Damn.
He knew the spell; it was a strong one—one of the strongest that Derlac himself would have been able to cast.
Damn the door.
He drew out his dagger, edged with the blood of the dead slave.
If I’d known, he thought, gritting his teeth as he brought the blade sharply down into his palm, I would have killed the slave more slowly, damn him.
But he hadn’t; he only hoped that the man’s lifeblood, weakened by the easy passage into death, would still grant him enough power to wake the sleeping Lernari. Blood welled into his palm and he began his silent litany.
Everything moved slowly. Sara turned in one direction and then in another, and in each she felt and saw billowing clouds of darkness. They clung to her like webs, and she began to kick out—short, sharp thrusts—in an attempt to weaken them. She could feel a heavy stickiness in her mouth, and began to spit and choke as she realized that the web of darkness clung to her insides. Her hands came up, knives of flesh, and she began to make the motions of the Greater Ward—hoping they would have some effect against this unknown danger.
The going was slow; twice the clouds caught her wrists, breaking her gestures—and twice she began them again, determined. It was hard to make the sweeping pass across her heart; harder perhaps because it had been so long since she’d used the ward itself, but blood remembered, and she was of Elliath. She pulled her arms up, her fingers making the last, subtle arcs, and then—
She leaped out of her bed and rolled to one side on the floor. Her eyes snapped open, and she could see one black outline, slightly bent, leaning over her.
But she could move, and her hands already fell into a familiar cadence.
The shadow backed away, offering her open palms.
She called upon light, and it came, flooding the room. Derlac flinched and pulled away, withdrawing his hands, but not before Sara caught sight of the crimson liquid cupped in them. She stood, slowly, her ward unrelenting.
Derlac was very tired. Fatigue bent his back, and he struggled against it just to stand straight. “Lady.”
“Derlac.”
“Believe me, Lady, I mean you no harm.”
She looked skeptically at the hands that he’d curled into fists.
“This?” He lifted the offending hand. “This is why I have come.” He took a deep breath, allowing the very real anger he felt to show. “Lady, this blood is the blood of the Lernari captives.”
The words took some time to penetrate her sleepy mind.
Derlac took a step forward.
“I do not lie to you, Lady. The Lord has opened his temple again—and I cannot say that this displeases me.”
“He opened a temple? ” She put one hand to her forehead.
“Yes. And if you’ve any chance of stopping him from killing the rest of your companions, you must come, and quickly.”
She was almost out of the door. Her gown, pale and simple, swirled in the light around her body. For the first time, Derlac could truly appreciate that this one had been Sarillorn of Elliath, not just a minor priestess. He turned to follow her, keeping a careful distance; contact with her when his power was so low could be very painful.
He stopped an inch short of running into her.
“Derlac, why are you telling me this? What reason have I to trust your word over Stef—over the First Servant’s?”
Again he allowed his anger to show, but this time he could also be truthful.
“Let us be honest, Lady. I want your death. Nothing would please me more. You weaken our Lord, and through him, my Church.”
“Understood.”
“If you try to stop the Lord, as I believe you must, there is a very real chance he will finally kill you.”
“I see.”
“And think on this: If you choose not to believe me, your companions will almost certainly perish. Even now they may be dying on the altar. Can you take the chance? You know me well enough to understand my position; regardless of how I feel, or how my priests or Swords feel, I will not be able to take any action against you; it was tried once, and the cost was far too high. I lead you into no trap.”
She was uncertain; he could see her face mirror her attempt to disbelieve him. For the most part, it succeeded, and Derlac was satisfied. The more she believed the good of her Lord, the more unpredictable she would be.
He thought she might attack the First Servant when she was forced to face fully the truth of his words. And the First Servant, while severely weakened in the act of casting the spell, would still be more than a match for her fury. But the full extent of his aim was more subtle.
I want you to hate him, Lady. I want you to remember that he is your enemy, as he will not remember that you are his. “Come.”
She followed as he began to jog down the tapestried hallway.
For the most part, Sara was angry.
I don’t know what game you’re playing at, Derlac, but I warn you—if this is just another of your cruel schemes, I’ll see you pay.
She was mostly convinced that she would find nothing in the temple but cobwebs and dust. Still, a thin thread of uneasiness ran through her—enough to bring her chasing after Derlac down a mostly disused hall, rumpled and bleary-eyed from sleep.
She wondered what type of apparition she would appear should the wandering eye of a slave catch her running past; the image made her smile almost whimsically.
Then the smile froze and shattered.
From out of the small side door to the temple—the castle entrance—she could see cracks of flickering light. She stopped dead in her tracks.
“Come, Lady. There is more yet.”
The darkness hid the edge of his grim, satisfied smile. He walked at a more leisurely pace to the door, and then stood to one side of it.
Sara came up to the door. For a moment her hand rested nerveless against the handle.
“What are you afraid of, Sarillorn?”
Had she the time—or the power—to spare, she might have lashed out at the high priest. Instead she gathered her anger and shock, and pushed the door open as forcefully as she might.
