Children of the Blood

by Michelle Sagara

  “What happened?”

  “She tried to clear the vines from the well. The vines are part of a larger—protection.” He spoke with difficulty, anger punctuating each syllable. “The Servant—in blood-wraith form-was the other part. She wounded herself on the thorns of the vines. Her blood woke the creature.”

  “Why did you let her—”

  “Enough! It was done, and badly. She would have been able to protect herself in the—” He broke off, swallowed, and strove to speak more slowly, measuring his words. “I erred. That is all you need to know.”

  Darin turned to face the ruined stone again. His hands flew upward across his body, his fingers doing the dance of the Greater Ward. Darclan took a deliberate step back.

  “Darin,” he said softly, “I cannot stay here.”

  “But I don’t know what to do!” He too drew back, turning his face to his lord.

  “Nor do I. The well and its workings are—forbidden to me.” He gestured in a wide circle. “I have done what I can to ensure that you are undisturbed. You must do the rest.”

  “But lord—”

  “You are of the lines; you are initiate to the Circle. You are the only person alive who is both of these things. I know little of the well, save this: Its power is my Enemy’s, and His alone—and it is this that will save Sara.” He drew further back along the pathway. “I cannot stay. I will return to Sara and wait for you.” He turned away, stopped, then turned back again.

  “This is not without risk to either of us. But for you, Darin, the risk is now. If you fail you will die—not by my hand, but I will be unable to save you.

  “If you succeed, your chance of death is also high. Can you not feel it, even now? The well has old magic, and it is strong enough to be felt.” Pink sunlight glinted off the silver weave of the circle on Darin’s breast.

  “And if I do nothing, Lady Sara will die.”

  “Yes.”

  Darin bowed his head. “Then I don’t have any choice.”

  “You have the same choice that I have had for a long time.” Lord Darclan shook his head wearily.

  “You know I’ll do it,” Darin said, his voice a gentle accusation. “But I want to know something, if you’ll tell me.”

  “I owe you at least that much, although you become bold.”

  “I know why I’m making my choice, and I know why you’ve made yours—I think it’s the same reason. But this—this is the greatest work of my—of your Enemy.”

  “Yes,” the lord replied. He turned, to protect his face from Darin’s eyes. “And yes. It is because I love her that I risk these things. But how, and why? These are very good questions, Darin.” Bitter, bitter voice. “Do you think I have not asked them of myself? I have no answer to give you. But think of this: Is love the province of the pure alone? Does it not exist in various guises throughout humanity? Can you answer these questions of even yourself?”

  Darin was silent for a few moments. When at last he spoke, his voice was full, deeper than its youthful tone should have allowed. “All the things I love about her are things the priests of the Enemy have tried to destroy forever.”

  “Yes.” Lord Darclan bowed, a formal, final salute. “Fare well and succeed, my little enemy.”

  Darin watched him leave, knowing that he would not turn back again. He felt tears push at his eyes.

  What do I do?

  He tried to remember anything that would make his path clearer to him. The well—the Gifting—was legend to the line; one of the two wells of Lernan. What had the Grandmother called it? The eyes of Lernan? He looked down at the wrinkled sleeves of his initiate’s robe. It lay there, dull gray cloth that offered no answers. He looked at the bandages around his injured hand; a small red blotch had appeared through the last fold and was spreading slowly.

  I’ve opened it again, he thought dully. It’ll get infected. I wish it would stop bleeding.

  Bleeding. Blood. The blood of God. She had called the two wells the blood of Lernan. A triumphant smile darted across his mouth, then fell away.

  Great. So it’s blood. Does that help? Sara, what am I supposed to do to help you? What?

  He made tight fists of his hands, gasped, and relaxed the injured one. Stupid. He sighed again. Lady Sara, you tried to clear the well. At least I can finish it for you now that the nightwalker is gone.

