The Palace of Impossible Dreams

by Jennifer Fallon

  Pellys’s madness had a much less complicated cause. During a bout of depression eight thousand years ago, he had persuaded Cayal to decapitate him, knowing that when his head grew back—as did any part of an immortal separated from their body—it would grow back unburdened by the memories of his insanely long life.

  The trouble was, the decapitation, in addition to destroying the entire nation of Magreth, had destroyed all the knowledge and experience that a person brought into immortality with them. Pellys had the mind of a petulant child with no conscience. It made him curious, amusing—and dangerous beyond comprehension.

  Given that Kentravyon, even if he’d been revived by now, was—hopefully—in Lukys’s custody somewhere in Jelidia, and Lukys would discourage such a wanton display of power so soon after the Tide had turned, that really only left Pellys.

  Once he knew who he was looking for, it didn’t take long to track down the other Tide Lord. He could feel him in the Tide, even more so when he was drawing on its power. His presence drew Cayal like iron filings to a magnet.

  Cayal found the Tide Lord on the sixth day of the storm sitting on a high bluff, overlooking the slaughter yards of the Elvere abattoir. As usual, Pellys had sought out creatures who were about to die so he could bask in their mortality. He was sitting cross-legged on the bluff, wearing a bloodstained leather apron that even the incessant rain had been unable to wash clean, which spoke of more than a passing fascination with the abattoir. He’d probably, Cayal guessed, been working there as a slaughterman.

  “Hello, Pellys,” he said, after climbing the storm-swept bluff where the Tide Lord was perched, the better to watch his handiwork wreak havoc on the city.

  The older man glanced up, unsurprised to find Cayal standing there. He grinned. “I like your weather.”

  Cayal lowered himself to the sodden ground beside Pellys. The waters of the harbour below churned in the storm, a sinister grey soup that blended almost seamlessly with the sheeting rain. “It’s time to make it stop now, Pellys.”

  “But I can feel the Tide. Haven’t felt the Tide for a long time. It feels good.”

  “I know, but you need to let it go.”

  “I didn’t start it, you know.” He turned to Cayal, frowning. “It’s not my fault. Why do people always think it’s my fault?” He’d been like this ever since his head had grown back. It was more than childish petulance; it was as if his regenerated brain had lost something in the regrowth, some capacity to advance beyond infantile reasoning and deal with more adult concepts. Like consequences.

  “Nobody’s blaming you, Pellys.”

  “You started it, didn’t you?”

  Cayal didn’t answer that. There didn’t seem much point.

  “I always get blamed for stuff you do.”

  “Then let’s stop this before there is something else to blame you for.”

  Pellys seemed to consider that notion for a moment . . . and then abruptly, the rain stopped. Without the artificial encouragement of a Tide Lord, the weather immediately began to right itself. With unnatural speed, the clouds started to break up, allowing the sunshine through in spears of light bright enough to make Cayal squint.

  “Better?”

  Cayal nodded. “Much better.”

  “I need a woman,” Pellys said. “Always do, after I’ve been riding the Tide.”

  “And with such a charming seduction technique, I’m sure you’ll find them lining up for you, Pellys, my old friend.”

  The immortal smiled. Sarcasm was completely lost on Pellys. “Did you come to Elvere to find me?”

  Cayal knew better than to tell Pellys the truth. “Of course I did.”

  “You haven’t looked for me for ages.”

  “You’ve been hiding, haven’t you?”

  That gave Pellys pause. He nodded and then shrugged. “Still, would have been nice if you looked.”

  “I’m here now. That’s what really counts.”

  Pellys nodded again and then turned to study Cayal, his face splitting into an enormous grin. “You’re all wet.”

  “Yeah . . . funny about that.”

  His eyes lit up. “Did you want to sink some ships? I like the way the people all scurry about like ants when you sink their ships.”

