Children of the Blood

by Michelle Sagara

  Two small hands stretched out to relieve Gervin of his burden, but they stopped before touching it.

  He had to know. “Master Gervin, what’s been done?”

  “Don’t you know, boy?” he said, his voice a hoarse rasp.

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirteen by the calendar of Malthan.”

  “Young, then,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Keep your youth a little longer. Take the box.”

  Darin shook his head.

  “And brave as well. If you’d been older when you were taken, you’d know.” Keen eyes met the dull glint of young ones. Gervin gave a small start of surprise. “I believe you do know after all.”

  Darin scrambled backward and stopped when his back hit the wall. He eyed the box with fright and sick fascination. “I can’t. I can’t take it.”

  “You can take it all right.” Gervin dropped the box at Darin’s knees. “You will take it.”

  “No!” This was the stones all over again. This was supposed to have stopped.

  A weary, bitter voice answered. “Now is not the time for heroics. The blade has been blooded; nothing you can do will change that.” Darin still made no move toward it. “Damn you! Take it! I will not have done this for nothing!” His hands were shaking with rage and a rawness Darin knew for pain.

  “I can’t. Not for her. She’d never accept it.”

  “Do you think she’ll care?” A red film coated Gervin’s eyes; the reflection of firelight obscured his pupils. “Nobody important died!”

  “She wouldn’t want anyone to die for her sake!”

  “She’s a noble, isn’t she? Maybe full of pleasant, meaningless words, but still above the rest of us! Maybe she will be upset if you tell her—she’ll have to acknowledge a slight twinge of conscience! What are you staring at?”

  Anger and pain stretched Darin out between them. He had been at the castle nearly two months and had seen Gervin many times, but never like this.

  Tears sprouted down Darin’s cheeks, and with them a sense of desolation so keen it splintered his visions of the past.

  “You’re wrong,” he said, forcing a choked whisper from between clenched teeth. He grabbed the box and held it as if it burned him. “She’s nothing like that—you aren’t a slave, you haven’t see the worst that nobles can do! I have—and I know her for better!”

  Gervin watched Darin with eyes so full they seemed oddly vacant of expression. “Have I not?” he whispered, the anger gone suddenly from his voice. He walked over to the wall and placed the torch in the metallic ring. “Go. Lord Darclan will be waiting for you.”

  Darin glared at Gervin’s back, knowing that the older man would not turn to face him again. “Even the lord knows she’s special. He loves her, too.”

  “He must want something from her to order this.” His head dropped a little, and Darin thought he was staring at his upturned hands.

  “He loves her!”

  “Darin, I have been with the lord for forty years. Lady help us if what you believe is true.” Gervin waited until he heard the loud thump of Darin’s feet. Only when he heard the distant click of the vestibule door did he turn.

  Blindly, he made his way to the bed that he knew would hold no sleep for him, no peace.

  Darin’s memories were not the only ones that were made strong by this solitude. And Darin’s were the kinder.

  It isn’t the same, Darin told himself, the tears still running down his cheeks. But the box shook in his hands.

  Isn’t it? Didn’t someone die?

  He shook his head and forced his feet to keep moving. It wasn’t easy; revulsion warred with the urgency of Sara’s life.

  No. It isn’t. He ordered it to save Sara’s life. But he knew that if he had said the words aloud, he would have choked on them. This was no death gained in war, to save the lives of innocents. It was the death of an innocent, and even the reason for it was tainted.

  He shivered; he did not think he had stopped shivering since he’d left Gervin in the tower.

  If I’d known, I could have offered my life. Then it would have been all right. And if he had thought about it, he would have known. He should have known.

  But he didn’t want to die, and he faced that knowledge with shame. He wanted to live. He wanted Sara to live.

  And if Lord Darclan was a priest, he was still different from any other priest Darin had known or heard of: Only for love of Lady Sara had he ordered this death.

  Darin slid the chamber door open and sidestepped into the room. It was as he remembered it; nothing had changed. A warm red glow bathed the darkness. Looking carefully, he could see that the center of that light came from the bed on which Sara lay.

