He turned, but she made no move to follow him. And when he turned back, he could see her lingering like shadow, pale and white, where he had left her. Almost as if he had somehow broken her. He felt a distant satisfaction, but it was hollow; when he touched it, it vanished.
He walked back, and she looked up almost blindly, her eyes again focused at a point beyond him. When her voice came, it sounded very young.
“Lady, I’m afraid. Choose another road for me. I don’t have the strength to follow this one.”
She started to sway, and he caught her at once, moving quickly enough to stop her knees from hitting the ground as she buckled. Whatever had kept her steady this far had snapped. He lifted her and carried her back to the troops, knowing that they would be in some disorder. He caught a glimpse of one priest, noting the almost comical look of disbelief on his face.
As he slid his arms around her back, Erin looked up, her eyes windows into a landscape that he himself had never walked. He saw the light in her—so different from the white-fire that had burned there minutes earlier—pulsing softly, beautifully. When she shut her eyes, he could still see it. She tucked her chin into her neck.
He thought she slept, as she had done a month earlier, and was surprised to hear the soft whisper of her voice, almost inaudible even to his hearing.
“I’m afraid.”
“There is nothing to fear, Sarillorn. The man will survive for tonight.”
And for the third time that night she surprised him. She curled up against his chest, bringing her hands up to touch him. As she did, he saw the bands of her light come up and pass through and around him.
“There is nothing—to fear,” he repeated.
But he wondered, as her breathing became deep and more regular.
What are you doing, Sarillorn? What is being done here?
chapter eleven
Sarillorn, Rennath does not agree with you.
Stefanos turned away from the map he had created, and it vanished. At this moment it could not hold his consideration. He glanced out through windows that stretched from high ceiling to floor, opening like an eye into the night. Thick, red velvet had been pulled and bound by gold rope to allow the darkness to enter, or to watch.
For one week the Sarillorn had been in his palace. At the expense of great power, he had renewed the northern wing of the palace proper for her—not one of the lesser outbuildings—removing the frescoes and tapestries that he knew she would find disquieting. He had provided her with slaves, young and unbroken for the most part, and had given her more freedom in his domain than any mortal had ever dreamed of having.
He had not expected her to like Rennath overmuch, not to begin with. But he hoped, in time, that she would see the inevitable beauty of the city that he had built. He glanced up, and up again, to see the twin domes that had been carved and painted in the stone of this chamber. Beauty?
His feet made no sound as he turned and walked slowly to his throne, his human conceit. Five long, marble steps led up to it, and no other ever stood on the gold inlay of patterned floor that it crowned.
The priests were not happy about her presence; two had even gone so far as to question his command. He smiled grimly. Only two.
The smile vanished.
What he had done for her did not matter; he could almost wish that the trip to his capital had taken many months instead of two. She would no longer eat with him and would speak very little when he arrived.
Almost wearily he sat in the contours of velvet, gold, and wood, his elbows touching smooth, hard armrests, his fingers making a steeple beneath his chin. He had thought long on these things, and no answers had come. He hated to be in ignorance.
He heard the rapping at the double doors that the priests used to enter and twisted his hand viciously. They swung open, revealing three people at the head of the hall that stretched into torchlit darkness.
Erin stared at him, tremulous and defiant, flanked on either side by priests. She was bleeding, the white of her dress already a deep, gorgeous crimson.
The sight of the blood as it trailed down her arm and side enraged him. The sight of the Malanthi, holding the chains that bound her wrists, filled him with a cold, wordless fury that even she could feel. She took an involuntary step back and the chains at her wrists grew taut.
The priests dragged her into the room.
“Lord.” One of the men gave a deferential bow. Coppery thread winked in the light, revealing his rank. “This guest tried to interrupt the ceremony in the palace temple.”
“Did interrupt it.” Erin’s voice, slightly shaky, carried an immeasurable wealth of satisfaction and pain. “Just not as much as I’d—”
The man who had not stepped forward slapped her almost casually, wiping the smile away. His face was red, the only trace of that color he wore. Acolyte, then.
The priest who had spoken looked down at his captive with a flash of annoyance before continuing. Stefanos recognized him: Derlac, one of the junior priests in the palace. The other man did not merit recognition.
“As she wears your mark, Lord, we thought it best to inform you of her crime before meting out the punishment it has earned.”
One week. One week, Sarillorn, and you have already brought battle to my home.
“Continue.”
Derlac looked carefully at the neutral mask of the Servant he addressed, then turned and whispered a few words to the acolyte. The younger man dragged Erin to her feet, where she swayed slightly before gritting her teeth. She would not meet the Servant’s eyes.
“I see that my mark did not prevent you from damaging her.”
“I regret to say, Lord, that we did not cause her wounds. We did manage to interrupt her before she could call full ward against us.”
Almost perceptibly the tension ebbed out of the Servant. True Wards in Rennath, Sarillorn?
“I see.”
A trace of relief crossed Derlac’s face. “I have come to request your permission to continue the ceremony with the help of this young woman.”
“Denied.”
