Twilight's Dawn

This story takes place before the events in The Shadow Queen.

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.

TWO

Lucivar landed at the communal eyrie and swore as his right ankle sang with pain. He loved his son. He really did. But this morning he didn’t love the little beast quite so much.

He didn’t think about the aches and pains that came from broken bones or other wounds. No Eyrien did. They were a part of life, a part of being a warrior. And considering the life he’d led during the seventeen hundred years he’d survived in Terreille, he had fewer aches and pains than most men his age. But having that ankle hurt today pissed him off.

He didn’t shield the bone in his own eyrie. It needed to work without that brace made of power, especially since the bones didn’t actually need that brace. Shielding at all was mostly caution on his part. He’d seen enough men go down in a fight because an enemy knew about previous injuries and aimed blows at the weak spots. No one outside his family had known the extent of his injuries—until last night when he’d allowed Rainier to be shown the truth. No one knew his weak spots. In truth, he didn’t have any. Jaenelle was an excellent Healer, and the bones and muscles she’d repaired ten years ago might ache a bit quicker than they had a century ago, but they were whole and healthy.

Regardless of being whole and healthy, having a pot slammed into his ankle still hurt like a wicked bitch. Which he would have avoided if Marian hadn’t suddenly gotten sick and begun eliminating food from both ends. So he’d been focused on her and not on the boy.

Just a stomach upset that was going around the village, Nurian had said when she checked Marian and gave him bottles of the tonic she and the Healers in Riada had been making nonstop since yesterday. Marian would be fine by tomorrow. Which meant Daemonar would probably be puking all over the bed tonight.

He could do with fewer thrills in his life. Especially today. But for the next couple of hours, his father was looking after his wife and boy, and he could focus his attention on Surreal and Rainier. Jaenelle had given him the boundaries—and some very specific things each of them shouldn’t do—but deciding how to work those bodies to best advantage was up to him. So he needed to be here today to take them through careful moves, assessing muscles to help Surreal and Rainier become as healthy as they could be.

In a couple of days, he could turn the workouts over to Hallevar. But he couldn’t give anyone else command today because there was something else he needed to assess.

He stopped for a moment and put a protective shield around the bones of both ankles. Then he walked into the communal eyrie.

The front room was big enough for weapons practice and was also used for occasional social events. This morning the eighteen adult Eyrien males who lived around Riada were waiting for him, including Falonar, his second-in-command; Hallevar, the arms master and fighting instructor who had been one of his own teachers; Kohlvar, who was a weapons maker; Zaranar and Rothvar, who were trained guards and good fighters; Endar, who served as a guard but wasn’t really suited to be one; and Tamnar, a youth Hallevar had brought with him to the service fairs to get the young Warlord out of Terreille.

Not a lot of men to guard close to half of Ebon Rih, but when two of those men were Warlord Princes—and one of those Warlord Princes wore Ebon-gray Jewels—nineteen men were quite sufficient to take care of any problems around Riada and Doun that couldn’t be handled by the courts of Lady Shayne and Lady Alyss.

Of course, when there were only nineteen men, there wasn’t much of a buffer when two of them scraped against each other’s tempers. It was no secret that he and Falonar had never liked each other, but they had worked well together these past two years—until recently, anyway. Something had changed in Falonar over the past few weeks—or maybe the excitement of settling in a new place had worn off, and Lucivar was now getting a more accurate look at the man Falonar had become.

He spotted Surreal and Rainier standing off to the side just as Falonar turned to see who had come in.

“The weather is fine,” Falonar said. “We should be working outside.”

Publicly criticizing or challenging every order he gave was one of the things that had changed in Falonar’s behavior in the past few weeks. Nothing wrong with the second-in-command challenging an order in private, but these pissing contests in front of the other men had to stop.

“Well, today we’re working inside,” Lucivar replied mildly, knowing the mildness would sting Falonar’s pride in a way responding with temper couldn’t, because, in a situation like this, temper was given only to an equal.

“Only the weak need to work inside on a day like this,” Falonar said, putting more bite in his voice even as his face flushed at being spoken to as if he were a boy.

Lucivar studied the other Warlord Prince. The tone of that last remark almost sounded like a challenge. Almost. Falonar had aristo arrogance on top of Eyrien arrogance, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew Sapphire couldn’t survive a fight with Ebon-gray.

“Fine,” Lucivar said dismissively. “Hallevar, Tamnar, you’re in here with me. Falonar, you can take the others out to play in the snow if that’s what you need to do.”

Falonar’s gold eyes blazed with anger. He shifted his weight into a fighting stance.

The door opened, and Jillian rushed in.

Both men turned toward the girl who had shifted a little more toward being a woman in the past few months.

“You’re supposed to be in school,” Lucivar said at the same time Falonar said, “You’re supposed to be home doing chores.”

Jillian lifted her chin. “I want to be here. I can learn to fight, same as Tamnar.”

“I forbid it,” Falonar said.

“You what?” Surreal said, taking a step toward Falonar.

All the Warlords flinched at the cutting edge in her voice and took a step back, indicating they wanted no part of this fight.

Lucivar swore silently. Great. Fine. Wonderful. Just what he needed—Surreal being pissed off at Falonar. Or more pissed off than usual. On the other hand, if they took a couple of swings at each other, maybe that would clear the air a bit.

Falonar rounded on Surreal and said viciously, “Just because you want to grow a pair of balls doesn’t mean I should permit an Eyrien girl to do the same.”

“Growing a pair of balls is easy,” Surreal snarled. “Growing a heart, that’s a lot more difficult.”

“This is none of your business,” Falonar shouted.

“And none of yours,” she shouted back. “Just because you’re humping her sister—”

“Surreal!” Rainier snapped.

“—doesn’t give you the right to control Jillian’s life!”

“Damn right!” Lucivar roared loudly enough to make everyone flinch. Even Surreal, although she was the one who looked ready to ram a knife between his ribs, which was a sharp reminder that dealing with a Dea al Mon witch wasn’t the same as dealing with an Eyrien witch. “If anyone gets to control someone’s life around here, it’s me.” He pointed at Jillian, then pointed to a corner of the room that was away from the men. “You. Over there.” He pointed at Surreal, then pointed at the other far corner. “You. Over there.”

Surreal bared her teeth. Her right hand curled.

He wasn’t sure if that was a habitual reaction when she was angry or if she was now holding a sight-shielded stiletto.

“Witchling, if you want to kiss dirt, I will let you have the first punch.”

He waited, watching her.

She stormed over to the corner he’d indicated. Thank the Darkness for that.

Lucivar turned to Falonar and kept his voice low. “What in the name of Hell is wrong with you? Did you wake up this morning and decide to piss off everyone with tits?”

“She doesn’t belong here,” Falonar said, keeping his voice just as low. “If we lived as Eyriens should live, she wouldn’t have tried to be here. And we wouldn’t have to tolerate outsiders among us.”

“Surreal is not an outsider. She’s a member of my family.”

He saw the disgust in Falonar’s eyes, the contempt, and almost heard the word Falonar didn’t quite dare say. At least, not yet. Half-breed. For most Eyriens, family had to do with having the proper bloodlines. Lucivar didn’t give a damn about bloodlines. For him, family was about heart.

“If she was good enough to sleep with, she’s good enough for everything else,” he said too softly.

“Tell that to all the men who paid her to spread her legs.”

He didn’t play by anyone else’s rules, and since Falonar seemed to want him to start a fight over the way Surreal used to earn a living, he wasn’t going to oblige.

“Well,” Lucivar said with a savage smile, “if that’s how you feel about her, I’ll have her tally up your bill.”

As he walked away from Falonar, he glanced at Surreal, decided she wouldn’t explode in the next few minutes—at least, not at anyone but him—and went to the corner where Jillian waited, looking scared and defiant.

Resting one hand on the wall, he spread his wings to give them some privacy. It occurred to him that he could have created a sight shield and aural shield around them—and he knew that he would seriously hurt any man who cut off a young girl in that way from the watchful eyes of other adults.

“Why aren’t you in school?” he asked quietly.

“Because I want to be here.” Her voice trembled, but she looked him in the eyes.

Girl has balls, he thought. Of course, running tame in his home might have something to do with it, since she watched Daemonar and was used to being around him. But this was different, and they both knew it.

“School is important,” he said.

“So is this.”

All kinds of messages in those three words. And he hadn’t forgotten what he’d been told about the attack on the Eyriens here two years ago. Hallevar had made light of it at the time to spare the girl’s feelings, but Jillian had killed her first man that day, putting an arrow in the bastard’s heart. That had been the main reason he’d let her continue an informal kind of training after it became clear that the other women wanted no part of that training.

“Has anyone tried to hurt you, Jillian?”

She hesitated. “Not here.”

Not here could explain why Nurian had made the decision to take her younger sister and emigrate to Kaeleer.

“Practice and training are done in the morning,” Jillian said.

True enough, but this morning just proved that being around the men wasn’t the right time for Jillian’s training, not if Falonar was going to snap and snarl the whole time the girl was with them.

He closed his wings and lowered his hand. “You go on to school now. You tell the teacher you’re late because I kept you. If she has a problem with that, she can talk to me.”

“But . . .”

“If you don’t give me any sass about this, I will figure out how to work in some regular, formal training for you.” Especially now, when the girl might be a good working partner for both Surreal and Rainier.

Jillian’s shoulders relaxed. She smiled shyly. “Yes, sir.”

He stepped aside and watched her run out of the eyrie, her steps light. Then he walked over to his next problem, who looked ready to tear out his throat with her teeth.

With her black hair and sun-kissed brown skin, Surreal looked like a beautiful woman from Dhemlan or Hayll—until a man noticed the delicately pointed ears. They were an indication, and warning, of her other bloodline. Just as he had a dual heritage of Hayllian and Eyrien but was Eyrien in every way that counted, Surreal was Dea al Mon, one of the Children of the Wood. They were a fiercely private and feral race who lived closer to the land than any other humans. And because they seemed to be born knowing what to do with a knife, they were deadly.

He wasn’t afraid of Surreal—he was a Warlord Prince and his Jewels outranked hers—but he never forgot the Dea al Mon side of her nature when he dealt with her temper.

That didn’t mean he wouldn’t give her a kick in the ass if she needed one.

He braced one hand near Surreal’s head and, again, opened his wings and curved them to provide some privacy.

“You dismissed her because she doesn’t have balls,” Surreal said.

“That’s insulting,” Lucivar said. “You should know me better than that.”

She stared at him.

He blew out a breath. “I sent her to school, which is where a girl her age belongs.”

“And the training she wants?”

“I’ll work that out somehow, although you might not be as happy with your training schedule because of it.”

The angry heat faded from her gold-green eyes, replaced by reluctant amusement.

“Now, I’ve got a wife at home who started the day by puking and shitting herself. I expect my son will start puking and shitting any minute, which I’m sure will delight my father to no end. So we can do your training assessment here or in the front room of my eyrie, where you’ll most likely get to participate in today’s adventures.”

“Those are my choices?”

“Yeah. Those are your choices.”

“In that case, sugar—”

“Go easy, now!” Hallevar said sharply.

Lucivar’s head whipped around toward the other men. He’d heard the clack of sparring sticks, but he hadn’t paid attention to a usual sound when he had a Gray-Jeweled witch in front of him brimming with anger.

Too late, he thought, seeing Falonar connect with the sparring stick Rainier held and knowing how a man would step in response to that move. He reached out with Craft as Rainier’s leg gave out, intending to catch the man and stop the fall that would cause more damage to already damaged muscle and bone. But his power tangled with Sapphire power, fouling his and Falonar’s attempts to stop the fall.

Rainier cried out in pain as he hit the stone floor—and they all heard bone snap.

“No!” Surreal screamed. She rushed over and dropped to her knees beside Rainier at the same moment Lucivar reached Falonar and shoved the Eyrien back a step—and wondered why the man had a Sapphire shield around himself for what should have been a slow warm-up.

“I tried to catch him,” Falonar said, sounding regretful.

Except that particular tone of regret made Lucivar think of the hunting camp and the boys who had been hurt during training exercises. It was an aristo tone that meant the boy who had done the harm wasn’t sorry at all.

“What’s wrong with you?” Lucivar shouted.

“Nothing is wrong with me,” Falonar snapped. “I just proved what you should have known—a cripple doesn’t have any place among Eyrien warriors.”

Surreal threw herself at Falonar, her scream of rage startling Lucivar enough that he put a skintight Red shield around himself. He grabbed the back of her shirt before she reached Falonar, and began a spin that would lift her away from the other Eyrien.

She lashed out with her right hand as she was lifted and tossed away from the men.

Lucivar felt Falonar’s Sapphire shield break under a punch of Surreal’s Gray power as she lashed out. Saw the blood on the Eyrien’s left arm. Felt the big knife that slid on his Red shield instead of slicing him along the waist as Falonar responded with a counterattack. Tossing Surreal aside, Lucivar continued the spin, calling in his own fighting knife.

By the time he faced Falonar, he was armed, he was balanced, and he was ready.

The fury in Falonar’s eyes was aimed right at him, but the man stepped back and lowered his knife.

Lucivar glanced at Falonar’s left arm. A deep slice through muscle, freely bleeding.

“Surreal,” he said, never taking his eyes off the other Warlord Prince, “go to the Keep. Now.”

“I’ll go back to The Tavern after—”

“Unless you want a knife dance with me, you will do as you’re told,” he snapped.

As he felt her stare at his back, he’d never been more aware of how much of her temper and inclinations came from her Dea al Mon heritage.

There were good reasons why the Children of the Wood were feared by the other races in Kaeleer.

She moved slowly, circling around him and Falonar.

“Prince Falonar may have proved that a cripple has no place among Eyriens, but I just proved he wouldn’t have survived that demon-dead bastard any better than Rainier did.”

Mother Night, she’s riding the killing edge. The wild look in her eyes wasn’t quite sane. That, more than anything else, was why males didn’t want witches involved in physical fighting. Females were a lot harder to control once they rose to the killing edge.

“Go to the Keep,” he said firmly. “I will deal with this.” And I’ll hurt you if I have to.

The moment she walked out of the communal eyrie and it was safe to move without provoking an attack, Zaranar and Rothvar rushed over to Rainier.

Rothvar’s hand hovered over Rainier’s leg. “Hell’s fire, there are healing spells already holding those muscles and bone together.”

Lucivar backed away from Falonar, who stood straight and proud despite the bleeding arm.

“Get that arm tended,” he said. “I’ll talk to you later.”

Falonar looked at the wound that had come from the sight-shielded blade held by a furious woman. “What is there to say?”

Plenty, Lucivar thought. “Get it tended.”

He waited until Falonar left before sending out a call on an Ebon-gray spear thread. *Daemon!*

*Lucivar?*

*I need Jaenelle here as a Healer. Now.*

*Who?*

*Rainier.*

*We’ll be there.*

The link between them snapped as Daemon shut him out. He didn’t take offense. He’d just dumped a basket of problems in his brother’s lap, the most dangerous being the Queen they both loved and still served—the Queen who was also a Black Widow and a Healer. There wasn’t going to be anything pleasant about being in a Coach with Jaenelle while riding the Winds to Ebon Rih, not after telling her that Rainier was the reason for the urgent call.

Vanishing his knife, Lucivar looked at Rainier, who lay on the floor, his eyes closed, his face tight with pain. Then he looked at the two Warlords. “Can you get him to the Keep?”

They nodded. Using Craft, they lifted Rainier and gently floated him out of the eyrie.

Hallevar looked at the rest of the Warlords, then jerked a thumb toward the door.

The men bolted, no doubt glad to be clear of the anger and whatever problems were coming.

“Falonar is a Sapphire-Jeweled Warlord Prince and your second-in-command,” Hallevar said. “I trained you both when you were youngsters in the hunting camps, and that gives me some leave to speak my mind, but a Warlord Prince only tolerates so much of that.”

Lucivar just waited.

“It started with Falonar saying something about assessing Rainier’s skills, and Rainier saying he thought it was best to wait for you. Guess that didn’t sit well with Falonar because the next thing I knew, he tossed a sparring stick to Rainier and started the moves. Once you’re that far, the choice is counter the moves or get whacked. I began watching close. You’d said the Dharo Warlord Prince had been wounded in a fight and you had him here to heal and improve his skills. I don’t think you said how bad the leg was. That’s not an excuse, but I don’t think you actually said.”

“A war blade sliced through the muscles of Rainier’s leg and halfway through the bone. He was fighting a demon-dead Eyrien Warlord who had worn Jewels stronger than Opal,” Lucivar said.

“Then Rainier never had a chance.”

“No. He wasn’t supposed to have a chance. He wasn’t supposed to survive. No one who had been trapped in that spooky house was supposed to survive.”

Hallevar sighed. “I don’t know what’s wrong with Falonar lately, but I do know it’s something to do with you.”

Lucivar echoed the sigh. “Not surprising.”

“Not surprising,” Hallevar agreed. “But I think you’d best find out why.”

THREE

Lucivar and Daemon waited in one of the Keep’s sitting rooms while Jaenelle did what she could for Rainier.

Daemon had blocked him from talking to Jaenelle when they arrived at the Keep. She’d gone to the room where Rainier had been taken; Lucivar had ended up prowling a sitting room with a brother whose effort to control an icy temper was much too obvious.

“How angry is she over this?” Lucivar finally asked.

“Old son, you don’t want to ask that question,” Daemon replied softly.

“It wasn’t Rainier’s fault. Something’s been pushing at him and he’s been stupid about the leg because of it, but this wasn’t his fault.”

“He’s not the only one who has something pushing at him,” Daemon said. “I’ve been informed, discreetly, that Surreal isn’t sleeping well, is up reading or just pacing in the town house’s sitting room through the wee hours of the morning. She locked down so tightly after getting out of the spooky house, I don’t think she’s allowed herself to feel. Sooner or later that control will break.”

“And things will get messy.”

He circled the room a couple of times before Daemon said, “What’s chewing on you?”

“A lot of things, but the one bothering me the most is how she went after Falonar. Sight-shielded knife. Man sees a pissed-off woman throwing herself at him with nothing visible in her hands, he thinks of fists and flailing and angry words and boohooing. She knew that. She didn’t challenge him, didn’t square off for a fight.”

“She’s not Eyrien, and she’s not male. Surreal doesn’t play by those rules.”

“Sometimes she does,” Lucivar said. “Sometimes she’ll draw the line, and there’s no mistake she’s looking for a punch-and-roll brawl. But she wasn’t interested in giving a warning this time. She went for him, Daemon. If I hadn’t been there, she would have killed him before he’d realized that was her intent.”

“Are you sure that was the intent?”

He nodded. “If I hadn’t been swinging her away, she would have been in position to drive that knife right through his heart. Even if he realized the intent at the last moment, Sapphire shields wouldn’t have stopped a blade backed by Gray power. Didn’t stop a blade backed by the Gray.”

“Do you want to know what I’m wondering?” Daemon asked. “Surreal has a tendency to kill a man in a way that balances the harm he did to his prey. She hid a physical knife. What kind of blade was Falonar hiding—and who was it aimed at?”

Before he could think of an answer, Jaenelle walked into the room.

“Kindly inform Prince Falonar that if he gets near Prince Rainier again, I will strip his legs, muscle by muscle, until there is nothing left but skin and bone.”

Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful. The look in her eyes made Lucivar shiver, made his knees weak. This was no idle warning, no embellished expression of anger. Jaenelle meant exactly what she said, and though she no longer wore Black or Ebony Jewels, there was more than enough power in Twilight’s Dawn to deal with a Sapphire-Jeweled Warlord Prince.

Daemon rose, a deliberate move to draw her attention, for which Lucivar was grateful.

“How is Rainier?” Daemon asked.

“He tore muscles that were already held together with healing spells and spider silk, and the bone is broken all the way through,” she snapped. “How do you think he is?”

They said nothing.

Jaenelle closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. When she looked at them again, sharp temper was still there but so was the usual control. “My apologies, Prince Sadi. You don’t deserve my anger.”

“No, I don’t,” Daemon replied, “but I’m not feeling polite right now either, so I understand.”

“Rainier wants to see you. I suggest you go now. He won’t be awake much longer.”

Lucivar waited until Daemon left the room before asking, “Will Rainier be able to walk on that leg?”

Jaenelle rubbed her hands over her face. When she let her hands fall, he saw the frustration and regret in her eyes. “He’ll walk. I’m not sure he’ll be able to do more than that at this point, but he should be able to walk.”

Sorrow burned in his chest. “I’ll work with him. Whatever it takes, I’ll work with him.”

Jaenelle sank into a chair. “I meant what I said about Falonar.”

He looked at her—and remembered that some of who and what she was had also come from the Dea al Mon. “I know.”

Rainier drifted, fighting the sleep he needed, fighting the healing spells and the healing brew for a little while longer.

He heard no sound, but he felt the dark power when Daemon walked into the room and sat beside the bed.

“I feel like something that had been hidden and festering got lanced,” he said. “I know if my leg wasn’t wrapped in numbing spells, it would hurt like a wicked bitch, but I feel better. Does that make sense?”

“It makes sense to you,” Daemon said. “Maybe it’s easier to accept when there is no longer a possibility of taking up the life you had.”

“Maybe.” Was Sadi weaving a soothing spell in his voice, Rainier wondered, or was it the healing spells that made him feel like he could float on the sound?

“Would you like me to read to you?” Daemon asked.

Rainier laughed. It sounded like heavy syrup. “I’d be asleep before you read the second sentence. I don’t want to waste the offer.”

“All right. Another time, then.”

His arm was so heavy. He wasn’t sure he’d actually moved it until Daemon took his hand.

“I want to stay in Ebon Rih. Have a reason to stay now. Jaenelle won’t like me staying, so I need you to stand for me.”

“Why do you want to stay?”

Something he’d seen in Falonar’s eyes, something he’d felt when Falonar’s Sapphire and Lucivar’s Red powers had crashed into his own effort to keep himself upright, leaving him vulnerable in too many ways. “I’m not sure. . . .”

“Whatever you tell me now will stay between us,” Daemon soothed.

As I was falling, I felt Falonar ram against my inner barriers, and with all the power slamming around me, I couldn’t keep my mind shut tight, couldn’t keep everything private. Might not have been intentional. He could have been flung against me by the Red, but intentional or not, Falonar grabbed at the chance to find something, anything, I might know that he could use against Lucivar. Some secret, some weakness. The pain in my leg . . . I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to protect a confidence, so I floated a lie near the surface where it would be easy to find that Lucivar’s left ankle was badly damaged when Yaslana first came to Kaeleer, and even now it’s weak and wouldn’t support him if it received a couple of hard blows in a fight.

Did he say the words? Did he voice the suspicion of what Falonar had hoped to achieve by causing him to fall?

“Shh,” Daemon said. “Rest now. I won’t act on what you’ve told me unless I have proof that it’s true. And I’ll talk to Jaenelle so that you can stay in Ebon Rih for a while.”

Having those assurances from the Prince he served, he drifted off to sleep.

Lucivar found Falonar at Nurian’s eyrie. Not unexpected since they were lovers and she was the Healer the Eyriens around Riada and Doun came to when they were injured or ill. The Eyriens who lived in camps in the northern end of the valley complained about having to see one of the Rihlander Healers in Agio because there wasn’t another Eyrien Healer in Ebon Rih, but there wasn’t anything he could do about that. He would have accepted another Healer if one had been willing to sign a contract with him and had the disposition needed to settle comfortably in Kaeleer, but Nurian had been the only one who had been willing to settle in Ebon Rih and live under the rule of a man most Eyriens still thought of as a half-breed bastard despite his bloodlines.

She looked tired. That wasn’t unexpected either, considering the number of people who had become ill recently, but he didn’t think the strain he saw in her face was due to fatigue.

Falonar was settled in her parlor, his left arm shielded and wrapped to protect the fragile, newly healed muscle and skin. He looked comfortable, but his eyes were yellow stones filled with anger.

“Will the Dharo man prance again?” Falonar asked.

“No,” Lucivar replied. “But we’re hopeful he’ll walk on that leg again. You should be hoping that too, because if he can’t walk, neither will you.”

“Is that a threat, Yaslana?”

No title, no courtesy in the voice. More and more, Falonar seemed to be forgetting who ruled and who served.

“That, Prince Falonar, is the message from an enraged Queen drawing a line and stating what the blood debt will be for damage done to one of her court.”

Falonar paled. “There is no court. Hasn’t been one for almost two years.”

Lucivar huffed out a laugh. “You be sure to explain that to Witch while she’s stripping all the muscle out of your legs.”

Falonar paled even more.

“Stay away from Rainier. You won’t get another warning. And if the Queen has a reason to go after you, you won’t find anyone strong enough to stand in her way who will stand in her way. Is that clear?”

“As clear as what passes for Eyrien honor here.”

Ah. Lucivar gave Falonar a lazy, arrogant smile. “So let’s hear what passed for Eyrien honor in Terreille.”

Falonar exploded out of the chair.

Lucivar waited, watching the other man’s eyes.

“We’re Eyriens who aren’t allowed to be Eyriens,” Falonar snarled. “We should rule this valley instead of having to pretend that the Rihlanders are our equals. These mountains should be filled with our kind, but there are less than two hundred Eyriens in Ebon Rih.”

“The others who came through the service fair had no interest in living in Ebon Rih,” Lucivar said.

“No, they had no interest in living under you. Instead of having a new life, they chose to go back to misery rather than serve you. The only thing you honor about our race is our fighting skills and what we can do on a killing field. You’ve cast aside everything else and expect us to accept that, swallow that.”

Well, that’s interesting. Lucivar shifted his expression into puzzlement. “What else is there beyond what was learned in the hunting camps?”

“Our traditions, our customs, our heritage! You send Jillian to school to learn what? Nothing Eyrien.”

“Last time I looked, Eyriens can read the same words and tally the same numbers as Rihlanders or Dhemlans.”

“What about our history?”

Now, that was a sore spot, since Eyrien history was something he wanted Daemonar to learn. “There aren’t any storytellers who can teach the youngsters the old stories,” Lucivar said with genuine regret.

“There were some who came to Kaeleer, but none who would come here,” Falonar said bitterly.

“That was their decision.”

“So you’ll condemn the rest of us instead of making an honorable choice?”

“Meaning what?”

“No matter what you say, there is no longer a Queen ruling Ebon Askavi, which means you’re no longer bound by any contract to that Queen. Give up Ebon Rih. Let it go to another leader Eyriens will follow. Let us build a life here, an Eyrien life. And if you won’t think of the rest of us, think of your own son. Is he going to grow up as an Eyrien or as a Rihlander with wings?”

“And I suppose you, as the leader the other Eyriens will follow, would make sure he was treated as a young man from an aristo family and not the son of a half-breed bastard?”

He saw the truth in Falonar’s eyes.

“Your family is wealthy.” Falonar spit out the words. “You can live anywhere. Do something for your people. Go live elsewhere and let us have Askavi.”

Lucivar smiled. “Funny how all of a sudden you become my people when you want something that would be convenient for you and give me nothing in return. No, Falonar. I am where I choose to live. As for the other Eyriens living in Ebon Rih? I was here first. And the Eyriens who were in this valley before me? They were my uncle and my cousin and the men who served them.”

Falonar stared at him for a long time, then said bitterly, “The only Eyrien thing about you is your wings.”

As Lucivar walked to the door, he tossed back, “My mother would have been pleased to hear you say that.”

FOUR

When a man’s ability to move was severely limited, being in a room with Surreal all day was unnerving, especially when her mood kept swinging from being oversolicitous to looking like she’d explode if she didn’t rip apart everything in the room. Since he was one of the things in the room, Rainier felt giddy relief when Jaenelle ordered Surreal to take her own walk and rest period.

Then Jaenelle worked on his leg, weaving her healing spells around and through the broken bone and severed muscle. Satisfied that, this time, he had done exactly what he’d been told to do, she had given him permission to sit downstairs this evening and have the passive company of Merry and Briggs’s customers.

Wasn’t much of a trade in some ways, since Merry was keeping as sharp an eye on him as Surreal had done, but the difference in personalities made him feel easier. Besides, Merry had plenty of other people to look after—and didn’t look like she wanted to rip out everyone’s throat.

