Chains of Darkness, Chains of Light

by Michelle Sagara

  For about the tenth time, Erin shook her head firmly. “I doubt that Candy will be happy about the one I’m taking.”

  “I just don’t want—”

  Erin opened her arms and hugged the old merchant. “Any harm to come to me. I know.” Her own smile was teary. She hid it against the breadth of Hildy’s shoulder and took a deep breath. Hildy was clean and smelled a little of lilac and tea; later in the day these odors would be mingled with sweat. She had hugged Hildy often enough to know all the smells associated with her; they reminded her of Katalaan, of childhood. She knew she wouldn’t have this again, and if she clung more tightly than usual, Hildy didn’t remark on it.

  “You’ve been a good guard, dear. When you come back, if you want the job, I’ll take you on any time.” She leaned forward conspiratorially, although her voice was no less loud than usual. “Between you and me, boys are fine, but it isn’t the same as having another woman’s company. Almost makes me miss the days I spent traveling with Candy.” She sighed, straightened out, and moved on to Darin.

  “You’d better make sure you eat more.”

  Darin almost giggled. It was one of the several phrases that were pure Hildy, and the guards often had betting pools as to who would hear it next, or who would hear it most often, on the route.

  “Don’t laugh like that, dear. I’m being serious. You’re a growing boy.”

  “Aren’t we all, Hildy?” Hamin chuckled.

  Ignoring him, Hildy folded Darin into her ample arms. “Try to keep an eye on her, won’t you?”

  Darin’s grip on the staff of Culverne tightened. “That’s why I’m going.” His words were very serious.

  “Good.” She stood back, looked at him, and shook her head. “We never did get you another set of boots. I honestly don’t know how you could have damaged those ones so badly.” And then she was on again, to speak a few words to Tiras, who even at his age was not spared much.

  Erin watched Hildy move from person to person and stepped back so that Corfaire could be lectured in private. She watched the sardonic, affectionate smile curl round his lips, and heard the exasperation, equally affectionate, in Hildy’s voice.

  The scabbard of his sword hung loose at his side, and she wondered. How had she taken his oath? It was Empire born and bred, a ceremony the nobles oft used and abused. She had seen it once or twice when she had stood by Stefanos’ side. In all of her years in Rennath, no one had offered the pledge to her.

  Nor would she have accepted it if they had.

  But Corfaire ... she shook her head. What he offered had been so sincere and so intense that the importance of the answer was never in doubt. There was no politics in it, and it was no mere gesture.

  True, she had hesitated, but in the end she had to accept the only expression of loyalty he knew how to offer. She only wished she understood better why. For her, the red and the green, the black and the white, had never proved themselves a good combination.

  Maybe it was just Rennath and the echoes of all that she had wanted it to mean.

  Again she shook herself and began to tighten the straps of her pack. The farewells had not been as hard as she had thought they would. Even knowing that she wouldn’t see Hildy again didn’t cut her as deeply as it had. For she was already distant here; stepping beneath the gates of the old city had brought her back to a time when Hildy had not yet been born.

  Everyone waited in silence as she sent her gaze out and up toward the spires of the city proper. Quietly she said her last farewell. She wasn’t sure, as she turned to follow Corfaire’s steady lead, which of the good-byes she regretted more.

  Lady Amalayna’s fingers did not so much as shake. Her hands were dry and cool as she put down the pale, cream-colored lid of the powder jar that graced her dressing table.

  She hesitated a moment and looked up to see herself reflected in the delicately framed oval mirror. Out of habit, she adjusted herself so that her face was perfectly centered. A proud, cold mask stared back at her. It was white, and powder and cream had been so perfectly applied that no blemishes marred her. Her hair had been drawn up into a smooth, black sheen, with only small strings of diamonds and platinum to break it.

  “Lady?”

  A frown started, and Amalayna took the pains to force it off her face. “Yes?”

