Chains of Darkness, Chains of Light

by Michelle Sagara

  Wild. Yes. He knew then why he had come here.

  He began to circle the grounds until he found himself at the labyrinth. He knew the hedges well; no twist or turn they took could lose him. He chose, instead of blood-spell, the simple expedient of walking, although his feet barely touched the ground. Here, on nearly the first of days, he had walked with his Lady. He could almost feel her ghost at his side.

  The hedges in darkness were neatly trimmed and clipped, but as he left their rigid, living confines, he saw the weeds and brambles begin to take hold. How the master gardener had objected to this unsightly growth! It almost brought a smile to him.

  But the smile was lost before it started.

  He could feel the call of magic—the blood of the Light. To his eyes, a green-white glow topped the ancient ruins of the well. It was pale, more pale than the blood of either of the Twin Hearts should have been. But it, unlike the wound in Malakar, was still whole; still cleansed.

  What was the use of it? The Bright Heart, even cleansed, had not been able to save Sara from the death that the Dark Heart had decreed.

  Sara ...

  He walked to the edge of the well. It was uncomfortable, but he had expected no less.

  “Can you hear me?” The words were a whisper. He raised one hand in a half circle, but let none of his power out. “Do you know that I have returned yet again?”

  The water rippled.

  “On the morrow, I will wake the master gardener.” He bowed, and this too hurt. This he might have granted to Sara while she had been at his side to appreciate it. If the mortal Beyond existed, he hoped that she might yet be waiting and watching.

  “You have lost your war. I have lost mine. And in the end, I do not know how much of an enemy you were to me.” He turned hurriedly then, and walked away, for his blood still struggled to answer the call of the Light. Instead of the patient walk through the labyrinth, he chose to rise above it; to see it laid out, symmetrical and precise, a green crown to the enduring jewel of the well.

  The bitter song of Light’s power rang in his ears.

  He accepted it; he could almost pretend that it was Sara’s presence that he felt.

  He straightened himself out to his full height, exhaled, and cast yet again. His eyes grew silver, not red, and when their light dimmed, they were a deep brown. Gray merged with pink until he once again wore the glamour of a mortal man.

  From this height, he looked down. There was at least one grave here. He had made it himself.

  In silence, suspended in the cool air, he bowed his head. Gervin ...

  He had seen the well; it had not been enough. It was time for the building proper. He passed the front courtyard, pausing only a moment beneath tiered archways. He had built this, but none of God’s power touched any part of it, not even the foundations.

  He strode into the great hall of his castle, and after a few moments, a slave peered around a corner. It was gratifying to watch his jaw drop open, but Stefanos made no move toward him. His fingers curled into fists as he turned aside from the scent of fear.

  Memory never really captured the feeling of the present. He had known the pain of denied hunger before, but it felt sharp and new.

  “Lord!”

  “Yes,” he answered mildly. “I have returned.”

  “I’ll get Ev—uh, the house mistress.”

  “Do.”

  The slave scrambled up off his knees and ran, banging at least two doors behind him. He heard the shouting clearly; it was likely a muffled bell.

  Three more slaves, two very young, appeared out of shadow, adding light to the hall’s many torches. They avoided meeting his gaze, and he did not interrupt them to give further orders. He waited, watching them as he had often done when Sara slept. Their fear was muted, but their excitement was evident.

  His hunger ebbed away a moment as the Great Hall came to life.

  The house mistress came up from the slaves’ quarters looking both severe and newly awakened. Her dress was crisply starched and chafed at the ground as she walked.

  “Lord,” she said, wearing a voice that was as stiff and proper as her clothing. She bent to her knees and bowed her head to the floor before him.

  “House mistress. Is my study in order?”

  “Yes, Lord. As are your rooms.”

  “Good. Rise. No, do not bother with my cloak; I shall carry it myself.” He brushed past her then and began to walk the halls of his castle.