“But Lord, she’s Lernari—” the acolyte began, outrage twisting his features.
“Craden!” Derlac hissed. The acolyte fell silent, his eyes smoldering with anger and confusion. He yanked at the chains and Erin nearly fell forward.
“I might add, Lord, that two of the Swords are near death—or dead.”
“Denied.”
“As you command, Lord.”
Stefanos smiled slightly. Derlac was ambitious, but also perceptive. That was not uncommon among the half bloods. But he was cautious without being cowed, and this was rare. A pity that he is not a more senior member of the Church. I shall have to alter that state of affairs.
His gaze, as it touched the acolyte, was glacial. This man, on the other hand, was a fool; the type of fool that he tired of seeing make its way into the hierarchy.
“The worshipers, Derlac?”
“Under control, Lord. But it would be best to continue the ceremonies as soon as possible.”
“Agreed. You acted with considerable circumspection and speed. Preside over the ceremony.”
Derlac showed no hint of the pleasure that the Servant’s command had given him. His face, smooth and placid, gave little away.
“As you command.”
“Tell Geslik that it is a personal request of mine; I’m sure the high priest will understand.”
At this the faint trace of a smile did touch Derlac’s lips; it was gone before it became substantial.
“He will understand that it is your desire, Lord.”
“Very good.”
“And the woman, Lord?”
“Leave her with me. I shall make sure that she does not interrupt your mass in the future.”
The priest bowed again, a low, crisp salute. As he turned to leave, Stefanos smiled softly. “Your acolyte did not have the wisdom not to restrain his hand when he knew she bore my colors. I am certain he would nonetheless be happy to grace
the altars of the God he serves.”
Guards had to be called to escort the acolyte out. Stefanos oversaw the proceedings with a cold amusement. It was a fitting fate for one who, in his presence, had dared lift a hand against one who was under his protection.
Erin kept her head bowed in her hands until the door closed on the pitiful sounds of the young man’s pleas. She was tired of tears; it seemed to her that she had done nothing but shed them since her arrival in Rennath, this ugly, dark city. Nonetheless, tears trailed down her cheeks. She had not had any sleep in the past two days; the sounds of screaming echoed through her as if the ceremonies were being performed at the foot of her bed. And the slaves were afraid of her, and that hurt. In the heart of the Enemy’s empire, everything she could do caused death, and yet to do nothing—to do nothing was worse.
She looked up to meet the unwavering eyes of the Servant.
“Come here, Sarillorn.”
Wordless, she walked to the dais. Maybe this time he would be angry enough to call an end to it. Maybe she had done enough with her attempted ward to make him realize that she was, irrevocably, his enemy.
Stefanos’s throne seemed impossibly high and far, but she forced her feet to cover the cold, hard marble as she mounted the steps. He did not rise to offer aid; waiting in his impeccable black robes, he was every inch the king. He waited. She came.
Inches away from the throne itself, she paused, numb with hope and fear as he reached out to touch the steel that bound her wrists.
The manacles snapped audibly and fell away in his hands.
“Your freedom.”
She looked down at the rawness of skin that showed that she had struggled too hard against her chains. He caught her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes.
“Can you not leave well enough alone?”
She wanted to be angry; to feel again the righteous wrath that had been hers from the time of her investiture. She pulled weakly away from him, and he let her go in search of the fire that had vanished. She took a breath, then another, deeper one, and began to speak. She would not look back at him.
“Stefanos, Servant, nightwalker—whatever you are.” The words trembled out of her lips; try as she might, she could not give them the force they merited. “Were it well, I would leave it, and gladly. But I cannot walk these halls without knowing that by night people die—people whom I might save with the blood of my birth. I’m the Sarillorn of Elliath.”
“You are the Sarillorn, yes. But you are lost to Elliath now, and those that die are not numbered among your people. Do not let them concern you. There is nothing you can do.”
Just as, she thought bitterly, I could do nothing for my mother. And it was worse here. The screaming never stopped. Late at night, she could no longer tell the difference between reality and memory.
“Power such as mine is only granted for one reason—to protect those with less, against yours.”
“Power such as yours? Sarillorn, if the power that you wield is too great a responsibility, I will take it from you; you may then have peace, knowing that there is nothing at all that you can do.”
She wheeled then, her hands coming up automatically between them, fingers awkwardly beginning their inimical dance in the air. Less frantically, but no less quickly, he mirrored her gestures. Still, he did not rise.
“Why will you not just accept what is? You have done as you will in my domain. I have exacted no price for actions that would be the death of any other.”
“Why? I am your enemy here!”
“It does little harm.”
She was speechless for a few moments; the color drained out of her face and returned as a darker red. Her hands flew up and a stream of blinding light flashed forward, unerring, to where he stood. Just as quickly his hands came up; the white-fire slid off a shield of faintly glowing red.
He thought her odd in anger; there was nothing cold in it. Take this strike: He was sure that if he allowed it to touch him, her anger would vanish completely. Not that he would take the chance, but still . . .
“Why?”
He sighed as she stood trembling with contained fury. Fury, yes, but his blood-sense lingered over the familiar taste of despair and guilt as well. It was heady.
