Chains of Darkness, Chains of Light

by Michelle Sagara

  The warrens melted away, to be replaced by buildings with more land and less height. These too were replaced by larger buildings in better repair, and the road beneath their feet was distinctly, neatly cobbled. Merchant money paid for it, so there were seldom any missing stones or holes to trouble wagons, carriages, or careless feet.

  The market square opened out before them, although its edges had been blurred by actual storefronts and a few straggling stalls that could find no room in the square proper. At just past midday it was cool, although the sun was warm and the air dry.

  Erin followed Darin, making her way past the growing crowds of people wandering briskly to unknown destinations. She had no money and very little worth stealing, so the thought of thieves didn’t make her as nervous as the sight of Darin’s stiff, trembling back.

  Market vendors shouted, some at Erin, and some at people on either side. The cries were normal market cries, mock-anxious, mock-friendly, and all aggressive. Once or twice she turned and almost headed off the main thoroughfare—she had not been raised to ignore direct questions.

  Verdor, on the other hand, had no problems doing so. His grip on Erin grew more sure as he walked, and his scowl somewhat more pronounced.

  The stalls suddenly opened out into a sky clear of colorful eaves and poles. People grew more sparse, but Erin was short enough that she didn’t see Darin’s destination until it was almost upon her.

  Yes, it was Darin who explained it to her.

  He stopped at the foot of the iron-wrought fence that surrounded and protected the statue that loomed in its center, with only birds for company. He bowed low in front of it, partly through habit, and partly for Stev, who had seldom been sent on market expeditions because he looked too awkward and gawky and would be a slight embarrassment to the house.

  The statue didn’t notice his small deference. It stood, arms extended, head thrown slightly back. Alabaster hair flowed with chiseled power to cut the breeze.

  “The Lady of Mercy,” Darin whispered, looking at Erin’s booted feet.

  Erin stared in silence at some sculptor’s careful mirror.

  “The Lady of Mercy,” Darin continued, “came once to aid us.” He shook his head. “We all know of her. All of us. There are songs—like children’s songs—that we all sang sometimes. Stev taught me. In—in House Damion.

  “She’s going to return.” He still could not meet her eyes. Whether for his sake now, or hers, he couldn’t be certain. “And when she does, we’ll be free forever.”

  He looked up then, but her eyes were thankfully turned to the statue. She didn’t really resemble it; not now. She was mortal, and this—this was the evocation of God, whether or not the one who had worked it realized what he had captured.

  But Erin knew herself in it. Knew God. Knew blood and the call to battle it had always sounded. She understood Maya and Gareth then, with complete clarity, knew what they saw, and knew why Darin had taken so much trouble to bring her here. These people did not know God, and the one hope they had of Him was ... her. She was Lernan’s Hope, the Lady of Elliath’s Hope, and now, also the Hope of the slaves.

  Dry-eyed, she spoke one word. It cut, to say it.

  “Stefanos,”

  Darin sat quietly at the small table in the back room of the inn. It was night; fire burned in the grate, and dinner was set before him.

  Tiras was off with Verdor and Hildy discussing God only knew what; Astor was working the front. Only Erin remained in the back room with him, staring at her dinner in uncomfortable silence. The fire was at her back, so the shadows had free reign to darken the contours of her still face. Neither had eaten much.

  He had thought it would be easier to talk to her if she could see the statue in the market square. Now he knew it wasn’t going to be.

  Why so, Initiate?

  He jumped a little, and his fork slid out of his grip.

  Erin didn’t seem to notice as she pushed peas listlessly into a swirl of gravy and potatoes.

  Why what?

  Why do you find it so difficult to speak with the Sarillorn?

  Why? Because he didn’t know what to say. He had expected that she would look shocked, confused, surprised—something normal.

  And how did she react?

  Tired, he thought. Tired. Hurt. Bitter.