  He knew now why he had left it staffed. His study, with its row of books and its tall arched windows, waited in the pleasant darkness. His chair, and the ironwood desk that he’d purchased to grace the room, had been left empty too long. From here, he might reach a decision about the Empire, and about the future.

  Perhaps, after some time, the taint of the blood-hunger would again be purged, and he might see a glimmer of the dawn without feeling her ancient vengeance. Sara had always loved the dawn, and if he were to dwell in the shadow of her memory, why not feel an echo of her warmth?

  His stride grew more sure and more confident, and the voices of his slaves faded from hearing behind him.

  Lord Stefan Darclan had returned home.

  Sargoth looked up at the night sky.

  His feet skirted treetops, but the moon was on the wane, and although her light was bright enough, he was fairly certain that he could not be readily seen.

  Malakar lay fifty miles to the southeast, under night’s blanket. But her streets were well lit and crowded as the houses went about their business.

  Sargoth disliked this edict of the First.

  To find the streets crowded with so much mortal chaff annoyed him, night or day. He now had no release from their noise and their pale flickers of life.

  His power was a thin, red line that stretched across the province and beyond. It had taken many hours of searching thus, but he had finally found the thing that he sought.

  The half blood of Elliath was on the move, and she was close enough now that he saw an end to his long labor. No, not an end. But the hope of one.

  He wearied of the world; it held no mysteries for him to unlock. The bickering of the priests had amused him for a few days, but their struggles were pathetic echoes of grander, older ones.

  She slept now, he was certain of it Her light had ceased to move. At the rate she had been traveling, she would reach the city in long weeks. Long? He shrugged. It seemed that he, too, had been infected by the mortal awareness of time. What was time to a Servant? These weeks should have been a steady blink of an eye, no more.

  His breath came out in a hiss as he spun slowly to face Malakar. As mortal cities went, it was grand enough, illuminated by shadow and the trace of power of the Servants who had deigned to lay foundations for the temple.

  He hated it.

  First among us, why do you stay so long from your capital?

  He knew, of course, the moment that Stefanos had departed the Hand of the Dark Heart. He knew too the minutes that he had passed among the ruins of the temple’s southern wing. It had taken many minutes of searching to find the source of red light that glowed at the heart of Mordantari, the “Lord’s province” as it was known.

  He thought that the First might have gone to see to the wound of the Enemy, but that light had not so much as flickered, and Stefanos had been there many hours.

  Wind swirled around him, catching at the strands of dark cloak that he wore. But they did not disturb his thoughts.

  Why, Stefanos? Why do you remain there?

  He might have gone himself, but he knew that the power of the Enemy’s blood would conceal the presence of the Sarillom more effectively than spells of his own making. And in this, he was very much a Servant of Malthan: He had no desire to visit the site of a defeat.

  Frustration was not a particularly pleasant thing, and he let it go for a moment, scorching the treetops with something that approached rage. If Stefanos did not leave Mordantari soon, the coming of the Sarillorn would count for little.


  Only this once had he ever been strongly tempted to pierce the veils of time and see the possibilities that the future laid out before his immortal eyes. But no; he could not guarantee the time of his passage, and perhaps he too would lose the moment of the Sarillorn’s ascendancy. He could not risk it.

  All he could do now was subject himself to more human prattle, human wiles. He must talk with the high priest of the Greater Cabal, if Lord Vellen indeed had managed to retain his post there. He had grown bored with watching and listening and had perhaps not paid as much attention as he should have.

  His claws unfurled and made an elegant pass at the air.

  The treetops continued to blow in the wind, and ash fell like rain on the ground below.

  Sargoth did his best to ignore the priests and acolytes that wandered to and fro in the busy halls. Fear underlay their every movement; the cold stone resonated with the warmth of its song. He was not tempted, however; he had fed at the beginning of the evening and was unwilling to waste the necessary time to do so again. If ever a Servant could be said to be bored of this enjoyable replenishment of power, it was the Second of the Sundered.

