Chains of Darkness, Chains of Light

by Michelle Sagara

  Her father had no desire, or so he said, for the leadership, but she knew that he was among the most powerful present. Lord Vellen needed power. And what better ally than Valens? It was not arrogance that guided her thought here; she knew what her house was worth.

  But it left a question hanging, and she didn’t want to ask it.

  Father ...

  The skin of her shoulders was burning with some unnatural heat in two places, each the size and shape of a man’s hand. Her shaking fingers reached out and fumbled with the clasp of the necklace. Three times she tried to remove it, and on the fourth she gave up. It was a symbol she held meaningless. Did it matter what others thought?

  But her breath came in short, sharp gasps. She trembled too much to contain herself. Had she any clothing, she would have wrenched it off and thrown it in a pile on the floor for the slaves to comment on, if they dared. She felt unclean; dirt and shadow seemed to cling to the parts of her that no soap and water would reach. Her spirit roared; her mouth whimpered. She bit down on the counterpane to stop the sound from traveling.

  Darkness was not complete. Even here, a hint of light filtered in, although the doors were shut and sealed, and no human torches burned. He sat on his ebony throne, still enough to resemble the gargoyles that alone dared to stand on the dais at his side.

  The passing of time was a mortal habit, a mortal measure, and he wondered if the centuries he had spent here would ever be cleansed entirely from his mind. Memory was too deadly and bitter a trap.

  Yesterday evening he had fed, and fed well. He turned his mind to it, reliving all the details in the slowest possible way. He could see fear in the face of the old man who had run through the streets—that fear was a carpet that marked the passing of the First of the Sundered as he followed. High City or Low, it mattered little. Who dared to tell the Lord of the Empire where he might walk?

  He had been slow to catch the man, drawing out the hunt until the last possible moment. This was a dangerous flirtation, for the sun always waited and always rose. Perhaps with time he could cure that.

  Perhaps not, for only in light did shadow take form.

  No. He turned his thought more forcefully to the hunger and its end. Yet although he remembered each detail of the nameless man’s death, he felt none of the immediacy of his former pleasure in it. The hunger was a stronger memory.

  Rising, he let it become more substantial.

  For years he had turned aside from this—by his choice he had been restrained. That time had passed, and it would not come again. Yet stall ...

  No. No. He was the First of the Sundered. Let the mortal world tremble and die in the wake of his passing.

  Peggy hated the night. That would never change, and it was only worsened by the fact that many of her duties, which could just as easily be performed during the day, were now started at the set of the sun. She rose as the bells began their sonorous toll. The sound was taken by the stone and made both hollow and cold. House Damion, like any other house, followed the new edicts of the Church.

  What slave could hope to do less?

  Still, if she dressed quickly and hurried to the housekeeping station, she might catch the rays of setting sun through the front windows. It was well worth it; the pinks and blues and golds that scattered through the leaded glass windows were like a kiss of the light upon a brow it seldom saw.

  She considered fetching her daughter but thought better of it. A few moments of privacy and peace surely weren’t too much to ask. And she so seldom had the chance. She hesitated only a moment more, then hurriedly buttoned up her dress. The skirts swooshed across the clean, bare ground as she walked briskly through her door.

  The gallery was silent when she arrived, and blessedly, also empty. She dared not sit, or look as if she were not already involved in her chores, but she could linger just as well on her feet.

  Sun’s glow was already fading; the moments spent considering her day had counted more than she thought. But she paused anyway, feeling the lingering brush of its warmth. She wished she were a farm slave. Then she might rise as usual with the dawn, and not the dying dusk.

  But in some ways, this encroaching blackness was her morning. She bowed her head briefly and began this day as she had done for all of her life: in quiet prayer.

  The prayer had changed over the years—how could it not?—but the peace and hope it brought her had never faded.

  Lady of Mercy, hear me now. She paused, and silence answered as it always did. I give you thanks for preserving me in this Dark world. Help me do the same this day.

  And Lady, guard my daughter. I know well your kingdom is the better place, but I ask it nonetheless. Let her come in the fullness of years. I need her with me.

  There was no time for more. She could hear the creak and swing of five different doors as the slaves began their labors.

  She thought of her daughter and sighed, knowing the child would barely be out of bed and would certainly have left off prayer. Well, Peggy could say enough for the both of them until the girl had grown into it, which had better be soon. Peggy’s mother would never have allowed her the luxury of rising without them.

  But her mother was dead. If she had any lectures to give, she would have to save them for the Bridge. The thought turned her lips up in the first smile of the coming evening. She was certain there would never have been a noisier crossing in all of time.

  She was almost into the heart of the slaves’ quarters when she heard the shouting. It was hoarse and thick, and many voices carried it, all in deathly terror.

  Footsteps came thundering up the hall and turned the comer as she stood, frozen. Stev. Face white with fear, he could look no more poorly if he had just seen his own death. Without thinking, she reached out to stop him. His chest hit her hands and drove her back.

  “Stev!” she shouted, rising quickly to her feet amid the blue mess of her skirts.

  “He’s come! He’s come again! Oh, Lady, he’s here!”

