Dreams Made Flesh
Page 45

“Do you know what is in this box?”
The Ambassador shook his head. “I thought, judging from the size, it was a trinket of some kind, something your wife had worn to confirm she was a guest of the Zuulaman Queens. A ring, perhaps, or a pendant. Maybe a—”
“Finger,” Saetan said too softly. “A baby’s finger.”
The Ambassador stared at him, looking sick. “No.”
“Yes.” Saetan smiled—and watched the Ambassador shudder. “So I’m going to tell you the new agreement between Dhemlan and Zuulaman. My wife and child will be returned to me at once. If there is no further harm done to either of them, I will forget Zuulaman exists.”
As the words sank in, the Ambassador shook off his fear. “What kind of agreement is that?”
“A generous one,” Saetan replied. “However, if anything more is done to either of them, it will be considered a declaration of war.”
The Ambassador gaped for a moment. “You think Dhemlan will go to war—”
“Dhemlan will not go to war with Zuulaman.” He paused. “I will.”
“But—”
“You don’t understand what I am. No one would do this who understood what I am.”
The Ambassador closed his eyes. Once he’d regained his composure, he looked at Saetan and shook his head. “The Queens will accept nothing less than the trade agreements. Your wife and child will remain on our islands until the agreements are signed.”
“You’re making a mistake.”
“I serve, Prince SaDiablo. I can only give you the words that were given to me.”
“Then give my words back to them, Ambassador. And hope they appreciate what is at stake.”
As the Ambassador bowed and left the study, Saetan drew the shields back into the stones of the Hall and released the Black lock on the front door. He set the small box down on the blackwood desk and stared at his baby’s finger. Blood sings to Blood. One touch was all he’d needed to confirm that tiny finger was flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood.
The numbness that kept the pain at bay thinned, threatened to shatter. He held on to it, as he held on to the edge of sanity, ignoring the lure of the twisting, misted roads. It would be so easy to slip over the boundary into the madness the Blood called the Twisted Kingdom, especially when it beckoned to him, promising there would be no pain. Especially when he knew he wasn’t able to step away from that edge right now and stand more firmly in the sane world.
With desperate care, he closed the lid on the box, poured himself a large brandy, and settled down to wait.
6
“It won’t be enough,” Hekatah said to the Zuulaman Queens who had assembled in the sitting room she’d been given. “It will upset him, shake him, but it won’t be enough to make him yield and give us what we want.”
“There hasn’t been enough time for a message to come back from the Ambassador who’s staying in that village near SaDiablo Hall,” one of the Queens pointed out. “We can wait and see what—”
She shook her head. “We have to strike fast, have to strike hard before he has too much time to think. We have to—” Punish him for valuing his precious code of honor more than his wife. “—provide more incentive.”
“What do you suggest we do?” another Queen asked.
Hekatah smiled. “Send the other box.”
7
Andulvar strode through the great hall to the door of Saetan’s study. The whole damn place had a hushed quality of people having taken shelter in the hopes of surviving a violent storm.
And there was a storm coming. He could feel it building below the depth of his Ebon-gray Jewels. Hell’s fire! He’d been able to sense the edge of it from his eyrie in Askavi.
Which is why he’d caught the Ebon-gray Wind and ridden to the Hall, arriving at the first breath of dawn. Something was pushing Saetan to the breaking point, and he didn’t want to find out what might happen when a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince’s control shattered.
Flinging open the study door, he walked into the room.
Saetan stood behind the blackwood desk, tears running down his face as he stared at an open box that sat in the center of the desk.
“They kept his head,” Saetan whispered.
Andulvar moved forward. “What are you—”
He was a warrior, bred and trained. An Eyrien Warlord Prince who had never hesitated to step onto a killing field. But he took one look at what was inside that box and stumbled back two steps. “Mother Night.”
Saetan’s hand shook as he reached into the box and gently brushed a finger over a little leg. “What kind of people are they? What kind of people would do this to a baby?”
“Saetan ...” Andulvar swallowed hard to keep his stomach down, then approached the desk.
“I didn’t think they were capable of this. Even after they sent one of his fingers, I didn’t think they were capable of this.”
They what?
“I’m sorry,” Saetan whispered, brushing a finger over another piece. “I didn’t know they had no honor. I’m sorry. So sorry.”
When Saetan looked up, Andulvar saw a strong man about to break—and wondered if Saetan was even aware of the rage growing beneath that grief.
“Andulvar . . .” Saetan’s voice hitched. “Look what they did to my baby. Look—”
Andulvar grabbed him, pulled him into arms that held on with the strength of a friend’s love as Saetan shattered on the jagged stones of grief. “Hold on to me, Brother. Hold on.”
