Lorth recovered long enough to slide from the table and stagger back. He dodged the next blow, but his arms, shoulders and back were stiff, compromising his recovery time. “If this is about Astarae,” he panted as they circled each other, “I tried to apologize. I didn’t try to dismantle—”
Like a bolt of lightning the wizard struck him again, spinning him around and twisting his neck. Disoriented, Lorth tripped on a chair and hit the floor. Where had this man learned to fight like this? Deft, agile and strong, he knew where and how to hit. Furthermore, he didn’t use magic.
This was personal.
The wizard towered over him. “You’ve gone too far this time, Hunter.” He came down.
Lorth rolled out of the way with a breath, barely avoiding the wizard’s fist. Eaglin yanked it back after punching the floor. Lorth scrambled beneath the table and got up on the other side. Eaglin opened and closed his hand, his face contorted into a livid expression of pain.
Lorth said, “I didn’t do anything to her. I went because I respect you.”
The wizard leapt up onto the table in a single bound, like a cat. Lorth backed away, glancing around for something blunt he might use as a weapon. “Not to her,” Eaglin rasped. “And you have no respect for anything or anyone.” He leapt up, twisted gracefully in the air, and then came down somewhere close enough to strike Lorth with a kick that sent him sprawling. He crashed into a bench and broke it.
Shouts surrounded them. Lorth clutched at the side of his head with one hand and tried to tear off a splintered bench leg with the other. He didn’t understand this—the broken leg wouldn’t come loose—even Astarae’s lies couldn’t possibly have made the wizard this angry.
Unless...
Not to her, he had just said. The hunter gave up on his weapon, crawled under a table through the blur of a swollen eye, and stared at the floor with an owl’s screech in his heart as he realized this was not about Astarae.
Eaglin knew about Leda and the garden. Someone had told him.
Eusiron help me.
The Raven reached down and dragged him out into the open by the waist of his leggings. Lorth choked, “Eaglin you don’t understand. I love—”
His head slammed into the floor as the wizard hit him. “You love nothing, you son of a bitch. You’re using her.”
What? “That is not—”
Eaglin hit him again.
—true. Lorth got up to his hands and knees, gathered the blood in his mouth and spit it onto the floor.
“Stand down!” boomed a voice. Lorth rolled over and tried to sit up, then covered his face with his arms as Eaglin moved in for another strike.
It never came. Morfaen and Cael grabbed the wizard and wrestled him back, a gesture that would have proved useless had Regin not stepped in front of Eaglin with a bare sword and a hard blue gaze just as dangerous. Lorth clutched at the broken bench. It gave way, sending his elbow slamming into the floor.
“Out of my way!” Eaglin growled. He struggled in the grip of the two warriors like an animal, but they held him.
“I told you to stand down!” Regin repeated.
The Raven drew himself up as if he were about to blast the timbers from the roof. “This isn’t your concern, Regin. Don’t make me—”
“Enough!” the captain barked. “I was looking after your mother ten suns before you were born, you arrogant whelp. The Aenmos himself charged me with it. Now you will stand down unless you want me to get him involved.”
The wizard snorted. “You wouldn’t dare.”
Regin lifted his ruddy cheeks to the ceiling, and filled his chest with air. “Eal—”
“Masors!” Eaglin shouted in Aenspeak. Lorth felt the command in his gut like a slamming door.
Regin paused in challenge. “You want to push this? Use the Eye on me? Try it.”
The wizard breathed heavily as he pointed at Lorth. “Do you know what that cad—”
“Leave it, Eaglin.” Lorth had never heard him use the wizard’s name without the title. “Now.”
The Raven of Eusiron cast the hunter one last, hateful glance as he threw off his captors and strode angrily from the hall.
Morfaen turned to the bystanders watching the scene, told some of them to leave and others to straighten up the mess. They complied quickly. The sounds of furniture knocking together and moving on the floor filled the hall.
Regin slammed his blade into its sheath, then stepped up to Lorth and held out his arm. Lorth reached up and grasped it, losing his breath as the tall, red-blond captain pulled him to his feet. “You all right?” Regin asked, lowering his chin and raising his brow. Cael moved close and put his arm out as Lorth swayed on his feet. He could hardly see through the swollen flesh around his eyes.
