Chains of Darkness, Chains of Light

by Michelle Sagara

  Lord Valens sat across from him, occupying the second of three velvet-lined chairs drawn evenly around a dark, flat table. For once, neither man wore the red and the black. Dramathan was resplendent in his lord’s role; his jacket was a mix of burgundy and gray velvets, domed at the shoulders and traced with silvered thread. His pants, velvet, also, were gray over supple black leather.

  Vellen wore his house colors, as well, but as he was not lord, he chose against the added warmth of heavy velvet. No, his jacket was deep blue silk over black laced fringes at throat and wrist. He wore no circlet, and the modest hat had been left at the door with one of the slaves.

  High priest or no, here he had come as Lord Vellen of Damion, and no other rank intruded. He glanced out the window almost impatiently and then relaxed; the sun still held high afternoon—evening was hours away.

  It was curious, though. Dramathan looked edgy and in ill humor. His smile was one of steel, but it was not aimed at Vellen—it couldn’t be. Lord Valens had successfully negotiated all that he desired; Vellen was in the lesser position.

  As he would be later this eve. The summons that he held in his breast pocket—no other word but summons could apply—seemed to writhe there like a living, burning thing. It had been some days since he had spoken with the Second of the Sundered, and he had had no word from the First. A poor choice, to assume that the Second had somehow prevailed.

  There were no ceremonies slated for the evening; the quarter was in midsession, and no deaths were demanded. But it would not be the first time that one of the Karnari had died in midquarter.

  He took another sip of the liquid and let it play across his tongue before swallowing. There was nothing he could do, of course, and that rankled. He would have to wait upon the First Servant’s word.

  Lord Valens lifted the silver decanter and poured himself another drink. His hands were steady, but his brow was cut by the lines of a severe frown. They eased somewhat when the knock came at the closed door.

  “Enter,” he said brusquely.

  Vellen turned his head to catch his third glimpse of Amalayna of Valens as she entered the room. Even his brows rose a fraction as he saw the colors she had chosen to wear: black and white. The colors of war and death—the colors of mourning.

  He couldn’t help himself then. He smiled broadly. This was the secret of Lord Valens’ annoyance, and he knew in a like position he would feel no different. He relaxed for the first time in two days and looked the lady up and down as she walked across the carpet, her eyes on her feet. She was quite lovely, in a pale, thin sort of way. Her age she wore well; he might have thought her just turned twenty. No colors had been added to her eyes, lips, or cheeks—and even in his opinion, this vanity would have served a purpose. No doubt Lord Valens had already made this clear and to little effect. He thought he might almost enjoy this interview.

  “Amalayna.”

  “Lord Valens.” She raised her head for the first time and met her father’s eyes. Her own were dark and heavily ringed.

  “We have a visitor, Lady. Comport yourself accordingly.”

  Her cheeks flushed, whether from anger or shame it was hard to tell—but if she were her father’s daughter, Vellen would guess the former. She said nothing, but turned to look at him.

  He could see her pass through images that she carried in memory as she sought to place his face and was pleased that he had chosen his house colors, his house crest. He saw his house come to her and waited as she tried to place his name. The reward of the slight astonishment she let touch her face was enough.

  “This is Lord Vellen of Damion,” Dramathan said almost wryly. He knew his daughter would have already picked up the unspoken second, and by far more important, title.

  She curtsied, holding the bend for just as long as his house title required and not nearly long enough for his Church rank. This, too, amused him.

  “Lord Vellen.” Her features were all smooth indifference and polite interest as she turned to face her father. “Lord Valens, you called me here. How may I be of assistance?”

  “You may be seated.” Cold were those words, a veil of frost over anger.

  She sat crisply, almost regally, either arm pressed gently against the rests.

  This was the type of obedience he liked least. Tentaris had not been as ideal a house as he could have wished if it had wrought such changes in her disposition. Tomorrow he would have slaves dispose of all of her current clothing. Only the burgundy and the grays would remain; she could choose among them until she learned that she was once again of House Valens.

