Chains of Darkness, Chains of Light

by Michelle Sagara

  The doors rolled open, and the din of argument filtered out into the hall. It died, but less quickly than usual—not a good sign.

  Lord Vellen stepped into the room, nodding at the Swords on either door. They saluted crisply and left. Council meetings such as these were the one place where the guard was not allowed.

  The months that had passed had strengthened him. The wounds that the light had left had healed, and the scars, internal, were now invisible to any eyes save his own. He walked with the strength of the high seat; he was, once again, the leader of the Greater Cabal. But the journey to Mordantari had cost him greatly, and the fact that the woman and the boy still lived—and worse—made his rule tentative.

  Around the ironwood table, the twelve Karnar of the Greater Cabal sat. They wore their black and red, but three, Benataan of Torvallen, Cortani of Abranthraxus, and Morden of Farenel, had chosen this day to dispense with the formality of hood and sash.

  Lord Vellen chose not to acknowledge this; the moment was not right. Instead, he walked to the empty chair at the head of the table and took his seat. Until four days ago, that chair, with its rigid, dark frame, velvet back, and gold detailing, had been the throne from which the Empire was ruled.

  What power did it hold now?

  Vellen was aware that he was soon to find out.

  “You’re late,” Benataan said casually. He leaned back into his own chair, the picture of casually afforded derision. His ringed hands were carefully folded against his broad chest, his eyes half-lidded brown. Like Vellen, he was a younger man; his hair had only started to gray at the temples.

  “I had matters of state to attend to.”

  “Damion’s state?” Cortani asked softly. Vellen noted that his glance strayed to Benataan. Noted the nod that that lord returned.

  He glanced around at the rest of the Karnar. Ansellen of Urturas was the only one who would meet his eyes for long, but he expected no help from that quarter; although Ansellen owed his rank to Vellen, he was old now, and the time for his retirement would come soon. No others spoke, but he expected little else; that was not the way of the Karnari.

  Morden and Cortani posed little problem; they were teeth that moved with Benataan’s mouth. But he stared long at Morden. Morden’s shoulders eventually slumped, but slightly. He did not look to Benataan for guidance.

  This was better than Vellen expected, but still worse than he had hoped for. “Damion’s concerns are not mine. I am not the lord of the house.”

  “Nor, it would seem, the Lord of the Empire.” Cortani’s sneer was too self-satisfied. Had House Abranthraxus not been so powerful a block, Cortani would not be among the Karnar. Vellen cursed house loyalty silently.

  “That,” he said, with just a hint of anger, “was never a title of the Greater Cabal.” He too leaned back, his pose almost identical to the one Benataan had adopted. “But you bring us to the point of the meeting I have called.”

  “Good; we all have matters more important to attend to,” Cortani said. Silence greeted his words; not even Benataan spoke.

  Vellen’s eyes flashed silver for a moment; his hands gripped the armrests of his chair. Then the magery subsided as his anger cooled to ice. He looked carefully at the sunken lines of Cortani’s brow, troubling himself to hide his anger.

  Cortani’s pale hair was neatly coiffed around a face that looked almost gaunt. But his eyes caught the high priest’s attention. They were slate gray, but even from here the pupils looked distended.

  Sarylweed. House Benataan controlled a majority of the supply that reached the capital.

  Lord Vellen smiled gently. It was an unpleasant expression. Sarylweed was addictive, dangerously so, and the course it ran was almost always fatal. He had only to bide his time, and ten of the Karnar would be his.

  Even so, Cortani’s comment could not be allowed to pass without an answer. His eyes silvered again, fading almost instantly as Cortani gave a shout that was mingled fear and pain. Fire trailed the edge of his face, leaving a red mark in its wake.

  “This once, Cortani,” Vellen said quietly, “I will not allow the fires to feed.” He waited; no one challenged him. “If you have more important matters to attend to, perhaps you have not the time to continue to sit in the council of the Karnari.”

  The words with which Cortani replied might have blistered the ears of a soldier.

