“Linens?” she murmured.
Darin nodded. He too stopped to count and then took off lightly through the door before some other piece of furniture blocked his way.
The lady is different today. Bethany’s voice was calm but edged with curiosity.
Darin nodded his agreement.
I wonder what passed between them.
Them?
The First and the lady.
Darin wondered as well, but that didn’t stop him from moving. He hurried off in search of the house mistress.
And he found her, sitting behind a smallish desk, a smile tugging at the comers of her lips. She almost never smiled.
“Uh—Evayn?” Darin asked, as he hesitated in the doorway.
“Come in, come in,” she said briskly. The tone of her voice relaxed him, and he stepped across the threshold. “What can I do for you?”
“I need sheets for ten beds,” he answered quickly.
“Ten?” She frowned.
“Ten. Singles, like we use.”
She nodded and stood, walked over to the door, halted, and then turned to face Darin. The smile was still around the comers of her mouth. “They’re for the infirmary?”
“Infirmary?”
Evayn sighed. “About time I knew something that you don’t yet. The lady’s setting up an infirmary for the house. For the slaves . ”
“Oh. ”
“Oh,” she repeated, rolling her eyes. “Don’t you know what this means, Darin? No, I don’t suppose you do. But ten sets of sheets can easily be spared.” She walked out of the door, a hint of song on her breath.
It sounded familiar to Darin, but only after a few moments did he recognize it—it was something that Stev used to hum.
“My lord, a messenger has come from the Vale. He carries a letter from the Church.”
The lord looked up to meet Gervin’s still face. With a curt shake of the head, he said, “I will see him. ”
The bow showed none of the older man’s relief; the Vale was part of the territories of the house, and so under his care.
Gervin opened the door and murmured a few soft words of introduction. A young man entered the room. He stood, his back almost against the door, and waited nervously for permission to do something. The lord considered telling the man that it was permissible to breathe in his presence. Ah, Sarillorn. Your effect is felt even here.
“Please be seated. ”
The young man bowed to the ground.
Not of the Church, then. Taking in both the style and manner of the man’s dress—common and rough—the lord decided that the man was probably a villager of the Vale; the message had been sent by relay. It appeared that Vellen was taking more caution with the lives of his priests—and utilizing, in their stead, the people of House Darclan’s domain. The Lord Darclan was not amused.
“It appears that you have a message of some import.”
The man nodded, and managed a shaky, “Yes, lord. ”
Darclan held out his hand, and an envelope was placed in it. It bore Vellen’s seal, blood red wax with the stamp of a severed circle.
“It’s from—from a high priest of the Greater Cabal, lord.” The man’s face was almost in his lap.
“Thank you for that imbrmation.”
Darclan looked at the seal with distaste and amusement—Vellen’s choice of emblem was too arrogant for any other reaction. Did he mistakenly assume that the destruction of the lines had been the crowning work of his insignificant life? Something would have to be done to correct that assumption.
Still, Vellen was almost a worthy opponent, crafty, cunning and skilled in the ways of men. For that reason, his grip on the letter was tight. He began to open it and realized that the messenger was still there.
“You may go.”
The man almost tripped over his feet in his haste to reach the door. He swung it open and did trip over Gervin, who waited a few feet to the side of it. Again Gervin’s eyes met the lord’s, and Darclan affirmed his previous decision with a sharp shake of the head. Gervin closed the door of the study and helped the man to his feet.
“You’re a very lucky young man,” he said. “Your lord is one of the few who would not hold you responsible for any information you have brought. ”
The man nodded shakily.
Behind the doors of the study, the lord opened the letter. He read it once, but before he could reach the end of it, his eyes were already becoming silver. The paper began to curl, and was slowly consumed by blackness.
Sara looked up as Darin entered the room, his face almost obscured by the pile of blankets he held. She nodded, but her attention was clearly on one of the slaves who sat before her.
It was an older woman, Emilee, assistant to the seamstress. Her joints ached, she said, and Sara nodded, her face the very picture of seriousness.
Darin began to make the beds.
I’ve never heard Emilee so polite. I didn’t know she knew how to be. But he said nothing; he understood the cautious fear of the older woman.
Only when she muttered, “Hearts damn the thing, then,” did he know that she, too, had decided to trust this rather unusual noble. He wondered if Sara’s grip on her arm had anything to do with it. But Sara asked no names, indeed asked no information beyond that of the ailment she was attempting to treat.
Her voice was even and quiet, and her movements were slow and sure.
After Emilee, there was a quiet lull and Sara helped him make the rest of the beds. She looked tired already, but there was little time left before dinner, and Darin was certain that the lord would confine her to bed for the eve.
She sat down, and Darin took a seat on a vacant bed beside her.
“I can’t believe how much work there is to do here. I’ve only seen five people and I’m already exhausted. Still, I think it’s going rather well; in a few days, I don’t imagine they’ll still wonder if it’s some sort of trap. And then, maybe, I’ll have something like a name from them.” She sighed. “But it is hard. I guess Marcus must’ve done more than I’d realized.”
