Into the Dark Lands

by Michelle Sagara

  “Stefanos!”

  But he did not stop. Like a shadow he drifted out of her room, leaving her alone in the darkness.

  Sargoth.

  It was a full month before the Second of the Sundered returned with the answer to his question.

  “To change her nature is impossible. The taint of mortality is her life; to remove it would kill her.”

  The First was silent in the face of the words of the Second.

  And then Sargoth smiled; two could play a game of waiting—but only if one held information that the other needed. With the First, however, the wait had to be short. “There is another way.”

  “Speak it, then. Quickly.”

  “She is half blood. And half of that blood—the blood, I believe, of the Lady of Elliath—is not in and of itself prey to mortal whim. Through that half, Stefanos, you might choose to bind her to you.”

  “Bind her? I do not understand.”

  Sargoth allowed himself another, smaller smile. “It is not an easy thing; it requires, I believe, at least the blood of a Servant. But if you have that at your disposal, you might learn to use it as a link between yourself, our Lord, and her blood. You are the stronger; you would be the focus of it. Through the part of her that is not mortal, you might bind her life to yours.”

  Stefanos leaned forward, almost transfixed. “Tell me, then. How?”

  And Sargoth did, while Stefanos absorbed each word. At length he sat back, feeling more at ease than he had in nearly two months.

  That ease shattered as Sargoth spoke again. “Of course, she is not Malanthi. The Servant required would not be among us. ” The words were almost casual.

  Stefanos closed his eyes.

  chapter fifteen

  It was cool in Rennath, but the chill that bothered Sara had little to do with the weather. Nor was it the bleak, interminable stretch of city landscape; the gray of the city was something she’d adjusted to; and Stefanos had succeeded, in the end, in his attempt to convince her of the beauty inherent in subtle shades of shadow. Beneath the closed doors of her balcony she could hear the murmuring of her people as they walked between their homes and the market, their colorful clothing welcome contrast to reds and blacks. She smiled momentarily at the knowledge that even in Rennath the market was not a quiet place. Then the smile dimmed; Rennath was still Rennath, and in her four years here she had done little enough to change it.

  She began to pace the carpeted floor of her bedroom, crushing the standing blue wool beneath her weary steps. At least here, in her quarters, color prevailed. Stefanos always thought it loud and impossible—much like its sole occupant. Again she smiled, and again the smile faded, but this time more rapidly.

  What am I to do? She wrapped her arms around her shoulders, shivering. Her first impulse, and her last, was to call the First Servant into her presence and ask for his advice; for four years he’d been at her side in any situation she considered a crisis. She hadn’t called him yet, and she wouldn’t, not this time.

  Belfas, why did you have to come?

  Although he wasn’t with her, she shut her eyes against the pain and confusion that was his parting gift to her. He had always had an expressive face. She could still see him clearly, as he walked toward the door of the room, placed one hand upon the knob, and stopped. He kept his face pressed against the wood of the door as he spoke.

  Erin, Sarillorn, what has happened to you?

  “Nothing.”

  Not nothing, Erin. I know you well enough to know that. You don’t even look pleased to see me. Doesn’t my news mean anything to you?

  He’d turned then, his face a mask of white over the white of his power. White, radiant, brilliant—everything Sara had struggled so hard to put aside for too many years. She looked inward, saw a light that matched his, and felt the sting of tears take her eyes. He held out his arms then, and she stood immobile, half-comprehending, half-fearing. Belfas’s arms, clothed in the indifferent rags of slavery, fell to either side.

  “Will you help us, Sarillorn of Elliath?”

  She knew what it cost him to be so formal—it wasn’t his way, and it couldn’t be the product of time. She opened her mouth to comfort him, and the words came out wrong.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think you have a chance against him.”

  “Sarillorn, Kandor of Lernan is with us.”

