"Well, my interest in the Council's decisions is very personal now, isn't it?" After signing his name with his customary flourish, Saetan slipped the letter into an envelope and sealed it with black wax. "Deliver that for me, will you?"
Andulvar reluctantly took the envelope. "What if the Dark Council decides to search for her family?"
Saetan leaned back in his chair. "There hasn't been a
Dark Council in Terreille since the last war between the Realms. There's no reason for Kaeleer's Council to look beyond the Shadow Realm."
"If they check the registers at Ebon Askavi, they'll find out she wasn't originally from Kaeleer."
"As the Keep's librarian, Geoffrey has already agreed not to find any useful entries that might lead anyone back to Chaillot. Besides, Jaenelle was never listed in the registers—and won't be until there's a reason to include an entry for her."
"You'll be staying at the Keep?"
"Yes."
"For how long?"
Saetan hesitated. "For as long as it takes." When Andulvar made no move to leave, he asked, "Is there something else?"
Andulvar stared at the neat masculine script on the front of the envelope. "There's a demon in the receiving room upstairs who has asked for an audience with you. He says it's important."
Saetan pushed his chair away from the desk and reached for his cane. "They all say that—when they're brave enough to come at all. Who is he?"
"I've never seen him before," Andulvar said. Then he added reluctantly, "He's new to the Dark Realm, and he's from Hayll."
Saetan limped around the desk. "Then what does he want with me? I've had nothing to do with Hayll for seventeen hundred years."
"He wouldn't say why he wants to see you." Andulvar paused. "I don't like him."
"Naturally," Saetan replied dryly. "He's Hayllian."
Andulvar shook his head. "It's more than that. He feels tainted."
Saetan became very still. "In that case, let's talk to our Hayllian Brother," he said with malevolent gentleness.
Andulvar couldn't suppress the shudder that ran through him. Fortunately, Saetan had already turned toward the door and hadn't noticed. They'd been friends for thousands of years, had served together, laughed together, grieved together. He didn't want the man hurt because, at times, even a friend feared the High Lord of Hell.
But as Saetan opened the door and looked at him, Andulvar saw the flicker of anger in his eyes that acknowledged the shudder. Then the High Lord left the study to deal with the fool who was waiting for him.
The recently demon-dead Hayllian Warlord stood in the middle of the receiving room, his hands clasped behind his back. He was dressed all in black, including a black silk scarf wrapped around his throat.
"High Lord," he said, making a respectful bow.
"Don't you know even the basic courtesies when approaching an unknown Warlord Prince?" Saetan asked mildly.
"High Lord?" the man stammered.
"A man doesn't hide his hands unless he's concealing a weapon," Andulvar said, coming into the room. He spread his dark wings, completely blocking the door.
Fury flashed over the Warlord's face and was gone. He extended his arms out in front of him. "My hands are quite useless."
Saetan glanced at the black-gloved hands. The right one was curled into a claw. There was one finger missing on the left. "Your name?"
The Warlord hesitated a moment too long. "Greer, High Lord."
Even the man's name somehow fouled the air. No, not just the man, although it would take a few weeks for the rotting-meat stink to fade. Something else. Saetan's gaze drifted to the black silk scarf. His nostrils flared as he caught a scent he remembered too well. So. Hekatah still favored that particular perfume.
"What do you want, Lord Greer?" Saetan asked, already certain he knew why Hekatah would send someone to see him. With effort, he hid the icy rage that burned within him.