Twilight's Dawn

fighting with the sticks.
    He met her, matched her, a powerful adversary. She didn’t know how long they’d been fighting, wasn’t going to care if some fool called time. But Hell’s fire, she was feeling the rasp and burn in her lungs, so she wasn’t going to be able to go on much longer.
    She used Craft to enhance the sound of her raspy breathing to make sure her adversary heard it and thought she was fading. She fumbled a move, deliberately—and saw him hesitate for a heartbeat before he responded.
    “That’s enough, Surreal,” he said.
    “No, it’s not.” Not until she won.
    She feinted, clumsily—and saw another hesitation. Then she planted her feet in a way that looked unbalanced, and he made a move that would take a lesser opponent out of a fight. But it left his ribs exposed for just a moment.
    And she struck, putting Gray power into the blow.
    He couldn’t counter the move in time. Her Gray shattered his Red shield. He got his stick up enough to deflect some of the blow, but her stick still met his ribs with savage force.
    Pain flashed across his face before he regained control and danced away from her.
    She didn’t follow because that look of pain cleared her mind and snuffed out her anger. He was no longer the adversary; he was Lucivar. She stared at him, seeing him again on the killing field in the spooky house. Grace and deadly power. Lucivar had walked into that place to save her and Rainier. And he’d walked out again without the smallest scratch. How could he get hurt now?
    “You son of a whoring bitch,” she said. “You did that on purpose.” Because there were lessons that needed to be learned.
    “I made a mistake, chose the wrong move,” he replied.
    “And the sun shines in Hell. You did that on purpose. ”
    “I fell for a trick and miscalculated the strength of my adversary’s blow. I made a mistake.”
    Made a mistake. Like she’d done in the spooky house. She had miscalculated there, underestimated there. Wasn’t the first time she’d made a mistake and probably wouldn’t be her last. But making mistakes didn’t make her weak.
    She stared at Lucivar and understood what he’d wanted to give her before she left Ebon Rih. Maybe in a few weeks she would feel grateful. Right now she hated him for the price he’d just paid to give her this last lesson.
    She dropped the stick and walked out of the eyrie.

    Lucivar waited until Surreal left before he set one end of the sparring stick on the floor and leaned on it. He’d taken a risk giving her that opening, especially since she was channeling her Gray strength and he had stayed with the Red so that she would be the dominant power.
    He really hoped what he’d seen in her eyes before she walked away wouldn’t be there every time she looked at him from now on.
    Everything has a price, old son. You gave her what she needed to finish healing.
    “How bad?” Rainier asked.
    “Ribs hurt like a wicked bitch, but I don’t think any of them are broken,” he replied.
    “That was a damn fool thing to do,” Hallevar said. “I’d better summon Nurian to look at you.”
    “Do that.” That move had been a lot more foolish than he’d anticipated.
    Rainier studied him a little too long. “Was it worth it?”
    Fortunately, Nurian burst into the eyrie at that moment and he didn’t have to answer.
    But he did wonder if he would ever have the answer.

    “Are you certain you can do this?” Falonar asked the Warlords who were the dominant males in the northern hunting camps.
    “Are you certain about the information you got about that weak left ankle?” one asked.
    “I’m certain,” he replied.
    “If we destroy his weak spot, he’ll go down like any other man.”
    “I always thought his reputation was more farted air than truth,” the second Warlord said.
    “It’s not like he made that reputation in Askavi among real warriors,” the third Warlord said.
    “He’s also nursing bruised ribs that he got in a sparring match with a half-breed witch,” Falonar said.
    “Well, Hell’s fire, this won’t be any kind of challenge,” the first Warlord said, laughing nastily. “It sounds like tomorrow will be a good time to put what is left of Lucivar Yaslana in a grave. You just make sure the only men left to come with him are committed to fighting on the right side of the line.”
    “I’ll make sure of it,” Falonar said. “By tomorrow evening, I’ll be the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih, and we’ll be able to live the