Children of the Blood

by Michelle Sagara

  Darin accepted his words and walked forward. No matter what the lord said, his years of slavery were hard to put aside, even for minutes, in the presence of such nobility. But his steps were firm and sure, different from any that he had taken in any house of Veriloth.

  The lord moved aside and Darin knelt by the bed, cup in hand, as he had done in the dark of a night not long past. It was not night now, nor was the cup of the lord’s offering. He had brought it, and it was his to give—his and God’s.

  With gentle firmness, he eased his arm between her neck and the pillow it rested against. He lifted her head, raised the cup to her lips, and tilted it carefully. After a few seconds she swallowed, and her eyes immediately began to flicker. She didn’t open them, but she drank more greedily, and Darin could see the color returning to her pale features.

  When the water was gone, he stood and placed the cup down quietly on the table beside her. It was not silver or other such finery, and normally no slave would dare to bring it for the use of nobility, but it had its place of honor. Nor did the lord gainsay its presence.

  Both of the watchers could hear the rustle of cloth against cloth as Sara stirred. Darin felt tired, then, but at peace. He’d saved her.

  They’d saved her.

  His stomach growled, and his face responded by darkening several shades. He shot an embarrassed glance at Lord Darclan, but the lord did not notice him; he had eyes for Sara alone. His face mirrored all his hope, and his hands, although they stayed at his side, were trembling slightly.

  He does love her, Darin thought, although already he had ceased to doubt it. Sara moaned softly, and Darclan looked at Darin.

  “I’m hungry,” the boy said, his voice quiet. “I’d like to get something to eat.”

  “Don’t you wish to stay? Don’t you wish to see her wake? I could not have done what you risked your life to do.” Frustration in this, that and respect. The lord’s voice was low and uneven. This was Darin’s victory, and no victory such as this could go unclaimed.

  Or could it? He looked again at Sara.

  “I think she’ll be safe with you, lord.” Darin also looked at Lady Sara. “But she’s waking, and she might be confused. Shouldn’t one of us be beside her?”

  “Yes,” Lord Darclan said; it was all he desired. But it had not been his hand that had drawn the blood of the Enemy, nor his blood that had been spilled to cleanse it. It was not his privilege.

  And perhaps because his feelings were always so naked where Sara was concerned, the boy realized how he felt. He turned his back on them and made his way to the door, the staff dragging along the carpet.

  Lord Darclan watched his back retreat and then took the two steps necessary to bring him to her side.

  “Darin.” Lord Darclan’s voice came to him; it was under control again. Darin stopped and looked back without turning. “Thank you.”

  “Tell her that I’ll see her later.” And he walked out of the room.

  Darin had not lied to Lord Darclan; he was hungry, and his stomach continued to make a spectacle of itself as he traversed the halls. His appearance earned a few odd stares from the slaves that he passed, but they said nothing. He knew this wouldn’t last.

  He headed toward the kitchen, then thought of Cullen, and thought the better of it.

  But he was very hungry.

  Feeling slightly less heroic, he turned and made his way to his room. He had missed breakfast, but lunch would be in the hall soon, and he could eat his fill there. He hoped that sleep would dull the pangs of hunger that made the hours till lunch seem interminably long.

  He met fewer and fewer people as he walked; they would be on their rounds of duty at this hour, and the slave’s wing would be practically empty. He felt grateful for it; the quiet and solitude reminded him of the halls of Culverne during morning prayers. He could imagine his lonely walk as the triumphant procession of one newly born into adulthood. The cold stone of House

  Darclan gave way to the ancestral temple of the line. Large, arched doors appeared in front of him, engraved with the symbols of Culverne and the old runes that spoke their welcome. He walked up to the doors, stopped, and performed a low bow, knowing what he would see when he opened them: They would be waiting for him in the pews. The Grandmother, the matriarch, would be sitting in front of the white, marble altar, her fingers no doubt drumming impatiently against the stone as she waited for him to enter. He could almost see her expression of irritable, maternal pride.