  She asked no further questions; did not offer to refill either of the lords’ cups, although both were empty; did not attempt to join in pleasing conversation. How dare she wear her black and white here?

  No matter, he thought. No matter. All would go as planned, smoothly or no. “Amalayna.”

  “Lord?”

  “Lord Vellen of Damion has not come to see me; rather, it is you he pays court to.”

  “P-pardon?” She turned suddenly to catch the glint of Damion teeth and arrogance. Turned again to see her father’s impassive face. “Court?”

  “Indeed.”

  Vellen thought, at that moment, that the black and white she wore were superfluous. Her hair, against the pale ice of cheeks gone white, made her almost beautiful—a statue to commemorate mourning and loss. Perhaps Lord Valens did not drive too hard a bargain at that.

  He rose, offering the lady a steady hand.

  She rose as well, but there was little gracious in the movement. Her eyes were wide and dark, her hands light where they pushed him aside.

  “Amalayna!” Lord Valens’ roar filled the study, but it could not contain his wayward daughter, she was gone before the word could even echo, the doors swinging forcefully behind her.

  Lord Vellen of Damion smiled.

  Amalayna stared sightless at the adorned walls of her rooms. She had fled there because there was nowhere else to run. Her ribs, thin and sharp, cut into her lungs with every breath she took.

  She stood in front of a full-length portrait of Cessalia of Valens, resplendent in the burgundy and gray, the moon above her head, the body of a slain deer beneath her feet. Her hair, near as dark as Amalayna’s, was wild with wind and the hunt; a single diamond ensconced in a tiara glittered at the watching world. Night had taken the sky, and even the stars seemed small and weak in Cessalia’s presence.

  Amalayna bowed to her ancestor and wiped her cheeks uselessly with the back of her hand.

  Mother of us all. She couldn’t speak, but her lips moved over the words. I know what the house demands, but I cannot do this. Cessalia looked back, unmoved.

  My child ... I will lose my son.

  But she knew that it was not for her son that she had run; it was not for the living and the breathing that she truly cared. That weakness made her cringe. It was Laranth, and Laranth’s memory. How could she rite with any other, take any other, bear any other’s children?

  There was no knock at the door, but she could not help knowing that someone had entered the antechamber to her rooms. The walls resounded with the slam of the wood against them.

  Only one person would dare to enter so.

  The tears stopped, but their stain was evidence that spoke of her weakness when she could least afford it. She turned away from Cessalia and faced the door moments before her father made his way in.

  He was alone, and his face, as hers, was flushed crimson. She had never seen him so angry. He strode across the room, his heels grinding the carpet. One hand gripped her shoulder, and the other struck her face. Hard.

  Silence descended over the ringing in her ears, and she met her father’s gaze squarely. She had no words to offer him.

  “How dare you?”

  Tears filmed her eyes, and she held them in check. As a child she had learned what tears bought. But her silence was no gift to Lord Valens either. His hand caught her hair, twisting it in such a way that it held her face up.


  “I do not know what you did in House Tentaris, but you are not of that house any longer. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. Yes, father.”

  “Lord Vellen is leader of the Greater Cabal, and he is here to bargain for rites. To you.” He released her with a shove, and she stumbled, her back catching the edge of the frame that bound Cessalia. She caught it with her fingers, praying for strength.

  She knew well why her father was angry and knew that she had given him just cause. She knew even that he was probably right: Her relations in House Tentaris had weakened her severely. She would never have embarrassed her father so badly before she had lived there. Before Laranth ...

  “Amalayna!”

  She forced her eyes open enough to see the contempt in his. Those damnable tears had started again, and they wouldn’t stop.

  “I’m sorry,” she babbled. “I’m sorry.”

  “You will give your apology to Lord Vellen, Lady, and you will do so now.”

  She nodded.

