Children of the Blood

by Michelle Sagara

  The boy’s face suddenly creased. Cullen had never seen him smile. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine.” He threw one hand in the direction of the courtyard, the picture of a younger boy with an important secret to share.

  Cullen leaned slightly forward. “Yes?”

  “There’s no blood on the stones—no blood in the crest of the house!”

  Cullen nodded, no longer mystified.

  What did he do at House Damion, Evayn? Entertain?

  I don’t know, Cullen. He wouldn’t answer—not with all of the truth.

  He sighed, feeling older. Stone duty. Then he shook himself. That was for the other houses, not this one. Lady alone knew why, but he didn’t question his fortune.

  Besides, if Darin was in the mood to be talkative, he wasn’t going to waste it.

  “Well then, where’s the guest staying?”

  “The guest?” Darin asked, confused. Then he nodded. “Oh, her.”

  “Her? Yes, her.”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “The hell you’re not, boy! Come on; I’ve little enough to do in the kitchen now—I could use something to occupy my mind.” But his action belied his words, as he picked up the cutting knife once again.

  “Well, I didn’t see it for myself so I can’t be sure.” Darin wondered that Cullen wasn’t more happy about the stones, but only for a minute—Cullen had been here long enough to know the truth of the lord’s words.

  “Just out with it.”

  “Well, I heard from Evayn that she’s staying in the lord’s wing. Possibly in his own chamber.”

  Cullen frowned thoughtfully. “That’d be a bit unusual for him. Do you know her house?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “Too bad; it’s good to know what vipers we’ll be dealing with.” He shrugged his shoulders, knowing that they’d have to accept happily whatever walked into the castle. Stretching, he said, “Well, then, why don’t you—”

  The door swung open, hit the wall, and swung back. There was the sound of muffled cursing, and the door opened again, but this time somewhat more slowly. A boy about Darin’s age—maybe fourteen seasons, rather than thirteen—walked into the kitchen, obviously out of breath.

  He gave Darin a mixed look of sympathy and fear.

  “Master Gervin’s sent me to find you.”

  The slavemaster? Darin paled slightly, and his whole body stiffened. He said nothing, waiting for the worst news his imagination could conjure up. His imagination was not disappointed.

  “The lord—he’s requested your presence. In his study.”

  The stones were forgotten.

  Lady of Mercy, he thought, someone saw me in the courtyard.

  “Why?”

  “Don’t know, but you’re ordered to report now.” The youth had finished catching his breath.

  “Don’t go scaring the boy, Kelm. The Lord’s not had anyone killed for months—and the last one might well have deserved it.”

  Darin heard the lack of conviction in the cook’s voice clearly. Nevertheless he obeyed automatically.

  Someone saw the blessing in the courtyard.

  It isn’t fair! He wanted to shout, but his fear was too strong. He cursed himself, hating the familiarity of it. That same fear was the reason that he was still alive; it had forced him, against all that he’d been taught, to labor on the blooded stones for four years.

  And now that he had finally been granted a measure of peace and freedom from it ...

  His feet automatically traced the path to the lord’s study. He knew when he approached it, for the halls became suddenly silent and empty; no slave without errand ever came here.

  With trembling hands he opened the door to the sitting room. His shadow fell upon the worn leather great chairs that kept company with the still fireplace.

  Why? He thought. Why was I so stupid in the courtyard? Anyone could have seen me. Only once before had he done anything as stupid as this in Veriloth.

  The door swung loosely shut behind him as he gave it a small push. Why? Because for the first time in over four years, God had answered his prayer.

  There was no blood on the flagstones.

  He allowed himself the faintest thread of hope, remembering that. Taking a deep breath, he crossed the length of the room. He paused for a moment to lean his forehead against the cool dark wood of the door.

  “Enter.”