  Cayal sighed, wondering why he was even remotely surprised that Pellys hadn’t changed since the last time they’d crossed paths. Admittedly, he’d not been an intellectual giant, even back before Cayal decapitated him, but now . . .

  There, but for a headsman’s dead mother, go I, Cayal thought.

  Pellys had no memories of his past before Cayal had put an end to his suffering by removing his head, just this infantile innocence coupled with the power of a Tide Lord. Of course, taking Pellys’s memories had been the easy part; having a Tide Lord with the self-awareness of a newborn and the power to split a continent had proved the real problem. Magreth had sunk into the ocean in the process of Pellys’s regeneration. Would I have destroyed Glaeba the same way, he wondered, had they beheaded me instead of trying to hang me?

  Would Arkady have survived?

  Given her fate now, she might have been better off had his decapitation been successful. She’d be dead, more than likely, but she might consider that a more desirable state than slavery. But there was no point in wondering what might have been. The decision to let Arkady go had just been taken out of his hands.

  With the Tide on the rise, and Pellys already fantasising about mass-murder on the high seas, Cayal knew he had to get him away from here.

  He needed to take him somewhere safe; somewhere he could do the minimum amount of harm. There was always enough trouble when the Tide Lords regained their power with the turn of the Tide, without someone like Pellys running around, wantonly destroying things just for the pleasure of watching them die.

  Then Cayal realised it wasn’t so much a “where” he should take Pellys, but a “who.” Lukys had been around even longer than Pellys. He’d know what to do with him; know how to distract him.

  They might even be able to use him. Lukys had said they needed the power of several Tide Lords, after all, to wield this magic he’d promised would end Cayal’s life. Brynden wasn’t going to help—Cayal wondered what made him think he ever would—and he’d rather spend the rest of eternity in torment than ask for Tryan’s assistance with anything. The idea of tracking down Elyssa was equally frightening, because there was only one sure way to secure her cooperation—and, even for death, Cayal wanted to avoid that. Perhaps his stumbling across Pellys like this was more than fortuitous coincidence. If he took Pellys back to Lukys’s place in the desert, when the older man got back from Jelidia with Kentravyon they might have enough power to do this thing, and rid Cayal of this life he was so desperate to be done with.

  “I’ve got a better idea,” he said. “Let’s go pay Lukys a visit.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  Cayal nodded. “He has a villa not far from here. It even has goldfish.”

  Chapter 6

  They buried Shalimar on the side of the mountain, on a frosty morning the day after he passed away. A simple wooden plank, into which Nyah had roughly carved his name, marked his final resting place.

  The little Caelish princess cried as Declan and Stellan lowered the old man’s body into the grave and insisted on saying the Caelish Prayer for the Dead. It was a depressing ode filled with many “thees” and “thous,” references to the Tide Star, and suggestions of the possibility of an afterlife which Shalimar would have scorned had he been here to witness his own funeral.

  Declan said nothing to her, however. The little girl had never had to confront death before. Her own father had died when she was still a small child, and she had no memory of him or the rituals associated with his passing, to help her. He sensed Nyah needed to feel she was contributing something, or perhaps saying goodbye—he wasn’t sure which—so he let her speak and made no comment about it.

  With the formalities done, Nyah headed back along the path
toward the cabin, sobbing quietly, while Stellan and Declan filled in the grave. Unable to think of anything to say that might ease the little girl’s grief, Declan watched her leave, wondering why the child—who’d known his grandfather for only a few months—seemed more upset at his passing than his own grandson, who remained dry-eyed.

  “She and the old man had grown quite friendly,” Stellan said, tossing a spadeful of dirt over Shalimar’s canvas-wrapped corpse. Perhaps he guessed the direction of Declan’s thoughts.

  Declan turned back to the pile of dirt beside the grave they’d dug out the day before, forcefully thrusting the spade into the cold earth. “She barely knew him.”

  “Is that a prerequisite for grief? Longevity of acquaintance?”

  “I suppose not,” Declan said, shovelling another spadeful of dirt into the grave.

