Children of the Blood

by Michelle Sagara

  Bethany?

  Not yet, Initiate. Already the power of Lernan grows too brightly in you. There is another task.

  Another? He looked up to see the bright glow of the Enemy’s barrier.

  Yes.

  What do I have to do?

  Release the power before it consumes you. That is all.

  How?

  As you have done: through me. Let it travel outward in an unbroken circle; let it meet the red wall that binds us here.

  An uncomfortable tingle had already started within his chest. He looked once again at the red, red wall; it stretched, impassive, over miles of land.

  As he looked, a flicker caught the comer of his eye, one so dim in comparison that he had almost missed it. He turned toward it, saw the pale outline of its redness and its darkness.

  Lord Darclan.

  Because of Lord Darclan, they had come this far, to victory, to freedom.

  Darin, you have no time for this. Destroy the barrier or all you have done is for naught. You do not have the blood of the Sarillorn—you cannot contain His power for a fraction of the time that she has gathered it into herself.

  But what of—

  There is no time. Take the fire of Lernan.

  He was already in pain; the fires were burning.

  But he had to ask. He had to know. What will that do to my lord?

  I do not know.

  The pain in his chest threatened to deprive him of even his hopeless indecision. In trembling hands the staff of Culverne was lifted. He had minutes to decide what to do. It didn’t matter; if he’d had hours, the choice would become no clearer, and the action no easier.

  For one stark moment he longed for a time when choices were not his to make; when decisions of life and death were the dreams of childhood. Even as slave, in the heart of Veriloth, with the twin companions of fear and pain, he had known a bitter peace-freedom from so harrowing a responsibility. He turned to look at Sara, his face an open plea for guidance or counsel. Her eyes were still turned inward, but he could see her now; the light that had held her was fading as he watched, although the clearing grew no less bright. She had no answer to give him, but even if she had, would the choice be any less his?

  He looked down at the ground beneath him, and noticed that the light that shone round the well was within him now. Truly, then, the choice was his, and his alone, to make.

  And would it be so wrong? Was this not what they had planned for, Lord Darclan, Gervin, and he? Lady Sara would at least escape the grounds, and with her the plans of the Church and the Darkness. Was this not what they wanted? Hadn’t Lord Darclan himself accepted the risk of Lernan’s power so close to home?

  Was the present always to be so choiceless and he so helpless against it?

  His cry was lost as the power surged suddenly outward, rising like a new sun. The light took his eyes, blinding them, but he kept his grip on his Lady and his office and the painful strength of his decision. As if the world were a lake, and he a pebble carelessly tossed into it, power rippled outward in concentric spheres. The least of his pains ended as Lernan’s gift found its release and drove into the barrier.

  There were none who could witness it, Darin’s sight temporarily gone, Sara’s turned too far inward, and Lord Darclan behind the stone walls of his castle. None to remark on the battle of the hands of Twin Hearts as they met again, in force, and joined.

  What noise do the Gods make, without their servitors, mortal and undying, to work through? What words do they speak, what cry do they utter, what tongue do they have that can be fathomed by the living? It matters little; only the end is visible; only the result has meaning.

  Power flowed to Darin, and through him to the staff of Culverne as it wavered in the air. He didn’t know what happened to it; he was a conduit only, not an ally. He didn’t know how long he stood, stiff and straight; nor could he pinpoint the exact moment when the blood of Lernan ceased to flow into him. All he could be certain of was this: The power within him was fading quickly, ebbing away into sky and air and barrier.

  Slowly the cold of the night air seeped in; he felt an overwhelming weariness become the numbness of exhaustion as his knees buckled. Still he kept the staff held high above his head, ignoring the ache of muscles locked too long in the same position. Gradually he felt a hollowness grow within him, eating away at the final reserves of his strength.

  Then, emptiness.

  The moonlight touched the twin trails of tears as they traveled, unheeded, down his upturned cheeks.

  It’s over, he thought, and the staff slid gently down to the grass.

  Yes, Initiate, Bethany replied gently. Look.

  Ahead of him, as far as the eye could see, the sky was clear and blue; shades of morning painted their colors along the horizon. No sign of the Enemy’s work remained.

  We’ve won. He tried to infuse the thought with some sense of triumph, but felt only a dull ache.

  Yes. Bethany spoke no more.

  He turned once to look at the castle that had been his home for the past few months. The stone jutted out against the horizon, devoid of motion or life. He could see no flicker of red, no hint of familiar darkness. Somewhere in the bowels of that edifice lay the forms of two of the three who had completely changed his life.

  And on the grass beside the gently glowing well lay the third. Her breath was even and untroubled, her brow smooth and relaxed. In the arms of sleep, beside the Gifting of God, she stirred without waking.

  He was surprised at how young she looked. He rose stiffly and walked over to where she lay.

  “Sara? ”

  She moved again, in response to his call.

  Gingerly, he leaned over the smooth stone rim of the well. He drank some of the water, rubbed it into his eyes and along his face and neck. The he sprinkled it around the grass.

  All around, where the droplets fell, small white flowers sprang up. Darin sat down beside Sara amid the eyes of God, and gently brushed the hair out of her face.

