Dreams Made Flesh
Page 23
Frustrated and miserable, he obeyed.
“It’s summer,” Karla said as she moved the cloth over his back. “Which means you wear what Eyrien males usually wear during the summer—which is next to nothing, right?”
“What’s your point?”
“So maybe you’re right about not doing anything obvious. Maybe it would be better to wait until she trips by herself and falls into your waiting arms.”
He snorted.
“I mean it.” She gave him a light punch. “Look. There you are, flaunting all these lovely muscles day after day—”
“I don’t flaunt.”
“Sure you do. All the males do. You’ve just got more to flaunt than a lot of them. You can rinse off now.”
He turned to face her to get his back under the spray. “Your point is?”
“Does she ever get a dreamy look when she’s doing something simple?”
He stuck his head under the spray. “Sure. When she’s planning what bulbs to plant for spring flowers.”
“Well, what’s she supposed to say? That she’s day-dreaming about your muscles and it’s got her all warm and tingly?”
He considered that for a moment. “Yeah. Why not?”
Karla shook her head and smiled at him. “When she finally gets up the nerve to try to seduce you, don’t make her work too hard, all right? And don’t scare her with that falling out of the sky stuff.”
“She’s Eyrien. She’d enjoy free fall.”
Karla just stared at him, then looked down. “You know,” she said slowly, “since you’ve got the water so cold, it’s hard to tell if it’s true about wings being in proportion to—”
“Do you want to find out how cold a mountain lake is even in late summer?” he demanded.
“You’ve never been in a cold mountain lake until you’ve been in one in Glacia.” She stepped out of the shower. “Taking a swim there will shrivel your assets for a month.”
His response as he turned off the water was pungent and succinct.
“That’s the Lucivar we all know and love,” Karla said, giving him that wicked smile. “Kiss kiss.”
Lucivar stared at the study door. Everything has a price. He’d wanted this since coming to Kaeleer and being reunited with his father three years ago. Now he would finally get the answer to a question that had haunted him.
Now he wasn’t sure he wanted it.
Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he walked into the study.
Saetan rose from the chair behind the blackwood desk and came around the desk so that he could lean against the front of it. “You did well, Prince.”
He nodded, warmed by the praise but too edgy to respond to it.
“What’s your price, Lucivar?” Saetan asked softly.
“The answer to a question.”
Saetan raised one eyebrow and waited.
“Why?” Lucivar asked, thoughts and feelings swelling that one word until he wasn’t sure what else to say. But when Saetan just looked at him, he tried to shape the question. “When Daemon and I were taken away from you, why didn’t you fight to get us back?”
He watched in amazement as Saetan paled.
“I couldn’t,” Saetan said after a long pause, his voice rough.
Lucivar took a step toward him. “Why? Even if you couldn’t have fought back at that instant, you’re a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince. You could have—”
“I couldn’t.” A tremor of some strong emotion went through Saetan. He wouldn’t look at Lucivar. His deep voice was barely a whisper. “I couldn’t. Because of Zuulaman.”
Puzzled by Saetan’s obvious distress, Lucivar said, “Who is Zuulaman?”
“Not a person. A place.” Saetan moved fast and was at the door before Lucivar could raise a hand to stop him. But he hesitated as he opened the door. “If you want to know about Zuulaman, ask Andulvar. In some ways, he remembers better than I do what happened.”
Then he was gone, and Lucivar stared at that closed door a long time, wondering what had happened in that place that could make the High Lord run away.
He found Andulvar near the small lake that was part of the estate. He could have pounded on the door of Andulvar’s rooms, but the coven had gathered to be with Karla, and he suspected it was better to keep this conversation private. So he’d waited until sundown when the Demon Prince rose from his daylight rest and followed Andulvar to the lake.
“Zuulaman?” Andulvar growled. “Why in the name of Hell are you asking about Zuulaman?”
“I asked my father why he didn’t fight to get us back when Daemon and I were taken from him. He said it was because of Zuulaman. He said you’d tell me what that means.” Lucivar waited while Andulvar stared at the lake. “Do you remember it?”
Andulvar snorted. “Yeah. I remember Zuulaman.” Turning his head, he studied Lucivar for a long time. “Are you sure you want to know this?”
No. “Yes.”
Andulvar sighed, went back to staring at the lake . . . and began to talk.
Two hours later, Lucivar walked back into Saetan’s study and stopped just inside the door. His father was standing next to the bookcases that filled the wall behind his desk. He held a book open in his hands. He didn’t look up, didn’t turn a page. Just stood there.
“He told you,” Saetan said in a voice stripped of any emotion.
Unnerved and a little queasy, Lucivar worked to keep his voice steady. “He told me.”
“So now you know.”
Something’s wrong here, Lucivar thought as he studied his father. Something about the way Saetan stood made him think of a brittle object that could shatter at the slightest blow.
He shook his head, raked a hand through his black hair. “I don’t understand why Dorothea let us live. Once she realized she couldn’t use either of us for stud, she should have killed us before we got old enough to make the Offering to the Darkness and come into our full strength.”
