.

The wolf stopped howling. Jaenelle finished the song and smiled.

A large gray shape leaped through the window, passing through the glass. The wolf landed in the dining room, snarling at them.

With a welcoming cry, Jaenelle rushed past Andulvar and Prothvar, dropped to her knees, and threw her arms around the wolf’s neck.

In that moment, Saetan caught the psychic scent he was searching for. The wolf was one of the legendary kindred. A Prince, but not, thank the Darkness, a Warlord Prince. He also caught a glimpse of the gold chain and the Purple Dusk Jewel hidden in the wolf’s fur.

Still snarling, the wolf pressed against Jaenelle, urging her toward the window while it kept its body between her and the Eyriens.

Pushed off-balance, Jaenelle’s arms tightened around the wolf’s neck. “Smoke, you’re being rude,” she said in that quiet, firm Queen voice that no male in his right mind would defy.

Smoke gave her a quick lick and changed his snarl to a deep growl.

“What bad male?” Jaenelle scanned each concerned male face and shook her head. “Well, it wasn’t one of them. This is my pack.”

The growling stopped. There was intelligence and new interest in the wolf’s eyes as he studied each man, then waved the tip of his tail once as a reluctant greeting.

Another brief pause. Jaenelle blushed. “No, none of them are my mate. I’m not old enough for a mate,” she added hurriedly as Smoke gave them all a look of blatant disapproval. “This is Saetan, the High Lord. He’s my sire. My brother, Prince Mephis, is the High Lord’s pup. And this is my uncle, Prince Andulvar, and my cousin, Lord Prothvar. And that’s Lord Beale. Everyone, this is Prince Smoke.”

As he greeted his kindred Brother, Saetan wondered which had startled the others more: kindred suddenly appearing, Jaenelle’s conversing with a wolf, or the family labels she’d given them.

There was an awkward pause after the introductions. Andulvar and Prothvar glanced at him, then sheathed their knives, keeping their movements slow and deliberate. Mephis remained still but ready to respond, and Beale, hovering in the doorway, was silently awaiting instructions. Smoke looked uneasy, and there was a bruised, uncertain look in Jaenelle’s eyes.

He had to do something quickly. But what did one say to a wolf? More important, what could he do to make Jaenelle’s furry friend feel comfortable enough and welcome enough to want to stay? Well, what did one say to any guest?

“May I offer you some refreshments, Prince Smoke?” Said out loud, the name combined with a Blood title sounded silly to him even if it was an apt description of the wolf’s coloring. Then again, maybe human names sounded just as silly to a wolf. Saetan raised an eyebrow at Beale and wondered how his stoic Warlord butler was going to react to a four-footed guest.

It was quickly apparent that any friend of Jaenelle’s, whether he walked on two legs or four, would be treated as an honored guest.

Beale stepped forward, made his most formal bow, and addressed his inquiries to Jaenelle. “There is the beef roast from dinner, if Prince Smoke doesn’t object to the meat being cooked.”

Jaenelle looked amused, but her voice was steady and dignified. “Thank you, Beale. That would be quite acceptable.”

“A bowl of cool water as well?”

Jaenelle just nodded.

“We’ll be more comfortable in the drawing room,” Saetan said. He slowly approached Jaenelle, offering a hand to help her to her feet.

Smoke tensed at his approach but didn’t challenge him or back away. The wolf didn’t trust humans, didn’t want him close enough to touch Jaenelle, but was at a loss of how to stop it without incurring his Lady’s disapproval.

He’s not so different from the rest of us, Saetan thought as he escorted Jaenelle to the family drawing room.

Without conscious thought, the men waited for Jaenelle to choose a seat before settling into chairs and couches far enough away from her so the wolf wouldn’t be upset and close enough not to miss anything. Saetan sat opposite her chair, aware that Smoke’s attention was focused on him and had been since the introductions were made.

He felt grateful for the distraction Beale provided moments later when the butler appeared with a silver serving tray holding coffee for Jaenelle, yarbarah for the rest of them, and bowls of meat and water for Smoke. Beale set the bowls of meat and water in front of Smoke, placed the tray on a table in front of Jaenelle, and, when no one indicated a further requirement, reluctantly left the room.

Smoke sniffed at the meat and water but remained seated by Jaenelle’s chair, pressed against her knees. Saetan added the hefty dose of cream and sugar that Jaenelle liked in her coffee, then poured and warmed yarbarah, passing the glasses to the others before warming one for himself.

“Is Prince Smoke alone?” he asked Jaenelle. Until he could find out how kindred communicated with humans, he had no choice but to direct his questions to her.

Jaenelle watched Smoke studying the bowls and didn’t answer.

Saetan stiffened when he realized the wolf was doing exactly what he would have done in unfamiliar and possibly hostile territory—using Craft to probe the meat and drink, looking for something that shouldn’t be there. Looking for poison. And he also realized who had taught the wolf to look for poisons—which made him wonder why she’d needed to teach that lesson in the first place.

“Well?” Jaenelle said quietly.

Smoke shifted his feet and made a sound that expressed uncertainty.

Jaenelle gave him an approving pat. “Those are herbs. Humans use them to alter the flavor of meat and vegetables.” Then she laughed. “I don’t know why we want to change the taste of meat. We just do.”

Smoke selected a hunk of beef.

Jaenelle gave Saetan an amused smile, but there was sadness in her eyes and a touch of anxiety. “Smoke’s pack is still in their home territory. He came alone because…because he wanted to see me, wanted to know if I’d come and visit his pack like I used to.”

He missed you, witch-child. They all miss you. Saetan swirled the yarbarah in his glass. He understood her anxiety. Smoke was here instead of protecting his mate and young. That Jaenelle had taught them about poisons made it obvious that the kindred wolves faced dangers beyond natural ones. It would require some adjustments, but if Smoke was willing…“How much territory does a pack need?”

Jaenelle shrugged. “It depends. A fair amount. Why?”

“The family owns a considerable amount of land in Dhemlan, including the north woods. Even with the hunting rights I’ve granted the families in Halaway, there’s plenty of game. Would that be sufficient territory for a pack?”

Jaenelle stared at him. “You want a wolf pack in the north woods?”

“If Smoke and his family would like to live there, why not?” Besides, the benefits certainly wouldn’t be one-sided. He’d provide territory and protection for the wolf pack, and they’d provide companionship and protection for Jaenelle.

The silence that followed wasn’t really silence but a conversation the rest of them couldn’t hear. Jaenelle’s expression was carefully neutral. Smoke’s, as he studied each man in the room, was unreadable.

