“That is the only way I will do so now.” His voice was lean and dark; he was still First.
“Very well.”
Sara turned to the kitchen door and saw the barrier fade. It had been strong, but even though Sargoth had spent much power to maintain it, she knew he was stronger than Stefanos for the moment. She hesitated.
Without turning, Stefanos said, “Sara, you will leave with Darin. Now.”
“But—”
“But?” She caught the faint glimmer of bitter humor in his voice. “No buts, Sara. Not this eve.”
Still she faltered, and Darin moved forward to take her arm.
“Sara, I know you don’t want to leave him, but you heard the Servant—it isn’t his death that’s called for. It’s yours. I don’t know what Lord Darclan has agreed to, but it’s only to buy us time. We’ve got to go.”
The price for life was always this: another’s sacrifice. But this way she could buy Darin’s life with it as well as her own. She had no right to take that from him.
She nodded firmly and moved toward the door. Darin swung it open, and she stepped through. She turned and saw Stefanos’ gaze, unfathomable, upon her. She stopped, her lips moving without sound.
And in return his lips wavered, equally soundless.
The door swung loosely shut behind her. She was gone, and Darin with her. In her wake, the hall seemed suddenly dark and strange.
“Stefanos.”
“I will not speak of her further.” He raised his head grimly.
“But I will honor our bargain.”
“I thought you might. You have grown strange these centuries. Perhaps I should have stayed to watch the change.”
“Enough, Sargoth.” He lowered his head again, eyes flashing a dim, hollow red. “Do not play your games with me.”
“Ask Him, then. Occupy my curiosity another way.”
Stefanos didn’t hear his words; the harsh sibilance had already become distant, as had the sound of odd movements in the hall, the rustle of cloth or gentle groaning. A different sense overwhelmed that of the ordinary, a type of hearing that Stefanos had not called upon for centuries. He concentrated, brow furrowed at the unexpected difficulty. He called the image of his goal into his mind and slowly saw, without truly seeing, the vast expanse of endless darkness, constantly in motion, constantly unbalanced. It grew closer as he approached it.
An inner sight took his vision to a place where light had no meaning or texture. It was odd, strangely different—he had not expected time so to warp his perception of the place of meeting.
A mortal life, he thought, flexing his hands before he realized that they were not truly there. How odd that so short a life can change so long a habit.
He felt no fear as he waited. Nor did he feel love or hate, anger or pain. There was no place for these things here, for here there was no life.
And then the darkness coiled and rumbled in front of him. It opened—he knew this with a sense that lay too far beneath the surface to be identified—and sent out a tendril.
Without hesitation, Stefanos, First of the Sundered, walked into the grasp of his eternal parent—into the part of him so long denied it had grown alien and unsettling. He waited there for his Lord’s voice.
Stefanos.
My Lord.
You have not rested thus for a time. Around him darkness undulated.
No, Lord.
You have not spoken to me, nor called yourself to the place of meeting.
No.
Yet you come now.
Yes.
Speak, then. Yours has always been the strongest voice among those who serve. I would hear it.
Stefanos refrained from speaking as a small spark of anger flashed within him. Again the darkness rippled, touching him and moving through him like a current.
Come, Servant. You are not so proud that you have not come; not so proud that you have not called. Is it aid that you require? Power? Do the Servants of my Enemy still plague the mortal planes?
There was no place, in the palm of the Dark Heart, for emotion. Even knowing it, Stefanos could not stem the anger that flared.
Ah, Stefanos. What is this you bring to me? You have been long sundered, Servant, to yet feel something here.
I bring you nothing, Lord. Nor do I require anything of you.
No? The darkness shuddered, heaving almost aimlessly.
No.
A pity. But tell me, Servant, if this is true, why have you come?
Here, with the chill of darkness creeping around him in such a familiar way, he wondered. Was he not the First of the Sundered? Was he not the most powerful of his Lord’s Servants? Was he not worthy of more than this—this game in which he was somehow a pawn? Was he not—
Sara’s lover.
Sara. Sarillorn. Daughter of the line of the Lady, First of the Sundered of the Light, First of the Enemy.
But the Lady was gone now, through his gamble, his artifice, his strength. Her line was the first to fall to the march of human history, the tide of human time. What power she had possessed was now eclipsed and forgotten, surrendered to darkness and lost.
Yet in darkness, he remembered her.
In darkness he remembered her descendant.
In Malthan’s hand he called upon the last of Elliath’s Sarillorn, and her image came to him, wreathed with the strange translucence of her light. Her lips moved silently around the play of her human words, her human smile; her eyes shone green in the white of her perfectly flawed face.
Why have you come?
Sara.
Stefanos, Servant, you have indeed brought me something. A gift. The last of my Enemy’s line.
Something stretched within Stefanos; it wrapped itself around him with a tension close to breaking. He would not name it. He waited for his Lord to speak.
I have little concern for her; she is mortal.
Why, then, do you interfere?
Have I not said that you have the strongest voice of all those Sundered who serve me?
Of what import is that?
