Then he gave her a very rare smile.
“We cannot continue thus,” he said softly, the points of his teeth still evident. “Tell me, Sarillorn, what it is that you fear? I will not force you, or force myself upon you.” He looked at her oddly. “But that evening, that was not the fear that drove you.” His face darkened. “Not, at least, at the beginning.”
She shook her head. “No,” she said at last. “No—I didn’t even think that you would—”
“And now?”
“Now?” she said stupidly.
“You still wear your fear, Sarillorn. But even your fear is strange. It is not, I think, given to many. I am—honored by it.”
“Honored?”
He nodded gravely, and Erin realized that he meant exactly what he had said. She felt a blush rise in her cheeks. Before she could speak, he began again.
“But this fear, why do you feel it?” He leaned forward in the chair, coming closer to her without leaving it. “Is it that you do not trust me?”
“Trust you? How am I supposed to . . .” The words faded. She gulped air as if it were water and she were drowning, bowed her head again, lower than before, and brought her hands to her cheeks.
“If you do not, I understand. I will be—patient enough to earn it.”
She had never been very good at lying, not even to herself. For a moment two images pulled her; his darkness as he hovered over her, and his fire as he burned for her.
“I do trust you.”
He raised one eyebrow, the only visible gesture of his surprise. “Then why?”
The chair could no longer contain her; she rose, wringing her hands tightly in front of her stomach. Her feet padded against the plush, gold carpet as she paced in front of him like a caged animal.
“Why—why did you stop?”
His eyebrow flew again, but her back didn’t notice it. Her ears heard the smile in his voice.
“I see,” he said softly. “I could say, ‘because I wished to.’ But I think I understand. We must both answer questions that we would rather not ask of ourselves.”
He watched as she stopped at the edge of the carpet, turned, and walked back along its length.
“But indeed, I speak the truth when I say I stopped because I wished it. For the end of it would be your death to me. And I do not wish you to die.” He paused, watching again in fascination as a shaky foot touched the ground. ‘There is a light in you, Sarillorn.”
At this she turned to face him.
“But it is not the light of the Bright Heart alone. It is different; perhaps a part of the mortality that taints you. This I do not know.” He frowned; he disliked ignorance. “I have tried to find a like incident in the past; there is not one to learn from.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Ah? No, I do not think you do.” As she had done, he rose, leaving his chair behind. He moved upon her silently and she backed away. With a smile, he stopped. “But it is there, Sarillorn. It does not hurt me, but I cannot truly touch it. It is . . . different;, as your fear is different.”
Her fear. He reached out to touch her chin; it trembled. With regret, he withdrew. He did not wish to hurt her—and yet he still felt the desire. “Sarillorn, the one who cannot exercise self control when necessary is the one who cannot rule. I have already given you my word.”
“The word of a Servant.”
“The word of the First.” But he smiled again. “And perhaps your wisdom mistrusts it.”
She took a deep breath. “No.”
“Then what do you fear, little one?” Again he reached for the line of her jaw, his fingers playing gently against her skin.
She snapped her head away. “I don’t know.”
He caught her shoulders and held them. “Do you not? Come, I have answered your question; answer mine.”
She couldn’t. What she had said was true: She did not know fully what it was that she feared. Or why she feared it so strongly only when he was present, when he looked down at her, when he was touching her.
She tried to pull back; his hands held her firmly, gently, in place.
“I don’t know.” Her voice was a whisper, a plea.
Her widened eyes, her shortened breath—these spoke a familiar language to him—familiar and strangely new.
“Sarillorn.” He caught her chin again, pulling her face up to meet his.
“Please . . .”
But her trembling was the only movement she made.
“Do I hurt you, little one?”
Cold, cold fingers stroked her jaw and cheeks, drawing tiny circles there. His eyes locked on hers and would not leave them.
“N-no.”
He cupped her face between his hands, moving slowly, moving gently. Against his will he found himself savoring all the visible signs of her precious fear.
“Do you trust me?”
“Please . . .”
There, again, the whimper that controlled her word. And the word itself struck him, familiar and new as all about her was.
“What do you fear?” His face hovered just an inch above hers. His hands tightened imperceptibly as he felt the call again. He pushed it away, but not all of it would leave; he still felt desire for her fear, for her.
Once again he caught the twisted halo of her light as it struggled with some invisible enemy.
She started to pull away and he held her there.
“No, Sarillorn. From this you will not run. Name your fear.”
Her lips moved soundlessly.
“Name it.”
But she couldn’t. He was too close, too encompassing for words alone to describe.
Moving slowly and deliberately, his mouth came down, lips resting almost gently against her own—almost. Then he felt the strangest thing of a strange evening; her lips, much softer, much warmer, moved also.
In surprise, he pulled back to see the lashes of her eyes flutter open. She was shaking; at least he thought it must be her.
“This,” she whispered, swaying. “Just this”
He knew it for truth. Fear, like tongues of flame, burned deliriously close. But it was not unalloyed—he could see that suddenly and felt angry at his obtuseness. The fear was foreign to him because it embodied something else as well: desire, one unlike his own, but suddenly no less tangible.