Finally Jaenelle looked at Saetan. “Humans don’t like wolf-kind.”

Saetan steepled his fingers and forced himself to breathe evenly. Jaenelle had rarely mentioned kindred. He knew she had visited the dream-weaving spiders in Arachna and once, when he’d first met her, she had mentioned unicorns. But Smoke’s presence and the ease with which she and the wolf communicated spoke of a long-established relationship. What other kindred might know the sound of her voice, her dark psychic scent? What others might be willing to risk contact with humans in order to be with her again? Compared to what might be out there in those mist-enclosed Territories, what was a wolf?

The girl and the wolf waited for his answer.

“I rule this Territory,” he said quietly. “And, as I said, the Hall and its land are personal property. If the humans don’t want our kindred Brothers and Sisters as neighbors, then the humans can leave.”

He wasn’t sure if he was trying to reach out with his mind or if Smoke was trying to reach toward him, but he caught the edge of those alien, feral thoughts. Not thoughts, really, more like emotions filtered through a different lens but still readable. Surprise, followed by swift understanding and approval. Smoke, at least, knew exactly why the offer was being made.

Unfortunately, Jaenelle, reaching for her coffee, caught some of it, too. “What bad male?” she asked, frowning.

Smoke suddenly decided the meat was interesting.

From Jaenelle’s annoyed expression, Saetan deduced the wolf had turned evasive. Since it wasn’t a topic he wanted her to pursue, he decided to satisfy his own curiosity, aware of the effort Andulvar, Prothvar, and Mephis were making to sit quietly and not begin a barrage of questions. The kindred had always been elusive and timid about contact with humans, even before they had closed their borders. Now there was a wolf, kindred and wild, sitting in his drawing room.

“Prince Smoke is kindred?” Saetan asked, his tone more confirmation than question.

“Of course,” Jaenelle said, surprised.

“And you can communicate with him?”

“Of course.”

He felt the wave of frustration coming from the others and clenched his teeth. Remember who you’re talking to. “How?”

Jaenelle looked puzzled. “Distaff to spear. The same way I communicate with you.” She fluffed her hair. “You can’t hear him?”

Saetan and the other men shook their heads.

Jaenelle looked at Smoke. “Can you hear them?”

Smoke looked at the human males and whuffed softly.

Jaenelle became indignant. “What do you mean I didn’t train them well? I didn’t train them at all!”

Smoke’s expression as he turned back to the meat was smug.

Jaenelle muttered something uncomplimentary about male thought processes, then said tartly, “Does the beef at least meet with your approval?” She gave Saetan a brittle smile. “Smoke says the beef is much better than the squawky white birds.” Her expression changed from annoyed to dismayed. “Squawky white birds? Chickens? You ate Mrs. Beale’s chickens?”

Smoke whined apologetically.

Saetan leaned back in his chair. Oh, it was so satisfying to see her thrown off stride. “I’m sure Mrs. Beale was delighted to feed a guest—even if she wasn’t aware of it,” he added dryly, remembering too well his cook’s reaction when she learned about the missing hens.

Jaenelle pressed her hands into her lap. “Yes. Well.” She nibbled her lower lip. “Communicating with kindred isn’t difficult.”

“Really?” Saetan replied mildly, amused by the abrupt return to the original topic of conversation.

“You just…” Jaenelle paused and finally shrugged. “Shuck the human trappings and take one step to the side.”

It wasn’t the most enlightening set of instructions he’d ever heard, but having seen beneath her mask of human flesh, the phrase “shuck the human trappings” gave him some uncomfortable things to wonder about. Was it more comfortable, more natural for her to reach for kindred minds? Or did she see kindred and human as equal puzzles?

Alien and Other. Blood and more than Blood. Witch.

“What?” he asked, suddenly realizing they were all watching him.

“Do you want to try it?” Jaenelle asked gently.

Her haunted sapphire eyes, dark with their ancient wisdom, told him she knew exactly what troubled him. She didn’t dismiss his concerns, which was sufficient acknowledgment that he had a reason to be concerned. And no reason at all.

Saetan smiled. “Yes, I’d like to try it.”

Jaenelle touched the minds of the four men just outside the first inner barrier and showed them how to reach a mind that wasn’t human.

It was simple, really. Rather like walking down a narrow, hedged-in lane, sidestepping through a gap in the hedge, and discovering that there was another well-worn path on the other side. Human trappings were nothing more than a narrow view of communication. He—and Andulvar, Prothvar, and Mephis, and maybe Smoke as well—would always be aware of the hedge and would have to travel through a gap. For Jaenelle, it was just one wide avenue.

*Human.* Smoke sounded pleased.

Filled with wonder, Saetan smiled. *Wolf.*

Smoke’s thoughts were fascinating. Happiness because Jaenelle was glad to see him. Relief that the humans accepted him. Anticipation of bringing his pack to a safe place—clouded by darker images of kindred being hunted, and the need to understand these humans in order to protect themselves. Curiosity about how humans marked their territory since he hadn’t smelled any scent markers in this stone place. And a yearning to water a few trees himself.

“I think we should go for a walk,” Jaenelle said, standing quickly.

The human males stepped through the gaps in the mental hedge, their thoughts once more their own.

“After your walk, there’s no reason Smoke has to return to the woods tonight,” Saetan said casually, ignoring the sharp look Jaenelle gave him. “If your room’s too warm, he could always bed down on the balcony or in your garden.”

*I will keep the bad male away from the Lady.*

Apparently Smoke was accustomed to sliding through the mental hedge. Saetan also noticed the wolf sent the thought on a spear thread, male to male, so that Jaenelle couldn’t pick it up.

*Thank you,* Saetan replied. “Finished tomorrow’s studies?”

Jaenelle wrinkled her nose at him and bid them all good night, Smoke eagerly trotting beside her as they headed for an outside door.

Saetan turned to the others.

Andulvar whistled softly. “Sweet Darkness, SaDiablo. Kindred.”

“Kindred,” Saetan agreed, smiling.

Andulvar and Mephis returned the smile.

Prothvar drew his hunting knife from its sheath and studied the blade. “I’ll go with him to bring the pack home.”

Images of hunters and traps pushed away the smiles.

“Yes,” Saetan said too quietly, “do that.”

2 / Terreille

Seething that her afternoon’s intended amusement was now spoiled, Dorothea SaDiablo gave the young Warlord who was her current toy-boy a final, throat-swabbing kiss before dismissing him. Her eyes narrowed at the hasty way he fixed his clothes and left her sitting room. Well, she would take care of that little discipline problem tonight.

