Chains of Darkness, Chains of Light

by Michelle Sagara

  “Dorvannen is Lord Valens now.” The words sounded like a litany too often repeated. She collapsed into the chair and buried her face into shaking hands.

  Although he felt the words like a tremor, he was experienced enough to wait for her to speak, although the moon edged across the sky as he did so.

  When she looked up, her eyes were ringed red, the power of emotion, not blood. “I—I don’t know what to tell my son.”

  “Lady,” he answered softly, “you may tell your son whatever truth you deem fit. He will listen because it is you, and he will not be disappointed. Let me send for him. He is sleeping at the moment.”

  Kindness did what loss could not.

  Lady Amalayna of Valens began to cry. Only her eyes showed it at first, but soon her whole body shook. Some part of her mind must have known it was foolish, but the intellect did not reign here. She was in Tentaris, and it was the only home that she had really known.

  Lord Tentaris watched from a distance for a few moments, and then he moved closer to her, extending one hand until it rested firmly on her shoulder.

  She was a ghost again. The Lady Amalayna that House Tentaris had so valued had passed with the death of his son. Laranth would have been pained to know that, inadvertently, he had destroyed her, and his father did what he could to offer comfort.

  Sargoth was curious. This was not unusual. What was was the uneasiness that moved just beneath the surface of his thoughts. It had been a simple matter to use his Lord’s power to travel to where the First stayed, but now that he had arrived, he was almost at a loss.

  Before him lay the doors to the castle that Stefanos had built in Mordantari. Behind him, the gates rose, cutting the moon into even, straight slices. There were no slaves at all, no mortals toiling in darkness or running errands.

  Indeed, the castle seemed to be ... sleeping.

  He drifted toward it, and both his curiosity and his uneasiness grew. He had little pride to speak of, and certainly none compared to the rest of his brethren, so he hadn’t the option of lying to himself. It was not because he had met one defeat here that he traveled cautiously.

  He did not know what to expect.

  It was difficult, and the moon trailed across the sky in a gentle arc as he stood in shadow.

  Stefanos, you surprise me. I thought that the Sundered held no mystery. Very slowly he began to move toward the castle’s main doors. Why did you destroy so much of the temple? As a display of power, he could understand it—but the First had not remained to reap the fruits of his demonstration. He had come—fled, even—to Mordantari. Sargoth was not completely certain that he was aware of the rubble that he left in his wake.

  If not for the interference of his Lord, the Second would have approached this question with a cold glee—and he would have asked the First of the Sundered all the questions that he desired answers of.

  Who knew? If not for the Dark Heart, he might even be enlightened. He passed through the doors without bothering to open them, although it was a spurious use of power.

  He felt the rumble of power that suddenly surged to life in the castle. The First of the Sundered was aware of his intrusion.

  This, at least, was not surprising. Sargoth straightened and began to walk down the long halls, following a power that stone, wood, and distance could not conceal from his immortal sight.

  At last he came to the study. The door was already ajar.

  “First among us.” His voice was a sibilant whisper.

  Stefanos sat in a human chair, behind a large, human desk. Human wisdom, ephemeral and superficial, lay bound in numerous tomes that stretched from wall to wall. His shadow was likewise bound under a mortal countenance.

  “Sargoth.” A little flicker of red glowed at the center of brown eyes, and the fingers on the desk froze as if anchored by claws. They were.

  “You are far from Malakar.”

  “By whose standards?” The smile on his face was a pale glimmer in the poorly lit room. “Are you becoming bound by mortal time? I will tell you, Sargoth, that it is a dangerous gamble.”

  Although he was unique among the Sundered, Sargoth was part of them still, and he bridled at the implicit suggestion that anything mortal was a danger.

  “There is no danger to me, my Lord,” he replied. “I have no more interest in the mortals than they have in the cows that they eat.” He drew his shadow tight as he continued to speak. “Only one of us has ever felt their pull.”

