Children of the Blood

by Michelle Sagara

  Two fingers came free.

  Yes. He accepted me. You wouldn’t have.

  Another finger gave way.

  You are of the line—the last of it. You acted without the wisdom of experience. Your part in the ceremony can be overlooked.

  A fourth finger’s grip loosened. Only Darin’s thumb remained attached to the staff.

  No. I acted on what I knew. And Gervin, on what he knew. I’ve seen some of the evils he spoke of, and I know the pain he tried to spare people. If another had been slavemaster, many would still have died at the lord’s command. The thumb began to tremble.

  If you throw me away, Initiate, you will be throwing away the power of the founder. How will you battle Malthan and his Servants without me?

  I don’t know. I don’t care. But he did. He teetered on the brink of indecision as the voice continued.

  But you do. You know that the patriarch or matriarch of your line had, in legend, more power than the initiates. Where do you think that power came from? It was mine. I will give it to you if you will follow the way. In a harder voice it said, Dismiss this man. He is your enemy. If you forgive him, will you not find excuse to forgive any sin? Will you not excuse any number of murders? Think of the one who died at his hands. Did that life have any choice? Did that life go willingly? Who is left to avenge that death?

  His fingers began to curl around the staff again. Stop it!

  Then you condone the murder.

  No! No, I don’t!

  Give me a voice, Initiate. I will deal with this.

  Darin looked at Gervin. The silence of Darin’s battle with the voice had withered any hope that remained. He looked years older, his face shadowed by pain and guilt. His eyes glimmered with firelight as he rose and bowed stiffly.

  “I understand, holiness. I shall not trouble you further.”

  Do not be weak, Initiate. Our war does not allow for weakness . The staff flared up; a column of white fire touched the ceiling. Darin felt a giddy rush of warmth take his body. He tingled with the aftermath of the blast. You can call the fire if you like. Just give me a voice.

  Gervin stopped walking, his face pale, and Darin knew that he could finally see the staff’s power.

  “Is my death required?” He sounded as if he had already met it; his voice, hollow and flat, struck Darin as painfully as the staff had done earlier. Gervin stood, waiting, some faint hint of pride encircled by the shroud of his eyes.

  Well? The tingling sensation stopped abruptly, and Darin bit his lip at the loss of it; the room seemed suddenly chill and empty. He shivered.

  My voice. Let me do what must be done.

  “Holiness?”

  With a cry, Darin threw the staff away. It slammed into the wall and clattered onto the stone floor. He turned to the waiting Gervin and reached out to touch the man’s shoulders.

  “No,” he said, his voice unsteady. “No, Gervin. You blooded the knife, but I carried it. We’re caught in a web of choices that are all evil. Think: If our lord had chosen a typical slavemaster, how many more would have died? How many would have wished for death? I know it—1 still have the scars.

  “You had the strength to choose death—I didn’t. And for you, it would have been easier. If you’ve come for forgiveness, I forgive you. If you’ve come for comfort, take what small comfort you can. And if you’ve come for the blessing of Lernan, I bless you in His name.” Darin’s hands were shaking as Gervin reached up to clasp them.

  “Holiness—”

  “I’m no more holy than you. If you can’t forgive yourself for your crimes, how can you forgive me? I knew what you were doing, and you knew I did.”

  Gervin pulled Darin’s hands away, clenched them tightly, and let them go. He tilted his chin up, looking at something beyond.

  “You are holy to me.” A trace of tears glinted in firelight.

  “You are peace.”

  Darin said nothing.

  Gervin dropped to his knees and, grasping Darin’s right hand, said only two words. “Thank you.” And in that, everything. He kissed Darin’s adult scar, rose, and walked unsteadily out of the room.

  When he had gone, and only then, Darin dropped onto the bed. The robe that Gervin had laid out so carefully was still damp, and he buried his face into its rough folds.

