Twilight's Dawn dj-9 Read online

  “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 Eyr
iens should.”

  ELEVEN

  The 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.

  “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.