  Eyes flickered again, but the red there burned more brightly. “More than one, surely.”

  “The others, only because they hoped it would lend them an advantage against you.”

  Stefanos shrugged and turned away. “Why have you come? These are my lands, Sargoth. You are not welcome in them.” The words were a dismissal, but the tone behind them wavered, and Sargoth chose to risk remaining.

  “I have come to give you fair warning.”

  “I am not interested in warning,” was the unexpected reply. He rose, finally, but instead of facing the Second, he turned to look out the window. Stars and moonlight paled beneath the glow of the Bright Heart’s blood.

  “But—but what of the revolution? What of the fall of Illan and the army that is gathering for Verdann?”

  For a moment the guise that Stefanos wore flickered, and there were two open shadows standing in the room. His hands shivered in the light, and his fingers grew longer and paler.

  This, Sargoth understood.

  “Indeed,” Stefanos said, and the shadow was gone. “What of it?”

  The Servants of the Twin Hearts did not sleep, and any dreams that they partook of were human. Yet tonight, for the first time in his long existence, Sargoth understood what a nightmare was. He had seen, and prepared for, every possibility, but he had not prepared for the unthinkable.

  A low, quiet sound filled the room, and it took Sargoth a moment to place it: the sound of human chuckling.

  “Sargoth, Sargoth—you are unusually transparent. It amuses me. I think I will even listen now to the words you have brought this far.”

  He turned suddenly, and shadow filled the room, erupting in a dark fury. Red, glowing lines ran through it like fine wire, and the Second of the Sundered was caught in its net before he could lift a finger. Gone was human seeming, and the torches on the walls were a faint hiss and tinkle in the distance. This shadow, this Servant, was First among all of the Sundered, and if he had changed since the dawn of their awareness, Sargoth had no time to discern the subtleties of it.

  “And I will listen to the reasons for it. I have had enough of your games!” Each word was harsh and solid; each syllable, formed by a precision of power, mouth, and tongue, caused the fine, tight web to shudder.

  Sargoth grimaced and threw up his own magic, but it was not enough. He had used his power too much over the last few human months.

  But at least he felt none of the curiosity that had so disturbed him. Stefanos’ flight had been a ruse to lull him, nothing more.

  He cursed himself, and Stefanos, in painful silence. He had not thought he would fight for survival this eve.

  Fear was an effective antidote to weariness.

  From the moment that Erin left her dingy room, she could feel her heart pressing against the thinness of skin with its insistent beat. The walls of her throat seemed to collapse and cling together in dryness. Every step that she took felt significant and irrevocable, and her feet trembled as if they were on the verge of a scaffold.

  Here, in Malakar, the last test came. She could not call upon the power of God to aid her. The incident in Coranth had shown her clearly that the Bright Heart was dimmed. Even were it not so, she could not invoke Him in this place.

  She had only herself, and her companions, to rely upon. And she had proved often that failure was no stranger to her.

  Fear of it grew as she walked down the hall to where Darin, Tiras, and Corfaire were waiting. Corfaire wore a pack, and his sword besides, but neither Darin nor Tiras was visibly armed. />
  The staff of Culverne lay in the bowels of their room at Tiras’ insistence. To carry it, even when its nature was known to so few, was too great a risk. The High City was close upon the temple’s outer wall.

  She stopped ten feet from her companions and looked at them carefully. What she saw was not really suspicious: A well-dressed, older man in the black that had ever been Empire fashion; a well-dressed young boy who looked uncomfortable in the high collar and stiff cuffs of his shirt, and a suitably attired guard who would have looked at home in the service of any imperial house.

  She herself wore, instead of stiff jerkin, a long, full-skirted dress. It had two slits, lost to the folds of falling red cloth, that would make a hasty retreat more convenient—but she had no sword, and the single dagger that she carried at her waist seemed a jeweled accoutrement and not a weapon.

