ONE
Prince Falonar stood outside his eyrie, restlessly
opening and closing his dark, membranous wings as he stared down at
the village of
Riada. Within minutes
of her arrival, he’d felt Gray-Jeweled power ripple through the
village and up the mountains like a challenge—or a
warning.
Surreal SaDiablo had
returned to Ebon Rih.
He had made two
mistakes when he came to Kaeleer two years ago. The first was
agreeing to serve Lucivar Yaslana, whom he’d despised from the
moment they’d met as boys training in the same hunting camp. He’d
thought he could swallow taking Lucivar’s orders for five years in
exchange for living in Ebon Rih and being in a position to catch
the attention of the Queen of Ebon Askavi. He’d been confident that
she would see the value of having a true aristo Eyrien Warlord
Prince in her First Circle and take over his service contract.
Serving in the same court as Yaslana would have rubbed him a bit
raw, but he would have accepted having to treat Lucivar as an
equal—at least until he could persuade the Queen to find another
way for Lucivar to serve her that would keep the man away from
Askavi, leaving the Eyriens free to live without the constant
embarrassment of acknowledging a half-breed bastard. Whether
Yaslana’s Hayllian father acknowledged him now or not, Lucivar
would always be a bastard with no standing in Eyrien society. And
nothing would change the fact that
Lucivar was a half-breed, and being a half-breed was, in many ways,
even worse than being a bastard.
Desperate to find a
position in Kaeleer and avoid being sent back to Terreille, Falonar
had signed the five-year service contract, gambling that he
wouldn’t be under Lucivar’s control for most of it. But the
following spring, Witch had unleashed her power to purge the Realms
of Dorothea and Hekatah SaDiablo’s taint, and she’d been injured so
severely by the backlash of her own power that she was no longer
capable of ruling Ebon Askavi. That left Falonar with the choice of
bending to Lucivar’s will for the full term of the contract or
being tossed back to Terreille, where he had no future of any
kind.
His second mistake
had been responding to Surreal’s initial interest in him—and his
interest in her—and having sex with her. Oh, she was terrific in
bed—strong and experienced and so knowledgeable when it came to
playing with a man’s body to give him the sharpest release. She was
worth every gold mark she’d charged as a whore in Terreille, and
he’d had her for the asking. She had also been a sharp, interesting
companion outside of bed—when she wasn’t trying to acquire skills
that should be kept exclusive to warriors.
Except the sex hadn’t
been as free as he’d thought. At least, not after they came to Ebon
Rih and he’d invited her to stay with him in his eyrie. He had been
thinking of the relief of having as much sex as he wanted with a
woman strong enough to handle being with a Sapphire-Jeweled Warlord
Prince. But he hadn’t considered that the SaDiablos, by allowing
Surreal to use the family name, really would think of her as
family. In Terreille, that was something no true aristo family would have done, because no
matter how skilled she was and how exclusive the Red Moon houses
were where she had plied those skills, the fact was that Surreal
was still a half-breed whore who had started her career in dark
alleys and dirty rooms.
Unfortunately, he had
realized too late that even whores could have unrealistic romantic
notions. About the time he wanted Surreal to find other
accommodations, leaving him free to express his interest in Nurian,
the Eyrien Healer, he discovered that Surreal thought they were a
step away from a handfast—and that Lucivar thought the same thing. As much as he’d
enjoyed her, he wasn’t about to make any commitment to a woman who
wasn’t Eyrien, let alone a woman who’d seen so many balls she was
now trying to grow a pair of her own.
In the end, Surreal
had packed up and left, and Lucivar’s civility toward him had
developed a sharp edge because of her hurt feelings. No doubt that
edge would get sharper now that she was going to be in front of
both of them again.
And that other
Warlord Prince. The crippled one. Hell’s fire. What was the point
of bringing that one to Ebon Rih to
train with Eyrien warriors?
Which only confirmed
what he’d suspected all along—Lucivar Yaslana might be Eyrien in
looks, and definitely had the skills of an Eyrien warrior when he
stepped onto a killing field, but he wasn’t, at heart, an Eyrien.
As long as Lucivar controlled Ebon Rih, the Eyriens trying to build
a life here and retain their heritage and culture were going to
suffer.
Unfortunately, for
now, there was nothing Falonar could do about that except hide how
much he was choking on that bitter truth.
Surreal walked into
the room that would be her home for the next few weeks and looked
around. The furniture was basic but in good condition, and gleamed
from a fresh cleaning. Everything felt a bit rustic, but that was
in keeping with the rest of The Tavern. It wouldn’t suit an aristo
prick who thought his farts didn’t smell, but she found nothing to complain about.
“We’re nothing
fancy,” Merry said as she hovered just inside the room. “I know we
call the place a tavern and inn, but we’re really a tavern with a
handful of rooms we converted because we had the space. There are
two nice boardinghouses here in Riada, and a couple of fancier inns
on the aristo side of the village.”
Surreal studied the
other woman, making note of the nerves. She’d had a passing
acquaintance with Merry and Briggs during her previous stay in Ebon
Rih, but she hadn’t gotten to know the owners of The Tavern because
she had been living with Falonar. Merry and Briggs, and their
establishment, were too common for a man like Falonar, especially
since he thought being Lucivar’s second-in-command was a reason to
act even more aristo than the aristos in Riada.
Since Merry didn’t
know her either except in passing, why was the woman so nervous?
