Twilight's Dawn

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.

“It doesn’t matter what you said; you didn’t make a mistake,” Merry said. “You knew exactly what you were doing when you left yourself open for that last blow.”

He sipped his coffee and studied her. Then he sighed. “She needed to beat an enemy into the ground. I figured I was the only one who could take the pounding she needed to inflict.”

“Well, why didn’t you ask Jaenelle to make one of those fancy shadows and fix it so Surreal could beat it into a mushy pulp?”

He shook his head. “Jaenelle has made some of those shadows for me to beat down to a mushy pulp, so I can tell you it doesn’t feel the same. It’s safe because you know it isn’t real. There are no consequences for what you do or serious risks for yourself. Most of the time that’s a good way to purge temper and bad feelings. But when something has festered for a lot of years like it has with Surreal, sometimes you need to work off that temper by fighting against a flesh-and-blood opponent, knowing there are consequences and risks.”

“You let yourself get hurt.”

He heard the undercurrent of anger building in her voice again. She just wasn’t going to let go of that detail. “Okay, that part was a mistake. Your gender gets mean when you fight, and while I took into account that Surreal is stronger than she looks, I forgot that she can be a sneaky bitch. She used her own illness as the bait for the trap, and I fell for it.” And damn if he didn’t admire her for it. Hearing that raspy breathing and seeing her falter, he’d hesitated instead of pushing harder to put her on the floor and end the match.

The coffee had cooled enough, so he drained his mug with long swallows before setting it on the bar.

Merry fetched the coffeepot and refilled his mug. “You’re the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih. You’re not supposed to fall for a trap.”

“If she’d been anyone but family, I wouldn’t have.”

She offered no other comment, but his answer must have satisfied some unspoken concern, because she finally started doing her own work while he finished the piece of pie.

When he and Merry reached their usual easy silence, Lucivar figured it was time to leave if he wanted to avoid running into Surreal. He wasn’t ready to deal with her yet.

As he eased off the stool, he said, “Thanks for the pie and coffee.”

“If Marian is still annoyed with you come midday, I’ll have a spicy stew cooking,” she said. “And if you can avoid riling up the women you know for a few hours, I can leave out the big dose of pity.”

Lucivar gave her a sharp grin. “Darling, whatever you’re dishing out is too tart to be pity.”

She didn’t laugh, but she couldn’t keep a straight face either. “Go away.”

“I’m going. Even if Marian works off her mad, save me a bowl of that stew.”

As he reached the door, a young Eyrien Warlord from the northern camps burst into The Tavern, followed by the Eyriens who had been at the communal eyrie.

“The landen villages at the north end of the valley are under attack!” the Warlord said.

“Who’s attacking?” Lucivar demanded.

“Don’t know. I was heading back to camp when I was ordered to come here and find you. Not just Jhinka. Whoever is fighting the Eyriens is also Blood. Our men have pushed the fight away from the villages, but we need help. We need it now.”

“Did you contact the Master of the Guard in Agio?” Lucivar asked.

A moment’s hesitation. “I didn’t, no. I was told to fetch you. Someone else must have gone for Lord Randahl.”

Most of the Eyriens in the northern camps wore Jewels with sufficient power to send a psychic call for help to the Blood in Agio. Hell’s fire, there were plenty of them who could reach him here. If they needed help so badly against this unknown enemy, why waste time having a Rose-Jeweled Warlord ride the Winds to Riada to fetch him?

There was one reason he could think of.

Lucivar eyed the Eyriens Falonar had left behind this morning. “You coming with me?”

“We are,” one of them answered.

“Then head out. I’ll meet you there.” He turned and walked toward the short hallway in the back of the building that held the water closets available to customers.

“We’ll wait for you,” one of the Warlords said.

Lucivar stopped. Turned. “I’m not driving a Coach to a killing field, and I’m not shielding all of you on the Red Winds and then dropping down onto a killing field. So you catch the Winds and go. I’ll still arrive close behind you. But first I’m going to take a piss.”

