Chains of Darkness, Chains of Light

by Michelle Sagara

  The knife was a flash in the darkness; it spun through the air and ended with the skin of the gardener’s throat. But it did not penetrate; it drew no blood.

  “No.” Stefanos drew back. “I will not take this.”

  “But I am ready,” the old man replied.

  “I am not.” He turned away. “You are a giver of life, in your own small way. I am a taker. But we both have choice to exercise. I cannot tend your garden; there is no one here who could.” He set the knife down against the grass, unblooded. “She loved your garden.”

  The row of dead lay beyond him, like small trees or seedlings that had not yet been planted. “Go now and tell everyone that I must be left in peace.” He gestured, drew in his power, and began to concentrate. Now he would see if these deaths bore the fruit that had been hoped for.

  Lady Amalayna stepped forward, her tongue caught in her throat. The major waited, his blade ready to greet any deft movement, any quick strike. Of the two, he was the more powerful—he was trained in the ways of death, and the steel he carried was the work of several years.

  The major’s eyes were wary nonetheless. To strike at a noble not named by the Church was risky, and as any risk, carried a great price if made in error.

  Amalayna suddenly returned to herself. She looked down at the daggers in her hands with a grimace of distaste, and when she looked up again, her eyes were ice and steel.

  “Fool,” she whispered, taking care to let no sibilance halo the word. “Do you think I came to the Church without reason? No! Don’t look back. They already trust me little enough.”

  The major did not lower his sword. Behind him, two of the younger men had already started to do so, but their leader was not so inexperienced.

  “Do you not know who they are?”

  “We aren’t concerned with that.”

  “You should be.” Her reply was cold; the force behind the words was not noise, but a quiet assurance of power. “I was to lead them to the Church and gain an audience with the high priest.”

  “So I see.”

  Amalayna stiffened. “If you wish to play at swords, do so. It is your life, after all. But think on this: My way would deliver them to the Church, where the Greater Cabal has most of its power, without loss.” She leaned forward slightly. “It is the proof of my loyalty to the man who would be my lord. Do you seek to deprive me of this? Think carefully; we of House Valens do not forget.”

  The major studied her face and found it not so blank or disinterested as his own. If intensity were heat, he might be seared; if it were ice, he would surely never move again. He looked beyond her to see those that waited tensely; only one had drawn a blade, and that one was the image of Veriloth; pale and dark, with eyes that glowed the faintest trace of red. There were five in all, but only three of these seemed a threat—what harm could a child and a woman do?

  What harm indeed. It was the woman they had been sent to capture, and they numbered not eight, but sixteen.

  Yet he did not trust the Lady Amalayna herself, although her words rang almost true. He hesitated a moment longer, and then lowered his weapon. His orders were only to see that the woman was delivered to the main altars, and if the party passed through to the temple, that was certain to be the case.

  “Very well.” His voice was quiet. “You may pass.”

  “Follow,” she replied, equally quiet. The daggers found their sheaths again, and her empty hands curled inward. “But at a greater distance. Try not to be seen.”

  He nodded again, more curtly, and signaled his men. They split their ranks, moving seven and eight abreast to either side of the roadway. It was certainly wide enough to allow it.

  Lady Amalayna turned and walked back to the rest of her companions. With her eyes, she tried to allay the terrible brilliance contained in Erin’s face. She could not speak for fear that the words would carry; the major had blood-power about him equal to her own.

  “Come,” she said. “There was a—misunderstanding. We may pass through.” But her eyes widened, her lips trembled. Please, she thought, please understand. I have saved us for the final stretch; do not endanger my plan.

  Erin remained standing, her eyes wide and green. The breeze caught her hair, and the lamps lit it from behind until it seemed dark filaments shot through with fire. Except that there was no breeze, and the lamps were too far away to cast such a light. The air was still and chilly; the shadows long.