Rising gracefully from the ornate gold-and-cream daybed, she swished her hips provocatively as she walked to a table and poured a glass of wine. She drained half the glass before turning to face her son—and caught him pressing a fist into his lower back, trying to ease the chronic ache. She turned away, knowing her face reflected the revulsion she felt now every time she looked at him.

“What do you want, Kartane?”

“Did you find out anything?” he asked hesitantly.

“There’s nothing to find out,” Dorothea replied sharply, setting the glass down before it broke in her hand. “There’s nothing wrong with you.” Which was a lie. Anyone who looked at him knew it was a lie.

“There must be some reason why—”

“There is nothing wrong with you.” Or, more truthfully, nothing she could do about it. But there was no need to tell him that.

“There has to be something,” Kartane persisted. “Some spell—”

“Where?” Dorothea said angrily, turning to face him. “Show me where. There is nothing, I tell you, nothing.”

“Mother—”

Dorothea slapped him hard across the face. “Don’t call me that.”

Kartane stiffened and said nothing else.

Dorothea took a deep breath and ran her hands along her hips, smoothing the gown. Then she looked at him, not bothering to hide her disgust. “I’ll continue to look into the matter. However, I have other appointments right now.”

Kartane bowed, accepting the dismissal.

As soon as she was alone, Dorothea reached for the wine and swore when she saw how badly her hand was shaking.

Kartane’s “illness” was getting worse, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do. The best Healers in Hayll couldn’t find a physical reason for his body’s deterioration because there wasn’t one. But she’d pushed the Healers until a few months ago, when Kartane’s screams had woken her and she’d learned about the dreams.

It always came back to that girl. Greer’s death, Kartane’s illness, Daemon’s breaking the Ring of Obedience, Hekatah’s obsession.

It always came back to that girl.

So she had gone to Chaillot secretly and had discovered that all the males who had been associated with a place called Briarwood were suffering in similar ways. One man screamed at least once a day that his hands were being cut off, despite being able to see them, move them. Two others babbled about a leg.

Furious, she had gone to Briarwood, which had been abandoned by then, to search for the tangled web of dreams and visions that she was sure had ensnared them all.

Her efforts had failed. The only thing she had been able to draw from Briarwood’s wood and stone was ghostly, taunting laughter. No, not quite the only thing. After she had been there an hour, fear had thickened the air—fear and a sense of expectant waiting. She could have pried a little more, pushed a little harder. If she had, she was sure she would have found a strand that would have led her into the web. She was also sure she wouldn’t have found a way out again.

It always came back to that girl.

She had returned home, dismissed the Healers, and begun insisting there was nothing wrong with him whenever Kartane pushed for her help.

She would keep on insisting, not only because there was nothing she could do, but because it would serve another purpose. Once Kartane felt certain he would get no help from her, he would look elsewhere. He would look for the one person he had always run to as a child whenever he needed help.

And sooner or later, he would find Daemon Sadi for her.

3 / Kaeleer

Saetan stormed through the corridors, heading for the garden room that opened onto a terrace at the back of the Hall.

Three days since Jaenelle, Prothvar, and Smoke had left to bring Smoke’s pack to the Hall! Three gut-twisting, worried days full of thoughts of hunters and poison and how young she must have been when she’d first met the kindred, had first started teaching them to avoid manmade traps without a thought of what might happen to her if she’d been caught in one of those traps—or the other kinds of traps a Blood male might set for a young witch.

But she had been caught in “that kind of trap,” hadn’t she? He hadn’t kept her safe from that one.

Now, finally, she was home. Had been home since just before dawn and still remained in the gardens bordering the north woods, still hadn’t come up to the Hall to let him know she was all right.

Saetan flung open the glass doors, strode out onto the terrace, and sucked the late afternoon air through his clenched teeth. Teetering at the edge of the flagstones, he tasted that held breath and shuddered.

The air was saturated with Jaenelle’s feelings. Anguish, grief, rage. And a hint of the abyss.

Saetan stepped back from the terrace edge, his anger bleached by the primal storm building at the border of the north woods. It had gone wrong. Somehow, it had gone very wrong.

As anxiety replaced anger, as he wavered between waiting for her to come to him and going out to find her, he finally caught the quality of the silence, the dangerous silence.

Step by careful step, he retreated to the glass doors.

She was home. That’s what mattered. Andulvar and Mephis would be rising with the dusk. Prothvar would rise, too, meet them in the study, and tell them what happened.

There was no reason to intrude on her precarious self-control.

Because he didn’t want to find out what would happen if the silence shattered.

Prothvar moved as if he’d endured a three-day beating.

Perhaps he had, Saetan thought as he watched the demon-dead Warlord warm a glass of yarbarah.

Prothvar lifted the glass to drink, but didn’t. “They’re dead.”

Mephis made a sound of protest and dismay. Andulvar angrily demanded an explanation.

Saetan, remembering the dangerous silence that had filled the air, barely heard them. If he’d asked her about the wolf print earlier, if Smoke hadn’t had to wait so long to reach her…

“All of them?” His voice broke, hushing Andulvar and Mephis.

Prothvar shook his head wearily. “Lady Ash and two pups survived. That’s all that was left of a strong pack when the hunters were through harvesting pelts.”

“They can’t be the only kindred wolves left.”

“No, Jaenelle said there are others. And we did find two young wolves from another pack. Two young, terrified Warlords.”

“Mother Night,” Saetan whispered, sinking into a chair.

Andulvar snapped his wings open and shut. “Why didn’t you gather them up and get out of there?”

Prothvar spun to face his grandfather. “Don’t you think I tried? Don’t you—” He closed his eyes and shuddered. “Two of the dead ones had made the change to demons. They had been skinned and their feet had been cut off, but they still—”

“Enough!” Saetan shouted.

Silence. Brittle, brittle silence. Time enough to hear the details. Time enough to add another nightmare to the list.

Moving as if he would shatter, Saetan led Prothvar to a chair.

They let him talk, let him exorcise the past three days. Saetan rubbed Prothvar’s neck and shoulders, giving voiceless comfort. Andulvar knelt beside the chair and held his grandson’s hand. Mephis kept the glass of yarbarah filled. And Prothvar talked, grieving because the kindred were innocent in a way the human Blood were not.

Someone else needed that kind of comfort. Someone else needed their strength. But she was still in the garden with the kindred and, like the kindred, was not yet able to accept what they offered.

“Is that all?” Saetan asked when Prothvar finally stopped talking.

“No, High Lord.” Prothvar swallowed, choked. “Jaenelle disappeared for several hours before we left. She wouldn’t tell me where she’d been or why she’d gone. When I pushed, she said, ‘If they want pelts, they’ll have pelts.’”

