Chains of Darkness, Chains of Light

by Michelle Sagara

  The Sword shrugged. “It happens.”

  “I do not believe he is of Tentaris.”

  “That is a serious accusation.”

  “Be that as it may, it is still true.” He stepped forward, limp pronounced.

  The Sword was silent a moment, then he nodded. “Where are you staying?”

  “At an inn for the moment, sir, but it hardly matters. You can’t possibly give credence to—”

  “Can’t I?” The Sword thrust out a mailed hand. “Papers, please.”

  “I’m hardly a common peasant; do you think I carry these things with me to satisfy the whim of rather rude nobles? I’ve never been so insulted—”

  “Silence!”

  “Oh, I’m terribly sorry, were you trying to say something?”

  Erin cringed. But she’d seen Renar in action before and knew that there was still some small chance that he survived his flowery stupidity.

  Not a good one, though. The Sword stepped forward and pushed her to one side. She stumbled back, and another set of arms righted her.

  “I’m-going-to-kill-him-if-the-Sword-doesn’t.” Tiras was also capable of a whisper that went only inches from his lips.

  “Please—do you have any idea of what this jacket cost?”

  There was a small shriek as Renar was lifted, without difficulty, off the ground. “Shut up.”

  “You only had to ask.”

  His eyes rolled, and Erin was certain she heard the rattle of teeth.

  “Enough of this! If you’re Tentaris, there’s a sure way to prove it. Halison, Morete!”

  Two of the Swords moved into position on either side of the beleaguered Renar.

  “Take him and make sure he stays quiet!” He turned to look at Erin, Tiras, Corfaire, and Darin. “You’re with him?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Follow.”

  “Uh, my good man, do you mind telling me where?”

  An elbow was planted into Renar’s soft stomach, and he folded.

  “Tentaris, of course.”

  Almost as one, the Swords formed up. They marched in order. Erin and her companions fell somewhere in the center of the group, and not by their own volition.

  Gerald and Cospatric sheathed their swords and took up step in the back rank. The difference in their training showed, for where Gerald’s step was crisp and even, naturally falling into the beat of the Swords, Cospatric’s was more obviously wary and individual.

  Behind them, Lord Sentamos returned to his litter. But his orders were clearly heard even above the din of the market and the grinding step of well-heeled boot.

  “To House Tentaris, quickly!”

  Lady Amalayna of Valens sat quietly in the darkened window seat that overlooked the garden’s glowing lamps. Pale light had been trapped in carefully blown glass, and even from this distance she could make out the delicate form of an eagle with a heart of fire.

  Lord Parimon of Tentaris was snuggled quietly in her arms. He was not a small child, and she had never been in the habit of carrying him for any length of time, but she found the ache of her arms a comfort.

  The wet nurse had come and gone, and he had fallen asleep shortly after.

  Her lips brushed his forehead before her eyes sought the garden again. No other house could be seen, and she almost imagined she was on a private island with only her son for company.

  Lord Tentaris had been very kind, and that brought an ache of a different sort. He had no daughters, and his wife had died early, two months after the childbirth from which she had never fully recovered. Perhaps, when her brother became lord of Valens, she might petition to once again return here and support her son and his grandfather as she was able.

  She thought of asking, but remembered that Lord Tentaris was out on business in the merchant quarters. It was a good thing. She knew what his answer would be, and she was not certain she could face it yet. She would have to soon; she had stayed here for the day, and House Valens was suffering for her absence. Duty demanded her return to its halls and its politics.

  She sighed and gingerly shifted her position. Parimon murmured, but his eyes remained closed. His breath was a soft, delicate sound; in sleep as even as a heartbeat. Not even a rustle of curtain disturbed it, and Amalayna listened intently. Were she never to hear another sound but this, she thought she might be content.

  And it was not her fate to be content.

  “Lady Amalayna! Lady?” Knock. Bang. Bang. “Lady?”

  She rose swiftly, recognizing the voice as that of the door slave.