Rainier sat at a table with his left leg resting on cushions that floated on air and enough shields around that part of the table to barricade a whole house—and none of those shields were his. Still, he was happy to be around other people for a while and concerned that Surreal was taking another walk to work off more temper—and he wondered if there was some way for him to find out if there was a problem in Ebon Rih or if Lucivar had a problem with just one man.

Lucivar prowled the sitting room at the Keep. He’d spent the day trying to figure out whom he could talk to who would just let him talk. Marian would have listened, but he didn’t want to share this with her. Not yet. Not when it might change how she felt or acted around some of the other Eyriens.

So he’d come to the Keep, wishing he could have talked to his uncle Andulvar, or even Prothvar, but finally choosing the man he hoped could understand.

“I’m not leaving Ebon Rih for any prick-ass’s benefit,” he said, “but Falonar was right about some things.” He braced when his father rose from the chair where Saetan had sat silently and passively while Lucivar recounted his discussion with the other Eyrien Warlord Prince. But the High Lord just settled on the wide arm of the big stuffed chair and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Was he?” Saetan asked blandly.

Hell’s fire. He’d asked—no, demanded—to be allowed to talk without having to deal with someone else’s anger, but this blandness in face and voice hid too much, giving him no clue to Saetan’s thoughts or temper.

“What, exactly, was he right about?” Saetan asked.

Lucivar bristled. Couldn’t stop himself. “Look, I didn’t want to deal with anger, but I didn’t say you couldn’t express an opinion.”

“As long as it’s expressed politely?”

He swore savagely. “I was hoping you would understand.”

“I do,” Saetan said, his voice still viciously bland. “Better, I think, than you do at this moment.”

Lucivar snapped to a stop and looked into Saetan’s eyes. Something there, something that warned him that he could hear nothing or he could hear it all.

“Stop that.” If he had to submit to a scolding, he was not going to listen to it delivered in that bland, no-balls voice—not from this man.

Saetan’s gold eyes filled with sharp amusement. “Would you prefer a whack upside the head? It’s what you would have gotten from your uncle.”

“Why?”

The bland expression vanished, which wasn’t a relief because now Saetan’s face held the look of a family patriarch annoyed with one of his offspring. Not angry, not threatening, just annoyed enough that if Lucivar had been younger, Saetan would have grabbed him by the scruff of the neck as a warning to pay attention and think.

“Point by point, then,” Saetan said. “There are about two hundred Eyriens in Ebon Rih. How many of them are you supporting?”

“I can afford it,” he mumbled, not sure how much trouble he was in, but certain he was in trouble. “Besides, they work for me.”

“Do they? It’s been two years since the last service fair, two years since the last contracts were signed that were part of the emigration requirements to live in Kaeleer.”

“No,” Lucivar said quickly, “there were a handful this past summer.”

“Eyrien women who have young children and were desperate enough and determined enough to leave what they had known. They didn’t come through the service fairs, since those fairs no longer exist. They came to the Keep in Terreille, asking for help. And Draca asked you to consider adding them to the women living in the mountains near Doun. Which you did. How many other Eyriens who signed contracts with you are still under contract?”

Not sure he liked where this was going, he shrugged. “They’re still serving.”

“Are they? Being a dark-Jeweled Warlord Prince, Falonar has to serve for five years in order to remain in Kaeleer after the contract is completed. The others, not being of that caste and not wearing dark Jewels, have fulfilled that obligation and are free to live elsewhere now.”

“If a Queen will permit them to live in her territory.”

Saetan tipped his head in agreement. “I think some of those men have already talked to Eyriens who accepted service contracts with Rihlander Queens and have discovered that those Queens are not intimidated by Eyriens or impressed by aggression and arrogance, that those Queens are not going to pay them to sit on a mountain scratching each other’s asses while complaining about the ruler they are supposed to serve.”

Lucivar took a step back. It still shocked him when his father expressed an opinion so crudely. It would have sounded natural if Andulvar had said it, but Saetan? No. And that crudeness focused his attention as nothing else could have.

“How many are still under contract to you, Lucivar?”

“I’m not sure.”

A flash of anger, like a flash of lightning, filled the room.

He waited to hear the thunder, waited for the gauge that would tell him how close the storm was—and how violent.

The silence that followed scared him because it indicated an anger too deep to gauge.

“Andulvar didn’t like paperwork any more than you do, but he knew every man who served him directly. Contracts were a formality. He didn’t need those pieces of paper to know who served and who didn’t, who was loyal and who wasn’t, who lived by the Blood’s code of honor and who didn’t. He knew—and so do you.”

Lucivar swallowed hard. “Except for the women I took in last summer, Falonar is the only one who hasn’t fulfilled the full contract.”

“Then he and those women are the only ones who should be receiving anything from your share of Ebon Rih’s tithes—if they’re fulfilling the tasks you’ve assigned them as their part of the bargain. The others should be informed that they have fulfilled their agreement and are free to live elsewhere. If they want to remain in Ebon Rih, and you’re still willing to let them live here, they will have to find work to support themselves. If they want to work for you, and receive wages from you, and have a skill that you want for the Eyrien community in your keeping, they will stand before you and witnesses and make a formal, binding pledge of loyalty for whatever amount of time you specify. They will do this according to Eyrien tradition, understanding that the penalties of breaking that loyalty also will follow Eyrien tradition. And yes, Prince, that does mean execution. And yes, there were times when Andulvar had to hold up that part of Eyrien honor.”

Lucivar wanted to pace, but that storm of temper could still come down on him, so he didn’t move. “I can’t cut them loose like that. They’re just starting to build a life.” He wasn’t thinking of the men. Not most of them, anyway. But the women? And what about men like Hallevar and Tamnar? What would they do to support themselves sufficiently?

“Eyriens prefer plain speaking, so I’ll speak plainly,” Saetan said quietly. “The reason most of the Eyriens who are now settled in Askavi Kaeleer came here was to escape the control of Prythian and all the corrupted Queens who followed her lead. Well, Prythian and those Queens and everyone who was tainted by them are gone. Dead. Destroyed. Purged from all the Realms. If the Eyriens living in Ebon Rih don’t like the boundaries that are set by the Queens in Kaeleer, they can return to Askavi Terreille and take up their old lives.”

“Would there be anything left of their old lives?”

“I don’t know. The point is, they could go back to Askavi Terreille and build the life they seem to think would be so much better than what they have here. I’ll open the Gate myself to accommodate them. But if they’re going to stay here, it’s time for them to start living in Kaeleer instead of expecting the Shadow Realm to change into the same, but more advantageous, place they left.”

Lucivar started pacing. He needed to argue and push because it was helping him see some things he hadn’t considered, but he was nervous about what might swing back at him if he argued and pushed.

When has knowing there was a price ever stopped you? “Two hundred Eyriens living in the mountains around a valley this size isn’t a lot.”

“How many Eyriens do you think usually lived in the land owned by the Keep?” Saetan asked, his voice laced with amused curiosity.

Lucivar stopped pacing. Wherever this discussion was going, it was going to bite him in the ass. He just knew it. “Falonar indicated two hundred are a lot less Eyriens than there should be. If I wasn’t the one ruling here, more would settle in the valley. In Terreille there were courts and hunting camps and communities of Eyriens in the mountains. Hell’s fire. Marian used to live in the Black Valley before she came to Kaeleer. So I know Falonar is right about that—there were hundreds, even thousands, of Eyriens living in the mountains around this valley.”

“Yes, there were. In Terreille,” Saetan said, his voice now filled with an amusement that could, in a heartbeat, turn cuttingly sharp. “My darling, you and Falonar have both missed a step in your education.”

Shit.

“Eyriens are not native to Kaeleer. The Rihlanders are Askavi’s native race in the Shadow Realm. The only reason there have ever been Eyriens living in these mountains, the only reason you are now living in an eyrie Andulvar had built for himself, was that during the time when Andulvar served Cassandra, a winged race was attacking Rihlander villages in the northern parts of Askavi. He was assigned to take care of the problem, and he and the Eyrien warriors who served under him went out and fought the Jhinka and established the line between what was considered Jhinka territory and what belonged to the Rihlanders. In thanks, the Rihlander Queens in Ebon Rih invited him and his men to establish homes in the mountains around the Keep. Which Andulvar did because, even though he ended up being the Warlord Prince of Askavi in both Realms, he liked what he found in Askavi Kaeleer a lot more than what he’d left behind as a youth in Askavi Terreille. So no matter what Falonar may think, there has never been more than two or three communities of Eyriens living in Ebon Rih. Ever.”

Lucivar shifted his weight from one foot to the other. It made sense. A hunting camp was usually paired with a court or a community. When he’d first made the decision to accept Eyriens into service, he’d scouted the mountains for other suitable eyries and found them in the mountains near the Rihlander villages. But now that he thought about those places being occupied, he realized there weren’t many of those old eyries that were still empty, and the ones that were tended to be isolated, more like overnight camps instead of homes.

“The valley below us belongs to the Keep in all three Realms,” Saetan said. “It always has; it always will. You were given Ebon Rih to rule on behalf of the Queen of Ebon Askavi. You were given the responsibility to watch over the land and the people who live here, whether they were landens or Rihlanders or Eyriens. When you made the pledge to defend and protect, you not only made it to the living Queen you served; you made it to the Keep and those who serve the Keep. Which is why you still rule here even though Jaenelle is no longer a ruling Queen.” He pushed up from the chair and ran his fingers through his hair, the first sign of exasperation he’d shown. “What is actually going on here, Lucivar? Do you trust Falonar so much that you’ve missed something obvious?”

Right now he didn’t trust Falonar at all, but that wouldn’t be a wise thing to say to his father—or his brother, for that matter. “Like what?”

“A challenge?”

Lucivar huffed out a laugh. “He’s arrogant, not stupid. He couldn’t survive me on a killing field.”

“But he is an aristo Warlord Prince who served in a less-than-honorable court. Was he free to leave, or would he have been considered a rogue when he left Prythian’s court and slipped in with the other Eyriens to try his luck at the service fair?”

“He said he couldn’t stomach what he was ordered to do,” Lucivar said. “I assumed he was rogue, but I didn’t care.”

“A man who lived by traditional Eyrien honor would have cared,” Saetan said. “Or at least cared about why a man broke an oath of loyalty.”

Snarling at the truth of that, Lucivar resumed pacing.

“So Falonar appeals to your sense of honor and tries to get you to give up your claim to Ebon Rih for ‘the good of the other Eyriens.’ What do you think would happen if you did step down?”

“Falonar would step in and become the next Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih and rule the valley in traditional Eyrien fashion.” And blood would be shed up and down the valley. The Rihlanders here, Blood and landen, wouldn’t tolerate the presence of another race who expected them to be accommodating, especially when accommodating meant becoming little better than slaves.

“If you step down, there will be no Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih,” Saetan said. “If you leave Ebon Rih, no one at the Keep will deny Falonar’s claim to being the leader of the Eyriens living in the valley, but the Rihlander villages here will have no duty to him. There will be no tithes to support him or his followers, because he will have no right to that income. He may be considered an equal to the Queens who rule the Blood villages, but not their superior. He would not be permitted to glut this land with Eyriens who can’t support themselves, and he certainly wouldn’t be permitted to bring in more warriors, because the number of warriors already here is sufficient to help the Rihlanders defend this land and its people.”

“And if he did try to bring in more?”

Saetan gave him a long stare before saying softly, “Don’t underestimate what guards the Keep, Lucivar.”

He heard the warning. Oh, yes, he heard the warning.

“I will give Falonar two points,” Saetan said. “First, you aren’t thinking like an Eyrien when it comes to the Eyriens in Ebon Rih. Who would you want with you on a battleground, Prince Yaslana? Who would you want supporting those men? Whose skills are useful? Who should be dismissed because they’re only extra weight? No one has reminded you of those completed contracts because they would have had to earn their living instead of expecting you to provide them with everything they want simply because you agreed to give them a chance to live in the territory you rule. They aren’t your children. Since you have sense enough not to spoil your own son, don’t spoil them. Give them a choice to stay or go, because the ones who can’t give you loyalty are no use to you in a fight—or in a healthy community.”

“Could I release Falonar from his contract?” Lucivar asked.

“If he wants to return to Terreille, you could forgive the rest of his contract. If he wants to stay in Kaeleer but no longer can serve you honorably, his contract could be transferred to a Queen of sufficient rank—meaning one who wears a Red Jewel or darker—who is willing to have an Eyrien Warlord Prince in her court.”

“I won’t let him serve Karla,” Lucivar said. She wasn’t the only Queen who wore Jewels darker than Sapphire, but after what Falonar did to Rainier, he wasn’t going to let the man near the Queen of Glacia and her weakened legs. “What’s the second thing?”

“People didn’t stop dying two years ago. Those who made the transition to demon-dead didn’t stop coming to Hell, didn’t stop wanting a last chance to take care of unfinished business.”

“So?”

“Come with me.”

He followed Saetan to the private part of the Keep’s huge library. On the blackwood table was a wooden box with a dozen audio crystals nestled in heavy silk.

Saetan put one of the crystals in the brass stand and used Craft to engage the sounds held in the crystal.

Andulvar’s voice. Lucivar’s chest ached. Hell’s fire, he missed his uncle. Saetan’s love and discipline and code of honor had shaped the core of who he was, but Andulvar, by being Andulvar, had shaped his sense of what it meant to be Eyrien.

How could he have forgotten that?

Then he focused on the words and gasped. “Stories?”

“Some stories,” Saetan replied. “Some legends as he was taught them. Some accounts of battles he was in. Prothvar has some stories and accounts of battles on a couple of those crystals too. And then there are these.” Returning that audio crystal to its place in the box, he called in another crystal and put it in the stand.

Lucivar didn’t recognize the voice, but he knew what he was hearing. “How? Where?”

“A historian storyteller from Askavi Terreille. He made the transition to demon-dead a couple of weeks ago. When he came to the Dark Realm, his main regret was that he had no apprentice while he walked among the living, had no one to learn the stories, and he worried that no one would remember what Askavi had been like before the purging, that the most recent history would be lost. So I showed him what Andulvar and I had done over the course of several winters.”

“He’s doing the same thing now?” Lucivar asked. “Recording the stories of Eyrien history so they won’t be forgotten?”

“Yes. If someone was interested in becoming the historian storyteller in your community, meetings could be arranged and held at the Keep.”

Maybe the storyteller could have an apprentice after all before he returned to the Darkness.

Saetan called in a thick sheaf of papers, carefully bound. He handed it to Lucivar. “Eyriens don’t have a lot of use for books, but I had all of Andulvar’s stories transcribed. I made two copies. One copy and the audio crystals will remain here in the Keep’s library, available to scholars and our family. The copy you’re holding is a gift from your uncle, and you may do with it as you please.”

“Thank you.” His throat was so tight it was hard to swallow. “I’ve let some things slide for the past couple of years. There were reasons for it, but now that needs to change.”

“Yes, it does. And there will be some who won’t like that change.”

Lucivar put a shield around the bound pages to keep them protected, then vanished them. “I’d better go. I promised Jaenelle I would tuck in Surreal and Rainier tonight, since they’ll both be resuming their training tomorrow.”

“You’re going to put a weapon in Surreal’s hands?” Saetan looked mildly alarmed. “Are you going to shield your balls?”

He laughed. “Damn right, I am.”

He headed for the library’s door. Saetan stayed at the table.

“Lucivar?”

He looked back.

“The next time someone tries to manipulate your heart by saying you don’t know Eyrien tradition, you remind that person that you follow Eyrien traditions that are far older than anything he could possibly know. Because, my darling, that is true. Andulvar was proud of you, as a man and as an Eyrien warrior. Does anyone else’s opinion really matter?”

Glancing up from the solitary card game he’d been playing, Rainier saw one of the younger Eyrien Warlords standing in The Tavern’s doorway, scanning the room.

Endar. Had a wife and two children—and lived with them, which, he’d gathered, was atypical in Eyrien society.

Despite what Lucivar sometimes said about his little beast, Rainier couldn’t imagine Yaslana living apart from his family, coming to the family eyrie for only an hour to see his children or have sex with his wife. Couldn’t imagine Yaslana tolerating that separation.

As Endar approached his table, he saw Merry start to veer from the table she’d been heading toward.

*It’s all right,* Rainier told her. *I’d like to know why he’s come.*

She turned again so smoothly, he doubted anyone else would have realized anything had happened.

“Prince Rainier,” Endar said when he reached the table.

“Lord Endar.”

Endar pointed at another chair. “May I?”

“Please do.”

An awkward silence. Then Merry appeared and said, “I know what Prince Rainier is allowed to drink. What would you like?”

Hasn’t been in The Tavern before, Rainier thought as he watched Endar stumble over a simple request for ale.

“I guess your training is done now,” Endar said.

Rainier shook his head. “We report to Prince Yaslana tomorrow morning to resume training.”

“I mean no disrespect, but what can you do right now?”

“I think my part of the training tomorrow consists of standing, walking a few steps, and bending my knee a few times to help stretch the muscles Lady Angelline is rebuilding. Yaslana’s part of the training is pounding on me if I do anything stupid.”

“He wouldn’t hurt an injured man,” Endar protested.

Yes, he would. “I’d rather feel Lucivar’s fist than my Healer’s fury.”

“Ah.” Endar took a couple of swallows of ale, then set the mug aside and called in four books. He looked embarrassed. Almost ashamed. “Since you need to rest that leg so much while it’s healing, I thought you might find these useful.”

Setting the cards down, Rainier checked the title of each book. He’d read all of them, but he wasn’t going to say that, since it was clear it hadn’t been easy for Endar to bring them or admit to owning them. “Thank you. These will help pass the time.”

Surreal walked through the door and the chatter in the room stumbled before picking up the rhythm again. As she approached their table, he noticed how much Endar tensed, how ready the man was to take up a defensive position. Couldn’t blame him. Not after her attack on Falonar.

“Surreal, darling, Endar kindly loaned me some books. Could you take them up to my room so they’ll be safe?”

By the time she’d unbuttoned her heavy coat, he knew she’d assessed his visitor, and his ease with the Eyrien, and understood what the loan of those books meant.

“Sure,” she said, taking the books. “You want anything from your room while I’m up there?”

“No, thanks.”

When she walked away, Endar gulped in a breath, then gulped some ale. Rainier picked up his cards and resumed his game.

Endar watched for a bit.

“I’ve played every card game I know more times than I care to consider,” Rainier said. “Do you know any?”

“Betting games, you mean?”

He shook his head. “The healing brews I have to drink are strong enough to give me a muzzy head.”

“Well, there is hawks and hares. But it’s a children’s card game.”

Rainier smiled. “I could handle that. I think.”

Endar called in a different deck of cards. “I keep them with me,” he mumbled as he shuffled the cards. “To distract the little ones when Dorian needs some peace.”

Rainier said nothing, just absorbed all the messages under and around the words.

Lucivar walked into The Tavern, glanced at the table ringed by Eyriens, and reached the bar just as Surreal lifted the tray of drinks and went off to tend a couple of tables.

“The way she kept staring at everyone, folks were afraid to come up and order a drink,” Briggs said, standing on the other side of the bar. “Merry suggested that she look after a few tables while she was keeping an eye on things, and she agreed—and promised not to poison anyone’s drink. She was joking about that, wasn’t she?”

“If Surreal promised not to poison anyone tonight, she won’t.”

Briggs stared at him. “You want ale?”

“I’d rather have a very large whiskey, but I’ll take coffee if you have it. It’s my night to give the little beast his bath, so I’ll need my reflexes sharp beforehand and the whiskey after.”

Laughing, Briggs went to fetch him a large mug of coffee.

Leaning against the bar, he idly watched Rainier and Endar playing some kind of game, encouraged by Hallevar, Kohlvar, Zaranar, and Rothvar.

“Endar showed up first,” Surreal said, setting a tray of dirty glasses on the bar. “Loaned Rainier four books. I gathered reading isn’t a shameful activity if a warrior is so badly injured there isn’t much else he can do.”

Lucivar winced at the sharp edge in her voice.

“The others showed up a little while ago.”

“I’m surprised they aren’t entertaining Falonar,” he said.

She huffed out a breath. “Nothing has been said—at least nothing I heard while moving around the tables—but I have the impression they’re all feeling uneasy about what Falonar did. They haven’t criticized him openly. . . .”

“But they’re here tonight, giving Rainier company,” he finished. Showing support and indicating they saw Rainier as one of their own instead of being with the leader who hadn’t taken care of an injured man.

“I haven’t heard Rainier laugh this much since before we walked into that damn spooky house.”

Lucivar narrowed his eyes. He hated feeling suspicious about men he liked, but the Eyriens hadn’t made much effort to get to know the people of Riada. “How much has Rainier lost? And how much has he had to drink?”

“It’s not a betting game,” Surreal replied. “Some game called hawks and hares.”

Children’s card game. Daemonar was just learning to play it.

“And his so-called muzzy head, which might be somewhat genuine, is a result of Jaenelle’s healing brews. They’ve also sneaked him sips of ale. Not much, and within the limits Jaenelle told Merry he was allowed to have.”

He let the play continue while he drank his coffee and ate the sandwich Merry put in front of him. Then he waited until Hallevar looked his way. He made a twirling motion with one finger.

“Last hand, boys,” Hallevar said loudly enough to carry back to the bar. “We all need to get some rest.”

The only man who didn’t glance his way was Rainier, who studied the cards in his hand with heightened intensity. It was so like Daemonar’s response to the first “bedtime” call, Lucivar almost laughed out loud.

He wasn’t sure if Endar deliberately lost that round to finish up quickly, or if Surreal was right and Rainier was nowhere near as muzzy-headed as he was allowing people to think, but the game ended fairly soon after and the Eyriens departed, making a point of thanking Merry and Briggs for the hospitality.

“Do I have to go upstairs now?” Rainier asked woefully.

“It’s bath night.”

“I don’t need help taking a bath.”

“No, but my boy does.”

“Ah.”

Rainier shifted his left leg. Merry and Surreal rushed toward the table. Lucivar gave them both a look that had them pulling up short.

“Give the man some room,” he said firmly.

Two pairs of female eyes narrowed at him.

Ah, shit. “Do not give me any sass.”

The eyes narrowed a little more.

*Can we get out of this room, please?* Rainier asked, studying the women.

*Yes, if you make some effort.*

He got Rainier upright and felt those eyes watch him until they reached the stairs that led up to the rooms.

Since Rainier cooperated, it didn’t take long to get him settled for the night. Sitting beside the bed, Lucivar called in a jar of ointment.

“What’s that?” Rainier asked.

“Healing salve.” After putting a tight shield around his hands, Lucivar scooped out a generous amount of salve and began smoothing it over Rainier’s left leg from hip to knee.

“I can do that.”

“Not tonight, you can’t. Right now, Jaenelle wants someone else getting a careful feel of those muscles, and that someone is me.”

Rainier said nothing for a few minutes, letting him focus on the leg. The ointment was laced with spells—warming spell, numbing spell, he didn’t know how many others. His fingers carefully followed the lines of muscles, feeling a ridge at the spot where they were originally severed and then repaired so many times.

“Lucivar?”

“Hmm?”

“Is there any honorable work a young Eyrien male can do except fighting? Or does he have to be permanently wounded badly enough to be a liability in a fight before he can do something else without shame?”

Lifting his hand from Rainier’s leg, Lucivar gave the other man a long look. “Why do you ask?”

“Nothing certain. Just impressions.”

“You were Second Circle in the Dark Court at Ebon Askavi, and you’re an observant man.”

Rainier took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I had the impression that Endar was trying to find out how serious this leg injury is. What I could no longer do. He doesn’t like being a guard. He doesn’t like the bloodshed that comes in a fight. I gathered that’s a shameful thing for an Eyrien male to feel. Would he fight to defend his family? Without hesitation or question. But he doesn’t like it as his work, and he’s afraid to say anything because he likes living here and his wife likes living here. If someone can’t offer him a way to keep his standing with other Eyriens, I think the day might come when he drops his guard during one of the workouts, quite by accident, and receives a blow that will make him a cripple who has to do some other kind of work.”

Lucivar resumed smoothing the salve over Rainier’s leg. “Did you get any impression about what kind of work he might want to do?”

“No. The other Eyriens came in at that point, and he shied away from the subject.”

“I’m going to be looking for a teacher. Someone for the Eyrien youngsters. Someone who can teach them reading and writing and their sums, as well as Eyrien history and basic Protocol.”

“Basically the same initial education as any child in Kaeleer, with the history and traditions specific to a race.”

“Yes.”

“Fighting?”

“Hallevar is arms master. He’ll take care of that part of the education.” If he stays. “Haven’t worked out how it will be done, but it’s going to be done.”

He could almost feel Rainier putting the information together.

“This isn’t common knowledge yet?” Rainier asked.

Lucivar shook his head. “Not for a few more days.”

“But if a particular person were to ask my opinion about a possible alternative to being a guard?”

“You could mention that you’d heard I was looking for a teacher.”

He left Rainier a few minutes later and went into the bathroom. He washed the salve off his shielded hands and then, dropping the shield, washed his hands again. Then he tapped on the other door.

“It’s open,” Surreal said.

He walked into her room and stopped, feeling his heart kick once.

Short blades, long blades, slim blades and double-edged. Even an Eyrien hunting knife she’d probably had Kohlvar make for her the last time she’d stayed in Ebon Rih.

Her gold-green eyes were focused on him as her hands unerringly stroked a blade over the whetstone. There was something terrifyingly erotic about watching Surreal hone her blades.

“You won’t need those tomorrow,” he said.

She just smiled.

Because of what he saw in her eyes, he didn’t get near her. That was simply caution. He could meet her in a fight and win. They both knew it. He also knew he needed to talk to Daemon very soon.

He could meet her in a fight and win. But outside of a fight, he wasn’t sure what to do with a Gray-Jeweled witch who might be drifting too close to the borders of the Twisted Kingdom.

FIVE

Surreal set two plates on the table, then poured two cups of coffee and took a seat.

Rainier studied the chunks of chicken and ham on top of a generous portion of casserole. “Didn’t Merry serve this casserole for dinner last night?”

“It has eggs, so today it’s a breakfast casserole. Toast?” Her sharp smile told him what he could do with his next comment about the casserole.

He took a piece of toast and dug in to his meal.

They’d gone down to the coffee shop and bakery every morning, so having breakfast in The Tavern’s main room felt strange. Then again, a lot of things had felt strange lately. When Endar and the other Eyriens came to see Rainier, she’d been ready to fight, almost needed to fight.

But there was no reason to fight, because Endar, Hallevar, and the other men had been making an effort to help Rainier, working with him, even being protective of him as he began exercising the damaged leg.

Feeling easier about Rainier after that first workout, she thought she’d gotten over whatever was riding her temper. Then Jillian showed up yesterday morning. The teacher was sick. School was canceled. Lucivar let the girl stay to be her partner with the sparring sticks, having Endar stand as their instructor.

Nothing wrong with Endar. He was a gentle man with an abundance of patience. But she saw him raise a sparring stick and step toward Jillian—which was what he was supposed to do because he’d been demonstrating a move—and she almost attacked him, almost gutted him.

She’d have to talk to Jaenelle before she did something that couldn’t be undone. It was possible there was some unexpected residue from the poisoning. Maybe the poison, and the illness that followed, had stirred up memories that plagued her dreams but disappeared by morning, leaving her feeling tired and vulnerable.

But today there were simpler problems to face.

“I think we should run The Tavern,” she said. “Merry is down with that stomach upset, and Briggs bolted upstairs at the first whiff of food.”

“You’re going to cook?” Rainier asked. “Not that you can’t, but Merry usually makes a significant amount of food for a day.”

“And we won’t. I’ll see what’s left over from yesterday. We can make sandwiches, maybe a soup. And serve drinks and coffee. Anyone who wants more can go somewhere else. You could settle yourself on that stool Briggs keeps behind the bar for the slow times. I’ll wait on the tables.”

“We should check with Lucivar.” Rainier glanced up as the door opened.

“Go away. We’re not open yet,” Surreal snapped without looking around to see who had come in.

“You’re not open yet?” Lucivar asked as he walked up to their table and looked at Rainier. “And what do you need to check with me?”

Shit shit shit. “Merry and Briggs are down with that disgusting stomach illness,” she said. “Instead of them losing a day’s business as well as feeling miserable, I thought Rainier and I could run the place for them.”

