Heir to the Shadows

warming two wineglasses.
    "It's lamb," Geoffrey said, handing a glass to Lucivar and settling into a chair beside the table.
    Lucivar gratefully sank into a chair opposite Geoffrey and sipped the yarbarah. There was more blood in the mixture than was used in the ceremonies, the wine more full-bodied.
    "How do you like it?" Geoffrey's black eyes sparkled.
    "It's . .." Lucivar struggled to find something mild to say.
    "Different," Geoffrey suggested. "It's an acquired taste, and here we drink it for other reasons than ceremonial."
    Guardian. Was the blood mixed with the wine ever human? Lucivar took another swallow and decided he wasn't curious enough to ask.
    "Why have you never come to the Keep, Lucivar?"
    Lucivar set the glass down carefully. "I was under the ..impression a half-breed bastard wouldn't be welcome here."
    "I see," Geoffrey said mildly. "Except for those who care for the Keep, who has the right to decide who is welcome and who is not?"
    Lucivar forced himself to meet Geoffrey's eyes. "I'm a half-breed bastard," he said again, as if that should explain everything.
    "Half-breed." Geoffrey sounded as if he were turning the word over and over. "The way you say it, it sounds insulting. Perhaps dual bloodline would be a more accurate way to think of it." He leaned back, cradling the wineglass in both hands. "Has it ever occurred to you that, without that other bloodline, you wouldn't be the man you are? That you wouldn't have the intelligence and strength you have?" He waved his glass at Lucivar's Ebon-gray Jewel. "That you never would have worn those? For all that you are Eyrien, Lucivar, you are also your father's son."
    Lucivar froze. "You know my father?" he asked in a choked voice.
    "We've been friends for many years."
    It was there, in front of him. All he had to do was ask.
    It took him two tries to get the word out. "Who?"
    "The Prince of the Darkness," Geoffrey said gently. "The High Lord of Hell. It's Saetan's bloodline that runs through your veins."
    Lucivar closed his eyes. No wonder his paternity had never been registered. Who would have believed a woman who claimed to be seeded by the High Lord? And if anyone had believed her, imagine the panic that would have caused. Saetan still walked the Realms. Mother Night!
    Had Daemon ever learned who had sired them? He would have been pleased with this paternal bloodline.
    The thought lanced through him. He locked it away.
    At least there was one thing he was still sure of. Maybe. He looked at Geoffrey, afraid of either answer. "I'm still a bastard."
    Geoffrey sighed. "I'm reluctant to pull the rest of the ground out from under you but, no, you're not. He formally registered you the day after you were born. Here, at the Keep."
    He wasn't a bastard. They . . . "Daemon?" Had he said it out loud?
    "Registered as well."
    Mother Night. They weren't bastards. He scrambled, clawing for solid ground that kept turning into quicksand under him. "Doesn't make any difference since no one else knew."
    "Have you ever been encouraged to play stud, Lucivar?"
    Encouraged, pressured, imprisoned, punished, drugged, beaten, forced. They'd been able to use him, but they'd never been able to breed him. He'd never known if the reason was physical or if, somehow, his own rage had kept him sterile. He'd wondered sometimes why they'd wanted his seed so badly. Knowing who had sired him and the potential strength of any offspring he might produce. . . . Yes, they'd overlook a great deal to have him sire offspring for specific covens, specific aristo houses with failing bloodlines.
    He gulped the yarbarah. Cold, it tasted thick. Shaking
    and choking, he wondered if his stomach was going to stay down.
    A small water glass and another decanter appeared. "Here," Geoffrey said as he quickly filled the glass and shoved it into Lucivar's hand. "I believe whiskey is the proper drink for this kind of shock."
    The whiskey cleansed his mouth and burned all the way down. He held out the glass for a refill.
    By the time he drained his fourth glass, he was still shaking, but he also felt fuzzy and numb. He liked fuzzy and numb.
    "What did you do to Lucivar?" Jaenelle asked, dropping the book on the table. "I thought I was the only one who made him look like that." *
    "Fuzzy and numb," Lucivar murmured, resting his head against her.
    "So I see," Jaenelle replied, petting him.
    A soft warmth surrounded him. That felt nice, too.
    "Come on, Lucivar," Jaenelle said. "Let's tuck you into a bed."
    He