  “Cortani!” Benataan cursed. He was embarrassed, a fact not lost on the rest of the council. The man who let sarylweed speak with his voice was a great fool indeed. The man who allied himself with such a one was almost more so.

  “If you have finished, High Priest?” Vellen didn’t wait for Cortani’s reply; it was inconsequential. “I have been requested to present you with the Lord of the Empire’s new orders.”

  “Orders?” Benataan’s voice was neutral.

  “Indeed, Second. The east wing is no longer ours to inhabit. Should we require the Lord’s presence or decision, we may take our message to the grand hall there. If it is urgent, we may descend to the lower levels. Under no circumstance are we to enter the rooms that are being constructed there.”

  “We?”

  “None but the high priests of the Greater Cabal are given access at all.”

  “So we’re to be errand runners for this—this—”

  “Cortani.” Benataan again, but this time under control. “Be silent. We like it no more than you.”

  “We’re the Kamari! We don’t carry messages like groveling acolytes!”

  Sorval of Kintassus leaned forward, his elbow brushing black and red along the tabletop. “Cortani,” he said with weary contempt, “enough. Lord Vellen, what or who is the Lord of the Empire?”

  “Ah. I’d forgotten the briefness of your tenure here. He is the First of the Dark Heart’s Servants. The First of the Sundered.”

  “The Sundered ... What other orders?”

  “The sacrifices of the quarters will be his domain.”

  Cortani was almost apoplectic; everyone else was silent. Even Benataan.

  “The Church?”

  “We will run it, as always.” For now.

  “Slaves?”

  “Again, as usual.”

  “Merchant interests?” Tirvale of Wintare spoke slowly, and in the irritating nasal fog that spun the words from his jowls.

  “Not yet decided.”

  “It seems, Karnar, that you preside over the dismantling of the Greater Cabal.”

  “That is not my intention,” Vellen replied evenly. “But the First Sundered cannot be ignored.”

  “Can he be fought?” This from Telemach of Mordani.

  Thank you, Telemach. The leader of the Greater Cabal reached into his robes and pulled out a thin sheaf of vellum. “This is the information that I have been able to obtain about his powers and his weaknesses. I leave it for the council—the complete council—to determine the answer to that.”

  Sargoth watched from the gallery of the hall. The galleries were very high above the table, and the chairs recessed, but he chose to stand. A pity that the meeting was private; he had no doubt that one or another of these half bloods would be quite annoyed about the deaths of the guards.

  Not that he couldn’t have faded in and merged with the shadows cast by the cavernous ceiling, but if he had chosen near-mortal locomotion, the half-blood guards should never have questioned him. They had been removed for future considerations.

  Curiosity had not brought him here; he knew the Malanthi well enough by now to know that their words would be of conquest, conflict, and death. They took poorly to being ruled and even more poorly to losing power that they thought theirs by right.

  They had pathetically short little lives, to lose sight so of the First Sundered.

  Lord Vellen spoke, and Sargoth stopped his drifting. What was he saying?

  “Should you so choose, I’m afraid I would have to step down from my position as leader of the Greater Cabal.” A thin sheen of perspiration made his hands clammy as they lay quiet a
gainst the tabletop. But his face was schooled well; it was still, and the ice of his eyes gave nothing away.

  The murmuring rushed around the table like a gale, but Vellen was in the eye of the storm; not touched by it, yet not apart from it either.

  “Yes!” Cortani shouted, his wrinkled face rather red. Vellen wanted to prolong the meeting to see how far the weed had taken effect. It would be both instructive and amusing. “If he can’t protect our interests with his ‘magery’ we should get rid of him!” One shaking hand stretched across the table, a long finger pointed in the direction of Vellen’s chest.

  Lord Vellen treated that remark with the respect it was due; he refused to acknowledge it. Instead, his eyes moved around the table, starting from left to right.

  Lord Benataan of Torvallen stared down the length of his hawklike face; he was silent, his expression a mixture of anticipation and mistrust. Cortani was already tugging at his sleeve like a pathetic slave. Much of the battle between House Torvallen and House Damion had been won in the Greater Cabal at Benataan’s expense. Vellen knew what type of death he would receive should Benataan emerge victorious from this newest of their struggles.

