Chains of Darkness, Chains of Light

by Michelle Sagara

  “This is foolish, Amalayna.”

  She had not expected less, and her chin began to tilt upward. She did not answer.

  “The merchant women of unhoused families wear garb such as this for their common dead. It is beneath you.”

  There were many lessons that Amalayna had learned from this daunting parent, and chief among them was the use of silence. She only wished that she could school her face so carefully.

  “Do you think it does your rited mate a service to be so seen? Do you think it aids House Tentaris?”

  “Lord Tentaris does not seem to mind.” Each word was spoken slowly and distinctly, as if it were part of a separate sentence.

  “I see.”

  She waited, knowing that she should not have spoken. Her eyes traveled around the room, and she thought it smaller than it had ever been; the walls pressed inward, exerting her father’s pressure, although to what end she did not yet know.

  “Very well,” he said at last, a hint of satisfaction in the words. “It has been a week; enough time for this”—and he gestured at her clothing—“to pass.

  “I have been in communication with Lord Tentaris, and he and I have reached an agreement.”

  “Agreement?”

  “Indeed.” He paused a moment, and then continued, his voice sharper. “These colors—they do not belong here. Wear the burgundy and gray, Amalayna. They are your colors now.”

  “P-pardon?”

  His eyes grew darker. “I see your stay in House Tentaris has not helped you to gather your wits. Very well. I have paid House Tentaris a portion of your rite-price, and Lord Tentaris has agreed to release you from that house. You are to return to Valens; you are to once again be Lady Amalayna of my house.”

  “B-but—” the beads in her hair rattled gently as she shook her head. “My son?”

  “He is of House Tentaris. He shall remain there.”

  She paled then, until her skin was white; white as the lace that framed her skirts; white as the beads in her hair. She was exactly the spirit that mourns for the dead. All black, all white; undisturbed by the colors of life.

  “You will, of course, be given leave to see him, and I have retained some rights, in your stead, for his education. But he is the line now, and in no wise would Lord Tentaris be parted from his sole grandchild.”

  If the words were meant to comfort her, they failed.

  “When?” she whispered at last.

  “Three days.”

  For the first time in her life, she almost defied him. Her cheeks began to warm, and her jaw grew tight.

  “Amalayna, it is not a matter of pride. You did well by House Tentaris; you provided that line with an heir, and in time. It was purely a question of capital. House Tentaris has seen its resources severely depleted in this war with Wintare. If it eases you, think that this is the biggest service that you may do for Tentaris and be proud of it.”

  She rose stiffly and nodded, not trusting her throat to form words.

  “I will see to your clothing while you set your things in order. Your old chambers in the east wing have been restored.”

  Her shadow touched the flowers that had been laid in front of pale, green marble. The grass, cropped short and precisely, set off the hues of red and gold petals, freshly cut and left here.

  She had done this. Numbly, as if by routine of long years, she had walked in the grounds of Tentaris and snipped each blossom. They were flowers to her; she didn’t know their names or their season, and she didn’t care either—as long as they served their purpose.

  The marble piece had been Lord Tentaris’ decision, although she knew that it was more a gift to her than a necessity. His life had continued; his war had grown—his son was now a thing of the bitter past.

  After today she would never again have the tending of this site. No doubt it would be removed, or at least left in stark isolation. For a moment she started to stand, then she changed her mind and knelt forward, letting her head touch the cool stone.

  There was so much that she had been warned of, growing up. Assassination was not unfamiliar, even to her house; she had lost one of her brothers to it. She knew the cost; it had been drilled into her extensively. First, there were political instabilities; second, there were monetary ones; third, there were shifts in alliances.

  No one had thought to warn her of the worst; of this emptiness, this rage.

  She didn’t hear the footsteps in the grass behind her and only became aware that someone waited when the gathered shadows shifted slightly. She knew enough to be embarrassed, and strove to gain her feet quickly, straightening out the folds of her dress.

