He knew better than to call his auntie’s bluff, so he put a skintight shield over both forearms. Then he began to move through the warm-up while he waited to see who would show up. This was a beginner’s class in fighting. Well, sparring. Fighting would come later. But this was offered to the instructors whom Uncle Daemon had hired, as well as the staff at the Hall.
He’d gone through the warm-up once when Prince Raine walked in. Not unexpected, since the instructor had been joining his little group for these exercises while they’d been at the Amdarh school.
“Sparring sticks are over there.” Daemonar nodded to the stack. His father had sent twenty for the adults and boys and twenty-four that were a little shorter and lighter for the girls. Clearly Lucivar had indulged in a flight of optimism to think there would be that many who would get up this early in order to sweat and earn bruises.
Mikal was next, followed by a handful of Scelties.
“You all sit over there and watch,” Mikal said. “And no chewing on sparring sticks or arrows. If you do that, you won’t be allowed to herd anything for a whole day.”
“Is that a serious punishment?” Raine asked Daemonar, coming up close enough to, he hoped, not be heard.
Daemonar nodded. “For a Sceltie? Oh, yeah. Just wait until the girls start spending too much time in the bathroom getting ready for class and get nipped in the shower.”
Raine turned away and cleared his throat. Loudly.
Two of the younger instructors came in next. One had been at the Amdarh school. Daemonar didn’t know where Uncle Daemon had found the other Warlord.
Weston and Holt came in together. At least with Weston present, there was one other man experienced in fighting, even if the sparring sticks were unfamiliar to the Dhemlan sword and shield, which was Weston’s new position.
And then . . .
“Uncle Daemon?”
The black cotton trousers were loose and designed for movement. The sleeveless cotton shirt . . . Well, laborers wore shirts like that, and it wasn’t that different from the clothing Mikal, Raine, and Holt were wearing, but on his uncle the simple clothes looked more like a uniform of battle—and they weren’t new.
“I promised your father.” The sound was more growl than words.
Oh, he would have loved to have eavesdropped on that discussion. And he wondered if the demanded promise, and Uncle Daemon’s compliance, had to do with Witch now taking on a form tangible enough to touch—and hug.
“Don’t think for a moment that I don’t need you, because I do,” Lucivar had said the night before Daemonar left Ebon Rih. “But right now Daemon needs you more.”
Daemonar acknowledged each man, then said, “Let’s form a circle, and I’ll show you the moves we use in the warm-up for sparring with Eyrien sticks.”
The men found a place in the circle. Daemon took the place on Daemonar’s left, a subtle acknowledgment that, in this room, his nephew was the dominant male.
The family had scattered and was coming back together in a different pattern. But the triangle around the Queen of Ebon Askavi would hold, and all of Kaeleer would have swords and shields—and strong young Queens—because of them.
Smiling, Daemonar looked at the other men. “Shall we begin?”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks to Blair Boone for continuing to be my first reader and for providing encouragement and feedback in the story’s roughest stage; to Debra Dixon for being second reader; to Doranna Durgin for maintaining the Web site; to Adrienne Roehrich for running the official fan page and Ashley Laxton for running the Anne Bishop Fan Group and Spoiler Fan Group pages on Facebook; to Jennifer Crow for being a sounding board and sharing so many interesting bits of information; to Anne Sowards and Jennifer Jackson for the feedback that helps me write a better story; to all the publicity and marketing folks at PRH who help get the book into readers’ hands; and to Pat Feidner for always being supportive and encouraging.
And a special thanks to all the people who let me know how much my stories helped them through difficult times. You’re the reason I kept showing up at the writing desk to do what I do.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
New York Times bestselling author Anne Bishop is a winner of the William L. Crawford Memorial Fantasy Award, presented by the International Association for the Fantastic in the Arts, for The Black Jewels Trilogy. She is also the author of the Ephemera series, the Tir Alainn trilogy, the Novels of the Others, and the World of the Others novels—including Wild Country and Lake Silence. She lives in upstate New York.