Chains of Darkness, Chains of Light

by Michelle Sagara

  No.

  “I want the children.” His voice was soft. If there was a tremble in it, not one of the watchers noticed. They were busy with a wild fear of their own.

  Four adults, dressed in the common gray and blue of the house. Three of them, two old women and a young man, shrank back, trying to burrow into the paneled walls that were covered with frames and mortal likenesses. If he had seen them before, he did not recognize them. A beautiful fear had transformed, almost transfixed, their faces. They were already the white of blood-drained death.

  And they did not concern him, not yet. If they ran, he might even let them pass. His eyes, twin points of muddied red, turned toward the children.

  And to the one adult who stood, shaking and white, in front of them.

  “I want only the children,” he said again.

  The man’s mouth trembled, and no words came out. Perhaps he stayed because he was too petrified even to find his feet.

  No. Stefanos knew the feel of that fear well, and this was not right for it. He stayed, in the end, out of foolish choice. Twice in one night? It was unthinkable. The wildness bucked and pulled at him. He shuddered, and his hands flew out.

  The man gasped, and the child named Terry screamed.

  Why? In a haze of confusion he looked down to see hands that were covered in blood. Hands.

  He looked at them as if he had never seen them before. These he wore for her. He had rarely felt her presence so strongly when she was alive, yet she was not here—not even a glimpse of her memory flashed before his dark, human eyes.

  A new hunger opened within him, and he understood it, fully and finally. He had given Sara much more of himself than he had ever realized, and she had taken it with her when she left. She would not return; he would never be whole as he had once been, and feeding the ancient call for pain would not, could not, fill the void.

  There was no light in his darkness—only the yearning for it. He opened his mouth, his lips running along the edge of sharp, feral teeth as he threw back his head.

  No howl escaped him, but rather a keening, a wail of bitterness, pain, and loss. He had to leave this place, these people; they were still, in some way he did not understand, hers. Her hand, invisible and internal, gripped him tightly, and would not let go. The protection that she had once offered, she offered still.

  He raised his arms as the slaves cowered before him, mistaking the gesture. Their fear held no allure now; it was distasteful, and he would as soon be gone from it as partake of it.

  The room vanished. All sign of House Damion was left behind in a swirl of red darkness. But the blood on his hands remained wet and sticky—a tribute, a sign that life had not been given in vain.

  Your people, Sara!

  He gazed wildly around at the new halls, the familiar ones. The temple of the Dark Heart opened before him, its secret ways known and disdained. No one whom she loved was here. No one who loved her.

  Perhaps here he could feed and find peace. He began to move, a substantial shadow beneath the vaulting ceilings. He caught a Sword at guard, and then another, and another after that—but they died too quickly, offered too little. This new thing, this new feeling, it grew wilder and wilder still; demanded more and more and was satisfied by less and less.

  This place, this temple, this hollow shell of cold stone and dead wood, held all the things that she had fought against. He turned, seeing the grooved, carved pillar that was the heart of the open walkways. He grabbed it, twining his arms around it, and taking in as much as he could.

  The snap sounded distant; it was too small a thing. Even the rumbling up above was not enough.

  The priests lived here.

  The Swords lived here.

  The worship of the Dark Heart was renewed daily.

  Something else crumbled in his hands, his claws; something creaked against his back. He threw it off and continued to wander forward.

  All that she had hated was represented, yes.

  Priests, Swords, God—and the Servant of the Darkness.

  The last was too much to bear. He moved forward, it was effortless now. He could not see the trail of red that spread all around him, burning brightly. Stone gave way before him as if it were no more than water, flesh, as if it were air.

  He continued to walk, descending slowly into darkness, falling into shadow, into blackness.

  The Hand of the Dark Heart closed around him so tightly he could almost ignore the pleasure that resounded throughout it like waves from the center he represented.

  chapter twelve

  She did not wake, yet awareness took hold of her and shook her, hard. The webs of a dozen different dreams fell away, bowing to the greater shadow that stood above, beneath, and all around her. She was a ghost here, one who bore the stigma of the living, when life never truly touched these lands.

  She shimmered to her own sight, if sight it was, and hovered above the ground that was alien to her feet, just as the Servants did in the waking world. That thought had never occurred to her before—that the Servants hovered so because the land was alien.

  Yet they had power in her world; here she had none. She trembled, a shudder that came from within. The pain call echoed throughout these dark lands.

  This time she knew it for what it was: a bridge.

  “You are bound yet, you and he.”

  The voice came from the blackness, but it was not a dark voice. She smiled, or rather, felt a smile, and sad though it was, it was more than the Dark Heart could understand.

  “Kandor.”

  Here and there the land bucked, and the very air seemed to coil as if to strike. But it passed through her now; she was calm. Only the pain disturbed her—it was so very, very strong.

  Still, she had come a long way from the days of her early adulthood. She chose her course, not the blood. And she chose to stand.

  “We thought you might come to us.”

  Erin nodded as the darkness shivered and shattered. Kandor stood at its heart. His feet, she noticed, touched the ground; here he seemed more human than she herself, and he seemed old, changed by experience, even bent a little.

