Into the Dark Lands (30 page)

She watched as the torches were lit, listened as the night came down. The Servant did not arrive. She felt an odd disappointment then and wondered at it as she made ready to march. Twice she scanned the ranks of the men before and behind her, but no hint of the Servant's shadowy presence was evident.

Maybe he would join her on the walk.

But he did not. And as she looked around at the tense, silent legion of men, she felt her heart sink.

Don't be silly, Erin,
she told herself as she shivered. Just
because he doesn't come for one night doesn't mean that he's—he's . . .

No.
The month of evenings shattered into painful, brittle fragments.

Her hands folded into themselves and grew taut; the edge of her nails bit into her skin. Before a scream cut the silence, she knew what he must be doing, and when the cry came she knew where.

No!

The ranks buzzed with a sudden relief; the tension that she'd been peripherally aware of faded into grim acceptance in everyone present—everyone but Erin.

No man made move to stop her as she pushed by them, her sense of direction and place honed by blood-power. Only three present could see how she smoldered with white-light in the darkness and they also let her pass, satisfied that at last she would meet the death due to her.

Your word, Erin. Remember you gave him your word not to
break the binding.
She kept her flame contained, but barely, barely. She flew across the rocky terrain, her footing sure for the first time in weeks. Her eyes were blazing with the power that she had vowed not to release.
No—I only promised not to try to escape with it.

She saw him, bent over a body that shuddered in a silence near death.

He saw her, a living pillar of fire that cut through the night.

Their eyes met, red and green, over the distance that Erin had not yet covered.

She began to walk slowly, hands at her side. The man beneath the Servant gurgled once as the grip that clenched his face went slack. Erin could see the glinting white of the man's eyes before they rolled shut.

Just as slowly as she approached, the Servant assumed his full height, as if they moved to the beat of the Twin Hearts. His eyes narrowed at the brilliance she held within; he could not make out the details of her face. Nor could she clearly see his; even to the whiteness of her power he was shadowed and gray. There was nothing remotely human about him.

It was Erin who spoke first. She was shining. “Don't do this.” She lifted one hand, palm up. In it, a haze of white stirred.

“Sarillorn, I hoped to spare you this.” He raised his own hand, red claws that glowed gently. “But this is what I am.”

She shook her head once, side to side, the movement slow and deliberate.

He offered her a smile he knew she could not see. “Lady, while I might force you to do other than you desire, I know I could not force you to be other than what you are—except in death. This—” He gestured at the man on the ground. “—is part of what I am. You have only two choices. Accept it, or try to banish me with the fire you hold, as all others of your lines would do.”

Again she shook her head, but this time the motion was sharp.

“I gave you my word.”

His smile dimmed. “The word of a Lernari. Yes. And I accepted.” From the corner of his eye, he could see the man inch his way across the dirt toward Erin. Reaching down, he lifted the man up by the neck, dangling him to one side as he continued to watch the Sarillorn of Elliath. He knew that this glowing, dangerous light was the light that his army had met on the fields.

She flinched and took a few steps forward.

“Your word . . . Then you have only one choice.” He readied his own ward to counter her attack. But it felt wrong to him.

“No.” Quickly, lightly, she walked over to where he stood. “I have others.”

He gestured briefly with his free hand and was surrounded by a dark red halo. Her face, closer and clearer, was odd; he saw a trace of hesitation in it, fear in the eyes that would not waver from his. But it was not the fear he was accustomed to seeing, for it was not directed at him.

“Are you frightened, Sarillorn?” His voice was calm; he might have been asking her what a word meant, or a gesture.

“Yes.”

Her answer surprised him with its stark simplicity. He looked down at her for a time before replying.

“You have nothing to fear from me. It is not your life that I
have chosen this night.” He knew what she would say; she did not disappoint him.

“It isn't for my life that I fear.”

“This one's?” He held up his victim.

Again she surprised him, reaching into herself for an answer that she could never have given him at any other time.

‟No.”

“Then what?”

“I'm afraid that I won't be able to stop you.” She said each syllable slowly.

A touch of frustration showed in the furrow of his brow—and this, although his brow was ash-gray and shadowed, was also familiar to her.

‟Sarillorn, this man is a soldier. Many must have died trying to kill him. Had you won, he would no doubt be dead at the hands of your people. How is my action different?”

How?
“I am not afraid of his death. Only the manner of it.”

“What does it matter? In the end the result is the same.”

Those claws had held cutlery. She had shown him how to do it. “No.”

‟And if I chose to break his neck instead?”

She shook her head.

‟Sarillorn?”

Softly, she repeated, “I'm only afraid that I will not be able to stop you.” Then, reaching out, she touched the arm that held the man.

Both Erin and the Servant flinched at the same instant that red met white. The air crackled sharply. Neither recoiled.

I am afraid
, she said, silently,
of hope.

Then this is your chance, Erin
.
Let him
feed.
Get rid of any hope permanently. Let him do what he has done for millennia; watch it, feel it, and see it. Accept the truth of what he says.

I am afraid,
she replied,
of the death of hope
.

Or the true birth of it? For what is the Enemy if you can stop him? What are you really afraid of?

I'm
afraid that
I
will
be able to stop him
.

She cringed at the mental dialogue, her eyes going through the Servant. Seeing, beyond the shadow, the emergence of a man.

“But I have to try.”

“Sarillorn? ”

“Stefanos.”

The shadow flickered as the name slowly drifted away on the night air.

“I cannot force you to be other than what you are. But nonetheless, I ask it of you.”

“You are very formal tonight, little Sarillorn. It is—unusual.” His hunger was forgotten for a moment.