Maybe the Rihlander had heard about Surreal’s former professions
and didn’t want to rent a room to a whore—or an assassin? If that
was the case, she wanted to know before she unpacked her
trunks.
“Do you have a
problem with me staying here?” Surreal asked.
“Oh, no,” Merry
replied quickly. “I just wanted you to know there are other
options.” She hesitated, clearly debating if she should say
anything more. Then she sighed. “Look. Lucivar is a good man, and
Briggs and I count ourselves fortunate to call him a friend. But he
can be single-minded at times. Lucivar likes The Tavern, but it’s
not to everyone’s taste, and I don’t think he considered that you
might prefer something a bit fancier.”
Which confirmed that
Merry had more than a passing knowledge of the man who was the
second most powerful male in the Realm of Kaeleer. Despite coming
from the most aristo family in the Realm, there was nothing aristo
about Lucivar’s tastes or preferences.
But Lucivar
could be single-minded about a good
many things, and that tickled a suspicion about the real reason for
his choice of accommodations.
“He comes in here
fairly often?” Surreal asked.
“Every day when he’s
home,” Merry replied. “Sometimes he stops to have a mug of coffee
just after we open. Other days he stops in for a bowl of soup or
stew. He will have a glass of ale while he talks to the men and
waits for me to pack up a steak pie or something else he’s bringing
home for dinner. But that’s not every day.”
“Uh-huh.”
Hell’s fire. You know the man, but you still
haven’t figured out how a Warlord Prince’s mind works, have you,
sugar?
The Tavern was a
local gathering place where people could have a drink or a meal,
and it did a good business. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, Merry had a
pretty face and a nicely curved body that would tweak plenty of
men’s interest. Her Tiger Eye Jewel, being a lighter Jewel, might
dampen the interest of stronger males—or it might heighten the
interest of a predator who preferred females who weren’t strong
enough to fight back. Briggs was a Summer-sky Warlord. Since he
wasn’t trained to fight, maybe that wasn’t enough power to protect
his wife and their livelihood.
Unless, of course,
that Summer-sky Warlord was quietly backed by an Eyrien Warlord
Prince who wore Ebon-gray Jewels, and had a vicious, violent temper
and centuries of training as a warrior.
There were predators
and there were Predators—and even among the Predators, Lucivar
Yaslana was a law unto himself.
Surreal looked at the
room again, turning over possibilities of why Lucivar had chosen
this place as her home-away-from-home. Then she put those thoughts
aside before Merry became too anxious about her being here—or began
to wonder why she was
here.
She opened a door and
found the bathroom. Her gold-green eyes narrowed as she considered
the bathroom’s second door. “I’m sharing?”
“With the Warlord
Prince who’s also coming in for the training,” Merry
said.
She nodded. “Rainier.
He’s a friend, even if he does pee through a pipe. Well, I can try
to live with sharing a bathroom with him.” She gave Merry a wicked
smile. “And if I have reason to complain about his aim, he can just
try to live.”
Merry blinked,
started to say something, then changed her mind—a couple of times.
Finally she said, “I can provide you with the midday and evening
meals, but we aren’t open early in the morning, so I don’t usually
prepare breakfast.”
“That’s all right,”
Surreal said. “We’re expected at the eyrie for
breakfast.”
“Oh.”
So much sympathy in
one little word. But it was the humor laced in the sympathy that
caught Surreal’s attention.
“You’ve met Lucivar’s
son,” Surreal said.
“I have,
yes.”
Surreal watched Merry
weighing and measuring loyalties and obligations.
“There’s a coffee
shop two blocks from here,” Merry said. “And there’s a bakery. The
two businesses converted the store in between into a dining area
used by both. You wouldn’t get a full breakfast there—just coffee
and baked goods—but it would be a peaceful one. Or you’re welcome
to warm up whatever soup or stew is left from the previous
day.”
Giving up your own breakfast? Surreal wondered.
“Thanks. We’re expected at Lucivar’s eyrie tomorrow morning, but I,
at least, will take advantage of the coffee shop and bakery most of
the time after that.”
“Well, then,” Merry
said. “I’ll let you get settled in.”
“One other thing,”
Surreal said before Merry had a chance to escape. Because that was
what the other woman clearly had in mind—bolting before this last
detail was mentioned. “How do you want me to pay for the food and
lodging? By the day or week?”
“That’s not
necessary,” Merry said, her eyes looking bigger and darker in a
rapidly paling face.
“Yes, it is,” Surreal
countered politely.
“No, it
isn’t.”
“Damn him, I
told him I was going to pick up the tab
for my own lodging. So you’ll give the bill to me.”
“No. Uh-uh. If you
want to argue with Prince Yaslana about this, you go right ahead.
But he was very clear about what he
expected from me.”
Of course he was. The
prick. And wasn’t it interesting where the line got drawn between
Lucivar the friend and Prince Yaslana the ruler of Ebon
Rih?
“All right, fine,”
Surreal grumbled. “I’ll deal with him in my own way.”
Merry made a sound
that might have been a squeak, and the next thing Surreal heard was
the woman clattering down the stairs.
“Don’t be such a
bitch,” she scolded herself. “You know what it’s like trying to
deal with your male relatives. You wear the Gray and they roll
right over you. How do you expect Tiger Eye to face down someone
like Lucivar?”
