Chains of Darkness, Chains of Light

by Michelle Sagara

  Cynthia’s face, frozen in a silent scream, had burned itself across his inner eyelids. Such a death not even his slaves met at the altars.

  What use power now?

  Cynthia ...

  Thirteen houses. Thirteen deaths.

  Vellen glanced impatiently at the back of his driver. He clamped back an order and tried to settle into the padded carriage seats; the rough movement of wheel over stone told him that the horses could not be pressed much faster. The streets emptied at his passing; colorful glints of fleeing merchant-wear and market slaves told him that none so far had been foolish enough to remain in the path of his coach. All the better; he could not afford any delay. If any were idiot enough to get caught beneath his wheels—never mind it. The thought of the death he’d evoke had no glamor or distraction for him at the moment.

  Thirteen houses.

  And no coincidence that the Karnari numbered thirteen, either. No coincidence that the slaves had slept untouched and untroubled while members of the house proper bled their lives away to feed a walking Servant.

  He looked around from side to side as the market stalls moved past his carriage window.

  Was there not life here to take? Many of these stalls fronted houses, where the so-called free slept closeted with their abundant families in their mundane, thin little homes. Was there not enough in the north city near the docks?

  He closed his eyes, shutting the city out for the moment. Perhaps, perhaps he could use this to his advantage. Perhaps, in the council meeting that he drove so speedily to, the loss of each house would be a bargaining tool for him. Perhaps he would be allowed a graceful exit from his dealing with Lord Valens.

  If the council still existed at all.

  Vellen, was this in response to an action of yours?

  Yes.

  The leader of the Greater Cabal clenched his jaw in silence. In anger.

  All this, all of it, for the sake of one half-blood woman.

  Red light eddied in the shadows near the pillars, a spill of liquid from a dark communion. The First of the Sundered watched it in silence, well satisfied.

  This peace, this warmth—he had not known it for centuries. Even perfect memory had denied him this satiation.

  Twenty-seven dead.

  Twenty-seven splintered souls, broken and lost in the wash of his power. His power; not God’s. He smiled, and the light crept up the pillars like a flag.

  Not for years had he been at the zenith of his strength. That had changed, and much would change with it. Was he not the Lord of the Empire?

  He stood stiffly, his hands still touching the armrests of his throne. Claws, sharp and cold, left their mark as he at last stepped away. His arms he threw wide in a fan of red glory. Even the acolytes levels above would feel this and know that he had truly arrived.

  Shadow bubbled up in dense clouds before him. A red lattice danced around it as the door opened to starred and clear sky.

  He told no one where he was going.

  He barely thought about it himself.

  And his feet made no trace in the darkened grass beneath them as he trod through the careful construction of hedgework that was the maze. Flowers and grass he could barely smell, so strong and cloying was the scent of his Enemy’s blood.

  Yet he stayed, to begin his search anew before the hours of dawn.

  He did not see Sargoth, for the Second was skilled indeed in the use of God’s power. No sound of Sargoth’s curses reached his immortal ears. No trace of Sara’s presence was caught in the intricate strands of the web he wove, no matter how long or how far it stretched.

  He could not say why he wanted her body. But he searched for it anyway.

  chapter six

  Getting into Verdann was surprisingly easy. The guards at the gates gave them no trouble—they didn’t even bother with a cursory glance at the various citizenship papers that Hildy carried, invisibly, upon her person. Not that Hildy had them ready; it only encouraged the boys, as she said, to be bullies.

  Erin looked at the “boys” a little doubtfully and wondered just how the Verdann city guards would feel if they heard her. Their armor, for the most part, was in good repair, and the scars along the exposed skin of their hands and faces showed that the weapons they wore weren’t decoration. She almost smiled in spite of herself when the captain of the gates came out from the guard post; he was nearly Hildy’s age, although he didn’t come close to matching her weight, and he wore his authority like a mantle. His armor was black, but there was no red to mar it. Light glinted off the chain of his arms as he waved them through.

