Chains of Darkness, Chains of Light

by Michelle Sagara

  There was nothing in her that resisted. As the chair enfolded her, her hands enfolded her face. They were cold; everything was. When she was a small child her father had often counseled her to be careful of loyalty. You must only have one, he had told her, and his words echoed. If you have more, you will be torn by them; they will be able to destroy you. Come, child of Valens. Where does your loyalty lie?

  Where?

  “Lady Amalayna?”

  She knew loss. She understood betrayal; she had suffered it and had repaid it in kind. Laranth. One of his assassins was dead at her hands; it should have eased her pain; it should have given her the strength to continue. Her hands shook as she withdrew them; her fingers glistened with more than jewelry.

  What did it matter if the Greater Cabal fell? What did it matter if the nobility were thrown into turmoil? In the history of the Empire, it had happened at least once before, and the great civilization of Veriloth had survived and grown. “I told you,” Amalayna said, her breath very shallow, her words steady. “I don’t care about the Empire.”

  “She’s lying,” Corfaire said.

  “Is she?” Erin did not look back; she knew well the expression Corfaire’s face had donned.

  “How could she do otherwise?”

  “Lady?”

  “I have little that will convince you; you must believe as you choose.”

  “Choice,” Erin said with a bitter grimace, “has often failed me.”

  Amalayna looked up to meet Erin’s eyes. Were it not for the bright green glow, they would have been almost the twin of her own. “Who are you?”

  “Erin. Of Elliath.”

  That name had meant nothing to Corfaire. But Amalayna was learned and knowledgeable. She rose, gathering the shreds of her dignity about her. “That’s impossible.”

  “Is it?” Erin’s voice was light, but the timbre had changed. “Is it so impossible?” Her hand found the dagger sheath of her left inner sleeve, and a bright blade swept steadily across her open palm.

  Tiras muttered a curse under his breath as he wheeled to face the windows. They were curtained heavily.

  The cut was shallow; there was very little blood. Erin slid the dagger back into its sheath before she started the wide, circular gestures of the True Ward.

  It was easier than she had expected. Perhaps this was because she was so close to death. Her choice of pathways had come, finally, to an end. There was only one road to follow. God’s power was weakened, and it came to her slowly, but come it did.

  The weariness of the day faded from her limbs; the cold teeth of fear pulled away. For a moment she hesitated, frozen on the threshold between light and life.

  And then she heard it; the whisper of a familiar voice.

  Great-grandchild ...

  Lernan.

  You are almost at the crossroads. Walk with care. I will be waiting for you. Look for me, child.

  She threw her arms wide, and her eyes gazed upward, beyond the confines of the ceiling. There was only His voice and His power.

  Amalayna cringed backward at the sight of this stranger, this walking legend. All that she had read, and all that she had been taught, paled beside the visceral truth of this moment. Elliath had once been the greatest of the lines—the first to emerge and the first to fall.

  She shielded her eyes as she looked, but it was her blood and body that truly saw the Light. Her spine shrieked in protest, and her hands sought a weapon, any weapon. She clamped her jaws together to stop her teeth from severing her lower lip.

  This woman, this one, was her enemy. Compared to her, Lord Vellen was nothing. She moved forward, and something caught her, pressing her arms to either side.

  This was blood-call. This was death, here. She drew breath, gasping as if her lungs could never be filled. She looked up to see the ecstasy writ across Erin’s simple features.

  “Lady of Mercy.” The slave said it. Amalayna turned to look at him for the first time since entering the room. He was on one knee, and his head was bowed. His gauntlets were curled around fists, and the hand that held the sword was shaking.

  And Amalayna understood all that had been said in this room. She stopped struggling, although her captor did not release her. The Lady of Mercy. The Dark Lord’s consort.

  As if the words were said aloud—and they might have been—the Lady looked down. Amalayna could only watch as the light began to fade. But the image of Erin, surrounded by the Enemy’s fire, had burned itself into her memory. She could not forget it, and could not see Erin again as a mere companion to Renardos.

