“She doesn’t kill every male she beds.”

“Wouldn’t matter if she did.”

“Your Thera would like her.”

Mother Night, banish the thought. “She’s not my Thera.”

“Blaed’s Thera, then.”

“Haven’t you got the possessive turned around? Shouldn’t you say Thera’s Blaed?” He thought about that for a second, then set his mug down with a thump.

“Thera’s blade.” Looking too much like a cat that has one paw firmly on the mouse’s tail, Daemon poured more coffee. “Which is something you shouldn’t forget, Warlord.”

The dinner that had tasted good a few minutes ago swam greasily in Jared’s stomach. “You think—”

Daemon made an exasperated sound. “If I didn’t know you’re too tired to think straight, I’d knock some sense into you. Listen, and listen well. Blaed’s a good man and a good Warlord Prince. In a few years, when he matures, he’ll be an even better one—and a dangerous one. From what you’ve said, Thera’s a strong-willed young woman who’s been on a battleground for far too long. A Green-Jeweled Black Widow with that kind of fire in her isn’t the kind of witch Dorothea would allow to stay whole no matter what sort of games were being played. Because that kind of witch is a serious rival.”

Jared sipped his coffee. “Thayne?”

“Why? Because he protected some innocent, terrified animals that were caught in a battle? Because, no matter how he feels about them, he might have realized how much harder the rest of the journey would be without them, especially if any of you were injured?”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way.” And now, remembering Thayne’s burned face, he wished he had thought of it. He rubbed his eyes, fighting to stay awake. “Who, then?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Daemon said gently. “You’re too deep into the game, Jared. Your presence—and Blaed’s and Thera’s—combined with Lia’s wonderfully erratic actions, tangled up what was probably supposed to be a quick kill. Besides, how can a bargain to kill the Gray Lady be fulfilled if she isn’t there?”

“We still need to know who the enemy is,” Jared insisted.

“You do,” Daemon countered. “Dorothea SaDiablo—and her Master of the Guard. The rest doesn’t matter anymore.” He stood up and stretched the muscles in his back. “You can stay here tomorrow. The owner and I have an understanding.”

Jared shook his head. “If anyone puts together the Shalador Warlord who was in that fight and the one staying here . . .”

“No one will put it together. No one will remember seeing a Shalador Warlord walk into the tavern room—at least, no one will remember until he’s been away from this place for a day.”

Even dulled by fatigue, Jared understood. Daemon had cast a spell around this place, a kind of psychic fog that hid one specific memory.