  Opening his eyes, he looked at the vines and again began to trace the Greater Ward in the air. Then, steeling himself for a struggle, he put both of his hands on a large vine and pulled. To his great surprise, it gave way easily, and he left it, unregarded, on the ground. He moved on, traced the sigil, and again removed another section. It, too, he left behind him as he continued to work.

  The routine became fixed in his mind as he walked around the large edifice. Greater Ward. Bend. Grip. Pull. The sun made its tumble into nightfall as he worked, marking time by the distance it had fallen. At no time did he become incautious; his fingers chose areas bare of thorn to grip, and he tugged each vine with enough force to remove it, no more.

  Sunset came, and with it, the waning of the light; crimson splashed along the horizon. Darin pulled the robe tight. It was cooler; he could feel night wind creeping through the weave of fabric to touch his skin.

  Forget it, he thought, as he surveyed the well. It was almost completely cleared, and he could see that the vines and creepers had not damaged the stone as much as he had first thought. He stopped to rest, lying back against the object of his labor. The night was clear; a sliver of moon appeared, face in shadow.

  He stood, took a deep breath, and began again. The last of the vines were more difficult to clear than the rest; whether that was due to his exhaustion or the coming of the dark, he could not be sure, but it seemed to him that they moved away from his fingers in the shadows.

  Not that it mattered; there were so few he would soon have the well cleared regardless of the difficulty. He moved more slowly; several times his fingers brushed the sharp point of near-invisible thorns.

  Sara, your blood called the nightwalker, he thought, as his thumb nestled between the teeth of the vine. I wonder what my blood would call. It was an idle thought; he had no temptation to find an answer for his question. Not now, when the last of them rested in his hands. Smiling, he pulled it away, and the well was free. With a mingled sigh of exhaustion and triumph, he stepped back to survey his work.

  The well seemed larger, newer somehow. Darin marveled at the way the stonework caught and held the frugal light of the night sky. It pulsed there, glimmering faintly. He reached out to touch the stone with his left hand and drew back; his hand glowed warmly.

  Lernan, God. He did not speak, did not want the sound of his voice to shatter the fragility of his miracle. The well was shining, he felt, for him alone, the light of it gentle and green. He reached for the bandages that concealed his right hand, and trembling slightly, began to unwind them. They fell away in his left hand and fluttered to the ground.

  “That’s quite a mess, youngster,” a voice said. Wheeling around, he made out another figure in the darkness. The person chuckled as Darin backed toward the well. “Running in that direction won’t do you any good, but never mind, I’ve no intention of harming you.” Another soft laugh issued out of the darkness as Darin’s fingers gripped the stone.

  “What are you doing here?” Darin said, trying to give his shaking voice some semblance of authority. “The garden’s been forbidden to the household.”

  “Quite true, quite true. More’s the pity.” The well began to glow more brightly; Darin could see it illuminating the grass. He wasn’t sure if this was a good sign.

  “Much better,” the figure said, stepping into the light. “Well, don’t just stand there, boy. Come give me a hand.”

  An old woman, clothed in tattered gray, hobbled forward. She walked with a gnarled cane gripped in equally gnarled hands. Her hair was an unruly white mass.

  “You aren’t supposed to be here. It’s the lord’s orders, ma’am. You’d
better leave before anyone sees you.”

  “Nonsense. If no one’s supposed to be here, then no one’ll see me. Unless, of course, you count yourself.” She continued her awkward gait. “No manners in children these days.” She stopped and rapped the ground with the end of her cane. “Up to me to teach you some, I dare say. Get your back off that wall and help an old woman into the light!” She held out one arm expectantly.

  Darin stared at it, and then at her. He felt sharply disappointed at her intrusion into his sense of divine isolation.

  “Well? Are you going to keep me waiting all night?”

  He wanted to say yes, but instead walked over to her. “You know you aren’t supposed to be here, don’t you?” he said as he took her arm. He’d seen many a similar old woman before, and he had no illusions about the effects his words would have. But he didn’t recall seeing this one around the household, and he wondered if she tended the grounds.