Saetan squeezed Prothvar’s shoulders, not sure if he was giving comfort or taking it. “I understand.”

Andulvar pulled Prothvar to his feet. “Come on, boyo. You need clean air beneath your wings.”

When the Eyriens were gone, Mephis said, “You understand what the waif meant?”

Saetan stared at nothing. “Do you have commitments this evening?”

“No.”

“Find some.”

Mephis hesitated, then bowed. “As you wish, High Lord.”

Silence. Brittle, brittle silence.

Oh, he understood exactly what she’d meant. Beware the golden spider who spins a tangled web. The Black Widow’s web. Arachna’s web. Beware the fair-haired Lady when she glides through the abyss clothed in spilled blood.

If the hunters never returned, nothing would happen. But they would return. Whoever they were, wherever they’d come from, they would return, and one kindred wolf would die and awaken the tangled web.

The hunters would still get their harvest, would still do the killing and the cutting and the skinning. Only one, confused and frightened, would leave with the bounty, and once he’d returned to wherever he’d come from, then, and only then, would the web release him and show him that the pelts he’d harvested didn’t belong to wolf-kind.

4 / Kaeleer

Lord Jorval rubbed his hands gleefully. It was almost too good to be true. A scandal of this magnitude could topple anyone, even someone so firmly entrenched as the High Lord.

Remembering his new responsibilities, Jorval altered his expression to one more suitable to a member of the Dark Council.

This was a very serious charge, and the stranger with the maimed hands had admitted that he had no evidence except what he’d seen. After what the High Lord had done to the man’s hands before dismissing him from service, it was understandable why he refused to stand before the Dark Council and testify against the High Lord in person. Still, something should be done about the girl.

A strong young Queen, the stranger had said. A Queen who could, with proper guidance, be a great asset to the Realm. All that glorious potential was being twisted by the High Lord’s perversions, being forced to submit to…

Jorval jerked his thoughts away from those kinds of images.

The girl needed someone who could advise her and channel that power in the right direction. She needed someone she could depend on. And since she wasn’t that young, maybe she needed more than that from her legal guardian. She might even expect, want, that kind of behavior…

But getting the girl away from Saetan would require a delicate touch. And the stranger had warned him about moving too quickly. A Dhemlan Queen could officially protest the High Lord’s treatment of the girl, but Jorval didn’t know any of them except by name or reputation. No, somehow the Dark Council itself had to be pressured into calling the High Lord to account.

And they could, couldn’t they? After all, the Dark Council had granted the High Lord guardianship, and no one had forgotten what he’d done to gain that guardianship. It wouldn’t be unusual for the Council to express concern about the girl’s welfare.

A few words here. A hesitant question there. Strenuous protests that it was only a foul, unsubstantiated rumor. By the time it finally reached Dhemlan and the High Lord, no one would have any idea where the rumor started. Then they would see if even Saetan could withstand the rage of all the Queens in Kaeleer.

And he, Lord Jorval of Goth, the capital of Little Terreille, would be ready to assume his new and greater responsibilities.

5 / Kaeleer

The pushing turned into a shove. “Wake up, SaDiablo.”

Saetan tried to pull the covers over his bare shoulder and pushed his head deeper into the pillows. “Go away.”

A fist punched his shoulder.

Snarling, he braced himself on one elbow as Andulvar tossed a pair of trousers and a dressing robe onto the bed.

“Hurry,” Andulvar said. “Before it’s gone.”

Before what was gone?

Rubbing his eyes, Saetan wondered if he might be allowed to splash some water on his face to wake up, but he had the distinct impression that if he didn’t dress quickly, Andulvar would drag him through the corridors wearing nothing but his skin.

“The sun’s up,” Saetan muttered as he pulled on his clothes. “You should have retired by now.”

“You were the one who pointed out that Jaenelle’s presence has altered the Hall so that demons aren’t affected by daylight as long as we stay inside,” Andulvar said as he led Saetan through the corridors.

“That’s the last time I tell you anything,” Saetan growled.

When they reached a second floor room at the front of the Hall, Andulvar cautiously parted the drapes. “Stop grumbling and look.”

Giving his eyes a final rub, Saetan braced one hand against the window frame and peered through the opening in the drapes.

Early morning. Clear, sunny. The gravel drive was partially raked. The landing web was swept. But the work looked interrupted, as if something had caused the outdoor staff to withdraw. They were still outside, and he picked up their excitement despite their shields. It was as if they were trying, almost hopefully, to go undetected.

Frowning, Saetan looked toward the left and saw a white stallion grazing on the front lawn, its hindquarters facing the windows. Not plain white, Saetan decided. Cream, with a milk-white mane and tail.

“Where did he come from?” Saetan looked inquiringly at Andulvar.

Andulvar snorted softly. “Probably from Sceval.”

“What?” Saetan looked outside again at the same moment the stallion raised his head and turned toward the Hall. “Mother Night,” he whispered, clutching the drapes. “Mother Night.”

The ivory horn rose from the majestic head. Around the horn’s base, glinting in the morning sun, was a gold ring. Attached to the ring was an Opal Jewel.

“That’s a Warlord Prince having breakfast on your front lawn,” Andulvar said in a neutral voice.

Saetan stared at his friend in disbelief. True, Andulvar had seen the stallion first and had time to take in the wonder of it, but was he really so jaded that the wonder could pass so quickly? There was a unicorn on the front lawn! A…kindred Warlord Prince.

Saetan braced himself against the wall. “Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful.”

“Think the waif knows about him?” Andulvar asked.

The question was answered by a wild, joyous whoop as Jaenelle sprinted across the gravel drive and slid to a stop a foot away from that magnificent, deadly horn.

The stallion arched his neck, raised his tail like a white silk banner, and danced around Jaenelle for a minute. Then he lowered his head and nuzzled her palms.

Saetan watched them, hoping nothing would disturb the lovely picture of a girl and unicorn meeting on a clear summer morning.

The picture shattered when Smoke streaked across the lawn.

The stallion knocked Jaenelle aside, laid his ears back, lowered that deadly horn, and began pawing the ground. Smoke skidded to a stop and bared his teeth in challenge.

Jaenelle grabbed a handful of the unicorn’s mane and thrust out her other hand to stop Smoke. Whatever she said made the animals hesitate.

Finally, Smoke took a cautious step forward. The unicorn did the same. Muzzle touched muzzle.

Looking amused but exasperated, Jaenelle mounted the unicorn—and then scrambled to keep her seat when he took off at a gallop.

He stopped abruptly and looked back at her.

Jaenelle fluffed her hair and said something.