  “I can’t believe it,” Erin whispered to the older woman as the wagons began to lurch and roll. “They didn’t even inspect the cargo.”

  Hildy smiled. The smile was a rare one, for there was a hint of genuine malice combined with amusement in it.

  “House Boradil owns half the guards at the north and east gates, dear.”

  It was the northern gates that they passed under. These gates were not so high or fine as those of Dagothrin; designed and built by mortal hands, they had weathered time poorly. There were cracks in the mortar that held the stones together, and the wood was warped in many places.

  The main thoroughfare was almost deserted; those farmers that had goods to bring had long since passed this way, but it was still too early in the day for them to leave.

  Erin looked at the streets as their cobbled stone passed beneath the wagon wheels, trying to remember if they had looked the same on her previous visit. Here and there the road was cobbled solidly, but there were large stretches of dirt flanked by rocks and early weeds. The horses seemed to prefer the dirt.

  “Darin, dear,” Hildy called.

  Darin looked up, and Erin was shocked at the expression on his face.

  Seeing it mirrored in her reaction, he struggled with a smile. “Yes?” His voice was very quiet.

  “I think you’d better come up here with us. You can ride in the wagon, if you’d prefer.”

  He frowned slightly. “Why?”

  “We’ll be heading to the compound in the warrens.” She paused, then pulled the wagon to a slow crawl. “Darin.” Her voice was very soft. “We aren’t going to the market.”

  He closed his eyes and nodded, the lines of his jaw tense. “I know.”

  Erin slid off the wagon and walked around its back. She didn’t remember the roads here clearly, but she knew now that Darin did: the roads and more.

  She put an arm around his shoulder and gently drew him to the cab. “Ride with Hildy, Patriarch of Culverne.” She said his title lightly and gently. “I’ve been lazy long enough.”

  “But you’re a—”

  A firm finger pressed against his lips very quickly. “Don’t say it. Say: ‘You’re a warrior,’ or I’ll think you’ve spent too long in the Empire.” The words were sharp, but again the voice was light and gentle.

  “You’re a warrior.” His hand trembled slightly as Hildy reached down to help him up.

  Erin looked down at her hip self-deprecatingly. “Without a weapon.” She sighed. “Do you know what a weaponsmaster would say if he could see me now?”’

  “No, what?” Tiras asked.

  Erin laughed and went to retrieve her sword. “Never mind. I couldn’t ever get the voice right without destroying my throat—to say nothing of the words.”

  The compound looked every inch a prison camp to Erin’s eyes. Wire, barbed every eight inches, was wrapped quite tightly around thick, wooden poles and pulled taut in seven evenly spaced rows. There was a gate, large enough to pass the wagons through, that would open onto the grounds that fronted a small but well-kept building.

  Erin gave Darin a quick, sideways glance, but he seemed relaxed now; wherever he had been kept in Verdann, it was not in a place such as this.

  Hamin caught her staring as they approached the compound. He grinned. “Quite a sight, isn’t it?”

  She nodded.

  “It isn’t just for show—you need security in
the warrens.”

  “Why does Hildy stay here?”

  “The warrens aren’t well patrolled, at least in practice.” He walked over to the gates and raised his hand to catch a short, thick rope. Bells clattered in the quiet street, and the horses skittered nervously. “Sorry about that; you need it to catch Burrows’ attention.”

  The door of the low, squat building burst open, and an elderly man, with an expression as grim as his holdings, hobbled out toward the gate. He held a dark, thick cane in wide, bent fingers. As he approached, Erin could see the lines of a squint around his eyes—the day was very bright.

  “What’s this, then?” he bellowed, in a quavering, low voice.

  “Knock it off, Burrows,” Hamin said curtly, rolling his eyes. “It’s just us.”

  “Oh.” Burrows seemed to look momentarily deflated. “Well, then, let me get the gate.” He straightened out, losing years in the process. At this distance, the gray in his hair was suddenly suspect, as were some of the darker lines of his narrow face. Even the clothing he wore seemed to lose the patina of age that Erin had noted at a distance; they were brown overalls with carefully placed patches that now seemed superfluous.

