He braced one hand near Surreal’s head and, again, opened his wings and curved them to provide some privacy.
“You dismissed her because she doesn’t have balls,” Surreal said.
“That’s insulting,” Lucivar said. “You should know me better than that.”
She stared at him.
He blew out a breath. “I sent her to school, which is where a girl her age belongs.”
“And the training she wants?”
“I’ll work that out somehow, although you might not be as happy with your training schedule because of it.”
The angry heat faded from her gold-green eyes, replaced by reluctant amusement.
“Now, I’ve got a wife at home who started the day by puking and shitting herself. I expect my son will start puking and shitting any minute, which I’m sure will delight my father to no end. So we can do your training assessment here or in the front room of my eyrie, where you’ll most likely get to participate in today’s adventures.”
“Those are my choices?”
“Yeah. Those are your choices.”
“In that case, sugar—”
“Go easy, now!” Hallevar said sharply.
Lucivar’s head whipped around toward the other men. He’d heard the clack of sparring sticks, but he hadn’t paid attention to a usual sound when he had a Gray-Jeweled witch in front of him brimming with anger.
Too late, he thought, seeing Falonar connect with the sparring stick Rainier held and knowing how a man would step in response to that move. He reached out with Craft as Rainier’s leg gave out, intending to catch the man and stop the fall that would cause more damage to already damaged muscle and bone. But his power tangled with Sapphire power, fouling his and Falonar’s attempts to stop the fall.
Rainier cried out in pain as he hit the stone floor—and they all heard bone snap.
“No!” Surreal screamed. She rushed over and dropped to her knees beside Rainier at the same moment Lucivar reached Falonar and shoved the Eyrien back a step—and wondered why the man had a Sapphire shield around himself for what should have been a slow warm-up.
“I tried to catch him,” Falonar said, sounding regretful.
Except that particular tone of regret made Lucivar think of the hunting camp and the boys who had been hurt during training exercises. It was an aristo tone that meant the boy who had done the harm wasn’t sorry at all.
“What’s wrong with you?” Lucivar shouted.
“Nothing is wrong with me,” Falonar snapped. “I just proved what you should have known—a cripple doesn’t have any place among Eyrien warriors.”
Surreal threw herself at Falonar, her scream of rage startling Lucivar enough that he put a skintight Red shield around himself. He grabbed the back of her shirt before she reached Falonar, and began a spin that would lift her away from the other Eyrien.
She lashed out with her right hand as she was lifted and tossed away from the men.
Lucivar felt Falonar’s Sapphire shield break under a punch of Surreal’s Gray power as she lashed out. Saw the blood on the Eyrien’s left arm. Felt the big knife that slid on his Red shield instead of slicing him along the waist as Falonar responded with a counterattack. Tossing Surreal aside, Lucivar continued the spin, calling in his own fighting knife.
By the time he faced Falonar, he was armed, he was balanced, and he was ready.
The fury in Falonar’s eyes was aimed right at him, but the man stepped back and lowered his knife.
Lucivar glanced at Falonar’s left arm. A deep slice through muscle, freely bleeding.
“Surreal,” he said, never taking his eyes off the other Warlord Prince, “go to the Keep. Now.”
“I’ll go back to The Tavern after—”
“Unless you want a knife dance with me, you will do as you’re told,” he snapped.
As he felt her stare at his back, he’d never been more aware of how much of her temper and inclinations came from her Dea al Mon heritage.
There were good reasons why the Children of the Wood were feared by the other races in Kaeleer.
She moved slowly, circling around him and Falonar.
“Prince Falonar may have proved that a cripple has no place among Eyriens, but I just proved he wouldn’t have survived that demon-dead bastard any better than Rainier did.”
Mother Night, she’s riding the killing edge. The wild look in her eyes wasn’t quite sane. That, more than anything else, was why males didn’t want witches involved in physical fighting. Females were a lot harder to control once they rose to the killing edge.
“Go to the Keep,” he said firmly. “I will deal with this.” And I’ll hurt you if I have to.
The moment she walked out of the communal eyrie and it was safe to move without provoking an attack, Zaranar and Rothvar rushed over to Rainier.
Rothvar’s hand hovered over Rainier’s leg. “Hell’s fire, there are healing spells already holding those muscles and bone together.”
Lucivar backed away from Falonar, who stood straight and proud despite the bleeding arm.
“Get that arm tended,” he said. “I’ll talk to you later.”
Falonar looked at the wound that had come from the sight-shielded blade held by a furious woman. “What is there to say?”
Plenty, Lucivar thought. “Get it tended.”
He waited until Falonar left before sending out a call on an Ebon-gray spear thread. *Daemon!*
*Lucivar?*
*I need Jaenelle here as a Healer. Now.*
*Who?*
*Rainier.*
*We’ll be there.*
The link between them snapped as Daemon shut him out. He didn’t take offense. He’d just dumped a basket of problems in his brother’s lap, the most dangerous being the Queen they both loved and still served—the Queen who was also a Black Widow and a Healer. There wasn’t going to be anything pleasant about being in a Coach with Jaenelle while riding the Winds to Ebon Rih, not after telling her that Rainier was the reason for the urgent call.
Vanishing his knife, Lucivar looked at Rainier, who lay on the floor, his eyes closed, his face tight with pain. Then he looked at the two Warlords. “Can you get him to the Keep?”
They nodded. Using Craft, they lifted Rainier and gently floated him out of the eyrie.
Hallevar looked at the rest of the Warlords, then jerked a thumb toward the door.
