Children of the Blood

by Michelle Sagara

  He came to a stop in front of Darin, and his black claws reached out.

  Darin gave a little gasp as they enfolded his chin. They were cold; he had not imagined that anything so red could be so icy.

  “What is your name, child?”

  “D-Darin. ”

  The claw tightened. “You will learn,” the nightwalker said softly, “that you are a slave now. You have no name. ”

  Darin said nothing.

  “You.” The nightwalker spoke to Helna now, relieving Darin from the pressure of his eyes. “Is this child yours?”

  “Yes.” There was no hesitation. She trembled, that was all.

  “The father?”

  “Dead.” Her voice grew weaker as she felt Kerren’s sudden lurch. She held on to him as if he were life, and he was wise enough to say nothing.

  “Dead.” The nightwalker smiled. Then he drew his free hand back and slammed it into the side of the woman’s face. She collapsed, pulling the other—man? boy?—with her. “That was not the question I asked.” He waited for a moment, but she had been silenced; he would get no answers there.

  Darin stood alone, without Helna to anchor him. His blue eyes were wide beneath the pale glow of his hair. He saw, out of the comer of his eye, Kerren struggling to tend to his mother. He might have helped, but he could not move; his face was still locked within the nightwalker’s grip.

  “And you, boy, how do you come here?” Darin said nothing.

  Stefanos smiled, but it was an odd smile. Once before, he had encountered a Lernari alone among the slaves. And once before, he had spared that life.

  The lines, he thought, pressing his claws deeper into fair skin until they drew blood, must perish. They stood between us, as they must not stand between us again.

  He raised one hand again, a perfunctory gesture.

  She stopped him, or the memory of her. Her pale face, framed by auburn, highlighted by green, looking up at him in silent pain and pleading. Six times in the past he had looked through the memory. Too much had been at stake, too much arrayed against the armies he had led. But this seventh ...

  He looked at Darin as if seeing him for the first time. A small, frightened boy, mortal in seeming and carriage, stared back. He could not judge the age well; human children had not been a concern of his, or an area in which study seemed useful. The boy was short, thin, his face so angular that were it not for the softness of youth, it would be sharp. And his eyes were blue and blinking.

  For such as these, Sarillorn, you gave me your life.

  He lowered his hand.

  Let us start again as we started in the beginning. These lives are yours, let them fare as they will in our Empire.

  Without another word, he turned and walked to where the high priest still waited.

  “There will be no ceremony,” he said softly.

  Not even Vellen had enough control not to blanch. “No ceremony, Lord?”

  “Not unless one of your number cares to volunteer.”

  Vellen said nothing, but after a tense moment, he nodded. He retrieved the dagger, staring down at it as if its unblooded presence accused him. In anger and in silence he ran his thumb along its edge, giving it the blood that it claimed as its right.

  Stefanos began to leave, then turned back to stare at the crowd once again. The child, too small to stand above the head of the newly acquired, was lost to sight.

  “And High Priest?”

  “Lord.”

  “One among those—a fair-haired young boy in the fourth rank—I shall claim for my household.”

  “Do you wish to take him now?”

  He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No. He cannot travel as I do. I shall trust him to the care of your house for the moment.” He had no need to say more.

  “The others, Lord?”

  “As usual. But claim them or no, High Priest, their blood does not grace this field.”

  “Lord.”

  Stefanos turned, and the battlefield faded into gray. It was over. He could almost rest. The castle that he’d constructed was half-full now; a few more months and the tapestries he had ordered would be complete. The slaves he had gathered thus far would, he felt, be appropriate, and the grounds, except for one area, were well tended.

  Only one thing was missing. And now he could begin the last task of drawing her into the new world. His world.

  It was no longer dark.

  Darin looked up at the open sky and started to get to his feet. Chains rankled at his arms, pulling him firmly into the real world. In silence, he looked at his hands. They were damp and cold; rain had come in the night, and very few of the prisoners had any recourse but to endure it.

  Helna was nowhere in sight. They had dragged her body away shortly after the nightwalker had departed. A few of the other women and men were also gone, and Darin thought they, too, might be dead, if the screams he had heard in the night were any indication.

  Dead.

  He closed his eyes and shuddered, curling in on himself. The screams were still close, and he desperately prayed that he would not join the ones who had uttered them so pathetically.

  “Darin?”

  He froze for a moment and then relaxed; the voice was a familiar, quiet one. Turning his head slowly to the left—he had to move slowly, in case they noticed—he met Kerren’s eyes.

  They stared at each other in silence.

  Shakily, Darin reached out as far as his chains would let him. Kerren did the same until their fingers touched. Each boy tried to draw strength from the contact, but neither really knew how.

  They were fed some hours later, then dragged to their feet and across to where two large tents had been set up. A few more of the servants disappeared at the feeding; the old and the injured. Darin wanted to know where they were going, but he couldn’t ask. He didn’t want to do anything to attract attention.

  Later he might realize just how lucky he had been. All of the priests and initiates of Line Culverne, along with their children, lay dead by fire or sword. Not one had escaped. All of the servers of the line knew who he was, and the older and wiser knew that his survival was by chance and not by any darker purpose—but none of these people came forward or tried to bargain with this information.

