Into the Dark Lands

by Michelle Sagara

  And in her palm, a cut that did not bleed lay bare, turned upward to catch a beam of sunlight.

  She did not look mortal.

  What do you see, Lady? What vision haunts you?

  Again no answer. Sara expected none, but were this pale visage to speak, she would not be surprised.

  What could you see that would send me to Veriloth? She searched the face, as she’d done countless times, for some hint of sorrow, anger, or pain; for some hint of triumph, defeat, or planning. But the Lady’s eyes touched something that her face could never express.

  Nor her words—at least not well. Sara sighed once, refusing to give in to the anger that lay beneath the surface of the thought. I am still here, Lady. May I not betray whatever fate you saw me serving.

  She turned and stumbled slightly, then blushed, remembering that her hand was still anchored to a young child.

  “Sorry,” she said softly. “I, too, find the tapestries distracting. Come, my rooms are beyond the doors.”

  So saying, she walked up to the set of double doors, freed her hand momentarily, and opened them. She tried not to notice the child shrinking into her mother.

  The mother whispered something softly—something Stefanos would have heard from half a hall away—and the child walked quickly forward, following Sara’s shadow into a large sitting room.

  “Come in.” Sara spoke to the mother. The mother followed without hesitation, eyes darting side to side to see if all was safe, although she knew she could do nothing about it if it were not.

  “Please, take a seat, both of you.”

  A suspicious glance at Sara in no way changed the instinctive obedience that followed the request.

  Blithely Sara continued as if unaware of the tension of her two spectators. “These rooms will be a part of your duties. They’re to be cleaned when I leave them in the morning; I’ll provide a schedule for you if Kadrin’s lost his, which is Likely.”

  She waited, and after a moment the woman nodded.

  “If you would prefer it, you and your daughter may work together in the tasks that are given to you when you are not tending to me; I’ll also speak to Kadrin about this.”

  The child looked curiously at her mother.

  Sara smiled softly and nodded. When the child made no move, she said, “Go ahead, child. You want to ask your mother a question; feel free to do so.”

  The girl blushed and her mother whitened.

  “It’s all right. No question she could ask would give offense, not here.”

  Still the child remained where she sat.

  “Whisper, if you have to. I shan’t mind. Well, go on. Consider it an order.”

  At this, the girl inched toward her mother. Her mother’s trembling arm shot out around the girl’s shoulder, drawing her closer. The girl whispered something and the woman’s brow furrowed. Quietly she shook her head.

  Again Sara smiled. “Yes,” she said softly, catching the girl’s attention. “Kadrin is a slave.”

  She could feel the two sets of eyes upon her as she continued. “He is also slavemaster. He was given the position because he knows—better than the low-born free—what a slave must suffer at the hands of the wrong man or woman. It is up to him to watch his charges carefully.”

  The woman looked confused, and Sara sent out a wave of sympathy, not knowing if it would reach her.

  “If you have any difficulties with the visiting dignitaries—” This said with obvious distaste. “—you are to tell Kadrin; he will come immediately to me. I will speak with the people involved to ensure that they understand the rules of this palace.”

  Neither spoke.

  “I think that’s about it. I’ve taken the liberty of having some food sent up to you; it should be here soon.”

  “Here, mistress?”

  Sara smiled at the shock in the woman’s voice. At least she’s speaking. “Here. And to be truthful, I didn’t exactly arrange the food, Kadrin did. He knows my routines well enough to anticipate me—and he knows I live in terror of Korten.” She laughed. “Korten’s the head of the kitchen.”

  The child leaned over to her mother again.

  “Child, you can ask me the question, and ask it without fear. I won’t hurt you here; no one will.”

  The mother met Sara’s eyes, locked on them, and nodded without looking away.

  For the first time, Sara heard the girl’s voice. It was deeper than she would have expected, and she revised the estimate of the girl’s age up by a couple of years. It was also smooth, almost melodious. Without nervous cracks—evident between almost each syllable—the child’s voice would have been beautiful.