  She shoved aside the memory, turned abruptly, and walked over to the balcony. With an almost furious tug, the paned doors flew open. Outside, Rennath sprawled in a familiar, tangled web. When, she thought, did this cease to be a prison? When did I learn to value the small light that it holds?

  And as always, the doubt returned, stronger for the visit of Belfas, and more painful.

  Have I lost the light? Lernan, Lernan, help me.

  There was no answer, nor did she expect one. But today the use of His name gave her no peace, no respite.

  Year-mate, line-brother, forgive me, but why, God why, did you have to come now?

  His answer, complete with its mix of determination and worry, returned to echo around the empty walls of her room.

  “We come to kill the First of the Dark Heart.”

  And years ago, four years ago, Sara knew that she would have willingly been among them. She wanted to tell him then that the First was also her bond-mate, rited and promised. But silence held sway in the face of her fear and the echoes of shame that she suddenly felt.

  We come to bring home the Sarillorn of our line.

  Home? This was home, this strange and ugly city with its legacy of death and violence, with its dark and grim Lord. Her stomach twisted, and her hands shot out to grip the gilded iron of the balcony railing.

  They’re right, all of them. Without the First Servant, Rennath will fall, Veriloth will fall, and with it the threat of the Dark. The Lernari will be able to heal the wounds that are left. She knew that it would be better for her people; they would know freedom again—a freedom that she could not completely give them, even now. But the First was also bond-mate. She struggled to keep the opposing images apart, even as she struggled to put them together.

  “Sara?”

  She wheeled around.

  “Does something trouble you?”

  “I—” Words fell away as her feet tripped lightly across the floor. He stood in the center of the room, silent as ever, cloak unfurling naturally to let her in. Without thinking, she brought her arms up and held them out as if to embrace him. Before she could, his own hands, strong and sure, gripped her shoulders.

  “Sara, what is this?” Very gently his fingers brushed her cheek. “Tears, Lady? Dry them. Soon, someday soon, the work you wish to do with this city and this land will be yours to accomplish as you see fit. I swear it.”

  She shook her head. “Darkling.”

  She felt herself being pulled into his arms, felt the coolness of his chin as it rested against her hair.

  “Lady, when the Empire of Veriloth is complete, I will give it to you. If the land is too difficult for the day, close your doors and shut it out.”

  This man—this Servant—was responsible for so much of the destruction that had swept the land. Three kingdoms had fallen to his attack in the last century; more beyond that, she was sure. How many more would fall, how many people would die or be delivered into slavery?

  They’re right. She thought it again, felt it resonate too deeply within her for expression. He must die. If I love him, does it change that fact?

  But her arms curled tightly around him in denial. She knew why the Lernari had come and that on the morrow she would learn how. She knew what the results of their intended action would be—had she not been Sarillorn of Elliath?

  But she knew also that Stefanos had not walked, in the manner of his kind, for almost four years, that he could dwell under the unforgiving glare of sunlight and open day, and that for her sake he had banished the ceremonies of Malthan from his palace—from the core of the Malanthi Empire.

  Almost without her knowledge
, the bands of her light crept slowly outward. She could not see the smile of wonder and appreciation that turned the corners of her Lord’s mouth upward in a gentle smile. The light, her light, was always new to him. It came wrapping itself around him as tightly as Sara’s small arms.

  Lernan forgive me. I love him.

  Dinner was a subdued affair. Although Sara smiled and spoke as usual, her eyes were shuttered and impassive.

  “Lady, what troubles you?”

  “Nothing. Why do you ask?”

  “Curiosity, Sara, only curiosity.” But although he was unwilling to press her further, he watched her closely for the rest of the meal, and she was aware of each passing minute. For the first time in four years she longed for the comfort of anonymity.

  She asked him a question, and dimly acknowledged his answer, but it meant nothing at all to her. The tines of her fork stabbed aimlessly at pieces of food as she pushed them around her plate.

