So by trying to prove I wasn’t a cripple and didn’t need anyone’s pity, I turned myself into a cripple. The bitterness of that truth burned his belly.

“You’re a man with a damaged leg,” Lucivar said. “That doesn’t make you less of a Warlord Prince—unless you choose to cripple that too.”

Lucivar pushed his chair back and stood. He raised a hand in farewell. Briggs, who was behind the bar, nodded and mirrored the gesture.

“I’ll see you and Surreal tomorrow morning at full light,” Lucivar said.

“What time is that?” Rainier asked.

“Your leg’s injured, not your head. Figure it out.”

Rainier watched Lucivar walk out of The Tavern.

Merry came up to the table. “Want something to eat? I’ve got some stew left and a hearty soup.”

He started to refuse, then realized he was hungry. “A bowl of soup would be welcome.”

She brought the soup, along with a small loaf of sweet-and-spice bread and soft cheese. He ate slowly, savoring the flavors. While he ate, he watched the people, especially Merry and Briggs.

He wasn’t whole. Might never be whole. Other men had faced that same truth and rebuilt their lives around the strengths they still had and the work they could do.

People had died in Jenkell’s damn spooky house. Children had died in that house because he hadn’t been skilled enough or strong enough to protect them. Was damaging his leg under the guise of helping it get stronger some kind of self-punishment for that failure to protect and defend?

No one else blamed him for the ones he couldn’t save. Maybe it was time to stop blaming himself.

TWO

Lucivar landed at the communal eyrie and swore as his right ankle sang with pain. He loved his son. He really did. But this morning he didn’t love the little beast quite so much.

He didn’t think about the aches and pains that came from broken bones or other wounds. No Eyrien did. They were a part of life, a part of being a warrior. And considering the life he’d led during the seventeen hundred years he’d survived in Terreille, he had fewer aches and pains than most men his age. But having that ankle hurt today pissed him off.

He didn’t shield the bone in his own eyrie. It needed to work without that brace made of power, especially since the bones didn’t actually need that brace. Shielding at all was mostly caution on his part. He’d seen enough men go down in a fight because an enemy knew about previous injuries and aimed blows at the weak spots. No one outside his family had known the extent of his injuries—until last night when he’d allowed Rainier to be shown the truth. No one knew his weak spots. In truth, he didn’t have any. Jaenelle was an excellent Healer, and the bones and muscles she’d repaired ten years ago might ache a bit quicker than they had a century ago, but they were whole and healthy.

Regardless of being whole and healthy, having a pot slammed into his ankle still hurt like a wicked bitch. Which he would have avoided if Marian hadn’t suddenly gotten sick and begun eliminating food from both ends. So he’d been focused on her and not on the boy.

Just a stomach upset that was going around the village, Nurian had said when she checked Marian and gave him bottles of the tonic she and the Healers in Riada had been making nonstop since yesterday. Marian would be fine by tomorrow. Which meant Daemonar would probably be puking all over the bed tonight.

He could do with fewer thrills in his life. Especially today. But for the next couple of hours, his father was looking after his wife and boy, and he could focus his attention on Surreal and Rainier. Jaenelle had given him the boundaries—and some very specific things each of them shouldn’t do—but deciding how to work those bodies to best advantage was up to him. So he needed to be here today to take them through careful moves, assessing muscles to help Surreal and Rainier become as healthy as they could be.

In a couple of days, he could turn the workouts over to Hallevar. But he couldn’t give anyone else command today because there was something else he needed to assess.

He stopped for a moment and put a protective shield around the bones of both ankles. Then he walked into the communal eyrie.

The front room was big enough for weapons practice and was also used for occasional social events. This morning the eighteen adult Eyrien males who lived around Riada were waiting for him, including Falonar, his second-in-command; Hallevar, the arms master and fighting instructor who had been one of his own teachers; Kohlvar, who was a weapons maker; Zaranar and Rothvar, who were trained guards and good fighters; Endar, who served as a guard but wasn’t really suited to be one; and Tamnar, a youth Hallevar had brought with him to the service fairs to get the young Warlord out of Terreille.

