Into the Dark Lands (45 page)

“Lady, do not—”

“Give me one reason. Please, if it's not too late, give me this one life. Let me know that you understand.”

He caught her hands.

“Lady, why is this one life so important today? You must know that this happens—”

She tore her hands away as he opened the wound of her guilt. “I know what happens!” For so long, the knowledge of all the death and pain that she couldn't
see
or touch, had eroded the joy she felt when she was able to help.

“Kill him, then. Do what you want, Lord. You're a Servant of the Enemy; it's what you do best.”

She turned and fled across the courtyard, sunlight twisting her shadow along the cool, perfect stone. This time he did not
stop her. Her words lingered in the air, and around them, the cold of her absence. Once he started forward, stopping himself before he could take a step—and hated the lack of control the action showed, although none but himself was witness to it.

 

Once she had entered the castle, she leaned against the gray of the walls of the north hall, her cheek cooling against the touch of stone. She longed to escape to her room, but there was one more thing to do: Claim her new slaves from the slavemaster Kadrin's tender mercies. She was exhausted; her hands and arms shook as she pressed them tightly against her body. She took a few moments to steel herself against the pain in the eyes that she walked to meet and brace herself against the gratitude that showed her more clearly than anything else the magnitude of the empire's crime.

The empire, Sara? Say rather, the First Servant. Say Stefanos.

Her fist struck the wall and slid downward. She cursed, knowing that the two would be waiting under the fear that she had proved false to her word. She could see the mother's arm wreathed tightly and protectively around the daughter's shoulders, see the way they would cringe upon sighting her, their eyes full of hope and the expectation of the loss of even that.

But even knowing how they must feel, she could not quite gather the strength to leave the silent hall. Bitterly she thought,
Am I never to have a moment of life to call my own? Is there never a day when I can lay aside responsibility? Must I always have to be so damnably
strong?

The answer returned to her.

Sarillorn
,
you have changed.

And because acknowledgment of that silent voice demanded more strength than facing the slaves, she ran from it, her feet striking the floor. But it echoed within her, the way the worst of fears always does.

 

Kadrin looked up as Lady Sara burst into the room. She could see the faint hint of surprise across his rounded features as the door slammed once against the wall. Taking a deep breath, she schooled her expression.

“Kadrin, I've come to see to the two slaves that were brought in from—from the market.”

“They are here, Lady.” He rose from behind the desk he
occupied, straightening his brown tunic as was his habit. “Wait but a moment, and they will be with you.”

She nodded and he left.

True to his word, he was back in a moment, turning to say a few words that she couldn't quite catch to someone the door obscured. He entered the room, and behind him trailed the woman and child that Sara had seen earlier.

The woman looked up warily, and in her eyes were all the emotions that Sara had expected. The foreknowledge stopped her from flinching.

“Lady.” The woman gave a low, cringing bow, one that her child was quick to copy. In the daughter's face, angular and thin, the mother's heritage was obvious. Sara watched their foreheads touch the ground at the same moment and shuddered.

She looked away from them to the only other person in the room and met the dark concern of his eyes.

Sara, you've got to practice more control.
Her mouth folded awkwardly into the semblance of a smile.

“Lady?”

“Return to your duties, Kadrin. After I have spoken with these two, I shall send them to you for housing and general instruction.”

He bowed. “I understand they are to serve you personally?”

She nodded again, this time more emphatically, feeling the woman's eyes upon her.

“Very well, Lady. Do you wish to use this room to conduct your meeting, or will you speak with them elsewhere?”

The question was pure formula; Kadrin knew well that Sara spoke with new slaves in her personal rooms. He gave her a soft smile in acknowledgment of this and was troubled when it slid off her face without changing it.

“I'll talk to them in my rooms.” In a falsely bright voice, she added, “They'll have to know some of the geography of the palace, so they might as well begin now. That way they won't be in the same straits I was for my first year or so.”

Kadrin smiled, forbearing to correct his lady. It had been perhaps fourteen months before she could wander anywhere in the castle without getting lost.

Again his smile had no effect. “Lady, does something trouble you?”

Her eyes met his, and he took a step back.

“Come,” Sara said softly, holding out one hand to the child. The girl gave her mother a nervous look, and her mother returned
a forcible nod—both of which made Sara regret the openness of the gesture. Timidly the girl walked forward and placed one of her hands in Sara's. It was cold and shook visibly.

“Come, little one. Your mother follows us. There is nothing to fear.”

She said it, knowing that she would not be believed, not yet.
But this is what I'm good at.
She sighed, taking little comfort from the truth of the thought.

Silent, they walked down the hall toward the steps that led to her rooms. There was a grim air about the walk, as if it were a funereal procession.

Which it is.

She felt tears start and pushed them back in near fury. Why did anyone choose to love in the empire? Its cost was so plain and so unavoidable. She saw it in the face of the two that walked with her, a shadow that no amount of light would ease.

And then she caught the direction of the thought and turned her face away from the child at her side to allow a few meager tears the escape they demanded.

I've changed.

She could not see the way the girl's face tilted up at the sight of her or the curiosity flickering amid the pain and loss.

They walked in a silence made of bated breath and sorrow.

At length they came to the wing that was Sara's. She turned to her young charge and watched her as they passed the various tapestries that lent warmth to stone.