  Hildy had made certain that the four would not look so out of place as solitary traders in the High City market.

  “Erin?”

  She shook herself and forced a smile to adhere to her lips. “Sorry. Just looking.”

  “Are you ready to leave, Lady?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I have a lamp that might be lit should we need it, but the innkeeper—who is a good deal less surly in the black of night—assures me that the way to the market is well lit. And guarded.” The last two words evoked a shadowed grimace. He stepped forward, offering his arm.

  “Take it, Erin,” Tiras said quietly, as she stared down. “And come. The market opened for business almost an hour ago.”

  The streets were crowded, but the presence of people only reminded Erin more of the desert, where life bided its time in the sun to emerge in full force at dusk. Several lamps lit the wide street that Corfaire called the Westway, but most of them seemed new and at odds with the buildings behind them.

  The walk through the crowd reminded Erin that she hated the city—everyone was too tall and too tightly packed together. All the usual courtesies prevailed, but if someone nearly sent her flying, his brisk apologies were lost to the surrounding chatter.

  Darin walked at her side, and he, too, seemed ill at ease in the crowds. Only Tiras and Corfaire followed the rhythms of motion dictated by the city as if they were born to it; the older man looked bored, and the younger slightly irritable.

  But it all fell away as she walked along the Westway. Walls rose above the heads of the people to her left; they were tall, and at their fullest height adorned with closely planted iron spikes. As if the temple were a small fortress within the larger city, guards roamed freely across the wall.

  No, not guards. Swords.

  The wall was well lit, and as one black-clad man passed beneath a heavy torch, light glinted off his surcoat. Red light—a thin, broken band.

  “This is where the Westway becomes the Eastway.” Corfaire’s words were loud. He spoke them only an inch from her ear.

  She nodded quietly, but continued to watch the wall. Beyond it, blurred by night and lack of focus, rose a single, thick tower. This she had seen entering the city.

  He looked at her, raising only an eyebrow in question, and she shook her head involuntarily.

  “It’s very crowded, Lady,” he mouthed.

  She still shook her head. It was too close.

  His shrug was answer enough, and she almost felt ashamed. How had she thought she would arrive in Malakar prepared for any conflict?

  If Erin had had any hopes that the crowds would thin as they walked, she lost it. The High City market had its own set of gates, guarded by men who were much better armored and armed than those that stood watch at the brink of the city. They were not normal city guards, but they were not Swords either, and they wore breastplates instead of the usual chain. There were four men in all, and they stood quite tall as they watched the crowd with impassive eyes.

  But they were not so intimidating as the guards at the outer gates had been. They made no move to stop the flow of traffic into the market.

  “This way.” Corfaire pulled her neatly between two people. She mumbled an apology as her elbow connected lightly with somebody’s chest. If the apology was acknowledged at all, the words were lost to the shouts of merchants hawking a variety of wares. In this respect, the High City market was no different from any other that she had been to.

  The crowds thinned after they had gone thirty feet, and Corfaire’s arm was no longer a harness that pulled her along. She had time both to catch her breath and to look around at the others who had come to market.

  She was underdressed. Full skirts of velvet brushed by beneath fitted bodices of lace and silk; pale skin, colored by powders and scented with a mixture of perfume and sweat, seemed the order of the evening. There were wigs, although they were not common, and one or two parties had come arrayed with slaves and palanquins.

  These slaves did not have the hungry, hunted look of many that she had met in her life. They were dressed in house colors, and the clothing, while much more simple than that the nobility wore, was nonetheless costly and well made.

  “House Stentos,” Corfaire whispered.

  She blushed. She was not often caught staring.

  “Lady Eilia.” His expression was neutral as he too looked carefully at the splash of deep blue and brilliant green the woman wore. “She’s known for both the amount of money she has and the speed with which she spends it. Our wares will most certainly fall into her hands within a two-week.” He shrugged, adjusting the straps on either of his shoulders. “If we manage to make it to the gem master’s ahead of her.”

