by Anne Bishop
“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 t
he 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.