  “Says who? Careful, boy, you’re gripping the arm too tight!” It would not have surprised Darin if she’d rapped him sharply on the knuckles with her cane; that she refrained from doing so seemed a small miracle. “Well, then. Well. What have we here?”

  “Don’t touch that!” Darin shoved her hand away from the circle on his robes.

  “What’s this? The cloth suddenly become too good for us commoners?” She sniffed, a loud harsh sound. “Since when do they let children wear the robes?”

  Her question took him by surprise, and he gazed at her more sharply. She recognized his initiate’s gown, of this there was no question—but he knew for fact that she had not been server to Line Culverne.

  “Something wrong with your tongue, boy?”

  He cursed himself for not studying his history more closely. But at her age, there was a chance that she had been server to one of two lines before they fell.

  “They don’t let children wear the robes, ma’am.”

  “You’re wearing them, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “I’m not a child.” He searched her face for a moment, then asked, “But you know of the robes of the initiates?”

  “Recognized them, didn’t I?”

  He nodded.

  “And don’t think you can humor me, either. I’m not to be humored by children, even if they are initiates.” She moved suddenly, dropping her cane. Before Darin could react, her hands gripped his shoulders, pressing the seams of his robe into them. “Look at me, boy. Look at me, I say!”

  Darin met her eyes. They were a filmy brown, bloodshot and tired. She kept his gaze for a few moments before breaking away.

  “Don’t stand there staring, child, it’s plain rude. Get my cane.”

  Bewildered, and not a little annoyed, Darin did as she ordered.

  “Be careful with that! It’s older than I am!”

  He didn’t believe it. The cane, for all its twists and the raw, dry quality of the wood, felt firm and strong in his hands. He held it out to her, but she reached for his arm instead.

  “You carry it. It’s getting too heavy for me.”

  It isn’t heavy at all, Darin thought, his grip around it growing firmer. He looked carefully at it as they approached the well; it was not more than three feet long, and although the top was knotted grain, the last two feet were smooth. He tapped the ground with it experimentally, letting it support most of his weight. It felt solid and strong.

  “You’ll be doing that soon enough, child. Don’t play at it now.”

  He blinked and, after a small hesitation, offered her the cane. “Here, you take it. You need it.”

  She returned his look quietly. Her grip on his arm tightened until it was almost painful. Without another word he helped her shuffle the last few feet to the well.

  “Look at it, boy,” she said, her voice smoother than it had been since she first spoke. She loosed her hold on his arm, and two weathered hands gripped the wide stone.

  “It isn’t as grand as it once was—but it’s beautiful just the same. See the scars, boy?” She tilted her head until light caught her pale chin. “They’re beautiful—they rest on the surface of the rock; they don’t go much deeper than that.

  “They don’t shine. They don’t glitter. But the well bears them like medals, like the testament they are.” Noting Darin’s puzzled look, she gave a sad shake of the head. “Maybe children can’t appreciate the profound beauty inherent in endurance.”

  She released the rock and pulled the remnants of her clothing around her bent shoulders. The strange strength that had animated her voice drifted away as Darin watched her. Her face seemed to sag into wrinkles and irritable age.

  “Don’t just stand there. I’m thirsty. Get me some water.”

  “But—”

  “I don’t want feeble excuses! I want water!”

  Darin looked at her in amazement. “Look—I’ve come here to do important things, not draw water! And anyway, there isn’t anything to draw water with here—do you see any bucket? ”

  She snorted rudely and put a hand somewhere into the dirty folds of her robe. It emerged with a small tin cup. “Don’t come prepared, do you? Here, take it!”

  “I can’t draw water with this!” He’d had about enough of her; his forehead began to fold and darken in an expression his mother would have known well, and hated more.

  She shoved the cup into his hands. “You can. The water’s almost to the edge. Look at it!”

  He couldn’t see any water and opened his mouth to tell her so in no uncertain words, but any thought of anger vanished as he met her ancient eyes. He found her very grating, but there was no doubt that she’d endured much. What harm could it do to humor her, as long as he did it quickly? His fingers closed around the edge of the cup.