The men bolted, no doubt glad to be clear of the anger and whatever problems were coming.
“Falonar is a Sapphire-Jeweled Warlord Prince and your second-in-command,” Hallevar said. “I trained you both when you were youngsters in the hunting camps, and that gives me some leave to speak my mind, but a Warlord Prince only tolerates so much of that.”
Lucivar just waited.
“It started with Falonar saying something about assessing Rainier’s skills, and Rainier saying he thought it was best to wait for you. Guess that didn’t sit well with Falonar because the next thing I knew, he tossed a sparring stick to Rainier and started the moves. Once you’re that far, the choice is counter the moves or get whacked. I began watching close. You’d said the Dharo Warlord Prince had been wounded in a fight and you had him here to heal and improve his skills. I don’t think you said how bad the leg was. That’s not an excuse, but I don’t think you actually said.”
“A war blade sliced through the muscles of Rainier’s leg and halfway through the bone. He was fighting a demon-dead Eyrien Warlord who had worn Jewels stronger than Opal,” Lucivar said.
“Then Rainier never had a chance.”
“No. He wasn’t supposed to have a chance. He wasn’t supposed to survive. No one who had been trapped in that spooky house was supposed to survive.”
Hallevar sighed. “I don’t know what’s wrong with Falonar lately, but I do know it’s something to do with you.”
Lucivar echoed the sigh. “Not surprising.”
“Not surprising,” Hallevar agreed. “But I think you’d best find out why.”
THREE
Lucivar and Daemon waited in one of the Keep’s sitting rooms while Jaenelle did what she could for Rainier.
Daemon had blocked him from talking to Jaenelle when they arrived at the Keep. She’d gone to the room where Rainier had been taken; Lucivar had ended up prowling a sitting room with a brother whose effort to control an icy temper was much too obvious.
“How angry is she over this?” Lucivar finally asked.
“Old son, you don’t want to ask that question,” Daemon replied softly.
“It wasn’t Rainier’s fault. Something’s been pushing at him and he’s been stupid about the leg because of it, but this wasn’t his fault.”
“He’s not the only one who has something pushing at him,” Daemon said. “I’ve been informed, discreetly, that Surreal isn’t sleeping well, is up reading or just pacing in the town house’s sitting room through the wee hours of the morning. She locked down so tightly after getting out of the spooky house, I don’t think she’s allowed herself to feel. Sooner or later that control will break.”
“And things will get messy.”
He circled the room a couple of times before Daemon said, “What’s chewing on you?”
“A lot of things, but the one bothering me the most is how she went after Falonar. Sight-shielded knife. Man sees a pissed-off woman throwing herself at him with nothing visible in her hands, he thinks of fists and flailing and angry words and boohooing. She knew that. She didn’t challenge him, didn’t square off for a fight.”
“She’s not Eyrien, and she’s not male. Surreal doesn’t play by those rules.”
“Sometimes she does,” Lucivar said. “Sometimes she’ll draw the line, and there’s no mistake she’s looking for a punch-and-roll brawl. But she wasn’t interested in giving a warning this time. She went for him, Daemon. If I hadn’t been there, she would have killed him before he’d realized that was her intent.”
“Are you sure that was the intent?”
He nodded. “If I hadn’t been swinging her away, she would have been in position to drive that knife right through his heart. Even if he realized the intent at the last moment, Sapphire shields wouldn’t have stopped a blade backed by Gray power. Didn’t stop a blade backed by the Gray.”
“Do you want to know what I’m wondering?” Daemon asked. “Surreal has a tendency to kill a man in a way that balances the harm he did to his prey. She hid a physical knife. What kind of blade was Falonar hiding—and who was it aimed at?”
Before he could think of an answer, Jaenelle walked into the room.
“Kindly inform Prince Falonar that if he gets near Prince Rainier again, I will strip his legs, muscle by muscle, until there is nothing left but skin and bone.”
Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful. The look in her eyes made Lucivar shiver, made his knees weak. This was no idle warning, no embellished expression of anger. Jaenelle meant exactly what she said, and though she no longer wore Black or Ebony Jewels, there was more than enough power in Twilight’s Dawn to deal with a Sapphire-Jeweled Warlord Prince.
Daemon rose, a deliberate move to draw her attention, for which Lucivar was grateful.
“How is Rainier?” Daemon asked.
“He tore muscles that were already held together with healing spells and spider silk, and the bone is broken all the way through,” she snapped. “How do you think he is?”
They said nothing.
Jaenelle closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. When she looked at them again, sharp temper was still there but so was the usual control. “My apologies, Prince Sadi.You don’t deserve my anger.”
“No, I don’t,” Daemon replied, “but I’m not feeling polite right now either, so I understand.”
“Rainier wants to see you. I suggest you go now. He won’t be awake much longer.”
Lucivar waited until Daemon left the room before asking, “Will Rainier be able to walk on that leg?”
Jaenelle rubbed her hands over her face. When she let her hands fall, he saw the frustration and regret in her eyes. “He’ll walk. I’m not sure he’ll be able to do more than that at this point, but he should be able to walk.”
Sorrow burned in his chest. “I’ll work with him. Whatever it takes, I’ll work with him.”
Jaenelle sank into a chair. “I meant what I said about Falonar.”
He looked at her—and remembered that some of who and what she was had also come from the Dea al Mon. “I know.”
Rainier drifted, fighting the sleep he needed, fighting the healing spells and the healing brew for a little while longer.