He laughed. “Fair enough. Now get home before your sister frets about this chat.”

“Yes, sir.”

A bright smile. Clear eyes. Didn’t take much to set Jillian’s world right and give her a sweet wind under her wings.

He would do his best to make sure things stayed that way.

Surreal cleared the table and stacked the dishes on a tray. The Tavern didn’t open until late morning, but apparently these two men came in once a week at this time to have a quiet breakfast of whatever was available while they talked business for an hour. They’d been startled to find her instead of Merry, but they were quite happy with the casserole, chicken, and coffee she put on the table. And even though they kept a running tab here, they’d left a generous tip. She wasn’t sure whether that was to thank her for letting them have the breakfast or for not tossing them out in the snow.

Smiling, she set the tray on the bar, took a step back, and extended her arms.

Her body flowed, slow and easy, in a series of moves she’d seen Jaenelle make with practice sticks no longer than her arm. This wasn’t training for an Eyrien weapon. These moves belonged to the Dea al Mon.

As she completed the last turn, she saw Falonar watching her from the doorway.

What was he doing at The Tavern? He knew she was staying here, so unless he was looking for a ripping fight, why in the name of Hell would he come to see her?

“Every time you pick up an Eyrien weapon, you mock my race,” he said.

My skill with weapons was one of the things that used to intrigue you. At least until we got better acquainted. “And here I thought I was just honing my skill with a knife. Besides, those moves weren’t created for an Eyrien weapon.” She swung herself over the bar. “We’re not officially open yet, but I can give you a cup of coffee.”

He walked up to the bar. “I suppose you’re pleased with what happened today.”

She filled two mugs with coffee. “The gossip hasn’t reached me yet, so I don’t know if I’m pleased or not.”

“Lucivar is pushing the Eyriens out of Ebon Rih.”

“All of them, or just the ones who think having a cock entitles them to food, shelter, and sex whenever they want it?”

Anger flashed in his eyes.

She sipped her coffee and watched him. She had been attracted to the arrogant Eyrien Warlord Prince who had shown some respect for her skills—attracted enough to let her heart as well as her body get tangled up with him. But the Falonar she’d first known wasn’t the same man as the one staring at her now. She wouldn’t have slept with this man unless she was planning to drive a knife between his ribs while he came.

She assessed him as a client. As prey. A man could hide his true nature—and true feelings—for only so long, and she was finally seeing what desperation and ambition had hidden for almost two years.

Falonar hadn’t changed because living in the Shadow Realm had soured him somehow; he’d just gotten comfortable enough to slip back into being what he had been before coming to Kaeleer.

“I’m trying to remember that you’re not tainted,” she said quietly.

“What?”

“You survived the purge two years ago, so whatever corruption is in you didn’t come from your association with Prythian or Dorothea or Hekatah. Maybe it’s simply what you are because you’re an Eyrien aristo.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you?” She set her coffee aside and leaned on the bar, looking friendly and vulnerable. She was neither. “It must have pissed you off when you came strutting into the hunting camp as a boy and realized there was a half-breed bastard there who was stronger and better than anything you could ever be. He should have groveled in front of you, grateful to lick your boots. Instead he looked you in the eyes and not only told you he was better than all of you; he showed you he was better. Must have choked you to have to compete with him and never win—at least not fairly.”

“I never cheated in a competition,” Falonar snarled.

“No, you probably didn’t. But that doesn’t mean you weren’t pleased when someone else did something that pushed the odds in your favor.” She leaned a little more, showing more cleavage—and watched the way his eyes lingered a moment too long.

“You finished your training and were no longer in Yaslana’s shadow because he defied Prythian and ended up a slave being controlled by a Ring of Obedience, while you ended up an aristo male moving in court circles, serving a bitch you hated, but you were always careful not to step too close to a line that might be seen as a challenge. And there was Lucivar, who, despite being a slave, was always crossing those lines and growing into the most lethal and feared warrior in the Realm of Terreille.”

She felt pressure on her first inner barrier. Not an actual attempt to force open the first level of her mind, more like someone leaning against a door to push it open just a crack and find out what was on the other side while claiming that he didn’t do anything.

A man could find out a lot of useful information while not doing anything. And maybe—maybe—because it was a passive move, it wouldn’t be considered a breach of the Blood’s code of honor.

