Children of the Blood

by Michelle Sagara

  With a tentative, nervous smile, she said, “I’m really making a mess of things, aren’t I? It must be the morning. I feel as if I haven’t seen one in centuries, and it’s making me a bit thoughtless. Please forgive me. Yours is the only face I remember. I don’t even know what mine looks like.” She lifted her hands and ran them along her cheeks.

  Darin watched as her fingers continued to play along the contours of her face. He wondered what she was doing, until she looked up and grinned.

  “No scars.”

  He heard the words as if from a distance, and almost leaned over to catch them.

  There’ll be no scarring. Well, you’ve not managed to do yourself permanent harm, Darin, lad. But you’ll manage it yet if you’re as careful as you’ve always been.

  He could clearly see, for the first time in years, the wrinkled face of the Grandmother that the shadow had obscured. The Grandmother, with her age-honed tongue, and the eyes that saw everything so clearly. The dull ache that had companioned him for nearly five years became a sharp pain and a sharper fear.

  No. Grandmother ...

  The lady’s face grew quiet as she saw the inexplicable change in his. She caught his chin before he could lower it, the tip of her finger a gentle restraint. Child, what is it? What’s wrong?

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I shouldn’t be teasing you.

  Thank you for bringing breakfast to such an impossible patient.”

  Darin didn’t know what to say. Is this a game? Are you playing at something I can’t see? He looked up, met the wide, serious green of her eyes, and looked away.

  He was awkward. He reminded her so much of—of ... she tried to capture the image and felt it flitting away. She looked at the boy’s bowed head, knowing that he expected her to recognize all of this.

  Maybe, she thought as she straightened her back, he’s only troubled because I don’t. Maybe he’s just worried about me. Sighing, she forced a smile to her lips for his sake.

  He didn’t look up.

  “Have you eaten yet?”

  At this, Darin did look up. The question was unusual—it was something she should have known well enough.

  “No, lady.”

  “Oh. Well, then, as I’ve no company, would you care to join me?”

  Darin’s face turned blank. This type of trick, apparent and obvious, had trapped him once or twice before. He was not about to step into it now; not even for her.

  And she caught the change again.

  He’s afraid of me. She didn’t know why, but she knew it was true. Her face darkened—she couldn’t remember whether or not she deserved his fear.

  “I’ve done it again. I’m sorry. I don’t understand what it is you expect of me—I wasn’t joking when I told you I don’t even know what I look like. Tell me. Tell me what I should be doing.”

  Darin looked at her as she held out her hands, palms up. They were shaking. If she meant it, he could tell her anything, anything at all, and she’d believe it. He bit his lip, avoiding the way her eyes suddenly closed.

  “Please,” she said, her voice even softer than normal.

  She meant it. She really meant it. He didn’t know what to do. Of all the things he expected, being asked for help by a noble was not one.

  No, he thought, as he took a deep breath. No, I can’t chance this. I can’t. But he couldn’t leave, either, until she dismissed him.

  So he stood, pinned by the helpless expression that transformed her whole body. Stood silent, waiting for the order.

  Fifteen minutes passed, and she still would not give it. He felt odd; his face was hot. What am I supposed to do? Bright Heart, what?

  She doesn’t even know what she looks like. Doesn’t know ...

  “Lady, would you like me to bring you a mirror?”

  She started, as if the sound of his voice surprised her, and he wondered what she had been thinking. But she smiled, her nod pronounced.

  With great relief, he fled the room in search of polished silver. He would have to go back, and soon—but he needed the time to think.

  The child was afraid of me.

  The lady looked down at her hands; they were white; they were shaking.

  Why?

  She stood, belted the soft robe she wore, and began to pace across the plushness of golden carpet.

  Where am I?

  The window was a source of light. She walked over to it, turning her face to the sky as if it held answers.

  Who am I?

  Who is she? Darin rubbed his tunic yet again over the surface of the silver mirror. He held it up, squinted at his slightly distorted image, and began to polish it anew. Not that any more dirt was likely to be taken from it, but it would explain his absence.

  Why doesn’t she remember anything?

  He looked up at the sound of footsteps, but it was only Jen, off across the hall to continue his cleaning duties.

  The sun was near half-up; soon it would be time for lunch. He’d have to arrange to get it to her and to clear the old food away.

  The growl of his stomach reminded him that he’d not yet had the chance to eat either. Sighing, he stood. He’d been sent for a mirror, and he’d have to get this over with sometime.

  The door opened.

  The lady looked up. Her hands gripped the edge of a large chair tightly for a moment before relaxing. She smiled, but the smile itself was shadowed and false.

  “You came back! I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me.”

  “No, lady.” Darin bowed low and took the opportunity to control the sudden flutter of his stomach. “There aren’t many silver mirrors, and I wanted to find you the best.”

  She held out a hand without waiting for him to finish, and he walked over to where she sat, placing the cold frame of the mirror into her icy hand.

  She didn’t look at it.

  Instead, she looked up at him.