  Please, he prayed silently. Please let my choice be the right one. I’m not strong enough to have done anything else. An unfamiliar ache cut deeply into him. He longed for the staff and the giddy warmth that a single flare of power had granted him. His hands trembled as he looked at where it lay, plain and cool, in the comer of the room he’d thrown it into. He had made his choice; he intended to be strong enough to abide by it.

  You will be, Initiate. The line still runs true. The voice returned to him. Bewildered, he looked at his hands. They were still empty.

  Yes. By your choice, I am not at your side. Something was different; the tone of the voice had changed. It was full and soft; instead of ashes, it stirred up memories of something more solid. Culverne. Home.

  I am sorry for trying you so harshly; these are harsh times and I must know that you will withstand the taint of them. It is easy to judge poorly; it is easy to cast blame. You chose to do neither. Take me up, Patriarch. Pick me up if you choose it. I will never again subject you to such cruelty.

  “This was a test?”

  Another one, yes. And this, like the other, you have passed.

  “This isn’t just a trick, is it?” The question was halfhearted; already he found himself rising from the bed.

  No, no more tricks. You have cast aside the mantle of power for that of compassion. I will serve you, as you serve Lernan. I may question you in the future; I may advise you or try to guide you with the experience of others of the Line Culverne—but I will never again force your choice.

  Darin’s hand curled around the staff. It was cool. He looked at it for a moment before drawing it to his chest. He felt something akin to warmth deep within him.

  If it helps, Darin, know this: All of your predecessors have been tried in this way, and all have succeeded. The line holds true.

  chapter thirteen

  The soft glow of night light brushed through the curtained study. Lord Darclan sat with his back to the window, fingers leafing idly through an open book. He found the light uncomfortable, but did not rise to close the curtains; let the light be, for this one night. The covers of the book closed soundlessly, and he pushed it to one side—it was the past. It was forgotten.

  Sara was whole, she was now, she had smiled upon seeing him. An echo of that smile played upon his shadowed lips. She had smiled, new again, his spell crushing the memories that might separate them.

  He frowned. That same spell, that same suppression of her experience and knowledge, had almost cost her life at the hands of the guardian. He toyed with the idea of allowing her some of her memory, but never seriously. As it was, was she not happier? Was her life not now free of the pain that had previously plagued her so? If she had some portion of her memory, would she not soon after have all? Yes.

  But the risk... Never mind it.

  I have won.

  But what of later? He could feel the power that stirred within the walls of the castle; it slept because Darin slept, but it would rise with dawn—a newly born thing, and a dangerous one.

  Even Sargoth did not know what became of the voice of Bethany of Culverne. And now, now I do. But how? How did it come to be here?

  I did not know the child could call the fire. He pushed his chair away from the desk and stood. The white-fire of the Lernari burned in his castle; it was the strongest of their magics. Darin’s blood alone was not strong enough to contain it—but Bethany’s...

  He had felt it; the ice of its touch through his spine still burned faintly. He picked up the book that lay on his desk and walked over to the shelves along the wall. It was dark, but he had no difficulty returning it to its place.

  An image of Darin’s face formed before him, stirring the
barest hint of something he would not name. He smiled, this time a grim, bitter smile. There was strength in the child, and an odd sort of bravery that lay behind his mask of fear and weakness. He had the naivete of youth about him, and the naivete of trust; his death, when it came, would be a quick thing, if not a painless one.

  The fire. I did not know he could call the fire.

  He shrugged, a brief, economical gesture, a human habit. If he had known, it would have made no difference. What did it matter if the Line Culverne rose again for a few days more? What harm could it do, carried as it was upon the shoulders of a young boy?

  His fingers curved tensely inward and then relaxed.

  He would not kill the boy.

  Yet that meant no clean break, no new beginning. The lines had always been the point of contention that could not be laid to rest.

  He walked back to his desk, resumed his seat, and let his eyes absorb the darkness. Too much had happened in the days since Sara’s awakening, and much of it unforeseen. He did not appreciate the unforeseen; it robbed him of the control he valued so highly.

