Through the doors lay the altar, some sixty feet back. It hung as if suspended by the red lines that were wrapped around it, protecting the consecrated ground from light. Like the doors it was black, and it shone as if it were oiled.
Around the altar stood nine men, in vestments similar to those the high priest wore. Similar, but lesser, an elegant red silk, with traceries of black and formal hoods that had been carefully arranged around their shoulders. All of them glowed distinctly more brightly than their own power would have allowed.
They prepared for this. I should have been more careful.
“You’re late,” one man murmured, as the Swords dragged her up to the altar.
“The Sarillorn was not in her quarters. We persuaded one of her personal slaves to tell us where she had gone.”
“Then let us hurry.”
“Are you nervous, Serlin?”
“Impatient.”
Geslik laughed. “It is day, fool. The First sleeps in the Dark Heart’s hand. Even such screams as she will make could not draw him here.”
He turned and walked over to where Erin stood. Very gently he caught her face in his hands. “Strip her.”
Her eyes widened involuntarily and she started to pull back. Fingers dug into her cheeks and jaw.
White-fire flared, too rapidly for the swords that held her to react. They uttered choked cries and her arms fell free.
“Yes.” Geslik whispered. “You do have power. But Sarillorn, so do I.”
He stood in the center of her fire, regarding its brilliance with contempt. It shone, a pale reflection in the darkness of his eyes. Geslik reached through it.
Her hands flared, white torches, as she touched his and tried to force them to release her jaw. He held her there, a shield of shimmering red around the whole of his body.
“We have had three days to gain this power, Sarillorn. Do you fully understand what it means? I fear not, but I am patient; I will show you.
“Serlin, come.”
Red robes and red shields outlined the body of the man who left the altar to join the high priest. Serlin closed his eyes for a moment, and the shields sharpened and crystallized until they were gauntlets around his large hands. He drove them through the whiteness of fire and touched the green of fabric.
“She is powerful,” he said, his teeth clenched.
Erin was certain that he at least felt the heat of her fire. But it wasn’t enough to stop him. Velvet tore away in strips. lt hurt; she felt the seams cut into her back and pull her forward.
“Enough,” Geslik murmured. His hands still crushed her face, bruising it without drawing blood—not yet. He lifted her off the ground, his arms not even straining with the weight.
Three days, Erin thought. How many people could die by slow and painful ritual in three days?
His power was all the answer she needed.
She struggled against it, regretting her earlier caution. Against the Swords she might have had a quick death and, compared to this, an easy one.
Easy? Her blood forced power outward. No death by enemy hands could be so, and no life taken from one of the lines was easily given—not to these.
Geslik’s eyes narrowed. His smile ceased; she was glad of that. With a curse, he threw her down. She felt the stone of the altar against the back of her head.
She muffled a cry.
Hands grabbed her hair and her head hit the stone again. And again. And again.
Erin’s struggles grew weaker, but they didn’t stop entirely; the power that she had summoned was already diminishing the force of the blows.
“Enough,” Geslik said.
Fingers tangled in auburn hair. “Why? You know what her power is. Let us drain it this way.”
“If she can heal herself, so much the better—but I will not have her killed so easily. Not for a pleasant death do we take this risk.” He stared across at the second of the thirteen council members.
After a moment, the man nodded, and Erin’s head fell limply once more onto the cushion of obsidian.
Geslik gestured to one of the more junior of the Kamar, and the man held out a long ebony box.
A grim little smile flickered across Erin’s lips. She summoned her power inward, shaping it carefully. Telvar had taught her this years ago, and she had never forgotten. Only once, once in all her years, had she put it aside.
I gave my word to Stefanos. My pain in exchange for their life. I gave no such word to you.
She saw the dagger as it came out of the small casket. It glimmered darkly in the light as if night itself had chosen this moment to visit the temple. Her smile, if anything, grew broader. Kill me, she thought. You will get little satisfaction from it. Even the First of the Dark Heart had been certain of that.
Her power grew within her like a smooth, soft shield. Even the dull throbbing of her head dimmed and receded.
She saw the light clearly for the first time in months. It grew behind her eyes, coloring the world in a soft haze of white and green.
Geslik raised the knife and began to chant softly. The cadence of his voice was almost pleasant, although it dwindled into silence by the time that Erin caught the fullness of its rhythm. “Now, Sarillorn, let us show you what the Karnari have developed over the years. I have not yet had the chance to purify the taint of Lernari blood. I look forward to seeing you ward. It is always satisfying to see the death of any hope. Will you ward for us, Sarillorn?” Serlin murmured something that Erin couldn’t catch. She strained, listening intently. Nothing.
This, this is what her mother must have faced. She thought it without any bitterness. She was tempted to ward, tempted to try her power against them to see who broke first. The red brilliance that each man contained told her clearly who would win.
On the field—on the field they could not have done this. Or could they?
She thought of her mother and lay silent and motionless.
They could stop her power from going outward. They could not take it from where it gathered within her body. Even now, they had not the power of a full Servant.
