"Milord!" The portly innkeeper gasped and fell to his knees, his forehead touching the floor.

The black-robed figure entered the darkened room, his face partially covered with the folds of his black ghutra head covering. He ignored the innkeeper and strode to the far end of the room, his boot heels tapping heavily on the planking. After removing his black leather gloves, he threw them on a table, unfastened the hook at his throat, and swirled the robe from his shoulders, carelessly tossing it to a chair. Beneath the robe, his leather breeches and long silk tunic were as ebon as a starless night.

"Get the hell up, Jubil," came an irritated growl. "You know I hate it when you do that!"

The innkeeper got clumsily to his feet and backed away, bobbing like a crazed woodpecker. "My apologies, Milord. Please forgive me!"

"Stop that, too! I hate it even more when you grovel."

Aradia and her women had stiffened at the first sound of the authoritative voice. Covertly staring at the stranger, they saw little, save the dark shape of him at the far end of the room. He gave an impression of authority as he swung a long leg over the back of his chair and sat down.

"Will you be eating with us tonight, Milord?" Jubil asked, hastily moving to relight the candles on the tables closer to Aradia and her group.

"Would I have ridden all this way from Abbadon in the midst of a raging storm if not for Olufemi's food?"

"It is not your favorite, Milord," the innkeeper said miserably. "It is fish stew and--"

"Stew will be fine."

As light from the candles brightened the room, the women got a better look at the newcomer, tall, wide of shoulder, and muscular. Reclining with one leg stretched out, the other hooked at the boot heel in the lower rung of his chair, the chair tipped back and balanced on two legs, he appeared at ease. Though he sat facing them, the shadows were still too dark to show his face. It was not until the innkeeper lit the candle on the newcomer's table that the women got a good look at a face that made each of them draw in a quick breath.

Aradia had once known a man whom she thought to be the most handsome ever fashioned by the gods. His swarthy good looks, coupled with ebony hair and sparkling brown eyes, had caused her many sleepless, aching nights. His memory had plagued her over the years, and she yearned to feel his strong male body atop her own once more. Until the moment her gaze fell upon the newcomer, she would not have believed it possible for there to be another man as alluring and sensual as the one from whose arms she had been so cruelly thrust.

"By the Goddess," Okyale whispered.

Aye, Aradia thought, taking in the raw sexual energy coming from the newcomer. This male had been fashioned by the Goddess, Herself. How else to explain the finely chiseled features, the striking amber eyes, gleaming raven hair, two long thick braids framing shoulder-length flowing waves, and full, deep coral lips?

Crisp black hair was nested at the open V of the tunic unbuttoned half way to his slender waist. The wet black silk clung to his body, doing nothing to hide the muscles bunching along his upper chest and straining the sleeves over his biceps. Thighs encased in shiny black leather were taut with muscles, pulling against the bulge at the juncture of his spread legs.

Unlike most Rysalian males, he was not bearded. His complexion was as dark as that man's who had held Aradia's heart in thrall for so long, but the stranger's flesh was not oily, held no shine. His eyebrows were not as bushy as the Diabolusian's had been, yet were thick and slashed provocatively upward into midnight hair that glistened with raindrops. As he thrust his hand through that damp crop of waves from his neck, every woman drew in a ragged breath, sensing the tactile strength in those long, slender fingers. His was a hand bred to the sword, fashioned for a dagger, and they recognized in him a superior warrior.

He had yet to acknowledge their presence. His amber eyes--glowing honey-gold from the light of the candle--stared into the flame, his head cocked to one side. His posture gave the impression he was experiencing great weariness, a deep sadness of spirit that had drained him of energy and emotion. When the innkeeper placed a goblet of wine before him, he glanced up, but said nothing. As he brought the goblet to his finely chiseled lips, he noticed the group by the fire and frowned. His eyes narrowed as he took a sip, and his gaze held steady.

Aradia felt the power of that gaze when it passed over, then returned sharply, to her. With his eyes locked on her, she wished the floorboards would open and allow her to drop through. His intent gaze made her feel vulnerable.

"Are you going to the Wadi?" he asked, his deep voice as commanding as his gaze.

Aradia nodded, not daring to stare into those tawny eyes for fear he could read her mind.

"The road is washed out at Ammonrea." He lowered his goblet to the table and rocked it from side to side on its pedestal base. "Best you take the mountain road up to Assaraba, then down."

"Thank you, Milord. We are grateful for your advice," Aradia replied in Diabolusian.

As she spoke, a twitch pulled a muscle in the stranger's left cheek before he took another long swallow of his libation. When he lowered the goblet, that same muscle became taut and his full lips tightened.

The innkeeper returned from the kitchen, bearing a heavy trencher of aromatic stew. Bypassing Aradia and her group, he walked to the man's table and placed the offering before him as though it were a sacrifice to a Dark God.

