“Well,” Karla finally said. “This will be exciting.”
SEVEN
Since he had no intention of teaching Craft to a pack of adolescents or following Daemon’s precise schedule for the day’s lessons, Lucivar summoned all the youngsters to the large room usually used for sparring and weapons training. He hadn’t seen all of them together since the day they’d arrived at the Hall, and today he wanted to get a feel for who they were. What they were. And how they were with one another.
This review would have come sooner or later. Daemon’s absence today meant neither man had to come up with an excuse for the youngsters having to deal with him instead of the Warlord Prince they were accustomed to seeing.
The girls walked into the room, speculating about why they’d all been summoned here for their Craft lesson—as if a simple psychic probe couldn’t have told them they were facing Ebon-gray instead of Black, and that should have told them the Craft lesson wasn’t going to be what they expected.
It also raised the question of why they hadn’t done something as basic as a psychic probe before entering the room.
Titian hurried into the room and gave Lucivar a bright smile, quickly followed by a look of wariness.
Yes, witchling, he thought, amused by his daughter’s reaction to his presence. I know about the wall.
Equally wary, Zoey offered him a proper bow—young Queen to a Warlord Prince of his rank.
Jhett, a Black Widow, and Arlene, a Healer—both good friends of Zoey’s—also bowed.
The other four Queens who were now residing at the Hall looked confused by Zoey’s formality, then hesitated a few moments too long before they, too, bowed to acknowledge who, and what, he was.
The lack of understanding about who determined when a meeting could shift from formal to informal was something Daemon would have to correct—and fast. Of course, at this age, they could have a brilliant understanding of Protocol one moment and be completely brainless the next.
Altogether, there were five Queens, three natural Black Widows, three natural Healers, and eleven witches. They had come from different Provinces in Dhemlan. They had been selected by the Province Queens after being recommended by the District Queens, chosen to be trained at the Hall because they were deemed young witches of considerable potential who could be the next generation of leaders in one way or another—and targets for someone who saw them as rivals the way Delora and her coven of malice had done.
Yes, he saw that potential in the way they carried themselves and in their psychic scents.
What he also saw, in the way the girls clustered on one side of the room, were the seeds of five courts instead of one. Trouble? Possibly.
And in more ways than one, he thought grimly as Daemonar led the other thirteen boys into the room, followed by Lord Weston, who was Zoey’s sword and shield, and Prince Raine, an instructor from Dharo.
He watched the way one of the girls stared at the boys—specifically the five Warlord Princes. Daemonar was the only one old enough to be in the first phase of his sexual heat. The other four wouldn’t have to deal with it for a few more years, but they would have to deal with it—and so would any witch who served in a court that held a Warlord Prince.
He watched the girl. Watched the way she swished her skirt to draw the eye to her hips. Watched the way her attention fixed on his son but also flicked to the other four Warlord Princes as if she were sizing up the best piece of meat in the market.
A man didn’t need much experience to guess what he wouldn’t find under that skirt. And he had plenty of experience.
Well, no one had ever accused him of being subtle. Or tactful.
His sharp whistle had all of them looking his way. He focused on the young witch and said, “Leave the room and finish dressing.”
She looked at the other girls, looked at one of the Queens in particular, her feigned bafflement fraying the leash on his temper. Then she lifted her chin. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Lucivar nodded. “All right. Put some underpants on.” The words thundered through the room. “If you start showing off what you’ve got between your legs, I will take a strap to your bare ass. Do you understand me?”
“I—I—”
“Do. You. Understand?”
She burst into tears and ran out of the room.
Lucivar scanned the faces of the other children. Some looked stunned. Some looked shocked.
And five boys, including his son, looked relieved.
Something else he needed to mention to Daemon.
Before he could say anything else, Mikal opened the door and stuck his head into the room.
“Oh. Hey,” Mikal said. “I guess this explains it. Alvita crossed a line?”
“She did,” Lucivar replied. “Someone should escort her back to her room and make sure she doesn’t do something stupid for the sake of drama.”
“The Scelties are taking care of that.”
Lucivar almost felt sorry for her, since one of the Scelties now living at the Hall was a Green-Jeweled Warlord Prince who didn’t see any reason why he had to put up with nonsense from puppies, regardless of their species. “Tell them she should stay in her room until the midday meal.”
Mikal gave him an assessing look. From someone else, it might be seen as a challenge. But Mikal was not only family; he understood the give-and-take required to work in a court—or to work for the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan.
“I’ll tell them.” Mikal shut the door.
Lucivar scanned the children’s faces again. “Listen up. Sexual heat is a wicked bitch to deal with, and it’s just as hard on Warlord Princes as it is on the rest of you. But it’s part of what makes a Warlord Prince who and what he is, and if you are going to rule a court one day or serve in a court or even reside in a village where one of us lives, you’d damn well better learn how to accept that part of our nature and let it flow past you, because sexual heat isn’t an indication of interest in you. If a Warlord Prince is interested in you specifically, you will know and so will everyone else. Believe me. You will know because all that heat and fire and strength will be focused on you. But until that day comes, you will show him the courtesy of not forcing him to defend his body and his honor, because if he has to do that, he will hurt you.”
“Perhaps a review of the Protocol specific to living around and working with Warlord Princes would be appropriate,” Raine suggested. “Unless Prince Sadi wants to handle that personally, I could make that the lesson this afternoon.”
Lucivar nodded. “You do that.” He looked at the young Warlord Princes. “You five. You stay with me. The rest of you . . .” He looked at the girls. “You have until Sadi returns to decide if you have the self-control to stay here and deal with the Warlord Princes who are in residence. If you can’t—or won’t—you don’t belong here, and I’ll make sure you get home safely.”
“Prince?” Jhett raised a hand just enough to catch his attention. “Are you allowed to decide that?”
It was a valid question, since this wasn’t his Territory. “You’re all here because you have been potential victims of Delora and her coven of malice, and the Province Queens were concerned that there might be someone else out there with similar ambitions that we haven’t found yet.” He gave that a moment to sink in. “Am I one of the people who decides who stays or who goes? Yeah, I am, because who you are and what you do here will decide if I’m willing to step onto a killing field to protect you. Children, I watched another group of youngsters live here and train here and learn what it meant to rule the Realm of Kaeleer, and they were magnificent. Prove that you are worthy of being protected by the Demon Prince and the High Lord of Hell. Sadi and I know you’ll make mistakes. At your age, it’s expected. But we will not tolerate some lines being crossed.”