Twilight's Dawn dj-9 Read online

  “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.

  “Would you like some coffee?” Falonar asked.

  Lucivar undid the buttons and belt on his winter cape but didn’t take it off. “No, thanks. I left Surreal alone with Daemonar, and I promised I would be back as soon as I could.” And I don’t want to drink whatever you’re offering.

  A month ago he wouldn’t have thought twice about accepting food or drink at Falonar’s eyrie. When had that changed? And why? They’d always respected each other’s fighting ability and not liked each other much for anything else. That hadn’t changed. And while some of Falonar’s ideas about the Eyriens here had pissed him off, he wasn’t concerned, because he made the final decisions in Ebon Rih.

  “We need more aristos living here to balance out the Eyriens who have common skills, to balance out our society,” Falonar said. “We should have another Healer. We should have a Priestess. If some of the Eyriens will be leaving Ebon Rih, bringing in others wouldn’t swell the numbers beyond what you’re willing to allow here. And aristo families would bring their own wealth, so they wouldn’t be a burden on your purse.”

  Lucivar studied the other Warlord Prince and wished he felt easy enough to accept that cup of coffee. “I would be willing to consider Eyriens who have other skills to offer the community, whether they come from aristo famil
ies or not.”

  Falonar looked puzzled. “Skills?”

  “Healer. Priestess. Craftsman. Tailor. Seamstress. Although a couple of the women in the Doun settlement might be taking care of that last one.”

  “I don’t think you understand,” Falonar said. “I meant aristos. They don’t need to work.”

  “They do if they want to live in Ebon Rih,” Lucivar replied. “There isn’t an adult living in this valley who doesn’t have some kind of work, and anyone who isn’t willing to agree to that doesn’t belong here. The Queens in the rest of Askavi might feel differently, but I don’t see any reason for anyone to sit around idle, no matter who they are or what bloodlines they can claim.”

  “You can’t expect an aristo to stoop to menial labor,” Falonar protested.

  “I didn’t say they would have to clean the horse shit off the streets; I just said that if they want to come to Kaeleer and live in Ebon Rih, they have to be willing to do some kind of work that will benefit the Eyrien community at the very least.” Lucivar continued to study Falonar. “Is there someone in particular you want living here? A friend? Family? Is that what this is about?”

  “No. It’s not about someone in particular; it’s about a whole level of Eyrien society that is missing. Can’t you feel that?” Falonar’s voice rang with frustration.

  Lucivar huffed out a sigh. “No, I can’t feel that. I never saw that part of Eyrien life, and the little time I spent around Eyrien courts before I was sent away from Askavi didn’t impress me—and neither did the aristos in those courts. Whatever you think is missing . . . I never experienced it, so I don’t feel the loss.”

  “That’s the point, Lucivar! You don’t know what the rest of us are missing.”

  He heard the passion in Falonar’s voice and the conviction, but Hallevar, Kohlvar, and the other men willing to voice an opinion hadn’t given him any indication that something was lacking.

  Maybe Daemon or Father can tell me why this is so important to him. “Write up a report that explains what you think we need. Maybe we can find a way to bring some of that into the community.” Did Falonar understand how much of a concession he was making by offering to read a damn report?

  Apparently not. Judging by the resignation he saw in Falonar’s eyes, what he was offering was nowhere near what the other man wanted.

  “Maybe you should go back to Askavi Terreille,” he said quietly. “There must be some Eyrien aristos who survived the purge. Maybe you’ll find life there more to your liking now. I think it’s clear to both of us that whatever you were hoping to find by emigrating doesn’t exist in the Shadow Realm. At least not the way you hoped.”

  “Are you forcing me back to Terreille?” Falonar asked.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “We rub against each other. Perhaps I should take command of the northern camps. That would give us both some breathing room.”

  Something floated in the air between them. Something subtle, almost hidden. When he’d been a slave and couldn’t trust anything about the Queen who controlled him or anyone in her court, he survived because he never ignored what instincts couldn’t shape into words.

  He wasn’t going to ignore his instincts now.

  “I didn’t renew any of the contracts of the men from the northern camps,” Lucivar said. “I’m giving them a few extra days to pack their gear, but after that, they are barred from Ebon Rih.”

  Falonar looked shocked. “You let all of them go? Who’s going to patrol that end of the valley?”

  “Rothvar, Zaranar, and the other Riada Eyriens will have to stretch out a bit and work with the Agio Master of the Guard.”

  “Rihlanders aren’t the same caliber of fighter as an Eyrien and you know it!”

  “Yes, I do. But the Eyriens in those camps didn’t do a damn thing when they were needed—and proved to Agio’s Queen, her Master of the Guard, and me that they aren’t needed here. Or wanted here.”

  They stared at each other.

  “There’s nothing more to say,” Falonar said.

  “No, I don’t think there is.”

  Lucivar turned and walked out of the eyrie. Unless he had Ebon-gray shields already in place, it was the last time Falonar would see his back.

