Saetan slipped into the Hayllian language. Words poured out in a hot river. Lucivar didn’t understand most of it, but he caught a few phrases here and there, as well as the name Peyton.
I lanced an old wound, Lucivar thought with regret as a rage and pain he couldn’t begin to match flooded the room. I wouldn’t have pushed at him if I’d known I’d open an old wound.
“Father.” No response. “Father.”
The words stopped, but the rage still vibrated through the room.
“I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry I said that.” His own temper rose. “I’m not the one who used you as a weapon. And those excuses are nothing but shit.” Since he couldn’t get out of the room until Saetan let him go, he paced. “Just shit. Like that ‘I’m just a hearth witch’ crap she was spewing. I thought we’d gotten past that. Guess I was wrong.” Beaten, he stopped pacing. “The truth is, she doesn’t want an Ebon-gray Warlord Prince as a husband. She’s willing to bed one, but not marry one. That has nothing to do with me being your son . . . and everything to do with me, with who and what I am.”
He turned toward the door. “Let me go.”
“Where?” Saetan asked too softly.
“Just away from people. Out on the land.”
The door opened. He fled the Keep—and wondered what that blankness in Saetan’s eyes meant.
Marian scrambled out of the way as Luthvian pushed past her into the eyrie’s front room.
“You wouldn’t listen, would you?” Luthvian growled. “Wouldn’t heed the warning. Well, I hope you’re satisfied, little witch.”
“I did what you asked,” Marian cried. “I told him I wouldn’t marry him when he asked me this morning.”
“But you intend to stay here, don’t you, pouring salt on the wound? Keeping just enough of a tie so there’s no clean break that will heal.”
“No.” She felt beaten, battered, unable to stand against the words.
“You stayed long enough for him to ask instead of resigning your position and getting out. So what happens to him now is on your head.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He’s gone to fight the jhinkas. Gone alone to face a savage race that hates Eyriens. And he’ll throw himself into that fight with your rejection ripping at him, keeping him unbalanced while he tries to survive odds that are against even someone with his unusual strength and skill. If he dies . . .”
“No!” Marian cried. “He can’t die. He can’t.”
“Everything has a price,” Luthvian said ruthlessly. “If he dies, that’s the price for loving you!”
Weeping, Marian sank to the floor.
“Go away, Marian. Disappear. If he manages to survive, your presence will only be a torment to him.”
Lucivar dying? Because of her? She should go to the Keep, find the High Lord. No. He’d blame her for this. If Lucivar got hurt, he’d blame her. And why shouldn’t he? Who else was there to blame?
Luthvian was gone long before Marian was able to stagger to the kitchen and splash cold water on her face. She’d pack. She’d go away. She didn’t want to be a torment to the man she loved.
She looked around the kitchen.
But first she had to deal with all the food she’d cooked. It would spoil if she left it out, and if he was wounded, he would need the meals she’d—
Tears spilled from her eyes, and her head ached from that cobwebby feeling that had almost gone away. Still, she went about the business of doing everything she could for him before she disappeared from his life.
As the afternoon waned, Saetan paced, trying to push the past out of his mind so that he could consider the present.
Something wasn’t right here. Something didn’t fit. And his son’s heart was bleeding because of it.
He called in his cape. Whipped it around his shoulders as he strode out of the room.
Something wasn’t right. And he was damn well going to find out what it was.
When the front door of the eyrie crashed open, Marian dropped the plate. There wasn’t time to think of the mess or broken crockery before Saetan stormed into the kitchen. He came to an abrupt halt when he saw her, his eyes filled with brutal intensity.
“Tell me why,” he said too softly.
“I don’t—” His power blazed in the room, making her feel cleaned out, hollow—and, strangely, as if she was starting to regain her balance after an illness.
“You love him. He loves you. So tell me why you’re turning away from that love.”
“It’s because I love him!” Marian cried. But the words didn’t seem quite right anymore. “I’m not what he needs.”
“I’ll tell you what he needs,” Saetan roared. “A woman who loves him, who can accept him for who and what he is.”
“I’m not good enough!”
Saetan stared at her. “The only way you wouldn’t be good enough is if you didn’t love him enough. So maybe you’re right after all, Marian. I thought you had more backbone and heart. My error.” He took a step back. “Good day, Lady.”
It was the sneer in the way he said “Lady” that snapped something inside her. And she heard Lucivar’s words again: Don’t let them win. ... If you give up your wings, what else will you give up because someone tells you you’re just a hearth witch?”
