Daemon felt dizzied by the explanation and grasped the one thing he could pull out. “Who’s Prothvar?”

“Andulvar’s grandson.”

Daemon was getting a headache. He’d spent too many nights getting into heated but friendly arguments with Lucivar over who was the most powerful Warlord Prince in the history of the Blood not to know who Andulvar was. Mother Night, he thought as he surreptitiously rubbed his aching temple, how many of the dead did she know? “I agree,” he said decisively. “I think Prothvar was at fault.”

Jaenelle blinked. She grinned. “That’s what I think too.” She wrinkled her nose. “Prothvar didn’t think so. He still doesn’t.”

Daemon shrugged. “He’s Eyrien. Eyriens are stubborn.”

Jaenelle giggled and snuggled up next to him. Daemon slowly lowered his arm until his hand lightly caressed her shoulder, and sighed, content.

He would have to make peace with the Priest. He wouldn’t step aside, but he didn’t want her trapped in the middle of that kind of rivalry. Besides, the High Lord was just a rival, not an enemy. She might need him too.

“Your mentor is called the Priest, is he not?” Daemon asked in a sleepy, silky voice.

Jaenelle tensed but didn’t pull away. Finally she nodded.

“When you next see him, would you tell him I send my regards?”

Jaenelle’s head shot up so fast that Daemon’s teeth snapped together, just missing his tongue. “You know the Priest?”

“We were briefly acquainted…a long time ago,” Daemon said as his fingers became entangled in her hair.

Jaenelle snuggled closer, hiding a huge yawn with both hands. “I’ll remember,” she promised sleepily.

Daemon kissed the top of her head, reluctantly drew her to her feet, put the book back on the shelf, and led her out of the library. He pointed her toward the stairs that would take her up to her bedroom on the floor above. “Go to bed—and sleep.” He tried to sound stern, but even to his own ears it came out lovingly exasperated.

“You sound like him sometimes,” Jaenelle grumbled. She climbed the stairs and disappeared.

Daemon closed his eyes. Liar. Silky, court-trained liar. He didn’t want to smooth away a rivalry. That wasn’t why he sent the message. He wanted—secondhand and only for an instant—he wanted to force Saetan to acknowledge his son.

But what kind of message would the Priest send in return, if he cared to send any at all?

7 / Terreille

Greer stood before the two women seated by the fire, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. He was the High Priestess of Hayll’s most trusted servant, her favorite assassin, her caretaker of meddlesome, messy details. This assignment was an exquisite reward for his loyalty.

“You understand what you’re to do?”

Greer turned slightly toward the one called the Dark Priestess. Until tonight he had never understood why his powerful Priestess should feel so compelled to make accommodations for this mysterious “adviser.” Now he understood. She had the scent of the graveyard about her, and her keen malevolence frightened and excited him. He was also aware that the “wine” she drank came from a different kind of vineyard.