Twilight's Dawn dj-9

by Anne Bishop

  “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’r
e 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.