I have watched you, Servant. You stand between the mortal plane and the place of meeting; through you I have touched on much of the fruit of my goals. You gave me many deaths, sent to me the lifeblood of the tainted who are mortal. Your sendings were stronger than those of your brethren; in return I made sure that you continued to stand First among them.
But now, First Sundered, you have given me something sweeter and stronger than the lifeblood of the tainted. The death of the last of Elliath will not satisfy me; of this I am certain. But through you—through you, First Sundered, her death will be lasting. Even now it has already started, and she has not yet touched my altar.
She has taught you something; you have learned it well.
Paralysis suddenly held fear for Stefanos. Recalling the quiet moments of a few days past, he pulled back, lurching away from the hand of God. The darkness heaved and shuddered as he sloughed it off; it receded into a distance that was never far enough away.
Light returned as he hit his body; a light that seemed brilliant and warm for all that it was dim. The walls of the hall wavered around him as he fell to his knees, to touch the welcome of the stone floor.
Sara. His hand crept slowly forward as he pushed himself up. Sara.
But it was not his Sarillorn that he faced upon his return from the place of meeting. He had not expected to, so the sting of disappointment was a bitter surprise. Ringed around him he could see the wavering forms of Algrak, Kirlan, and Sargoth. They were dark, almost a beaded mist. The fourth Servant who had fallen to the strike of Bethany was gone; she would not return to haunt him this evening.
He came to his feet as quickly as he could. He started for- ward, to find the way blocked. From each of the three Servants, bands of red-laced black sprouted forward, passing through one another in a tight, fine mesh. He wheeled around, but did not attempt to move further; the net was closing and he was at its center.
This, he thought bitterl
y, from the hand of God. I will serve no more.
From a distance, the smallest whisper brushed his inner ear.
You will serve me best of all.
Stefanos was weary; he felt, for a moment, the centuries of existence that he had passed through as if they were a solid wall.
Mortal games. Is this what age feels like?
The net closed in on him, its radius shrinking toward his body. He stopped moving completely and watched it come. It seemed to eat through the inches of stone beneath his feet, absorbing the solidity and transforming it. The power of God was truly here.
But it stopped. It was close enough to touch on all sides, but its embrace grew no tighter.
No, Lord! Let us finish this!
One strand of the web bulged in toward Stefanos, straining to reach him. With a snap it fell back into place, but the fine strain of red throughout it had been broken.
Beyond the wall, Stefanos could hear the growl of frustration that tore through Algrak’s throat, much as Stefanos’ hands had done earlier. He smiled.
“Come, Algrak, this is futile.” Kirlan’s voice wavered, but was stronger than Stefanos’ would have been had he chosen to speak. “Do not argue with the will of our Lord. The woman has escaped the hall, and perhaps the grounds themselves—and the Lord wishes her to be taken.”
Again a snarl, but this time accompanied by words. “To give her to that?”
“Spare your contempt.” Kirlan responded. “Vashel is banished from the plane for a time, but the same strike did not destroy the mortal Priest.”
“Then we will find the one responsible. But the First—”
“It is not in our hands. But if you wish it so, make your challenge. I am sure He will be most understanding.”
Silence, then the sound of the door creaking open.
“Sargoth?”
“A moment, Kirlan. Just a moment. First Sundered?”
“Second.”
“Did you honor our bargain?”
“I asked the question you wished asked.”
There was stillness, followed by a subtle movement of air that might have been the raising of an arm or the shake of a head.
“And did he answer it?”
For a moment, Stefanos pondered the question, considering the usefulness of a lie. Let Sargoth’s curiosity burn in him; let him be kept suspended in the state of ignorance that most annoyed him. He could not ask for Sara’s life. Ah Sargoth. “He did.”
“Then tell me. Tell me what he said. Let me know why he pursues this mortal with the power of four.”
“Perhaps. But it may be that I am Servant still, and will honor our agreement in the manner of His Servants.”
Silence, then sibilant breath across the air.
“You will tell me, Stefanos.”
“Yes.” He reoriented himself in his standing prison to face the direction the Second of the Sundered spoke from. He drew breath, although he did not need it—a habit so old it felt natural.
“He wants the Sarillorn because I will suffer for it.” And because Sargoth could not see his face, he allowed himself the grace of a pain too precious to have physical origin.
chapter twenty
“This way. ”
Darin’s voice was barely loud enough to be heard over the sound of shallow breathing and hurried footsteps.
“Where are we going?” Sara glanced backward, at the darkness over her shoulder. They weren’t being followed—not yet.
“The gardens,” he replied, praying silently that all had gone as Lord Darclan and Gervin had planned.
Gervin ... He pushed the thought away almost easily; years of living in the Empire had taught him that much control. Time enough for mourning later, one way or the other.
“Here, Sara. It’s here somewhere.”
“What?”
“Exit.”
Sara shook her head; he heard her hair in the darkness. She had never left the castle by this door. Neither had he, but it was where Gervin had said it would be. He hoped it was open.
His hands shook as he found the latch in the shadows. A click, barely audible over the sound of their breathing, and the door slid open to the night sky.