  He lifted the staff, brought it to his chest, and put a small hand on the impressive doors.

  And the illusion crumpled. Oiled oak panels gave way to the rough-hewn wood of his small, rectangular door. He was not in the home of the lines; his year-mates were lost, the Grandmother dead.

  But the line survived. And one day, past the Bridge of the Beyond, he would have all the things that daydreams brought him today.

  With a sigh he opened the door, but in the next instant he stepped back in surprise.

  A fire burned in the grate. Food was arranged on a small wooden table in the center of the room. A set of clean, comfortable clothing was laid out on his small, hard bed. And slavemaster Gervin sat on a three-legged stool, waiting, his mouth crooked in a slight smile.

  Darin opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. He could find nothing at all to say, but his stomach wasn’t nearly so inarticulate.

  “Well met, young master.” Gervin stood and bowed, a quirky, formal salute.

  “Uh—master Gervin.”

  Gervin chuckled. “Would you like to eat first, or can you spare the time to change out of your robes? They’re damp—” This was a generous appraisal. “—but the fire should dry them.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I should think it rather obvious.”

  “Oh.” Darin looked at the food; the smell of it was overpowering. Cheese, meat—and fruit! He took a step toward it, caught himself, and walked over to the bed.

  He looked at the clothing laid out there with some suspicion. The tunic—it was really more of a blouse—was made of a soft, fine fabric, with a collar and smallish buttons. The pants were of more durable material, but these, too, were soft and finely made.

  “Are they not to your liking?”

  Not to my liking? What’s going on? He touched the wet sleeve of the robe he still wore.

  In a more serious voice, Gervin said, “The robe is yours to keep. You are the only one who has any right to it. I’ve not come to offer you an exchange; the clothing was ordered by the lord.”

  Darin relaxed. Quickly, with his back turned to the slavemaster who showed no sign of leaving, he removed his robe and slid into the dry set of clothing. He looked up once at Gervin, who chuckled.

  “I’ve already eaten. The food is entirely yours. Here, take the stool—once you’ve dulled the edge of your hunger, you’re going to be uncomfortable standing. I can sit on the bed.”

  Darin began to eat, and Gervin walked over to the bed. He did not sit immediately, but rather gathered up the initiate’s robe. With infinite care he spread it out, his fingers lingering longest on the silver circle around the back. He turned to look at Darin and pursed his lips slightly.

  “Chew before you swallow or you’ll make yourself sick.”

  Darin blushed without returning Gervin’s glance, but did as he was told.

  You’re still so young, Gervin thought, watching. You seem too

  ... fragile to bear the burden you’ve accepted. He cut his musing short; youth in the Empire meant little, except possibly an early death. It was not always so. Ah, I grow too old and weak for this. He ran his fingers along the edge of his chin.

  Sometime soon, he would meet Lady Death and answer for his life, and in return he would demand his own answers, his own justice. He dreaded that confrontation, and longed for it, for an end to the task he had chosen.

  Darin ate everything. At any other time this would have amused Gervin; now it merely signaled an end to his waiting. As
soon as the youth had pushed the last plate away, Gervin knelt in front of him, head bowed.

  It was the last thing that Darin expected.

  “Priest of Lernan,” he whispered. It was the first time he had used God’s name in over thirty years. He drew his hands together to still their shaking.

  Darin stared at the slavemaster in confusion. Without thinking, his fingers flew to his staff. “Gervin, what are you doing?”

  “Priest of Lernan,” he repeated, bowing his head, “I, who am not worthy, come before you. Hear me.”

  “Gervin—I’m not—”

  But it came to him, even as he began to deny it, that he was. The robes, the blooding, the joining at the well, all of these things made him undeniably what Gervin had called him. He looked at the top of Gervin’s gray head and wondered what comfort he could possibly give to the man; he himself was an adult of only two days, and Gervin had seen much more of life than he.

  He had dreamed away years of his childhood wishing for the day that he would be called upon as priest—he could never have imagined that it would be here, in a cold stone room, with the brand of slavery upon his forearm.