  Amalayna reached out and grabbed one of Erin’s hands. She was prepared for the jolt that slammed into her arm, but even so she staggered. Her blood burned at the contact, and her lips moved almost of their own accord. She bit them and looked away—at the ground, at Darin, at anything but the woman who stood before her—the woman who was her ancient enemy.

  “Please. ”

  The Swords shifted uncomfortably in the streets; their hands hovered over their now-sheathed swords. Battle was in the air, and its call was strong. But they did not yet see what the source of that call was.

  Be careful, child Heed the offered warning.

  The voice was the softest tickle in the back of her mind, but it was cold. Erin’s eyes dimmed, and she seemed once again a mortal woman. Her fingers bit into Amalayna’s, but whether in comfort or in warning, neither woman could have said.

  “We wait your orders, Lady.”

  “Then follow.”

  No one spoke until the booted march of the Swords faded from earshot. Even then, the feeling of enemy eyes lingered in the air. Corfaire stepped forward and caught Lady Amalayna by the forearm.

  She turned only her head, and although she could not look down at this man dressed in her house uniform, her gaze was haughty and cold. Before words escaped his open lips, she slid her own into the silence.

  “We will have a fight, and if we’re unlucky, it will start the moment we enter the temple. Are you prepared?”

  Corfaire’s hand fell away as he met her eyes. There was no love between them, and any respect given was grudged, but they had some goal in common. He nodded brusquely.

  “And you, Lady,” Amalayna continued, “hide your light. It is difficult; it will almost certainly call too much of a battle, too early.” She turned away, but her last words, though softly spoken, were nonetheless clear. “The Swords will follow us; we dare not linger long in the main courtyard, or we will be overwhelmed on both sides.”

  “Can we fight our way through to our destination?”

  “You ask that of me, Lady? How should I know for certain what you do not?”

  “It is your Church,” Erin replied.

  Amalayna thought a moment before answering. “If we are lucky, there will be no fight. But you must follow my lead and be prepared for it to fail. I carry the weight of my house for a day or two longer. Let us pray that it suffices.”

  Corfaire suddenly began to chuckle; there was no warmth in the sound. “Pray? To whom?”

  The two dark glances he received were almost enough to silence him. Lady Amalayna began to walk forward quickly, forcing the others to follow.

  Erin glanced back to the shadows, but she caught no sign of Renar or Tiras. They were well hidden; she hoped that they could manage to follow Amalayna’s lead before the doors were sealed. If that had, in the end, been their plan. They had not told her; she had not asked. Now, there was no time to consider it.

  The Church was grand, and as the shadows fell away at their approach, it loomed higher, brighter, larger. The tower—all that could be easily seen over the walls—was sparse and simple; large blocks of stone placed seamlessly together rose to the parapets over which four flags curled around their flag-poles. Statues adorned those heights; human, perhaps, and a little larger than life.

  Corfaire’s brow wrinkled as he missed a step.

  “Corfaire?”

  “It is nothing, Lady. But I thought—I thought there were two towers. My duties brought me seldom to the temple. I may have been mistaken.”

  “No,” Amalayna said quietly. “You have made no mi
stake. The southern wing—and its tower—were completely destroyed by the Dark Heart’s demon.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t think of asking him.”

  “Maybe the priests displeased him.” Erin’s voice was quiet and distant; her eyes were turned momentarily inward as she remembered what his displeasure had often meant to the Church.

  “It may well be. But they must have angered him greatly, then. The wing was destroyed in an evening.”

  “Is he—is he there?”

  Amalayna paused and looked back. There was something in the tone of the words—in the words themselves—that caught her attention. Fear, which only a fool would not have felt, but more than that. Anticipation? Sorrow?

  “How old are you, Lady?”

  “How—Old, Lady.” She sought the tower and the flags. “But I’ll answer your question, if you can answer mine.”

