Into the Dark Lands

by Michelle Sagara

  “I’ve been Sarillorn for three years now.”

  He was quiet.

  “I’ve fought so many battles—I’ve always been so proud of that, of being able to defeat the enemy on any field that I could reach.” She cast back. “I remember—I remember my first battle. I wasn’t as sure of myself as I am . . .

  “If you could have seen all the death—if you could have seen what had been done with the two villages that had tried to stand in the way of their army—”

  Bitterly, but no more softly, the physician said, “I have.”

  She looked up at him then, as if clearly seeing him for the first time. She held out one hand, and after a brief hesitation he took it.

  “I was only a third. A good fighter, but not strong enough, not large enough. And too inexperienced. I got better over four years, but not enough. And the Lady of Elliath chose me to be Sarillorn.”

  He said nothing.

  “I wanted her to choose someone else. I asked her why—why she wanted me.”

  Erin’s voice trailed off. Why? Why choose the only one of us who could never harness the power of God when it's needed—never except to save my own life.

  “What did she say?”

  “She didn’t answer directly. Instead she talked of Lernan’s Hope, of the first Awakening—I don’t think you know much of that. The gist of it is this: That in all darkness that exists now, there is some element of the light, and in the light, darkness.” With a sharp, sudden motion, she freed her hand and brought it up to her cheek. Face beneath her hand, she stopped speaking for a moment.

  She saw again the radiance of the Lady’s face; the distant look of pity and some other thing unnamed and unknown.

  “And she talked of the road walked between the dark and light, of the shadow that all light casts. I didn’t understand her then—I was too new from battle, and the images of blood and death that came with Malanthi were close. Too close.”

  The physician rose and took a step back, turning his face to a blank wall. Erin didn’t notice.

  “But she said the road walked would be hard, harder than anything I could ever imagine. And I didn’t understand.

  “I only understood her when she spoke of necessity. When she told me that I alone of all her line could face the task that lay ahead, I was afraid and I was proud. I wanted to believe that I could be as good as other initiates, just once. That I could finally prove worthy of being adult.”

  “Sarillorn, what did she say?”

  “She said that she had looked into the future; that she had seen a time when one of her line might pull, from darkness, a lasting light. She said that this was Lernan’s Hope. And I thought she meant that through the light, through the Lernari, all darkness might finally die. I thought . . .” She stopped.

  Gently, without looking at her, he spoke. “Sarillorn, what is your fear?”

  “I know—I know what she meant now. I don’t want to know it, but I do. You see, for some reason I don’t understand, the Servant—Stefanos—listens to me. I can sometimes ask him for mercy, and he’ll grant it. Not always.” Her voice fell again. “On the march here, he never fed.”

  The physician’s eyes widened with a wonder and a fear that he kept from the Sarillorn.

  “So, for no reason, I have an effect. And I’m afraid that if the light can truly touch, truly change the darkness, then what can this darkness, stronger and older, do to the light?”

  “And death is easier than facing the answer to that question?” His voice was harsh, but he kept his face turned away so that she would not see what was upon it.

  In a simple, stark voice, she said, “I thought so.”

  “And now?”

  “I don’t know. Can you understand that? I don’t know. What if I stay here, as he wants me to, and I grow numb enough, or changed enough, to hear the cries and the screams of the blood ceremonies without flinching—without even caring? What if I lose my sense of what I am and feel only relief that the victims on the altars aren’t me? Can’t you see how that’s worse than any physical death, no matter how long or painful?

  “And there’s more.” Now that she had started, she couldn’t stop. “What if, by drawing out some semblance of humanity from a Servant of the Enemy, I lose sight of the evil beneath the façade? What if I learn to . . .”

  “What?”

  She started, choked, stopped, and with great care began again. “What if I’m the one who changes?”

  He turned to her then, hearing the end of the sentence that she had not completed. “Sarillorn, you must be stronger than you know for the Lady of Elliath to make the choice that she did. Have you no faith in the head of your line?”

  “It isn’t—”

  “It is. Sometimes hope is the refuge of fools and those who won’t face reality. Sometimes hope is more than that—but the cost is high. When you became Sarillorn, you accepted the price for the power you were given. Don’t prove false to your rank.”

  He could see tears begin to trace her cheeks, and he could see by the light of her eyes that she was fighting to contain them. He watched her a few moments, then began again, taking a different tack.

  “Sarillorn, do this, not for yourself, not for us; we’re lost and we know it. Do this for the future; do this knowing that you will be the hope of those yet unborn or untouched by the Enemy’s hand. For hope we will risk much, but consider this: If you succeed, we have gained more than either of us can know.

  “Sarillorn, we will rely on you.”

  The tears came freely as Erin cursed them. I don’t deserve the luxury of tears. I haven’t earned them. There was so much that she hadn’t earned. But they fell anyway, and with them, resistance. She curled her arms around her body, bending forward into the sheets.

  The physician watched her, torn. Silently he moved over to where she sat and reached out to touch her shoulder.

