No one had used the name Andulvar since the time of the Demon Prince—the Ebon-gray Warlord Prince who had once ruled the Black Valley . . . just as Lucivar now ruled Ebon Rih. Lucivar had mentioned his cousin Prothvar. He’d mentioned his uncle, too, but not by name. And he’d said his family took a little getting used to, but he hadn’t said why. If what she was thinking, as impossible as it must be, was true . . .

“Marian?”

A deep, soothing male voice washed over her. The room swayed. She looked at Lucivar’s father.

Lucivar Yaslana. Prothvar . . . Yaslana. Andulvar . . . Yaslana.

“Darling, what’s wrong?”

S. D. SaDiablo. High Lord.

“Aren’t you feeling well?”

She was sitting down, looking up at him as he bent over her, concern in his golden eyes, his hand resting lightly against her face.

“You’re him,” she whispered. “You’re really him. The High Lord. Of Hell.”

He didn’t move, but she could sense the warm man pulling away from her.

“Yes,” he said quietly, withdrawing his hand. “I’m the High Lord of Hell.”

She didn’t know much about the High Lord except that he was more powerful—because he wore a Black Jewel—and supposedly more dangerous than the Demon Prince, but the one thing she did know about him from the stories Eyriens told was . . .

“You were Andulvar Yaslana’s friend. Almost like brothers.”

“We still are.”

Still are. Oh, Mother Night. “So, Luci—Prince Yaslana’s uncle is . . . ?”

“Andulvar Yaslana. The Demon Prince. Prothvar Yaslana is Andulvar’s grandson.”

“How?”

“I’m a Guardian. Andulvar, Prothvar . . . and my oldest son, Mephis . . . are demon-dead.”

“But . . . Lucivar talks as if he sees them all the time.”

“He does.”

Marian stared at him. She was looking at a legend. Oh, not one of her people’s legends, but a legend nonetheless. And one who had known—still knew—the greatest Eyrien Warlord Prince who had ever lived.

Dazzled, she studied him as if she hadn’t spent the morning around him. He was wearing the Red, which must be his Birthright Jewel. A courteous man who had made her feel welcome. A widely read man, based on the books he and Jaenelle had talked about on the journey. He had a dry sense of humor she didn’t always understand. He obviously loved his children.

And he was the Prince of the Darkness, the High Lord of Hell—and Andulvar Yaslana’s friend.

“This is more exciting than learning that some wolves can talk,” she said.

He stared at her a moment, then laughed. When he held out his hand, she didn’t hesitate to accept it.

“Come along,” he said. “If you’re feeling up to it, we’d better rescue the poor males who have been trying to deal with Jaenelle.”