  Michaelas of Corcassus and Corvair of Andrellius were exchanging looks and muted words. Michaelas’ thin face looked hollow now, all dark brown eyes. Corvair, heavier in set, looked no less pale.

  Good; these two were his.

  Morden, sandwiched between Telemach and Sorval, was holding his own little court. He was old, but handsome by Empire standards. He was ambitious, and not without persuasive power. Lord Vellen noted the quiet response of Telemach and the less reticent nod of Sorval. One more.

  Jael of Tirassus, his round, smooth head catching the light and showing his nervousness, said nothing as he tried to catch and keep Lord Vellen’s attention, and failed. Jael was of no concern one way or the other; he warmed a seat; he voted to order. Still, four.

  Ah, Dramathan of Valens. One of the oldest houses in the Empire. Grim and dour, he also chose silence as a reply to Lord Vellen’s pronouncement. But there was no anticipation on his face, no shock—just cynical skepticism. Dramathan was an old friend and an old adversary, both of which were due to his intelligence and perception. He was dangerous; it was hard to tell which way he would fall.

  Tirvale, rotund and sweating profusely as usual, was an easy target for either side: Benataan’s or his own. He was of the Karnari, but his interests were almost wholly of House Wintare; whoever could promise more to the merchant family lines would hold him.

  Ansellen of Urturas was old, which was a pity. He was also an oddity—one of the few Karnar who could accept and acknowledge a debt. Were this crisis to have occurred years past, Ansellen could be counted on. But his retirement was soon, and he had no wish to end up on the altars as payment for his years of service.

  Marek of Grimfaxos, to Vellen’s right, nodded quietly as they locked eyes. Marek was also dangerous because of his intelligence, but he never ended up on the bottom. Count six, perhaps—if he could be convinced of Vellen’s ability to retain, or regain, the seat that he proposed to lose.

  In an expressionless silence, Vellen damned the First of the Sundered.

  Well, at least this was interesting, if mortal affairs could be called so. Although these mortals, robed in black with hints of red that proclaimed their muddied heritage, bore no resemblance to his own brethren, Sargoth found himself watching with an interest no less keen than Lord Vellen’s. This politicking was a form of power struggle less raw, but perhaps no less deadly, than Stefanos himself might have engaged in.

  He marked Cortani almost carelessly as one who fit the marble altar. He was loud and stupid; Stefanos had never tolerated either.

  Nor had he ever willingly tolerated the interference of the priests. And the Karnar that led the Greater Cabal had been in some wise responsible for the loss of his lady.

  Which was a pity. For although Sargoth had no desire to stand in Stefanos’ path, he needed at least one human—the one in charge. Although he had spent months in the company of mortals, there was much he did not understand, and too many ways for information to make its way to the First.

  Benataan of Torvallen, perhaps?

  But no, no. That one was too foolish. Not so much so as his Cortani, yet it was obvious that he considered the taking of what Lord Vellen offered. To keep it, he would have to challenge the First openly, at no behest of God, and win.

  In silence, Sargoth considered the plan of action that would save Lord Vellen’s life.

  High Priest Vellen sat quietly at his desk. Around him, books rose like cliffs on all sides save one; this was dominated by twin doors that peaked in the center. Those doors were closed and barred by his Swords; no one gained entry here without his express permission or invitation.

  One hour ago he had sent the keepers of his vast collection scurrying for the doors in an unusual display of anger, so even the narrow walk of the open second level was empty. His desk, as normal, was clean; the wood gleamed, catching the black and red of his reflection and framing the too-white complexion of his face.

  Only one thin sheet rested on the desk. Words, scrawled in uneven brown ink, caught his attention and held it, whether he willed it or no.

  He turned, feeling the seldom-used hood brush his cheek. It had been a trying few months.

