Children of the Blood

by Michelle Sagara

  Helna turned to face her husband with a sigh. “More of the same.”

  He raised an eyebrow, which was difficult considering he only really had one dark line of hair across the upper ridge of his eyes. “Kerren, have you been troubling your poor mother?”

  Kerren gazed awkwardly down at the ground. After a moment he murmured a word of assent and hung his head.

  Helna looked at him. “Aye, that he has.” Her lips gentled again, this time into a smile. “But not near as much as young Darin here’s troubling his.”

  “Darin?” Jerrald’s broad grin was much less reluctant than his wife’s. “That’d explain a whole lot. What’re you doing here at this time of night, boy?”

  “Pretending to be Renar,” Kerren said, with just a hint of spite in his voice.

  Darin shot him a dirty look. “Was not. And anyway, I’m better at it than you.”

  “Yeah? Well, I didn’t notice you escaping when the bells rang!”

  “Well, if you had to learn anything, maybe you would’ve!”

  “Boys!” Helna’s voice rang out.

  “Pretending to be Renar, eh?” Jerrald said. “Ah, well. Helna?”

  She frowned. “Jerrald, I swear you’re getting far too lenient in your old age. If Hanset had ever done anything like this, you’d have had him in stocks.”

  Jerrald shrugged ruefully. “Aye, lass. But maybe at that age, I was little more than a boy myself, and you little more than a slip of girl. Come, love. They’re boys, they’ll be what they are. And there’s worse to imitate in the world than the thieving prince.”

  Kerren relaxed. When his father called his mother “lass,” things usually went for the better.

  Nor was tonight to be any exception. Helna shook her head, a soft blush warming the lines of her face. “Lass, is it?” Jerrald held out one arm, and she walked slowly into his embrace, her eyes on his face alone. “I swear, Jerrald, there’s a reason why Kerren’s more of a handful than any of the rest of his brothers or sisters.”

  “Maybe he has more of youth in him than we can remember.” He kissed his wife gently on the forehead, then turned back to the boys. “But still, that doesn’t mean you’re to stay here, Darin. Your folks are like to worry.”

  The relief that Darin felt faded instantly when he thought of his own parents. They weren’t likely to be nearly as forgiving or understanding. Then again, he might just be able to sneak past them and back to his room. After all, they couldn’t worry over something they didn’t know about.

  He nodded. “Thank you, sir, ma’am.”

  He started to walk toward the window, and Jerrald’s harrumph made him stop.

  “The door, Darin.”

  “Oh.” Darkness hid his blush as he made his way round Kerren’s parents.

  That was when the earth started to shake.

  Darin reached for the door frame as Helna was thrown against her husband. He heard clearly her sharp exclamation as she endeavored to cling to the lamp; in a wooden house, accidents with flame could be fatal.

  “Heart’s blood!” Jerrald stormed to the window. “What was that?”

  Kerren scurried over to his mother’s still figure, and Darin found himself doing the same. Neither of them could see the window that Jerrald all but blocked; neither cared. Helna put an arm around her son’s shoulder; both of them were shaking. Such sounds never came to the enclave, either by day or night. And the fact that it was night made it more ominous.

  Silent, the three watched Jerrald’s back as he pulled away from the window.

  “Bright Heart,” he said, each word so soft it barely carried at all. He could not tear his eyes away from the outside world.

  “Jerrald? Jerrald, what is it?”

  Kerren had never heard his mother’s voice sound like that. “Dad,” he whispered, “what’s out there?”

  “Fire.” There was no comfort or warmth in the single word the large man uttered.

  Darin could not even speak. Something was wrong; something worse than fire. He could feel it slicing into his skin—a cold, clear danger.

  The screaming started, the high, thin sound streaming in the open window to shrill past even Jerrald’s wide chest. The fire, if fire it was, crackled loudly. Darin was certain he heard thunder’s voice, but it was close, too close.