  Amalayna nodded quietly and bent her head. Her hands fluttered in the air before a face that was tense with concentration. To Darin, she seemed to echo the gestures of Erin herself—the other face of the coin of war. Power, in a thin red line, arrowed outward; it touched the walls and seemed to end there, although Amalayna did not stop her whispered murmur. The hair on the back of Darin’s neck rose, and he wondered how Erin could bear this use of blood-magic. But he waited, and after a moment, the line faded from view, leaving only an afterimage in the night air.

  The lady of no house turned to Erin; her face was pale and taut. “I can answer your question. He must be there. There is too much power for it to be otherwise. Did you expect this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you—can you—be prepared for it?”

  “I don’t know.” She seemed to shrink inward under the battery of Amalayna’s eyes. “Four hundred and thirty, maybe a few years less, maybe more.”

  Amalayna’s eyes widened. “Is there some truth to the lore of the slaves, then? Are you the Dark Lord’s Lady?”

  “I am his bond-mate.” It was simple, really, to let this last of her secrets fall away; to stand revealed by these few words. She was cold, and her heart was thrumming with a life that did not seem to be her own. Maybe those who heard her now would understand her better if things somehow went awry. Maybe.

  Only Darin was not surprised by her words. And because of this, only Darin could see the rising pain beneath them. He reached out and touched her gently with the tip of the staff of Culverne.

  “No more questions,” he said quietly, striving to lower his voice to give it some ring of authority.

  There was no time for them; they were upon the gates.

  chapter twenty-one

  Erin felt it as she approached. There was a wrongness in the air that cost her no spell to detect; it was heavy, dark—loud in a way that ears alone wouldn’t catch. She wanted to turn back, but held her ground; the temple was the end of her road. All she had to do was enter it. Did it matter how? If the Gifting of God was truly here, it would be well tended by the blood ceremonies. All she had to do was get close to it.

  Don’t let me fail, not now. Not here. This is the last chance. Her fingers pressed tightly into her palms, but not enough to draw blood. Blood she would need later. Now she needed hope. Lady Amalayna’s plan had seemed so good to her in House Tentaris. She would not let fear deprive her of belief in it.

  The gates were wrought-iron bars, decorated on either side by a broken red circle in a field of black. Both were spotless and seemed to glimmer with a light that the street lamps alone could not explain.

  There were Swords on either side of the gate; two in front and four behind. They stood erect, but not fully at attention; they showed no wariness at the approach of the lady of House Valens. Their uniforms were only partly practical, and Erin frowned briefly; such a display was not in keeping with ... with the Lord of the Empire’s standards. She straightened the line of her mouth, remembering that the Church probably dictated the Swords’ dress. Perhaps it impressed somebody.

  There were houses, and then there were houses; Valens was one of the few that any Sword would recognize immediately. Both of the men at the gate bowed at Amalayna as she stopped just a foot from them. No torchlight was needed to see her burgundy and gray; indeed, the Swords needed little in the way of light at all.

  “Lady Amalayna of Valens.”

  She nodded regally.

  “What is your business here?”

  “I have come to speak to Lord Vellen, the high priest of the Greater Cabal. I bear a message of some urgency.”

  “Does he expect you?”

  “No. But the news I bear has relevance to him, and it is a timely matter.”

  The Sword considered this a moment, and not only for display; his furrowed brow spoke of indecision. “The high priest has left orders that he is not to be disturbed. Might not this news wait until morning?”

  Amalayna was silent in return as she studied both his face and the face of the second Sword. Neither even glanced beyond her shoulders to look at her companions; neither seemed suspicious in the least. It was almost too much to be hoped for.

  “It would be best not to wait.”

  She thought he might order her to do so anyway, but he turned to the closed gate and motioned one of the Swords forward. They spoke in quiet tones for a few moments, and then the Sword beyond the gate departed.

  Amalayna stepped back. She did not turn her head and barely moved her lips at all. “Be ready.”

