Children of the Blood

by Michelle Sagara

  Darin didn’t feel the cold stone of the floor against his bare feet. That sensation was lost as a sudden warmth flared to life in his right hand; the staff of Culverne was glowing more brightly than it had ever done.

  He thought he was never going to reach the study; the halls suddenly seemed treacherously long. He had no time to worry about what he would have to face—all of his effort was funneled into reaching Lord Darclan. His breath grew ragged as he turned the bend of the hall that led to the study.

  Darin stopped in the hall as an arm suddenly shot through the closed door of the outer room to the Lord’s study. It moved so quickly that it had vanished before Darin fully understood what it had done; but he could see that a large, jagged hole remained in the wood. He felt the blanket slip from his shoulders as he brought his left hand down to the staff. The door shivered again, as if alive; the hole grew larger. Darin began to walk toward it, only now noticing that Gervin was not at his side. The crash of breaking wood obscured the sound his feet made as they lightly touched the floor. He raised the staff as if to bar the passage of whatever came through.

  Too late, he thought numbly.

  Because he was prepared, he stood his ground as the shadow crawled out. It was dark with a blackness that Darin had seen only twice in his life.

  Nightwalker.

  Lord Darclan.

  But this was not the lord that Darin knew. Bethany flared brightly, and a shaft of light struck out. The creature snarled and backed away. Red flared indistinctly, and Darin realized that the eyes of the walker were upon him.

  What’s happened?

  Light flared again, in a bright ring around Darin’s feet.

  He has not fed in a while. Be wary. Everything in Bethany’s words told Darin that her voice still felt the darkness keenly.

  He didn’t need the warning; his hands gripped the staff as if it were an extension of his body. It burned steadily.

  The barrier will hold, but I do not know for how long. I have never seen a Servant in this state.

  The shadow moved forward slowly.

  Again the stair flared brightly, but this time the nightwalker stopped outside of its reach, cringing into a slight retreat.

  “Lord Darclan.”

  The creature became absolutely still. Darin took his right hand from the staff and raised it, palm up, hesitantly.

  Darin, you cannot reach him thus.

  How, then?

  “Do you know me?”

  Silence.

  “Do you know Lady Sara?”

  Something flickered in the wild eyes that met his; a brief, almost human pain. It looked out of place in the redness of the Dark Heart, but it was gone so quickly that Darin wondered if he’d imagined it.

  And then the shadow spoke.

  Darin could not recognize the voice; it was sibilant and low, as if the vocal chords had not been made for human speech.

  “Initiate.” Long, that word, as if spoken by a dying man.

  “Stay.” Tendrils of shadow moved in a short circle. “Light. Here.”

  Darin responded with Bethany’s power, and the light that had surrounded him moved outward until it lay around the Lord like a wall.

  He heard the answering cry of pain and hesitated.

  “Light! ”

  Closing his eyes, Darin nodded.

  Gervin walked around the bend in the hall, his chest rising and falling visibly. He stopped to lean against the wall, just beneath the ring of a large torch. The flickering shadows underlined the fatigue and relief in his face.

  “In time,” he murmured.

  Darin nodded, but he kept both hands on the staff.

  "Gervin. ”

  The eyes of the slavemaster penetrated the shadow. He shivered and started to turn away. “Tell him.” The voice, strangled and gutteral, was still the command of his master. “Lord,” Gervin whispered. He bowed, although the bow was out of place in this strange tableau.

  “Darin, the lord is a nightwalker; you know of it. You know he is different from the others, perhaps better than I. But the one thing I do know is this: He hasn’t fed in all the time I’ve served him.

  “I’ve watched for signs of it; if he were trying to be subtle there would be disappearances. If he weren’t, there would be husks of bodies. I haven’t seen either.

  “Do you understand? He hasn’t fed for over forty years.”

  Longer. It was Bethany’s voice. Much longer. Ah, Lady ...