  Now, though, he could only see his loss. Any time he looked to the east, he could see the blackened remains of buildings. He wondered how his father and mother had died. Did they have any warning? Did they have the time to arm themselves or draw upon God’s power?

  Had they thought about him at all?

  He thought of them often in the next few days. But he didn’t cry.

  Vellen looked out upon the gathered array of slaves. They were women and children for the most part, with a few men who’d been caught unawares. Dirt stained their faces and hands, where visible, but the rains had kept their smell from becoming too odious.

  This part of a battle he sometimes enjoyed, but today it felt empty. The trampled green of open hill annoyed him, unblessed as it was by the blood of those who had dared to stand against his God. Worse was the absence of any who had been his true enemy. Although he had ordered many of their corpses brought up to line the city walls, it was, for his personal sense of victory, a hollow gesture.

  Still, they had won. The cursed walls of Dagothrin had finally been opened to allow his chosen their entrance. And what better trophy of victory than these? Alive, and soon to be branded, they would adorn his house and remind all those within of the absolute will of the Dark Heart. The pathetic beating of the Bright One had finally been stilled; no more would he suffer the call of weakness from afar.

  “This one.” The high priest had chosen to wear his informal garb; black, red-bordered robes with a hint of metallic copper embroidered through them in a pattern of a broken circle, drawn tight by a long red sash. They were new; he had ordered them made in anticipation of his victory.

  The Swords moved forward and yanked a young woman to her feet. She glared balefully up at them, but said
nothing as they led her off to one of the tents.

  Vellen continued to look at the gathered crowd. It had grown in number with the fall and surrender of Dagothrin, but not nearly as much as he would have liked. Still, the duke had busied himself, retaining the governorship of the newly won province and accommodating the Church until a formal structure could be built.

  Ah. “That man; the larger one.”

  The Swords nodded and went forward again, approaching the man with only the slightest evidence of caution. Nor had they much to fear. He went with them, showing more docility than the girl had. Those that had caused too much trouble in the beginning had been killed out of hand, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly—but always in plain sight.

  Darin watched as the high priest walked along the perimeter of the gathered slaves. He shrunk in on himself, trying desperately to look smaller than he already was.

  “Her. The pregnant one. Bring her here.”

  Darin followed the Swords’ path through the crowd, and saw the foremost among them grab a young woman by her wrist manacles and drag her to her feet. Peggy. From where he stood, he could see that she’d been crying. He wondered if she had stopped at all in the last four days.

  They brought her to the feet of the high priest and then forced her back to her knees.

  “You. How many children have you borne?”

  She choked out a reply that was too weak for Darin to catch.

  The high priest raised an eyebrow and then gave a bored nod to one of his men. A mailed glove rose and fell almost lightly against Peggy’s face. She jerked to the side, her chains still held by another Sword.

  “How many?”

  “N-none.”

  The Priest repeated his nod, the Sword his slap.

  “None, lord.”

  “This is your first, then. How long did it take you to catch?”

  At any other time, Peggy’s ears would have burned at the question. She gulped, but before the Sword could slap her bleeding mouth again, she answered.

  “I was—was married for a month, lord.”

  “A month?” The high priest nodded. “Take her, then.”

  He looked away, the slave already forgotten, and continued to choose his portion.

  Darin counted thirty-four. He lost count after that because the Swords came for him. Kerren looked up, choked, and looked away as they dragged Darin out of his life.

  Darin looked back to see the strained fear across his best friend’s pale features. He wanted to speak, to say something. Without thinking, he reached back, but the chains caught and held him as surely as the Swords did.

  There was no Renar here; no thieving prince to rescue them or to mete out the fate that the high priest had earned. Darin tried not to drag his feet against the wet dirt as the Swords brought him to stand before Vellen.

  “Boy.”

  Darin looked up to meet the gaze of the high priest. The older man’s eyes were blue and icy, and the comers of his thin lips turned slightly down in a frown. Darin began to shake. He couldn’t help it. Although he didn’t know what he had done, he knew that something had angered this man, and his life depended on the Karnar’s good grace. He waited for the high priest to speak.

  “Who was that other boy?”

  Darin shrank back, and the grips on his arms tightened. “A—a friend.”

  “Of yours, child?” Vellen spoke smoothly, softly.

  “Y-yes, lord.”

  “I see.” The annoyance ebbed away, and the edges of the lips turned up in a smile that was somehow far worse. The high priest turned to two Swords. “Take that one as well.”

  Darin’s heart sank as Kerren was dragged forward to join him. Kerren smiled shakily in a way that told Darin he was happier to be here than to be left behind. It was a smile that would haunt later.

  In a silence punctuated by the clink of chains, they walked away from what remained of the only home they had known.

  Later that night they became as Vellen had envisioned them.

  They were woken from sleep by the Swords; the high priest did not seem to keep normal soldiers in his command.

  “Come along,” an older man said, his expression a trifle bored. “We’ll be moving in a two-day, and the lot of you will have to be ready by then.”