  He jumped, his light step making more noise than the gentle press of his forehead had. Swallowing, he did as bidden, opening the door into the large study. It was as it had been the only other time he’d seen it; books, row upon row of them, lined shelves that almost reached the ceiling. It was a library in miniature, dwarfed by the library in Culverne’s hall. In Culverne ...

  For a moment the desk and the lord behind it did not exist. Instead, the room opened up into plain oak tables, with equally plain chairs. Acolytes and initiates lined them in silence, and Este’s severe whisper warned him to join them in the same. The roof, old stonework, opened up to let the light of the sky flood down, giving day color to the grays and the browns and the endless row of books.

  “Come here, boy.”

  The silence was broken; the world returned.

  Darin’s eyes shifted slightly to take in the man behind the desk. Carriage, bearing, and the slightly cruel expression that he wore made him out to be of high nobility. No matter that Darclan was not a house name that Darin recognized from his days in the capital. He had seen enough to recognize a man comfortable with power and to know the cost of thwarting it.

  He forced himself to walk across the room to stand in front of the desk.

  “What is your name, child?”

  In a perfectly flat voice, Darin replied, “I have no name, lord.”

  “Good.” Lord Darclan leaned slightly forward in his chair.

  “I have taken the liberty of relieving you from your current duties.”

  “Yes, lord.”

  Lord Darclan watched the boy’s pale face, slightly amused by it. Then the amusement vanished as he spoke again.

  “I have in my care a young lady. She is not well, but is expected to recover soon.”

  Curiosity flickered in Darin’s eyes, but only in the eyes. He waited to hear his sentence.

  “You are to tend to her needs for the time.”

  Relief. Darin felt his knees quiver, it was so strong.

  “Do you understand?”

  “Y-yes, lord.”

  “Good. She is not conscious now; you are to watch her carefully. If anything changes in her condition, you are to let me know.”

  “Yes, lord.”

  “Good. Go to the slavemaster. He will tell you the rest.”

  “Yes, lord.” Darin pivoted on his heel then, to hide the relief that washed over his face. He hadn’t been seen; the blessing hadn’t been noted. He was safe, for now, and he swore to himself that he wouldn’t risk his life like that again.

  “Oh, and boy—”

  The relief drained from Darin’s face as he stopped.

  “Yes, lord?”

  “Do not answer her questions.”

  “Y-yes, lord.”

  He walked to the door then, waiting for the end of the game, and not until he passed through it did he breathe again.

  The slavemaster looked up as Darin entered the room. He frowned for a moment, the lines of his face shifting, and then nodded. He gestured toward a chair, and Darin took it, sitting stiffly with his back pressed again the ribbed wood.

  Gervin looked tired, “Ah, yes. You’re Darin?”

  Darin nodded quietly. Of all free men, only a slavemaster could use a name when speaking of slaves. Most chose not to, to avoid the stigma of making themselves slave equals. Gervin, however, was not given to this insecurity.

  “Good. The lord has assigned you to keep watch over his guest.”

  Darin nodded again, and Gervin raised an eyebrow.

  “Spoken with him?”

  “Yes,” the boy answered briefly.

/>   “Ah.” The brow was raised further. Then the older man shook his head. “Well.” He folded his hands on the tabletop and looked across at Darin, the hazel of his eyes piercing.

  “The lady is of importance to the lord. She is likely to be the only noble upon his grounds for some time. She is still unconscious, and wakes rarely.”

  Darin nodded.

  “You are to feed her when she will eat, and to bring her water to drink.”

  Darin nodded again.

  “And you are to see that she is happy here.” Gervin took a deep breath. “This is the most important task that you will have to perform in House Darclan. You must know, by now, that the lord is not as cruel as many other lords choose to be—but fail in this, and the punishment meted out will be most severe.”

  “Yes, sir.” Darin wanted to know who the lady was, but knew better than to ask. Still, he wondered. This slavemaster, this Gervin, was not like the other slavemasters he had met. It almost seemed, as he spoke of punishment, that he regretted it.

