Lord's Fall (Elder Races #5)(21)

Silence washed over the audience. When Elysias rolled to his knees and pushed to his feet, his struggle to get upright was evident. He must have torn his wound open even further with his last leap, for he couldn’t put any of his weight on that leg.

The harpy didn’t rise. Her back was broken, and she wouldn’t be able to stand upright for weeks. The fight was over. Elysias had pulled it out at the end and won.

The crowd roared, and medics ran out.

The door to the suite opened. Dragos turned away from the window as Graydon poked his head into the room. “You wanted to see me, Chief?”

“Yes, come in.” He said to Kris, “Take a break.”

“You got it,” said Kris, who shut his laptop, tucked it under his arm and left, no doubt to ignore what Dragos said and work elsewhere. His obsession for work was another reason Dragos paid him so well.

Graydon strolled in. He was the brawniest of the four gryphons, a good thirty pounds heavier than the others. In his human form he stood nearly six foot five, and all of it was hard, packed muscle. He took the ugly road to handsome, with a strong face that most often wore a good-natured expression, and rugged, slightly irregular features, sun-darkened skin and gray eyes. He kept his tawny hair no-nonsense short and his clothes plain, and somehow whenever drama plagued the occupants of Cuelebre Tower, he was nowhere to be found. That was a useful talent to have.

A couple of months ago, curious, Dragos had asked Pia, “Why do you have such a soft spot for Gray?”

She smiled, and the part of him that would always be selfish and acquisitive took jealous note of how her face softened whenever Graydon’s name was mentioned. “Because he’s got this bluff, gruff exterior, but underneath that he’s true, right down to the bottom of his soul.”

True, faithful. Loyal.

Unlike many other predator Wyr, including several of the other sentinels, Graydon often pulled his punches when he struck at someone else. He was well aware of his outsized strength. So far, Dragos had noticed, the gryphon was pulling his punches in the arena as well. With the intimacy of long acquaintance, he knew that Graydon would only hammer down when the occasion called for it.

Dragos frowned and turned toward the window again. Graydon joined him and looked out the window too. “I have every expectation that you will be one of the final seven again,” Dragos said. Graydon nodded without speaking, plain even in this. Dragos told him, “When Friday comes, I want to announce you as my First.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Graydon give him a quick look. After a few moments, Graydon said, “I suppose you know that Rune has been in the audience.”

He nodded.

“So you’ve talked?”

“No,” he said.

Graydon said, “I wish you both would get over this shit.”

That one sentence was the most any of the sentinels had said to him on the subject. He said, “Will you consider the position and let me know?”

The other male sighed. “When do you want me to get back to you?”

“Thursday evening would be fine.” Then, driven by an impulse he chose not to dissect, he said, “You keep in touch with Rune, don’t you? You all do.”

“Yep,” Graydon said. “Some of us are mad at him. Some are mad at you. Some of us are mad at both of you.”

Dragos rubbed his face. “Has he ever talked about what happened?”

“Nope. Far as I know, he hasn’t told anybody about it. Well, maybe he’s talked to his mate, Carling, but he hasn’t talked to any of us.”

There were different ways to manifest loyalty, Dragos thought. Maintaining silence was one of them.

As he considered the events of last summer, he thought he could see the cracks in Rune’s own behavior that had indicated the volatility of a Wyr in the early stages of mating. While Rune was known for his even temper, he had snarled at everyone when he had returned from Adriyel, even Dragos. Dragos remembered his own volatility when he was mating with Pia, and how he had nearly choked Rune to death over something that had been entirely innocuous.

How readily Rune had seen what was happening and forgiven him then. Fuck.

He gritted his teeth. Talking to Pia was so much easier.

He growled, “If you are inclined to take the position, you should consider. I was not easy on Rune. He bore the brunt of my temper often, and when he started to show strain, I did not take notice or change any part of what I did. When he asked for me to pause and listen to him, I did not. I issued orders.”

He had specifically ordered Rune to return to New York and abandon Carling, who had at that time been an ally to the Wyr. The Elder tribunal had put Carling under a kill order. While normally Dragos might have involved himself in the issue, last summer the Wyr demesne had been facing border tensions with the Elves, and had been too deeply entrenched in the Dark Fae problems for too long. Overextended, understaffed and short on political tolerance, he had decided, to use a fisherman’s term, to cut bait.

It had been the right decision, goddammit, and one Rune might have agreed with, if he hadn’t become so deeply invested in Carling. Hell, probably even Carling would have agreed with it. She knew the necessity of doing what was politically expedient in order to survive.

If Dragos had it to do all over with the same information he’d had at the time, he would make the same decision again. But it had been the right decision delivered badly, and he had not given Rune a chance to weigh in on the subject and change his mind. Then it had been Rune who had cut bait in favor of his mate.