“Draca,” he said, bowing slightly when he stood before her.

“Ssaetan,” she replied, inclining her head in a mark of respect she rarely gave anyone.

“Jaenelle told me to meet her here. Where is she?”

“Sshe iss expecting you at dawn, High Lord.”

“I’m here now. My daughter is not.”

“The Queen hass gone to the Keep in Terreille.”

Anger flamed, then turned icy. He understood the distinction she made, heard the warning in it, but he still turned away, intending to go to the Dark Altar within the mountain—one of the thirteen Gates that linked the Realms of Terreille, Kaeleer, and Hell.

“High Lord.”

He stopped and looked over his shoulder. “No. Terreille is enemy territory. She shouldn’t be there, and she certainly shouldn’t be there alone.”

“The Keep iss protected.”

He knew that, but the need to protect—a need that was part of what made a Warlord Prince so deadly—was swelling in him until he couldn’t think past it, couldn’t feel anything but the drive to defend his Queen.

“Ssaetan.”

Centuries of training made him hesitate.

“Sshe doess not expect you until dawn.”

He fought a vicious internal battle, instincts warring with training.

“Come,” Draca said, her voice gentled with understanding. The door of the common room silently opened, untouched by any hand. “I will have yarbarah brought for you. When you are needed, you will be nearby.”

He closed his eyes. Breath by breath, he pulled himself back from the killing edge, that state of mind that stripped Warlord Princes of the veneer of civilized behavior—and was an intrinsic part of their nature. When he was sure he wouldn’t respond by striking out with lethal intent, he opened his eyes, and said, “Thank you. Yarbarah would be welcome.”

He walked past her and entered the common room, feeling as if he’d stepped into a cage. In a way, he had. But he had made the choice to obey. That was the only thing that made staying in that room tolerable.

Removing the cape, he dropped it over a chair, then walked to the windows that overlooked one of the many gardens. He heard a servant enter and set the blood wine and a glass on a table, but he kept his eyes focused on the garden . . . and the night sky. And waited for the long hours to pass until dawn.

THREE

THREE