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.