Avoiding his eyes, she turned to see the still form of Kandor upon the floor. Dodging Stefanos, she darted toward it and knelt.
His hand, ivory and pale, was motionless in hers, limp, all of the life he had carried into the hall vanquished.
Kandor, please—understand me.
He had; she knew it. She drew the body closer, wondering why it still existed in the mortal realm.
Lernan, God, forgive me. I am Sarillorn of Elliath no longer. And she wept, salt tears warming the chill of her face. Beyond, the voice of her Lord broke through.
“Captain, take them to the north wing. Confine them until I—”
She stood, leaving Kandor on the floor. “Stefanos.”
He turned to her as the guards began to carry out his orders, and beyond his back she could see that Rein was bleeding profusely. The other three were unscathed—physically. She tried to capture Belfas’s gaze and failed; he turned his face away without speaking another word.
“Lady?”
“Please, Stefanos, please let them go.”
He grew remote, his eyes black against the gray of his natural pallor. “They are my enemies, Lady. There is an understanding in this. They have failed; they know the price.”
“They wouldn’t have failed if I had not—not—” betrayed them. But the enormity of the words stuck in her throat, refusing her the relief of releasing them. “Please, Lord. I saved your life. Please grant me this one thing. I won’t ask for anything else.”
He caught her trembling chin in his fingers. “Sara, I—”
“You’d be dead if I hadn’t interfered!”
“I am not alive now.”
Dropping to her knees, she caught the hand beneath her chin and grasped it so tightly that the blood ran out of her fingers. Bowing her head, she said, “First Servant of—of Malthan. I ask you, beg you if I must, for their lives. Please.”
He studied her for a while as the hall emptied, saw the tears upon her cheeks, etching themselves into her countenance as if they were acid. At length he knelt in front of her, pulling her into his arms.
“Sara, Sara, I understand. You ask me to lessen the price you have paid tonight.” His hands ran through her hair, changing shape and color as they did so, until he stood before her, once again Lord of Veriloth—as close to human as a Servant could become. “Lady, why did you choose as you did?”
She shook her head, wordless, and he let the question fade, knowing the answer, marveling at it.
“I will not earn your hatred this night, Sara. Rise. Return to your rooms. The Lernari are free to go; they have lost the strongest of their number; they have lost the Third of Lernan.”
She trembled, but this time brought her face up. Tears still fell, and her face was no less troubled, but he could see a glimmer of light in her eyes.
Weakly, her arms came up and around him.
“Thank you. Thank you, Stefanos.”
She tried to stand, and he caught her as her knees gave.
“It is I who should thank you, Sara. Come.” He lifted her. “I will take you to your rooms; you may rest there. In the morning, all shall be as it was.”
He carried her out of the hall, cradling her gently as she curled against his chest. Together they made their way to the north wing of the palace and from there to Sara’s rooms.
Sara seemed to sleep; her breath came shallowly and evenly as the First Servant traversed the final hallway that she’d covered so carefully with her tapestries. He had seen them many times and had no need to pause to reexamine detail; it was all in his memory, and with a thought he could summon it up. Given a night he could sit in his chambers, counting each individual thread and each careless flaw.
Nonetheless he stopped at the end, to gaze fully at the loom-drawn Lady of Elliath.
Lady. He did not bow, but would have had he not carried Sara. Your eyes see your doom. Does it wear my face?
I do not know if you sent the Lernari, or the Third of Lernan, but I am grateful for both. I shall use them well. He tightened his grip on Sara, a wordless statement. When we meet again, I shall remember your gift to me.
He nodded once, crisply, and then carried Sara to her bedroom. She stirred once, and he cradled her until she was again still. Then he pushed her covers back and laid her carefully in her bed, arranging the pillows beneath the spread of her hair.
His lips brushed her forehead once.
Then he raised his arms, passing them three times over her still form. His eyes glinted red in the darkened room.