  “You’re afraid of me,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

  Darin was surprised again. He wondered then if anything the lady said would not surprise him. The lord’s face flickered between them, with the echo of a similar question.

  “No, lady,” he said, speaking half to her and half to the man who claimed his ownership. And saying it for a second time, he found that he did believe it, as much as any slave could.

  It frightened him, which was good: fear had kept him alive in House Damion. He needed it to keep him alive here. He turned and walked over to the breakfast dishes.

  To his dismay, none of the food had been touched. Eggs, sausages, ham, bread—all of these things were cold and undisturbed.

  He was not afraid of the lady.

  He was too smart not to be afraid of the lord.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” he asked, his voice quiet and small.

  She shook her head. The mirror still wavered in her hand. “Are you?”

  He closed his eyes and nodded.

  “You are?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then.” She rose, setting the mirror down carefully.

  “If you don’t mind cold food, do you think you could join me?”

  She had offered, again. Darin looked at her pale face, noticing for the first time how gaunt she looked, and noticing, as well, the way she watched him.

  “If—if you don’t mind.”

  The tension seemed to ebb out of her, and she stumbled as if it had been the only thing that kept her standing.

  Without thinking about it, Darin was already at her side, his arm under her arms, his feet firmly planted in the wool of the carpet.

  “Lady,” he said, as he helped her back to her bed, “you haven’t been awake very long. You must be careful.”

  “I’ll try,” she said softly.

  “Do you want me to get warmer food? This has gone cold.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t see any reason to waste it just because I didn’t eat it when it was first brought.”

  He nodded automatically as he tried to pull the cov
ers back. She had to help a little; he was not big enough to hold her and pull them as well.

  He dragged the heavy bedside table over.

  “There’s only one set of cutlery,” she said quietly.

  Darin nodded.

  “Could you get more, do you think?”

  He nodded again. You only have to order it.

  “We could share these?”

  He shook his head. “I’ll get—I’ll get more.”

  He found the comfort of the quiet halls again.

  She doesn’t want me to be afraid of her. It scares her.

  This time he returned promptly. His chest was still heaving; he had to run to and from the kitchen without even pausing to answer any of the cook’s questions.

  She still had not touched her food.

  As the door opened she smiled, but the smile was hesitant.

  “I waited for you,” she said.

  “Thank you,” he replied. It was all very strange. But he felt no fear as she moved to make room for him; felt no fear as she began to divide, rather unevenly, the meal that he had brought earlier; and still felt none as he began to eat it.

  He wasn’t sure why.

  chapter seven

  The next meal was easier.

  Darin experienced a moment of panic, no more, when she asked him to stay. Then he nodded, left the room, and returned with cutlery and a small plate.

  The meal after that, dinner, was easier still.

  The following morning, when he brought the breakfast tray, he took the liberty of bringing his dishes with it. She asked few questions, and those that she did ask he could answer, questions about the size of the castle, the number of people it housed, the size of the gardens, and even about the weather.

  Two more days passed like this; two days in which her smile grew stronger and less shadowed. For some reason, it made him happy.

  “... and I knew I shouldn’t keep them; they burrow, after all, and the cows and horses break their legs in the holes.” She sighed, her lips turning down in a delicate, self-deprecating smile. “I wasn’t old. How was I supposed to know they were male and female? I thought they were, well, best friends or something.”

  Darin winced.

  The lady laughed. “Right. Hundreds of the little monsters. My father nearly killed me.”

  Darin laughed. The expression on her face was one that had often been on his, and the words she used were words that he had often used himself.

  Then she stopped.

  “My father ...” Her smile faded and she looked down at the hands that were already forming fists. Then she shook her head in frustration. “I almost had it. Almost ...” She sat there, her lips clenched, and then her expression changed again. It often did; it was mercurial, unfixed, and entirely unpredictable. “You laughed!” The exaggerated roll of her eyes left Darin no room for fear. Even when she rose and grabbed either shoulder he felt none. “You’ve never laughed before.”

  He thought about it. “No,” he said quietly.

  For some reason, this cheered her immensely, and she put away the darker thoughts.

  “I’ll have to keep telling you about the stupid things I did as a child, then. God knows they might as well be of some use to someone!” And she chuckled.

  But lady, how can you remember things you did as a child, if you can’t remember who—who you did them with, or where? He didn’t ask. But he worried for her.

  And he laughed, too.

  “But what is your name?”

  Darin froze. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Such a harmless question. Such a guileless one. He swallowed, paling.

  “I—I can’t tell you.” This, this was a risk. Not I don’t have one, but I can’t tell you. He hoped she would understand.

  Maybe she did. She looked hurt. But she didn’t ask again.

  Lord Darclan sat in the large chair behind his desk. When Darin walked into the room, he looked up.

  “Good. I have been waiting for your report.”

  Darin assumed his stance before the desk in silence.

  “How does the lady fare?”

  “Well, lord.” Darin wanted to look away, but averting his eyes in the presence of his lord would certainly be worthy of note.