But her power was not infinite; and once it was gone ...
No. No, Erin. Concentrate, damn you.
The shadows gathered about the high priest, taking form and substance. He stood, red against black, the very epitome of the wars. The knife came down steadily and surely, its edge caressing the whiteness of exposed skin.
Where it walked, a trail of beaded blood followed, red against white.
Erin felt nothing. But for how long? How long?
She tilted her head back, eyes catching the sunlight that forced its way through thick stained glass. She felt a small tugging at her feet and looked at Geslik, catching his smile, so dark and strong, as he held out a patch of wet, red skin. Her mouth opened, soundless, and she clamped her lips, forcing the corners upward.
Maybe, if she could anger him, he would kill her before her protection gave out and she could feel what he did. Her smile cut through his.
She still had power to draw on. It was morning. By evening she knew they would have to be finished with her, one way or the other. By evening—but the days at this time of year were long.
“Serlin?”
“With pleasure, Karnar.” The knife changed hands almost as if it had a will of its own. It looked like a living, wounded thing as Serlin took it firmly.
The blade bit deeper this time, and further up Erin’s body. She felt it trembling in the wound it made, but no more.
“Sarillorn,” the man said softly, “I do not believe any of the Karnar have been so privileged.”
Blood welled up, trickling down her side to grace the stone her body warmed.
“Never,” someone said. “Nor will they be so now.”
“What?”
Serlin looked up as Erin turned her head in a like motion.
The shadows had gathered. The altar of the Dark Heart was waiting for the pain the Karnari could bring. The darkness had been called.
In the light
of day, it answered.
Erin’s eyes grew wide. She started to sit up, but stopped; the knife still protruded from beneath her right breast, the hand that had twisted it hanging motionless.
“Stefanos,” she whispered, sliding down to the stone again, death forgotten. Only now did she truly realize that but for a sheen of new blood, she was naked.
He stood between the open doors of the temple, sunlight arrayed against him like an undeniable army.
Undeniable?
Erin could see the red that glowed around him; it was so strong that she could barely see the gray of his face. He seemed to be on fire and not in control of it; wisps of smoke, like innocent mist, curled high above the hands that buckled black doors.
Serlin drew back, as did the rest of the Karnari. “Lord—”
“Yessss . . .” He walked into the room. The jaws of daylight closed around him.
Erin rolled shakily off the altar, but no one seemed to notice. She turned to see the Karnari in their resplendent red garments. Shadow was there, at their feet, colder than the marble they stood on. Red lines sprang to life, a complicated net that surrounded even the least of their number. She watched the net grow stronger as the red light they held grew weaker. And she saw fear on each of their faces. Not obvious, not hysterical, but there nonetheless.
She shuddered as she wrapped her arms around her breasts. No Servant walked in daylight, yet Stefanos was here. And he walked. The fire moved with him as he continued to burn.
“More power,” Geslik murmured. “The daylight takes its toll even now. ”
The strands of red grew thicker and stronger as the weave itself began to pulse,
None of the Karnari spoke.
Nor did the First Servant. Any word might show the pain he felt as the day delicately burned its way through the first few layers of his darkling skin.
He approached the barrier and stopped.
The Karnari whispered among themselves.
“Lord,” Geslik said, his voice quieter. “We mean you no disservice. But the Church—”
The Servant raised his arms. Claws came out to grip the sharp lines of blood-power. He smiled then. Erin shivered at the sight of it. If it cost him effort, he did not deign to show it.
The barrier fell away, torn to shreds by the greater power the Servant commanded.
Geslik leaped back—too late.
The solid iron of the door had not been able to stand against the Servant—nor, now, did flesh.
The last thing that Geslik saw was the color of the Servant’s eyes boring into him even as his claws did. He fell forward, denied even the release of a scream. He had not the throat left to utter it.
The Servant did not appear to notice. He moved on, and quickly, taking each of the priests in turn as easily as if they were waiting in line to greet him. His one regret was that he hadn’t the time to give them the death they truly merited.
Erin could only watch.
She knew that were she whole and armed, she could not have covered the space between herself and Stefanos in the time it took him to reach the last man.
And she wasn’t sure that she wouldn’t have tried.
Deaths she had seen before, and in greater numbers than most. But none of them had been like this. She watched blood spray across the altars, an afterthought for the Dark Heart. Poets talked about red plumes of fountaining blood, and in the future, if she chose, she could do likewise.
She saw him turn, his power only slightly diminished. The death was gone from his eyes, but not the red. It reached out to touch her more surely than the priests had.
She took a step back.
He held out one claw, whether in supplication or demand, Erin could not be certain. It, too, was red.
“Sarillorn,” he said softly. His voice was shaking. “Are you well?”
Well?
Her hands fluttered nervously, concealing what they could while they trembled. She was suddenly afraid. This fear even the priests could not evoke. Confused, she moved back again.
He sensed her fear, even through the pain that held him; sensed it, and knew what she knew: that it had not been given to the Karnari.
