But should I tell her?
I cannot decide that for you, but it seems to me that you have little reason to hide what you know.
Except that Lord Darclan trusts me, Darin thought. He kept that secret. He had not been forbidden to speak of the events of the past few nights, and he knew, without question, that Sara remembered none of them. But the lord’s eyes—he could not bring himself to call him Servant—his voice, his posture when speaking or thinking of Sara—there was a trust implicit in them, a request, a hope. Hope for what?
I’m not strong enough, Darin thought with a sigh. I think it will hurt him.
Hurt him? Darin, do you not know what evil he has caused in his time here?
Darin closed his eyes; he felt colder than the stone his back rested against. I think he wants her to love him back.
Love him without knowing him?
Not—not—I don’t know. He remembered the touch of the lord’s shadow, the darkness that heralded the end of the lines; it had felt like the end of life, even though Darin knew he was safe. Maybe he’s changed; maybe he’ll change when she returns what he feels.
The staff was oddly silent for a few moments, and then the breath of a mental sigh crept forward; a musky, ancient breath.
Child, what hope of change is worth the present Empire?
Darin did not answer, knowing that no answer was expected. But I think you are wrong. The lady loves him yet.
What do you mean?
Bethany did not answer, and the quality of her silence told Darin that she would not. When he pressed, she said, We all have hope, and that hope exacts its steep price.
She would say nothing else.
Frustrated, Darin gave a disguised snort and settled back against the wall. Some sound crept into the silence of the hall, a faint, muffled gasping. Listening more closely, he traced it back to its source.
It came from Sara’s room.
He was halfway into the room before he thought of asking her permission to enter. He stopped moving and looked around. She was nowhere in sight. The sound was louder now; Darin identified it easily. Someone was weeping.
“Sara!”
He looked around in one quick, frantic circle, and the open door of the closet caught his attention. In the shadowed gloom of the long, narrow room he found her. She sat on her knees, back toward the door, head bent into hands that were covered with some sort of cloth.
He walked over to where she sat. She held an elaborate robe in her hands; the folds of its pale brown cloth draped themselves over her arms. Her face was buried into the fabric. It shook as she did.
He didn’t know what to do. She was crying, curled tightly into herself in the darkness. But would she want him to notice? Would she want him to help? What could he do?
After a moment longer she stopped, the sound of her tears dying off into stillness.
She knows I’m here.
But she turned and looked through him, her eyes distant and unfocused. Whatever she saw beyond his back was imagination.
Or memory, Bethany’s voice said, sadness tinging its clarity.
Her back trembled, then stiffened as she looked down at her hands. She spoke in a voice that was at once too young, too old, and too empty.
“There’s too much blood.” Her voice was stilted and unnatural. Nerveless hands began to fold the robe. “I never touched you. You could never have done this if I had ever touched you.” She stopped folding and stared down at the robe for a long time.
Darin could see it; it was embroidered with a pattern that the shadows obscured. A wool, he thought, a finely spun fabric by the way it hung. As far as he could see it was unmarred by anything save Sara’s tears. But she saw something there.
“I will never again believe that you can love.” Her words were cold. She threw the robe weakly, and it lay, half folded, on the dark floor of the closet. She stood, wavering slightly, her eyes half-closed. The shadows seemed to reach up for her.
Her fall snapped Darin back to life; he ran the few feet to her in time to catch her in his arms. He braced himself, but her weight was more than he expected; he stumbled.
Her eyes fluttered open.
“Darin? What are you doing here?” Groggily she pulled away from his support and looked around in confusion.
“I heard you—” He stopped. “I thought you might need help.”
She brushed her hands across her eyes and looked around the walls of the closet again. Darin looked as well. Row upon row of dusty, dark clothing—and none of it Sara’s, judging by the lengths.
“I was looking for something. I think I thought it was important.” She groped for the edge of that memory and then shook her head angrily. “I guess I must have gotten dizzy. But I—I don’t understand where my clothing’s gone. Do you know?”
Darin shook his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think of it.”
She smiled, barely. “If it’s my room and my closet and I don’t know, there isn’t any reason you should have.” Taking a deep breath, she withdrew from the shadow. The sun on her face was warm, but she felt chilled.
“I’ll just lie down for a minute, while you bring clothes.” The bed creaked beneath her as she curled up; her body was lost beneath covers.
Darin didn’t leave at once. He watched her for a minute and then darted quickly back to the closet. His eyes lit upon the robe, and he scooped it up quickly.
Seeing it had upset her greatly; he wasn’t going to take that chance again. He had to get it out of there, without her noticing. He crouched down and peered around the closet door. For just a moment, with the shadows protecting him, he felt like Renar.
He had not played at Renar for years. He froze, remembering. And then he smiled, but the smile didn’t suit his face at all. He thought of Sara, straightened, and made a dash for the door.
“Darin?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t tell him ... that I was dizzy.”
“I won’t.” The door was impossibly far away.
“Darin?”
He stopped, his back half-turned toward her.
“What are you carrying?”
“I—uh, it’s just, uh, something that the lord, um, wanted cleaned.”
“Oh.”