  To her surprise, Lord Tentaris awaited. He had no slaves or guards in attendance, which was unusual, and the clothing he wore was sparse: red and gold seen only in the sash that crossed from left shoulder to hip. His shirt was black and simple, even the hem unadorned as it cut above his knees. No white, but then again she expected none. This was as close to mourning as Lord Tentaris would ever be seen in. In his arms, blanketed in simple linens, was her son. Their son.

  “I thought to find you here, Lady,” he said, and held out the child.

  She gathered him into her arms. He was sleeping.

  “I regret that I have been unable to see you.” He did not meet her eyes. “House matters have been pressing.”

  “I understand,” she whispered. And she did. But it surprised her, knowing that he found it difficult. “Will you answer one question?”

  “If it is in my power.”

  “Why?”

  “Amalayna, you loved my son. Not all knew it, but many did. He was less obvious; more careful. Still, it was a weakness. Had he many others—” He shook his head. “Between us, I will say that I held my son in esteem. I did not question his choice, and it proved to be a good one.”

  “Then why?”

  “Laranth is dead.” The words were harsh. “I have seen for myself what this has done to our house. We will suffer more for it yet. I cannot afford to have a child raised with such a weakness at this time.”

  Ashamed, she nodded and turned away, still cradling her son.

  “Amalayna, I am sorry. Perhaps later—”

  “Later?”

  “You are intelligent and not without your own resources. If not for the straits we find ourselves in, I might have made another choice, even given this risk. You have done this house proud, and I shall not forget it.”

  She kissed her son on the forehead, and he stirred.

  “I understand,” she whispered, and her lips turned up in a gentle smile. “May I still see him?”

  Lord Tentaris nodded quietly. “In a few years, Lady, you may yet have the raising of him.”

  He did not mean to be cruel by giving her that hope, but the hope cut her nonetheless. She gave her son to his grandfather’s keeping in silence.

  chapter four

  Morning, with its crisp, clear chill, had held sway over the horizon for two hours when the caravan finally made its way to the Empire’s border post. They traveled along the open road, touched by the shadows of trees that were displaying the season’s new green to those below too preoccupied to care.

  Erin rode alongside the caravan’s mistress. She wore a small version of Hildy’s cold-weather clothing, which was both cumbersome and ugly, even to Erin’s admittedly ill-trained eye. She had never much favored the color purple, and certainly not so many yards of it. She sighed and locked her hands together; it kept them away from her sword. Tiras had been forced to change as well, and he had accepted it both more silently and less gracefully than Erin had. Luckily for all concerned, Hildy was adept at ignoring small outbursts of “unpleasantness.”

  “If I didn’t, dear, do you think I’d ever make it across the continent with a caravan intact?”

  Erin smiled and glanced over her right shoulder to see Tiras walking among the guards. He looked out of place there, she had to admit, but not by much. He was an older man, true, but long years of training and pract
ice kept the full toll of age at bay.

  The wagon hit a rock on the road, and her smile vanished as she righted herself. She had thought the carriages in Dagothrin had been uncomfortable and wondered how Hildy could manage to sit for so many hours of each day.

  “One gets used to it, dear,” Hildy said, as if reading her companion’s mind. Erin hoped Hildy’s age and wisdom, rather than her own transparency, was the cause of this.

  “Around this bend we’ll reach the outpost. I expect that the soldiers there will be unpleasant—they usually are. Hamin, dear?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Do be ready in case their boys get a little rough.”

  “Ma’am.”

  Erin sighed and played with the hem of her coat. When Hildy had said she could travel as a caravan guard, she should have known it was too good to be true. She wanted to be on her feet and on the ground, watching and waiting with the rest of the guard.

  “Darin, dear, do get into the wagon now—and do put away that staff for a moment, won’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And be careful, dear.”

  He was already doing so; her warning wasn’t necessary. Beyond the border post he was still an escaped slave; his life was worth very little, except perhaps as fodder for the altars. He hoped, as he crawled into the wagon that housed their tents, that the weather wasn’t going to get warmer; in the new spring chill, his scarred arm was never exposed.

