His vision kept going in and out of focus. One moment he could see clearly, the next the room looked muzzy and gray.
Food. Water. Sleep. He needed all of those things.
Slipping off the stool, he moved stiffly through corridors, swore quietly as aching legs climbed stairs. Dimly he realized his body was moving through the Hall up to his suite. Dimly he heard his voice, hoarse and strained, give orders to have food, water, and wine brought to his room. Dimly he was aware of stripping out of his clothes and stepping into the shower—a new variation of the Eyrien outdoor water tanks warriors used to clean themselves after a battle—and letting hot water pound against his skin while he braced himself against a wall.
Still lost in the mental twilight, he was also aware that he had climbed twisted roads within his own mind and now stood on one side of a familiar border. Still on the misted side of that border, where it was quiet. He wasn’t ready to cross that line back to sanity. Not yet.
Food. Water. He consumed both, then realized he had no memory of getting out of the shower or putting on the long, warm robe that now wrapped his body. Didn’t matter.
He held on long enough to climb into bed, even though the sun was still shining. He held on long enough to put a Red shield around the bed. Not as much protection as a Black shield, but it would do.
Then he surrendered to the sleep he needed before he could step across the border and leave the Twisted Kingdom.
12
Hell’s fire! He should have reached the islands by now, should have sensed one of the landing beacons at the very least.
Dropping from the Ebon-gray Wind, Andulvar spread his wings and glided over the ocean. After a minute, he flew higher, swearing silently. Even if he’d misjudged and taken the wrong threads when he’d switched from radial to tether lines and back again, he couldn’t be that far off. He knew where the islands were.
He went higher, then flew in a wide circle, searching. Searching. Six large islands and twice that many smaller ones. He should be able to see something.
He spiraled toward the water, calling himself a fool even while he did it. What did he think he’d see closer to the ocean that he wouldn’t see higher up?
But he did see something. A bit of green floating on the swells. He glided toward it. Dipped down to snatch it.
The ember of dread that had settled in his belly kindled. His heart pounded as he exploded upward, away from the water, away from . . . What?
He circled back. Breathing hard and sweating, he hovered above the green.
Just a piece of a palm tree. Nothing to fear.
But he couldn’t make himself get closer to it. Couldn’t think about touching it.
He stared at it, floating on swells. He stared at the ocean. The big, empty ocean.
“Saetan,” he whispered. “Saetan, what have you done?”
13
“What do you mean he’s gone?” Hekatah said, wincing a little as she surged to her feet. “There are still settlements to discuss, arrangements to be made for our share of the profit from the first Dhemlan shipment.”
“I know that,” her mother snapped. “But I’m telling you the Zuulaman Ambassador is gone. The servants at the town house he keeps here don’t know when he left or when he’ll be back. But he took all his Zuulaman bric-a-brac with him.” Her mouth thinned to a hostile line. “Are you sure your husband signed the trade agreements?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” Hekatah’s hands curled into fists. The Zuulaman Queens wouldn’t dare try to cheat her and her family out of what was owed them. They wouldn’t dare. “Send someone to Zuulaman. Find out what the Queens know about the Ambassador’s sudden departure.”
14
“There’s something I have to show you,” Geoffrey said, turning toward one of the archways that led to the stacks of books that were kept separate from the rest of the Keep’s huge library.
Andulvar growled. “I don’t have time for—”
“Make time.”
He studied the man. Geoffrey had been the Keep’s historian and librarian since long before Andulvar had been born. He was a Guardian, one of the living dead. He was also the last of his race—a race he never mentioned by name, never talked about. There was nothing that could touch a man like Geoffrey when he was inside the Keep. Nothing a man like him should fear inside the walls of Ebon Askavi.
But it was fear Andulvar heard underneath the temper in Geoffrey’s voice. So he followed the Guardian through the archway and between the shelves of books until Geoffrey finally stopped walking and pointed.
“What do you see?”
Andulvar shrugged. “Empty shelves.”
“Yes,” Geoffrey said. “Empty shelves. Yesterday, those shelves held examples of Zuulaman’s literature. Stories, poems, novels. Those shelves also held examples of pottery, held copies of songs as well as a flute and drum. They’re gone now.”