  The door stayed shut, which was only proper. The slave had been given no leave to enter. “Your father waits you.”

  “Good.” She rose quietly and elegantly. “He is?”

  “In the tower study.”

  She glanced out of the long, thin windows. The moon had stretched its way across the sky while she had risen and dressed. Time, in the evening, was much harder to judge than in the day; she hoped she was not late.

  She walked quietly to the door and opened it herself.

  An old slave waited her appearance, holding a silver tray with a brandy decanter and two heavy cut-crystal glasses.

  “Ah, good. Leave that on the table and go back to your duties. I shall carry them to the lord myself.”

  House Valens did not keep ill-trained slaves. The old woman gave no hint of her surprise, and Amalayna knew the surprise was there. Instead, she did as her lady commanded. It was almost a pity that she would have to be killed, but it couldn’t really be helped. There was much at stake here; too much for one slave to hold the key to, even if she never realized that she did.

  Alone, Lady Amalayna looked down at the tray. Her face was frozen, expressionless. Now she hesitated, and this time for real. What she contemplated was almost unthinkable.

  But what he had done was worse. She had not taken Lord Vellen’s word alone, but after accepting that his words might be true, the evidence was trivial to obtain.

  She crossed the room and pulled open a drawer. Pushing aside the vellum and quills, she pulled out one small bottle of ink and lifted the cap.

  The liquid had a bitter scent, but the brandy would mask it well. Very carefully she twisted the stopper off the decanter and emptied the bottle. A clear liquid merged with the golden one until no eyes could have told them apart.

  Then she straightened her shoulders and walked out the door. Five minutes later she returned with another, younger slave. He followed her wordlessly, and when she pointed at the tray, he lifted it.

  “To the tower study,” she said softly.

  “Lady.”

  She waited for the slave to step into the hall. For one moment, her expression cracked, and her face lost the control that only years can bring to a person.

  Dramathan of Valens was a tired man. The destruction of the temple’s south wing had caused more than its share of unrest, and the captain of the Swords had made clear all he felt about the deaths of “his” men. The priests could be better controlled—or they would be, if not for the politics of the Greater Cabal.

  When Benataan of Torvallen finally graced the altars, Lord Valens intended to have a hand presiding in the ceremonies. He was certain that he could ask that much of the high priest of the Cabal. He was not going to settle for anything less.

  The knock at the door took him away from his contemplations. He rose, bidding his daughter to enter.

  Amalayna walked quietly in.

  She was lovely, in the cold way that only nobility could be; distant, pale, and untouchable. She had been quiet of late, and from the set of her face, this night would be no exception. But at least she wore house colors, house cloth. Above the modest fall of burgundy neckline, the crest of House Damion caught the light.

  She would serve the house well, he was certain of it.

  “Father,” she said quietly. She walked toward him and stopped, offering her cheek.

  He kissed it; it was trembling. “Are you cold, Amalayna?”

  Her smile was pained. Just a hint of white powder clung to his lips; half of her task was done. “I am not yet used to these evenings.” But there was no complaint in her voice. “Why did you call me?”

  He gestured to one of the chairs, and she took it. “Bra
ndy?”

  “Please.”

  The liquid was warm and rich and golden; it flowed down her throat smoothly, and she hardly felt the after-burn that lingered. But she noted that he drank after she did. Habit, not suspicion, but habits such as these were often difficult to break.

  It didn’t matter. Not now. If she had had any second thoughts, the time for them had just flown past.

  “You heard of the trouble at the temple?”

  She raised an eyebrow, studying his face. “There are very few who have not.”

  “Yes. Well.” He drained his glass. “We need your help.”

  “ ‘We’?”

  “Lord Vellen and I.”

  She was silent a moment. “Why?”

  “The Torvallen alliance has gained too much ground due to the destruction. Lord Vellen is holding his position, but it has been weakened. Michaelas of Corcassus and Marek of Grimfaxos may prove to be a problem to us.”

