“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.

Chapter 9

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.