He offered her his arm and she took it, walking woodenly at his side. He noted the robes of his Enemy’s priesthood, but forbore to comment on them; something troubled Sara and, if those robes gave her comfort, she was welcome to them.
But as they walked out to where the carriage waited, he noted the lag of her step. She grows old, he thought, chilled by it. He pulled his own robes more tightly around him as the glare of open sunlight touched his face. A strange pride touched him, and he lifted his face to the sun’s rays. Mere years ago, a blink of time, he would not have thought it possible. But now, he realized, helping Sara to her seat with a quiet intensity, now anything is possible.
The carriage moved quickly down the cobbled streets, and Sara hated the fact, for she could hear the rough shouts of the men who drove and see pedestrians leaping out of the vehicle’s path. Their faces flickered by too quickly for Sara to catch their expressions, but she was familiar enough with her people to know their fear or panic.
At least we won’t hit anyone.
She drew a weak comfort from that, remembering clearly the body of the child that they had left in the wake of their first ride. She had stopped the carriage and stumbled out, too late to help the child, too noble to be of comfort to the parent who sat blindly cradling the tiny corpse.
Her eyes fell upon Stefanos’s impassive profile. You stopped those deaths. For me. Silent, she leaned into his side and felt his arm slide round her shoulders.
“Sara,” he said into her hair, “if you wish, we may shorten the hearings.”
She shook her head.
“Or you may absent yourself from them altogether and wait for me in the carriage.”
She shook her head again, more forcefully. She knew it was not the First of the Enemy that they came to make their pleas to. She would find the strength to hear them out and to help them, for although she was weary, she was still Sarillorn.
“Very well.” He held her the more tightly, as if to shield her from some future ordeal. “We are almost at the pavilion.”
Nodding, she let the rest of the landscape pass her by in a gray blur, her face pressed into her Lord’s side. He was cold. Normally she found a warmth beyond touch at his side. Kandor came between them this time.
The carriage came to a halt, and a doorman appeared on the instant to allow them out of the coach. Stefanos stepped down and turned to aid his lady—something no guard or slave dared do while he was present. He felt her stumble slightly and braced her arm while she completed her tentative steps to the ground.
“Sunlight becomes you, Sara.” He began to lead her to the pavilion. “One day I shall capture the sun for you, and it will shine for your pleasure alone.”
She smiled then, moved by the forced lightness of his words. “And I, my Lord, will set it free at that moment, to let it touch all faces alike and to marvel at their beauty.”
“And will you take nothing for yourself?”
“I have what I need.” But her smile slipped away. She looked up, then, to the deep blue stripes of the tent, twisting around lines of darker gray. The flaps were open upon two ornate chairs, one large and tall with gold leaf and inlay, the other light and simple. She listened to the dying chatter of the market, noting that people, clutching their purchases in baskets or under arms as befitted their station, walked quickly away from the perimeter of the area. Those that did not move quickly enough were escorted by guards, but here again no violence was offered.
And that, too, was your gift.
She walked in the enforced silence until she reached the dais. There she took her accustomed chair, and Stefanos joined her in his own. His posture was almost regal, but in the darkness of his robes and the shadow of the tent flap, he looked, in truth, like the creature he was.
He looked at Sara, and she sighed.
“Ready,” she murmured.
Turning, he nodded to one of his men.
“The Lord and Lady will now hear those who have come before them to be judged.” His voice was loud and monotonous—like that of any mediocre herald. Sara tuned out the rest of the speech; it had something to do with proper behavior, and she abhorred it. It was not what the people had come for and seemed to her to be just another obstacle to justice.
At last the herald fell silent, and the crowd began to shuffle. Most of the people here were spectators; Sara saw a few familiar faces, and caught a shy, young smile. She returned it then let her attention drift back to the opening among the people.
A man stepped forward. His clothing was in ill repair as only that of a fugitive can be; there were tears and rents that were so old they looked natural.
He stumbled a little before he reached the foot of the dais. There he stopped and bent forward in a harsh bow, knees snapping. Sara started forward involuntarily; from where she sat she could feel that the man’s arm was broken and caused him great pain. She restrained herself before her Lord could, sinking with gritted teeth into the prison of her throne.
“Your case will be heard.”
The man looked up. At this distance, almost close enough to reach out, Sara could see a long seam that marred his features. She had thought him old, but recalculated; what appeared to be wrinkles at a distance were minute scars. She could feel his eyes upon her alone as he opened his mouth.
“Bring him water,” she said curtly to one of the guards. “He’ll be able to speak when he’s had something to drink.” The men were well enough acquainted with her presence that they did not look askance at their Lord when he did not interrupt. They obeyed, their faces locked in gray neutrality and indifference. Water was brought to the man, and shoved roughly to his dry lips.
“Gently.” Sara kept her voice even, hating the guards, hating the empire. “Drink slowly.”
The man nodded, the most he was capable of, and let the water linger a few seconds in his mouth before swallowing. It was warm, but hopefully clean; and if the hearing did not go well, it would also be the last he would taste.
He did his best to heed her words, but felt the eyes of the guards boring into him.
