Into the Dark Lands (47 page)

She stood and walked quickly down the hall.

She shook herself again as she reached the stairs. There would
be people below, and she would have to face them as brightly as ever.

 

Come on, Erin. They're waiting for you. You're late, as usual.
Her feet took the steps automatically, bringing the main hall closer.

“Ah, Lady Sara.”

She turned slowly at the sound of the voice, the hair on the nape of her neck sparking outward. With a patently false smile, she greeted the high priest. He had two rooms in the palace, although he used them infrequently. Derlac, for some reason, was one of the few that Stefanos could tolerate.

“Derlac.”

He returned her smile, failing to notice that she had not used his title. She never used it; he never noticed; it was a game they both played that each heartily despised, although for different reasons.

“I am gratified to note that I am not the only diner to be somewhat tardy. If it would not be too much trouble, I would be pleased to arrive with you.” He offered her his arm; she ignored it. Another step in their silent fencing. Nor was he ruffled by her refusal—although that had not been the case when he had first accepted the rank and “responsibility” of his office.

“As you wish.” She walked, looking straight ahead.

He fell into step naturally.

“I heard that there was some sort of difficulty in the market today.”

She pointedly ignored his “idle” chatter, quickening her walk.
Not that it's going to inconvenience him,
she thought. He was a full foot taller than she, and she was grateful for the fact that she had never once been forced to keep pace with him.

“Nevertheless, the word I received was that the difficulty in the
market
had been suitably dealt with.”

Sara clamped her teeth down. She knew what Derlac was doing. He had done all in his power, which was considerable, to assure that the place of judgment was not created. Failing that, he used one of her own famous gambits. He refused to notice the change.

“Come, Lady Sara.” Ironic inflection colored every word. “You cannot hope to save every slave in Veriloth. It does not befit your station.” He was well pleased; to his mind the First Servant gave far too much to this, a ranking member of their greatest enemy. To order the death of a man she saw fit to plead for—yes, Derlac was satisfied. Perhaps there was hope for the
Lernari's death yet. But he remembered the cost of the last “hope,” and he was not fool enough to undertake its realization.

Sara was suddenly angry; of all nights to play at useless confrontations with the high priest, this one was least welcome. She let a hint of satisfaction show through her face as she responded. “Not every slave, Derlac. But I did manage to save that one.
Ranin
is now in my personal service, or didn't your informants tell you that?”

When he did not reply immediately, she pressed the point home. “And yes, I do intend to save every slave in Veriloth, if it takes me all my life.”

“I see.”

His voice was cold and neutral. Sara gave him a sidelong glance, already regretting the words.

He didn't know, and not only did I inform him of the fact that Stefanos went against his word to spare Ranin, but I rubbed his face in it.
She felt the juxtaposition of regret and satisfaction. Regret won.

Stefanos, my position here is still not as strong as you would like it. Must I always make it worse?

Still, at least he's stopped talking.

It was true, but it didn't make her feel better; Derlac silent was Derlac plotting, and although he was too canny to act directly against the First Servant of his God, he was still not a man to antagonize. She knew well that he considered her a weakness, and a dangerous one—the fact that Ranin was still alive proved it yet again.

Master,
he thought,
this Lernari woman will poison you if she is not ... removed. I have done all I can to lessen her influence, but it has proved useless. Perhaps it is time . . .

He shuddered. Going against the First Servant's orders usually left a man a lifespan that could be measured in seconds. Yet he could not just stand idly by to watch the destruction of the Church at the hands of its enemy—and he was certain as to what the Sarillorn intended; she had never been anything less than clear.

He shook his head to clear it and walked a little more quickly. It still amazed him that one with such power could possess so little understanding of the uses to which it should be put.

“Lady,” he said, and she turned. “I believe we must walk more quickly. The Lord has never liked to be kept waiting.”

Except by you.

The dining hall was unlike any other room in the palace;
although the ceilings were high, the arches were smooth and clean; no beams cut across them, and no frescoes colored them. The doors were rectangular, not peaked, and were of simple wood. Thus had Sara described the hall of her home; Stefanos had not managed to capture the longing her voice had given to detail, but was moderately pleased with the rest.

He looked up as Sara and Derlac entered. He smiled almost maliciously at her as his eyes flickered over the high priest, and she rolled her eyes in response. Derlac missed none of this, and his face grew somewhat more red, but he held his peace; it was one of the reasons he had become high priest, and he never forgot it.

“It pleases me to see that you could be spared from your duties in order to join me.”

The high priest gave a low bow.

“Your pardon, Lord. I was detained.”

“By whom?”

Rising, Derlac shrugged and took a seat. “It is a minor problem, Lord, unworthy of your time or attention.”

“Most problems with the Church are. But few cause you to be late.”

Derlac nodded again, ill at ease. “Yes, Lord. But it is not a problem with the Church precisely; rather, with the Swords. Gerdonel and Lampret are struggling for position, and the division between their associated units is causing . . . unrest.”

“I see. But surely both are under the command of—let me think—”

“Karver and Morden, Lord.” Derlac inserted the names, well aware that his Lord knew who they were.

“Perhaps I shall have to speak with them.”

The black robes he wore highlighted the sudden white of his long face. “Lord, you have trusted me with the keeping of the Church; I have already spoken to both men, and at length. I assure you that they will cause you no trouble.”

“I see.” With those two words of dismissal, Stefanos turned to regard Sara. Derlac let himself relax slightly. Although he would never admit it, there were times when the presence of the Sarillorn was a boon, and this was one of the few. He remembered clearly the events that had occurred three years past—he had narrowly avoided being caught up in the uprising of the Church's upper hierarchy. The purge that had followed had left numbers sparse, and Derlac wished strongly to avoid any further pruning.