  “Early, aren’t you?”

  “A couple of weeks.”

  Burrows grinned and opened his mouth to display a broken row of teeth. Not all of his age was mimicry.

  “Don’t even think of asking us for papers. It’s been a long day.”

  “Right.” The gates swung open. “Any problems getting here?”

  “Not today.”

  Burrows looked out. “Ah, well.” He scratched the side of his face absently. “Maybe it’s because you look too well armored. I could take care of—”

  “Burrows!”

  “Right.” He stepped out of the way, and the wagons began to roll forward. Hildy leaned slightly to the right, her hands still holding the reins.

  “Burrows, dear, do be a good boy. We have three new friends with us, and I’d hate them to think that I choose inappropriate warrens.”

  His sigh was quite audible and quite genuine. “Yes, Hildy,” he offered meekly.

  “Have you had any trouble, dear?”

  “Some from Milford; nothing I can’t handle.”

  She shook her head. “I thought Milford might grow out of his dangerous precociousness.”

  Burrows rolled his eyes as he began to walk alongside the horses. “He isn’t exactly dangerous, Hildy.”

  “No, I don’t suppose so. But he’s very—” She shrugged, searching for the right word. “—well, rude.”

  “Rude. Right.” Burrows reached for the reins.

  “Still, dear, you were rather rude when you first came to work for me. Maybe he’ll change after all.”

  Burrows muttered something under his breath.

  Darin, missing it, found himself stretching forward to catch whatever else Burrows would say.

  Hildy caught him by the shoulder. “Don’t fall off, Darin.” She grinned. “If you want to know, I’d bet gold that he said ‘It’s a good thing Hildy only manages the money.’ ”

  “Bad bet, boy,” Burrows called out. “Hildy’s ears are better at her age than most are at yours.”

  Hildy beamed. “A compliment. How nice.” She pushed herself off the cab and hit the ground with a soft thud. “Burrows, dear.” Her arms, still bundled for cold although the day was distinctly warm, swept out to either side.

  “Aw, Hildy—not in front of—”

  She gave him a bear’s hug, or the next best thing to it. Darin had a suspicion that Burrows would have preferred the real thing.

  Especially when Hamin began to laugh loudly.

  The inside of the building—Burrows’ house, or Hildy’s Verdann headquarters—was as spare and solid as the outer walls. There were windows that let in the light, but these were heavily barred—as if anyone could get to them in the first place.

  A large kettle was beginning to bubble over the wood-burning iron stove, and cups had already been laid out across the length of a simple rectangular table. Chairs had been hastily gathered from the other three rooms, and although they didn’t match the table particularly well, they were taken quite gratefully by Burrows’ visitors.

  “Sorry about the tea,” Burrows murmured, as he tended to the kettle. “It’s Iverson blend.”

  Hildy sighed. “Well, it is that time of year after all.”

  Tiras nodded his agreement in silence.

  But while Tiras and Hildy might commiserate in their knowledge of tea drinking, Erin found the brew offered by their host to be quite good. It wasn’t fragrant—no hint of perfume or flower scent touched it—but it was heavy and solid. It reminded her of her early life; she could almost hear the echo of Katalaan’s voice rippling between the kitchen shutters—shutters that had been forever swinging in the wake of Katalaan’s presence, passing the scent of baking bread, cakes, or meals into the whole of the house.

  But Katalaan’s table had never hosted such a fellowship, and with a sigh, she turned herself to the matters at hand.

  “Are there any newcomers?”

  Burrows’ smile was a weary one. “Three this time. Word of the ‘fall’ of Illan has been slow to spread. You know that the Church doesn’t encourage rumor-mongering.”

  Hildy touched his arm gently. “I’ve brought a few papers—Boradil seals. I think they’ll cover three. And dear, there will be more; news like this can’t be supressed forever.”

