They stopped in front of the coffee shop. Endar stared at him. Then the Eyrien Warlord smiled.
“Will you be all right finishing your walk alone?” Endar asked.
“I’ll be fine. What about you? Will you be fine?”
The smile brightened. “I think so. I have to talk to Dorian, but I think we’ll all be fine.”
A two-fingered salute. Then Endar stepped into the street, spread his dark wings, and flew home.
Rainier watched the Eyrien and began to understand what Daemon meant about a different kind of dance.
*Lucivar?*
*Rainier.*
*Endar needs a little time to talk things over with his wife, but I think you’ll have your teacher.*
One more down, Lucivar thought as he leaned against the table and watched Jillian shuffle toward him. He’d ask Daemon to go over Endar’s credentials and suggest what the Warlord needed to add to his own education to fulfill the requirements of the new position. If Rainier’s impression was correct and Endar had more book learning than most Eyriens, the man would suit the job, at least in terms of temperament. He’d confirmed that when he’d had Endar act as instructor to Surreal and Jillian.
He pointed to a spot in front of him that, to a young girl’s eye, would look like she was out of reach. She wouldn’t be, not with his speed and reflexes, but he thought she’d feel more comfortable with a little distance between them.
He closed his hands over the edge of the table and waited until she stood in the required spot.
“You got strapped,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” she mumbled.
“When?”
“Couple days ago.”
“How bad?”
She shrugged.
“You didn’t let your sister check your back for injuries?”
She shook her head.
“Did you go to another Healer in Riada?”
Another headshake. “Wasn’t supposed to tell.”
“Then you
don’t
know if you’re all right.”
She squirmed and kept her eyes focused on his boots. “Tamnar looked at my back. He said it wasn’t bad, and none of the marks were close to my wings. He said he’d gotten worse.”
Something Lucivar would discuss with Hallevar. As far as he knew, the old arms master was still giving out the slaps that were meant to sting pride rather than injure flesh. He’d gotten his fair share of those in his youth, so he had no problem with that bit of discipline. But if someone else had been doing more here, in his valley . . .
“Did you deserve the strapping?” Lucivar asked mildly.
“
He
said I did.”
His breath caught.
That
tone of voice should not come from a girl Jillian’s age. That level of hatred should not
be
in a girl Jillian’s age. She should not have experienced anything that would put a knife-edge in her voice.
Because he knew two women whose voices sometimes took that same edge, and because he knew
why
that edge was there, he had to ask.
“Jillian, are you a virgin?”
Her mouth fell open in shock, and because of her silence, the word
rape
hung in the air between them. She hadn’t been broken. He was sure of that. Jaenelle and Surreal hadn’t been broken either by the violence of rape, but they both carried emotional scars.
“Jillian?”
She didn’t answer. Then she jumped when the wood cracked under his hands.
“I am,” she said quickly. “I am!”
He released the table and stood up. “If I ask a Healer to look at you, will she tell me the same thing?”
“Yes, sir.”
Thank the Darkness for that.
He’d been rising to the killing edge, and he took a moment to pull back and regain control.
“All right, witchling. Listen up.You are going to school. Maybe with the Rihlander children, maybe not, but you are going to school. Weapons training will be considered an extra. As long as you keep up with your studies, I will see that you get training in bow, sticks, and knives. You shrug off one, you lose the privilege of the other. We clear on that?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Next, you do not get strapped by anyone but me. Ever. If someone thinks you’ve misbehaved to the point of deserving it, the charge will be brought to me. If I decide you do deserve that punishment, I will wield the leather. We clear on that too?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If someone else tries to strap you or hurt you in any way, what are you going to do?”
“Kick him in the balls.”
Lucivar blinked. Swallowed a tickle in his throat. Damn tickle. Felt like a laugh. “After that.”
Jillian pondered for a moment. “Come to you?”
“That’s right. Although you might consider just getting away and coming to me first. If he deserves it, I will hold him while you kick him in the balls.”
She gave him a bright smile. Probably thought he was teasing her. Probably just as well to let her think that.
“Anything else I should know?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Does this mean Nurian and I can stay in Ebon Rih?”
“That’s what it means. She’s going to work for me as a Healer, and—”
“And I can work for you by helping Marian take care of Daemonar.”
He laughed. “Fair enough. Now get home before your sister frets about this chat.”
“Yes, sir.”
A bright smile. Clear eyes. Didn’t take much to set Jillian’s world right and give her a sweet wind under her wings.
He would do his best to make sure things stayed that way.
Surreal cleared the table and stacked the dishes on a tray. The Tavern didn’t open until late morning, but apparently these two men came in once a week at this time to have a quiet breakfast of whatever was available while they talked business for an hour. They’d been startled to find her instead of Merry, but they were quite happy with the casserole, chicken, and coffee she put on the table. And even though they kept a running tab here, they’d left a generous tip. She wasn’t sure whether that was to thank her for letting them have the breakfast or for not tossing them out in the snow.
Smiling, she set the tray on the bar, took a step back, and extended her arms.
Her body flowed, slow and easy, in a series of moves she’d seen Jaenelle make with practice sticks no longer than her arm. This wasn’t training for an Eyrien weapon. These moves belonged to the Dea al Mon.
As she completed the last turn, she saw Falonar watching her from the doorway.