His lips came down again. A kiss, a long one. Wordless, it spoke around the edges of what he felt driven to. It was not an act of violence, but the violence was there, beneath the darkness that gathered around them.
She still offered him her fear, and this little of it—this little of it his nature would not allow him to reject.
“Sarillorn.” His voice was shadow as he swept her off the floor, pressing her just a little too tightly against him.
She said nothing, nothing at all, but after a moment her shaking arms reached up and wrapped themselves just as tightly around his neck. The hesitation and trembling never left her.
He carried her quickly through her chambers to the bed and there laid her down. His lips met hers again; his hands touched cloth, touched flesh. He moved slowly, trembling with the effort of doing so. And his hands, where they touched her, drew no blood and left no mark. She was still, very still; the ocean that hides the undercurrent.
“I will not hurt you,” he murmured, feeling the breath leave her throat.
But this night, this one of many, he lied.
She had never been touched so before.
chapter fourteen
He watched her as she slept.
It was early; the night had just begun. But he knew she would be tired. These past two months she had worked hard to start her clinic. It gave her a pleasure he did not understand to tend to the injuries of her slaves. But it was harmless; if it made her happy, he was willing to allow it.
“Sara,” he whispered. She stirred; in the darkness of the curtained room he could see the hint of smile turn the corners of her mouth.
He smiled as well.
I’m Erin.
He remembered clearly the look on her face, half-shy, hall-apologetic.
Erin of Elliath. I’m sorry. I just realized I never—you don’t know my name.
“No,” he said, mirroring the words of six months ago, although no one could hear them. “You are of Elliath no longer.”
He saw her face darken for a moment, but he could not—would not—bring himself to use that name. She was his. This he would not give up.
“You are the Sarillorn. You belong here.”
Stefanos. She had looked up, the darkness that he hated in her alone already fading. How would you like it if I always called you “Your Majesty” or “Your Highness”?
“Those are not among my titles, Sarillorn. They are human conceits.”
And he remembered her little snort.
All right. If I always called you “Lord” or “First of the Servants. ”
“First, little one, of the Sundered.”
You know what I mean. Sarillorn is a title. It isn’t a name.
“Is it not what you are?”
She had thrown up her hands and shaken her head.
You know something? I never could have imagined that you would remind me of Belfas.
And then the silence had come over her again. But he knew her well; knew that this particular silence would hang like a cloud for the night if he did nothing. He did not ask her who Belfas was; he did not wish to know. Her life, or all of it that concerned him, began when he took her, living, from the village that she had tried so futilely to protect.
He walked over to the bed and touched her sleeping face, tracing the line of the smile that still lingered there.
“Let me name you anew, Sarillorn, if you will not have a title.” He thought for a while, discarding the few names he knew. She was the Sarillorn, and no other word came easily to him. Then he smiled quietly. “Is Sara a name that you will take? It is a human one—common, I believe, among the southerners.”
He had watched the cloud disperse and was glad of it. The light shone through it.
Stefanos—I . . . It’s a diminutive.
“Yes.”
Well—it would be the same as if I called you, I don’t know, darkling.
“Darkling?”
“Darkling . . .”
Mortals were so odd.
“Shhh, Sara. Sleep a while yet; it is two hours or more before we leave.”
She nodded and reached out to touch him. Then her eyes fluttered open, green even in this light.
“Stefanos?”
“Sara.” He sat by her on the bed and pulled her into his arms. He tilted his head up slightly as her light wrapped itself gently around him.
“Is it already time?” She yawned, stretching her arms out awkwardly.
“Not yet.”
“Oh.”
“Did you accomplish your tasks during the day?”
She nodded sleepily. “Marcus will tend to the servants here while I’m gone.”
Always servants—she never called them slaves.
Happily she added, “He thinks Evan will probably be qualified as a doctor soon.”
He listened politely; Evan did not concern him.
Knowing this, she changed the subject. “Where are we going first?”
“Did you not read the itinerary I gave you?”
“I didn’t understand it all. I haven’t managed to master reading your impossible language just yet.”
“Ah. We go to Caras, to see the duke.”
The duke of Caras had been seen. The duke of Redford had been seen. The duke of Alondale had been seen.
She shuddered quietly, pressing her head against the cold metal frame of the carriage window, striving to control the anger and the grief that those visits had caused her as she continued through her mental list.
The baron of Fellhearth had been seen. She remembered him clearly because of the particularly ghoulish way he had delighted in his naming of his granted lands. He was not Malanthi—one of perhaps three who were not—and he didn’t know, couldn’t know, who she truly was.
Her smile tightened momentarily. He did learn.
Stefanos. Why did you bring me here? Why do we have to keep on with this hideous tour?
“It is only for a little while longer, Sara,” he had said. “Only a few more weeks, and we shall return to Rennath.” The same words, always the same.