  “Enter.” Her own voice was loud; it had to be, to be heard over the knocking. Parimon stirred, and his fists flailed at the air, catching strands of her hair.

  The door swung open, and the elderly slave hesitated at the edge of the carpet. He fell to the ground immediately, and his knees made a distinctly unpleasant sound.

  “Lady.”

  “Yes?”

  “There are people to see the lord.”

  “He is not here at the moment.”

  “Yes, Lady.” The slave swallowed. “But I think they will see you instead, if you will speak with them.”

  “Who are ‘they’?”

  “Swords, Lady.”

  Amalayna’s jaw snapped shut, and her grip tightened. It was enough to wake Parimon and to start him wailing. “No, Pari. I have to go downstairs for a moment.” He couldn’t understand, of course; all he really heard was the tenor of her voice, and it offered no comfort.

  She walked to his cradle and set him down as gently as she could. His crying became louder as the distance between them grew.

  Swords. Here.

  “Why have they come?” Her voice was casual and calm as she walked to where the slave waited. Stiff fingers straightened out the wrinkles in her skirt and sleeves. At her nod, the slave rose.

  “They’ve escorted someone who claims to be an eastern cousin to the house.”

  “Pardon?”

  The slave swallowed again.

  “Speak freely and do so quickly.”

  “Lady.” He bowed. “They’ve come with an old friend of—of Lord Laranth.”

  Curiosity grew as fear receded. They had not come for her, then. They did not know. “Old friend?”

  “Yes, Lady. He’s—he’s wearing house colors and the crest. Calls himself Lord Reggis.”

  “Reggis? I don’t believe I know the name.”

  “No, Lady. Neither do the Swords.”

  “Then we’d best go down and quickly. The Swords have enough power to wait poorly.”

  She smoothed the last wrinkle from her brow as she left the room. Reggis? An eastern cousin? Impossible. When she and Laranth had pledged their vow and joined their houses, she had met all of his kin. What friend of Laranth’s could possibly be so bold—or so stupid—to masquerade as such?

  She closed the door on the cries of her child and quickly followed the slave to the front doors. From the top of the grand staircase, she could see eight Swords in the hall. Mingled among them were seven people, and even though the front vestibule was large, it looked quite crowded.

  An odd smile lit on her lips as she stopped at the third stair from the bottom.

  “Ah.”

  The captain of the Sword unit looked up. His bow was neither deep nor held for long, but it was enough.

  “Lord Tentaris is absent at the moment,” Amalayna said coolly.

  “Yes, Lady.” If he noticed the burgundy and gray that she wore, he forebore to comment on it. “But our business does not necessarily need his attention. I believe that you were once associated with House Tentaris, and for some years.”

  She nodded.

  “Captain?”

  “What?”

  “There’s somebody at the door.”

  The captain’s frown was deep, but the annoyance in it had nothing to do with surprise. Amalayna guessed that he had expected some sort of interruption. “Clear a path for the slave, then.”

  The man so referred to took a brea
th and began to weave his way through the gathered crowd without even the slightest hesitation. Even before his hand reached the door, he had assumed his proper position, and the angle of his chin and shoulders was enough to please the woman who had once been lady of the house.

  “We’ve come to see Lord Tentaris.”

  “I’m afraid that the lord is not available for interviews at the moment.”

  “Then we would be pleased to wait.”

  The old man bowed rigidly, and the depth of it told Amalayna that she was dealing with a house guard. She could barely make out the orange, yellow, and black the guard wore.

  “Please leave your slaves outside.” He stepped back, almost ran into a Sword, and somehow managed to retain his composure as six more people entered the vestibule. There were four house guards, one attendant, and a man who walked with an odd gait.

  Amalayna took two steps backward and up so she could clearly see all those assembled. Her eyes lingered longest on Lord Sentamos; he was obviously not in a pleasant mood.

  She forgot weariness then and forgot failure for long enough to use the skills she had honed in the political sphere of the Empire.