The stallion shook his head.

She became more emphatic.

The stallion shook his head and stamped one foot.

Finally, looking annoyed and embarrassed, she wrapped her hands in the long white mane and settled herself on his back.

The stallion walked away from the Hall, staying on the grass next to the drive. When they turned back toward the Hall, he changed to an easy canter. When they started the second loop, Smoke joined them.

“Come on,” Saetan said.

He and Andulvar hurried to the great hall. Most of the house staff were pressed against the windows of the drawing rooms on either side of the hall, and Beale was peering through a crack in the front door.

“Open the door, Beale.”

Startled by Saetan’s voice, Beale jerked away from the door.

Pretending he didn’t see Beale struggling to assume a proper stoic expression, Saetan swung the door open and stepped out while Andulvar stayed in the shadowy doorway.

She looked beautiful with her wind-tossed golden hair and her face lit from within by happiness. She belonged on a unicorn’s back with a wolf beside her. He felt a pang of regret that she was cantering over a clipped lawn instead of in a wild glade. It was as if, by bringing her here, he had somehow clipped her wings—and he wondered if it were true. Then she saw him, and the stallion turned toward the door.

Reminding himself that he wore the darker Jewel, Saetan tried to relax—and couldn’t. A Blood Prince, even a wolf, would accept his relationship with Jaenelle simply because he, a Warlord Prince, claimed her. Another Warlord Prince would challenge that claim, especially if it might interfere with his own, until the Lady acknowledged it.

As he went down the steps to meet them, Saetan felt the challenge being issued from the other side of the mental hedge, a demand that he acknowledge the stallion’s prior claim. He silently met the challenge, opening himself just enough for the other Warlord Prince to feel his strength. But he didn’t deny the unicorn’s claim to Jaenelle.

Interested, the stallion pricked his ears.

“Papa, this is Prince Kaetien,” Jaenelle said as she stroked the stallion’s neck. “He was the first friend I made in Kaeleer.”

Oh, yes. A very prior claim. And not one to be taken lightly. In the Old Tongue, “kaetien” meant “white fire,” and he didn’t doubt for a moment that the name fit this four-footed Brother.

“Kaetien,” Jaenelle said, “this is the High Lord, my sire.”

Kaetien backed away from Saetan, his ears tight to his head.

“No, no,” Jaenelle said hurriedly. “He’s not that one. He’s my adopted sire. He was the friend who was teaching me Craft, and now I’m living with him here.”

The stallion snorted, relaxed.

Watching them, Saetan kept his feelings carefully hidden. He wouldn’t push—yet—but sometime soon he and Kaetien were going to have a little talk about Jaenelle’s sire.

Kaetien pawed the gravel as two young grooms slowly approached. The older of the two brushed his fingers against his cap brim. “Do you think the Prince would like some feed and a little grooming?”

Jaenelle hesitated, then smiled as she continued to stroke Kaetien’s neck. “I should have my breakfast now,” she said quietly. She tried to finger-comb her hair and made a face. “And I could use some grooming myself.”

Kaetien tossed his head in what could be interpreted as agreement.

Jaenelle dismounted and ran up the steps. Then she spun around, her hands on her hips and fire in her eyes. “I did not fall off! I just wasn’t balanced.”

Kaetien looked at her and snorted.

“My legs are not weak, there’s nothing wrong with my seat, and I’ll thank you to keep your nose in your own feed bag! I do so eat!” She looked at Saetan. “Don’t I?” She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t I?”

Since silence was his safest choice, Saetan didn’t reply.

Jaenelle narrowed her eyes a little more and snarled, “Males.”

Satisfied, Kaetien followed the grooms to the stables.

Muttering under her breath, Jaenelle stomped past Andulvar and Beale and headed for the breakfast room.

With a cheerful whuff, Smoke continued his morning rounds.

“He deliberately baited her,” Andulvar said from the doorway.

“It would seem so,” Saetan agreed, chuckling. They headed for the breakfast room—slowly. “But isn’t it comforting to know that some of our Brothers have developed a wonderful knack for badgering her.”

“That particular Brother probably knows how much ground he can cover in a flat-out gallop.”

Saetan smiled. “I imagine they both know.”

She was sitting at the breakfast table, shredding a piece of toast.

Saetan cautiously took a seat on the opposite side of the table, poured a cup of tea, and felt grateful toast was the only thing she seemed interested in shredding.

“Thanks for backing me up,” she said tartly.

“You wouldn’t want me to lie to another Warlord Prince, would you?”

Jaenelle glared at him. “I’d forgotten how bossy Kaetien can be.”

“He can’t help it,” he said soothingly. “It’s part of what he is.”

“Not all unicorns are bossy.”

“I was thinking of Warlord Princes.”

She looked startled. Then she smiled. “You should know.” She reached for another piece of toast and began shredding it, her mood suddenly pensive. “Papa? Do you really think they’d come?”

His hand stuttered but he got the cup to his lips. “Your human friends?” he asked calmly.

She nodded.

He reached across the table and covered her restless hands with his. “There’s only one way to find out, witch-child. Write the invitations, and I’ll see that they’re delivered.”

Jaenelle wiped her hands on her napkin. “I’m going to see how Kaetien’s doing.”

Saetan picked at his breakfast steak for a while, drank another cup of tea, and finally gave up. He needed to talk to someone, needed to share the apprehension and excitement fizzing in his stomach. He’d tell Cassandra, of course, but their communication was always formal now and he didn’t want to be formal. He wanted to yip and chase his tail. Sylvia? She liked Jaenelle and would welcome the news—all the news—but it was too early to drop in on her.

That left him with one choice.

Saetan grinned.

Andulvar would be comfortably settled in by now. A punch in the shoulder would do him good.

6 / Hell

Titian cleaned her knife with a scrap from the black coat while the other Harpies hacked up the meat and tossed the pieces to the pack of Hounds waiting in a half circle around the body.

The body twitched and still feebly struggled, but the bastard could no longer scream for help and the muted sounds he made filled her with satisfaction. A demon couldn’t feel pain the way the living did, but pain was a cumulative thing, and he hadn’t been dead long enough for his nerves to forget the sensation.

A Harpy tossed a large chunk of thigh toward the pack. The pack leader snatched it in midair and backed away with his prize, snarling. The rest of the pack re-formed the half circle and waited their turn. The Hound bitches watched their pups gnaw at fingers and toes.

Demons weren’t usually the Hell Hounds’ meat. There was better prey for these large, black-furred, red-eyed hunters, prey as native to this cold, forever-twilight Realm as the Hounds themselves. But this demon’s flesh was saturated with too much fresh blood—blood Titian knew hadn’t come from voluntary offerings.

