The girls disappeared into the drawing room—and closed the door.

The youth who'd come in with the fire witch was tall, good-looking, and a couple of years older. He had curly brown hair and blue eyes. Smiling, he extended one hand in informal greeting.

With his stomach sinking toward his heels, Saetan clasped the offered hand. There were a lot of ways he could describe those blue eyes. They all meant trouble.

"You must be the High Lord," the young Warlord said

with a smile. "I'm Khardeen, from the isle of Scelt." He jerked his thumb toward the drawing room. "That's Morghann."

The drawing room door opened. Jaenelle approached them hesitantly. Then she held out both hands in formal greeting. "Hello, Khary."

Khary looked at the offered hands and turned back to Saetan. "Did Jaenelle ever tell you about her adventure with my uncle's stone—"

"Khary,"Jaenelle gasped, glancing nervously at Saetan.

"Hmm?" Khary smiled at her. "Did you know that a proper hug can toss a thought right out of a man's head? It's a well-known fact. I'm surprised you hadn't heard of it."

Jaenelle had been balanced on the balls of her feet, ready to bolt. Now her heels came down and her eyes narrowed. "Really."

Watching the two of them, Saetan decided the prudent thing was to stand still and keep his mouth shut.

Seconds passed. When Jaenelle didn't move, Khardeen turned back to him. "You see, my—"

Jaenelle moved.

"You don't have to hugall the air out of me," Khary said as he carefully wrapped his arms around her.

"Now what were you going to say?" Jaenelle asked ominously.

"About what?" Khary replied sweetly.

Laughing, Jaenelle threw her arms around his neck. "I'm glad you came, Khardeen. I've missed you."

Khary gently untangled himself. "We'll have plenty of time to catch up on things. Right now you'd better get back to your sisters or I'll get the sharp side of Morghann's tongue for the rest of the day."

"Compared to Karla, Morghann's tongue doesn't have a sharp side."

"All the more reason then."

With another nervous glance at Saetan, Jaenelle bolted for the drawing room. She had just reached it when someone knocked on the door. It almost sounded polite. '

They must have appeared-on the landing web within sec-

onds of each other and approached the door en masse because he knew this group didn't come from the same Territories. And since they spared him no more than an uneasy glance before focusing on Jaenelle, he was forced to deduce who they were by the names on the invitations.

The satyrs from Pandar were Zylona and Jonah. The small, pixie-faced darling with the dusky hair and iridescent wings who was perched on Jonah's shoulder was Katrine from Philan, one of the Paw Islands. The black-haired, gray-eyed youth who strongly reminded Saetan of the young wolves now living in the north woods was Aaron from Dharo. Sabrina, a hazel-eyed brunette, was also from Dharo. The two tawny-skinned, dark-striped youngsters were Grezande and Elan from Tigrelan.

The last of the group—a petite witch with a lusciously rounded figure, soft brown eyes, and dark brown hair— hugged Jaenelle, shyly approached him, and introduced herself as Kalush from Nharkhava.

There was a sweetness about her that made Saetan want to cuddle her. Instead, he slid his hands beneath her offered ones in formal greeting, and said, "I'm honored to meet you, Lady Kalush."

"High Lord." She had a husky voice that would do wonderfully bad things to young men's libidos. He pitied her father.

Beale, looking slightly dazed, started to close the door when it was yanked out of his grasp.

Saetan pushed Kalush toward Andulvar and tensed.

The centaurs walked in.

The young witch, Astar, headed for the girls. The Warlord Prince continued down the great hall until he was standing in front of Saetan.

"High Lord." The greeting sounded more like a challenge.

"Prince Sceron."

Sceron was a few years older than the others, old enough to have begun filling out the massive shoulders and the powerfully built upper body. The rest of him would have done any stallion proud.

There was an unasked question in Sceron's eyes, and an anger in him that seemed ready to blaze into rage.

Jaenelle stepped into that frozen silence, balled her hand into a fist, and drove it into Sceron's upper arm.

Sceron grabbed her and lifted her until they were eye to eye.

"That's for not saying hello," Jaenelle said.

Sceron studied her face and finally smiled. "You are well?"

"I was better before you rumpled me."

Laughing, Sceron put her down.

Someone gasped.

Saetan felt a shiver run up his spine and looked toward the door.

Because he hadn't expected them to come, he hadn't thought about how the others would react to their presence. But they had come. The Children of the Wood. The Dea al Mon.