  Sentamos was angry, and his gaze was almost entirely reserved for an uncrested guard. That guard was nervous, but there was anger in him as well; only his companions seemed to be free of it. The old man was difficult to read—which meant he was dangerous, experienced, or both. The young boy and the young woman, both in nondescript clothing, were frightened, although at least the woman was careful enough to keep it off her face.

  The two guards who had the audacity to bear Tentaris crests were stiff and ready for trouble. They seemed quite used to the job they had taken and obviously had been called upon more than once to protect their counterfeit lord.

  And Lord “Reggis” himself ...

  Her smile deepened. Here he was, once again the very heart of trouble.

  “Reggis.” Her voice was almost velvet.

  “Ah, Lady Amalayna!” He started to walk forward and was intercepted quickly by two of the Swords. He looked disdainfully up his nose—down would have been impossible, given the disparity in their heights—at one of these Swords.

  “My dear, you wouldn’t believe the abuse I’ve been subject to tonight. Why, just look at what they’ve done—” The rest of the sentence was lost to yet another elbow.

  Her frown was very real. “Captain, I see no need for this. What trouble is Lord Reggis in?”

  “Lady Amalayna.”

  “Lord Sentamos?”

  “You—you don’t recognize this—this buffoon? Surely Tentaris cannot possibly claim one such as this?”

  “I am not of Tentaris at present,” was her calm reply, “but I do know the house and its lines. Reggis is perhaps not the ideal example of nobility”—Lord Sentamos’ expression twisted his face terribly—“but he is on the eastern flank of the Empire, not in the capital. Has he managed to offer you an offense?”

  “I offer him an offense? Do you know that this man demanded to see my papers?”

  “Reggis.” Now her voice held a note of warning. She didn’t actually expect him to heed it.

  “Lady, if you are willing to authenticate this—this lord’s claim, our business here is done.” The captain of the Swords nodded briefly, and Renar landed hard, and not exactly quietly, on his feet. “We would appreciate it if you did not bring this matter to the attention of Lord Tentaris.”

  “I will not,” was the slow reply. She turned to Lord Sentamos. “Do you have a claim to register?”

  She had never seen a house leader so near apoplexy.

  “No, Lady, I do not believe he does.” That it was the Sword who answered spoke volumes. “Lord Sentamos?”

  Sentamos did not have the grace to reply. He shook his head and transferred his glare to Lord Reggis. Without a word, he nodded to his guards, and his attendant aided him out the front door.

  The Swords were quick to follow, and the hall once again took on its proper, lofty dimensions.

  Amalayna took the last five steps and reached the floor, brushing her feet gently against the long carpet.

  “Well then,” she said quietly, looking at no one but the fake lord, “you seem to be in trouble again, Renardos. What on earth have you stolen this time?”

  The only thing that surprised Erin more was Renar’s reaction. His smile was a mixture of the sly and the childlike as he gestured.

  “Just the type of thing that Laranth has always been interested in.”

  “Laranth?”

  “Well, yes, you know Laranth—he’s your bond-mate.”

  Erin wasn’t close enough to kick him, but it didn’t stop her from trying. She had never seen the lady before, but the way she had said the name spoke of a loss that was not nearly distant enough.

  Red, wide eyes stared out like a colored window from a white wall; slim, soft hands tightened around the stairs’ railing.

  Erin waited for tears that would not fall.

  “Laranth was assassinated.” Her voice quavered; her body did not. The corners of her lips turned up in a tremulous smile. “But we—we can talk of that later. Lord Tentaris is not in the house at the moment, but I can’t imagine he’ll be happy to see what you’re wearing. Come, my chambers are upstairs. You’ll be able to change there.”

  “I think I need it.” Renar looked down at the wrinkled mess of his shirt; the bottom edge of it hung crookedly over his sash. His expression was perfect, and very much in character for the personality he had chosen to wear—but the eyes that met Amalayna’s were hard and distant.

  “Who?”

