“I wonder where Marcus is.”
Emilee sighed, but she had no heart for frustration; not on an evening like this. She could understand why her lady was nervous.
Tonight, before the assembly of lords, priests, and slaves, the Dark Lord would take her as bond-mate.
It’s a two-edged thing, Emilee thought, as she pulled the sleeve out of Sara’s tight hands and smoothed it down. But you’re a better mistress than any we’d hoped for, and with you at his side, he’s a better master. She could even think of him, in his black and red, without shivering or falling silent. Mind, she added to herself, it’s taken the better part of two years.
She wanted her lady to be happy, if happiness was granted to anyone in the empire who wasn’t born black-blooded. If not for the scar on her right arm, Emilee might have even been completely content to serve such a one.
Sara knew this, and knew it further as the praise that it was.
There was a knock on the door, and the nervous lady in question turned round so violently that Emilee left off thinking and began to straighten out the train once more.
“Be still, lady. I’ll answer it.”
Before she could leave, the door swung open.
There was a moment of silence.
“Marcus?”
The doctor smiled at the incredulity contained by the word. He gave a low bow. “At the service of my lady.”
“Is that you?”
“Indeed.” He turned, allowing her to see the back of the green velvet jacket he wore over a single ruffle. “Do you like it?” A walking cane, of dark hardwood and gold handle, tapped the ground in time to his words.
“I—where did you get it?”
His smile deepened. “The Lord himself sent me to Helda, no less, to be fitted. If I am to be worthy of being your escort, I must look the part, must I not?”
He walked over to where she stood and offered her his arm. His smile faded a little. “I haven’t done this in years,” he said softly.
She knew who he was thinking about. In silence she took the offered arm.
“But not tonight.” He made an effort and was surprised to find that the smile that returned to him was genuine. “I’ll not mar your evening with foolish musings.”
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
“No, Lady. Thank you.” He began to lead her out of the room, and Emilee stopped him.
“Marcus, you lout, have you forgotten?”
“Forgotten?”
“You’ll need both Trin and Tanya to carry the train. If you’ll wait for a moment, I’ll summon them—they’re in the other room being as nervous as she is.”
Sara grimaced. “That obvious?” she whispered to Marcus.
“About.” His arm tightened encouragingly. I’d be.”
Two young girls, dressed in less complicated visions of green and white, were ushered firmly into the lady’s presence by a clucking Emilee.
“Now mind what I’ve told you, and don’t drop the train until the Lady’s met up with the Lord. Understood?”
They nodded quite solemnly, although Lady Sara caught the doubtful glance that Tanya gave to the long, complicated train.
“Good, then. Off with you; I’ve only a short while to reach the galleries myself and I don’t want to miss a thing.” She smiled warmly at her oldest charge.
“Lady Sara, Bright Heart bless you.” She bowed quite low and then left the room in a hurry.
Trin and Tanya each took part of the heavy train, and Marcus led her out of the room.
The halls had never seemed either so long or so empty.
“It’s quiet,” she whispered, but even this seemed to echo.
“Should be.” Marcus smiled. “I don’t know how you managed it, but I think every palace slave, and the ones that tend the outer grounds as well, will be in attendance for you. You might be nervous, but I think they’re jubilant. No, this way, remember?”
She nodded, obviously not remembering.
He stopped for a moment and hugged her. It was a careful, gentle gesture—he didn’t want to be the one to ruin Emilee’s solid labor.
“Don’t be too afraid, Lady.”
“I’m trying.”
“I know. But I mean what I said; the slaves here are almost ecstatic.” He looked down at his velvet-covered arm. “We’ve grown to know you; you’ve earned the confidence we offer. And this rite is the best way to tell us all that you’ll not be leaving us. Even if the rite of bonding means nothing to the nobility, those below know it well.” He drew back. “Are you happy?”
“I think so.”
“Then come. They’re waiting. ”
Waiting? Yes, I guess they are. The halls that seemed so long and endless suddenly dwindled into inches. They opened up to pale, large doors of wood, with gold inlay that followed their peaked arches and danced around their handles. This simple design had replaced the black ones that Stefanos had all but torn off their hinges once. She liked them better.
There were guards on either side, but at her request, they had been chosen from among the regular troops. She wasn’t certain they were much better than the Swords, but at least they were not Malanthi.
It was one of the many requests that the Servant had granted her. She looked at the doctor, resplendent in his formal attire.
They nodded smartly, and the door rolled open.
She froze for a moment as she looked in. The pews were full, lined with faces that she did not recognize. She saw curiosity there, mingled with hostility, envy, and fear: the nobility of Rennath, of all Veriloth.
She raised her head as she passed beneath the arch of the doors. Let them see her then, as enemy, as foe. Not for them had she walked this far. As she looked up, she saw the galleries. She had never seen them occupied—and could never have imagined that they could hold so many.
Most of the people were on their feet, and many of the children were nearly leaning over the balcony. One, a boy she recognized from her time in the clinic, had the temerity to wave and smile before his mother caught his hand to still him. He did not, however, make any noise.
