“Need to get this one to the Healer,” they said. “He was thrown through the shopwindow, and the defensive shields he had around himself didn’t hold. His back and legs are cut up pretty bad.”
Lucivar nodded, giving unspoken permission.
٭When we arrived to break up the fight, Daemonar ran off,٭ Rothvar said on a psychic spear thread. ٭Don’t know where he is right now. He’s hurt. Can’t say how badly.٭ He put a hand on the puppy’s head. ٭This one was told to stay out of the fight, but he started barking loud enough to bring us and the Queen’s guard running.٭
“Something has to be done about that brat!” one of the young men shouted as soon as the men carrying the stretcher headed down the street with their injured friend. “Who does he think he is?”
“He thinks he’s the son of the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih,” the Riada Master of the Guard replied. He waved a hand, drawing everyone’s attention to where Lucivar stood. “So why don’t you tell his father why all of you got into a fight with one boy?”
Two of the Warlords who had been in the fight and the one who had stayed out of it looked at Lucivar and turned sickly pale, confirming that they lived in Ebon Rih, even if they didn’t live in Riada. The other two were stupid enough to look defiant.
“The brat started the fight,” one of the fools said. “We were just having a little fun.”
Lucivar smiled a lazy, arrogant smile. “And what was said that provoked that first punch?”
“We didn’t say anything,” the second fool said.
٭Bitch,٭ Tagg said, squirming in Rothvar’s arms. ٭Whore. Suck cock.٭
Lucivar watched as fury filled Rothvar’s eyes. Zaranar’s and Hallevar’s too. What surprised him was feeling the same level of fury pumping out of Riada’s Master of the Guard.
“What do you want done with these curs, Prince?” the Master asked.
Thunder rumbled. Lightning flashed. The storm would reach the village in minutes.
Lucivar looked at the shopkeeper. “You figure out the cost of repairing or replacing everything that was damaged in this fight, then double it. Give the figure to the Master of the Guard and Lord Rothvar. Everyone who was involved in the fight—and that includes my boy—will each pay a share of the cost.” He looked at the Master. “Get them cleaned up and have the Queen’s Healer deal with whatever needs healing. Then hold them until I find out if the debt’s been sufficiently paid or if they’re going to forfeit their tongues.”
He ignored the young men’s protests and turned to Rothvar. ٭I’m going to find my boy. You get to shelter and take the pup with you.٭
٭Done.٭ Rothvar studied the sky and the advancing storm. ٭Not a good time to be flying.٭
٭No.٭ Turning away from all of them, he launched himself into the air and flew into the storm, heading for Ebon Askavi, the most likely place to find his son.
Hearing the quick knock, Daemon gave the Consort’s bedroom one swift look to be sure he’d eliminated all signs that he’d been hurt. Then he opened the door.
“Geoffrey?” He smiled at the Keep’s historian/librarian.
Geoffrey didn’t return the smile. “You’re needed.”
They hurried away from the Queen’s section of the Keep and continued on until they reached one of the areas reserved for guests and visitors. Spotting the boy and the Warlord Prince who stood next to him, Daemon rushed past Geoffrey.
“Daemonar! What . . . ?”
Daemon looked at Chaosti, who rested a hand on the shoulder of the defiant, bloodied, trembling boy. Still a Gray-Jeweled Warlord Prince, Chaosti had been the Warlord Prince of the Dea al Mon before he’d died in his sleep at the natural end of his life. He’d been a vigorous old man who made the transition to demon-dead with enviable ease, continuing his role as an advisor to those who now ruled his people. More important to Daemon, he had become a friend again over the past few years.
“I’m glad I beat the snot out of those wingless Jhinkas,” Daemonar shouted. “I’m glad!”
Calling anyone a Jhinka—a winged race that was an old enemy of the Eyriens—was the worst kind of insult. And calling someone a wingless Jhinka was the epitome of insults if you were an Eyrien boy.
“There’s a fire going in the sitting room,” Chaosti said, nodding to the open door. “I’ve asked for a basin of warm water and cloths, but there hasn’t been time to find out what sort of damage our little Brother has done to himself.”
They led the boy into the sitting room and stripped him out of his drenched clothes, since he’d managed to reach one of the Keep’s courtyards before the storm began pounding on the mountain, but hadn’t reached shelter. Between them they washed the simple cuts—Daemon using healing Craft on a couple of deeper ones—and examined him for injured muscles and damaged bones. Bruised ribs, a split lip, and some cuts, including ripped skin on his knuckles. The worst injury was a broken bone in the boy’s left arm.
After setting the bone, Daemon wrapped healing spells around the damage, then added a shield to hold the bone. And then . . .
“Hell’s fire, Uncle Daemon.” Daemonar stared at his arm in disgust. “What is that?”
“That?” Daemon looked mildly surprised by the question. “That, boyo, is a shield that will keep your forearm protected until the bone fully heals.” He turned to Chaosti. “Isn’t it obvious?”
Chaosti studied the arm and said solemnly, “It’s quite obvious.”
“It’s blue,” Daemonar protested. “It’s bright blue. Everything and everybody will be able to see it halfway up the mountain!”
Daemon smiled at his nephew. “Only halfway? Maybe I should . . .”
Daemonar tucked the arm beneath the blanket they had wrapped around him.
Setting aside the healing supplies, Daemon remained sitting on the footstool. “It’s time to tell us what this was about,” he said with a quiet gentleness that wasn’t any less a command made by the patriarch of the family.
Daemonar shook his head. “I can’t. I won’t tell you.”
Daemon felt cold anger whisper through his blood, saw the flash of fear in Daemonar’s eyes—felt Chaosti descend to the level of the Gray. Not that Gray could survive against the Black. Not that a man who was demon-dead didn’t understand what it meant to challenge the High Lord of Hell.
“They said mean things about Jillian and about . . . I won’t tell you. I won’t.”
“If you feel it isn’t prudent to tell your uncle what was said, are you willing to tell me?” Chaosti asked.
Did the boy realize or remember that Chaosti had a family connection to Surreal? Probably not, since Daemonar looked relieved at the suggestion.
“All right,” Daemon said. “You give Prince Chaosti a full report, including everything that was said. He will decide if it’s best that your father and I not know the details.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rising, Daemon walked to the door. He looked back to see Daemonar studying the bright blue shield—and saw Chaosti’s amused smile before the Dea al Mon Warlord Prince settled his lined face into a suitably grave expression before sitting on the footstool Daemon had just left.
He’d barely closed the door when he felt the presence of the Ebon-gray. Lucivar walked toward him, soaked to the skin, gold eyes hot with temper.
“Is he here?” Lucivar asked. “And when did you get back?”
Get back? He hadn’t left the Keep. At least, his body hadn’t left.