“I’m surprised Chaosti isn’t resting at this time of day.” Lucivar wrapped a towel around his waist.

Daemon found a blanket folded over the back of one of the chairs in the room—a blanket he was certain hadn’t been there a minute ago—and gave it to Lucivar.

“Five aristo Rihlander Warlords who are close to their majority if they haven’t already reached it against Daemonar,” Lucivar continued. “There was a sixth youngster, but he stayed out of the fight.”

Daemon stared at Lucivar. “Five against one?” Of course, it was five Warlords who probably didn’t know much about fighting beyond the basics against a Warlord Prince who had been learning how to fight almost from the moment he left the womb—and learning from a man who was a brilliant warrior on a killing field.

“One of them went through the glass window of a shop and is hurt fairly badly,” Lucivar replied. “I’m not sure that was deliberate. The other four look like they’ve been in a down and dirty brawl.”

Daemon shook his head. Eyrien arrogance and the natural inclination of the males to fight could never be underestimated. “What set him off? Did anyone tell you?”

“‘Bitch.’ ‘Whore.’ ‘Suck cock.’”

Daemon rose to the killing edge before he made a conscious decision that violence was required. “I beg your pardon?” he said too softly.

Lucivar watched him. “I don’t think Tagg knows what the words mean—except for ‘bitch,’ which means something different to him—but he didn’t hesitate to repeat the words he’d heard before Daemonar tore into those prick-asses.”

He stepped back from the killing edge, a little surprised by the effort it took to do it—and wondered if it was going to take more effort from now on. “I guess the boy was right about not wanting to tell us what was said.”

“But he’s telling Chaosti?” Lucivar snorted a laugh. “Well, safer, I suppose, since this isn’t Chaosti’s territory.”

A tray appeared on a nearby table, holding a pot of coffee, a bottle of brandy, and two mugs.

“Drink?” Daemon asked.

“Sure.”

He filled the mugs two-thirds of the way with coffee and topped them with brandy, giving the drinks a quick stir before bringing the mugs back to the fire.

Lucivar seemed lost in thought but roused when Daemon held out one of the mugs.

“I just contacted Marian to check on everyone. Surreal is at Nurian’s eyrie, talking to Jillian,” Lucivar said. “Marian and the girls are at our eyrie. The girls are teaching Morghann how to play hawks and hares, so Marian is playing with them to make sure the Sceltie learns the proper rules.”

“Thank the Darkness for that,” Daemon muttered. Then he studied Lucivar. “You know . . .”

“You brought three, you leave with three.”

“You are so strict.”

“Damn right.” Lucivar studied him in turn. “You all right? You feel . . . different.”

“Do I? How?” He wasn’t ready to talk about being in the Misty Place with Witch.

“After the headaches started, your psychic scent felt jagged. Now it doesn’t. Like something was mended and you’re well again.”

Not a dream. “That’s accurate enough.”

“Is it? Then I’m glad.”

“When things are settled about the boy, I need to talk to you and Marian about my . . . recovery. About changes I need to make.”

“Whenever you’re ready,” Lucivar replied.

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes before Chaosti walked into the room.

“Should I ask Draca to send in some yarbarah?” Daemon asked.

Chaosti shook his head. “But I thank you for the offer.” He used Craft to position another chair near the fire. They waited while he got comfortable. “What was said was sufficient cause for a Warlord Prince to defend members of his family. I believe it is in the best interest of everyone in this valley that the two of you don’t seek to know the details.”

“I haven’t seen Daemonar yet, but . . . if I may?” Lucivar said.

Daemon felt the brush of Red power against his first inner barrier—a request to share information. Glancing at Chaosti, he realized the same request had been made of the other man.

Eyriens on one side. Riada guards on the other. A shop with its outside displays in shambles and a large window broken. And the four Warlords who were almost standing after the fight.

“Has the debt been paid?” Lucivar asked.

“It’s been paid,” Chaosti replied. “It’s fortunate for those Warlords that your boy isn’t quite old enough yet to carry a honed knife and only had the wooden practice knife I gave him.” He smiled at Daemon. “As Lucivar shared Eyrien fighting techniques with some of my children and grandchildren, so I have offered instruction to Daemonar in the use of Dea al Mon fighting knives. He had a practice blade. When used with intent, they can be a formidable weapon without being a lethal one. Well, not lethal in the hands of one so young.”

The door opened. Daemonar walked into the room and came to stand before his father. He wore pants he must have left at the Keep after he’d outgrown them, because the legs were high above his ankles and he’d barely managed to close enough buttons on the fly for modesty. And yet everything about him, from the way he stood to the look in his eyes, was a blend of defiance and wariness.

May the Darkness have mercy on any man who had to raise an Eyrien boy.

“I’m not sorry,” Daemonar said.

“Yeah, boyo, I didn’t think you were,” Lucivar replied. He looked pointedly at the boy’s left arm. “Nice shield.”

“It’s blue.”

Lucivar snorted. “You’ll be able to see the damn thing halfway up the mountain.”

Daemonar turned to Daemon. “I told you.”

“So you did,” Daemon replied mildly—and then smiled. “Everything has a price. This will help you remember to consider the odds before you leap into a fight.”

٭You think that’s going to work?٭ Lucivar asked on a Red spear thread.

٭Not likely. He’s your son, after all. He won’t consider the odds a day after the color fades.٭

Lucivar focused on Daemonar again. “You’re going to pay for your share of the damage to the shop out of your allowance.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anything you want to tell us?”