  The wagons creaked—wagons weren’t supposed to sound so rickety, were they?—as they rounded the rather sharp bend in the road. A bend such as this, Erin thought as she ground her teeth, was a foolish place to put an outpost. There was no easy way to see the length of the road, or to see what lay beyond. Whoever had designated this as the—

  “Bright Heart.”

  Hildy’s “around the bend” was hundreds of yards off, but it didn’t matter in the slightest. If anything, the distance gave Erin the scope to appreciate the size of the fortress that sat, with two huge gates beneath a squat, square tower, over the road.

  Trees had been cut to clear the area around the fortress, and in all, there were eight of these towers, evenly spaced. Each held four men. In times of war, they could easily hold twenty—and at that, mostly archers. Nor would it be easy just to fire it; they had built this at some cost, judging by the stone-work and the size of it. The wood that had been cleared had been used in some areas, but not many.

  Flags flew atop each tower; black and red.

  Erin turned to Hildy and forced her lips to work.

  “Outpost?”

  “Well, dear, what else would you call it? All the way out on the border and such as it is.”

  “Fortress,” Erin managed. She swung her legs around to the edge of the cab.

  Hildy caught her shoulder by one mittened hand, the other held firmly on to the reins. “Don’t get down, dear.”

  “We can’t just walk through here!” Erin shrugged the hand off. “Not after the recent war!”

  “We can do exactly that.” The older woman patted a layer of coat above her left breast. “Trust me.”

  Although she knew it wasn’t, sitting still felt like the hardest thing Erin had ever been called upon to do. The fortress grew larger and larger as the horses continued their steady pace. Arrow slits in the ground and second floor became evident; they were well spaced; well planned. The flags shivered in the wind like dark clouds—storm clouds. She could see people in long, black surcoats pointing; she could hear their curt shouts and orders.

  “Hildy,” she whispered. “Please.”

  Hildy didn’t appear to be listening. She let the horses go forward, and the other wagons followed. The clip-clip of horse hooves and the groan of wheels were the only noises that filled the silence.

  By the time they stopped in front of the closed gates, eight men were arrayed to greet them. The black surcoats covered a patchwork of different armors; some leather, some dinted breastplating, and some chain. Weapons, though, were standard and in good repair. Swords were readied in the hands of four men; two carried bows, and two held spears. Their shields were Empire standard: rounded at the top, peaked at the bottom, portable fields of black. There was no red on any of them, though; at least they weren’t Swords.

  “Halt!”

  As the wagons had already done just that, Hildy didn’t see any need to respond and sat waiting on the cab almost impatiently.

  “This,” she said half-fretfully, “is where we lose time.”

  Time? Erin wanted to scream. But she said nothing. She didn’t even reach for her sword, although her hands were sweating.

  One of the men, armed with a sword, stepped forward, ignoring the guards around the caravan. He approached Hildy at the lead wagon.

  “Dismount,” he said curtly.

  She sighed and began to do as he asked, her muttering muffled slightly by her scarf. This she unwrapped and handed in an unceremonious heap to Erin. She followed with her mittens and her gloves and even went so far as to unbutton her coat.

  “There’s no traffic between Illan and Senatare,” the guard said, but he held out his hand nonetheless.

  Erin stopped from bridling at the word Illan; she wasn’t, after all, a stupid woman. She turned, expecting to see Darin’s face in a crimson flush, and was disturbed by just how white he was.

  “I’m a commissioned trader with House Boradil,” Hildy said, matching the soldier’s curtness. She unfurled one battered scroll and put one thick finger beneath the seal and date.

  With a noncomittal grunt, the soldier took the scroll in one hand and held it almost under his nose, which was wide and oddly angled.

  “Citizenship papers?”

  Hildy sighed. “Just mine, or all of ours?”