  You cannot address these things? The Sarillorn is not only comrade, Initiate, but friend, also. Can you not offer her your support?

  How was he supposed to support the Lady of Mercy?

  As you always have. As much as you can.

  But it was different. He picked up his fork and experimentally lifted a cube of boned chicken to his mouth. It was cold and wet. With a grimace he began to chew.

  Then stopped. Gervin knew her.

  Yes.

  He had not thought of Gervin for months.

  Why didn’t I?

  Bethany was quiet, her silence a telling one.

  I didn’t want to. He put the fork down. He knew it was true. Gervin had recognized her both as an initiate of the Circle and as some promised Lady returned. He hadn’t been afraid of her and hadn’t stopped being able to talk to her. But he hadn’t treated her like a person, either.

  He was afraid, he realized, of being like Gervin. He was afraid of losing Erin as a comrade and the only other living initiate of the Circle that all lines held in common.

  “Erin?”

  She bit her lip and looked up at him; in the flickering light her eyes seemed almost brown. “Yes?”

  His throat was dry. “Are you the Lady of Mercy?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was flat and weary. She looked away, her eyes trailing the stone fireplace and the battered heirloom plates that rested on the mantle.

  “Oh.” Great, just great. Oh. How helpful. But what else was he supposed to say? Something else. He had to find something; Erin had always said she wasn’t good with words.

  Maybe she knew what he was thinking. Maybe she wanted to help. “Darin,”—her voice was very low—“I didn’t promise them anything. I didn’t write their songs; I didn’t come up with their legends.”

  He thought of Stev, who had tried so hard to help him adjust to House Damion. “Our legends.”

  Her eyes grew red around the edges. She stood, pushing her chair quietly back from the table.

  “Yours, then. But it wasn’t me. He wrote them. He built the statues. He did this.”

  “He?”

  “The First of the Enemy.”

  “Lord Darclan.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes. But I don’t know why.” She was half bent, her hair shadowing her face, the strands of it bars to a welcome cage. “I don’t know why he did this.”

  He spoke without thinking. “What are you going to do?”

  Her hands spread out before him like a plea. “What else can I do? I stayed with him, in the beginning, because of hope. Not just my hope, but their hope. Your hope.” Her fingers began to shake, and she curled them into fists. “And I—It cost so much. Too much.” She bowed her head, and water splashed onto the tablecloth, darkening it. “I thought it had cost everything. I didn’t know that he would—do this for me. Keep hope alive. I don’t know why.”

  “He loved you.”

  Her head snapped up, and for an instant Darin thought she would scream or shout at him. But what she did was infinitely worse. She straightened herself out and faced him grimly.

  “And I loved him.” There were tears, but they seemed more crystal than liquid; he could almost hear them shatter as they fell. “It wasn’t enough.”

  “Erin, I didn’t mean to say that. I didn’t mean it.”

  His stricken face was a convoluted reflection in her eyes. “It’s the truth, Darin.” Her voice was quiet without softness. “But we’ve made our choices.” She turned slowly, seeking both the warmth of the fire and the shelter of her back against his eyes. “And now he’s left me with this legacy, this one gift.” She laughed as if struck by something new; it was a shiny, hollow laugh. �
��I’ll accept it. After all—isn’t that what we’ve come for? To free the slaves? To have an end to the darkness?”

  “Erin—”

  “I’m sorry.” She shook her head, and the hardness was gone from her stance. He still couldn’t see her face. “I just feel as if I’ve spent all my life trying to be what others wanted. And failing.

  “They want a Lady of Mercy. A Lady of Light, Darin.” She looked down at her sweat-stained shirt, her grayed, callused hands. “They want all love, all care, all gentleness.” Those hands became fists. “What would they feel if they saw these hands hold Gallin’s sword? How would they react if they saw me kill?”

  “Erin—”

  “I want—I want them to want my help. I want them to want me. Is that so much to ask? No, don’t answer that. Do I have the right to ask them for anything?”