  “And you will take off that dress—those colors will not be seen in my house—not by a member of my family!”

  She nodded again, but this time it was harder.

  “The house will lose or gain by your actions, Lady. Remember it.” He turned and stopped at the door. “Gather yourself.” His voice was chill. “You have shown enough weakness for this day.”

  She nodded again and felt wood splinters in her palm.

  If Laranth were still alive, she would be spared all of this. Lord Vellen could not court her, and her father’s rage wouldn’t touch her.

  The tears stopped then, as if a tap had been wrenched.

  If Laranth were still alive ...

  No, she thought. No ...

  “Stefanos.”

  The Lord of the Empire did not even raise his head, bent as it was over the steeple of his fingers. All around his feet, shadow pooled. Beneath it, he could see the slick surface of cold marble. His chambers were now complete. Or almost complete.

  Stefanos.

  His gaze slid away easily, finding walls that were the best example of mason work in his Empire. His work. It had taken time and power both, but still he was not satisfied.

  For the walls were bare.

  The time had come to alleviate that problem. The high priest would come to relinquish his hold on the council of the Karnari. Soon.

  “Stefanos.”

  He rose slowly, a glint of red in his eye. Around him, as around the marble, shadows whirled: He was the eye of their storm. He cast his glance out one last time, following the stone arches into their peaked dome. He had returned to his kingdom in darkness, in silence. From here, he would rule.

  “Stefanos.”

  “Sargoth, you annoy me.”

  “Yes,” the Second of the Sundered whispered. There was no triumph or caution in the word; that should have been warning enough.

  Stefanos was no fool, but he was angry, if so small a human word as anger could express the rage he barely contained. He was still; even the shadows around him became as cold and hard as ebony. But his eyes glowed a brilliant bloodred that haloed the room.

  “Our Lord,” Sargoth whispered, “has been calling.”

  Almost imperceptibly, Stefanos relaxed; a hint of his teeth showed themselves to Sargoth’s vision.

  “You may answer His call,” he replied. “I shall not. But whatever you choose, Second, you will leave to do it elsewhere.”

  Sargoth drifted backward, but his shadow did not diminish.

  Stefanos. Like a thread of fire, it wound its way around him, burning bright and cold. It was sure, the word, more of a command than any order. The Heart of the darkness; the voice of God.

  Stefanos pushed it aside, but he trembled in the doing. Only once before had he ever ignored his Lord’s summons.

  “First of the Sundered, there is no war between us.”

  “There is a death between us, Sargoth. Yours would ease it. Leave. ”

  “Only once before did you seek to turn away from God. Remember it. You lost the rim to the Light.”

  The rim ...

  For a moment there was no ground beneath his feet, no roof above his head, no stone or marble, no smell of dust and earth—no altar, gleaming and untouched in the center of an obsidian dais.

  But Light, there was Light. It was around him, seen in ways that human eyes could not conceive of. It was hideous; the sight of it unforgettable. Everything in him fought against it, fought to extinguish it.

  He remembered the rim. Clearly, as only a Servant could do, he called up the image of nebulous ribbons of entwined light and dark. Standing, drifting, so close to the body of the Light he could almost see it; darkness above and below, a shield and armor to wear gladly; red down his hands, red along his eyes. And she, opposite, a tiny figure pulsing with the green of her deity, her Lord; her shield more obvious, her power no less.

  There, the Lady named herself: Alariel.

  And there, he in return named himself: Stefanos.

  Hideous? No. Stark, and beautiful, as the war was.

  It was there he had defied God to answer the call of the Light with a cry of his own. The first cry, the first name the Sundered of the dark had ever taken.

  It was that name that bit into him now, twisting and turning as even the Light had never done.

  Stefanos. First of the Sundered. Answer.

  He fought against it as it grew; fought against himself as his blood answered. Only here, there was no Light to anchor himself against; no war that was more important than the Dark Lord’s order.

