Dreams Made Flesh
Page 44

He felt himself sliding down into the abyss, sliding down to where his inner web rested at the depth of power signified by the Black Jewels—the cold, glorious Black. At the same time, he knew he was rising to the killing edge, that state of mind that revealed a Warlord Prince for what he truly was—a born killer, a natural predator. The effort to keep his temper leashed made his body quiver.
“I made an agreement with the Queens of this Territory to protect their people and their land with everything that I am. Now you expect me to use that power as the whip that will force them to turn their people into chattel for Zuulaman’s pleasure.” Saetan shook his head. “There is nothing Zuulaman can offer that is worth this. You may tell your Queen, and the Queens who answer to her, that there will be no trade agreement with Dhemlan.”
The Ambassador bowed his head. “I will leave you to consider the matter.”
“There’s nothing more to consider.”
The Ambassador turned and walked to the study door. Then he paused. “I should mention that your wife is now a guest of the Zuulaman Queens—and will remain so until an agreement has been reached. The message I received also indicated that there was a miscalculation by the Dhemlan Healer as to Lady Hekatah’s time. She may give birth any day now, if the birthing hasn’t already begun.”
“Do you know who I am?” Saetan asked too softly.
The Ambassador smiled. “You are an honorable man.”
“Do you know who . . . and what . . . I am?” he asked again.
The Ambassador’s smile faltered. “Hopefully, you are a man who realizes a small inconvenience to the Dhemlan people is worth less than the well-being of your wife and child.”
Saetan waited until the Zuulaman Ambassador had left the Hall before he sank into his chair behind the blackwood desk.
Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful. What had possessed Hekatah to leave Hayll and go to Zuulaman? Why would she choose to travel so near her time? She’d been aware of the difficulties he’d been having with the Queens who ruled those islands. Had she gone thinking she’d be an honored guest, that the Queens would try to sway her in the hopes that she, in turn, could sway him to agree to something that would be of no benefit to the people he ruled? Now she was a hostage—and their unborn child with her.
So tempting to declare war on the Zuulaman Queens. He wouldn’t need to gather the Dhemlan Warlord Princes to do it. He wouldn’t need anyone or anything but himself to annihilate the Zuulaman courts. But Hekatah was so vulnerable right now, unable to use her own power until after the birthing. They would kill her the moment they felt his presence anywhere near their islands.
He had to find another way. There had to be another way.
They had issued the challenge, drawn the line. Did any of them realize that, by doing so, they had invited him to step onto a killing field?
Did any of them realize what would happen if he did?
Andulvar Yaslana prowled the sitting room in Saetan’s suite, too edgy and angry to remain still—and a little uneasy about the way Saetan did remain quietly at the window, watching Mephis and Peyton play in the enclosed garden bounded by the walls of the family wing. Anger needed sound and motion, unless it ripened to the point where it had a killing edge and needed to be quenched on a killing field. That was his kind of anger. Eyrien anger. But Saetan’s stillness had a different quality to it. Always had, even before he’d made the Offering to the Darkness and came away from it wearing Black Jewels.
“What are you going to do?” Andulvar asked.
“Wait to see what Zuulaman wants,” Saetan replied quietly.
“They made it clear enough,” Andulvar growled as he picked up the trade agreements and dropped them back down on the table.
Turning away from the window, Saetan walked over to the table and stared at the agreements. “Either they really didn’t think this through, or they intended something else all along and these agreements are just smoke.”
“They’re holding your wife hostage,” Andulvar pointed out. And as far as he was concerned, Zuulaman could keep Hekatah. Saetan was better off without the bitch.
“My wife is a Red-Jeweled Priestess from one of Hayll’s Hundred Families,” Saetan said. “If they lay a hand on her, they’ll not only have me to deal with but Hayll as well. Zuulaman is enamored with Hayll, so they won’t do anything that will make the Hayllian Queens turn on them.”
“There’s still those agreements.”
Saetan reached out and pushed the papers with one finger. “Which aren’t worth a damn thing. Say I sign them on the condition that the agreements are handed over to Zuulaman at the same time that the baby and Hekatah are returned to me.”
“Then Zuulaman gets what it wants.”
“For a few hours. As soon as we were home, I’d send a message to the Dhemlan Queens that I was stepping down as the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan, giving up my claim to this Territory.”
The words hit Andulvar like a fist in the belly. “You’d give up Dhemlan?”
“Everything has a price. These agreements are only for Dhemlan Terreille. I’d still have the Dhemlan Territory in Kaeleer.”
“But . . . this is what you wanted.”
An odd look crept into Saetan’s eyes, gone before Andulvar could put a name to it.
“Ruling this Territory was a price equal to the protection I offered,” Saetan said softly. “It was a price worthy of what I am. But I don’t need it.”
