He sympathized with her. This was sometimes the hardest part of the healing, telling the patient honestly what could—and could not—be mended. "The wings are just decorative, aren't they?"
"No!" She took a deep breath. "The injuries were severe. All of them, not just the wings. I've done the healing, but what happens now depends, in large part, on you. I estimate it will take another three months for your back and wings to heal completely." She chewed her lip. "But, Lucivar, there's no margin for error in this. I had to pull everything you had to give for this healing. If you reinjureanything, the damage may be permanent." He reached for her hand, caressed her fingers with his
thumb. "And if I do it your way?" He watched her carefully. There were no false promises in those sapphire eyes.
"If you do it my way, three months from now we'll make the Run."
He lowered his head. Not because he didn't want her to see the tears, but because he needed a private moment to savor the hope.
When he had himself under control again, he smiled at her.
She smiled back, understanding. "Would you like a cup of tea?" When he nodded, she bounced out of the chair and went through the door to the right of the stone hearth.
"Any chance of persuading my Healer to add a bit of food to that?"
Jaenelle's head popped out of the kitchen doorway. "How does a large slice of fresh bread soaked in beef broth sound?"
About as edible as the table leg. "Do I have any choices?"
"No."
"Sounds wonderful."
She returned a few minutes later, helped him shift from the stool to a straight-backed chair that supported his back, then placed a large mug on the pine table. "It's a healing brew."
His lip curled in a silent snarl. Every healing brew he'd ever had forced down his throat had always tasted like brambles and piss, and he'd reached the opinion that Healers made them that way as a penalty for being hurt or ill.
"You don't get anything else until you drink it," Jaenelle added with a distasteful lack of sympathy.
Lucivar lifted the cup and sniffed cautiously. It smelled . . . different. He took a sip, held it in his mouth for a moment, then closed his eyes and swallowed. And wondered how she'd distilled into a healing brew the solid strength of the Askavi mountains, the trees and grasses and flowers that fleshed out the earth beneath, the rivers that flowed through the land.
"This is wonderful," he murmured. "I'm pleased you approve."
"Really, it is," he insisted, responding to the laughter in her voice. "These things usually taste awful, and this tastes good."
Her laughter turned to puzzlement. "They're supposed to taste good, Lucivar. Otherwise, no one would want to drink them."
Not being able to argue with that, he said nothing, content to sip the brew. He was even content enough to feel a mild tolerance for the bowl of broth-soaked bread that Jaenelle placed in front of him, a tolerance that sharpened considerably when he noticed the slivers of beef sprinkled over the bread.
Then he noticed she was going to eat the same thing.
"I'm not the only one you drained to the limit in order to do this healing, am I, Cat?" he said quietly, unable to completely mask the anger underneath. How dare she risk herself this way, when there was no one to look after her?
Her cheeks colored faintly. She fiddled with her spoon, poked at the bread, and finally shrugged. "It was worth it."
He stabbed at the bread as another thought occurred to him. He'd let that wait for a moment. He tasted the bread and broth. "Not only do you make a good healing brew, you're also a decent cook."
She smacked the bread with her spoon, sending up a small geyser of broth. Wiping up the mess, she let out a hurt sniff and glared at him. "Mrs. Beale made this. I can't cook."
Lucivar took another mouthful and shrugged. "Cooking isn't that difficult." Then he looked up and wondered if a grown man had ever been beaten to death with a soup spoon.
"You can cook?" she asked ominously. Then she huffed. "Why do so many males know how to cook?"
He bit his tongue to keep from saying, "self-preservation." He ate a couple more spoonfuls of bread and broth. "I'll teach you to cook—on one condition."
"What condition?"
In the moment before he answered, he sensed a brittle fragility within her, but he could only respond as the Warlord Prince he was. "The bed's big enough for both of us,"
he said quietly, aware of how quickly she paled. "If you're not comfortable with that, fine. But if someone's going to sleep in front of the hearth, it's going to be me."
He saw the flash of temper, quickly reined in.
"You need the bed," she said through gritted teeth. "The healing isn't done yet."
"Since there's no one else here to look after you, I, as a Warlord Prince, have the duty and the privilege of overseeing your care." He was invoking ancient customs long ignored in Terreille, but he knew by her frustrated snarl that they still applied in Kaeleer.
"All right," she said, hiding her shaking hands in her lap. "We'll share the bed."