“I will be.”
Morfaen returned with Lorth’s cloak over his arm. “Bring him to his room.”
As the guardsmen half-dragged him across the floor, Lorth rasped, “Where did Eaglin learn to fight like that?”
“Eusiron taught him,” Regin said.
“Why didn’t he just blast me?”
“He can’t do that. The Eye has rules. For a Raven, they’re some stiff.”
“He would have turned us all into compost, otherwise,” Cael added.
As they entered the cold passage to Lorth’s room, Morfaen swept up behind them. “I sent for water and something to clean him up with,” he said.
They reached the end of the hall and entered the room. “Hell and ice it’s cold in here!” Cael complained. “Thought you had a page.”
“I do,” Lorth said as they helped him onto the bed.
“Go get some wood,” Morfaen said to Cael. A moment after the warrior left, Lorth heard his voice in the hall. The door opened again and Freil burst in carrying an armload of wood with a bundle of things stacked on top. A steaming pail dangled from his hand.
“What’re you doing here?” Regin asked.
“Helping.” The boy put down his things as Cael returned and closed the door behind him.
Regin moved to the hearth to build a fire. “You can start by getting that ready.” He pointed to the pail.
Freil glanced nervously at Lorth, and then got to work.
Morfaen leaned over Lorth and took his head in his hands as if to inspect the soundness of a horse. He moved Lorth’s jaw about, ran his fingers over his teeth through his cheek, reached behind his head and turned it on his neck this way and that. When he had finished with that, he lifted Lorth’s shirt away and probed around his stomach and chest. The hunter gasped as the commander pressed his thumb into something bad. “Bruised, not broke. You’ll be fine.” He glanced at the warriors. “Wizard was some mad, ay?”
Regin stood up, brushed his hands on his thighs, and said nothing.
“He went easy on you,” Cael said. “No broken bones? He could’ve put you in a basket.”
“A small one,” Regin added.
Morfaen grunted and moved to the table, and rustled something from the bundle Freil had brought. He returned and handed Lorth a silver flask. He unstopped it, and tilted it to his lips. Whisky. Good whisky. It burned the cuts on his mouth and flowed like fire into his chest.
Cael dragged a stool near the bed as Freil brought a bowl of water and something wrapped in cloth. Cael set the bowl on the stool, and then opened the cloth over it. Dried leaves tumbled out with a rustle. He dipped the cloth in, wrung it a couple of times, then sat by Lorth and began to clean the blood from his face. Lorth felt the soothing sensation of erialas, an herb used to heal flesh wounds and calm the mind.
Cael’s sky blue eyes were grave. “She’s going to turn him into a weevil for this.”
“That’s why he didn’t break him,” Regin said.
Lorth looked between them for a moment. He didn’t understand why they were fretting over him so, but he had to guess they didn’t know why Eaglin had put him down. He could be facing another fight, if he wasn’t careful.
Morfaen stood near the end of the bed with his a
rms crossed over his chest, wearing a bland expression. “I’ve seen you fight, lad. Why’d you let him rough you like that?”
Lorth closed his eyes and took another long pull of whisky. Cael hesitated in his attentions long enough to let him finish. “He’s too good—and he had a score to settle.”
Regin leaned over Lorth’s leg and gazed pointedly at the dagger in his boot. “You could’ve used that.”
“I’d never have got to it! Besides, he was right to be angry.”
They exchanged glances. “Oh was he, now?” Regin said. Cael shook his head as he leaned back and re-soaked his rag.
“I started this,” Lorth said. He looked at Cael. “If I hadn’t taken your advice and gone to apologize to that witch—”
“Och!” Cael growled. “This isn’t about Astarae and you know it.”
Regin rolled his eyes and looked up at Morfaen. The old commander’s expression indicated that he had just put this together in stride. He lifted his brow as if to congratulate the hunter for nerve, and turned for the door. “I’ll be in the yard. You too,” he said to Freil.
“But—” Freil protested.