No recourse. Daemon
would tell her not to be an ass about who paid for what, since the
SaDiablo family as a whole was not only the most powerful family in
Kaeleer; they were also the wealthiest. Lucivar wasn’t going to
feel pinched by the tab for her lodgings, but that wasn’t the
point. Paying for it herself wouldn’t pinch her pocket
either.
On the other hand,
whenever she had accepted a job as an assassin, her client
sometimes paid for her expenses as well as her fee.
Which circled back to
the question of why she really was staying at The
Tavern.
Going to the window,
she pulled back the sheer curtain and stared at the mountain
Lucivar called home as she lobbed a thought on a Gray psychic
thread. *Yaslana.*
*Are you going to
start whining already?*
He sounded amused. He
sounded like he’d been waiting for her to contact him.
Damn him. His wife,
Marian, either was crazy in love with him or had more patience than
was natural.
*We need to
talk,*Surreal said.*Privately. And if you give me any excuses, I’ll
kick you so hard your balls will end up lodged between your
ears.*
*If you bring a
crossbow to this meeting, I will smack you brainless.*
She grinned. Couldn’t
help it. The last time she’d wanted to discuss something with
Lucivar, she’d threatened to shoot him in order to assure she would
have his undivided attention. *Fine. No crossbow—unless I have to
come looking for you.*
He laughed. They’d
come out even in this little pissing contest, so she was pretty
pleased too.
*This evening,* he
said. *Once the little beast is tucked in for the night. Do you
know the house in Doun where my mother used to live?*
*I’ll find
it.*
*I’ll meet you
there.*
Are you sure you want to meet there? Apparently
Lucivar also wanted to meet without attracting attention. She
couldn’t think of another reason for him to choose that
location.
She unpacked her
clothes, then got acquainted with the room. The small desk held a
supply of paper, as well as pens, sealing wax, and a couple of
decorative seals for guests who might not have a family seal. The
bottom of the bedside table had a stack of books—mostly collections
of stories, but there were a couple of Lady Fiona’s Tracker and
Shadow novels, including the newest one, which she hadn’t read
yet.
No books by Jarvis
Jenkell, the writer who had tried to kill her and Rainier. Was that
because Merry hadn’t liked his work, or had the woman removed
anything that would remind her guests of that nightmarish effort to
survive?
Any reminder that
wasn’t still lodged in flesh, Surreal thought as she felt the rasp
in her breathing. She would need to take care for the rest of this
winter, but her lungs would eventually heal completely. Rainier’s
leg, on the other hand, would never be the same.
She opened the
bathroom door, intending to claim her half of the shelves and
storage space, and heard movement in the next room. She rapped on
the door.
“It’s open,” he
said.
She opened the door,
then leaned on the doorframe to study the Warlord Prince who was
one of the few men she thought of as a friend.
When they returned to
Amdarh after spending Winsol at the Keep with the rest of the
SaDiablo family, he’d retreated during the last half of the
holiday, claiming he needed time to get ready for this little
“adventure” in Ebon Rih. She hadn’t challenged him because she had
her own preparations to make for this stay.
Looking at him, she
regretted that decision.
He’d lost weight in
those few days. All the Blood burned up food faster than landens
did, and the darker the Jewel a person wore, the more food was
required to keep the body from consuming itself. Rainier obviously
hadn’t been eating enough to sustain what had been a very fine
build. His face looked leaner and harder, those dreamy green eyes
were shadowed by more than one kind of pain, and the brown hair
that was usually worn stylishly shaggy looked unkempt.
Rainier’s leg would
never be the same, no matter how skilled the Healer—and he hadn’t
been helping. What none of them could figure out was why he seemed determined to prevent that leg from
healing as completely as possible.
“Want some help
unpacking?” she asked.
“I can still take
care of myself,” he snapped as he grabbed several carefully folded
shirts and fisted wrinkles into all of them.
“I didn’t say
otherwise, sugar.”
She knew he heard the
warning in the word “sugar,” because he gave her a long
look.
Have you seen Falonar yet?
It was there, on the
edge of being said, a deliberately hurtful punch to the heart. But
he didn’t say it. She saw the decision in his eyes not to throw
that emotional fist.
“Have you finished
your own unpacking?” he asked.
“Mostly. I was just
about to claim my share of the bathroom space when I heard you
moving around in here.”
He snorted. “Will I
have any room for my
things?”
“As our friend Karla
would say, kiss kiss.”
He laughed and held
out the shirts. “Fine. Just put the clothes where it will be
logical to find them. And I mean male logic, not what passes for
female logic.”
“My, my. Aren’t we
feeling pissy today?”
He limped over to the
corner of the room that had a stuffed chair and footrest, as well
as a reading lamp and side table. Settling in the chair and
stretching out his legs, he sighed wearily. “Did Lucivar not
consider the stairs when he chose this place, or were the rooms
being on the second floor one of the reasons he chose
it?”
“I’m not sure that
was a consideration at all,” she said slowly as she put Rainier’s
clothes into the drawers and closet. Before she could decide how
much to tell him—especially since there wasn’t anything definite
she could tell him—someone knocked on
the door.
“It’s Jaenelle,”
Rainier said before she had a chance to send out a psychic tendril
and find out who was in the hallway.
“How do you know?”
she asked as she walked to the door.
“Her psychic scent
was always unique. It’s a little different now that she wears
Twilight’s Dawn, but there’s no mistaking it.”
