Twilight's Dawn dj-9

by Anne Bishop

  “No, you probably didn’t. But that doesn’t mean you weren’t pleased when someone else did something that pushed the odds in your favor.” She leaned a little more, showing more cleavage—and watched the way his eyes lingered a moment too long.

  “You finished your training and were no longer in Yaslana’s shadow because he defied Prythian and ended up a slave being controlled by a Ring of Obedience, while you ended up an aristo male moving in court circles, serving a bitch you hated, but you were always careful not to step too close to a line that might be seen as a challenge. And there was Lucivar, who, despite being a slave, was always crossing those lines and growing into the most lethal and feared warrior in the Realm of Terreille.”

  She felt pressure on her first inner barrier. Not an actual attempt to force open the first level of her mind, more like someone leaning against a door to push it open just a crack and find out what was on the other side while claiming that he didn’t do anything.

  A man could find out a lot of useful information while not doing anything. And maybe—maybe—because it was a passive move, it wouldn’t be considered a breach of the Blood’s code of honor.

  She usually wore her Birthright Green Jewels, just like today, but she no longer hid the fact that the Gray was her Jewel of rank. Had he forgotten that? Was he actually hoping that she’d be lax about maintaining the barriers that protected her mind from the rest of the Blood? Was he that much of a fool?

  “Skipping a few centuries, the Realm of Terreille becomes a very bad place, and people are scrambling to get away from the bitches who rule there,” she continued. “Among those people is an Eyrien Warlord Prince who comes from an aristo family and has significant social standing. And wearing Sapphire Jewels means he is a powerful, dominant male—a leader other men obey without question. No reason to think that will change. Aristo is aristo; power is power.”

  She drifted down into the abyss until she reached the level of the Gray, then drifted back up until she was under him. She reached up with one delicate psychic tendril to get the honest flavor of his emotions.

  She didn’t like the taste of those emotions. She didn’t like them at all. Apparently the story she was weaving around the little she knew and the lot she guessed based on knowing the two men was close to the truth.

  “And what happens?” she said. “You come to Kaeleer with your credentials polished, expecting the Queens to fight over who gets the privilege of having you in her court, and there’s your old friend Lucivar, already here before you. And he’s not only serving the Queen the rest of you would give your balls to serve; he’s the ruler of the most prized bit of land in Askavi. Not only that, he’s no longer a half-breed bastard the rest of you can ignore. He comes from the most aristo family in the whole damn Realm. His father and uncle are the most powerful men in the whole damn Realm, not to mention being Witch’s Steward and Master of the Guard, which gives them even more status.”

  “Just because they acknowledged him doesn’t mean he actually carries the bloodlines,” Falonar snapped.

  “Blood sings to blood—and blood doesn’t lie. Sure, there are generations between Lucivar and Andulvar, but he is the High Lord’s son, and his mother did come from Andulvar’s line. An aristo among aristos. And he still doesn’t give a damn about any of that, does he? He’s just who he’s always been—a warrior, a leader, a strong man. Except now all the Eyriens who would have spit on him before have to walk softly because one word from him—one word—and that person gets tossed all the way back to Terreille. If the fool isn’t killed first.”

  “What does any of this have to do with him gutting Eyrien culture and tradition?” Falonar shouted.

  “What goes on in Ebon Rih is his version of Eyrien culture and tradition,” she replied sweetly.

  “His version?” Falonar paced away from the bar and back. “You can’t have different versions and have the same people!”

  “Maybe that’s the point. Maybe there needs to be a different version for the people who would otherwise be excluded from Eyrien culture.”

  “Like who?”

  “Besides Lucivar? How about Endar and Dorian’s little girl? A Queen. But her hair has curl. Not only is she not pure Eyrien; that curl proves she has a bit of a bloodline that isn’t from any of the long-lived races. What about Tamnar? He wouldn’t have had much of a future among your people, which is probably why he risked the service fair in the first place. Eyrien culture and tradition were already rooted here, Falonar. It’s just not the same as what you left.”

  Falonar’s mug shattered. “Back in Askavi, if a bitch like you spoke to me like that, I’d have you whipped.”

  Surreal called in a towel and tossed it on the bar to sop up the coffee. “Bitch like me. Yes, let’s address that final topic before you go. Well, two topics really, and that’s the second one. You know what none of you big strong Eyriens have admitted? Except Lucivar. The man may be a pain in the ass, but he does have brains. You all came to the Shadow Realm expecting the other races to be cowed by a warrior race. Because that’s what the Eyriens are, aren’t they? Warriors, bred and trained. But no one was cowed by Eyriens because, in Kaeleer, you are not the race that is feared.”

  Surreal slowly reached up and hooked her long black hair behind one delicately pointed ear. “They are called the Dea al Mon. The Children of the Wood. They know as much about fighting as you do. Maybe more, since they have always followed the Old Ways of the Blood. Which brings us to the last topic—my bloodlines.”

