TEN
“Stop hovering,” Surreal said as she and Rainier
walked into the communal eyrie.
“I’m not hovering. I
have my own workout to do. Frankly, I want to go home, and I can’t
until I’ve completed all the steps Lucivar and Jaenelle have
decided are required.” Rainier shivered. “Mother Night. I never
thought about it being so cold here in
winter.”
Winter in Amdarh was
much milder, not to mention all the shops, dining houses, and
theaters that could be enjoyed during an idle, wintry afternoon.
And the lovely sitting room in the town house where she could curl
up and read for hours at a time if she felt like it.
What was winter like
in Dea al Mon? She hadn’t thought to ask Chaosti before he returned
home to prepare the clan for her visit.
How much preparation
did they need to do to accommodate one person? Maybe she should ask
Jaenelle about that. She didn’t want to cause problems for her
kinsman.
“When do you think
you’ll go back to Amdarh?”
“Hopefully soon.”
Rainier hesitated. “I wish my leg hadn’t been injured, and more
than that, I wish I hadn’t acted like a fool about it. But the work
Daemon offered me will be challenging, and I’m ready to get
started.”
“And ready to tell
your family that you don’t need pity work and they can take a piss
in the wind?” she asked.
He sighed. “That too.
Although I will be more polite in how I
phrase it.”
Surreal grinned.
“That’s because you’re not a cold bitch.”
He huffed out a
laugh. “Come on. We’re here to sweat, so let’s sweat.”
She stripped off her
coat, called in her sparring stick, and began going through the
warm-up moves.
She felt good, better
than she had in weeks. Still a touch raspy when her lungs were
working hard or when she’d been out in cold air too long, but she
felt lighter now, freer.
Except for one piece
of unfinished business that kept scratching at her—the piece
Jaenelle said Lucivar would help her finish.
Thank the Darkness
this practice was in the afternoon, when few Eyriens would be
present. She didn’t want an audience for whatever Lucivar had in
mind.
She’d completed her
warm-up and was going through the moves a second time when Lucivar
walked in, followed by Hallevar, Tamnar, and Jillian. The girl ran
to the selection of sparring sticks that were kept on one wall and
returned with two. Handing one to Tamnar, she settled into her own
warm-up routine.
Surreal watched
Lucivar watch Jillian. Any male who thought the girl didn’t have a
father to protect her was in for a rude, and rather terrifying,
surprise.
After a nod of
approval to Jillian and Tamnar, Lucivar called in his sparring
stick and went through the warm-up. Then he stepped into the
sparring circle, looked Surreal in the eyes, and smiled his lazy,
arrogant smile. “Come on, darling. Let’s see if you learned
anything.”
She stepped into the
circle. “I’ve learned more than you think, darling.”
“Shield,” he said as
he created a Red shield around himself.
She created a Green
shield around herself.
He shook his head.
“No. For this, witchling, you’ll need the Gray.”
“To spar?” she asked,
surprised.
“To cleanse,” he
replied quietly.
She understood then
what he was offering—to be a target for her anger against all the
enemies she hadn’t fought but who had crowded her dreams, including
the Eyrien bastard who had killed Kester and hurt Rainier. In order
to do that, Lucivar wasn’t going to hold back, so that she
couldn’t hold back.
She glanced at
Jillian, Tamnar, and Hallevar. “Maybe they should leave.” She
didn’t care if Rainier stayed, but she didn’t want Lucivar to have
trouble with the Eyriens over this kindness to her.
“No,” he said. “There
are lessons that need to be learned. Let them learn.”
With that, he began
the sparring match, his strikes against her stick so light and
controlled it was almost an insult. But she didn’t push harder,
didn’t escalate. Not yet.
Light. Easy. Wouldn’t
stay that way. She could feel the anger rising, that last piece of
unfinished business. But nothing was pushing her temper enough to
snap the leash, and the sparring they were doing would exercise the
body but it wouldn’t finish cleansing the heart.
Then Jillian took a
step closer to the circle, and Lucivar turned on the girl and
struck out. She squealed, but raised her stick and blocked the
blow.
