Into the Dark Lands (2 page)

They joined, locking Their essences around each other. Neither gave ground, and neither retreated from the tight embrace of Their struggle. We of the Sundered heard the voices of our Lords grow weaker and fainter until they did not reach our ears at all. Worse, we saw the Light dim and the Darkness brighten; you who have always known dusk and twilight will never comprehend our terror. No more Light or Darkness was sundered; They were too closely knit for that.

Thus was the Earth born, and gray humanity which holds in equal portion a measure of Light and Dark and knows both life and death, love and hate, pain and pleasure. And the Light and the Dark slept again, Twin Hearts in the body of the world; the Bright Heart and the Dark Heart as they are known now. We cried out into the void all our ancient evocations—to no avail. What slept we were powerless to awaken.

Thus the Servants were alone among humanity, each carrying the heritage of his parents. All that we saw as we first wandered the body of the world was ugly to our eyes, stained and impure. We saw the mortals rise from folly to folly; saw them born and saw them die. In time, we grew to hope that out of the gray we might pull Light—or Darkness. The Sundered chose to mingle with the mortals that had so displeased them at first, and from these unions, you were born.

Thus began the battle we now fight. The Servants of the Darkness and their offspring furthered the ends of the Dark, as those of the Light furthered the ends of the Light. Humanity proved amenable to all of the influences of both: fear, love, hate, pain, and hope.

And the Light and the Dark continued to sleep, untouched by the conflict, until the battle of Pellen Fields and the fall of Gallin
of Meron, who was our foremost warrior, the champion of my choice.

The Bright Heart is not human or mortal; He knows no life as we know it. But the strength of Gallin's dying touched Him, where a living creature could not. And as Gallin died, the power of the Light—of God—flowed to him. And the Servants of the Darkness fled or perished as the power of their Enemy reawakened. And we who had served the Light since the beginning heard again the whisper of His voice and His purpose.

Thus did Lernan, God, return in power to us, His followers, lending us the strength of His purpose. Love, He gives us, and light, and hope. Yet even awakened, He was still lessened; the world that He had formed could not release Him to us. The void was no longer His home; nor would He wander it again in all His brilliant glory. He was interred. The Light of the Bright Heart would know no release from His body. Still, with His aid and strength, our victory was assured.

Or so we hoped.

But such was the nature of the Darkness that He could not sleep while His one Enemy awakened—and so did the power of the Dark Heart also enter the world, to speak once again to His ancient Servants, and the half-breed Malanthi that they had engendered. And to them returned the power of Darkness, the power of the blood ceremonies.

You, who are Lernari, bear some of the blood of the Light. You are the children of the Sundered and the mortals; you are our hope and our connection to the gray humanity. You will know death; we cannot prevent it. You will know time and feel its passing. More than this, you will know war.

And as the Sundered of the Light to the Sundered of the Dark, you will be enemy to the Malanthi, those borne of the nonblooded and the Darkness.

I ask you only to remember that you are kin to the nonblooded humans; you will live as they do and die as they do. Protect them and teach them.

The Lady of Elliath waited in shadowed silence.
All around her,
trees and flowers flourished under the light of no natural sun. This was her hall, and even the vagaries of the weather were trapped without. Still she knew, without seeing it, that lightening branched and forked its way through the gray and murky sky. The distant low rumble that followed would make itself known throughout all of her lands save these.

But war was never as distant as thunder. And from some tidings there was no escape, no matter where she chose to bide her time.

A sound, like a gentle chime, wafted across the breeze, and she rose, stately and elegant, to examine the details of a fresco that had been painted by one of her descendants. A whisper of foot brushing undergrowth grew louder as someone approached. She drew her light around her tall, slim form and let it trail like a cloak behind her.

A man stopped, ten feet from the sight of this glowing shroud, and bowed low. Without looking, she knew him for Latham, master scholar of Elliath.

She knew the hour, then, and the day; knew all that he would tell her in the sudden chill of the garden. A Servant's memory was perfect and endless.

Twenty mortal years ago, he had stood so before her, straight and tall, with a hint of gray pain about compressed lips and nearly closed eyes. Twenty years and more, she had chosen, for the sake of her line, to chance the veil of the future at the behest of the Bright God. She had not taken the trance lightly, and Latham had been among those to argue against it. But the war they fought had been dire, and the undoubtable outcome bitter.
She had retreated to her hall and begun the spells and openings of the ways. Here, she had taken her first step.

The paths of the possible were not easy to wander, and for the first year of her trance she had moved with care. Other minds and lesser Servants had been lost to the veils. Still, she was the First of Lernan, and as she had gained an understanding of those paths she had walked them more quickly and more confidently, changing what she chose to do, and how, to see what might come of it. Three more years had passed in her search for an end to the war, but she had found it.

One isolated path, one frail possibility, offered hope. She had walked that road, over and over, looking for any other answer. The fifth year had passed, and another three months, before she finally returned to the waking world with one secret hope for the lines--and bereft of any for herself.

It chilled her, even now, for Latham's presence here was a herald, the beginning of an end that was too clear.

She acknowledged him with a nod, but kept her back to him so he would not see her face.

He grimaced. Of the privy council, he could now boast to being the longest lived. His dark hair had paled to gray over the intervening years; a sign of wisdom. What wisdom now? Of all tasks assigned to him, this was always the worst, this bearing of ill news. But better to have it out.

“Lady, Cordan and his command were attacked twenty miles from our border. We arrived late.”

She turned slowly, her face almost expressionless.

Did you see this, Lady? Could you have prevented it?
He never asked aloud the questions that burned at his scholar's mind. She had spent five years, lost to them ...