“I need to talk to someone from Zuulaman,” Andulvar said, deciding against telling Geoffrey about the other stolen items that had come from Zuulaman—at least until his own business at the Keep was concluded. “Can you check the Registers and—”
“There aren’t any Registers.”
Andulvar swore. “There have to be. These people are Blood. Some of them have to be in the Registers. Even if they didn’t officially register as they should, you would have made some notation about the Blood who wear darker Jewels.”
“Yesterday, there were Registers for Zuulaman,” Geoffrey said. “Now they’re gone. As if they had never existed.”
Beads of sweat broke out on Andulvar’s forehead. “I’d like to talk to Draca.”
Geoffrey nodded. “She’s waiting for you.”
Retracing his steps, Andulvar returned to the room that held a large blackwood table where scholars and other Blood could sit and read the books Geoffrey didn’t permit to leave this part of the library.
The Keep’s Seneschal was ancient . . . and didn’t look quite human. She’d unnerved him the first time he’d met her when he came to the Keep as one of Cassandra’s First Circle Escorts. She still unnerved him.
“I need to talk to one of the Zuulaman Blood,” Andulvar said.
“They are gone,” Draca replied.
“From Terreille, yes. But there must be some who are demon-dead. You could arrange this.”
“They are gone,” she repeated. “The Dark Realm wass purged of Zuulaman Blood.”
Andulvar grabbed one of the chairs that surrounded the table to keep himself upright. “You purged Hell?”
“No.”
“Then . . . ?”
“The Prince of the Darknesss. The High Lord of Hell.” Draca stared at him. “Grief wass the hammer they ussed to break hiss control. Rage wass the forge in which he sshaped hiss power into a weapon.”
“So there’s no one left.”
“There’s no one left,” Geoffrey agreed. He looked at Draca. “If Saetan did what we think he did, there isn’t a shard of pottery, a scrap of cloth, or a line from a poem, story, or song left that came from the Zuulaman people. There isn’t any trace of them in any of the Realms.”
Including the islands they came from, Andulvar thought, feeling sick.
“It’s as if they never existed,” Geoffrey said.
Draca took a step toward Andulvar. “Ssaetan iss the ssame man today ass he wass a year ago, the ssame ass he hass been ssince he made the Offering to the Darknesss and wass gifted with the Black Jewelss. He iss the ssame man who hass been your friend for many yearss.”
“But now I know what he’s capable of doing if he’s pushed too hard or too far,” Andulvar said, shuddering.
“Yess,” Draca replied gently. “Now you know.”
15
The next morning, Andulvar walked into the informal receiving room at the same moment Saetan began descending the stairway that led to the family wing. They stopped at the same time and studied each other.
Andulvar felt a chill twist up his spine as he looked into Saetan’s glazed, gold eyes.
“The boys?” Saetan asked.
“They’re fine. I’ll bring them back later today. I came now to see how you’re doing.” To see if you’re sane.
“I—” Frowning, Saetan descended the rest of the stairs. He wasn’t moving with his usual grace, and the hand that clutched the banister trembled. “Have I been ill?”
The glazed look gave way to puzzlement.
“How do you feel?” Andulvar asked, not quite sure how to answer the question.
“Hollowed out,” Saetan replied, rubbing his forehead. “Like I’ve had a fever. Thoughts keep swimming through my head, but I can’t put them together in a way that makes sense. Andulvar . . .”
He didn’t see a Warlord Prince capable of destroying an entire race of people. He saw the man who had been his friend for centuries. He saw a man who was exhausted, a man so heartsick it was a kind of illness.
He held out his hand, certain that if Saetan accepted that hand, he would get his friend back. Saetan would regain his emotional balance, and the leash he used to protect the rest of the Blood from the full violence of what he was would be restored.
Then Hekatah burst into the room. The hand reaching for his fell away. The gold eyes glazed again, and in their depths swam something Andulvar had never seen before.
This is why the demon-dead call him the High Lord, Andulvar thought in despair. This is why they fear him enough that he can rule the Dark Realm even though he’s still among the living. It’s too late. There’s no going back. For any of us.
“What have you done?” Hekatah screamed as she rushed toward Saetan.
Andulvar grabbed her arm, hauling her back out of reach. Not because he cared about her, but because he was afraid of what would happen if Saetan responded now.
“Darling Hekatah,” Saetan crooned.
“What did you do?” she screamed again.