"And the blankets," he added.
The hostile look combined with the suppressed smile told him she wasn't sure what to think about him. That was all right. He wasn't sure, either.
"I suppose you want a pillow, too."
He smiled that lazy, arrogant smile. "Of course. And I promise not to kick you if you snore."
With her command of the Eyrien language, the girl could have made a Master of a hunting camp blush.
It hit him later, when he was comfortably settled on his belly in the bed, his wings open and gently supported, and Jaenelle and the wolves were out doing walkies—a silly word that struck him as an accurate description of the intricate, furry dance three wolves would perform around her while taking a late afternoon stroll.
He had made the Khaldharon Run intending to die and, instead, not only had survived but had found the living myth, his dreamed-of Queen.
Even as he smiled, the tears began, hot and bitter.
He was alive. And Jaenelle was alive. But Daemon . . .
He didn't know what had happened at Cassandra's Altar, or how that sheet had gotten drenched with Jaenelle's blood, or what Daemon had done, but he was beginning to understand what it had cost.
Pressing his face into the pillow to muffle the sobs, squeezing his eyes shut to deny the images his mind con-
jured, he saw Daemon. In Pruul that night, exhausted but determined. In the ruins of SaDiablo Hall in Terreille, burned out by the nightmare of madness and ready to die. He heard again Daemon's frightened, enraged denial. Heard again that anguished cry rising from the broken stones.
If he hadn't been so chained by bitterness that night, if he'd left with Daemon, they would have found a way through the Gates. Together, they would have. And they would have found her and had these years with her, watching her grow up, participating in the experiences that would transform a child into a woman, a Queen.
He would still do that. He would be with her during the final years of that transformation and would know the joy of serving her.
But Daemon . . .
Lucivar bit the pillow, muffling his own scream of anguish.
But Daemon . . .
Chapter TEN
1 / Kaeleer
Lucivar stood at the edge of the woods, not quite ready to step across the line that divided forest shadow from sun-drenched meadow. The day was warm enough to appreciate shade. Besides, Jaenelle was away on some kind of obligatory trip so there was no reason to hurry back.
Smoke trotted up, chose a tree, lifted a leg, and looked expectantly at Lucivar.
"I marked territory a ways back," Lucivar said.
Smoke's snort was a clear indication of what wolves thought about a human's ability to mark territory properly.
Amused, Lucivar waited until Smoke trotted off before stepping into the sunlight and spreading his wings to let them dry fully. The spring-fed pool Jaenelle had shown him wasn't quite warm enough yet, but he'd enjoyed the brisk dip.
He fanned his wings slowly, savoring the movement. He was halfway through the healing. If everything continued to go well, next week he would test his wings in flight. It was hard to be patient, but, at the end of the day, when he felt the good, quiet ache in his muscles, he knew Jaenelle was setting the right pace for the healing.
Folding his wings, Lucivar set off for the cabin at an easy pace.
Lulled by earlier physical activity and the day's warmth, it took him a moment to realize something wasn't right about the way the two young wolves raced toward him.
Jaenelle had taught him how to communicate with the kindred, and he'd been flattered when she'd told him they were highly selective about which humans they would speak to. But now, bracing himself as the wolves ran toward him, he wondered how much their opinion of him depended upon her presence.
A minute later he was engulfed in fur, fighting for balance while the wolf behind him wrapped its forelegs around his waist and pushed him forward and the one in front of him placed its paws on his shoulders and leaned hard against him, earnestly licking his face and whimpering for reassurance.
Their thoughts banged against his mind, too upset to be coherent.
The Lady had returned. The bad thing was going to happen. They were afraid. Smoke guarding, waiting for Lucivar. Lucivar come now. He was human. He would help the Lady.
Lucivar got untangled enough to start walking quickly toward the cabin. They didn't say she was hurt, so she wasn't wounded. But something bad was going to happen. Something that made them afraid to enter the cabin and be with her.
He remembered how uneasy Smoke had been when Jaenelle told them she was leaving for a few days.
Something bad. Something a human would make better.
He sincerely hoped they were right.
He opened the cabin door and understood why the wolves were afraid.
She sat in the rocking chair in front of the hearth, just staring.
The psychic pain in the room staggered him. The psychic shield around her felt deceptively passive, as easy to brush aside as a cobweb. Beneath the passivity, however, lay something that, if unleashed, would extract a brutal price.