Annoyed the stranger received his meal first, Aradia dug her nails into her palms and wished she could tell the fat man what she thought of his hospitality. Her anger became somewhat mollified when the stranger put a hand on the innkeeper's arm. The innkeeper's portly face held an instant terror. He began to quake like a bowl of pudding.

"Where are your manners, Jubil?" the stranger inquired in a deceptively soft voice. "Were they not here before me?"

"Aye, Milord, but you--"

"I can wait."

Trembling, his arm still held captive beneath the lethal sword hand that held it, the innkeeper looked as though he would faint. His groan of relief echoed through the room as the stranger released him.

"So you are from Diabolusia?" the stranger asked Aradia.

"Aye, Milord."

"You are going to make your vows to the Prophetess?"

"We have felt the Call, aye, Milord."

He stared at her. "Is that so? And from which convent have you traveled? Afanarse? Curacion? "

Aware of his sharp gaze, the way he watched her, Aradia heard blood pounding in her ears. "We have traveled from Deseo, Milord."

His eyes slightly narrowing again, he nodded. A leisurely smile stretched his full lips, and he lifted his goblet to them. "Then take my personal wishes with you as you travel, Sisters."

Feeling Phillipa stiffen beside her, Aradia inclined her head in gratitude. "Thank you, Milord."

"And may the Wind behind you not be your own." The stranger laughed before downing his ale.

"Milord Jaelan!" the innkeeper pleaded.

The stranger held up his hands in surrender, shaking his head. "Just give them the prophet-be-damned food and treat them well, Jubil. The memory of their last night of freedom before becoming slaves to the Sisterhood should last them the rest of their lives."

Obviously not wanting to have any trouble or dangerous words spoken, the innkeeper took up the trencher of stew and carried it into the private room, cocking his head at Aradia and her group to follow. "If you have need of the facilities, they are through there." He crooked an elbow toward a door to the right of the fire pit.

"You believe we are giving ourselves into slavery, Milord?" Aradia asked, ignoring Phillipa's low warning hiss.

He shrugged. "One man's slavery is another man's delight, I suppose. There are those who revel in being told what to do, when, and how. I've known both sides of the coin, and freedom is better by far."

"You equate serving with slavery, then?"

Once more, the muscle bunched in his lean cheek. "Slavery is the absence of free will, Milady, of not being able to go where you will, when you will, of performing tasks you would not do if you were given the choice."

"Are you a free man, Milord?"

He tore his stare from her and pinned the innkeeper, banging his goblet on the table. "Do I have to distill the liquor myself, Jubil?" he asked irritably, then turned his eyes back to Aradia. "I am as free as I will ever be."

Aradia sensed pain in his answer. "But you were once a slave."

"Aye," he said, his eyes narrowed dangerously, "and I have the lash marks to prove it."

She would never know what made her do it. One minute she was up, walking toward the private room, the next she was standing at the stranger's table, looking into eyes haunted with an emotion she found unsettling.

Aradia squeezed the taut arm beneath her hand. It was bare, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and she wished there for no restriction between her palm and the wiry black hair curled on his dark flesh. She ached to be familiar with the feel of that strong arm, knowing it would rival the strength in another she had known so long ago.

For a moment, Jaelan stared into her gaze, then slowly pulled his arm from the light grip. "I'm not interested, wench. If you need a man before sealing your fate with the Sisterhood, I'm sure Jubil can provide one." He turned his face to stare across the room, dismissing her.

Aradia felt her face flame and snatched back her hand. She spun on her heel and hurried to the women, shooing them into the room before her. Unable to get the door shut fast enough behind her, she leaned against it, breathing heavily.

With a shaky hand, she shoved back the cowl of her robe and tore viciously at the covering restricting her face.

"He thought I wanted him to bed me!" she said, her cheeks blazing.

"What else was he to think?" Phillipa inquired, pulling her from the door lest someone hear. "Why the hell did you go over to his table?" "I don't know!" Aradia whined, snatching off her gloves. She held her trembling hands toward the flames in the fire pit and stared at the golden blaze that reminded her vividly of his amber eyes. "What did the innkeeper call him?"

"Lord Jaelan, I think," Okyale replied.

"Jaelan," Aradia repeated.

"Obviously he's a man who wields power here," Phillipa commented. "Why else would the innkeeper bow and scrape as he did?" "He despises slavery," Aradia said. "That much is for certain." She looked around. "Perhaps he would be a good ally."

Phillipa's eyes widened. Her face turned pale. "No, Aradia, no! You leavethat one alone. Do you hear?"

"Why?" Aradia asked, surprised to see true fear running rampant on Phillipa's scarred face.