  “If I can get water for you, I will.” He did not voice his doubts about the potability of anything pulled from the well. “But I’m only going to try once, and then you have to leave me alone. Okay?”

  “Don’t humor me,” she said, but she nodded, her lips pursed in an unpleasant frown.

  Darin turned from her and leaned into the side of the well; the rock gave off enough light to see by. If not for her, he might have continued to appreciate it—it was so oddly warm.

  “I can’t see any water, ma’am.” He pushed his weight firmly against the stone and found, to his relief, that it didn’t give at all. He set the staff aside on the grass and took a deep breath. Taking care to rest his weight upon his left hand, he pulled himself slowly up and onto the edge.

  No glint of light indicated that there was water within reach. He sighed and gingerly bent further over. Still nothing. He looked at the tin cup and shrugged, pulling back.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but if there’s water here it’s too far down for me to reach.”

  “Is it?” Her voice, in those two words, was chill and expressionless.

  With a startled cry, Darin whirled around, but not quickly enough to avoid the two hands that had reached out to shove him forward. In panic, Darin’s hands scrambled for a hold on the edge of the well; a stark pain shot through his right one and he yanked it back. He clung there frantically fora few seconds, then felt the rock recede slowly from the grip of his fingers. He looked up to meet her eyes.

  “Help me!” he shouted, in a voice that held no hope.

  “If you insist.” She reached out for his hand as he held his breath, and then, with a hard downward arc, brought her aged fist down on it. He cried out at the pain of the blow; it was strong and sure. She brought her fist up and hammered it down again. He felt stone grind against the bones of his fingers as his feet tried to find purchase along the smooth inner walls.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  He didn’t hear the answer to his question, if indeed there was any, for his hands slipped at that moment, and he felt himself falling into blackness. His arms and legs flailed wildly as he fell, trying desperately to find something to cling to.

  He had just enough time to regret the foolishness of trusting a strange old woman in th
e darkness before he hit the water and went under.

  chapter eleven

  The water broke his fall.

  Thick and cold, it shot up his nostrils and whirled around the folds of his robe, flooding in an instant between cloth and skin.

  He didn’t want to drown. It was hard, but he forced himself to a state of calmness and tried to angle his body in such a way that he could reach the stone wall with either his legs or arms. Luck was with him in this; his feet skittered against a smooth surface, and he pushed upward in an attempt to break water. The oversized robe he was wearing didn’t help. It drank the water greedily, becoming more heavy and cumbersome. He struggled to the surface.

  The liquid gave as his face touched the stale air; he gasped wildly, went under again, and came up choking.

  Lernan! he thought, his mouth too full to say the word. He hovered in water, pressing his body firmly against the side of the well. The taste of the liquid was bitter against his tongue; he could feel it, slimy and thick, as it lingered.

  In the faint light he could make out the top of the well; with weary certainty, he accepted the fact that it was impossible for him to climb back up. His cheek touched the cold, wet stone. Rivulets of warm liquid ran down his face, and he realized that he was crying.

  It’s no good. Lady Sara, please forgive me. He wished that Lord Darclan had stayed by the well; his lord was far too wise to be tricked into death by an old woman.

  But the lord would not give up, either. Darin took a deep breath, and the smell of bad water overwhelmed him. He slipped slightly but managed to keep his head in the air. Why was the water so foul? This was one of Lernan’s wells; the water, if he remembered the Grandmother’s tempered instruction, was supposed to be purifying. Maybe she had been wrong. Maybe the work of the Dark Heart and his Servants had destroyed the ancient properties of the well.

  “There are Servants everywhere, child.” Looking up, Darin could see the silhouette of a form leaning over the well. A surge of anger wiped exhaustion away. His hands clenched more tightly, turning white against the stone.

  “Defiance will not help you.” A dry chuckle echoed down to his upturned face. “Perhaps you should try to remove the robe. It weighs you down even now.”