But it belongs to the aristos, Falonar thought. It’s the difference between a good leader on a battlefield and a ruler.
Rothvar fanned his wings, then closed them. “I’ve spilled my share of blood on plenty of killing fields. I’ve been in fights where I’ve killed friends who were on the other side of a line just because some bitch Queen needed the sight of slaughter in order to come. There was no honor in that bloodshed. I’m not against fighting or killing. I was trained to do both, and I’ve done both. But I won’t feel cheated if most days I hone my skills against another man for the fun of it and don’t have to spill blood for someone else’s pleasure.”
Falonar stared at the Warlord guard. Rothvar couldn’t mean that. “You’re willing to accept that?”
Rothvar shrugged. “I guess it’s different for you, not having any court intrigues to deal with. But for us, this life isn’t so different from what we left.”
“Except it’s better,” Zaranar said.
Hallevar nodded in agreement. “I’d like to have a few more youngsters to train. Hell’s fire, I’d even give another try at training a few of the women.”
“I don’t have to wonder if following Lucivar’s orders will soil my honor, and I sleep easier knowing that,” Zaranar said.
“And with Lucivar, you don’t have to wonder whether the person giving you an order will deny it later—especially if there was something dirty about the job—and leave you to be the one to take the punishment.” Rothvar’s expression made it clear that he’d known men who weren’t whole afterward, even if they survived the punishment.
“Lucivar says what he means and means what he says,” Hallevar said. “Straight words, straight work.”
“Guarding Rihlanders,” Falonar sneered.
Zaranar made a crude, angry sound. “Some of us are willing to do the work we agreed to do, and that includes protecting the Rihlander villages, Blood and landen. I heard there was a Jhinka raid on a landen village a few weeks ago, and it was the Rihlander guards from Agio who stepped in and drove the bastards off. The Eyriens in the northern camps should have been patrolling that part of the valley and should have spotted the Jhinka before they reached that village. But they couldn’t stir themselves to raise a bow let alone shoot a single arrow. I won’t blame Lucivar a bit if he tosses every one of those lazy sons of whoring bitches out of the valley.”
“The Rihlanders aren’t used to dealing with Eyriens,” Falonar argued. “If they showed the proper respect, they’d get the help they need.”
“Oh, they’re used to dealing with Eyriens,” Rothvar said. “Just not in daylight. Prothvar Yaslana and a handpicked troop of men used to patrol the northern part of Ebon Rih as well as the Sleeping Dragons at the end of the Khaldharon Run. The Queen’s court might have had more contact with Prothvar himself, but the Eyriens who served him were known to the Blood in Agio, at least to some degree. First time I walked into a tavern there, it was late afternoon and the owner looked confused to see me. Then he offered me a glass of yarbarah. Apparently Lord Yaslana and his men stopped by there on occasion, so the man kept bottles of the blood wine on hand.”
Falonar swallowed his growing disgust. Rothvar and Zaranar were the best fighters among the Warlords Lucivar had brought to Ebon Rih. They should be troop leaders controlling their own portion of the valley, with men under their command.
He ignored the memories of how many men were killed or maimed in fights that started because a troop leader needed to expand his territory—and increase his income—in order to pay his gambling debts.
Then he focused on the knives Kohlvar was sharpening and no longer tried to swallow his disgust. “Hell’s fire, Kohlvar. You made some of the finest weapons in Askavi, and now you’re sharpening kitchen knives?”
“These blades get dull like any other,” Kohlvar replied as he studied the edge of the knife. “Doesn’t hurt my pride to give the women some help, and who would know better than me how to put an edge on a blade?”
“What about your reputation?” Falonar demanded. “You’re a weapons maker. This is menial work. Who did Lucivar have doing it before you?”
“No one. He did it himself.”
And that lack of understanding, of distance, was the reason Lucivar had no business ruling anything, let alone a prime territory like Ebon Rih.
“You’ve been up to the women’s settlement at Doun?” Zaranar asked.
Lucivar had made it clear that no man who wanted to keep his balls went to the settlement without his permission.