  “Stev!” She drew her hand back to slap him and stopped when his eyes met hers. “Who?”

  “The Dark Heart’s demon!”

  She almost ran then, yet she held her ground for one more question, even as another, younger slave ran past them both, mouth wide, voice hysterical.

  “Where?”

  “Sleeping quarters.”

  Those two words were the most horrible thing that had ever happened in her life, and her life included the fall of Culverne. She found her feet then, and her voice harmonized with the strains of the terror of the rest of her companions.

  There was only one difference. She ran toward the quarters, and the shout that she mustered was a word.

  “Terry!”

  Ladyladyohgodohgodplease

  “Terry!

  When had the halls grown so long and so tortuous? When had they become so empty and so tall? She felt that she was shrinking at each step she took, with the world growing too large around her. But not so big that she couldn’t find her way to the sleeping quarters.

  Another slave passed her, hardly noticing where she ran. Two doors were flung open and clattered against the walls. On a normal eve, no one would have dared such carelessness. Tonight it didn’t matter. No guards would make their way down to these rooms, and certainly no lord or no lady would.

  Peggy didn’t stop to check any of the rooms that passed her by, doors ajar. She did not look at the fall of shadow and did not care that the darkness grew deeper where two torches lay in black ruin. She knew where she was going.

  Breath deserted her. She had none left to shout or scream. But her footsteps echoed the beat of her heart, preternaturally loud in the stillness. Her fingers skirted the wall as if for support, but even then she did not stop.

  Not until she reached the door of the room her daughter shared with three of the other children. Children were always separated from their parents after they had been weaned, and the rooms put aside for them were small even for two adults.

  The door was closed
. In this empty hall, doors still swung with an ominous creak. All of them were open, save this one.

  If she had had time for prayer, she might have pleaded as she had never done before. There was no time. She was terrifled, and the face her fear would be answered by rested just beyond the door. All she had to do was open it.

  Trembling, her hands caught the simple latch. It clicked, and the door flew open.

  Her fear was dark and black; not even a glimmer of light shone through its center as it stood in the confines of four stone walls. Two rough-hewn beds, stacked one upon the other, lay against the west wall; one was empty. One was not.

  Neither belonged to her daughter.

  In the silence the darkness moved like a snake curling in upon itself. She could almost hear its sinuous whisper. She stood very still, as a mouse might, hoping not to catch its attention. Lady, what was she doing here?

  In answer, a young voice whimpered.

  She closed her eyes, although it made little difference. She drew a breath that was sharp and cold.

  Sometimes courage is only a choice between the greater of two fears. And for Peggy, just another slave in the Empire, the choice had been made the minute she had started running.

  With a wild, strained cry she launched forward, throwing her weight ahead of her feet and letting it carry her the last few inches. Her arms flailed about as if they were swords wielded by a true novice. But they hit their mark, as she did.

  The darkness had a form, one solid enough to move. There was a small comfort in that, for she felt it give ground. Her teeth were clenched tightly, as if to form a snarl, but only a whimper came out, almost a twin to the sound her daughter had made.

  And then she was through it; the cold of the darkness was gone. Her arms hit the east wall just a little too fast and the shock of it traveled up to her shoulders. She wheeled, crouching, and heard—peace.

  “Mommy?”

  All of the wild strength that had carried her this far deserted her, and she knelt, shaking as she groped in the darkness. Her hands touched wet cheeks, and she recognized the feel of them, round and smooth, beneath her fingers. Her arms shot out, encircling small shoulders and dragging them forward as if she had just found her life.

  The smell was right—a little mixture of soap and sweat. The skin was warm as it pressed against her cheek. She could not speak for a moment. Words could not convey all that she felt.

  “Mommy?”

  “Terry.”

  She felt something grab her right sleeve and started.

  “Peggy?”

  “Corman.” Peggy uncurled her knees, although she held on to her daughter. “Is Neil with you?”

  “Here,” Neil said. His voice was weak now, although whether with fear or relief it was hard to say. She didn’t ask about Scott. Even in the darkness, she knew a corpse when she saw it.

  “This is very touching.”

  Hair, short and thin, rose on the back of her neck and arms. She stood and put her daughter very firmly behind her back. “Stay there,” she said quietly. She felt a nod as it rustled against her dress. “Neil. Corman.”

  They didn’t have to be told twice. The shadow in the room was a demon that all children dreamed of—and who better than a mother to drive it away? Peggy knew what they felt, and it almost broke her heart. She had long outgrown her childhood. Very stiffly she turned in the direction of the almost-human voice.

  It didn’t sound so terrible, really. Maybe it would be satisfied with the life it had taken. Maybe it would leave.

  “Little human, do you know what you dare?”

  Before she could answer, she saw the red rising from two twin points that the shadows had concealed. It flew out, more sure than archer fire, and lanced through either shoulder.

  My arms! She threw back her head and bit down on her lip; blood flowed freely down her tongue. Almost wildly she swung around.

  “Not yet, little slave.”

  The pain was gone.

  “Do you know who you have dared to strike?”