  “Is the head of the kitchen a slave?”

  “Yes, child.”

  The girl took a deep breath and straightened out. Without looking at her mother, she said, “Then why do you call him by name?”

  “Because to me he has one. He is my . . . slave. If I choose to name him, that is only my concern now. In doing so, child, I break no laws.” Her voice broke on the last word.

  The girl was silent a few moments. She bent her head, and when it came up again, her eyes were filmed.

  “No slave has a name.”

  “Not outside of this palace.”

  “My father—”

  The mother hissed out a one-word warning, and the child subsided, with difficulty.

  Sara stood and crossed the distance between them too quickly to be a menace. When she reached the girl, she knelt in front of her. “Little one, I do all that I can—” She wavered. “—all that I’m capable of.” She heard her own voice crack, but continued. “In the palace, by right of rank, I am given the chance to let my laws govern in some small way. But outside of it—”

  The woman’s eyes widened in recognition and surprise as she realized what Sara was asking for. She shook her head in bewilderment, and the movement cleared her mind. For the first time she saw Sara as one lone woman, robed in gray with the symbol of a circle glimmering in the fading light.

  “Mistress.”

  Sara turned her head without rising.

  The woman held out a hand, and without hesitation Sara accepted it as if it were an anchor. “My name is Mattie. My daughter is Rasel.”

  The words fell into silence, but the expression on Sara’s face gave the woman everything she needed.

  “Thank you, Mattie.”

  Rasel turned to look at her mother as if she had gone insane. Both women met her gaze without speaking.

  “I think it’s all right, Rasel.” Her mother’s arms reached out in a half circle, but the girl pulled away.

  “How can it be all right? This is the crime my father died for!” She leaped up.

  “Rasel—”

  She gave a hysterical laugh that fell abruptly into sobbing. She covered her face, huddling downward for a few seconds. As Sara approached, the girl’s face shot outward like a bolt.

  “Why didn’t you save him? Why didn’t you tell him it was all right to speak his name?”

  “I tried, Rasel.”

  But she was weeping again, not expecting an answer.

  Sara turned to face Rasel’s mother, tightening her grip on the woman’s hand to reassure her. Or to be reassured?

  She shrugged, not knowing if there was really a difference between the two.

  “Mistress, he knew what he was doing.”

  Sara nodded mutely.

  “We have what—” Her voice cracked, and she shut her eyes. “—what we came for.”

  “For how long, Mattie?”

  “For now. That’s all we can ask.”

  Yes, here in Rennath, that is all you can ask for.

  Seeing the woman’s muted pain, Sara cursed herself bitterly. Her nails bit into the palm of her free hand as she struggled with her thoughts.

  We can change this. We can—maybe—bring it all down. If he dies. Lernan . . .

  Perhaps the empire could be changed, if she could make the right choice, if she was willing to help Kandor and her b
rethren of Elliath. The image of Stefanos, seated like ebony upon the throne of judgment, loomed above her. Her imagination needed to add no distortion to the picture: There he sat, and with few words condemned an innocent man to death for the crime of loving his child too dearly in an empire where love exacted so high a price.

  But the man’s death bought his child’s life.

  Yes, but if not for Veriloth, his death would not have been required—if not for Stefanos.

  He changes. In four years he has changed much.

  And is the price in innocent life worth the hope of change? Can you make that choice and condemn God alone knows how many people?

  I do not know.

  She was too tired to cry; her eyes remained dry even as she shut them. There at the heart of her pain was the indecision of hope.

  You have changed, Sarillorn.

  We all change.

  She started to stand, and Mattie clutched almost blindly at her hand. Sara returned the pressure and resumed her kneeling position on the floor. What good would pacing do? It couldn’t change the course her thoughts had chosen.

  I feared to change too much.

  Ah, Kandor, Belfas, I fear what your coming presages.

