Children of the Blood

by Michelle Sagara

  Vellen, politic, said nothing.

  “And perhaps I was right; too much of value to the house is already invested in the Church.” It was as much a true compliment as Lord Damion ever paid to his son. “You came to see me?”

  “Yes, lord.”

  “About?”

  “The third phase. In one week, the stones are to be blooded, and the sacrifices made.”

  Lord Damion nodded. He glanced down at the papers on his desk. “Have you seen these?”

  Vellen made a show of curiosity. He held out one steady hand, and the paper rustled against his still fingers. “The seal of the Empire.”

  “Indeed.”

  Vellen flipped the leaves of paper without pausing to read the calligraphy.

  “Vellen, what is so precious about this single slave?”

  “Nothing that I have been able to learn.” He allowed his anger to color his words. “Nothing that excuses the use of House Damion as a holding ground for chattel.”

  Lord Damion saw the cold fire behind his son’s eyes and smiled carefully. “The First is still Emperor.”

  “Yes.”

  “There are rumors that have come by way of the Swords, High Priest. Rumors about the fields of the fallen Line Culverne.”

  “Such as?”

  “There was no blooding, no sacrifice.”

  Vellen said nothing. He did not move at all.

  Lord Damion knew that he had been heard, and after a moment he continued. “And we hold a slave that we dare not punish. A pity.”

  A smile twisted itself out of Vellen’s lips. “A pity? Yes. But it gives Cynthia a lesson she badly needed to learn, does it not?”

  Lord Damion nodded, but Vellen didn’t notice. He was seething. That he had been ordered to hold the slave was indignity enough; that the First Servant had seen fit to send this missive to his father only added to the fire.

  No, he thought as he smoothed the lines of his face, we cannot kill this insult. But there are other ways.

  Abruptly he rose. “Lord Damion,” he said, bowing stiffly.

  “Vellen? Did you not come to speak with me about a matter of import?”

  “No, lord. Only to inform you that the levy should arrive in the three-day and the altars should be prepared.”

  He met his father’s gaze firmly.

  Lord Damion inclined his head, granting the permission to leave that Vellen required in this house alone.

  They rose above the petty buildings in the streets, twin spires cutting sharp shadows into the path the sun laid. Stone walls, inlaid with bronze, leaped up from the street. Beyond the walls, a hint of other buildings could be seen; the fifty-foot stained glass windows of the nobility’s chapel looked down upon passersby with the eyes of God. This was the home of the Church, the center from which all worship was dictated. Here, on top of thick, cut stone walls, Swords mounted their patrol, their steps crisp and even as they looked down upon the streets of the city. At this angle, only the north wall could be seen.

  This was the heart of the city; indeed, it was almost a city unto itself. The laws and privileges enclosed herein separated the nobles and the free men from those who served God. The gates, black and solid, were open to those who cared to enter, but they were also guarded by the elite of the Swords.

  Usually when he entered the temple complex, Vellen’s anger gave way. The concerns of the outer world were left beyond the large trinity of arches.

  Today was different.

  Acolytes in the hall noticed his passing and gave ground; they moved toward the walls of cut stone and did not resume their speech or movement until he was well past them. Nor did he give them a second thought.

  Varil, one of the Karnari, began to approach him as he strode toward the massive cathedral that the Karnari blessed four times yearly. But even Varil gave way, although not so obviously as the acolytes. This was well and good; any display of weakness from the Karnari was not be tolerated, and Vellen was certain he had chosen well.

  He gestured at the guards in silence, the movement almost a curse.

  They bowed, and he waited in irritation while they struggled to open the massive black doors that led into the cathedral. Those doors were heavy; much work had gone into them and their ebony inlays. Rubies glittered in the daylight, small specks of the earth’s cold blood that bore witness to the greatness of the Dark Heart. They had been fashioned into the likeness of a hand and thus, fist clenched, they also bore witness to the power of the Dark Heart.

