“How long?”
“Five years ago.”
Sara’s eyes swept shut as she huddled against the grass. If she felt any sorrow at the loss, it was buried deeply beneath her rage.
The Gifting of Lernan—here. She could not look up; the sight of it was a bitter accusation. Three hundred years. Belfas, Carla, Deirdre—all of these dead, buried, forgotten. She didn’t even know how they died, or when; nor could she ask.
Instead, she remembered Rennath, in all its dark glory; remembered the years she had spent traveling through Veriloth, tending to those she could aid and turning her back on those she could not. She remembered the Church and the Dark Heart, its attempts to destroy her, and the way she had stood, alive and defiant, to fly in the face of their God. And she remembered her laughter, her faltering determination, her ... love.
She stood quickly, then, shaking.
Her love for the—no. What had he said?
I shall build an empire across this world, Sarillorn.
Her love.
She cried out again, a wordless denial, and wrapped her arms tightly around her body to stave off the sudden chill in the air. Centuries had passed her by, somehow, to bring her neatly to this pass. She felt a sharp and bitter ache, and the undeniable terror of waking from a nightmare only to acknowledge its truth.
“Sarillorn.”
She looked up, clutching her arms all the tighter around her body. In a dull voice, she said, “How?”
The Servant shook her head. “I do not know. But against all hope, you have come to me, to return once again my faith in the Lady’s vision. Lernan’s Hope.”
Hope? She wanted to shout. “What must I do?”
“Leave here, and soon. The Servants of the Enemy are stronger, both in number and in power, than I.”
Darin stepped forward. “The Enemy has raised a barrier around the castle. Lord Darclan believed it would destroy us both to cross it.”
“It would.”
“Then how are we to leave?”
Raising one hand, the Servant turned to face the well. “Take power from the Gifting of God. Call it into yourselves to bring the barrier down.” It was clear to her that Darin did not understand what she said, so it was not to Darin that she spoke.
“Lady,” Sara whispered, “I do not think, if the barrier was built by the Enemy, that we will be able to contain the power necessary.”
“It will be hard, but what other choice do you have? To wait here as steward, until your return, I had to choose between the night and the day; and my power was of the Light. I am as you see me, Sarillorn; I could not wander, I have felt each minute of these several hundred years. I am ... old. I have not waited in vain.”
“For my return?”
“Yes. The Lady spoke of it to those of us who would listen. Remember that she named you Lernan’s Hope.”
“And what did she hope I would do?” Sara’s voice shook with emotion that could not be expressed with either words or tears; it was too strong and too new for that. “I have failed you all; the Servants of the Enemy and his Church—all of these reign because I should have—”
“I cannot say yet what she hoped for, Sarillorn. But if it eases your burden, know that she saw you here, and now, and that she asked the Servants to select one among their number who would be able to wait the years until your return, tied to the mortal world.
“I was chosen. I have waited, and it has been hard, as was promised. No one should have to live so long with the weight of mortality upon them.” She spoke with the faintest hint of pity in her ageless eyes. Her voice grew softer and more somber as she continued.
“But my choice and my labor are not the hardest. I cannot tell you what to do, should you escape the trap of the Enemy, but I know you will not fail us. Child, the seed of the future is yours; how you sow it, and in what soil, must be your choice. For you are human, but of the Light, and in you the end to the ancient wars is possible.”
“And what must I choose?”
“You know the power of the Gifting. Use it. And if you survive this, search for the Woodhall. Do not forget this. The Woodhall.”
“The-but-”
“No. Now there is no time.”
Nodding, Sara came to stand beside Darin. Her face, still white and fixed, was barren of expression.
“Sara, what are you going to do?”
Without answering, she reached into her dress and pulled out a small dagger. It trembled, cold against her hand, before she gripped it tightly.
Darin watched as she drew a thin red line across her palm. Even her blood moved slowly, welling into perfect, tiny beads along the length of the cut. She gazed out over the water, her hands following her eyes.
She stood there, caught in the light, a small, dark shadow reaching for something beyond Darin’s vision. Then, with an almost curt shake, the hand became a fist, and the fist sank down. The breath of a silent prayer touched her lips as her skin broke the water.
She faltered once and then raised her head. Her green eyes shone brilliantly. They had never looked so cold.
The fist beneath the curtain of glowing water unfurled slowly.
Lernan, God. It was a bitter invocation. Will you answer now?
Granddaughter.
Water rippled up, a living pillar of God’s clear blood.
Only now. Now. Sara stood on the edge of a precipice, beyond which lay the heart of Lernan. If only she dared look, she might see it revealed, might understand fully His hope and His desire. She could not look at it. Nor could she look away.
Standing suspended, she felt the power of the solitary Circle come to her in silver strands. Her skin began to tingle.
As Darin watched, she began to glow with the same faint green that the well did. The light surrounding her grew stronger until she became a part of it. She did not look quite human.
“Initiate.” The Servant stood forward, no longer bent or bowed, but still aged. Darin swung around to see Sara clearly, to know what she most resembled.
“Call upon Bethany’s power. Ring the well with it.”
The staff, forgotten till now, found its way to Darin’s hand.