  “Go, then. The lady occupies the north wing—the lord’s wing. There are tapestries and paintings in the galleries there; they have just been brought into place, and there will be other slaves in the wing to tend to them. If anything happens and you need assistance, do not hesitate to call upon the working slaves. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sleep always did such odd things to a face, and Darin noted it particularly in the lady he watched. In this case, it softened the lines; the white pallor of her skin seemed relaxed, almost gentle. He could almost believe, seeing her sleep, that she would be kind—nearly human—in her treatment of the slaves; something about her mouth, for it was soft and full. Her hair was an unusual color; much too dark for the rest of her, and touched by red highlights.

  Her breathing came regularly, as it had for the last few days. He looked out at the setting sun, caught off center by rich blue velvet in the bay window that faced north. Soon it would be time to feed her a little. And that was another strange thing: Although she never woke, she could still swallow soft food and water without choking.

  As he watched, she frowned slightly. Even this could not dim the gentleness of her face. He almost didn’t want her to wake. His hope had given her the illusion of kindness, and he didn’t want to have to face the reality. But the lord had said she would wake in a three-day.

  Sighing, he left the room and went in search of water.

  “Lady?” The voice was soft and timid. After a few seconds it came again into the darkness. If anything, it was softer.

  “Lady?”

  She felt the weight of sleep against her eyes, but it lay unnatural and heavy. She opened her mouth to reply, but her tongue felt thick and swollen. It would not respond. She gave up trying and instead concentrated on the timbre of that voice. It halted, faltered, and trembled in a way that tugged at her.

  ‘Lady, please wake.”

  That was it—the voice, urgent now, was a young one. An older child’s voice; a thin veneer of words over fear. She forced her eyes open, ignoring the strong desire to drift back to sleep.

  Everything was blurred; indistinct shades of gray only slowly coalesced into normal vision. She blinked, her lids sticking, and was eventually rewarded by sight of a boy. He was older than his voice indicated, but she knew the age well; soon the voice of youth would begin to crack in an uncomfortable compromise with adulthood.

  He seemed a dim shade in the soft lights of the chamber, flitting nervously from foot to foot, anchored to her by wide, brown eyes in a still, pale face.

  “Yes?” The sound of her own voice surprised her; it was more a croak than a word.

  The boy’s face relaxed. “The lord sent me. He said you would be awake.” He walked slowly over to the bedside.

  Slowly? Warily. Why?

  He stopped at her left shoulder, a small silver goblet cupped in his thin hands.

  “He said you should drink this. It will help your strength.”

  A small arm slid gently round the back of her neck. The cloth of the tunic was cool and welcome. Cool, too, was the silver that slid between her parted lips and trickled liquid slowly down her throat.

  Now that she was awake, the boy no longer seemed frightened. No, no that wasn’t true. There was fear there, but it was a quiet one.

  Still, he handled her gently, showing the same attentiveness that a child might show an injured puppy. He moved slowly, taking great care to see that the cup was tilted only enough to let a little water out, but not so much that it would spill from the corners of her mouth.

  When she had finished, the boy rearranged the covers and blew out the candles. She could see his small form silhouetted in the door frame as he left.

  Only as the darkness closed in did she realize that she had forgotten to ask the boy where she was. She tried to call him back, but the words would not rise out of the chaos of her thoughts. The net of dreams took her in silence.

  “Did she speak?”

  “No, lord.” Darin stood warily in front of the large ironwood desk. He had come to know it well.

  The Lord smiled mirthlessly. “But she drank?”

  “Yes, lord.”

  “And did she seem to be in any pain?”

  Darin hesitated, unsure of what to say. It was obvious that the answer—the right one—was important, for the lord’s eyes never left his face.

  “Well?” He said, his voice soft and low.

  “I think—maybe a little, lord. I’m not—”

  “Good enough.” His gaze slid off the boy’s face, and to the shelves that lined the wall behind him.

  Darin waited. His legs were stiff and his arms ached, but he held himself still.