  “Does she eat?”

  “Yes, lord.”

  “Does she speak?”

  Speak? Darin thought about gophers. “Yes, lord.”

  “Of what does she speak?”

  “Her childhood. Things that happened when she was younger.”

  Lord Darclan caught the frown that Darin made and returned it.

  “I see ...” He glanced outward, into the darkening sky.

  “So soon.

  “Does she also ask questions?”

  Darin looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Yes, lord.”

  “And these?”

  “She wants to know who she is. Where she is, and why. Everything.”

  “And your response?”

  Something in the lord’s tone shot down Darin’s spine. He stiffened, his lips almost trembling. “I did as you ordered, lord.” His voice was low. “I told her you would tell her. I told her that I didn’t know the answers to her questions.”

  “Ah.” A pause. Then, “You have done well, boy. Go.”

  The child was forgotten before he left the room; he was of little consequence. Lord Darclan rose, his movement silent and elegant. With one hand he gestured, and the remaining light in the room was guttered. The shadow felt good, familiar.

  Your childhood, lady. How is it that you remember this? He turned, gave the curtains a vicious tug, and heard a tearing that marked the end of the fabric. It is too soon.

  The darkness made a low noise. The lord regained his composure. How much more will you remember?

  This was not in the parameter of his spell. But she was who she was. On reflection, that explained much. He straightened himself out to his full height, and his form shivered balefully where there was none to see.

  Very well. It begins. In the morning we will speak.

  A loud rapping on the door pulled Darin abruptly out of sleep. Groggy, he lifted his head as the noise grew louder.

  “Darin!”

  Bang. Bang.

  He rolled out of bed, grabbed his tunic in clumsy hands, and tripped over his stool on the way to the door.

  “Darin wake up!”

  “I’m coming, Kelm. Leave off the door or you’ll break it and we’ll both be for trouble!”

  The slighted door was yanked open, and Kelm nearly pitched over as his hand struck air with a forceful woosh. Darin yelped, stepped out of the way, and offered the unfortunate Kelm a hand up.

  “Thank the Lady you’re awake, boy.” Sweat rolled off Kelm’s tired, round face. His lids blinked rapidly, a nervous habit that obscured dull brown eyes.

  “What? What is it?”

  “The lord’s guest. She’s not awake—but Helen heard her crying out. Lord’s orders say that you’re to tend her, and you alone, so she woke me and sent me down to you.”

  Darin nodded crisply, sleep forgotten. He started to walk down the hall, then turned back.

  “Does—does the lord know?”

  “No one’s been to him.”

  Darin nodded; more assurance than this Kelm could not give.

  Before he reached her room, he could hear her voice. It was as unlike the gentle, quiet voice he’d come to know as it could be. But raw and wild as it was, he recognized it. He skidded to a halt before her door and threw it open without even bothering to knock.

  The dim light from the hall transformed the room from darkness to shadows. With shaking hands, Darin fumbled with a lamp and, the moment a flare burned on the wick, he shut the door behind him.

  The lady lay in her bed. She twisted from side to side, the covers disarrayed around her legs. Her face was white and strained with effort, but her eyes remained closed. This was bad enough. But her screams, too strangled to form words, cut into Darin as he ran to the bed.


  Her arms shot up suddenly, straight and tense, and Darin reached out to grip one hand. The oil in the lamp sloshed ominously as he tried to put it down.

  “Lady! Lady!” He held her hand tightly, forgetting for the moment who and what she was. Then her hands went limp in his, and her eyes snapped open. He could see a trail of tears in the corners of her eyes.

  Her eyes focused slowly; her breath grew less ragged. She reached out as he set the lamp down, capturing his hand almost before it was free. She was very, very cold.

  “I—I must have had a nightmare.” The words came with great difficulty. Her eyes were too wide open for Darin to meet easily.

  “It’s all right, lady.” Now that she was awake and aware, he felt suddenly awkward. He tried to let go of her hands.

  “Wait.” The word sounded as if it were dragged from her throat. She started to say more and then paused. Darin saw pain in her face, like the pain he had kept inside himself for years. It was gone quickly, but her voice, as she continued to speak, still held it.

  “It’s dark. It’s very dark in here.” She licked her lips nervously. “Can you bring more light?”

  He nodded and started to move away. Then he cleared his throat. Very gently, he said, “Lady, my hands.”

  “Your—oh. Sorry.” She released him then, but reluctantly.

  He lit the two other lamps in the room with shaking hands. He felt her eyes upon him as he worked. Occasionally, he looked up to notice that her eyes would wander to the crack between the closed curtains of her window, to the night. Then they would find him again, and fasten onto him more tightly, as if her sight were a solid thing, an anchor.

  When at last he was finished, he turned again toward the lady, half expecting her to be asleep. What he saw instead was a woman whose hands gripped the edge of her newly adjusted sheets as if they were the only solid thing the room offered.

  In a voice as gentle as he could make it, he said, “Is there anything else you need?”