Her hands curled lightly around his arm, sending a shock of pain through her body, and his. She tried to push the white-fire back, to absorb it into her core. It was hard; it was not the way of the Bright Heart's power.

He raised his free hand and brought it to rest a hair's breadth from her chin.

“I do not believe that you have been entirely honest with me.”

She said nothing.

“Or perhaps with yourself; I know little of humanity's more subtle emotion. You are afraid, yes, but it is not—” It was not a fear that roused his ancient hunger, not a fear she offered to him. He had never felt its like.

Gently she touched the hand that clutched the man's neck. As she did, she met the nameless man's eyes. She felt his call and let her hands cup his sweaty face. “Please, Stefanos. Please put hunger aside for now.”

Then she went out, washing over the terror and agony that wracked the body of the Servant's victim. Dimly she heard laughter, cold and chill, permeating the air around her. It didn't matter; fingers of her comfort picked up the fragments of a mind almost lost to the nightwalker's hunger, pulling them together and binding them beneath a fragile peace, a fragile sleep.

And when she looked up, she saw that the soldier lay stretched out along the cold ground. A few feet away the Servant stood, arms crossed, as he watched her.

She rose, the light of her power dimmed by her effort.

She was weary, too weary to be surprised or afraid. She walked over to the Servant, to Stefanos, a sad, bitter smile touching her lips and eyes. She wanted to weep and hated herself for the desire.

He reached out to catch her hands and felt the heat that they still radiated.

“Why?” she whispered, making no move to free herself.

He touched her face, his expression distant and grim.

He would not answer that question—not for her, and never for himself.

“Come, Sarillorn. You have far to walk this night.”

He turned, but she made no move to follow him. And when he turned back, he could see her lingering like shadow, pale and white, where he had left her. Almost as if he had somehow broken her. He felt a distant satisfaction, but it was hollow; when he touched it, it vanished.

He walked back, and she looked up almost blindly, her eyes again focused at a point beyond him. When her voice came, it sounded very young.

“Lady, I'm afraid. Choose another road for me. I don't have the strength to follow this one.”

She started to sway, and he caught her at once, moving quickly enough to stop her knees from hitting the ground as she buckled. Whatever had kept her steady this far had snapped. He lifted her and carried her back to the troops, knowing that they would be in some disorder. He caught a glimpse of one priest, noting the almost comical look of disbelief on his face.

As he slid his arms around her back, Erin looked up, her eyes windows into a landscape that he himself had never walked. He saw the light in her—so different from the white-fire that had burned there minutes earlier—pulsing softly, beautifully. When she shut her eyes, he could still see it. She tucked her chin into her neck.

He thought she slept, as she had done a month earlier, and was surprised to hear the soft whisper of her voice, almost inaudible even to his hearing.

“I'm afraid.”

“There is nothing to fear, Sarillorn. The man will survive for tonight.”

And for the third time that night she surprised him. She curled up against his chest, bringing her hands up to touch him. As she did, he saw the bands of her light come up and pass through and around him.

“There is nothing—to fear,” he repeated.

But he wondered, as her breathing became deep and more regular.

What are you doing, Sarillorn? What is being done here?

Stefanos turned away from the map he had created, and it vanished. At this moment it could not hold his consideration. He glanced out through windows that stretched from high ceiling to floor, opening like an eye into the night. Thick, red velvet had been pulled and bound by gold rope to allow the darkness to enter, or to watch.

For one week the Sarillorn had been in his palace. At the expense of great power, he had renewed the northern wing of the palace proper for her—not one of the lesser outbuildings—removing the frescoes and tapestries that he knew she would find disquieting. He had provided her with slaves, young and unbroken for the most part, and had given her more freedom in his domain than any mortal had ever dreamed of having.

He had not expected her to like Rennath overmuch, not to begin with. But he hoped, in time, that she would see the inevitable beauty of the city that he had built. He glanced up, and up again, to see the twin domes that had been carved and painted in the stone of this chamber. Beauty?

His feet made no sound as he turned and walked slowly to his throne, his human conceit. Five long, marble steps led up to it, and no other ever stood on the gold inlay of patterned floor that it crowned.

The priests were not happy about her presence; two had even gone so far as to question his command. He smiled grimly. Only two.

The smile vanished.

What he had done for her did not matter; he could almost wish that the trip to his capital had taken many months instead
of two. She would no longer eat with him and would speak very little when he arrived.

Almost wearily he sat in the contours of velvet, gold, and wood, his elbows touching smooth, hard armrests, his fingers making a steeple beneath his chin. He had thought long on these things, and no answers had come. He hated to be in ignorance.

He heard the rapping at the double doors that the priests used to enter and twisted his hand viciously. They swung open, revealing three people at the head of the hall that stretched into torchlit darkness.

Erin stared at him, tremulous and defiant, flanked on either side by priests. She was bleeding, the white of her dress already a deep, gorgeous crimson.

The sight of the blood as it trailed down her arm and side enraged him. The sight of the Malanthi, holding the chains that bound her wrists, filled him with a cold, wordless fury that even she could feel. She took an involuntary step back and the chains at her wrists grew taut.

The priests dragged her into the room.

“Lord.” One of the men gave a deferential bow. Coppery thread winked in the light, revealing his rank. “This guest tried to interrupt the ceremony in the palace temple.”

“Did interrupt it.” Erin's voice, slightly shaky, carried an immeasurable wealth of satisfaction and pain. “Just not as much as I'd—”

The man who had not stepped forward slapped her almost casually, wiping the smile away. His face was red, the only trace of that color he wore. Acolyte, then.