Children of the Blood

by Michelle Sagara

  “Begin,” he said softly. The word was caught by the arches of the vaulted ceiling; it drifted slowly but surely to the priests below.

  The figure closest to the gallery bowed. Then he straightened and gave an order in a tongue that Darin did not fully understand.

  He forgot those foreign words when Kerren was brought into the chamber. Kerren’s voice, much louder than Vellen’s, was shaky and hysterical. He was wearing nothing; his flesh, pale and white, was reflected briefly on the surface of the altar before he was chained to it by the Swords that had conveyed him to the priests.

  Kerren could twist his head enough to look up. The gallery was perhaps thirty feet above the ground, and Kerren’s eyes were young and sure.

  Darin met them helplessly. He strained against both the ropes and the hand that held him.

  “Oh, no, little slave. You will watch this.”

  The priest who had bowed walked over to the altar, and one of the robed figures handed him an ebony box.

  All of the line stories about the blood ceremonies came back to Darin in force. He knew the knife, and it seemed that it winked balefully up at him as the priest took it firmly in hand.

  “No ...” Darin whispered, his throat too tight for any louder sound.

  Kerren’s voice echoed it, filling out the shadowed edges with hopelessness and fear.

  Darin tried to drag his face away again, and Vellen’s fingers bit deeper, drawing blood. No escape there.

  He shut his eyes. The darkness behind his lids made Kerren’s pleas grow louder and more urgent.

  “Slave,” the high priest said. “You will watch this, or you will see it repeated, again and again, until you do. Every slave that you have ever spoken with will follow this one. Do you understand?”

  Chanting filled the room as Darin forced his lids open. His mouth was dry; his hands clenched the wood of the chair until they looked more bone than flesh.

  “Good.” Vellen’s voice was smooth. He withdrew his hand and made a steeple beneath the edge of his jaw.

  “Poor child,” he said. “You cannot know what this feels like for those with the blood. It’s a little like music, but wilder.”

  The chanting stopped. The priest raised the knife and circled the altar so that those watching from the gallery could see clearly what he intended.

  No.

  NO.

  “Watch this carefully, slave.”

  The knife came down, but slowly, delicately. The caress of naked blade left a sudden, crimson stain in its dance across Kerren’s chest.

  Darin didn’t know whose scream was louder or longer—his or Kerren’s.

  “Do you see the grooves in the altar? They catch the blood of the offering.”

  The knife moved again, rising and falling in a hypnotic cadence. It stopped, and the scream it evoked faded.

  “The blood runs down to the silver pail at the far edge.”

  Kerren’s eyes were clenched shut as he strained against the chains that rattled coldly against the stone.

  Five minutes later, that was no longer a problem.

  “It’s surprising,” Vellen said, “just how long a body can survive. But you will see.”

  The knife rose, the knife fell, the knife swam along a body more blood than flesh. And Darin’s screams grew louder as Kerren’s grew weaker. There was nothing else he had to offer.

  Three chains were removed from two ankles and a wrist. The fourth had seen no use after the first half hour. Slaves came into the hall, pale shadows whose hands very carefully lifted the corpse from the slick obsidian at the directions of the priests.

  Darin’s bonds were cut at the same moment. His face fell forward into his lap.

  “Not so quickly,” Lord Vellen said softly. The hand that gripped the back of Darin’s neck was not so gentle. “You must now work off the debt my favor has granted you. Guards!”

  The door opened once again. The same two guards stepped into the gallery. They took care not to look beyond their lord as they saluted.

  “Take the slave below. Give him over to the priest’s care. Tell Kaleb that the stone duty is to be transferred to the boy.”

  The guards nodded and stepped forward to take hold of Darin’s sagging body. He leaned into the strength of their hands as they began to turn him around.

  “And tell Kaleb that he progresses well. Another few quarters and perhaps I shall let him serve in the Church proper.”

