Children of the Blood

by Michelle Sagara

  “What treachery is this?” His head swiveled to Lord Darclan’s silent countenance. He clawed at the air; it seemed to constrict around him, forcing the mist of his body inward. “The lines are dead! Your God has no voice here!”

  Darin’s blood dripped downward, splashing across the white sheets. Stefanos could hear it as it fell. Darin looked at him, caught his eyes, and continued to trace the invisible sigil in the air. In a high, tense voice, he said, “Nightwalker, I know you now. I am servant to Lernan, God, and I stand in your way.”

  The walker shook his head, writhing in pain. His clawed hands tried to curl around movements—counterwards. But they were too full, too slow. “Malthan!” he cried, tearing at nothing. His fingers began to fray, returning to mist. He screamed, a shrill, breathless sound, and then he was gone.

  He was gone. Darin bowed his head. His whole hand cradled his injured one, and he let the pain in. It was a good pain, as the Grandmother had promised, for he bore the wound in triumph. He wished that she could see him now; Lernan had claimed him, finally, for the adult that he thought he could never be in his life as a slave.

  The lord caught him as he fell. The color had returned, ever so faintly, to Sara’s face.

  “I did it!”

  “Yes, Darin. For tonight, for many, you have saved Sara.” He stopped, looking at Darin’s pale, glowing face. “I shall not call you child, not any longer. Initiate, your adult life begins here. The Circle has opened to embrace you.”

  “Lord ...” Darin held him in weak arms.

  “Rest easy. You have done what I could not do. You have saved the lady, and you are safe. ”

  Darin smiled. A hint of that smile remained to greet the first rays of dawn as he surrendered to exhaustion and hunger. Darclan placed him gently on the bed beside the woman he had saved. It hurt him to hold the child; the sigil of the True Ward, weak though it had been, lingered in the room. Even though it had not been called upon him, he felt its effects. He knew that he made his most dangerous choice; it had been his goal for centuries to see that the lines were destroyed. But he would not do so—could not, and that surprised him.

  “Sleep,” he whispered, stroking Darin’s brow. “It may be that she is not out of danger yet.” Yes, that was it. He would not kill the child because Sara might need him. He tried to believe it as he walked back to his study to contemplate the odd turn the future had taken.

  chapter ten

  Darin slept until noon, when the smell of food broke forcibly into the half world of dream. His hand throbbed as it lay bandaged on the coverlet. He started to sit up, and a firm hand reached out to push him gently back onto the bed.

  “Rest. Your hand has been tended to; I do not believe it will become infected.”

  Darin’s eyes focused on the aged face of master Gervin. He shrunk as far back as the bed would allow.

  “You’ve had a busy night.”

  Darin said nothing. His lips and throat were dry, but even if they hadn’t been, he wasn’t sure he could think of anything to say.

  “I’ve brought food; it’s been cooling.” He rose, turned around, and lifted a large tray. Setting it down, with more ease than Darin had ever managed, he lifted a silver goblet. “The lord said that you are to drink this before you eat. It will help restore your strength.” He held it out, and after a moment Darin took it. “Drink a little at a time. It’ll be harsh going down, but you’ll have to stomach that.”

  Nodding, Darin tilted the cup, his watchful eyes not leaving Gervin’s face. He bit back a small cry of pain as he flexed his injured hand. It dropped back to the bed where it was regarded with dismay.

  “Come, drink up.” Catching the direction of Darin’s widened eyes, Gervin shook his head. “To be expected, don’t you think?”

  “But my work! I’m to tend to the lady—” Darin stopped, looked to his right, and blushed furiously as he realized he was inches away from Sara. He started to pull himself out of the covers, and Gervin caught his arm.

  “I’m to tend the lady for the time, and to you as well. You’ll have your duties back as soon as you’re fit for them.”

  Darin tilted the cup back slowly, taking great care not to look to his right. As warned, he found the liquid foul to the taste and painful on the back of the throat; it was thick and warm as it lingered on his tongue. He put it away from him with disgust.

  “All of it.”