Not a lot of men to guard close to half of Ebon Rih, but when two of those men were Warlord Princes—and one of those Warlord Princes wore Ebon-gray Jewels—nineteen men were quite sufficient to take care of any problems around Riada and Doun that couldn’t be handled by the courts of Lady Shayne and Lady Alyss.

Of course, when there were only nineteen men, there wasn’t much of a buffer when two of them scraped against each other’s tempers. It was no secret that he and Falonar had never liked each other, but they had worked well together these past two years—until recently, anyway. Something had changed in Falonar over the past few weeks—or maybe the excitement of settling in a new place had worn off, and Lucivar was now getting a more accurate look at the man Falonar had become.

He spotted Surreal and Rainier standing off to the side just as Falonar turned to see who had come in.

“The weather is fine,” Falonar said. “We should be working outside.”

Publicly criticizing or challenging every order he gave was one of the things that had changed in Falonar’s behavior in the past few weeks. Nothing wrong with the second-in-command challenging an order in private, but these pissing contests in front of the other men had to stop.

“Well, today we’re working inside,” Lucivar replied mildly, knowing the mildness would sting Falonar’s pride in a way responding with temper couldn’t, because, in a situation like this, temper was given only to an equal.

“Only the weak need to work inside on a day like this,” Falonar said, putting more bite in his voice even as his face flushed at being spoken to as if he were a boy.

Lucivar studied the other Warlord Prince. The tone of that last remark almost sounded like a challenge. Almost. Falonar had aristo arrogance on top of Eyrien arrogance, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew Sapphire couldn’t survive a fight with Ebon-gray.

“Fine,” Lucivar said dismissively.“Hallevar,Tamnar, you’re in here with me. Falonar, you can take the others out to play in the snow if that’s what you need to do.”

Falonar’s gold eyes blazed with anger. He shifted his weight into a fighting stance.

The door opened, and Jillian rushed in.

Both men turned toward the girl who had shifted a little more toward being a woman in the past few months.

“You’re supposed to be in school,” Lucivar said at the same time Falonar said, “You’re supposed to be home doing chores.”

Jillian lifted her chin. “I want to be here. I can learn to fight, same as Tamnar.”

“I forbid it,” Falonar said.

“You what?” Surreal said, taking a step toward Falonar.

All the Warlords flinched at the cutting edge in her voice and took a step back, indicating they wanted no part of this fight.

Lucivar swore silently. Great. Fine. Wonderful. Just what he needed—Surreal being pissed off at Falonar. Or more pissed off than usual. On the other hand, if they took a couple of swings at each other, maybe that would clear the air a bit.

Falonar rounded on Surreal and said viciously, “Just because you want to grow a pair of balls doesn’t mean I should permit an Eyrien girl to do the same.”

“Growing a pair of balls is easy,” Surreal snarled. “Growing a heart, that’s a lot more difficult.”

“This is none of your business,” Falonar shouted.

“And none of yours,” she shouted back. “Just because you’re humping her sister—”

“Surreal!” Rainier snapped.

“—doesn’t give you the right to control Jillian’s life!”

“Damn right!” Lucivar roared loudly enough to make everyone flinch. Even Surreal, although she was the one who looked ready to ram a knife between his ribs, which was a sharp reminder that dealing with a Dea al Mon witch wasn’t the same as dealing with an Eyrien witch. “If anyone gets to control someone’s life around here, it’s me.” He pointed at Jillian, then pointed to a corner of the room that was away from the men. “You. Over there.” He pointed at Surreal, then pointed at the other far corner. “You. Over there.”

Surreal bared her teeth. Her right hand curled.

He wasn’t sure if that was a habitual reaction when she was angry or if she was now holding a sight-shielded stiletto.

“Witchling, if you want to kiss dirt, I will let you have the first punch.”