Kohlvar shrugged. “Lucivar came by not long ago and asked if I wanted to go with him. I wasn’t busy, so why not? And I was curious.” He looked a little uncomfortable, but he also looked amused. “The man walked in, took a look around, and started scolding the women for hauling things that were too big for them to handle instead of waiting for him to help. And a couple of the women started scrapping right back, saying they had brains and Craft and plenty of hands and didn’t need a penis in order to get things done.”
An uneasy silence. Then Rothvar asked, “What did he do to them?”
Kohlvar laughed. “He grinned and went to check the woodpiles and other things he wanted to check. Later he told me one of the women who’d been scrapping with him had come to Kaeleer this past summer, and she’d been so afraid of men she would puke from fear when he walked into the room. He said it was good to see her growing her backbone and heart.
“Anyway, we ended up in the kitchen, drinking coffee. Then he called in his whetstone and started sharpening the knives. I wasn’t going to sit there like a fool, was I? So I gave him a hand. Most of the females were keeping to the far end of the room, but the boys were hugging the table, watching him while they answered his questions and asked plenty of their own. He slapped down a boy with nothing but a look when that boy tried to bully the one girl who got brave enough to approach the table. When he was done with the last knife, Lucivar took all the children outside for a flying lesson.”
Kohlvar vanished his own whetstone and the kitchen knives. Then he looked at Hallevar. “There isn’t a youngster in that settlement who would be old enough for a hunting camp, but there are some there who are old enough to start learning what you can teach.You should talk to Lucivar about going with him the next time he visits.”
“I think I will,” Hallevar replied.
Falonar listened to them a few minutes more, then made an excuse to leave. They didn’t see the truth about their future, didn’t understand how a leader who was so common he didn’t see anything wrong with taking care of menial tasks would diminish the standing of all Eyriens in Kaeleer.
These men belonged to Lucivar, and for the time being, there was nothing he could do about that. So he was going to have to look to the men in the northern camps for the help he needed to save all of them.
Surreal dropped from the Green Wind and landed lightly in the courtyard of Lucivar’s eyrie. If she’d been polite, she would have used the landing web and climbed the stairs to the courtyard, but she wasn’t feeling polite since she was the messenger who had to hand over this basket.
Merry woke up this morning feeling hungry and well and had been cooking and baking since sunrise. The goodies in the basket were her thanks for the pot of soup Marian had made yesterday.
“This is payment and more for a pot of soup,” Surreal grumbled as she banged on the door. “And I deserve these goodies as much as anyone.” Especially after the dream that had ripped through her sleep last night—the boy Trist, torn and bloody as he’d been in the spooky house, smiling at her and saying over and over, “The worst is still to come.”
Maybe it was just lack of sleep, or maybe it was something more that made the floor and walls of her room seem to rise and fall this morning—and made her chest hurt in a different way. Maybe she should stop and see one of Riada’s Healers before going back to The Tavern. Maybe ...
The door swung open. Lucivar looked edgy, heading toward pissed off, and he was wearing the heavy wool cape he used as a winter coat. Wishing she’d just left the basket, she started to step back when he reached out, grabbed her coat, and hauled her inside.
“Some of this has to go in the cold box until you’re ready to eat,” Surreal said, trying to hand him the basket.
“Fine.” He hustled her into the kitchen and put the basket on the table. Then his hands clamped down on her shoulders, holding her in place. “Marian is in the village running errands. Falonar needs to talk to me. He says it’s urgent. I need you to stay here and watch Daemonar.”
“No.”
“Thirty minutes. An hour at the most. Tassle and Graysfang are on their way back here, so you won’t be alone with the boy for long.”
Her heart banged against her chest so hard she could barely hear him. “Lucivar, I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can. Just sit and read him stories. He loves that. And he’s housebroken, so you don’t have to worry about changing diapers.”
He couldn’t pay her enough to change a diaper. “I have to go.”
Lucivar gave her a smacking kiss on the forehead and was moving toward the door, saying, “Daemonar! I’ll be back soon.”