  Sighing, he took it up again and returned it to his mouth. “I know this type of cure,” he said between mouthfuls. “It’s so awful that you don’t mind the pain after you drink it, as long as you don’t have to drink it again.”

  Gervin laughed, and Darin almost lost his grip on the cup. Gervin had always been old, hard, and severe, but the laugh was none of those things; it spoke of hidden things and it scattered like light round the room. Seeing the obvious shock on Darin’s face did nothing to stem the flow of Gervin’s amusement; rather his laughter increased in volume before dying out slowly.

  “Well done, Darin, well done. I wouldn’t have finished it at the behest of even the Lady of Mercy!”

  Darin grimaced. Whatever the liquid was, it had done something; the pain he had been suffering receded. In its place came hunger. He reached out quickly for the food on the tray.

  “Don’t eat so quickly. You’ll make yourself sick.”

  Darin slowed down and began to take the time to chew his food. As hunger receded, a strange calm took him, and he felt somehow at home in this large bed and this warm room, with the slavemaster of House Darclan as a manservant. He set aside the cutlery and turned to look at Sara.

  “Has she—”

  “No. But she is closer to natural sleep than she has been.”

  With a certainty that Darin could not identify the source of, he knew that she wouldn’t wake; not yet. His eyes returned to the bandaged hand. He flexed it gingerly, wondering.

  “Oh, the pain’s real enough. Cleaned it myself.” Meeting Darin’s warily curious gaze, Gervin continued. “You did a good job on it. I’m to ask you no questions—and you’re to answer none, even the ones I won’t ask.” Something was shining in the old man’s eyes, something that replaced the darkness of the previous evening. “The walls have ears, as the saying goes.”

  On impulse, Darin stretched out a hand—the wounded one—and after a taut moment, Gervin took it gingerly in his own.

  In the merest of whispers, he said, “But I can guess. I can guess.” His eyes, oh, his eyes! They caught Darin in the fine mesh of the unsaid, the unsayable. “I’m not worthy to know, but I—I know what you must have done. Bear the wound proudly.”

  Images of the previous night flowed back to rest between them. From the hazy events, Darin drew only one clear memory: Gervin’s pain; the bitter self-loathing that had walked with him as he left to do their lord’s bidding. It was the same thing Darin had felt himself.

  Gervin had killed an innocent person, drawing lifeblood.

  But Darin had carried the blade, knowing this.

  Lernan had forgiven him his part in the unspeakable act, and in turn, Darin found himself forgiving Gervin. It puzzled him, for he knew that he couldn’t have done so in the past. Maybe this was adulthood—it was the only thing about him that had changed in the night that marked his transition.

  Or maybe not. He felt a vague disappointment as he realized that no deep mysteries had opened themselves up to him; that, in fact, although the nightwalker had felt the presence of Lernan, he himself had felt only fear, followed by abiding relief as the nightwalker had unraveled.

  Gervin released Darin’s hand. “I’ll come back with dinner. I believe Lord Darclan will be with you shortly.”

  Darin nodded as Gervin continued to watch him.

  “Darin, I cannot ask you questions about the night. But—are you afraid of the lord?” The words were low, intense. Without pausing, Gervin added, “Do you know who he is?”

  “He is someone who loves the lady,” Darin replied firmly, his mind shunting away the
answer that he didn’t want to acknowledge for himself.

  If he loves her enough, maybe the Church of the Enemy will have one less priest.

  “And no, master Gervin. I’m not afraid of him.” Truthfully, he was forced to add, “I’m not sure why.”

  Gervin nodded sharply and left.

  When Lord Darclan entered the room, Sara and Darin both slept. He walked over to the bed and touched Sara’s cheek. It felt warm. Her lips were parted, her breathing regular; if it had been a different day, he would have waited for her eyes to flutter open. She had been, in Rennath, a light sleeper.

  Today, however, was the day after she had borne the touch of a Servant. She lived, but he knew that she had been severely weakened. Putting his hands on either side of her face, he stared down at her intently.

