His second mistake had been responding to Surreal’s initial interest in him—and his interest in her—and having sex with her. Oh, she was terrific in bed—strong and experienced and so knowledgeable when it came to playing with a man’s body to give him the sharpest release. She was worth every gold mark she’d charged as a whore in Terreille, and he’d had her for the asking. She had also been a sharp, interesting companion outside of bed—when she wasn’t trying to acquire skills that should be kept exclusive to warriors.
Except the sex hadn’t been as free as he’d thought. At least, not after they came to Ebon Rih and he’d invited her to stay with him in his eyrie. He had been thinking of the relief of having as much sex as he wanted with a woman strong enough to handle being with a Sapphire-Jeweled Warlord Prince. But he hadn’t considered that the SaDiablos, by allowing Surreal to use the family name, really would think of her as family. In Terreille, that was something no true aristo family would have done, because no matter how skilled she was and how exclusive the Red Moon houses were where she had plied those skills, the fact was that Surreal was still a half-breed whore who had started her career in dark alleys and dirty rooms.
Unfortunately, he had realized too late that even whores could have unrealistic romantic notions. About the time he wanted Surreal to find other accommodations, leaving him free to express his interest in Nurian, the Eyrien Healer, he discovered that Surreal thought they were a step away from a handfast—and that Lucivar thought the same thing. As much as he’d enjoyed her, he wasn’t about to make any commitment to a woman who wasn’t Eyrien, let alone a woman who’d seen so many balls she was now trying to grow a pair of her own.
In the end, Surreal had packed up and left, and Lucivar’s civility toward him had developed a sharp edge because of her hurt feelings. No doubt that edge would get sharper now that she was going to be in front of both of them again.
And that other Warlord Prince. The crippled one. Hell’s fire. What was the point of bringing that one to Ebon Rih to train with Eyrien warriors?
Which only confirmed what he’d suspected all along—Lucivar Yaslana might be Eyrien in looks, and definitely had the skills of an Eyrien warrior when he stepped onto a killing field, but he wasn’t, at heart, an Eyrien. As long as Lucivar controlled Ebon Rih, the Eyriens trying to build a life here and retain their heritage and culture were going to suffer.
Unfortunately, for now, there was nothing Falonar could do about that except hide how much he was choking on that bitter truth.
Surreal walked into the room that would be her home for the next few weeks and looked around. The furniture was basic but in good condition, and gleamed from a fresh cleaning. Everything felt a bit rustic, but that was in keeping with the rest of The Tavern. It wouldn’t suit an aristo prick who thought his farts didn’t smell, but she found nothing to complain about.
“We’re nothing fancy,” Merry said as she hovered just inside the room. “I know we call the place a tavern and inn, but we’re really a tavern with a handful of rooms we converted because we had the space. There are two nice boardinghouses here in Riada, and a couple of fancier inns on the aristo side of the village.”
Surreal studied the other woman, making note of the nerves. She’d had a passing acquaintance with Merry and Briggs during her previous stay in Ebon Rih, but she hadn’t gotten to know the owners of The Tavern because she had been living with Falonar. Merry and Briggs, and their establishment, were too common for a man like Falonar, especially since he thought being Lucivar’s second-in-command was a reason to act even more aristo than the aristos in Riada.
Since Merry didn’t know her either except in passing, why was the woman so nervous? Maybe the Rihlander had heard about Surreal’s former professions and didn’t want to rent a room to a whore—or an assassin? If that was the case, she wanted to know before she unpacked her trunks.
“Do you have a problem with me staying here?” Surreal asked.
“Oh, no,” Merry replied quickly. “I just wanted you to know there are other options.” She hesitated, clearly debating if she should say anything more. Then she sighed. “Look. Lucivar is a good man, and Briggs and I count ourselves fortunate to call him a friend. But he can be single-minded at times. Lucivar likes The Tavern, but it’s not to everyone’s taste, and I don’t think he considered that you might prefer something a bit fancier.”
Which confirmed that Merry had more than a passing knowledge of the man who was the second most powerful male in the Realm of Kaeleer. Despite coming from the most aristo family in the Realm, there was nothing aristo about Lucivar’s tastes or preferences.
But Lucivar could be single-minded about a good many things, and that tickled a suspicion about the real reason for his choice of accommodations.