  “Kandor,” she said again.

  “Little one. You have grown.” They were words that might be said to a child. “Where are you?”

  “In the lands? I am on the road to Rennath.” She was aware of what the word meant; the echo of it pleased the plain.

  “Rennath.” A different voice.

  “Belfas?”

  “Yes.” He came from the darkness as well, but not so easily or cleanly as Kandor had. Still, his face, the lines of it drawn subtly in shades of mourning, was familiar. Welcome.

  “Why do you return to Rennath? It was the beginning of all the evils.”

  “I don’t return to stay,” she answered. She moved forward, and he back. A little shock of hurt traveled through her. She stopped. “I travel the road with a merchant. You—you would have liked her, I think.” Swallowing, she answered the question she thought she heard in his voice. “He isn’t there now.”

  “We know. We hear his voice, as you must.”

  “I mean that Rennath isn’t the capital anymore.”

  “Then where?”

  “They call it Malakar. It is over the heart of the August lands.”

  Kandor moved, coming forward now with difficulty. “The August lands. Ah—the Gifting ... Erin, what do you seek there?”

  How to answer? She did not know, and he mistook her silence.

  “Do you still seek only death?”

  “No.” That much she could say with confidence. “But I—I want to free you all.”

  It was his turn to be silent. He turned from her, hiding his expression a moment, before he started speaking again. “Sarillorn, what a road you have been asked to walk. You do not seek your passage anymore, but you must know that this is the only way to gain our freedom.”

  Did his voice tremble on the last word? Did it contain a hint of hope, of desire? She would never be certain,
for she had never heard a like thing from him before. It unnerved her; it laid bare the end of her journey.

  “Belf?”

  “Yes?”

  “I want you to wait for me. At the Bridge. I promise I’ll try to explain.” When he didn’t answer, she added, “I miss you.”

  “Oh Erin—”

  She held out her arms, moving quickly forward to catch him. The net of her light went out, a prison and a balm both, and they stood together as they had not done for a long time. A tenuous peace, a tremulous promise, existed between them. For a moment, Erin felt happy.

  And then he was gone, suddenly she embraced no more than shadow and darkness. She pulled her arms up in surprise, and drew back, if direction had meaning here.

  The roar sounded through her; she heard it, but not with her ears. Pain call reared up, almost tearing the curtain of light that she had become here. She cried out, whether in fear of it, or in welcome, even she could not be sure.

  He was here. Turning, a blur that scarred the air, she could see where a deep red-fire took hold of the shadow, driving it away. That fire had arms, legs, and torso, but all else was obscured. It pulled away from the darkness, and stood—the Lord of the shadows here.

  The Lord of the Empire.

  He faced her, tall and proud, with a grim, fell wildness that crackled in the air. For just an instant, the red flickered; it seemed a dying fire, or at least a cooling one. He was silent, and the pain that throbbed between them was almost solely his.

  Then he laughed; it was strange and reckless, an act of defiance. “Do you think to trick me, even here?”

  She did not answer, but even against her will she began to move forward.

  “Do you think that my grief blinds me to your shadow?”

  He was not speaking to her. She reached out and saw her hands glow dimly and impossibly delicately before her.

  “Where did you learn this, Lord? Where did you capture this likeness? Was it Sargoth?” His laughter was an ugly rupture of air and sound. “You shall have no Servant but me, if it was. I alone will stand, and I will serve no more.”

  Erin gasped as he lunged forward, his claws raking through the air—and through her. They passed, little red triangles that left no mark. She barely felt it at all.

  “What is this?” He turned now, to look at his claws, then to look again at Erin as she hovered, untouched by his power. “Do you still dare this facade?”

  She shook her head; she couldn’t help it. All the words that she had said, all the vows that she had sworn—what did they matter here? She knew why she had been afraid to face him on the field. She knew it too well.

  “Stefanos.”

  The red light melted away, running down him as if it were water—or blood.

  “Sara.”

  They were silent a moment, and then he began to speak in a rush, as if time mattered to him. Time had always been his enemy, and he would never forget it. “Have you come, Lady, to return that which I gave to you?”

  “Stefanos.” Her voice broke, and she held out her arms. She had never thought to hear the wildness or the pain so exposed.

  He continued, as if he had not heard the single word.

  “You have returned to no avail. Sara—I would not know how to accept it back. I do not even know what it was that I gave.” He bent his head into his hands like a broken man. Thus did the slaves go to the markets all across his Empire and kneel before her likeness.

  She could not watch him so without trying something—anything. She reached out for him, as she had reached out for Belfas, and her power flared from her fingertips.

  His reared up in answer, and the red and the white flowered bitterly before lapsing into empty death.

  “Stefanos,” she said, her throat too tight and too swollen, “I loved you.”

  “I know it,” he answered. “You are the source of all pain.”

  “Would you have changed it?”

  “Yessss.” The ancient voice arose in him, the darkness of the beginning. “Yessss. For I would rule all in peace; I would feed where I chose, and when. You have infected me, divided me.” He rose. “You are dead, and yet even here, I have no peace from your memory. Even another’s pain has lost its hold, its thrall.”

