Twilight's Dawn

wasn’t right. There had still been daylight when he’d returned to the Keep from Lucivar’s eyrie.
    There were lights in the valley, indicating a gathering of people, but he wasn’t sensing enough people down there to populate a village. Of course, the witch storm two years ago had devastated the Blood’s population in Terreille, so maybe it wasn’t surprising to sense so few minds. But that explanation, while valid, didn’t feel right.
    It was winter here, as it should be, but there was an underlying cold that had nothing to do with the season, as if this place never felt the sun.
    When he finally focused on the plants growing around the courtyard walls, he realized he’d never seen anything like them before.
    There were three Realms, and the black candles were lit in a specific order to open the Gate to a specific Realm.
    He’d been thinking about Surreal, distracted by the fear that she might not recover, and he’d opened the Gate without paying attention to the order in which he’d lit the black candles.
    “Mother Night,” he whispered, looking out over the valley. “This is Hell.”

    Rainier laid out the cards for a solitary game and watched a middle-aged Warlord approach the bar. Briggs kept his eyes on the stranger, giving the man no reason to look at anyone else in the room. Rainier nodded, silent permission for Briggs to notice him and bring him to the Warlord’s attention.
    A few moments later, the Warlord approached the table. “I’m Lord Randahl, Lady Erika’s Master of the Guard. Could I have a few minutes of your time, Prince?”
    Rainier tipped his head to indicate another chair at the table. “What brings Agio’s Master to Riada?” he asked as Randahl took a seat.
    “Wanted to talk to Prince Yaslana, but when I reached the landing web for his eyrie . . . Well, when shields go up around a home in that way, you know there’s some trouble there—accident, illness, death.”
    An unspoken question. Because Rainier sensed concern rather than curiosity, he said, “Accident.”
    “Something a Healer can fix?” Randahl asked.
    “We hope so.”
    A nod. “If there is any assistance Agio’s court can give, just send word.”
    That told Rainier all he needed to know about how Randahl felt about Lucivar.
    “So I felt those shields and came down here, mostly looking for a drink and a bite to eat,” Randahl said. “Followed an impulse and asked the man at the bar where I could find a person Lucivar might trust with delicate matters. He pointed me to you.”
    “Why didn’t you approach Lady Shayne or her Master?”
    “Like I said, it’s a delicate matter.”
    “Wouldn’t you normally ask for the second-in-command?”
    Randahl looked Rainier in the eyes and said nothing—and that told him everything.
    Hell’s fire.
    “Yaslana rules the Eyriens,” Randahl said.
    “Yaslana rules the whole valley and everyone in it,” Rainier countered.
    “But specifically, he rules the Eyriens. None of them serve in a Rihlander court. They serve him.”
    Rainier tipped his head to acknowledge the distinction.
    “That said, Lady Erika respectfully requests that the Eyriens now residing in the northern camps be relocated if Yaslana intends to let them stay in the valley.”
    Rainier played a couple of cards to give himself time. “Has there been trouble?”
    “Not yet, but it’s coming.” Randahl clasped his hands, rested his arms on the table, and leaned forward. “There’s a storm growing in those mountains, and we’re not sure why.”
    “You think it’s because the emigration contracts are done?”
    Randahl shook his head. “If anything, I’d think that would be more reason to walk softly. This has been building for a while now, but the Eyriens keep it hidden most of the time—especially when Lucivar is around.”
    “But not when Falonar visits the camps?”
    Randahl let out a huff of air tinged with anger. “The words weren’t said, you understand me? The last time Falonar was in the northern part of the valley, the Eyriens in the camps seemed pleased and stirred up, and I got the impression . . .” He hesitated.
    “Just say it, Randahl.”
    “Is Lucivar going somewhere else? Is he planning to leave Ebon Rih?”
    “No. Why?”
    “From what we’ve observed lately, Falonar doesn’t act like a second-in-command. At least, not with the Eyriens in the northern camps. And they don’t think of him as the second-in-command, you understand me? So it’s made some of us