Twilight's Dawn (33 page)

Read Twilight's Dawn Online

Authors: Anne Bishop

Tags: #Fantasy fiction, #Fiction, #Fantasy, #General, #Witches, #Epic

 
“S
top hovering,” Surreal said as she and Rainier walked into the communal eyrie.
“I’m not hovering. I have my own workout to do. Frankly, I want to go home, and I can’t until I’ve completed all the steps Lucivar and Jaenelle have decided are required.” Rainier shivered. “Mother Night. I never thought about it being so
cold
here in winter.”
Winter in Amdarh was much milder, not to mention all the shops, dining houses, and theaters that could be enjoyed during an idle, wintry afternoon. And the lovely sitting room in the town house where she could curl up and read for hours at a time if she felt like it.
What was winter like in Dea al Mon? She hadn’t thought to ask Chaosti before he returned home to prepare the clan for her visit.
How much preparation did they need to do to accommodate one person? Maybe she should ask Jaenelle about that. She didn’t want to cause problems for her kinsman.
“When do you think you’ll go back to Amdarh?”
“Hopefully soon.” Rainier hesitated. “I wish my leg hadn’t been injured, and more than that, I wish I hadn’t acted like a fool about it. But the work Daemon offered me will be challenging, and I’m ready to get started.”
“And ready to tell your family that you don’t need pity work and they can take a piss in the wind?” she asked.
He sighed. “That too. Although I
will
be more polite in how I phrase it.”
Surreal grinned. “That’s because you’re not a cold bitch.”
He huffed out a laugh. “Come on. We’re here to sweat, so let’s sweat.”
She stripped off her coat, called in her sparring stick, and began going through the warm-up moves.
She felt good, better than she had in weeks. Still a touch raspy when her lungs were working hard or when she’d been out in cold air too long, but she felt lighter now, freer.
Except for one piece of unfinished business that kept scratching at her—the piece Jaenelle said Lucivar would help her finish.
Thank the Darkness this practice was in the afternoon, when few Eyriens would be present. She didn’t want an audience for whatever Lucivar had in mind.
She’d completed her warm-up and was going through the moves a second time when Lucivar walked in, followed by Hallevar, Tamnar, and Jillian. The girl ran to the selection of sparring sticks that were kept on one wall and returned with two. Handing one to Tamnar, she settled into her own warm-up routine.
Surreal watched Lucivar watch Jillian. Any male who thought the girl didn’t have a father to protect her was in for a rude, and rather terrifying, surprise.
After a nod of approval to Jillian and Tamnar, Lucivar called in his sparring stick and went through the warm-up. Then he stepped into the sparring circle, looked Surreal in the eyes, and smiled his lazy, arrogant smile. “Come on, darling. Let’s see if you learned anything.”
She stepped into the circle. “I’ve learned more than you think,
darling
.”
“Shield,” he said as he created a Red shield around himself.
She created a Green shield around herself.
He shook his head. “No. For this, witchling, you’ll need the Gray.”
“To spar?” she asked, surprised.
“To cleanse,” he replied quietly.
She understood then what he was offering—to be a target for her anger against all the enemies she hadn’t fought but who had crowded her dreams, including the Eyrien bastard who had killed Kester and hurt Rainier. In order to do that, Lucivar wasn’t going to hold back, so that she
couldn’t
hold back.
She glanced at Jillian, Tamnar, and Hallevar. “Maybe they should leave.” She didn’t care if Rainier stayed, but she didn’t want Lucivar to have trouble with the Eyriens over this kindness to her.
“No,” he said. “There are lessons that need to be learned. Let them learn.”
With that, he began the sparring match, his strikes against her stick so light and controlled it was almost an insult. But she didn’t push harder, didn’t escalate. Not yet.
Light. Easy. Wouldn’t stay that way. She could feel the anger rising, that last piece of unfinished business. But nothing was pushing her temper enough to snap the leash, and the sparring they were doing would exercise the body but it wouldn’t finish cleansing the heart.
Then Jillian took a step closer to the circle, and Lucivar turned on the girl and struck out. She squealed, but raised her stick and blocked the blow.
A deliberate move, but not against Jillian. The move was intended to provoke
her
. And it worked. Surreal felt her temper snap the leash, and she went after Lucivar hard and fast, using everything he’d taught her about fighting with the sticks.
He met her, matched her, a powerful adversary. She didn’t know how long they’d been fighting, wasn’t going to care if some fool called time. But Hell’s fire, she was feeling the rasp and burn in her lungs, so she wasn’t going to be able to go on much longer.
She used Craft to enhance the sound of her raspy breathing to make sure her adversary heard it and thought she was fading. She fumbled a move, deliberately—and saw him hesitate for a heartbeat before he responded.
“That’s enough, Surreal,” he said.
“No, it’s not.” Not until she won.
She feinted, clumsily—and saw another hesitation. Then she planted her feet in a way that looked unbalanced, and he made a move that would take a lesser opponent out of a fight. But it left his ribs exposed for just a moment.
And she struck, putting Gray power into the blow.
He couldn’t counter the move in time. Her Gray shattered his Red shield. He got his stick up enough to deflect some of the blow, but her stick still met his ribs with savage force.
Pain flashed across his face before he regained control and danced away from her.
She didn’t follow because that look of pain cleared her mind and snuffed out her anger. He was no longer the adversary; he was Lucivar. She stared at him, seeing him again on the killing field in the spooky house. Grace and deadly power. Lucivar had walked into that place to save her and Rainier. And he’d walked out again without the smallest scratch. How could he get hurt now?
“You son of a whoring bitch,” she said. “You did that on purpose.” Because there were lessons that needed to be learned.
“I made a mistake, chose the wrong move,” he replied.
“And the sun shines in Hell.
You did that on purpose.
”
“I fell for a trick and miscalculated the strength of my adversary’s blow. I made a mistake.”
Made a mistake. Like she’d done in the spooky house. She had miscalculated there, underestimated there. Wasn’t the first time she’d made a mistake and probably wouldn’t be her last. But making mistakes didn’t make her weak.
She stared at Lucivar and understood what he’d wanted to give her before she left Ebon Rih. Maybe in a few weeks she would feel grateful. Right now she hated him for the price he’d just paid to give her this last lesson.
She dropped the stick and walked out of the eyrie.
 