  They would have to leave soon. He knew it, but felt no urgency. There would be little rest for them, wherever they chose to go, and little peace. Just for now he was determined to give himself, and his Lady, the peace of the moment.

  But he continued to cry; for Gervin, for Lord Darclan, for Sara, and for himself.

  He was still very young.

  epilogue

  Lord Darclan lay curled upon the stone floor, awaiting the coming of the night. The night would not be a good one; it promised a full moon—with her bright glaring face, so much like the Lady of Elliath when she had watched over her mortal domain. He did not want the fullness of moonlight, but he’d not have the strength to call cloud cover; in his weakened state, he’d hardly have the strength to walk.

  But he remembered. He did not have the strength not to. He was a Servant. Each circumstance of life was completely catalogued and could be recalled down to the slightest detail, at whim.

  Lord Stefan Darclan had no wish for the memories that came unbidden.

  He turned his head, scraping his cheek along the floor, until he could see, between the legs of the table, the bodies that lay against the west wall.

  One in particular caught his attention.

  Gervin. Ah ...

  He surprised himself in that; he felt some sorrow for the man’s passing, although it was in no way untimely. In fact, considering the bodies of the Swords that lay about him, it was in some ways an accomplishment.

  At least a portion of their plan had succeeded, and part of Gervin’s command extended from the region of the dead to that of the living, for no slave had come into the hall, or even near it. He wondered, briefly, if there were any at all left on the castle’s grounds—Gervin had planned an evacuation to start during the fight. He had no idea of how much time had passed, and that annoyed him.

  At least I now have the strength to be annoyed. But it had been a close thing; the God of the Lernari had brought down the work of Malthan, freeing him and burning him both. S
omehow, he had survived it. He would think on it later.

  Yes, part of their plan had worked. But the important question remained unanswered, possibly unanswerable. He started to stand, then thought the better of it. Sunlight was streaming in through the large, stained-glass windows, and he had no desire to test himself against it; not now, when there was nothing to prove. His lady was gone.

  He shook his head and rolled over onto his back to wait. But the question kept returning to him, hovering on the edge of his thoughts until he had no choice but to ask it.

  Sara, do you yet live?

  And again, he remembered. Sharply and clearly, each minute preserved in the immortality of a Servant’s life. For so had he come to regard his existence, and if possible, regret it.

  Nights beyond number—he could count them, but chose not to—he had lain at her sleeping side, tempted to call her too soon from enchantment into the world and know again the touch of her light—her love, as he understood it now. And that compulsion was strong in its way; as strong as the urge to feed that would eventually drive him from her protected, isolated room. But he had resisted, and found a cold pride in the action. That pride had sustained him then, with a future to look forward to.

  It offered him nothing now.

  Sara, Lady, do you live?

  He rolled over before the open ceiling could see the expression on his face.

  Through the years he had used his desire as the drive necessary to overcome his opponents and secure the Empire of Veriloth. He told himself, numerous times, that that was the only road he could take if he wished her eventually to be happy. He convinced himself that she would, over the years, forgive him for his crime—he acknowledged it now, when it would do no good—against her trust. Under his tutelage and guidance, with his protection and patronage, she would have enough to occupy her. Let her then change the law to cover the entire land; let her then save the lives that interested her or called her.

  He had built up a story surrounding her; called her the Lady of Mercy, so that the slaves might spread the story outward. He gave them the seed of the hope that she would ripen to fulfilment.

  Sara! Do you live?

  If he could have used his voice, he would have, but his throat was suddenly too tight and too full.

  I even gave myself a name you would have smiled at when all was finally revealed to you, Lady. Stefan Darclan. Do you recognize it now? Can you see how you named me?

  He knew that if she lived, she remembered all, as clearly as he did, for the memory was only two weeks in her life’s past. He accepted the fact that she would hate him now, and possibly forever.

  At one time he had felt that her death was better than the death of her light. Now, now it was different. He had lived without that light for centuries; had lived with the hope of it and the knowledge that it was perilously close. He could live with that hope again, even if he saw in her eyes the same rage, the same pain and the same hatred that had hurt him long ago. Anything if ... Sara Sara Sara

  Please, please, do you live.

  Night came, cool fingers of shade and shadow. A welcome relief. His spirit drank it in, refreshing him. He stood, and found it relatively easy to do so.

  Quietly and deliberately he walked over to the pile of bodies upon the floor. Vellen’s was not among them.

  High Priest, you are stronger than you first seemed.

  With casual contempt, he kicked the bodies of the Swords aside. Then, carefully, he lifted the cold body of Gervin, the man who had stood by his side for the past forty years.

  Come, Gervin.

  Turning, he spoke a few words and the doors swung open. The two of them left the hall.

  He was not sure exactly what he would do, but was not surprised when he found himself walking out, to the grounds of the castle, through the gate that led to the garden and beyond.

  You came here only rarely, friend, when you thought I was unaware. I believe you found it peaceful here.

  He continued to walk, a feeling of dread eating away at him. All paths led to the garden’s center, and he walked a path, knowing what he would see there, but afraid to see more. He tightened his grip on Gervin’s body, but refused to turn back.

