The Palace of Impossible Dreams (8 page)

“Jaxyn's probably thinking exactly the same thing about us.”

“And
you
want to keep his spies as pets,” Tryan said. “Hope you know what you're doing, Lyssa.”

Without waiting for his sister to reply, Tryan turned his horse and headed up the steep road away from the docks, back toward the palace. Elyssa watched him leave, scowling at his retreating figure, and then she turned and beckoned her new Crasii to her.

“You heard that?” she asked, although Warlock doubted she wanted an answer. They both nodded wordlessly. “Understand this, creatures. I am the only thing keeping you alive, together, and with your pups. Serve me well, and I'll see you're taken care of. Listen to the orders of another . . .” She hesitated, checking to see who was in earshot. Every Crasii present would know what she was, but it was not yet common knowledge among the human population that the immortals were abroad once more. “. . . another like
me
, and I will dine on your pups. And I mean that quite literally,” she added with an unpleasant smile. “I'm quite partial to dog meat.”

Warlock wanted to tear her throat out. Beside him, he could tell Boots felt the same. That's what made them different from other Crasii. They were Scards, and not a single fibre of their being wanted anything to do with this monstrous immortal who was not only threatening their pups but was the figure of legend credited with creating their race.

If they wanted to live, however, there was nothing they could say, nothing they could do. It took Warlock more strength than he thought he owned to mumble, “To serve you is the reason we breathe, my lady.”

Elyssa smiled even wider. “Excellent! Then let's get to the palace, shall we? I can't wait to show you off to my mother.”

The biggest difference between Caelum and Glaeba, Warlock decided after a few days in the country, was the mountains. In Glaeba, the mountains marked the horizon—a misty blue wall of towering, often snowcapped peaks, protecting the fertile farmland on the valley floor that stretched from the shores of the Lower Oran to the foot of the majestic Shevron Mountains in the east.

The horizon in Caelum, on the other hand, seemed to start at the lakeshore. The world here was defined by the vast expanse of the Great Lakes on one side and the towering Caterpillar Ranges on the other. The streets of Cycrane were steep and narrow, winding around the natural contours of the foothills. The closed-in feel of the city was reflected in the closed expressions of its people.

Warlock knew he wasn't going to like it here for any number of reasons, not the least of which was that Boots wasn't speaking to him.

Not that he really blamed her. Since being rushed from the security of Hidden Valley without much more than a sketchy explanation about joining her mate, Boots had found herself enslaved, packed off to Caelum as one-half of a breeding pair, and spying for the Cabal of the Tarot.

All without anybody actually stopping to ask her what
she
wanted.

And then, just to make things really interesting, she was due to give birth at any moment. Her pups, far from being safe, were now at the mercy of a fickle immortal who might decide, at any moment, that she no longer wanted the inconvenience of a breeding female.

Warlock sympathised with her plight, but wished she'd stop blaming him for it. The Cabal of the Tarot had placed them in danger, and Boots had just as willingly joined their cause as he had. In fact, she'd probably accepted their aid even
more
willingly than he had.

Their current predicament was the cost of that aid. Warlock wished she'd accept that and stop cursing him.

And things could have gone much worse for them, given their circumstances. They were well fed and housed in decent quarters in the basement of the palace with the almost unheard-of luxury of a room of their own. With Boots so close to her confinement, Elyssa had let her off everything but the most basic duties, and she treated them more kindly than any master he'd had since Lord Ordry—although he doubted the immortal was doing so out of any innate goodness; Elyssa was just proving a point to her brother.

Was she trying to ensure the loyalty of her Crasii?

It seemed a futile thing to attempt, really. Either the Crasii were magically compelled to obey or they weren't. There didn't seem much point to Warlock, to attempt to make them
more
loyal. Perhaps it was proof the immortals were just as ego-driven as any self-aware creature. Warlock had seen it many times among the racing dogs Lord Ordry bred on the estate where Warlock had served before his imprisonment: even when warned away from a savage beast, there was always someone who stepped forward, hand outstretched, convinced they alone could inspire such trust in a wild animal that it would override the creature's instincts.

