LITMIR.BIZ

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Fareen, was almost his equal, which was saying something. Though of insignificant lineage, Talvaric had made his fortune as a professional.

      Barto doubled his attack, striking over and over in a pattern that should have brought Talvaric to his knees. For an uneasy moment, Talvaric retreated. Fear needled through him, exhilarating and rich. It was said the fae had no souls—not since Merlin’s spells had stripped them away at the end of the demon wars. It was also common knowledge that the lack of a soul meant a lack of feelings. That was and was not true. Fae were immortal, but they could be killed. The desire to survive and the fear of defeat remained. That was why Talvaric had taken up the sword as his life. It was a splash of red against an otherwise-eternal gray.

      With a pounding heart, he let Barto drive him back another step, then twisted away. He went low this time, aiming for his opponent’s legs. It was a move of cool precision, but Barto escaped with a backward leap. It didn’t matter. With a turn of the wrist, Talvaric changed direction, sweeping the blade upward until it pricked Barto’s chin.

      There he stopped, his control of the weapon absolute. Talvaric held Barto’s gaze, waiting for acknowledgment. Talvaric could have taken his head with ease. Slowly, Barto nodded, the gesture releasing a drop of scarlet blood where the sword tip pierced his skin. Talvaric waited until the trickle reached Barto’s collar before he withdrew. They were both panting hard.

      “A good match,” Barto conceded. He wiped his neck and looked at his blood-streaked hand with clinical interest.

      Waiting servants—two of the many dryads Talvaric kept as slaves—hurried to attend the two males, taking their weapons and handing them soft white towels. Barto wiped his face. Like all the fae, like Talvaric himself, Barto was tall and slender, with dark olive skin and hair so pale it was almost white. The coloring made a startling contrast to the brilliant green of fae eyes.

      “You are a worthy opponent,” Talvaric returned, compliment for compliment. “I fought for many years at the pleasure of the queen and rarely saw the like.”

      Barto bowed and finished mopping his face. When he dropped his towel to the floor, a servant dashed forward and gathered it up.

      “I appreciate the compliment,” Barto said. “I would like to fight in the palace games this winter. There is no better preparation than practicing against our foremost swordsman. Will you compete?”

      “Perhaps.”

      Barto shrugged. “You have won several times. I suppose the honor of victory begins to pale.”

      “Not really. But I wonder if the games will go forward in the queen’s absence.”

      “Good point,” Barto sighed. “This business with LaFaye is tiresome.”

      Queen Morgan LaFaye was under lock and key, captured by the allies of King Arthur of Camelot. That left an interesting vacancy on the throne, but none had immediately jumped to fill it. If the queen ever got free, she would not welcome a usurper.

      “It’s a pity I could not cross swords with Arthur,” Barto said lightly. “He is said to be almost your equal.”

      Talvaric narrowed his eyes. “I doubt it’s a fair comparison. His blade is enchanted by the Lady of the Lake. Excalibur has magic enough to cut through even Morgan’s spells.”

      Which was why the queen feared it. Excalibur was the only real weapon the mortals had against a fae invasion. Morgan had been on the cusp of attacking the mortal realms when she’d been captured. Now hostilities were suspended while the leaderless fae milled about like sheep.

      “I suppose you’re right.” Barto wandered over to the rack of swords suspended on the wall. He fingered one hilt, then another. “Is this the weapon you used in the last contest?”

      “The same.”

      “And this?”

      “I used that one in the match against the Giant of Trevayne.”

      “That was quite the contest. I wagered on you and won.”

      Contests? Talvaric felt a twinge of impatience. Who cared about sports when the whole of the mortal realms were ripe for plucking? But Talvaric knew better than to blurt that out. Barto was Lord of Fareen, and Talvaric was a commoner with no right to an opinion. Yet.

      “Would you care to see my other collection?” he asked.

      Barto looked up, curious. “Your beasts? Yes, I would.”

      Talvaric led the way through his manor. It wasn’t a palace or a castle, but it sprawled through an endless maze of corridors and wings. Although his property sat far from the fashionable cities, the inconvenience was made up for by privacy. Soon they were traversing a long passageway lined with cages on either side.

      The rooms were bright, with plenty of windows, and clean. The steel of the bars was polished, the floors of the cages always strewn with fresh straw. The pristine conditions weren’t due to Talvaric’s love for animals; it was simply that his collection was expensive and hard to replace.

      Each cage held something unusual. Barto’s gaze whipped from side to side, his eyes wide with wonder. “Wyvern. Manticore. Pixie. I’m not even certain what that is. How do you control them?”

      “A variety of methods. The dragons are hardest to manage, but I’ve found a way.”

      “Dragons?”

      Talvaric gave a careless wave. “It’s always easy to impress your friends when you have dragons.”

      Barto’s expression hardened, but he said nothing.

      “There is a great deal of power here.” Talvaric tapped on the bars of a particularly large cage. “Any magical beast can be a weapon if you know how to control it. And the study and acquisition of such creatures is never dull.”

      Barto said more nothing, but peered into the cage. It contained a large black dog with red eyes and shaggy dark fur. It smelled like something dead. “A barguest?” The question was sharp—not quite fear, but recognition of something dangerous. Barguests were best known for devouring lone travelers, especially after dark.

      “Yes.”

      “How long have you been building this collection?”

      “Hundreds of years.” About the same amount of time as his ambition had been growing. The two were closely intertwined.

      Barto straightened, his eyes cautious now. “You call these creatures weapons. That makes this manor a vast armory. Why have you gathered all this?”

      Talvaric was forced to concede Barto was smarter than expected. Talvaric could all but taste the tang of his anxiety, and liked it. “I occasionally send my beasts abroad to deal with annoyances.”

      “Annoyances?” Barto really was starting to sound like a parrot.

      “The goblins of the Crystal Mountains developed an irritating attitude. I sent them a gift. A troll.”

      Barto blinked in surprise. “On whose authority? The fae trade with King Zorath’s people! This could start a war we don’t need.”

      Talvaric almost wanted to laugh. “Trust me, the goblins are too busy for that at the moment.”

      Barto’s mouth dropped open a moment before he snapped it shut. “That’s unbelievably irresponsible.”

      Talvaric lifted a brow. “Are you actually angry?”

      After Morgan’s capture, some fae seemed to be regaining scraps of their souls. That raised some interesting questions, especially since many fae, including Talvaric, now regarded emotion as a weakness.

      “No.” Barto flushed, proving his denial a lie. “But I think it’s time for me to leave.”

      “Come now, won’t you stay and drink wine with me? I never like to see a guest depart without showing him the best hospitality I can offer.”

      “I—no.”

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