Children of the Blood (43 page)

Sargoth met his eyes and bowed.

“First among us,” he said, the sibilance of his voice carrying.

“Second.” Stefanos returned the bow, his eyes going to Sara. He started forward.

“A moment.” Sargoth held up one hand, and Stefanos stopped. ”I wish you to recall a conversation we had in the closing hours of night.”

“I recall it.”

“Very well. At that time, I had nothing with which to bargain.” He waved one arm to the side, taking in both Sara and Darin. “I believe that situation has now changed.”

“Perhaps it has.” He began to walk forward again. “I am willing to entertain the notion of negotiations.”

“How unusual. I see your battle has taken its toll.”

“Your offer, Sargoth.”

“As you can see, neither Sarillorn nor Priest—and that was clever, Stefanos—can yet leave this hall. Algrak and Kirlan will stir soon. If I am not mistaken, so will the high priest. Should I choose to join my strength to theirs, all of your effort and planning will come to naught.”

“Agreed.” He drew closer.

“Good. I do not understand what transpires here, and it vexes me. This Lernari, unlike the other half bloods on either side, is quite strong; all here can feel it. Yet I believe I can come to understand this on my own.”

“What exactly do you wish to know?” It was superfluous, but he asked anyway.

“Malthan has always allowed those of us who choose to serve him to do as they pleased in the mortal domain.”

Sarillorn.
Ignoring Sargoth, Stefanos stretched out one hand, and after the slightest of hesitations, Sara took it and allowed herself to be drawn into his embrace. It was cool, as always, but she could feel tremors of exhaustion run through him.

Without releasing her, Stefanos turned to look at Sargoth.

“And?”

“Even if this woman should be as I suspect, it should in no way explain the unprecedented interference that the Dark Heart
‘requested’ of us in this matter. Yet He chose to send us here, against you.”

“Yes.”

“Why, Stefanos? With very little aid, He could have seen you destroyed if your actions annoyed Him. He did not ask for your destruction. Only the destruction of ... the Sarillorn.”

Darin spun around at the words, his face a mixture of confusion and dread. No one noticed, and he did not dare to voice his question.

“I have told you, Second of the Sundered, that I do not know why.”

Sargoth’s dry chuckle did not seem out of place. “Indeed you have. And I have told you that I believe He would answer you should you ask the question.”

“Your curiosity, old friend.”

“Will be my downfall yet, I know. But as it has entertained me these many centuries, I will count on it yet.”

“And your bargain?”

“The child and the woman will be free to leave the hall, if they can find an escape from what waits without. I will not interfere with their progress at this time should you choose to satisfy my curiosity.”

“At this time?”

Sargoth nodded. “I can promise little else.”

“And if He chooses not to answer?”

“Only ask, then. That will be sufficient.”

Stefanos’ arm tightened around Sara briefly. She turned her face to his and met his eyes a fraction of a second before his lips brushed hers. She saw all that was in them. Nothing could be put into the few words she had time for, so she too said nothing, but clung to him.

Then he lifted his head and took a step away from her.

“Use the time well, Sara.”

“Stefanos ...”

Shaking his head, he turned completely away from her to face the waiting Sargoth.

“I will do as you ask. But the Lernari are to leave now.”

“That is not the way that the Sundered deal among themselves.”

“That is the only way I will do so now.” His voice was lean and dark; he was still First.

“Very well.”

Sara turned to the kitchen door and saw the barrier fade. It
had been strong, but even though Sargoth had spent much power to maintain it, she knew he was stronger than Stefanos for the moment. She hesitated.

Without turning, Stefanos said, “Sara, you will leave with Darin. Now.”

“But—”

“But?” She caught the faint glimmer of bitter humor in his voice. “No buts, Sara. Not this eve.”

Still she faltered, and Darin moved forward to take her arm.

“Sara, I know you don’t want to leave him, but you heard the Servant—it isn’t his death that’s called for. It’s yours. I don’t know what Lord Darclan has agreed to, but it’s only to buy us time. We’ve got to go.”

The price for life was always this: another’s sacrifice. But this way she could buy Darin’s life with it as well as her own. She had no right to take that from him.

She nodded firmly and moved toward the door. Darin swung it open, and she stepped through. She turned and saw Stefanos’ gaze, unfathomable, upon her. She stopped, her lips moving without sound.

And in return his lips wavered, equally soundless.

The door swung loosely shut behind her. She was gone, and Darin with her. In her wake, the hall seemed suddenly dark and strange.

“Stefanos.”

“I will not speak of her further.” He raised his head grimly.

“But I will honor our bargain.”

“I thought you might. You have grown strange these centuries. Perhaps I should have stayed to watch the change.”

“Enough, Sargoth.” He lowered his head again, eyes flashing a dim, hollow red. “Do not play your games with me.”

“Ask Him, then. Occupy my curiosity another way.”