“Marcus?”
“He was the physician in Rennath. ” At Darin’s quizzical look, she added, “The capital.”
Capital of what? He looked down at Bethany, but she said nothing at all. From the tone of the silence, Darin knew that she knew what Sara was talking about. Sometimes Bethany could be infuriating.
You must ask for yourself, Bethany said softly. But go cautiously, Initiate. I do not believe that your two worlds are as similar as either of you would like.
Do you do this on purpose? Darin thought, frustrated. But at least she had a suggestion this time. He opened his mouth to speak, and the door burst open.
Sara’s head turned immediately as she gained her feet. And then she paled, for she recognized the woman who stood, ghost-pale, in the doorway.
It was the young slave with the child, and the child was cradled in her arms.
“Lady,” the woman said, her voice a shaky whisper, “master Gervin said you’d help if you could.”
Sara was already at the door. She held out her arms.
“What happened?” she asked, more to give the woman something to do than because she needed the information.
“She was climbing on the banisters, in the wing.” The woman took a deep breath. “She fell, I think. I didn’t hear her; that’s why I checked.” Her words came faster. “But she isn’t moving at all—she’s breathing, but it sounds strange.”
A little flare of green, invisible to the slave’s eyes, wrapped itself gently around the young girl before passing through her.
Sara closed her eyes and bowed her head. The child was in no pain; even were she awake she would feel none. Not now, and not ever.
She forced herself to look up, and the knowledge that she’d gained was written clearly in the taut lines of her face.
“No,” the woman breathed. She shook her head, her mouth open.
Pain. And a pain like this was too deep for Sara to touc
h. She was already tired, but as often happened, she had the energy to feel what the woman was feeling.
She looked down at the child again.
She’s trusting me. Sara’s hands tightened slightly. And I can’t do it. Not alone.
It came back to this. Always to this. Had she been Kerlinda’s equal—had she been a true adult—she could save the child’s life. She could touch God, and He would respond, granting her some measure of His power.
But not even with the power of Sarillorn could she now complete this task. It was beyond her mortal ken.
This day, the first of her infirmary, she had already failed.
No, she thought.
“Darin.”
He was already at her side.
“Bring me a dagger. A small one. Make sure it’s clean.”
He nodded, knowing what she wanted it for. He paused at the door to touch the young woman’s shoulder gently.
“It’s all right, Helen. Trust her.”
And he was gone.
Trust me? If she could have, Sara would have laughed. But she did nothing but wait for the sound of Darin’s return.
When he came, he held the dagger carefully in the palms of his hands. Once before, in the house, he had carried a dagger to a noble. It seemed fitting, then, that he should also be the one to carry this new, clean blade.
He handed it to her, his wide eyes upon her face.
And she hated the look in them more than she could say. For the moment, he was just another person to fail.
She handed the baby carefully to Helen.
“I cannot promise anything,” she said, her lips burning on the lie. “But I will do what I can. ”
Helen nodded, wide-eyed and silent.
Sara looked down at the truth of the metal that pressed against her palm. She lifted it carefully, looking only at the unscarred white of her hands.
Lernan, she prayed, please, God, listen just this once.
Blade bit into flesh, as it had done time beyond number before this. Blood welled into cupped palm as her hand began its silent dance.
She willed it to happen. Her lips were pressed firmly into a thin, white line. She gestured. She prayed. She pleaded. All this in a silence that knew no end.
God would not answer.
She looked at the blood in her hands. The blood on the floor. Without looking up, she whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Helen’s breathing seemed to stop, and Sara braced herself for what followed. The pain of even this lost hope hit her like a sword, but she stood in its path, paying its price.
It was Darin who eventually sent Helen on her way; Sara did not have the strength left to do even that. But she felt the curiosity and, yes, the pity in his eyes as he left her alone with the failure.
And when he left, the tears came. And the anger. And the fear.
“Darin, where is the lady?”
Darin looked up slowly from the food that he’d not touched. “Maybe she’ll be down soon.” His voice said it wasn’t likely.
The lord’s frown, subtle and slight, was still unpleasant to behold.
“What passed today?”
Darin’s frown held no menace, but it was no less unpleasant to Lord Darclan.
“She tried to ward,” he answered quietly. “One of the children fell.”
Lord Darclan raised an eyebrow. “And this is enough to keep her from dining?”
“She failed. ” Darin’s cheeks burned with shame for her.
Silence, then, always silence.
“I see, ” the lord said at last. He rose, and motioned for Darin to remain.
He found her in her rooms, sitting in the largest chair with her legs curled forlornly beneath her. Her head was propped up on one elbow, and a blood-stained hand sat loosely in her lap. It was dark; only one of the lamps had been lit, and its flame burned low. He would have to see that it was replaced, but not now.
He looked closely at her. Her eyes were closed. She seemed almost translucent, as if the dying light could pass through her without leaving even a trace of shadow.
“Sara,” he said softly, as he walked toward her.
She looked up, her green eyes ringed by the shadow of circles. Wearily, she nodded to acknowledge his presence. Her eyes fell again.