These slaves were her people. These were the ones she cared about, these and one other.
She looked straight ahead for the first time since entering the chamber and saw him standing where once had stood an altar. As that altar had been, he was cold and dark in its place. Robed in black and red, he waited for her.
The white and the green of the Bright Heart walked quietly to meet him.
“Stefanos.”
“Sara.” He took her hand. It trembled in his. He looked carefully at her, seeing for a moment the silver and gray that the Lernari wore into the fields.
No other had worn the white and the green thus in his presence. Although he had known what she would wear, he found himself nonetheless surprised to see it.
Very gravely he bowed his head to her, and they both turned as one to face their audience.
“You must address them, Sarillorn, as initiate of the Bright Heart. This at least, I will not do.”
He kept to that intention firmly, as she knew he would. For a moment, staring out into the pews, her memory failed her. These nobles of differing stations—these were not meant to share what she wished to make known.
“Lady?”
She looked up once again, to the still and silent faces in the galleries. She saw the hope that Marcus had promised shining down like rays of dawn between the clouds.
To them she could speak.
She’d practiced her lines many times in the last few months, but even as she began to speak, she realized for the first time that they were out of place. She looked up at Stefanos and saw his unwavering eyes as he waited.
“Friends, family, and those who wish us well,” she began. Her voice stopped as she thought of Belfas. Although she could never wish the life of the empire upon him, she missed his presence sorely. And Katalaan would never see her bonded either—she’d be angry, if she knew. Swallowing, Sara continued. “We have as
ked you here, and you have honored us with your presence.
“Today, before those of you who have made our life more complete, we wish to make our oath known, that you might witness it, and see in it some measure of the joy we feel.”
She stopped speaking, and Stefanos tightened his grip, as if to lend her his strength, or the odd warmth of his purpose.
May the Bright Heart bless you, as he has blessed us. May the light of his love shine between us; let the bond that we feel be a vessel for it. Oh, yes, she had practiced the words well, and often—but she found that they would not leave her lips, not in Veriloth.
In this place, to speak of the Bright Heart was to invoke the Dark Heart as well. She looked at Stefanos, and he raised an eyebrow.
No. Today, the only two hearts that concerned her were not bridged by blood-wars, but by love.
“Bless us,” she said softly. “Wish us well. We have come to a road that many, and none, have walked; there are shadows here, and mysteries, but we have the light of our love to guide us. Help us, if you know the way.”
She nodded quietly to Trin, and the young girl approached her carefully with a simple silver goblet.
Sara took it carefully and murmured a few words. Her hands passed over it three times. In answer, the water contained therein began to glow very, very gently.
Stefanos saw this; he could not fail to. But he smiled nonetheless and nodded to still the momentary uncertainty in her eyes. It is only a little pain, Sarillorn. I will bear it. But although he had told her this many times, he knew that she was still uncertain.
Slowly, cautiously, she held it up to his mouth. He steadied her with his cold, still hands, and allowed the bright liquid to pass his lips.
It burned as it slid down his throat; the smile that touched his lips froze in place. Tonight he desired to share no pain with her. He closed his eyes. The pain went deep, but not as deep as he expected. He traced its passage, summoned his power to deal with it, and then held back.
He had touched her once with the finger of the Dark Heart, and she had borne it. Could he do any less?
He opened his eyes to see that she had not moved.
Ah, Sarillorn. The light . . . He wanted to touch it, to keep it. Without thinking, he cupped it in his hands and found himself holding her face.
Without pulling back, she lifted the goblet to her lips, and drank as he had done.
Then, smiling, she turned to give it back to its bearer.
“Our love, like the water, flows between us.”
“Our” love, Sarillorn? He knew it was important to her to be spared none of the truth. But was this not mortal love? Did he not honor her above all others, desire her in a way that not even Sargoth, most learned of the Sundered, could have guessed at?
“Like the waters,” he answered as she had taught him, although the pain they had caused still burned at his blood.
She took his hand.
“Above all others, I have chosen you. If you will have it, I will swear my oath, and we shall be bonded.”
He said nothing, and she continued, “But before you answer, know this: That all of life is endless change and endless growth. We will face our adversity, our sickness, our battles, and these will contrive to hurt us by dimming what we feel now. Love is not for the weak at heart, nor is it an act of destiny. It is what we choose, and to keep it alive, we will have to choose often.”
Her smile was softer, but beneath it he felt the determination in her ritual.
“Know then,” he said, touching her cheek gently, “that I have chosen you.” He smiled as she started. No, Sarillorn, they are not the words of the Lernari ritual; they are mine, as you are.
She shook herself slightly, her smile bearing a hint of wryness as she realized she could expect no less from the First of the Dark Heart. That smile changed as she continued. “Then take my oath, as I shall take yours.”
“I shall.”
“I will remain with you, in trust and faith.”
“I will remain.”
“We will know the passing of years, and the growth and change that it brings. Let our love give a value to the years we have chosen, that neither age nor time will tarnish. Let us choose no other, nor let another come between what we have chosen for ourselves.”