Sleep, Sara. Sleep until dawn. He spoke a few words, each one carefully chosen to reverberate across her. It is done.
Bending down, he kissed her again, lightly on either eyelid. Then he stood and walked briskly out of the room, closing and locking her door behind him.
He walked quickly down to Kadrin’s quarters and rapped on the door. Kadrin emerged, paling slightly at the sight of his Lord; it was rare for him to make a personal appearance.
“Lord.” He bowed, dropping to his knees.
“The lady sleeps. She has had a troubled evening. Post two of the slaves near her quarters and make sure that she is not disturbed under any circumstance.
“And send someone for the high priest. Tell him he is to meet me in my chambers immediately.”
“Yes, Lord.”
Stefanos held the man’s eyes for a minute, then nodded curtly. Kadrin rose from the floor and scrambled awkwardly—but quickly—down the long hall. The First Servant was already gone.
Derlac opened the door to his master’s chambers and walked quickly in.
“You are here.”
“Master.” Derlac gave a low bow.
“I require your assistance for the evening.” He rose, almost impatiently. “We must move quickly; the work will be long and it cannot, under any circumstance, outlast the darkness.”
Derlac nodded, rising.
Stefanos was already at the door. “Quickly, High Priest.” He had no need to make a threat; Derlac understood his position too well.
“Where do we go, master?”
“To my temple.”
A look of surprise, followed by satisfaction, swept across the high priest’s face. “Will we need a congregation?”
“No.”
Derlac shrugged. Not a full ceremony then—but it didn’t matter. The First Servant, for the first time in over three years, was willing to perform blood rites.
“Is there anything that you require?”
“The blade.”
“Done.”
“And the Lernari. Bring also the body of the Third of Lernan. Both are necessary.”
A slow smile spread across Derlac’s face.
“Immediately, master.” He bowed again, genuinely. “I shall meet you at the temple with the things you have requested.”
Stefanos nodded absently.
You trusted me, Sarillorn. And why should you not? In the past four years I have never broken my word to you.
He felt uneasy, and buried the feeling beneath a sharp and sweet elation.
Just this once, Sarillorn, I must do so. Then you, too, will be free of the dictates of time. As I am.
I will never lose you to so impersonal an enemy.
He opened the door and began his journey to the temple. And his eyes were deep and red, a dark red that showed no light, nor allowed any to pass.
chapter eighteen
Stefanos looked about his small personal temple, noting the marks that the passage of time had left upon it. Here, a cobweb, hiding perhaps a spider or two, there, dust in an even, undisturbed blanket upon the unused altar. He felt momentarily annoyed at the sight; he would have to find the time to make sure that the temple was clean. Not that it would take long, but the darkness of evening was a precious commodity.
With a wide, deliberate gesture and a few curt words, he let his displeasure take form. A strong wind swept through the room, tearing away cobweb and dust alike. Small spiders scurried away from the ruins of their daily labor, and he let
them pass.
He walked to the altar, tracing a familiar path easily and cleanly. The stone was cool to the touch, even to his, and black with the faintest threads of gray running through it. It was an elaborate monument, the more so for its plain, unadorned elegance. He had always liked it, although the labor had not been his; Sargoth had constructed it almost whimsically during one of his few visits to the mortal plane.
His arms swung across the length of the stone, inches above the surface. His eyes and the altar glowed red at the same time, and then the color faded into natural black.
I am ready.
As if hearing his thoughts, two men walked through the door. By their uniforms, it was clear they were Swords of the Church, Malanthi, but not strong enough in blood to aspire to the priesthood. Between them they carried a limp, pale body—Kandor’s.
“Lord.”
“Put it on the altar. The left side.”
The man who had spoken nodded sharply, with only a slight trace of fear—it was not, after all, his blood that would grace the altar this night. Still, it always paid to be careful when dealing with the First Servant of God.
They deposited the body clumsily on the stone altar, but before they could straighten it out, their Lord waved them away.