“He comes in here fairly often?” Surreal asked.
“Every day when he’s home,” Merry replied. “Sometimes he stops to have a mug of coffee just after we open. Other days he stops in for a bowl of soup or stew. He will have a glass of ale while he talks to the men and waits for me to pack up a steak pie or something else he’s bringing home for dinner. But that’s not every day.”
“Uh-huh.” Hell’s fire. You know the man, but you still haven’t figured out how a Warlord Prince’s mind works, have you, sugar?
The Tavern was a local gathering place where people could have a drink or a meal, and it did a good business. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, Merry had a pretty face and a nicely curved body that would tweak plenty of men’s interest. Her Tiger Eye Jewel, being a lighter Jewel, might dampen the interest of stronger males—or it might heighten the interest of a predator who preferred females who weren’t strong enough to fight back. Briggs was a Summer-sky Warlord. Since he wasn’t trained to fight, maybe that wasn’t enough power to protect his wife and their livelihood.
Unless, of course, that Summer-sky Warlord was quietly backed by an Eyrien Warlord Prince who wore Ebon-gray Jewels, and had a vicious, violent temper and centuries of training as a warrior.
There were predators and there were Predators—and even among the Predators, Lucivar Yaslana was a law unto himself.
Surreal looked at the room again, turning over possibilities of why Lucivar had chosen this place as her home-away-from-home. Then she put those thoughts aside before Merry became too anxious about her being here—or began to wonder why she was here.
She opened a door and found the bathroom. Her gold-green eyes narrowed as she considered the bathroom’s second door. “I’m sharing?”
“With the Warlord Prince who’s also coming in for the training,” Merry said.
She nodded. “Rainier. He’s a friend, even if he does pee through a pipe. Well, I can try to live with sharing a bathroom with him.” She gave Merry a wicked smile. “And if I have reason to complain about his aim, he can just try to live.”
Merry blinked, started to say something, then changed her mind—a couple of times. Finally she said, “I can provide you with the midday and evening meals, but we aren’t open early in the morning, so I don’t usually prepare breakfast.”
“That’s all right,” Surreal said. “We’re expected at the eyrie for breakfast.”
“Oh.”
So much sympathy in one little word. But it was the humor laced in the sympathy that caught Surreal’s attention.
“You’ve met Lucivar’s son,” Surreal said.
“I have, yes.”
Surreal watched Merry weighing and measuring loyalties and obligations.
“There’s a coffee shop two blocks from here,” Merry said. “And there’s a bakery. The two businesses converted the store in between into a dining area used by both. You wouldn’t get a full breakfast there—just coffee and baked goods—but it would be a peaceful one. Or you’re welcome to warm up whatever soup or stew is left from the previous day.”
Giving up your own breakfast? Surreal wondered. “Thanks. We’re expected at Lucivar’s eyrie tomorrow morning, but I, at least, will take advantage of the coffee shop and bakery most of the time after that.”
“Well, then,” Merry said. “I’ll let you get settled in.”
“One other thing,” Surreal said before Merry had a chance to escape. Because that was what the other woman clearly had in mind—bolting before this last detail was mentioned. “How do you want me to pay for the food and lodging? By the day or week?”
“That’s not necessary,” Merry said, her eyes looking bigger and darker in a rapidly paling face.
“Yes, it is,” Surreal countered politely.
“No, it isn’t.”
“Damn him, I told him I was going to pick up the tab for my own lodging. So you’ll give the bill to me.”
“No. Uh-uh. If you want to argue with Prince Yaslana about this, you go right ahead. But he was very clear about what he expected from me.”
Of course he was. The prick. And wasn’t it interesting where the line got drawn between Lucivar the friend and Prince Yaslana the ruler of Ebon Rih?
“All right, fine,” Surreal grumbled. “I’ll deal with him in my own way.”
Merry made a sound that might have been a squeak, and the next thing Surreal heard was the woman clattering down the stairs.
“Don’t be such a bitch,” she scolded herself. “You know what it’s like trying to deal with your male relatives. You wear the Gray and they roll right over you. How do you expect Tiger Eye to face down someone like Lucivar?”
