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doing so, had found others that were even older.
    "Well," Hallevar finally growled, "you filled out well enough, and while your face is nowhere near as pretty as that sadistic bastard you call a brother, it'll fool the Ladies long enough if you can keep that temper of yours on a tight leash." He rubbed the back of his neck. "But this is the last day of the fair. You haven't left yourself much time to draw anyone's attention."
    "Neither have you," Lucivar replied, "and putting those pups through their paces isn't going to show anyone what you can do."
    "Who wants gristle when they can have fresh meat?" Hallevar muttered, looking away.
    "Don't start digging your grave," Lucivar snapped, not pleased with how relieved he felt when anger fired Hallevar's eyes. "You're a seasoned warrior and an experienced arms master with enough years left in you to train another generation or two. This is just another kind of battlefield, so pick up your weapon and show some balls."
    Hallevar smiled reluctantly.
    Needing some balance, Lucivar turned toward the other men. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed some of the women coming over. And he noticed that some were bringing young children with them.
    He clamped down on the emotions that started churning too close to the surface. He had to choose carefully. There were those who could adjust to the way the Blood lived in Kaeleer and would make a good life for themselves here. And there were those who would die swiftly and violently because they couldn't, or wouldn't, adjust. He had made a few bad choices during the first couple of fairs, had offered a trust that he shouldn't have offered. Because of it, he carried the guilt for the shattered lives of two witches who had been raped and brutally beaten—and he carried the memory of the sick rage he'd felt when he'd executed the Eyrien males who had been responsible. After that, he'd found a way to confirm his choices. He hadn't always trusted his own judgment, but he never doubted Jaenelle's.
    "Lucivar."
    Lucivar honed his attention to the Sapphire-Jeweled Warlord Prince who had moved to the front of the group. "Falonar."
    "It's Prince Falonar," Falonar snarled.
    Lucivar bared his teeth in a feral smile. "I thought we were being informal, since I'm sure an aristo male like you wouldn't forget something like basic courtesy."
    "Why should I offer you basic courtesy?"
    "Because I'm the one wearing the Ebon-gray," Lucivar replied too softly as he shifted his weight just enough to let the other man see the challenge and make the choice.
    "Stop it, both of you," Hallevar snarled. "We're all on shaky ground in this place. We don't need it yanked out from under us because you two keep wanting to prove whose cock is bigger. I thumped both of you when you were snot-nosed brats, and I can still do it."
    Lucivar felt the tension slide away and took a step back. Hallevar knew as well as he did that he could snap the older man in half with his hands or his mind, but Hallevar had been one of the few who had seen the potential warrior and hadn't cared about his bloodlines—or the lack of them.
    "That's better," Hallevar said to Lucivar with an approving nod. "And you, Falonar. You've had a couple of offers, which is more than most of us can say. Maybe you'd better consider them."
    Falonar's face tightened. He took a deep breath and let it out. "I guess I should. It doesn't look like the bastard's going to show."
    "What bastard is that?" Lucivar asked mildly. More of the women and some of the men who had refused to acknowledge him had wandered over.
    It was a young Warlord who answered. "The Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih. We'd heard..."
    "You heard... ?" Lucivar prodded when the Warlord didn't finish, noticing the way the man shifted a bit closer to the witch who was holding an adorable little girl in her arms. Lucivar's gold eyes narrowed as he opened his psychic senses a little more. A little Queen. His gaze shifted to the boy who had a two-fisted grip on the