  “Close them. Do not allow any to enter behind me until my word is given.”

  The Swords saluted smartly, and before his left foot had crossed the threshold, he heard the creak of the doors as they closed to defend his back.

  The altar lay silent before him. It gleamed, reflecting the sunlight that the stained glass tainted into dark, new colors. But beneath those glints, all was black, cold rock. Its edges curved in toward its center to meet a small, clean hole that had been carefully chiseled through it. It was not large, nor particularly grand, and one large man could take up most of its exposed surface easily.

  What made it special was the way it lay suspended in midair, casting its shadow upon a small circle of still, open water. To the eyes of the nonblooded, and admittedly there were few allowed entrance here, it looked like a miracle.

  And even to the eyes of the Malanthi priesthood, it held some of that. A delicate, red web of power surrounded it, an inch from its surface, and held it immobile above the water. The power of God, the God that Vellen worshiped.

  His anger held as he approached the altar. He brought his hands out, held them a minute over the altar, and then spat into the well beneath it.

  “Dark Heart,” he whispered, his eyes closed. “It was once said that the Servants had your ear. They served You in ways that we could not, and in turn, You granted them the power to rule.”

  Silence, as always, answered him.

  “The First among these Servants claims to rule still. At the eve of our victory, he denied You Your due. Surely he must be made to see that even he cannot so simply thwart Your will.”

  “Do you question God?”

  Vellen raised his head slowly. The hair on the back of his neck stood suddenly at attention. With measured, even steps, he turned to face the voice.

  He had seldom seen a Servant of the Dark Heart in its unencumbered glory, and even though they served the same God, he still felt a chill down his spine. Standing perhaps seven feet in height, cloaked in a darkness that was absolute, the Servant’s red eyes flashed as they observed him. But he was ruler here, if not in the outer world of the Empire. He controlled every facial muscle as he performed a stiff bow.

  “No,” he answered softly.

  “That is good,” the Servant replied. His voice was dark and sibilant. “But I have come to answer your ... request of God. I am Sargoth, the Second of the Sundered.”

  The chill radiated outward, and with it an excitement began to grow. Never before had the Dark Heart seen fit to answer the prayers of a priest—even if that priest were head of the Karnari. Surely this was proof of His favor.

  “The rulership of mortals,” Sargoth continued, “is not my domain, nor does it hold my interest. But the concern of the Dark Heart does. We are aware of the transgressions of the First—and they will grow, from this moment.” He stepped forward, his feet making no sound in the preternatural silence of Vellen’s hope.

  “For now, High Priest, you must continue in your path. Obey the emperor’s commands. Cause him no concern or trouble.”

  Vellen nodded, waiting.

  “But soon, in our terms, perhaps years in yours, you will feel a sign, and that sign is your permission to move against him, with the power of God by your side. Is this understood?”

  “When?”

  Sargoth hesitated a moment. When he answered, his annoyance was evident. “Soon.” He turned away from Vellen, then, and gazed upon the cathedral.

  “Much work was done here,” he said, as
if to himself. “I remember the doing of it.” He walked to the altar and gazed slowly down, his eyes glinting off the water. “Has so much passed, so quickly? Ah, well.” He turned again. “I have much to teach you, High Priest. A magic and a power that is not of God alone. The doing will be hard, and it may be that you are not strong enough to survive it.” A hint of amusement was there.

  Vellen could not contain the smile that took his lips. His hands, at his sides, were trembling.

  “Perhaps one day with my help, Second of those who serve, you shall be First.”

  Sargoth looked at him then, and Vellen thought he could make out contours of blackness that moved shiftlessly through the shadows.

  “We shall see,” he said, at length. “Come. We must begin.”

  chapter five

  Lord Vellen handed his cloak to the waiting slave, who rose immediately and took it carefully from his outstretched hand. He received a small smile in return, and forced himself not to step back. Lord Vellen’s rare displays of temper were not feared among the slaves. Not so with his even rarer displays of good humor.