  When he at last released her, he noticed that Darin was awake and watching.

  “I hope you are well rested, Darin.”

  The boy nodded shyly and sat up, disentangling himself from his blanket. “How is the lady?”

  Frowning, Darclan walked across the room, returning to the bedside with a large, heavy chair. “She is sleeping.”

  Darin was instantly alert. “Will she wake?”

  “Not on her own.” Darclan looked at Darin, measuring the boy’s strength. “You did well last night; the nightwalker took great harm from your Ward. He does not have the power to return to her, and I do not think he would do so if he could.” His hands formed a familiar steeple as he continued to speak, his chin resting roughly against his fingertips. “It was well done, but it was not done quickly enough. Do not feel guilty; I know well where the blame lies.”

  Darin’s face darkened in spite of his lord’s words. He stood unsteadily and walked around the bed until he was facing his lord. “She can’t just sleep.”

  “Not and live, no.” He gave voice to their mutual fear in a distant tone.

  That distance gave Darin an odd comfort. He looked up at his lord, a slight tilt to his head.

  Darclan answered the question in the boy’s eyes, his voice grim. “There is nothing that I can do to help her.”

  Darin nodded, taking a deep breath. “But you think I can do something.”

  “If you are strong enough.”

  “I’m not as strong as you are, lord. But I’m alive, and while she needs me, that’s good enough. It has to be.”

  Looking away from the intensity of Darin’s youthful fire, Darclan smiled sadly. The sentiment was not well put; it had no grace, no elegance, no finesse. How strange, then, that it mirrored his own so exactly in its starkness.

  He nodded, then. “You will want heavier clothing. I will send Gervin with it. When you are dressed, have him lead you to the north path of the garden. Tell him that we are not to be disturbed by anyone, for any reason.” He rose. “I must take care of a few things before we meet. If you arrive before I do, wait.”

  “What am I to do?”

  “We will discuss it later. Is everything clear?”

  Darin nodded.

  “Good. Until later, then.” Darclan turned and strode into the hall. Darin could hear the curt demand that he placed with one of the slaves. He sat down on the bed and drew the blankets lightly around his shoulders, waiting.

  Nor did he wait long; Gervin returned in less than ten minutes with a small bundle tucked under his arm.

  He gave an odd, low bow. At another time, Darin thought, he might have meant insult, but not now.

  “Do you need help in dressing?”

  “What?” Darin said, as he reached for the bundle that Gervin handled so carefully.

  “These might give you difficulty, young master.”

  With a sharp look Darin unfurled the bundle. When he held it up, it trailed the ̒̓̔floor. But he could see that it was a thick, gray robe, with a few buttons and a small hood. It had full, plain arms and the body fell a good five inches past his ankles.

  “I can’t wear this. I couldn’t walk halfway across the courtyard without tripping.”

  “Look at it a little more carefully. I think you will find it suitable.” He paused. “Round the back, young master.”

  “Don’t call me that. It isn’t—” He stopped. On the back of the robe, inseparable from the rest of the weave, was a plain silver circle. It was large, the top of it flush with the neckline, the bottom with what would have been a larger man’s waist. Unadorned, it caught the daylight and sent it rippling outward.

  Darin couldn’t speak. His fingers clutched the robe to his chest. He lifted the cloth and brushed it gently against his cheek. It was cool, with no warmth of friendly body behind it—but seeing it, so familiar, brought back the ache. It smelled musty, which was wrong. It should have smelled slightly sweaty, slightly woody.

  Gervin watched Darin quietly. “It is one of many things in my keeping.”

  “But this is part of the Circle.”

  Lowering his voice, Gervin said, “A robe of the initiates of the Bright Heart.” The words fell like stones.

  Bright Heart. No one had spoken these words in all of Darin’s time in the Empire. His fingers contracted around the material, unwilling to let it go.

  “Lord Darclan commanded it.” Gervin walked forward and firmly took the robe from Darin. “I don’t know why.”

  Darin stood numbly and allowed Gervin to put the robe around him.