  And he approached the old well, the shield of his great Enemy. From afar he could see the way it glowed faintly against the backdrop of stars and moonlight.

  Ah well, tonight he was strong enough to stand her gaze; let her watch what he might do. Sara had taught him, centuries ago, the lines of the moon’s soft face, and the reason for her sorrowful expression.

  Lady Sara, he had said, your eyes cannot see the truth. It is only rock; it is not alive.

  But he let a human vision impose itself over his sight until he could see the shadowed eyes of a woman in mourning, the trembling, half-open mouth that uttered its eternal, silent cry.

  I am here, my Enemy. Will you not strike?

  The well made no reply, although its waters bubbled and swirled as he stepped into the clearing. All around his ankles, small white flowers seemed to twist to either side to avoid the touch of his step. He looked down at them, recognizing them, and gave a bitter smile. They covered the field.

  And then he turned to look more closely at the ground. When he saw only flowers, he gave a sigh of relief before he could stop himself. He had dreaded finding a body.

  But if she could not contain the power, he thought, the momentary joy passing, there would be no body.

  Still, he knew she had made it at least this far; perhaps she had made it farther. He let that thought warm him, and gently laid Gervin’s body down.

  You would have found it peaceful here, old friend.

  His hands shifted subtlely to become the claws of his truest, oldest, form. Wordlessly he began to dig, tearing away huge chunks of earth and grass. It did not take long before he had cleared away what was necessary.

  He straightened himself, letting the dirt cling to his fingers as he lifted Gervin for the last time.

  Find your peace here again. Keep it, knowing I can never take it away from you.

  And he laid the old man down in a bed of soft earth. He had no ceremony for the dead; his burial in the sight of the well was the closest he could come to a final gesture of respect—and against it, any human words he could utter would be meaningless.

  He did not disturb the stillness with words. Instead, he bowed once, low and formal, and then put the dirt back, this time with care.

  Perhaps your spirit will guard what the Lernari lost to us centuries ago.

  “Stefanos. ”

  He did not stop, nor turn, nor in any way acknowledge the spoken word.

  “Very well, I shall wait. But I think it odd that you perform this human ceremony.”

  Well you might.

  At last the grave was complete. Gervin, I cannot gather flowers here, nor cause them to grow. I have done what is within my power to do. My thanks; you have served my lady well, and I shall remember.

  He bowed again, and that bow released him.

  “Sargoth.”

  “I might have guessed that I would find you here; I did not expect to find you doing this. You still retain the capacity to surprise me. It is—refreshing.”

  “I see you escaped the Enemy’s wrath.”

  “As did you. And which of the two is more unexpected?”

  “Which of the two would be more hoped for?”

  A dry chuckle.

  “Come, Stefanos. I did what I had to do; the voice of Malthan is strong.”

  “As, it seems, are his First and Second.”

  “Indeed. But come. This place does not suit me. It is too—”

  Stefanos knew well what Sargoth referred to; the light shed by the Lernari well was painful.

  “Perhaps. But I have lived centuries with it; I would leave it as it is for the while.”

  “And I, First among us, would not make Algrak’s mistake. If you wish to converse here, without seeing to the wound of the Enemy, I shall continue to do so. I was merel
y making my preferences known.”

  “Then come, I would not keep you in a setting that caused you discomfort. My home, at this time, is empty. I believe I can call my slaves home, but not until tomorrow, or perhaps a few days hence; their supplies will last them at least that long.”

  “You were prepared, then.”

  “Sargoth, I am always prepared.”

  “Yes. You did not seem surprised to see us. Even I, in your position, would have felt so. It troubles me, Stefanos. I can only think of one way—”

  “Leave it, Second of Malthan. I will not speak of it.” He began to lead the way out of the garden, walking both because it was natural and because it would irritate Sargoth. The Second of Malthan made no comment.

  “But tell me, Sargoth. Why have you returned?”

  “As always, because I am curious.”

  “Oh?”

  “I wish to know what you will do now.”

  “As I have always done.”

  “Stefanos, you have not always mimicked a human life. I recall well the times that you led us in—”

  “It was long ago. I have no desire to return to it.”

  “No, Stefanos? From what I have seen this night, there is now nothing to hold you to it. ”

  Stefanos stopped moving abruptly.

  “Explain.”

  “From what I can gather, it was the Lernari woman who held your interest.”

  The First Servant was completely silent.

  After a moment, Sargoth continued.

  “She is dead. The weak-blood, the boy, may have survived.”

  Stefanos did not hear the rest of Sargoth’s words. He did not move, did not turn, did not blink.

  Dead?

  The words ate into him. Something began to build, a cry, perhaps a scream—but the Second of the Sundered was with him, and he was First. He wanted to run, then, to escape the full import of what had been said. But he was First Servant.

  And with Sara gone, that was all he was.

  Curtly, tightly, he said, “I see.”

  And the night took him, transforming the solid to the ethereal.

  He could not surrender to his pain in Sargoth’s presence, and so he surrendered the mortal plane for a time. Slowly but surely he willed himself into immortal regions, to find privacy, to find a space to let go of his emotion before it consumed him.