  She bent her head, touching the older woman’s lap with the cold white of her forehead. Almost absently, the older woman responded to the need that Sara unwittingly projected; her hands, soft for all they were callused, began to stroke the auburn head.

  “I’m sorry,” Sara murmured, as Mattie drew her gently into her lap. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I know, child,” Mattie answered, half in amazement that she could know any pity for this lady. “I know.”

  Then she heard Rasel’s sobs blend with the ones she kept locked between her lips and the lap of a woman who had just lost her husband.

  There was a knock at the door. It was light and hesitant, enough so that Sara did not hear it at first. Rasel, however, displaying years of rigorous training, fell immediately silent. Hearing this, Sara raised her head.

  “Someone’s at the door.”

  Nodding, Sara drew herself up to her full height. She was embarrassed and ashamed of her need to take comfort from a woman who deserved only to receive it.

  “I’ll get it,” she said lamely, to no one in particular. Her feet dragged across the carpet as she approached the door. She took a deep breath, then another, and her hand gripped the doorknob for support.

  “Who’s there?”

  The knock came again, no louder than before.

  “Who is it?”

  “Lady.”

  She tensed, realizing just how much she did not want to see him, especially not now, with Ranin’s wife and child as witness. “Lord, I do not feel up to visitors at the moment.”

  There was a pause, then he spoke again. “Yet I hear, Sara, that you have two.”

  She felt a small surge of anger, knowing the tone of his voice quite well. “Yes.”

  She still made no move to open the door, knowing that he would not enter without her leave.

  “Lady—” The word was curt. “—I believe a third ‘guest’ will not harm you. Please allow me to enter.”

  She turned to look helplessly at Rasel and Mattie; both of them watched her with fear across their closed faces. They had composed themselves as they were able, and Sara was guiltily aware that she looked worse than either of them.

  “Very well, Lord. You may enter.”

  “Thank you, Lady.”

  She felt the doorknob turn and released it, stepping away.

  A man stepped into the room; his dark clothing torn and dirty, his hair red-tinted and disheveled.

  Sara’s jaw dropped, and behind her two women drew breath to cut the silence so sharply it nearly bled.

  “Mistress?”

  “Ranin.” One word, half-spoken, half-whispered. The man flinched slightly. Unconsciously she reached out to touch the bruises on his face. He bore the touch as she robbed him of his pain.

  “Mistress, I am commanded to report to you.”

  She tried to speak, but words would not come.

  “Is there anything you require of me?”

  She shook her head, meeting his eyes. There she saw a question too fierce to be expressed verbally. Almost giddily she stepped aside, her arm flying in a wide arc to indicate Mattie and Rasel. He saw them, his expression mirroring the relief of his discovery more eloquently than words could.

  Mattie stared at the man who was her husband. Sara could see the tension that took her, although she sat perfectly still. Rasel, although younger, showed all of her mother’s control—except for the eyes, which were round with hope.

  “Please, enter.”

  Ranin did so. He walked awkwardly, as if another pulled the strings that moved his legs.

  Sara gave him a small smile—one that could not express all that she suddenly felt. “Go on, that’s an order.”

  He looked at her then, his face completely open.

  “Go.”

  Nodding, wordless, he walked to the couch that held the two people he loved in all his world. Rasel contained herself only until he was a foot away, then sprang up, arms flying out, face already touching the breadth of his chest. “Father!”

  The word was muffled against the torn coarseness of his tunic. His own arms came out in response, and then he was holding the daughter that he had almost died for.

  Mattie’s eyes left her husband and child for a moment, to meet Sara’s. There was an odd wonder in her expression. Again Sara smiled, but this time her lips trembled and she looked away to give the three the privacy that they deserved; their reunion, unseen and unhoped for, was not a thing for “noble” eyes to witness.

  In the hall outside the door was the First Servant. He looked colder, grimmer than Sara remembered. He remained still as Sara walked out of the room.