Belfas hung, like a dimming candle, over the altar of the Dark Heart. His feet touched air, and his head brushed against the blood-spattered body of Kandor.
Sara stood, white against the open door, as words swirled away in a rush, then returned to her open mouth in a single syllable.
“Nooooooo!”
The First Servant of Malthan turned at the sound, but slowly, as if he were exhausted—or casting.
Sara didn’t see him clearly, for Belfas’s eyes flickered open as well, catching sight of her. He didn’t speak—but he couldn’t; he had no throat left for it, and very little life.
Too little. Even as Sara began to run, heedless of Swords, across the temple, she could see his light dim and fade.
“Belfas!”
“Sara!”
She turned then, knowing she could do nothing else, to see Stefanos, robed in black, start toward her. His hands were open and red.
She took a step backward. All in the room could see her begin to glow. Her hands swept upward and out, in a large, wide circle.
Two of the Swords ran forward, weapons drawn.
The First Servant began to call them back, but Sara’s white-fire raced outward in one deadly, brilliant arc. The Malanthi fell screaming beneath it, and the remaining Swords retreated.
Sara made no sound as her arms came up again and fanned outward. Her eyes, when they could be seen at all, were white and gleaming.
“Sara!”
“You lied to me!”
The fire raged outward, and the First Servant fell back, gesturing his own red circle into existence. White-fire beat ineffectually against it and then guttered abruptly as Sara drew it in again.
He could not look at her. His hands danced complicated arcs in the air, a quick, smooth counterpart to Sara’s rage.
Delicate fingers of red wreathed the corner of the room that Sara oc
cupied, seeking purchase. They fell away, and Stefanos cursed, but silently.
Lady, Sara, Sarillorn.
The red grew in strength and began to curl around the circle that Sara had drawn.
I have no time to spare. I have come this far; I will not lose all now.
He was unprepared for the bolt that she shot across the room, and his defense staggered inward, only barely holding. He was mildly surprised; Sara had never once thrown the full weight of her blood-power in his presence. The red net died as he enforced his own shielding.
“Sara!”
“They were right!” she cried back, as the white-fire grew impossibly more powerful, “They were right about you!”
He heard the hysteria in her voice; that he expected and accepted—for now. But when it was over—
Derlac. It could only be you. You will pay for this.
“Sara—”
“No! I’ve listened and I’ve trusted you—and I’ll not make the same mistake again!”
Yes, hysteria was there, but beneath it, something darker and more implacable. He felt cold fingers trace themselves along his throat, and words deserted him. Keeping his shield up, be began to advance toward the Sarillorn of Elliath. “Lady, you cannot hold this fire forever.”
He could feel it weakening, but gradually. And time was against him in this. If the dawn came before his work was complete, everything that had passed this eve, even Sara’s anger—especially Sara’s anger—would be for nothing. And that he could not accept.
Turning only his head, he barked an order at the guards, and they complied. The red lace of power in the room grew marginally stronger.
Someone snarled, low and guttural, and Stefanos stopped his progress. Sara.
Her power swept outward with such force that his shield once again pushed into him. The sound of screams and choking surrounded him briefly, and the red net faded.
“Five. Most impressive, Sara. They were defending against you.”
He watched her, but her light still shone too brightly for close inspection. I have no choice, then.
He felt a shadowy anger come upon him and began to pull power from the lifeblood of his unfortunate sacrifices. Only a little; that was all he needed—but even the little jeopardized his chance of completing the spell he’d so laboriously begun. He used the power thus pulled to strengthen his defense and diverted his own power outward.
Red-fire flared in the room as he gestured. Each movement was concise and economical. The light surrounding Sara drew inward as she frantically brought her own hands up. Red-fire ate away at the white in her, and it ebbed into the gray of stone and the orange of torchlight.
Stefanos could see her face clearly for the first time since she’d entered the room. With a curt, downward motion, he killed the red-fire.
Sara looked around the room, her gaze measured and hard.
“What will you do now, Lord? What will you do to one who has tried to kill you and failed?”
Her voice was tight, cold, and focused in ways that it had never been. Her hands were furled into small, white fists.
“Sara—”
“No. I’m not Sara.”
“Lady—”
“Not that either. I choose to be Erin, lost to Elliath, but Sarillorn nonetheless.”
He met her eyes, then, and took a step back. He felt a sudden lurch, a pain of a sort that had only touched him through the dim shadow of fear. It was strong, as the fear had promised it would be. The light was gone.
In its place stirred something too close to hatred and darkness for a creature of the dark to mistake. He stood back, raising one hand as if to stop what was in her eyes.
The light was dead.
He faced her, not knowing how to. She didn’t flinch, didn’t move a finger, just stood, cold, smooth alabaster—the corpse of what he’d come to desire.
The blood that remained on his hands burned. He looked down as if seeing it for the first time. Confusion blurred his thoughts.