  He smiled again, but this time the expression was caught somewhere between hope and indulgence. “Thanks, Hildy.”

  “Where are they?”

  “At the usual place; I’ve told ’em to expect you, but not for two weeks.”

  “Well, we’ll be there in a few hours—I’m sure we can get an introduction without too much pain.”

  The Servants, whether of Light or Dark, had always possessed the ability to memory-walk. Every scene that they had passed through, whether briefly or at length, could be called up and examined in minute, silent detail. Any scent, any color, any conversation, all could be brought back whole and exact.

  Even two mortals could not agree on all the details their own lesser memory held—but the Servants, no matter their number, could speak and nod in total assent.

  Erin wondered how it was that their descendants often missed receiving that gift. Especially now.

  The streets of the warren, with their high, thin wooden buildings and their narrow thoroughfares, had wound their ways into the warren’s center, following Hildy’s steady lead. The wagons, left at the compound under Burrows’ scrutiny, would barely have maneuvered many of the sharper turns and potholed roadways, so it was just as well they were left.

  People passed them in the streets, but few indeed were those who stopped to speak or nod hello; for the most part, seeing the armed escort that walked with Hildy, people elected either to cross the street or melt into the shadows of the alleys.

  Erin wondered where they were going, but felt it wasn’t her position to ask; she walked with the guard, weapon out and readied in a steady hand. Only when Hildy called a stop did she begin to recognize where they were.

  The dilapidated sign of the Red Dog hung undisturbed over her head. Erin’s eyes widened, and then she smiled at her reflection in the dusty glass of a large, flat window. Almost hesitantly, she reached out and touched the distorted image; her fingers came away dirty.

  “Looks better than the last time we saw it,” she heard at her shoulder. She turned to look at Darin and realized for the first time that he was almost her height.

  “You’ve grown,” she said, before she could stop herself.

  He still blushed.

  “Sorry. I sound like a grandmother.” Then she stopped and looked at him more closely. “Darin.”

  He nodded.

  “Have you—Is your voice cracking?”

  “Not much,” he answered shortly. He was embarrassed.

  “I hadn’t noticed. Is that why you haven’t been tal
king?” The instant she said it, she truly wished her foot could fit into her mouth. “Uh—maybe we should go in.”

  He caught her arm. “Erin—it is, a little. Why I haven’t been talking, I mean.” Each word deliberate and controlled.

  She knew what the other reason was and hugged him, hoping that wouldn’t embarrass him more.

  “Well, dears, are you going to go in, or are you going to stand here blocking the door?”

  Erin laughed. “We’ll go in. There’s someone I want to say hello to.” She caught Darin’s arm in hers. “Someone we both want to say hello to.”

  “Uh, Erin?”

  “Yes?”

  “The sword, dear.”

  “Oh.” Metal slid into the scabbard, but the lack of a weapon didn’t make her feel nervous. Not here.

  The door swung open before her, and she looked into the dark, noisy den of the Red Dog. At midafternoon, it was still well over half-full, and the charming assortment of round tables and mismatched chairs was spotted with the customers that the warrens attracted.

  Halfway into the tavern, a barmaid was busy dropping an empty tray on the unadorned head of an older customer while his cohorts laughed loudly. She herself was laughing, although her smile was anything but blushing; she was not a young woman, just a very competent, attractive one.

  The injured man seemed to take it all in stride, and if he looked disappointed, it was obvious even at this distance that he was completely familiar with such a feeling.

  Which was good; Verdor’s inn didn’t allow for much other expression of disappointment when it came to the availability of his staff.

  “Hey—are you coming in, or are you just holding the door for the flies?”

  That voice, Erin felt she would recognize anywhere. But she hesitated on the threshold, as if just remembering all of the trouble that she—they—had caused the last time they had stayed at the inn.

  The bartender stepped out from behind his counter, his large, square hands already forming fists against his hips. He wore a soiled apron over a heavy, brown shirt that had been rolled up by obviously dirty hands.