  “Your sources?”

  “Have indicated nothing, for the moment. Lord Vellen’s have likewise returned with neutral news; Benataan has made an offer, but we do not know its nature. Nor do we know the disposition of these two lords to it.” He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “I do not need to tell you, Amalayna, that we will suffer if Lord Vellen loses his seat. Keep this in mind and use your own network to gain information on the doings of the Greater Cabal.”

  She nodded quietly. “At once, Father. Regardless of what either you or Lord Vellen believes, His life is of great concern to me.”

  Dramathan’s smile was a mixture of irony and weary affection. “I know. I have raised no fool.”

  The slave that answered the quiet, insistent knocking was the same old door warden that Amalayna had come to know well. He was dressed in house colors, and he wore them with a dignity that was almost too great for his station. The red and gold of the jacket seemed an impossible hint of sunlight in its full glory.

  And of Laranth in his.

  Her face was pale, but not due to powders or creams, and nothing hid the circles beneath her wary eyes.

  “Lady Amalayna.” The slave bowed very correctly. A little too much so. At his back, the bright crystal lamps of House Tentaris glittered in the darkness like an estranged friend. She shivered under her cape and cast a glance over her shoulder to where the carriage still waited in the narrow, well-lit drive.

  “Please tell Lord Tentaris that I seek an audience with—with Lord Parimon.”

  The slave hesitated a moment, and the door opened a fraction of an inch. “As you wish, Lady Amalayna. Please enter and wait here.”

  A breach of protocol, that. But she was grateful for it; standing outside made her feel too exposed. She was not completely certain that she had not been followed.

  Ah, well. If Lord Vellen knew, what of it? He would no doubt think it the weakness that it was. For a moment she leaned her back against the broad, solid doors and tilted her head to the light. She almost wished that she had never met Laranth, and failing that, had never been foolish enough to keep so little distance.

  “Amalayna.”

  She looked down to see the lord of the house, casually attired, in the distant hall. He held something carefully in his arms as he approached her.

  “Lord Tentaris,” she murmured, moving away from the door. She pushed her cape to one side and curtsied. It was the gesture of a supplicant, and they both knew it well.

  “Amalayna, why have you come?”

  She looked directly at the red and gold bundle that he held so gingerly. Almost, her lips turned up in a smile. He was not a man used to the handling of children.

  “To see Lord Parimon,” she answered quietly. “To see my son.” She swallowed as he stopped a few feet from her. He did not ask her to remove her cloak and enter. She hadn’t expected it and was surprised at how it stung.

  “Did we not agree that you were not to come here?”

  A nod was the only answer she could offer in the face of his stem words, his stiff expression. She met his dark eyes directly.

  And was surprised at the way the lines of his face changed. “I’m too old a man for this.” He held out his arms. “Lord Parimon, I’m sure, would be pleased to grant you the audience you have risked coming for.”

  She needed no further encouragement; her arms were already under the back and head of her young son. His face twisted momentarily, and his eyes blinked open.

  “Hello, Pari.” No one save Parimon, not even Laranth, had ever heard such a soft tone to her words.

  “Come, Amalayna.” Lord Tentaris moved to her back and began to unfasten her cloak. It fell away, revealing the burgundy and gray of the house that now claimed her. But at her waist, trailing the length of her skirt, were twined black and white ribbons. She heard his breath, but did not see his face; her own was buried in the small neck of her child.

  “Come,” he said again, but softly. “The drawing room is being readied. There is a chill in the night.”

  Gentleness almost made her cry, where cruelty could not. She was aware of the arm around her shoulder and allowed Lord Tentaris to lead her through the halls that she knew well.

  “Who—who is feeding him?”

  “We have a wet nurse,” Lord Tentaris replied. “Not a slave.”

  She nodded her approval, but could not take her eyes away from her son. He smelled of powder and soap. “Has he been well?”