  Helna looked down at him, the lamp beginning to falter. She touched the deathly chill of his skin, and she paled herself. For Darin was of the lines, and the blood of the Bright Heart shuddered within him. Only now did she fully realize this.

  “Bright Heart,” she said, a dearth of hope in her voice.

  Jerrald turned away from the window, blanching. He offered no explanation as he straightened out. “Quick now, Helna. We’ve got to leave—I think I see soldiers!’

  She closed her eyes, shook herself, and nodded. “Get your boots, Kerren. Darin, you’ll have to make do with what you’re wearing. Darin!”

  Shaking, he looked up to see a terrible knowledge writ large in the lines of her face. She shoved him out of the room; he felt Kerren jostle against him.

  Jerrald squeezed past them in the narrow hall.

  “Jerr, where are you going?”

  The smith wheeled back to his wife. “Take the boys, lass,” he murmured. His eyes were as flat as hers. “I’ve—I’ve things to do here.”

  She shook her head, dazed, and he kissed her once, fiercely. Her hands reached for the front of his night robe. “Jerrald . . .”

  He pressed one large finger against her near-white lips, and a smile touched the comer of his mouth. “The Bridge of the Beyond, dear heart. Go, and quickly.”

  Still she hesitated.

  “Helna ...” He looked down at Kerren and Darin, both too confused and too frightened even to speak. “They need you.”

  These words had the desired effect. She set the lamp down; there would be no use for it now. Her plump arms encircled the two children almost fiercely.

  “I love you, Jerrald,” she whispered, although there was no need to say it.

  He stood against the wall and she ushered the children toward the door, and toward the waiting darkness.

  chapter two

  Fire burned red against the darkness of cloudy sky. Stefanos watched, only occasionally raising his hands to add fuel to it. The earth had done its work at his behest; the temple of Culverne lay in shards so sharp they might have been glass. It had not been an easy magic, to move the ground itself, but he had been unwilling to approach the last of these temples by dint of mere physical force alone. The tremors had long since stilled, but he felt them in the smoke-laden breeze.

  He felt unaccountably weary on the eve of victory. The black and red backs of his Swords spread out thickly between the burning buildings. They moved like noisy shadows; he caught the occasional laugh or shout, whether of pain or triumph mattered not. The end was clearly in sight.

  His vision caught the flickering lights of Lemari power as the city’s few defenders moved among red embers. They almost seemed unclothed to him; they were very, very weak. Had it been so long?

  Ah, he thought, as four lights went out. Soon, soon ... His claws curved inward to touch the chill of his palms. Tonight, this last night, he wore no disguise. This was his only gesture of respect for an enemy that had long eluded him. He stood, black and white against the horizon, his pale lips and pale teeth glinting gently, although with frown or with smile, not even he could be certain.

  His magery had destroyed those dwellings that the Lernari had taken for their own; his vision had separated the servers’ dwellings from the masters’.

  A long, loud scream ebbed up in the heat of the night, faded into a whimper, and then into silence. That voice would never break silence again. The laughter of Swords took up where it left off.

  “Lord. ”

  He turned to look down at Vellen, resplendent in his mortal robes. The high priest was pale, as the First, but his hair was gold, his eyes blue, and his expression so much more definite. The high, red collar
of his office framed him perfectly.

  “It is almost over.”

  “Yes,” Stefanos said, and turned his gaze back toward where the last of the light was dying.

  Vellen barked an order, and another priest came forward, hands holding an ebony box. Vellen took it, opened it, and looked almost reverently down the fine edge of a black blade.

  “We consecrate this ground tonight.”

  Stefanos said nothing. Here and there voices still erupted, passing over the clash of metal and the crackle of preternatural flame.

  Many times had he seen such an end; many times had he been the instrument of it. Unbidden, the thought of her returned to him, her fire and light strong enough to be felt against even his best effort. Upon such a night as this had his course been decided.

  “None of the Lernari,” he said, suddenly and coldly.

  “Pardon, Lord?”