“Lucivar,” she whispered. Then, “High Lord!” She jumped over the broken plate and the spilled food and raced for the front door.
He paused on the threshold and turned to face her.
“You have to stop him,” Marian gasped. “You have to help him. Please.”
“Stop what?”
“He’s gone to fight the jhinkas. He’ll get hurt.”
Saetan frowned, then turned away to look out the open door. “If he did, it didn’t take him long. He’s in Riada.” He gave her a strange look, then held out his hand. “Come on. I’ll take you to him.”
She clasped his hand. It didn’t matter what he thought of her. Nothing mattered as long as Lucivar was all right.
Lucivar strode down the main street of Riada, his temper on a choke chain, waiting to blaze. Being alone didn’t comfort him, the land didn’t comfort him. But being away had given him time to think.
Something wasn’t right, and that “something” was the battleground. He’d almost missed that, had almost turned away. Not anymore. If Marian didn’t want to marry him, he’d have to accept it, but she’d have to do better than spew those piss-ass excuses before he walked away.
But before he went back home to corner his hearth witch, he’d coat his temper—and his nerves—with a couple more whiskeys.
As he approached The Tavern, Jaenelle and Merry burst out of the door. A moment later, Saetan dropped from the Winds and appeared in the street. With Marian.
She rushed toward him, then skidded to a stop. Her breathing hitched. Tears filled her eyes as she studied him from head to toe. Then her hands curled into fists, and when she opened her mouth . . .
“You stupid, idiotic . . . male.” Marian blinked back the tears. He was all right. No wounds. Not even bruises. He was all right.
She was so glad to see him she wanted to wring his neck.
“I love you too, sweetheart,” Lucivar said in a very nasty tone of voice.
“How could you be so stupid?” she yelled. “How could you go off and fight jhinkas by yourself? I don’t want to be a widow before I have a chance to be a wife.”
“You don’t want to be a wife, remember?” Lucivar snapped. “You made that quite clear this morning.”
“I was confused. My head was feeling all cobwebby, and I couldn’t think.” From the corner of her eye, she saw Jaenelle and Saetan snap to attention and study her with narrowed eyes. “And before I could think straight, you were gone. How am I supposed to marry you if you go off and get yourself killed dead?”
“Dead is usually what happens when a person gets killed.” Lucivar took a step toward her. “And what do you care anyway? You don’t want to marry me.”
“I do want to marry you!” She stamped her foot in frustration. “If there was a Priestess standing here, I’d marry you right this minute!”
“She offered to marry him,” Merry said.
“In front of witnesses,” Jaenelle added.
Lucivar pointed a finger at Marian and snarled, “I accept.”
“And he accepted,” Merry said gleefully.
“In front of witnesses,” Jaenelle added. “How soon can the Priestess get here?”
A brief pause. “She says half an hour,” Merry replied. “She needs to wash up a bit and change her clothes, then hitch up her pony cart.”
“My cart’s already hitched,” a man called out. “I’ll go and fetch her. That’ll save some time.”
Marian stared at Lucivar. Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful. What had she just done? “I should—I—”
Jaenelle grabbed one arm, and Merry grabbed the other.
“No time for that,” Jaenelle said as they dragged Marian through the tavern to the back room.
“You can clean up in our place,” Merry said, tugging Marian up the stairs to the suite of rooms she and Briggs called home. “No need to go back to the eyrie.”
“But—” Marian stammered.
“I’ll dash up to the eyrie,” Jaenelle said. “That green dress will look lovely as a wedding dress. And I’ll bring the amber necklace Lucivar gave you at Winsol.”
“We’ll have to see what we can do for a wedding supper,” Merry said to Jaenelle. “And I’ll have Briggs nip over to the baker’s to see if there’s a cake left.”
“I made lots of food today,” Marian mumbled.
“Well, isn’t that convenient?” Jaenelle said cheerfully. “I’ll bring that, too.”
“But—”
A hand pressed against her cheek. She looked into Jaenelle’s sapphire eyes. Dark, soft power rose up beneath her, flowed through her, washing away the last of that cobwebby feeling—and the doubts along with it.
“Do you love him?” Jaenelle asked.
She offered the Queen of Ebon Askavi the truth. “With everything I am.”
Jaenelle studied her for a moment. Then she smiled and said, “Welcome to the family, little Sister.”
“Come along now,” Merry said. “If you’re not ready by the time the Priestess arrives, your man will start chewing holes in my bar.”
A tug from Merry and a push from Jaenelle got her headed toward the bedroom where she would prepare for her wedding.