Children of the Blood (19 page)

And that smile would have paid several times for the inconvenience these changes made.

“Yes, lord,” Darin said softly, an echo of any other time he had said it.

Lord Darclan walked out of the room and into the corridor. As he walked its length, he realized that the youth trusted him.

For her sake, yes, but nonetheless ... Darin was only the second person in history to so gift him. He walked to his study, musing over this.

 

Darkness swirled around her, catching and closing her eyes with long, red nails. She felt the touch of it across her exposed cheek, fingers so cold that they burned. She reached for a hand, or something that could support her against it. Fingers closed on ice that split the hand to the bone.

She was alone.

Shuddering, she forced her eyes open, then snapped them shut again, and cried out something—a name?—that the darkness swallowed. Teetering uncertainly, she spun around, trying to see beyond the blackness that held her. She wrapped her arms around her shoulders.

She was alone. In desperation, she cried out for the one person she could remember.

Her cry had brought him once before, but now something else responded to it. A ghost of a man, tall and gaunt, made itself visible through the darkness.

He is not here
. The words were as thin, as cold, as the man. He raised one long arm and held his hand out, palm up.
But I am.
Along his arm, like a fine tracery of lace, cut a deep red line through the blackness.

Then, from nowhere, a ring of light surrounded Sara. The man grimaced and stepped backward slowly. Without thought, she took an involuntary step forward, toward him. The light grew tight around her, offering slight warmth. It would not allow her to pass.

These are not for you, not now. Come, little one
. He smiled.
I will wait.

 

Because the castle was usually silent and somber, the sound of raised voices, or in this case one raised voice and one quiet one, carried more clearly than it might have. The mood that had lingered with Lord Darclan upon quitting Sara and Darin was shattered; his steps lost the subtle spring that had carried him this far.

“—and in matters of the Church, you are not privileged to speak with Lord Darclan’s voice, regardless of what he has told you.”

A heated voice responded to the condescension in the smooth one. “May I remind you, Priest—”

“You will be respectful. Nobility does not treat servants of the Church in that tone; it is certainly not fitting for one who is mere steps above slavery!”

There was a choked silence, and the louder voice, more controlled, began to speak again. “May I respectfully suggest that, regardless of your stature, you are in the domain of the Lord Darclan, and here his word is law. I have been given dispensation to deal with unexpected visitors, regardless of rank or affiliation. You have no right to contest the lord’s command in his own land!”

“Malthan does not recognize political dominion.”

Lord Darclan stepped, unnoticed, into the confrontation. “Nor,” he said softly, “it seems, does his Church.” He turned to face Gervin, noting the angry red lines of his face. “You have done well, old friend.”

Gervin wore his years well, but they showed in the steely flint of his eyes—eyes that had seen much, and little enough of it good.

It has been nearly forty years
, Darclan thought, with a shade of approval.
You have been good to your word, and I to mine.

He looked more carefully at his slavemaster, at his right hand in House Darclan. He dressed not according to his full station; his clothing was plain, common really, but fully functional. It housed two visible pockets and a plethora of concealed ones. If Lord Darclan had ordered an uninvited guest disposed of, the man, along with his grating demands, would have died with one foot halfway over the door.

Looking now at the slightly arrogant young priest, Darclan regretted that he had not. This one wore the formal regalia of the priesthood: dark black robes, lined with gray and gold. His posture, likewise, was that of a priest: the dichotomy of energetic indolence.

“If your missive is so urgent that you attempt to undermine my commands in my domain, perhaps we should retire to my study to more quickly discuss it.” Without waiting for a response, Darclan turned and walked into the room.

The priest stood back for a few moments, a flash of annoyance skirting his face. Then he shook his head and followed. Darclan gestured briefly at a chair in front of his desk, and the priest took it.

“You may begin.”

The priest raised an eyebrow. “May I introduce myself, as you did not leave your servant time to announce my presence.”

“I am not concerned with the particulars of what you are called. You are one of too many priests of the Dark Heart. You may state your business, and I will listen. But do it quickly and leave.”

The priest blushed, a deep crimson color.

Fool
. Darclan had never suffered this lack of grace well. And the priests were always the worst. Mere curtness could be used to bait them endlessly.

The priest took control of himself slowly; Darclan noted this with sardonic amusement.

“Very well. You know that the ceremony of renewal is to take place in the third quarter.”

“Well enough,” Lord Darclan said, “to need no reminders.”

The priest gave a measured nod. His ringed hands gripped the edge of the chair on which he was seated, but his face betrayed nothing.

“Lord ... Darclan,” the priest began, knowing his irony was not lost, “while you are setting up a house for reasons which do not concern us, we are worried about—”

“Much that does not concern you.” Several times Darclan had considered crushing the priesthood. Each time it was harder to ignore the desire, and he had forgotten in the years of battle with the lines just how strong this urge could be. “I am aware of the ceremony. It is petty and the province of the half-blooded. I do not believe you have anything else to say.” Leaning slightly forward, he added, “And I am not one who has patience with those who would waste my time.”

“My Lord”—the voice was now free from irony—“if you wish it so, then your desire is, of course, our command. It is your Empire, and we have followed your wishes in regards to this house. I will not waste further words on unnecessary politeness.” His voice became sharper. “We have noted a disturbance of late. It is faint, but not inconsiderable.”

Darclan leaned back into his chair; his arms rested on the desk, his hands came up to form a precise steeple. “Go on.”

“As you desire, Lord. It has come to the attention of the High Priest Vellen that you have a guest. A young woman.”

The words seemed to have no effect. After allowing the silence to lengthen, the young priest began again.

“Her name is, oddly enough, Sara Laren. Lady Sara Laren.

