“And thus do the shadows fall away from the Sarillorn of Elliath. But for a moment, Lady. Come. I have bid you enter. Was it not for my hospitality that you came?” His eyes pulsed again with silver frost. “Oh, no,” he said softly. “Draw no weapons. I do not recognize you three, but you come with the Sarillorn, and that is knowledge enough.”
Cospatric bit back a cry as his sword hand blistered in the wake of a fire-flash. Gerald might well have been mute again, and Corfaire showed nothing, nothing at all.
“But you, little boy—I recognize you. And I recognize the thing that you carry.” He laughed for the first time. “Do you think to use it against me here? Do, please. It will amuse me. It will avail you nothing.”
Erin caught Darin’s hand in her own. She squeezed his shaking fingers.
“Come, Amalayna. You have my gratitude. You have led them to me and have saved my Swords effort and possibly lives.”
“Lord.” She bowed quietly and began to walk forward without a backward glance. But she was not allowed to stand near the lord of the Church. Two Swords moved politely to stand on either side of her; an honor guard.
Vellen gestured again.
Darin pulled his hand away from Erin’s and swung Bethany around. White light coruscated down the length of the staff, crackling audibly over Darin’s wordless shout.
Another, stronger light joined it as it flew across the courtyard and up the steps.
The high priest of the Church staggered backward. But his smile never dimmed as his eyes traded silver for red. His counter was quick and smooth—but not fast enough to block Bethany’s strike.
Or it shouldn’t have been. Erin knew ward and counterward well. And she knew that the power that shielded Vellen was not his alone. For he stood, taller and more menacing, framed by the Light.
Beyond him, the Swords flinched, but they, too, were protected by their Lord.
Only Amalayna screamed.
Vellen gestured, and her scream was cut short, but she sagged visibly between the two Swords. They caught her, before her knees crumpled, and held her rigidly.
“Unwise,” he said, and gestured again, his hands flying and plunging in one final motion. “You will need what power you have, Lady.”
The Light faded, leaving an afterimage across Erin’s eyes. Before she could move again, the ground was pulled away from her. Her feet flailed a moment a foot above the flag-stones.
“Now I tire. Come. All of you.” They rose, instruments to his will, until they, too, were suspended in midair by the power of the high priest.
Sargoth had, after all, been a very good teacher.
Darin wanted to call his power then, but the gates would not form in his mind. He had forgotten what it felt like to stand in the wake of Lord Vellen’s power. He was shaking, and all he could do was retain his grip on Bethany.
The five drifted forward in silent struggle; they could not even turn to see the doors of the wing close quickly behind them.
Renar’s lips made no sound as he mouthed a curse. Years of practice kept him silent—that and Tiras’ hand biting into his shoulder. He reached up and caught the fingers of his teacher. He held them a moment before frantically and deliberately gesturing.
There was not even a tremble in the older man’s grip. He waited until the young king finished, and then began his own discourse. It was, of course, shorter and more precise.
When he had finished, they both looked to the walls of the temple and the closed gates. The Swords that patrolled the curtain wall still looked inward, as if no threat from without could equal the excitement within. If they were good, they would take up their duties again, and soon.
Renar’s previous experiences here told him that they were good. That had not prevented his entrance before. It would not do so now. He had seconds, and he used them, sliding across the ground like a moving patch of velvet or shadow. No sound followed in his wake, but he was aware of Tiras dogging his steps.
The master was older, but experience told what age did not; he was all grace and supple movement.
If they were lucky, they would be undetected; if they were unlucky, they would have to kill two Swords. Renar’s mood was such that he didn’t know which of the two to pray for.
Hold on, Lady. We’re coming.
Stefanos stood above the grass in the center of two circles, one bright and one dark. The first, and the closest to him, was one of his own making; thin, fine, and sharp. The second was the will of his Lord made manifest: thick, rigid, immovable. Where they touched, they merged, but when they separated, they remained unchanged. There were no breaks, and no flaws, in either.
And yet ...
Stefanos drew his circle in and looked about him slowly. The almost unreasoning urge to throw all of his power against his Lord’s was gone; in its place was a tense rationality. He wanted no pain, no despair, no anguish to flow from him to the Dark Heart; it would only strengthen His power.
But was there a difference, now? Was there a slight thinning, an odd mutability?
His Lord spoke no words; the whisper of the darkness had been stilled. This gave him hope. He moved through the paths of memory until he found what he sought: the raising of the wall. His eyes, turned inward, studied it carefully, examining each detail.
On high, shadows hid the frescoes on the curvature of the vaulted ceilings. Light pooled in sparse circles around torches and lamps, but its soft halos did nothing to make the details above more clear.
“Feel free to examine them more closely,” the high priest said. His words filled the hall with the grandeur and depth of power. Erin alone began to rise. She made no move and no struggle; there was no point in it. The power that Lord Vellen used now was not blood-magic, and she had nothing to fight it with. The red-fire, he hoarded carefully.