He'd seen many men almost get their hand bitten off, believing that.

Fickle, mercurial and given to unexpected outbursts of temper, Elyssa nonetheless understood the value of love, if her twisted version of it could be called that. The Crasii were magically compelled to obey all the suzerain. She knew that as well as they did. But she lived in close proximity to a half-dozen other immortals, any of whom had the power to countermand her orders.

So Elyssa treated her Crasii like beloved pets, probably because—like the men who believed they wouldn't get bitten—she hoped it meant they would stay on her side, no matter what.

It was Boots who pointed out this harsh reality to Warlock, the day they'd arrived and been shown their quarters.

“This isn't so bad,” Warlock had remarked, looking around the clean, dry—albeit quite small—room, they'd been informed was their new home.

“For slaves,” Boots said unhappily.

“It could be worse, Boots,” he said, closing the door on the feline who'd shown them the way from the slaves' common room on the floor above.

“My name is Tabitha,” she corrected. “And I don't see how it could be any worse.”

“Tryan could have taken you.”

She turned on him furiously. “Tryan wouldn't have even known I'm alive,
Cecil
, if you hadn't promised Declan Hawkes you'd be his willing lap dog if only you had your mate and your precious pups by your side.”

“Shh! Someone might hear you!”

“In this place?” she asked, looking around. “Tides, the walls must be two feet thick. It's like a dungeon in here, which is kind of fitting, really, don't you think?”

“What was I
supposed
to do?” he hissed, not quite as confident as Boots about the insulating effects of thick stone walls.

“You could have left me in Hidden Valley. Left
us
there,” she corrected with a protective hand on her swollen belly. “But no, you had to get all noble and paternal on me and decide I couldn't possibly raise your pups as well as
you
could. So you have them drag me to Lebec and then ship me off into slavery in the service of a Tide-forsaken suzerain, who now has the power of life and death over all of us. Great plan, Farm Dog. Can't wait to hear what your next move is.”

Warlock winced at her tone. And her words. She hadn't called him Farm Dog for months.

“I won't let anything happen to our pups. I swear.”

“You don't have the power to make a promise like that, you big fool,” she said. “Elyssa is a suzerain. She doesn't care about us. She only cares about retaining our loyalty and she'll do it with kindness only while ever it suits her. But you mark my words, Farm Dog, that bitch will turn on us some day. I just hope when she does, you're the one who has to serve the gravy she pours while she's dining on our babies. Maybe then you'll realise you're not nearly as clever or heroic as you think you are.”

“I want your word that you won't try to commit suicide.”

Arkady nodded. Cydne Medura said the same thing every time he left the cabin. Even after nearly two weeks, he still wasn't sure of her intentions. “I promise I'll not kill myself until you get back.”

Cydne glared at her, not very amused, but he let the comment pass. “How do I look?”

He was dressed in his best clothes: embroidered pants and vest, frilly shirt, puffy sleeves and many-buckled sandals. By Glaeban standards, with his long, dark, elaborately curled hair and lace cuffs, he looked ridiculous. If fact, she wasn't the least surprised the crew were picking on him, given the way he dressed. Arkady knew better than to say so, however. This was, apparently, high fashion for a sharp young man about town in Port Traeker.

“You look very handsome,” she assured him. And then she added for good measure, “And manly. I'm sure the captain will be impressed.”

“I'll settle for him ignoring me,” Cydne sighed. And then he squared his shoulders manfully. “Well, into the fray, I suppose.”

Before his courage could fail him, Cydne turned toward the door and stepped outside, revealing a glimpse of the guard—more proof he didn't trust her—who waited in the hall. She heard the lock turn on the cabin door and took a deep breath.

For an hour or two at least, while Cydne dined with the captain, Arkady would be alone. Time to wash, brush her hair; time to stare wistfully at that tray of scalpels, wishing she'd given her word because she was honourable and not just a coward.