  He stopped and frowned occasionally, looking up to the archways. He disliked them; they were too precise and too ... mortal. Perhaps when the game had ended, he would change them at his leisure.

  Then again, he had had his fill of mortal lands for at least the next millennium. The imagination necessary to envision prolonging his stay was beyond him at this point, no matter for what reason.

  The double doors—why was everything doubled?—to the high priest’s room were guarded by four Swords. Not one of them challenged his entry.

  Lord Vellen looked up as the door clicked shut behind the Second of the Sundered.

  “Sargoth.” He nodded and made to rise immediately.

  Sargoth waved a hand, and Lord Vellen sat back, carefully setting aside a wet quill.

  “What brings you, Second of our Lord?”

  “News.” The word hung sibilant in the air. “The plans of my Lord have almost reached their final stages.”

  Lord Vellen nodded quietly. He was weary; the letter before him, rankling in its anonymity, had brought no welcome news.

  “She is not so far from Malakar,” Sargoth continued. “Be prepared. Those of the priests in your control must keep all knowledge of her presence hidden.”

  Vellen nodded, and Sargoth turned to leave.

  “Second of the Sundered.”

  He halted.

  “I can see two problems with your plan.”

  “Yes?”

  “The First is not among us; I do not know where he dwells, and I’ve not the time to search.”

  “He is in Mordantari.”

  “I see.”

  “Your second ‘problem’?”

  “I do not know how much longer I will maintain control of the priesthood.” He sagged further into the chair as these most difficult words left his lips.

  Sargoth shrugged. “Very well. Then perhaps I shall speak to your successor. Benataan of Torvallen, I believe.”

  There was a flash of anger in Lord Vellen’s eyes, but his lips remained set. “Lord Sargoth,” he began, drawing his hands from the desk and placing them in his lap. “I realize that you are involved solely in service to our Lord. Perhaps you have not had the time to observe the machinations of the Greater Cabal at length.”

  “Your point?”

  “Benataan of Torvallen may well be my successor if my plans go awry. But I do not believe that he will aid you in yours.”

  Sargoth said nothing, but moved slightly closer.

  “He has no grievance with the First of the Sundered, other than the loss of a member of his house—and at that, only a fourth child. Should he understand your plan, and I gather he must understand some of it if he is to work with you, what benefit does he gain by coming to your aid?”

  “His life,” Sargoth said darkly.

  “Indeed? At the risk of much, I will say that you are the Second—and the Lord of the Empire is First. What is to stop Benataan from approaching the Lord of the Empire directly? The news he would bring would be welcome and would perhaps guarantee him freedom from more petty, political concerns.”

  “You are clever,” Sargoth said. “If this man threatens you, kill him. I have taught you what you need to know to accomplish this.”

  Again Vellen’s eyes flashed. “Indeed. And if it were that simple, I would. But Torvallen’s house is not without power—and not without allies. Such a death would fall upon my house and upon me. My position is not so strong at the moment that I could accept this censure and be secure of my post.”

  “I see.”

  Vellen leaned back in his chair for a moment. “Second of the Sundered, I will guarantee my aid. But—I need your help.” No one living had ever heard these words from Lord Vellen.

  Sargoth said nothing at all. But his shadows grew deeper and more red in the silence.

  Lord Vellen knew that he had been dismissed, but waited in his chair until all traces of the Second had vanished from his room.

  Only then did he return to the work at his desk.

  But his face was white, grim. He did not know how well the gamble would succeed. Sargoth was no fool, but he was not well versed in the politics of the mortal arena; he had no reason not to take the high priest at his word.

  The lamp was flickering down, and Vellen cursed the need to work in darkness. But perhaps, should Sargoth’s plan bear fruit, he would once again be in control of the vast Empire of Veriloth. He would dispense immediately with the dusk-to-dawn edict.

  First, he had to survive.

