Into the Dark Lands

by Michelle Sagara

The streets were dark, darker than she could have imagined from the heights of the spires. Only once before had she spent time in the darkness of city streets, but that was Karana, and it had fallen. Buildings pressed in at all sides, impossibly tall, impossibly close. She thought them stone, for the most part, with wood used occasionally as an afterthought, but there was little grass, little tree cover, and no forest voices to lessen the night. Erin walked slowly, letting her feet touch uneven cobblestone before taking a firm step. Here and there lamplight made circles upon the ground, but they were small, and Stefanos avoided them.

  “Sarillorn, do you see this?”

  “Not clearly. It looks like a square.”

  “It is. And around it, statues that commemorate—” He stopped as she stumbled again. “Why do you not call your light, little one?”

  She looked back in the direction of his voice. “Because I know it makes you uncomfortable.” And I don’t know if I could stop with light, not here.

  Her answer surprised him, as she so often could. He reached out, touching her right shoulder with his left hand.

  She froze again and he released her.

  “I see,” he said, as if to himself. Very slowly, he held out his arm. “Would it trouble you to accept my aid?”

  She looked at the arm he offered. Hesitantly, she touched it with her hand as if skimming the edge of a finely honed blade. She was shaking.

  “Sarillorn, you have nothing to fear.”

  He had said it so often, but in this darkness that was almost complete, she thought she might believe it—perhaps because she wanted to. Her grip was tentative and shaky, but she held on to him as he began to walk toward the center of the square.

  He stared down at her, his vision giving him the advantage. Her lip was between her teeth, but she walked within the reach of his shadow. She had accepted his guidance.

  “Here, Sarillorn.” He stopped in front of the foremost statue. “This is representative of the Second of Malthan.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t quite make it out.”

  “Touch it, then. Let your fingers see what your eyes will not.”

  She hesitated, and he touched her hand, gently guiding it forward.

  “These,” he said, as her fingers ran along smooth, worn stone, “are how the mortals see us.”

  “Cold,” Erin whispered, “and hard. Are they red?”

  “No. No more than you are pale green. No more than you are the light.” He drew her away, knowing that she was disturbed again. There must be something in his city that would truly please her.

  “And I must warn you again, High Priest,” Derlac said, bowing his head respectfully, “that your idea is not a wise or prudent one.”

  “We have no choice.” Geslik stood, signaling an end to the meeting.

  Derlac ignored this; a breach of etiquette, but not, he hoped, a dangerous one.

  “The Lord must have some plan for her that he does not wish to share with us.”

  Geslik frowned slightly—a bad sign. “What of it? If he wishes to play his games with the Sarillorn, he would be wise to restrict them to matters that do not affect the Church.”

  No one spoke. Each of the council members avoided the eyes of the others. To thwart the First Servant was never wise. But to cancel the blood ceremonies was also unthinkable; it would cost them too much of the power they needed.

  “It is decided, then. In three days?”

  Only Derlac spoke. “I caution—”

  “Good.”

  Thus dismissed, Derlac did not care to speak further. He heard the high priest call his Swords and command them to bring five of the slaves from the east wing.

  Three days. Derlac thought carefully on all of his options, then nodded quietly to himself. Perhaps this was a good time to visit the lands of his family.

  But first he had one duty to attend to.

  It was just after midnight when they returned to the palace. Erin was silent; she drifted across the threshold of the gates as a ghost might. The road to the palace proper stretched on nearly half a mile.

  “Sarillorn.”

  She looked away from him. She hadn’t realized how hard it would be to wander through Rennath, with its isolated meager light; to know where the nobility lived, in grand and glorious mansions; and know that there, too, dwelled the slaves that had once been free under the protection of the lines.

  “Sarillorn.” His voice, for all its quiet, held the chill of the dark.

  She looked up warily as she passed the gate. Here, at least, light shone in abundance, reflecting the red slash across the black armor of the Swords. No ordinary guards, these. She eyed them warily, but they gave no notice of her passing; she was with the First Servant.

  “What—what time is it?”

  “Midnight.”

  She tensed visibly. He thought she might speak; she started to. But she bit back the words and walked on.

  Midnight. The time for the ceremonies. She almost asked him to take her back to the city outside of his walls. It was easier in that darkness to imagine that her companion was human. She did not ask it. She was Sarillorn, and in this land she could not dare to ignore the true meaning of darkness.

  She listened; she couldn’t help it. Even in the north wing, the screams could still reach her. She had become known for her hearing among the line with good reason.

  There was silence. It stretched on, like a fabric pulled so taut it had to tear. And she walked along the edge of it, waiting.

  The First Servant escorted her back to her rooms. “I have taken the liberty of ordering a meal that we might both partake of. Would it trouble you if I remained?”

  She didn’t answer. How could it not “trouble” her? How could she eat with the sound of the dying playing its dissonant chords in the background?

  She walked, the edge growing fine and sharp beneath her feet.

  I made my choice.

  But it was hard. She had only managed to stay abed these last few days because she was too weak for combat. But tonight-tonight she should—

  I made my choice.