  “Do you understand?”

  Amalayna nodded. “Have you—have you come for the Dark Lord?”

  “I have come for those that he rules. And I—we all—must move quickly.”

  Amalayna’s throat was dry, but she managed to speak. “I—have spoken only the truth. If you will have me, if you will grant me my one request, I will lead you into the heart of the Church.” She bowed her head.

  “Lead us in?” It was Renar’s voice, but it sounded thin and pale to her ears.

  “Yes,” she answered softly. “That much I can still do.”

  “How?”

  “I have some authority there, although it is unofficial. Lord Vellen and I are promised to the rites.” Even so shaken, she could still find amusement in the sudden silence of shock that pervaded the room. She savored it a moment before it was broken.

  “Then we had best leave; we must return to our inn and retrieve items of necessity.” Tiras’ voice held a sharp edge. “That was foolish, Erin.”

  “Yes,” Erin said. “It was. Lady Amalayna—Lord Vellen is yours.”

  Dinner.

  Lord Darclan looked down the long, empty table. The seats around it were evenly spaced, and dull light glinted off their dark, high backs. Only before his occupied chair was the table properly set; the silver showed no trace of the passage of time. Lamps lit along the walls flickered low, as per his instructions. In time, weeks perhaps, he would have them burning at their full capacity. Thus would the dining hall be restored to its former familiarity.

  The door that led to the kitchen swung open on its hinges. Three slaves entered the room in full serving dress. He could hear the rustle of one starched skirt.

  They were nervous, these slaves, but their fear was only the most minor of scents. He could read their stiff, straight faces clearly. There was no necessity for words. A full year had passed since last he dined, and he imagined that they had gotten used to life without his presence—or the presence of his Lady. The uniforms they wore smelled vaguely musty.

  He lost the smell of them when they brought their dishes forward and began to serve him. As always, they did so in silence, and he did not choose to break it with words.

  The last slave, and the oldest, stepped forward after the plate had been laid with its main course. He held a bottle wrapped in linen.

  Lord Darclan nodded, and the old man removed the bottle’s cork. Red wine; an older vintage. The lip of the bottle touched the lip of the cup, and the liquid trickled out.

  The slave stood back, waiting. Lord Darclan smiled and lifted the cup to his lips. It was ceremony and ritual; no matter what the wine tasted like, he knew he would nod in acceptance.

  But he froze before the cup had reached his lips.

  The shadows of the room were suddenly fuller and darker than they had been. There was no subtlety in it; in mere seconds the red glint of power touched everything.

  The shadows parted, and to his right he heard the sound of shattering glass, the trickle of wasted wine. He did not look at the slave. His eyes stared ahead, and the red glint that began at their depths was no mere reflection.

  Sargoth, Second of the Sundered, had once again entered his private domain.

  He rose, pushing his chair back with only enough force to leave it. “You dare?”

  Sargoth said nothing. Instead he drifted closer until the shadows he wore did not conceal him. No longer did he stand so tall or strai
ght; in mere mortal hours he had been so leeched of power that he could not manage it.

  And yet ...

  Stefanos glanced around. Everywhere there was red, but this was no Servant’s net. The light, crimson and raw, pulsed solidly. It was whole.

  “Sargoth.”

  “Stefanosssss.” The word was chill, hardly a name at all. The voice that uttered it was changed. Stefanos recognized the fragments of it that were still Sargoth’s—but the timbre of it, the coldness, these were too great to belong to a single Servant.

  He knew, then, whose power filled the room.

  “Why have you returned?”

  “To tell you that I have lost my gamble.” Twin voices spoke out of a single mouth. The words gave him no comfort. “What was planned has failed. You have claimed a victory that I do not understand.” The frustration and rage inherent in these last words were entirely Sargoth’s.

  “What gamble?”