“She couldn’t.” Saetan closed the book and put it back on the shelf. “Before I left Terreille for good, I sent Dorothea a message. I told her that on the day Daemon no longer walked among the living, Hayll would become another Zuulaman. I sent the same message to Prythian about you.”
Lucivar felt the floor slide out from under him. He took a stagger-step to regain his balance. “But . . . it was a bluff, wasn’t it? You wouldn’t have done it.”
Saetan finally turned and looked at him. “Yes,” he said too softly, “I would have.”
This wasn’t the man he’d come to know over the past three years. He understood now all of Andulvar’s cautions about dealing with the High Lord. And yet . . .
He’d seen that look in a man’s eyes before. But not in that face, not in those eyes. That was the difference between him and Andulvar, Prothvar, and Mephis. They didn’t know Daemon. They had never danced with the Sadist.
He understood the brittleness now. Saetan was waiting for him to turn away. Expected him to turn away. As Andulvar must have done for a while. As his other sons must have done when they became old enough to understand what their father was capable of when provoked beyond rage.
Everything has a price. Carrying the memory was Saetan’s price. He didn’t have to add to the burden.
“I need to get back to Askavi,” Lucivar said, feeling awkward and knowing that what he said now could shatter the bond between them. “I didn’t tell Marian I was staying overnight.”
“I understand.”
No, you don’t. You think I’m turning away, and I’m not. “I’ll be back in a couple of days.” Turning toward the door, he hesitated. “Good night, Father.”
He watched the tension seep out of Saetan’s body. Saw what might be a shimmer of tears in those gold eyes.
“Good night, Lucivar,” his father replied.
It was after midnight when he landed in the courtyard in front of his eyrie. He’d been too churned up to go home when he got back to Ebon Rih, so he’d flown, working his body while he struggled to empty his mind. Now his body was tired, but his mind . . .
There were so many ways he could have died. Accidents happened in the hunting camps when youngsters were being trained to handle weapons. Warriors died trying to prove themselves in the Blood Run or the Khaldharon. There were battles between courts—usually staged as contests and exercises with weapons shielded to do nothing more than bruise, but there were always males who used those contests as an excuse to shed a rival’s blood, and there had been plenty of warriors who had resented that a half-breed bastard had fighting skills they could match only in their dreams.
There were so many ways he could have died. And he almost had died when he escaped and ended up in Kaeleer. If he had . . .
The door opened behind him. Marian said hesitantly, “Prince Yaslana?”
He turned and looked at the reason his feelings were still churned up. “Come here.”
She came toward him, her steps uncertain, trying to gauge his mood. “I could heat up something for you to eat.”
“It’s summer,” Karla said as she moved the cloth over his back. “Which means you wear what Eyrien males usually wear during the summer—which is next to nothing, right?”
“What’s your point?”
“So maybe you’re right about not doing anything obvious. Maybe it would be better to wait until she trips by herself and falls into your waiting arms.”
He snorted.
“I mean it.” She gave him a light punch. “Look. There you are, flaunting all these lovely muscles day after day—”
“I don’t flaunt.”
“Sure you do. All the males do. You’ve just got more to flaunt than a lot of them. You can rinse off now.”
He turned to face her to get his back under the spray. “Your point is?”
“Does she ever get a dreamy look when she’s doing something simple?”
He stuck his head under the spray. “Sure. When she’s planning what bulbs to plant for spring flowers.”
“Well, what’s she supposed to say? That she’s day-dreaming about your muscles and it’s got her all warm and tingly?”
He considered that for a moment. “Yeah. Why not?”
Karla shook her head and smiled at him. “When she finally gets up the nerve to try to seduce you, don’t make her work too hard, all right? And don’t scare her with that falling out of the sky stuff.”
“She’s Eyrien. She’d enjoy free fall.”
Karla just stared at him, then looked down. “You know,” she said slowly, “since you’ve got the water so cold, it’s hard to tell if it’s true about wings being in proportion to—”
“Do you want to find out how cold a mountain lake is even in late summer?” he demanded.
“You’ve never been in a cold mountain lake until you’ve been in one in Glacia.” She stepped out of the shower. “Taking a swim there will shrivel your assets for a month.”
His response as he turned off the water was pungent and succinct.
“That’s the Lucivar we all know and love,” Karla said, giving him that wicked smile. “Kiss kiss.”
Lucivar stared at the study door. Everything has a price. He’d wanted this since coming to Kaeleer and being reunited with his father three years ago. Now he would finally get the answer to a question that had haunted him.
Now he wasn’t sure he wanted it.
Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he walked into the study.
Saetan rose from the chair behind the blackwood desk and came around the desk so that he could lean against the front of it. “You did well, Prince.”
He nodded, warmed by the praise but too edgy to respond to it.
“What’s your price, Lucivar?” Saetan asked softly.
“The answer to a question.”
Saetan raised one eyebrow and waited.
“Why?” Lucivar asked, thoughts and feelings swelling that one word until he wasn’t sure what else to say. But when Saetan just looked at him, he tried to shape the question. “When Daemon and I were taken away from you, why didn’t you fight to get us back?”