  They worked in silence for a time, the still, chilly mountain air silent but for the rhythmic thud of dirt landing in the grave. The hole was perhaps half full when Stellan stopped to rest, wiping the sweat from his brow as he leaned on the handle of his spade.

  “Not used to hard physical labour?” Declan asked, as he continued to work.

  “Not really, no,” Stellan agreed. “Although since being a guest here, I’ve learned the value of it.” He smiled wanly. “Not all of that woodpile is your work, you know.”

  Declan lay his spade aside and reached for the waterskin. “You still talk like you’re the lord of the manor.”

  “Do I?”

  “Can’t help yourself.” Declan tossed him the waterskin and picked up his spade. “And it’s contagious. Arkady wasn’t married to you more than a month before she started talking the same way.”

  Stellan took a long swig from the skin and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before he replied. “You have a problem with that, don’t you?”

  Declan shrugged and continued to shovel dirt over his grandfather, although there was no sign of him any longer. “Arkady can talk any way she likes.”

  “I meant with me marrying Arkady.”

  “Arkady is free to marry anybody she likes too.”

  “You’ve never been happy about it though, have you?”

  Declan stopped to look at him. “Tides, Desean, you’ve been married to her for the better part of seven years. What? You wanna fight about it now?”

  “On the contrary, I don’t want to fight about Arkady at all.”

  “Then shut up and keep shovelling.” Declan slammed the spade into the loose earth beside the grave, irritation lending him strength.

  “I want you to find her for me.”

  Declan emptied the earth into the grave and then leaned on the spade, turning to look at the former duke. “You want me to what?”

  “I want you to find Arkady and bring her home.”

  “Why don’t you go look for her? You’re her husband. And it’s not as if you have anything better to do right now.”

  Stellan shook his head. “I’m supposed to be dead, remember?”

  “So am I.”

  “Perhaps, but you’re not the heir to the Glaeban throne, Declan. If you miraculously return from the dead, it’s not going to start the sort of trouble my resurrection will cause.”

  “You don’t think Arkady wouldn’t like to know you’re alive?”

  “Even if I wanted to announce it in the town square of Herino, I don’t have anything close to the discreet contacts you have, particularly in Torlenia, to find her.”

  The reminder that Arkady was currently missing somewhere in Torlenia silenced the objection Declan was about to make. Not only was she in Torlenia, but last he’d heard, the immortal Kinta was Arkady’s newest best friend. She could be anywhere by now.

  “I don’t know what’s happened to her, Declan. And I have no way, any longer, of ensuring she’s well. When I left her at the palace with the Imperator’s Consort, she was safe enough, but news of my arrest—”

  “Whoa!” Declan said, wondering if he’d misheard the duke. “You left her where?”

  “With the Imperator’s Consort in the Royal Seraglium. You know what Torlenia is like. I couldn’t leave her at the embassy on her own, and Lady Chintara was kind enough to offer . . . What’s the matter? You look as if I left her camped on a street corner.”

  “Tides!” Declan swore. “She might have been better off if you had.”

  Stellan frowned, clearly puzzled by Declan’s reaction to his news. “But that’s my point, don’t you see? Her status as the Ambassador of Glaeba’s wife would have been thrown into doubt the moment I was arrested. I’ve had no word from her, Declan. I don’t know if the Torlenians have offered her asylum, if she’s been thrown out on the street, or if Jaxyn’s had her arrested and she’s already on her way back to Glaeba.”

  “It may make little difference,” Declan said, picking up his shovel.

  “Why?”

  “Because the Imperator’s Consort is an immortal.”

  Stellan stared at him in disbelief.

  “Oh, you think that’s not possible? You, who brought the Lord of Temperance home and kept him as a pet for nigh on a year without realising what he was?” Declan shovelled dirt into the grave as he spoke, glad of something physical to do; glad of something else to do with his spade other than crown Stellan Desean with it. “You who didn’t even know his own flesh and blood well enough to spot that his niece had probably been murdered and replaced by an immortal?”