  “I shall speak shortly with Lord Damion.”

  “Yes, lord.”

  “In half an hour, send out the guards to retrieve a certain slave. A new one; I believe he has been allocated to the kitchen.”

  The slave paled, but his expression of obeisance did not waver. “Yes, lord.”

  “Send word to another of the new slaves.” Vellen’s smile broadened slightly. “The one who humiliated Lady Cynthia by daring to give himself a name in her presence, as if he had rank equal to hers.”

  If possible, the slave paled further. “Yes, lord.”

  “At once. If you do not know these slaves personally, I suggest that you find the house mistress.”

  “Lord.”

  Vellen’s smile grew yet further as he made his way to his father’s study. He withdrew, from the folds of his sash, a small pouch that jangled noisily.

  Lord Damion was rare for a noble; he valued a certain austerity that he claimed could be found in the elegance of simplicity. The door to his personal rooms made this quite clear; it was of solid material, but no brass inlay or crest touched its surface. Indeed, it was the only door to the lords’ and lady’s chambers that was not doubled.

  Lord Vellen knocked on it precisely and, after a moment, heard his father’s permission to enter.

  “Lord Damion.”

  “Vellen. What brings you so late?”

  “A matter of little import to the house, Father. But I wish to purchase the use of one of your slaves.”

  Lord Damion frowned as Vellen deposited the pouch neatly on the center of the desk.

  Stev looked up at Andrew’s broad face. Although Andrew often worked at the side of the gardeners, his tanned face was pale, and his brown eyes too wide.

  “Lord Vellen asked for Darin?”

  Andrew nodded. “Sorry, Stev,” he murmured. His face was still chalky beneath the darkness of his hair.

  “So am I,” Stev said brusquely. “But it can’t be helped.” He turned and walked over to where Darin sat polishing silver. “Darin,” he said.

  Something in the tone of his voice made Darin look up in silence. No laughter lit the eyes now; no whistle was in the voice.

  “What is it?” Darin asked uneasily.

  Stev closed his eyes. “Lord Vellen has asked that you be sent to him in his study.”

  “The high priest?”

  Stev nodded.

  Darin swallowed and set the cutlery aside. He unfolded himself very gingerly; the marks that the whip had cut were still not fully healed, “W-what do you think he wants?”

  Stev shook his head. “Don’t think on it, Darin. He’ll tell you when you arrive.”

  Darin tried to nod. “What have I done wrong?”

  “Lad, it may be nothing.” The tone of the voice said clearly that even Stev didn’t believe this. “But go, or you’ll face the slavemaster for certain.”

  Darin shuddered. He couldn’t help it. He turned his gaze to Andrew, but Andrew had found something absorbing to stare at in the stonework floor. He passed Andrew, walked out of the open door, and stopped.

  Lernan, God, please ... But there was no answer. There was never any answer.

  In silence he walked down the long hall.

  The doors of the study were open. On either side, two armed guards looked down on him as he made his approach. They wore the blue and black tunics of House Damion. They weren’t Swords, but their expression made clear that they served the high priest anyway. He swallowed and gagged as the walls of his dry throat stuck together.

  “Ah, good. Enter.”

  Lead shoes would have been easier to walk in than the simple sandals he wore. He dragged himself across the threshold and then stopped abruptly.

  Kerren was there, flanked and held by four guards. He was almost green, and he looked across at Darin with such an expression of terror on his face that Darin couldn’t help but respond. He began to walk over to where Kerren stood.

  “Stop.”

  He froze then, remembering where he was.

  “So. You’re the slave that dared to name himself, as if free.”

  Darin dropped to his knees and let the stone cool the sudden heat of his face. “Yes, lord.”

  “Lord Damion, in his infinite wisdom, decided to be merciful.” The high priest’s voice was a purr. “And I, slave, have decided to be likewise merciful, considering your ignorance.”