Andulvar rubbed the back of his neck. Damn politics. The Eyrien way was simpler—a blade and a battlefield, not these sly games played with words.
“Since the Dhemlan Queens didn’t agree to this, the moment I step down, there are no trade agreements. Zuulaman gains nothing.”
“They won’t expect this.”
“They should. If they’ve paid any attention to how I’ve ruled this Territory since the Queens here made their bargain with me, they should. Which means they never expected me to sign the agreements, but the greed and audacity of asking for so much will make their real goal seem more reasonable.”
Saetan smiled a gentle, brutal smile.
Andulvar suppressed a shudder.
“So I’m waiting for them to name the ransom that will buy back my wife and child,” Saetan said.
“Will you pay it?”
That odd look crept into Saetan’s eyes again. “Yes, I’ll pay it. And it will be the last thing Zuulaman ever gets from me that isn’t paid for in blood.”
4
Hekatah watched the children on the beach, laughing and shouting as they played some incomprehensible game. Whelps from a pissant race that thought it was Hayll’s equal, that it could ever be Hayll’s equal. But Zuulaman had its uses. Through them, several of Hayll’s Hundred Families, including her own, would have their wealth replenished as soon as . . .
The bastard hadn’t signed the agreements yet. And he should have. He should have. As soon as he’d been told she was being held, he should have abandoned the pretense of caring about the welfare of the Dhemlan people and signed the agreements. After all, she was his wife. She’d given him children.
A door opened, and the wailing that had been muffled by stout wood stabbed at her.
“The baby is crying,” her aunt said as she entered the room.
As if it was necessary to tell her that when she could hear him clearly enough. “He’ll stop.”
“He’s hungry.”
Hekatah turned to look at the woman. It had been sensible to bring another family member with her, but she regretted letting her mother talk her into bringing this one. Divorced because she was barren and her husband had wanted to sire children the Families would acknowledge socially, this aunt still craved having a child of her own and was always eager to help any woman in the family take care of a baby.
Weak fool. Children were a bargaining chip, tools to achieve a goal. But once you granted the sire paternal rights, you had to wait centuries before the child was old enough to be really useful again. Of course, the existence of Mephis and Peyton had held her marriage together, had continued to supply her with some kind of income because as long as she remained married to Saetan he would make financial provisions for her.
But not enough. She’d expected to be the High Priestess of Dhemlan, with all the honor and rewards that came with being the leader of the Priestess caste. She should have been. If Saetan had balls for anything but the bed, he would have insisted that she be granted the title and the authority because she was his wife.
She wasn’t anything in Dhemlan but his wife and a Red-Jeweled Priestess from Hayll, given the courtesy due her Jewels and caste but not accepted enough to hold some position of authority.
That would change. She’d make sure of it.
“The baby is hungry,” her aunt said again.
Who cared if the brat starved or not?
Saetan would. He’d rather play with the boys than attend an important social function with her. Oh, he was always willing to escort her to functions, always presented her with the invitations that came from the Dhemlan courts and let her choose which ones she wanted to attend. But he preferred the boys’ company to hers most of the time.
The bastard should have signed the agreements by now, but he valued his honor more than his wife.
He would have to be punished for that.
“Hekatah? Aren’t you going to do something about the baby?”
She stared at her aunt, but in her mind she pictured the man she had married.
The solution was so simple. The agreements would be signed in no time.
All she had to do was break Saetan’s heart.
5
The Hall still trembled from the explosive slamming of the door. Still echoed with the sibilant whisper of Black shields locking into place around the massive structure. Usually, there was no sound made when a shield was formed or triggered. He’d added that sibilance as a bit of flash and glitter, as a way to remind anyone who challenged him that he wasn’t quite like them. Oh, he was Blood, yes, but not quite like them. Not since he’d made the Offering to the Darkness and walked away wearing Jewels no man had ever worn in the history of the Blood. Or maybe he’d never been quite like the rest of them, and that’s why he wore the Black.
His hand wasn’t steady as he held up the small, ornately carved box. He couldn’t stop the tremors going through his body, a reaction to the shock. But his feelings were numbed by exquisitely brutal pain. He felt nothing except awareness that the pain had shoved him to the edge of a precipice. He knew the landscape beyond it. No trained Black Widow feared the misted, twisting roads so close to that edge. They learned how to stray over that border, walk those roads—and come back. But he held on to the precipice and, by doing so, held on to the self-control that leashed everything he was.
“Did they tell you what was in the box before they sent you here, Ambassador?” Saetan asked. His voice, soft thunder, rolled through his study and over the man trying hard not to show fear.
“No,” the Ambassador said, licking dry lips. “I was told to bring it to you immediately. That was all.”