  “We had hoped to derive some satisfaction from forcing you to bring your folly to its final end. We have failed in that and must settle for less than we had hoped.”

  Silence now held too much menace, but Stefanos could not be moved to fill it. Instead, he heard the breath of the slave as it cut the air in short, tense gasps. Fear; oh yes, there was fear here.

  “Your Sarillorn is not dead. Had all worked out, she would be soon—and by your own hand.” There was silence again, and then a dry, brittle chuckle. “You did not even guess.”

  Stefanos found no words to say. His feet lost the sensation of the firmament beneath him. Had he been in battle, the shock would have cost him eternity. He struggled against it, finding a voice that was almost his own.

  “You—cannot be—speaking the truth.” He felt weightless; his hands gripped the table before him and held his suddenly insubstantial weight.

  “It is.” This, too, was almost pure Sargoth, dry and pointed.

  “I would not kill her.”

  “Not if you knew, no.” Sargoth bowed, out of necessity and not respect. “But it is out of your hands. You have chosen to remain, and we will see that you do.”

  “She—is—alive.” Hope fought with anger, and between them there was numbness. The First of the Sundered had never been so finely trapped.

  “She is now in Malakar. She searches for the Wound of the Enemy as we speak. We knew this would come to pass, and we waited for it for naught.

  “But we will take what we can from this knowledge, First of the Sundered. You will not be prepared to greet her—but we shall. She will die, unaided, and without human hope. The Bright Heart is weak now.”

  Stefanos raised his arms then, a wide, swift motion that even immortal eyes could barely discern. He whispered softly, sibilantly, each syllable punctuated by urgency. Power blazed down his arms and around his body.

  Nothing happened.

  “Oh no. You chose to remain here, and you shall.” Sargoth lifted his arms in a poor mimicry of Stefanos’ spell. “But we shall not. Think of us, Stefanos. Think of what we will do, hours from now.”

  Stefanos leaped then, with a cry of rage that words could not articulate. His claws were extensions of hard, red power, and his eyes were fire.

  Sargoth was already too insubstantial to hinder. The First of the Sundered hit the wall and embedded his hands in stone. He snarled, pulling them out. He had no time to turn and see the last of his once-subordinate. But the words that came at his back were heard very well.

  “This has cost me much, Stefanos. The Lord is very angry.”

  Sargoth was gone. But the walls that had come with him remained. And Stefanos knew, with certainty, that he could not breach them; they had been set by God.

  He tried, though. He summoned his power, concentrated it, and began to force it out at the walls themselves. This manifestation would cost the Dark Heart dearly, and it could not be held forever.

  But it could be held for long enough.

  “Sara!”

  Lord Vellen stood in the central temple’s empty confines. He wore red, red robes that were new and fine—a fitting accoutrement for his office. That office was undisputed now, and it would be for a long time.

  The moon was waning, and precious little of its pathetic light filtered through the dark, stained glass. This eve, he would preside over a special sacrifice: his thanks to the Dark Heart.

  His only regret was that the ceremony would be so small, but it was necessary. He could not now assemble all of the house nobility to fill the cathedral. Benataan’s death had been too sudden.

  Benataan’s seat would have to be filled; already he had come up with three candidates that would suit him well. At the right moment in the service, the man he finally chose would be called upon to join the Greater Cabal. Scant hours had to pass before that moment, and although he had all but decided, it amused him to let the three men hover in uncertainty.

  The temple slaves went about their business in silence, and he watched as they prepared the room. The ebony box that contained the sacrificial blade lay closed in the center of the altar, at its west edge, a silver bucket that had been polished to a warm, soft glow awaited the ceremony’s end.

  He was not impatient now. He could savor each passing minute in the knowledge that he was prepared for anything.

  Or almost anything.

  The shadows behind the altar shifted and suddenly erupted in a fanfare of black and red, lapping around the edges of the rounded stone recess. He froze a moment, but did not summon his own power. If it could be avoided, it was for the best—he would need it for the evening.

