by Anne Bishop
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 puni
shment.
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?”