He waited, watching her.

She stormed over to the corner he’d indicated. Thank the Darkness for that.

Lucivar turned to Falonar and kept his voice low. “What in the name of Hell is wrong with you? Did you wake up this morning and decide to piss off everyone with tits?”

“She doesn’t belong here,” Falonar said, keeping his voice just as low. “If we lived as Eyriens should live, she wouldn’t have tried to be here. And we wouldn’t have to tolerate outsiders among us.”

“Surreal is not an outsider. She’s a member of my family.”

He saw the disgust in Falonar’s eyes, the contempt, and almost heard the word Falonar didn’t quite dare say. At least, not yet. Half-breed. For most Eyriens, family had to do with having the proper bloodlines. Lucivar didn’t give a damn about bloodlines. For him, family was about heart.

“If she was good enough to sleep with, she’s good enough for everything else,” he said too softly.

“Tell that to all the men who paid her to spread her legs.”

He didn’t play by anyone else’s rules, and since Falonar seemed to want him to start a fight over the way Surreal used to earn a living, he wasn’t going to oblige.

“Well,” Lucivar said with a savage smile, “if that’s how you feel about her, I’ll have her tally up your bill.”

As he walked away from Falonar, he glanced at Surreal, decided she wouldn’t explode in the next few minutes—at least, not at anyone but him—and went to the corner where Jillian waited, looking scared and defiant.

Resting one hand on the wall, he spread his wings to give them some privacy. It occurred to him that he could have created a sight shield and aural shield around them—and he knew that he would seriously hurt any man who cut off a young girl in that way from the watchful eyes of other adults.

“Why aren’t you in school?” he asked quietly.

“Because I want to be here.” Her voice trembled, but she looked him in the eyes.

Girl has balls, he thought. Of course, running tame in his home might have something to do with it, since she watched Daemonar and was used to being around him. But this was different, and they both knew it.

“School is important,” he said.

“So is this.”

All kinds of messages in those three words. And he hadn’t forgotten what he’d been told about the attack on the Eyriens here two years ago. Hallevar had made light of it at the time to spare the girl’s feelings, but Jillian had killed her first man that day, putting an arrow in the bastard’s heart. That had been the main reason he’d let her continue an informal kind of training after it became clear that the other women wanted no part of that training.

“Has anyone tried to hurt you, Jillian?”

She hesitated. “Not here.”

Not here could explain why Nurian had made the decision to take her younger sister and emigrate to Kaeleer.

“Practice and training are done in the morning,” Jillian said.

True enough, but this morning just proved that being around the men wasn’t the right time for Jillian’s training, not if Falonar was going to snap and snarl the whole time the girl was with them.

He closed his wings and lowered his hand. “You go on to school now. You tell the teacher you’re late because I kept you. If she has a problem with that, she can talk to me.”

“But . . .”

“If you don’t give me any sass about this, I will figure out how to work in some regular, formal training for you.” Especially now, when the girl might be a good working partner for both Surreal and Rainier.

Jillian’s shoulders relaxed. She smiled shyly. “Yes, sir.”

He stepped aside and watched her run out of the eyrie, her steps light. Then he walked over to his next problem, who looked ready to tear out his throat with her teeth.

With her black hair and sun-kissed brown skin, Surreal looked like a beautiful woman from Dhemlan or Hayll—until a man noticed the delicately pointed ears. They were an indication, and warning, of her other bloodline. Just as he had a dual heritage of Hayllian and Eyrien but was Eyrien in every way that counted, Surreal was Dea al Mon, one of the Children of the Wood. They were a fiercely private and feral race who lived closer to the land than any other humans. And because they seemed to be born knowing what to do with a knife, they were deadly.

He wasn’t afraid of Surreal—he was a Warlord Prince and his Jewels outranked hers—but he never forgot the Dea al Mon side of her nature when he dealt with her temper.

That didn’t mean he wouldn’t give her a kick in the ass if she needed one.