He entered the inn. Coming farther into the room, he looked at the table tucked near the stairs, at the bottle of wine and the two glasses, at the beautiful, golden-eyed man who sat waiting for him.

“Will you join me for a drink, Lord Jared?” Daemon asked.

Jared smiled. Unbuttoning his heavy winter coat, he approached the table. “Thank you. I will.”

Daemon studied him for so long, Jared lifted a hand self-consciously to his hair. He’d shaved off the beard that had kept his face warm through the cold mountain winter, but he’d let his hair grow long enough to tie back and hadn’t decided to cut it yet. His clothes, by even the kindest stretching of the truth, couldn’t be called anything but sturdy and warm.

Compared to Daemon’s sleek elegance, he felt like a grubby child.

And resented it.

Daemon’s eyes filled with amusement.

Jared lowered his hand and sighed. Daemon knew, damn him.

“You’ve shed your slave skin,” Daemon said with quiet approval.

Jared sat down and poured a glass of wine for himself. It surprised him that the approval meant so much.

But wasn’t that one of the reasons he had come?

Daemon toyed with his wineglass. “I’m glad you responded. I expect I’ll be kept on a short leash for quite some time, so it’s unlikely that we’ll meet again.”

Jared tensed. “Dorothea can’t link you to what happened.” Mother Night, he hoped not. He didn’t want to think about what Daemon’s life would be like if she did.

“Krelis did.” Daemon’s mouth curved in a vicious smile. “But I doubt he mentioned our little discussion.” He took a couple of swallows of wine. “No, she just wants to be sure I’m held in a Territory closer to Hayll. She has enough problems right now. It seems no one’s eager to be her new Master of the Guard. And the efforts to soften the Territories bordering those already under Hayll’s control have been seriously undermined by the stories that have spread about how a young Queen and a handful of former slaves defended an entire village against Dorothea’s Master of the Guard and five thousand Hayllian warriors.”

“There weren’t that many,” Jared mumbled.

Daemon shrugged. “Well, you know how stories grow with the telling. Especially with a little help.”

“You cut the ground out from under Dorothea in any way you can, don’t you?” Jared said.

“In every way I can,” Daemon agreed solemnly. “But there’s only so much I can do. And it’s not enough.”

Jared felt the sadness he’d been fighting all winter well up inside him. “Dena Nehele will fall, won’t it?”