“The Red Winds?” one of the men asked. “Not the Ebon-gray?”

Lucivar shifted his weight—and deliberately winced. “Not today.”

Two flashes of emotion filled the room, equal in intensity, at his inability to hide how much an imprudent move hurt his ribs—alarm from Merry and relieved anticipation from the Eyriens who watched him.

“Go on,” he said.

Waiting until the Eyriens left The Tavern, he raised a hand and used Craft to put a Red lock on the front door. Then he went into one of the water closets. He’d opened his fly when Merry burst into the small room.

“Hell’s fire, woman,” he growled.

“Something is wrong,” she said. “This all sounds wrong.”

Of course it did. It was all wrong. “Get out of here.”

“Lucivar.”

“Merry, he’s young and excitable. If things in the north were as bad as he said, he would have been there fighting with the other Eyriens, and I would have been summoned on a psychic thread by Lady Erika’s Master of the Guard. So stop fussing. I’ll take care of this.” He gently pushed her out of the room and closed the door in her face.

He had no doubt in his mind that he could—and would—take care of this. He just hoped he could convince Merry of that sufficiently to delay her sounding the alarm. He didn’t want anyone standing with him. Not today. Today he wanted to know with absolute certainty the faces of his enemies.

That much decided, he quickly prepared for the coming fight.

First he created the Ebon-gray shields he usually put around his anklebones to give them extra support. Next, he shaped an Ebon-gray shield over his ribs. Then he called in the Ring of Honor that Jaenelle had given every male in her First Circle. She no longer wore Ebony Jewels, but the Ebony power she had put into those Rings to fuel the shields in them was still as potent as ever.

He slipped the gold Ring over his cock and used Craft to adjust the size to a comfortably snug fit. Engaging the Ring, he created a skintight Ebony shield around himself, then layered an Ebon-gray shield over that, and finally a double Red shield.

Would any of the men he was about to meet look beyond that second Red shield for what lay underneath? Especially when the Eyriens who, supposedly, were going to fight alongside him told their comrades that Lucivar Yaslana was already too injured to wear the Ebon-gray?

He vanished the pendant that held his Birthright Red Jewel, called in the pendant that held the Ebon-gray, then put a sight shield over it. He held out his right hand and carefully triggered the spell in his Red ring—a spell he’d never shared with anyone except his uncle Andulvar and cousin Prothvar. Seven thin psychic “wires” spun out from the Red Jewel in the ring, stopping when they were a handspan in length. When fully extended, those wires could slice through lighter-Jeweled shields as easily as flesh, and he could slaughter dozens of men with a single sweep of his arm. Drawing the wires back into the ring, he ended the spell.

After fastening his trousers, he took another minute to call in and check all his weapons.

He walked out of the water closet and found Merry blocking the end of the hallway. He didn’t have time to negotiate, so he locked his hands around her upper arms, lifted her, and set her back down out of his way.

The shields around his ribs were working just fine. He’d hurt tomorrow, but the sore ribs and bruises weren’t going to interfere with anything he had to do today.

“Lucivar! This isn’t right. It has to be a trap!”

Which just proved she was a smart, observant woman.

“I know,” he said.

“Then you need help.”

“No, I don’t. Merry . . .”

“Don’t you ‘Merry’ me,” she snapped. “There could be thousands of them out there waiting for you!”

“There aren’t thousands of Eyriens in the whole of Askavi Kaeleer, let alone in Ebon Rih.”

“Well, there are still lots of them and one of you.”

“Merry . . .” Did any of them understand what his wearing Ebon-gray Jewels meant? Did the Eyriens really know what kind of power was about to meet them on a killing field?

He kissed her forehead. “If I get hurt, you can yell at me all you want. I’ll be back in time for that bowl of stew. Until then, rest easy.”

Releasing the Red lock on the front door, Lucivar walked out of The Tavern, caught the Ebon-gray Winds, and headed north.