She usually wore her Birthright Green Jewels, just like today, but she no longer hid the fact that the Gray was her Jewel of rank. Had he forgotten that? Was he actually hoping that she’d be lax about maintaining the barriers that protected her mind from the rest of the Blood? Was he that much of a fool?

“Skipping a few centuries, the Realm of Terreille becomes a very bad place, and people are scrambling to get away from the bitches who rule there,” she continued. “Among those people is an Eyrien Warlord Prince who comes from an aristo family and has significant social standing. And wearing Sapphire Jewels means he is a powerful, dominant male—a leader other men obey without question. No reason to think that will change. Aristo is aristo; power is power.”

She drifted down into the abyss until she reached the level of the Gray, then drifted back up until she was under him. She reached up with one delicate psychic tendril to get the honest flavor of his emotions.

She didn’t like the taste of those emotions. She didn’t like them at all. Apparently the story she was weaving around the little she knew and the lot she guessed based on knowing the two men was close to the truth.

“And what happens?” she said. “You come to Kaeleer with your credentials polished, expecting the Queens to fight over who gets the privilege of having you in her court, and there’s your old friend Lucivar, already here before you. And he’s not only serving the Queen the rest of you would give your balls to serve; he’s the ruler of the most prized bit of land in Askavi. Not only that, he’s no longer a half-breed bastard the rest of you can ignore. He comes from the most aristo family in the whole damn Realm. His father and uncle are the most powerful men in the whole damn Realm, not to mention being Witch’s Steward and Master of the Guard, which gives them even more status.”

“Just because they acknowledged him doesn’t mean he actually carries the bloodlines,” Falonar snapped.

“Blood sings to blood—and blood doesn’t lie. Sure, there are generations between Lucivar and Andulvar, but he is the High Lord’s son, and his mother did come from Andulvar’s line. An aristo among aristos. And he still doesn’t give a damn about any of that, does he? He’s just who he’s always been—a warrior, a leader, a strong man. Except now all the Eyriens who would have spit on him before have to walk softly because one word from him—one word—and that person gets tossed all the way back to Terreille. If the fool isn’t killed first.”

“What does any of this have to do with him gutting Eyrien culture and tradition?” Falonar shouted.

“What goes on in Ebon Rih is his version of Eyrien culture and tradition,” she replied sweetly.

“His version?” Falonar paced away from the bar and back. “You can’t have different versions and have the same people!”

“Maybe that’s the point. Maybe there needs to be a different version for the people who would otherwise be excluded from Eyrien culture.”

“Like who?”

“Besides Lucivar? How about Endar and Dorian’s little girl? A Queen. But her hair has curl. Not only is she not pure Eyrien; that curl proves she has a bit of a bloodline that isn’t from any of the long-lived races. What about Tamnar? He wouldn’t have had much of a future among your people, which is probably why he risked the service fair in the first place. Eyrien culture and tradition were already rooted here, Falonar. It’s just not the same as what you left.”

Falonar’s mug shattered. “Back in Askavi, if a bitch like you spoke to me like that, I’d have you whipped.”

Surreal called in a towel and tossed it on the bar to sop up the coffee. “Bitch like me. Yes, let’s address that final topic before you go. Well, two topics really, and that’s the second one. You know what none of you big strong Eyriens have admitted? Except Lucivar. The man may be a pain in the ass, but he does have brains. You all came to the Shadow Realm expecting the other races to be cowed by a warrior race. Because that’s what the Eyriens are, aren’t they? Warriors, bred and trained. But no one was cowed by Eyriens because, in Kaeleer, you are not the race that is feared.”

Surreal slowly reached up and hooked her long black hair behind one delicately pointed ear. “They are called the Dea al Mon. The Children of the Wood. They know as much about fighting as you do. Maybe more, since they have always followed the Old Ways of the Blood. Which brings us to the last topic—my bloodlines.”

“You have no bloodlines.” Falonar’s voice was harsh, and his hands were clenched.

“On my sire’s side, you’re probably right.”

“You have no connection to the SaDiablos beyond what they give you.”