  Out of the shadows a thin form lumbered.

  He did not recognize it at first. It was bent and seemed both insubstantial and frail. He could not prevent the widening of clear, hard eyes as the figure straightened out.

  “Second of the Sundered?”

  “Yessssss.” Even the voice was different, thinner and more sibilant. Were it not for the aura of power, unseen but not unfelt, Lord Vellen would have thought it a priest’s game. “The Dark Heart requires your service.”

  Vellen fell to one knee and bowed his head. “What is his command?”

  “There has been a change of plans. Do you know where the woman now resides?”

  Vellen nodded again. A report had come in not two hours ago.

  “Good. Send Swords for her now. She is to be brought to the temple, alive.”

  “Unharmed?”

  “I do not think that possible. Alive will do.”

  “The others?”

  “They are yours.” Sargoth looked around at the silent temple. “I must prepare.” His voice was very cold. “It seems that you had planned a service here that you will not perform. I will preside.”

  The news was not so bitter a blow as it might once have been. “The First of the Sundered?”

  “Will not interfere. My Lord has seen to that.”

  Vellen turned at once, but not before his lips folded into an expression too exquisitely unpleasant to be called a smile.

  chapter twenty

  The crimson walls followed him. They were not so grand or so large as the dome that had once threatened Sara, but they were infinitely more powerful. No hand of dilute Darkness had had any part in their making.

  He had not expected anything different, but the desperate ache of the need to escape had driven him across the castle grounds to this one spot that might have offered hope.

  The stars were very bright. The sky was clear. Moonlight was no less powerful for the fact that it radiated from so slender a crescent. And all of these were as nothing to the Light of the Wound. Even surrounded as it was by crumbled stone, it still had the power to sting as he stood by it.

  Here, the walls seemed thinner and perhaps a bit less impervious, but that was all. Seeming. He could not break through them.

  But he thought, just for a moment, that they might break him. He had learned much in the last year, and had accepted limitations and changes in himself that would have been unthinkable at any other ti
me in his past. His regret had been the timing: He had changed too late for Sara; dead, she could take no joy or peace in it.

  And now, to know that she was not dead was a bloodless pain that could almost drive him mad. His power was low, but he called it yet again to assault the walls that held him. It was not his nature to accept defeat—no matter how much he might change, it would never become so.

  He closed his eyes, for the Light distracted him. In the darkness behind his lids, he could see her face more clearly than any of the power he summoned.

  “Lord?”

  It was not her voice. He drew his shoulders up and raised his head before turning. And then he lowered his eyes.

  Kneeling before him on the damp grass—the newly cut, newly laid grass—was the single slave who had remained in the room throughout his encounter with Sargoth and the Lord that he served.

  He was an older man even by mortal standards. His hair was peppered snow, his face and brow were a subtle map of years and experience. And he still wore the starched jacket and neat pants that the dining hall demanded.

  “Yes?” Stefanos had given strict, terse orders to make sure that he was left uninterrupted in his struggle.

  The slave knew it well; it was from his lips that the orders had been relayed. Yet he knelt so, against all orders, completely free of any fear.

  “Lord.” His voice shook, but only slightly, and even Stefanos was not sure that it was not due to age. “I witnessed the coming of the nightwalker.”

  One brow arched into a pale forehead.

  “I—I heard his words. Forgive me.” The breath drawn between sentences was shallow and came quickly. “I carried your orders to the house mistress.” He glanced over his shoulder, and Stefanos did the same.

  The darkness would have confounded mortal eyes. He saw, near the final row of intricately cut hedges, the warm radiance of life. Many people had gathered there, many slaves. They waited, but for what, he was uncertain.

  “She—we spoke, Lord. And we’ve come with what help we can.”

  “Call the others out.”

  The “others” came in a single file. Their feet were heavy against the ground, as their Lord’s had not been, and they left a trail of flattened grass that was certain to annoy the master gardener.