Which just proved a
Queen was a Queen whether she ruled officially or not. Unless there
was a reason to pay attention, psychic scents were ignored in the
same way as physical scents. But a male who served in a court would
always know when his Queen was nearby.
“Is the fact that
you’re all still that observant something you don’t want to call
attention to?” Surreal asked as she opened the door.
“Call attention to
what?” Jaenelle asked as she walked into the room.
“An unobservant man
makes a poor flirt,” Rainier said. His green eyes glittered with a
warning to drop the subject.
“If that’s the case,
you’re very observant, Prince,” Jaenelle said. “No, stay there,”
she added when he started to shift in order to get to his feet. “I
can check the leg just fine where you’re sitting. Surreal, do you
want to sit on the side of the bed or go back to your room for
privacy?”
“That depends on what
we’re doing,” Surreal replied warily.
“I’m here to assess
your current health and report it to the Prince of Ebon Rih, along
with my requirements for what can and cannot be included in your
training.”
“I get tired easily,
and my lungs still get raspy if I exert myself too much, especially
outdoors,” Surreal said. “And I still feel weak, so I won’t be able
to do much of the training Lucivar has in mind.”
Jaenelle waited a
beat, then looked at Rainier. “No protest or snarls from the
Warlord Prince, which means he was aware of these limitations—and
your Healer was not.”
Rainier winced when
Surreal stared at him. *Sorry. I didn’t know you hadn’t talked to
her yet.*
*Yeah.* Surreal
looked into Jaenelle’s sapphire eyes, judged the sharpness of the
temper she saw there, and meekly sat on the side of Rainier’s
bed.
Jaenelle rested her
hands on Surreal’s chest, her fingers spread wide. Warmth flowed
from that touch. Surreal felt it on her skin, then in her muscles.
A slow, soothing, pleasant sensation—and as she drifted on and in
that sensation, her body told Jaenelle every secret it
had.
*So,* Jaenelle said
on a distaff thread, *are you just trying to avoid some of the
training or are you exaggerating the severity of the damage you
sustained while in the spooky house to misguide Rainier for some
reason?*
The chill that flowed
along that psychic thread surprised her. She hadn’t expected
Jaenelle to be so pissed off about what was, after all, a ploy to
get out of spending more time with the Eyriens than she absolutely
had to. Then she realized she hadn’t taken into account that
Jaenelle wasn’t just a Healer and she wasn’t just family. She was
also a Queen who had never hesitated to defend a member of her
court—and no matter whom he worked for or served in the future,
Rainier would always be hers. Lying to him would not be acceptable
behavior.
*I told Rainier the
truth,* Surreal said. *But I didn’t want everyone to know.*
The chill faded and
was replaced by sharp humor. *You don’t want Lucivar to know that
you haven’t recovered fully because he’ll fuss over you, but you
still want him to release you from a lot of the
training?*
When put that way,
the logic sounded more than a little fuzzy. *I was hoping that, as
a Healer, you could . . . Hell’s fire, I hate feeling
weak.*
*All the more reason
to do the work that will make you strong again.*
Surreal sighed. How
could you argue with a woman who, just by standing there, was proof
of how doing the work could help a body to heal?
She studied
Jaenelle’s face, looked into the eyes that saw too much. It wasn’t
just her body that had been damaged and felt weak. Her heart, too,
hadn’t healed since she left Falonar’s eyrie and Ebon Rih. That was
almost a year ago. Wasn’t that long enough to let go of something
other women could have shrugged off in a few weeks?
“Give me a half an
hour to work on Rainier’s leg and go over a few things with
Lucivar,” Jaenelle said. “Then you and I can take a walk around the
village. That will give me a better assessment of what your lungs
can do in this weather and in this valley.”
“Lucivar is
downstairs now, waiting for a report?” Had the prick been sitting
there a few minutes ago when she had contacted him?
“Of course he is,”
Jaenelle said.
“Shit.” She wasn’t
ready to deal with Lucivar. Not yet, anyway. Meeting him tonight to
discuss The Tavern was one thing; meeting a bossy relative when he
had nothing to do except keep an eye on her was quite another
matter. “I’ll meet you downstairs after your chat with
Lucivar.”
“Smart plan,”
Jaenelle said. “Now shoo.”
A friendly dismissal
was still a dismissal. Surreal scurried to her own room and looked
around again. No clock. She called in a one-hour hourglass that she
carried with her, turned it, and set it on the dresser. Meeting
Jaenelle a few minutes late wouldn’t matter. Being a few minutes
early and running into Lucivar . . .
As a way to pass the
time, she pulled out the stack of books and took a better look at
them. Some she put aside, having no interest in them; others she
set with the Tracker and Shadow books to read in the evenings.
Maybe she would find a story in one of the collections to share
with the rest of the family during one of the evenings when they
gathered together for a story night.
She looked at a
story, read a few paragraphs, then glanced at the hourglass to see
how much time was left before she could go downstairs and not run
into Lucivar.
And wondered when she
had become a coward.
Rainier hobbled
around the room, putting the rest of his things away as he tried to
ignore the pain in his leg—and the deeper pain in his
heart.
As a Healer, Jaenelle
wasn’t pleased with him. As a friend, she was furious with him. And
he didn’t want to think about how she would have responded if she’d
still formally been his Queen.