Her flight brought her above the reach of the light, where the shadows took her coldly. She stopped an arm’s reach from the heights. There, surrounding her in a downward fall of color, death reigned. Caught, timeless, protected from the ravages of the sunlight, rich, stark images struggled free of the darkness. To her left, resplendent in armor that was almost certainly an added detail, the host of the Dark Heart rode triumphantly through the lands of Elliath. Their horses were all of a color, and their banners were shadow and blood. Light gleamed oddly off their open helms as they surveyed what their horses did not avoid stepping on: the fallen.
She bit her lip and decided. The last light fell away from her, and her eyes lost their ability to pierce the darkness.
“A pity,” Vellen said softly. “But perhaps it is not necessary after all. You alone need no education in the glories of our past.”
But he held her aloft in midair. She heard the soft scrape of metal and felt a tug at her shoulders.
“You are not a warrior here; there is no battle, no question of it.” His voice was velvet, so soft that she wondered if she heard it with her ears. “What use have you of weapons?”
There was another scrape of metal; another buckle opened. Her hands fought against the power that stayed them, but with no effect. The Bright Sword drifted gently away from her body.
“What use have you of armor?”
The hard leather was peeled away and the underpadding followed. Both fell almost beyond her vision. Compared to the loss of the sword, these were nothing.
“Better, Lady. Come. We are ready for you now.”
She floated downward. Without her light, and without her armaments, she was an ordinary woman; small, and in seeming, delicate.
She could see Vellen clearly now. At his side, a Sword held her possessions. The sword he did not even pull; it was a short sword, not a great sword—and with no one behind it, it held no menace for him, and very little interest.
“You aren’t even afraid yet,” the high priest whispered. He stepped forward, reached out, and caught her chin in his fingers.
She said nothing, did nothing.
But he was wrong; she was afraid. Behind the set neutrality of her
eyes and mouth, thoughts trembled in a struggle to come to the forefront. Why had she thought it would be easy? Why had she thought they would not be prepared? Why had Lady Amalayna’s offer seemed so foolproof? She had failed again, and yet ...
It was not over.
“Come.” He did not even release her face; she was dragged the last few yards to the new, plain doors of the temple proper, her feet resting on air. There was no question at all of where he was taking her.
Yes.
There was a difference, so faint and subtle that even he had not recognized it at first. He smiled, the first real smile of the evening. No one could see it, and he had no idea of how it transformed his face—but he would remember in detail the feel of the corners of his lips and the moment in which they rose.
Had he been mortal, or of mortal blood, he would have willingly offered the taint of it to his Lord. In his mind, he did so, and his offering was a silent roar that the Dark Heart could not ignore.
Stefanos, cease this.
The inner circle closest to the First of the Sundered faded out of sight, absorbed once again by the Foremost Servant of the Darkness.
Lord.
The Dark Heart did not respond. Stefanos looked carefully at the walls and then began an assault of a different sort.
There were forty Swords in the temple proper. Forty men, armed and prepared for any ensuing conflict. Beyond the safety their numbers represented stood five high priests, also garbed in their most ceremonial attire. They formed an open half circle and watched in silence.
Erin barely noticed them.
For at their head, farthest into the room, stood shadow personified. Her breath escaped her then in a sharp, short gasp.
It was not Stefanos who waited.
She did not recognize the Servant who did, not for several minutes. But as she approached in the silence, as the Swords created a tunnel through which their lord passed, she saw beyond the bent back and the pale darkness, beyond the brilliant red of magic that could belong only to a Heart.
“Sargoth.”
The Second of the Sundered raised his head. She saw two red points in a mask of shadow. “Did I not say we would meet again?”
Not Stefanos. Not Lord Stefan Darclan. Not the darkling bond-mate that she had so dreaded facing in her final hours.
Sargoth did not look away from her. “Vellen, you have done well. Our Lord will be pleased indeed. But the Lady is now in my care. Bring her forward.”
“The others?”
“Yours, as agreed upon. But they will have to wait.” He stopped a moment and looked just beyond Vellen. “Who is this?”
“My promised mate.” The high priest held out a hand. He spoke no word of command, but none was needed; his personal guards knew him well enough to judge his wishes. They took a step away from Amalayna, bowed, and let her go. She stepped forward and placed one icy hand in Vellen’s.
“Come, Lady. Enjoy the fruit of your endeavor.” He smiled. “After this eve, there will be no dictate from the Church that is not mine. We consecrate the altars to a new Lord of the Empire.”
If Sargoth thought this presumptuous, he was not inclined to comment. He waited as Erin was dragged forward through the air. She came, her eyes wide and unblinking.
“You cannot know what trouble you have caused me, half human.”
Something was wrong with his voice. The tenor of it was too strong; the sibilance absent.
“All my plans have gone awry. I serve my Lord in this moment, but I shall find some satisfaction in it for my losses.”
He gestured, and his eyes flashed silver and red, silver and red.
Erin fell to the ground at his feet. She began to roll before she was caught once again, this time by a surer, more ancient power. Her hand froze a hair’s breadth above her dagger; her fingers had already curled to grip it.
“Oh no. Did you think we would allow you to invoke our Enemy’s power here? I have prepared long, and I am no mere priest. I have the ability to keep you from your God.”
