Dreams Made Flesh (The Black Jewels #5)

Dreams Made Flesh (The Black Jewels #5) Page 46

9

Grief ripped into him, its jagged edges slicing his heart. He lost his precarious balance and tumbled through a landscape filled with knives and little arms that rose up from crevices in the stones like brown-skinned flowers. As he clung to a stone to keep from sliding further into the mist, the petals of one flower opened, became a tiny hand . . . with a missing finger.

A howl of rage and pain shook the landscape. Then silence.

Getting to his feet, he looked around. No landmarks he recognized, and he’d set no markers as guides to take him back to the border of that place called sanity.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to find that place. It was quiet here, almost peaceful here, despite the flowers. But . . .

Mephis. Peyton.

He looked around again, saw two beacons shining above him. His markers. His anchors. Two reasons to go back.

But not yet. Here there was terrible clarity. Here there was quiet—except for the sound of a baby crying.

Saetan read the two messages again, not sure what he was searching for but certain he hadn’t found it.

The message from Hekatah’s father was a scrawled assurance that she’d arrived in Draega, distressed but unharmed, and would remain there until everything was settled with Zuulaman’s Queens.

A similar message from Hekatah, with additional reminders that he was responsible for her safety, that her continued safety, and the safety of their two sons, depended on his fulfilling the agreements he’d made with Zuulaman.

As he read her message one last time, he knew what was missing. There was nothing about the baby. If she knew what had been done, there was no sign of grief. If she didn’t know, there was no concern that she’d been allowed to leave without the child. Not one word about the loss of their newborn son. Not. One. Word.

He dropped the messages back on the silver tray his butler had placed on his desk. Called in a long, soft black jacket, slipped it on, adjusted his shirt cuffs and collar. Then he picked up the agreements and left the Hall.

While the Ambassador carefully looked over the agreements, no doubt to confirm that nothing had been altered after they’d been signed, Saetan looked around the room the man had called home for the past few weeks.

Two pieces of Zuulaman pottery were arranged on a table, along with a wooden flute and a book of the island’s folk tales. He knew that’s what the book contained because the Ambassador had given him a copy the first time the man had called to discuss the trade agreements. And on the wall was a framed, primitive sketch of a seashore.

“This takes care of it,” the Ambassador said. “I believe this takes care of everything.”

Not quite. The thought bloomed. Found the storm hidden in the mist. Echoed through that terrible clarity.

“If there’s anything I can do to assist you in collecting the first shipment of goods . . .” The Ambassador frowned. “Prince SaDiablo?”

No word of regret. No mention of the child whose blood had bought those sacks of grain, those casks of wine, whose death had sentenced the Dhemlan people to buying pottery and sketches they didn’t want.

Rage flowed through him, a cold, sweet poison.

Saetan looked at the Ambassador and smiled. “There is one thing you can do.”

“I’m not available to anyone,” Saetan said as he brushed past his butler.

“What if the Dhemlan Queens—”

“Not to anyone.”

Down, down, down until he came to the corridor deep beneath the Hall that led to his private study. Only Andulvar knew about this study, with the small bedroom and bathroom attached to it. A private place for the times when his Craft demanded such privacy.

He pressed a spot in the study wall. A piece swung back, revealing another short corridor. After stepping inside, he closed the hidden door, then created a ball of witchlight to provide illumination as he walked down the corridor and entered the workroom. Setting the witchlight in a bowl on the large wooden table, he stripped out of his jacket and tossed it aside.

The baby kept crying.

He opened Black-locked cupboards. Took out the tools no other man owned and placed them on the table. When everything was ready, he carefully unrolled a spindle of spider silk and attached the thread to the wooden frame he’d placed in the center of the table.

The baby kept crying.

“Hush, little one,” Saetan crooned. “Hush. Papa will take care of things. Papa will take care of everything.”

10

“What do you mean he’s not available?” Andulvar growled.

“We haven’t seen him since he returned from seeing the Ambassador yesterday,” the butler replied.

“But he’s here?”

“We think so.”

Andulvar shifted his weight, opened his wings slightly.

The butler swallowed nervously. “We thought he’d gone to the cellars to select a bottle of wine or some brandy, but when he didn’t return, we looked for him.”

And didn’t find him. Which means I know where he’s gone.

“When he reappears, tell him I want to speak with him.”

“At once, Prince Yaslana.”

Andulvar walked out of the Hall, cursing himself. He should have taken the boys to Askavi and come back here. Hell’s fire, he should have taken them to Ebon Askavi and asked Draca and Geoffrey to look after them for a few days. They’d be safe at the Keep. Nothing could touch them at the Keep.

