She studied his face, but she couldn’t read him as well as she could read Lucivar. “Think about what?” she asked warily.
“Coming to Dea al Mon for a visit with your mother’s clan. Grand-mammy Teele would like to have some time with you.” He hesitated. “While we waited for your return, Lucivar and I discussed the training he wanted you to have and why he wanted you to have it. I agree with the why—”
Of course he did. He’d been just as upset with her for not shielding before going into the spooky house as Lucivar had been—and just as adamant that she polish her defensive skills.
“—but I think a different how and where would suit you better.”
She blinked at him. “Say that again?”
“You’re not Eyrien. While learning the Eyrien way of fighting is physically beneficial, it’s not natural to who and what you are.”
“Because I’m Dea al Mon.”
“Yes.”
Hadn’t she thought along similar lines the day she’d clashed with Falonar in The Tavern?
“I’d like to make that visit, and I’d like some training with you, if you’re willing. But not just yet.” Weighing loyalties and confidences, she decided Chaosti was as much family to Lucivar as she was. “Something is going on here.”
“Lucivar’s decision to have some of the Eyriens leave Ebon Rih is not your concern, cousin.”
“No, it’s not, but he needs someone watching his back until they’re gone.”
“Isn’t that what his second-in-command is supposed to do?”
“That’s what a second-in-command is
supposed
to do,” she agreed. “But there’s more than one way to stab a man in the back.”
“Like striking at his family?” Chaosti tipped his head to indicate the other people in the eyrie.
She nodded. “Or good friends like Merry and Briggs.”
“Not wounds Lucivar would recover from easily,” Chaosti said.
“If at all.”
“Do you want me to stay?”
“No. But it wouldn’t hurt to have the Eyriens in Riada get a look at another side of the SaDiablo family.”
“Lucivar is with the other men now. I’ll go over there and personally give him the news that you’ve recovered.”
“Yeah. About that.” He helped her sit up, then pulled the covers away so she could swing her legs over the side of the bed. “Was Marian upset about me tearing up the place?”
“She said it has given her an opportunity to look at what’s been stored and pass along what is no longer needed.”
Meaning the hearth witch must have been shocked when she’d returned to her home. “Shit.”
He laughed as he helped her to her feet and bundled her into a robe. She didn’t need that much help. She was sure of it. But she wasn’t feeling steady enough to argue with a Warlord Prince
and
take care of herself.
He helped her to the bathroom, then helped her to the kitchen, where Jaenelle and Marian were talking.
“You’re looking wobbly, sugar,” Jaenelle said. “But you’ll do.” She sounded amused, but Surreal heard approval beneath the amusement.
“
Jaenelle!
” Marian scolded. “Be nice.”
“Instead of honest?” Jaenelle asked innocently.
Marian narrowed her eyes at Jaenelle, then gave Surreal a brilliant smile. “We’re glad you’re feeling better. Are you hungry?”
Surreal’s stomach growled. They all laughed.
“Auntie Srell!”
One moment she was standing on her own feet. The next, Daemonar flung himself at her and would have knocked her down if Chaosti hadn’t caught her. He positioned a chair behind her and laughed in her ear as he said, “We really do need to work on your defensive skills, cousin.”
She would have said something sharp and concise, but she was being hugged breathless by the boy in her lap.
“I’m sorry, Auntie Srell!”
“I know you are, boyo.” She gingerly put her arms around him. “I know.”
“Let Auntie Surreal sit by herself now and have something to eat,” Jaenelle said.
Daemonar scrambled off Surreal’s lap and into the chair next to hers. “Mama made good soup. You eat some. You eat too, Auntie J.!”
*Hell’s fire,* Surreal said on a Gray psychic thread aimed at Jaenelle. *He’s already got the bossy attitude.*
*Uh-huh.* Jaenelle set the table. *A Warlord Prince is born a Warlord Prince. Doesn’t take long for the personality traits of that caste to show up.*
*Any chance of me taking a bath by myself?*
*Only if you wait until nap time.* Jaenelle brought the bread and butter to the table while Marian ladled the soup.
They ate quietly. Surreal saw the fatigue in Jaenelle’s and Marian’s eyes, felt the fatigue in her own body. The past two days had been hard on all of them.
*One more step, Surreal,* Jaenelle said quietly. *You’ve cleansed your heart. In a day or two, when you’re feeling stronger, let Lucivar give you a chance to cleanse the past from your body.*
*I don’t understand.*
*You will.*
The door of the communal eyrie opened.
Since he was sparring with Zaranar, Lucivar didn’t look toward the door, but he noticed the refreshing scent of crisp, clean air—and he noticed the psychic scent of the male who entered.
Chaosti’s presence didn’t break his concentration, but it broke everyone else’s, including Zaranar’s. By rights, Lucivar should have thumped the man for getting distracted when an adversary stood in front of him, but he understood why Zaranar instinctively turned toward the door, so he deliberately stepped away, ending the sparring match.
Even when Chaosti was relaxed and wearing his Birthright Green Jewel, as he was now, there was something wild about his physical and psychic scents that made other men wary. That had been true of the young man Lucivar had met years ago, and it was more true of the mature leader who protected the people and land of the Dea al Mon. Hell’s fire, even Daemon recognized Chaosti as a serious adversary, despite the difference in the strength of Black against Gray.
It was fortunate for the Realm of Kaeleer that one man was married to Jaenelle and the other was related to Jaenelle. That connection was the only reason they were easy being in a room with each other—at least after the first minute, when they both struggled to leash their predatory natures.
So Lucivar didn’t take advantage of Zaranar’s distraction. Instead, he vanished his sparring stick and waited for Chaosti to cross the large room and join him.