  It was such a relief to be free of the galleries that Darin did not immediately question his destination. But even if he had, he would have had no choice in it; either guard alone would have been strong enough to force him to walk.

  His throat was hoarse, his breath shallow and rapid. Flickering torchlight outlined the step of his sandaled feet; he could not look up to see beyond them.

  Stairs. The plain, slightly worn stonework did not look familiar to him. It was odd to find uncarpeted stone in the house. He shook his head from side to side, but even this exertion left him dizzy.

  After a minute, he closed his eyes and let the guards almost carry him. He stumbled once or twice, but their grip was sure enough to spare him the inconvenience of a fall.

  The fall would have been welcome.

  Kerren.

  No. No, that wasn’t Kerren. They didn’t do it. That wasn’t—He threw back his head, and a parched, strangled noise came out of his lips. One of the guards took a moment to slap him gently across the face.

  Kerren!

  No. No, Kerren never looked like that. Kerren never screamed like that.

  Kerren ...

  Not because of me. Not because of me. Not my fault.

  But the halls echoed with screams now; the calling of Darin’s name. And that name—the use of that name ...

  It should have been me.

  But the worst thing of all was the knowledge that there was something beyond the guilt and the loss. He might have screamed as Kerren screamed, as Kerren died—but the knife did not do its work upon his body, had not called forth the splash of his blood. And he was afraid now, afraid of the black altar, of the black blade, of the black robes.

  He was afraid that it might have been him.

  He sagged further, and this time he felt a sharp pain in his leg; the guard had kicked him. It was nothing.

  He moved in a trance, eyes closed, darkness all around.

  Then the doors opened. Darkness receded to a blur of red, and he looked beyond the doors. From here, he could see the dark, wet stains along the sleeves of the priest’s robes and hands.

  “This is for you.” One of the guards pushed him forward.

  “Stone duty. The high priest was pleased by your ceremony tonight.”

  The younger man raised an eyebrow and then nodded more formally. His face was longer than Vellen’s, framed by black hair and colored by brown eyes—but his expression held that remoteness that came with a certainty of power.

  The minute the guards released him, Darin fell naturally to his knees. His forehead struck the ground more forcefully than normal, sending a shock of pain through him.

  “I am not lord here.”

  Darin froze, then struggled to his feet. It was hard to keep them.

  The priest knew that. “Ah. The watcher from the gallery.” Again an eyebrow flickered in the expanse of forehead before coming to rest. “Come.”

  He turned and walked into the room.

  Darin followed. It wasn’t easy. Each time he took a step, his legs threatened to throw him.

  The priest appeared not to notice. He walked over to the altar, and Darin froze again. It was still glistening in the torchlight.

  “Come.” The word was sharper, darker.

  Darin followed, looking down at his feet.

  But even that wasn’t safe; the blood had splattered here and there in a patchwork pattern on the marbled floor. Each drop seemed to come to life and struggle toward his wobbling feet.

  No safety here. None. He swallowed. He followed.

  The prie
st came to a stop and waited. Darin nearly ran into his back, but corrected himself in time. His arms, held so stiffly at his sides, were shaking.

  The priest pointed.

  Darin followed the line of his arm from shoulder to finger and beyond.

  “Take this.”

  He was pointing to a pail. Silver; Darin knew silver well by this time. Stev had taught him all about how to recognize it. The pail before him gleamed; it was newly polished, but not by his hands.

  “Are you deaf, slave?”

  The pail. And in it, inches below its delicately fashioned rim, blood.

  This was the closest he had come to Kerren since Kerren had been dragged out of Lord Vellen’s study.

  “If you spill a drop of it, slave, you will replace it. Is this clear?”

  No. Not me.

  Darin swallowed and reached out to the side of the pail. His nerveless fingers gripped the handle and pulled it. The blood rippled as if it had a life of its own.

  “Take it up to the courtyard.”

  Darin wasn’t sure he knew the way, but the priest’s expression brooked no question. He lifted the pail; it was heavy. Heavier, he thought, than Kerren would have been.