No recourse. Daemon would tell her not to be an ass about who paid for what, since the SaDiablo family as a whole was not only the most powerful family in Kaeleer; they were also the wealthiest. Lucivar wasn’t going to feel pinched by the tab for her lodgings, but that wasn’t the point. Paying for it herself wouldn’t pinch her pocket either.
On the other hand, whenever she had accepted a job as an assassin, her client sometimes paid for her expenses as well as her fee.
Which circled back to the question of why she really was staying at The Tavern.
Going to the window, she pulled back the sheer curtain and stared at the mountain Lucivar called home as she lobbed a thought on a Gray psychic thread. *Yaslana.*
*Are you going to start whining already?*
He sounded amused. He sounded like he’d been waiting for her to contact him.
Damn him. His wife, Marian, either was crazy in love with him or had more patience than was natural.
*We need to talk,*Surreal said.*Privately. And if you give me any excuses, I’ll kick you so hard your balls will end up lodged between your ears.*
*If you bring a crossbow to this meeting, I will smack you brainless.*
She grinned. Couldn’t help it. The last time she’d wanted to discuss something with Lucivar, she’d threatened to shoot him in order to assure she would have his undivided attention. *Fine. No crossbow—unless I have to come looking for you.*
He laughed. They’d come out even in this little pissing contest, so she was pretty pleased too.
*This evening,* he said. *Once the little beast is tucked in for the night. Do you know the house in Doun where my mother used to live?*
*I’ll find it.*
*I’ll meet you there.*
Are you sure you want to meet there? Apparently Lucivar also wanted to meet without attracting attention. She couldn’t think of another reason for him to choose that location.
She unpacked her clothes, then got acquainted with the room. The small desk held a supply of paper, as well as pens, sealing wax, and a couple of decorative seals for guests who might not have a family seal. The bottom of the bedside table had a stack of books—mostly collections of stories, but there were a couple of Lady Fiona’s Tracker and Shadow novels, including the newest one, which she hadn’t read yet.
No books by Jarvis Jenkell, the writer who had tried to kill her and Rainier. Was that because Merry hadn’t liked his work, or had the woman removed anything that would remind her guests of that nightmarish effort to survive?
Any reminder that wasn’t still lodged in flesh, Surreal thought as she felt the rasp in her breathing. She would need to take care for the rest of this winter, but her lungs would eventually heal completely. Rainier’s leg, on the other hand, would never be the same.
She opened the bathroom door, intending to claim her half of the shelves and storage space, and heard movement in the next room. She rapped on the door.
“It’s open,” he said.
She opened the door, then leaned on the doorframe to study the Warlord Prince who was one of the few men she thought of as a friend.
When they returned to Amdarh after spending Winsol at the Keep with the rest of the SaDiablo family, he’d retreated during the last half of the holiday, claiming he needed time to get ready for this little “adventure” in Ebon Rih. She hadn’t challenged him because she had her own preparations to make for this stay.
Looking at him, she regretted that decision.
He’d lost weight in those few days. All the Blood burned up food faster than landens did, and the darker the Jewel a person wore, the more food was required to keep the body from consuming itself. Rainier obviously hadn’t been eating enough to sustain what had been a very fine build. His face looked leaner and harder, those dreamy green eyes were shadowed by more than one kind of pain, and the brown hair that was usually worn stylishly shaggy looked unkempt.
Rainier’s leg would never be the same, no matter how skilled the Healer—and he hadn’t been helping. What none of them could figure out was why he seemed determined to prevent that leg from healing as completely as possible.
“Want some help unpacking?” she asked.
“I can still take care of myself,” he snapped as he grabbed several carefully folded shirts and fisted wrinkles into all of them.
“I didn’t say otherwise, sugar.”
She knew he heard the warning in the word “sugar,” because he gave her a long look.
Have you seen Falonar yet?
It was there, on the edge of being said, a deliberately hurtful punch to the heart. But he didn’t say it. She saw the decision in his eyes not to throw that emotional fist.
“Have you finished your own unpacking?” he asked.
“Mostly. I was just about to claim my share of the bathroom space when I heard you moving around in here.”
He snorted. “Will I have any room for my things?”
“As our friend Karla would say, kiss kiss.”
He laughed and held out the shirts. “Fine. Just put the clothes where it will be logical to find them. And I mean male logic, not what passes for female logic.”
“My, my. Aren’t we feeling pissy today?”