Although the child kept her head forward, Sara could see her eyes flicker from side to side, trying to take in the elements of the woven tales all at once. This was one of the reasons they had been put here, and as Sara's eyes joined the girl's, she drew on the second reason—memory. For along the walls was much of the history of Elliath, from the death of Gallin of Meron, whom all lines could claim, to the founding of the seven lines. She looked at the face of Gallin, so painstakingly, mortally woven, and met his cloth-bound eyes. As always, the contrast of eyes and face surprised her and humbled her, for his features were distorted by extreme pain—one of his limbs was caught in the process of burning away—but his eyes were full of a deep and endless peace.

Did the women who wove your countenance truly capture you so well, or do I imagine you as clearly as the line knows you existed?

He had no answers; at least the lifelike quality did not give him speech, although she often expected it.

She turned to the child, and the child's glance darted almost guiltily away. She did the only thing she could; she kept walking. The girl relaxed.

Yet again Sara stopped, toward the end of the hall. And once more, eyes captured her—but this time, they were no mortal eyes.

Lady.

Sara resisted the urge to bow, although she normally did so when unaccompanied. Her free hand went up and stopped just short of the flat, silken face.

Mother of Elliath.
The Lady looked outward, through her lost granddaughter, and beyond the tapestries that hid the walls on the other side. She was robed in the simplest of white, a gown unadorned by even the circle that symbolized the continuity and wholeness of the line. Her arms fell out to either side upon the knees of the legs crossed beneath her.

And in her palm, a cut that did not bleed lay bare, turned upward to catch a beam of sunlight.

She did not look mortal.

What do you see, Lady? What vision haunts you?

Again no answer. Sara expected none, but were this pale visage to speak, she would not be surprised.

What could you see that would send me to Veriloth?
She searched the face, as she'd done countless times, for some hint of sorrow, anger, or pain; for some hint of triumph, defeat, or planning. But the Lady's eyes touched something that her face could never express.

Nor her words—at least not well.
Sara sighed once, refusing to give in to the anger that lay beneath the surface of the thought.
I am still here, Lady. May I not betray whatever fate you saw me serving.

She turned and stumbled slightly, then blushed, remembering that her hand was still anchored to a young child.

“Sorry,” she said softly. “I, too, find the tapestries distracting. Come, my rooms are beyond the doors.”

So saying, she walked up to the set of double doors, freed her hand momentarily, and opened them. She tried not to notice the child shrinking into her mother.

The mother whispered something softly—something Stefanos would have heard from half a hall away—and the child walked
quickly forward, following Sara's shadow into a large sitting room.

“Come in.” Sara spoke to the mother. The mother followed without hesitation, eyes darting side to side to see if all was safe, although she knew she could do nothing about it if it were not.

“Please, take a seat, both of you.”

A suspicious glance at Sara in no way changed the instinctive obedience that followed the request.

Blithely Sara continued as if unaware of the tension of her two spectators. “These rooms will be a part of your duties. They're to be cleaned when I leave them in the morning; I'll provide a schedule for you if Kadrin's lost his, which is Likely.”

She waited, and after a moment the woman nodded.

“If you would prefer it, you and your daughter may work together in the tasks that are given to you when you are not tending to me; I'll also speak to Kadrin about this.”

The child looked curiously at her mother.

Sara smiled softly and nodded. When the child made no move, she said, “Go ahead, child. You want to ask your mother a question; feel free to do so.”

The girl blushed and her mother whitened.

“It's all right. No question she could ask would give offense, not here.”

Still the child remained where she sat.

“Whisper, if you have to. I shan't mind. Well, go on. Consider it an order.”

At this, the girl inched toward her mother. Her mother's trembling arm shot out around the girl's shoulder, drawing her closer. The girl whispered something and the woman's brow furrowed. Quietly she shook her head.

Again Sara smiled. “Yes,” she said softly, catching the girl's attention. “Kadrin is a slave.”

She could feel the two sets of eyes upon her as she continued. “He is also slavemaster. He was given the position because he knows—better than the low-born free—what a slave must suffer at the hands of the wrong man or woman. It is up to him to watch his charges carefully.”

The woman looked confused, and Sara sent out a wave of sympathy, not knowing if it would reach her.

“If you have any difficulties with the visiting dignitaries—” This said with obvious distaste. “—you are to tell Kadrin; he will come immediately to me. I will speak with the people involved to ensure that they understand the rules of this palace.”

Neither spoke.

“I think that's about it. I've taken the liberty of having some food sent up to you; it should be here soon.”

“Here, mistress?”

Sara smiled at the shock in the woman's voice.
At least she's speaking.
“Here. And to be truthful, I didn't exactly arrange the food, Kadrin did. He knows my routines well enough to anticipate me—and he knows I live in terror of Korten.” She laughed. “Korten's the head of the kitchen.”

The child leaned over to her mother again.

“Child, you can ask me the question, and ask it without fear. I won't hurt you here; no one will.”

The mother met Sara's eyes, locked on them, and nodded without looking away.

For the first time, Sara heard the girl's voice. It was deeper than she would have expected, and she revised the estimate of the girl's age up by a couple of years. It was also smooth, almost melodious. Without nervous cracks—evident between almost each syllable—the child's voice would have been beautiful.

“Is the head of the kitchen a slave?”

“Yes, child.”

The girl took a deep breath and straightened out. Without looking at her mother, she said, “Then why do you call him by name?”

“Because to me he has one. He is my . . . slave. If I choose to name him, that is only my concern now. In doing so, child, I break no laws.” Her voice broke on the last word.

The girl was silent a few moments. She bent her head, and when it came up again, her eyes were filmed.

“No slave has a name.”

“Not outside of this palace.”

“My father—”

The mother hissed out a one-word warning, and the child subsided, with difficulty.