  “None of the Lernari.” Stefanos stepped forward. “Gather their servants if you wish, and sacrifice those that you choose from among them. But the Lernari are to be given swift passage to the beyond that they seek.”

  Vellen opened his mouth to speak, and then clamped his lips down firmly over the words that he had been about to say. He looked at the First Servant, Lord of the Empire, and saw the nightmare of children: nightwalker, devourer of souls. Almost against his will, he shivered. For although he and all the rest of the Karnari had always known in truth what the Lord was, they had never seen it until now.

  Still, it was hard not to feel anger at this unwarranted interference. The Church had its own laws, and not even the Lord of the Empire could contradict them on whim. Nor had he ever tried, in living memory. Vellen started to speak, and again thought the better of it; the time to confront this Lord was not upon the field of battle, and not without the power of God behind him. When he returned to the capital, however, he would bespeak the Dark Heart; perhaps this once he would receive a solid answer. He nodded, and his anger grew at the subtle play of smile around the First Servant’s lips.

  Soon the swords brought the wounded and the whole, dragging them toward the gentle hilltop upon which the Servant stood. Stefanos watched the faces of the prisoners. Some stared at him in open fear, some in confusion, and some with a hatred that time would do nothing to ease.

  Nightwalker. He heard the murmur as it passed between adults and children. Here or there a child gripped the skirted thigh of a mother or the robe of a father. Tears fell, mingling with blood and silence. They gathered before him, these cattle, these mortals, as they had done only once before.

  “Is this all?” Vellen said, his voice steady.

  “Yes, Karnar.”

  “The rest?”

  The Sword smiled grimly. “None escaped the watch on the perimeter. ”

  “Good.” Vellen echoed the soldier’s smile. “Ready the army, then, for the ceremony. Secure the city.”

  The man saluted once, crisply, and walked away.

  Kerren held his mother’s dress, his grip too tight to be dislodged easily. He was large for his age, and at any other time he would have stood aside, fearing to look too much like a baby. Nor did Darin notice this, for his fingers held the other side of Helna’s fine-spun nightgown.

  Only the woman cried, her tears silent. She looked around from side to side, knowing that she would not see her husband here, but hoping nonetheless. Her arms still clutched the two children as she stood witness to the fall of Culverne. They had done their best to run, and failing at that, had done their best to hide. The screams and the fighting had provided no cover for them, and they had been brought back at sword point, traversing the growing graveyard of Lernari and servers alike.

  Kerren looked up at his mother, and she pulled him more tightly to her. Darin looked at the Servant. The nightwalker stood so close, an emblem of the Dark Heart. But here, unlike in history books and upon tapestries, there was no Bright Heart to defy him.

  The fire was still burning; if Darin looked hard enough he could see the flickering outline of the house that had been his. He said nothing; did not even look around at the gathered crowd. He knew he would not see his family here.

  An icy hand gripped his heart too tightly for sorrow.

  This creature was the horrible wrongness that he had felt. No nightmare, no daydream, no story, could have prepared him for it.

  Death walked among them all.

  Stefanos surveyed the crowd with growing disinterest. He saw their fear, but did not allow himself to feel it. These were, as the others who toiled within his empire, beneath his notice, beneath contempt.

  “Lord.” Vellen bowed low. “Should you wish it, you may preside over the ceremonies.” In his hands he held the knife of the Karnari. There was no warmth in the words, but Stefanos expected none. He was tempted to accept the high priest’s offer, if only to discomfort the mortal, but decided against it.

  “You may continue.”

  Vellen nodded smoothly, a sure sign that the knife was proffered for the sake of formality alone.

  Did I travel this far and wait this long to suffer the presumption of a priest? It had been long since the luxury of thwarting the Church had been his; but the time had come for many things, and here, perhaps for the first time in centuries, he could relax.

  One dark claw shot out and caught Vellen’s pale hand before the priest could begin his benediction. The susurrus of muted whispers echoed around his back; the Swords were surprised. He could feel them join him as he studied Vellen’s face. Anger was there; so intense an anger that for a moment Vellen could not help but let it show. For anyone else, such an offence merited death at the least; Stefanos knew it and allowed his smile to show the knowledge clearly.