“Well, having the two of you running things would either scare away all the customers or bring in a crowd to watch the show,” Lucivar said.

Choosing to ignore him because he was right, she ate a neat bite of her breakfast.

“We could open late, after the day’s training,” Rainier said.

“No training today,” Lucivar said. “That’s what I came to tell you.”

“Is there a reason for that?” Surreal asked.

“Yes, there is.”

She glanced at Rainier. Something going on here, and Rainier knows what it is. Or at least knows some of it.

“Marian’s making a couple of soups this morning,” Lucivar said. “If you bring a pot and the supplies up to the eyrie, I think she’d be willing to make a pot for you to serve here.”

“All right.”

Rainier called in a leather case similar to the ones Daemon and Lord Marcus, his man of business, used when conveying documents.

“I reviewed them and sorted them as you asked,” Rainier said. “And confirmed what you already knew.”

“Thanks.” Lucivar vanished the leather case and gave Rainier a sharp look. “Daemon should be at the Keep by now. He and I have something to discuss. Then he’ll be coming here to talk to you.”

“Why? I haven’t done anything to annoy him.”

“I know you haven’t,” Lucivar said.

“I haven’t done anything either,” Surreal said primly.

“Don’t push your luck. You, I’m not sure of.”

She laughed, more to encourage him to leave than because she was amused.

The moment he did leave, she leaned toward Rainier. “What’s going on? He’s been flying all over the valley and hasn’t been focused on any of the workouts except yours.”

“And yours,” Rainier said. “He flies around the valley all the time, keeping tabs on the Rihlander villages and the Eyrien camps.”

She shrugged that off. “This is different. Obviously he asked you to do some paperwork for him, quietly. And now Sadi has arrived for an early-morning meeting—and Marian is making a lot of soup, which means she wants something easy that she can offer to a lot of guests.”

They studied each other. She didn’t want him to break a confidence, but she’d seen the same thing that he had during the workouts over the past couple of days: The Eyrien males around Riada seemed to be dividing between two leaders instead of understanding that there was one leader and his second-in-command.

“Let’s just say, for now, that it’s a good thing we’ll be running The Tavern for Merry and Briggs,” Rainier said.

“So we’re all going to find out today?”

“Yes.”

Well, won’t that be interesting?

Lucivar watched Daemon tap the thick stack of contracts back into a neat pile. “When it was just me and the Rihlanders, I knew what I was supposed to be. I stood for Blood law and honor. I drew the line and defended it. But this?” He blew out a breath. “I’m not sure about this.”

Daemon poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot Draca had provided. “You’re making this difficult, Prick, when it’s really quite simple. You’re the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih. You rule this territory. And now you’re going to fulfill one of your obligations to the Eyriens who live in your territory by completing the last step in the service contracts they signed with you. And Lucivar? You still stand for Blood law and honor—and you’re still drawing the line and defending it.”

“Even today?”

“Especially today. Once you make your announcement, you’ll have a good idea of who is staying, who is going, who you can trust, and who should never see your back. The ones who think you’re a good leader and want the kind of life and community you’re offering will be pissed off when you toss these papers at them. They’ll be the first to want to talk, and they won’t be polite.”

“Eyriens rarely are,” Lucivar said with a grim smile.

“That’s the first group, the equivalent of your First Circle. The second group is going to be shocked by the possibility that they’ll be cut loose and might have to serve someone who isn’t Eyrien or go back to Terreille. They’ll realize they do like it here and want to stay, and they’ll make some effort to prove it to you. There also will be the ones who aren’t ballsy enough to come to you personally but will seek advice from someone you trust.

“The women will be different,” Daemon continued. “They’ll come to your home when they’re fairly sure that Marian will be around. Easier to talk to you there. Again, the ones who want to stay will make an effort to talk to you quickly. Even the ones who don’t want to work for you but want to stay in Ebon Rih will come and talk soon.”

“If they want to live here, why not work for me?”

Daemon looked amused and exasperated. “Some of them might prefer to pay you a tithe and run their own businesses—and possibly make a better income than what you can provide. Do you resent Merry for running her own business and paying a tithe instead of working for you?”

“No. But she doesn’t pay a tithe to me. She pays it to Lady Shayne’s court.”

“The point,” Daemon said pointedly, “is that Merry and Briggs don’t serve in anyone’s court; they work for themselves, because that’s what they want to do.”

When it was put that way, he wondered how many of the Eyrien women had been waiting to be safely cut loose in order to try out their own ambitions.

“After my chat with Rainier, I’ll come back to the Keep and be available if you need any help.”

“Thanks.” Lucivar blew out a breath. “Guess I’d best get on with it.”

“Good luck, Prick.”

Leaving the Keep, Lucivar flew to the communal eyrie. He’d spent the past couple of days looking at the Eyrien camps or, in the case of the women, the settlement tucked low in the mountains near Doun. He’d looked every man in the eye as he would if he was deciding if a man was an ally or an adversary. The women were harder, because most weren’t easy around men, but he’d gotten a sense of them too. There were some men he hoped would stay—and some he would encourage to leave Ebon Rih and go all the way back to Terreille.

Rainier studied the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan and wished he had some idea what Daemon wanted to discuss.

Not much use to him, am I?

Daemon had been paying for his living expenses since the night he’d been injured. But he couldn’t expect Sadi to carry him forever. Didn’t want to be supported forever. He just didn’t know yet what he could do to earn a living.

“Lucivar says the leg is healing,” Daemon said. “That’s good.”

“I guess it took me a while to understand some things.” That pity can be as crippling as a physical wound, for one thing. And after being shown what he had survived, I understand why no one gets pity from Lucivar.

“And now that you understand those things, you’re ready to work on healing?”

“Yes.”

“What about other kinds of work?”

“I haven’t been useful lately,” he admitted.

Daemon raised one eyebrow. “Oh? Lucivar found your assistance very useful. There is more than one kind of dancing, Rainier. You learned some of those other steps while working with the coven and the High Lord. Now I’d like you to consider using those skills for me.”

“Meaning?”

“I need a secretary, someone I can trust with private matters.”

Anger flashed through Rainier. “You’re offering me pity work?”

“In that Lord Marcus asked me to take pity on him and hire a secretary, yes. You’re an Opal-Jeweled Warlord Prince. That alone gives you weight when dealing with much of the Blood—enough weight to act as my representative at the SaDiablo estates or the minor Dhemlan courts in much the same way that Mephis represented my father. It would be helpful to have you staying at the Hall or in Halaway a couple of days a week to help with the paperwork there, but otherwise you could reside in Amdarh, either at the family town house or in your own apartment—although I would prefer that you work out of the study in the town house.”

“May I think about it?”

“Yes, but I’d like an answer soon. I am going to oblige Marcus and get a secretary. If not you, then someone else.”

Rainier studied Daemon, who looked as sleek and elegant as usual, but also a little uncomfortable.

“So you’re doing this because Marcus asked you?”

A hesitation that was too long for Sadi. “I owe him. He took a Sceltie puppy home for Winsol.”

“Mother Night. Couldn’t he sidestep taking the pup?”

“Not after I tied a pretty ribbon around the puppy’s neck and gave her to Marcus’s daughter to play with while he and I took care of some last-minute business.”

When Rainier finally stopped laughing, he agreed to take the job. He wasn’t sure what he was agreeing to do, but he was damn sure his days would be interesting.

Lucivar watched the Eyriens as they entered the big front room of the communal eyrie. Hallevar and Kohlvar entered first, followed by Rothvar, Zaranar, Tamnar, and Endar. He’d excused Endar’s wife from this meeting, asking her to help Jillian look after the children who had been left at Nurian’s eyrie. After all, she’d hear about this from her husband soon enough.

He picked up a sense of puzzlement in Hallevar and his companions, especially after Eyriens from the northern camps walked in, but there was no wariness in the men he worked with the most, no worry that he’d found out about some less-than-honorable activity.

Falonar came in with Nurian. He was full of hot impatience and likely pissed off because he knew no more than the others about why this meeting had been called, despite being Lucivar’s second-in-command.

Nurian hurried up to the table Lucivar had set up at the back of the room.

“Prince, am I really needed for this meeting?” she asked. “There are still a lot of people who have that stomach illness, and I promised the Riada Healers that I would help them by making more of the tonic.”

“This won’t take long,” he said—and wondered if the tonic would be made after she heard what he had to say.

The last group to arrive were the women from the settlement near Doun. They hugged the wall, watching the men from the northern camps with an uneasiness that made Lucivar wonder if there had been “visits” he should have known about or if this was just the fear that had come with them from Terreille. He also noticed the way one of them gave Kohlvar a timid smile of greeting—and the solemn, respectful way the weapons master tipped his head in acknowledgment.

When the last man had stepped into the room, Lucivar called in the leather case and took out the papers. A few papers were placed on the right-hand side of the table; the rest went on the left.

“It’s come to my attention that many of you are no longer content to live in Ebon Rih,” he said, using Craft to make sure his voice carried to everyone in the room. “And I’ve been reminded lately that I’ve neglected one duty as the Warlord Prince who rules here.”

“More than one,” someone muttered near the back of the room.

He ignored the remark, but he caught Falonar’s quickly suppressed smile of satisfaction.

That smile made him choose words that would act as a fast, clean break. “Besides the Eyriens who came to Ebon Rih last summer, there are a couple of you who still have time to serve on the contracts you signed with me. The rest of you have fulfilled the emigration requirement of service and no longer have to serve me in order to remain in Kaeleer. You are free to seek service in a Queen’s court or find another kind of work. If you stay in Ebon Rih, you will be required to pay the tithe in both labor and coin the same as anyone else who lives here. If that is not acceptable to you, you’re free to leave. You have seventy-two hours to tell me if you’re staying in the valley I rule.”

“What about wages?” one of the men from the northern camps asked.

“You’ll receive what is due to you up to today,” Lucivar replied. “After that, my financial duty to you is done. From now on, I only pay the people who work for me. That’s all. You’re dismissed.”

Stunned silence.

“What in the name of Hell are you doing?” Falonar finally asked with lethal control.

“What every other ruler in Kaeleer has already done,” Lucivar replied. “What I didn’t do and should have—released everyone who has fulfilled their emigration contract.”

“You kept us on to have cheap labor,” one of the men shouted.

“I kept you on because I’d mistakenly thought you were content to live here,” Lucivar snapped. “Since that’s not the case, there is no reason for you to stay—and there is no reason for me to continue to support you. And since you all did damn little to earn your keep, I wouldn’t call you cheap labor.”

“You should have paid us more,” the man argued. “We’re Eyriens, not some Rihlander drudges.”

“Ebon Rih belongs to the Keep, and it tithes to the Keep. As the ruler of Ebon Rih, I receive part of that tithe, which I distributed to all of you equally. What you got is the same as what I kept for myself. Are we clear on that? I shared with you what came to me from this valley. Since what I can give you isn’t enough, you need to look elsewhere.”

“Look where?” Falonar asked hotly. “Do you know how many Eyriens are struggling to survive because the Queens severed those contracts ?”

“Probably every Eyrien who had refused to see that the Shadow Realm is not Terreille, who refused to see that the Queens are not going to bend for a race that is coming in from another Realm. If you want to live here, you adapt to the way the Queens rule Kaeleer—or you end up dead. The bitches you all ran from are gone, purged from the Realms. If you don’t like it here, go back to Terreille. If you don’t like the way I rule Ebon Rih, then leave.”

Lucivar paused, tightened the leash on his temper. “I’ve said all I have to say. Now you all need to decide what you’re going to do.”

“I’m not going to pay a tithe to that half-breed bastard,” a rough voice said.

Lucivar focused on the sound. The man thought he was hidden well enough by the crowd? Fool.

“Pay him to live here?” the man continued, laughing harshly. “He should have been grateful that any of us were willing to take a shit in his little valley.”

“That’s enough!” Hallevar shouted.

No room to maneuver for a one-on-one fight, and there were women in the room who could get hurt. Not that there weren’t other ways to kill a man. One blast of Ebon-gray power would burn out the bastard’s mind. But that wasn’t the Eyrien way of meeting a challenger.

Lucivar whistled sharply. “Yes, that’s enough.” He pointed at the man. “You. Get out of my territory. And take everyone who feels the same way with you.”

The man looked around at his comrades. “You think you can take all of us?”

Lucivar laughed and noticed that the men who had seen him fight turned pale. Falonar, on the other hand, looked thoughtful, which was something he wouldn’t forget.

His gold eyes swept from one end of the room to the other, and he nodded as he saw what some of those men no longer bothered to hide.

“I’ve marked you,” he said softly. “You’re no longer welcome here. If you try to stay in Ebon Rih, then you’re nothing but walking carrion—and you won’t be walking long. Now. All of you. You’re dismissed.”

The women from the settlement fled. So did the men from the northern camps. Hallevar and some of the other men who lived around Riada lingered until a sharp look from Falonar made them retreat, taking Nurian with them.

“Don’t you care at all for the Eyrien people?” Falonar asked as soon as they were alone.

“I care as much for them as they care for me,” Lucivar replied.

“I don’t want to stomach being your second-in-command if you’re going to rape Eyrien traditions and then ignore what Eyriens need on top of it.”

“Fine. You’re no longer my second-in-command.”

He saw the shock in Falonar’s eyes. Why the surprise? Falonar should know him well enough not to call his bluff. He’d let the other Warlord Prince assume the role of second-in-command because it was a duty worthy of Falonar’s power and caste. And while it had often been useful, he hadn’t needed someone to help him rule the valley.

But if you accept the other duties Andulvar left on your shoulders when he returned to the Darkness, you do need someone you can trust to look after things here when you have to be elsewhere—when you have to stand as the Warlord Prince of Askavi.

Not something he would say to Falonar. Not something he wanted to think about right now. And nothing he wanted said out loud. Not yet. The day he acknowledged that he was the Warlord Prince of Askavi, that Andulvar had made it clear to the Queens in Askavi that the Demon Prince had a successor, that the Ebon-gray would continue to defend not just the Keep’s territory but all of Askavi . . . The day he acknowledged that, there would be nowhere in Askavi for the Eyriens who didn’t like him to go.

“Well?” Falonar said. “Will you release me from my contract?”

“If you want to return to Terreille, I can release you from the contract,” Lucivar said. “If you want to remain in Kaeleer, you have three more years to serve.”

“With you.”

“A Queen who wears darker Jewels than you could take the rest of the contract. There is one Rihlander Queen who wears the Red. She’s the only other choice if you want to stay in Askavi.” She had always been gracious to him when he’d visited, but the Eyriens she had allowed to serve in her court to fulfill emigration requirements had tested her tolerance and her authority once too often.

And judging by the look on his face, Falonar already knew enough about that Queen to know she wasn’t going to offer another contract to any Eyrien.

“You’re going to destroy us,” Falonar said.

“I didn’t ask you to come here. I just offered you a place that was as close to the land you left behind as you’ll find in Kaeleer. I told you two years ago that if serving me was going to be a bone in your throat, you should take one of the other offers you’d received. Sounds like you’re choking on that bone, Falonar, but at this point you don’t have many choices besides me. Not if you want to stay in Kaeleer.”

Giving Lucivar a look filled with bitter anger, Falonar turned and walked away.

Lucivar waited a minute to make sure he was alone and would be alone for a little while. Then he rubbed his hands over his face. *Bastard?*

*Prick? Are you okay?*

Everything he needed was in his brother’s voice—love, acceptance, and a willingness to kick him in the ass when he needed a kick.

*Yeah, I’m okay. It went as well as you’d expect. And there are a few Eyriens who may be seeing Hell soon if they don’t get out of Ebon Rih.*

*If it comes to that, I’ll go with you to deal with them,* Daemon said. *I’d suggest taking Surreal to watch your back, but I think she’s a little too eager to use a knife right now.*

*You felt that too?*

*Yes. I’m just not sure why. I’ll ask Rainier. He might know.*

*Unless she attacks someone, let it go for a day or two. I’ve already stirred up enough people.*

*All right. I’ll be at the Keep if you need me.*

Lucivar broke the link between them. He’d stay at the communal eyrie for another hour so he would be easy to find—if there was an Eyrien anywhere in Ebon Rih who wanted to find him.

Falonar found Nurian in her workroom. The ingredients and tools were set out on the large table in preparation for making more of that damn tonic, but she just stared at them.

“Do you see now?” Falonar snarled. “Do you see what he’s really like? He doesn’t care about the Eyrien people. He doesn’t care about our traditions. He doesn’t care about anything but himself !”

“He cares about the people in Ebon Rih,” Nurian said. “All of them. He doesn’t divide people between those who have wings and those who don’t, like most of you do.”

Falonar took a step back. “Like most of us do? You’re Eyrien too.”

She looked him in the eyes. “But not like you, Falonar. I don’t think I’m the same kind of Eyrien as you or those men who spoke out today.”

“They said a few things that needed to be said,” he snapped.

“If you ruled this valley, would you divide the tithe evenly among every adult Eyrien?” she asked.

Of course he wouldn’t. Couldn’t. But Yaslana’s family had more wealth than even an aristo like him could imagine. Lucivar could afford to be generous. Could have afforded to give them all a bit more, even if it had meant tapping into the SaDiablo family’s pockets.

“There’s no proof he shared as much as he got,” Falonar argued.

“He said it. No other proof is required.”

“You’re being a fool, Nurian. We could be the dominating presence in this valley, the same as we were in Terreille, but Yaslana keeps hamstringing us with every decision he makes.”

“The Rihlanders were here before us,” Nurian said. “You’re talking about doing the same things we hated in Terreille, about becoming the same kind of monster as Prythian and the Queens who fawned over her.”

“How dare you?” Remembering what it was like in Prythian’s court, he swung. He tried to pull it back, and that took some of the force out of the blow, but the flat of his hand cracked across Nurian’s face.

They stared at each other.

“Nurian . . .”

“Get out of my home,” she said quietly, “and don’t ever come back. You’re not welcome here. Not in my home, and not in my bed.”

“Nurian . . .”

“Stay away from me and my sister. You stay away from us, Falonar.”

“Is that what this is really about? That I strapped a little sense into your sister for her own good?”

Nurian looked sick.

Hell’s fire. It had been only a couple of light blows. Just a warning. He’d told the little bitch to keep silent. Looked like she had.

“Stay away from us!” Nurian screamed.

“Nurian?” Jillian hovered in the doorway, with Dorian behind her.

He left. Wasn’t anything he could do until Nurian calmed down enough to listen.

Lucivar had hoped Hallevar would return, but the first person to storm back into the communal eyrie was Nurian.

He felt her anger and distress as she strode toward him, and figured he was the cause of both. Then he saw the mark on her face, and the heat of fury burned over his skin. He swung around the table and headed for the door to explain a couple of things to Falonar. Maybe the bastard wouldn’t feel so much contempt for the Rihlanders when he had to ask one of their Healers to set the broken bones in his hand.

“No!” Nurian made a grab for him as he passed her, then skipped back a step.

Stung by that instinctive move of fear, he stopped and waited.

“You’re not going to do anything about this,” she said, waving her hand at her face.

“That will be true when the sun shines in Hell,” he replied, trying not to snarl. A woman who had been hit by a man didn’t need another one snarling at her.

“I didn’t come here for that. Let it go, Prince.”

He’d hit women, and he’d killed women. But he’d never raised a hand to one unless she’d hurt someone else first.

“Was this the only time?” he asked.

She nodded. “And it will be the last.”

He studied her. Something there in her eyes. She might have forgiven Falonar for one slap, especially today, but not more than one. And not . . .

“Jillian?” he asked.

There it was, that flash of anger that told him what had pushed this woman to draw the line.

“Strapped for her own good,” Nurian said bitterly.

Maybe it’s the first time here, he thought, but you’ve both felt the kiss of leather at some point, haven’t you?

“You say what you want to say, Nurian. Then I want Jillian to report to me here. Is that understood?”

He saw her anger crumbling. Not surprising. Healers didn’t look for a fight unless they were fighting for someone they were healing.

“I knew my service contract expired, and I should have said something.” Nurian’s voice sped up so the words tumbled over one another. “But I thought, since you didn’t say anything, that you were satisfied with my work and the contract could just continue. All right, I know contracts don’t just continue, but I wanted it to. I want to live here, Prince. I want to work here. I can be the Healer for the Eyriens in Ebon Rih and help the Riada Healers so that I do enough work to earn my keep. And I want Jillian to live here. She can fly around these mountains or go down to the village on her own and be safe. You don’t know how much that means to me. How much that means to her. And I know it’s because of the way you rule this valley. I don’t much care about Eyrien traditions. I want what is here for my sister. I want it for me. And I want Jillian to have the weapons training. She’s always been intrigued by weapons, she’s always tried to imitate the moves she saw the men performing—”

And gotten strapped for it? Lucivar wondered.

“—and now she has a chance to learn.” Nurian raised her chin and almost looked him in the eyes. “And I want to learn too.”

Surprised, he rocked back on his heels. “Why?”

She blushed and no longer even tried to meet his eyes. “Your wife is graceful,” she mumbled.

“I think so. What’s that got to do with weapons?”

“It’s the way she moves, the way the training . . .”

Hallevar would shit rocks if he heard that a woman wanted to learn to use the sparring sticks in order to be more graceful. On the other hand, Eyrien warriors were graceful, more so than most of the Eyrien women. He’d initially insisted that the women learn to use weapons so that they could defend themselves sufficiently until help could arrive. He’d eventually stopped insisting after so many of them whined about handling weapons that shouldn’t be used by anyone but an Eyrien warrior.

Personally, he didn’t care why they wanted to learn as long as it helped the women acquire skills to protect themselves. Convincing the other men to accept this renewed female interest in weapons might be a bit more difficult.

“You want to work for me?” he asked.

“Yes.”

No hesitation from her, but he felt a slight hesitation that compelled him to say, “You working for me won’t sit well with Falonar. Not after today.”

She looked sad, confused, sorry. “I love him. I do. But he comes from an aristo family, and I don’t—and that seems to matter to him more and more. I don’t know what he wants from his life, but I’m sure he and I don’t want the same things anymore.”

“All right,” he said gently. “Once I know who’s staying, we’ll figure things out. Until then, get some rest.”

She sniffled once, then squared her shoulders. “I have some tonics to make.”

He waited until she reached the door. “Send Jillian to me.” Seeing the momentary slump of her shoulders before she hurried out, he smiled grimly and thought, Hoped I would forget, didn’t you, witchling?

Then Hallevar, Kohlvar, Rothvar, and Zaranar walked in, and it was time for the next dance.

A shadow. A flutter of air. The sound of boots behind him.

Startled, Rainier stopped his careful walk down the street so that he wouldn’t take a misstep.

“Prince Rainier?”

Leaning on his cane, he looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Lord Endar.”

“Could I talk to you?”

“I need to walk to the end of the street to fulfill the day’s exertions. I could meet you back at The Tavern when I’m done or at that coffee shop across the street.”

“I don’t mind walking.”

A few minutes is too long to wait? “All right.”

It took a few steps before Endar matched his pace to Rainier’s careful walk. Then, “Have you heard what happened? Yaslana cut us all loose. We’ve got nothing. I have two children, and now we have nothing. I’m not sure if we’re still allowed to live in our eyrie, or if we have to leave because all the eyries belong to him.”

Wondering whom the young Warlord had been talking to, Rainier said, “The way I understand it, the emigration contracts were finite, a set time to prove that the person coming to Kaeleer could adjust to living in the Shadow Realm. Just like any other contract, each side fulfilled the length of time and the terms. Then the contract ended. You all knew this day was coming. That’s not the same as being cut loose, Endar. When a contract ends, a man is free to negotiate another one with the same person or head out and try something new somewhere else. Maybe you’re used to staying with one court forever, but I know plenty of young men who take short contracts and then move on to another court or even another Territory. They gain polish and experience and spend a few years looking around while they decide what they want to do.”

“But I’m Eyrien, and Dorian and I don’t want to live somewhere else. We like it here!”

“Then talk to Prince Yaslana. Tell him you’d like to stay in Ebon Rih. If you’re interested in working for him, tell him that too.”

“But . . .” Endar said nothing until they reached the end of the street. “Every Eyrien male is trained to fight, but not all of us are good at it.”

And those of you who aren’t good at it are usually the first to die on the killing field, Rainier thought. Not an easy truth for a man who loves his wife and children.

“I’m pretty sure Rothvar and Zaranar want to stay, and if they do, Yaslana won’t want to hire someone like me as a guard. Not when he could have them.”

“Then offer to do some other kind of work,” Rainier said. He stood at the corner, debating with himself if he wanted to cross the street and go up to the coffee shop or just turn around and go back to The Tavern. Coffee and sweet pastries or soup?

I’ll have the soup later.

As he shifted his weight to take the first step into the street, Endar said, “Take my arm to steady yourself. Despite what some people say, there is no shame in accepting help.”

“There’s no shame in being something besides a guard,” Rainier said quietly.

“What else could I be?”

Does their thinking get stagnant because they’re a long-lived race and have so many years ahead of them? “I don’t know, but I’ve heard Yaslana is looking for a teacher for the Eyrien children—someone who has the education to teach them the basics as well as Eyrien history.”

“Eyrien history.”

The words were barely loud enough for Rainier to hear, but that didn’t diminish the excitement in Endar’s voice.

“I’ve also heard that an Eyrien historian storyteller has recently come to the Dark Realm and is willing to teach someone what he knows before he becomes a whisper in the Darkness,” Rainier continued.

There was so much wanting in Endar’s face it was painful to look at him.

“I’m not old enough,” Endar said. “And I’m sound, so—”

“I don’t recall Yaslana mentioning anything about age as a requirement, only a specific amount of education,” Rainier said tartly. “And I don’t recall him saying a man had to be lame in order to teach. If anything, I would think you’d need some speed and agility to keep up with the children. Lucivar isn’t chained to traditions that don’t suit this territory or this Realm. If you want to pass up work you’d enjoy because you’re young and sound, that’s your choice. But Lucivar is going to get a teacher for the children, and he’s going to give someone the opportunity to learn from that historian storyteller. You have to decide if that person is going to be you.”

They stopped in front of the coffee shop. Endar stared at him. Then the Eyrien Warlord smiled.

“Will you be all right finishing your walk alone?” Endar asked.

“I’ll be fine. What about you? Will you be fine?”

The smile brightened. “I think so. I have to talk to Dorian, but I think we’ll all be fine.”

A two-fingered salute. Then Endar stepped into the street, spread his dark wings, and flew home.

Rainier watched the Eyrien and began to understand what Daemon meant about a different kind of dance.

*Lucivar?*

*Rainier.*

*Endar needs a little time to talk things over with his wife, but I think you’ll have your teacher.*

One more down, Lucivar thought as he leaned against the table and watched Jillian shuffle toward him. He’d ask Daemon to go over Endar’s credentials and suggest what the Warlord needed to add to his own education to fulfill the requirements of the new position. If Rainier’s impression was correct and Endar had more book learning than most Eyriens, the man would suit the job, at least in terms of temperament. He’d confirmed that when he’d had Endar act as instructor to Surreal and Jillian.

He pointed to a spot in front of him that, to a young girl’s eye, would look like she was out of reach. She wouldn’t be, not with his speed and reflexes, but he thought she’d feel more comfortable with a little distance between them.

He closed his hands over the edge of the table and waited until she stood in the required spot.

“You got strapped,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” she mumbled.

“When?”

“Couple days ago.”

“How bad?”

She shrugged.

“You didn’t let your sister check your back for injuries?”

She shook her head.

“Did you go to another Healer in Riada?”

Another headshake. “Wasn’t supposed to tell.”

“Then you don’t know if you’re all right.”

She squirmed and kept her eyes focused on his boots. “Tamnar looked at my back. He said it wasn’t bad, and none of the marks were close to my wings. He said he’d gotten worse.”

Something Lucivar would discuss with Hallevar. As far as he knew, the old arms master was still giving out the slaps that were meant to sting pride rather than injure flesh. He’d gotten his fair share of those in his youth, so he had no problem with that bit of discipline. But if someone else had been doing more here, in his valley . . .

“Did you deserve the strapping?” Lucivar asked mildly.

“He said I did.”