  “You have no bloodlines.” Falonar’s voice was harsh, and his hands were clenched.

  “On my sire’s side, you’re probably right.”

  “You have no connection to the SaDiablos beyond what they give you.”

  “That’s true too. I don’t have one drop of blood in common with Lucivar or Daemon or the High Lord. I only used that name when I came to Kaeleer as a way to spit in Dorothea SaDiablo’s face. But the High Lord decided to let that claim stand and accepted me as family. So you’re correct that calling myself a SaDiablo doesn’t give me the right to call myself aristo. My mother, on the other hand ...” She brushed her finger over the curve of her ear. “My mother was a Dea al Mon Queen and Black Widow. If she hadn’t been broken by Dorothea’s son and then murdered by one of the bitch’s assassins, she could have been the Queen of the Dea al Mon’s Territory. As it was, when she made the transition to demon-dead, she became the Queen of the Harpies. So no matter how you turn it, my mother’s bloodline is more than aristo enough to make up for any lack by the cock and balls who sired me.”

  She straightened up and stared at him across a slab of wood that either of them could destroy in a heartbeat.

  She vanished her Green Jewel and called in her Gray. Then gave him a moment to remember just whom he’d been trying to play with.

  “My mother and I skinned my father and hung him up as meat for the Hell Hounds while he was still alive. We soaked in a hot spring and listened to him scream while they fed. So I think I come by my interest in, and skill with, a knife honestly. Don’t you?”

  He backed away from her. Backed all the way to the door.

  She waited until he flew away before she used Craft to turn the physical lock. Then she added a Green lock on the door.

  She cleaned up the coffee and broken mug, relieved that Briggs must have some kind of shield on the wood to keep it from being damaged by spills.

  Then, having made her decision, she sent a Gray psychic thread to a Black mind.

  *Sadi?*

  *Surreal?*

  *Are you busy?*

  *That depends on what you want.*

  She heard the amusement in his voice and rolled her eyes. Maybe it was better if he felt amused. *I’d like you to find out what you can about Falonar’s bloodlines.*

  Cold now shivered along that psychic thread.

  *Why?* he asked too softly.

  *I have a suspicion that one of the things that bothers him the most about Lucivar—and now me—is
the realization that we come from families that are far more aristo than his, and I’m curious why that matters so much.*

  *If you want this to stay between the two of us, it will take a couple of days. You know what Lucivar is like when he has to deal with paperwork, and I think this particular deluge is going to test his self-control. Besides, Father and I promised to work up a rough draft of a contract for serving the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih.*

  Yes, she knew what Lucivar was like. A tiger with a sore paw was more agreeable than Yaslana confronted with a stack of paperwork. *It can wait.*

  She broke the link and went back to preparing The Tavern for business. A few minutes later, Rainier tapped on the door. He had two loaves of sweet-and-spice bread to serve with the soup, along with some pastries just for her.

  Pushing Falonar to the back of her mind, she spent the rest of the day listening to gossip and working with a man whose company she enjoyed.

  SIX

  It was late afternoon on the following day when Falonar walked into Kohlvar’s workshop to have a private meeting with the men he considered the core group of Eyrien males living around Riada. They nodded a greeting, but no one shifted to attention, ready to take an assignment from him.

  Had they already heard he’d been stripped of his position as second-in-command?

  “We need to talk about what we want for ourselves and the Eyrien people before Yaslana makes any other decisions for us,” Falonar said.

  “Already know what I want,” Hallevar replied. “That’s why I gave him my hand yesterday.”

  “We all did,” Rothvar said, tipping his head to indicate the men present.

  “You signed a contract with him?” Falonar said, made too off balance by that news to hide his anger.

  “Don’t have the paper yet, but we will,” Hallevar said. “We can change our minds if we don’t like the final terms, but from what he said, we’ll still have the eyries we’ve made our homes and a quarterly wage drawn from Lucivar’s share of the tithes, and work that suits us.”

  “The way Yaslana rules this valley,” Zaranar said, studying Falonar. “Why does it chew your ass?”

  “Because we weren’t born to be tame!” Falonar shouted. “He expects us to be content with training exercises instead of meeting an enemy. By the time he’s through gutting the heart out of what we are, we’ll be nothing but Dhemlans with wings. Look what he’s doing to Endar. A teacher?”

  Kohlvar wiped the knife he’d been sharpening on the whetstone and picked up the next one. “Why not? It’s the work Endar wants to do, and here there’s no shame in being a teacher at his age. You’re aristo, and aristos get more schooling than the rest of us. If Lucivar is willing to let all Eyrien youngsters have more schooling than we got, let them have it—especially if it’s something all the other children in this Realm are getting.”

  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 t
he 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.