“Stefanos, please, finish this! Let me go to my people, or let me die—I don’t care if it’s a clean death anymore; I don’t care if it’s on your damned altars.”
“Is it only death that you seek, Lady?”
“I don’t have to seek it,” was her bitter reply. “It comes all around me.” All around, yes, but never did it come to her.
He watched her stiffen. Why not have an end? Why not kill her now, or lay her out on the altar of Malthan and set the minds of the priests at rest? Why not remove from himself all trace of the ambiguity that she evoked by presence alone?
Indeed.
But when he spoke, all he said was. “No. I will never release you. You will never leave.”
He was not prepared for the speed of her answer, unaware until the moment the steel touched her flesh of the desperation behind the set of her lips. He did not pause to wonder where she had gotten a knife; if she had asked for it, it would not have been denied her. With a wordless cry of frustration he leaped to catch her as she crumpled. His hands on her shoulders were rough, but after a few seconds he became aware that he could not shake life into her on command. His hands curled around the handle of the knife and pulled it out, calling on power to hold her blood in—a particularly difficult task for a nightwalker. The knife had missed being fatal by very little.
“It hurts.” Her eyes were wide, young eyes. They cut him, as the knife had cut her, but less cleanly. Her pain was subtle and beautiful, but he still did not desire her death.
He swept her up and headed into the hall. The irony of the situation was bitter. His power was not of the kind that encompassed healing; that was the domain of the Lernari and the Servants of the Bright Heart. Any such who might once have existed in his domains were long dead.
“This will please the Karnari, Sarillorn,” he said through gritted teeth. “But I have already given you my word. I will not release you.”
He looked at her as he walked, flinching at the shadows in her eyes. On impulse, his fingers stroked her brow gently, too gently for Erin to bear. She had never felt so helpless, never felt so lost or so trapped. She retreated into the black of unconsciousness.
Physicians saved Erin’s life, thereby guaranteeing their own for a time.
She woke to spare, curtained twilight in a large, empty room. The ceilings were flat and plain, unlike the broad, wood beams and vaulted domes of her own quarters. The walls were gray rock, unadorned by windows, fireplace, or color. A man stood over her. She was momentarily confused, but disorientation gave way to memory.
“You’re the Sarillorn of Elliath.” His brows, as they drew together, were a winter frost with large streaks of black that hovered over his pale, brown eyes.
With a wan, cautious smile, she nodded.
The man ignored the offering of her smile. “I’m the former royal physician of Kerwin. ”
Her look cooled in response to his.
“They don’t make you Sarillorn for nothing—or so I’ve been led to believe.” There was an edge of anger in his words that Erin didn’t understand. He waited for a response, but realizing that none was forthcoming, he went on. “Are you proud of that?” He gestured to the ugly welt below her breast, and she suddenly realized that she was unclothed. Blushing, she pulled up the thin covers. He gave the action a bitter smile. “Are you?”
Numbly she stared at him, her confusion evident.
He was not impressed. His broad arms covered the front of the large white apron he wore over a stiff, red tunic.
“If you’re going to play stupid,” he said cuttingly, “I’ll be more specific. Are you proud of the fact that you tried to kill yourself?”
She balled her hands into the bed covers.
As if reading her mind, he continued. �
��You failed. And before you go off wailing in self-pity, I want you to know what your success would have cost: my life, the lives of my four assistants, and quite probably the lives of our families. And our deaths wouldn’t have been nearly as clean or painless as yours.” He paused again, waiting.
Erin closed her eyes. More death. Lernan, everything I do in this cursed empire causes nothing but death. When will I be free of it?
She was unprepared for the strength of the large, rough hands that gripped her shoulders, shaking her eyes open.
“Damn you! If he’d wanted you for the blood ceremonies, we would have let you die. We’d have accepted our fate in exchange for yours—the lines are our only hope and we owe them that much! But it isn’t your death the Servant wants. The priests have demanded it, but he has refused.”
“Leave me alone!”
“No!” But when he saw the flicker of response that broke through her numb silence, he let his hands fall away and stepped back to look at her.
“Sarillorn, how old are you?”
Dimly she replied, “I’m an adult of seven years.”
He shook his head and brought a trembling hand up to massage his wrinkled temple. He walked the length of the room, his steps, like his words, terse and pointed.
“You’re very young, then.” He spoke as if to himself. “But you’ve been in battle?”
She nodded.
“Often?”
“Yes.”
“And won.” It was not a question.
She looked away. “Yes. You only fail once.”
“Usually that means death?”
“Yes.”
He hated the passivity of her answer.
“Then why aren’t you already dead? Why are you trying to take your own life like this?”
“I don’t know!”
“You’re lying.” He’d seen enough of people to know that much. He walked back to the foot of the bed. “Sarillorn, if you aren’t the rescue we’ve been praying for, you owe us at least an answer. Why?”
She looked up to see the long brand on his right forearm. Like the rest, he was a slave. And he was right.
But it wasn’t easy to give voice to her fears.
Into the Dark Lands Page 23