If she was dead when Cydne got back, what difference would it make?

Arkady stepped up to the tray and picked up the longest of the wickedly sharp blades. Two weeks ago she'd been prepared to risk everything for a split second of opportunity. And yet, here she was, standing in front of all the shiny, sharp implements of death she could ever desire, debating whether or not she had time to wash her hair.

“Coward,” she said aloud, placing the scalpel back on the tray.

Death is a last resort
, she consoled herself.
The only way out of an untenable situation.
These days the situation wasn't nearly so fraught. She was still a slave, certainly, but she wasn't doing the rounds of the crew like the other
women from the slave cabins. She was protected, safe from the crew, and while she wasn't exactly unmolested, Cydne Medura was so inexperienced and shy, their couplings were hasty, silent affairs that rarely lasted longer than a few tense moments while he vented himself inside her with all the finesse of a rutting canine Crasii.

Arkady didn't waste energy agonising over the time she spent in Cydne Medura's bunk. She was prepared to do whatever she must to keep him satisfied—a split-second decision she'd made when she'd impulsively thrown herself on his mercy, reasoning the attentions of one unwanted lover had to be marginally more bearable than the unwanted attentions of the entire crew.

Arkady consoled herself with the belief that this was the lesser evil. Letting Cydne Medura have his way with her meant saving herself from something far worse than the fumbling attentions of a painfully inexperienced young man who seemed, in the cold light of day, mortally afraid of her.

When Cydne told her he had trouble dealing with women, Arkady soon discovered he wasn't joking. The young doctor—odd that she thought of him as the
young
doctor when he was actually a year older than she was—stammered and blushed and couldn't look her in the eye most of the time. He was far less worldly than his newly acquired chattel and, she soon realised, burdened with almost crippling shyness around women.

Arkady smiled, and turned from the instrument tray. There was no need to kill herself yet. So long as Cydne Medura needed her to protect him from the jeers and contempt of his crewmates, she was in no danger of being handed around the crew for sport.

Perhaps she'd find a way to escape this nightmare yet.

Several hours later, Cydne returned to the cabin, his face flushed with the effects of too much wine. Arkady snapped awake at the sound of the key in the lock, her sense of danger heightened to the levels she hadn't known since living in the slums of Lebec. She scrambled off the bunk where she'd been dozing and hastily straightened the covers. Cydne allowed her to sleep on the examination table after he was done with her; she didn't think he'd be pleased to discover her stretched out on his bunk.

“You're shtill awake,” he remarked as he stumbled against the door.

Arkady wasn't sure if it was the wine or the ship's heaving deck that made, him fall. She hoped it was the latter. That was another lesson she'd learned long ago—drunks, even basically nice ones, couldn't be trusted.

“Are you all right?”

Cydne nodded and stood up straighter, clinging to the doorknob for balance. He nodded. “I'm not ushed to this.”

“The ship's motion?”

He shook his head. “Drinking with the captain,” he said, pushing off the door. “You were right.”

“About what?”

“About him thinking I'm a real man, now I have my own . . .” he stumbled across the cabin and slammed into the bunk, “. . . whore.”

Arkady chose to ignore the insult and helped him up. “So . . . what? You tried to drink him under the table to remove all doubt?”

“I didn't mean to. Oh, Tides . . . I think I'm gonna be . . .”

Arkady snatched the wash bowl from the cabinet by the wall and thrust it under Cydne's head before he could finish the sentence. He vomited up what looked like an entire carafe of red wine and not much else.

Once he'd retched a few more times, he seemed a little better. Arkady carefully placed the bowl on the floor, helped him to sit, and then opened the porthole. She emptied the bowl into the ocean and left the window open, hoping to air out the smell.

“Fank you,” Cydne mumbled, as she swirled some clean water into the bowl to rinse it out.

“We whores can be quite useful, you know,” she replied in her own language.

He looked up, somewhat sobered now his stomach was no longer full of wine. “I've offended you, haven't I?” he asked in Glaeban.