Poh started the direction the guard had gone, her grip on my elbow sharp and painful. Plush, expensive-looking rugs silenced our footsteps. Gray marble pillars bracketed every ornate, heavy-curtained window on our right and climbed to the high ceiling. On our left, oil paintings of individual members of the Byrian family stared out as we passed. Their faces were cold, their black eyes murderous, as if they still plotted death and destruction while locked inside their wooden frames. ...