  “Light, ” the lord said, and cringed anew. His face was only shadow now, but that shadow twisted and writhed around two red points. Hunger drove him; pain kept him at bay—but between these two forces there was room for shame. Stefanos, First of the Sundered, had never asked for help in his long history.

  “How long?” Darin whispered, hoping that the Lord would understand. “How long?”

  “Dawn ...” One tendril reached out and stopped a hair’s breadth from the barrier that Culverne had called. “For Sara...”

  Darin closed his eyes. He felt the uncertainly in Bethany without having to ask.

  “Darin, can you hold him?”

  “I don’t know,” Darin whispered.

  Gervin had no reply, but Darin felt him draw closer. There was no comfort in words, and no encouragement, but Gervin was prepared to offer what he could. Sometimes, silences were best.

  He held the staff high until his arms ached with its slight weight. It inched toward the ground, drawn there by gravity and exhaustion, but the circle it had drawn shone no less brilliantly.

  Time seemed to slow; the torches in the hall began to flicker—a signal of the end of their life. Darkness fell, but the light of Culverne burned on, casting its white and green along Darin’s bowed head.

  It was cold here.

  It grew colder still when the circle began to dim.

  Darin’s heart froze for an instant as the shadows around the Lord began to take more solid form.

  Not yet!

  No, Bethany’s voice said. It was weaker now, as the light was weaker. But I can hold this no longer. Call the Bright Heart, Darin. Ward.

  But I don’t know what to do!

  I do. Call His power; I will direct it.

  Darin looked down at the staff in his hands. Panic rose; he was completely naked, no robes, no knife. And he could not put the staff aside; the Lord would walk then, and all of this would mean nothing.

  But Gervin was prepared, somehow. A hand touched his shoulder in the darkness.

  “A knife,” the old man said softly.

  Darin’s hand found Gervin’s and clasped it tightly.

  “Do it,” he said softly. “I can’t let go of the staff.”

  He felt a sharp pain; his right hand again. And the cut was deeper than he might have made it, but Gervin was not sighted: the light of Culverne didn’t guide him. Darin shook his head as blood filled his cupped hand. Then he looked at the shadow until the darkness was the only thing he could see.

  Chill air filled his lungs. He called God; God answered. And the light that ringed the Lord grew brighter. The shadows retreated.

  Thank you, Initiate, Bethany said. No one of us can stand alone.

  Is this what it was like? Darin thought. He imagined, for a moment, that the priests of the line stood in a ring around him, each offering their blood and its power in turn, each taking up the burden when it became too heavy for another to bear.

  Or maybe it was the presence of God that took the stone corridors of House Darclan and replaced them with trees and starlight and family. It didn’t matter; he was pleased to stand among them as an equal. They spoke no words, but their nods and smiles, their encouragements, were enough.

  They stood for some time, and then, one by one, they approached him. They bowed, each in turn, and he saw the light that limned them. It was the same, measure for measure, as the one that ringed him.

  And then they were gone; the clearing was gone; the halls stood around him.

  He looked up, shaking his head, to meet the
eyes of the lord. Human eyes; darker than any he had seen before, but cast in a human face. Only a trace of shadow remained, and even that was fading.

  "Initiate.”

  Darin nodded. He was weary suddenly, but at peace; the night had passed. He waited for the lord to speak, but no words came. As Gervin before him, the lord offered his silence.

  But this silence was forged in a different fire. The First of the Sundered held it about him as a shield. He watched as the light that had hindered him faded, leaving unmarked stone in its wake. He met the boy’s eyes briefly, and then nodded again. Later, if there was time for it, he would have his words.

  The outer door was a ruin; he remembered splintering it with the force of near-unleashed darkness. It had been foolish ; it had cost much. He opened the door and walked beyond it, into the light of his study.

  It was brighter, but the light no longer cut him.

  Sarillorn. He touched the glass pane, spreading his palm against it. A few days later and it would not have mattered.