  His numb fingers clutched the wooden box, the absolute symbol of the loss of his former life. For he carried the blooded blade to its owner as accomplice.

  Lord Darclan looked up. Wordlessly, he held out his hands, and Darin delivered his burden into them.

  “I will need your help, Darin,” he said, as he gently lifted the lid.

  Darin did not move.

  “Stand by me. Do not move; if I cause you pain, it is for her sake, and it will be brief.”

  Lord Darclan set the lid aside and raised the box itself. He spoke slowly, with crisp, full enunciation, in a language that Darin did not understand. Then he lowered the box and drew from it a small dagger that glinted in the red light. It was not the knife that Darin had seen previously, being a simple five inches of unornamented steel that extended from a plain ivory handle.

  Darclan took it in his left hand. With his right hand he grabbed Darin’s wrist. Darin made no protest. He could only watch in fascination.

  Twice Lord Darclan spoke, dragging the knife’s cold edge along Darin’s right hand. The third time he said nothing. With a quick, strong jerk, the blade bit into Darin’s shaking palm, making the shallowest of cuts. The blood came; Darclan clenched the wounded hand into a fist and watched the pattern that emerged on the carpet beneath them as the liquid crept around closed fingers to drip downward.

  Darclan looked up at Sara’s deathly pale face. She was in the grip of one of the Servants; he knew the feel of it. He allowed himself to accept that fact now that he had a chance to change it. Even more, he accepted that it was his fault for allowing her near the protections set round the well; without her memories she had been no match for what lay in wait. Still, it had been two days, and the nightwalker had not been able to take material form—her raw strength had at least guaranteed that. It was not too late.

  He began to call it out of Sara, knowing that it would come to the strength of two bloods, life blood and the boy’s. Nothing seemed to change in the room, but Darclan staggered slightly at the influx of power.

  The dagger dropped to the floor, forgotten. The pattern the blood made on the carpet began to grow; out of the chaos, Darclan drew meaning. He shook his head sharply, imperatively. The pattern shifted before his eyes. It writhed, a dark thin line attempting to evade his grasp. Again he snapped his head in defiance, and again the pattern altered itself, with different results. The metallic gray of his eyes gave way to an eerie red that cut the beads of blood. They struggled, misted, and recongealed—the process was slower this time, and harder to achieve. Nor were the results any more acceptable.

  Darin watched as Darclan worked. His legs grew tired, and sharp pangs of hunger struck home the fact that he had not eaten that day. He did not move, somehow knowing that his lord’s concentration must not, at any cost, be broken. The red glow in the chamber began to pulse obscenely, like a heart beat. He held his place. Darclan’s voice began to rise, slowly building to a shout. In response, Darin reached out to take one of Sara’s hands. It was cold. A sense of fatality crept into him, numbing him by slow degree.

  Darclan continued his chant. He was losing, and with that loss came an end. He redoubled his effort, bolstering his final attempt to control this lesser Servant with the last reserves of his strength. He had never taken such a risk,
but the cost of failure was unthinkable. Bitterly, he accepted the fact that were it not for Sara’s teachings, Sara’s rules, he would be in the absolute position of strength that the First of the Dark Heart had always enjoyed.

  He struggled to contain his spell and felt it slip like water from his flagging concentration. His voice broke, then; his eyes, once burning, became dull eyes. Human eyes.

  He pulled at Darin’s hand, unfurling it; it was clean—unscarred. He lost his voice at the sight of it, stricken. His hands fumbled for the dagger, but it too had vanished. No sign of this offering remained.

  He turned bitter, ancient eyes to the carpet; the pattern that scarred it was dark and final. He stood and backed off, watching, waiting. A red mist began to lift itself off the floor. Rising and moving before him, it slowly took form. There was little definition to the features at first, but it gathered the blood—Darin’s blood, mingled with lifeblood—to it. Lord Darclan closed his eyes wearily, and when he opened them he faced the ghostly image of shadow. Behind the translucent darkness of it, Sara lay waiting. She already belonged to the Seventh; he had lost her. Weariness overwhelmed him; only the habit of long years of self-control kept him on his feet.