There are those scholars among us who believe this is to be a derivative of an older title that one line, long dead, once used.”

The priest noted that Darclan’s eyes had become strangely black; he could not discern the pupils, or tell where the gaze fell. The fingers on the armrest began to dance nervously.

You are young
, Darclan thought with disdain.
You have not been on the fields. You have not seen who truly rules this Empire
. He smiled, and waited.

“The high priest wishes to meet this woman.”

“For what reason?” The blackness of the Lord’s eyes seemed to spread; no longer did any white mar them at all.

“He finds it unusual that this disturbance coincides with the unheard of presence of a particular young woman in the Darclan castle. It has been rumored that you have indulged her to the point of allowing her to dictate the presence of a slave at your table. He cannot think of any reason why you would allow this, unless she had her own power.”

“And?” Flesh color gave way to shadow and clothing gave way to darkness, a darkness that gave him height.

Now the priest faltered. A thin sheen of perspiration broke across his rather pale face.

“Go on.”

“The high priest believes that a meeting with this woman would confirm her identity as an enemy of God. If this is the case, she is, by his command, to be the sacrifice for the ceremony.”

“I see.” Stefanos stood then, and the room was filled with his power. His eyes, black now, gave way to a silver-gray—Sargoth’s gift. The young priest began to quiver uncontrollably, his mouth flopping sullenly in wet silence.

“A pity indeed.” But the First Servant’s voice held none.

The tremors contorting the man continued, building in strength. The muscles around his neck and shoulders grew taut. His hands, shaking visibly, reached out toward Stefanos.

But Stefanos only watched, a distant expression of vague distaste invisible in the darkness. The priest slumped forward in the chair, motionless.

The shadow withdrew, the countenance of the Lord Darclan returned. He walked to the door, opened it, and spoke a few curt words before returning to his desk.

Gervin soon entered the room and, ignoring the priest, stood before his lord.

“Very good, Gervin, I wish you to take a letter. It is brief.”

Gervin nodded, walked over to the desk, and picked up a stylus.

“To the First Karnar of Malthan.”

“Vellen of Damion, sir?”

“I believe that is what he is called.”

“And the text, sir?”

“He is to refrain from interference in my personal business if he wishes to maintain his Church.”

Gervin scribbled something down without raising an eyebrow. “Anything more?”

“No.”

“And the visitor?”

“Ah. You may send his body with the letter. One other thing: Send the Priest Calven to me if he is still within my walls.”

 

Blackness without end. Sara clung to the periphery of the light, trying futilely to drape it around her body. She felt skeletal but could not see herself clearly enough to know if this was just fear.

And beyond her stood the man of red. He had not moved since she had first seen him. She was afraid of him, but found an odd comfort while she could see him; the darkness that clung to her skin and the inside of her mouth did not seem to trouble him at all.

No, little one
. He smiled.
The darkness does not affect me. If you would have this protection, merely step forward and I shall grant it to you.

She started forward, as she had any number of times, only to be caught once again by the light.

He gave no answer, no matter how often she asked. But his lips curled over preternaturally sharp teeth.

Someone
, she thought, as she had thought time beyond number,
someone will come for me
. But every time she told herself this, she believed it less.

Why? Why should they come? Why should anyone dare this—this blackness, this web?

They’ll come
. But her memory gave her no such assurance.

She was alone; she felt that she had been alone for centuries. Looking up again, she met the eyes of the man, and they were red.

She waited. And the darkness grew closer, and the light rimming her grew dim. She grew tired; too tired even to hate the darkness that surrounded her.

Come. Have an end to your fear
. And he smiled again.
They have left you to me. Come. I shall not leave.

She started to refuse, but her mouth was too frozen. Looking at him, tracing the outline of his face as she had done often, she thought his words true. For he had stood thus, it seemed, forever. He had not left her side, and she felt he would not, not without her. She shivered. She was afraid of him, but the darkness leeched her strength as she waited.

And slowly, she uncurled, and wordlessly she nodded.

She began to step across the threshold of the light and it flared up, grabbing her ankles. Another trap. She fought to wrench her foot loose.

Come
.

I am coming
. She tried to struggle free of the light and he stepped back—only a step—and opened his arms.

 

“Ahem.”

Darin started, nearly dropping the goblet he’d just filled. He knew the voice well, but had managed to avoid its owner over the last few days. Oh, well, it couldn’t have lasted much longer.

He turned to see that Cullen was leaning over the cutting counter, drumming his ample fingers.

“I’ve been hoping to see you, Darin lad.”

“Hi, Cullen.” Darin gave what he hoped was a genuine smile. He liked Cullen, but he knew that the cook would press him for answers about the activities of the last few days, and wouldn’t believe him when he said he didn’t have most of them.

“Heard rumors this way that you spent yesterday morning in the dining hall.”

Darin nodded.

“At
the dining table.”

“Well, yes, but ...” Darin’s voice trailed off.

“Heard that the lady was calling you by name.”

Darin looked down at his hands, feeling guilty. “Yes,” he said at length. “She did. All morning.”

“By the Lady!” Cullen whispered. “It’s true.”

“But I’m sure that she’d name us all,” Darin said quickly.

“I’m sure that she’d have us know hers.”

Cullen looked at Darin and shook his balding head. “It’s not a game?” he asked.

“No.” The answer was quick, but there was no defensivness in it. “I haven’t met anybody like her since I was in the city.”

“The city?” Cullen raised an eyebrow. “Are you from out-Empire, boy?” At Darin’s solemn nod, Cullen’s expression changed. This fact explained much. “Ah.” Too much. “We’d heard that Dagothrin had fallen. Even here, we heard that.” He shook his head, and then stopped. “Is she from outside, too?”