  He walked over to her then, stood close enough to touch her.

  She laughed weakly. “And anyway, I’m not so sure I know who this me I’m talking about is.”

  “I am.”

  She turned and then jumped a little to see him so close.

  “You’re Erin.” He bit his lip. “And I’m Darin. I’m trying to be the patriarch of Culverne for the lines. But you, you’re trying to be a—a God.”

  And as soon as he said it, the distance was gone. He meant every word, more so than he had realized even as they left his lips. They weren’t so different, not right now. He couldn’t just set down his staff and quit, even though he wanted to sometimes—he couldn’t live with that, even if he didn’t feel he had the right, or the knowledge, to claim his title.

  And Erin couldn’t just say “No, I’m not your Lady” or “No, I’m not your Sarillorn.”

  “And we’re never going to be those things—not the way we’d like, maybe not the way everyone who depends on us would like.” It was true, all of it. Admitting it wasn’t as hard as he thought it would be—not when he could share it as he did now. “We’re never going to be perfect. But we’re going to try—isn’t that the best we can do?”

  She held out her arms then, and he hugged her, or she hugged him; it was hard to tell who took more comfort from it.

  “What if we make mistakes?” she said into his hair, fear in her voice; his fear, and hers.

  “We will. But we’ll fix ’em. I’ll help with yours, if you help with mine. And I won’t forget that you’re only Erin.”

  “I won’t forget that you’re only Darin.”

  “Blood-promise?”

  “Blood-vow.”

  “Right. Vow.”

  “Yes.” Her arms grew tight. “Yes.”

  So it was that a little blood was shed in the peaceful, small room. But more was shed and taken on anew than blood alone. The prophecy of the slaves, forged in darkness and shadow, took the first, and the biggest, step toward the light.

  The long line of men began its procession out of the peaked, twin iron gates of the temple. The sun had finally set, but the night, clear and moonlit, had not fallen hard enough to obscure them fully. Black robes swirled against the cobblestone of the street, picking up dirt, dust, and mud from the previous day’s rain.

  Each man bore a pickaxe or hammer over his shoulder; one or two of these was new enough to gleam as they passed the oil lights of the High City streets.

  They were, to a man, acolytes of the temple—no mere slaves, no mere guards. They had made a life of study and education, not one of heavy labor; nonetheless they found themselves called after dinner to do this night’s work. And to a man, they all resented this forced march and leave from their seat of power. But they said nothing of this at all.

  For at their head walked the Demon of the Dark Heart. They had all been present at the blood ceremonies of God and had seen men and women die in the most exquisitely painful of fashions, but they knew that those deaths were nothing compared to what this shadow could do. Rumors—with bodies to substantiate them—had grown within the Church, and not even the lowliest of acolytes was not now privy to the deaths this Lord had caused in the past weeks. Nobles had died at his hand—nobles, and one or two priests. That there were others who had also died did not concern them; the fact that he could take highborn lives with no fear of censure or threat told them all they needed to know about his power.

  Stefanos knew what they were thinking; he could see it in the stiffness of their backs and the awkwardness of their hands around his chosen implements. Indeed, it amused him mildly to taste the scent of their fear, mingled as it was with their pathetic anger. He thought of taking one of these here and decided against it. He was not hungry.

  But the walk bored him.

  Habit alone confined him to the ground, and the minute he realized this, he shed it. The cloak of his shadow spread wide and fine; he took to the winds and the air. Those closest to him stopped their move forward in fear. He ignored it.

  He knew all of their faces, having seen them the once, and would deal with any who chose not to arrive at the ordered rendezvous.

  The market square opened up beneath him, low, flat, and empty save for the statue that adorned its center.

  It was for that statue that he had come. A thing of the old days, it irritated him. He was not now what he had been, and the future that the statue heralded had been irrevocably destroyed. He had returned; he would rule. And by this action, in the darkness of his night, he would begin his reign.