  He heard the gasp that trembled out of Darin’s lips. Heard it, but did not turn.

  “Nightwalker!”

  The walker bowed. “Well met, Stefanos.” His voice was dust.

  “Seventh.” Lord Darclan bowed stiffly.

  “You have held me some time. But not as long as you once might have. You have grown weak since last we met.”

  “I have.” It was hard to say it.

  The Seventh of the Sundered looked long at him before speaking again. “I know what you ask, First and Lordling. I do not know why you ask it, but I would grant it willingly—were it within my power.”

  “I have no strength left, Kerlan. Not even for defense.”

  “It is true,” the Seventh replied. “You have weakened yourself greatly.”

  “Then do it. You would then be First among the greatest.”

  “Ahhh. More is true than I would have thought, First. But the sun approaches. Even if I could destroy you it would cost me the time I need for her. She is strong, Stefanos.

  “I do not know what your interest in this mortal is. But perhaps I shall find out in my own way.” It turned then and drifted lazily toward Sara.

  Darclan staggered to the bed. “Wait!”

  “Wait?”

  “I cannot stop you, Kerlan. Let me say my farewells, for if you do not destroy me, I shall remember this, and I shall grow stronger once again.”

  The nightwalker paused, deliberating. While he stood so, Darclan passed through him and knelt by the bed. He kissed Sara, gently at first, and then more urgently. Her dead lips remained motionless. He gathered her into his arms, burying his face against the side of her neck. He ran his hands through her hair and then along her face, searching desperately for some sign of life. This could not be his last memory of her—not this cold, bitter silence. Not this reddened darkness.

  “I grow bored of this, Stefanos. I do not know what game you play, but this one time you have lost.” Kerlan drew closer and reached out for Sara. Snarling, Darclan struck out, his hand passing through the wraithlike body.

  “You, of all, should know better. We are already bound, this one and I; I have tasted her blood.” The walker touched Sara’s cheek, and she stiffened beneath his insubstantial fingers.

  Even this much response she had not given Stefanos.

  And then Darin leaped up on the bed, scrambling over his huddled lord. His hands struck out at the air frantically. The wraith’s expression altered.

  “What a brave little boy you are,” he said, in his chill, dead voice, “to come between me and my chosen. Leave now, or on the morrow I will walk for you. Your blood I have also tasted this eve.”

  Darin’s eyes gleamed. He became still and silent. Stefanos could feel his fear.

  “Go, child,” he said, more harshly than he intended. “There is nothing that can be done for Sara.”

  The Seventh Servant bent slowly down to Sara’s forehead, disregarding the boy. He had great faith in the fear of humanity; fear had fed and served him well in the past. The lord’s eyes urged Darin to leave, to spare himself the upcoming feast.

  They had both mistaken the boy. His fear was not only of the nightwalker. Even as he trembled, his mind had taken flight, rummaging through the shards of his shattered past. His fingers began to move automatically.

  The Lesser Ward is for what, Darin?

  For imps, Grandmother.

  And these are? Her stem old eyes did not leave his face; he shrugged impatiently, hearing the laughter of his year-mates in the courtyard as they played through his detention.

  They are the little evils. He grimaced. The ones that are only strong enough to perform petty acts of malice: souring the milk, rotting the wood, sowing dissension among friends, causing bodily discomforts—

  Good enough, child. Show me the Lesser Ward.

  From years away, Stefanos watched the boy’s hands jerk upward in a smooth, lilting motion, across his chest. The Servant’s grip on Sara’s face became stronger, more solid. She began to whimper.

  What is the use of the Greater Ward, Darin? Darin! Pay attention—you’ll be out in the yard sooner.

  He dutifully turned his full attention to the Grandmother’s stem face. The Greater Ward is for protection against the workings of the priests, Grandmother. He did not say the name of the master they served; it was forbidden to the uninitiated. Even those of the Circle used it rarely, if at all.