  But she was still alive, and still his. And no death, no feeding, would mar that yet.

  He was a Servant who had accepted the blood of a priestess, freely given.

  The hunger has never been so strong. I should not have stayed.

  He shifted restlessly. Was he not First among the Sundered ? Yes, and in his nature was all that the Dark had been on the first Awakening. Nature called its own.

  Dim sensations, centuries older than the world on which he walked, returned, and with them the hatred for the harsh, rigid spears of the Light. He could feel the stirring of scars wrought before wounds were invented. I am of the Dark.

  Yes, Stefanos, but the Dark itself changed with the coming of the Light, and the Light with the touch of the Dark.

  Her voice. Always her voice and her face, her light.

  He did not know how long he stayed by the window, nor did it concern him; if he was left with nothing else, he would always have time. Time. His fist slammed into the wall.

  chapter seventeen

  Morning.

  She was alone, again. Always alone.

  The sun was low on the horizon, but already its upward creep was noticeable. She rose in silence, seeing Helen’s face, unable to see anything but Helen’s face. Even the little child whose death was assured was not as clearly graven.

  Her hands shook slightly as she rose. Clothing was laid out; somebody had come and gone, having seen to this task without waking her. She took advantage of it, sliding into the dress provided without even resenting its complicated finery.

  There was a knock on the door.

  Darin. She put a smile on and found to her surprise that it was only half-forced. It would be nice to have company.

  “Come in.”

  It was not Darin who entered. Stefan walked through the door. He caught her faltering smile as it faded and winced.

  “Darin is asleep,” he said quietly. “I thought I might escort you to the hall in his stead. Shall I have him awakened, lady?”

  “No.”

  “Sara.” He took a step forward, then another, to bring him closer. Then he stopped, inches away from her, his dark eyes seeing nothing else. "Lady.” He touched her shoulders as gently as he could and bowed his head. “I am sorry.”

  She mistook his meaning—how could she do otherwise?—and said, “It wasn’t your fault. It was mine.”

  He only smiled, but no smile should have contained what his did.

  “It is late, lady.”

  “Late? I don’t think it’s noon yet.”

  “Late,” he repeated, as his eyes drifted windowward. “I have guests, or I will have soon. Come, let us spend what we have of the day.”

  He looked up a moment, and two slaves came in bearing two large trays. “Midday, Sara. Would it trouble you if I remained?”

  “But the infirmary—”

  “It will wait. Gervin tends those he can, and he will make his report to you. Please, lady. ”

  Something in his voice touched her, and she laid a hand against his cheek. Her smile echoed the sadness in his without ever touching its depths.

  “We never have much time for each other, do we?” she asked softly. “You in your night, I in my day.”

  He closed his eyes, and on impulse she stretched to her toes to kiss his lids. They were cool; they trembled ever so slightly.

  This was the last day. Night came soon, and it would be endless. He held her. He held her very tightly.

  They walked together down the long hall. Day had come and gone, its passage too quick and too clean. Sara leaned against him, her arm entwined with his, a hint of smile across her lips.

  Now, he thought. It comes now.

  Gervin turned around a comer. His step was quick and firm, but it was obvious that the message he bore was an urgent one.

  “Lord.”

  Lord Darclan nodded gravely. “The high priest has come.”

  Gervin’s eyes widened fractionally and then he nodded.

  “Where?”

  “In the outer hall.” Gervin smiled; it was not pleasant.

  “Waiting your command.”

  “Very well. I will go to him now. ”

  He turned, kissed Sara’s forehead, and then pushed her gently in Gervin’s direction. “Lady, go to Darin.”

  Their eyes locked for a few moments before Sara looked away. She nodded, tense, and he released her.

  “Gervin, go with the lady. Make sure she arrives safely and without interruption.”

  “Yes, lord.”

  Do not fail. But the lord felt no need to say the words aloud. He turned and began to walk almost casually down the stairs while Sara and Gervin watched his retreating back.