He didn’t want to
talk about this. Not with Jaenelle, not with Daemon Sadi, and
certainly not with Lucivar. He didn’t want pity. He’d had a
bellyful of pity when he went to Dharo to visit his family. Worse
than the pity was the unspoken hope he’d seen in too many of their
eyes that a crippled leg would somehow diminish the nature of a
Warlord Prince so they wouldn’t feel as uncomfortable being around
him. He was less now. He had no future now. A dancer who couldn’t
dance? He’d need to depend on his family and take whatever
pity-work they could find for him to help pay his way, since, of
course, he would have to return to Dharo and live with one of
them.
They didn’t
understand the depth of their cruelty. He’d seen that too when he’d
talked to them. They did love him in their own way, but they saw
his being born into the caste of aggressive, violent, dominant
males as a failing of the bloodlines instead of seeing him as
strength. He wasn’t like them. Had never been like them. Had never
fit into the family. Different tastes, different temperament—and a
difference in caste that had made him an outsider even as a
child.
He didn’t know what
to do. He was too damaged to go back to the life he’d known, but he
wasn’t damaged enough for his family to feel safe in his presence.
He’d never done anything to harm any of them, but they couldn’t
quite hide their regret that his power hadn’t ended up as crippled
as his leg.
He loved them. He
truly did.
And he never wanted
to see them again.
Which left him
wondering what a maimed Warlord Prince was supposed to do with the
rest of his life.
A hard rap on the
door. Before he could respond, Lucivar walked into the
room.
How was he supposed
to explain to an Eyrien warrior like Lucivar what his leg couldn’t
do? He’d seen Lucivar on a practice field, and he’d seen him in a
real fight. The Prince of Ebon Rih was another kind of dancer, and
he was brilliant on a killing field.
Right now, that fact
scared the shit out of Rainier because, for the next few weeks,
Lucivar controlled his life.
“You need to
understand a couple of things about your stay in Ebon Rih,” Lucivar
said as he walked up to Rainier.
Rainier saw Lucivar’s
mouth curve into a lazy, arrogant smile. He never saw the fist that
smashed into him so hard the blow knocked him off his feet and
tossed him on the bed. While he lay there, struggling to breathe,
Lucivar leaned over him and pressed a hand against his painfilled
ribs, pinning him to the bed.
“Listen up, boyo,
because I will only say this once,” Lucivar said. “I don’t know
what’s riding you, and I don’t care. From now on, you work it out
some other way than damaging that leg. I know exactly the condition
you’re in right now. I know exactly what you need to do to heal and
bring that leg back to the best it can be. And that’s what you’re
going to do. But if you need to be a cripple, I will help you be a
cripple. I will shatter your other leg into so many pieces, even
Jaenelle won’t be able to give you back more than the ability to
hobble around with a pair of canes and spend most of your life in a
chair. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” Rainier
gasped.
“Do you have any
doubt that I will do what I say?”
“No.”
Lucivar eased back.
“There are places an easy walk from The Tavern where you can get
breakfast. Think of not dealing with the little beast first thing
in the morning as a reward for sincere effort in the training. You
start getting sloppy . . .”
Lucivar using
breakfast with his boy as a threat made Rainier curious about what
really went on in the Yaslana household in the
morning.
Then again, Lucivar
didn’t bother to bluff, so it probably was a real
threat.
“I’ll see you on the
practice field tomorrow,” Lucivar said as he walked to the door.
“Don’t be late.”
A bitter anger filled
Rainier. “You don’t know what it’s like.”
Lucivar stopped. He
turned and gave Rainier a hard stare. Then he was
gone.
Rainier waited
another minute before he struggled to sit up. Hell’s fire, he hurt.
He pulled his shirt up and gathered his courage before he looked
down.
A fist-sized bruise
was already rising dark along his ribs, but there was nothing
broken. Nothing even cracked, if his timid probing could be
believed. A punishing blow, but Lucivar must have done something to
temper that blow to avoid breaking bone.
Still hurt like a
wicked bitch.
Rainier lowered his
shirt and carefully stood up to finish his unpacking.
But if you need to be a cripple, I will help you be a
cripple.
Lucivar Yaslana
didn’t bluff, and he rarely gave second chances.
How was he supposed
to explain to such an active, physical man that there were things
he could no longer do?
“I’m trying to decide
how hard I should kick your ass,” Jaenelle said pleasantly as she
and Surreal strolled down Riada’s streets.
Mother Night, it was
cold in the valley. Surreal felt the
burn in her lungs, and she couldn’t hide the raspy sound of each
breath. She began to dread the time she’d have to spend higher up
in the mountains, not just because she’d be around the Eyriens, but
because of how hard it would be on her lungs.
“Doesn’t bother me
much when I’m inside,” she said. Unless the fire was smoky. Which
wasn’t a concern at the family’s town house. Helton dealt with
anything that might delay her healing by the tiniest bit, whether
it was a smoky fire or a potential draft. “I’m drinking the healing
brew you made up for me, three times a day. I’m resting. I’m
keeping my chest protected and warm. I’m doing everything you told
me to do in order to heal. Do you think I want to feel like this
for the rest of my life?”
“No, you’re smart
enough to take care of yourself, if for no other reason than to
keep Lucivar and Daemon from breathing down your neck every day and
challenging everything you want to do.”
“Damn
right.”
Jaenelle smiled.