  Alone, he descended to stand before it, much as any slave would stand if he had a spare moment.

  And he faced her again, as he had once or twice faced her in the past at the zenith of her power; the Dark Lord, to her Lady of Light.

  The Light was gone now.

  It had been fully a month since he had confronted even his memory of her. He stared unblinking at the hands that curved so strongly and so delicately, in the twinned gesture of supplication and power so peculiar to the Lernari. She had been the best of their number.

  Sara ...

  How long he stood he could not say, and later not even memory would supply him with the answer, for his eyes did not touch the night sky to see the passage of moon or stars. All that disturbed him was a stray breeze, and this he ignored until it carried the sound of footfall.

  The acolytes were coming.

  He stiffened and turned away, his resolve hidden in the gray lines of the face that none of these men could meet.

  “I have summoned you here,” he said softly, “to remove the statue at the market’s center.”

  There was a susurrus of muted approval. The Church had never been fond of the Lady of Mercy.

  “I wish your work to be completed by evening’s end.”

  No one moved.

  “Go!” His left arm swung wide, and the acolytes began to surge around him, taking great care not to touch their Lord. He watched with a thin smile; they would have their work cut out. They had brought no scaffolding or platform with them, and the statue was high.

  They surrounded the statue, levering their weapons off their shoulders, and staring at it uncertainly. They would never have dared so open an approach had that statue been flesh.

  Sara ...

  One man, round but tall, stepped out of the group. His tool was a large, pointed pick. With only a nervous glance to the side, he readied it.

  And time slowed for an instant.

  The statue took on a hue of life and color, almost a semblance of motion. It hurt much, much more than he would have imagined.

  He had called her the Lady of Mercy, but there was no mercy she could grant him now; she had left, the Beyond of her kind swallowing her. These monuments were all that remained, and he did not care to have them as constant reminders.

  The pick came swinging down.

  And his hand shot up in a straight line. With an inarticulate shout he called his power and let it leap out of him in one red, ugly blur.

  A scream sounded—there was almost always a scream—and the pick clattered, useless now, against the statue’s foundation.

&nb
sp; The acolytes panicked. Their bodies flew in all directions, carried by legs. Most dropped the hammers or picks they had brought so grudgingly this far.

  One or two were foolish enough to remain. These, he killed quickly. She was watching, after all.

  In minutes, he was alone again with the legend that he had built. He almost wanted to be a mortal slave—he would believe, then, that she would return.

  He floated upward, carried by blood power, and reached out to touch her outstretched hands. They were cold as he gripped them. Cold and hard.

  I have failed. His own hands stroked inanimate ones reflexively.

  Even this much of you, I cannot destroy.

  Ah, Lady, Sara, we betray ourselves in ways that even we cannot comprehend.

  He stayed with her until the sun began its ascent.

  “You’re leaving us again, lass.”

  Erin nodded.

  “That’s what you get for running an inn, dear,” Hildy said. She straightened out her overcoat, which didn’t work well because the three layers beneath it were wrinkled and bulky, and then smiled. “Erin, dear, are you certain you’re warm enough?”

  “Yes, Hildy.”

  Hildy looked quite doubtfully at Erin’s leather jerkin, with thin but ample padding underneath. Her boots, also plain leather, weren’t lined with anything, and she insisted on having free use of her hands, so she wouldn’t wear mittens. Hildy sighed and clucked a little, both of which Erin was quite used to.

  Verdor, for his part, was dressed for the bar. This meant one already-dirty apron over a large, thick shirt and dark breeches. He looked at Erin very carefully, his face unusually thoughtful. Then he cleared the expression with a familiar smile.

  “Well, then. Don’t stay away as long, this time.”

  “I—I’ll try.” It was almost a whisper. Then her smile strengthened, as well; it was hard to feel the shadows when Verdor was around—even if he was saying good-bye.