It had taken a while to hunt him down. He hadn’t strayed far from Hekatah since the High Lord had made his request. Until tonight.

There were no Gates in Hekatah’s territory, and the closest two were now fiercely guarded. One was beside the Hall, a place Hekatah no longer dared approach, and the other was in the Harpies’ territory, Titian’s territory. Not a place for the unwary, no matter how arrogant. That meant Hekatah and her minions had to travel a long distance on the Winds to reach another Gate, or they had to take risks.

Tonight, Greer took a risk and paid for it.

If he’d had time to use his Jewels, it might have turned out differently, but he’d been allowed to reach the Dark Altar and go through the Gate unchallenged, so he had no reason to expect they’d be waiting for his return. Once he’d left the Sanctuary, the Harpy attacks had come so fast and so fierce all he could do was shield himself and try to escape. Even so, a number of Harpies burned themselves out and vanished to become a whisper in the Darkness. Titian didn’t grieve for them. Their twilight existence had dissolved in fierce joy.

In the end it was one frightened mind against so many enraged ones probing for weakness, while Titian’s trained Hounds constantly lunged at the body, forcing Greer to use more and more of the reserved strength in his Jewels to keep them away. The Harpies broke through his inner barriers at the same moment Titian’s arrow drove through his body and pinned it to a tree.

As the Harpies pulled the body away from the tree and began carving up the meat, Titian picked through Greer’s mind as delicately as if she were picking the meat from a cracked nut. She saw the children he’d feasted on. She saw the narrow bed, the blood on the sheets, the familiar young face that had been bruised by his maimed hands. She saw Surreal’s horn-handled dagger driving into his heart, slicing his throat. She saw him smiling at her when his own knife had slit her throat centuries ago. And she saw where he’d been tonight.

Titian sheathed the knife and checked the blade of the small ax propped beside her.

She regretted not bringing him down before he reached Little Terreille. If Greer’s assessment of Lord Jorval was correct, the whispers would begin soon.

A Guardian wasn’t a natural being in a living Realm. There would always be whispering and wondering—especially when that Guardian was also the High Lord of Hell. And she could guess well enough how the Kaeleer Queens were going to react to the rumors.

She would visit her kinswomen, tell them what she wanted from them if the opportunity presented itself. That would help.

Titian picked up her ax. The Harpies moved aside for their Queen.

The limbs were gone. The torso was empty. The eyes still held a glimmer of intelligence, a glimmer of Self. Not much, but enough.

With three precise strokes, Titian split Greer’s skull. Using the blade, she opened one of the splits until it was wide enough for her fingers. Then she tore the bone away.

She looked into Greer’s eyes. Still enough there.

Whistling for the pack leader, she walked away, smiling, while the Hound began feasting on the brain.

7 / Kaeleer

Saetan brushed his hair for the third time because it gave him something to do. Like buffing his long, black-tinted nails twice. Like changing his jacket and then changing back to the first one.

He stopped himself from reaching for the hairbrush again, straightened his already straight jacket, and sighed.

Would the children come?

He hadn’t requested a reply to the invitation because he had wanted to give the children as much time as possible to gather their courage or wear down their elders’ arguments—and because he was afraid of what rejection dribbling in day after day might do to Jaenelle.

As he had promised, he or other members of the family had delivered all the invitations. Some had been left at the child’s residence. Most had been left at message stones, the piles of rocks just inside a Territory’s border where travelers or traders could leave a message requesting a meeting. He had no idea how messages left in those places reached the intended person, and he doubted those children would be here this afternoon. He didn’t know what to expect from the children in the accessible Territories. He only hoped Andulvar was right and that little witch from Glacia would be here, stepping on his toes.

Taking a deep breath that still came out as a sigh, Saetan left his suite to join the rest of the family and Cassandra in the great hall.

Everyone was there except Jaenelle and Sylvia. Halaway’s Queen had been delighted when he’d told her about the party and had used her considerable enthusiasm to browbeat Jaenelle into a shopping trip for a new outfit. They didn’t come back with a dress, but he’d had to admit, grudgingly, that the soft, full, sapphire pants and long, flowing jacket were very feminine-looking, even if the skimpy gold-and-silver top worn beneath the jacket…. As a man, he approved of the top; as a father, it made him grind his teeth.

As soon as she saw him, Cassandra took his arm and led him away from the other men. “Do you think it’s wise for everyone to be out here?” she asked quietly. “Won’t it be too intimidating?”

“And whom would you ask to leave?” Saetan replied, knowing full well he was one of the people she thought should be absent.

After receiving his note, Cassandra had arrived to help with the preparations, but she’d acted too forcedly cheerful, as if she were really preparing for the moment when Jaenelle would face an empty drawing room. Sylvia, on the other hand, had thrown herself into the preparations and had bristled at anyone who dared to express a doubt.

A wise man would have locked himself in his study and stayed there. Only a fool would have left two witches alone when they were constantly circling and spitting at each other like angry cats.

When Cassandra didn’t answer his question, Saetan took his place in the great hall. Andulvar was one step behind him on his left. Mephis and Prothvar were on Andulvar’s left and a little to the side so that they weren’t part of the official greetings. Cassandra stood on Saetan’s right, one step behind. By rights she should have stood beside him, Black with Black, and he was only too aware of why she was using an option of Protocol to distance herself from him.

Saetan turned toward the sound of feet racing down the staircase in the informal drawing room.

Sylvia burst into the great hall, looking a little too lovely with her golden eyes shining and her cheeks flushed. “The wolf pups hid Jaenelle’s shoes and it took a while to find them,” she said breathlessly. “She’s on her way down, but I didn’t want to be late.”

Saetan smiled at her. “You’re not—”

A clock struck three times.

Cassandra made a quiet, unhappy sound and stepped away from him.

For the first time since he’d told her about the party, Sylvia’s eyes filled with concern.

They all stood in the great hall, silently waiting, while Beale stood woodenly by the front door and the footmen who would take the outer garments stared straight ahead.

The minutes ticked past.

Sylvia rubbed her forehead and sighed. “I’d better go up—”

“We don’t need any more of your kind of help,” Cassandra said coldly as she brushed past Sylvia. “You set her up for this.”

Sylvia grabbed Cassandra’s arm and spun her around. “Maybe I was too enthusiastic, but you did everything but say outright that she would never have a friend for the rest of her life!”

“Ladies,” Saetan warned, stepping toward them.

“What could you possibly know about wearing the Black?” Cassandra snapped. “I lived with that isolation—”

“La—”

BOOM!