  The room dissolved around him; the shadows, no longer his own, closed inward, obscuring even his vision.

  And when they cleared, they fell away like fingers unclenching. This was the Hand of the Dark Heart. He stood in it, knowing how much his power counted against his Lord’s.

  Stefanos.

  “Lord.”

  You have been building.

  There was silence. A human might have been choking here, in frustration and rage. No mortal was the First of the Sundered.

  I have felt the power ebb.

  “Lord.”

  You may use it.

  For a moment he wanted to. He held his peace, waiting the time necessary before his return.

  But use it only in my name and only in my work.

  “Your . . . work, Lord?”

  There is one among your mortals; he is to be left alive.

  Mortals? The air around the First of the Sundered grew red. “Have you not interfered enough? The mortal plane is—”

  It is yours as I will it. Shadows writhed like captive dancers in the plane. The Dark Heart’s anger was no less than that of his Servant’s. The shadow grew almost solid in substance.

  Stefanos felt the wave wash around him cleanly. Pain, too minor to be acknowledged, flowed through him. He felt no fear; even his anger seemed to have passed. The fury of the Dark Heart could only destroy one separate from His essence. Perhaps it could a lesser Servant, but not the greatest among them. At least, not here. Not in this plane.

  But in the mortal plane, His given power would be strong indeed. Who then to wield it? Sargoth? He thought carefully: No. There are two others. And he would be damned before he saw his Empire fall to either.

  “Which mortal?” He knew the answer before it came.

  The one the Second calls Vellen.

  Very well. Stefanos seemed to relax. The Dark Heart’s game was entwined with Sargoth’s somehow. “And in return?”

  The plane.

  Nothing more, nothing less.

  “As you will it, Lord.” He stepped back and began to unfurl the shadows.

  Stefanos, the Second is useful to me. His voice is not as strong, but you will not take him.

  Sargoth? “No, Lord.”

  He said nothing else; he had no need to. They were kin, these two, and they both understood well that this was not the last time they would meet, nor the last they would clash.

  But only the one k
new what the outcome could be. And He was well satisfied.

  chapter five

  But Stefanos was angry.

  Here, in a velvet imitation of darkness upon his mortal throne, that anger twisted. If there were games to be played, they would be his games.

  Fire flickered around his fingers; the fire of Sargoth’s plane. His eyes silvered, a glint pale and cold, as the blossom bit at his palm. With a shake of his head he clamped down on the gate, and the fire guttered.

  It was almost time to think of other things.

  He gestured, and a map spread itself out in the center of his audience chamber. From perfect memory he drew its thin red lines, contouring them for mountain or valley, twisting them for lake or stream.

  Veriloth. He formed her cities carefully, placing them exactly as they stood, with their nebulous boundaries and outlying farmlands. He knew them well; they were his, part of the red net he cast.

  Last, he drew Marantine in lines of white. The borders here were pink and imprecise, but the mountain ranges were crisp and clear, almost as much so as Dagothrin. Its cursed walls were once again secure against him.

  He paid a bitter salute to his bygone foe. What she had built, she had built well. He was certain that she had not built it alone; not even she could have contained all of the power necessary to do so.

  It mattered little. He had centuries, should he so choose, in which to discover its secrets. Perhaps he would order Sargoth to those very walls, and when they were his again, he would somehow have them dismantled.

  He rose; he found his throne tiring. Black marble passed quietly beneath his feet until he stood facing this miniature creation of his world.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Enter.”

  It didn’t creak as it slid open, but it disturbed the air enough to catch his ear. Very slowly, the map a glow at his back, he turned to face his visitor.

  The high priest stood, resplendent in full ceremonial garb. A red, high collar rose above the back of his head, and a simple tiara encircled his brow. His shoulders, padded and pointed, were also red; silk fell to the floor like a liquid, ending in a black hem above his feet. Red was the color of power in Veriloth; only the black, dark sash and the hem at foot and sleeve spoke of the source of that power.