Into the Dark Lands (36 page)

Erin looked at him carefully. Her smile almost faltered when she caught the sudden brilliance of his power; it glowed like the dying sun.

She turned slowly to look at the Swords and sagged. Against the high priest alone she might show her measure, but there were too many others.

Swords took her by the arms. She did not resist.

“Very good,” the priest said, as she was dragged past him. “I was afraid that we would have to kill you here—and I am a man who enjoys a more leisurely form of entertainment.”

The halls were empty—almost suspiciously so. Nothing stopped the Swords from leading Erin to the south wing of the palace.

“A precaution, Sarillorn. Any slave found in these halls at this time has volunteered for the ceremonies we will perform tomorrow evening.”

Ceremonies? Erin shrunk inward. Now she understood why they had come.

But Stefanos said—

She stopped for a moment; the guards dragged her off her feet. Turning her head—which was difficult in the position she was held in—she said, “The First will not be pleased.”

“No.” The high priest's smile rippled uncertainly before once again emerging whole. “But unfortunately he is not here to consult. He never walks in daylight.”

“You can't possibly think he'll accept—”

“Accept what? It is not our duty to guard you, Sarillorn. When you have chosen to flee the palace, what can he do? Hunt you, perhaps. But as Sarillorn of Elliath, you are clever and not without power of your own. I do not believe he will find you when he searches.

“Hurry.” His voice grew sharp.

The halls unfolded rapidly before them, turning into the towering arches that lay at the palace's center. Tapestries, all black and red flesh, hung on the wall declaring whose wing the south was. Erin shuddered. The artist that had captured so much human pain with mere wool must have been Malanthi.

She wasn't given the time to take a more leisurely look at them; the doors of the temple were upon her.

Like much of the decor, they were black, with metallic red detailing and ruby work. But even these were not for her eyes; they swung open quickly, revealing almost endless height and majesty. Artists had worked here, too, painting frescoes chaotically
from one end of the hall to the other—black, red, and pale, pale pinks and browns. She could almost hear them screaming.

Through the doors lay the altar, some sixty feet back. It hung as if suspended by the red lines that were wrapped around it, protecting the consecrated ground from light. Like the doors it was black, and it shone as if it were oiled.

Around the altar stood nine men, in vestments similar to those the high priest wore. Similar, but lesser, an elegant red silk, with traceries of black and formal hoods that had been carefully arranged around their shoulders. All of them glowed distinctly more brightly than their own power would have allowed.

They prepared for this. I should have been more careful.

“You're late,” one man murmured, as the Swords dragged her up to the altar.

“The Sarillorn was not in her quarters. We persuaded one of her personal slaves to tell us where she had gone.”

“Then let us hurry.”

“Are you nervous, Serlin?”

“Impatient.”

Geslik laughed. “It is day, fool. The First sleeps in the Dark Heart's hand. Even such screams as she will make could not draw him here.”

He turned and walked over to where Erin stood. Very gently he caught her face in his hands. “Strip her.”

Her eyes widened involuntarily and she started to pull back. Fingers dug into her cheeks and jaw.

White-fire flared, too rapidly for the swords that held her to react. They uttered choked cries and her arms fell free.

“Yes.” Geslik whispered. “You do have power. But Sarillorn, so do I.”

He stood in the center of her fire, regarding its brilliance with contempt. It shone, a pale reflection in the darkness of his eyes. Geslik reached through it.

Her hands flared, white torches, as she touched his and tried to force them to release her jaw. He held her there, a shield of shimmering red around the whole of his body.

“We have had three days to gain this power, Sarillorn. Do you fully understand what it means? I fear not, but I am patient; I will show you.

“Serlin, come.”

Red robes and red shields outlined the body of the man who left the altar to join the high priest. Serlin closed his eyes for a
moment, and the shields sharpened and crystallized until they were gauntlets around his large hands. He drove them through the whiteness of fire and touched the green of fabric.

“She is powerful,” he said, his teeth clenched.

Erin was certain that he at least felt the heat of her fire. But it wasn't enough to stop him. Velvet tore away in strips. lt hurt; she felt the seams cut into her back and pull her forward.

“Enough,” Geslik murmured. His hands still crushed her face, bruising it without drawing blood—not yet. He lifted her off the ground, his arms not even straining with the weight.

Three days
, Erin thought. How many people could die by slow and painful ritual in three days?

His power was all the answer she needed.

She struggled against it, regretting her earlier caution. Against the Swords she might have had a quick death and, compared to this, an easy one.

Easy?
Her blood forced power outward. No death by enemy hands could be so, and no life taken from one of the lines was easily given—not to these.

Geslik's eyes narrowed. His smile ceased; she was glad of that. With a curse, he threw her down. She felt the stone of the altar against the back of her head.

She muffled a cry.

Hands grabbed her hair and her head hit the stone again. And again. And again.

Erin's struggles grew weaker, but they didn't stop entirely; the power that she had summoned was already diminishing the force of the blows.

“Enough,” Geslik said.

Fingers tangled in auburn hair. “Why? You know what her power is. Let us drain it this way.”

“If she can heal herself, so much the better—but I will not have her killed so easily. Not for a pleasant death do we take this risk.” He stared across at the second of the thirteen council members.

After a moment, the man nodded, and Erin's head fell limply once more onto the cushion of obsidian.

Geslik gestured to one of the more junior of the Kamar, and the man held out a long ebony box.

A grim little smile flickered across Erin's lips. She summoned her power inward, shaping it carefully. Telvar had taught her this years ago, and she had never forgotten. Only once, once in all her years, had she put it aside.

I gave my word to Stefanos. My pain in exchange for their life. I gave no such word to you.