“Hell’s fire,” Andulvar muttered.

BOOM!

Beale leaped to open the front door while it was still intact.

She swept into the great hall, stopping where the sunlight coming from the lead glass window above the double doors produced a natural spotlight. Tall and slim, she wore severely tailored, dark blue trousers, a loose jacket, and heeled boots. Her white-blond hair rose in spiky peaks above her head like sculptured ice. Darkened eyebrows and lashes framed ice-blue eyes.

“Sisters,” she said, giving Sylvia and Cassandra a perfunctory nod that couldn’t quite be called insolent. Then her eyes raked over Saetan from head to toe.

Saetan held his breath. Even if Lord Morton hadn’t slunk in behind her, he would have bet this was Karla, the young Glacian Queen.

“Well,” Karla said, “you’re not bad-looking for a corpse.”

Before he could reply, Jaenelle’s serene but amused voice said, “You’re only half-right, darling. He’s not a corpse.”

Karla whirled toward the informal drawing room, where Jaenelle leaned against the doorway, her fingers hooked in the jacket thrown over one shoulder.

Karla let out a screech that raised the hairs on Saetan’s neck.

“You’ve got tits!” Karla pulled open the blue jacket, revealing a silver, just as skimpy top. “So do I, if you call these lovely little bee stings tits.” Smiling the wickedest smile Saetan had ever seen, she turned back to him. “What do you think?”

He didn’t stop to think. “Are you asking if I think they’re lovely or if I think they’re bee stings?”

Karla closed the jacket, crossed her arms, and narrowed those ice-blue eyes. “Sassy, isn’t he?”

“Well, he is a Warlord Prince,” Jaenelle replied.

Ice-blue eyes met sapphire eyes. Both girls smiled.

Karla shrugged. “Oh, all right. I’ll be a polite guest.” She stepped up to Saetan, and that wicked smile bloomed. “Kiss kiss.”

He refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing him wince.

Karla turned away from him and headed for Jaenelle. “You’ve got some explaining to do. I had to figure out all those damn spells by myself.” She swept Jaenelle into the drawing room and closed the door.

Saetan stared at his shoe. “Damn it, she did step on my toes,” he muttered before realizing Morton had come close enough to hear him.

“H-High Lord.”

“Lord Morton, I have only one thing to say to you.”

“Sir?” Morton tried to suppress a shiver.

Saetan tried to suppress a rueful smile and couldn’t. “You have my heartfelt sympathy.”

Morton melted with relief. “Thank you, sir. I could use it.”

“Help yourself to the refreshments in there,” Saetan said, making a slight gesture toward the closed door. “And if they start making plans to knock down any walls, let me know.”

BANG!

For one panicked moment, Saetan thought the caution had been made too late. Then he realized someone was, more or less, knocking on the front door.

If Karla was ice, this one was fire, with her dark-red hair flowing down her back, her green eyes flashing, and a swirling gown that looked like an autumn woods in motion. She headed for Saetan but veered when Jaenelle and Karla poked their heads out of the drawing room. Grinning, she held up a cloth bundle. “I wasn’t sure if we would end up in the stables or digging in the garden, so I brought some real clothes.”

Saetan stifled a growl. Didn’t any of them like to dress up?

The girls disappeared into the drawing room—and closed the door.

The youth who’d come in with the fire witch was tall, good-looking, and a couple of years older. He had curly brown hair and blue eyes. Smiling, he extended one hand in informal greeting.

With his stomach sinking toward his heels, Saetan clasped the offered hand. There were a lot of ways he could describe those blue eyes. They all meant trouble.

“You must be the High Lord,” the young Warlord said with a smile. “I’m Khardeen, from the isle of Scelt.” He jerked his thumb toward the drawing room. “That’s Morghann.”

The drawing room door opened. Jaenelle approached them hesitantly. Then she held out both hands in formal greeting. “Hello, Khary.”

Khary looked at the offered hands and turned back to Saetan. “Did Jaenelle ever tell you about her adventure with my uncle’s stone—”

“Khary,” Jaenelle gasped, glancing nervously at Saetan.

“Hmm?” Khary smiled at her. “Did you know that a proper hug can toss a thought right out of a man’s head? It’s a well-known fact. I’m surprised you hadn’t heard of it.”

Jaenelle had been balanced on the balls of her feet, ready to bolt. Now her heels came down and her eyes narrowed. “Really.”

Watching the two of them, Saetan decided the prudent thing was to stand still and keep his mouth shut.

Seconds passed. When Jaenelle didn’t move, Khardeen turned back to him. “You see, my—”

Jaenelle moved.

“You don’t have to hug all the air out of me,” Khary said as he carefully wrapped his arms around her.

“Now what were you going to say?” Jaenelle asked ominously.

“About what?” Khary replied sweetly.

Laughing, Jaenelle threw her arms around his neck. “I’m glad you came, Khardeen. I’ve missed you.”

Khary gently untangled himself. “We’ll have plenty of time to catch up on things. Right now you’d better get back to your sisters or I’ll get the sharp side of Morghann’s tongue for the rest of the day.”

“Compared to Karla, Morghann’s tongue doesn’t have a sharp side.”

“All the more reason then.”

With another nervous glance at Saetan, Jaenelle bolted for the drawing room. She had just reached it when someone knocked on the door. It almost sounded polite.

They must have appeared on the landing web within seconds of each other and approached the door en masse because he knew this group didn’t come from the same Territories. And since they spared him no more than an uneasy glance before focusing on Jaenelle, he was forced to deduce who they were by the names on the invitations.

The satyrs from Pandar were Zylona and Jonah. The small, pixie-faced darling with the dusky hair and iridescent wings who was perched on Jonah’s shoulder was Katrine from Philan, one of the Paw Islands. The black-haired, gray-eyed youth who strongly reminded Saetan of the young wolves now living in the north woods was Aaron from Dharo. Sabrina, a hazel-eyed brunette, was also from Dharo. The two tawny-skinned, dark-striped youngsters were Grezande and Elan from Tigrelan.

The last of the group—a petite witch with a lusciously rounded figure, soft brown eyes, and dark brown hair—hugged Jaenelle, shyly approached him, and introduced herself as Kalush from Nharkhava.

There was a sweetness about her that made Saetan want to cuddle her. Instead, he slid his hands beneath her offered ones in formal greeting, and said, “I’m honored to meet you, Lady Kalush.”

“High Lord.” She had a husky voice that would do wonderfully bad things to young men’s libidos. He pitied her father.

Beale, looking slightly dazed, started to close the door when it was yanked out of his grasp.

