Children of the Blood

by Michelle Sagara

  Table of Contents

  Also by Michelle Sagara West

  Title Page

  prologue

  chapter one

  chapter two

  chapter three

  chapter four

  chapter five

  interlude

  chapter six

  chapter seven

  chapter eight

  chapter nine

  chapter ten

  chapter eleven

  chapter twelve

  chapter thirteen

  chapter fourteen

  chapter fifteen

  chapter sixteen

  chapter seventeen

  chapter eighteen

  chapter nineteen

  chapter twenty

  epilogue

  Copyright Page

  Also by Michelle Sagara West

  Cast in Shadow *

  The Sundered Series*

  Into the Dark Lands

  Lady of Mercy

  Chains of Darkness, Chains of Light

  The Sacred Hunt Duology* *

  Hunter’s Oath

  Hunter’s Death

  The Sun Sword Series**

  The Broken Crown

  The Uncrowned King

  The Shining Court

  Sea of Sorrows

  The Riven Shield

  Sun Sword

  *As Michelle Sagara

  **As Michelle West

  prologue

  Time had become the strangest of enemies.

  It still could not change Stefanos; its long fingers could find no purchase in his immortal features. But few indeed were the Servants who chose to dwell so completely within the mortal world, and he was First among them.

  He spread his hands and gestured sharply. His room, lighted with torches and a central fire, turned a deep shade of crimson.

  Time.

  Only once had he ever felt constrained by it. A bitter smile touched his lips. He had paid the price to be free of that constraint, but he knew time now as an enemy. He saw its march in the faces that surrounded him; saw its seasons turn and change them, eventually laying them low.

  Impatient, he gestured again.

  As ever, the map unfurled before him, its red lines spreading like velvet flame to occupy the space before him. Every city, every hill, every valley, bore the signature of his power.

  He frowned. All save one.

  Dagothrin, last of the Lernari strongholds, still defied both his army and his Servants. It shone white and brilliant, standing out in sharp relief against the red that surrounded it.

  Lady, was this your hope?

  He gestured again, a smile touching the pale contours of his lips in the red shadows.

  Much had changed in him, enough that he could appreciate the work and the power that had gone into the fortification of Dagothrin’s cursed walls. The Lady of Elliath had long since been destroyed—but in this, she lived on. He wondered if her power had been diminished by this task; certainly no word of it had reached his ears, or the ears of his spies.

  Some hint of noise filtered through even the thick stone walls, ceasing its shuffle as it reached the single door. He frowned, surveying the white.

  “Enter,” he said.

  The door behind his shadowed back swung open.

  “Lord.”

  Ah. Vellen.

  He heard the swirl of robes that spoke of homage; the high priest was bowing. He listened for the soft touch of forehead to stone before turning to speak. “High Priest.”

  The man rose, his face a careful study of neutrality. Stefanos had seen enough of humanity to know what it concealed, and against his will he felt a wild impatience. He held it; he had long since learned how.

  “Your report?”

  The blue eyes turned, and a smile touched the man’s pale lips. Stefanos frowned for a moment and then nodded. Vellen had only just succeeded to the title of high priest of the Greater Cabal, and with him, several of his contemporaries had joined the ranks of the Karnari. Vellen was young; perhaps the youngest that had yet achieved First among the Karnari, but he understood power well.

  Never mind. It had been centuries since the Church had commanded any respect or attention from the Empire’s Lord, and he would not waste more time on their circumstances now.

  “We have received word, Lord.” Vellen pulled a slightly battered scroll from the folds of his robe. “From Dagothrin.”

  Stefanos took the scroll in hand and unraveled it slowly and deliberately. His fingers tightened perceptibly, adding creases to the worn vellum.

  “Duke Jordan?”

  “Yes, Lord.” Vellen’s smile smoothed itself away until only his eyes contained it. “Three months hence, he will allow us access to Dagothrin.”

  “The king?”

  “Will not trouble us. Nor will his heirs.”

  “And in return?”

  “He wishes governorship of the city. The Church will support this.”

  Stefanos did not like the edge in the young Malanthi’s voice, but he passed over it; the news that he had delivered merited no less.

  Three months. Time. He felt it, implacable, immovable. Three months . . . He looked again at the trace of black against cream; studied the crumbling seal. His eyes saw, for a moment, the preternatural green of the walls of Dagothrin, with the Lady’s promise writ large: No army from without shall destroy thee.

  Lady, he thought, as he set the scroll aside, it was foolish of you to depend upon the consistency of so gray and weak a people. It was only a matter of . . . time.

  “Very well,” he murmured, turning away from the High Priest. “Mobilize the army in Verdann.”

  “At your command, Lord.”

  “And High Priest?”

  “Lord?”

  “Tell them that I ride with them.”

  Vellen was still for a moment.

  “Go.”

  “Yes, Lord.”

  Stefanos waited until the door clicked and began to gesture anew. Strands of red moved forward, encircling the white of Dagothrin.

  Lady, the battle is over.

  His hands shook; it surprised him.