  After a time, the lord interrupted his musings and turned again to face him. “Come here, child. Around the desk.”

  Darin began to move uncertainly, his slight shoulders curling down.

  “Come. There is nothing to fear.” He reached out slowly and cupped the small chin in his hand.

  Darin was rigid.

  “Tell me—do you fear her?”

  Wariness shadowed Darin’s face. The lord’s hand tightened.

  “Do not try to give me a reply that will please me. I ask the question for reasons of my own—and those you will never question. I have said you have nothing to fear, and I am used to being taken at my word.” The jaw he held trembled in his hand.

  Darin took a deep breath. “No, lord.”

  Lord Darclan’s stare grew more intent.

  Darin could not look away, although he wanted to. He had no idea why he had answered the way he had—but he knew, suddenly, that it was true. It frightened him.

  “Why not? Because she is weak? She will be well soon. And she is high born.”

  Darin’s face grew thoughtful as fear momentarily gave way to a dangerous introspection. After a few minutes, he said, “It isn’t because she’s weak. It’s—she’s—” He turned a winter shade of white, remembering too late who his audience was.

  To his surprise, the lord withdrew his hand. As if to himself, he said, “I see that I have chosen well. Go.”

  Darin did not hesitate. With as much dignity as he could muster, he sprang across the room and out of the partially opened door.

  When he had gone, the lord rose from his chair and walked with restless grace to his bookshelf. There he picked out an ancient, leather-bound volume. He opened it, running his fingers along its edge.

  “You always did like children. Perhaps, now, you will have the chance to enjoy them.”

  He wondered, at length, what she would be like upon waking.

  She woke at dawn. The curtains had been pulled to allow the first tentative overtures of daylight to brush across her face. She sat up in bed and stretched her arms upward, ignoring the ache of—how long has it been?—days of inactivity. She could barely remember the time that had passed; blurred images of drifting half-awake returned slowly, and with it a sense of isolation and darkness.

  She sat
up abruptly, wrapping her arms around her shoulders.

  A small cough came from the doorway, and she swiveled her head at the sound.

  “Hello.” Her word was soft with warmth and relief. Loneliness retreated with the last thread of sleep.

  A boy hesitated in the doorway, a large, unwieldy tray in his hands. At the sight of her smile, he seemed to freeze for a moment, suddenly unsure of where he was going.

  “Your breakfast, lady,” he said, trying for all the world to be the perfect picture of diligent, sober obedience. And it would have worked, were it not for the unusually heavy tray that set his arms trembling.

  She laughed then, grateful that she could, and the last of the darkness fell away. Her smile spread across her face, across the room to touch the boy. It was a warm, new laugh, full of a life that demanded an answering warmth.

  Darin bowed his head. He had thought, maybe, that she would laugh like that. And now he didn’t know what to do.

  Mistaking him, the lady said, “I wasn’t laughing at you, child.

  “Well, maybe I was at that. But only a little. Here. I’m sorry. Won’t you come in and set that heavy thing down? They really should have sent someone else.” She started to rise, almost too eagerly. This child, this boy, was familiar somehow, and she didn’t want him to leave. Not yet.

  At this, Darin did look up. He was torn between fear and disappointment. The fear was obvious: If the lady found his service unsatisfactory, it could well mean his death.

  But the disappointment was more dangerous. He realized that somehow, watching over her sleep and waking, feeding her and giving her the water that kept her alive, had become important. It shouldn’t have mattered who served the lady—in fact he knew well that it would certainly be safer to do almost anything else in the castle. But he had watched her; he’d nursed her to health, and he’d discovered perhaps the one noble in all of Veriloth who might just be human.

  Maybe it was the stones, so clean and gray beneath the rising sun of the quarter, that had given rise to his ridiculous hope. He didn’t know. He only knew that he didn’t want to give it up.

  With determined authority, he brought the tray to her bedside table and, with no small effort, lifted it and placed it down.