“They grow bold,” the Lady murmured. “Twenty miles?”

“Inside our territory.”

“Did any survive?”

He looked away and therefore missed the subtle change of her expression. “No. But five at least called their own deaths. None were taken by the enemy.”

“Cordan?”

“One of the five, Lady. I'm sorry.”

She turned away, her movements still regal and controlled. “Has anyone informed Kerlinda?”

“Kandor has gone to speak with her.”

“I see.” She said no more, but turned again, knowing that even she could not hide the look that transformed her face. If
she had the courage, she would inform her daughter of the death herself; but this she could not face. It had started, yes, but the beginning had been the easiest.

 

It was dark, but the storms of the day had finally passed. Stars glimmered through the open windows, their blinking light no longer obscured by dense clouds.

Erin crept out of her bed. She glanced quickly at the crack of muted light beneath the door to her square, plain room.

Mother's still awake.

Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to move silently. Crady had been teaching her that; she still felt warm when she thought of how loudly—and long—he'd approved her progress.

But it wasn't for silence that she practiced now.

She crossed her legs beneath her and raised her small arms. In the dark, she began to draw a large half circle in the air.

The creak of a door interrupted her concentration, and she dove for the bed, heart pounding audibly. She waited a moment, then relaxed. Her mother wasn't coming; not yet anyway.

In a few minutes she found her way back to the floor and began to concentrate in earnest.

I almost did it yesterday.

Minutes passed while she tried to focus. It wasn't easy; fear that her mother would find her awake kept drawing her mind to the sound of steps on the floor below. But her father was coming back soon, and she desperately wanted to have something
real
to show him.

Come on. Light.

Her hands traced their silent pattern across the air, and she found the courage to utter an audible syllable.

Nothing happened.

I know I almost had it yesterday.

She tried again, with no results. Frustration warred with determination, and determination won—but only barely. For all her seriousness, she was still a child.

Arms passed in front of her again, but this time she forced herself to relax. She could feel the shape of the night surrounding her, feel the tingling at the base of her spine. She just wasn't sure how to use it.

Light. Light to cure darkness.

The words were comfortable because she'd heard them so often. She relaxed, starting yet again.

The room was lit by a gentle green glow that touched the
outline of bed, chair, and windowsill. In confusion she looked outside and saw that night still claimed the land.

I did it!

She laughed—she couldn't help it—but very quietly. Her mother was going to be pleased; her father proud. No one else her age had yet managed to bring the light up at command. Dannen was close, but it didn't matter anymore—she'd done it first.

Remembering her mother's stem admonition to sleep, she crawled back into bed, letting her feet dangle over the edge. She tried to lie down, but excitement made her bolt upward again. If she could show her mother what she could do, maybe she wouldn't be angry.

I could wait till morning.

She pulled the covers up under her chin.

But I want to tell her now.

The covers fell away. Maybe her mother wouldn't be happy at first—but surely once she saw the light, she'd forgive Erin.

That decided, she walked slowly to the door. Her hand trembled on the knob, but she opened it, allowing the firelight from the floor below to wash the room.

She headed down the familiar hallway to the stairs and, clinging to the banister—which was just above her shoulder—she made her way down, bare feet padding against worn wood.

She peered around the corner very carefully, then stopped, all caution forgotten.

Her mother's back was toward the staircase. But beyond her mother stood the most gloriously beautiful man that Erin had ever seen, She knew him at once for the Lady's kin—Servant to Lernan. He cast a light, obvious to her eyes, that put her achievement to shame, for it was white and pure, whereas hers was mere green. He was white as well, or as close to white as made no difference. Only his eyes, the deepest and clearest of green, had any strong color. These eyes looked beyond her mother to meet hers.

He looks like the Lady.

It was the first time that she had ever seen Kandor, Third Servant of Lernan, but it would not be the last.

Her mother turned.

Her mother's face was white, as white as Kandor's, but without Kandor's immortal beauty behind it. Erin took a step back.

“Erin,” her mother said softly. “Did we wake you?”

Something was wrong. Erin shook her head mutely, and moved down the stairs.

“So this is your daughter, Kerlinda.”

Her mother nodded quietly. “Come, Erin. Have you met Kandor before?”

“No, we have not met.” Kandor looked at her then, his unblinking eyes taking in every detail of her strained silent face.

“What's wrong, Mommy?”

Her mother smiled and gathered Erin into her arms. Erin had never seen a smile like the one her mother gave her. It was too tight, as if it didn't fit her face anymore.

"I--"

“Kerlinda. Kera, let me.”

Wordless, her mother nodded into Erin's hair.

“Erin, do you understand what the Line Elliath—and all the rest of the blooded lines—must fight for?”

“Yes.” Why was her mother trembling?

“Do you understand how we must fight, and why we must train so long and so hard?”

“Yes.” Why was he asking her these questions? Why was her mother shaking?

“Erin, your father, Cordan of Elliath, has been gone for two months, fighting the Enemy and those who serve Him.”

Erin nodded, frowning. She knew this. Why was he telling her this?

“He was adult, as you are not. He fought well for our cause and aided it to the best of his ability.”

“Mommy?” Her mother hugged her so tightly she could hardly breathe.

“Cordan of Elliath has finished his fight with honor.”

The words were formal; Erin had heard them before many times. Without thinking, she said, “He rests in the peace beyond.” It was what she had been taught.

“Yes, child. He rests now. We Servants of Lernan believe that in the beyond there is no war, no pain, no fighting.”

Why was he saying this? “Mommy?”

Her mother pulled away, her face still wearing that awful smile. Erin was suddenly afraid to ask her mother any questions; something lay beyond that smile that she didn't want to know.