Into the Dark Lands

by Michelle Sagara

  “What do you mean? ”

  “She’s suffered much for a child of her age. If you bring her back to the world, she will only suffer that much more. I’ve seen the state before; in other circumstances yours might be a worthy endeavor. But not here, not now.”

  “But—”

  “There are others you may be able to help more.

  “I can’t just leave her like this, she’s—”

  “She’s somewhere where pain doesn’t touch her. Not all of us are so lucky. ”

  Lucky? Erin thought bitterly. Words rose, but she caught them in her throat and held them there. Dully she acknowledged that what she was doing might indeed be just another form of cruelty. “Maybe you’re right.”

  A rasping sigh answered her, and she reached toward it almost eagerly. Her hands fumbled blindly in the air before lighting on an arm.

  Contact. Almost automatically she flowed outward, with less energy than before. Heat rose in her palms and traveled to her fingertips, where it rested between her skin and her patient’s. It left her with a jolt, drunk in greedily by the demands of a body’s pain. Twinning around broken ribs, it formed a cocoon that radiated gentle light, visible only to Erin’s eyes. She let the contact fade and turned, already stumbling toward another person.

  A small voice in her mind told her to lie down and acknowledge defeat. But she was too close to those surrounding her, and their pain jerked her to her feet and called her to their injuries.

  In all there were thirty people in the hut, some ten of them minorly injured. Of the remaining twenty, fifteen had been hurt in ways that time and rest might heal, and five were already dead, but had not yet acknowledged the fact. Erin touched all of them, absorbing their pain and returning an unnatural calm in its place. She did not ask how they had come by their injuries, and no one volunteered the information; they sheltered it the way one shelters a secret that words alone cannot describe.

  When she had finished, she curled up in the corner of the hut farthest from the door, her body pressed against the many that lay on the packed dirt floor. Sleep took her then, and she welcomed the gray neutrality of its touch. She had done all that she possibly could.

  She was not allowed to sleep for long, but the few hours she did rest refreshed her; she found she could stand and walk easily enough when she was forced to do so by the armed Swords that entered the hut. One by one the surviving villagers were paraded out; those that could not walk were dragged. Erin gritted her teeth at the sight of them, but said nothing. Flanked by two guards, she came out into the near-moonless night.

  They were taken to what remained of the village circle. Once the center of judgment, joining, and artisans’ displays, it was surrounded on all sides by gutted buildings and corpses left for carrion. Small torches ringed the square, held by people intent on the upcoming spectacle.

  One thing stood out in the bleak landscape, a richly upholstered chair with an engraved back and thick arms. In that chair the Servant sat, watching the arrival. Erin could see the faint glow of wards surrounding him; she knew that none of Lernan’s fire would touch him this night. Worse still, the power that it cost him to maintain those protections would be replenished by the people she had failed.

  That failure weighed heavily on her. Any success she had won upon the field seemed to dissipate. She had failed, as she had always done when it was most important.

  Two of the villagers died before they could be brought forward; their bodies were thrown to the side. The others were pressed together in front of the Servant. Erin came through to stand at their head.

  The nightwalker smiled.

  “Sarillorn. I see your captivity agrees with you. Do come a little closer,”

  “You can see well enough where you are.”

  The Servant’s smile grew broader.

  “As you will. Swords, kill one of them.”

  “Any particular one?”

  “Any but the Sarillorn.”

  “No!” Erin started forward and a guard cut her short with a shield block. She staggered back as one of the villagers was pulled from the crowd by four men. In the scant light, Erin could see the taut face of a young woman. Her lips were set against her mouth almost ferociously; no pleas for mercy would escape them if her will held out. Each of her limbs was secured by one of the guards; she struggled futilely, still maintaining her silence.

  “A good choice.” A new voice entered the square as a man in dark robes stepped between the guards that ringed it. He nodded at someone—Erin could not tell whom—and a Sword entered the square holding a gold-leafed box. With consummate care the box was opened, and the man in dark robes lifted something out of it. He held it high, and his eyes found Erin’s. She saw the glint of red in them and paled.