  At last, when she could suffer his scrutiny no longer, she rose, pulling the creased napkin from out of her crepe-covered lap.

  “Stefanos, I’m—I’d like to have a little time to myself. I’m going to go back to my room.”

  “ ‘Stefanos’?” He smiled. “You are indeed troubled, Lady. You have used nothing but my chosen name for the entirety of our meal together. It is more formal than you are given to being.”

  She grew rigid for a moment; Stefanos could almost hear her muscles lock before she forced herself to relax. With a wan smile and a mumbled word of apology she left the great hall for the comfort of her quarters.

  Stefanos watched her go. A faint, faint shiver touched his neck as he contemplated her action.

  It has been long, Sarillorn, since you have been so troubled. It is almost as if . . .

  Rising, he, too, left the hall.

  I am waiting, Kandor.

  She pulled her robe in a tighter circle around her upper body. She had long since ceased to pace the confines of her room; there was no answer in the movement and it wearied her. The doors were firmly shut, and the curtains had been tightly pulled. The shiver at the base of her spine spoke of a meeting to follow that no prying eyes should see inadvertently. What they saw if they were careful or cunning she could not prevent, but she did what she could, as always. The sun had faded from sky, leaving the clarity of cloudless night in its wake, and still she waited.

  Kandor, she thought, staring at the wall without seeing it, come now, come if you must. She was dimly aware that she should feel some dread at the coming interview, but could gather only a numbness in response.

  If you were dead, they would be free. And if I did not love you, I would help in your destruction for their sake. It is why I am Sarillorn; it is what the lines are sworn to. How selfish am I allowed to be?

  Then, as she maintained her vigil, the air in the room began to shift. A soft breeze, sweet and clear as the air in the Woodhall had always been, touched her cheek and her memory. She felt for the direction of it, turning her face instinctively to catch the crystal sparkling of a foreign lattice in the room. It robbed the night of shadow, touching the walls, the bed, and the woman with gentle fingers of equal brilliance.

  Kandor. She sighed, moved by his appearance in a way that she had not expected. Only twice before had she seen the arrival of Lernan’s Servants, yet even as she watched she felt that she was seeing something new and precious unfold before her. The very room seemed to welcome his presence.

  “Sarillorn.”

  Kandor, cloaked in form and shape so welcome to the lines, stood before her, his light both weapon and armor. His hands were at his side, but she felt that they were open, calling her to enter the ring of his arms. She had forgotten how beautiful a true Servant could be. No, not forgotten, she thought to herself. My memory couldn’t retain this. I don’t think any human memory could.

  “Sarillorn.” He said it again, the timbre of the word resounding in her stillness. “You are well.”

  “I am, Kandor of Lernan.” She bowed then, low and formal, her knees trembling beneath her.

  “We feared the worst, little one. How come you to be here, and safe?”

  “Stefanos of the Enemy keeps me at his side.”

  “Stefanos? Is that not the name of—”

  She felt a blush rising in her cheek.

  His brow, so flawless in complexion, creased slightly. A frown, rare for the Servants of Lernan, touched his lips, but Sara was certain that it was not directly connected to her words. His eyes fell upon her, and she was reminded of the one other Servant who had looked at her that way—the Lady of Elliath. There was sorrow and resignation in eyes that should have held nothing but peace and beauty. Without stopping to think, Sara stepped forward and laid one hand against his breast.

  “Kandor.”

  He reached up then, cupping her face between his hands. They were cool and bore the faintest scent of orvas.

  “It may be,” he said as he looked into the green of her eyes, “that my path differs from that of the Lady. I must try, little one.” But his words lacked conviction.

  “What is it that you must try, Kandor?”

  She knew what his answer would be and felt it keenly as his words touched her mind.

  “The destruction of the First of the Enemy.”

  She pulled her face away and turned her back upon him.

  “Sarillorn, in this your help is necessary.”

  “What can I do? I’ve tried to escape the confines of the palace before and I’m still here.”