His breath caught. That tone of voice should not come from a girl Jillian’s age. That level of hatred should not be in a girl Jillian’s age. She should not have experienced anything that would put a knife-edge in her voice.

Because he knew two women whose voices sometimes took that same edge, and because he knew why that edge was there, he had to ask.

“Jillian, are you a virgin?”

Her mouth fell open in shock, and because of her silence, the word rape hung in the air between them. She hadn’t been broken. He was sure of that. Jaenelle and Surreal hadn’t been broken either by the violence of rape, but they both carried emotional scars.

“Jillian?”

She didn’t answer. Then she jumped when the wood cracked under his hands.

“I am,” she said quickly. “I am!”

He released the table and stood up. “If I ask a Healer to look at you, will she tell me the same thing?”

“Yes, sir.”

Thank the Darkness for that.

He’d been rising to the killing edge, and he took a moment to pull back and regain control.

“All right, witchling. Listen up. You are going to school. Maybe with the Rihlander children, maybe not, but you are going to school. Weapons training will be considered an extra. As long as you keep up with your studies, I will see that you get training in bow, sticks, and knives. You shrug off one, you lose the privilege of the other. We clear on that?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Next, you do not get strapped by anyone but me. Ever. If someone thinks you’ve misbehaved to the point of deserving it, the charge will be brought to me. If I decide you do deserve that punishment, I will wield the leather. We clear on that too?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If someone else tries to strap you or hurt you in any way, what are you going to do?”

“Kick him in the balls.”

Lucivar blinked. Swallowed a tickle in his throat. Damn tickle. Felt like a laugh. “After that.”

Jillian pondered for a moment. “Come to you?”

“That’s right. Although you might consider just getting away and coming to me first. If he deserves it, I will hold him while you kick him in the balls.”

She gave him a bright smile. Probably thought he was teasing her. Probably just as well to let her think that.

“Anything else I should know?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Does this mean Nurian and I can stay in Ebon Rih?”

“That’s what it means. She’s going to work for me as a Healer, and—”

“And I can work for you by helping Marian take care of Daemonar.”

He laughed. “Fair enough. Now get home before your sister frets about this chat.”

“Yes, sir.”

A bright smile. Clear eyes. Didn’t take much to set Jillian’s world right and give her a sweet wind under her wings.

He would do his best to make sure things stayed that way.

Surreal cleared the table and stacked the dishes on a tray. The Tavern didn’t open until late morning, but apparently these two men came in once a week at this time to have a quiet breakfast of whatever was available while they talked business for an hour. They’d been startled to find her instead of Merry, but they were quite happy with the casserole, chicken, and coffee she put on the table. And even though they kept a running tab here, they’d left a generous tip. She wasn’t sure whether that was to thank her for letting them have the breakfast or for not tossing them out in the snow.

Smiling, she set the tray on the bar, took a step back, and extended her arms.

Her body flowed, slow and easy, in a series of moves she’d seen Jaenelle make with practice sticks no longer than her arm. This wasn’t training for an Eyrien weapon. These moves belonged to the Dea al Mon.

As she completed the last turn, she saw Falonar watching her from the doorway.

What was he doing at The Tavern? He knew she was staying here, so unless he was looking for a ripping fight, why in the name of Hell would he come to see her?

“Every time you pick up an Eyrien weapon, you mock my race,” he said.

My skill with weapons was one of the things that used to intrigue you. At least until we got better acquainted. “And here I thought I was just honing my skill with a knife. Besides, those moves weren’t created for an Eyrien weapon.” She swung herself over the bar. “We’re not officially open yet, but I can give you a cup of coffee.”

He walked up to the bar. “I suppose you’re pleased with what happened today.”

She filled two mugs with coffee. “The gossip hasn’t reached me yet, so I don’t know if I’m pleased or not.”

“Lucivar is pushing the Eyriens out of Ebon Rih.”

“All of them, or just the ones who think having a cock entitles them to food, shelter, and sex whenever they want it?”

Anger flashed in his eyes.

She sipped her coffee and watched him. She had been attracted to the arrogant Eyrien Warlord Prince who had shown some respect for her skills—attracted enough to let her heart as well as her body get tangled up with him. But the Falonar she’d first known wasn’t the same man as the one staring at her now. She wouldn’t have slept with this man unless she was planning to drive a knife between his ribs while he came.

She assessed him as a client. As prey. A man could hide his true nature—and true feelings—for only so long, and she was finally seeing what desperation and ambition had hidden for almost two years.

Falonar hadn’t changed because living in the Shadow Realm had soured him somehow; he’d just gotten comfortable enough to slip back into being what he had been before coming to Kaeleer.

“I’m trying to remember that you’re not tainted,” she said quietly.

“What?”

“You survived the purge two years ago, so whatever corruption is in you didn’t come from your association with Prythian or Dorothea or Hekatah. Maybe it’s simply what you are because you’re an Eyrien aristo.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you?” She set her coffee aside and leaned on the bar, looking friendly and vulnerable. She was neither. “It must have pissed you off when you came strutting into the hunting camp as a boy and realized there was a half-breed bastard there who was stronger and better than anything you could ever be. He should have groveled in front of you, grateful to lick your boots. Instead he looked you in the eyes and not only told you he was better than all of you; he showed you he was better. Must have choked you to have to compete with him and never win—at least not fairly.”

“I never cheated in a competition,” Falonar snarled.

“No, you probably didn’t. But that doesn’t mean you weren’t pleased when someone else did something that pushed the odds in your favor.” She leaned a little more, showing more cleavage—and watched the way his eyes lingered a moment too long.

“You finished your training and were no longer in Yaslana’s shadow because he defied Prythian and ended up a slave being controlled by a Ring of Obedience, while you ended up an aristo male moving in court circles, serving a bitch you hated, but you were always careful not to step too close to a line that might be seen as a challenge. And there was Lucivar, who, despite being a slave, was always crossing those lines and growing into the most lethal and feared warrior in the Realm of Terreille.”

She felt pressure on her first inner barrier. Not an actual attempt to force open the first level of her mind, more like someone leaning against a door to push it open just a crack and find out what was on the other side while claiming that he didn’t do anything.

A man could find out a lot of useful information while not doing anything. And maybe—maybe—because it was a passive move, it wouldn’t be considered a breach of the Blood’s code of honor.

She usually wore her Birthright Green Jewels, just like today, but she no longer hid the fact that the Gray was her Jewel of rank. Had he forgotten that? Was he actually hoping that she’d be lax about maintaining the barriers that protected her mind from the rest of the Blood? Was he that much of a fool?

“Skipping a few centuries, the Realm of Terreille becomes a very bad place, and people are scrambling to get away from the bitches who rule there,” she continued. “Among those people is an Eyrien Warlord Prince who comes from an aristo family and has significant social standing. And wearing Sapphire Jewels means he is a powerful, dominant male—a leader other men obey without question. No reason to think that will change. Aristo is aristo; power is power.”

She drifted down into the abyss until she reached the level of the Gray, then drifted back up until she was under him. She reached up with one delicate psychic tendril to get the honest flavor of his emotions.

She didn’t like the taste of those emotions. She didn’t like them at all. Apparently the story she was weaving around the little she knew and the lot she guessed based on knowing the two men was close to the truth.

“And what happens?” she said. “You come to Kaeleer with your credentials polished, expecting the Queens to fight over who gets the privilege of having you in her court, and there’s your old friend Lucivar, already here before you. And he’s not only serving the Queen the rest of you would give your balls to serve; he’s the ruler of the most prized bit of land in Askavi. Not only that, he’s no longer a half-breed bastard the rest of you can ignore. He comes from the most aristo family in the whole damn Realm. His father and uncle are the most powerful men in the whole damn Realm, not to mention being Witch’s Steward and Master of the Guard, which gives them even more status.”

“Just because they acknowledged him doesn’t mean he actually carries the bloodlines,” Falonar snapped.

“Blood sings to blood—and blood doesn’t lie. Sure, there are generations between Lucivar and Andulvar, but he is the High Lord’s son, and his mother did come from Andulvar’s line. An aristo among aristos. And he still doesn’t give a damn about any of that, does he? He’s just who he’s always been—a warrior, a leader, a strong man. Except now all the Eyriens who would have spit on him before have to walk softly because one word from him—one word—and that person gets tossed all the way back to Terreille. If the fool isn’t killed first.”

“What does any of this have to do with him gutting Eyrien culture and tradition?” Falonar shouted.

“What goes on in Ebon Rih is his version of Eyrien culture and tradition,” she replied sweetly.

“His version?” Falonar paced away from the bar and back. “You can’t have different versions and have the same people!”

“Maybe that’s the point. Maybe there needs to be a different version for the people who would otherwise be excluded from Eyrien culture.”

“Like who?”

“Besides Lucivar? How about Endar and Dorian’s little girl? A Queen. But her hair has curl. Not only is she not pure Eyrien; that curl proves she has a bit of a bloodline that isn’t from any of the long-lived races. What about Tamnar? He wouldn’t have had much of a future among your people, which is probably why he risked the service fair in the first place. Eyrien culture and tradition were already rooted here, Falonar. It’s just not the same as what you left.”

Falonar’s mug shattered. “Back in Askavi, if a bitch like you spoke to me like that, I’d have you whipped.”

Surreal called in a towel and tossed it on the bar to sop up the coffee. “Bitch like me. Yes, let’s address that final topic before you go. Well, two topics really, and that’s the second one. You know what none of you big strong Eyriens have admitted? Except Lucivar. The man may be a pain in the ass, but he does have brains. You all came to the Shadow Realm expecting the other races to be cowed by a warrior race. Because that’s what the Eyriens are, aren’t they? Warriors, bred and trained. But no one was cowed by Eyriens because, in Kaeleer, you are not the race that is feared.”

Surreal slowly reached up and hooked her long black hair behind one delicately pointed ear. “They are called the Dea al Mon. The Children of the Wood. They know as much about fighting as you do. Maybe more, since they have always followed the Old Ways of the Blood. Which brings us to the last topic—my bloodlines.”

“You have no bloodlines.” Falonar’s voice was harsh, and his hands were clenched.

“On my sire’s side, you’re probably right.”

“You have no connection to the SaDiablos beyond what they give you.”

“That’s true too. I don’t have one drop of blood in common with Lucivar or Daemon or the High Lord. I only used that name when I came to Kaeleer as a way to spit in Dorothea SaDiablo’s face. But the High Lord decided to let that claim stand and accepted me as family. So you’re correct that calling myself a SaDiablo doesn’t give me the right to call myself aristo. My mother, on the other hand ...” She brushed her finger over the curve of her ear. “My mother was a Dea al Mon Queen and Black Widow. If she hadn’t been broken by Dorothea’s son and then murdered by one of the bitch’s assassins, she could have been the Queen of the Dea al Mon’s Territory. As it was, when she made the transition to demon-dead, she became the Queen of the Harpies. So no matter how you turn it, my mother’s bloodline is more than aristo enough to make up for any lack by the cock and balls who sired me.”

She straightened up and stared at him across a slab of wood that either of them could destroy in a heartbeat.

She vanished her Green Jewel and called in her Gray. Then gave him a moment to remember just whom he’d been trying to play with.

“My mother and I skinned my father and hung him up as meat for the Hell Hounds while he was still alive. We soaked in a hot spring and listened to him scream while they fed. So I think I come by my interest in, and skill with, a knife honestly. Don’t you?”

He backed away from her. Backed all the way to the door.

She waited until he flew away before she used Craft to turn the physical lock. Then she added a Green lock on the door.

She cleaned up the coffee and broken mug, relieved that Briggs must have some kind of shield on the wood to keep it from being damaged by spills.

Then, having made her decision, she sent a Gray psychic thread to a Black mind.

*Sadi?*

*Surreal?*

*Are you busy?*

*That depends on what you want.*

She heard the amusement in his voice and rolled her eyes. Maybe it was better if he felt amused. *I’d like you to find out what you can about Falonar’s bloodlines.*

Cold now shivered along that psychic thread.

*Why?* he asked too softly.

*I have a suspicion that one of the things that bothers him the most about Lucivar—and now me—is the realization that we come from families that are far more aristo than his, and I’m curious why that matters so much.*

*If you want this to stay between the two of us, it will take a couple of days. You know what Lucivar is like when he has to deal with paperwork, and I think this particular deluge is going to test his self-control. Besides, Father and I promised to work up a rough draft of a contract for serving the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih.*

Yes, she knew what Lucivar was like. A tiger with a sore paw was more agreeable than Yaslana confronted with a stack of paperwork. *It can wait.*

She broke the link and went back to preparing The Tavern for business. A few minutes later, Rainier tapped on the door. He had two loaves of sweet-and-spice bread to serve with the soup, along with some pastries just for her.

Pushing Falonar to the back of her mind, she spent the rest of the day listening to gossip and working with a man whose company she enjoyed.

SIX

It was late afternoon on the following day when Falonar walked into Kohlvar’s workshop to have a private meeting with the men he considered the core group of Eyrien males living around Riada. They nodded a greeting, but no one shifted to attention, ready to take an assignment from him.

Had they already heard he’d been stripped of his position as second-in-command?

“We need to talk about what we want for ourselves and the Eyrien people before Yaslana makes any other decisions for us,” Falonar said.

“Already know what I want,” Hallevar replied. “That’s why I gave him my hand yesterday.”

“We all did,” Rothvar said, tipping his head to indicate the men present.

“You signed a contract with him?” Falonar said, made too off balance by that news to hide his anger.

“Don’t have the paper yet, but we will,” Hallevar said. “We can change our minds if we don’t like the final terms, but from what he said, we’ll still have the eyries we’ve made our homes and a quarterly wage drawn from Lucivar’s share of the tithes, and work that suits us.”

“The way Yaslana rules this valley,” Zaranar said, studying Falonar. “Why does it chew your ass?”

“Because we weren’t born to be tame!” Falonar shouted. “He expects us to be content with training exercises instead of meeting an enemy. By the time he’s through gutting the heart out of what we are, we’ll be nothing but Dhemlans with wings. Look what he’s doing to Endar. A teacher?”

Kohlvar wiped the knife he’d been sharpening on the whetstone and picked up the next one. “Why not? It’s the work Endar wants to do, and here there’s no shame in being a teacher at his age. You’re aristo, and aristos get more schooling than the rest of us. If Lucivar is willing to let all Eyrien youngsters have more schooling than we got, let them have it—especially if it’s something all the other children in this Realm are getting.”

But it belongs to the aristos, Falonar thought. It’s the difference between a good leader on a battlefield and a ruler.

Rothvar fanned his wings, then closed them. “I’ve spilled my share of blood on plenty of killing fields. I’ve been in fights where I’ve killed friends who were on the other side of a line just because some bitch Queen needed the sight of slaughter in order to come. There was no honor in that bloodshed. I’m not against fighting or killing. I was trained to do both, and I’ve done both. But I won’t feel cheated if most days I hone my skills against another man for the fun of it and don’t have to spill blood for someone else’s pleasure.”

Falonar stared at the Warlord guard. Rothvar couldn’t mean that. “You’re willing to accept that?”

Rothvar shrugged. “I guess it’s different for you, not having any court intrigues to deal with. But for us, this life isn’t so different from what we left.”

“Except it’s better,” Zaranar said.

Hallevar nodded in agreement. “I’d like to have a few more youngsters to train. Hell’s fire, I’d even give another try at training a few of the women.”

“I don’t have to wonder if following Lucivar’s orders will soil my honor, and I sleep easier knowing that,” Zaranar said.

“And with Lucivar, you don’t have to wonder whether the person giving you an order will deny it later—especially if there was something dirty about the job—and leave you to be the one to take the punishment.” Rothvar’s expression made it clear that he’d known men who weren’t whole afterward, even if they survived the punishment.

“Lucivar says what he means and means what he says,” Hallevar said. “Straight words, straight work.”

“Guarding Rihlanders,” Falonar sneered.

Zaranar made a crude, angry sound. “Some of us are willing to do the work we agreed to do, and that includes protecting the Rihlander villages, Blood and landen. I heard there was a Jhinka raid on a landen village a few weeks ago, and it was the Rihlander guards from Agio who stepped in and drove the bastards off. The Eyriens in the northern camps should have been patrolling that part of the valley and should have spotted the Jhinka before they reached that village. But they couldn’t stir themselves to raise a bow let alone shoot a single arrow. I won’t blame Lucivar a bit if he tosses every one of those lazy sons of whoring bitches out of the valley.”

“The Rihlanders aren’t used to dealing with Eyriens,” Falonar argued. “If they showed the proper respect, they’d get the help they need.”

“Oh, they’re used to dealing with Eyriens,” Rothvar said. “Just not in daylight. Prothvar Yaslana and a handpicked troop of men used to patrol the northern part of Ebon Rih as well as the Sleeping Dragons at the end of the Khaldharon Run. The Queen’s court might have had more contact with Prothvar himself, but the Eyriens who served him were known to the Blood in Agio, at least to some degree. First time I walked into a tavern there, it was late afternoon and the owner looked confused to see me. Then he offered me a glass of yarbarah. Apparently Lord Yaslana and his men stopped by there on occasion, so the man kept bottles of the blood wine on hand.”

Falonar swallowed his growing disgust. Rothvar and Zaranar were the best fighters among the Warlords Lucivar had brought to Ebon Rih. They should be troop leaders controlling their own portion of the valley, with men under their command.

He ignored the memories of how many men were killed or maimed in fights that started because a troop leader needed to expand his territory—and increase his income—in order to pay his gambling debts.

Then he focused on the knives Kohlvar was sharpening and no longer tried to swallow his disgust. “Hell’s fire, Kohlvar. You made some of the finest weapons in Askavi, and now you’re sharpening kitchen knives?”

“These blades get dull like any other,” Kohlvar replied as he studied the edge of the knife. “Doesn’t hurt my pride to give the women some help, and who would know better than me how to put an edge on a blade?”

“What about your reputation?” Falonar demanded. “You’re a weapons maker. This is menial work. Who did Lucivar have doing it before you?”

“No one. He did it himself.”

And that lack of understanding, of distance, was the reason Lucivar had no business ruling anything, let alone a prime territory like Ebon Rih.

“You’ve been up to the women’s settlement at Doun?” Zaranar asked.

Lucivar had made it clear that no man who wanted to keep his balls went to the settlement without his permission.

Kohlvar shrugged. “Lucivar came by not long ago and asked if I wanted to go with him. I wasn’t busy, so why not? And I was curious.” He looked a little uncomfortable, but he also looked amused. “The man walked in, took a look around, and started scolding the women for hauling things that were too big for them to handle instead of waiting for him to help. And a couple of the women started scrapping right back, saying they had brains and Craft and plenty of hands and didn’t need a penis in order to get things done.”

An uneasy silence. Then Rothvar asked, “What did he do to them?”

Kohlvar laughed. “He grinned and went to check the woodpiles and other things he wanted to check. Later he told me one of the women who’d been scrapping with him had come to Kaeleer this past summer, and she’d been so afraid of men she would puke from fear when he walked into the room. He said it was good to see her growing her backbone and heart.

“Anyway, we ended up in the kitchen, drinking coffee. Then he called in his whetstone and started sharpening the knives. I wasn’t going to sit there like a fool, was I? So I gave him a hand. Most of the females were keeping to the far end of the room, but the boys were hugging the table, watching him while they answered his questions and asked plenty of their own. He slapped down a boy with nothing but a look when that boy tried to bully the one girl who got brave enough to approach the table. When he was done with the last knife, Lucivar took all the children outside for a flying lesson.”

Kohlvar vanished his own whetstone and the kitchen knives. Then he looked at Hallevar. “There isn’t a youngster in that settlement who would be old enough for a hunting camp, but there are some there who are old enough to start learning what you can teach. You should talk to Lucivar about going with him the next time he visits.”

“I think I will,” Hallevar replied.

Falonar listened to them a few minutes more, then made an excuse to leave. They didn’t see the truth about their future, didn’t understand how a leader who was so common he didn’t see anything wrong with taking care of menial tasks would diminish the standing of all Eyriens in Kaeleer.

These men belonged to Lucivar, and for the time being, there was nothing he could do about that. So he was going to have to look to the men in the northern camps for the help he needed to save all of them.

Surreal dropped from the Green Wind and landed lightly in the courtyard of Lucivar’s eyrie. If she’d been polite, she would have used the landing web and climbed the stairs to the courtyard, but she wasn’t feeling polite since she was the messenger who had to hand over this basket.

Merry woke up this morning feeling hungry and well and had been cooking and baking since sunrise. The goodies in the basket were her thanks for the pot of soup Marian had made yesterday.

“This is payment and more for a pot of soup,” Surreal grumbled as she banged on the door. “And I deserve these goodies as much as anyone.” Especially after the dream that had ripped through her sleep last night—the boy Trist, torn and bloody as he’d been in the spooky house, smiling at her and saying over and over, “The worst is still to come.”

Maybe it was just lack of sleep, or maybe it was something more that made the floor and walls of her room seem to rise and fall this morning—and made her chest hurt in a different way. Maybe she should stop and see one of Riada’s Healers before going back to The Tavern. Maybe ...

The door swung open. Lucivar looked edgy, heading toward pissed off, and he was wearing the heavy wool cape he used as a winter coat. Wishing she’d just left the basket, she started to step back when he reached out, grabbed her coat, and hauled her inside.

“Some of this has to go in the cold box until you’re ready to eat,” Surreal said, trying to hand him the basket.

“Fine.” He hustled her into the kitchen and put the basket on the table. Then his hands clamped down on her shoulders, holding her in place. “Marian is in the village running errands. Falonar needs to talk to me. He says it’s urgent. I need you to stay here and watch Daemonar.”

“No.”

“Thirty minutes. An hour at the most. Tassle and Graysfang are on their way back here, so you won’t be alone with the boy for long.”

Her heart banged against her chest so hard she could barely hear him. “Lucivar, I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can. Just sit and read him stories. He loves that. And he’s housebroken, so you don’t have to worry about changing diapers.”

He couldn’t pay her enough to change a diaper. “I have to go.”

Lucivar gave her a smacking kiss on the forehead and was moving toward the door, saying, “Daemonar! I’ll be back soon.”

Little feet running. The sound of small boots smacking on a stone floor as Daemonar raced into the large front room. “Papa! I want to go with you!”

“Not today, boyo. Play nice with your auntie Surreal.” Lucivar looked at her. “One hour.”

He was outside and flying off before she reached the door.

“Lucivar!”

Sick shivers. Feverish heat. Too damn hard to breathe.

She closed the door and turned around. Daemonar gave her the sweetest smile.

She hadn’t been alone with a child since that night in the spooky house. Had made sure she was never alone with a child. But maybe this wouldn’t be too bad. After all, this was Lucivar’s home, not a place that had been designed as a trap to kill members of the family. And he’d promised he’d be back in an hour.

She slipped out of her coat and hung it on the coat tree near the door.

“You want to play a game, Auntie Srell?” Daemonar asked, following her into the kitchen.

“All right.” Her heart gave her chest another kick. “Let me put this food away first, and then we can play a game.”

Steak pie. Vegetable casserole. A small jar of chopped fruit to be served over sweet biscuits. She put everything but the biscuits in the cold box. Leaving those on the table, she set the basket on the counter and looked around.

“Daemonar?”

A little-boy giggle. “Come find me, Auntie Srell. Come find me.”

No.

She crept toward the archway that led to the large front room. “Daemonar?”

The patter of small boots on stone.

She moved fast, following the sound. The eyrie was a warren of rooms, but the boy should be easy enough to find. It wasn’t like he was being quiet.

Then there was no sound. None at all.

“Daemonar?”

She headed for the bedrooms, then heard, from behind her, “Come find me,” and the sound of feet running back toward the kitchen.

She dashed back to the kitchen and took a quick look under the table. It would be easy enough for a boy his size to dart between the chairs and hide.

No little boy under the table.

So damn hard to breathe. Had she drunk her healing brew this afternoon? Couldn’t remember.

She moved through the rooms, searching. Sometimes she heard a giggle, sometimes the scrape of boot on stone.

The worst is still to come.

The bad things hadn’t happened yet. She had time to find the boy. Lucivar’s little boy. Couldn’t let him get hurt by twisted bitches or lethally honed blades. Couldn’t let the bad things happen to him. Not to Lucivar’s boy.

The worst is still to come.

She opened a cupboard and saw serving bowls, platters, and other kinds of dishes—and heard a boy screaming and screaming and screaming. Then the screaming stopped, and she knew what that meant.

“Come find me.” Was that Daemonar saying that, or Trist?

The worst is still to come.

Her breath hitched, rasped in her chest, hurting her as she tried to draw in enough air to think, to move, to act. This time she wouldn’t fail. She would find the boy and get him out of this damn house, and she would find a way to get Marjane out of that tree before the crows took the girl’s eyes, and . . .

She dashed into the front room and glanced at the door. “Kester, no!”

A flashed image, as if a sight shield had dropped for a heartbeat. Just enough time for her to see the wings and the blood spraying everywhere as the Eyrien bastard ripped into the boy. Then gone.

Kester. Not Daemonar. Like Trist, Kester had died in the spooky house. She still had a chance to save Daemonar.

She tore through the bedrooms, opening every door and drawer she could find. She tore through the weapons room and Marian’s workroom and the laundry room, circling back to the kitchen, where she yanked out drawers and opened more doors.

She opened the cold box, then the door to the freeze box inside it—and stared at the little brown hand so freshly severed the fingers were still curling up against the cold.

She bolted across the kitchen, just reaching the sink before she vomited.

Then she stumbled out of the kitchen, stumbled around the eyrie, hearing Daemonar’s voice, sounding scared now, saying, “Auntie Srell?”

Couldn’t save him. Couldn’t save any of them. Not Trist, not Kester, not even Rainier. Not Jaenelle. Hadn’t been good enough, strong enough, fast enough to save them.

“Auntie Srell?”

And now the boy. Lucivar shouldn’t have trusted her with his precious boy.

She stumbled, hit a carpeted floor on her hands and knees, and went all the way down.

Tears and pain and poison. This time the poison would take her all the way down.

This time she wouldn’t fight it.

“Would you like some coffee?” Falonar asked.

Lucivar undid the buttons and belt on his winter cape but didn’t take it off. “No, thanks. I left Surreal alone with Daemonar, and I promised I would be back as soon as I could.” And I don’t want to drink whatever you’re offering.

A month ago he wouldn’t have thought twice about accepting food or drink at Falonar’s eyrie. When had that changed? And why? They’d always respected each other’s fighting ability and not liked each other much for anything else. That hadn’t changed. And while some of Falonar’s ideas about the Eyriens here had pissed him off, he wasn’t concerned, because he made the final decisions in Ebon Rih.

“We need more aristos living here to balance out the Eyriens who have common skills, to balance out our society,” Falonar said. “We should have another Healer. We should have a Priestess. If some of the Eyriens will be leaving Ebon Rih, bringing in others wouldn’t swell the numbers beyond what you’re willing to allow here. And aristo families would bring their own wealth, so they wouldn’t be a burden on your purse.”

Lucivar studied the other Warlord Prince and wished he felt easy enough to accept that cup of coffee. “I would be willing to consider Eyriens who have other skills to offer the community, whether they come from aristo families or not.”

Falonar looked puzzled. “Skills?”

“Healer. Priestess. Craftsman. Tailor. Seamstress. Although a couple of the women in the Doun settlement might be taking care of that last one.”

“I don’t think you understand,” Falonar said. “I meant aristos. They don’t need to work.”

“They do if they want to live in Ebon Rih,” Lucivar replied. “There isn’t an adult living in this valley who doesn’t have some kind of work, and anyone who isn’t willing to agree to that doesn’t belong here. The Queens in the rest of Askavi might feel differently, but I don’t see any reason for anyone to sit around idle, no matter who they are or what bloodlines they can claim.”

“You can’t expect an aristo to stoop to menial labor,” Falonar protested.

“I didn’t say they would have to clean the horse shit off the streets; I just said that if they want to come to Kaeleer and live in Ebon Rih, they have to be willing to do some kind of work that will benefit the Eyrien community at the very least.” Lucivar continued to study Falonar. “Is there someone in particular you want living here? A friend? Family? Is that what this is about?”

“No. It’s not about someone in particular; it’s about a whole level of Eyrien society that is missing. Can’t you feel that?” Falonar’s voice rang with frustration.

