“No.” Daemonar shook his head. “We couldn’t do that.”
Lucivar smiled. “No, we couldn’t do that. But sometimes that means drawing a line and being willing to fight someone you love into the ground if that’s the only way to protect them.” He looked away, seemed to be seeing something that wasn’t in the room. “Jaenelle Saetien reminds me of Jaenelle Angelline in a lot of ways, but they aren’t the same. When it came to Craft and spells and the use of power, my sister was brilliant and could do things no one else in the entire history of the Blood had done. Things no one else will ever do again. Her ideas didn’t always work, but she wasn’t impetuous or careless. Jaenelle Saetien is a child in a way that Jaenelle Angelline never could be, because your cousin is growing up safe under her father’s protection.”
“So are we. Growing up safe.” Uncle Daemon wasn’t the only Warlord Prince who took care of his family.
Lucivar laughed softly, then sobered. “Yeah, you are safe, and I don’t know if you’ll ever appreciate how much that means to me and your uncle. You’ll carry your own scars. That’s part of growing up. But you won’t carry the kind that Daemon and I carry. You won’t have to live with those kinds of scars.”
Serious talk. “Would you tell me about those scars?”
Something about the look in Lucivar’s eyes made him wonder what line he’d just crossed.
“That’s campfire talk,” Lucivar finally said. “Private talk. But not until you’re older.” He pushed away from the desk. “I need to go to Dhemlan. Better your uncle Daemon hear about this adventure from me than from someone else since I know what to say to smooth it over.”
He and his sister, Titian, and his younger brother, Andulvar, were protected in their father’s house, but outside the eyrie . . .
“You should talk to Titian.” The words were out before he considered if he was protecting his sister or betraying a trust. But talk of scars and growing up made him think this wasn’t something he should keep to himself any longer.
“Later,” Lucivar said, heading for the door. “I’ll be back before your bedtimes if Titian wants to talk.”
“No, sir.” Daemonar hesitated when his father turned to face him—an Ebon-gray Warlord Prince responding to the sound of a challenge issued by a Green-Jeweled Warlord Prince. Then he stepped up to the line. “You should talk to her before you go to Dhemlan.”
A crackling silence as the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih studied him.
“It’s that important?” Lucivar finally asked.
Was it? Titian had been excited and happy about her secret, but lately she’d been unhappy and afraid of what Lucivar and Marian would say when they found out. “Yes, sir. I think it is.”
“All right.” Lucivar walked out of the study.
Daemonar bent at the waist and braced his hands on his thighs. Challenging a male as strong and as powerful as his father was a messy way to commit suicide, and even a son couldn’t count on getting away with a challenge without paying a harsh price.
But he had gotten away with it. Sure, he’d argued with his father plenty of times and had even sassed him on occasion, but what was overlooked in a boy—up to a point, anyway—wasn’t tolerated in a youth, especially one who wore a dark Jewel. Even though he was years and years away from that day, the closer he came to being considered an adult, the more dangerous it became to test the temper of the Ebon-gray.
It will be all right, Daemonar thought as he left the study and went into the kitchen to see what his mother might have for a snack. Father will know what to do for Titian.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
Spotting his daughter at the far end of the play yard, where a stream filled a small pool before continuing down the mountain, Lucivar considered all the messages—intentional and unintentional—that he’d picked up from Daemonar.
What had been said that had pushed Daemonar to draw a line? A small one, sure, but this was different from their usual pissing contests. The boy knew something about Titian, something that hadn’t been shared with him or Marian.
The boy wasn’t looking to get his sister in trouble in order to draw attention away from his own dumb-ass choice. The demand that he talk to the girl now was . . . protective. Concerned.
Titian was his quiet little witchling, a gentle contrast to her brothers. Why was Daemonar concerned about her?
Lucivar wasn’t trying to approach with any stealth, but Titian was so focused on the paper in front of her, she didn’t realize he was there until his shadow fell over her. Then she gasped, closed the pad of paper, and hunched in on herself as if she’d been caught doing something shameful.
Going down on one knee beside her, Lucivar wondered about the misery he saw in her face.
“What are you doing, witchling?” he asked quietly. “Will you show me?”
“It’s not Eyrien,” she mumbled, glancing up at him.
The tears that filled her eyes ripped his heart. “Okay.”
She opened the pad of paper and looked away from him.
Lucivar frowned at the half-finished drawing of the pool and the flowers Marian had planted to bring some color to a spot they all enjoyed in the summer.
“I’m sorry, witchling. I don’t understand why this makes you unhappy. I think you’ve captured the pool and your mother’s flowers pretty well. I’m not an expert about such things, but I can see the difference in the flowers and—”
“A real Eyrien wouldn’t want to draw flowers,” Titian said.
He ruthlessly leashed the fury rising in him before she sensed it.
Now he knew why Daemonar had pushed at him.
Scars.
The boy had known about the drawings and hadn’t tattled on his sister—and why should he?—but now he needed someone else to know about the hurt. Which meant the hurt was recent.
Lucivar snorted, a dismissive sound. “Whoever said that doesn’t know much about Eyriens.”
Her startled look made him tighten the leash on his temper until it hurt. So. Another Eyrien had slid that needle of doubt into his daughter’s heart.
He ran a hand down her braided black hair. “Listen to me, Titian. Are you listening?” He waited for her nod. “In Terreille, Eyrien girls from the aristo families were the only ones who were given drawing lessons and music lessons, because it was assumed that they would serve in the courts and be companions to the Queens. Some of the boys received lessons, too, but they mostly used the skills they learned to make sketches of the hunting camps or the killing fields as a kind of record of the men and the battles. I can’t tell you what the girls usually drew because I never had much to do with them.”