  The fire.

  So close, he could feel it without searching. Without searching, the half blooded would not. But if they did . . . Ah, the old dangers.

  Vellen.

  His fingers curled inward again, but he was slower to relax them. Almost casually, his hands made a pass through the air. His eyes grew silver in the blackness, a small crackle of dangerous light. He repeated the gesture, more sharply and elegantly.

  Perhaps, he thought, it is time.

  But he hesitated, knowing well that the cost of the spell he contemplated would be unavoidably high. His hands stopped, falling to rest on the desk.

  Alariel. Lady. Where did you wander? What did you see beyond the veil that made such a taint of your end?

  Many times in the past century, he had toyed with the spell, learned from Sargoth’s studies. But the face of the Lady of Elliath had always had this effect: It stopped him from moving further. Her resignation chilled him more than her fire might once have.

  Until now.

  Too much had happened. What hope of control had he, if he had no knowledge?

  He called forth an image of Sara’s face. For her sake, he was willing to pierce the veil that separated the present from the future; for her life he was willing to pay the cost that had doomed the Lady of Elliath.

  Let me see, now, what the future holds.

  His lips opened on soundless words, over and over again in an endless litany. By morning, the future was no clearer, but the path to sight had been opened to him, a journey for another night.

  Darin waited quietly in the sitting room outside of Lord Darclan’s study. He wore the fine clothing that the lord had ordered for him somewhat uncomfortably. He also carried the staff.

  After a few minutes, Gervin emerged. He looked much better for the night’s sleep; the dark circles under his eyes had been completely erased. Darin thought he could detect a restless energy in the older man that had not been there before. His step was brisk and formal as he walked over to Darin and bowed.

  “Lord Darclan will see you now.”

  Darin nodded and rose. He paused once outside the closed door, gripped his staff more firmly, and entered in. The study still evoked a tremor of fear.

  Lord Darclan looked up when he entered, and set aside a small sheaf of papers. “I hope I have not kept you waiting long.”

  Darin looked at his feet, fully aware that he had overslept the dawn by a good three hours.

  “No, lord,” he replied. “I just arrived.”

  “Good. If it would please you to do so, you may sit.” He gestured at the chair in front of the desk.

  Darin took the seat quietly. He didn’t know why Lord Darclan had summoned him, and habit kept him wary.

  But Lord Darclan was not entirely certain as to the reason for the summons either. He fixed both boy and staff with the darkness of his eyes before shifting restlessly in his seat.

  “Might I remind you, Darin, that I have asked you to refrain from called me lord?” He smiled then, a wintry, edged expression. “It is a force of habit you would be better without.”

  “What should I call you instead?”

  The question confused Lord Darclan, and his smile became fixed and hard. “Enemy, perhaps. Or peer. It matters little.” He knew the boy could use neither.

  “I hope—I hope not to have to use the first.”

  “Or the second?” He shrugged. “And I had hoped as well.” Lady, Lady. “Such is the whim of fate; hope is fragile and easily crushed.” He looked at the boy seated so carefully in front of him. Yes, there was strength in that small form, strength in the eyes that returned his regard so openly. The child who had lived in the shadow of his fear was gone; the lord found himself regretting the absence with a bittersweet pleasure.

  “But it isn’t easily killed.” Darin thought of Gervin.

  “In men, perhaps, and in the young.” Darclan’s fingers rose to form their familiar steeple. Changing the subject, he said, “I have not had a proper chance to congratulate you on your victory, Darin. Let me correct that oversight; you have survived much in the past few nights, and you have my gratitude for all that you have accomplished.” He meant each word, and each for a moment was unalloyed by darkness.

  “Thank you, lord.” Darin looked down at the staff of Culverne; to his dismay he could see the bright green halo that had grown to surround it.

  Lord Darclan saw it as well; his body tensed slightly, although he betrayed none of this tension. He remained still, his eyes bitter upon Darin.

  Is this what I seek by my summons, Darin? Are victory and peace so alien to me?

