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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.
Because the man was Hayllian,Theran choked on the thought of giving the old bastard his family name.
“Let me put it this way,” the man said. “You can offer the basic courtesy of your name and where you are from—or you can go to Hell.”
Theran shivered, because there was something about the soft thunder in that deep voice that warned him his choices were very literal.
“Theran. From Dena Nehele.”
“Since the mountain didn’t fall down around us and your head didn’t explode, I’m delighted that the consequences of revealing so much information were not, in fact, dire.”
He wasn’t used to being slapped down. Not by a stranger. A response scalded his throat, but he choked it back. He didn’t like the Hayllian on principle—and the Hayllian didn’t seem to like him. But the man was the only way of getting the information he sought.
“There has been reason for secrecy,” Theran muttered.
“Then your lack of manners can be understood—if not forgiven.”
Cold voice, cold eyes, cold temper. If he’d ruined this chance...
“I understand you’re looking for someone,” the man said. “Who?”
Maybe there was still a chance.
“Daemon Sadi,” Theran said.
The chill in the air gained a sharp edge. The man asked too softly, “Why?”
None of your business. Theran bit his tongue to keep from saying the words. “He owes my family a favor.”
He wasn’t sure that was an accurate assessment of the message that had been handed down to the males in his family, but it was sufficient explanation for this librarian.
“I see.”
A long silence while those gold eyes stared at him.
“I’ll have some refreshments brought in for you,” the man said.
“I don’t need anything.” Hell’s fire! Remember some of the manners you were taught! “Thank you. Something hot to drink would be most welcome.”
“I’ll have it brought in. And I’ll see what I can find out about Prince Sadi.”
The Hayllian walked out of the room—and Theran breathed a sigh of relief.
The control required to close the door and walk away, leaving that little whelp’s mind intact, made Saetan’s hand tremble.
I guess Daemon’s not the only one who feels overprotective at times, he thought ruefully.
Feeling the other presence in the corridor, he made sure the door was firmly shut and stepped away from it as Geoffrey, the Keep’s historian/librarian, dropped the sight shield that had kept him hidden.
“You heard?” Saetan asked.
“Since you left the door open, it was hard not to,” Geoffrey replied.
“See to the refreshments, will you? I’ll deal with the rest.”
Geoffrey raised a white-skinned hand. “Just one question. Who is that jumping jackass?”
Saetan rocked back on his heels. “Jumping jackass? What have you been reading?”
The other Guardian wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Saetan had seen over fifty thousand years. Geoffrey had been serving the Keep for much longer. The thought of discovering after all those years that Geoffrey’s choice of recreational reading leaned toward . . . Well, he wasn’t sure what category of fiction would use such a phrase, and he was almost afraid to ask anyone in order to find out. But the whole thing tickled him enough to push aside temper.
Which, from the look in Geoffrey’s black eyes, might have been the point.
“I’ll look after our guest,” Geoffrey said. “You look after your son.”
The thought of Daemon owing anyone inTerreille was enough to prick his temper again, but out of courtesy to Geoffrey, he kept that temper leashed until he opened the Gate between the Realms and walked into the Keep that existed in Kaeleer.
Daemon studied the food on the table.
He could breathe again. He hadn’t set foot in the thrice-cursed Realm of Terreille for two years—since he’d gone to Hayll to play out some savage games in order to give Jaenelle the time she’d needed to gather her strength and unleash all her dark power, cleansing the Realms of the Blood tainted by Dorothea and Hekatah SaDiablo.
Even here at the Keep, which was a protected sanctuary, he had felt the difference between Terreille and Kaeleer, had felt centuries of memories cling to him like cobwebby strands of pain and fear. When he’d lived in Terreille, he’d embraced the pain, and he’d met the fear by playing games that matched—or surpassed—the cruelty and viciousness that Dorothea had excelled in.
He’d survived seventeen centuries of slavery and cruelty—but not without a price. His body was unmarked; the scars he bore he carried in his mind and heart.
When he found Saetan in the library, he should have admitted his discomfort instead of trying to push it aside. He should have realized he could no more be in Terreille with his father than he could with his brother, Lucivar. Too many memories—and the last memories of them being in Hayll together still crawled through his dreams on occasion.
His father in that Hayllian camp, being tortured. His brother in that camp, being tortured. And he, in order to keep them alive and get them out, had been the cruelest torturer.
Daemon scrubbed his face with his hands and focused on the table. While he waited for Saetan to come back to this Realm, he needed to fix his mind on something else.
“So what do we have?” Thick slices of rare roast beef. A vegetable casserole. Crusty bread and whipped butter. And . . .