They both had the slender, sinewy build that was as inherent to their race as the delicately pointed ears. Both wore their silver hair long and unbound. Both had the large, forest-blue eyes, although the girl's had a touch more gray.

The girl, Gabrielle, stopped just inside the door. The boy—oh, no, it would be extremely foolish to think of Chaosti as a boy—came forward slowly, silently.

Saetan fought the instincts that always came to the fore at the appearance of an unknown Warlord Prince. Because they hadn't approached him, Elan and Aaron hadn't pricked those instincts. Sceron had just managed to scratch the surface. But this one, calmly staring at him with those large eyes, made all the aggressiveness and territoriality that was part of a Warlord Prine boil to the surface.

Saetan felt himself rising to the killing edge, and knew Chaosti was also rising, but instinct was driving him too hard to hold it back.

"Chaosti," Jaenelle said in her midnight voice.

Chaosti slowly turned to face her.

"He's my father, Chaosti," Jaenelle said. "By my choice."

After a long moment, Chaosti placed a hand over his heart. "By your choice, cousin," he replied in a deceptively quiet tenor voice.

Jaenelle led the girls into the informal drawing room and closed the door.

The males let out a collective sigh of relief.

Chaosti turned to face Saetan. "She's been away so long and has been deeply missed. Titian said you weren't to blame, but—"

"But I'm the High Lord," Saetan said with a trace of bitterness.

"No," Chaosti replied, smiling coolly, "you are not Dea al Mon."

Saetan felt his body relax. "Why do you call her 'cousin'?"

"Gabrielle and I belong to the same clan. Grand mammy Teele is the matriarch. She also adopted Jaenelle." Chaosti's smile turned feral. "So you are kin of my kin—which makes you Titian's kin as well."

Saetan wheezed.

Khardeen approached them. "If we want anything to eat, I think we're going to have to fight for it," he said to Chaosti.

"I'll accept any challenge a male wants to make," Chaosti snapped.

"The girls are between us and the food."

Chaosti sighed. "Challenging another male would be easier."

"Safer, too."

"Gentlemen," Beale said. "Refreshments are also being served in the formal drawing room."

"Have you ever heard that red-haired witches have hot tempers?" Khardeen asked as he and Chaosti followed the other males into the formal drawing room.

"There are no red-haired witches among the Dea al Mon," Chaosti replied, "and theyall have hot tempers."

"Ah. Well, then."

The door closed behind them.

Saetan jumped when a hand squeezed his shoulder.

"You all right?" Andulvar asked quietly.

"Am I still standing up?"

"You're vertical."

"Thank the Darkness." Saetan looked around. He and Andulvar were the only ones left in the great hall. "Let's hide in my study."

"Agreed."

They drank two glasses of yarbarah and finally relaxed when an hour had passed without any shrieks, bangs, or booms.

"Mother Night." Saetan wearily striped off his jacket and slumped in one of the comfortable, oversized chairs.

"By my count," Andulvar said as he refilled the glasses, "including the waif, you've got ten adolescent witches in one room—Queens every one of them, and two besides Jaenelle who are natural Black Widows."

"Karla and Gabrielle. I noticed." Saetan closed his eyes.

"In the other room, you have seven young males, four of whom are Warlord Princes."

"I noticed that, too. It makes a very interesting First Circle, don't you think?"

Andulvar muttered in Eyrien. Saetan chose not to translate it.

"Where do you think the others went?" Andulvar asked.

"If Mephis and Prothvar have any sense at all, they're hiding somewhere. Sylvia is no doubt passing out nut cakes and sandwiches. Cassandra?" Saetan shrugged. "I don't think she was prepared for this."

"Were you?"

"Shit." When someone tapped on the study door, Saetan thought about sitting up straighter, then decided not to bother. "Come."

A smiling Khardeen entered and placed sixteen sealed envelopes on the blackwood table. "I told Jaenelle I'd drop these off to you. We're going out to meet the wolves and the unicorn."

"Finished devouring the kitchen already?" Saetan asked as he picked up one of the envelopes.

"At least until dinner."

"Plant your feet, Warlord," Saetan said, stopping Khardeen's hasty retreat. He broke the formal seal, called in his

half-moon glasses, and read the message. Then he stared at Khary. "This is from Lady Duana."

"Mmm," Khary said, rocking on his heels. "Morghann's grandmother."