“Do it now. The Enemy is almost upon us—can you not feel them?”
Bethany’s light sprang up like a beacon that eclipsed the light of the Gifting. it curved into a circle that surrounded Darin, Sara, and the well. No sound of danger disturbed him as he continued to hold the circle, but he felt no relief.
“Steady,” the Servant said.
Darin nodded, glancing around at the area that Bethany lit. Just beyond it, the dark seemed unnaturally dense; his eyes could not penetrate it enough to pick up the outline of hedges.
“Lady.”
“Initiate?” she had turned her face away and even now looked into the night.
“You aren’t in the circle. Move back!”
Without turning, she said, “No, Darin. The circle is no longer for me.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I said. Do not move. Keep the circle centered as it is; I choose to fend for myself.”
“But you said you lost your power when you made your choice to wait here!”
“Did I?” Her voice grew distant, soft. “Yes. But Lernan’s power is with me yet, in a fashion.”
“Servant—”
“No. I have fulfilled my duty here. I have taught you what you must know; I have spoken with the Sarillorn, once of Elliath. I have seen the truth of some of the Lady’s words. Let it be enough.”
“Please ...”
“Too late, Initiate.”
And out of the shadows, into the periphery of the light shed by Bethany, stepped a shadow. He was dark, tall, unidentifiable in the anonymity of the darkness. With faltering steps, the old Servant walked into his path. She stopped there, folding her arms in a gesture that was familiar enough to evoke a hint of a smile from Darin.
To his great surprise, the shadow bowed.
“Keranya.”
�
�Sargoth.”
“It is odd, Seventh of the Sundered, to find you here. I would have thought that I would have had prior warning. ” He stepped closer still. “And it is odd that you choose so cumbersome a form. There is little enough of the light in it. Do you not come prepared for battle?”
“Always with your words and your games, Second of Malthan. Always.” She did not move. “And as always, I decline to join you in them. ”
Two more shadows stepped out of the darkness to stand on either side of Sargoth.
“Yes,” Sargoth said, without acknowledging them. “But the form? That question, at least, Keranya.”
The last of the Servants of Lernan gave a weary sigh.
“It is as you see it. I no longer choose.”
He advanced further still, but she made no move to retreat. “You do realize, Keranya, that you cannot hope to stand against even the least of us?”
“I realize it, Second.”
“Yet you stand.”
“Habit.”
“And will you be destroyed for the sake of habit? ”
She smiled. “We all will, Second of Malthan. Come; do your worst. I am quite ready.”
He reached out to touch her with his cold, ebony fingers. Twin sparks, red and white, flared in the air, but the red lasted longer and burned the more brightly.
“How odd,” he said, pulling away. His voice rose as his magic made clear to him all of her weaknesses. “Keranya—”
“Yes,” she said, softly, as she met the gaze of her enemy.
“What you feel is true. I am bound to the mortal plane. I shall never leave it. ”
“Then you cannot speak to your God. ”
She was silent a few moments, staring at him. When she answered, her voice was low with longing, pride, and the sound that only a pain dulled by time can have. “I have not spoken to God for almost four centuries, and I have lived through each minute.”
“Why? Or has the use of Lernan become harsher in the time I have traveled outward?”
“No.” She shook her head. “No. The choice was mine, in this.”
“But—” His head shot up, then, and he looked directly upon the well. It was no longer glowing; the light had gone out of the water. But at its edge, shrouded in green brilliance, was the indistinct form of a woman. She did not move, although the light around her eddied.
And Sargoth laughed, the sound of it deep and laced with irony.
“How unexpected.” He turned again to Keranya. “I believe I understand your game now.” He laughed again with an edge of malice. “What else could force a Servant, even one of Lernan, to choose as you have chosen? The vision of the First of Lernan. We watched, Keranya; we spent much of our long time waiting for the danger she prophesied.”
Laughter. Darin had never hated the sound quite so much.
“We could never have foreseen that one of our number—the First of our number—would be the one to harbor his future death.” The laugh was softer now, more of a dry chuckle. “I shall have to tell him; I do not believe he knows. I am tempted, believe that I am tempted, to let this mortal continue what she tries. I have had some experience with the amount of power a mortal can contain. She will almost certainly be consumed.”
The laughter stopped abruptly. Sargoth raised an arm and swung it in Sara’s direction.
“Take her,” he said to his companions. “Kill her if you must. I shall answer to our Lord should it become necessary.”
Kirlan and Algrak moved silently forward, and Keranya raised both of her arms in a fluid motion that age could not deny. A coruscating wall of white and green, more solid than Darin’s circle, sprang up in front of her.
“No, Sargoth,” she said almost gently, “I am Lernan’s Guardian still, and I cannot allow you to pass while I yet exist.”
“Of course,” Sargoth replied. His eyes flared red then, but not with the muted glow they had shown previously in the evening; they burned with a hot brilliance that encompassed the landscape. It was his gesture of respect for the last of Lernan’s Servants—true power called to obliterate what had once been a truly worthy foe.
Keranya watched, unperturbed, as the power rushed toward her. She didn’t flinch as it struck home, enveloping the frailty of her body. She withered under its storm, falling slowly to her knees as the wall she held began to unravel.