The moment Rainier returned from his walk, Briggs gave him a “need you” tip of the head.

“Merry is in the kitchen,” Briggs said. “Something happened this morning while I was out getting supplies. She says she’s not supposed to say anything yet, but maybe she’ll talk to you, since you work for Prince Sadi.”

“Why would that make a difference?” Rainier asked as he took off his coat and vanished it.

“Because I think it has something to do with Lucivar.”

He’d worked his damaged leg right up to its limit today, so he moved with care to the kitchen. He paused in the doorway, watched Merry pull a baking sheet of biscuits out of the oven, and wondered if the woman realized they were burned past edible.

“Merry?” he asked quietly, taking a step into the kitchen. “Is there something you need to tell me about Lucivar?”

She piled the biscuits on the cooling racks into cloth-lined baskets, then slid the ones on the baking sheet to the cooling racks.

“I don’t know. He said not to worry, but how am I not supposed to worry? It felt wrong. It all felt wrong. But I don’t think I’m supposed to say anything yet, and that feels wrong too.”

Rainier wrapped a soothing spell around his voice. He didn’t want to diminish her feelings; he just wanted her to calm down enough to give him information instead of jumbled words. “What happened this morning?”

A torrent of words spilled from her. Then she finished with, “I don’t like any of this because I think this is a trap, but Lucivar was being too stubborn to listen. Here. Take this basket out.”

Rainier almost dropped the basket she thrust into his hand, unprepared for the weight. He looked at the biscuits, thought about how much he valued his teeth, and limped out to the bar. Setting the basket on the counter, he told Briggs, “Don’t let anyone eat these—and don’t drop any on your feet.”

“Is she right?” Briggs asked. “Is there trouble?”

“Yes, I think she’s right, and there is trouble.” Since he knew who was in Ebon Rih this morning, may the Darkness have mercy on whoever was causing that trouble—especially if anything happened to Lucivar because of it.

Surreal set the papers down and looked at the two Black-Jeweled men standing on the other side of the table. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Daemon replied. “Both of Falonar’s parents can claim aristo bloodlines, but they aren’t on a level with your mother’s bloodline—or with Lucivar’s bloodlines. Falonar has an elder brother, who doesn’t wear Jewels as dark as his, and he has a few cousins but . . .” He shrugged.

“Darling, there are no dark secrets to explain Falonar’s behavior,” Saetan said. “Eyriens feel animosity toward anyone whose parentage can be questioned or whose parentage isn’t pure Eyrien. That has been true for as long as I’ve known the race—and it’s more true of the aristos than the other levels of their society. A man who wants a leader who can keep him alive on a battlefield is going to be more interested in the man’s ability to fight and lead and be much less picky about bloodlines than an aristo looking to marry and mate—and to use both to advance his own ambitions.”

“I see,” Surreal said. And, finally, she did. The romance and the emotions had been on her side, never on his. Falonar had used her professions of whore and assassin as the excuse to walk away because it wasn’t in him to see her as an equal. “I guess that’s why some of the Eyriens, like Rothvar and Zaranar, are comfortable working for Lucivar, and others will never see him as anything but a tool to be used.”

“Yes, that’s why,” Saetan replied with an edge in his voice. “And that’s why it’s time for the Eyriens who won’t acknowledge him to leave Ebon Rih. They’re nothing but salt in an old wound.”

She heard something else in that deep voice, something that made her shiver. *Do you think Uncle Saetan remembers that he retired from the living Realms and isn’t supposed to interfere?* she asked Daemon on a Gray psychic thread.

*Do you think he cares about such details right now?* Daemon replied mildly.

Shit shit shit. How long had Saetan been watching those fools thumb their noses at his son, waiting for Lucivar to reach his own conclusions about Eyrien society? And how much longer would the High Lord of Hell wait before taking care of the troublesome little problems himself?

*Surreal?*

*Rainier?*