“That will be all. You may go now.”
Nodding, the Swords left.
Stefanos went to the body and began to unfurl it almost gently.
Third of the Enemy, know that your essence will be used to aid one of the Line Elliath.
I know it.
Ah. He was aware; in some way still attached to the plane. If there is pain—
First of Malthan, do what you must. The Lady herself has foreseen what has come to pass. If she had seen more clearly, you would not triumph in so bitter a fashion for either of us.
Stefanos stood back for a moment, unsettled by the vague hint of pity that underlay his enemy’s thoughts. For a moment he feared a trap, but he shunted that fear aside; trap or no, this opportunity itself could not be wasted.
The noise of approaching guards came down the halls again, and with them a familiar footstep.
Derlac. Good. We must begin soon.
The doors swung open, and Derlac walked into the room, step crisp and formal, followed by seven Swords—each wearing the high priest’s insignia—and their four captives. Three of them walked with a quiet, desperate dignity; the fourth was dragged, half-conscious, along the floor.
Derlac gave a low bow and, kneeling, handed the First Servant a long, thin, ebony box.
Stefanos accepted the offering and quickly set the box down, passing hands over it before flipping the hinged lid open. He clasped the dagger firmly in his left hand and lifted it out of the box.
“The injured one.”
Two of the Swords separated from the main group, dragging the half-conscious man to the altar.
“Release him.” He nodded as the men did so, and the Lernari slumped to the floor. “Stand aside.”
He began to chant, his form outlined by a pulsating red that all in the room could clearly see. The body began to rise awkwardly, a tangled mess of arms and legs. It floated higher and higher until it hung, suspended by the ankles, over the still form of Kandor.
Stefanos walked forward, dagger ready, his voice never ceasing its odd litany. With a quick, precise movement, he drew the dagger shallowly across the captive Servant’s chest. Then, without halting the knife’s motion, he brought it up in an arc that ended Rein’s life. It was quick, clean—and every instinct within the First Servant cried out against the fact that it was painless. But he had not come this far by being slave to instinct.
As the blood drained from Rein’s throat, he turned again, and the chanting ceased. Almost as an afterthought, the corpse drifted away from the altar, coming to rest in a heap before it.
Stefanos raised one gray claw, leveling it at one of the Lernari, the youngest by human reckoning.
“Come.”
She hesitated, and the Swords fell behind her immediately, cutting her off from her companions. She turned once, caught a pair of friendly, resigned eyes, and nodded, all wordless.
As she approached the altar, her feet rose until she was gliding on air. Then slowly, delicately, she was rotated until her hair brushed across the blood on Kandor’s chest, becoming matted and dark at the ends.
The First Servant reiterated his guttural chant, gripping the knife firmly as he again approached Kandor. Another shallow cut, and the knife swung upward—and hesitated for just an instant at the look in the girl’s eyes. Green eyes, like Sara’s, shone cold and clear with hatred and fear. He brought the knife back almost defensively and sighed. Reaching out, he touched the tip of her chin, and she moved her face away.
“Do not be afraid. You have met your enemy on the field, bravely and strongly. There will be no pain.” He saw the tears begin to form in her eyes and her lips begin to tremble. But she was Lernari, he was Servant to Malthan. He lifted the knife, knowing his hands trembled, and began to chant anew.
Her blood flowed downward, masking her face in a red, ugly sheen. He waited, hearing the sound of it as it struck Kandor’s chest. And when it was over, her body, too, came to rest before the altar, but it was deposited almost gently.
Stefanos passed his hands before his face, trying to erase the image that remained; the ghost of green eyes in the air. He tried to judge the time, not knowing how much of the darkness had elapsed. He felt unaccountably weary.
It is the magic, he thought, knowing it to be a lie. He turned once again.