As Saetan clung to him, sobbing harshly, Andulvar forced himself to look at the jumbled pieces that had been a baby.
You fools. The Darkness only knows what will come of what you’ve done.
The sobbing finally stopped. Saetan stepped back, called in a handkerchief, wiped his face, and delicately blew his nose. His gold eyes were dulled by pain and grief.
Andulvar took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Why don’t you go up to your room to rest? I’ll take care of—”
“No.” Saetan shook his head, vanished the handkerchief. “He’s my son. I’ll take care of him.” After closing the lid on the box, he picked it up. “Would you send a message to the Zuulaman Ambassador and tell him to meet me here in three hours?”
“What are you going to do?”
Saetan swallowed hard. “Sign the damn agreements and get my wife back.”
The world was full of soft shapes, gray shapes, meaningless shapes. He moved through it in silence as he walked out of the Hall and went to the tree. He often came to sit beneath it and read when he wanted some time alone. He often sat in its shade while keeping an eye on Mephis and Peyton when they played around the pond.
He sank to his knees, put the box down, and opened it.
No pain now. No feelings at all. Nothing but a terrible clarity. The mist had absorbed his grief, his rage. They were no longer inside him. Now, he was inside of them.
The baby was crying. Somewhere in the mist that turned the world into gray and ghostly shapes, the baby was crying.
He stripped off his shirt, laid it on the grass. Gently took the pieces out of the box and arranged them on the cloth.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I tried to do what was right for the people I rule. Tried to keep the promises I made. I didn’t know the price would be so high.” Tears filled his eyes. “You’ll never know your brothers, you’ll never sail a toy ship on the Ph-phantom Sea, but you won’t be alone. You won’t be forgotten. When I come here with them, I’ll be here for you, too. That I promise you. For as long as I live, you will not be forgotten.”
Carefully wrapping the shirt around the pieces, he used Craft to sink the bundle deep into the earth. When he was done, there was no mark on the ground to indicate the spot, no sign of a grave. It was as if his little son had never existed.
Except the baby kept crying.
He rose to his feet, vanished the box, and walked back to the Hall, empty of everything but a terrible clarity—and a growing storm that was hidden in the mist.
8
Andulvar stood back from the desk where Saetan sat. There was nothing on the desk except the trade agreements, a quill, and a small bowl made of black marble.
The Zuulaman Ambassador stood in front of the desk, clearly unhappy about being in a room with Warlord Princes who wore the Ebon-gray and the Black.
Andulvar didn’t give a damn if the Ambassador was happy or not. Saetan had asked him to stay for this meeting, so he would stay. Besides, the glazed, sleepy look in Saetan’s eyes worried him.
“You won,” Saetan said quietly. He pushed up his left shirt sleeve and nicked his wrist with a long, black-tinted nail. Blood spilled into the marble bowl.
“What—” The Ambassador gave Andulvar a startled glance before focusing on Saetan. “What are you doing?”
“Your Queens killed my son,” Saetan said as he used Craft to heal the nick. “They butchered a baby barely out of the womb. These agreements were bought with blood, so they will be signed in blood.”
In silence, Andulvar watched Saetan pick up the quill, dip it into the blood, and sign the agreements. When he set the quill down, the Ambassador stepped forward and reached for the parchments.
One black-tinted nail came down, pinning the sheets of parchment to the desk.
“The agreements have been signed,” Saetan said too softly. “You’re a witness to that fact. So is Prince Yaslana. When I receive a message from Lady Hekatah’s father, and from the Lady herself, that she has been safely returned to her family’s house in Draega, and is unharmed, I will bring these agreements to you. You’re staying at the inn in Halaway, yes?”
“Yes,” the Ambassador said, “but I don’t think the Queens will agree . . .” He looked into Saetan’s eyes . . . and shivered. “I will inform them that the agreements are signed. I’m sure you’ll hear from Lady Hekatah very soon.”
Saetan just smiled a gentle, terrible smile.
When the Ambassador left, Andulvar sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “By nightfall, half the Queens in Dhemlan will hear about these agreements.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Saetan’s voice sounded queer and hollow, as if it were coming from far away. Then he roused, but the glazed, sleepy look was still in his eyes. “I’d like you to take Mephis and Peyton to Askavi. I need to know they’re safe while I deal with Zuulaman.”
Andulvar nodded, then studied the man who had been his closest friend for several centuries. “Will you be all right?”
“I’ll take care of things. I’ll take care of everything.”
As Andulvar went up to the family wing to collect the boys, he didn’t know which worried him more—the psychic storm he’d felt growing when he’d arrived that morning . . . or the fact that he couldn’t sense any trace of it now.