  And the workings are? She was always so impatient. Even now, her bent fingers were tapping irritably along the edge of her chair.

  Blood-magics. The magics that injure, or burn the blood that belongs to God.

  That will do. Show me the Greater Ward.

  Small arms swept across a trembling chest. Fingers flew in the air; the red glow around Sara ebbed away. The Servant looked up, disturbed from his feasting. Stefanos’ eyes widened in surprise; he drew a painful breath, cutting himself along the fragile edge of hope.

  And now I will show you the True Ward, Darin, if you can tear yourself away from the window. I don’t know why they insist on giving me the one room that faces the courtyard. Teaching you is difficult at best—you don’t need the distraction.

  Not that he was distracted anymore. The True Ward was the test of adulthood, and if he could one day master it, he would no longer be treated as a child. He leaned forward in his chair, year-mates and their games forgotten.

  Well, I seem to have your attention for once. Maybe I’ll try to teach you some of the other things you should have learned in the past. She laughed when his mouth fell open in dismay, and he knew she was only teasing him. At least he hoped she was—with her, you could never tell. On impulse, his fingers traced the Lesser Ward in the air between them. She laughed.

  I wish I could live to see the day that you have to teach the lines, Darin! In fact, in case you are somehow overlooked for that duty, I shall make it a last request that you be forced to do so.

  Very well, she said, the crinkles around her eyes smoothing. The True Ward is never used lightly—nor does it always work. I will show you the gestures, but I will not invoke it. The cost, both to myself and to Lernan, is high.

  As he watched her slow, deliberate fingers, he listened.

  It is our truest shield against the Darkness. It stands between ourselves and the power of the shadow. When we call it, we stand for a moment in God’s Hand. If blood is strong, it can evoke the white-fire, the greatest weapon against those of Dark blood. Such is its power, that even the Servants must feel some small measure of it.

  Light, quick movements accompanied the sound of her voice. Darin followed them awkwardly, his duplication slow and clumsy. Unlike the Lesser and Greater Ward, these gestures involved the hands alone; the arms did not sweep upward or before the face, and even the fingerplay across the air w
as sparse.

  That had been the only time he had ever seen it. Sweat beaded his pale brow; his hands faltered in the air. The walker’s face stiffened; he began to pull his hands away from Sara’s strained face.

  I will never be able to do it, Darin thought. It was the very core of his fear. I’m not worthy. I’ve been party to the Dark Heart’s ceremonies. I carried the blooded blade. But still he struggled with fragments of memory that stung him.

  And the cost, Grandmother? His fingers continued to try to repeat her motions. What of the cost?

  Her answer returned to him. His eyes leaped to life, searching the room with haste and fear. There was nothing that would do it; nothing he could use. His entire body was tense, trembling. Stefanos silently urged the child onward, not knowing what the boy, taken too young, could do—but hoping.

  The last of the walker’s fingers left Sara’s face, but slowly, heavy with the fruits of conquest, sluggish in its motion. Darin’s eyes met the eyeless creature’s face, and he decided.

  With a quick, sharp yank, he drew his right hand to his mouth. His whole face taut with anticipation and terror, he opened his jaw and clenched a fold of his skin between his teeth. He did not cry out in pain, but gave an animal grunt as he pulled, and a small chunk of flesh gave way.

  “My blood!” he cried, spitting the bits of his hand at the nightwalker. “Lernan! I give you my life freely! Aid me now, though I am not worthy!” He could hear the beat of his heart as he fought to still the fear that stopped any further speech. Lernan would not listen to one who had not been faithful; both he and Sara would be lost. He forced himself to remember that she was not lost yet; his mind recited a silent litany of prayers that his voice would not find the strength to utter.

  His crippled hand flew awkwardly to life; desperation drove the pain of it from his mind. His fingers moved through the thick tension of the air, cutting it down with precise, spare strokes. His eyes were in the past, on aged, confident hands. He mimicked them, his actions becoming more concrete, less unsure. The Servant froze then, his expression a mixture of anger and disbelief.