  Lord Valens sat in silence in the council room of the Greater Cabal. His pallor was off, and he knew it—only with Amalayna’s remarkable assistance had he been able to disguise it from all but the most privileged members of his own house.

  It’s just age, he told himself. Of this, he was not entirely certain. At any other time he would have chosen the simple expedient of remaining at home until the illness had run its course.

  One glance at the slightly superior nod that Benataan gave across the table underlined the foolishness of that option now. He graced Benataan with a meager nod and surveyed the gathering. Only eleven of the Karnari had yet taken their seats, and the time for the meeting’s start had long since passed.

  It was a very bad sign when Benataan of Torvallen, replete in formal robes, rose and placed both of his hands upon the table. None of the Karnari were so formally dressed, but instead of looking pretentious, Benataan seemed already to wield the power he coveted.

  It was a bad sign, indeed.

  “High priests of the Greater Cabal,” he began, his voice quite measured and reasonable, “it appears that we are to commence the meeting without the guiding force of Lord Vellen.” The fact that he used the house title, and not the Church title, was lost upon no one.

  Lord Valens looked at the other empty seat; it belonged to Michaelas of Corcassus. Amalayna had not unearthed any useful information about House Corcassus yet, but it seemed that it had become a moot point. He did not do himself the indignity of inquiring about Michaelas’ presence.

  That left it at five to six. And it left him, as the most senior of Lord Vellen’s allies, to try to block the raising or voting of any important, central issues. He was already weary and not up to the game.

  He looked at Lord Sorval of Kintassus and could not keep a grimace of contempt from his face. Five and a half to five.

  “Gentlemen of the cabal—”

  “Come,” Corvair interjected. “Vellen is yet likely to show. And these matters go beyond politics for the nonce.”

  “Indeed.” Benataan’s glance was chill. “I had no intent to raise ‘political’ issues. The Church, and its fate, are what we must discuss this eve.”

  Sorval snickered, and even Benataan favored him with an ill glance. The man was becoming an embarrassment, and an expensive one, at that. His habit was not easy to supply, curse th
e merchant traders.

  “What is there to discuss?” Marek of Grimfaxos said uneasily. He ran his fingers through his hair; he, too, had had some difficulties in the past few days.

  “After the destruction? If you can still ask, perhaps you are not qualified to be a member of the Karnar.”

  Marek did not respond.

  Irritated, Lord Valens raised a hand. “Make your point, Benataan. At least bring it to motion. If the high priest is not to be present, you can spare the endless aggrandizement; it does not impress us.” It was not a wise comment, but Dramathan only realized this halfway through the sentence; his condition must be worse than he’d thought. Still, better to finish than to leave words hanging useless in the air.

  Benataan did not even appear to be ruffled.

  “If you do not wish to remain, the choice is yours. But there are matters of urgency to discuss. We are not in the position to immediately restore the south wing, and word of its destruction has already taken to the streets.

  “The Lesser Cabals are becoming unwieldy. I do not have to mention the difficulty with the Halloran Cabal. We cannot afford any more uncertainty from the capital. It will cost us too much.” He frowned, and this was not contrived.

  “Agreed.” Marek said, nodding impatiently. “But it is difficult; the Lord of the Empire is not easily predicted, and I dare-say he is outside of our combined ability to control.” His lips turned up in a cat’s smile. “Or do you still counsel a form of concerted aggression in light of the destruction?”

  This elicited several smiles from the Karnari. Benataan’s face alone remained severe.

  “It was not well thought out,” Lord Valens added mildly.

  “It is in the past,” was the curt reply. “And it is the future we are concerned with.”

  “Come, come, Benataan,” Morden of Farenel said, his gaunt cheeks dimpled by a lingering, malicious smile. “Vellen offers you the seat of the council should you choose to stand against our Lord.” There was mostly amusement in the words, however, and no practical sting; Farenel was still in close alliance with Torvallen.

  “Enough. I do not know that the seat will be Lord Vellen’s to offer for much longer, and it is of this that I wish to speak.”