 
Lucivar waited until Surreal left before he set one end of the sparring stick on the floor and leaned on it. He’d taken a risk giving her that opening, especially since she was channeling her Gray strength and he had stayed with the Red so that she would be the dominant power.
He really hoped what he’d seen in her eyes before she walked away wouldn’t be there every time she looked at him from now on.
Everything has a price, old son. You gave her what she needed to finish healing.
“How bad?” Rainier asked.
“Ribs hurt like a wicked bitch, but I don’t think any of them are broken,” he replied.
“That was a damn fool thing to do,” Hallevar said. “I’d better summon Nurian to look at you.”
“Do that.” That move had been a lot more foolish than he’d anticipated.
Rainier studied him a little too long. “Was it worth it?”
Fortunately, Nurian burst into the eyrie at that moment and he didn’t have to answer.
But he did wonder if he would ever have the answer.
 
 
“Are you certain you can do this?” Falonar asked the Warlords who were the dominant males in the northern hunting camps.
“Are you certain about the information you got about that weak left ankle?” one asked.
“I’m certain,” he replied.
“If we destroy his weak spot, he’ll go down like any other man.”
“I always thought his reputation was more farted air than truth,” the second Warlord said.
“It’s not like he made that reputation in Askavi among real warriors,” the third Warlord said.
“He’s also nursing bruised ribs that he got in a sparring match with a half-breed witch,” Falonar said.
“Well, Hell’s fire, this won’t be any kind of challenge,” the first Warlord said, laughing nastily. “It sounds like tomorrow will be a good time to put what is left of Lucivar Yaslana in a grave. You just make sure the only men left to come with him are committed to fighting on the right side of the line.”
“I’ll make sure of it,” Falonar said. “By tomorrow evening, I’ll be the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih, and we’ll be able to live the way Eyriens should.”
ELEVEN
 
 
T
he following morning, Lucivar walked into The Tavern five minutes after it opened. He should have stayed home and given the ribs a day to rest, but his getting hurt for “foolish reasons” had scraped the wrong side of Marian’s temper. By the time he’d swallowed breakfast, he’d also swallowed enough of her angry sympathy.
He’d gone to the communal eyrie only to discover that Falonar had taken half of Riada’s Eyrien Warlords to do a flyover of Doun and the landen villages in that part of Ebon Rih. The remaining men had signed a new contract with him grudgingly but preferred working with Falonar—which made him wonder why Falonar hadn’t taken
those
men with him on the flyover.
He couldn’t stay home, and he didn’t want to stay at the communal eyrie. So he ended up at The Tavern, being given a narrow-eyed stare by another woman.
“You pissed at me too?” he asked as he carefully settled himself on a stool at the bar.
Merry considered the question much too long before crossing her arms and nodding. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
“Since I outrank you, can I get a cup of coffee anyway?”
Too many feelings in those dark eyes, and most of them translated to a “whack him upside the head” mood.
“I won’t bring you coffee because you outrank me, but I will bring you some out of pity, since you are looking pretty pitiful right now.”
“Fine, then. Bring me a large mug of pity.” If he was getting this much temper and sass from lighter-Jeweled witches, thank the Darkness Jaenelle hadn’t come here to check his ribs. She’d probably yank one out and beat him with it. Of course, she would put the rib back and heal it when she was done, but still . . .
Merry returned with a large mug of black coffee and a warmed piece of berry pie.
“Did you get any breakfast?” she asked.
“Some.”
“I could make you a sandwich or heat up some soup.”
She wasn’t through being pissed at him, but unlike Marian, she hadn’t gotten a look at his ribs, so she had less reason to hold on to her anger.
“Thanks, but this is plenty.” He dug into the pie.
Merry looked like she was getting the place set up for business, but she wasn’t actually accomplishing anything except keeping an eye on him. Finally she came up beside him.
“You did it on purpose, didn’t you? Surreal was
raging
about you yesterday, and what she said made sense.”
Well, that wasn’t good. Of course, it was never good when a raging female made sense to other females, because that usually got a man into a whole lot of trouble.

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