  His own recovery—God curse the slave—had been slow and painful; even now he still felt the lingering effects of white-fire. He had not had the luxury of a peaceful convalescence; by the time he had managed to gain his feet, word had come from Illan.

  He was not, by nature, a restless man, so he remained seated while his mind wandered. His eyes flickered briefly over the broken circle at his chest; the red lines embroidered there mocked him cruelly. So much for victory; the Line Culverne had regained its footing. And Renar—who had cost him two loyal members of the Karnari—was king of Marantine.

  He cursed again, but silently.

  He should have killed the slave boy when he had the chance and risked the Lord’s wrath then. How could it be much worse?

  Yes, the boy. And Renar, king now. How could three such deprive him of so many years’ labor in so little time?

  His fingers curled tight around the arms of his chair.

  They had had help.

  The paper glared up at him, white as the fire.

  “Dark Heart,” he whispered. The two words were bitter and empty. “Have I not served you well? Without the interference of your general, would you not now own all?”

  There was no answer, of course, but he expected none. Somehow, the First was the fulcrum of the Dark Heart’s attention; the business with the Sarillorn of Elliath, which was to cost him dearly, had that feel to it in hindsight. Why else would the First have returned, after resisting the will and dictate of the Dark Heart so openly? If not for his actions, the woman and boy would be dead—gloriously dead—and the upstart would not now be king.

  His eyes flashed silver a moment and then subsided. His power would need to be husbanded carefully for what was surely coming. If not for that, he might have destroyed this unwelcome missive. If not for that, and the fact that someone would see the ashes; someone would know that he had lost control.

  His dignity was important now; it might be all that he would have. Quieted, he rose. There were hours until the appointed time, and he would take them to set his estates in order. Perhaps it was an empty gesture; he did not know and would not guess.

  But he did not relish his brief homecoming to the Damion estates.

  If his father spoke at all, he vowed that he would not outlive the dawn.

  The temple was empty; night was gathering in the wings, but the last rays of sunlight had not yet died at the hands of the darkness.

  Yet in these hallowed halls, it was the darkness that reigned.

  Lord Vellen walked in silence, as any acolyte might, past the velvet-lined pews to the inlaid marble floors. He had served here in his youth; his first kill had been here, on
this altar. Not for him the practice on slaves that was so prevalent among the petulant nobles who yearned for priesthood; he had known he was destined for greater things.

  His hand touched the shimmering shield of blood-magic that clung tight to the surface of dark, severe marble. It was cool and dry. It would not remain so.

  Dark Heart. He bowed, trembling with resentment at all that had passed. I will not serve you in this fashion.

  So swore every leader of the Greater Cabal when he took his seat. Yet very few did not find their way here, in the end.

  Ansoul, high priest and Karnar, had been Vellen’s predecessor. He had engaged in many political struggles and flexed his muscles often in the arena of power. He had lost only once.

  A shock of remembered pleasure ran down Vellen’s spine; of all deaths dedicated to God, that one he remembered most keenly. The afterimage of blood lingered behind his eyes still. Ansoul had been small—an old man—but he had lasted long. Death had been the only defeat he would ever acknowledge.

  In that, his successor resembled him, although in little else.

  If Benataan had chosen an alliance with the First immediately, there would be no hope. Now, however, he did not dare; he would lose the cabal.

  “Vellen.”

  The leader of the Greater Cabal heard the sibilant whisper. He stiffened, recognizing the voice, but did not turn.

  “You have recovered.”

  “Yes.”

  “You take a risk with your cabal, if I understand mortal politics.”

  “How may I help you, Second of the Sundered?” he asked, a curt, cold question. Sargoth’s power was not in doubt, but Lord Vellen had had almost enough of the interference of the Servants.

  “A good question. Perhaps I shall ask it myself. How may I help you, leader of the Karnari?”

  Now, Vellen turned. Light, deep red and blue where it touched the stained glass windows, glinted off his winter hair, his silent face. The shadow before him looked almost human, more so than it ever had. The voice gave little away; it was hard to tell if mockery had been meant by the words or not.