Darmouth stood in the center of his forefathers' crypt in the keep's belly. To either side of him, stone coffins rose from the floor to waist height. This was the Hall of Traitors, a name coined by the fearful after his father's death, though it had nothing to do with the occupants of the two tombs.

Four braziers mounted in iron brackets glowed from pillars to either side of the center space. Once three separate storage rooms, the walls had been opened into repeating archways to convert all three into one room. In the far back wall were series of arched cubbies carved into the stone from ceiling to floor. The braziers' light didn't reach far enough to illuminate them, and they remained black pockets of darkness.

Darmouth laid his hand on the tomb to his left. His fingers grazed over the carved image of a face not unlike his own, but with a long beard and thick mustache. Here rested his father, placed within the stone coffin after his death. His grandfather's remains had been exhumed and placed in the other tomb. He only wished he could locate the body of his great-grandfather, who'd taken this province from Timeron a hundred or more years ago.

Kings believed in lineage and the honored crypt of an unbroken family line. Bloodline was immortality, leaving a piece of oneself in a son, who in turn passed it on to his heir. When he was young, Darmouth never dwelled on this. As the years passed, he obsessed more and more over the gray in his hair and growing weight of his sword.

He hadn't kept these lands only to lose them to a traitorous upstart or some rival province leader. Not one of them was strong enough to take what he held. If by pure luck one ever did, this province and those around it would descend into chaos. No, Darmouth's people needed him, the only one strong enough to maintain order in the face of the petty warlords of the other provinces.

Footsteps echoed through the crypt's open door from the outside hallway. Darmouth looked up to find Emel standing in the opening between two of Omasta's armed men. The bodyguards looked to Darmouth for approval. He nodded, and they stepped aside.

Emel, who lacked true strength of will, couldn't even rid himself of an unwanted wife. The arranged marriage was intended to give him sons of older blood, but the match failed to produce an heir. Still, Emel was dependable, one of Darmouth's few old friends and the last of his ministers. He deserved fair treatment, had earned it, but all who served Darmouth needed to be reminded where their loyalties lay. This was why he held such meetings in the tomb of his forefathers, where he passed judgment on both the true and traitorous.

White-faced and silent, Emel remained in the doorway, slender in his simple brown breeches and a black tunic over a white shirt. Although unarmed, as required here, he was the best fencer Darmouth had ever witnessed. His skill with a straight saber was unequaled.

"Enter," Darmouth commanded.

To his credit, Emel didn't hesitate. It was whispered that Darmouth sometimes executed traitors himself in this place. True enough, as Emel had witnessed twice.

"My lord," Emel said. His voice was calm, but fear flickered in his green eyes.

"I'm giving you Tarovlis holdings. You know his region of the province well enough, and the income will increase your coffers."

"My lord?"

"You've earned it," Darmouth went on. "And I know how little you stay at your own estate these days. A second home would be useful, and something few can boast of."

He could see Emel's thoughts racing, waiting for the catch.

"You're also the first to know I've decided to marry," Darmouth said, looking down upon his grandfathers tomb. "Someday I'll rest here myself I need a strong son to hold this land and continue my plan to unify the Warlands under one rule. I choose you to stand as my second and sword-bearer in the marriage rite."

He paused. Emel must be flattered to hear his lord's private thoughts, and honored to be the one to stand with him on the wedding day.

"I need a legitimate heir," Darmouth continued. "It's late in life for such things, but I've been occupied with holding the province together. Now my duty is to sire a son with the same strength."

Emel took one step closer, now smiling with thin lips. "Good news, my lord. Who is the lady you have chosen?"

"Hedi Progae, most certainly."

Blank confusion passed across Emel's features.

"She's unwed and from noble blood that I titled," Darmouth went on. "Though small, she's strong and healthy, and young enough to bear me sons."

Emel faltered. "No offense intended, my lord, but she is the daughter of a traitor."

"The years since Progae's death have made her respectful and accepting of her place," Darmouth replied.

He liked her black wavy hair and hoped his son-or sons-would inherit it. All the better to sire more than one to see which emerged the strongest. This too was best for his people, his province… the nation he would forge in this region that outlanders named the Warlands.

"But… my lord," Emel stammered. "She has been with me for years and produced no child. If you seek an heir, perhaps another might be a better choice."

Darmouth's voice hardened. "It's you, my friend, who've produced no heir. Not with your wife, nor any of your mistresses."

Emel went silent, his expression unreadable, but Darmouth knew him well.

"Of course, my lord," Emel finally agreed.

"You can give her this good news," Darmouth said. "The marriage rite takes place before the winter feast, once Tarovli is put down. We'll celebrate the traitor's end and the future of my lineage for the sake of the country I'll make here. You're dismissed."

Emel's green eyes dropped from Darmouth's face to the twin tombs. He bowed and backed out of the crypt.

Darmouth turned away into the depths of the room. Though his own bloodline, past and future, was still in his thoughts, another unwelcome threat surfaced to plague him. Faris's news at dinner was disturbing, more so for coming now, of all times. He wondered if this were another ploy of Lukina to the east or Dusan to the north. Perhaps even one of the more distant provinces had sent this long-absent traitor back to Venjetz?

Darmouth lifted a brazier from its pillar mount and placed it on the floor before the rear wall. Its light rose up to illuminate the tops of numerous cubbyholes.

Within each was a skull, boiled or burned clean of its forgotten flesh. They rested here like enslaved guardians of Darmouth's forefathers. At the wall's center were the most noteworthy of traitors. Here was the reason for the name of this place-the Hall of Traitors-and why some of the bodies hung headless from the keep walls.

Darmouth reached out to take one skull in his large hand. The bone was smooth and glistening, the lower jaw bound shut with steel pins.

"How does it feel, old friend, to know you still serve me through your daughter?"

He ran his thumb over the cheekbone and, with a smile, pressed it into the hollow eye socket of Andrey Progae's skull. When he placed it back in the wall, his gaze caught on a double-wide cubby to the right.

There were two skulls set as a pair. The only ones placed together, and Darmouth's smile faded.

One was round and large, that of a human male, but the second was an oddity, and differed from all the others present. It was slightly smaller, marking it as female, its eye sockets large and the facial structure narrowing to the chin. In life, her face was triangular in shape, the eyes large and slanted below arching eyebrows. She would be… was unnatural but deeply alluring compared to any human woman.

This pair-human male and elf female-had been in Darmouth's mind as Faris had whispered in his ear.

A man with white hair, dark skin, and yellow-brown… no, amber eyes.