  With a quick, curt gesture he sent the map away. The red lingered a moment, and then it was lost to the comfort of shadow.

  Sarillorn. Sara. Soon . . .

  chapter one

  Nobody can just do what they want to do, son. That isn’t the way the line works.

  Darin glared at the closed door of his small room.

  Easy for them to say. When they wanted to send him to his room, they sent him to his room. But when he wanted to leave, he couldn’t. It was very clear to him.

  “The king,” he murmured to the bare walls, “is stupid. And that’s that.” He walked over to his desk and dragged the chair across the floor loudly.

  History. History was the other thing that was stupid. The boy sat down, thunking his feet loudly against the floor and hoping it irritated his father.

  It’s already happened. He pulled out his new slate, which had replaced the third one he’d dropped, and picked up a wedge of chalk. And everyone’s dead.

  “Why,” he said aloud, “can’t we talk about what we’re going to do instead of what everyone else’s already done?”

  No one answered, which was better than what usually happened when he asked this perfectly reasonable question. Very dutifully he began to inscribe seven names. Seven lines. And only Culverne remained.

  Doesn’t that tell you something?

  He frowned as the Grandmother’s question reverberated in the near-empty room. His mother had once told him that not all of the Line Culverne patriarchs or matriarchs had chosen to teach, and further, that he should be honored to sit in a class given by the line’
s leader herself. Hah. He couldn’t understand why the Grandmother was always so grouchy—his own grandmother never was.

  Unbidden, her words sounded again in his mind. The Lady of Elliath was the greatest power that the lines possessed. With her loss, much of our defense was lost also. But worse still was the loss of the Gifting. The Bright Heart was weakened, and we cannot now recover what was taken. Darin!

  Great, he thought, as he shoved the slate away. I can’t even be alone in peace.

  Bright Heart’s blood, boy! Can you not pay attention for even a minute? Corvas, shutter those windows.

  Darin stood and began to pace the room, wearing tracks in the wood, as his mother often said. He knew that history was important. But why must he spend so many hours studying things that had gone before? Why couldn’t they do something instead of just talking?

  His eyes lighted upon the large window that was centered in the outer wall. Smooth, old wood framed two worn shutters. Flecks of gray paint had peeled away with Darin’s impatient help, and the latch had been twice broken. A third time, and his father promised the latch would be strung with something other than metal.

  Yes, the king was stupid for disowning Darin’s hero—everyone knew it, except maybe teachers and parents. Darin thought of the prince of thieves and smiled. Renar was not a tall man, at least not according to the stories. Remembering this, Darin stood up on his toes almost proudly and undid the latch. He took some care with it, even though he knew his hero wouldn’t have. Renar wouldn’t be sent to his rooms to study, either, and that was probably as much of the Bright Heart’s blessing as anyone was likely to get in this life.

  The shutters creaked open an inch at a time as Darin held his breath. His heart was thumping loudly in his chest as he spun around to look suspiciously at the closed door.

  They hadn’t noticed. He smiled, every inch the noble thief, and then tried to pull himself up onto the window ledge. Of course Renar could probably do it more smoothly, but he had years of practice. Trembling slightly, Darin gripped the window’s frame and hoped that it wouldn’t give out.

  Hooks, he thought, as he stared down at the darkened grass. And grappling irons. And ropes. That’s what I need.

  Just how had the window gotten so high up?

  Darin managed a strained giggle that the gentle breeze blew away. With a high little whoop he cast off from the window ledge. Dark blades of grass rushed up to meet him. His slippered feet hit the ground first, quickly followed by his knees, his hands, and his left cheek. Dirt clung to his tangled, pale hair as he got unsteadily to his feet.

  Where to now? he thought, glancing furtively over his shoulder at the lights of the fire-room. The orange glow flickering through the shutter cracks told him clearly that his parents were still awake. Probably talking about something boring or silly, too.

  Under cover of night, the house looked somehow larger, a squat, flat rectangle that covered the small horizon he could see. A momentary pang caught him. How am I going to get back in?

  Easy, he lied. I’ll just wait until the fire’s gone out and I’ll sneak past them. He had a vague idea that it wouldn’t work, but he could worry about it later. Right now he had something more important to do. He had made his escape, but in order fully to redeem himself, there was still a small business matter to take care of. He got quickly to his feet and began to crouch in the shadows as he loped toward the scum of the Empire, his sometimes—former—best friend, Kerren. If it weren’t for Kerren tackling him just when the lesson bells had gone off, he wouldn’t have been late for the Grandmother’s class. She wouldn’t have been angry, and he wouldn’t have been sent to his room to “make up” for lessons he’d missed. Kerren was going to pay for that.

  The winding pathway that had been built between the houses of the line’s settlement was a lot less smooth and flat than it seemed during daylight. Longer, too. He stumbled several times, but managed not to curse too loudly. He passed the houses of the priests and initiates, counting them off one by one. Numbers and counting were something he had always been good at when they were worth the bother.

  The fourth time he stubbed his toe, he decided that he would need to sneak leathers into his room for such secret excursions as this; slippers were too painful.