“That’s enough fresh air for today—and enough information about
your physical health to give Lucivar firm boundaries for what you
can and can’t do for this training he’s inflicting on
you.”
“Thank the
Darkness.”
Laughing, Jaenelle
raised a hand to catch the attention of the driver of a horse-drawn
cab coming down the street. The driver nodded and pulled up next to
them. A Warlord got out and smiled as he helped them into the cab
and asked their destination. After conveying the information to the
driver, he closed the door and stepped back.
“He’s going to walk
the rest of the way to wherever he was going or catch another cab,
isn’t he?” Surreal asked.
“Yes, he is,”
Jaenelle replied.
“Was that for my
benefit or yours?”
“Mine. I think.”
Jaenelle sighed. “When I was still healing, you did me a favor—you
convinced Lucivar to stop coddling me and help me get stronger. I’m
going to return the favor. I needed to work; you need to be able to
step back, especially now when we’re still in the sharp edge of
winter.”
“Meaning?”
“More private
instruction rather than the public training that could expose you
to a chill.”
The look in
Jaenelle’s sapphire eyes told her she wasn’t talking about just the
weather.
“Thank
you.”
Jaenelle hesitated.
“Lucivar is worried about you. Take care with his heart, Surreal.
You’re not the only one here who can get hurt.”
She nodded and looked
out the cab window.
Backwinging, Lucivar
landed on the road near a large, three-story stone house on the
outskirts of Doun, the Blood village at the southern end of Ebon
Rih. He hesitated. Then, swearing at himself for that hesitation,
he went through the gate in the low stone wall that separated two
acres of tended land from the wildflowers and grasses now buried
under knee-deep snow. No vegetable garden had been planted last
summer. Marian had cleaned up the herb garden, flower gardens, and
rock garden, letting the plants reseed themselves. Making use of
the labor portion of the tithes owed him, he’d had some of Doun’s
residents keep the beds weeded and the grass trimmed. A few of the
women came twice a month to give the house a light
cleaning.
Empty rooms, cleansed
of psychic scents and memories.
It had been
Luthvian’s house for a lot of years, a place Saetan had built for
her as a courtesy to the woman who had borne him a son. A Black
Widow and a Healer, she had earned her living teaching Craft to the
girls in Doun, as well as being one of the village’s
Healers.
Never content, she
hadn’t appreciated the house or the man who had built it for her,
had never appreciated the son who would have loved her if she’d
shown him any affection instead of hating him for the very things
her own bloodline had given him—the wings and the arrogance
inherent in an Eyrien male.
She had died in this
house, killed by Hekatah SaDiablo shortly before Jaenelle unleashed
her full power and cleansed the Realms of the tainted
Blood.
A young Warlord named
Palanar had also died here at Hekatah’s hand. He’d been at the
service fair, along with many other Eyriens, hoping for a better
life. He’d barely had a taste of that future before it had been
taken away from him.
The only consolation
was that Hekatah and Dorothea SaDiablo had finally been destroyed
and couldn’t take anyone’s future away again.
Lucivar released his
breath in a white-plumed sigh.
Land and house no
longer held any memories of those deaths, or the violence that came
after, but he did—and always would.
He didn’t bother to
circle the house. If something needed fixing, he wouldn’t see it in
the dark. So he tramped through knee-deep snow to the corner of the
property where a stand of trees whispered forest. Dark, bare limbs entwined with the night
sky until it looked like stars were caught in the
branches.
His house now, one of
the properties his father had assigned to his care after Saetan
stepped back from the living Realms and retired to the Keep. He
could sell it. Hell’s fire, he could burn the damn thing to the
ground and no one would challenge the choice.
Maybe that was why he
could keep it.
He sensed Surreal’s
presence the moment she took the first step onto this land, but he
decided not to notice until she told him she was
there.
“Do you have any
happy memories connected to this place?” Surreal’s voice came out
of the dark a few heartbeats later, enhanced by Craft to reach
him.
“None, actually,” he
replied, also using Craft. “Luthvian and I rarely remained civil to
each other through a whole visit.”
“Then why keep
it?”
“The house belongs to
the family. I’m responsible for it.”
“Doesn’t have any
sentimental value to me. I could lob a ball of witchfire through a
window and give it enough power to burn this place from attic to
cellar.”
He laughed softly as
he turned toward her. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m going to keep
the place intact for the time being.” He tramped back to the house,
where she waited.
“Why?” She sounded
genuinely curious.
“It’s a good, solid
structure that was built as a Healer’s House. Plenty of land with
it for gardens. Doun could use another Healer.”
“So you’re thinking
of renting it to a Healer?” Surreal asked.
He shrugged, then
said quietly, “Or maybe find a teacher with backbone and heart and
turn it into a residence for children who need a safe
place.”
He shifted, not
comfortable talking about an idea he hadn’t voiced to anyone else,
not even Marian.
“So,” Surreal said.
“You want to tell me why I’m staying at The Tavern?”
“Because I’m saving
the guest room at the eyrie as punishment if you start whining
about the training you need,” he replied.
He studied her face,
then opened his inner barriers enough to get a taste of her psychic
scent.
Hunter. Predator.
Assassin. That surprised him—and intrigued him.
“If you don’t like
it, you’re free to choose another place,” he said, watching her
carefully.
“Those stairs aren’t
going to be easy on Rainier’s leg,” she said.