  The halls were completely empty. A grim smile touched Stefanos’ face as his ears picked up what his eyes could not; the muted, half-hysterical murmuring of slaves locked in their quarters, awaiting the pleasure of the Church. His thoughts were clean and sharp, focused on one thing alone: the high priest of the Greater Cabal, leader of the Karnari.

  Ah Vellen, Vellen. I should have killed you years ago. You showed promise, even then. But there was no real anger to his thoughts, and not as much pain as there might have been.

  It has been long since any have provided a challenge to me. His smile was the one that Sara had always found so distressing. It faded into a lean, straight line.

  Too long, perhaps.

  He rounded the last comer and entered the outer hall.

  The Swords were there; four, well armed and armored, clean as if newly brought to the encounter. And at their head, Vellen.

  A thought struck him, and he looked more closely at the Swords. Malanthi, and not as weak of blood as most he had seen in this generation.

  But the Swords were beneath his concern. The high priest, surprisingly, was not. Lord Vellen. He wore the common regalia of the Church, but it had been altered to suit better his station. Across the front of the robe—and doubtless the back as well—was a large, severed circle. It was a metallic red, but hints of gold surrounded it, catching the torchlight in the hall.

  Vellen stood tall, almost as tall as the Lord himself, but where Stefanos chose dark hair with eyes that were black, the high priest was fair-haired, and his eyes were the blue of sapphires, clear and cold.

  The high priest stepped forward and bowed.

  “Lord Darclan.” The gesture was completely correct and deferential. The black of his robe swept the floor as he held the bow for just the right length of time. “It has been long since I’ve had the grace of your presence, First Servant.”

  “Indeed. ” Lord Darclan returned the bow, in every way as meticulous about its performance as Vellen had been.

  “I apologize for the need to impose upon you with such short notice. I’ve taken care to keep my party small to avoid causing you inconvenience.”

  “Thoughtful, as always.” He gestured briefly. “Is this the whole of your entourage, then?”

  The briefest of smiles touc
hed Vellen’s face. It was like ice, and gone in an instant, but it left no room for hope.

  “No, Lord. I am afraid that the rest of my traveling companions have not yet arrived. I expect them shortly, and apologize for their delay. They should be here momentarily.”

  Again the ice flickered across Vellen’s lips, lingering like a chill in the air. “They stopped to provision in the Vale, Lord. They did not wish to ... deplete the resources of your house proper.”

  “High Priest,” Stefanos said softly, “I have always suspected you of being the superior of any who have held your title.” He meant every word. “If you will permit it, I will wait with you while your rooms are seen to. I would like to see my suspicions confirmed. ”

  There was a small trace of surprise. “I would be honored by your company, Lord.”

  Both stood in the silence of the hall, watching each other, their faces masked by a respect that was only half lie. They waited, their tension hidden but palpable.

  Stefanos heard the sound first; the bars of the gate were being lifted. All present heard the gates as they began to open, but no one looked toward the main doors until they swung wide.

  Only when people began to enter did the Swords turn. The high priest, however, did not look away from Lord Darclan’s gaze—ibr this he had come, and this he would not deny himself.

  They entered one by one, until they stood, four abreast, in the hall. The Swords of the Church bowed as one before allowing the four to pass.

  Each of the four was of a height with Lord Darclan. Their feet, where they touched the stone, made no sound. They walked in shadow, were shadow. Where skin could be seen at all, it was deathly and chill in its pallor.

  They moved without speaking until they stood two on either side of the high priest. Lord Vellen lifted his arms slightly to either side.

  “Lord Darclan, my entourage is now complete.” He let his arms fall casually.

  The Servant furthest to his left bowed slightly. Shadow wavered, swallowing torchlight.

  “It has been long by even the reckoning of the Sundered, Stefanos.”

  Stefanos inclined his head slightly, no trace of what he felt on his face. “Longer indeed than I thought, Kirlan, if the Sundered now serve the Church.”