  She didn’t hear him move, too wrapped in her own care and fear to notice his. In turn, touched by her misery, he did not hear the door open, unaware when someone entered the room until hands gripped his neck. He was hauled backward and off his feet, then turned around to face the First Servant. The grip on his throat was too tight to allow for words; his eyes bulged slightly as his breath was cut off.

  “What do you think you are doing, physician?”

  The man’s lips moved silently. His hands ineffectually struggled with the Servant’s grip.

  “You were brought to save the Sarillorn’s life. You were not required to add to her pain.” The Servant’s hands tightened almost casually around the physician’s neck. His eyes were a deep, livid red. “A pity that one so skilled at his allotted task should prove so unfortunately—”

  “Stefanos.”

  Slowly, without releasing his victim, the Servant met Erin’s gaze. The cold taste of anger faded as he read the rimmed green of her eyes.

  “Sarillorn,” he said gravely. “This man has obviously caused you distress.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  She smiled wanly. “Your hearing isn’t as good as it was on our march here.”

  The look her comment evoked was a mixture of curiosity and, oddly, pleasure. Not since her arrival in Rennath had she even attempted to speak with humor. He was surprised to note that he’d almost missed it.

  “No, then. But if not this slave, then what?”

  In a clear, quiet voice, she said, “Rennath.”

  The physician fell to the ground. He brought shaking hands up to massage the five red lines that circled his throat.

  The sound of his rasping breath brought a strange feeling to Erin. He was alive; she had asked for that.

  You’ve saved his life, Erin, but for what? For the altars of the Enemy? For some painful servitude under a twisted noble? For a long, lingering, echo of life?

  She pushed the bitter thought away firmly.

  No. He said it for himself: I saved his life for the hope of a better one—for hope.

  At what cost? Will you
risk all you’ve been and believed in for something so nebulous?

  Yes. Fully, completely, finally, Yes. I’ll be the glimmer of light in the darkness of this empire. I’ll do what I can, as I can, to alleviate the suffering I see around me. I’ll be cruel enough to keep hope alive.

  “Sarillorn?”

  “Yes?”

  “Would it trouble you if I remained?”

  “No.”

  He started to speak, but Erin interrupted him. “Doctor?”

  “Sarillorn?” His voice was still weak.

  “Thank you.”

  The doctor gave her a very shaky bow. I hope that I’ve done right by you, Sarillorn. You’re very young. But he felt, as he watched her, the faintest glimmer of pride.

  The Servant’s curt dismissal did nothing to alter the warmth he felt as he hurriedly left the room.

  A Sarillorn of the lines walks among us yet.

  chapter twelve

  “What is this?” The staccato beat of the words crackled through the still air. These chambers were second in importance only to the Lord’s own, but they were much more finely appointed. Gold glimmered everywhere, on floor, wall, fireplace, and furniture. The inlay had been most costly; the rooms were not small.

  Derlac bowed as the high priest, Geslik, looked up from his duties. He was a fastidious man, but during the more energetic activities performed even he could forget himself; little splatters of blood showed along his throat.

  “The First, High Priest.” He handed him a sealed note.

  “And it cannot wait?”

  Derlac looked down at the disfigured body that lay in the rounded groove of the floor. Wrists and ankles had been fastened to metal rings sunk into the marble, but they showed no movement. “I would not be here otherwise.”

  Geslik frowned; he disliked the tenor of the younger man’s voice almost as much as he mistrusted his sudden rise within the hierarchy of the Church. He held out one red hand without further comment, and Derlac dutifully deposited the message. He then took a respectful step back, but did not leave the room. He had not been dismissed, and he was curious.

  He watched as the red seal was broken by fingers still damp, as the scroll unfurled, and the color drained slowly from the high priest’s face.

  I warned you, he thought, but wisely held his peace. Not yet could he afford to antagonize Geslik.

  “Call my guard.” The high priest set the note aside. “Now.”

  “As you command.” Derlac bowed again and left the room to follow his superior’s orders. He went quickly to the south wing of the palace and summoned six of the Swords; the high priest had, by custom, twenty-four. Some day they would be his.

  He followed them to the high priest’s chambers, pausing along the way to alert the rest of the council’s thirteen members.

  “In fifteen minutes we meet in the outer chamber of the high priest.”

  They looked surprised, for the council was not due to meet for a fortnight, but they nodded and readied themselves.

  Geslik had already taken the opportunity to reattire himself. Instead of temple black, he wore his full dress garments, with their high, red shoulders and one red slash across both front and back. He also wore the circlet.

  “Derlac.”

  “High Priest, how may I serve?”

  Geslik raised an eyebrow, but Derlac’s words were harmless. “Summon the rest of the Greater Cabal.”

  “It is done.” Derlac’s bow was punctuation for the crisp, quick reply.

  “Then take your seat in the council chambers. We have a matter of great urgency that must be dealt with immediately.”

  Derlac nodded again and walked to the far end of the room. He paused beneath the arch of the twin doors and looked at the long, empty table, with its thirteen chairs. The high-backed one was the only one he coveted; he was not fool enough to take it yet. He waited.

  “You made all of this?” Erin looked up, her face almost at a right angle to the rest of her body.

