The Shadow Queen

to a tiered garden, then closed them again until there was only a finger-width opening. Despite the spring season, it was cold up in the mountains. He would have preferred sitting in a comfortable chair by the fire, except . . .
    This place chilled him a lot more than the cold air. The Black Mountain. Ebon Askavi. Repository of the Blood’s history—and the lair of Witch, the living myth, dreams made flesh. Who was, he suspected, nothing more than a dream and myth. There had been rumors that there was, in fact, a Black-Jeweled Queen who ruled Ebon Askavi, but after the witch storm or war or whatever it was that had swept through Terreille and devastated the Blood, the rumors stopped.
    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.
    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