Damin trained each morning with Narvell, Almodavar and their senior officers, as well as those Sunrise officers who wished to take part in the bouts. It was a habit drilled into the young prince from an early age by the old captain and a much needed release for his pent-up frustration. Mindful of the reason Charel Hawksword had sent Narvell out to challenge him on the border, Damin
made a point of letting his younger brother win, every now and then. This morning, however, Narvell hadn’t come down to the yards and as Damin was feeling particularly restless, he trained with Almodavar instead.
Although well into his fifties, there was no other man in his service Damin trusted as much. Almodavar was the only man Damin wasn’t afraid of injuring seriously if he didn’t hold back. If anything, he knew he’d find himself in trouble if he gave the fight anything less than his all.
Almodavar, after all, had punished Damin as a child for failing to kill him when he had the chance.
“Damin!”
He turned at the call to find Narvell hurrying along the vine-covered walkway behind him. Damin was heading back to his rooms in the sprawling Cabradell Palace to clean up after his training bout before confronting whatever round of fresh calamities were likely to find him this day. He was sweaty and dusty and bleeding from several small nicks Almodavar had inflicted on him when he foolishly let his guard down. The wind was chilly on his bare flesh as it whistled off the distant snow-capped Sunrise Mountains in the west, down through the Cabradell Valley and along the open walkways of the palace. Damin hadn’t wanted to get blood on his shirt, so he carried it in his left hand, leaving his nicks and bruises for all the world to see.
Narvell stopped when he caught up with his brother and eyed him curiously. “Was there a war this morning and I missed it?” he asked.
“I trained with Almodavar.”
“It looks like he tried to kill you.”
Damin shrugged. “He looks worse. Where were you this morning?”
“I had … something else to do.”
“Did that something else involve Kendra Warhaft?”
Narvell avoided meeting his eye. “You’re going to get mad at me if I say yes, aren’t you?”
Damin sighed at his brother’s recklessness. “She’s supposed
to be under the protection of the Sorcerers’ Collective. If Warhaft catches you two …”
“He won’t,” Narvell promised.
“Famous last words, Narvell. Can’t you just let things be until we speak to Lernen?”
“That could be months from now!”
“Deal with it, little brother,” Damin told him unsympathetically. “I’ve stretched the limits of my power about as far as they’ll go to keep her away from her husband for you. I can’t do anything more to protect her—or you—if Warhaft finds you breaking our agreement.”
“We’ll be careful …”
Damin frowned, thinking if Narvell understood the meaning of the word careful, he wouldn’t be trying to sneak time alone with Kendra in the first place. “Where was Rorin while you two were so blithely courting disaster?”
“He was there … sort of.”
“Define sort of.”
“He was in the next room.”
“Right after we have a little chat about the definition of careful, I’m going to have a talk with my pet sorcerer about the meaning of the word chaperone.”
“It wasn’t his fault …” Narvell hesitated at the sound of footsteps, glanced past Damin to see who approached and then warmly greeted Lady Lionsclaw.
“Tejay!”
Damin turned to find the lady of the house walking toward them, dressed in a sleeveless blue gown, her thick blond hair arranged to perfection, a slave at her side taking notes as she issued orders about the daily running of the vast Cabradell Palace, the very picture of the perfect Warlord’s wife. She stopped when she saw the two of them, pulling her shawl around her bare arms against the cold, dismissed the slave and then, as Narvell had, eyed Damin’s battered body curiously.
“Have fun working out this morning, did we, your highness?”
“I trained with Almodavar. There’s no better sparring partner when one is looking for something to hit, so one doesn’t fall for the temptation of venting their frustration on one’s host.”
She smiled. “Have you considered the possibility, Damin, that Almodavar really does want to kill you?”
“Actually, the thought has crossed my mind on more than one occasion,” he laughed, and then he glanced down at the bruises on Tejay’s upper arms which she was trying to hide with her shawl and his smile faded into a scowl. “What’s your excuse?”
Puzzled, she looked at him oddly. “What do you mean?”
He took her arm, pushed the shawl aside and held it up so she could see the bruises. “Who’s been trying to kill you?”
Tejay impatiently shook her arm free. “It’s nothing, Damin. I was just clumsy, that’s all.”