A monosyllable had never sounded so welcome. He began to scuttle forward again.
Then he cringed as Sara spoke, an edge of curiosity in her voice. “What is it?”
“Just work clothing.”
“Oh.” Then, “Is it all right if I see what it is?”
Lying was not a thing that the Grandmother had ever approved of. He had done his best to learn the art, but without any help, he failed miserably.
He walked slowly over to her bed, still shunting the robe to one side. “It’s just a robe, Sara.”
She held out her arms; they were pale.
The robe passed from his hands as if it were a viper.
“Oh Darin!” Her eyes widened. “Do you know what this is?”
“No,” he answered; best use truth when he could.
“I—I remember this!” Mouth wide, she drew it to her face and took a deep breath. “I remember it!” She gave a little laugh, so unlike the chill of her previous words that Darin’s mouth half opened.
If the lord could see you now, Darin thought, as her eyes crinkled, if he could see how happy you are with just a scrap of memory, he’d give them all back to you. Then he thought of her shadowed form, bent and crying in the darkness.
She wrinkled her nose. “It does need cleaning. It smells like centuries of dust.” Yet all the while she patted and smoothed at folds and wrinkles.
“I made this.” Fingers brushed against the fabric, holding to embroidery as if it were an anchor. “I remember making it—this pattern was the hardest thing I’ve ever done!”
He didn’t believe it.
“It took forever.” She smiled. “Well, maybe not forever. But it felt like it. I blistered my hands. I remember.” She looked down at her right palm; it was annoyin
gly smooth. “I remember the loom that held it. All old wood, but well oiled. It smelled like—like work does. And Eva. I remember her—sitting just to the right of me on the stool.” She laughed softly. “She wouldn’t have high-backed chairs. Said it wasn’t good for the back. I never thought so, but she knew her craft better than I.” A tinge of red heightened her cheeks. “I wasn’t the best of students.
“But I made it for him—for Lord Darclan.”
Darin didn’t doubt it.
“Do you think I could keep it? I mean, I could take it to be cleaned later—no, wait, I have a better idea. I’ll take it with me when—” She stopped and looked out the window. Hugged the robe more tightly, as if the lord were in it. “I’ll surprise him. Do you think you could get some clothing for me? Nothing fancy.”
Darin nodded slowly.
“Hurry, hurry!” She was practically jumping in a little dance on the bed; the sheets rippled with every move.
Darin backed slowly out of the room. When he reached the hall he broke into a run. He wanted to do Sara’s bidding and return as quickly as possible in case she should remember—and need him.
Lord Darclan stood in the main hall. At his feet a large, brown basket rested in the shadows of the arches. His arms were folded precisely across his chest, and his eyes never left the stairs. He was not given to pacing, always preferring economy of movement. But he was given to being impatient, and this time more so than usual.
Where were they? A flurry of slaves coming from their allotted tasks fell silent at the sight of their lord. They averted their eyes quickly and moved on.
He ignored them.
Sara, what have you come up with now? I was certain that you would be happy to have leave to go out. Still, she had never been punctual.
He heard the patter of footsteps—light, quick ones. Darin burst around the comer and rushed down the stairs, three at a time. The lord frowned slightly; noticeably absent was Sara’s slightly heavier tread.
“Lord Darclan.”
“Where is Lady Sara?”
“She’s waiting upstairs.” He gulped. “She wants to ask you something.”
The lord raised an eyebrow. “And she couldn’t ask it here, I suppose?” But he was already moving before Darin could reply. He sensed the uneasiness in the boy’s face, and Sara’s requests were hardly the child’s fault. “Very well.”
They walked back up to the stairs and turned down the hall that led to Sara’s room. Darin paused in front of the door, but before he could knock, it swung open. Sara’s hearing was second only to the lord’s—and at that, not by much.
“Come in,” she said brightly.
He stopped to look down at her and she blushed; it was the first time that she had seen him since the previous evening. A gentle smile played back on his lips as she looked away.
He walked into the room, followed closely by Darin.
“See what we found?”
Lord Darclan looked toward the bed and stopped. A pale brown robe had been laid out on it with some care; no wrinkle in the fabric was evident. Against that pale brown backing, an embroidered emblem caught the day, a large, silver eagle, with a branch of some plant in its talons. On that branch grew a flower in full bloom, one that had not in any way been injured by its passage with the great bird. Darclan stood staring at it, remembering.
She spoke. “Lord Darclan?”
“Stefan,” he corrected.
“Uh, Stefan. You remember this.” As his silence lengthened, her smile faltered. “Don’t you?”
He turned then, his eyes opaque, the lines of his mouth tautly drawn.
“Yes, Sara.” There was more than recognition in his voice.
“I remember it well.” He bent down and touched it gently, his fingers moving over it as Sara’s had done earlier. She turned to smile at Darin with relief. Neither of them saw the way that Darclan’s hands curled into fists around the robe; neither saw the single tremor that took him and vanished.
“I made it for you.”
“Yes. You thought I needed—something different from the robes I normally wear.” The eagle was there. But instead of a carcass, there was the branch—the blooming flower—that was her gift.
