Into the Dark Lands

by Michelle Sagara

  She focused on the two of them and began to push her way through the crowd. People parted only slowly, and she felt the hands and fingers of many brush against the gray of her robes, and heard the whisper of plea or prayer that accompanied the gestures. Not now.

  The huddled figure drew closer, and as it did, it straightened suddenly and looked up.

  Contact.

  Pain. Anger. Fear—the last, so strong and fierce and pure because it was fear for another, born out of love and desperation. The blue, blank eyes gave way to a storm that streaked out to touch the Sarillorn of Elliath, to call her forward.

  The smaller figure pulled at the larger one, wordless, and the larger one—caught by Sara’s eyes—pushed her away.

  The little one, whose face was still soft with the contours of youth, whispered something that Sara could not catch. The older woman spoke, her voice harsh but low. The girl nodded and held out a hand, which her mother took firmly. Her eyes never left Sara’s face.

  As Sara reached them, she gave a half bow; the only public acknowledgment she could make of their loss. Nor was the bow returned, but she hadn’t expected it to be.

  The woman stood her ground; she did not flinch as Sara reached out and gripped her arm with one strong hand. She touched the child in the same way.

  “Come,” she said softly.

  “Where?” The woman spoke the tongue of Veriloth.

  “To the Lord. I—” Her voice broke as she turned her eyes away from the woman’s pain. She caught herself and forced words past stiff lips. “I wish to—to claim your ownership.”

  “We are already owned.” As if to make the point more clearly, the woman raised her right arm. Her sleeve rolled away to reveal the mark of the House Calvar. She nodded at her daughter to do likewise, but Sara had a firm grip on the girl’s arm, and not for such a statement would she release it.

  Taking a deep breath, Sara said, “You bear the mark of House Calvar. Yet you are not in their holdings now.”

  “What matter? We will be returned there soon enough.” At this, the woman’s eyes flared briefly to life as they darted to the child she and her husband had failed. Her husband . . . Sara caught the wave of her pain and her grip tightened.

  “You will not be returned to them. They have proven their . . . dereliction of ownership. You should know that anyone can claim ownership of you now. Come. Please.”

  The woman began to walk forward, but suddenly stopped, grasping tight the hand that held her.

  “Lady.” She fell awkwardly to her knees, bowing her head to hide her expression. “Lady, if you claim us ... we’d heard that—will you—” She took a deep breath. “This is my only surviving child. She has been a good slave of the high nobility since she turned four. She will serve you well if you will take her for your own.” Her grip faltered then, as did her voice.

  Sara started to speak, stopped, and took a breath. When she began again, she whispered in the tongue of the condemned man.

  “Lady, you came to me for mercy, at the cost of your husband’s life. I cannot save him, but he knew this before he came forward. But both you and your child I can help. By the law that condemns your husband, I can claim you.”

  And if your husband had not come to me in the place of judgment, had he stopped me on the street or in procession, I could have saved you all.

  She pushed the thought away, but it stung her deeply. He could not have known this; he could only know that she would preside, with their Lord, over the judgment, and that only free men could plead their cases.

  As a free man he had come, for the first and last time.

  She was determined to make him understand that his courage had meaning. More brusquely than intended, she pulled Ranin’s wife forward, lapsing once again into the harsh tongue of Veriloth. “Come.”

  This time the woman followed with no further comment. The child was reticent, but took her lead from her mother.

  Sara strode through the opening in the crowd, her face set and grim. She walked the path that any supplicant might walk, her eyes searching for the guards and their precious prisoner. Already he was almost beyond hearing; what she had to say must be said quickly.

  She stopped at the foot of the dais and turned to her two followers, releasing them. “Give me your arms.”

  The tone of her voice left no question as to which arm she referred to. Mother and child, in one movement that spoke of years of slavery, did as they were told, turning their sleeves back to reveal the scars beneath them. Sara gripped one arm in each hand and raised them both.

  “Lord, I have found two slaves of the House Calvar in the common market. I claim them for my own.” Her voice was that of a priestess: loud, clear, and too resonant to be missed.

  Watching her from the dais, Stefanos frowned. “They are running from their house?”

  “Their house is my house now. They will not run from me.”

  The frown increased slightly. “They bear the brand of Calvar.”

  “Yes. But they are not in Calvar holdings.” She met the dark of his eyes with defiance. “And by your law, what Calvar cannot hold, they cannot keep. By your law, and the laws of your land, I claim the two for personal service.”

  Stefanos watched the tears that formed at the corners of Sara’s eyes, watched the intensity of the corded light that flared from an invisible center to weave round each of the two slaves. His eyes flickered back to the guards that held the slave he had declared criminal.

  Calvar is a powerful house, Sarillorn. Can you never see the cost of your decision? His fear was not for himself.

  But he knew she would accept any cost; the light told him that. And because of the light, he would accept any cost, for he knew that to refuse her this, when it was within the bounds of the written law, would be to lose her.

  He raised one hand, gave one order, and the group escorting the slave halted, turned, and faced them.

