FIFTEEN
Hearing a burst of male laughter in the corridor
outside his room, Falonar choked on bitterness. He’d been in
Little
Weeble only two days.
He would go mad if he had to spend the next three years among these
people, serving this Queen. And not even in her First Circle, which
was where he should be, given his
caste, rank, and aristo bloodlines. No, he was a Third Circle escort who was always kept under the
watchful eye of the Master of the Guard or confined to his bedroom
or the common rooms when he wasn’t on duty.
He was isolated,
alone, the only Eyrien in the whole damn Province. And this land!
Water on one side, farmland on the other. And what these people
considered hills was laughable.
What was the point of
living in Askavi if he couldn’t live in the mountains?
Not his choice.
Nothing was his choice. He couldn’t ride the Winds without
permission. He couldn’t contact other Eyriens without permission.
He could barely take a piss without permission.
Lucivar had survived centuries of this treatment when he
was a slave.
Further proof that
Yaslana wasn’t a real Eyrien. But Lucivar did understand Eyrien
pride. Being exiled from Ebon Rih when he’d hoped to rule the
valley was shaming, but being forced to serve a Queen like Perzha
and admit to living in a place called Little Weeble was the real
punishment.
He deserved something
better, something more!
The room dimmed. He
felt an odd pressure inside his skull. No, that pressure was in the
abyss, near the level of his Sapphire strength, surrounding his
Self and pulling it down slowly, gently, past his Sapphire
web.
*Something better?* a
deep voice crooned. *Something more? A place you truly deserve? I
know exactly where you should be.*
Claws hooked into his
Self, pulling him down down down into the abyss, far too deep for
his mind to withstand. He fought, trying to escape, but he could no
longer sense his body, could feel nothing but crushing
pressure.
And then he felt
nothing at all.
Falonar opened his
eyes and stared at the night sky. How did he get outside? The
unbearable pressure was gone, but his head felt stuffy, his body
ached, and he couldn’t seem to reach the power that always flowed
within him.
He tried drawing from
the reservoir of Sapphire strength stored in his Jewel—and found
nothing. He reached for the reservoir in his Birthright
Opal.
Nothing. Nothing! Terror filled him as he realized he hadn’t
been drained; he’d been broken back to the limited power needed for
basic Craft. How? Why? He remembered fighting against something
that had caught him and tried to pull him too deep into the abyss,
but . . .
“You’re awake,” a
deep voice said. “How delightful.”
Falonar turned his
head and stared at the man watching him. “Sadi?”
Daemon smiled a cold,
cruel smile. “Everything has a price, Falonar. It’s time for you to
pay the debt.”
Falonar struggled to
roll over and get to his feet. Something was wrong with his left
wing, something bad, but it was too dark for him to see the extent
of the damage. “What did you do to me?” he snarled.
“Nothing you didn’t
deserve.”
“You can’t blame me
for Lucivar being challenged by those Warlords.”
“Yes, I can,” Daemon
said pleasantly. “But this isn’t about Lucivar. This is about
Rainier.”
“Rainier?” He took a
step back, then jumped forward when something tried to curl around
his calf. “What about Rainier?”
“Let’s start with you
using a warm-up as an excuse to push an injured man so that his
damaged leg would go out from under him, ripping the muscles that
were just beginning to heal. Let’s continue with using that man’s
pain and his vulnerability in that moment to force open his inner
barriers and see if he knew anything you could use against
Lucivar—or, more to the point, if there was any information you
could give someone else to use against Lucivar. And Rainier did
know something about Lucivar. He knew about a weak left ankle, a
spot that would be more vulnerable to a blow that in turn, might be
enough to hobble even the best warrior when he was fighting against
so many trained adversaries.”
“Anyone could have
told them about Yaslana’s ankle!”
“Why would they?”
Daemon sounded surprised. “The information about Lucivar’s ankle
was a lie Rainier let you find.”
Falonar stared at
Sadi.
“Rainier was Second
Circle in the Dark Court at Ebon Askavi,” Daemon purred. “He was
well trained.”
“That son of a
whoring bitch.” He’d thought Rainier was in too much pain to sense
the intrusion, let alone try to deceive him.
“Rainier serves me,
and I do take care of my own,” Daemon said. “Which brings us to
your new, if temporary, place of residence.”
Falonar took a step
toward Daemon. He would demand that Sadi take him back to that damn
village, would demand that Sadi answer to a tribunal of Queens for
breaking another Warlord Prince.
A vine whipped around
Falonar’s lower left leg, its curved thorns digging into his skin,
chaining him to that spot.
“It doesn’t have a
quaint name like Little Weeble,” Daemon purred, “but I think the
place, and its name, suits you better. Welcome to the bowels of
Hell, Prince Falonar.” He turned and walked away.
“Sadi!” Falonar
shouted, as another vine wrapped around his right leg. “Sadi!”
Ignoring Falonar’s
increasingly shrill screams, Daemon glided along a path in this
forever-twilight Realm. One moment he was alone; the next a dozen
males with glowing red eyes stood in front of him. Since a couple
of them had been Eyriens, judging by what was left of their wings,
he knew their eyes hadn’t started out red. Did these males use an
illusion spell to look more terrifying or did some physical change
take place because of this particular location?
That was an
interesting question for another day. For now, he bared his teeth
and snarled, a soft sound that rolled through the land like
thunder. And with that sound, he sent a whisper of his
power.
“It’s him,” one of them said, shuddering.
“But . . . I thought
he would be older,” another said.
“Did you?” Daemon
asked too softly. He raised his right hand and rubbed a finger
against his chin, giving them a good look at the long, black-tinted
nails and the Black Jewel in his ring.
They stepped aside,
making sure they gave him enough room to avoid accidentally
touching him.
As he passed them,
Daemon said, “There is fresh meat at the end of the path—if the
plants don’t consume it all first.”
They bowed, and one
of them said hesitantly, “Thank you, High Lord.” Then they rushed
to get their share of the feast.
Daemon walked a few
minutes more, observing the flora and fauna that moved toward him,
drawn by the scent of the hot, fresh blood running through his
veins, and then withdrew when they brushed against the feel of his
power and the cold depth of his temper. Satisfied that he’d seen
enough for the moment, he caught the Black Wind and rode to the
Keep. He slipped in and out, staying only long enough to tuck a
folded piece of paper between two of the books his father was
sorting. A courtesy, really, to inform the current ruler of Hell
about the delivery of meat.
Then Daemon caught
the Black Winds again and rode to the Hall, where his wife, and
Queen, waited for him.