  She stopped when he did, realizing that they stood outside her rooms—rooms, so grand and glorious, that had probably housed priests or visiting nobility. Open these doors, and the richness of dark wood, with old, perfect chairs and low tables, would greet her eyes. Beyond that another room, with a fireplace that slaves attended to, and a dining hall, with twin doors that led to a bedroom more spacious than her house had been.

  Everything that she had ever learned strained against her control. Soon it would start again. Soon, the priests would have their rituals, their blood, and their slow, agonizing death—and they would gain power from it, power to spread the law of the Dark Heart.

  She leaned her forehead against the door, biting down on her lip until she drew blood.

  “Sarillorn?”

  She turned, then, her eyes blazing in the darkness. He took a step back, but went no further.

  Her hands fell to her sides rigidly, ending in small fists. And around her, in his eyes alone, the light twisted and buckled. No. He reached out to touch her; she drew back, hitting the door with the force of the step.

  He knew what words would calm her, then. Although he had hoped she might discern this for herself, perhaps it was better; this way he might see the easing of the light that looked so strangled.

  “Sarillorn.” He touched her trembling jaw and she drew her head up, the way a horse might, in anger or fear. “There will be no ceremonies this eve.”

  He waited, watching for some sign from her. There was none, and after a moment he continued. “There will be none in the palace from this day forward.” He drew back as the light continued to twist, Perhaps, he thought, as he watched her face, I was wrong.

  But no, the light suddenly surged; it grew stronger, touching even the lines of her face as her eyes grew slowly wide.

  “Would it trouble you if I remained?”

  She stared up at him, her head moving slowly
from side to side, her mouth wide.

  “No ceremonies?” she whispered. “No blooding of the altars?”

  “None, Sarillorn. None, where you are present.”

  As if cut from her supports, she staggered forward, her arms reaching for him.

  She felt the darkness that lay beneath velvet within the circle of her arms. To her surprise, there was nothing cold about it. It had been a long time since she had hugged anyone; a long time since arms had circled her shoulders in return.

  Thank you. But she could not say it, not yet.

  He felt the touch of her light and smiled. That smile remained as she pulled back, looking suddenly at the ground, her feet, the wall—anything but him.

  “Dinner?” he asked quietly, as he opened the door to her rooms.

  She nodded, still unable to meet his eyes.

  This did not bother him. The light shone, this night, for him; it was his. As, in the end, all things must be.

  That night, he fed for the first time in nearly two months. He waited until the Sarillorn slept and drifted out of her room, each step taken as if in time to the even, shallow intake of her breath.

  He chose, from the dungeons of his palace, a young man for his purposes. The smell of the man’s fear pulled at him as the Swords delivered his chosen to the east wing. It had been too long.

  He stepped quickly into his personal chambers. They were utterly black, without the taint of even the faintest hint of light, natural or no. He preferred this; only here, without the presence of mortals or the meager torches they carried, did he care to relax and take his pleasure.

  “Here.” The word came from the darkness that light couldn’t travel into.

  The Swords nodded in silence. He approved of this; whether they were half blood or no, they felt no pity or sympathy for the human they dragged into death. They forced the struggling human to the brink of the darkness and threw him in. Then they withdrew, the captain’s salute crisp and respectful.

  The Servant of the Dark Heart crossed the threshold, already stalking his prey. Anticipation curled his lips over the sharp points of his teeth. He could feel the screams shudder through him as the door closed behind his back.

  Derlac stood in the dimly lit hall. He could only barely hear the screams that came from behind the closed door; they were shorter, though no less intense, than the ones that usually came from the Lord’s chambers.

  He waited, glancing around from time to time. His blood was strong enough to allow him to see the detailed work of stone statues that stood posted as a warning at the single, stone door to his Lord’s chambers. They were human in shape, one female, one male, and each face arid body was contorted in silent agony—simple work; an elegant statement. He turned again and looked down the long stretch of halls that ended with stairs leading upward.

  It was absolutely vital that no other eyes saw him here. But rare indeed was the message that would cause any priest to wait outside these doors for long; he looked in vain before turning back to wait.

  He wondered how long the First Servant had been thus ensconced. He did not have much time; his coach was already waiting and prepared to carry him to the Valens estate to the south of the city. It was risky, this choice, but seemed to augur best for the future. If he had judged the Servant correctly, his warning would gain him much, not the least of which was permanent relief from Geslik’s stupidity and arrogance.

  He heard another scream, but again it was quiet; almost subdued. It choked away into silence, as it had done several times. But this time the silence held.

  Derlac waited. Often the Servant gave his victim some respite, to play upon a hope and relief he could then use to his advantage. And only once in history had anyone interrupted the Lord before he had finished his feeding. Derlac gave an involuntary shudder at the thought of that fool’s fate. Especially now, when he could understand how such a mistake might be made.

  He counted time by the heartbeat.

  At last, when he was as confident as he could be, he knocked lightly on the Lord’s door.

  It swung open smoothly and silently into a darkness that even Berlac’s Malanthi eyes could not easily penetrate. Outlined by the door, the priest gave a very low, very respectful bow. It was one of the few times that he meant everything that the gesture implied. But he waited at the door; very few willingly crossed into the Servant’s territory, and Derlac was not one of them.