  With a very formal bow he said, “I am Talon, Karnar of Malthan. You’ve troubled us, Sarillorn; you’ve gathered debts that must be paid.”

  Erin tried to push forward and again ran into a shield.

  “Attend to this, if it will not be too much trouble.” He brought a hand up and slid it gracefully along the jagged edge of the knife that Erin now knew he carried. She could not see it clearly, but memory supplied detail—it was perhaps seven inches of toothed steel, with an irregularly shaped obsidian handle.

  Talon turned toward his intended sacrifice, paused, and pivoted neatly on one foot.

  “Oh, and Sarillorn?”

  Erin met his eyes.

  “Something for you to think on in case the entertainment is not enough for you.” Deftly, and with surprising speed, he raised his arm and pointed. Erin managed to dodge in time to catch a flare of red with only her shoulder. She bit back a cry as she brought her hands up, too late to ward.

  “Talon, you go too far. ” The Servant leaned slightly forward in his chair, his hands clenching the armrests.

  “Really, Stefanos? A pity. I’d forgotten your claim.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned back to the business of his God. He nodded to the Swords.

  “I think you may start by breaking her legs.”

  In a very short time the silence was shattered by the low, hoarse sound of sustained screams. The high priest watched as his men worked, his red eyes a gleam of his God’s love of pain.

  Erin tensed visibly when the screaming began. For a moment she was shrouded by darkness, her legs folded beneath her shaking body under the cover of bedrolls, the smell of horses in her nostrils. The cries that rent the air were familiar ones. This death was familiar. Her throat closed, she felt an old fear begin to paralyze her.

  No. I am adult now. I am not what I was!

  The ache of tension was solid; she let it bind her to the present. She watched the man set to guard her as he, in turn, observed Malthan’s ceremony. A sheen of sweat touched his face, and it grew pale. He was not Malanthi, then; against him her weakened white-fire would have no effect. It was not easy to bide her time. Her fingernails cut small crescents into the palms of her hands. But the waiting had its effect; the guard blanched at last and looked away. Erin caught one glimpse of his face as he turned, enough to wonder at the profession he had chosen and the God that he served. Then her hand lashed out, followed quickly by a sharp strike from her leg. The man toppled with a surprised grunt. She did not wait for reprisals; instead she lunged for the group of Swords that surrounded the Karnar and his chosen victim. Both of her hands shot out, connecting with the unhelmed heads of two Malanthi; they fell back, reeling at the unexpected strength of her blow. The priest whirled to face her; his knife glistened wet and black in the poor light like a little tendril of the shadow.

  She did not stop to think; she raised her hands and called on the white-fire. It exploded outward over what remained of the girl, detailing her ravaged features in an incandescent flash. The priest and his Swords cried out, their voices an eerie harmony as they fell away, cringing.

  Without pausing, Erin knelt, her hands gently touching the girl’s chest. She could feel the ragged rise and fall of it; somehow this young woman ha
d survived. A wave of nausea almost overwhelmed Erin as the cost of the white-fire made itself clear. She ignored it and pushed herself out into the roiling agony of a fragmented mind. Erin had never seen a victim of Malthan’s ceremony; nothing in her experience prepared her for it. To soothe such injury would take hours, if it could be calmed at all. She had seconds.

  Lernan, guide me. I cannot save your child’s life—but I can save her from being Malthan’s tool.

  Her power bent outward, radiating a forced calm, a forced peace. Like a drug it spread into the woman’s mind, seeking out the core of her identity. Amid the pain and terror that twisted everything into ugly chaos, a small spark flickered. Erin arrowed toward it, disregarding all else. As she touched that single spark, it skittered away, the need for escape from torment fueling it. Erin followed and gently, carefully, pulled it in.

  Hush, little one.

  Only a whimper returned to her. She wanted more; permission for what she had chosen to do. But though she pulled and coaxed, the mind yielded nothing. There was nothing left to give. Nevertheless, she had to try.