“Lady?”
She didn’t answer, not with words. But for the few seconds that they stayed open, her eyes lingered upon the blood that had failed her.
He put his arms around her gently and lifted her.
“This is no place for sleep,” he said. He tried to smile. She would have liked that expression, but it failed him.
Her breath punctuated his thoughts as he held her.
I have lost, Sara. I have lost all. I was foolish. Why am I always so foolish where you are concerned?
He looked at the hand that lay open.
She was Lernan’s; she was always Lernan’s—no matter what the cost and strength of the binding he placed upon her had been, he could not change that fact.
And now, now he wasn’t certain that he really wanted to. For her sake, at this moment, perhaps. But still ...
What have you done to me, Sara? How did you accomplish this? Why have the years not erased your mark? All else mortal passes.
Ah. It is dark, and too soon.
He laid her down upon the bed, pulling the covers over her still form.
“I must leave, Sara. I shall return in the morning.
But her hand, wounded, fluttered at his robes. She was exhausted, and this was as much of a request as she could make.
He caught her hand and held it, cradling her tightly.
A moment, he thought, stroking her hair. A moment for you, lady.
And he held her for as long as his nature allowed it in the face of the darkening sky. In the day it would have been easy, the feel of her breath against his cheek an unalloyed pleasure. But it was night now, and she lay so helpless. His arms did not tire under her weight, and he moved only when she stirred slightly.
“Sara, I must go.”
Her eyes never opened, although her arms tightened briefly around him. If she had asked, with words, he could have answered.
But he stayed; when he could stand it no longer, he still remained. And the brown stains on her hand seemed to redden before his eyes, to become a damp, limpid thing that struggled to leave her body. It strained, as if the flesh contained it, and he watched, mesmerized, as it tried to come to him.
To him.
With a silent cry, he threw her aside and bolted out of the room, his steps loud and lingering as they splintered the silence of the castle. The halls stretched out before him, comforting and infuriating in their emptiness.
It was cold, and the cold was steady and patient, for its waiting was almost over.
The details of the hall were lost to him; they melted into the background of a purely physical and unimportant world. Only the feel of the desk beneath his fingertips told him that he had made it to his study. He wheeled around, his nocturnal sight revealing the indistinct outline of a door slightly ajar in the dark room.
“Gervin!” His voice was a half snarl.
A form radiating heat appeared between the door and the wall. The features were indistinct, blurred by the taint of the living. Almost as an afterthought, the hardwood of the desk beneath his fingers buckled. The form took a quick step backward, stopped, and surged forward again. Stefanos could feel the small splinters of wood drive their way into his nesh—but the pain of it was distant, almost hollow.
“Go—get—Darin. Tell him—ward—study—door—from—outside. ”
“Lord?”
“Now!” His lips curled around the wood with a resistance that was more real than the wood that continued to burrow into him. More real, more painful. The walls of his mind, so precise and so logical, could barely contain the urge that drove him.
I am First! His fingers curled more tightly into the desk.
“Heart’s blood.” Two small, hushed syllables and the hea
t was gone. Gone before Stefanos’ sudden leap forward could prevent it from escaping. The door, dead and cold, slammed shut, and he staggered backward into the center of the room. Little spears struck him from behind, and he whirled, his fingers becoming curved like claws. Moonlight streamed into the study. It hurt him. He knew that it had been long since the light had hurt him. With a blind lurch, he jumped out of the path of the uncurtained window and rolled into the darkness.
His hunger jerked him up and shoved him forward. It had been long since the light had hurt, but longer still since he had truly felt warm—since the blood of the living had filled him, permeated him, with its necessary heat.
Darin rolled over and sat up sharply. There was a loud pounding on his door, and an indistinct shouting filtered into the room. Shaking the sleep out of his eyes, he grabbed the wool blanket from his bed, and tying it loosely around his shoulders, got up and opened the door a crack.
In the dim light of the hall, he could see Gervin’s frantic face. “Gervin? ”
“Darin, you must come, and quickly!” The older man was breathing heavily, his shoulders rising and falling with the effort of running from one end of the castle to the other.
Darin nodded swiftly and turned to retrieve his clothing. Gervin’s shaking hand caught his shoulder before he could leave the door.
“You’ve no time to change! Come with me now, or many lives will be lost!”
“It’ll only take a few—”
“Darin.” Gervin lowered his voice, making up for the lack of volume with a terrifying intensity of tone. “The lord will walk if you cannot prevent it.”
“Walk? Gervin, what are you talking—Bright Heart!” Any idea of clothing vanished as the weight of Gervin’s words hit home. A whisper of memory chilled him. Nightwalker. Lifeblood. Brushing Gervin’s hands aside, Darin ran into the room, picked up Bethany, and returned. With one hand he gripped the ends of the blanket around his shoulders. His face was white with fear and loathing.
“It isn’t what you think,” Gervin said over his shoulder; already he had started to run up the halls. “The lord sent me to you himself—told me to tell you to ward the study from the outside.”
Children of the Blood Page 27