  “Derlac.” The voice that came out of the darkness was low, almost feral in quality.

  Derlac prayed seldom; he prayed now.

  “Lord.” He kept his own voice as steady as he could.

  The First Servant materialized inches away from his bowed head. Derlac did not look up; he had not yet been granted leave, and here of all places protocol was essential.

  “Be at ease, Karnar—if you can.”

  No human eyes would have seen the signs that Derlac displayed as he relaxed. But human notice was not his concern here. He looked up and saw the First Servant as few saw him: after the glory of feeding. His entire form, shadowed and dark, glowed with the red of the power he’d gained. Here, in his chambers, he made no pretense of humanity. His face was shadow, his arms dark mist, his body a swirl of silent motion.

  “Why have you come?”

  Derlac did not look away from the red glow of the Lord’s eyes. “To render a service.”

  Low laughter answered him. “You think to be of service to me?” The laughter ceased abruptly. “Call the Swords, then. Have them dispose of the body.” He turned and started to dissolve into darkness.

  “Lord, a moment, pease.”

  The Servant turned again. “Yes?” he asked softly.

  “I have—I have delivered the message you left with me.” He almost took a step back then, for the smile that the Servant gave was dangerous.

  “I see. ”

  “The high priest called council for it.”

  “What of it? The council is of little concern to me.”

  “To you, Lord, no.” Derlac drew himself up. “But to the Sarillorn . . .” He watched as the Servant froze.

  “The Sarillorn?” Darkness limned in red stepped forward; an arm reached out of the mist as if that were all that remained of a dissolving body. Derlac did nothing to avoid the claw that grabbed his robes and held them in a vise.

  “Yes, Lord,” he answered, playing as close to the edge as he dared. “I would have informed you at a time more convenient to you, but I find it expedient to visit the estates of House Valens, and I leave at dawn.”

  The grip tightened. “Priest.” The word was a sibilant whisper; there was a death in it.

  Derlac spoke quickly then, striving to deliver that death to anyone else.

  “Lady?”

  Erin looked up in confusion and shook her head, struggling out of the grip of feathered quilts. Then the room coalesced, its high ceiling and quiet tapestries telling her clearly where she was. Sunlight shone openly through the large bay of the window in the northern wall, lighting off the small blue flowers that had been set there.

  “Lady?”

  “Yes” She shook the sleep out of her voice and tried again. “Yes?”

  “I’ve brought your breakfast.”

  Erin’s eyes fell upon a young girl in a scoop-necked cream-colored dress. She carried a small tray across long, thin arms and stood just inside the large, mahogany doors.

  “Come in,” Erin said, smiling.

  The girl did not meet her eyes. Rather, she scurried as quickly as the tray would allow. Reaching the bedside table, she laid it down, hiding her eyes beneath a short spray of delicate brown hair.

  Laid in white relief against the bare pink flesh of her right arm was a long scar.

  “Thank you,” Erin whispered.

  The girl didn’t respond. She pulled back and away, fleeing the room with what dignity her fear would allow her.

  Erin watched the slave go. She wanted to call her back. If she had been anywhere else she would have; the fear at least
she could have comforted. Even knowing where she was, it was hard to still that urge. But she did, turning without appetite to the breakfast that had been laid out for her.

  I have to ask Stefanos if these slaves are mine. She shuddered a little, thinking on it: She would be asking to own slaves.

  Yes. She raised the top of the tray. But if I own them, I can decide their fate. I can protect them. And maybe, if they understand that, they might come to trust me.

  It would certainly make this morning ritual more bearable. Restless, she rose, leaving blue-patterned covers askew, to look out the window. Morning? She sighed. Afternoon, then.

  She walked over to her closet; Stefanos had shown it to her on her first night there, but she had not yet dared to open it.

  What do you expect to find there, she chided herself, as her hand touched the doorknob. Bodies?

  No, it held finery, dresses such as she had never imagined, let alone seen. She wanted to laugh then, and surprised herself by doing so. Only twice in her life had she ever worn a dress. How on Earth could he imagine that she would ever wear any of them? They weren’t in the slightest bit practical—she couldn’t fight in them—

  The laughter died abruptly.

  Of course she couldn’t fight in them. She wasn’t expected to, here. None of her fighting would be done in the drill circle or on the field; no sword blow, no physical maneuver, could accomplish the goal that she had set for herself.

  But sunlight refused to let all of the darkness in.

  No ceremonies. She reached out, her hand brushing against deep blue velvet and smooth, clean silk. No blooding of the altars.

  For that she was willing, even able, to wear what he had chosen for her.

  At least she was willing. But as she pulled a blue velvet dress out of the closet, she wondered if she was able. The back of it was a maze of tiny, glittering buttons. She looked at them closely and thanked the Bright Heart that she’d not had enough experience with jewels to be able to tell if they were all real.

  But real or not, there must be at least fifty of them, and most of them were placed in such a way that she alone would not be able to close them all.