Stefanos didn’t hear his words; the harsh sibilance had already become distant, as had the sound of odd movements in the hall, the rustle of cloth or gentle groaning. A different sense overwhelmed that of the ordinary, a type of hearing that Stefanos had not called upon for centuries. He concentrated, brow furrowed at the unexpected difficulty. He called the image of his goal into his mind and slowly saw, without truly seeing, the vast expanse of endless darkness, constantly in motion, constantly unbalanced. It grew closer as he approached it.

An inner sight took his vision to a place where light had no
meaning or texture. It was odd, strangely different—he had not expected time so to warp his perception of the place of meeting.

A mortal life
, he thought, flexing his hands before he realized that they were not truly there.
How odd that so short a life can change so long a habit.

He felt no fear as he waited. Nor did he feel love or hate, anger or pain. There was no place for these things here, for here there was no life.

And then the darkness coiled and rumbled in front of him. It opened—he knew this with a sense that lay too far beneath the surface to be identified—and sent out a tendril.

Without hesitation, Stefanos, First of the Sundered, walked into the grasp of his eternal parent—into the part of him so long denied it had grown alien and unsettling. He waited there for his Lord’s voice.

You have not rested thus for a time.
Around him darkness undulated.

Stefanos refrained from speaking as a small spark of anger flashed within him. Again the darkness rippled, touching him and moving through him like a current.

There was no place, in the palm of the Dark Heart, for emotion. Even knowing it, Stefanos could not stem the anger that flared.

No?
The darkness shuddered, heaving almost aimlessly.

No
.

Here, with the chill of darkness creeping around him in such a familiar way, he wondered. Was he not the First of the Sundered? Was he not the most powerful of his Lord’s Servants? Was he not worthy of more than this—this game in which he was somehow a pawn? Was he not—

Sara’s lover.

Sara. Sarillorn. Daughter of the line of the Lady, First of the Sundered of the Light, First of the Enemy.

But the Lady was gone now, through his gamble, his artifice, his strength. Her line was the first to fall to the march of human history, the tide of human time. What power she had possessed was now eclipsed and forgotten, surrendered to darkness and lost.

Yet in darkness, he remembered her.

In darkness he remembered her descendant.

In Malthan’s hand he called upon the last of Elliath’s Sarillorn, and her image came to him, wreathed with the strange translucence of her light. Her lips moved silently around the play of her human words, her human smile; her eyes shone green in the white of her perfectly flawed face.

Sara.

Something stretched within Stefanos; it wrapped itself around him with a tension close to breaking. He would not name it. He waited for his Lord to speak.

Paralysis suddenly held fear for Stefanos. Recalling the quiet moments of a few days past, he pulled back, lurching away from the hand of God. The darkness heaved and shuddered as he sloughed it off; it receded into a distance that was never far enough away.

Light returned as he hit his body; a light that seemed brilliant and warm for all that it was dim. The walls of the hall wavered around him as he fell to his knees, to touch the welcome of the stone floor.

Sara.
His hand crept slowly forward as he pushed himself up.
Sara.

But it was not his Sarillorn that he faced upon his return from the place of meeting. He had not expected to, so the sting of disappointment was a bitter surprise. Ringed around him he could see the wavering forms of Algrak, Kirlan, and Sargoth. They were dark, almost a beaded mist. The fourth Servant who had fallen to the strike of Bethany was gone; she would not return to haunt him this evening.

He came to his feet as quickly as he could. He started for- ward, to find the way blocked. From each of the three Servants, bands of red-laced black sprouted forward, passing through one another in a tight, fine mesh. He wheeled around, but did not attempt to move further; the net was closing and he was at its center.

This,
he thought bitterly,
from the hand of God. I will serve no more.

From a distance, the smallest whisper brushed his inner ear.

Stefanos was weary; he felt, for a moment, the centuries of existence that he had passed through as if they were a solid wall.

The net closed in on him, its radius shrinking toward his body. He stopped moving completely and watched it come. It seemed to eat through the inches of stone beneath his feet, absorbing the solidity and transforming it. The power of God was truly here.

But it stopped. It was close enough to touch on all sides, but its embrace grew no tighter.

One strand of the web bulged in toward Stefanos, straining to reach him. With a snap it fell back into place, but the fine strain of red throughout it had been broken.

Beyond the wall, Stefanos could hear the growl of frustration that tore through Algrak’s throat, much as Stefanos’ hands had done earlier. He smiled.

“Come, Algrak, this is futile.” Kirlan’s voice wavered, but was stronger than Stefanos’ would have been had he chosen to speak. “Do not argue with the will of our Lord. The woman has escaped the hall, and perhaps the grounds themselves—and the Lord wishes her to be taken.”

Again a snarl, but this time accompanied by words. “To give her to that?”

“Spare your contempt.” Kirlan responded. “Vashel is banished from the plane for a time, but the same strike did not destroy the mortal Priest.”

“Then we will find the one responsible. But the First—”

“It is not in our hands. But if you wish it so, make your challenge. I am sure He will be most understanding.”

Silence, then the sound of the door creaking open.

“Sargoth?”

“A moment, Kirlan. Just a moment. First Sundered?”