  Little one, I can send you to where there is no pain, no fear. Would you like that?

  Another whimper.

  She closed her eyes. Then sleep. Sleep the last sleep and wake in the peace of the beyond.

  Erin’s power shuddered, snapped, and flowed back into her, severely depleted. The chest beneath her hand rattled once and then stilled. It was done.

  Looking up, Erin could see three of the Swords struggling to their feet; the fourth lay where he had fallen, his face a twisted husk of agony. A movement at her back alerted her; she twisted around, bringing her hands up. There was a flash in the dark as a knife was raised. Erin rolled awkwardly to one side of the body as the blade plunged downward with a piercing whistle.

  “Talon. That is enough.” The Servant’s eyes glowed, and the knife stopped in midair. The hand that still held it was shaking with the effort to bring it down.

  The priest whirled toward the nightwalker. Erin could not see his face, but his words painted a clear picture of what his expression must be.

  “You saw what she did and you allowed it! Let her pay in blood for the blood she’s denied to God!” His face, fine-boned and sharp, was twisted into a snarl.

  The Servant’s face flickered spasmodically—an expression that looked suspiciously like laughter deprived of sound.

  “Oh, really? You wish to give the blood of a Lernari to our God? I think it would be unpalatable, at best.”

  “That is not for you to decide; I am the high priest here, and the decision is mine alone.”

  “Dear Talon,” the Servant said, rising from his seat, “you and your minions would not be here at all if I had not chosen to intervene. Do not make me regret the generosity of that decision.”

  With two long strides he bridged the gap between himself and the Karnar. Erin noted that his feet never touched the ground. “If you were too careless to ward yourself against the Sarillorn’s strike, that is your problem. It changes nothing, not even my opinion of you.”

  Talon was silent for a few minutes. When he spoke again, his voice was smooth and even. “Lord Stefanos, let me make it clear that the Malanthi value and respect the abilities that you have proven here; in no way do I wish to suggest otherwise. But this woman has proven herself in every way our enemy, and as she has demonstrated, she still has power here. I believe it would be expedient to dispatch her immediately.”

  With equal smoothness the Servant replied, “And I do not. I did not bring her back for your amusement, but for my own.”

  “Nevertheless, Lord, I must do as—” The words were cut off as the Servant leaned forward and casually grabbed the collars of the priest’s robe. With contemptuous ease he lifted Talon off the ground and let him dangle there.

  “Half blood, you will do nothing.” The mockery was gone from his voice. “This night’s effort has cost me much that I will have to spend the time to replenish. Another word from you, and you will be my first.” He jerked his arm and threw the man aside without further comment. Then he walked quietly to where Erin crouched.

  She felt his shadow spread across her upturned face and knew the meaning of the word enemy more clearly than she ever had before. The hair on the back of her neck rose as she met the red flash of his eyes. If the Lady had eyes of emerald, this Servant’s were living ruby. It surprised her; she thought they should be cold.

  He held out a hand, which also surprised her; it was almost human in appearance, but longer and finer. She ignored it and rose to face him. The Karnar had named him Lord Stefanos, and she knew the name: He was First of the Twelve of the Enemy, with a power equaled only by the Lady’s. There was death here.

  At last, there was a death.

  “You did very well, Sarillorn. Very well indeed. Walk with me.”

  This time she did as she was bidden, the shock of his shadow surrounding her. So great was his power that she hardly noticed his height—it was too, too insubstantial.

  “You do not cooperate here,” she noted.

  He didn’t bother to look at the high priest, who was already rising from the blackened earth.

  “No.” He stopped in front of his makeshift throne and smiled. “Perhaps the Lernari have learned to respect their superiors in a way the Malanthi have not. Perhaps not; the light must give way to the darkness, and the beginning to an end. I shall teach you respect of that darkness and that end, Sarillorn.”

  “Perhaps not,” she replied, her mimicry soft but evident. “For the darkness gives way to the light; the end to a new beginning.”

  He smiled. “Well said. But look around you and look well. For you and your people, dawn is a scant few hours away, but it may as well be centuries. None of you will see it.”

