Heir to the Shadows

to take the evening off." There was no power in his voice, no soft thunder.
    "It would not be appropriate for you to open the door when your guest arrives, High Lord," Beale replied.
    "What guest? I'm not expecting anyone tonight."
    "Mrs. Beale is visiting with her younger sister in Halaway. I will join them after your guest arrives, and we will dine out."
    Saetan rested both hands on the cane and raised an eyebrow. "Mrs. Beale dines out?"
    Beale's lips curved up a tiny bit. "On occasion. With reluctance."
    Saetan's answering smile faded. "Join your lady, Lord Beale."
    "After your guest has arrived."
    "I'm not expect—"
    "My nieces attend the Halaway school." The Red Jewel flared beneath Beale's white shirt.
    Saetan sucked air through his teeth. This had to be done quietly. There was nothing the Dark Council could do to him directly, but if whispers of this reached them. . . . He stared at his Red-Jeweled Warlord butler. "How many know?"
    "Know what, High Lord?" Beale replied gently.
    Saetan continued to stare. Was he mistaken? No. For just a moment, there had been a wild, fierce satisfaction in Beale's eyes. The Beales would say nothing. Nothing at all. But they would celebrate.
    "You'll be in your public study?" Beale asked.
    Accepting his dismissal, Saetan retreated to his study. As he poured and warmed a glass of yarbarah, he noticed that his hands were shaking from more than the spell he'd cast.
    Hayllian by birth, he had served in Terreillean courts, and had ruled, for the most part, in Terreille and then Hell. Despite his claim to the Dhemlan Territory in Kaeleer, he had been more like an absentee landlord, a visitor who only saw what visitors were allowed to see.
    He knew what Terreille had thought of the High Lord. But this was Kaeleer, the Shadow Realm, a fiercer, wilder land that embraced a magic darker and stronger than Terreille could ever know.
    Thank you, Beale, for the warning, the reminder. I won't forget again what ground I stand on. I won't forget what you've just shown me lies beneath the thin cloak of Protocol and civilized behavior. I won't forget. . . because this is the Blood that is drawn to Jaenelle.
    Lord Menzar reached for the knocker but snatched his hand away at the last second. The bronze dragon head tucked tight against a thick, curving neck stared down at him, its green glass eyes glittering eerily in the torchlight. The knocker directly beneath it was a detailed, taloned foot curved around a smooth ball.
    The Dark Priestess should have warned me.
    Grabbing the foot with a sweaty hand, he pounded on the door once, twice, thrice before stepping back and glancing around. The torches created ever-changing shape-filled shadows, and he wished, again, that this meeting could have been held in the daylight hours.
    He waved his hand to erase the useless thought and reached for the knocker again just as the door suddenly swung open. He almost stepped back from the large man blocking the doorway until he recognized the black suit and waistcoat that was a butler's uniform.
    "You may tell the High Lord I'm here."
    The butler didn't move, didn't speak.
    Menzar surreptitiously chewed on his lower lip. The man was alive, wasn't he? Since he knew that many of Halaway's people worked for the Hall in one way or another, it hadn't occurred to him that the staff might be very different once the sun went down. Surely not with that girl here—although that might explain her eccentricities.
    The butler finally stepped aside. "The High Lord is expecting you."
    Menzar's relief at coming inside was short-lived. As shadow-filled as the outer steps, the great hall held a silence that was pregnant with interrupted rustling. He followed the butler to the end of the hall, disturbed by the lack of people. Where were the servants? In another wing, perhaps, or taking their supper? A place this size . . . half the village could be here and their presence would be swallowed up.
    The butler opened the last right-hand door and announced him.
    It was an interior room with no windows and no other visible door. Shaped like a reversed L, the long side had large chairs, a low blackwood table, a black leather couch, a Dharo carpet, candle-lights held in variously shaped wrought-iron holders, and powerful, somewhat disturbing paintings. The short leg . . .
    Menzar gasped when he finally noticed the golden eyes shining out of the dark. A candle-light in the far corner began to glow softly. The short leg held a large blackwood