He was silent a moment then, his face suddenly still. He reached out to touch her again, to feel the soft, smooth warmth of her living skin. His nod was quiet and intense.
“Let no adversity, no illness, no injury, come between all that we are.”
“None shall. None.”
Her voice dropped. “And when death parts us, one from the other, let us wait for each other at the bridge of the beyond, and we shall cross together.”
He almost didn’t hear her, for her words, the words that had seemed mere mortal ceremony, had a sudden, grim reality. Time . . . age . . . death. These were not things that he had ever feared; he was of the beginning, of the time before man and before the taint of life. No mortality had ever touched him. And none ever would.
He felt her arms around him and saw the pale blur of her face as she tilted it, just so, He kissed her, but quickly, then pulled back, holding her to study the lines of her face.
There was clapping in the galleries. Perhaps something of the same from one or two isolated individuals in the pews. It didn’t matter. For he saw what his perfect memory had not yet made clear to him—the years on her face. Two years, and they had changed her. And the years that would follow would change her more, until at last, like the oldest and weakest of slaves, she succumbed to death and the beyond.
No. No. She is mine.
Looking at her, seeing the strength of her light—her love, as he knew it—he was determined to make sure that time and death understood well the claim that he made.
“Behold,” he said, raising her hand in his own and addressing a point beyond the audience. “The lady of the Lord of the Empire.”
“First of the Sundered.”
Stefanos turned, already knowing whom he would see; no other came into his private chambers without announcing his presence first. “You answered the summons quickly.”
Sargoth smiled, shadow mixing with gray over a glint of sharp teeth. It was a disconcertingly human expression for one who was farthest removed from human things, but Stefanos understood it for what it was; he smiled in return.
“Pleasantry, Stefanos? Your time among the mortals shows. Who among the lesser Servants would not hasten to your summons?”
“Indeed.” He inclined his head, waiting for a moment. If Sargoth had no other weakness, he had his curiosity, and Stefanos enjoyed allowing it to burn at him.
Sargoth’s smile faded; he understood the game. “Why have you summoned me, and why with such urgency? It has been only a few years since I last walked this plane, and I am involved in my research.”
“It has been, old friend, a human generation.”
“What of it?” Sargoth moved restlessly. “I am still Second, Stefanos. I am not Valeth, to be held till dispersal at your whim.”
“No.” Stefanos nodded almost genially. But it was forced, and they both knew it. “Very well, Second. I need the knowledge that you have spent time hoarding.”
“Ah. It is too much to hope that you wish to travel as I have traveled.”
“Indeed. My concern is here, near our Lord.”
“Ah, well. Perhaps when you have conquered, and you tire of it, you will truly begin to learn.”
“Enough.”
“Ask, then. The fire awaits me.”
Stefanos nodded. “I wish to cure the taint of mortality.”
“The taint of mortality?”
“Indeed. Among my subjects, there is one that I do not wish to die.”
“And that one?”
“It is not of your concern, Sargoth.” His voice was cold. “But if it is necessary to know it, she is half blooded—Lernari.”
“Ah,” Sargoth whispered, as if to himself. “That would explain much. As hal
f blood, she is very strong; I am peripherally aware of her presence, though I have not searched for it. ” He looked up to meet the eyes of the First.
“No. Do not ask me why. Perhaps in time I will tell you, but I will not tell you now.”
Sargoth’s frustration was visible and immediate, but he said nothing, duly noting Stefanos’s mood. He turned his mind and experience to the question; in and of itself, it was fascinating. How did one remove the taint of mortality from the mortal?
Stefanos waited.
With some annoyance, most of it directed at himself, Sargoth said, “I am afraid that I cannot immediately answer your question.”
“You?” A hint of surprise in the First’s voice did nothing to still the Second’s annoyance.
“Indeed. I must . . . look into it.”
“Then look. But know that I am waiting—and know that you do not have long.” He rose, then, and left Sargoth alone.
“Stefanos?”
He felt her fingers brush gently against his chest as he stared up at the blue, curtained canopy. “Yes?”
“What is it? What’s been bothering you?”
He looked down at her, seeing her face as she moved, day by day, closer to the death that would separate them. Normally she would have been sleeping by this time. “It is nothing, little one. Sleep.”
He felt her warmth as she curled around him.
“I can’t. This thing—whatever it is—it’s been bothering you for the last four weeks, since the rite. ”
He sighed. When had it become so difficult to hide his thoughts from her?
“Sarillorn.” His voice was quiet. “You are aging. Even as I watch, I can see the march of days.”
She was startled, and then silent a moment as she absorbed what he said. “I forget that you are a Servant,” she said at last. “I think the Lady saw as you see. But what of it? I’m mortal, love.”
His grip tightened.
“I didn’t think of it before, I’m sorry. But I am mortal. I’ve always lived with it. ”
“Mortal. And you will know age; you will know death.”
“Yes.” She shivered.
“No.” He pulled away from her suddenly and rose.
Into the Dark Lands Page 30