  The staff in his hand began to tingle. He tried to recall the rituals of the initiates; some of the words drifted back to him, but they felt stilted, too formal for him to utter. He drew his shoulders back, lifted his head, and straightened the worry from his face in an attempt to look more dignified. It didn’t help; it only made him feel ridiculous.

  Well, I might be a priest of Lernan, but I’m still just Darin of Culveme. His scarred hand reached out to touch Gervin’s forehead. The man looked up.

  “Gervin, please don’t kneel like that.” Gervin did not move, and Darin continued. “I don’t know where you’re from, but I know that you recognize the robes. Things are different now.” He waved an arm around the room. “They have to be. And I don’t know all the formal stuff.”

  Gervin rose and sat stiffly on the bed.

  “I’m Darin,” Darin said. He had to look up to meet Gervin’s distant eyes. “I might have been a proper priest before—” If he had paid attention to the Grandmother, he thought. “But now I’m just me.”

  Gervin shook his head. “No other person could do what you did. You freed the Gifting. You cleansed the Bright Heart’s blood.”

  “How do you know about the Gifting?”

  In a voice both soft and far away, he replied, “I know of it.”

  “Well, you’re wrong about one thing. It didn’t have to be me.”

  It was plain that Gervin did not believe him. Inexplicably, the staff grew warmer. Surprised, Darin looked down at it and saw a soft green glow around its edges. He looked up at Gervin quickly, but the older man apparently did not notice. His eyes were on Darin’s face alone, the yearned-for old ways writ clearly there.

  With a weary sigh, Darin decided to try. “I am the patriarch of the line of Bethany of Culverne.” His voice was very quiet. “Do you come seeking the guidance of Lernan?”

  “No, holiness.”

  Darin cringed. “Do you come seeking His aid?”

  “No, holiness.”

  “What, then, do you seek for?”

  “His comfort, holiness. His forgiveness. ” Gervin’s voice had never been so quiet; nor had it been so raw.

  Darin’s memories grew hazy; he opened his mouth to try, again, to cast off Gervin’s image of priesthood. To his great surprise, he found himself saying, “If you are a follower of Lernan, what need have you of His forgiveness?” He tried to close his mouth and cut off the words. He couldn’t.

  In a broken voice, Gervin said, “I am no longer a follower of Lernan.”

  “Then why do you seek His help?” Darin tried to stand, but his legs wouldn’t respond. His mouth continued to move, but the words were not his own. The harsh edge of them frightened him.

  It had that effect on Gervin as well. Darin saw the sudden flood of hopelessness in the older man and knew then that even his expression was not his own.

  Gervin covered his face with his hands. “I seek His comfort because I have lived too long without it. I seek His forgiveness for the choices I have had to make.”

  “Continue.” Darin heard himself speak that cold, cold word.

  “I was not always the slavemaster. I did not always work for the lord.”

  “Do not call him that in my presence.” Darin had not known his voice could be so chill. He had never wanted it to be.

  Gervin nodded shakily. “As you command, holiness. At one time, in my youth, I served the lines.”

  “You are not of the lines.” It was not a question.

  “No. I was there when the Servants of the Enemy came; the line that I served fell before them. I was younger, then. I could do nothing. They knew I was not of the lines, and I became a slave.”

  Darin wanted to reach out. He knew this story well; he had lived it. But his hands continued to grip the staff in silence.

  “I was brought early into the household of the—of the master. I did my best to keep to the ways of Lernan in my captivity.” He took a deep breath.

  No! Do not make me say that! Darin screamed it silently. He could see the glow of the staff from the corner of one eye; it had grown into a brilliant halo. His protest meant nothing. The words went on.

  “The dark ceremonies are no part of His way.” Each word was a sharp, verbal stiletto. Gervin shuddered and covered his face with his hands.