“That’s true too. I don’t have one drop of blood in common with Lucivar or Daemon or the High Lord. I only used that name when I came to Kaeleer as a way to spit in Dorothea SaDiablo’s face. But the High Lord decided to let that claim stand and accepted me as family. So you’re correct that calling myself a SaDiablo doesn’t give me the right to call myself aristo. My mother, on the other hand ...” She brushed her finger over the curve of her ear. “My mother was a Dea al Mon Queen and Black Widow. If she hadn’t been broken by Dorothea’s son and then murdered by one of the bitch’s assassins, she could have been the Queen of the Dea al Mon’s Territory. As it was, when she made the transition to demon-dead, she became the Queen of the Harpies. So no matter how you turn it, my mother’s bloodline is more than aristo enough to make up for any lack by the cock and balls who sired me.”

She straightened up and stared at him across a slab of wood that either of them could destroy in a heartbeat.

She vanished her Green Jewel and called in her Gray. Then gave him a moment to remember just whom he’d been trying to play with.

“My mother and I skinned my father and hung him up as meat for the Hell Hounds while he was still alive. We soaked in a hot spring and listened to him scream while they fed. So I think I come by my interest in, and skill with, a knife honestly. Don’t you?”

He backed away from her. Backed all the way to the door.

She waited until he flew away before she used Craft to turn the physical lock. Then she added a Green lock on the door.

She cleaned up the coffee and broken mug, relieved that Briggs must have some kind of shield on the wood to keep it from being damaged by spills.

Then, having made her decision, she sent a Gray psychic thread to a Black mind.

*Sadi?*

*Surreal?*

*Are you busy?*

*That depends on what you want.*

She heard the amusement in his voice and rolled her eyes. Maybe it was better if he felt amused. *I’d like you to find out what you can about Falonar’s bloodlines.*

Cold now shivered along that psychic thread.

*Why?* he asked too softly.

*I have a suspicion that one of the things that bothers him the most about Lucivar—and now me—is the realization that we come from families that are far more aristo than his, and I’m curious why that matters so much.*

*If you want this to stay between the two of us, it will take a couple of days. You know what Lucivar is like when he has to deal with paperwork, and I think this particular deluge is going to test his self-control. Besides, Father and I promised to work up a rough draft of a contract for serving the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih.*

Yes, she knew what Lucivar was like. A tiger with a sore paw was more agreeable than Yaslana confronted with a stack of paperwork. *It can wait.*

She broke the link and went back to preparing The Tavern for business. A few minutes later, Rainier tapped on the door. He had two loaves of sweet-and-spice bread to serve with the soup, along with some pastries just for her.

Pushing Falonar to the back of her mind, she spent the rest of the day listening to gossip and working with a man whose company she enjoyed.

SIX

It was late afternoon on the following day when Falonar walked into Kohlvar’s workshop to have a private meeting with the men he considered the core group of Eyrien males living around Riada. They nodded a greeting, but no one shifted to attention, ready to take an assignment from him.

Had they already heard he’d been stripped of his position as second-in-command?

“We need to talk about what we want for ourselves and the Eyrien people before Yaslana makes any other decisions for us,” Falonar said.

“Already know what I want,” Hallevar replied. “That’s why I gave him my hand yesterday.”

“We all did,” Rothvar said, tipping his head to indicate the men present.

“You signed a contract with him?” Falonar said, made too off balance by that news to hide his anger.

“Don’t have the paper yet, but we will,” Hallevar said. “We can change our minds if we don’t like the final terms, but from what he said, we’ll still have the eyries we’ve made our homes and a quarterly wage drawn from Lucivar’s share of the tithes, and work that suits us.”

“The way Yaslana rules this valley,” Zaranar said, studying Falonar. “Why does it chew your ass?”

“Because we weren’t born to be tame!” Falonar shouted. “He expects us to be content with training exercises instead of meeting an enemy. By the time he’s through gutting the heart out of what we are, we’ll be nothing but Dhemlans with wings. Look what he’s doing to Endar. A teacher?”

Kohlvar wiped the knife he’d been sharpening on the whetstone and picked up the next one. “Why not? It’s the work Endar wants to do, and here there’s no shame in being a teacher at his age. You’re aristo, and aristos get more schooling than the rest of us. If Lucivar is willing to let all Eyrien youngsters have more schooling than we got, let them have it—especially if it’s something all the other children in this Realm are getting.”