  Minutes passed, and Erin counted each second, listening intently for the sound of steps approaching from behind. The streets were mercifully silent and remained that way until the Sword returned to his post. He did not speak, however; nor did he open the gates. Instead he peered out through the bars for half a minute before once again disappearing.

  Be very ready, Lady.

  They waited until the Sword returned for a second time. He nodded sharply, and the gates began to roll open. Even this was not done quickly; the gates themselves were older and complicated. Very few had desire to enter the Church quickly.

  “You may enter.”

  Amalayna nodded and walked steadily forward. The passage from the first gate opened up at the second, but the courtyard was empty. She did not turn as the gates were closed behind them. She needed no final glance of the outside world, seen, as it would be, from behind bars. She wanted no reminders and no gestures that even remotely spoke of regret.

  Erin was not so complacent. She glanced back over her shoulder to see that the four Swords had turned to face their retreating backs. Their weapons were drawn and readied, although they did not leave their posts. She looked above them, her eyes trailing the heights of the walls. Along the curtain wall, Swords also stood. Even in the dim shadows she could see that they had readied crossbows and longbows. They too no longer patrolled the streets below with their eyes.

  But the courtyard itself was empty. No rush of Swords came pouring out of the main doors to greet them. No priests stood in the thrall of spell and imminent battle. It looked peaceful. It felt deadly.

  Erin said nothing. She could hardly accuse the lady of leading them into a trap, could she? The fact that the temple existed at all was trap enough for her. But she wondered as she walked. The high priest had left orders that he was not to be disturbed. What task kept him occupied? This was no quarter, with its blood sacrifice and its required death. And if he had allowed himself to be disturbed, was it only because he now knew she was coming?

  Or was it because Stefanos knew it?

  She stopped just behind Amalayna as the doors began to open. They were not so complicated as the gates, and even Erin hardly noticed the slaves that pulled at either side of the heavy, adorned wood.

  The doors had opened only a foot’s width on either side when she saw who stood at their center.

  He was robed not in black now, but in the deepest red, with sleeves that trailed to the edge of his hem. From his shoulders, a red collar rose, its edge visible above the pale platinum of his hair. On
ly his sash spoke of the darkness that was his power. At his brow, gold glittered in a thin, bright line that was broken only by a solitary ruby. And all around his tall, straight body was a pale, thick halo—red mist, captured and held by spell.

  The high priest. Vellen.

  There were two levels of fear in the six that saw him. Corfaire, Cospatric, and Gerald touched swords in the instant that they saw his smile. But Erin, Darin, and Amalayna did not even move. Theirs was the deeper fear, for they had all felt his touch upon their lives, and they still bore the scars.

  “Lady Amalayna.” Vellen bowed. There was a majesty in the movement that belied the gesture; it left no question of his power. “You choose an odd moment to ask for an audience.”

  “My Lord.” She in turn bowed, but less fluidly, less charismatically. Her throat was too dry to allow her to speak forcefully. “Please—accept my apologies for interrupting you. I had a matter of import for your consideration. Something that I wished to deliver to you personally.”

  “Oh, indeed.” Ice-blue eyes swept out beyond her back. “And you have arrived most opportunely. Come, will you not enter?”

  The doors were fully open now. Lord Vellen stood at the forefront of his own personal guard, but their naked blades held less threat than his smile.

  Only Darin had ever seen one quite so warm or amused on the high priest’s face. It was a mask to seal in the screams of the dying.,

  “Ah, Lady, Lady.” Vellen shook his head in mock annoyance. It was not to Amalayna that he spoke. “Should such a one as you come dressed in the garb of slavery? You have stooped low indeed from your previous position.”

  Suddenly the smile was deep, sharp, all-encompassing. Lord Vellen threw back his arms and his eyes silvered. “Enough! Away with this disguise!”

  Before Erin could even move, her cloak was ripped from her shoulders by a powerful wind that touched only her. The clasp caught a moment at her throat; she felt its cold, metallic bite before it, too, fell away.