  Then even that trivial thought was pushed aside; he’d passed the last of the priest’s houses and was entering the more modest dwellings of the line servers. There, flat, squat, and small, was the house that he sought.

  Fire ebbed low in the room nearest him; Kerren’s parents were also probably awake. A bad sign, this, but if he was very careful and quiet, he wouldn’t attract their attention. His hand touched the dry, solid wood of the outer wall, and he began to creep along it.

  He couldn’t wait to see Kerren’s face.

  The shutters of Kerren’s window were just within reach. Darin pushed at them experimentally. They were latched. No one was there to see his face fall in the shadows.

  Now what?

  He frowned, pushed a little harder, and got the same results.

  Lock picks. I need lock picks. Renar would have lock picks. Of course, he would also have a plan on the rare occasion that he was caught unprepared. I need a plan.

  He sat down heavily beneath the closed window. His small brow furrowed as he put his face in his hands in an unconscious mimicry of his mother. He sat that way for a few minutes and then suddenly looked up. With a gleeful smile, he made his way back to the path and began to scrounge around for the rocks that had troubled his toes. It wasn’t hard to find one, and in the darkness he didn’t notice the dust and dirt that attached itself to his nightdress.

  He scrambled around the house, stopped outside of Kerren’s window, and launched the rock. It gave a loud, dull thud against the shutter and fell to the ground. After a few minutes of disgusted waiting, Darin picked the rock up again and gripped its rough edges firmly. He threw it, it hit, and it bounced.

  Come on, Kerren—can you sleep through anything?

  He bent to retrieve the rock again and dropped it suddenly as the creak of a shutter alerted him to the presence of his intended victim.

  With an impish smile, he crouched beneath the window as the shutters passed outward over his upturned face.

  “Hello?”

  “Hah!” Darin sprung up and grabbed the hand that Kerren was resting against the window frame. “Got you at last, vile fiend of the Empire!”

  Kerren let out a shriek of surprise and pulled back.

  “You idiot!” Darin hissed, his own shock grounding him suddenly in the real world.

  “Is that you, Darin?” The words were faint and trembling, with just a hint of annoyance.

  “Who else? Did you have to scream? Your parents’ll probably be here any minute. Quick, give me hand up—I’ll hide under the bed.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Catching you—and paying you back for this afternoon.”

  “Cheat!”

  “Cheat, nothing! You waited for the lesson bells on purpose!” Darin grabbed the window ledge firmly and tried to pull himself up. Unfortunately, his strength was matched well by his size, and he slid down again. “Now quick, help me up.”

  “I don’t see why I should.”

  “Kerren?” A third voice entered the conversation, older and feminine.

  “Dark Heart, Darin, look what you’ve done!” The smaller argument was forgotten as Kerren, larger and stronger, grabbed Darin’s hands. “Hurry up!” He gave a hard yank, and Darin muffled a squeal as his chest was dragged across the window ledge.

  “Quick, get under the bed!”

  Darin nodded, gulped, and began to crawl along the floor. “Kerren?”

  “It was nothing, Mother,” Kerren shouted loudly. “I just—I had a nightmare, that’s all. Go back to sleep, everything’s fine. Really. Nothing’s wrong.”

  You idiot, Darin thought; he had almost made the bed. You couldn’t just keep quiet and act normal.

  “Kerren.” The door swung
open. Kerren’s mother stood framed by wood as she held a flickering lamp high. It shone down on the peppered length of her hair, bringing her cheeks and the lines around her mouth into gentle relief. “Just what is going on here?”

  Darin would have had a hard time imagining the plump, friendly woman he knew so well wearing such a frown. He tried to make himself smaller as he looked at the distance between himself and the safety of the underside of Kerren’s bed.

  He wilted visibly as Kerren threw a guilty look in his direction. The light that suddenly flooded his back might have been magical given the effect that it had.

  “What’s this?”

  He got slowly to his feet as Helna approached him, swinging the lamp gently to and fro.

  “Or should I have known?”

  “Hi, Helna.” Darin kept his voice as meek and friendly as possible.

  “I should have known.” She shook her head, the frown fading just a touch around the comers of her mouth. Darin knew he wasn’t safe yet. “Do you have any idea what time it is, young man?”

  “No, why?”

  “Yes, you do, Darin. You don’t normally wear a nightdress early in the evening. And what’s that you’ve got on your feet? Slippers?”

  Why are you asking if you already know the answer? Darin thought. He was wise enough not to say it out loud, for though it was a perfectly reasonable question, it always had the worst possible effect on adults.

  “And don’t think,” Helna said to her son as he sidled toward the wall, “that I’ve finished with you yet, either. Darin’s a troublemaker, all right, but he’s his mother’s problem. I wish I could say the same of you.”

  “Helna?”

  Oh, great. Darin thought. Just what we need. Another one of them.

  It was just one of those evenings. Jerrald rambled into view, wearing a night robe that his broad shoulders strained against. He was carpenter and blacksmith to the small enclave, but given his size, Darin was always certain that he’d have made a better warrior.

  “What’s this?”