  “Perhaps, High Priest, I shall accept your offer after all.”

  All anger vanished as the Servant released the priest. They stood matching wills for minutes in the sudden silence. The blood of the Dark Heart stirred as blue eyes met red-tinged black.

  It was Vellen who broke away first; this, Stefanos had expected. What surprised him was the mien of the priest as he bowed smoothly. Power recognized power. But there was grace in the acknowledgment; grace and no hint of the bluster or fear that had marked any other encounter that Stefanos had chosen.

  “Lord.”

  “High Priest.” A pity, Vellen, that you are merely half blood. You might have otherwise proved a worthy opponent.

  The black of obsidian shivered in his palm as Vellen passed the dagger to him. Stefanos looked down at it. His lips curled over his teeth. In any other heart, this legendary blade might invoke fear. His head rose, and he gazed out at the gathered crowd of slaves. He did not need the dagger; it was an emblem of a lesser power. With barely concealed contempt, he laid it aside.

  “Will you choose?” Vellen asked, an edge in his voice as the symbol was put aside unblooded.

  “Indeed.”

  The shadow began to walk. It descended the grassy hill that had been trampled by the feet of hundreds of soldiers. It advanced upon the cowed and silent throng. As if they were water, the people standing near Darin, toward the front of the crowd, pulled back in a wave. The boy felt Helna’s grip grow stronger as she pulled him back as well. He followed her wordless direction without realizing it. If the shadow walked, it would find him. That conviction grew in him until he could not contain it; he trembled visibly.

  Helna would risk no words, not here. But she tried to calm Darin by drawing him yet further into the meager shelter of her arms. In silence, they waited.

  Everyone had heard the stories of the priests and their dark communion with the Heart that none ever named. They knew what the dagger meant, and what the man in black-traced red had intended. He was not their fear.

  No, their fear came to them in icy shadow, carrying a darkness too deep for the night, and too final. Even the children were silent as he began to walk among them.

  This close, it was harder. Stefanos’ red eyes trailed across the faces of gathered servants. If they could, he knew th
ey would bolt like a panicked herd. With the Swords on the perimeter, however, they chose instead the guise of rabbits; they stood straight and still, moving very little, as if movement alone could catch his attention. Thus had they stood, Sarillorn at their head, too many mortal years ago. And he had chosen to live each one of those years alone.

  He saw her then, as he often saw her, a trace of green light warming the lines of her body, hands clenched tightly at her side, chin tilted up in defiance and resignation both. She stepped forward, a human ghost, and he stopped before the memory of her hands could pass through him.

  Sara.

  For lives such as these, she had bargained away her own. He wondered if she had been aware that he’d had no intention of living up to his word once he’d taken what he desired. He had never asked.

  But he had chosen to play the game, and it had grown, in short hours, beyond either’s understanding. For a moment he ached at the haunting.

  Sara. It is over. The war is at end. You always desired peace.

  He shook himself and walked further into the crowd, seeing other faces, another time.

  And then he stopped.

  The air carried just the faintest hint of wrongness here, a trace of what had been. He looked back at the high priest and then shook his head; time had weakened the half bloods, and Vellen’s power alone was not enough to detect this. But he was First; in him the power of the Awakening flowed undiminished.

  Perhaps one of the Lernari had fathered a bastard among the servers. In times past, such a thing would have been unlikely, but mortal blood had weakened the light as well.

  Darin’s eyes grew wide as the nightwalker suddenly gestured. A red haze shimmered around him, deeper and darker than the red of his eyes. In panic, he raised his arms, hands flying futilely in the air. Helna gasped and reached out to grab them.

  Too late.

  The nightwalker turned, his gaze falling on Darin.

  “So,” he said softly, and began to walk, his gait as measured and precise as before. But this time he did not walk at random. People moved to grant him passage; anything else was death.