Darin watched, pale with shock. He took a step forward and then a step back, to hold the position as she had commanded. It was all he could do; even speech deserted him as the clearing around the well took on an absolute and eerie silence.
“Sara!”
No answer. The last flicker of Keranya’s light was dying. There was little left of her, and Darin averted his eyes—he had no wish to see the end of it.
Kirland and Algrak looked once at Sargoth, who ignored them for the moment.
“Sara!”
Sargoth walked over to the remains of the Seventh of Lernan and gingerly sifted through the ashes.
“Even in this, Keranya, your God could not aid you.” Then he stood and turned to the others. “Take the woman now.”
“And the boy?”
“As you wish; his fate is unimportant.”
They started forward again, and Darin knew that Bethany’s barrier would be little proof against them. Perhaps they would feel it, perhaps not—but that would not keep them out.
In desperation, he turned to face his Lady. His jaw slackened at the sight. She was burning brightly, too brightly to gaze upon without pain.
“Sara!”
If she heard him, she could not respond at all. The Hand of God had become a fist, and she was in its center. Like stone she stood, and like stone she was filled—too meager a vessel for the brilliance of Lernan to be contained in.
“Sara!”
Darin.
Shaking, he looked at the staff.
Do not panic now if you value your Lady.
He swallowed, nodded. What’s happened?
The power of God is too great; it will destroy her if she stands alone.
He nodded again, seeing the red of Servants’s eyes, the black of their shadow.
Cut your hand, Initiate; cut it deeply and then step toward her.
He did as she asked, propping the staff between his legs while his hands obeyed her commands.
Take her hand from the blood of God. Do it now.
He pulled, surprised at the ease with which it gave. But Sara still did not move or respond. It worried him until Bethany’s voice cut across the thought.
Now. The Lady’s hand. The one not with God. Take it; cut it as deeply. But do not touch the water.
Trembling, Darin reached for Sara’s hand. It was still and rigid; he could feel it, but the light around it gave it no shape. Blade in hand, he thrust into the light. He felt flesh, or something, give way.
The knife fell; one way or another it would no longer be needed.
Join blood, Initiate. Touch her hand to yours. Pray.
Contact. If Darin closed his eyes he could pretend that they were alone, and that this was his initiation. He didn’t dare.
But he felt a warmth suddenly shoot up his arm as Algrak approached and with one gesture removed Bethany’s ward. Darin shuddered. The black hint of nightwalker mirth touched Algrak’s shadowed countenance before he realized that fear had not caused that shiver. Not fear. The least of the Servants of the Dark Heart took one step back as Darin raised the symbol of his line. Algrak brought his arms up and quickly danced a red pattern across the air.
All of Darin’s perceptions suddenly heightened as the staff glowed green against the night sky. He could see Algrak, inches away from the still form of Sara; could see Sargoth crossing the charred grass. Beyond them, in the distance, he could see the brilliant glow of a huge red dome that fell in a circle like burning blood. And somewhere, one dim red glow flickered in the background like the smallest of candles.
Bethany! he cried, holding the staff aloft in his free hand.
Yes.
Do not let go of your Lady’s hand. Hold fast.
Clutching the staff like a sword, he drew it across the air, each movement, each sweep and pass of arm, vibrant and decisive. He could see the trail that was left across the air like a signature—the signature of Line Culverne—or of God, burning brightly at the behest of His initiate.
Algrak cried out in surprise and pulled back quickly to avoid the spinning wheel of white-fire.
Darin, watch the Sarillorn!
He spun around as Kirlan’s shadow encompassed Sara. The Servant’s black hand rose to touch her face, but he did not look comfortable so close to so much light; his body was curved in an odd hunch.
Darin spun the staff gracefully, almost easily, toward Kirlan. White-fire surged outward, striking the Servant and flowing through him. Kirlan had no time to scream or struggle; he was blown away like ashes in a maelstrom. The staff flared bright again, and Algrak, retreating almost mindlessly, vanished in a brilliant halo.
A burst of dark, rich red struck the air in front of Darin’s face and slid away like oil. It trembled, like the remnants of a living thing, before sinking into the grass. With a grimace of disgust, Darin aimed the staff downward and the white swallowed the red completely.
“Most impressive, mortal. I fear that I must grant you victory by leaving the arena.”
Darin’s head shot to the side, and for a moment he gazed upon the unhooded visage of Sargoth, Second of the Sundered. His eyes were caught and held by the ageless, unpredictable darkness in the red-rimmed eyes of the Servant. Those twin points focused clearly on him, as if absorbing every detail.
“We shall meet again. You have proven yourself worthy of such an exchange. I have been long without challenge to come to this pass.”
The staff swung wildly, and Darin’s arm lurched forward behind it. He staggered and felt his fingers slipping out of Sara’s. He managed to hold on as a beacon spread outward and the power of Lernan stripped the clearing of darkness. Too late. Even though the white-fire lashed out, Darin knew that the Servant of the Dark Heart had vanished an eye-blink before the fire struck home.
He let the staff drop to his side, still clutched in tense fingers. His left hand trailed briefly across his forehead.
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