“Please.” Sara held out a hand. “Stand if you will be more comfortable.”
Slowly and gratefully he got to his feet, gingerly avoiding the use of his right arm. As if by accident his eyes glanced furtively out to the crowd.
It was no accident. Sara could see that by the easing of his tension, and she sought out the eyes of the watchers herself. Someone or something waited there, important to the man who had come before her. She looked carefully but no one started guiltily, and too many eyes were upon the claimant to be able to single out any one person.
What she was attempting must have been obvious to the man, for he cleared his throat loudly, drawing her attention away from the search.
“My Lord.” He bowed awkwardly. “My lady.” His speech was oddly accented and shaky.
He came closer and once again assumed a kneeling posture, but this time he sat directly in front of Sara.
Stefanos did not fail to notice this.
“It is customary,” he said, leaning slightly forward, “to give your name before you make your plea.”
Stiffly the man nodded, but again in Sara’s direction.
“Lady, you hear the plea of Ranin.”
“Of what house?”
“I am with no house, Lord.” The man was trembling.
“I see.” Stefanos nodded, raising one hand to touch the tip of his chin meditatively. “What house claims your protection, then?”
Ranin was silent a few moments before answering. Sara felt a shock of fear travel through her. It evoked an answering shudder, and she held out one hand in the direction of the First Servant.
“My Lord,” she said softly, “let him speak freely.”
Stefanos nodded, eyes shuttered, and Sara knew what the man’s fate would be. She paled slightly, took a deep breath, and turned again.
“Why have you come before us?”
“To ask—to beg, if the lady wills it, for your a
id and mercy.”
Sara could see an echo of her own knowledge in the man’s face and bearing.
“Show us your arm.”
Sara cringed at the tone in Stefanos’s voice. She met the open plea in the man’s face and turned away ashamed. Weakly he lifted his left arm.
“The other one.”
“Stefanos, his arm is broken; it causes his pain. Please—”
Without looking at the Sarillorn, Stefanos continued. “The other arm.”
Ranin attempted to comply, clamping his lips shut as he did. Pain flared around him, seen clearly by Sara’s eyes alone. With an audible curse, she thrust herself away from the confines of her chair, stepped off the platform, and came to stand at the man’s side. Her hands, still as white as they had always been, came up on either side of Ranin’s shoulders, and she opened the gate between his pain and her power. Effortlessly she flowed outward, and the pain receded at her touch.
“My thanks, Lady,” the man whispered, but his voice was bitter and broken. “But you have wasted your energy; I do not believe you will sway your Lord this day.”
She started at the strange sound of his words and paled further when she realized that the tongue was not the one used by citizens of the empire. She knew well the punishment for such a crime.
He must have seen her start, for his expression changed subtly. “Indeed, Lady, I am newly brought to the empire, from Segan. I know the robe you wear, but not how it has come to be here.”
“Why did you—”
“Not because I knew you to be initiate. Because I had heard that you might sway the will of the ruler of Rennath. Seeing you, I might well believe it—but seeing him thus, I cannot.” He straightened, pulling away from her hands.
“What crime do you seek mercy for?”
He gave a brief, bitter smile. “The crime of remaining as true to Segan as I have been able.”
The sound of metal against metal touched her ears, and she looked up. Two of the guards were walking toward them. Wheeling, she faced her Lord; her cheeks bore the twin flags of anger and shame.
“First Servant, I ask you not to pronounce a judgment before you have heard the case.”
“Lady,” he replied, all steely politeness. “I have seen with my own eyes two crimes committed here. This man that you seek to save is a slave, not in itself a crime. But he has named himself, and he speaks to you in a tongue that I have declared dead. He has earned my judgment for breaking laws that are mine.”
She knew the cast of his features. Anger welled up, and she fought it down, but it was hard; she had not felt it truly for years. With one deft movement, she inserted herself between the man and the approaching guards.
“Sarillorn, Lady,” Stefanos stood. “In other matters I have granted you leeway. I have conceded much to you, but this must fall outside of that domain. I will rule the empire. It is mine. Should I give ground to you in this case, it will only weaken the foundations that I have laid. And they are strong, but young. They need their time to grow.”
The guards drew closer, their faces still completely neutral. Sara still barred their way, and as they reached her, they came to a nervous stop.
“Lady, please stand aside.”
Sara met the eyes of each of the guards before turning to face Stefanos. “Lord.” She bowed slightly, a tinge of bitter mockery in the gesture. She did not do as he requested, but was well aware of the futility of her defiance.
“Lady?”
She looked at him then, her eyes touching the harsh contours of his pale, shadowed face. His mouth was set in a grim smile that gave her nothing.
“Lord,” she repeated, then added, in a lower voice, “Stefanos . . .”
He shook his head once, sharply. “Not in this, Lady.” Very gently, he added, “My laws must be followed if I am to govern this world.”
Again he motioned to his guards, and they took a step forward, but Sara could see their hesitance. She knew well the dilemma they found themselves in; their Lord had given a command, albeit wordless, and yet should they harm her at all, it was worth their lives.