“But those bruises look like handprints,” Narvell pointed out with concern. “Did someone attack you, my lady?”
The Warlord’s wife laughed at the very notion, but it was forced and Damin could tell she was lying. “Don’t be foolish, Narvell. I can fight better than most of Sunrise’s Raiders, What man would be foolish enough to—?”
“I can think of one,” Damin cut in ominously.
She shook her head at him. “This is none of your business, Damin.”
“The hell it isn’t.”
Tejay put a restraining hand on his arm. “I can deal with it, Damin. I don’t need a protector.”
“Well, you’ve got one, my lady,” he informed her, shaking off her touch as he changed his mind about returning to his room. “Whether you want it or not.”
Terin was in the main hall holding court when Damin found him. The doors banged open as the prince pushed his way into the hall, his anger controlled but no less dangerous for that.
One unexpected outcome of his altercation with Mahkas was that Damin had acquired a reputation for being unpredictable when enraged. People who had heard the story and didn’t know him well now treated him with a degree of cautious fear he’d never encountered before, particularly if they thought he was angry. At first it amused him, and then it began to irritate him. Right now, it seemed a rather useful reputation to have acquired. People scurried out of his way as he approached the business end of the hall, their eyes full of apprehension.
Renulus stood at his lord’s right hand, whispering something to his master. Damin pushed his way through the petitioners until he was standing in front of the podium that held Terin’s throne. The throne and the elaborate silk banner on the wall behind it bearing the lion’s head escutcheon of the Lionsclaw House were new, Damin thought. Terin’s father, Chaine Lionsclaw—the baseborn son of a nobleman who rose to the rank of Warlord—had never felt the need to rule his province from a throne.
Sensing Damin’s mood, Renulus stepped between the prince and his lord, drawing himself up pompously. “I’m sorry, your highness, but we’re in session here and you don’t have an appointment.”
Damin replied by belting the fool in the mouth. It wasn’t much, just a short, sharp jab, but it had the desired effect. Howling in pain, Renulus dropped to the floor at Damin’s feet, nursing a split and swollen lip.
Interestingly, only one of the guards flanking Terin made a move to intervene.
Damin glared at him. “Back off.”
The guard stepped smartly back into place, stood at attention and didn’t move another muscle.
Wiping the blood from his mouth, and blubbering in protest, Renulus began to climb to his feet. With his foot, Damin shoved the Karien backwards. “I’ll tell you when you can get up.”
The Karien thought about it for a moment, and then wisely
stayed on the floor, muttering unhappily about uncontrollable brutes while dabbing at his bruised and still-bleeding lip.
On the throne, Terin glanced down at his seneschal’s bloody mouth and then leaned back against the cushions and began to applaud slowly. “Behold the mighty Damin Wolfblade,” he mocked. “Is this how you intend to rule us when you’re High Prince, your highness? By throwing your royal fist around?”
“You’d know all about throwing your fist around, wouldn’t you, Terin?”
“I’m sure I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about your wife.”
The Warlord smiled. “Why? Do you think you have some claim on my wife?” Then his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Ah. I see what this is about. Surely you’re not going to get all hot and bothered over a few bruises acquired during a … conjugal engagement … between a husband and his wife, are you? Besides demonstrating a rather squeamish side to your character, your highness, it’s not really any of your business.”
Damin stepped up to Terin’s throne, grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him out of his seat with one hand, holding him a few inches from his own face.
“I’m making it my business,” he warned with a snarl, watching Terin shrink back from him in fear. “And if I ever see so much as a hair out of place on Tejay’s head again, I will break your spine into so many pieces your children will be able to use it to play knucklebones.” He shook Terin’s limp form to emphasise his point. “Do you understand that, or are you too stupid?”
“How dare you stand in my own hall and tell everyone I’m stupid!” Terin gasped in a show of defiant bravado.
Damin let him go with a shove. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise it was a secret.”
He turned on his heel and headed toward the door. It was only as an afterthought that he glanced over his shoulder at Renulus, still cowering on the floor.
“You can get up now,” he said and then pushed through to the doors at the end of the hall and headed back to his suite to wash away the blood and the dust from his body, wishing there was some way of washing away the sour taste in his mouth that seemed to develop every time he had to deal with Terin Lionsclaw.