“Sara—”
She could not, would not respond. Even the tears that often accompanied her darkest moods were absent; absurdly enough, he had accomplished at least that goal. Looking down, he noticed that small patches of red marred the fabric—whose blood, exactly, he could not say.
He took a step forward, then another, almost stumbling toward her. She remained where she was, and he saw in her face her precious lines, and the type of defeat that the lines could acknowledge—all hard, all cold, a bitter, noble pride—but nothing, not one hint, of warmth or light.
Not even when he brought his hands up to cup her face.
He caught her chin roughly, knowing that he would hurt her, but unable to stop.
“No. The light cannot be dead. I will not allow it.”
Her mouth opened and closed again.
He bent his power outward, more subtly this time, probing her, searching for things that eyes alone could never touch. He pulled at her, at the thoughts she kept hidden, at the sense of personality that slid like water away from his grip. Nothing.
He caught her arms and shook her hard enough to make her neck snap backward without breaking it.
“Lady, I do this for you—I do it because—”
“You did not do this for me.”
He saw a hint of fear in her, but could not bring himself to exploit it. Pain, he knew well, would not bring back what was lost. Power would not. Death would not.
And thus he learned the first lesson of his Enemy: that only the thing truly given is precious; that this thing that is precious can never be forced.
He bowed his head, brushing convulsively against her chest. Almost of their own accord her arms went out, trembled against the air, and fell to her sides.
“First Servant, you have already killed me.”
He looked up. She looked away. And in the motion, everything. His confusion dissipated; his pain did not. But now the way was clear.
“Finish it. Or I will finish it. There are things even I cannot live with.”
His fingers brushed her cheek, gently, and she knew she should not have spoken. He stood, straight and tall, the lapse in his control a thing already of the past.
“Come, Lady.”
Quietly, she followed him to the altar.
There he turned, again catching her face. “Lady.”
She was trembling.
He was Stefanos, First Servant of Malthan, ruler of half the world. Twice challenged, he had left the dead behind, with a determination and strength that marked him as First still.
To lose was not his way.
He bent down and kissed her forehead, so she would not see the red of his eyes as they blazed with the strength of the dead. His arms shot out to catch her as she crumpled, to hold her as she would not now allow him if she were conscious. He carried her quickly to the altar, and there kissed her sleeping mouth. The approaching dawn did not allow for more.
Quickly he picked up the dagger that lay exposed on the stained altar. He cut his hand neatly and smoothly, and repeated the operation upon hers. Trembling, he brought her hand to his and pressed them firmly together.
And then he sought her memory; the core of what she’d seen; the thing that had killed the light. He found it easily and began to blanket it in his shadow, dimming it and then carefully cutting it away from the rest of her life. When it was done, he pulled away, nearly exhausted.
Almost, he woke her then; the temptation was strong.
And if you wake, what then, Lady? The world is still the world; and it is still mine. Will you not suffer the more to continue to see what I must do?
He pulled away, still clutching the dagger.
Let me finish my task. Let me take what is mine by right of power. And then, perhaps, I can return it to you—a gift for my lady.
He approached her again, uncertainly.
Then the uncertainty vanished. For in the future, a human decade away, maybe more, the Lady of Elliath would have to be dealt with; and all of the lines that
did her work. And he would have to face again the loss that had almost overwhelmed him this evening.
No. I will not lose her—not that way. Nor any other.
He stepped away from her, and leaned over the body of Kandor.
First of Malthan. The voice of the Third of Lernan was no more than a whisper.
The dagger tossed torchlight against the ceiling.
You are indeed the One. Your time is short; I feel the dawn, and it is close. Will you truly do this thing?
In reply, the dagger came down, point first, wearing an aurora of pure red.
Kandor’s body jerked violently as the point hit his breast and slammed down. The knife went up twice more, and the voice of the Third of Lernan was lost to the mortal plane.
Stefanos lifted Sara’s hand and cupped the Servant’s blood in it, letting it trickle into the wound in her palm. Blood ran through her fingers into the nest of his own cut hand. It hurt, but he let it in.
Now, Sara. He began to chant. Your life and mine.
He raised his free hand and chased a pattern of fire through the air. The pattern fell around the three of them, drawing them closer and closer together.
I free you from mortal time.
I release you from death.
For as long as I exist, you shall rule beside me.
He held her thus until the blood ceased to flow. Then, without pause to exult in his night’s work, he carried her out of the temple to the north wing of the castle. There he did what he could to clean her, washing and bandaging her hand and carefully brushing her hair.
When he was finished, he tucked her gently into bed.
Sleep, little one. I shall waken you.
He made it to the door by effort of will and then stopped dead.
“May I stay, Sara? It will be dawn; I can see the sky change. I shall not hurt you.”
He walked back into the room, turned the covers down, and after removing—with great care—the robes he wore, he slid in beside her.
She was warm as she lay in his arms. Her breath fanned his chest, as it had done many evenings while she slept. But something was missing.
Am I not to have the comfort of your company before the campaign starts? Sara, Lady, forgive me. He woke her, eyes glinting weakly.
Into the Dark Lands Page 37