He watched in amazement as Saetan paled.
“I couldn’t,” Saetan said after a long pause, his voice rough.
Lucivar took a step toward him. “Why? Even if you couldn’t have fought back at that instant, you’re a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince. You could have—”
“I couldn’t.” A tremor of some strong emotion went through Saetan. He wouldn’t look at Lucivar. His deep voice was barely a whisper. “I couldn’t. Because of Zuulaman.”
Puzzled by Saetan’s obvious distress, Lucivar said, “Who is Zuulaman?”
“Not a person. A place.” Saetan moved fast and was at the door before Lucivar could raise a hand to stop him. But he hesitated as he opened the door. “If you want to know about Zuulaman, ask Andulvar. In some ways, he remembers better than I do what happened.”
Then he was gone, and Lucivar stared at that closed door a long time, wondering what had happened in that place that could make the High Lord run away.
He found Andulvar near the small lake that was part of the estate. He could have pounded on the door of Andulvar’s rooms, but the coven had gathered to be with Karla, and he suspected it was better to keep this conversation private. So he’d waited until sundown when the Demon Prince rose from his daylight rest and followed Andulvar to the lake.
“Zuulaman?” Andulvar growled. “Why in the name of Hell are you asking about Zuulaman?”
“I asked my father why he didn’t fight to get us back when Daemon and I were taken from him. He said it was because of Zuulaman. He said you’d tell me what that means.” Lucivar waited while Andulvar stared at the lake. “Do you remember it?”
Andulvar snorted. “Yeah. I remember Zuulaman.” Turning his head, he studied Lucivar for a long time. “Are you sure you want to know this?”
No. “Yes.”
Andulvar sighed, went back to staring at the lake . . . and began to talk.
Two hours later, Lucivar walked back into Saetan’s study and stopped just inside the door. His father was standing next to the bookcases that filled the wall behind his desk. He held a book open in his hands. He didn’t look up, didn’t turn a page. Just stood there.
“He told you,” Saetan said in a voice stripped of any emotion.
Unnerved and a little queasy, Lucivar worked to keep his voice steady. “He told me.”
“So now you know.”
Something’s wrong here, Lucivar thought as he studied his father. Something about the way Saetan stood made him think of a brittle object that could shatter at the slightest blow.
He shook his head, raked a hand through his black hair. “I don’t understand why Dorothea let us live. Once she realized she couldn’t use either of us for stud, she should have killed us before we got old enough to make the Offering to the Darkness and come into our full strength.”
“She couldn’t.” Saetan closed the book and put it back on the shelf. “Before I left Terreille for good, I sent Dorothea a message. I told her that on the day Daemon no longer walked among the living, Hayll would become another Zuulaman. I sent the same message to Prythian about you.”
Lucivar felt the floor slide out from under him. He took a stagger-step to regain his balance. “But . . . it was a bluff, wasn’t it? You wouldn’t have done it.”
Saetan finally turned and looked at him. “Yes,” he said too softly, “I would have.”
This wasn’t the man he’d come to know over the past three years. He understood now all of Andulvar’s cautions about dealing with the High Lord. And yet . . .
He’d seen that look in a man’s eyes before. But not in that face, not in those eyes. That was the difference between him and Andulvar, Prothvar, and Mephis. They didn’t know Daemon. They had never danced with the Sadist.
He understood the brittleness now. Saetan was waiting for him to turn away. Expected him to turn away. As Andulvar must have done for a while. As his other sons must have done when they became old enough to understand what their father was capable of when provoked beyond rage.
Everything has a price. Carrying the memory was Saetan’s price. He didn’t have to add to the burden.
“I need to get back to Askavi,” Lucivar said, feeling awkward and knowing that what he said now could shatter the bond between them. “I didn’t tell Marian I was staying overnight.”
“I understand.”
No, you don’t. You think I’m turning away, and I’m not. “I’ll be back in a couple of days.” Turning toward the door, he hesitated. “Good night, Father.”
He watched the tension seep out of Saetan’s body. Saw what might be a shimmer of tears in those gold eyes.
“Good night, Lucivar,” his father replied.
It was after midnight when he landed in the courtyard in front of his eyrie. He’d been too churned up to go home when he got back to Ebon Rih, so he’d flown, working his body while he struggled to empty his mind. Now his body was tired, but his mind . . .
There were so many ways he could have died. Accidents happened in the hunting camps when youngsters were being trained to handle weapons. Warriors died trying to prove themselves in the Blood Run or the Khaldharon. There were battles between courts—usually staged as contests and exercises with weapons shielded to do nothing more than bruise, but there were always males who used those contests as an excuse to shed a rival’s blood, and there had been plenty of warriors who had resented that a half-breed bastard had fighting skills they could match only in their dreams.
There were so many ways he could have died. And he almost had died when he escaped and ended up in Kaeleer. If he had . . .
The door opened behind him. Marian said hesitantly, “Prince Yaslana?”
He turned and looked at the reason his feelings were still churned up. “Come here.”
She came toward him, her steps uncertain, trying to gauge his mood. “I could heat up something for you to eat.”