Little feet running. The sound of small boots smacking on a stone floor as Daemonar raced into the large front room. “Papa! I want to go with you!”
“Not today, boyo. Play nice with your auntie Surreal.” Lucivar looked at her. “One hour.”
He was outside and flying off before she reached the door.
“Lucivar!”
Sick shivers. Feverish heat. Too damn hard to breathe.
She closed the door and turned around. Daemonar gave her the sweetest smile.
She hadn’t been alone with a child since that night in the spooky house. Had made sure she was never alone with a child. But maybe this wouldn’t be too bad. After all, this was Lucivar’s home, not a place that had been designed as a trap to kill members of the family. And he’d promised he’d be back in an hour.
She slipped out of her coat and hung it on the coat tree near the door.
“You want to play a game, Auntie Srell?” Daemonar asked, following her into the kitchen.
“All right.” Her heart gave her chest another kick. “Let me put this food away first, and then we can play a game.”
Steak pie. Vegetable casserole. A small jar of chopped fruit to be served over sweet biscuits. She put everything but the biscuits in the cold box. Leaving those on the table, she set the basket on the counter and looked around.
“Daemonar?”
A little-boy giggle. “Come find me, Auntie Srell. Come find me.”
No.
She crept toward the archway that led to the large front room. “Daemonar?”
The patter of small boots on stone.
She moved fast, following the sound. The eyrie was a warren of rooms, but the boy should be easy enough to find. It wasn’t like he was being quiet.
Then there was no sound. None at all.
“Daemonar?”
She headed for the bedrooms, then heard, from behind her, “Come find me,” and the sound of feet running back toward the kitchen.
She dashed back to the kitchen and took a quick look under the table. It would be easy enough for a boy his size to dart between the chairs and hide.
No little boy under the table.
So damn hard to breathe. Had she drunk her healing brew this afternoon? Couldn’t remember.
She moved through the rooms, searching. Sometimes she heard a giggle, sometimes the scrape of boot on stone.
The worst is still to come.
The bad things hadn’t happened yet. She had time to find the boy. Lucivar’s little boy. Couldn’t let him get hurt by twisted bitches or lethally honed blades. Couldn’t let the bad things happen to him. Not to Lucivar’s boy.
The worst is still to come.
She opened a cupboard and saw serving bowls, platters, and other kinds of dishes—and heard a boy screaming and screaming and screaming. Then the screaming stopped, and she knew what that meant.
“Come find me.” Was that Daemonar saying that, or Trist?
The worst is still to come.
Her breath hitched, rasped in her chest, hurting her as she tried to draw in enough air to think, to move, to act. This time she wouldn’t fail. She would find the boy and get him out of this damn house, and she would find a way to get Marjane out of that tree before the crows took the girl’s eyes, and . . .
She dashed into the front room and glanced at the door. “Kester, no!”
A flashed image, as if a sight shield had dropped for a heartbeat. Just enough time for her to see the wings and the blood spraying everywhere as the Eyrien bastard ripped into the boy. Then gone.
Kester. Not Daemonar. Like Trist, Kester had died in the spooky house. She still had a chance to save Daemonar.
She tore through the bedrooms, opening every door and drawer she could find. She tore through the weapons room and Marian’s workroom and the laundry room, circling back to the kitchen, where she yanked out drawers and opened more doors.
She opened the cold box, then the door to the freeze box inside it—and stared at the little brown hand so freshly severed the fingers were still curling up against the cold.
She bolted across the kitchen, just reaching the sink before she vomited.
Then she stumbled out of the kitchen, stumbled around the eyrie, hearing Daemonar’s voice, sounding scared now, saying, “Auntie Srell?”
Couldn’t save him. Couldn’t save any of them. Not Trist, not Kester, not even Rainier. Not Jaenelle. Hadn’t been good enough, strong enough, fast enough to save them.
“Auntie Srell?”
And now the boy. Lucivar shouldn’t have trusted her with his precious boy.
She stumbled, hit a carpeted floor on her hands and knees, and went all the way down.
Tears and pain and poison. This time the poison would take her all the way down.
This time she wouldn’t fight it.