  There was an etiquette to market travel, and Erin was pulled to the sides of stalls every few feet to allow some large party passage.

  “If the group wears house crests or colors, they have priority,” Corfaire explained. “They also tend to have guards that enforce it.” His smile was odd and quirky, but it was also completely mirthless.

  Erin noticed that his hand did not stray from his sword, and although he left it bonded, she would not have been surprised to hear the scrape of steel against steel while her attention was elsewhere. For that reason, she stopped watching the moving human mass.

  Corfaire noticed the expression on her face.

  “Yes,” he said, shortly. “I’m not comfortable here.” His eyes skittered across the surface of the crowd, and he nodded. “Come. We’ve a way to go yet.”

  She followed, her grip on his arm now as tight as his on hers. The crowds up ahead seemed to be thinning. She took a deep breath and moved quickly between two rather large people.

  Then she stopped.

  “Lady?” Corfaire’s eyes were narrowed. “Is there a problem?”

  She could not speak. Her eyes were locked upon the sculpture that stood at the market’s center. Behind her, she heard a sharp intake of breath, and recognized Darin’s voice.

  Corfaire cursed quietly. The statue had held little meaning for him, and it was so much a part of the market’s landscape that he had not thought to mention it.

  The Lady of Mercy looked down upon them, her face almost beatific in its white perfection. A smile that was not entirely human was lit upon her lips, and her arms swept across the air in a gesture of welcome.

  “Even here.”

  Corfaire barely recognized his Lady’s voice.

  “In every market of every capital in the Empire.” In the darkness, he could see a small brass bowl and a wreath of dying flowers. “Sometimes the slaves are allowed to adorn the idol—particularly if the house that owns them is displeased with the Church.” He grimaced. “I imagine that enough of them are at the moment.”

  His glance jumped between the statue and Erin, and although both stood immobile, no one would have recognized the one in the other. He relaxed, but only marginally.

  “Lady.” His voice was soft. “We attract too much attention by standing here. Later, if you like—”

  She shook her head. “No. Come on.” But her gaze lingered backward on that unearthly countenance. She saw, not hersel
f, but the Lady of Elliath in full glory.

  It—it is almost finished with.

  The gem master’s stall could hardly be called that, even by one with a sour imagination. No wood and canvas would do to announce the value of the wares that this man sold. He had, instead, two tall columns of stone, a roof of slate, and a sign that obviously took much work to maintain. It was inlaid with gold. Three or four people had stopped in front of the stall, but several slaves were in attendance on both the north and south sides.

  Corfaire stood back and removed the pack from his shoulders. He seemed to stand straighter for lack of the weight, and Erin wondered, for the first time, what the pack contained. Jewels, yes—but how many had Hildy sent with them?

  One well-dressed man looked over his shoulder in mild curiosity. The state of Erin’s dress dispelled it, and he returned his attention to the wares beneath glass that had first caught his eyes. The grimace he gave at the sight of them standing in line was so impersonal it was hard to be offended. Or, Erin amended, as she saw Corfaire’s jaw tighten, it was hard for a stranger to the houses to be offended. She caught his arm and shook her head very slightly. His face relaxed. His arm did not.

  Erin did not mind the wait. Here, in front of what were obviously expensive goods even for the High City nobles, there was little traffic. For the first time since entering the market, she felt she had room to move and breathe. Darin stood to her left, and Tiras was a shadow at her back, but these two she did not mind in close quarters. Her eyes wandered no further than them, and she hardly looked at the slaves at all—they were both a reminder and a distant accusation.

  “I think a thousand crowns is a fair deal, Lady Mistria. You will not find better workmanship anywhere in the Empire.”

  A thousand crowns. Erin’s brows rose as the words drifted back.

  “A thousand crowns? It is pretty, Waldreth, but it is merely a trinket. Surely you ask too much. The market in Sivari is not so dear.”