Lucivar huffed out a sigh. “No, I can’t feel that. I never saw that part of Eyrien life, and the little time I spent around Eyrien courts before I was sent away from Askavi didn’t impress me—and neither did the aristos in those courts. Whatever you think is missing . . . I never experienced it, so I don’t feel the loss.”

“That’s the point, Lucivar! You don’t know what the rest of us are missing.”

He heard the passion in Falonar’s voice and the conviction, but Hallevar, Kohlvar, and the other men willing to voice an opinion hadn’t given him any indication that something was lacking.

Maybe Daemon or Father can tell me why this is so important to him. “Write up a report that explains what you think we need. Maybe we can find a way to bring some of that into the community.” Did Falonar understand how much of a concession he was making by offering to read a damn report?

Apparently not. Judging by the resignation he saw in Falonar’s eyes, what he was offering was nowhere near what the other man wanted.

“Maybe you should go back to Askavi Terreille,” he said quietly. “There must be some Eyrien aristos who survived the purge. Maybe you’ll find life there more to your liking now. I think it’s clear to both of us that whatever you were hoping to find by emigrating doesn’t exist in the Shadow Realm. At least not the way you hoped.”

“Are you forcing me back to Terreille?” Falonar asked.

“I didn’t say that.”

“We rub against each other. Perhaps I should take command of the northern camps. That would give us both some breathing room.”

Something floated in the air between them. Something subtle, almost hidden. When he’d been a slave and couldn’t trust anything about the Queen who controlled him or anyone in her court, he survived because he never ignored what instincts couldn’t shape into words.

He wasn’t going to ignore his instincts now.

“I didn’t renew any of the contracts of the men from the northern camps,” Lucivar said. “I’m giving them a few extra days to pack their gear, but after that, they are barred from Ebon Rih.”

Falonar looked shocked. “You let all of them go? Who’s going to patrol that end of the valley?”

“Rothvar, Zaranar, and the other Riada Eyriens will have to stretch out a bit and work with the Agio Master of the Guard.”

“Rihlanders aren’t the same caliber of fighter as an Eyrien and you know it!”

“Yes, I do. But the Eyriens in those camps didn’t do a damn thing when they were needed—and proved to Agio’s Queen, her Master of the Guard, and me that they aren’t needed here. Or wanted here.”

They stared at each other.

“There’s nothing more to say,” Falonar said.

“No, I don’t think there is.”

Lucivar turned and walked out of the eyrie. Unless he had Ebon-gray shields already in place, it was the last time Falonar would see his back.

Falonar poured the coffee down the sink and carefully rinsed the pot. The spelled liquid he’d added to the coffee wasn’t a true violation of the Blood’s code of honor. It was too mild to be considered a compulsion spell, but adding it to food or drink helped make a person more open to suggestions.

He’d taken a lot of risks in order to buy those vials of liquid from a Black Widow. In the decade since then, he’d used the liquid carefully, slipping a few drops into a glass of wine or ale when there was a real chance that his words would make a difference, when that added something would help him influence people into making the right decisions. He’d used that influence to temper a punishment when a man didn’t deserve to be punished at all. He’d used the liquid to stop perversions that would have harmed common Eyriens as well as aristos. That had to count for something.

But he’d used too much of the liquid when, at his father’s demand, he tried to save his older brother from a punishment the fool had deserved. The change in the Master of the Guard’s chosen method of discipline had been too pronounced. No one had suspected Falonar of causing that change, but the discovery that someone had tried to manipulate the Queen’s Master had thrown the Lady into a rage.

The new punishment had gone beyond cruel. Falonar, his father, and their other male relatives had been required not only to witness the punishment but to participate in order to retain the family’s social standing and their own status in the courts where they served. When it was done, the Queen let what was left of his brother live and sent him back to the family. And that had been the cruelest punishment of all.

His father couldn’t publicly blame him without bringing attention to himself, but neither of his parents forgave him for what had happened to the favored son, and his mother deliberately began closing social doors, leaving him vulnerable to the whims of Prythian and the most elite members of the High Priestess’s court.

The service fair had offered him a way to escape his family and Terreille, but it hadn’t given him a way to regain his standing in Eyrien society because there was no Eyrien society. He accepted invitations for social events held by Riada’s aristos, but it wasn’t the same. He wasn’t someone among the people who mattered.

There was nothing left for him in Askavi Terreille. What he needed he would have to build here. Since his effort to influence Lucivar had failed, he had no other choice except to eliminate the obstacle that stood in his way.

Lucivar opened the front door of his eyrie and smelled vomit.

Shit, he thought as he used Craft to remove the winter cape. Had Surreal come down with that stomach illness?

He didn’t have time to wonder, didn’t even have time to turn and hang up the cape. The wolf pups rushed him, so panicked their attempts to communicate were completely incoherent. Then Tassle appeared and ...

“Papa! I’m sorry, Papa! I’m sorry!”

He heard Daemonar’s voice, heard the slap of boots on stone, felt the change in air as something launched at him.

As he dropped the cape and reached out, he formed a skintight Ebon-gray shield around himself. His hand filled with fabric, and in the heartbeat he had to decide whether to shove something away or pull it close, he realized he’d grabbed Daemonar and pulled his boy close.

Little arms wrapped around his neck in a choke hold. “I’m sorry!”

Mother Night. When had Daemonar learned to create a sight shield? He was much too young for that level of Craft.

*Sorry sorry sorry!* the wolf pups wailed.

That probably explained how the boy had learned it.

“Okay, boyo,” he said soothingly. “What are you sorry about?” From the smell of him, the boy had wet his pants, proving he wasn’t as housebroken as Lucivar had thought.

“I broke Auntie Srell!”

Lucivar’s legs went out from under him. He sank to his knees, clutching his son, trying to make sense of the words. He looked at Tassle.

*Graysfang is with her. She will not hear us, Yas. She cries like she is being torn up in a trap, but we cannot smell a wound.*

Sweet Darkness, have mercy.

He pried Daemonar off him. “Listen to me, boyo. You have to drop the sight shield.”

“I don’t know how!” Daemonar wailed.

“All right. Tassle will help you. You stay with him. I have to help Auntie Surreal. Stay here, Daemonar.”

He whistled sharply as he headed toward the family’s rooms. Graysfang howled in reply.

He found Surreal in the parlor on the floor, crying in a way that went beyond simple pain. He dropped to his knees and gathered her in his arms.

“Surreal? Surreal! It’s Lucivar. You’re all right now. You’re all right!”

“He’s just a little boy!” she screamed, feebly beating on his chest. “How could you leave me with a little boy?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize . . .” What? That she wasn’t easy around children? That she’d been fine playing with Daemonar at Winsol as long as Marian or Jaenelle was also there, but she’d joined the adults the moment she was the only one with the boy? He just hadn’t considered why she’d responded that way.

Her breathing wasn’t good. It sounded like she’d torn something in her chest.

“I couldn’t save them,” she whimpered.

He cuddled her because it was the only thing he could do at that moment. “Surreal.”

Words poured out of her. Names that made him sick just to hear them. Marjane. Rebecca and Myrol. Dannie. Rose. He knew those names. How could he not? He’d heard them whenever Jaenelle had nightmares about a place called Briarwood.

Trist. Kester. Ginger. The children who had died in the spooky house.

He held on to her, not sure she knew she wasn’t alone.

When Marian suddenly appeared in the parlor doorway, he said, “Get Nurian. And Father.” Late enough in the day for Saetan to be awake, and he wanted the strongest Black Widow available to examine Surreal.

Words poured out with a pain he couldn’t imagine. How had she kept this inside her for so long?

She stopped speaking in midword, and he hoped that she was finally aware that he was there, that he would help.

She sagged in his arms, and there was a sudden, and terrible, silence.

SEVEN

Lucivar paced the length of the eyrie’s large front room, back and forth, back and forth. The parlor would have been warmer but not more comfortable—not while he could taste Surreal’s pain in the air and imagined he still heard the echoes of her crying.

Needing the movement, he continued pacing and kept an eye on Daemon, who had taken a position at the glass doors and done nothing but stare at the snow that had been trampled by Daemonar and the wolf pups over the past few days. Too silent and too still. Lucivar found this side of Daemon’s temper the most frightening because there was no way to gauge the ferocity hiding under passivity—or how that temper would show itself when the passive surface broke.

“It wasn’t Daemonar’s fault,” Lucivar said. “Or the wolf pups’. They were playing a game. They didn’t know—”

Hell’s fire. Who could have known Surreal would react by tearing the eyrie apart and scaring the youngsters so badly the wolf pups forgot how to drop the sight shield?

Daemon turned away from the glass doors, his gold eyes changing from blank to annoyed. “Of course it wasn’t their fault. They’re just children.”

“If you’re going to blame someone, blame me.”

Daemon’s annoyance held a sharper edge. “For what?”

Lucivar stopped pacing and faced his brother. “She didn’t want to stay with the boy. Not by herself. But, Daemon, I swear by the Jewels and all that I am, I didn’t realize she was afraid to stay with the boy.”

“None of us realized that. She wasn’t troubled being around him when we were all at the Keep for Winsol.”

“Because we were there. She wasn’t responsible for keeping him safe. For keeping him alive.” Lucivar started pacing again. “Before she collapsed, she kept talking about the dead children, how she couldn’t save them.”

“That answers the question of what’s been eating at her these past few weeks,” Daemon said, his voice bleak and angry.

“I can understand her feeling raw about the children who died in the spooky house, but she’s been shouldering the weight of children who were dead before she knew they existed.”

Saetan walked into the room.

Lucivar pivoted and Daemon moved with him. When they stopped, they stood shoulder to shoulder as they faced the High Lord.

“Nurian says there is nothing physically wrong with Surreal,” Saetan said.

“Wasn’t she listening to Surreal breathe?” Lucivar snapped. “If she’s that incompetent, I’ll kick her ass out of Ebon Rih.”

“There is nothing wrong with Nurian’s skill as a Healer,” Saetan snapped back. “But if you need to kick someone’s ass, kick your own for not considering the condition of Surreal’s lungs when you insisted that she spend several weeks in the mountains during deep winter.”

Lucivar rocked back, hurt by the verbal slap.

Saetan huffed out a sigh and held up a hand. “If Jaenelle had thought being here now would harm Surreal’s health, Surreal would not be here. Right now, her breathing is raspy and she probably will have a wicked bitch of a sore throat from the crying and ... screaming. And she has scrapes and bruises. But those things are understandable. Hell’s fire, she went through every drawer, cupboard, and closet searching for the boy. The Darkness only knows what she thought she saw in the kitchen that led to the collapse. And that is the point. There is no physical reason for the way she collapsed after Lucivar found her.”

“Bleeding in the brain?” Daemon asked.

“No.”

“Nurian found nothing,” Daemon said. “What about you?”

Saetan shook his head. “She’s not in the Twisted Kingdom. Of that I am certain. But she’s gone somewhere inside herself, and I don’t know where to begin to look. Which is why Jaenelle is on her way. I think Witch is the only one who can help Surreal now.”

And if Witch can’t help her? Lucivar thought.

“I’ll stay with Surreal until Jaenelle arrives,” Saetan continued. “Nurian is checking Daemonar. Marian is going to keep him in his room until things are calmer. Tassle and Graysfang have taken the pups back to the wolf den and their mother.” He looked at Daemon. “What about you?”

“Surreal asked me to look for some information in the Keep’s library,” Daemon replied. “I’ll take care of it so she’ll have it when she wakes up.”

If she wakes up, Lucivar thought. They were all thinking it—and not one of them would say it.

“Is there anything concerning the Eyriens that needs to be dealt with right now?” Daemon asked.

Lucivar shook his head. “There is nothing that can’t wait.” Including making the decision about whether he could allow Falonar to remain in Ebon Rih.

He waited until Daemon left the eyrie and Saetan returned to the guest room where Surreal drifted in that unnatural sleep. Then he put on his winter cape and went outside, needing the sharp, cold air.

Wasn’t anyone’s fault—not the boy’s, not the wolf pups’, not even his. But if Surreal didn’t recover, her loss would leave scars on all of them.

Daemon glided through the stone corridors of the Keep until he reached the room that held the Dark Altar—one of the thirteen Gates between the Realms.

He picked up a kindling stick, then used Craft to create a tongue of witchfire. Once the kindling stick was burning, he extinguished the witchfire and began lighting the four black candles that would open the Gate and take him from the Keep in Kaeleer to the Keep in Terreille, which was where he needed to go in order to find the information about Falonar that Surreal wanted.

An empty shell. That was what he’d seen before Saetan pushed him out of the guest room and told him to wait with Lucivar. Nothing but an empty shell.

He’d held an empty shell once before. He’d lain beside Jaenelle’s bloody husk while the Sadist tricked Witch into leaving the Misty Place and rising high enough in the abyss so that he could force her to heal the young body that had been violently raped. Now it was Surreal that Saetan was trying to coax back into the body she had abandoned.

The first time he saw Surreal, she had been ten years old. Big eyes and long legs. Ready to bolt because she’d already learned that men were the enemy, but she’d had enough steel in her spine to stay beside her mother, Titian, while he listened to Tersa’s request to help the woman and her daughter.

Pretty girl all those years ago. Beautiful woman now. And she still had steel in her spine.

Would it be enough this time? And what would it do to the boy if his auntie Surreal never recovered from what should have been an innocent game?

“Sweet Darkness, for Daemonar’s sake and for her own, let Surreal come back to us,” he whispered as he lit the last candle in the four-branched candelabra and blew out the kindling stick.

The wall behind the Dark Altar changed to mist, and Daemon walked through the Gate.

Four steps. That was all it took to move from one Realm to another. Four steps.

The moment he took that last step and walked into the other Dark Altar’s room, he knew something wasn’t right. He’d been in the Terreille Keep’s Altar room, and it didn’t look like this. This room was rougher, smaller, colder.

Leaving the room, Daemon called in his heavy winter coat and put it on while he glided through the corridors to the doorway that should lead him to one of the courtyards.

Too dark. Too cold. Not enough candle-lights in the wall braces—not for this part of the Keep.

And the air smelled different.

He found the door and went out to the courtyard that would give him a view of Ebon Rih—or the Black Valley, as it was called in Terreille.

Twilight. That wasn’t right. There had still been daylight when he’d returned to the Keep from Lucivar’s eyrie.

There were lights in the valley, indicating a gathering of people, but he wasn’t sensing enough people down there to populate a village. Of course, the witch storm two years ago had devastated the Blood’s population in Terreille, so maybe it wasn’t surprising to sense so few minds. But that explanation, while valid, didn’t feel right.

It was winter here, as it should be, but there was an underlying cold that had nothing to do with the season, as if this place never felt the sun.

When he finally focused on the plants growing around the courtyard walls, he realized he’d never seen anything like them before.

There were three Realms, and the black candles were lit in a specific order to open the Gate to a specific Realm.

He’d been thinking about Surreal, distracted by the fear that she might not recover, and he’d opened the Gate without paying attention to the order in which he’d lit the black candles.

“Mother Night,” he whispered, looking out over the valley. “This is Hell.”

Rainier laid out the cards for a solitary game and watched a middle-aged Warlord approach the bar. Briggs kept his eyes on the stranger, giving the man no reason to look at anyone else in the room. Rainier nodded, silent permission for Briggs to notice him and bring him to the Warlord’s attention.

A few moments later, the Warlord approached the table. “I’m Lord Randahl, Lady Erika’s Master of the Guard. Could I have a few minutes of your time, Prince?”

Rainier tipped his head to indicate another chair at the table. “What brings Agio’s Master to Riada?” he asked as Randahl took a seat.

“Wanted to talk to Prince Yaslana, but when I reached the landing web for his eyrie . . . Well, when shields go up around a home in that way, you know there’s some trouble there—accident, illness, death.”

An unspoken question. Because Rainier sensed concern rather than curiosity, he said, “Accident.”

“Something a Healer can fix?” Randahl asked.

“We hope so.”

A nod. “If there is any assistance Agio’s court can give, just send word.”

That told Rainier all he needed to know about how Randahl felt about Lucivar.

“So I felt those shields and came down here, mostly looking for a drink and a bite to eat,” Randahl said. “Followed an impulse and asked the man at the bar where I could find a person Lucivar might trust with delicate matters. He pointed me to you.”

“Why didn’t you approach Lady Shayne or her Master?”

“Like I said, it’s a delicate matter.”

“Wouldn’t you normally ask for the second-in-command?”

Randahl looked Rainier in the eyes and said nothing—and that told him everything.

Hell’s fire.

“Yaslana rules the Eyriens,” Randahl said.

“Yaslana rules the whole valley and everyone in it,” Rainier countered.

“But specifically, he rules the Eyriens. None of them serve in a Rihlander court. They serve him.”

Rainier tipped his head to acknowledge the distinction.

“That said, Lady Erika respectfully requests that the Eyriens now residing in the northern camps be relocated if Yaslana intends to let them stay in the valley.”

Rainier played a couple of cards to give himself time. “Has there been trouble?”

“Not yet, but it’s coming.” Randahl clasped his hands, rested his arms on the table, and leaned forward. “There’s a storm growing in those mountains, and we’re not sure why.”

“You think it’s because the emigration contracts are done?”

Randahl shook his head. “If anything, I’d think that would be more reason to walk softly. This has been building for a while now, but the Eyriens keep it hidden most of the time—especially when Lucivar is around.”

“But not when Falonar visits the camps?”

Randahl let out a huff of air tinged with anger. “The words weren’t said, you understand me? The last time Falonar was in the northern part of the valley, the Eyriens in the camps seemed pleased and stirred up, and I got the impression . . .” He hesitated.

“Just say it, Randahl.”

“Is Lucivar going somewhere else? Is he planning to leave Ebon Rih?”

“No. Why?”

“From what we’ve observed lately, Falonar doesn’t act like a second-in-command. At least, not with the Eyriens in the northern camps. And they don’t think of him as the second-in-command, you understand me? So it’s made some of us wonder if the valley is going to get split between the two Warlord Princes. And frankly, if that happens, Lady Erika doesn’t want her people in Falonar’s part of the valley.”

“Lucivar isn’t giving up any piece of Ebon Rih to anyone,” Rainier said. “And a fight is out of the question.”

“Because only one side walks away from a killing field. I know,” Randahl said, nodding. “I know. But we don’t feel easy about having Eyriens living so close to us when they aren’t being held on a tight leash. Not those Eyriens, anyway. We’d really like to get those bastards out of the mountains around Agio. Just wanted Lucivar to know that.”

“I’ll see that he gets the message.” All the messages.

Randahl sat back. “Thank you. I’ll be heading back, then.”

“Stay and have a bite to eat,” Rainier said, raising a hand to catch Briggs’s eye. *Food?*

He’d barely finished the thought when Merry swung out of the kitchen with a tray. She set plates on the table, said, “It’s time for your healing brew,” and headed back to the kitchen.

Randahl stared at slices of roasted beef and the mound of fresh vegetables. “Did we decide what to eat?”

“Apparently we did.” Smiling, Rainier picked up a fork and dug in.

A thick-vined plant tried to eat him, which snapped Daemon out of his complacent wandering of the Keep’s outer courtyards. In Hell, the Realm of forever twilight, most of the native flora and fauna welcomed the opportunity to dine on fresh blood, and any man who stumbled into this Realm was meat for the taking.

Even if that man was a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince.

He turned toward the door and mentally stumbled when he saw Draca standing there, clearly waiting for him.

She said nothing. Just the same, he felt chastised for staying in the Dark Realm so that he could look round a bit—and for his boyish excitement at seeing a place that was usually forbidden to anyone who still walked among the living.

“Draca,” he said pleasantly, as if the past hour or so had been nothing out of the ordinary. Hell’s fire. How long had she been keeping track of him?

“Prince Ssadi,” she replied. “Come with me.”

She led him back to the Dark Altar and opened the Gate. Moments later, he felt the difference and knew they were in Terreille. Which was where he should have been in the first place.

“You’re probably wondering why I was wandering around the other Keep.”

“You are your father’ss sson,” Draca said. “The firsst time he ssaw Hell, Ssaetan alsso became disstracted and forgot to return to the Gate.”

The look she gave him muzzled curiosity. Doing his best to appear meek, since he had a feeling that anything else would get him tossed out of the Keep, he followed her to one of the sitting rooms that had a large blackwood worktable.

“It iss a cold day,” Draca said. “You should eat ssomething hot.”

“I just wanted to talk to Geoffrey about . . .” Daemon studied the Seneschal. “Thank you. That would be welcome.” And he was going to eat it whether he wanted it or not.

He also understood that he was supposed to stay where he had been put. Too bad this particular room was singularly uninteresting. Maybe that was the reason she had put him here.

Slipping his hands in his trousers pockets, Daemon wandered over to a window. Another courtyard. Here the plants slept under a cover of snow.

He knew this was Terreille, but he felt more uneasy, more vulnerable, than when he’d been foolishly wandering around the Keep in Hell.

He turned when the door opened and watched a servant set a tray at one end of the blackwood table and retreat, pausing in the doorway to let Geoffrey enter.

The Keep’s historian/librarian looked around the room, then looked at him with black eyes that glittered with sharp humor. “What did you do to end up here?”

“Wandered where I wasn’t supposed to.”

The black eyes still glittered, but the humor was gone. “A dangerous thing to do.”

“Yes,” Daemon replied quietly. “And not something I’ll do again without permission.” It suddenly occurred to him that most people who stumbled into the Dark Realm never returned to the living—and he had too much to live for to be so careless.

“In that case, is there something I can do for you?”

“Surreal wants whatever family information you can find about Falonar.”

“That might take a little while, but I should be able to tell you something from the registers,” Geoffrey said. “Eat your meal while it’s hot.” When he reached the door, he stopped and turned back. “Pondering this should keep you out of trouble for a while.”

As soon as Geoffrey left the room, a large piece of parchment appeared above the blackwood table, then drifted down to cover half the surface.

Not exactly a map, Daemon decided, feeling an excited chill. Two webs, one drawn in black ink, the other in red. The center point was labeled “Ebon Askavi” in his father’s handwriting.

He picked up the bowl of soup and ate while he walked back and forth, studying the markers. The Keep. SaDiablo Hall. The Khaldharon Run and the Blood Run. The cildru dyathe’s island. The Harpies’territory. The thirteen Gates. Not a map showing terrain or boundaries. Not a map useful to anyone who couldn’t ride the Black Winds, but he learned a great deal about Hell in the hour he spent perusing that piece of parchment, including the locations of the most benign and most dangerous sections of the Dark Realm.

Then the parchment vanished, the door opened, and Geoffrey returned.

“I found some information that might be of interest to you,” Geoffrey said. “You can review the material in the private section of the library. Then you will go home.”

Daemon let out a huff of laughter. “I guess I overstepped a few boundaries. Are you going to mention this to my father?”

“That you’re looking into Falonar’s bloodlines? Why should I?”

Messages received and understood, Daemon thought as he and Geoffrey went to the private section of the library.

Geoffrey hadn’t shown him that parchment because he was the High Lord’s son. Geoffrey had shown him that parchment because he was the High Lord’s heir.

EIGHT

Her chest hurt like a wicked bitch, it was damn hard to breathe, and whatever she was lying on was too cold and too hard for any comfort.

Surreal moved her hands slowly, testing the surface beneath her. When her left hand found an edge and then air, she carefully rolled to her side so she wouldn’t fall off whatever she was on. As she pushed herself upright, she felt an odd, painful pressure in her chest, and when she touched the spot . . .

She ripped her shirt open and stared at the rough, swollen, black lump between her breasts. Her muscles clenched, and the thing seemed to swell.

“What in the name of Hell . . . ?”

“Not Hell,” said a lilting, lyrical voice full of caverns and midnight skies. “This is the Misty Place.”

Apt name, Surreal decided as she looked around. Mist and stone, and nothing else except the altar she was sitting on.

“Where, exactly, is the Misty Place?” she asked.

“In the abyss.”

“I’ve never seen it before.”

“Very few can survive this place, and none without invitation.”

What walked out of the mist was female but not human. Medium height, slender, and fair-skinned. An erotically beautiful face framed by a gold mane that was somewhere between fur and hair. Delicately pointed ears and a small spiral horn. Human torso and limbs, but also a fawn’s tail and dainty horse’s hooves. Human hands that had cat’s claws instead of fingernails.

Surreal didn’t recognize the body, but she recognized those sapphire eyes.

Living myth. Dreams made flesh. Witch. This was the Self who lived within Jaenelle’s human skin.

“You brought me here?” Surreal asked. “Why?”

“Because of that.” Witch pointed to the black lump.

“Poison?” She gingerly pressed the skin around the lump. Hell’s fire, it hurt.

“Not a physical poison, but a poison all the same. A poison of the heart. You can’t see it in the physical world, but it will cripple you, Surreal—has been crippling you for months now. So it’s time to cleanse the heart.”

Oh, that didn’t sound good. “Should I lay down so you can cut it out?”

Witch shook her head. “This is up to you now.”

“You expect me to cut it out of myself?”

“Not cut. Push. A kind of birthing, if you prefer.”

“I don’t prefer,” she muttered. “What if I don’t do this?”

“You were in so much emotional pain, you broke the connection between your Self and your body in order to escape. If you don’t heal this now, you won’t be able to mend that separation, and your empty body eventually will wither and die.” Witch bared her teeth and snarled. “Show some balls and do this!”

Surreal bared her teeth and matched Witch’s snarl. Then her chest muscles clenched. The skin at the top of the lump split, and a thick, black pus pushed out of the opening. When she forced her muscles to relax, the pus retreated.

Shit shit shit.

“You have to clean it out, all the way to the core,” Witch said urgently. “If you don’t, your dreams will never find fertile ground.”

“What dreams?”

“The ones you’re not ready to know. The ones I’ve seen in a tangled web.”

The pressure in her chest was becoming unbearable, and she wanted to back down, wanted to say she didn’t care what happened to her body. Then she imagined Lucivar trying to explain to Daemonar why Auntie Surreal never woke up after playing with him. “What do I need to do?”

“Push them out. Let them go. Forgive yourself for what you couldn’t do.”

Surreal shook her head, not understanding. Her chest muscles clenched again. Pus rose, but not far enough.

“Tell me their names,” Witch said as she pointed to the black lump.

“Whose names?”

“The ones you couldn’t save.”

Suddenly she knew what the lump and pus had formed around—the feelings of blame, regret, sorrow. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” Witch insisted. “Tell me their names!”

A boy defying an order. Wings. Blood spraying the walls and floor. “Kester.”

Her muscles clenched. Black pus burst out of the lump and soiled her shirt.

She relaxed her muscles and took a breath. Hell’s fire, that stuff smelled putrid.

A boy screaming and screaming. A plucked eye rolling off the shelf.

“Trist,” she cried, bearing down to push out more of the pus. “Ginger.”

“Not your fault,” Witch said.

“I should have been stronger, faster, something.”

“You were injured and then poisoned. You did far more to defend and protect than the enemy had believed possible.” A beat of silence. Then, “Who else didn’t you save?”

The pressure in her chest kept building and building. Now that the wound was open, the older, harder pus was pushing up. “Marjane, who was my friend Deje’s girl. You remember Marjane.”

“Yes, I remember Marjane. I remember Rebecca and Myrol, Dannie and Rose. They were just some of the girls who died in Briarwood.”

More pus burst from the lump as Witch spoke each name.

“They were dead before you knew they existed,” Witch said. “Yet you carry their names. Who else didn’t you save?”

“You.” Panting and sobbing, Surreal looked at the dream whose existence had changed so many lives. “I didn’t get to Briarwood in time to save you.”

“You weren’t in time to save me from the rape, but you got me away from that place, and that saved my life.”

Black pus continued pushing out of her chest, fouling her clothes and the altar. As an assassin, she had killed a lot of men as payment for girls whose names she never knew. She didn’t carry the weight of those girls because she had settled the debt that was owed for their pain, for their loss.

More pressure, but this pus was so old, had been in her for so long, it was rough and hard, scraping the skin around the open sore.

“You’re down to the core,” Witch said. “The last name. Tell me the name of the first girl you didn’t save, the name that has hurt your heart for so many years.”

She clenched her muscles and pushed. Had to get the core out of her or it would all come back.

“Tell me.”

“I don’t know!”