  “Very well, Lady Sara. I accept your claim. These two are yours; you may do as you see fit with them.” Calvar he could deal with far more easily than the Sarillorn’s pain.

  She lowered the branded arms, feeling the tremors in the older one. Her eyes flitted outward to Ranin; she could still see him clearly, although he was almost out of the square.

  Quietly she bowed, this one low and formal; it was the salute of Elliath. He could not return the bow; he was anchored by guards on either side, but she saw the slight bob of his head. More she could not see; his face was too distant.

  He smiled, she thought. Please, Lernan. He smiled.

  And then she was crying. She tried to keep her knees from touching the ground. Darkness enveloped her; cold arms circled her shoulders and waist.

  Oh, Kandor, she thought, unable to hold herself from her Lord’s support. Kandor, it’s so dark. It is so dark.

  chapter sixteen

  The carriage ride home was uneventful, or so Sara believed; she remembered little of it. She left her Lord at the front gate, shunning his offered arm as if it could brand her as her new slaves had been branded.

  “Sara.”

  She shook her head from side to side without turning back.

  “Sara!”

  This stopped her, although it took a little while to realize why. His hands were upon her shoulders before it came to her that Stefanos had shouted. In all her years at Rennath, she had never heard him do so; if he raised his voice at all, it was to ensure that feeble human ears received proper orders if they were too distant.

  “Lady, why are you running?”

  For a brief instant she leaned her back against his chest and felt the circle of his arms around her waist. Was I running, Lord? It was an almost idiotic thought. She closed her eyes as his cheek brushed against hers. I’ve not run from you for—

  She saw again Ranin’s desperate, broken face in the darkness against her lids, heard again Kandor’s gentle voice and wrapped it around his mission: We must save the people of Veriloth. I am here to destroy—

  With a harsh, sh
arp breath, she broke away.

  “Sara?”

  She wheeled around, her cheeks flushed with anger and guilt. “Damn you!”

  He took a step backward at the unfamiliarity of the guttural words. A mild surprise flitted across his face—that and something else, both of which Sara ignored.

  “Why wouldn’t you spare his life? You know why he came to me! You could hear every word he spoke!” Her hands shot up to grip the folds of his robes.

  Neutrally he said, “Lady, you know the laws of my land.”

  “I know that they’re your laws; you made them, you can break them!”

  “And yet you have said that my word, once given, should be binding.”

  It was true; Sara could not deny it. In the first few months of her stay, she had tried so hard to make him understand how the value of the given word, a Lord’s promise, would not weaken his rule. His assertion did nothing to assuage her anger; instead, it heightened it.

  “That was a question of honor—this is a question of justice and mercy! That man was doing the only thing he could to save his daughter from—”

  “In my empire, slaves have no rights to the lives of their children.”

  “Yes!” She was close to tears. “In your God-cursed, damnable empire!” She threw her hands up, releasing him as if the contact burned her.

  We must save the people of Veriloth. Sarillorn, will you aid us? Erin, we’re here to free you. What’s wrong?

  Stop it! She brought her hands up to her ears. Just stop it! I know what you’re saying!

  She felt a roiling darkness within her, as pain mixed with sorrow and fury.

  Stefanos stood, completely still, in the silence in front of her.

  “Stefanos, please . . .” The anger fell away from her voice. “Please, give me some reason . . .”

  “Lady, do not—”

  “Give me one reason. Please, if it’s not too late, give me this one life. Let me know that you understand.”

  He caught her hands.

  “Lady, why is this one life so important today? You must know that this happens—”

  She tore her hands away as he opened the wound of her guilt. “I know what happens!” For so long, the knowledge of all the death and pain that she couldn’t see or touch, had eroded the joy she felt when she was able to help.

  “Kill him, then. Do what you want, Lord. You’re a Servant of the Enemy; it’s what you do best.”

  She turned and fled across the courtyard, sunlight twisting her shadow along the cool, perfect stone. This time he did not stop her. Her words lingered in the air, and around them, the cold of her absence. Once he started forward, stopping himself before he could take a step—and hated the lack of control the action showed, although none but himself was witness to it.

  Once she had entered the castle, she leaned against the gray of the walls of the north hall, her cheek cooling against the touch of stone. She longed to escape to her room, but there was one more thing to do: Claim her new slaves from the slavemaster Kadrin’s tender mercies. She was exhausted; her hands and arms shook as she pressed them tightly against her body. She took a few moments to steel herself against the pain in the eyes that she walked to meet and brace herself against the gratitude that showed her more clearly than anything else the magnitude of the empire’s crime.

  The empire, Sara? Say rather, the First Servant. Say Stefanos.

  Her fist struck the wall and slid downward. She cursed, knowing that the two would be waiting under the fear that she had proved false to her word. She could see the mother’s arm wreathed tightly and protectively around the daughter’s shoulders, see the way they would cringe upon sighting her, their eyes full of hope and the expectation of the loss of even that.

  But even knowing how they must feel, she could not quite gather the strength to leave the silent hall. Bitterly she thought, Am I never to have a moment of life to call my own? Is there never a day when I can lay aside responsibility? Must I always have to be so damnably strong?