  “Not all.” Stefanos replied, as he stood in the shadows of the pillars in the main courtyards. Daylight was almost gone, and soon he could walk freely by the Sarillorn’s side.

  She glanced quizzically back at him, and he studied the lines of her face; he could still see them perfectly.

  “No, Sarillorn.” He smiled. “No human hands designed or built the foundations; even these arches are not the product of mortal labor.” He gestured toward the east wing. “But Sargoth built that; and even now, when he wanders it, he destroys any new additions—unless they are mine.”

  “Sargoth?”

  “The Second of Malthan. No, the name means little to you because he does not choose often to roam the mortal world. He is different from the rest of Malthan’s Servants.”

  “Mortal worlds?”

  “Ah.” He smiled. “There are three ‘worlds’ that you know of, although only one is available to you. The hand of the Bright Heart, the hand of the Dark Heart, and the body of the two.”

  She nodded.

  “There are, or so Sargoth tells me, others—stranger than the three, with their own odd laws. It does not trouble me; only Sargoth has had the patience and time to find the pathways to them.”

  He walked toward her, risking the touch of the sun’s last rays. They were uncomfortable, but weaker in their dying than they were in their beginning.

  “But come, you have not seen all of my palace—and only the smallest portion of my lands.” He saw her face darken slightly, but she nodded. He couldn’t help but smile; his order must already have reached the high priest, and from this eve on, the Sarillorn would know some measure of peace within his walls.

  But he did not tell her; not yet. Rather, as she discovered the architecture and glory of his palace, he wished her to learn it for herself. They began to walk side by side down the long, tall cloisters.

  Geslik placed the scroll on the council table. “This is the reason I have summoned you.”

  Serlin, the second most senior member of the Church, raised an eyebrow over the near black of his eyes; he was strong of blood, but old. “The seal of the First. Is there a great danger from the front?”

  “It is worse than that.” Geslik leaned forward, his eyes darkening. “The First Servant requires us to cease all blood ceremonies within the confines of his palace.”

  Only Derlac had any suspicion of the news, but even he fell silent as it was confirmed for the first time. As ever, he kept his own counsel.

  Serlin found voice first. “Pardon?”

  “It is as I said.” Geslik handed the offending scroll to Serlin. “Read it if you cannot believe it. You will find it bears his mark.”

  Normally Serlin would have bypassed such an offer, but the import of Geslik’s message did not allow it. He scanned the document, pausing at the last to note the faint glow of the Lord’s mark. The scroll fluttered gently to the table.

  “Why?” he asked, visibly shaken. “The Church’s heart is within the south wing of the palace. It is here that the nobility comes to worship; it is here that we deal with the blooded leaders. He cannot expect—”

  “He can,” Geslik replied bitterly. “He has.”

  “Surely God cannot allow—” A new voice broke in, younger but harsher, as befitted the craggy face that accompanied it.

  “Don’t be a fool, Morden. The Dark Heart does not interfere with the general of his forces.”

  “But why would the Lord choose to cripple His Church in this fashion?”

  Uncomfortable glances were exchanged as the question remained unanswered.

  “Sarillorn.”

  She turned her face away from the open breeze that touched her hair. “Yes?”

  “Do you see the lights of my city?”

  She nodded. “Yes. But they look so far away.”

  He smiled. “It is the effect of the spires; they are very tall.” He was not sure why he added the last piece of information; it was obvious by the way she gripped the stone that she was aware of it.
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  “It isn’t just the height,” she answered softly. “Elliath—my home—has more light than this, though I doubt it’s a tenth of the size.”

  “It is smaller, yes. Less grand than my work.”

  She fought the urge to reply immediately and found it less difficult than she had expected. “It’s darker here.”

  “Yes. But I do not need the light to see by.”

  “Oh.”

  “Would you care to see more of the city?”

  “Now?” she asked, looking doubtfully into the dark night sky.

  “It is the only time I can show it to you.”

  “Oh.” It was true, of course. But to wander the heart of the empire she’d fought so long against, by the side of its ruler . . . She pulled back from the edge. “I—yes. Yes.”

  She turned to walk back to the large door and froze as he touched her arm.

  “This way, Sarillorn.”

  She drew back, and he let her go.

  “And if she is not the cause, what is?”

  “But she’s only Lernari—and he is the First of God. He could not—”

  “He can do whatever he wishes. He has the power for it.”

  “He cannot wish to allow this—this taint to corrupt the Church. It is not within the realm of the believable.”

  “Then what else can be the cause of it? She is here, yes.” Geslik frowned, recalling the moment of elation he had felt upon first seeing her. That had vanished as soon as the First Servant had made clear that she was not to be given to him. “And she is not dead. She has not graced the altars of God.”

  “No.”

  “I begin to believe there is truth to the rumors.” All heads turned to face Derlac, who had so far been silent.

  “Rumors?” Geslik said testily.

  “Among the Swords. The Karnar that accompanied the army attempted to secure the Sarillorn’s death. He failed, purchasing his own in the bargain.”

  “She killed him?”

  “No. The First did.” Derlac paused for effect. “During the dawn.”

  Silence then.