“Then I’ll tell you.” Witch reached out and rested one claw above what was left of the black lump. “Her name was Surreal.”

Pain. Agony. Twelve years old and hiding from whoever had killed her mother. Trying to survive in dirty alleyways. Raped but not broken. She hadn’t been able to protect her body, but she’d been able to protect her Green Birthright power and her inner web. Twelve years old and beginning both careers—whore and assassin.

The hard black core pushed out, pushed out, pushed out until Witch hooked it with a claw and pulled it out the rest of the way.

Surreal lay back. Her chest hurt, and it felt hollow—and it felt clean. For the first time in too many years, she felt clean.

She closed her eyes. The altar felt much warmer and softer now. Comfortable.

“Rest now, Surreal,” Jaenelle said. “Rest.”

She snuggled farther under the spell-warmed covers, breathed an easy sigh, and slept.

NINE

“Daemonar!”

Surreal jerked awake and struggled against the hand pressing on her shoulder, holding her down. Then a tenor voice said, “Be easy, cousin. Be easy. The boy is well.” Then a tenor voice said, “Be easy, cousin. Be easy The boy is well.”

She flopped back, boneless with relief as the voice and words were absorbed. Then she looked at the man who released her shoulder and took her hand, hiding none of the Gray-Jeweled strength behind his gentle touch. Long silver hair and slightly oversized forest blue eyes. Delicately pointed ears and a slender, sinewy build that was much stronger than it looked. “Chaosti?”

The Warlord Prince of the Dea al Mon smiled. “Welcome back.”

Hell’s fire. How long had she been gone?

“Two days,” Chaosti said as if she’d actually asked the question. “It’s been two days since you collapsed.”

Snips of memory. Lucivar leaving her to watch the boy. A hunt for the missing child. Fear that turned into unbearable pain. And . . .

“How much of the eyrie did I wreck before I went down?” she asked.

A sharp, amused smile. “All of it. Every closet, cupboard, and hidey-hole. You were impressively efficient.”

Shit shit shit. “Didn’t find the boy.” A small ache in her chest where the black lump had been.

“He and his furry brothers used the wolf pups’ newly learned skill of sight shielding to give themselves an advantage in the game of hide-and-seek. If you’d been aware of that, he would have remained hidden only for as long as you chose to let him have the advantage. As it was, Daemonar is very sorry he scared his auntie Surreal. Whenever he’s slipped away from us, we’ve found him outside this door, hugging an armful of his books, waiting for you to wake up so he can read you a story.”

“He can’t read yet.”

“I know. But it’s the only thing he can do to take care of you.”

Tears stung her eyes. She blinked them away. “Is there any reason I can’t get up?”

“None.” Chaosti squeezed her hand gently. “But there is something I’d like you to think about before you see the others.”

She studied his face, but she couldn’t read him as well as she could read Lucivar. “Think about what?” she asked warily.

“Coming to Dea al Mon for a visit with your mother’s clan. Grand-mammy Teele would like to have some time with you.” He hesitated. “While we waited for your return, Lucivar and I discussed the training he wanted you to have and why he wanted you to have it. I agree with the why—”

Of course he did. He’d been just as upset with her for not shielding before going into the spooky house as Lucivar had been—and just as adamant that she polish her defensive skills.

“—but I think a different how and where would suit you better.”

She blinked at him. “Say that again?”

“You’re not Eyrien. While learning the Eyrien way of fighting is physically beneficial, it’s not natural to who and what you are.”

“Because I’m Dea al Mon.”

“Yes.”

Hadn’t she thought along similar lines the day she’d clashed with Falonar in The Tavern?

“I’d like to make that visit, and I’d like some training with you, if you’re willing. But not just yet.” Weighing loyalties and confidences, she decided Chaosti was as much family to Lucivar as she was. “Something is going on here.”

“Lucivar’s decision to have some of the Eyriens leave Ebon Rih is not your concern, cousin.”

“No, it’s not, but he needs someone watching his back until they’re gone.”

“Isn’t that what his second-in-command is supposed to do?”

“That’s what a second-in-command is supposed to do,” she agreed. “But there’s more than one way to stab a man in the back.”

“Like striking at his family?” Chaosti tipped his head to indicate the other people in the eyrie.

She nodded. “Or good friends like Merry and Briggs.”

“Not wounds Lucivar would recover from easily,” Chaosti said.

“If at all.”

“Do you want me to stay?”

“No. But it wouldn’t hurt to have the Eyriens in Riada get a look at another side of the SaDiablo family.”

“Lucivar is with the other men now. I’ll go over there and personally give him the news that you’ve recovered.”

“Yeah. About that.” He helped her sit up, then pulled the covers away so she could swing her legs over the side of the bed. “Was Marian upset about me tearing up the place?”

“She said it has given her an opportunity to look at what’s been stored and pass along what is no longer needed.”

Meaning the hearth witch must have been shocked when she’d returned to her home. “Shit.”

He laughed as he helped her to her feet and bundled her into a robe. She didn’t need that much help. She was sure of it. But she wasn’t feeling steady enough to argue with a Warlord Prince and take care of herself.

He helped her to the bathroom, then helped her to the kitchen, where Jaenelle and Marian were talking.

“You’re looking wobbly, sugar,” Jaenelle said. “But you’ll do.” She sounded amused, but Surreal heard approval beneath the amusement.

“Jaenelle!” Marian scolded. “Be nice.”

“Instead of honest?” Jaenelle asked innocently.

Marian narrowed her eyes at Jaenelle, then gave Surreal a brilliant smile. “We’re glad you’re feeling better. Are you hungry?”

Surreal’s stomach growled. They all laughed.

“Auntie Srell!”

One moment she was standing on her own feet. The next, Daemonar flung himself at her and would have knocked her down if Chaosti hadn’t caught her. He positioned a chair behind her and laughed in her ear as he said, “We really do need to work on your defensive skills, cousin.”

She would have said something sharp and concise, but she was being hugged breathless by the boy in her lap.

“I’m sorry, Auntie Srell!”

“I know you are, boyo.” She gingerly put her arms around him. “I know.”

“Let Auntie Surreal sit by herself now and have something to eat,” Jaenelle said.

Daemonar scrambled off Surreal’s lap and into the chair next to hers. “Mama made good soup. You eat some. You eat too, Auntie J.!”

*Hell’s fire,* Surreal said on a Gray psychic thread aimed at Jaenelle. *He’s already got the bossy attitude.*

*Uh-huh.* Jaenelle set the table. *A Warlord Prince is born a Warlord Prince. Doesn’t take long for the personality traits of that caste to show up.*

*Any chance of me taking a bath by myself?*

*Only if you wait until nap time.* Jaenelle brought the bread and butter to the table while Marian ladled the soup.

They ate quietly. Surreal saw the fatigue in Jaenelle’s and Marian’s eyes, felt the fatigue in her own body. The past two days had been hard on all of them.

*One more step, Surreal,* Jaenelle said quietly. *You’ve cleansed your heart. In a day or two, when you’re feeling stronger, let Lucivar give you a chance to cleanse the past from your body.*

*I don’t understand.*

*You will.*

The door of the communal eyrie opened.

Since he was sparring with Zaranar, Lucivar didn’t look toward the door, but he noticed the refreshing scent of crisp, clean air—and he noticed the psychic scent of the male who entered.

Chaosti’s presence didn’t break his concentration, but it broke everyone else’s, including Zaranar’s. By rights, Lucivar should have thumped the man for getting distracted when an adversary stood in front of him, but he understood why Zaranar instinctively turned toward the door, so he deliberately stepped away, ending the sparring match.

Even when Chaosti was relaxed and wearing his Birthright Green Jewel, as he was now, there was something wild about his physical and psychic scents that made other men wary. That had been true of the young man Lucivar had met years ago, and it was more true of the mature leader who protected the people and land of the Dea al Mon. Hell’s fire, even Daemon recognized Chaosti as a serious adversary, despite the difference in the strength of Black against Gray.

It was fortunate for the Realm of Kaeleer that one man was married to Jaenelle and the other was related to Jaenelle. That connection was the only reason they were easy being in a room with each other—at least after the first minute, when they both struggled to leash their predatory natures.

So Lucivar didn’t take advantage of Zaranar’s distraction. Instead, he vanished his sparring stick and waited for Chaosti to cross the large room and join him.

No anger. No distress. But Lucivar didn’t feel the tight muscles in his shoulders relax until Chaosti smiled.

“Surreal is awake,” Chaosti said. “And since your boy has to divide his attention among his three favorite women, she’ll have some chance to eat in peace.”

Lucivar grinned. Surreal was back. Thank the Darkness for that.

“I’ve heard the Dea al Mon are skilled fighters,” Falonar said with a tight smile. “The most feared warriors in the Realm. Would you be willing to give us a demonstration?”

Chaosti turned toward Falonar. “The Dea al Mon and Eyriens don’t fight in the same way. I don’t think you would find our weapons impressive compared to your own.”

Having seen Dea al Mon weapons, Lucivar didn’t agree with that, but he recognized the diplomacy of a warrior who didn’t want to offend his hosts.

“Lucivar is quite free with teaching others how to use Eyrien weapons,” Falonar said. “I assumed he’d shown you.”

Why does that bother you? Lucivar wondered as he absorbed the odd note in Falonar’s voice.

“He did,” Chaosti replied. Then he shrugged. “If you’ll find it of interest.”

“It isn’t necessary,” Lucivar said, not liking the undercurrent of emotions that put an unsettling bite in the air.

He didn’t object to the suggestion itself. After all, he’d enjoyed sparring with centaurs and satyrs as well as the Dea al Mon, not to mention playing stalk and pounce with Kaelas and Jaal. Pitting his skills against someone who had received a different kind of training had added zest to familiar workouts. But there was something about Falonar’s suggestion that felt off.

Chaosti shrugged again. “I don’t mind. In fact, I would welcome a chance to warm up muscles that have grown tight during the bedside vigil.”

Lucivar couldn’t argue with that, since it was the same reason he was here this morning—that and Jaenelle’s firm suggestion that he leave the eyrie for a few hours because, according to her, he’d become too edgy to live with.

“Fine.” He called in two sparring sticks and handed one to Chaosti. “We can start with the warm-up and move into a ten-minute spar. Hallevar? You’ll keep the time?”

“I will,” Hallevar replied.

Falonar stepped into the sparring circle. “I’ll spar with Prince Chaosti. That will give your weather bones a chance to rest.”

Lucivar rocked back on his heels. What the . . . ?

*Does he have a brain illness?* Chaosti asked on a Gray psychic thread.

*Not that I’m aware of,* Lucivar replied.

*In that case, I’ll follow his lead, and we’ll see where the path ends.*

Chaosti’s tone told Lucivar he wasn’t the only one who thought there was something wrong, but the Dea al Mon stepped into the circle, holding the sparring stick with easy familiarity.

Lucivar moved away from the other men to have an unobstructed view of the match—and so that there was no one in his way if he needed to move fast. He’d never liked that Warlord Princes emigrating to Kaeleer had to serve five years to prove themselves when everyone else served two years or less. Now, watching Falonar, he appreciated the wisdom of demanding that extra time from males who came from such an aggressive caste. A man could hide for only so long before his true nature cracked the mask.

If the past two years had been a mask, who was the man behind it?

Falonar’s moves were a little too quick, a little too sharp, to allow his opponent a safe warm-up. And judging by the puzzled, or disapproving, looks of the other Eyriens, Lucivar wasn’t the only one who thought so.

Under other circumstances, he would have demanded a return to the proper speed and rhythm of the warm-up moves—or ended the match before it began. Except Chaosti had told him, more or less, to stay out of it in order to find out what Falonar really wanted.

And Chaosti had already warmed up his muscles before coming to the eyrie. That was clear by how fluidly he responded to the increase in speed. Clear to Lucivar, anyway. The fact that a supposedly stiff Dea al Mon was matching moves and speed with an Eyrien seemed to be pissing off Falonar.

They were in the last combination of warm-up moves. Falonar was now a half beat behind, which meant Chaosti committed to the move first. The last moves were partial turns to stretch side muscles. Fine for the grace of the warm-up, but a move that left the ribs vulnerable in an actual fight.

Chaosti twisted at the waist, lifting his arms, his weight slightly off balance.

That was when Falonar broke from the warm-up completely and struck. Since most Eyriens shielded between the warm-up and the actual sparring match, the blow would have bruised, if not broken, a few ribs.

Chaosti whipped through a one-footed spin and blocked the blow with his own stick—a move that had several Eyriens sucking in a breath at the speed and balance required.

“That’s—” Enough. Lucivar didn’t have time to finish the command before the sparring match escalated, and he didn’t dare interfere, since it might break Chaosti’s concentration. Besides, the Dea al Mon now had a tight Gray shield around himself and wouldn’t sustain an injury more serious than a bruise while fighting against a man who wore Sapphire.

Chaosti was working hard, but Falonar was working harder to maintain the pace he’d set. As the match continued, it became apparent that Falonar was an excellent fighter—and Chaosti was so much more than an excellent fighter.

Lucivar glanced at the hourglass floating on air next to Hallevar. Only a minute left. Then he could drag Falonar away from the others and find out what in the name of Hell was wrong with the man.

The sparring match would end in a draw. He didn’t think any man in the room would feel a bite to his pride that an Eyrien couldn’t defeat this particular opponent.

Except, apparently, Falonar.

One moment there was the clash of sparring sticks. The next moment, there was a flash of sunlight on metal and Falonar was holding his bladed stick.

Chaosti raised his sparring stick to block a chest-high blow. The blade on Falonar’s stick sliced cleanly through the wood—and the next move should have sliced through Chaosti’s waist.

Eyriens fought in the air or on open fields—places that suited a race with wings who needed room to maneuver. But the Children of the Wood were a more intimate kind of fighter.

Lucivar expected it, but even he didn’t see the transition from a broken sparring stick to Dea al Mon fighting knives. Moments after Falonar made that first aggressive move, he was lying on the floor, bleeding from a handful of wounds while Chaosti stood over him, one knife ready to slice his throat while the other knife was in position to rip through the Eyrien’s belly.

Every Eyrien in that room now understood why the Dea al Mon were feared.

“Chaosti,” Lucivar said quietly. “It’s done. Step back.”

“Is it done?” Chaosti asked just as quietly.

“Yes.” If he makes a move against you now, I will string him up with his own intestines and leave him for the carrion eaters.

Chaosti stepped back, but he didn’t vanish those long, elegant knives until he was out of the circle.

The Eyriens stared at him. Finally Hallevar said, “Thank you for the demonstration, Prince. It was . . . educational.”

Chaosti tipped his head. “Yaslana is family. It was a pleasure to oblige him.”

No one mentioned that it hadn’t been his idea, but Lucivar figured the warriors knew the obliging had nothing to do with the match and everything to do with not killing Falonar.

The Dea al Mon walked out of the communal eyrie.

No longer concerned about provoking Chaosti into more of a fight, Lucivar felt his temper slip the leash, turning hot and jagged as he walked up to Falonar. “That’s the second time you’ve used a sparring match to strike at a man. I guarantee you won’t survive if you try it a third time.”

He motioned to Zaranar and Rothvar. “Get Prince Falonar back to his eyrie and summon the Healer. The rest of you are dismissed—except you, Hallevar.”

The two men hauled Falonar upright, ignoring his snarled protest, and carried him out. The other men departed as quickly as they could.

When he was alone with the arms master, Lucivar said, “Do you know what’s wrong with him?”

Hallevar shook his head. “But I’m guessing he’s finding it harder than the others to accept that when it comes to fighting, we might be second best in this Realm. Not you, of course.” He hesitated, then added, “We’re an arrogant race, Lucivar. You know that as well as I do.”

“We are, and I do. But we’re not stupid, and when a man wears the Sapphire, attacking a Gray-Jeweled Warlord Prince during a friendly sparring match is plain stupid, no matter what race the Gray comes from.”

“Something has been chewing at him lately, that’s for sure, but I can’t tell you what I don’t know. I can tell you that, even as boys, you and Falonar lived by different shades of honor.”

“Honor is honor,” Lucivar snapped. “It doesn’t come in shades.”

“Yeah.” Hallevar smiled. “As boy or man, that line was always clear to you. I don’t think it was ever that clear for Falonar, which is probably why the two of you can’t get along any better now than you did back then. And there’s the other thing.” He frowned, then shook his head.

“Say it.”

“You’ve fought your battles, and you’ve got nothing to prove. So you’re content to rule a territory that isn’t churned up all the time with power struggles and fights.”

“In that, I’m no different than any other ruler in Kaeleer.”

“Maybe that’s the point. Hard for a man to make a name for himself if there aren’t any battles to win.” Hallevar sighed. “You made your name, Lucivar, whether you intended to or not. You spent most of your life away from Askavi, but you gained a reputation on the killing fields, and hearing your name was enough to put fear in strong men’s eyes. No one is going to feel that way about Falonar.”

No, no one would fear Prince Falonar. Not in Kaeleer, anyway.

“Now can I ask you a question?” Hallevar said.

“Sure. Ask.”

“Why have you been so soft with the Eyriens in Ebon Rih? Those lazy bastards in the northern camps don’t want to hold their own cocks when they take a piss, let alone do anything useful. Why didn’t you kick their asses off these mountains sooner?”

“To go where?” Lucivar asked quietly.

“What difference does it make where—” Hallevar stopped. Stared.

“Yeah.” Lucivar smiled grimly. “Everything has a price.”

“You kept them close so they wouldn’t become someone else’s problem.”

“And because I had hoped that I could build an Eyrien community here. The community didn’t happen, but keeping them close to avoid trouble had worked for a few years. Now it doesn’t, so it’s time for them to go.”

“Between the women’s settlement in Doun and those of us who are staying in Riada, that’s the start of a community, isn’t it?”

Lucivar smiled. “Yes, it is.”

“You think the other Eyriens will survive once they leave Ebon Rih?”

“Not for long. Not in Kaeleer.” He blew out a breath. “If anyone needs me, I’ll be down at The Tavern for an hour or so. I want to check on Rainier.” And Merry and Briggs.

“You have any objections to the girl working with Tamnar this afternoon? Boy didn’t get any practice in this morning, and the girl is always eager for a chance.”

“I told Jillian she could have the training if she kept up with her schoolwork,” Lucivar said as he headed for the door. “So I have no objections.”

“Tamnar isn’t a child, but he’s not an adult yet.”

Lucivar stopped, hearing discomfort in Hallevar’s voice. “So?” If there was any question of the boy behaving inappropriately around Jillian, the arms master wouldn’t have asked for permission to have them train together.

“Being a bastard and all, boy hasn’t had much schooling with books and such. Wouldn’t want to shame him by putting him with the little ones, but . . .”

Understanding the point of the conversation, Lucivar smiled. “I’ll talk to Endar. I think we can work something out.”

Hallevar didn’t smile back. “That answer right there is the reason the people in this valley will never feel about Falonar the way they feel about you.”

Yaslana is family. It was a pleasure to oblige him.

And that, Falonar thought as he sat alone and embraced the pain from his wounds, was more proof that Lucivar Yaslana wasn’t one of them beneath the skin and shouldn’t be ruling over real Eyriens. To acknowledge something like Chaosti as family? No man respectful of his race would admit to such a thing—even if it were true.

The Children of the Wood. They weren’t natural, weren’t human, despite their shape. Nothing human could have blocked an Eyrien—blocked him—that way or moved fast enough to inflict several wounds before he even saw the blade.

This place was making the Eyriens weak, making them less. Diminishing them a little more each day.

He had to save his people. It was fortunate Surreal had that unexplained breakdown. It had kept Lucivar occupied, and had bought more time for the rest of them. But Surreal had recovered, and Lucivar would once again focus on driving out the people who should have first claim to this land.

Falonar pushed himself out of the chair. It wouldn’t do his wounds any good to be riding the Winds to the northern camps, but it had to be done.

If he was going to save his people, he’d better do it soon.

Lucivar walked into his eyrie and hung his winter cape on the coat tree near the door. All he wanted right now was a quiet, peaceful evening and an hour to soak in the eyrie’s heated pool.

“Papa!”

But if he couldn’t have peace, he’d settle for a happier kind of uproar.

He caught Daemonar and swung him around, making the boy laugh. “Hello, boyo.”

“I read stories with Auntie J., and Mama made soup, and I didn’t scare Auntie Srell!”

“Sounds like you had an excellent day.”

“Yeah!”

“Meet me in the bathroom, and we’ll wash up together for dinner.”

“Okay!”

He put Daemonar down and watched his happy bundle of boy run. Shaking his head, he went into the kitchen, where Marian was adding her finishing touches to a beef roast and fixings.

“Hard day?” she asked, wiping her hands as he moved toward her.

“I’ve had harder days.” He wrapped his arms around her and breathed in the scent of her, the warmth of her. “Where is Surreal?”

“She went back to The Tavern. She said if she had to have a male watch her take a bath, it was going to be Rainier. Daemonar asking if her udders made milk probably weighed in on that decision.”

He laughed. “Mother Night.”

“Papa!” It sounded like the boy was near the bathroom, and if he wanted the boy to stay near the bathroom, he had to move his ass.

He sighed, then kissed Marian’s forehead. “Your men better get washed up for dinner.”

“And after dinner, will we talk, Lucivar?”

The choices and decisions he was making would change her life too. He nodded. “Once we’ve got the boy tucked in, we’ll talk.”

They ate dinner, took care of evening chores, and got their son settled in bed. Then they went to the heated pool in the eyrie, stripped down, and relaxed.

He told her about Falonar inviting Chaosti to a sparring match and then breaking honor by changing it to a real fight at the end when he realized he wasn’t going to win.

He closed his eyes and tipped his head back to rest against the edge of the pool. Opening his wings, he fanned them just enough to have the water clean them.

“What did I miss, Marian?” he asked. “Until recently, I considered Falonar a good second-in-command.”

“Maybe being second isn’t enough for him,” Marian said.

Second-in-command—and always second best to the half-breed bastard? That had mattered to Falonar a lot when they were boys. Maybe it still did.

“Three more years to fulfill his contract might feel like too long a time before he can fulfill his own ambitions,” Marian continued.

Lucivar opened his eyes. “He’s not being tortured or beaten every day. He’s not chained or caged. That being the case, three years isn’t a long time for someone from the long-lived races.”

“Depends on whether you feel that you’re being kept from something you want.”

“What is it he wants?” Frustrated, Lucivar sat up. “I provided a place to live, basic furnishings, and a wage to cover personal expenses. If Falonar dreams of being wealthy, there are investments he can make and people he can talk to about those investments—my father being one of them.”

“Maybe he misses aristo society,” Marian said.

“He rubs elbows with the aristo families in Riada—and in Doun and Agio, for all I know. So he can’t say he’s got nothing but rough-and-tumble common folk for company.”

“But the aristos are Rihlanders, not Eyriens.”

“And that’s my fault?”

“Of course it’s not your fault.”

Lucivar heard the bite in her voice. His hearth witch was getting riled on his behalf. It tickled him that she was defending him against himself, but since he didn’t want to end up sleeping alone tonight, he figured it was best not to mention that.

“We could end up being the only Eyriens in Ebon Rih,” he said. That wasn’t really true, but in a few days, there would be so many less than there were now.

“When I came to this valley, the only other Eyriens I knew about were you and Luthvian. If our family ends up being the only Eyriens in Ebon Rih, or Askavi, or the whole Realm of Kaeleer, so be it. If they can’t figure out how fortunate they are to have you as their ruler, then they don’t deserve you.”

She rose from the waist-high water with enough angry energy that he ducked his head to keep from being splashed in the eyes.

“Marian? Are you pissed off at me?”

Stepping out of the pool, she wrapped a towel around herself and stomped to the doorway. “I’m pissed off at Eyriens, and you’re the only one handy. You figure it out.”

Lucivar stared at the doorway for a full minute after she left, then sank back in the water.

“Well . . . damn.” He might be sleeping alone tonight after all.

TEN

“Stop hovering,” Surreal said as she and Rainier walked into the communal eyrie.

“I’m not hovering. I have my own workout to do. Frankly, I want to go home, and I can’t until I’ve completed all the steps Lucivar and Jaenelle have decided are required.” Rainier shivered. “Mother Night. I never thought about it being so cold here in winter.”

Winter in Amdarh was much milder, not to mention all the shops, dining houses, and theaters that could be enjoyed during an idle, wintry afternoon. And the lovely sitting room in the town house where she could curl up and read for hours at a time if she felt like it.

What was winter like in Dea al Mon? She hadn’t thought to ask Chaosti before he returned home to prepare the clan for her visit.

How much preparation did they need to do to accommodate one person? Maybe she should ask Jaenelle about that. She didn’t want to cause problems for her kinsman.

“When do you think you’ll go back to Amdarh?”

“Hopefully soon.” Rainier hesitated. “I wish my leg hadn’t been injured, and more than that, I wish I hadn’t acted like a fool about it. But the work Daemon offered me will be challenging, and I’m ready to get started.”

“And ready to tell your family that you don’t need pity work and they can take a piss in the wind?” she asked.

He sighed. “That too. Although I will be more polite in how I phrase it.”

Surreal grinned. “That’s because you’re not a cold bitch.”

He huffed out a laugh. “Come on. We’re here to sweat, so let’s sweat.”

She stripped off her coat, called in her sparring stick, and began going through the warm-up moves.

She felt good, better than she had in weeks. Still a touch raspy when her lungs were working hard or when she’d been out in cold air too long, but she felt lighter now, freer.

Except for one piece of unfinished business that kept scratching at her—the piece Jaenelle said Lucivar would help her finish.

Thank the Darkness this practice was in the afternoon, when few Eyriens would be present. She didn’t want an audience for whatever Lucivar had in mind.

She’d completed her warm-up and was going through the moves a second time when Lucivar walked in, followed by Hallevar, Tamnar, and Jillian. The girl ran to the selection of sparring sticks that were kept on one wall and returned with two. Handing one to Tamnar, she settled into her own warm-up routine.

Surreal watched Lucivar watch Jillian. Any male who thought the girl didn’t have a father to protect her was in for a rude, and rather terrifying, surprise.

After a nod of approval to Jillian and Tamnar, Lucivar called in his sparring stick and went through the warm-up. Then he stepped into the sparring circle, looked Surreal in the eyes, and smiled his lazy, arrogant smile. “Come on, darling. Let’s see if you learned anything.”

She stepped into the circle. “I’ve learned more than you think, darling.”

“Shield,” he said as he created a Red shield around himself.

She created a Green shield around herself.

He shook his head. “No. For this, witchling, you’ll need the Gray.”

“To spar?” she asked, surprised.

“To cleanse,” he replied quietly.

She understood then what he was offering—to be a target for her anger against all the enemies she hadn’t fought but who had crowded her dreams, including the Eyrien bastard who had killed Kester and hurt Rainier. In order to do that, Lucivar wasn’t going to hold back, so that she couldn’t hold back.

She glanced at Jillian, Tamnar, and Hallevar. “Maybe they should leave.” She didn’t care if Rainier stayed, but she didn’t want Lucivar to have trouble with the Eyriens over this kindness to her.

“No,” he said. “There are lessons that need to be learned. Let them learn.”

With that, he began the sparring match, his strikes against her stick so light and controlled it was almost an insult. But she didn’t push harder, didn’t escalate. Not yet.

Light. Easy. Wouldn’t stay that way. She could feel the anger rising, that last piece of unfinished business. But nothing was pushing her temper enough to snap the leash, and the sparring they were doing would exercise the body but it wouldn’t finish cleansing the heart.

Then Jillian took a step closer to the circle, and Lucivar turned on the girl and struck out. She squealed, but raised her stick and blocked the blow.

A deliberate move, but not against Jillian. The move was intended to provoke her. And it worked. Surreal felt her temper snap the leash, and she went after Lucivar hard and fast, using everything he’d taught her about fighting with the sticks.

He met her, matched her, a powerful adversary. She didn’t know how long they’d been fighting, wasn’t going to care if some fool called time. But Hell’s fire, she was feeling the rasp and burn in her lungs, so she wasn’t going to be able to go on much longer.

She used Craft to enhance the sound of her raspy breathing to make sure her adversary heard it and thought she was fading. She fumbled a move, deliberately—and saw him hesitate for a heartbeat before he responded.