  Amalayna looked up from her chair. She was sitting beside her son’s cradle, and her hand rocked it gently, automatically. The question did not take her by surprise, but the single word that contained it did: Renardos had never been one for brevity.

  Or for an anger such as the one she sensed. No, he had been all arms and words and pretty posture. There were times in the past that she had wondered if he knew the meaning of the word quiet.

  She continued to rock the cradle, although she knew that he was aware of her attention. After a moment, she spoke, but her voice was quiet, a lull for her sleeping son.

  “Who are your companions, Renardos?”

  “My companions?” He shrugged. “These two are personal guards; that one—” His gesture indicated a very quiet Corfaire. “—is a former slave of House Sentamos.”

  Although most slaves were beneath her notice, she put aside long years of habit to look more fully upon him. “Sentamos?” He certainly looked the part of a guard; his armor showed wear, but his sword was obviously very much a part of his dress. A slave? Something tugged at the strings of her memory, and she followed it until her eyes widened. Lord Sentamos had not been born crippled; he would not have survived his youth.

  “Are you the one who—”

  “Yes, Lady.”

  The quiet malice in those two words made her freeze for an instant. She wondered how one slave could have been so dangerous, so treacherous. The thought almost kept her from realizing that Renardos had made no mention of the other three companions that stood so very still.

  “The others?”

  “Traveling companions.” He shrugged and pursed his lips. Then, as if remembering himself, he added, “People that I met on the road, Lady. You know the sort; I believe they had business in the High City market.”

  It did not fool Amalayna.

  “Renardos.” She rose then, leaving her son altogether. “You are changed since last we met. I begin to wonder if I ever really knew you.”

  Her eyes were dark, and darkly ringed, as she walked across the room to stand before him. She had the advantage of height—Renardos had ever been sensitive about this—and she used it to look down her nose.

  He met her eyes.

  “Who?” he asked again, his voice as soft as hers.

  “Two.” The word almost surprised her, coming as it did from her lips. She squared her shoulders, kn
owing that she would tell him much of the rest. “One is dead. The other—the other is beyond my reach.”

  “No names, Lady?”

  “Of the dead, I will not speak. What difference would it make?” Her eyes were a shattered plea, and she closed her lids on them briefly. Her shoulders curled inward, and her face paled further until even Erin felt pity for this lady of the Empire.

  All in the room were silent; if they breathed at all, it could not be heard. They watched Lady Amalayna as her hands fell down to clutch the folds of her skirt and shake there, half-hidden. She seemed on the verge of something; her lips opened slowly, and she swallowed.

  Erin stepped forward, ignoring Renar’s sudden frown. Her boots left gentle indentations in the carpet until they came to rest a few inches from Amalayna.

  “Lady?” If it was weakness that made her hold out her hands, she was hardly aware of it. “The name?”

  Amalayna turned to face Erin, her face almost blank. They stood watching each other, with a wariness that spoke of fear or anticipation.

  “Lord Vellen.”

  With two words, Lady Amalayna had crossed the threshold.

  Sargoth was ever curious. Even now, surrounded by a purity of red-fire that he had not seen in millennia, that did not change. As his shadow wall parted, and fine, sharp power cut into him, he wondered if pain was universal, if all of his victims who died had felt a tenth of this visceral agony.

  He knew the sound of immortal pain, but still it was new to hear it from his own lips. His eyes caught the thrash of claws at night air, and he knew them for his own. The surge of power that flowed through his hands was automatically called—and the pain ebbed, if it did not pass entirely.

  Above everything, he heard the First of the Sundered—the voice of thunder over the storm.

  “What game do you play, Second? I will have your answer!”

  The net closed again, this time sprouting little teeth around all of its intricate edges. It stopped less than an inch short of cutting its victim into shards of darkness.

  “Stefanos—”

  No other word escaped him. Had he wished to prevaricate, he knew the time for it had passed. He felt pain again, but this time it was not new enough to catch his attention. He put the force of his remaining power into a cry that touched even the mortal world—and beyond.