“He can float up and
down them the same as he’s been doing at his residence in
Amdarh.”
“All right, Yaslana.
Let’s stop dancing. Is there some reason you want a knife under
Merry’s roof?”
He blinked. Took a
step back. “How in the name of Hell did you come up with an idea
like that?”
“Tiger Eye and
Summer-sky running a very public business. You wandering in at
least once a day. Makes me wonder if Merry and Briggs need that
kind of protection. Makes me wonder if you wanted protection there
that wouldn’t be so obvious.”
It was tempting to
agree, tempting to let her run with that idea. But if he did that,
sooner or later the truth would bite him in the ass.
“It’s not like that.
Lady Shayne doesn’t eat at The Tavern, but if there was trouble
there, her court would know about it and take care of it.” He
huffed out a breath. “Look. I’m scorned by some because I don’t rub
elbows with the aristos in Riada—or anywhere else for that matter.
But the truth is, when I’m among those people, I am the Warlord
Prince of Ebon Rih. Aristos never forget that, so I can never
forget that. But when I walk into The Tavern, I’m Lucivar. I get
teased; I get scolded; I get sent on errands. I sit at a table with
a bowl of stew and the bread I’ve
picked up from the bakery for Merry and hear the village’s
gossip—who needs help, who needs watching. I hear about families in
the other villages in Ebon Rih. I hear all the things an aristo
wouldn’t and the Queens’ courts probably don’t. And if I hear
something I think Shayne needs to know, I will tell
her.
“More than that,
Merry and Briggs are friends. And lighter Jewels notwithstanding,
they would fit in with Jaenelle’s First Circle. Because of that, I
thought you and Rainier would be comfortable there. If that’s not
the case . . .” He shrugged. Marian had voiced the concern that
Surreal and Rainier both ran in Amdarh’s aristo society and might
not like The Tavern. Maybe his darling hearth witch had been right
about that.
“So you drop by every
day that you’re home to keep an eye on the village and listen to
the talk that might alert you and Riada’s Queen to a problem?”
Surreal asked.
“Sure.”
“What a boot full of
shit.”
He stiffened. “I beg
your pardon?”
She let out a hoot of
laughter. “You’re like a damn Sceltie who’s handpicked his own
flock, and Merry is one of the sheep. Sure, you run errands and put
up with being scolded, but I bet you know when her moontime is
supposed to start each cycle, and you get bossy when you think
she’s working too hard. I bet you’ve even stood behind the bar and
served drinks with Briggs after pushing her upstairs to take the
nap you decided she needed.”
Caught. “What’s your point?” Not that he was going
to admit to any of this.
“Just making an
observation that there is a dual purpose to your visits to The
Tavern. And it’s good to know there’s no trouble for Merry or—” She
started coughing. It sounded like her chest was being ripped
up.
Swearing, he pulled
her close, wrapped his wings to form a cocoon, and created a
warming spell around them.
“Damn it, Surreal.
Why didn’t you tell me you were this sick? We could have had this
discussion inside.”
She leaned her
forehead against his chest. “Don’t like being weak. And I’m not
that sick.”
“Are you coughing
blood? And don’t try to lie to me or this will get very
unpleasant.”
“No blood. Jaenelle
would have told you if I was coughing up blood.”
“Unless you didn’t
mention it to her.”
She laughed a little.
It sounded liquid and rough. “I’m not stupid, Lucivar. I’m not
going to tangle with Witch over the condition of my
lungs.”
“All right.” He
rubbed her back and waited for his heart to settle back into its
normal rhythm. “Look. Maybe . . .”
She punched him.
Wasn’t much of a punch since she was snugged up against him, but it
was still a punch.
“This is what you
have to work with,” she growled. “Deal with it.”
“Remember you said
that in the days ahead.”
“Ah,
shit.”
He eased back. “Come
on, witchling. It’s time to get you back to your room. The days
start early here.”
Rainier waited in his
room, as ordered. Apparently Lucivar had a few more things to say
to him before he officially started this required
training.
But when Lucivar
rapped on the door and came in, Rainier felt a jolt of uneasiness
because Saetan came in with him.
“High Lord,” Rainier
said, struggling to get to his feet. Where had he put that damn
cane?
“Prince Rainier,”
Saetan replied. Then he looked at Lucivar and raised one eyebrow as
a question.
Lucivar stared at
Rainier before turning to his father. “Do you remember what I
looked like when I first came to Kaeleer?”
“I’m not likely to
forget,” Saetan said softly.
Lucivar tipped his
head toward Rainier. “Show him.” He walked out of the
room.
A light brush of
another mind against Rainier’s first inner barrier. A familiar,
dark, powerful mind. He hesitated, then opened his inner barriers,
leaving his mind vulnerable to the High Lord of Hell.
He saw the main room
of a cabin, as if he were looking through Saetan’s eyes. He saw the
memory, but the emotions weren’t part of it. There was no
indication of what Saetan felt when he’d walked into the
cabin.
Comfortable place.
Not someplace he’d care to stay for an extended period of time, but
it would be fine for a country weekend. He’d never been inside, but
he guessed this was Jaenelle’s cabin in Ebon Rih.
The memory continued
as Saetan walked into the bedroom and froze a few steps from the
bed.
Lucivar.
Even the High Lord of
Hell couldn’t cleanse the memory of emotion well enough to hide the
shock, the anguish of seeing the man lying on the bed.