“Lady Sara,” Stefanos was saying, “you cannot tell me that after the events of the afternoon, you—”

“I was tired, Stefanos. I'm sorry I'm late, I just didn't hear—”

“So you have said.” He waved an arm. “But please, do not let me keep you standing if you feel so. Take your place.” He smiled softly, then clapped his hands twice.

Sara had time to find her seat before the serving slaves entered the dining room.

They began to serve her first, and she moved slightly to give them more room. The young boy who held the first tray smiled shyly at her. She returned his smile, but said nothing, knowing how intensely Stefanos disliked it.

They ate in silence. Sara was aware, as always, of her Lord's gaze and met it firmly, almost warmly—even though Derlac also watched.

Master, he thought, appetite lost,
can you not see how she weakens you?
His fork skidded across his plate, and he corrected his shaking hand with some chagrin.

Because he avoided the Sarillorn's eyes, he missed the change in them. Not so Stefanos, who paused in midsentence when her head moved upward as if pulled. “Lady?”

Her eyes grew unfocused as they pondered something—perhaps some memory—beyond the table. For a moment he thought the clarity of the green grew opaque. Her lips clamped shut, and the fingers that held cutlery let them drop noisily to table and floor.

From somewhere, the smell of a familiar breeze touched Sara, and she knew that this was the moment. Her blood rushed outward
to cheek and fingertip, called by the force of kinship.
No. Not now!
But it was
now,
more immediate than she could have foreseen.

“Sara?”

She heard his voice as if by habit, but it was distant and distorted when it reached her ears. She swung around to gaze at him—slowly, so slowly twisting the white of her neck, as if the movement itself could break her.

And she saw him more clearly and more truly than normal sight permitted. Shrouded in shadow, the velvet folds of darkness wreathing his face and hands where they showed through his clothing, he sat at the head of the table. She could not see his expression clearly; folds of gray that denied the light twisted his lips and eyes into a parody of the concern she
knew
must be there. His mouth began to move, but the words his lips formed were lost to time—and to the sight of his teeth, the only gleaming light that remained within him. She saw them clearly and wondered, almost ludicrously, how it was that they had never drawn blood when she had kissed the gray of his lips.

Turning again, this time quickly and effortlessly, she saw the glimmer in the air, the beauty that danced in little sparks through the hall. But this time it was larger, somehow complete in its pattern. She knew that Kandor would appear—but not alone, not this time.

She knew that God's power was dimmed and the Gifting invoked. Everything seemed to happen so slowly; she thought that Stefanos would notice, by now, the approach of his doom. But he did not; his face was still turned toward her among the shadows, although she could only catch it from the corner of her eye.

Blood-spell.
She knew it for truth; even the Malanthi priest moved slowly and sluggishly in her sight. Only Kandor and those of Elliath would have the speed necessary to do what they had come to do.

And I,
she thought bitterly,
am of Elliath. The blood chooses its course.

But as she thought it, she knew it to be wrong. The choice, damned and damnable, was still her own. The blood flowed faster through her veins. She stood, turning to her Lord, and caught the start of an expression of astonishment curve around his lips.

Nightwalker.
She took a step forward, then another, knowing that he could not yet react to it. She read his face—what she
could see of it—harshly and honestly; reviewed her life in Rennath ruthlessly. All of the details crept back, all of the lost lives, the people she had not been permitted to save, and the screams that had kept her awake for her first few weeks in the palace—screams that no longer sounded here.

Servant of Malthan.
The name held venom, a poison that was only now being flushed away by the touch, by the grace, of Kandor of Lernan.

Breathing in once, deeply, she caught the taste of the orvas flowers along her tongue, washing away the stain of the city and the curse of the empire. She could almost see the Woodhall, standing in storm and sunshine as it had always stood, weathering the passage of season and human kingdom alike.

She let the feeling overwhelm her, and a laugh broke through her clamped jaw; a laughter that told her, and any who would hear it, that she was truly
alive
and still very much Sarillorn of her line.

“Erin!”

Wheeling, arms outstretched, she caught the flicker of hope that danced across the face of Belfas. And his face was all light, shining in the circle of Kandor's power; dear to her, more so than any other, because it was a light that she'd saved on her first battlefield years ago. She could see, beneath his glow, the tattered rags that passed as slave garments and, letting her sight dance across the others—three—could see a similar garb.

Only Kandor, standing in their center, looked as he had always looked; clothed all in white, the youthful glint of skin and pale-gold hair a song of his birth at the dawn of time. He stepped forward quickly, his brow creasing.

“Sarillorn, well met.”

She bowed to him then, sweeping the gray of her skirt to one side.

He left the Lernari behind, covering the distance from the corner of the room to the table almost too quickly for Sara to perceive.

Belfas and Taya also broke, running visibly toward the high priest. The others, Carla and Rein, turned their backs upon her, to face the doors of the room. They were nervous, she could see it—and feel it at the base of her tingling spine.

Hurry
, she thought, turning again for sight of Kandor.

Kandor stood in front of Stefanos.

Stefanos.

She could see his arms, moving slowly against the grip of
time, and the red flash of his eyes. His mouth struggled with something—some word, some spell of power—as the seat fell away from beneath him, resisting the pull of gravity and losing to it inch by inch.

His eyes unexpectedly found hers, and even though his movement was slowed in her vision, she saw the quick fan of shock spread and ripple outward across his face—knew that it would cost him time he didn't have as he evaluated the situation.

Kandor's arms crossed his chest on their tangled upward sweep and a beam of light broke forth from him. His brow creased slightly as the white of it pierced the red cleanly and absolutely.