  Falonar poured the coffee down the sink and carefully rinsed the pot. The spelled liquid he’d added to the coffee wasn’t a true violation of the Blood’s code of honor. It was too mild to be considered a compulsion spell, but adding it to food or drink helped make a person more open to suggestions.

  He’d taken a lot of risks in order to buy those vials of liquid from a Black Widow. In the decade since then, he’d used the liquid carefully, slipping a few drops into a glass of wine or ale when there was a real chance that his words would make a difference, when that added something would help him influence people into making the right decisions. He’d used that influence to temper a punishment when a man didn’t deserve to be punished at all. He’d used the liquid to stop perversions that would have harmed common Eyriens as well as aristos. That had to count for something.

  But he’d used too much of the liquid when, at his father’s demand, he tried to save his older brother from a punishment the fool had deserved. The change in the Master of the Guard’s chosen method of discipline had been too pronounced. No one had suspected Falonar of causing that change, but the discovery that someone had tried to manipulate the Queen’s Master had thrown the Lady into a rage.

  The new punishment had gone beyond cruel. Falonar, his father, and their other male relatives had been required not only to witness the punishment but to participate in order to retain the family’s social standing and their own status in the courts where they served. When it was done, the Queen let what was left of his brother live and sent him back to the family. And that had been the cruelest punishment of all.

  His father couldn’t publicly blame him without bringing attention to himself, but neither of his parents forgave him for what had happened to the favored son, and his mother deliberately began closing social doors, leaving him vulnerable to the whims of Prythian and the most elite members of the High Priestess’s court.

  The service fair had offered him a way to escape his family and Terreille, but it hadn’t given him a way to regain his standing in Eyrien society because there was no Eyrien society. He accepted invitations for social events held by Riada’s aristos, but it wasn’t the same. He wasn’t someone among the people who mattered.

  There was nothing left for him in Askavi Terreille. What he needed he would have to build here. Since his effort to influence Lucivar had failed, he had no other choice except to eliminate the obstacle that stood in his way.

  Lucivar opened the front door of his eyrie and smelled vomit.

  Shit, he thought as he used Craft to remove the winter cape. Had Surreal come down with that stomach illness?

  He didn’t have time to wonder, didn’t even have time to turn and hang up the cape. The wolf pups rushed him, so panicked their attempts to communicate were completely incoherent. Then Tassle appeared and ...

  “Papa! I’m sorry, Papa! I’m sorry!”

  He heard Daemonar’s voice, heard the slap of boots on stone, felt the change in air as something launched at him.

  As he dropped the cape and reached out, he formed a skintight Ebon-gray shield around himself. His hand filled with fabric, and in the heartbeat he had to decide whether to shove something away or pull it close, he realized he’d grabbed Daemonar and pulled his boy close.

  Little arms wrapped around his neck in a choke hold. “I’m sorry!”

  Mother Night. When had Daemonar learned to create a sight shield? He was much too young for that level of Craft.

  *Sorry sorry sorry!* the wolf pups wailed.

  That probably explained how the boy had learned it.

  “Okay, boyo,” he said soothingly. “What are you sorry about?” From the smell of him, the boy had wet his pants, proving he wasn’t as housebroken as Lucivar had thought.


  “I broke Auntie Srell!”

  Lucivar’s legs went out from under him. He sank to his knees, clutching his son, trying to make sense of the words. He looked at Tassle.

  *Graysfang is with her. She will not hear us, Yas. She cries like she is being torn up in a trap, but we cannot smell a wound.*

  Sweet Darkness, have mercy.

  He pried Daemonar off him. “Listen to me, boyo. You have to drop the sight shield.”

  “I don’t know how!” Daemonar wailed.

  “All right. Tassle will help you. You stay with him. I have to help Auntie Surreal. Stay here, Daemonar.”

  He whistled sharply as he headed toward the family’s rooms. Graysfang howled in reply.

  He found Surreal in the parlor on the floor, crying in a way that went beyond simple pain. He dropped to his knees and gathered her in his arms.

  “Surreal? Surreal! It’s Lucivar. You’re all right now. You’re all right!”

  “He’s just a little boy!” she screamed, feebly beating on his chest. “How could you leave me with a little boy?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize . . .” What? That she wasn’t easy around children? That she’d been fine playing with Daemonar at Winsol as long as Marian or Jaenelle was also there, but she’d joined the adults the moment she was the only one with the boy? He just hadn’t considered why she’d responded that way.

  Her breathing wasn’t good. It sounded like she’d torn something in her chest.

  “I couldn’t save them,” she whimpered.

  He cuddled her because it was the only thing he could do at that moment. “Surreal.”

  Words poured out of her. Names that made him sick just to hear them. Marjane. Rebecca and Myrol. Dannie. Rose. He knew those names. How could he not? He’d heard them whenever Jaenelle had nightmares about a place called Briarwood.

  Trist. Kester. Ginger. The children who had died in the spooky house.

  He held on to her, not sure she knew she wasn’t alone.

  When Marian suddenly appeared in the parlor doorway, he said, “Get Nurian. And Father.” Late enough in the day for Saetan to be awake, and he wanted the strongest Black Widow available to examine Surreal.