  “Yes, lord.” Nothing in Vellen’s words reassured Darin.

  “This evening, the rites of the third quarter are to take place in the House temple,” Vellen continued, his voice almost conversational. “Normally, no slave is allowed entrance there—at least, not in the gallery.”

  Kerren whimpered. He began to struggle with the guards that pinned his arms; one of the four casually slapped him with an open, mailed, hand.

  Darin could not even speak.

  “But you, little slave, are to be granted that privilege. Having named yourself,” he added, darkly, “in ignorance, I wish you to understand what the holding of a name means in Veriloth. You too will be allowed to preside over the Dark Heart’s ceremonies.”

  He sat back in his chair, a smile on his lips.

  “And for this eve, by donation of the Church, we will not even stain the altars with the usual criminal levy.” He raised one elegant hand and Darin slowly turned to look at Kerren.

  “We will instead choose an innocent from among your number. ” His voice changed. “Guards, take him to the house priest. Have him prepared.”

  It was almost too much for Darin. The words took moments to sink in; moments in which Kerren’s whimper had escalated to hysterical pleas.

  “Darin!” he screamed, as the doors to the hall swallowed him. “Darin!”

  Darin rose then, knowing the naming meant nothing, understanding what the high priest intended for his friend, his brother. He lunged forward.

  “Stop!” the high priest’s word was cutting and clear.

  He couldn’t obey immediately, but the guards at the door were prepared for this. A blow to the chest took the wind from his lungs, and he collapsed in a heap, gasping.

  His name filled the hall with Kerren’s despair and terror.

  He was not allowed to return to his quarters. The house guards at the door were given care of him, and one at least was always within hand’s reach. He cried, but his tears were silent, and the guards did not appear to notice them. But they were not completely aloof either; they wore tension as Darin did, but were more effective at hiding it.

  Lord Vellen sent his summons to the study that served as a prison, and the guards received it with a nod, grateful to be able to do something other than listen to a child weep. They grabbed him roughly by the arms and began to lead him down the hall. The halls were silent, almost cavernous. Darin thought there was some chance that he might see Stev, but even the slaves were no longer on duty; everything was still. Even the l
amps along the walls seemed low and dark.

  They came at last to the one wing of the building that Darin had not entered before. It was austere; only one large tapestry colored the west wall, but it was done in subdued tones. Doors grew larger as they approached, stretching from floor to ceiling. A crack of light appeared around them.

  “Here,” one of the guards said softly. He continued to hold Darin’s arms as the other man went to the doors. They slid smoothly and silently open.

  Darin froze.

  From where he stood, he could see the edge of a brass balcony; carpets, deep and red, lined the floor from the door to the rails. There were four large, mahogany chairs—he could see the backs of them clearly. A fifth, less fine but no less sturdy, stood between the third and the second.

  “Ah, good.” Lord Vellen rose from the third chair and turned toward the open door. “I feared you might be late.”

  “No sir,” the guards replied in unison.

  Vellen nodded. “This chair,” he said, gesturing to his left. “Bind him.”

  Darin wanted to struggle, but the blue of Vellen’s eyes pinned him like daggers. Nerveless, he allowed himself to be pushed into the chair. It was large, the back inches higher than his head, the arms, inches wider than his arms. They tied his wrists and shoulders firmly.

  “Welcome to the galleries, slave,” Vellen murmured, as he resumed his seat.

  Darin turned his head to the side with some difficulty.

  Lord Damion’s gaze was impassive. Cynthia’s was full of icy fury.

  He sank back, trying to look at his feet.

  “Not there.” Cold fingers dug into his chin, forcing it up.

  “Below.”

  Darin shuddered and looked down.

  Three robed figures stood around an obsidian altar. Inlaid in red along its surface was the crest of House Damion. It shone orange, catching the flicker of multiple torches. The three, priests all, seemed to be looking up at the gallery.

  Vellen nodded grimly, not taking his fingers from Darin’s face.