“I won’t bring you coffee because you outrank me, but I will bring you some out of pity, since you are looking pretty pitiful right now.”
“Fine, then. Bring me a large mug of pity.” If he was getting this much temper and sass from lighter-Jeweled witches, thank the Darkness Jaenelle hadn’t come here to check his ribs. She’d probably yank one out and beat him with it. Of course, she would put the rib back and heal it when she was done, but still . . .
Merry returned with a large mug of black coffee and a warmed piece of berry pie.
“Did you get any breakfast?” she asked.
“Some.”
“I could make you a sandwich or heat up some soup.”
She wasn’t through being pissed at him, but unlike Marian, she hadn’t gotten a look at his ribs, so she had less reason to hold on to her anger.
“Thanks, but this is plenty.” He dug into the pie.
Merry looked like she was getting the place set up for business, but she wasn’t actually accomplishing anything except keeping an eye on him. Finally she came up beside him.
“You did it on purpose, didn’t you? Surreal was raging about you yesterday, and what she said made sense.”
Well, that wasn’t good. Of course, it was never good when a raging female made sense to other females, because that usually got a man into a whole lot of trouble.
“It doesn’t matter what you said; you didn’t make a mistake,” Merry said. “You knew exactly what you were doing when you left yourself open for that last blow.”
He sipped his coffee and studied her. Then he sighed. “She needed to beat an enemy into the ground. I figured I was the only one who could take the pounding she needed to inflict.”
“Well, why didn’t you ask Jaenelle to make one of those fancy shadows and fix it so Surreal could beat it into a mushy pulp?”
He shook his head. “Jaenelle has made some of those shadows for me to beat down to a mushy pulp, so I can tell you it doesn’t feel the same. It’s safe because you know it isn’t real. There are no consequences for what you do or serious risks for yourself. Most of the time that’s a good way to purge temper and bad feelings. But when something has festered for a lot of years like it has with Surreal, sometimes you need to work off that temper by fighting against a flesh-and-blood opponent, knowing there are consequences and risks.”
“You let yourself get hurt.”
He heard the undercurrent of anger building in her voice again. She just wasn’t going to let go of that detail. “Okay, that part was a mistake. Your gender gets mean when you fight, and while I took into account that Surreal is stronger than she looks, I forgot that she can be a sneaky bitch. She used her own illness as the bait for the trap, and I fell for it.” And damn if he didn’t admire her for it. Hearing that raspy breathing and seeing her falter, he’d hesitated instead of pushing harder to put her on the floor and end the match.
The coffee had cooled enough, so he drained his mug with long swallows before setting it on the bar.
Merry fetched the coffeepot and refilled his mug. “You’re the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih. You’re not supposed to fall for a trap.”
“If she’d been anyone but family, I wouldn’t have.”
She offered no other comment, but his answer must have satisfied some unspoken concern, because she finally started doing her own work while he finished the piece of pie.
When he and Merry reached their usual easy silence, Lucivar figured it was time to leave if he wanted to avoid running into Surreal. He wasn’t ready to deal with her yet.
As he eased off the stool, he said, “Thanks for the pie and coffee.”
“If Marian is still annoyed with you come midday, I’ll have a spicy stew cooking,” she said. “And if you can avoid riling up the women you know for a few hours, I can leave out the big dose of pity.”
Lucivar gave her a sharp grin. “Darling, whatever you’re dishing out is too tart to be pity.”
She didn’t laugh, but she couldn’t keep a straight face either. “Go away.”
“I’m going. Even if Marian works off her mad, save me a bowl of that stew.”
As he reached the door, a young Eyrien Warlord from the northern camps burst into The Tavern, followed by the Eyriens who had been at the communal eyrie.
“The landen villages at the north end of the valley are under attack!” the Warlord said.
“Who’s attacking?” Lucivar demanded.
“Don’t know. I was heading back to camp when I was ordered to come here and find you. Not just Jhinka. Whoever is fighting the Eyriens is also Blood. Our men have pushed the fight away from the villages, but we need help. We need it now.”
“Did you contact the Master of the Guard in Agio?” Lucivar asked.
A moment’s hesitation. “I didn’t, no. I was told to fetch you. Someone else must have gone for Lord Randahl.”
Most of the Eyriens in the northern camps wore Jewels with sufficient power to send a psychic call for help to the Blood in Agio. Hell’s fire, there were plenty of them who could reach him here. If they needed help so badly against this unknown enemy, why waste time having a Rose-Jeweled Warlord ride the Winds to Riada to fetch him?
There was one reason he could think of.
Lucivar eyed the Eyriens Falonar had left behind this morning. “You coming with me?”
“We are,” one of them answered.
“Then head out. I’ll meet you there.” He turned and walked toward the short hallway in the back of the building that held the water closets available to customers.
“We’ll wait for you,” one of the Warlords said.
Lucivar stopped. Turned. “I’m not driving a Coach to a killing field, and I’m not shielding all of you on the Red Winds and then dropping down onto a killing field. So you catch the Winds and go. I’ll still arrive close behind you. But first I’m going to take a piss.”
“The Red Winds?” one of the men asked. “Not the Ebon-gray?”
Lucivar shifted his weight—and deliberately winced. “Not today.”
Two flashes of emotion filled the room, equal in intensity, at his inability to hide how much an imprudent move hurt his ribs—alarm from Merry and relieved anticipation from the Eyriens who watched him.
“Go on,” he said.
Waiting until the Eyriens left The Tavern, he raised a hand and used Craft to put a Red lock on the front door. Then he went into one of the water closets. He’d opened his fly when Merry burst into the small room.
“Hell’s fire, woman,” he growled.
“Something is wrong,” she said. “This all sounds wrong.”
Of course it did. It was all wrong. “Get out of here.”
“Lucivar.”
“Merry, he’s young and excitable. If things in the north were as bad as he said, he would have been there fighting with the other Eyriens, and I would have been summoned on a psychic thread by Lady Erika’s Master of the Guard. So stop fussing. I’ll take care of this.” He gently pushed her out of the room and closed the door in her face.
He had no doubt in his mind that he could—and would—take care of this. He just hoped he could convince Merry of that sufficiently to delay her sounding the alarm. He didn’t want anyone standing with him. Not today. Today he wanted to know with absolute certainty the faces of his enemies.
That much decided, he quickly prepared for the coming fight.
First he created the Ebon-gray shields he usually put around his anklebones to give them extra support. Next, he shaped an Ebon-gray shield over his ribs. Then he called in the Ring of Honor that Jaenelle had given every male in her First Circle. She no longer wore Ebony Jewels, but the Ebony power she had put into those Rings to fuel the shields in them was still as potent as ever.