Free The Blood King by Gail Z. Martin Page B

others save Harrtuck, Vahanian held no illusions about the odds against them. He had his own reasons for wanting to see Arontala destroyed. The Fire Clan mage had been the reason for the death of his wife and for his own rigged court martial.
    But something else had stirred deep inside him as Vahanian heard the refugees’
    tales about plundered farms and murdered villagers. Although he’d proudly been liegeman to no king before Staden made him lord of Dark Haven, Vahanian was born in Margolan. And while he was cynical about appeals to flag and kingdom, a love for that land was in his blood. He’d survived the plunder of his own village, when marauders had come years before. Those memories would forever haunt his dreams. Now, the tragedies of his past made the sto-ries of the refugees real to him, and the chance to help stop the killing was more compelling than he expected.
    And then there was Carina. Back in the caravan, he’d enjoyed riling Carina, although he rapidly came to respect her healing talent and her stubborn dedication to her patients. When they were taken by the slavers and Carina was almost killed, Vahanian admitted to himself that he cared about the healer. Time on the road had only deepened his resolve. While he was unsure whether Carina returned those feelings, his new lands and title made him bold enough to pursue her. On saner days, he chided himself for undertaking two hope-less quests at once. Most of the time, he put those doubts behind him, surprised that he could believe in anything again.
    Vahanian wiped away the sweat from his fore-head with his sleeve as he and Kiara wrapped up another round.
    “You’re good—damn good.” Vahanian took a long draught of water from a bucket at the edge of the room. “I can see why Tris’s Eastmark kick has improved, if he’s been training with you on the side.”
    Kiara, her tunic wet with sweat, grinned. “Thanks. But the way you put those moves togeth-er still throws me for a loop. My armsmaster in Isencroft wouldn’t have known what to do with you!” The princess’s auburn hair was pulled back in a functional single braid, and she was dressed, as she preferred, in a tunic and trews. Her dark almond-shaped eyes and the dusky hue of her skin spoke of Eastmark blood.
    Vahanian chuckled, and held out the dipper. “Alleys and battlefields are a different kind of salle. Points don’t count—just blood.” Kiara was the first real challenge he’d encountered in the Eastmark style of fighting since his days as a Nargi captive, and he found the purity of her technique an inter-esting counter to his own, battle-won skills. They were well-matched. Jae, Kiara’s gyregon, perched high in the salle rafters where he had an excellent view of the sparring, and hissed at the action.
    “Sun’s up. The others will be here soon.” Kiara replaced the dipper after a long drink.
    Soterius hailed them as he and Carroway entered the salle. “Who won today?”
    “A tie, as usual,” Kiara laughed. “I beat him once, he bested me once, and we did enough dam-age to each other on the third round to agree to disagree!”
    “Have you started yet?” Berry—Princess Berwyn—called from the doorway. She was dressed in a simple shift and slippers. “Did I miss any-thing?”
    Vahanian sighed in jest. “Don’t you have lessons or something?”
    Berry fixed him with a dour look. “Of course I have lessons. I’ve finished my lessons for today. And I think we’ve all seen the need for a princess to defend herself.” The mischievous twinkle in her eye showed how much she enjoyed her verbal jousts with Vahanian. “Carroway has graciously agreed to continue my knife throwing lessons.” She twitched her right hand, and a blade fell out of her sleeve into her palm. “Besides,” she complained, sounding every bit the ten year-old princess that she was, “lessons are boring. You’re making history.”
    As they day wore on, they trained with swords and in hand-to-hand