  “All of ’em.”

  Another wad of curled papers made an appearance from beneath her coat. She handed them over in a chunk; Erin caught the gleam of red seal at the corner of the foremost one.

  With annoying leisure, the soldier looked them over. Obviously he was in a position of authority—he could read. His eyes traveled down the length of each paper, pausing only once to meet the green of Erin’s eyes. She froze slightly and forced her lips into a shy smile.

  “My niece,” Hildy said curtly. “I’m taking her out of Illan; it isn’t safe for her alone since the fall of the city.”

  There was more silence, and then the guard handed the papers back to Hildy. But his eyes didn’t leave Erin’s face. He walked over to the wagon, and she clenched her hand, hearing his steps as if they were shattering glass. He paused beneath her, his head not quite level with her knees.

  “Down.”

  Jaw clenched, Erin began to descend. She didn’t trust herself to speak. Her hands ached now for the feel of hilt—she couldn’t steady them.

  His fingers bit into her jaw.

  “Pretty girl,” he said softly. To Hildy, in a louder voice, he added, “There isn’t much traffic between Illan and Senatare at the moment.”

  “And not much iron work in Verdann.” Hildy’s voice was ice. “You had best examine the date on the Boradil papers.”

  He looked back at his men, and then let his eyes travel up the gates to the tower where four men with readied bows looked down.

  “There’re bandit problems on the road now. House Boradil wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t make it this far.”

  Hildy’s voice was no less icy, although it became slower and softer. “They wouldn’t be surprised, no. Lord Boradil would be very angry.”

  The soldier said nothing, but rather yanked Erin forward by her face. Her feet stumbled, but she had no time to right herself before his lips bit down on hers. Before she could throw him, he pulled back and spit to his left.

  “Open the gates.” It was a snarl.

  Shaking with anger, Erin mounted the cab once more.

  “I’m sorry,” Hildy said softly, her voice no less angry. “It’s why we don’t often travel with younger women in the caravan.”

/>   Erin took a deep breath and forced herself to ease forward. She longed to pull her sword, remove the soldier’s lips, and leave them lying in the wake of the caravan. “Boradil must be a big house.”

  “A rich one,” Hildy answered as she urged her horses forward. “They politic in the merchant trade; they’ve won two trade wars in seven years, with the help of their allies.” She smiled grimly. “They don’t give a damn about the state of the Empire unless its instability interferes with their trade. I bring them ore and metals, some gems and precious stones. They give me safe passage and keep me free from most of the border searches that might reveal more ... sensitive cargo returning to Dagothrin. As a partnership, it works.” The tone of her voice made it clear what she thought of her partners.

  “Why—” Erin took another, deeper breath. “—do they accredit you? Those papers are—”

  “I’m accredited because they tried unsuccessfully for years to keep a caravan intact long enough to reach Dagothrin.” She smiled, but it was grim and unpleasant. “And if the caravan got to Dagothrin, no one would trade any iron that wasn’t a Sword with them.”

  “Do you make money?”

  “Rather a lot,” Hildy answered unapologetically. She looked sideways at Tiras, and her smile warmed slightly. “It comes to Marantine and stays there in two ways. Sometimes by fabrics, other wares, and information, and sometimes through slaves. Not all of the ones I transport are escaped.”

  She was silent then, thinking. “We set it up almost thirty years ago.” Her voice was quiet. “I purchase those who might have been raided from our villages and return them to their country.

  “At least that’s how it started. But every now and then I’ve taken more contraband materials. Some slaves know me, or know how to reach me. I don’t ask how. But I take them when I can.” The wagon halted, as the second set of gates was opened to allow them passage. “I’ll introduce you to one of my links when we get to Verdann.”

  Lord Vellen sat, idly twirling the stem of a small gold glass between his left fingers. A deep amber liquid swirled within, catching glints of daylight in its eddies. He lifted the cup to his lips and smiled; it was warm and smooth, but it certainly had a bite.