Fire suddenly burst around her—not red-fire, but not normal fire either. She saw the hand of Darin’s teacher and would have bitten her lip, but her mouth would not move. In an instant, all of her clothing was consumed by the hiss of those flames, and she was jerked to her feet. Not even ash remained to conceal her.
“So that you might see her and know all that the last of our Enemy is.” He gestured again, and she began to rotate, bound tightly to an invisible stake. She could not even close her eyes, and they began to smart and water.
“Tears, Sarillorn?” Sargoth drew her closer and lifted one clawed hand. “How pathetic. But I believe ... yes. Kerlinda of Elliath died just such a death as you will.” He smiled, but the glitter of his teeth was red. The surge of her anger, her pain, and her fear all but enveloped him, so close was he to his God.
Then he gestured. Red plumed outward from his arms. She felt its foreign sigil strike her skin and sink until it rested so close to her she too was red.
She had not heard her mother’s name for years. But the screams returned to her now.
The death of the slaves had opened the way for him. Their offer was foreign, almost unthinkable, to what he had been. But what he had become could grasp and understand it. Barely—but enough.
Power he needed, yes—but the power was kin to the Dark Heart, born of the Darkness, and alone was not enough.
Did you wish to hear my voice, Lord? Then listen.
He lifted his head an inch, but otherwise did not move. He opened his eyes, and beyond the haze of red, he conjured up a single image so strongly it was almost flesh.
Her image.
But she was not sleeping, was not dead, was not angry with him, hurt by him, or confused. She was not armed, not armored, not caught in the Light of her heritage. No; she was simply dressed in a robe she herself had chosen because it lacked frills and the excess of finery. Between her cupped hands, she held a single lily that one of the slaves’ children had picked for her out of the garden—risking the wrath of the groundskeeper and master gardener both. Her eyes were turned down, her lips turned up, her shoulders curved inward.
Sara.
She looked up, across the years, to see his face. And what she saw, he could not say, but the smile grew deeper both on his lips and her own. He did not even remember where or when this was—and neither were important enough to cause him to cast through memory for the answers.
She was now.
She had always been part of the now of human imperative. And she had caught him in its web.
Sara, love. What do you have there?
A flower, Lord. For you. Her cheeks dimpled. Only you can pull one from your gardens with impunity. She held out a hand; it passed through the barrier. The faintest scent of lilies touched his mind.
And the Dark Heart growled.
She could draw no blood, make no offer to her silent God. Even her lips could grant her no prayer, and she wondered if Sargoth would release her enough to allow her to scream. He drew closer, and she felt the chill of his claws caress her thighs.
His hands shot up and in at the same moment, but with such a deliberation and care he might have been an artist working with clay. Blood came, rushing to fill the depth of the open, white wound.
Blood was what she needed. Her arms were not free; the gesture of the open circle was lost to her—but it wasn’t necessary. She concentrated and lost God’s name as Sargoth struck again across her open breast. It was slow, this strike; she felt her skin resist him a moment before giving way to the greater power.
She could not scream; her throat would not allow it. But the tears that trickled down her cheek were no longer those of mere discomfort.
Her eyes cast around the room beyond her tormentor’s back, and she saw the black altar, clean and shining, that rested upon a web of red. Beneath it, so close it was a subtle torture, lay a stagnant, muddied pool.
Then she lost the use of her left eye.
Choking, she strugg
led to remember the name of God.
He saw her more clearly than he saw the red walls. He heard her more clearly than he heard the Dark Heart. And he opened some part of his mind, of more than his mind, to the gentle pressure of her words.
He allowed for no loss; he would not think of it. Not when he could remember the other sensations that only she had ever brought forth. Warmth. Love. Hope.
These had ever been a private secret for the Lord of the Empire; he had shared them with Sara alone. Until this moment.
Love, with its depth of faith and hope, had become the sharpest of his weapons.
Stefanos! Cease this!
Lernan.
There was a scream in the auditorium that was not hers; it was too high, and too young. But the pain behind it did not touch more than her ears; she was too involved with her own.
Lernan. God’s name.
Blood ran down her throat from the ruin of her lips.
Lernan! God, I grant you this willingly!
The Second of the Sundered laughed aloud. “He cannot hear you, half blood. He will never hear you again.” His eyes flashed, and her lips were free. The breath that passed them came out in a whimper and grew into a full scream. “But we hear, Sarillorn. We will hear this for hours yet.” He looked up. “Do you all have a good view?”
Darin of Culverne screamed again with the voice of an eight-year-old boy.
Stefanos gathered the remains of his power the way a father will take a child into his arms: gently, lovingly.
This redness, this warmth, this part of his life—it had been the one thing he had denied Sara while she had remained at his side. He had rarely let her see it and had never let her touch it.
He offered it to her now, with a warmth of love that denied its essence. Held it out, in strength and with conviction.
The wall shuddered as his hands touched it. It shivered, growing hard and brittle. This one thing that Stefanos offered, it had never been able to contain.
Chains of Darkness, Chains of Light (The Sundered, Book 4) Page 38