Once again it came like a gift to him, and him alone. He dared not move toward her.
“Sarillorn.” His voice was even weaker now; he should already be gone. But he stayed just a few seconds longer, risking dissipation. “Sarillorn, I have taken the liberty of calling your slaves to you. They will arrive shortly. They are frightened; I had no choice in the aspect I took to command them. But they will see you to your rooms.”
He smiled then, grim and dark. “No one will trouble you there.”
Then he vanished, turning away from the sun’s light to the hand of the darkness itself. The smell of his immortal flesh burning lingered in the air.
“You were very lucky.”
The doctor smiled out of a pale face. His hair, what there was of it, rested awkwardly against a pillow—one too fine and soft to have come from the infirmary. The Sarillorn, her hair drawn tightly back into a practical, unlovely knot, touched his hand a moment, then nodded.
She turned to one of the three hovering orderlies. She smiled warmly. “Evan?”
He nodded, no smile in return. His hands had rolled the fold of his white shirt into an endless pattern of dirt, sweat, and wrinkles.
She sighed. “You did well; you did the right thing. I think, if you can keep him abed, he’ll recover.”
Evan nodded again, the movement still crisp and jerky. But Erin caught the tight lines around his mouth as they relaxed.
“What happened?” one of the other orderlies asked. A young woman, perhaps a year or two younger than Erin herself. Evan spun and turned a dark look upon the girl, one which she chose to ignore. She was dressed in a thick gray skirt and plain white shirt, and looked every bit the fighter. Erin liked her.
“Swords,” Erin replied softly. “Swords came.” She said nothing else, but the girl seemed satisfied.
“Sarillorn?”
Four heads turned to look at the doctor.
“The name’s Marcus.” He held out one shaky hand.
“Thank you,” she said softly as she pushed him firmly back against the pillow. “Mine’s Erin.”
“You’ve spent yourself tending to me; have you seen to yourself at all?”
“I’m fine.” It was mostly true. “And anyway, I’m the doctor here, you’re the patient. I suggest you worry about regaining your own health before you start asking after anyone else’s.” But she smiled as she said it. As a healer, she knew how difficult it could be to be a patient.
Marcus appeared to know it as well. He returned her smile wryly.
“But the Swords—”
“Dead.”
“The high priest?”
“Dead as well.”
Marcus smiled and Erin shook her head. “No, I didn’t kill him. He—and the Karnari gathered with him—had prepared for many days. They were able to block any outside use of power I might call.”
“You didn’t kill them?” he said, as if to himself. “Then who?”
“The First Servant. Stefanos.
He looked at her with a mild frown. “How long was I unconscious for? Have I lost an entire day?” He looked out to catch the red light of sundown.
“No.” Erin shook her head. “It was day.”
“Day? Bright Heart! He came in the light of day.”
She rose then. “I will come tomorrow to see how you fare. But now, I think I must return to my rooms for dinner.”
“Sarillorn?”
She hovered in the doorway, wanting to stay, wanting to leave. “Yes?”
“Thank you.”
She nodded then and made her choice. The door closed behind her back as she stepped out into the long, silent hall.
When the knock came, she tensed. Her fingers dug into the upholstery of the chair she sat in, and she looked down at them ruefully.
So much for choice.
Clear
ing her throat, she said, “Yes?”
The door opened smoothly.
In the frame there stood a man, haloed darkly by the shadow that was his mantle. He was more pale than she remembered him.
“Might I enter?”
“Please.” She nodded rigidly. “Have you—have you asked for dinner?”
“For two.” The door swung shut behind him. “But it will be longer than usual.”
“Oh.”Oh? Is that all you can say? Her jaw seemed clamped so tightly that only forced words would come out of it. He saved your life. Can’t you at least say thank you ?
Her silence answered her.
From where he stood, he could hear the song of her fear. It was fascinating. Beautiful. It made a tapestry of her breathing, her expression, and her stance. No artisan could capture the feel and texture of it; it was a living work.
He shook himself. It was easier than it had been to deny the call of it. Easy or no, he had made his decision. He would abide by it.
As he walked toward his customary chair, he could see her face pale. With precise, even movements he took his seat.
She looked away when he met her eyes.
“Sarillorn.”
Auburn hair obscured part of her face as she bent her head. “Yes?”
“I apologize for your . . . trial today. I did not think that the Karnari would dare to touch you. My word on that was clear.”
The chill of his voice was not for her, but she shivered at it.
“I was careless. It almost cost your life. Please forgive me.”
Forgive you? Erin wanted to shout. Forgive you for what? You saved my life—you dared the daylight to save me.
And that’s the problem. I don’t understand you, Stefanos. I don’t understand what you want. For a single moment she could feel his hands, with their delicate, dangerous claws, pressing into her breast. Without thinking, she lifted her hand to her heart as if to push him away.
“Sarillorn?”
“I—thank you.” It was awkward, but it was the best she could do.
He stared at her, and again she froze, as she had frozen once before. They shivered at the same instant.
Into the Dark Lands Page 27