Andulvar sighed, went back to staring at the lake . . . and began to talk.

Two hours later, Lucivar walked back into Saetan’s study and stopped just inside the door. His father was standing next to the bookcases that filled the wall behind his desk. He held a book open in his hands. He didn’t look up, didn’t turn a page. Just stood there.

“He told you,” Saetan said in a voice stripped of any emotion.

Unnerved and a little queasy, Lucivar worked to keep his voice steady. “He told me.”

“So now you know.”

Something’s wrong here, Lucivar thought as he studied his father. Something about the way Saetan stood made him think of a brittle object that could shatter at the slightest blow.

He shook his head, raked a hand through his black hair. “I don’t understand why Dorothea let us live. Once she realized she couldn’t use either of us for stud, she should have killed us before we got old enough to make the Offering to the Darkness and come into our full strength.”

“She couldn’t.” Saetan closed the book and put it back on the shelf. “Before I left Terreille for good, I sent Dorothea a message. I told her that on the day Daemon no longer walked among the living, Hayll would become another Zuulaman. I sent the same message to Prythian about you.”

Lucivar felt the floor slide out from under him. He took a stagger-step to regain his balance. “But . . . it was a bluff, wasn’t it? You wouldn’t have done it.”

Saetan finally turned and looked at him. “Yes,” he said too softly, “I would have.”

This wasn’t the man he’d come to know over the past three years. He understood now all of Andulvar’s cautions about dealing with the High Lord. And yet . . .

He’d seen that look in a man’s eyes before. But not in that face, not in those eyes. That was the difference between him and Andulvar, Prothvar, and Mephis. They didn’t know Daemon. They had never danced with the Sadist.

He understood the brittleness now. Saetan was waiting for him to turn away. Expected him to turn away. As Andulvar must have done for a while. As his other sons must have done when they became old enough to understand what their father was capable of when provoked beyond rage.

Everything has a price. Carrying the memory was Saetan’s price. He didn’t have to add to the burden.

“I need to get back to Askavi,” Lucivar said, feeling awkward and knowing that what he said now could shatter the bond between them. “I didn’t tell Marian I was staying overnight.”

“I understand.”

No, you don’t. You think I’m turning away, and I’m not. “I’ll be back in a couple of days.” Turning toward the door, he hesitated. “Good night, Father.”