Morfaen pointed at the door. As Freil reluctantly passed through, Lorth called out his thanks. When they were gone, Regin said, “What was that about?”
“Don’t ask,” Lorth replied to the ceiling.
“We know about you and the Mistress,” Cael said finally.
Lorth lifted the whisky again. “Who told you?”
“She did.”
He hesitated, holding the flask to his lips. “Did she tell Eaglin too?”
“Na,” Regin said. “That was Astarae.”
Lorth lowered the flask and muttered a curse. “Leda and I were in the garden. I sensed something. Astarae must have seen us.”
After a weighty silence, Regin leaned forward. “Doing what, pray?”
“Idgit. What do you think?” He took a long, fiery drink.
Cael laughed. “Och! You get a royal crocodile for balls, lad. You spread her in the garden?”
Lorth’s cheeks warmed. “Erskin usually looks after us.”
Their faces broke apart with astonishment. “Erskin,” Cael said. “That stupid bird? Maern, the taste of a woman’s made you right mad, hasn’t it!”
“Evidently,” Lorth conceded, as the warriors fell over each other with laughter. He watched them, moved and not a little confused by how well they were taking this. “I thought you guys would gut me if you found out about this.”
Regin wiped a tear from his eye and settled into a more serious air. His cheeks were red. “I’ve known Leda all my life. She has much on her shoulders, she holds up this place and she feels the weight of it. But since you arrived”—he shared a glance with Cael—“she’s brightened up like a rose in a glass o’ warm water.”
“She’s in love,” Cael said with a grin.
Lorth didn’t smile as Eaglin’s voice rang in his mind: You are using her. He flexed his jaw and looked away. “Timing was bad. I’d just had a row with Astarae in the greenhouse. Eaglin thinks I’m using his mother to stay out of trouble.”
Cael snorted. “Ballocks. Like she’d ever let you do that.”
“The Raven of Eusiron doesn’t like surprises,” Regin said. “You surprised him.”
“Aye,” Cael said, tossing his rag. It landed into the bowl with a splash. “He thought he had our sneaky wolf all figured out.”
“It’s my business,” Lorth said.
Regin nodded. “Right. It is. That’s why we didn’t let on.” He slapped Lorth on the leg, causing him to flinch. “You do have our respect for crossing Astarae. She’s a mean one.”
“Only as dangerous as her man, to my observation,” Lorth replied dryly.
Cael made a sound in the back of his throat, then stood and took his things to the table. Regin pulled up the stool and sat. “Be careful. That woman is plenty dangerous on her own. There’s talk that Eaglin only beds her to keep her under control.”
Lorth laughed, causing his lip to split. “He’ll be the worse off for that.”
“Maybe,” Cael said. He approached without smiling. “But you just learned what happens if you get involved, ay? Leave it alone.”
Lorth closed his eyes and became aware of his heartbeat. A flaw touched his companions’ well-meaning advice, a very big flaw.
I am unseen.
It didn’t account for Eusiron’s curse.
~ * ~
For three days, Lorth found himself once more in the care of the Mistress of Eusiron for wounds her son had put on him.
Eaglin had left the palace on the morning Regin sent him from the warriors’ refectory. Only Leda knew where her son had gone. Lorth didn’t ask—mostly because he didn’t care. He had had his fill of the Raven’s turbulence, so much in fact, that despite Leda’s soothing attentions, the hunter had found new energy in his desire for freedom. He would have departed already, had he been able.
Even so, Lorth had to admit a certain grudging respect for Eaglin’s actions. If some roguish assassin had captured the heart of Lorth’s mother, he would respond just as Eaglin had. Assuming the bastard had designs to use or hurt her, he would gut him like a fish—without rules or codes to temper the blows.
For all her wisdom, the Mistress of Eusiron took for granted the men around her. The shock to her innocence when she had first seen Lorth after the fight had made him wonder if she understood what really drove a man. Even Freil—a boy—had broken the Wizard’s Code by summoning Lorth for fear Leda would be harmed. The priestess didn’t feel she needed protection, and so she didn’t consider the force of male instinct. But men were men, both aggressors and protectors.