  “Stefanos.”

  “Lady.”

  She walked to him then, closing the door to her room. Her hands reached up to touch the ice of his face, and he flinched at the contact, but did not pull away. His eyes, as he watched her, were neutral.

  She started to speak, fell silent, and felt herself thaw. The ache of the afternoon vanished as she thought of Ranin’s reunion with his family. Were it not for Stefanos’s dark countenance, she would have smiled openly. But he was grim. “Why?”

  In answer, he reached down and pulled her into his arms. There was nothing gentle about the motion, but Sara responded softly, resting her arms around his waist. She could sense the anger that he held in check, and knew who it was aimed at and why.

  “Thank you, darkling. Thank you.” She buried her face against his chest and after a few moments felt the weight of his chin against the top of her hair.

  And as her pain diminished, he knew again the warmth of her light and he relaxed. She held him on all levels, bands of her brilliance touching his face, his arms, and his chest; a smile against his shoulder and with it the warmth of tears that eased her heart.

  Ah, Sarillorn, the light. His hands came up of their own accord, to smooth her unruly hair. For the moment, he felt at peace, and the moment was enough.

  It came at too high a price, but he paid it and knew in the future that he would pay it again—not easily, and only barely willingly.

  For you, Sarillorn. His arms tightened. He heard the clear sound of laughter and tears that came from behind her closed door, the rustle of clothing and the minute movements of air that spoke of an embrace given and one returned. He wondered, for a moment, if her slaves felt as he did in the circle of Sara’s arm.

  Then the moment passed. What does it matter if they feel thus?

  And the answer came quickly. It matters to the Sarillorn. It brings her peace.

  He felt he would never understand it, and as her face rose from the cushion of his shoulder and he met the brilliant green of her eyes, he thought it did not matter.

  Oh, hells. Sara grabbed at the gray silk gown she had chosen for the evening meal. When did the s
un go down? With quick, precise movements she tossed off her robe and stepped awkwardly into the dress. It was simple compared to the current court styles of Rennath, but it was still more difficult to negotiate than the simple robes she wore during the tasks of the day. She had half the buttons done when she cursed softly, stepped out of the dress, and went in search of her undergarments. Everything in Rennath was complicated.

  She looked out at the muted light that struggled through her curtains.

  Why didn’t I hear the dinner bells? For she was certain they had chimed. It wasn’t the first time she’d missed the call, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Why on Earth did I tell Kadrin to keep the servants from coming to get me? It was something she only wondered when she was late. She cursed again, knotting one of the ties of the simple cotton undershift.

  If Stefanos smirks at me, I’ll kill him myself.

  She started to smile, then her face froze.

  In the half-opened crack of cloth at the balcony a familiar face flickered in the dimming light.

  Belfas.

  She caught a glimpse of a nervous smile, and then it was gone. Not bothering with the rest of her clothing, she rushed to the window and flung the curtains back, but he was nowhere in sight. She walked out, not particularly caring who would see her; a few people walked casually in all directions beneath her searching gaze—but none of them was familiar.

  She returned to her room and continued to dress, but more slowly this time. She listened for any unusual sound, but the room was quiet.

  The words of the Servant of Lernan returned to her. If Belfas had been at her balcony, she was certain he was within the palace. And he was counting on her, as he had done any number of times when she was the third of Telvar—as he had done, unwittingly, on the field of Karana when she had first earned her circle.

  With quiet deliberation she fastened the buttons that remained undone and then headed toward the hall. Once she stopped, shook herself, and resumed walking; her face was set and grim.

  Remember the place of judgment, Erin.

  It was the first time in years that she had used her given name; it felt distant and yet familiar in the way that very old friends do after years of separation.

  She walked down the hall, her eyes again falling on the tapestries that lined it. She met the Lady of Elliath, lost in the depth of a trance too difficult for a mortal mind to undertake, and she dropped to her knees in front of her.