  Shaking, she raised her head.

  “No answer? Very well. But I promise you, you will know by evening’s end.” The shadow surged forward, and Peggy turned her head.

  “When he touches me,” she whispered, as quietly as she could, “run. All of you. Don’t look back. Don’t—don’t listen to anything you hear. If Mommy—if Mommy sounds hurt, don’t come back. It’s just a—a trick.”

  She wanted to say more, but she didn’t have the time. Courage was a choice between two fears, yes, but with every step he took, one fear grew larger and stronger. Let her daughter know that she was loved in more than words. If she didn’t understand it now, she would come to know it clearly later.

  He heard every word precisely and clearly. He saw, as she could not, the uneasy looks of doubt cut across the faces of the three children that stood behind her. He watched their heads bob in the direction of the door—the only source of light in the room. It amused him to let them run; they would have to go past him, after all, and they were small and easy to catch. Or perhaps he would just hunt them later, drawing out their individual fear into a fine, clear strand they could not cut away.

  Already, one death was past him; he basked in its dark afterglow. There was peace in this—the drink of the immortals. No human could know it, and their decayed berries and grain were a poor, pathetic substitute. How would she feel, this slave, should she hear her daughter’s bones snap? He waited, motionless now, for the answer, although it was easy to guess.

  Yet she surprised him.

  She stepped—lunged—forward, her arms wide as if to embrace him. And as she drew close, he could see the look upon her face. She was terrified.

  And her terror had two faces. One for her death, and one for her daughter’s. It was the second that held him the moment necessary for the first of the children to break away.

  He knew the look. He had not recognized it immediately on so foreign a face.

  The second child, another boy, slipped past, feet beating against the floor.

  Had not recognized it, so laden with fear for herself as it was. The third child skittered by, and he reached out a claw to grab her.

  He caught, instead, the mother’s hand.

  It was warm, almost hot, as it clamped around his. His claws, almost of their own accord, burst through her palm. Blood dripped onto the floor. He could hear it as it fell.

  He could hear more.

  Her voice. Her words, here, even in the wake of his feeding, the pain in them heavy, clear, and ugly. The warmth of the dead was gone in that instant. The strength of lifeblood had turned to ash; the feeding of hunger, a concession to weakness.

  She turned, her ghost hands passing through him. Light glimmered, caught by the tears on her cheeks. He could kill her and cause her less pain.

  His head shot up wildly, as he tried to hold on to his peace, his last refuge, his one pleasure.

  “No!” His voice was a roar. “You are dead!” He swung out wildly with his free hand, and bone splintered where it struck.

  She was.

  He stopped for a moment, and his eyes were a color that no living person had ever seen; brown and dark and opaque. With a snarl, he threw Peggy’s body aside. It crashed into the bed and fell to the floor. Blood began to pool beneath it, and the dry floorboards drank greedily.

  He stood in a well of shadow, the light at his back flowing over his shoulders, but never quite reaching the body. She was warm; he could see the lines of fading heat as he watched. He stood looking at the ruin of her skull, the lines of her slack face, the shape of her body.

  Nothing of Sara was in it.

  It had been an illusion then, a hallucination. His anger shrank back beneath the hardening lines of his face, but it was a wild rage that barely stayed below the surface.

  He swung around, gathering his shadow, and walked through the door. The other three still wandered the manse. He would send them after their protector.

  The halls wer
e cold and lifeless as he entered them. Almost casually he doused the torches as he passed. His hand touched the wall at his left, and unaware of it, he made a long, deep, gouge in the stone.

  Where, where were they?

  Sara, you are dead. Do not trouble me here.

  The words were less an order than a plea, and he hated that. Angrily he stopped and bent his mind to the task of tracking his prey. Other fears lingered in the air, older ones—they were more complex, but less primal.

  Where?

  Ah. His teeth glinted in the remaining lights he had not yet passed; no smile there.

  It was an early night yet; it had just begun. He needed much now to satisfy the hollowness that was growing. He was the First of the Sundered, the Lord of the Empire. What he desired was his.

  The halls grew wide as the slaves’ quarter melted into the darkness behind him. The ceilings grew tall, and the lamps more fancy, but no less easy to extinguish. He let the twilight in as glass tinkled against the marbled floor.

  Up ahead, he saw house guards, and they saw him. Like the slaves, they fled, drawing no weapon, and offering no resistance. His anger grew smaller, and the wildness more contained. This, this is what he was seeking.

  He mounted stairs, not bothering to touch them. Meager starlight filtered in through the gallery window. At a toss of his hand, shadow plastered itself against the glass, sealing out light and announcing his presence for all who were not yet aware of it.

  He was close now. He could smell them, cowering. There were others with them; three—no, four. Their fear was not yet strong. He would change that; they would pay him his tribute yet.

  The peaked, twin doors were shut at the top of the stairs. He put his fingers through them, crumpling detailed inlay work as if it were paper. The doors resisted only a little as he pulled them off their hinges and threw them over the balcony.

  There were screams, then. Pain song writ large and shrill upon the air. He tasted it, and it felt dull—almost alien.