No anger. No distress. But Lucivar didn’t feel the tight muscles in his shoulders relax until Chaosti smiled.
“Surreal is awake,” Chaosti said. “And since your boy has to divide his attention among his three favorite women, she’ll have some chance to eat in peace.”
Lucivar grinned. Surreal was back. Thank the Darkness for that.
“I’ve heard the Dea al Mon are skilled fighters,” Falonar said with a tight smile. “The most feared warriors in the Realm. Would you be willing to give us a demonstration?”
Chaosti turned toward Falonar. “The Dea al Mon and Eyriens don’t fight in the same way. I don’t think you would find our weapons impressive compared to your own.”
Having seen Dea al Mon weapons, Lucivar didn’t agree with that, but he recognized the diplomacy of a warrior who didn’t want to offend his hosts.
“Lucivar is quite free with teaching others how to use Eyrien weapons,” Falonar said. “I assumed he’d shown you.”
Why does that bother you?
Lucivar wondered as he absorbed the odd note in Falonar’s voice.
“He did,” Chaosti replied. Then he shrugged. “If you’ll find it of interest.”
“It isn’t necessary,” Lucivar said, not liking the undercurrent of emotions that put an unsettling bite in the air.
He didn’t object to the suggestion itself. After all,
he’d
enjoyed sparring with centaurs and satyrs as well as the Dea al Mon, not to mention playing stalk and pounce with Kaelas and Jaal. Pitting his skills against someone who had received a different kind of training had added zest to familiar workouts. But there was something about Falonar’s suggestion that felt off.
Chaosti shrugged again. “I don’t mind. In fact, I would welcome a chance to warm up muscles that have grown tight during the bedside vigil.”
Lucivar couldn’t argue with that, since it was the same reason he was here this morning—that and Jaenelle’s firm suggestion that he leave the eyrie for a few hours because, according to her, he’d become too edgy to live with.
“Fine.” He called in two sparring sticks and handed one to Chaosti. “We can start with the warm-up and move into a ten-minute spar. Hallevar? You’ll keep the time?”
“I will,” Hallevar replied.
Falonar stepped into the sparring circle. “I’ll spar with Prince Chaosti. That will give your weather bones a chance to rest.”
Lucivar rocked back on his heels. What the . . . ?
*Does he have a brain illness?* Chaosti asked on a Gray psychic thread.
*Not that I’m aware of,* Lucivar replied.
*In that case, I’ll follow his lead, and we’ll see where the path ends.*
Chaosti’s tone told Lucivar he wasn’t the only one who thought there was something wrong, but the Dea al Mon stepped into the circle, holding the sparring stick with easy familiarity.
Lucivar moved away from the other men to have an unobstructed view of the match—and so that there was no one in his way if he needed to move fast. He’d never liked that Warlord Princes emigrating to Kaeleer had to serve five years to prove themselves when everyone else served two years or less. Now, watching Falonar, he appreciated the wisdom of demanding that extra time from males who came from such an aggressive caste. A man could hide for only so long before his true nature cracked the mask.
If the past two years had been a mask, who was the man behind it?
Falonar’s moves were a little too quick, a little too sharp, to allow his opponent a safe warm-up. And judging by the puzzled, or disapproving, looks of the other Eyriens, Lucivar wasn’t the only one who thought so.
Under other circumstances, he would have demanded a return to the proper speed and rhythm of the warm-up moves—or ended the match before it began. Except Chaosti had told him, more or less, to stay out of it in order to find out what Falonar
really
wanted.
And Chaosti had already warmed up his muscles before coming to the eyrie. That was clear by how fluidly he responded to the increase in speed. Clear to Lucivar, anyway. The fact that a supposedly stiff Dea al Mon was matching moves and speed with an Eyrien seemed to be pissing off Falonar.
They were in the last combination of warm-up moves. Falonar was now a half beat behind, which meant Chaosti committed to the move first. The last moves were partial turns to stretch side muscles. Fine for the grace of the warm-up, but a move that left the ribs vulnerable in an actual fight.
Chaosti twisted at the waist, lifting his arms, his weight slightly off balance.
That was when Falonar broke from the warm-up completely and struck. Since most Eyriens shielded between the warm-up and the actual sparring match, the blow would have bruised, if not broken, a few ribs.
Chaosti whipped through a one-footed spin and blocked the blow with his own stick—a move that had several Eyriens sucking in a breath at the speed and balance required.
“That’s—”
Enough.
Lucivar didn’t have time to finish the command before the sparring match escalated, and he didn’t dare interfere, since it might break Chaosti’s concentration. Besides, the Dea al Mon now had a tight Gray shield around himself and wouldn’t sustain an injury more serious than a bruise while fighting against a man who wore Sapphire.
Chaosti was working hard, but Falonar was working harder to maintain the pace he’d set. As the match continued, it became apparent that Falonar was an excellent fighter—and Chaosti was so much more than an excellent fighter.
Lucivar glanced at the hourglass floating on air next to Hallevar. Only a minute left. Then he could drag Falonar away from the others and find out what in the name of Hell was wrong with the man.
The sparring match would end in a draw. He didn’t think any man in the room would feel a bite to his pride that an Eyrien couldn’t defeat this particular opponent.
Except, apparently, Falonar.
One moment there was the clash of sparring sticks. The next moment, there was a flash of sunlight on metal and Falonar was holding his bladed stick.
Chaosti raised his sparring stick to block a chest-high blow. The blade on Falonar’s stick sliced cleanly through the wood—and the next move should have sliced through Chaosti’s waist.
Eyriens fought in the air or on open fields—places that suited a race with wings who needed room to maneuver. But the Children of the Wood were a more intimate kind of fighter.