  “Holiness—I worked for years trying to preserve the ways.” He brought his voice under control and let his hands fall away from his face. It was a pale mask; it seemed ancient and fragile. “And then the lord—the master—took note of me. He came to me, offered me a choice.” Hands began to shake. “He would give me control of the castle and the lands, if I would serve him completely.

  “I refused at first, holiness. I told him I would rather die.” Gervin began to rock gently backward and forward. “I was younger then.

  “But he believed that. He left me, and in the days and months to follow, he made clear what a house could be if run by—other people. The Empire has many evils, and he made sure that I saw all.

  “And he came to me again and told me that I could control the fate of his slaves. I could make their lives as easy as possible in the Empire. All that I had to do in return was to pledge my loyalty to him, to serve him without question.

  “I don’t know why he chose me.” Gervin’s voice grew bitter.

  “Perhaps he enjoys the death of spirit more than the death of flesh. Part of me died when I made my pledge.”

  Darin saw Gervin with new eyes. The old man’s pain at the blooding of the knife, the hope at the robes of the Circle, the fatigue and silence that accompanied him everywhere.

  Could I have done it? Darin thought. Could I have been slavemaster and killed at the call of a priest of the Enemy, in order to save other lives? He didn’t know.

  But words that were still not his own started to come.

  No! Whatever you are, you have no right to make this decision for me! He struggled to stop the flow of words, his fear for himself replaced by his fear for Gervin. His mouth began to close, but sweat beaded his brow at the effort.

  A voice, dry as ash, spoke for the first time.

  Why do you stop me, Initiate?

  Darin started in surprise. His mouth fell open and started to move before he regained control of it.

  I can’t judge him. If you want to do it, find someone else to control.

  He could feel the white heat of an anger that was not his own. I am the caretaker of the Line Culverne; I am the guidance that keeps the way clear. You know nothing of the way if you think to stop me. You are young; your training was never completed.

  I am Darin, last of the line you guide. Control or compulsion is not the way of Lernan. His mouth snapped shut.

  Wind crept through the ash of the voice. It was silent, as if considering something. When it came again, it was cooler. Then let me guide you, as I have done in the pa
st for the patriarchs and matriarchs of your line.

  I will not let you judge this man. He didn’t come to you.

  Something lashed out at his mind, and his body stiffened in pain.

  You wish to forgive one who has performed the dark ceremonies of the Enemy? You wish to accept one who has taken the lifeblood of the unwilling? I will not accept this sacrilege!

  Darin looked at Gervin’s clenched hands. Those hands had held the blooded knife. They were shaking now, as they had done that night.

  Who are you to judge? Don’t you understand what he’s saying? Can’t you see why he had to make the choice he did? For Darin finally understood why the slaves of House Darclan were different, a little more open, a little more friendly. And he understood, at last, that he might claim friendship from the slaves, without paying the high price that Lord Vellen had demanded.

  I am the voice of Bethany of Culverne, planted here in case such a perversion should arise from the dilution of the line’s blood. I know the way—let this man be damned to Darkness by his own actions!

  You are not Bethany of Culverne! But doubt crept into Darin and his lips flew open.

  “Holiness, does something trouble you?”

  “Yesssss—” Darin clamped his mouth shut. He forced his gaze to fall downward to the hand that held the staff. He could feel the unnatural heat of the wood against the tight circle of his palm and fingers.

  You are a traitor to the Circle! Follow the way, or be cast out!

  Darin slowly raised his head to meet Gervin’s eyes. He flinched at what was in them, the pity in the action his own. Gritting his teeth, he began to pry his fingers free from the staff. Grimly, he spoke to the voice in his mind.

  If I’m to be cast out, then I will be. But somehow I don’t think I will.

  If you offer him your aid, you are not of the Bright Heart.

  I carried the blooded knife. His thoughts were sharp and edged. I knew what he was doing. I didn’t want to accept it, but I did. I played my part in the darkness. I, too, have sinned against Lernan. I was not condemned.

  Again the voice grew cooler, shedding the heat of its anger. You have been cleansed by the blood of Lernan. Lernan accepted you.