Derlac nodded to the Swords, and they selected the second woman. She was older; a scar seamed her face, and the light in her eyes was firm and solid. They brought her forward. Unlike the girl, this Lernari attempted her warding spells. They failed; she had known they would, but it was not her way to walk resigned into death. She was brought to the altar, and held the same way that her two comrades had been held.
“I do not know,” she said, through gritted teeth, “what game you play, First of the Enemy. But know this: The blood of Elliath can never be used against the circle.”
“I know it, Lernari. I know it well.” And then he cursed; the response had broken the chant.
“Lord.”
He spun, the irritation showing plainly on his features, and Derlac took a step back. Only a step; in the temple he was still high priest, and that counted for something even when facing the First of God.
“My Lord.” He bowed deeply, more to avoid the smoldering red in the Servant’s eyes than to show subservience. “I, too, do not understand what transpires here. If you cannot consign the Lernari to God, you can at least attempt to draw out their pain on His altar.”
“Fool!” Stefanos almost spat the word out.
“Lord.” Derlac bowed again, torn between anger and fear. Before he could rise from the bow, the Servant spoke again, this time more smoothly, but no less angrily for it.
“High Priest, I do what I do here for my own reasons. If you cannot refrain from questioning them, you may leave the temple.”
Leave the temple? Anger won. A feeling of betrayal stirred in Derlac. You’ve opened your temple for the first time in three years—and blooded the altar in the bargain. But her influence holds you regardless. She weakens you, and through you she weakens the Church and our God.
Yes, Lord, I will leave the temple. But I will return, and we will see an end to this sacrilege.
He did not bother to salute or otherwise pay the price that courtesies to a superior demanded. Wheeling, he left the chamber and stalked down the long, empty hall.
At the farthest edge of his earshot, he caught the low dissonance of the First Servant’s chant. He quickened his pace; he would have to time his reentrance with care.
With sure steps he traced the path to the north wing of the castle. He brought a torch with him out of habit, although in the north wing, at any time of day or night, light was not necessary.
His anger grew again as he passe
d the tapestries along the Sarillorn’s walls. He hated them; the more so because their expense had come out of Church coffers.
Never mind, Soon enough they’ll be gone.
Her door, gilded and wide, loomed in the torchlight. He hated this as well; these had been the high priest’s quarters before she had come to Rennath. He doubted that she was aware of this fact, and pride had never allowed him the expense of informing her.
He raised one hand, hesitated, then knocked, firmly and loudly.
A slave came cringing out of the shadows nearest the door.
“High Priest.”
Derlac turned slowly, his irritation at the interruption plain across his features. “I am here to speak with the lady. Leave. Now.”
The slave took a step back, but it was clear that he had no intention of leaving. “I’m sorry, High Priest. But it’s the Lord’s orders.”
“What orders?”
“The lady’s not to be disturbed by anyone—not even the Lord himself.”
“The Lord himself sent me.”
The slave shook his head. “I’m sorry, master. The lady cannot be disturbed.”
“I see.” He did, and it didn’t please him. “Very well; the business is urgent, but it will have to wait until the morning.” He turned away from the door as the slave breathed an audible sigh of relief.
As the slave turned to go, Derlac’s hand slipped into his left sleeve. A silver sliver flashed in the torchlight, connecting with the slave’s spinal column.
All in all, too easy a death. Derlac set the torch aside, quickly drew the body to one side, and placed it in an alcove. Then, glancing quickly around, he knocked loudly on the door.
No answer.
He tried again, and then tried the door.
Locked.
Cursing, he began to draw upon his own power.
He twisted the door, and this time, although it resisted him, he managed to open it enough to squeeze through. But it cost him. Bitterly he acknowledged the fact that it was a lesser ward; had the First Servant wished to spare the power, he could not have entered the room unless he brought a crew of men to break down one of the walls—the stone walls.
He hurried through the darkened rooms to the bed. Lady Sara slept, but not a natural sleep. This his Malanthi eyes could discern easily.
Into the Dark Lands Page 36