She saw the dagger as it came out of the small casket. It glimmered darkly in the light as if night itself had chosen this moment to visit the temple. Her smile, if anything, grew broader.
Kill me
, she thought.
You will get little satisfaction from it
. Even the First of the Dark Heart had been certain of that.

Her power grew within her like a smooth, soft shield. Even the dull throbbing of her head dimmed and receded.

She saw the light clearly for the first time in months. It grew behind her eyes, coloring the world in a soft haze of white and green.

Geslik raised the knife and began to chant softly. The cadence of his voice was almost pleasant, although it dwindled into silence by the time that Erin caught the fullness of its rhythm. “Now, Sarillorn, let us show you what the Karnari have developed over the years. I have not yet had the chance to purify the taint of Lernari blood. I look forward to seeing you ward. It is always satisfying to see the death of any hope. Will you ward for us, Sarillorn?” Serlin murmured something that Erin couldn't catch. She strained, listening intently. Nothing.

This, this is what her mother must have faced. She thought it without any bitterness. She was tempted to ward, tempted to try her power against them to see who broke first. The red brilliance that each man contained told her clearly who would win.

On the field—on the field they could not have done this. Or could they?

She thought of her mother and lay silent and motionless.

They could stop her power from going outward. They could not take it from where it gathered within her body. Even now, they had not the power of a full Servant.

But her power was not infinite; and once it was gone ...

No. No, Erin. Concentrate, damn you.

The shadows gathered about the high priest, taking form and substance. He stood, red against black, the very epitome of the wars. The knife came down steadily and surely, its edge caressing the whiteness of exposed skin.

Where it walked, a trail of beaded blood followed, red against white.

Erin felt nothing. But for how long? How long?

She tilted her head back, eyes catching the sunlight that forced its way through thick stained glass. She felt a small tugging at her feet and looked at Geslik, catching his smile, so dark and
strong, as he held out a patch of wet, red skin. Her mouth opened, soundless, and she clamped her lips, forcing the corners upward.

Maybe, if she could anger him, he would kill her before her protection gave out and she could feel what he did. Her smile cut through his.

She still had power to draw on. It was morning. By evening she knew they would have to be finished with her, one way or the other. By evening—but the days at this time of year were long.

“Serlin?”

“With pleasure, Karnar.” The knife changed hands almost as if it had a will of its own. It looked like a living, wounded thing as Serlin took it firmly.

The blade bit deeper this time, and further up Erin's body. She felt it trembling in the wound it made, but no more.

“Sarillorn,” the man said softly, “I do not believe any of the Karnar have been so privileged.”

Blood welled up, trickling down her side to grace the stone her body warmed.

“Never,” someone said. “Nor will they be so now.”

“What?”

Serlin looked up as Erin turned her head in a like motion.

The shadows had gathered. The altar of the Dark Heart was waiting for the pain the Karnari could bring. The darkness had been called.

In the light of day, it answered.

Erin's eyes grew wide. She started to sit up, but stopped; the knife still protruded from beneath her right breast, the hand that had twisted it hanging motionless.

“Stefanos,” she whispered, sliding down to the stone again, death forgotten. Only now did she truly realize that but for a sheen of new blood, she was naked.

He stood between the open doors of the temple, sunlight arrayed against him like an undeniable army.

Undeniable?

Erin could see the red that glowed around him; it was so strong that she could barely see the gray of his face. He seemed to be on fire and not in control of it; wisps of smoke, like innocent mist, curled high above the hands that buckled black doors.

Serlin drew back, as did the rest of the Karnari. “Lord—”

“Yessss . . .” He walked into the room. The jaws of daylight closed around him.

Erin rolled shakily off the altar, but no one seemed to notice. She turned to see the Karnari in their resplendent red garments. Shadow was there, at their feet, colder than the marble they stood on. Red lines sprang to life, a complicated net that surrounded even the least of their number. She watched the net grow stronger as the red light they held grew weaker. And she saw fear on each of their faces. Not obvious, not hysterical, but there nonetheless.

She shuddered as she wrapped her arms around her breasts. No Servant walked in daylight, yet Stefanos was here. And he walked. The fire moved with him as he continued to burn.

“More power,” Geslik murmured. “The daylight takes its toll even now. ”

The strands of red grew thicker and stronger as the weave itself began to pulse,

None of the Karnari spoke.

Nor did the First Servant. Any word might show the pain he felt as the day delicately burned its way through the first few layers of his darkling skin.

He approached the barrier and stopped.

The Karnari whispered among themselves.

“Lord,” Geslik said, his voice quieter. “We mean you no disservice. But the Church—”

The Servant raised his arms. Claws came out to grip the sharp lines of blood-power. He smiled then. Erin shivered at the sight of it. If it cost him effort, he did not deign to show it.

The barrier fell away, torn to shreds by the greater power the Servant commanded.

Geslik leaped back—too late.

The solid iron of the door had not been able to stand against the Servant—nor, now, did flesh.

The last thing that Geslik saw was the color of the Servant's eyes boring into him even as his claws did. He fell forward, denied even the release of a scream. He had not the throat left to utter it.

The Servant did not appear to notice. He moved on, and quickly, taking each of the priests in turn as easily as if they were waiting in line to greet him. His one regret was that he hadn't the time to give them the death they truly merited.

Erin could only watch.

She knew that were she whole and armed, she could not have covered the space between herself and Stefanos in the time it took him to reach the last man.

And she wasn't sure that she wouldn't have tried.

Deaths she had seen before, and in greater numbers than most. But none of them had been like this. She watched blood spray across the altars, an afterthought for the Dark Heart. Poets talked about red plumes of fountaining blood, and in the future, if she chose, she could do likewise.