  “Yes. And that troubles me.”

  She heard his words clearly and felt a growing ache as they echoed into silence. Trembling, she turned to face him again. He looked at her for a long while, his eyes unmoving and unblinking. At last he stepped forward, the light following his movement.

  “I do not understand what has happened here, Sarillorn, but be at peace. Either my hope will come true, or the Lady’s. If you have a choice in either, make your choice free of guilt or regret; we each must do what we perceive possible. For my part, I must contest the Servant of the Enemy. I ask for your help, but if you are unable to grant it, I ask only that you do not interfere. Do not warn him of our presence here.”

  “I—” She bent her head. “Kandor, Servant, I will do what I am able to do. But I—”

  His fingers touched her trembling lips, stilling their movement. “Hush, little one. For you the road must indeed be hard—I did not understand that until this moment. But I will trust what you are. Do you the same.”

  Mutely she shook her head from side to side, but the movement was so slight that Kandor appeared to have missed it. He continued to speak, his voice unbearably gentle. Tears touched the corners of Sara’s eyes, trailing listlessly down her cheeks. It had been long since she had heard a voice completely free from the shadow of the Enemy, and she discovered with pain and surprise that she had missed it.

  “On the morrow, Sarillorn, the initiates of Line Elliath will come with me to the palace. There we will confront the Dark Lord and attempt to bring about his destruction. He does not know of our presence—at great cost to Lernan. With surprise on our side, we should be able to accomplish our task.

  “If you will help us, do so. If you will not, absent yourself from the company of the First of the Enemy if you have that option.

  “But regardless of your choice, I bid you be at peace. Lernan alone knows what you have seen these four years, and to Lernan alone must you answer.”

  He bent his head then and gently kissed her brow. Leaning slightly into the comfort of the pressure of his mouth, she closed her eyes, and by doing so missed the look of pity that briefly touched his features. His arms enfolded her, cradled her in their warmth.

  That warmth lingered as the Servant of Lernan faded into the night as quietly as he had come, but with his passing the chill returned.

  In all her life, Sara, born Erin of Elliath, had never felt so alone.

  The morning came, gray and unrelenting. Sara pulled herself r
eluctantly from her bed and over to her closet. She opened the door weakly, sunlight at her back revealing the clothing that hung so lifelessly along the wall.

  Sara always dressed in such a way as to alleviate the gloom of Rennath, but for the first time in years it was not the darkness outside that she feared. Without thinking she pulled one robe out of the closet and brought it to her bed, where it was casually laid aside. She unfastened the ties of her nightclothing and stepped out of it, thinking about the day ahead. She would have to see to the infirmary, then journey out to the market’s center, to the place of judgment, where she would sit beside her Lord and listen to the pleas of those who had made it this far.

  Kandor. The name slid into her mind effortlessly, but it was not as easily dislodged. Shaking herself, she bent and began to fold her nightgown, placing it to one side of the bed. Emilee would come for it in half an hour, and in the eve a new gown would be available.

  Kandor. What must I do?

  Blindly she turned to the bed to lift the day’s clothing in tired hands. Only then, with the sunlight glinting off a circle of silver, did she see clearly which of her robes she had chosen. Picking it up, she clutched it tightly to her breast and cheek, waiting for tears that would not come.

  Stefanos stood at the end of the hall. Sara saw him clearly as she rounded the corner only minutes after leaving the physician’s rooms. She caught a glimmer of the sun from one of the high windows and, tracing that beam to the floor, sighed. Late again, as always.

  “Lady.” Stefanos bowed, low and formal, as she approached him. “The time draws near. Will you travel with me to the place of judgment?”

  “I will.” Her answer was automatic; she could say it without thought, as she had said it every week for the last year. The place of judgment was something she had taken from her people and, with no small effort, implanted here. Stefanos had been curious about it, the Church furious. She was never sure which of those two things had decided him.