What was he doing at The Tavern? He knew she was staying here, so unless he was looking for a ripping fight, why in the name of Hell would he come to see her?
“Every time you pick up an Eyrien weapon, you mock my race,” he said.
My skill with weapons was one of the things that used to intrigue you. At least until we got better acquainted.
“And here I thought I was just honing my skill with a knife. Besides, those moves weren’t created for an Eyrien weapon.” She swung herself over the bar. “We’re not officially open yet, but I can give you a cup of coffee.”
He walked up to the bar. “I suppose you’re pleased with what happened today.”
She filled two mugs with coffee. “The gossip hasn’t reached me yet, so I don’t know if I’m pleased or not.”
“Lucivar is pushing the Eyriens out of Ebon Rih.”
“All of them, or just the ones who think having a cock entitles them to food, shelter, and sex whenever they want it?”
Anger flashed in his eyes.
She sipped her coffee and watched him. She had been attracted to the arrogant Eyrien Warlord Prince who had shown some respect for her skills—attracted enough to let her heart as well as her body get tangled up with him. But the Falonar she’d first known wasn’t the same man as the one staring at her now. She wouldn’t have slept with
this
man unless she was planning to drive a knife between his ribs while he came.
She assessed him as a client. As prey. A man could hide his true nature—and true feelings—for only so long, and she was finally seeing what desperation and ambition had hidden for almost two years.
Falonar hadn’t changed because living in the Shadow Realm had soured him somehow; he’d just gotten comfortable enough to slip back into being what he had been
before
coming to Kaeleer.
“I’m trying to remember that you’re not tainted,” she said quietly.
“What?”
“You survived the purge two years ago, so whatever corruption is in you didn’t come from your association with Prythian or Dorothea or Hekatah. Maybe it’s simply what you are because you’re an Eyrien aristo.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you?” She set her coffee aside and leaned on the bar, looking friendly and vulnerable. She was neither. “It must have pissed you off when you came strutting into the hunting camp as a boy and realized there was a half-breed bastard there who was stronger and better than anything you could ever be. He should have groveled in front of you, grateful to lick your boots. Instead he looked you in the eyes and not only told you he was better than all of you; he
showed
you he was better. Must have choked you to have to compete with him and never win—at least not fairly.”
“I never cheated in a competition,” Falonar snarled.
“No, you probably didn’t. But that doesn’t mean you weren’t pleased when someone else did something that pushed the odds in your favor.” She leaned a little more, showing more cleavage—and watched the way his eyes lingered a moment too long.
“You finished your training and were no longer in Yaslana’s shadow because he defied Prythian and ended up a slave being controlled by a Ring of Obedience, while you ended up an aristo male moving in court circles, serving a bitch you hated, but you were always careful not to step too close to a line that might be seen as a challenge. And there was Lucivar, who, despite being a slave, was always crossing those lines and growing into the most lethal and feared warrior in the Realm of Terreille.”
She felt pressure on her first inner barrier. Not an actual attempt to force open the first level of her mind, more like someone leaning against a door to push it open just a crack and find out what was on the other side while claiming that he didn’t
do
anything.
A man could find out a lot of useful information while not doing anything. And maybe—
maybe
—because it was a passive move, it wouldn’t be considered a breach of the Blood’s code of honor.
She usually wore her Birthright Green Jewels, just like today, but she no longer hid the fact that the Gray was her Jewel of rank. Had he forgotten that? Was he actually hoping that she’d be lax about maintaining the barriers that protected her mind from the rest of the Blood? Was he that much of a fool?
“Skipping a few centuries, the Realm of Terreille becomes a
very
bad place, and people are scrambling to get away from the bitches who rule there,” she continued. “Among those people is an Eyrien Warlord Prince who comes from an aristo family and has significant social standing. And wearing Sapphire Jewels means he is a powerful, dominant male—a leader other men obey without question. No reason to think that will change. Aristo is aristo; power is power.”
She drifted down into the abyss until she reached the level of the Gray, then drifted back up until she was under him. She reached up with one delicate psychic tendril to get the honest flavor of his emotions.
She didn’t like the taste of those emotions. She didn’t like them at all. Apparently the story she was weaving around the little she knew and the lot she guessed based on knowing the two men was close to the truth.
“And what happens?” she said. “You come to Kaeleer with your credentials polished, expecting the Queens to fight over who gets the privilege of having you in her court, and there’s your old friend Lucivar, already here before you. And he’s not only serving the Queen the rest of you would give your balls to serve; he’s the ruler of the most prized bit of land in Askavi. Not only that, he’s no longer a half-breed bastard the rest of you can ignore. He comes from
the
most aristo family in the whole damn Realm. His father and uncle are
the
most powerful men in the whole damn Realm, not to mention being Witch’s Steward and Master of the Guard, which gives them even more status.”
“Just because they acknowledged him doesn’t mean he actually carries the bloodlines,” Falonar snapped.
“Blood sings to blood—and blood doesn’t lie. Sure, there are generations between Lucivar and Andulvar, but he is the High Lord’s son, and his mother did come from Andulvar’s line. An aristo among aristos. And he still doesn’t give a damn about any of that, does he? He’s just who he’s always been—a warrior, a leader, a strong man. Except now all the Eyriens who would have spit on him before have to walk softly because one word from him—
one word
—and that person gets tossed all the way back to Terreille. If the fool isn’t killed first.”