  And he walked, unsure of how he managed it, the bucket before him more of an encumbrance than manacles would have been. He stopped once or twice, always looking over his shoulder, as the halls passed in a daze around him.

  The slavemaster was there to greet him.

  At any other time, Darin might have frozen in terror, but the slavemaster was less to be feared than the bucket and the commands of the priest. Only when he reached the center did he dare to put it down.

  Kerren.

  No. No slaves had names. None.

  He let his knees curl around him, and he fell to the stone. The slavemaster laughed.

  The laughter almost sounded pleasant; it drowned out the screams.

  “You’re not finished yet, boy.” The shadows of a torch outlined the thickset, balding man as he stepped forward. The torch was in his left hand, and in his right, he carried something. From its glint, Darin thought it might be a sword. He lowered his head, exposing the back of his neck.

  He knew of the Beyond. For a fleeting moment, he thought he might join Kerren there, where he could apologize in peace and light.

  But what struck him was blunt and metallic. It hurt without cutting.

  “Get up, or you’ll regret it. You’ve still more work to do.” Something pulled him up by the back of his neck, bruising the muscles there.

  The slavemaster’s ragged smile leered at him. “Take this.”

  This? Darin looked numbly at it. Silver. It was silver, too. But it wasn’t the pail; it was smooth and clean. He focused his eyes in the dim light. A spoon? A ladle? It was that shape, but larger, much larger.

  His eyes widened. He could not move his hands.

  “Stone duty,” the slavemaster said. “You’ve got it.” He shoved the ladle into the boy’s face, striking his cheek. This time Darin lifted his hands, but his knees remained stubbornly locked beneath him.

  “See that?” The slavemaster lifted his torch and pointed, another man in power showing him something he was suddenly certain he didn’t want to see.

  But he looked.

  Cut into the stone in a runnel was the outline of a large cat, crossed by spear and sword. A crown stood in the air above it, and beneath its claws, the carcass of a long-necked bird.

  He knew this; it was the crest of Damion, robbed of its blue and black and silver. He looked uncertainly at the silver ladle that he held in his hands. The slavemaster laughed again.

  And Darin understood.

  Wildly he looked at the pail. At Kerren’s blood, all that remained of Kerren’s life. He dropped the ladle as if it had suddenly seared his flesh; it clattered to the ground and left silence.

  The slavemaster’s smile vanished. “Pick it up.”

  Darin shook his head. Something had snapped.

  “Pick it up.” The slavemaster drew closer, the torch, lower.

  Darin shook his head again. He could not do this. That Kerren had fed the Dark Heart was wrong enough, but that his blood should be used this way-no.

  He felt a calm enshroud him, and for the first time in months thought of Renar. Renar would never do this.

  Legs that would not move before creaked to life beneath him as he rolled out of the slavemaster’s grip. His heart pounded in his chest as he got to his feet and saw his shadow stretch out shakily before him.

  “Guards!”

  He ran.

  His legs were short, but so were the legs of the slavemaster. He reached the outer doors, scrambled futilely with the catch, and then darted away, along the wall. He felt fingers clutch at the back of his tunic and pushed himself harder.

  He had to make his way clear of the courtyard. He had to escape the blooding and the stones and the evidence of Kerren’s death. He reached the door by which he’d come this far, flung it open, and lunged forward.

  He hurtled into the arms of four guards, four guards who were not so ill-prepared as the slavemaster had been.

  He shouted, wordless with rage and fear. His feet struck out against mailed shins, causing him more pain than it did the guards. A mailed fist struck the side of his head, shattering his determination. He fell, felt hands lift him, and heard the slavemaster directing them to hold him fast.

  His struggles grew wild; a moth trapped in hands might flutter just so, with equal results. He realized this, and stopped. The pulse that beat time with his heart could be felt at the base of his throat.

  The slavemaster moved toward him. His hand was already raised, as if to strike. Darin watched him, aware of the fingers digging into his arms and his back.