  The answer returned to her.

  Sarillorn, you have changed.

  And because acknowledgment of that silent voice demanded more strength than facing the slaves, she ran from it, her feet striking the floor. But it echoed within her, the way the worst of fears always does.

  Kadrin looked up as Lady Sara burst into the room. She could see the faint hint of surprise across his rounded features as the door slammed once against the wall. Taking a deep breath, she schooled her expression.

  “Kadrin, I’ve come to see to the two slaves that were brought in from—from the market.”

  “They are here, Lady.” He rose from behind the desk he occupied, straightening his brown tunic as was his habit. “Wait but a moment, and they will be with you.”

  She nodded and he left.

  True to his word, he was back in a moment, turning to say a few words that she couldn’t quite catch to someone the door obscured. He entered the room, and behind him trailed the woman and child that Sara had seen earlier.

  The woman looked up warily, and in her eyes were all the emotions that Sara had expected. The foreknowledge stopped her from flinching.

  “Lady.” The woman gave a low, cringing bow, one that her child was quick to copy. In the daughter’s face, angular and thin, the mother’s heritage was obvious. Sara watched their foreheads touch the ground at the same moment and shuddered.

  She looked away from them to the only other person in the room and met the dark concern of his eyes.

  Sara, you’ve got to practice more control. Her mouth folded awkwardly into the semblance of a smile.

  “Lady?”

  “Return to your duties, Kadrin. After I have spoken with these two, I shall send them to you for housing and general instruction.”

  He bowed. “I understand they are to serve you personally?”

  She nodded again, this time more emphatically, feeling the woman’s eyes upon her.

  “Very well, Lady. Do you wish to use this room to conduct your meeting, or will you speak with them elsewhere?”

  The question was pure formula; Kadrin knew well that Sara spoke with new slaves in her personal rooms. He gave her a soft smile in acknowledgment of this and was troubled when it slid off her face without changing it.

  “I’ll talk to them in my rooms.” In a falsely bright voice, she added, “They’ll have to know some of the geography of the palace, so they might as well begin now. That way they won’t be in the same straits I was for my first year or so.”

  Kadrin smiled, forbearing to correct his lady. It had been perhaps fourteen months before she could wander anywhere in the castle without getting lost.

  Again his smile had no effect. “Lady, does something trouble you?”

  Her eyes met his, and he took a step back.

  “Come,” Sara said softly, holding out one hand to the child. The girl gave her mother a nervous look, and her mother returned a forcible nod—both of which made Sara regret the openness of the gesture. Timidly the girl walked forward and placed one of her hands in Sara’s. It was cold and shook visibly.

  “Come, little one. Your mother follows us. There is nothing to fear.”

  She said it, knowing that she would not be believed, not yet. But this is what I’m good at. She sighed, taking little comfort from the truth of the thought.

  Silent, they walked down the hall toward the steps that led to her rooms. There was a grim air about the walk, as if it were a funereal procession.

  Which it is.

  She felt tears start and pushed them back in near fury. Why did anyone choose to love in the empire? Its cost was so plain and so unavoidable. She saw it in the face of the two that walked with her, a shadow that no amount of light would ease.

  And then she caught the direction of the thought and turned her face away from the child at her side to allow a few meager tears the escape they demanded.

  I’ve changed.

  She could not see the way the girl’s face tilted up at the sight
of her or the curiosity flickering amid the pain and loss.

  They walked in a silence made of bated breath and sorrow.

  At length they came to the wing that was Sara’s. She turned to her young charge and watched her as they passed the various tapestries that lent warmth to stone.

  Although the child kept her head forward, Sara could see her eyes flicker from side to side, trying to take in the elements of the woven tales all at once. This was one of the reasons they had been put here, and as Sara’s eyes joined the girl’s, she drew on the second reason—memory. For along the walls was much of the history of Elliath, from the death of Gallin of Meron, whom all lines could claim, to the founding of the seven lines. She looked at the face of Gallin, so painstakingly, mortally woven, and met his cloth-bound eyes. As always, the contrast of eyes and face surprised her and humbled her, for his features were distorted by extreme pain—one of his limbs was caught in the process of burning away—but his eyes were full of a deep and endless peace.

  Did the women who wove your countenance truly capture you so well, or do I imagine you as clearly as the line knows you existed?

  He had no answers; at least the lifelike quality did not give him speech, although she often expected it.

  She turned to the child, and the child’s glance darted almost guiltily away. She did the only thing she could; she kept walking. The girl relaxed.

  Yet again Sara stopped, toward the end of the hall. And once more, eyes captured her—but this time, they were no mortal eyes.

  Lady.

  Sara resisted the urge to bow, although she normally did so when unaccompanied. Her free hand went up and stopped just short of the flat, silken face.

  Mother of Elliath. The Lady looked outward, through her lost granddaughter, and beyond the tapestries that hid the walls on the other side. She was robed in the simplest of white, a gown unadorned by even the circle that symbolized the continuity and wholeness of the line. Her arms fell out to either side upon the knees of the legs crossed beneath her.