“That’s enough, Surreal,” he said.

“No, it’s not.” Not until she won.

She feinted, clumsily—and saw another hesitation. Then she planted her feet in a way that looked unbalanced, and he made a move that would take a lesser opponent out of a fight. But it left his ribs exposed for just a moment.

And she struck, putting Gray power into the blow.

He couldn’t counter the move in time. Her Gray shattered his Red shield. He got his stick up enough to deflect some of the blow, but her stick still met his ribs with savage force.

Pain flashed across his face before he regained control and danced away from her.

She didn’t follow because that look of pain cleared her mind and snuffed out her anger. He was no longer the adversary; he was Lucivar. She stared at him, seeing him again on the killing field in the spooky house. Grace and deadly power. Lucivar had walked into that place to save her and Rainier. And he’d walked out again without the smallest scratch. How could he get hurt now?

“You son of a whoring bitch,” she said. “You did that on purpose.” Because there were lessons that needed to be learned.

“I made a mistake, chose the wrong move,” he replied.

“And the sun shines in Hell. You did that on purpose.”

“I fell for a trick and miscalculated the strength of my adversary’s blow. I made a mistake.”

Made a mistake. Like she’d done in the spooky house. She had miscalculated there, underestimated there. Wasn’t the first time she’d made a mistake and probably wouldn’t be her last. But making mistakes didn’t make her weak.

She stared at Lucivar and understood what he’d wanted to give her before she left Ebon Rih. Maybe in a few weeks she would feel grateful. Right now she hated him for the price he’d just paid to give her this last lesson.

She dropped the stick and walked out of the eyrie.

Lucivar waited until Surreal left before he set one end of the sparring stick on the floor and leaned on it. He’d taken a risk giving her that opening, especially since she was channeling her Gray strength and he had stayed with the Red so that she would be the dominant power.

He really hoped what he’d seen in her eyes before she walked away wouldn’t be there every time she looked at him from now on.

Everything has a price, old son. You gave her what she needed to finish healing.

“How bad?” Rainier asked.

“Ribs hurt like a wicked bitch, but I don’t think any of them are broken,” he replied.

“That was a damn fool thing to do,” Hallevar said. “I’d better summon Nurian to look at you.”

“Do that.” That move had been a lot more foolish than he’d anticipated.

Rainier studied him a little too long. “Was it worth it?”

Fortunately, Nurian burst into the eyrie at that moment and he didn’t have to answer.

But he did wonder if he would ever have the answer.

“Are you certain you can do this?” Falonar asked the Warlords who were the dominant males in the northern hunting camps.

“Are you certain about the information you got about that weak left ankle?” one asked.

“I’m certain,” he replied.

“If we destroy his weak spot, he’ll go down like any other man.”

“I always thought his reputation was more farted air than truth,” the second Warlord said.

“It’s not like he made that reputation in Askavi among real warriors,” the third Warlord said.

“He’s also nursing bruised ribs that he got in a sparring match with a half-breed witch,” Falonar said.

“Well, Hell’s fire, this won’t be any kind of challenge,” the first Warlord said, laughing nastily. “It sounds like tomorrow will be a good time to put what is left of Lucivar Yaslana in a grave. You just make sure the only men left to come with him are committed to fighting on the right side of the line.”

“I’ll make sure of it,” Falonar said. “By tomorrow evening, I’ll be the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih, and we’ll be able to live the way Eyriens should.”

ELEVEN

The following morning, Lucivar walked into The Tavern five minutes after it opened. He should have stayed home and given the ribs a day to rest, but his getting hurt for “foolish reasons” had scraped the wrong side of Marian’s temper. By the time he’d swallowed breakfast, he’d also swallowed enough of her angry sympathy.

He’d gone to the communal eyrie only to discover that Falonar had taken half of Riada’s Eyrien Warlords to do a flyover of Doun and the landen villages in that part of Ebon Rih. The remaining men had signed a new contract with him grudgingly but preferred working with Falonar—which made him wonder why Falonar hadn’t taken those men with him on the flyover.

He couldn’t stay home, and he didn’t want to stay at the communal eyrie. So he ended up at The Tavern, being given a narrow-eyed stare by another woman.

“You pissed at me too?” he asked as he carefully settled himself on a stool at the bar.

Merry considered the question much too long before crossing her arms and nodding. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

“Since I outrank you, can I get a cup of coffee anyway?”

Too many feelings in those dark eyes, and most of them translated to a “whack him upside the head” mood.

“I won’t bring you coffee because you outrank me, but I will bring you some out of pity, since you are looking pretty pitiful right now.”

“Fine, then. Bring me a large mug of pity.” If he was getting this much temper and sass from lighter-Jeweled witches, thank the Darkness Jaenelle hadn’t come here to check his ribs. She’d probably yank one out and beat him with it. Of course, she would put the rib back and heal it when she was done, but still . . .

Merry returned with a large mug of black coffee and a warmed piece of berry pie.

“Did you get any breakfast?” she asked.

“Some.”

“I could make you a sandwich or heat up some soup.”

She wasn’t through being pissed at him, but unlike Marian, she hadn’t gotten a look at his ribs, so she had less reason to hold on to her anger.

“Thanks, but this is plenty.” He dug into the pie.

Merry looked like she was getting the place set up for business, but she wasn’t actually accomplishing anything except keeping an eye on him. Finally she came up beside him.

“You did it on purpose, didn’t you? Surreal was raging about you yesterday, and what she said made sense.”

Well, that wasn’t good. Of course, it was never good when a raging female made sense to other females, because that usually got a man into a whole lot of trouble.

“It doesn’t matter what you said; you didn’t make a mistake,” Merry said. “You knew exactly what you were doing when you left yourself open for that last blow.”

He sipped his coffee and studied her. Then he sighed. “She needed to beat an enemy into the ground. I figured I was the only one who could take the pounding she needed to inflict.”

“Well, why didn’t you ask Jaenelle to make one of those fancy shadows and fix it so Surreal could beat it into a mushy pulp?”

He shook his head. “Jaenelle has made some of those shadows for me to beat down to a mushy pulp, so I can tell you it doesn’t feel the same. It’s safe because you know it isn’t real. There are no consequences for what you do or serious risks for yourself. Most of the time that’s a good way to purge temper and bad feelings. But when something has festered for a lot of years like it has with Surreal, sometimes you need to work off that temper by fighting against a flesh-and-blood opponent, knowing there are consequences and risks.”

“You let yourself get hurt.”

He heard the undercurrent of anger building in her voice again. She just wasn’t going to let go of that detail. “Okay, that part was a mistake. Your gender gets mean when you fight, and while I took into account that Surreal is stronger than she looks, I forgot that she can be a sneaky bitch. She used her own illness as the bait for the trap, and I fell for it.” And damn if he didn’t admire her for it. Hearing that raspy breathing and seeing her falter, he’d hesitated instead of pushing harder to put her on the floor and end the match.

The coffee had cooled enough, so he drained his mug with long swallows before setting it on the bar.

Merry fetched the coffeepot and refilled his mug. “You’re the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih. You’re not supposed to fall for a trap.”

“If she’d been anyone but family, I wouldn’t have.”

She offered no other comment, but his answer must have satisfied some unspoken concern, because she finally started doing her own work while he finished the piece of pie.

When he and Merry reached their usual easy silence, Lucivar figured it was time to leave if he wanted to avoid running into Surreal. He wasn’t ready to deal with her yet.

As he eased off the stool, he said, “Thanks for the pie and coffee.”

“If Marian is still annoyed with you come midday, I’ll have a spicy stew cooking,” she said. “And if you can avoid riling up the women you know for a few hours, I can leave out the big dose of pity.”

Lucivar gave her a sharp grin. “Darling, whatever you’re dishing out is too tart to be pity.”

She didn’t laugh, but she couldn’t keep a straight face either. “Go away.”

“I’m going. Even if Marian works off her mad, save me a bowl of that stew.”

As he reached the door, a young Eyrien Warlord from the northern camps burst into The Tavern, followed by the Eyriens who had been at the communal eyrie.

“The landen villages at the north end of the valley are under attack!” the Warlord said.

“Who’s attacking?” Lucivar demanded.

“Don’t know. I was heading back to camp when I was ordered to come here and find you. Not just Jhinka. Whoever is fighting the Eyriens is also Blood. Our men have pushed the fight away from the villages, but we need help. We need it now.”

“Did you contact the Master of the Guard in Agio?” Lucivar asked.

A moment’s hesitation. “I didn’t, no. I was told to fetch you. Someone else must have gone for Lord Randahl.”

Most of the Eyriens in the northern camps wore Jewels with sufficient power to send a psychic call for help to the Blood in Agio. Hell’s fire, there were plenty of them who could reach him here. If they needed help so badly against this unknown enemy, why waste time having a Rose-Jeweled Warlord ride the Winds to Riada to fetch him?

There was one reason he could think of.

Lucivar eyed the Eyriens Falonar had left behind this morning. “You coming with me?”

“We are,” one of them answered.

“Then head out. I’ll meet you there.” He turned and walked toward the short hallway in the back of the building that held the water closets available to customers.

“We’ll wait for you,” one of the Warlords said.

Lucivar stopped. Turned. “I’m not driving a Coach to a killing field, and I’m not shielding all of you on the Red Winds and then dropping down onto a killing field. So you catch the Winds and go. I’ll still arrive close behind you. But first I’m going to take a piss.”

“The Red Winds?” one of the men asked. “Not the Ebon-gray?”

Lucivar shifted his weight—and deliberately winced. “Not today.”

Two flashes of emotion filled the room, equal in intensity, at his inability to hide how much an imprudent move hurt his ribs—alarm from Merry and relieved anticipation from the Eyriens who watched him.

“Go on,” he said.

Waiting until the Eyriens left The Tavern, he raised a hand and used Craft to put a Red lock on the front door. Then he went into one of the water closets. He’d opened his fly when Merry burst into the small room.

“Hell’s fire, woman,” he growled.

“Something is wrong,” she said. “This all sounds wrong.”

Of course it did. It was all wrong. “Get out of here.”

“Lucivar.”

“Merry, he’s young and excitable. If things in the north were as bad as he said, he would have been there fighting with the other Eyriens, and I would have been summoned on a psychic thread by Lady Erika’s Master of the Guard. So stop fussing. I’ll take care of this.” He gently pushed her out of the room and closed the door in her face.

He had no doubt in his mind that he could—and would—take care of this. He just hoped he could convince Merry of that sufficiently to delay her sounding the alarm. He didn’t want anyone standing with him. Not today. Today he wanted to know with absolute certainty the faces of his enemies.

That much decided, he quickly prepared for the coming fight.

First he created the Ebon-gray shields he usually put around his anklebones to give them extra support. Next, he shaped an Ebon-gray shield over his ribs. Then he called in the Ring of Honor that Jaenelle had given every male in her First Circle. She no longer wore Ebony Jewels, but the Ebony power she had put into those Rings to fuel the shields in them was still as potent as ever.

He slipped the gold Ring over his cock and used Craft to adjust the size to a comfortably snug fit. Engaging the Ring, he created a skintight Ebony shield around himself, then layered an Ebon-gray shield over that, and finally a double Red shield.

Would any of the men he was about to meet look beyond that second Red shield for what lay underneath? Especially when the Eyriens who, supposedly, were going to fight alongside him told their comrades that Lucivar Yaslana was already too injured to wear the Ebon-gray?

He vanished the pendant that held his Birthright Red Jewel, called in the pendant that held the Ebon-gray, then put a sight shield over it. He held out his right hand and carefully triggered the spell in his Red ring—a spell he’d never shared with anyone except his uncle Andulvar and cousin Prothvar. Seven thin psychic “wires” spun out from the Red Jewel in the ring, stopping when they were a handspan in length. When fully extended, those wires could slice through lighter-Jeweled shields as easily as flesh, and he could slaughter dozens of men with a single sweep of his arm. Drawing the wires back into the ring, he ended the spell.

After fastening his trousers, he took another minute to call in and check all his weapons.

He walked out of the water closet and found Merry blocking the end of the hallway. He didn’t have time to negotiate, so he locked his hands around her upper arms, lifted her, and set her back down out of his way.

The shields around his ribs were working just fine. He’d hurt tomorrow, but the sore ribs and bruises weren’t going to interfere with anything he had to do today.

“Lucivar! This isn’t right. It has to be a trap!”

Which just proved she was a smart, observant woman.

“I know,” he said.

“Then you need help.”

“No, I don’t. Merry . . .”

“Don’t you ‘Merry’ me,” she snapped. “There could be thousands of them out there waiting for you!”

“There aren’t thousands of Eyriens in the whole of Askavi Kaeleer, let alone in Ebon Rih.”

“Well, there are still lots of them and one of you.”

“Merry . . .” Did any of them understand what his wearing Ebon-gray Jewels meant? Did the Eyriens really know what kind of power was about to meet them on a killing field?

He kissed her forehead. “If I get hurt, you can yell at me all you want. I’ll be back in time for that bowl of stew. Until then, rest easy.”

Releasing the Red lock on the front door, Lucivar walked out of The Tavern, caught the Ebon-gray Winds, and headed north.

The moment Rainier returned from his walk, Briggs gave him a “need you” tip of the head.

“Merry is in the kitchen,” Briggs said. “Something happened this morning while I was out getting supplies. She says she’s not supposed to say anything yet, but maybe she’ll talk to you, since you work for Prince Sadi.”

“Why would that make a difference?” Rainier asked as he took off his coat and vanished it.

“Because I think it has something to do with Lucivar.”

He’d worked his damaged leg right up to its limit today, so he moved with care to the kitchen. He paused in the doorway, watched Merry pull a baking sheet of biscuits out of the oven, and wondered if the woman realized they were burned past edible.

“Merry?” he asked quietly, taking a step into the kitchen. “Is there something you need to tell me about Lucivar?”

She piled the biscuits on the cooling racks into cloth-lined baskets, then slid the ones on the baking sheet to the cooling racks.

“I don’t know. He said not to worry, but how am I not supposed to worry? It felt wrong. It all felt wrong. But I don’t think I’m supposed to say anything yet, and that feels wrong too.”

Rainier wrapped a soothing spell around his voice. He didn’t want to diminish her feelings; he just wanted her to calm down enough to give him information instead of jumbled words. “What happened this morning?”

A torrent of words spilled from her. Then she finished with, “I don’t like any of this because I think this is a trap, but Lucivar was being too stubborn to listen. Here. Take this basket out.”

Rainier almost dropped the basket she thrust into his hand, unprepared for the weight. He looked at the biscuits, thought about how much he valued his teeth, and limped out to the bar. Setting the basket on the counter, he told Briggs, “Don’t let anyone eat these—and don’t drop any on your feet.”

“Is she right?” Briggs asked. “Is there trouble?”

“Yes, I think she’s right, and there is trouble.” Since he knew who was in Ebon Rih this morning, may the Darkness have mercy on whoever was causing that trouble—especially if anything happened to Lucivar because of it.

Surreal set the papers down and looked at the two Black-Jeweled men standing on the other side of the table. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Daemon replied. “Both of Falonar’s parents can claim aristo bloodlines, but they aren’t on a level with your mother’s bloodline—or with Lucivar’s bloodlines. Falonar has an elder brother, who doesn’t wear Jewels as dark as his, and he has a few cousins but . . .” He shrugged.

“Darling, there are no dark secrets to explain Falonar’s behavior,” Saetan said. “Eyriens feel animosity toward anyone whose parentage can be questioned or whose parentage isn’t pure Eyrien. That has been true for as long as I’ve known the race—and it’s more true of the aristos than the other levels of their society. A man who wants a leader who can keep him alive on a battlefield is going to be more interested in the man’s ability to fight and lead and be much less picky about bloodlines than an aristo looking to marry and mate—and to use both to advance his own ambitions.”

“I see,” Surreal said. And, finally, she did. The romance and the emotions had been on her side, never on his. Falonar had used her professions of whore and assassin as the excuse to walk away because it wasn’t in him to see her as an equal. “I guess that’s why some of the Eyriens, like Rothvar and Zaranar, are comfortable working for Lucivar, and others will never see him as anything but a tool to be used.”

“Yes, that’s why,” Saetan replied with an edge in his voice. “And that’s why it’s time for the Eyriens who won’t acknowledge him to leave Ebon Rih. They’re nothing but salt in an old wound.”

She heard something else in that deep voice, something that made her shiver. *Do you think Uncle Saetan remembers that he retired from the living Realms and isn’t supposed to interfere?* she asked Daemon on a Gray psychic thread.

*Do you think he cares about such details right now?* Daemon replied mildly.

Shit shit shit. How long had Saetan been watching those fools thumb their noses at his son, waiting for Lucivar to reach his own conclusions about Eyrien society? And how much longer would the High Lord of Hell wait before taking care of the troublesome little problems himself?

*Surreal?*

*Rainier?*

*We might be in for some trouble here. Could you come back to The Tavern?*

Hell’s fire. *On my way.*

*Could you ask Prince Sadi to find a reason to stay with Marian until this is sorted out?* Rainier hesitated. *It might be prudent to have Jillian stay at Lucivar’s eyrie too.*

Mother Night. She turned to Daemon and Saetan. “Rainier says Daemon should stay with Marian—and Jillian should be under his protection too.”

“Where is Lucivar?” Daemon asked too softly. A minute later, he answered his own question. “He’s in the northern end of the valley, and he doesn’t want company.” He exchanged a look with Saetan.

“Who is with him?” Surreal asked. “Who’s watching his back?”

“No one is with him because that’s the way he wants it,” Daemon replied. A pause, but his expression indicated a quick conversation with someone beyond this room. Then he focused on her again. “And we’re watching his back. You go to The Tavern. Rainier is going to escort Nurian and Jillian to Lucivar’s eyrie. He’ll also bring Lord Endar’s family there.”

She heard what was being said under the words—they were going to lock down and defend everyone who could be used as a weapon against Lucivar. “Where in the name of Hell are the other Eyriens?”

“That is the question, isn’t it?” Saetan said. “And until Lucivar returns and provides the answer, I don’t think you should count on them for help of any kind.”

Or trust them, Surreal thought. She stepped away from the table and made a formal bow. “High Lord.”

“Lady Surreal.”

She walked out of the sitting room with Daemon on her right. She called in her heavy winter coat and put it on as they headed for an outside door. He didn’t bother.

“Do you have any sense of where Falonar is?” she asked.

“Not in Riada, and not with Lucivar,” he replied.

“A second-in-command should be there to watch his back.”

“He doesn’t need a second-in-command,” Daemon crooned. “Lucivar has family.”

TWELVE

Lucivar put a sight shield around himself the instant he dropped from the Ebon-gray Wind and glided toward Agio. His psychic probes revealed nothing out of the ordinary, and his view of the countryside below showed him a village with streets cleared of snow, smoke rising from chimneys, and people going about their business.

*Lord Randahl?* Lucivar called on a psychic thread.

*Prince Yaslana? May I be of service?*

*No, I was just flying over the northern end of the valley. Anything I should know about?*

*We haven’t seen the Eyriens these past couple of days. I guess they’re packing up. So it’s been quiet around here and in the landen village too. We took a look around there this morning.* Randahl paused. *Didn’t check out the other landen villages in the north, though. I was planning to send some men out tomorrow. Should I send them out now?*

*No need. I’ll fly over. If I see anything that needs your attention, I’ll let you know. Otherwise, a visit tomorrow will be fine.*

Lucivar broke contact and flew toward the mountains and the other landen villages. No sign of trouble, fighting, or any kind of attack. No sign of Jhinkas. Pumping his wings to fly higher, Lucivar caught an air current and rode it back to where the Eyriens had gathered. He studied the men—and the killing field—below him.

No fighting. No sign of dead or wounded. A handful of Eyriens with bows were hidden among a tumble of boulders that were distant enough that a person approaching on the ground wouldn’t consider those boulders part of the killing field.

But he did now, and as he rode the currents, he considered the shape and the boundaries of the killing field—and the honor of the men who were waiting for him.

He descended into the abyss to the level of his Ebon-gray Jewels and waited for the Eyriens to arrive from Riada. When he spotted them leisurely gliding toward the other men, he caught the Red Wind, headed south for a few minutes, then turned and headed back. Removing the sight shield, he dropped from the Winds and glided down to the same spot they had.

They saw him coming and began moving into position. If he hadn’t seen the archers, it would look like the men were simply shifting to give him room to backwing and land. Since he had seen the men hidden among the boulders, he knew the spot they had chosen was the only place that gave all the archers a clean line of attack.

Lucivar landed. The other Eyriens closed around him in a half circle, leaving the archers’ side open.

He took a careful look at men who were now the enemy. Hallevar wasn’t among them. Neither was Kohlvar, Rothvar, Zaranar, or Endar. Neither was the youngster Tamnar or the handful of other Eyrien Warlords from Riada who had wanted to work for him.

“I gave you a chance to build a new life, and this is your choice?” Lucivar asked quietly.

“When Falonar rules this valley, we’ll have more,” one of them said.

“You’re not going to follow the Blood’s code of honor and invite me to step onto the killing field?”

“Honor doesn’t apply to a half-breed bastard.”

Old heart wounds, old painful memories, and old anger rose with him to the killing edge. “Then there is nothing left to say.” Lucivar smiled a lazy, arrogant smile. “Go ahead. Since I’ll be taking the last one, you can have the first blow.”

Five arrows hit the shields on his left leg between knee and ankle.

Lucivar spun before the other Eyriens thought to move. As he spun, he called in his bow, already nocked. A ball of Ebon-gray-fueled witchfire formed around the arrowhead as he drew the bowstring back and released it the moment his spin aligned him with the boulders. As he finished the spin, he vanished the bow and called in his war blade.

His arrow hit the boulders, and the witchfire exploded with a furious heat that cracked the boulders and charred the marrow in the bastards’ bones before they had time to fall.

A heartbeat of stunned silence. Then the rest of the Eyrien warriors threw themselves at him, and the fight began.

Surreal walked into The Tavern and looked around. No more than a dozen people sitting at tables, grabbing an early midday meal.

“Gentlemen,” she said, using Craft to enhance her voice. “If you have children, you will fetch them from school and take them home. If your wives are out doing the marketing or working, you will tell them to meet you at home. Whoever in your family wears the darkest Jewels will put a shield around your residence. Go home and stay there. Do it quietly, and do it now.”

She opened the door and stared at them.

“What did the Queen of Riada say?” one of the men asked.

“About me delivering Prince Yaslana’s orders? Not a thing. Lady Shayne’s court is taking care of their part in locking down this village.”

They left their meals half-eaten and hurried out to gather up their families and get home.

Surreal closed the door, shrugged out of her coat, and put a Gray shield around The Tavern.

Merry took a step toward her. “What has happened?”

“Nothing yet—and we want to keep it that way.” She had a feeling there was plenty happening. But not in Riada.

A minute later, Rainier gave her a psychic tap. She dropped the Gray lock on the door long enough for him to slip inside, then locked it again.

Rainier said, “Until someone makes a move, we’ve done what we can do.”

Surreal nodded—and hoped what they had done was enough.

Eyriens called it red rain. The gritty mist made from the flesh, blood, and bones of bodies exploded by unleashed power sometimes hung over killing fields for days, suspended by the very power that had destroyed the bodies.

The young Warlord who waited at the edge of the killing field couldn’t see much, not with the rain hanging so thick around the center of the field, but he could still hear the fighting—the snarls of enraged men, the clash of war blades.

He hadn’t expected Yaslana to last this long, not with so many superior fighters working to bring him down. Not when a half-breed was fighting against real Eyriens.

An explosion of power ripped past him. Thunder drowned the field and shook the ground. Red rain hit him, even here at the edge of the field, and something struck his face. He pulled a small shard of bone out of his cheek and stared at it until he realized there were no sounds. None at all.

But something still moved on the field. He was certain of that.

The young Warlord backed away. He thought about calling to the other men, but he wasn’t sure who—or what—would answer him. If some of the Eyriens made the transition to demon-dead during the fight, they would be looking for fresh blood to consume. It would be better if he didn’t confront his comrades when he was alone.

He backed away from the field until he was able to catch the Rose Wind and race back to Riada with the terrible news that Lucivar Yaslana was dead.

THIRTEEN

“What are we still doing out here, Falonar?” Rothvar asked. “We’ve done a flyover of Doun and the landen villages that answer to the Queen there. We’ve checked the settlement—” that answer to the Queen there. We’ve checked the

Kohlvar growled an opinion about so many men going there without Yaslana—especially since he was the one who had been required to offer assurances about the men who were with him.

“—and the women are tucked in just fine. Plenty of food, plenty of wood,” Rothvar continued.

Tucked in, Falonar thought as he turned to face Rothvar. Some of those women should have been providing domestic service for the northern camps instead of keeping their skills—and their bodies—to themselves. Not one of them wore dark Jewels or came from a female caste that carried any prestige and required being handled with care. He’d allow the children to remain in the Doun eyries and work out a rotation for the women. A few would remain to care for the children while the others provided the service they should. If their performance was satisfactory, they would be allowed to visit their children and rest during their moontime days before returning to the camps.

Some might think that was harsh treatment, since these women hadn’t been required to cuddle anyone but themselves, but the new arrangement would benefit the warriors, and in the end, what benefited the warriors benefited all Eyriens—including the aristo Ladies who would soon have a reason to settle in Ebon Rih.

“Do you have a problem with following orders?” Falonar asked coldly.

“Nope,” Hallevar said. “But we could have spread out and taken a good long look at this part of the valley from the Keep to the southernmost edge in half the time.”

“If we’re spread out, then each man is a single target,” Falonar said.

“We weren’t flying in a fighting formation,” Zaranar said. “Routine check of this part of the valley, you said. Nothing different from what we do every week.”

“Except only a handful of men usually go out for these flyovers,” Rothvar said. “And we’re more than a handful of men.”

“Funny how all the men assigned to this flyover are the ones who signed on to work for Lucivar,” Hallevar said. “Wasn’t any reason for me to be out here today. Or Tamnar, Endar, or Kohlvar.”

Zaranar and Rothvar had already descended to their full strength, and they were already protected by at least one shield. Within moments, the other men would do the same. No dark Jewels among them, but if a fight started, they would focus on bringing him down, not on surviving—would focus on buying enough time for whoever was sent from the fight to warn the Queens and the Keep.

He couldn’t afford that fight. Backing down left a sour taste in his mouth, but this morning proved one thing: He wasn’t going to be able to trust any of these men once he became the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih. That was a hard disappointment, especially the loss of a weapons maker of Kohlvar’s skill.

But he would deal with that another day.

“I followed my instructions, and that included who was assigned to this flyover,” Falonar said. “If you have a problem with those instructions, take it up with Yaslana.”

“We’ll do that,” Rothvar said.

They moved out in two fighting formations, flying hard and fast until each group caught the Wind that could accommodate all of them.

Falonar stayed on the mountain overlooking Doun. He’d catch up to them easily enough, and be back in his eyrie when the news came from the north.

There were only four people in The Tavern, but it felt much too crowded, and the air felt too stuffy to breathe. Slipping into her coat, Surreal released the Gray lock on the door, stepped outside, and studied Riada’s main street.

Nothing moved. Not a horse, not a cart, not a person. Not even a dog. The village was locked down. Lady Shayne hadn’t hesitated when Surreal had given that order—and hadn’t asked why she was giving the order on Yaslana’s behalf instead of Falonar. And wasn’t that interesting?

*Sadi?* she called on a psychic thread.

*Something wrong?* he asked.

*No, it’s quiet—Wait.* She saw the Eyriens arrowing toward Riada. Fighting formations. That couldn’t be good.

Holding the psychic link open between them, she wrapped herself in a Gray shield and stepped to the edge of the sidewalk. Being the only person in sight, she wouldn’t be hard to spot.

They came in fast, then backwinged and landed half a block from where she stood. Rothvar and Zaranar led the formations. They were the ones who approached her, along with Hallevar and Kohlvar. The others called in crossbows or war blades and watched the buildings and the sky.

“The village is locked down?” Rothvar asked. “Why?”

“Where is the Healer and her sister? Endar’s family?” Zaranar asked.

She spotted Falonar gliding toward them, backwinging with too little concern considering how tense the other men were. She waited until he joined the four men who seemed to be the unofficial leaders of the group.