She looked at his dark, heavy clothing. “Well,” she said hesitantly, “it is warm outside. Don’t you think it would be more comfortable?”
“Sara.”
“You—you could wear it now.”
He knew that nothing but an outright refusal to wear the robe would stop her from requesting it. He could not dim the hope in her eyes by doing so.
“If you like, Sara, I will wear it. Wait outside for a moment.”
He picked up the robe as the door clicked sharply.
It has been long since I have worn this for you, Sara. And long since you have asked me to do so. I should have destroyed it.
But he held it gently.
I wanted something new, he thought, beginning to slide out of his clothing. I wanted no taint of the past to come between us. He smiled, a humorless, grim smile. There is nothing new for us. Let me embrace the memories I have kept from you.
And he did, sliding into the fabric of past times with elegant grace, remembering the happy pride that Sara had shown when she presented this fruit of the months of her “secret” labor. She had never known that he knew what she worked at. He shrugged, remembering the strange feeling the robe had given him when he had first donned it. Remembering that she had loved him, then.
And memory became more than the past; it grew round him as he belted the robe. He felt, at that moment, all the love that Sara had ever given him. It came on like the tide does in the fading light of day, fully, and finally, for any trapped by it. He was Stefanos, not Lord Darclan; he was the First of the Sundered; he was, as she had always called him, her Darkling. And she was his.
The day fulfilled its promise. It was preternaturally bright, clouds flirting with sunshine in the blue of the sky. Stefanos walked arm in arm with his lady, and Darin, lugging the large basket, followed in silence.
Almost, Stefanos mused, as if he knows what I know.
He shoved the thought aside; what was coming would come—he could not prevent it. But he could linger here, with Sara and the child. He would make the day a timeless one. He would trap it in the crystal shards of his eternal memory.
“Is something wrong?”
He smiled down at Sara’s upturned face. To see it move, even now, was a small miracle.
“No, Sara.”
Her grip on his arm faltered as she frowned slightly. “Stefan. If I ask you about my past—”
He touched her cheek gently, and she stopped speaking.
“Sara, must we speak of that today?”
In a very stark voice, she said, “Stefan, you can’t know what it’s like for me to have no past. There’s some reason you won’t tell me, isn’t there? Something I did? Something I left undone?” She frowned, her grip tightening. “I know that Eva was a slave, but she wasn’t afraid of me at all. Have I done something to scare the slaves here?”
“Lady, are you so certain that I know the answers to these questions?”
“I’m not a child, Stefan. I haven’t been one for years. You do know.”
“Your pardon, lady.” His fingers traced her jaw lightly. “It is not as a child that I envision you. My manners are at fault.”
She pushed his hand away. “This isn’t a game to me. I know something’s wrong, and I have the right to know what it is. I don’t care if it’s terrible—it’s still me; I still have to face it.”
For a moment his eyes clouded. He wanted to bind that thought, bind and erase it. The desire vanished as he again accepted its futility. His eyes remained dark as he responded.
“Sara, lady, please ask no more questions. In a week, if your memory has not returned, I will restore what I can of it. But now, now I want your untroubled company.”
She met his black eyes with the green of hers, seeing in the shadows there more than he would sa
y. He was open now, vulnerable. Her anger vanished and she swallowed, wondering if her need to know could be stifled for that span of days. With a sigh, she wrapped her arm more firmly around his, her fingers lingering over the pale wool.
A smile curbed her sense of desperation—she had remembered this robe, and the making of it. In a seven-day it was possible that more would become clear.
“I’ll try.”
“Thank you, lady.” He kissed her forehead gently, and then they began to walk once more.
It appeared that they were wandering aimlessly, but that was not Stefanos’ way, and soon they emerged into a green clearing several feet away from the edge of a small lake. Here, too, the day danced on the water’s surface, winking and rippling as it moved. Sara did not give voice to her pleasure at the sight of it, but her smile was enough. The sun dimpled her mouth and brought the whiteness of her skin to light.
“I believe this to be a suitable location,” Stefanos said, nodding to Darin. Darin replied by setting down his basket and removing a large blanket from it.
“May I help?” Sara asked.
Darin shook his head. “You’re supposed to be resting.”
“I am,” she said, grabbing one of the blanket’s comers. The cloth was heavy, soft wool, intended to keep the sting of dry grass from tender skin. At this time of year, with the grass new and young, that was not much of a concern.
“Lady Sara.” The lord’s voice drifted back as she and Darin spread the blanket out against the ground. “You make a most difficult patient.”
She laughed. “Doctors always do.”
Then she stopped, met the black of his eyes, and smiled more broadly. He nodded in silence.
“A doctor,” she whispered to Darin, her voice jumping almost as much as her fingers against the blanket.
The meal passed in almost companionable silence. Stefanos ate little. Darin ate more, but he was very self-conscious. The use of manners had been taught to him, but he’d never fully understood all of their nuances. Only Sara was completely relaxed, her fingers darting to various dishes and fruits. The basket was half-empty before she had eaten her fill.
“That,” she said, “was wonderful.” She reclined, tilting her face to catch the wide swathe of sunlight. “We should do this every day.”
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