  Erin went cold; her muscles clenched tight, stifling breath. Tilting her chin, she said, “No. If our eyes cannot see it, our memories will hold it before you like a shield. We carry the light within us; you may dim it, but you will never destroy it. That is our nature.”

  “No, little Sarillorn. That is your nature. And if I gave you all to the Karnar, you know that you alone would prove true to it. I offer you, as proof, the human you have just killed.”

  Erin shuddered inwardly, and the Servant sank back into his chair, his fingers forming a steeple beneath his chin.

  “But other things interest me; other things motivate me. Do you know,” he said conversationally, “that none of my number has ever devoured one of yours? The Lernari are protected against us in ways that are not easily broken, and they die so quickly. If I had a few days with you, Sarillorn, I would attempt it. And I would succeed.”

  She stiffened, waiting for him to finish.

  “But such is the nature of time; when I am here it affects me as any mortal. Already your people will be on the move against us—Kandor of Lernan will know I am present, although he will not be in time to move against me if my business here is short.” Leaning forward, he motioned to two soldiers. They quickly separated from the crowd. “Take another. There, the boy. If the mother tries to stop you, hold her and kill the child slowly.”

  They nodded curtly and did as he commanded. The woman allowed them to remove her young son from the dubious safety of her arms. He was perhaps five; certainly old enough to know the caution of fear. Although he trembled in the mail of the arms that held him, he made no sound or struggle.

  “Very good.” His eyes returned to Erin. “Now, Sarillorn, I have a choice to offer you. You are intelligent; I assume you know what it is.”

  She had already turned away from him to stare dully at the boy. They had disarmed her, else she might have considered dealing herself a death-wound. It would not save the villagers, nor would it destroy the Servant—but the Malanthi here would suffer before she died.

  “I wish to destroy you, painfully and slowly, in the fashion of my . . . kindred. It has never been done before because my brethren are less subtle than I am known to be; they believe they
can beat down the will of Lernari blood by force alone. I am willing to grant you more strength than that during the short term and, as I have already said, I do not have the long term to look forward to where you are concerned.”

  Erin looked carefully at the soldiers; their faces were guarded but she could detect the strain beneath their careful neutrality. They were not Swords, then. Her eyes scanned the crowd, squinting in the sparse light. She sent out a hesitant probe—the smallest spark of light—but it failed before it could reach the first rank. The Servant had stopped it.

  With a soft smile she turned back to him.

  He returned a brittle, edged version of her expression.

  “Yes, Sarillorn, your little ploy has incapacitated most of the Malanthi available. I will give you the respect that is your due. I make no attempt to convince you that the human soldiers here would willingly carry out the service of Malthan on so young and so helpless a crowd of civilians.

  “But there is still the priest.”

  She nodded, waiting.

  “For reasons that do not concern you, I wish to deny him that pleasure. Which is a pity—” He stood. “—for that leaves me.”

  His smile was wide and genuine; that was the horror of it. “It is the blood of the Sundered that allows the Malanthi to be what they are; to convey the sensations of pain and terror that come from a shattered human mind. Their mortal blood limits them, but even with this limitation they are easily up to their work.

  “Can you bear to imagine what I can do? I am the eldest of my kind; no mortal taint inhibits me.” He gestured, beckoning the guards. They carried the child to him. Gingerly he encircled the boy with his arms.

  “Can you?” His arms tightened around a sturdy linen smock. The child stiffened, his pupils dilating. A low, strangled moan slid out of his mouth, and he slumped back to rest against the shadow. The Servant casually let the child fall to the ground, his eyes never leaving his true prey.

  Erin started forward, reaching for the child. No one interfered as her hands sought and found his skin. She went outward, catching the injuries inflicted by the nightwalker’s embrace. To her great relief they were only physical; a few ribs were snapped but had not pierced the lungs. She soothed the confusion in the boy’s half-conscious mind as she dulled his pain. Then, although she knew it would make no difference in the end, she healed the cracks in the ribs themselves.