  It hurt, to hear that. She was surprised at how much. She turned from him. But not before the ghost of a glimmer lighted her ethereal cheek.

  “Lady?” His voice was quiet, almost confused. “Have I hurt you?”

  But the daylight had already claimed her. She woke with tears coursing down her cheeks as the sun broke across the horizon.

  And even his roar was not enough, in the daylight, to draw her back.

  Lady Amalayna drew up to Vellen’s house by carriage. The carriage bore two crests, each the match of the other in artistry and execution. House Valens and House Damion had equal part in her life until the rites, and every observer had no choice but to acknowledge it.

  The grounds, glorious and green, threw blossoms and trees in her path, but they were dark; night limned and hid them. Perhaps if she waited long enough this eve, she would see them in full glory. Oil-lit lamps only glinted off their surfaces, presenting a teasing hint of what they truly were.

  She had never thought that she would miss the daylight. Her fingers bit into the cushioned seats as the gates flew past; she counted quickly to the clip of hooves on the cobbled path. The Vellen estates were magnificent—and the thoroughfare to them long. Too long by far.

  Tonight she meant to speak with Lord Vellen, to speak in earnest, as she had not once done since accepting his troth and his symbol. Cold metal burned at her throat. It was heavy; she thought it would cut off all breath with its weight.

  Impatient, she leaned out of the window, gripping its edge for support. They were not there yet. The manor, lit by all types of lamp and torch, glittered white against the darkness, a dramatic relief of stone and glass against the sky. The center tower rose high, and even now she could see the crest of the house fluttering in the wind above it.

  She sat back, forcing her shoulders to touch the seat. Her chin was tilted slightly up, and her face was calm but pale. Too little sun, she would have answered, had any been fool enough to ask.

  Anger had two colors: red and white. This night she chose ice as her implement and her strength. She meant to have her answers from Lord Vellen, one way or the other.

  The carriage rolled to a stop, and she waited impatiently for the sound of the driver. Ah, there. He had disembarked. She saw him, his uniform of Valens, crisp and impeccable. A burgundy glove reached out, touched handle, and twisted it. The door creaked open. Absently she jotted it down in memory as something that must be attended to; no door of a carriage in her service made a noise like that.

  Her chin lifted a hair’s breadth as she waited for ritual to be over. The driver bowed low and offered his hand. She was loath to accept it, for hers were shaking, but she knew manners and form well enough. Let him think it the cold; he would never ask.

  Still, it annoyed her as she found her feet. She had never liked to share her weakness with anyone—anyone but Laranth, and he was gone. She did not speak, not even to thank the driver for his speed. Instead she liberated her hand as quickly as was suitable and hastened to the entrance of the courtyard.

  The guards knew the symbol that glittered between the clasps of the cape she wore. They bowed low, their faces a study in attention and strength in servitude. While Lord Vellen would one day rule them, Lady Amalayna could still make their life very difficult. A gesture of respect cost them little now and might be rewarded by a smooth transition to a new lord in the future.

  A slave stood to the right of the double doors that led into the grand hall. Chandeliers—were they everywhere in their ostentatiousness?—glittered fractures of light from above. She stood impatiently as the slave took the cloak from her shoulders.

  “Shall I announce you, Lady?”

  She nodded gravely. “Tell Lord Vellen that I seek an audience with him.�
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  She caught the way his eyes flickered over his feet.

  “Is there news?” she asked, her voice cold but not yet sharp enough to sting.

  “Lady.” The slave bowed. “Lord Vellen has departed the house.”

  “Where has he gone?”

  A flicker of eyes again. Still, if the slave were nervous, he showed it in no other way. It was a good sign; it spoke of good training, not a lax master—not in this house. “He is on business, Lady. Please, I am not given leave to say more.”

  “When will he return?”

  “I do not know. Perhaps Lord Damion may be able to help you further. Shall I announce you to him?”

  She took a deep breath and straightened herself out; her shoulders had started to slump. Disappointment, mingled with relief, hollowed her out. “Yes,” she answered curtly.

  The slave bowed again and turned to his task. His strides were quick and sure as they took him to the left of the hall. He was a little old to be on door service, but Lady Amalayna could well understand why Lord Damion chose to keep him here. He was not easily flustered, and she was certain that had she pressed him for more information, even under threat, he would have yielded none. If the rites were completed, she would have to remember this slave.

  Lord Damion was prompt with his reply, although he did not come in person to greet her. She nodded briefly to the slave and followed him as if the way to Lord Damion’s personal study were not familiar to her.

  The slave paused to knock at the door.

  “Enter.”

  He pushed it open gently, then stood to one side to allow the lady to pass. She met his eyes, and he continued to look straight ahead. With a small smile, she walked into the study.

  Lord Damion stood with his back to the fire that was burning merrily in the frame of an old, finely crafted mantel. On either side, little diamonds of glass caught the orange light and reflected it outward. Behind the doors, small, perfect cabinets held books that looked impossibly old. One or two of them were faded enough that Amalayna had to stare to catch their titles. She was surprised to find that they were not in the tongue of the Empire—surprised and a little shocked.