  “Amalayna,” the lord’s words were a drawl, “I am well aware that you still hold informants within my house. I dare-say I know who they are. If your son were not well, you would probably know it before I.”

  She blushed, and he chuckled as they entered the drawing room. A small fire was burning in the grate, and tea sat upon the low table. He offered her a seat on the couch and took the armchair himself.

  She did not speak for a long while, at least not intelligibly. But the half words and coos were of interest to Parimon, who joined in her senseless babble. One little hand flailed at the jeweled strands of platinum that hung from her face.

  “I am old.”

  “Pardon?”

  He smiled and shook his head. “I do not remember Laranth as a child. But I remember his mother when she first held him. She was not unlike you are now, and she was not very similar at any other time.” The smile faded. “You would have been the daughter of my choice. I regret that my house cannot be as open to you as it was.”

  “As do I.” Her words were stark and simple, but there was steel in each of them.

  “Why have you come?”

  “To see my son.”

  “I am old, child, but I have not grown addled. I know what your weakness for Laranth was—it was a mirror of his for you. But unlike other lords and ladies, I have never mistaken it for more. Why did you wish to see my grandchild this evening?”

  “You will not be addled when you are in your grave,” she answered, and her grip on her son tightened. She pulled a fold of cloth a little over his face, so that he might not see hers.

  All trace of indulgence or amusement was gone from Lord Tentaris’ face in that instant. He was a hawk, and the red and gold were the colors of his territory. Thus did he show the kinship that he felt with his grandson’s mother.

  “I wished to tell my son,” she said quietly, “that I have begun vengeance upon his father’s assassins.”

  The older man’s eyes grew wide. “Who?”

  She shook her head quietly and pulled the cloth away from Parimon’s face; he had started to fuss. Her lips she pressed against his forehead. “Believe me when I say that it is better that you do not know.”

  “Amalayna, play no games with me.”

  “For the sake of my son, I would do more than play.”

  They bristled at each other, and Lord Tentaris rose, all age forgotten. “Your son? Remember, he is the son of my house.”

  “Do you seek to deny him to me, more so than you have already done?” Her grip tightened, and Parimon, aware of the tension, began to wail. The tig
ht line of her mouth fell, and the edge of words blurred into the sounds of comfort she had not been able to offer him for too long.

  “Amalayna.”

  “I’m sorry.” She looked up wearily. “I have so little time.” Even in defeat, there was still steel to her. “Yes, I know whose hand guided the killer. Laranth is ever in my thoughts, as he must be in your own.

  “But there is no longer any danger to your house. Or to my son. And I can only be sure of that if you are kept in ignorance.” Again she bent her face over her son’s. “And only if I obey your dictate and do not come again.

  “It is very hard.”

  “Who?” he said again, although he knew by now that she would not answer.

  “What word can you give me that you will not interfere?”

  “None, without your answer.”

  “Then there is no answer.” She rose and very hesitantly of fered her child up to Lord Tentaris and the care of his house. His crying was the only sound that marred the room’s stillness.

  “Amalayna—”

  “Enough. Even with Laranth’s aid, you could not hope to accomplish what you will try to without destroying my son’s future. I will not allow it. What finances have gone into your trade war, only you alone can know for certain—but I can guess. You have lost several of your routes, and while House Wintare has not gained them, they are gone nonetheless. What resources have you left at your disposal? Already there are other houses at your door, and were you not so intelligent, they would have taken Tentaris down to bare stones by now.”

  He held Parimon awkwardly. Anger and respect warred with his face, and oddly, respect won. “House Valens raised no fool,” he said quietly.

  It was not what she did that surprised him, for she did very little. But her hands curled into tense, white fists—he could almost see the bone show through beneath translucent skin. “If you need my aid, or any that I can offer, it is yours.”

  She nodded stiffly.

  “And should you wish to see your son, you have access.”

  That won a little expression from her face. “It—it is best that I do not.”