The place didn’t need a Queen. It was creepy enough without one, and he couldn’t imagine anyone . . . normal . . . ruling this place. There were things flitting in the shadows, watching him. He was sure of it, even if he couldn’t detect a psychic scent or any kind of presence.

Which didn’t change the conviction that the things he couldn’t feel or see could—and would—kill him before he realized anything was there.

When the door opened, he breathed a sigh of relief but stayed by the window. If something went wrong, he had a better chance of getting out and catching one of the Winds if he could reach open ground.

The man who entered the room was Hayllian or Dhemlan—the black hair, brown skin, and gold eyes were common to both long-lived races, and he’d never been able to distinguish between the two. An older man, whose black hair was heavily silvered at the temples, and whose face was beginning to show lines that indicated the weight of centuries. A Red Jewel hung from a gold chain. A Red Jewel flashed in the ring worn on a hand with slender fingers—and long, black-tinted nails.

“Who are you?” Theran demanded. The Territory of Hayll had been at the root of all the suffering his people had endured, and he didn’t want to deal with anyone who came from that race. With one exception.

The man came to an abrupt halt.

A sharp-edged chill suddenly filled the room, a different kind of cold from the one coming from the open glass door.

“I am a Warlord Prince who outranks you,” the man said too softly. “Now, puppy, you can brush off your manners and try again—or you can go back to wherever you came from.”

He’d fixed on the man’s race instead of paying attention to the Jewels that did outrank his own and the psychic scent that left no doubt the other man was a Warlord Prince.

“My apologies, sir,” Theran said, trying to sound sincere. The sun would shine in Hell before he sincerely apologized to a Hayllian—for any reason. “I find this place a bit overwhelming.”

“Many do. Let’s see if we can’t settle your business quickly so that you can be on your way.”

“I’m not sure you can help me.” I don’t want you to be the one helping me.

“I’m the assistant historian/librarian here at the Keep. If I can’t help you, no one can.”

If I won’t help you, no one will. That was the underlying message.

Pissy old cock, Theran thought.

He hadn’t meant to send that thought along a psychic thread, and was almost certain he hadn’t. But judging by the way those gold eyes were starting to glaze, something in his expression must have conveyed the sentiment clearly enough.

“Let’s start with your name,” the man said.