  Stellan shook his head. “I had no idea . . . Declan . . . Tides, I’m still trying to adjust to the idea that immortals exist at all.”

  “Well, now that you’ve got your head around that little dilemma, try to get your head around this one. Your precious Lady Chintara is the immortal Charioteer, Kinta. As far as we can tell, she is the Imperator of Torlenia’s Consort because that’s the best place to be if you’re planning to topple him, so you can hand the entire country to your boyfriend—a fellow with the reassuring moniker of the Lord of Reckoning, by the way—just as soon as the Tide turns. Just like Jaxyn and Diala have lined themselves up to take Glaeba by the throat, as soon as the time is right. Just like Syrolee and her lot are doing in Caelum, which is why we’re hiding Nyah here in the mountains, remember. In case you’d forgotten.”

  “How do we stop them?”

  Declan kept on shovelling. “We can’t.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Stellan studied him for a moment before carefully suggesting, “You’re one of them now, Declan. Perhaps you’re no longer as dedicated to seeking the destruction of the immortals as you once were. I mean . . . their doom is now your doom too.”

  Declan was disgusted by the very suggestion. “You think a freak accident has turned me into some sort of power hungry monster? Is that it?”

  Stellan shrugged. “I have no idea what it’s done to you. All I know is Arkady is missing and you’re the only man I know—mortal or immortal—with the ability, the resources and more importantly the will, to find her and bring her home.”

  “What makes you so damned sure about that?”

  “Because you love her, Declan, probably more than I do.”

  Declan didn’t bother answering that one. He kept on shovelling for a time and then glanced over the half-filled grave at Stellan. “You planning to move any more of this dirt or just stand there, like the lord of the flankin’ manor, making profound announcements on shit you know nothing about?”

  Stellan picked up his shovel. “You know I’m right, Declan.”

  “What I know, Desean, is this,” he said, putting all his effort into filling the grave, his words punctuated by shovel after shovel-load of falling dirt. “Arkady married you because you offered her wealth and comfort and safety and a chance for her father to go free. I never agreed with what she did, but I understood why she did it. And now, because of that deal, she’s stranded in a foreign country with no money, no protection and probably the captive of an immortal who’s very pi
ssed off with the last immortal your wife made friends with. She is neither safe, comfortable, nor wealthy, and just to make things really interesting, there’s a warrant out for her arrest, issued by the immortal you brought into your palace, because you were too blinded by lust to recognise the danger a menace like Jaxyn is to everything you hold dear, including your wife.” He straightened, tossing the spade aside. “So don’t you dare stand there and tell me I’m the one responsible for rescuing Arkady, your grace. She wouldn’t need rescuing if it wasn’t for you.”

  Declan turned to leave, deciding Desean could finish the job. Besides, if he stayed much longer in his present mood, Shalimar might not be alone in his grave for long.

  “You sent her to interview the Immortal Prince,” Stellan called after him. “I’ll admit my culpability for allowing Jaxyn into our lives, Declan, and for not realising Kylia was not who she claimed, but don’t blame me for all of it. You’re the one who introduced Arkady to Cayal.”

  Declan hesitated, glancing back over his shoulder. “So we’re equally to blame.”

  “I don’t think we are,” Stellan said, shaking his head. “I might have endangered our position by bringing Jaxyn home, but you’re right—I was blinded by lust. You, on the other hand, apparently knew all along that Kyle Lakesh was actually the Immortal Prince. And yet you sent her to him, for your own selfish reasons, even knowing the danger he represented.”

  That was a charge Declan couldn’t deny, so he didn’t bother trying. Instead, he turned from the path leading back to the clearing where Maralyce’s cabin was located and headed into the woods, letting his anger and frustration guide him.

  “You know I’m right, Declan!” Stellan called.

  Declan ignored the duke, certain that if he turned back to confront Stellan now, only one of them would emerge from the encounter alive.