Saetan pushed Kalush toward Andulvar and tensed.

The centaurs walked in.

The young witch, Astar, headed for the girls. The Warlord Prince continued down the great hall until he was standing in front of Saetan.

“High Lord.” The greeting sounded more like a challenge.

“Prince Sceron.”

Sceron was a few years older than the others, old enough to have begun filling out the massive shoulders and the powerfully built upper body. The rest of him would have done any stallion proud.

There was an unasked question in Sceron’s eyes, and an anger in him that seemed ready to blaze into rage.

Jaenelle stepped into that frozen silence, balled her hand into a fist, and drove it into Sceron’s upper arm.

Sceron grabbed her and lifted her until they were eye to eye.

“That’s for not saying hello,” Jaenelle said.

Sceron studied her face and finally smiled. “You are well?”

“I was better before you rumpled me.”

Laughing, Sceron put her down.

Someone gasped.

Saetan felt a shiver run up his spine and looked toward the door.

Because he hadn’t expected them to come, he hadn’t thought about how the others would react to their presence. But they had come. The Children of the Wood. The Dea al Mon.

They both had the slender, sinewy build that was as inherent to their race as the delicately pointed ears. Both wore their silver hair long and unbound. Both had the large, forest-blue eyes, although the girl’s had a touch more gray.

The girl, Gabrielle, stopped just inside the door. The boy—oh, no, it would be extremely foolish to think of Chaosti as a boy—came forward slowly, silently.

Saetan fought the instincts that always came to the fore at the appearance of an unknown Warlord Prince. Because they hadn’t approached him, Elan and Aaron hadn’t pricked those instincts. Sceron had just managed to scratch the surface. But this one, calmly staring at him with those large eyes, made all the aggressiveness and territoriality that was part of a Warlord Prince boil to the surface.

Saetan felt himself rising to the killing edge, and knew Chaosti was also rising, but instinct was driving him too hard to hold it back.

“Chaosti,” Jaenelle said in her midnight voice.

Chaosti slowly turned to face her.

“He’s my father, Chaosti,” Jaenelle said. “By my choice.”

After a long moment, Chaosti placed a hand over his heart. “By your choice, cousin,” he replied in a deceptively quiet tenor voice.

Jaenelle led the girls into the informal drawing room and closed the door.

The males let out a collective sigh of relief.

Chaosti turned to face Saetan. “She’s been away so long and has been deeply missed. Titian said you weren’t to blame, but—”

“But I’m the High Lord,” Saetan said with a trace of bitterness.

“No,” Chaosti replied, smiling coolly, “you are not Dea al Mon.”

Saetan felt his body relax. “Why do you call her ‘cousin’?”

“Gabrielle and I belong to the same clan. Grandmammy Teele is the matriarch. She also adopted Jaenelle.” Chaosti’s smile turned feral. “So you are kin of my kin—which makes you Titian’s kin as well.”

Saetan wheezed.

Khardeen approached them. “If we want anything to eat, I think we’re going to have to fight for it,” he said to Chaosti.

“I’ll accept any challenge a male wants to make,” Chaosti snapped.

“The girls are between us and the food.”

Chaosti sighed. “Challenging another male would be easier.”

“Safer, too.”

“Gentlemen,” Beale said. “Refreshments are also being served in the formal drawing room.”

“Have you ever heard that red-haired witches have hot tempers?” Khardeen asked as he and Chaosti followed the other males into the formal drawing room.

“There are no red-haired witches among the Dea al Mon,” Chaosti replied, “and they all have hot tempers.”

“Ah. Well, then.”

The door closed behind them.

Saetan jumped when a hand squeezed his shoulder.

“You all right?” Andulvar asked quietly.

“Am I still standing up?”

“You’re vertical.”

“Thank the Darkness.” Saetan looked around. He and Andulvar were the only ones left in the great hall. “Let’s hide in my study.”

“Agreed.”

They drank two glasses of yarbarah and finally relaxed when an hour had passed without any shrieks, bangs, or booms.

“Mother Night.” Saetan wearily stripped off his jacket and slumped in one of the comfortable, oversized chairs.

“By my count,” Andulvar said as he refilled the glasses, “including the waif, you’ve got ten adolescent witches in one room—Queens every one of them, and two besides Jaenelle who are natural Black Widows.”

“Karla and Gabrielle. I noticed.” Saetan closed his eyes.

“In the other room, you have seven young males, four of whom are Warlord Princes.”

“I noticed that, too. It makes a very interesting First Circle, don’t you think?”

Andulvar muttered in Eyrien. Saetan chose not to translate it.

“Where do you think the others went?” Andulvar asked.

“If Mephis and Prothvar have any sense at all, they’re hiding somewhere. Sylvia is no doubt passing out nutcakes and sandwiches. Cassandra?” Saetan shrugged. “I don’t think she was prepared for this.”

“Were you?”

“Shit.” When someone tapped on the study door, Saetan thought about sitting up straighter, then decided not to bother. “Come.”

A smiling Khardeen entered and placed sixteen sealed envelopes on the blackwood table. “I told Jaenelle I’d drop these off to you. We’re going out to meet the wolves and the unicorn.”

“Finished devouring the kitchen already?” Saetan asked as he picked up one of the envelopes.

“At least until dinner.”

“Plant your feet, Warlord,” Saetan said, stopping Khardeen’s hasty retreat. He broke the formal seal, called in his half-moon glasses, and read the message. Then he stared at Khary. “This is from Lady Duana.”

“Mmm,” Khary said, rocking on his heels. “Morghann’s grandmother.”

“The Queen of Scelt is Morghann’s grandmother?”

Khary stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Mmm.”

Saetan placed his glasses carefully on the table. “Let’s skip the hunt and just tree the prey. Do all these letters say the same thing?”

“What’s that, High Lord?” Khary asked innocently.

“All of these letters give permission for an extended visit?”

“So I gathered.”

“Define ‘extended visit.’”

“Not long. Just the rest of the summer.”

Saetan couldn’t speak. Wasn’t sure what he’d say if he could.

“Everything is being taken care of,” Khary said soothingly. “Lord Beale and Lady Helene are taking care of the room assignments right now, so there’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“Noth—” Saetan’s voice cracked.

“And it is a reasonable compromise, High Lord. You get to spend time with her and we get to spend time with her. Besides, the Hall is the only place big enough for all of us. And, as my uncle pointed out, having all of us in one place would surely drive a man to drink, and that being the case, he’d rather it be you than him.”

Saetan made a weak gesture of dismissal and waited until the door was safely closed before bracing his head in his hands. “Mother Night.”