"He is trouble, girl. You could see it in his eyes!"

"I saw pain in his eyes. Pain and something I could not understand."

"I agree with Phillipa," Okyale said. "He is best left alone. I sense great danger about him."

Each woman turned her attention to Okyale. The petite redhead was being trained for the Temple of the Goddess. Her psychic powers were highly regarded, and many came to her for readings regarding their futures.

"What do you see, Okyale?" Phillipa asked in a tight voice.

A frown marred the young woman's porcelain features. "It is not so much what I see as what I feel. There is great darkness surrounding him, and I sense the presence of blood."

"He is a warrior," Aradia said. "Darkness always follows a warrior."

"As blood is the general result of his profession," Euryleia commented.

Okyale shook her head, and the auburn ringlets that famed her oval face bounced with the movement. "Not darkness such as touches this one. This darkness is evil, a malevolence that destroys."

"Leave off, Okyale," Euryleia said. "Ardy has no intention of trafficking with the Rysalian."

"He is not Rysalian," Okyale said. "I am not sure what he is."

"Does it matter?" Phillipa asked. "Let us forget him and eat our meal before it grows cold." She took a seat at the table that had been prepared before the fire. "I am famished."

"As am I," Euryleia agreed, sitting.

The other women joined Phillipa and Euryleia, digging into the stew and soft bread laid out for their fare. Aradia sat beside Okyale, and exchanged a smile with her friend as Okyale passed the bread tray to her. "Marvelous!" Phillipa commented as she sampled the stew. Closing her eyes to its deliciousness, she chewed slowly, savoring the delicate blend of tastes. A groan of pleasure rumbled from her throat.

"I can see why the warrior rode all this way to have a meal," Aradia said.

"I have not had such delightful fare since Aello was Head Cook," Euryleia put in.

The women stilled as a light knock sounded. The door opened, and the innkeeper entered. "There is more stew if you desire it, ladies. The bread, I fear, has been depleted, but there are day-old rolls that are nearly as fresh as when my lady-wife pulled them from the oven. Would you like me to bring more trenchers? Cheese? Ripe fruits?" His smile widened. "Perhaps more refreshment?"

"No, thank you," Aradia said.

He shrugged. "Suit yourselves, but as Lord Jaelan says, you will not find the food at the convent as good as my lady-wife's."

"What does Lord Jaelan do?" Aradia inquired.

Shock spread over the innkeeper's florid face. "Do? My dear woman, he is a Shadowlord!"

"And that would be what, exactly?"

Jubil's chin trembled. He looked at the door, then lowered his voice. "He is one of the Dark Lords of Death. He is in charge of the King's personal security forces, the Shadowlord over the other Lords."

"In other words, a man to be feared?" Phillipa asked.

"There are those who move to the other side of the street rather than walk behind him, and none would dare walk in front of Lord Jaelan. He is feared and not a man to be crossed."

"Then what is...?" Aradia began.

The man hold up a hand. "It is not wise even to speak of him. Best you pretend you never saw him." Opening the door, he peaked out. Satisfied no one had overheard, he left the room and quietly closed the door behind him.

"Jaelan sounds like a Rysalian name, don't you think?" Aradia asked.

Phillipa stopped eating, laid down her fork, and gripped Aradia's arm. "Get your mind off that man! Don't even think what I know you're thinking."

"What's she thinking?" Euryleia asked.

Aradia held Phillipa's stony stare. "I am going to need help getting into the fortress at Abbadon. Why not use him?"

"And how would a postulant to the Wadi go about gaining the warrior's confidence?" Phillipa demanded. "You heard him tell you he's not interested!"

"I told you, there's darkness emanating from him," Okyale said. "Being a Shadowlord does not sound like a gentle profession. That more than anything should make Ardy think twice about confronting a man like him."

"A darkness onlyyou sense," Aradia said. "I touched him. I looked into his eyes. If there's darkness, it's a darkness bred of sorrow."

"You'll do as you want," Phillipa snapped, letting go of Aradia's arm. "You always do." She picked up her fork and thrust it into her plate, scooping up a goodly portion of stew. "And not all your decisions are wise."

Phillipa's words stung, but Aradia made no comment. She returned to her food, the enjoyment somewhat diminished by the mood that had settled over the table.

Outside, the elements had turned more violent. Thunder boomed, lightning cracked, shaking the shudders covering the arched windows. Rain pelted the roof, and the wind skirled along the eaves. A wicked night, made more so by dampness that settled in the room, which not even the cheery fire could dispel.

Euryleia pushed away her plate, wiped clean of any particle of food. "On such a night as this, not even the beasties are safe."

"I have heard tales of flash floods in Rysalia that come in the dead of night to wipe away entire towns," Tianara, one of the other women who had remained silent until now, said.