  Renar—Renar wouldn’t struggle like this.

  He held that thought firmly, trying to distance himself from his tormentor. It worked. He had seen what the priests could do; could the slavemaster, armed with neither blade nor whip, do worse? He was not afraid. Something grew around his thoughts like a wall, insulating him from the grim smile on the slavemaster’s face.

  But he was not Renar.

  The slavemaster’s fist struck him squarely in the abdomen, piercing the fragile wall that he’d built. Were it not for the grip of the guards, he would have doubled over.

  The blow barely registered before another was struck. Open-handed, this one fell across his right cheek. Open-handed again, across his left, in a smooth, easy rhythm that spoke of years of practice. A boot struck his left side. A moment, and then his right. The slavemaster was a methodical man; he appreciated symmetry.

  When the guards finally let go, Darin toppled forward. He looked up, and something dark struck his forehead.

  His throat was raw; his lips slick and wet when he opened them to plead near-silently.

  In answer, he felt a hand grab his left arm and jerk him to his feet. He swayed, the world spinning around him, and then screamed once. It muffled the snap of bone.

  “I haven’t broken the right one,” the slavemaster said, his words coming between pants of exertion, “because you need it.” His grip tightened on the broken arm.

  No please no stop ...

  The ground moved beneath Darin as he was dragged across the courtyard to face blood and death once again.

  This time, when the slavemaster placed the silver ladle in his hand, he did his best to hold it. He tried to rise twice and failed. The third time, fingers wound themselves into his hair and yanked. He came up then, his knees skirting stone.

  “Blood the stones.”

  The ladle shook violently as Darin tried to force it into the silver pail.

  Missed. Bright Heart—I missed!

  “Please ... please ... I’ll do it. I’m trying to do it. Please ...”

  The slavemaster said nothing. He held Darin up by the hair and waited until Darin finally managed to draw the liquid out. It glistened in the darkness, as if there were more light in it than just the reflection of the pal
e, pale moon.

  And it screamed in Darin’s heart as it formed little rivulets that filled the grooves of House Damion’s crest.

  “More.”

  Weeping, Darin did as he was ordered.

  Hours later, it was over. The sun rose, entering the courtyard to see a small, unmoving body curled awkwardly around the proud crest of House Damion.

  Darin woke alone. His eyes were swollen, and it hurt to open them.

  The pain had stopped.

  A knock sounded, as if at a great distance away.

  “Yes?” He tensed then, before realizing that it really was his voice that had uttered the single word. He turned his head very gingerly to one side and wondered if his insides had turned to liquid; it felt much like that.

  Stev entered the room.

  “Darin?” he said, his voice soft and quiet. “I’ve brought you food.”

  “Where am I?”

  “Your new room,” Stev answered, coming closer. He carried a lamp with him; the tiny fire on the end of the wick seemed to dance.

  “Room,” Darin repeated. He rose onto his elbow and then cried out in pain.

  “Your arm!” Stev put something down and quickly walked over to the bed. He placed a cool hand on Darin’s forehead and pushed him back onto the pillows. “Careful of that; it’s been set by a doctor, but you aren’t to use it for near six weeks.”

  “Where am I?”

  “It’s all right, Darin. You were moved. You have your own room.”

  “My own ...”

  “You don’t have to share it with any other slaves.”

  “I’m not with you?”

  “No, lad. Hush. It’s a miracle that you’re alive at all.”

  A miracle. Tears began to roll down Darin’s cheeks.

  “The slavemaster overstepped himself a week ago. You’ve had a real doctor in to see you and you’re abed for at least three weeks by the lord’s command. You’re to eat as often as you can, and to drink more so.”

  Darin closed his eyes.

  Stev stopped speaking. He looked at Darin’s still face, then bent gently down. “Darin, Darin lad. It’s all right. It’s over.” He sat down on the bed and with infinite care drew Darin’s head and shoulders to rest against him. There he began to rock very slowly, backward and forward.