“We have to run,” he whispered between his teeth.
She nodded, swinging the door shut behind them. “Wait a minute.” Leaning over, she pulled up the hem of her skirt, and with a quick decisive tug, tore it up the middle.
“Ready.”
“Right.” He took her nerveless hand in his and ran across the courtyard to the gate of the maze. Together they entered the first passage of the neatly clipped, twisting hedges.
“Darin, where are we going?”
“To the center,” he replied. He knew that she didn’t remember her first encounter with the Gifting, but hoped that seeing it again would give her some hint of what to do. He had none.
“Left,” he whispered.
She nodded, looking nervously over her shoulder. The courtyard, or what she could see of it, was still clear.
“Left then.” With that she pulled Darin’s hand and the rest of him followed.
They ran, the soft grass providing slight relief from the noise their feet made.
“Left again.”
She made no reply, following his directions almost before he made them. She quickly lost count of the number of turns they took, or the direction they chose to run in, but noted that Darin’s directions became more sure and more confident as they ran. She paused to look over her shoulder a few times, but if pursuit was coming, she couldn’t detect it.
Then, at the last turn, Darin stopped short. She shuddered, hoping they hadn’t run into a dead end.
“Darin?”
“Sara, we’ve made it.” Saying that, he turned to look at her, the outline of his face barely visible. “I don’t know what happens next.” He felt inexplicably more afraid now that the last few yards lay open before them; a part of his mind had been sure they wouldn’t make it this far.
“Do we go on?” she asked him, raising her hands to cup his sweating cheeks.
“We can’t go back.”
She knew he was afraid; it was impossible not to feel it. Gently, although she knew their time was short, she drew him into a solid, warm hug.
“No,” she said softly. “We can never go back.”
And he knew she was not thinking of the here and now. His small arms shot out and wrapped themselves around her waist. Then he pulled away, almost embarrassed.
“Come, Darin. Whatever waits for us here, we’ll face together.”
He nodded, wordless, and turned the final comer. Sara followed closely behind.
They came together into the clearing and found the well. Darin smiled on sighting it; it still glowed faintly, a deep, bright green that lessened the night. He saw that the stone, pale and clean, seemed somehow newer, as if the well itself were a living thing and had healed time’s injury. He started forward and stopped when Sara’s hand fell away from his.
“Bright Heart, no.”
“Sara?”
In the dim glow of the well, he could see the stillness of her face, and the whiteness of it. For a moment, she appeared to be carved from the same stone as the well itself.
“Sara?”
“Lernan.” Her lips were the only thing that moved.
Darin tried to take her hand and found it cold and stiff.
She pulled away, moving but still lifeless, and brought those cold hands up to her face.
“Lernan,” she whispered again. As if the word were a release, she began to move forward, walking like one caught in dream. Darin moved out of her way as she stepped toward the well. Her hands were shaking where they gripped the edge of glowing stone.
Lernan. Leaning across the stone, she reached out to suspend one hand above the water’s surface. Where she stood, the light seemed to gather, and the water seemed to ripple just beneath her, as if trying to reach out. Her mouth moved again, completely soundless, as Darin stepped closer. He stoppe
d before he could touch her, knowing that to do so at this moment would be wrong.
As if invisible string had been cut, her hand plunged downward to break the clear surface. It shattered, the sound of a splash mingled with a wordless cry. Her knees buckled as she pushed herself away from the support of the stone; the grass took her as she sank to the ground and covered her face with her hands. In the light, one of them was shining.
And that light hurt her. She looked at it, shaking her head from side to side.
Darin started forward and felt a hand at his shoulder. He spun around.
“No, child.”
In front of him, an old woman was standing. His fear fell away as he recognized her tattered clothing and her perpetually bent back. Her voice, though, still aged and cracked, held a strength that he did not remember.
And her eyes—her eyes were a green so deep they caught him and held him fast.
“I have been waiting for you child, for you and your companion. Wait by the Gifting. There are Servants of the Enemy abroad this night, and in greater numbers than—” She shook her aged head. ”Wait. Your companion needs my aid.”
Then she was gone, floating across the grass to where Sara lay. She bent down, curved hands running across the back of Sara’s head, stroking her hair as if they had all the time in the world.
“Little one,” she said softly. “There is no time for this yet. You have come to me, and I have waited long to meet you.”
Sara’s face came out of her hands. Darin couldn’t see her clearly, but felt that at that moment the eyes of the Servant and the eyes of his lady were the same—aged, wise, and somehow beyond him.
“Elliath,” Sara murmured, her voice flat.
“Gone, little one, as you must know now. As is the Lady.” One crooked finger reached out to catch Sara’s chin before it folded again into the grass. “She saw it, child. She knew it would come and knew that she could not avoid it. But there was peace in it, in the end.”
“How long has it been?”
“Since the fall of Elliath, three hundred years.”
In a lower voice, Sara said, “And the other lines?” For she understood, bitterly and finally, Darin’s presence in the castle.
“Culverne was the last to fall. The land still remembers their influence. ”
Children of the Blood Page 33