  “It’s long. Whoever wore it last was certainly more than two days adult.”

  Again Darin looked at Gervin. Two days adult. There were so very few people, outside of Culverne, who understood the Bright Heart’s calendar. For the first time, he wondered what Gervin’s other life had been; it was clear to him that the slavemaster had not started life in Veriloth.

  I am, he thought, looking at the older man, two days an adult. I completed the True Ward. I would have had robes of my own to wear, and a Circle to join.

  He was the Circle now.

  Gervin took a step back to look at Darin. The shoulders of the robe were inches too long; the sleeves fell over his fingertips; the hem gathered on the floor at his ankles. In spite of this, he wore the awkward clothing with dignity.

  “It will do. Your hand?”

  Darin tried to move it. It throbbed more painfully than earlier. “It’s fine.”

  Gervin smiled at the fleeting grimace.

  “We’re supposed to go to the north gate of the garden. You’re to tell everyone that we’re not to be disturbed no matter what.”

  “I will inform the household of his commands. Wait here; I will return momentarily.”

  Darin found himself waiting again. He folded the sleeves of the robe up. He gathered handfuls of the simple gray cloth and took a few steps. It was going to be hard to walk in it—hard, and wonderful. Something played around the comers of his eyes, but he kept his face bare of emotion. He could hear the teasing of the Grandmother.

  Can you see me, Grandmother? Mother? Father? Are you standing at the Bridge of the Beyond even now?

  “Are we ready?”

  Looking up, Darin saw Gervin standing in the doorway.

  “I hope so.”

  Lord Darclan was waiting for them as they made their way to the north gate. Although he appeared to be at ease as he stood casually by the hedge wall, Darin pulled the robe further up his legs and ran to meet him. Darclan turned and surveyed the garments on the panting youth.

  “No need to run, Darin. You will need what little energy you have.” He looked across the walk and nodded at Gervin, who hesitated slightly and then nodded.

  For a long moment, Lord Darclan looked down at Darin. His mouth turned oddly at the comers, as if both a smile and a frown struggled for control.

  “The robes fit poorly. Forgive me; I have not had the time to have them altered.” He smiled crookedly. “Nor, I admit, the inclination. You will make do as you are.”

  “Don’t change them. I’ll grow.”

  Lord Darclan looked slightly pained and began to walk down the path. “Follow me.”

&n
bsp; Without question, Darin did as he was bidden, taking two steps for each of his lord’s. Darclan did not look back. His graven face was turned inward, into the garden, his thoughts on the center. Each step he took felt irrevocable, marked in passing by more than fading sunlight and blades of turned grass. The shuffle of cloth and footsteps behind him was a whisper of past times. His progress grew more stilted as he fought the urge to turn back, to accept the unacceptable, to have an end. The smell of foliage and flowers grew cloying; it clung to him like little claws and drew invisible blood. He wanted to wither them all, to turn the entire garden into a vast, barren landscape leaving only the wreckage of the well as a centerpiece. He shuddered and stopped.

  “Lord?”

  “It is nothing. We are—almost there.” Drawing the folds of his cloak more tightly around his shoulders, he forged on. Closing his eyes, he allowed his feet to trace the familiar path the last few steps.

  Darin saw it first: the magnificent ruin of stonework and carving, choked with vines and weeds. He opened his mouth, but found no words to describe the sudden sense of wrongness that twisted his stomach. This was old, but there was a majesty about it—a familiarity ...

  Lord Darclan opened his eyes. He saw, with bitter pride, that Sara had left her mark upon it; the vines that she had cleared had not crept back. She earned it; she had paid for it.

  Darin looked at it. “The Gifting.” His mouth was dry. His words dropped like a pebble into the thick stillness.

  “You know it, then.”

  “I’ve heard the old tales.” Darin stepped forward and gingerly placed his hand upon the stone that Sara had worked so hard to clear. It tingled gently against the tentative brush of his fingers. “This—this is where the Lady Sara came.”

  “Yes.” The word was a curse. “I should not have brought her here. I should have known what would happen.”