Rennath. Never before had the name seemed quite so welcome, quite so bright.
But why do I need to—
This, too, memory answered. “You do not. But I, Sarillorn, I wish these men to meet you. I wish them to know who you are. Bear with my decision.”
And she had.
It helped to know that while she visited there were no ceremonies, that while she walked the various grounds, she could tend to those slaves that might need her help. But it also reminded her of all that she could not do, all that would continue happening to the helpless when she left.
A third month passed.
She had been almost afraid to go. She remembered it clearly as she stepped out of the carriage for perhaps the twentieth time, gathering the ostentatious skirts of yet another dress and holding them high above her laced “traveling” boots.
Stefanos aided her as she stepped down, and she gripped his hand firmly. Another noble—Baron Tremayne—was already bowed to the ground before the shadow of the Lord of the Empire.
Swirling around the velvet of his finery was a thin, red line—another Malanthi.
“Lord.”
“Baron Tremayne. You may rise.”
The man complied. He was not used to such displays of obeisance, and they suited him poorly; neither his dress, all fine, dark blue velvet with frills and lace, nor his girth allowed for grace. He turned to the guards arrayed at his back and nodded briefly.
“You grace my humble lands with your presence.”
“Indeed. ”
Watching, she caught the hint of cruel smile play around Stefanos’s lips.
“Will you require rooms, Lord?”
“Yes. For myself, and for Lady Sara.”
Lady Sara grimaced and stepped forward. She could not bring herself to bow, but managed a polite nod.
“Lady Sara.” Baron Tremayne stepped forward, reached for her hand, and took a sudden step back as his blood-sight told him who he was dealing with. It didn’t surprise her; she’d seen it played over and over again at each stop they had made. She wished that Stefanos had made clear what his visit would entail—and he had been quite adamant in his refusal to do so.
“They will learn at my leisure, Lady. And at yours.”
“Will you stop calling me ‘Lady’? I don’t want people to associate me with the nobility, not in these lands.”
“Do you not? I am sorry, little one. But nobility you will be, and of greater station than any of these can possibly hope to attain. They will respect you.”
“Baron Tremayne,” she said softly. She couldn’t help but smile as he struggled to control his reaction. Maybe a little of Stefanos’s amusement had touched her as well. It was a light thought, but it drove the smile from her face.
The baron turned to stare at Stefanos, striving for respect amid his confusion.
This, too, she was familiar with.
She was glad that it was almost over. She longed for home.
Home? She looked down at her feet. Lady Sara, Sarillorn of Rennath. Over the many months, these titles had become familiar.
She reached for Stefanos’s hand.
He raised an eyebrow, but lent her his strength.
“May I show you to your rooms, Lord?”
“You may. Come, Lady.”
Their quarters were not as grand as those that they shared in the palace, but they were luxuriously equipped; each piece of finely crafted furniture was dark and gleamed in the dim light. A slave might fetch a lesser price on the blocks. At least the baron had been given enough warning to manage this—this, and more.
In the corner of the r
oom, hands behind her back, a young girl lay curled against the floor.
“I see that the rooms are already occupied.” Again the First of the Sundered gave a chilling smile.
Mistaking him, the Baron smiled in return. “Yes, Lord. You will find that she is quite suitable for your needs. I will send a detail to remove her after you are finished, should you require it.”
Lady Sara did not wait to hear Stefanos’s reply. She ran across the room and knelt beside the child. Her pale hands touched pale hair very gently.
The girl looked up. Her face was tearstained and very white.
Nothing cut the lady more than this: the sudden widening of eyes and the resurgence of pure terror.
“Child, child,” she said, pulling the girl awkwardly into her lap. She sent out a finger of her power, placing it gently against the fear that she felt so strongly.
The child whimpered and suddenly pushed herself into the lady’s arms.
“Shhh. It’s all right, it’s all right. I’m here now. I’ll protect you.” Small shoulders strained against the chains that were now visible. A hint of blood around the wrists showed the strength of the young girl’s panic. “I’ll protect you. Shhhh.”
Bitterly she noted that aside from the chafing, the girl was uninjured. No one gave used goods to the Lord of the realm. Her anger caused her to tremble, even as the child did. She looked up and met the baron’s eyes, her own green and flashing with a power he knew.
“Sara?” Stefanos said softly, ignoring the Baron’s sudden stare.
“Please.”
He nodded quietly and walked over to where the two sat huddled.
The child tensed, and Sara stroked her hair with the green of her power. “It’s all right. He’s a friend. He’ll help me take these chains away.”
The child quieted. Sara knew it was only because she hadn’t the blood-sight that would strip Stefanos of human guise and identify him clearly. She saw only another man, another noble, albeit a tall one in black jacket, black shirt, and black pants. At least they were not the robes of the priesthood.
Stefanos touched the cool steel manacles and gestured with mild contempt. They snapped crisply and fell away. Sara pulled the child fully into her grasp and turned her away; she did not want her to see that the metal smoldered.
Into the Dark Lands Page 28