A deliberate move,
but not against Jillian. The move was intended to provoke
her. And it worked. Surreal felt her
temper snap the leash, and she went after Lucivar hard and fast,
using everything he’d taught her about fighting with the
sticks.
He met her, matched
her, a powerful adversary. She didn’t know how long they’d been
fighting, wasn’t going to care if some fool called time. But Hell’s
fire, she was feeling the rasp and burn in her lungs, so she wasn’t
going to be able to go on much longer.
She used Craft to
enhance the sound of her raspy breathing to make sure her adversary
heard it and thought she was fading. She fumbled a move,
deliberately—and saw him hesitate for a heartbeat before he
responded.
“That’s enough,
Surreal,” he said.
“No, it’s not.” Not
until she won.
She feinted,
clumsily—and saw another hesitation. Then she planted her feet in a
way that looked unbalanced, and he made a move that would take a
lesser opponent out of a fight. But it left his ribs exposed for
just a moment.
And she struck,
putting Gray power into the blow.
He couldn’t counter
the move in time. Her Gray shattered his Red shield. He got his
stick up enough to deflect some of the blow, but her stick still
met his ribs with savage force.
Pain flashed across
his face before he regained control and danced away from
her.
She didn’t follow
because that look of pain cleared her mind and snuffed out her
anger. He was no longer the adversary; he was Lucivar. She stared
at him, seeing him again on the killing field in the spooky house.
Grace and deadly power. Lucivar had walked into that place to save
her and Rainier. And he’d walked out again without the smallest
scratch. How could he get hurt now?
“You son of a whoring
bitch,” she said. “You did that on purpose.” Because there were
lessons that needed to be learned.
“I made a mistake,
chose the wrong move,” he replied.
“And the sun shines
in Hell. You did that on
purpose.”
“I fell for a trick
and miscalculated the strength of my adversary’s blow. I made a
mistake.”
Made a mistake. Like
she’d done in the spooky house. She had miscalculated there,
underestimated there. Wasn’t the first time she’d made a mistake
and probably wouldn’t be her last. But making mistakes didn’t make
her weak.
She stared at Lucivar
and understood what he’d wanted to give her before she left Ebon
Rih. Maybe in a few weeks she would feel grateful. Right now she
hated him for the price he’d just paid to give her this last
lesson.
She dropped the stick
and walked out of the eyrie.
Lucivar waited until
Surreal left before he set one end of the sparring stick on the
floor and leaned on it. He’d taken a risk giving her that opening,
especially since she was channeling her Gray strength and he had
stayed with the Red so that she would be the dominant
power.
He really hoped what
he’d seen in her eyes before she walked away wouldn’t be there
every time she looked at him from now on.
Everything has a price, old son. You gave her what she
needed to finish healing.
“How bad?” Rainier
asked.
“Ribs hurt like a
wicked bitch, but I don’t think any of them are broken,” he
replied.
“That was a damn fool
thing to do,” Hallevar said. “I’d better summon Nurian to look at
you.”
“Do that.” That move
had been a lot more foolish than he’d anticipated.
Rainier studied him a
little too long. “Was it worth it?”
Fortunately, Nurian
burst into the eyrie at that moment and he didn’t have to
answer.
But he did wonder if
he would ever have the answer.
“Are you certain you
can do this?” Falonar asked the Warlords who were the dominant
males in the northern hunting camps.
“Are you certain
about the information you got about that weak left ankle?” one
asked.
“I’m certain,” he
replied.
“If we destroy his
weak spot, he’ll go down like any other man.”
“I always thought his
reputation was more farted air than truth,” the second Warlord
said.
“It’s not like he
made that reputation in Askavi among real warriors,” the third
Warlord said.
“He’s also nursing
bruised ribs that he got in a sparring match with a half-breed
witch,” Falonar said.
“Well, Hell’s fire,
this won’t be any kind of challenge,” the first Warlord said,
laughing nastily. “It sounds like tomorrow will be a good time to
put what is left of Lucivar Yaslana in a grave. You just make sure
the only men left to come with him are committed to fighting on the
right side of the line.”
“I’ll make sure of
it,” Falonar said. “By tomorrow evening, I’ll be the Warlord Prince
of Ebon Rih, and we’ll be able to live the way Eyriens
should.”