  He could never have anticipated what happened next, for Darin, with a pained but determined expression, set the staff to one side of the chair, withdrawing his fingers slowly.

  “My lord.” He bowed his head softly.

  “Why did you set it aside?”

  Darin did not reply. Instead, he pulled his hands up and clutched them firmly together in front of his chest. He glanced once at the staff, but made no move toward it.

  “Darin, why did you set it aside?”

  “I don’t want to be your enemy,” he said quietly. “I don’t think we have to be. We both love the same things, or some of the same, anyway.”

  The lord’s eyes closed tightly.

  “Darin, child.” Darclan’s voice was slow, careful. “Do you not know who I am?” His fingers were white as they pressed together beneath the line of his jaw.

  “A priest.” Darin whispered, looked down at his hands. “A priest of the—the Enemy.”

  They watched each other for a few minutes, wholly focused but unable to speak. Young eyes clashed with old. Darin broke away first.

  With stark, beautiful simplicity, he spoke. His voice was a whisper, but it was steady. “I trust you, lord.”

  His words fell into silence, each one striking Darclan forcefully. He began to laugh, and the laughter, like Darin’s words, was wholly strange. “You trust me.” He laughed again, in dark, rich despair. “You trust me!”

  The staff of Culverne flared white and hot. Darclan could see Darin’s brow crease momentarily. The white-fire was coming. Darclan felt sure of it. The last of his laughter faded into a grim smile. He watched with mirthless satisfaction as Darin bent to retrieve the fallen symbol of his office.

  And once again, the child did the unthinkable, the unforeseeable. He rose, staff in hand, and walked over to the door. It opened, and he left, only to return a few seconds later. Without the staff. He found his way to the chair he had occupied and sat, unarmed. He looked oddly the stronger for it.

  Darclan stared at him.

  “Child, you do not know what you are doing.”

  “Maybe not. But I know that I’m doing it.” His voice was steady.

  “Do you realize that you have deprived yourself of the only weapon in your possession that might possibly stop me?” His voice was harsh.
He rose, suddenly, his movement overturning his chair. He began to walk slowly around the desk. “I could kill you. Now. You would stand no chance.” He moved with feline grace, his eyes unblinking.

  Darin’s lips tightened.

  “You should have listened to the voice of Bethany. Yes, I recognize the staff; it is older and wiser than you. It knows me for what I am; it knows that we are enemies.” He was close enough to touch Darin now; his hands moved smoothly and came to rest under the boy’s upturned chin. “It knows, better than you, all that I am capable of.” His fingers tightened suddenly. Darin closed his eyes but made no attempt to wrest his neck from Darclan’s painful grip.

  “No, lord.” His voice was faint but sure. “It can’t know what I know.”

  Darclan’s fingers bit into the pale skin of the boy; small beads of blood began to well up beneath his nails. He smiled, a cold, dark smile.

  “And what do you know?”

  Wearily, Darin answered as if he had had this discussion many times. “That you love Sara.”

  The smile died.

  “If you can love her, you can love. If you can love, you can be touched by the Light of God, even if you are blooded by the Enemy.”

  “It may be that you have deceived yourself. Self-deception is the art that men learn first.” But his fingers were suddenly numb. Unable to maintain his grip on the boy, he drew away and walked over to the window. Only the breadth of his back faced Darin.

  Darin watched him. The marks that the lord had left stung, but he said nothing.

  “Yes. Yes, I love her.” The voice was suddenly ancient. Lord Darclan turned slowly, but did not look at Darin. “You trust me,” he said to the wall, to the past, to things that Darin could never see. “I thought that might change. In truth, you are cruel, Priest of Lernan.” Shaky hands found their way to the desk top. Lord Darclan braced himself against it. “Nor are you the first to be so foolish. You and one other, in all of time.”

  His head came up, and this time Darin did move, thrusting back into his chair.

  The lord’s eyes were red—a deep, dark, red, threaded through with blackness.