“There is trouble in the north,” Surreal said. “There’s a chance it’s going to spill over onto Riada. So we’ve prepared the village and alerted the Queen and her Master of the Guard. Nurian, Jillian, and Endar’s family are with Marian.”

“Yaslana?” Hallevar asked.

She looked straight at Falonar. “He’s gone north to deal with the problem.” You hadn’t figured the Queen would lock down the village, putting everyone on alert, did you, sugar? And as sure as the sun doesn’t shine in Hell, you weren’t expecting anyone from Lucivar’s family to be anticipating a fight here.

“When did he leave?” “We were just farting over Doun with that flyover. Why didn’t he call us?” “Who did he have with him?” “Who’s guarding his eyrie?”

A jumble of voices since all four men were asking the same questions, throwing the words at her.

Thunder rolled down the mountain, a warning of temper that silenced all of them.

“Prince Sadi is guarding the eyrie,” Surreal said. “Yaslana will have to answer the rest of your questions when he returns.”

The door behind her opened. Rainier stepped out, followed by Merry and Briggs. Not bothering to swear at them for leaving the shielded building, she put a Gray shield around the three of them and said, *Stay put.*

“Have they heard from Lucivar?” Merry asked.

“No,” Surreal said, watching the Eyriens. All the Warlords were angry. If there was trouble in the north, they shouldn’t have been pissing around with a flyover. Maybe they wouldn’t have followed Lucivar north, but they would have formed a guard to watch over Doun and Riada.

Nothing that was done today made sense if there was real trouble.

She’d barely finished that thought when an Eyrien came winging in from the opposite direction—from the north.

He stumbled as he landed. Bloody face, bloody clothes.

*He’s the same one who came this morning to fetch Lucivar,* Merry told her.

Surreal felt the cold rage twining down the link she still had with Sadi. Shit shit shit. She should have broken the link when she had a chance. If she cut him off now, he’d be down here among the Eyriens looking for answers, and he wouldn’t be concerned about who, if anyone, survived that little chat.

“He’s dead!” the young Warlord cried as he stumbled toward them. “Yaslana is dead!”

“No!” Hallevar roared. “There’s nothing in this valley strong enough to bring down the Ebon-gray!”

*Except his brother,* Surreal sent. The snarl that came back to her was full of hot anger, not cold rage. Thank the Darkness for that.

“Where?” Rothvar shouted as Zaranar said, “Are you sure?”

“That bastard was expecting this,” Rainier whispered in her ear.

She looked at Falonar and swore.

Rainier was right. The other Eyriens were angry, upset, outraged. But Falonar stood there, looking stiff and accepting.

“I don’t believe it,” Rothvar said. “I’ve seen Yaslana fight. You look me in the eyes and say it again.”

“I saw it!” the young Warlord shouted. “Lucivar Yaslana is—”

Surreal threw her arms over her head as the Warlord’s body exploded with such force the pebbles of bone against her shield sounded like hail against a window. Behind her, Merry screamed, and Rainier and Briggs both cried out in shock.

A moment later, she felt that Ebon-gray presence and looked down the street.

He was covered in blood that ran from his half-opened wings and dripped from the war blade. She’d seen that glazed look when he’d fought in the spooky house. She eased back enough to shelter Merry.

“I told you nothing could bring him down!” Hallevar yelled.

Shouts and cheers as Lucivar walked toward the Eyriens, although how they could see him through the red rain clouding the street was beyond her. It settled faster than it should have, given the amount of power that had been punched into that fool, as if a hand were pressing it down.

*Surreal?* Daemon asked.

*He’s alive, I think—and very pissed off.”

*You think?*

*He’s covered in so much blood it’s hard to tell.* Shit. Shouldn’t have told Daemon that.

Lucivar stared at Falonar, who seemed frozen.

Rothvar, however, took a step forward. “How may we be of service, Prince?” he asked Lucivar. “Is there any cleanup that needs to be done in the north?”

Lucivar continued to stare at Falonar. “No cleanup. This prick was the last enemy on the killing field.”

“What about the Eyriens who fought with you?” Zaranar asked. “Do any of them need help?”

“There weren’t any.”

Stunned silence.

“None?” Hallevar finally said.

“None,” Lucivar said.

Surreal didn’t like the flat sound of Lucivar’s voice. It wasn’t Lucivar.

He turned his head and looked at her. “Are you well?”

That’s the question I’d like to ask you. “Yes, I’m well. What can I do for you, Yaslana?”

“Inform the Queen that the trouble has been dealt with. She can release the village from lockdown. Where is my brother?”

Don’t you know? “At your eyrie.”

Lucivar focused on Rothvar and Zaranar. “Take your formations and do a sweep over Riada and its landen villages.”

They nodded, but Hallevar said, “I’ve been out doing flyovers around Doun all morning. I’d appreciate a chance to thaw out these old bones.”

Old bones, my ass, Surreal thought, watching Hallevar, Kohlvar, Tamnar, and Endar leave the formations and come up beside her. If the Gray was going out to report to Riada’s Queen, there would be sufficient warriors to take her place guarding The Tavern.

“Falonar,” Lucivar said too softly. “With me. Now.” Spreading his wings, he launched himself skyward and headed for Falonar’s eyrie.

Falonar didn’t look at any of them, said nothing to any of them. He hesitated a moment, then followed Lucivar.

*Sadi?* Surreal called.

No answer. Sometime during the past few moments he had quietly broken the link between them. She had a sick, shivery feeling it was because he didn’t want anyone to know what he was thinking.

Lucivar waited in the front room of Falonar’s eyrie. He just stared at the other Warlord Prince, saying nothing.

“They’re all dead?” Falonar finally asked, keeping his mind blank of all thoughts—and disappointment.

“While I was going over that field, making sure I finished the kill on every one of those bastards, I kept thinking about how you used to benefit from schemes you had no part of—at least on the surface,” Lucivar said.

“You finished the kill on all of them? Why? Were you afraid they would make the transition to demon-dead and remain a threat?”

“You fool. I was afraid of what would happen to the rest of the Eyriens if one of those bastards made the transition and ended up having a chat with my father,” Lucivar snapped. “I’m not interested in any explanation or justification for why they were on that field, standing against me. They told me the Blood’s code of honor doesn’t apply to a half-breed bastard, and that’s all I needed to know. But my father might see things differently, and I don’t want him to have a reason to start thinking about a purge.”

For a moment, Falonar couldn’t breathe. “He would do that?”

“You stupid son of a whoring bitch,” Lucivar roared. “What did you think you’d gain by this maneuver? A title? Think again. The Keep decides who rules in this valley. You would have been allowed to stand as the ruler of the Eyriens, but you wouldn’t have been given control of Ebon Rih. You and the people you ruled would have to make a living out of what you could grow and hunt on the mountains.”

“No,” Falonar said. “That’s not the way it is.”

“That is the way it is! Your little scheme killed off most of the Eyriens in Ebon Rih today. Every man who would have served you is gone. But do you know what would have happened if they had succeeded in killing me? You wouldn’t have become the leader of the Eyriens, because there would be no Eyriens. When I was taken from him, my father told Prythian that when I died, the Eyrien race would die with me. The whole damn race, Falonar. Here and in Terreille. Everyone.”

“It can’t be done!” Falonar said. “He couldn’t do it.”

“It can—and he has.”

Falonar staggered back until he could brace a hand against a wall.

“The people from the Zuulaman Islands killed one of his sons,” Lucivar said. “An infant.”

“There’s no such place as Zuulaman,” Falonar whispered.

“Which is why Prythian knew it wasn’t a bluff—because there were a handful of the demon-dead who did remember Zuulaman and knew Saetan could—and would—do exactly what he said.”

“But now . . .”

Lucivar shook his head. “That death spell is still in place. He won’t revoke it—and after today, he’ll have more reason to reinforce it.”

He didn’t tell Falonar about the spell he’d asked Jaenelle to add to Saetan’s. She had obliged him, up to a point.

If Lucivar Yaslana died on a killing field, or by anyone’s hand, Saetan’s death spell would take the Eyrien race, sparing no one but Lucivar’s wife and children. But if Lucivar died of natural causes in the fullness of his years, Saetan’s spell would be absorbed by Jaenelle’s, and the Eyrien race would survive.

“If you die, we all die? Then what were you doing on that killing field?” Falonar cried. “On any field?”

“I’m not going to live in a cage for the benefit of a people who want nothing to do with me,” Lucivar said. “I’ll take my chances, and you’ll have to take them right along with me. But not in Ebon Rih. You’re confined to your eyrie until I can find a court that will take you.”

“If you believe I was behind the attempt to kill you, why don’t you execute me?”

The Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih studied him, then smiled a lazy, arrogant smile. “You’re not worth the effort.”

Lucivar walked out—and an Ebon-gray shield locked around Falonar’s eyrie.

Lucivar landed lightly on the edge of the courtyard in front of his eyrie. It was his home, and his family was inside, but until Daemon released the Black shield around the eyrie and eased back from the killing edge, he didn’t dare come any closer.

The door opened, and Daemon stepped out. Those gold eyes, glazed and murderously sleepy, examined him from head to toe.

“Hell’s fire, Prick,” Daemon said, moving closer. “You reek.” His gold eyes warmed and his expression changed to puzzlement as he watched blood and gore drip into the snow. “How did so much red rain penetrate your shields?”

“I let it.”

“Why?”

Lucivar opened his wings quickly. The air around him turned a misty red as the rain was pushed through all the small holes he’d left in the Red shields. “Looking at me, do you have any doubt about where I’ve been or what I did?”

Daemon stared at him a moment longer. Then he sighed. “You can’t come in the eyrie until you get cleaned up. You’ll terrify the children.”

He couldn’t deny the truth of that. “I know. I’m going to the Keep. It has a special area for this kind of cleanup. But I wanted to make sure everyone here was safe.”

The door opened again and Marian rushed out. Daemon reached for her, but she dodged around him and threw her arms around Lucivar’s neck, pressing herself fully against him.

“Are you all right? Are you hurt?” Marian cried. “Oh, Lucivar! I was so worried about you.”

“Marian . . .” Lucivar put his hands on her waist and tried to ease her away from him, certain that she hadn’t looked at him. When she tightened her hold and came close to strangling him, he gave up and put his arms round her. “Sweetheart, I’m all right. Sore muscles and bruises. Nothing more. I swear by the Jewels, those are the worst of it.”

She started crying. “I’m sorry I was so bitchy about your ribs. You did it to help Surreal, and I shouldn’t have been angry with you.”

“You were right to be bitchy about the ribs,” he said. “It was a dumb thing to do, and I deserved getting jabbed for it.”

“Oh. Well, maybe a little.” Sniffling, she eased back and he let her go. She wrinkled her nose. “Lucivar . . .” Then she looked down at her own clothes and swayed.

“Marian!”

Lucivar made a grab for her, but Daemon caught her as she stumbled back, her eyes glassy with shock.

“He’s all right, darling,” Daemon crooned. “Lucivar is all right. A man gets messy in that kind of fight.”

You don’t, Lucivar thought. Which was actually more terrifying? To see a man walk off a killing field covered in the carnage made by his own hand, or to see the man who had created that carnage walk off the field pristine?

A different image, a different message. He knew which one he found more frightening.

“I’ll go with him to the Keep,” Daemon crooned. “Help him get cleaned up. Why don’t you go back inside through the side door? You’ll be able to change clothes and wash up. I’ll take care of Lucivar.”

Marian lifted a hand but didn’t touch the dark, wet stains on the front of her tunic. “Yes. These clothes need to soak.” She focused on Lucivar again.

“I’ll take care of him,” Daemon said firmly. He led her to the gate that opened on her garden, which had access to the side door closest to the laundry room.

Lucivar waited until Marian was inside and Daemon returned. “Soothing spell?”

Daemon nodded. “I thought it best if she didn’t think too much about what was on those clothes—and why.”

He agreed with that. “Come on. I’d rather give this report only once—but I’m going to say this here and now. This isn’t your territory, Bastard, and while I appreciate you being here to protect my family, whatever happens to the people in this valley is my decision, not yours.”

“Of course,” Daemon said. “I never thought otherwise.”

He knew his brother too well to trust the words.

“Shall we go?” Daemon asked.

They rode the Ebon-gray Wind to the Keep, dropping to the landing web closest to the courtyard with the shower. Lucivar wrapped another shield around himself to avoid dripping gore through the corridors. He suspected that what lived within the walls and shadows would welcome the blood and bits of meat, but he didn’t want to excite their hunting instincts, so he took the shortest route.

He pushed open a door and stepped into the courtyard.

“Hell’s fire,” Daemon said. “You’re going to shower outside? In the winter?”

“Show some balls. It’s not so bad.” A few minutes ago, he wouldn’t have noticed. Now he was starting to feel the cold and wanted to get cleaned up enough to go home and soak in the heated pool for an hour or two.

“If you show your balls in this weather, you’ll freeze them off,” Daemon growled as he studied what looked like a jumble of pipes over a round area with drains that flowed directly down the mountain. “Is there any reason why I can’t put a warming spell around this area?”

His body ached. His teeth began to chatter. “None.”

If he hadn’t been so tired—and, more to the point, feeling hollowed out—he would have thought of that himself.

“Mother Night.”

Turning at the sound of his father’s voice, Lucivar saw the shock in Saetan’s eyes before the High Lord locked away all feelings.

*Do I really look that bad?* he asked Daemon.

*Prick, you have no idea how bad you look,* Daemon said grimly.

Damn. He should have warned Saetan, should have told him he wasn’t hurt before arriving at the Keep. It hadn’t occurred to him that Andulvar and Prothvar must have looked like this the day they became demon-dead. Having won that battle, they had walked off the killing field, but they no longer walked among the living.

“There’s nothing wrong with him that a good scrubbing and a hot meal won’t fix,” Daemon said with enough bite to make Lucivar snarl in response.

But the bite and snarl were exactly what Saetan needed to relax. He called in a porcelain dish and used Craft to float it over to Lucivar. “I’ll cleanse your Jewels for you.”

“I can—”

*Let him do it,* Daemon said. *Just in case we find anything under all that blood that you don’t want him to see.*

Lucivar removed the Ebon-gray pendant and the Red ring, put them in the dish, and floated it back to his father. Then he stripped out of his clothes, wondering if it was worth the effort to clean them.

Saetan must have wondered the same thing, because he shook his head and vanished the clothes, including the boots, belt, and knife sheath. He turned and walked inside, saying nothing.

“Seeing you like this hit a nerve, and I don’t think he’s feeling as steady as he’s pretending to be,” Daemon said. “The sooner we get you cleaned up, the better.”

Shivering, Lucivar stepped under the pipes, twisted the lever that controlled the water, and let out a breathless scream as the frigid water hit him, turning to steam as it battled against Daemon’s warming spell.

When hands grabbed him and spun him around, his own hands balled into fists, but he managed to stop himself from hitting Daemon. He hadn’t realized Sadi had intended to strip down and actually help him wash up.

“What’s wrong with you?” Daemon’s hands tightened on Lucivar’s arms, the nails just pricking the skin.

Coming to the Keep and shocking Saetan with his appearance. Stepping under an ice-cold spray of water instead of waiting for the hot water to get through the pipes. Daemon had good reason to ask the question.

“Nothing physical,” Lucivar said.

Those long-nailed fingers clamped on either side of his head as Daemon stared into his eyes. He felt the Black brushing over his inner barriers, looking for damage, for some kind of wound.

“Nothing wrong with my mind either.”

“Then what?” Daemon’s question sounded more like a demand.

“Shades of honor. All the Eyriens on that field chose to turn on me because, in their eyes, I was still just the half-breed bastard and always would be. I’m done with that. Anyone who wants to live in my territory can accept me for what I am or they can leave.”

Water poured over both of them. Daemon’s hands slid down Lucivar’s face to rest on his shoulders.

“Every one of them is dead?” Daemon asked softly.

“Every one.”

“Will any of them become demon-dead?”

“No.”

Daemon studied him. “You could have killed them all with one blast of the Ebon-gray. Why did you give them a chance to fight and take the risk of getting hurt?”

“Their fate was decided from the moment they stepped on that field, so it wasn’t about giving them a chance.” Lucivar’s smile wobbled, and for a moment his eyes were tear-bright. “I just needed to work off some temper.”

Daemon studied him a moment longer, then nodded. Calling in two sponges and a small bowl of soft soap, he handed one sponge to Lucivar. “You take the front; I’ll take the back.”

They worked in silence. Even with the strength of the shields he’d had wrapped around himself, there were some bruises, some aches. But not one single slice or cut.

He mentioned that to Daemon, figuring it would be a good thing to point out to their father.

“I wouldn’t lie to him if I were you,” Daemon said dryly as he crouched down.

“What?” Lucivar winced and swore as Daemon’s sponge rubbed over his left leg.

“You’ve got a slice just above your ankle,” Daemon said. “It’s not deep—won’t need more than the cleansing ointment and basic healing Craft—but it’s there.”

“Shit,” Lucivar muttered.

“How did any of those bastards get through your Ebon-gray shield, let alone the shield in Jaenelle’s Ring of Honor?” Daemon sponged the cut again. “You were wearing the Ring with the Ebony shield, weren’t you?”

“Yes, I was. At least until I walked off the killing field.”

“So how did you get injured?”

“I was still feeling pissy, and when I rammed the knife through my shields and back into the boot sheath, I must have sliced through the leather and cut my leg.”

“Ah, Prick.” Daemon huffed out a laugh.

“Don’t tell Merry, all right?”

“Why not?”

“Because I said she could yell at me if I got hurt, and I don’t want my ass chewed because I cut myself with my own knife.”

Daemon resoaped the sponge and began scrubbing Lucivar’s right leg. “I’m surprised there is so much gore on your lower legs. Were you higher than the men you were fighting?”

“Nope.” Lucivar lathered soap into his hair. “But a number of them were focused on striking my left ankle, which made them easy targets. Damned if I know why. If you know of a weak spot, you might concentrate your blows there to bring down an enemy, but there was no reason for any of them to think my ankles would be any more vulnerable than theirs. Especially the left ankle, which was never damaged in the first place.”

Frigid air washed up the backs of his legs, there and gone.

Daemon rose up behind him. “Open your wings. I want to make sure I cleaned all the shit off them.”

Something wrong here. Something off. Feeling vulnerable, but knowing what might happen if he refused, Lucivar spread his wings. Daemon’s touch was light and careful as he moved the sponge over the wings, but Lucivar knew when he was being touched by the Sadist.

What had he said to bring out this side of Daemon’s temper?

“There. Done.” Daemon took a step back.

Lucivar rinsed the soap out of his hair, then turned to face his brother. Water poured over them, steamed around them. “Daemon . . .”

Daemon pressed a finger against Lucivar’s lips.

That light touch—and what he saw in Daemon’s eyes—told him he couldn’t stop whatever was coming.

“Whatever happens to the people in this valley is your decision, not mine,” Daemon said too softly. “I agree with that—and I’ll respect it. I expect you to do the same.”

“Meaning?”

“Don’t interfere with me taking care of my own.” Daemon turned and walked through the steam. “You should talk to Father before you go home. And be sure to put a healing salve on that cut.”

Lucivar turned off the water and hurried into the Keep. Once inside, he rubbed himself dry with the warm towels that had been left floating just inside the door.

The cold that made him shiver had nothing to do with the weather.

Dressed and polished, Daemon waited for Geoffrey in the private section of the Keep’s library.

... There was no reason for any of them to think my ankles would be any more vulnerable than theirs. Especially the left ankle . . .

“But there was a reason, brother,” Daemon whispered. “There was a reason.”

“Prince Sadi?”

Daemon turned at the sound of Geoffrey’s voice, then took a moment to consider the degree of wariness in the historian/librarian’s black eyes. He smiled—and saw Geoffrey’s inability to completely hide the shiver caused by that smile.

“I need your assistance,” he said, still smiling.

“In what way?” Geoffrey asked.

“The map you showed me the other day? I’d like to see it again.”

FOURTEEN

Surreal stared at Daemon and tried to decide how badly she would get hurt if she hit him.

Badly enough, since he didn’t look like he was in an indulgent mood.

“That’s it?” she snarled. “Falonar just gets sent away like some little prick who played a nasty joke? He set Lucivar up to die on that killing field. You know that!”

“Of course I know that,” Daemon snarled back. “The whole damn valley knows that. Or suspects it. Why do you think the remaining Eyriens have made such a pointed effort to let the Queens in Ebon Rih know they serve Lucivar, they support Lucivar, they want to live in this valley because it is ruled by Lucivar?”

Her room at The Tavern was a comfortable size, but now she needed to move, pace, do something, and Sadi was clogging up too damn much space.

“Lucivar has decided not to execute Falonar, and there is nothing we can do about that,” Daemon said.

“When the sun shines in Hell.” She paced in what little space was available without getting too close to Daemon. “Falonar is always going to be a knife aimed at Lucivar’s back. You know that.”

“I know a great many things,” Daemon replied. “And one of the things I know is that there is nothing we can do about Falonar while he is still in Lucivar’s territory.”

Surreal stopped pacing. What she saw in his eyes was the reason she feared him, cared about him, and trusted him to help her protect whatever she held dear.

“According to Lucivar, there is no real proof that Falonar was behind the attack,” she said, watching Daemon.

“That is correct. Or at least there is no proof that Lucivar is willing to share.”

“Does someone else have proof that Falonar was involved in the attack on Lucivar?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing. Chaosti is coming to the Keep tomorrow to escort you to Dea al Mon. Go with him. Spend time with your mother’s people.”

“Is that what you’re going to do? Nothing?”

The Sadist smiled. “Prince Falonar and I have some personal business to settle—after he leaves Ebon Rih.”

Something about his smile dared her to ask—and something about that smile warned her against asking.

“I guess I should pack,” she said. “Get ready for tomorrow.”

Daemon hesitated, then asked, “Do you want to see Lucivar before you leave?”

She thought about Yaslana in the sparring circle, pushing her so that she could release the last bit of anger and emotional venom—leaving himself open to a blow that must have hurt like a wicked bitch because she needed to strike that blow. And then she thought of Lucivar stepping on that killing field—one man against so many warriors who’d had just as much training, if not half the natural talent or power—with his ribs already banged up and hurting, probably taking hits he could have avoided if he hadn’t already been hurt.

Her temper flashed like heat lightning.

The dresser exploded. She couldn’t tell whether Daemon had expected her to lash out or if his reflexes were that fast, but the Black shield that snapped up between them and the dresser prevented injuries—and minimized the damage to the rest of the room.

“He’s an arrogant prick who thinks he’s invulnerable!” she shouted. “The only reason I’d want to see him right now is to rip off his balls and stuff them up his nose!”

Daemon blinked.

She looked at the chunks of dresser now scattered on the floor and shrieked. “And look what he did! My clothes were still in that dresser!”

“It’s not his fault you killed the dresser,” Daemon said mildly.

“Oh, don’t you get ballsy with me. Don’t you dare.”

Daemon blinked again—and took a step toward the door. “Fine. I’ll tell Lucivar you’ll talk to him in a few weeks.”

“You do that. And you can tell him that as soon as I figure out what was destroyed, I’m going to buy two of everything and send him the bill!”

Daemon didn’t waste time leaving, but she still heard it before he completely closed the door—that choked effort not to laugh.

“Rip off my balls and stuff them up my nose?” Resigned to giving his body another day of rest, Lucivar wandered over to a window. Jillian was out there, playing some kind of game with Daemonar and Alanar, Endar’s son.

“The expression sounds juvenile, but the intention was sincere,” Daemon replied.

“Fine. I’ll let Chaosti deal with her.”

“She’ll get over being angry with you.”

“Will she?”

“Eventually.” Daemon joined him at the window. “What game are they playing?”

“No idea. But they’re doing enough running that they’ll all be happy to sit for a while once they come inside. And since Marian is visiting the Eyrien women in Doun, I’ll be glad to have the children stay quiet for a bit.”

“How much longer is Falonar going to remain confined to his eyrie here?”

“He leaves tomorrow to serve in a Red-Jeweled Queen’s court.”

“I was under the impression the only Red-Jeweled Queen in Askavi wouldn’t take any Eyrien at this point.”

“Actually, there are two Rihlander Queens who wear the Red. I hadn’t considered Perzha at first because . . . well, she’s Perzha.”

Daemon raised an eyebrow. “And that means . . . ?”

“She rules one of Askavi’s coastal Provinces. There’s not a mountain in her territory.”

“Meaning no eyries.”

Lucivar nodded. “She’s a bit eccentric, dresses oddly, and doesn’t much care for the formalities of being a Queen. But that’s Perzha as Perzha. Perzha the Queen is quite formidable and ruthless when required.”

“She sounds a bit like Jaenelle.”

“Nothing in the theater can match the entertainment of listening to the two of them at a dinner party. Just don’t eat anything until you get their assurance that there aren’t any surprises in the food.”

“Such as?”

“Being served a seafood soup and having a tentacle rise up out of the bowl and grab your spoon. No one was sure if the squids were real or illusions, but the surprise did prevent everyone from realizing that the cook had ruined the soup.”

Daemon burst out laughing.

“On top of that, Perzha lives in a village called Little Weeble.”

“You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Is there a Big Weeble?”

Lucivar shook his head. “If you ask anyone in the village about the name, they give you a wink and say if you understand where the name came from, then you’ll understand the name.”

“But they don’t tell outsiders.”

“Nope.”

“And this is where you’re sending Falonar?”

“Perzha offered to take him, as a favor to me.”

“Why are you letting him remain in Kaeleer?”

Lucivar turned away from the window. “Because he won’t be in my face every day, but he won’t be that far away if I need to deal with him. And because I’ve learned a few things from you and Father about the just payment of debts.”

“Meaning?”

Lucivar smiled. “Despite her eccentricities, Perzha is a Queen with the kind of bloodlines that puts her above most other aristo families. Which means she doesn’t give a damn about being aristo. Rather like Father in that way.”

“Ah. So for someone like Falonar, who defines everything by whether it’s aristo . . .”

“I figure serving Perzha for the next three years will be punishment enough.”

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.

SIXTEEN

Surreal studied the room that would be her home for the next few weeks. The furniture was basic but in good condition, and gleamed from a fresh cleaning. Everything felt a bit rustic, but this was Dea al Mon. Could any furnishing be considered rustic when there was a tree growing through the room?

Chaosti had told her there were a dozen homes within sight of the meadow that served as a play area for the children. She hadn’t been able to spot one of them—and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to find this one again on her own.

Nervous butterflies fluttered in her stomach as she put her clothes away. Her mother had lived nearby in a house like this. The people who lived in the houses around this meadow came from the same clan, were kin. Even now in the heart of winter there was a sharp beauty to this place. She could picture her mother playing beneath these trees, watching the stars. Such a long way from the slums in Terreille where Titian had tried to raise a daughter and survive.

She was looking over the selection of books she’d bought during a two-day shopping spree in Amdarh, and pondering which to read first, when Chaosti knocked on her door.

“You’re settled in?” he asked. “Is there anything you need?”

“Yes, I’m settled in, and no, there is nothing I need.” But you’re not settled, she added silently. “Something wrong?”

“You’re safe here, Surreal,” he said. “Nothing will enter our land and harm you. I give you my word.”

Mother Night. “All right. Although I will point out that I’m pretty good with a knife.”

His lips curved in a hint of a smile. “How could you not be? You’re Titian’s daughter.” Then he sighed. “Falonar has disappeared, just vanished from the court of the Rihlander Queen he was serving. It’s thought by some that he’s gone into hiding in the Askavi mountains.”

“If that is what people think, then it must be true,” Surreal said.

Chaosti studied her. “And what do you think, cousin?”

“I think that just as I am Titian’s daughter, Daemon Sadi is his father’s son.”

Chaosti’s eyes filled with understanding. “I see. Something understood among the family but unspoken?”

“Yes.” Although if she ever felt ballsy enough, someday she might ask Daemon if Falonar was still a threat to anyone. Problem was, anyone who asked the question would most likely receive the answer from the Sadist—and regret it.

But maybe someday.

“So whatever business you brought from Ebon Rih is finished now?” he asked.

“It’s finished.”

Chaosti held out a hand. “In that case, cousin, Grandmammy Teele is waiting to meet you.”