Twilight's Dawn

Daemon, figuring it would be a good thing to point out to their father.
    “I wouldn’t lie to him if I were you,” Daemon said dryly as he crouched down.
    “What?” Lucivar winced and swore as Daemon’s sponge rubbed over his left leg.
    “You’ve got a slice just above your ankle,” Daemon said. “It’s not deep—won’t need more than the cleansing ointment and basic healing Craft—but it’s there.”
    “Shit,” Lucivar muttered.
    “How did any of those bastards get through your Ebon-gray shield, let alone the shield in Jaenelle’s Ring of Honor?” Daemon sponged the cut again. “You were wearing the Ring with the Ebony shield, weren’t you?”
    “Yes, I was. At least until I walked off the killing field.”
    “So how did you get injured?”
    “I was still feeling pissy, and when I rammed the knife through my shields and back into the boot sheath, I must have sliced through the leather and cut my leg.”
    “Ah, Prick.” Daemon huffed out a laugh.
    “Don’t tell Merry, all right?”
    “Why not?”
    “Because I said she could yell at me if I got hurt, and I don’t want my ass chewed because I cut myself with my own knife.”
    Daemon resoaped the sponge and began scrubbing Lucivar’s right leg. “I’m surprised there is so much gore on your lower legs. Were you higher than the men you were fighting?”
    “Nope.” Lucivar lathered soap into his hair. “But a number of them were focused on striking my left ankle, which made them easy targets. Damned if I know why. If you know of a weak spot, you might concentrate your blows there to bring down an enemy, but there was no reason for any of them to think my ankles would be any more vulnerable than theirs. Especially the left ankle, which was never damaged in the first place.”
    Frigid air washed up the backs of his legs, there and gone.
    Daemon rose up behind him. “Open your wings. I want to make sure I cleaned all the shit off them.”
    Something wrong here. Something off. Feeling vulnerable, but knowing what might happen if he refused, Lucivar spread his wings. Daemon’s touch was light and careful as he moved the sponge over the wings, but Lucivar knew when he was being touched by the Sadist.
    What had he said to bring out this side of Daemon’s temper?
    “There. Done.” Daemon took a step back.
    Lucivar rinsed the soap out of his hair, then turned to face his brother. Water poured over them, steamed around them. “Daemon . . .”
    Daemon pressed a finger against Lucivar’s lips.
    That light touch—and what he saw in Daemon’s eyes—told him he couldn’t stop whatever was coming.
    “Whatever happens to the people in this valley is your decision, not mine,” Daemon said too softly. “I agree with that—and I’ll respect it. I expect you to do the same.”
    “Meaning?”
    “Don’t interfere with me taking care of my own.” Daemon turned and walked through the steam. “You should talk to Father before you go home. And be sure to put a healing salve on that cut.”
    Lucivar turned off the water and hurried into the Keep. Once inside, he rubbed himself dry with the warm towels that had been left floating just inside the door.
    The cold that made him shiver had nothing to do with the weather.

    Dressed and polished, Daemon waited for Geoffrey in the private section of the Keep’s library.
    ... There was no reason for any of them to think my ankles would be any more vulnerable than theirs. Especially the left ankle . . .
    “But there was a reason, brother,” Daemon whispered. “There was a reason.”
    “Prince Sadi?”
    Daemon turned at the sound of Geoffrey’s voice, then took a moment to consider the degree of wariness in the historian/librarian’s black eyes. He smiled—and saw Geoffrey’s inability to completely hide the shiver caused by that smile.
    “I need your assistance,” he said, still smiling.
    “In what way?” Geoffrey asked.
    “The map you showed me the other day? I’d like to see it again.”

FOURTEEN

    S urreal stared at Daemon and tried to decide how badly she would get hurt if she hit him.
    Badly enough, since he didn’t look like he was in an indulgent mood.
    “That’s it?” she snarled. “Falonar just gets sent away like some little prick who played a nasty joke? He set Lucivar up to die on that killing field. You know that!”
    “Of course I know that,” Daemon snarled back. “The whole damn valley knows that. Or suspects it. Why do you think the remaining Eyriens have made