Broken bones,
shoulder and ribs. Guts pushing out of the ripped belly. A leg
ripped open from hip to knee. A foot hanging awkwardly from what
was left of an ankle.
Why had someone
placed strands of greasy rags on the bed next to a man who was so
terribly wounded?
Not rags, Rainier
realized with a shock. Wings. He was looking at what was left of
Lucivar’s wings.
Saetan withdrew from
Rainier’s mind. Rainier closed his inner barriers and just stared
at the other man for a minute before finding his
voice.
“How did he
survive?”
Saetan sighed. “He
made a choice. He didn’t want to die. He’d been in the salt mines
of Pruul for five years. The slime mold had destroyed his wings,
and the years of slavery in the salt mines had taken their toll, to
say nothing of the torture he’d endured. He escaped and made his
way to the Khaldharon Run. He wasn’t in any shape to make the Run,
and he knew it, but he was going to die on his terms. Fortunately,
Prothvar was standing guard at the Sleeping Dragons that day and
brought Lucivar to Jaenelle’s cabin. He wasn’t conscious, so I’m
sure he didn’t make the decision knowingly, but I think he felt
Jaenelle and gave her everything he had because she asked him for
it. And he healed because of that choice.”
Saetan walked to the
door and opened it. “Lucivar is downstairs if there is anything you
want to say to him. If not, he’ll finish his drink and go
home.”
Rainier waited until
Saetan left before he scanned the room. Spotting the cane on the
floor by his bed, he used Craft to float it over to him. Then he
made his careful way downstairs.
Lucivar was sitting
at a table, alone, drinking a glass of ale.
Since no one had
noticed him yet, Rainier stood at the bottom of the stairs and
observed the people. Mostly men, but a few women were there too,
enjoying a drink and some gossip. Frequent glances at Lucivar, and
more than one person shifting as if about to join him. But a word
from Briggs or a light touch from Merry deflected that person,
letting people know the Prince wanted solitude.
You don’t know what it’s like. That was what he’d
said. Like the rest of the boyos and the coven, he’d met Lucivar
after the Eyrien had come to SaDiablo Hall with Jaenelle. A strong,
powerful Warlord Prince in his prime, Yaslana dominated a room just
by walking into it. Yaslana dominated a killing field just by
walking onto it. How could he reconcile the predator who moved with
such lethal grace and the torn, broken body that had healed against
all odds?
Rainier limped across
the room. Merry moved to intercept him. After a quick glance at
Lucivar, she let him pass and brought a glass of white wine to the
table.
Lucivar studied him,
then said quietly, “My right ankle hurts like a wicked bitch when I
work it too hard, and I’ve got a few weather bones, as the old men
call them. Small price to pay for having so much of me
remade.”
Rainier sipped his
wine, not sure what to say or ask.
“The ankle does just
fine with everyday living, even chasing after the little beast,”
Lucivar said. “But I’ve learned how to put a shield around the bone
when I’m sparring or in a real fight. Since I’m shielded anyway
when I’m on a field, it can’t be detected.”
“It’s a weakness an
adversary could exploit,” Rainier said.
Lucivar gave him that
lazy, arrogant smile. “If the adversary lived long enough.” The
smile faded. “When I came out of that healing sleep, Jaenelle told
me there would be no second chances. She’d used up everything I
could give her—and everything she could give me—to rebuild my wings
and heal the rest of me. If I did what she told me to do, my body
would be whole and sound. If I pushed muscles that were still
rebuilding themselves and damaged them, the damage would be
permanent.” He drained his glass of ale. “You’ve had more than one
second chance, Rainier, and now you’ve run out of chances. If you’d
followed her instructions in the beginning, you would have had a
weather bone and muscles that would ache when you worked them too
hard. But that leg would have held up for you, even dancing. Now
you’ve lost some of that, maybe a lot of that, because you damaged
bone and muscles that were trying to heal.”
So by trying to prove I wasn’t a cripple and didn’t need
anyone’s pity, I turned myself into a cripple. The
bitterness of that truth burned his belly.
“You’re a man with a
damaged leg,” Lucivar said. “That doesn’t make you less of a
Warlord Prince—unless you choose to cripple that too.”
Lucivar pushed his
chair back and stood. He raised a hand in farewell. Briggs, who was
behind the bar, nodded and mirrored the gesture.
“I’ll see you and
Surreal tomorrow morning at full light,” Lucivar said.
“What time is that?”
Rainier asked.
“Your leg’s injured,
not your head. Figure it out.”
Rainier watched
Lucivar walk out of The Tavern.
Merry came up to the
table. “Want something to eat? I’ve got some stew left and a hearty
soup.”
He started to refuse,
then realized he was hungry. “A bowl of soup would be
welcome.”
She brought the soup,
along with a small loaf of sweet-and-spice bread and soft cheese.
He ate slowly, savoring the flavors. While he ate, he watched the
people, especially Merry and Briggs.
He wasn’t whole.
Might never be whole. Other men had faced that same truth and
rebuilt their lives around the strengths they still had and the
work they could do.
People had died in
Jenkell’s damn spooky house. Children
had died in that house because he hadn’t been skilled enough or
strong enough to protect them. Was damaging his leg under the guise
of helping it get stronger some kind of self-punishment for that
failure to protect and defend?
No one else blamed
him for the ones he couldn’t save. Maybe it was time to stop
blaming himself.