  Darin was quick to wake, and silent besides. Kerren was not quite so lucky. He’d slept poorly the first three nights, even compared to the rest of the slaves, and the crisis that had come upon them did not make him easier to wake. He moaned slightly and tried to turn over when a Sword shook him harshly by the shoulder.

  “Is he all right?” a guard at the back asked.

  “Right enough. He’d better be,” the Sword replied, and aimed a swift kick at the young boy’s ribs. Keiren’s cry of pain forced the transition between the world of dream and the world of nightmare. His eyes shot open and he swung around, his lips trembling.

  “Mother?”

  A Sword laughed. It was a hideous sound, but Darin knew from the teaching stories that the Malanthi could make anything ugly. He bit his lip as the Sword’s foot connected once more with Kerren’s rib cage.

  “Enough, Callum. It’s the high priest’s right, not ours.”

  “Aye,” the man replied, just a tinge of regret in his voice.

  “True enough.” He reached down and yanked Kerren to his feet. “You’ve cost us time, boy. Believe that we’ll take it out of you if you don’t smarten up.”

  Darin wanted to speak. He didn’t. Instead, he waited until Kerren was close enough to touch and held out his hand as inconspicuously as possible. Kerren didn’t usually notice subtle things, but he noticed this, and his own hand snaked out quickly.

  Kerren had always been strong; once or twice, when they’d played a game of hand-grip, he’d crushed Darin’s fingers hard enough to numb them, and his parents had come out to break up the ensuing squabble. Not tonight. Darin felt the cold prickle start up the side of his right hand, but he didn’t pull away. He could see, by the light of the campfires, that Kerren was crying.

  He didn’t expect Kerren to be as careful as he himself had managed to be; Kerren had never, ever been that. But he felt his own throat constrict as he thought about everything they had lost—and everything that they could still lose.

  At least we’re together, he thought. And we’re still brothers. They can’t take that away from us.

  But he wasn’t certain. So even though he let Kerren cry without saying anything or warning him not to, he held his own tears as if they were a secret.

  They followed the brisk lead set by the black-armored Swords, watching the glint of light off the links of chain that they wore. No one spoke, but the feeling of dread grew as five more slaves were picked up from the tents that housed them.

  As they continued to walk, a scream cut the air.

  Darin froze.

  A sharp nudge at his back reminded him of the imperative of not being noticed, and he began to walk by rote, one shaking foot following another.

  He smelled it before he could see what was ahead. It was acrid and sharp, even wafted as it was by damp, earth-sodden breeze. His brow furrowed as he tried to identify what had caused it.

  Then he froze, and even the sharp nudge at his back could not make him move forward again.

  Kerren looked at him in confusion and tried to pull him along. “Fire,” Darin whispered. “They’re burning people.”

  “Not people,” a voice said from directly behind him. “Slaves.”

  Darin spun around. He saw the shadowed face of a Sword, black helm trailing down the wide, large nose like an iron finger. No comfort there, not in the wide, even grin that broke the line of the square jaw, not in the crinkles around the comers of dark eyes.

  He stood transfixed a moment longer, and then Kerren swung him around, still maintaining a strong grip on his hand. “Come on,” he whispered. “It’s okay. They’re lining us up.”

  He dragged Darin forward, and Darin didn’t resist this time. The Sword at his ba
ck was a known death.

  They joined the line that moved slowly forward. Darin studied the dirt-stained robes of the woman in front of him; caught a hint of a human smell that robbed the burning of some of its acridity. He inhaled sharply, trying not to breathe through his nose. Maybe he imagined things. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe—

  Another scream cut the air. It lingered in the breeze before working its way firmly to the base of Darin’s spine. He shivered, silent, as he felt other bodies huddle behind him.

  “It’s stopped,” Kerren whispered.

  Darin gave his friend a warning glance.

  “No. It stopped. Look—if they were burning someone, don’t you think it would go on longer?”

  The thud of boots silenced them both. Darin looked down at his own white toes and flicked them gently against the flattened grass. He felt ashamed. He knew why Kerren was speaking—to try to comfort him.

  He couldn’t stop shaking.

  “If they wanted to kill us, we’d be dead,” Kerren whispered, before the footsteps had fully died away. The grip on Darin’s hand tightened briefly and then relaxed. “It’s okay.”

  Another scream.

  Darin closed his eyes. He would never dream of being a hero again, never. He was the one who was line trained, or should have been if he had paid attention; he was the one who had some touch of the Bright Heart within him. Kerren was his best friend, but he didn’t have any of the blood in him at all—and it was Kerren who was trying to comfort him. The worst thing of all was that he needed it. The trembling wouldn’t stop.

  Little by little the line was whittled away in blackness. Each person uttered a scream and then was gone; each person brought him closer to whatever fate awaited. He kept his eyes fixed on the brown robes in front of him, watching as they creased with movement, trying to discern whose hand had made them. And then these robes moved, and nothing stood between him and what lay ahead.

  He saw it clearly then. A fire, stoked and roaring, was encompassed by a stone pit. A man—no, two—stood beside it, dressed as guards dress, but cleaner.