Raine had an odd smile. “It’s not just book learning to you, is it?”
“A Warlord Prince’s training starts early,” Daemonar replied. “It has to.”
Raine leaned back against his desk. “You’ve been here a week now. Any problems with your classes?”
“No, sir. A bit different in the rhythm of things, and I’ve wondered about the amount of reading each instructor assigns since it seems like half the males in the classes don’t even try to read the assignments and the other half can’t finish all of it—including me. But it’s the half that tries and doesn’t finish who are criticized, and the ones who are too busy with social prancing to do any work receive no reprimand at all.” He shrugged. “Not the Eyrien way of teaching. Then again, the consequences of not learning how to handle a war blade properly are more severe than not reading a couple of chapters.”
Raine coughed. “I can see the difference.”
Daemonar sensed a curiosity in this man, who came from one of the short-lived races. Living among the Dhemlan race was a new experience, and maybe that allowed Raine to be less prejudiced about “uneducated warriors” who settled everything with a fight.
“Would you like to feel the difference?” he asked.
Raine looked alarmed. “What?”
“Titian, Zoey, and I work out with the Eyrien sparring sticks in the morning before getting ready for classes.”
“I couldn’t spar.”
Daemonar laughed. “No, sir, you couldn’t. Not right off, anyway. But that’s not where someone starts. You could join us for the warm-up moves and observe the sparring.”
Raine hesitated. “Instructors aren’t supposed to socialize with students.”
“I’ve noticed instructors joining students for a ride in the park or participating in some kind of sport. This wouldn’t be any different.”
A smile. “Early, you said? Does that explain your attire for this tutorial?”
He returned the smile. “It does. Herding girls who want to try just one more move is a job for a Sceltie, not a brother who’s ignored because he’s not allowed to nip.”
Raine choked back a laugh. “Then you’d better get yourself washed and properly attired for your classes. And . . . I might join you tomorrow morning, just to observe.”
Daemonar vanished his assignment and the books, then headed for the dormitory to take a shower and get ready for the more pompous instructors he had to deal with that day.
“The bat is in the shower,” Clayton said, hurrying back to where Krellis and Dhuran waited.
Krellis felt his guts rumble. Felt a need that was becoming urgent.
Perfect.
The three of them slipped into the bat’s room. One trunk with a few novels and spare clothes. Clayton and Dhuran moved the trunk away from the wall while Krellis pulled all the clothes out of the dresser. The clothes in the closet followed, along with the books in the bookcase.
“Make sure everything is watered down,” he told the other two.
After Clayton and Dhuran emptied their bladders, Krellis dropped his pants, squatted over the trunk, and smiled. “Let’s give Prince Daemonar a proper welcome.”
Securing the loin wrap around his hips, Daemonar left the men’s facilities and headed back to his room—and noticed how Krellis, Dhuran, and Clayton hovered nearby, as if waiting for something.
The smell hit him as soon as he walked into his room.
He hurried to the trunk and lifted the lid, then took a step back.
Urine soaked his books and clothes, and in the center of the trunk was a stinking pile of shit.
His temper didn’t snap the leash. His lessons with Auntie J. had given him control of a volatile temper that would one day match his father’s, but the burning clarity of fury shaped the choice of what he needed to do. Because this wasn’t just about him. He recognized that the moment he swung into the hallway and saw the look on Krellis’s face. And in that look, he also saw the faces of the younger boys who had been cowed by the school’s bullies—younger boys who would be taught to participate in cruelty in order to escape being a victim.
The sun would shine in Hell before a prick-ass like Krellis turned him into a victim.
Daemonar gave no warning when he walked out of his room. He wrapped himself in a Green shield a heartbeat before he grabbed Krellis by the arm and neck and dragged the prick-ass into his room—and shoved Krellis’s face into the still-warm shit.
Krellis struggled as Daemonar dragged him back across the room and threw him into the hallway. He used Craft to close the trunk and vanish it, then left his room, not bothering to close the door, and strode through the hallway and out of the dormitory, wearing nothing but the loin wrap.
*Prince Sadi, you’re needed at the school,* he called on a Green psychic thread as he headed for the building that held most of the classrooms as well as Lady Fharra’s office.
It didn’t matter if the Black showed up. Daemonar could, and would, deal with this problem the Eyrien way.
He marched past Lady Fharra’s assistant, shoved open the office door, and kept going until he reached the desk. Lady Fharra stood behind the desk and two of the more priggish instructors stood to one side.
He called in the trunk so that it hovered over the desk—and let it fall, smashing the bits and pieces that had been on the desk’s surface. Using Craft, he flipped the trunk’s lid, revealing the soiled contents.
Lady Fharra stumbled back. The instructors called in handkerchiefs to hold over their noses and mouths.
“What is the meaning of this?” Lady Fharra demanded.
“I’m wondering the same thing,” a deep voice crooned from the doorway.
He knew even before he turned and saw the glazed sleepy eyes—saw the sweetly murderous smile. Daemon Sadi was a heartbeat away from the killing edge.
No. It wasn’t his uncle or the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan or even the High Lord of Hell who had risen to the killing edge in response to his call.
Daemonar shivered—and hoped the Sadist thought it was from being inadequately dressed.
Sadi glided into the room and looked into the trunk.
“I’ve just been informed that this Eyrien assaulted another student,” one of the instructors said. “A fine boy from a good family. He’s been taken to the school’s Healer.”
“Is that what you did?” Sadi asked too mildly. “Assaulted another boy?”
“The shit belongs to Lord Krellis,” Daemonar replied. “I just returned it.”
“And the piss?”
Be careful. Be careful. The Sadist is capable of doing anything. “I can’t say for sure.” And he wasn’t about to guess right now.
“Well, there are ways to find out.”
Sadi called in two glass straws about the length of his hand. Using Craft, he cut out a section of urine-soaked cloth from each end of the trunk’s contents, then wrapped the cloth around the straws. Then he slipped witchfire into each straw—and waited as the witchfire burned.
Screams in the corridor. Had to be Dhuran and Clayton coming to find out what would happen to him and report back to Krellis.
*Sir,* Daemonar said, knowing he was dancing on the knife’s edge by calling attention to himself. *Uncle, that’s enough. Please.*
The Sadist looked at him. Just looked at him. But the witchfire disappeared—and the screaming changed to cries and loud whimpers.
“The pain is quite real, but there is no actual physical damage,” Sadi said in a terrifyingly pleasant tone of voice. “This time. Should it become necessary to discipline those two again . . .”