Such were his thoughts on the morning of the fourth day since his encounter with Eaglin in the refectory. Stiff and riddled with bruises, he went to the indoor training yard with his sword and his knives. He found a spot by a stone wall with withered ivy growing over the top, tossed down a musty horse blanket he had found in the stable and sat. There, he watched warriors spar while he oiled, sharpened and polished his blades, which he did with great care.
When he had finished, he sat quietly, wrapped in his guardsman’s cloak, his knees propped up with his arms folded over them. Some who passed nodded to him, some looked away quickly to avoid his knowing they did, and others spoke respectful greetings as if to honor him for having survived a hand-to-hand fight with the Raven of Eusiron. But no one came near him, let alone asked questions. They knew better.
None but one. Ivy approached, accompanied by a girl of roughly thirteen clad in sparring gear. The warrior knelt before Lorth, touched his battered face in a motherly way, and then shook her head. “Always in some kind of trouble, you are.”
“The laws of the lawless are certain,” Lorth recited, moving his fingers lovingly over the hilt of his sword.
She smiled. “You’re like a wild animal forced to live among the domestic.”
“You manage it.”
Her smile broke into a raspy laugh. “Fool wolf. On my worst day I’m not the bastard you are on your best.” She rose and waved her small companion onward. “Heal up, laddie,” she said over her shoulder. “We need you.”
Aggressors and protectors. He thought of Leaf, her blue eyes wide as her father held the knife to her throat.
Late afternoon cast long shadows through the high windows of the training yard. Lorth’s back wailed with stiffness, and his belly with hunger, as he watched a match between a man who looked part equine and another with flaming red hair and a scar on his chin. They fought with long practice knives made of ash, circling each other in tight crouched positions, maneuvering this way and that. Now and then, an arm would flash out for a cut.
The hunter turned as a familiar presence approached wearing a blue cloak with red trim. He gazed ahead at the knife match as Barenus sat beside him, uninvited.
The man with the horse face won after tagging his opponent’s thigh. The people standing around the yard relaxed and began to talk
among themselves. A young man with unruly blond hair strode into the ring, holding a blunted sword and wearing leather padding. He moved the sparring blade in quick circular patterns to loosen his wrist. When he saw Barenus sitting by the wall, he nodded to acknowledge him. He appeared nervous.
Another man stepped onto the landing to offer a challenge. He was lean, muscular and a good head taller than the youth. He also carried a blunt, but wore no armor. Though opponents usually met similarly equipped, often one would arm himself differently than the other, for experience and cross training.
The two swordsmen bowed to each other, and then the sparring began. The clanging of blades filled the yard. Others came from the surrounding halls, as if it were a match of particular interest.
Barenus said, “How did you do it?”
Lorth took a brief mental inventory of his body as predatory calm settled into it. Though tempted to ask the obvious question—Do what?—he knew the Osprey referred to his trysts with Leda. The comment deserved no reply. But the warrior in him returned, “How did you do it? I hardly think you’re in the position to judge my actions after letting yourself be tricked by the Princess of Tarth into covering up Icaros’s murder.”
Barenus flexed his jaw and stared ahead as if to follow the second round of the match. The shorter man won by putting a well-controlled blow on his opponent’s shin. The taller man limped now, and a spot of blood darkened his boot.
“Setriana is a royal on a diplomatic mission from Tarth. Whatever she did—and you have no proof—the matter falls under the jurisdiction of the Eye. Your actions are out of line.”
“Are they?” Lorth asked casually. “Do you think because Setriana is a woman that she’s above the laws of Maern?”
“Does bedding the Mistress of Eusiron put you above them?”
Lorth snorted a laugh that came out more rakish than he intended. “Apparently, the Eye neglects to teach its men about the nature of women. So many rules and protocols. You’re all walking around blind.”
“Understanding women doesn’t mean disrespecting them. You’ve left a trail behind you, Hunter.” Lorth didn’t miss the reference to Leaf. “As warriors of Eyrie, we’ll not stand by as you kill, threaten and seduce our women for your selfish ends.”
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