He should have come back here. Saetan wasn’t stable. Anyone looking at the man could tell he was too close to sliding into the Twisted Kingdom.

But only a fool would go down to that private study without some idea of what he might find there.

So I’ll give him the day to lick his wounds in private. Then I’ll be a fool.

He spread his wings and prepared to launch himself skyward and catch the Winds to go back to Askavi. Then he hesitated, looked at the drive that became the road into Halaway. He couldn’t reach Saetan right now, but there was one other person who could tell him if anything else had happened yesterday.

He clenched his teeth as the Warlord who owned the inn hurried along the corridor ahead of him.

“Haven’t seen him since dinner yesterday,” the Warlord said. “Sneers at every dish that’s put before him, but he tucks into his food well enough. Here it is. This is his room.” He rapped on the door, waited a moment, then called in a ring of keys, selected a key, and opened the door.

Andulvar went in first, all his senses alert to some sound, some motion, a psychic presence that would indicate someone was in the room.

“Bastard,” the Warlord said.

Bristling, Andulvar turned slowly, his hand itching to call in his Eyrien war blade. But the Warlord wasn’t looking at him.

“He cleared out,” the man said. “The bastard just cleared out without paying his bill.”

Andulvar studied the room, noted the books on the bedside table, the clothes still hanging in the open wardrobe. “Are you sure?”

“Course I’m sure!”

“His things are still here.”

“Not the things he brought from Zuulaman.” The Warlord picked up the books, then set them back down before going to the wardrobe and riffling through the clothes. “He bought these clothes here in Dhemlan. Those books, too. My brother was in the bookshop the same day and saw the Ambassador buy them. But all the things he brought with him from Zuulaman are gone. Those bits of pottery and a book. There was a sketch on the wall, too. And the clothes.”

A chill went down Andulvar’s spine. There was no reason for the Ambassador to remain in Halaway now that the agreements were signed. No reason at all. And yet . . .

“Guess he didn’t think the things that came from Dhemlan were worth enough to take back with him,” the Warlord said with a trace of bitterness.

Andulvar left without saying another word to the innkeeper and flew back to the Hall. As he landed and started to walk toward the front door, three Warlord Princes dropped from the Winds and appeared on the landing web that was circled by the drive. Opal, Sapphire, Red. Even together, they couldn’t challenge Ebon-gray and hope to survive, but it would be a vicious fight. He shifted, deliberately placing himself between them and the Hall’s front door.

“We need to see Prince SaDiablo,” the Red-Jeweled Warlord Prince said.

“He’s not available,” Andulvar replied.

The Sapphire swore quietly.

“We need to see him,” the Red insisted. “We’re here on our Queens’ behalves to report some odd thefts that occurred last night.”

“What kind of thefts?” Andulvar asked, feeling icy claws wrap around his spine.

“Reports came in from several Provinces in Dhemlan as well as Amdarh,” the Sapphire said. “Items were stolen sometime during the night.”

“What kind of items?”

The Red’s smile had a bite but no humor. “If it came from Zuulaman, it’s gone. There’s no sign that anyone broke in to those homes and nothing else was taken.”

“It’s not just people’s homes,” the Sapphire said. “Merchants reported that anything they’d acquired from Zuulaman to sell is gone. Books, pictures, pottery. Doesn’t matter.”

“The Queens are wondering if some kind of spell had been woven into the items so that they’d vanish after a certain amount of time,” the Red added. “They’re wondering if we’re going to end up buying the same books and bits of crockery over and over again.”

Which confirmed that the Ambassador had made sure at least some of Dhemlan’s Queens were aware of the trade agreements before he disappeared.

They waited now, watching him.

An ember of dread kindled in his belly, but he didn’t let them see it. “I’ll tell him.”

He watched them walk back to the landing web. Waited until they’d caught the Winds to go back to their Queens. He looked up at the sky, judged the daylight. Still enough time before twilight, even though he’d be heading east.

He strode to the landing web, caught the Ebon-gray Wind, and headed for Zuulaman.

11

The baby stopped crying.

Saetan took a deep breath. Let it out slowly. His body ached right down to the bone. As he raised his right hand to brush back his hair, he noticed the ring. The Black Jewel looked dull. When had he drained it? And why? He brushed fingers over the Black Jewel that hung from a gold chain around his neck. That one, too, was drained. Only a few drops of power remained, just enough to keep the Jewel from shattering. He must have drained it. He was the only one who could drain it. But . . . why?