After a few minutes, Stefanos stepped down from his throne, to join his lady. There was nothing friendly in the movement, but nothing threatening—not for Sara.
She could feel the trembling of the man at her back, although he, too, kept silent as the nightwalker approached.
For a few seconds, caught between one who needed her aid and one who denied it, she felt again the strands of an old call. She had thought it dead, and realized that it must be as inseparable from what she was as this mockery of justice from him.
And Stefanos drew back as the bands of her light, so necessary and so familiar, flickered in an awkward and ugly rhythm. No, Lady, I know what I do. He shook his head and stepped forward again, catching her face in his hands. I cannot give you this yet. But soon . . .
He turned to look at the man with a cold distaste. For a moment he longed to give her what she asked for, but steeled himself against it. To cease to feed was a thing that affected only himself directly; to cease to judge was to lose control of Veriloth, the only true goal in his existence.
“Little one.”
Her eyes opened slowly.
“I am sorry. I cannot give you this slave’s life. He seeks to prove a point by breaking my law before my people, and he shall indeed prove it.” His grip on her tightened, and he nodded again to his guards. This time they moved quickly and efficiently to their goal.
Sara struggled briefly against the cold vise that held her. Tears, caught and held in, made her eyes shine with a preternatural brilliance. You don’t understand! She opened her mouth to say it, but the words remained locked with the tears that she would not give up.
As the guards secured the man, Stefanos released her, his fingers lingering against her cheek. He turned and walked back to the dais while Sara stood still in the center of the square. She watched his back as it receded.
“Wait!”
Both the guards and their Lord turned at her words, stopping at the command inherent in them. With a few quick steps she approached Ranin, the captive slave.
The leader of the guard stepped in front of her before the hand she reached out could make contact. He offered her no violence and no threat, but would not move out of her way.
Turning rapidly, she sought the eyes of Stefanos and found them, as ever, upon her.
“My Lord, please let me speak with your prisoner. I’ve no choice but to accept your judgment, but I—”
Silent, he motioned and the captain stepped away, eyes betraying none of the curiosity he must have felt.
Ranin met her eyes with his own bleak, gray-brown ones. He gave a tremulous smile and spoke again in the tongue of his youth.
“Priestess, I thank you for what you have tried to do. I should have known that it is still the Lord that rules.”
“Yes.” Her voice was soft and gentle, but contained all of the bitterness she felt. Reaching out, she again touched his arm, her fingers dancing along skin bare through rents in his tunic.
“What are you doing?”
She tried not to meet his eyes, knowing the cost to herself, but she failed because it was in her nature to do so. Her tears, controlled so far, spilled over to adorn her face and the fingers that were tentatively raised to catch them.
“I am dulling your pain. For later.”
He nodded.
In a rush, before she could lose control of her voice, she said, “I don’t believe you came here just to make a point. You came for something. Ask it; as long as it is not your life, I will grant it.”
He closed his eyes on the hope that she offered and then shrugged his arms free of the guards who loosely held them.
“Lady . . .” His voice was so quiet that had she not been so intent upon the words, she would have missed them. “In the crowd, my wife and child are watching. For myself, I can ask nothing, and maybe it is better so; I am—”
She touched his lips with the tip of her fi
ngers, and he nodded against them.
“My wife is of your height, but her hair is darkened. The roots are pale and blond; you will see them as you approach. My child—my daughter—the same, but she is smaller. She is dressed as a boy; she speaks but little.
“We were slaves in the House Calvar and worked from their summer home, two days’ journey from the city.”
Sara nodded; the name meant something to her.
“My daughter was to be given to Deven of Calvar. To spare her that, we have traveled to you.”
“Deven? But he’s just a boy.”
“Yes. And out of the three that have been given to him previously, not one has survived the week.”
“So you—”
“We risked our lives for the chance of your intervention. Even if we failed, my daughter’s chances would be no less, and her death more pleasant.” He lowered his voice. “We had heard of you, even in House Calvar—that you listened to the pleas of the poor in your city, you judged fairly, and that you granted the Lord’s mercy. You were our only chance. And I knew that to approach you here, as a free man, would cost me much. ” Suddenly he grabbed her arms. One of the guards started forward, and Sara gave a vicious shake of her head.
“Save my child. Take her for one of your own. I have seen you; I know what you are. If you cannot take my wife, she will understand; we have spoken and she has agreed.” He released her then and turned to his executioners. They began to walk away.
“Ranin.”
All five stopped at the word.
“What are their names?”
“Names?” He laughed bitterly and turned again.
His laughter hung in the air. Chilled, Sara turned to the crowd and began to scan the faces it held. She saw the mixture of fear, respect, and satisfaction that mingled in the unknown spectators, and passed them by; she knew what she was looking for. Ranin’s description had not been clear—any number of women matched it—but Sara knew she would have no difficulty.
One face, perhaps two, would hold the emotions of shock and bereavement, and she would not return to the dais until she had found them.
Once her eyes swept fruitlessly across the crowd, and once again, but on the third pass, at the very edge, she could see one stiff, still figure, with another huddled beside it.
Into the Dark Lands Page 32
