Chains of Darkness, Chains of Light (The Sundered, Book 4)

by Michelle Sagara West

  Now, Vellen turned. Light, deep red and blue where it touched the stained glass windows, glinted off his winter hair, his silent face. The shadow before him looked almost human, more so than it ever had. The voice gave little away; it was hard to tell if mockery had been meant by the words or not.

  He did not answer the question.

  “I wonder whose blood runs through you, Lord Vellen. Of a certainty I can only say it is not mine.”

  “You have been teaching your magery, if I am not mistaken. There was word from Dagothrin.”

  Sargoth contemplated the mortal before him. A hint of threat was in the words, a hint of question, a veil of power. For a moment, the Second of the Sundered remembered what even the First had forgotten: the Sundering, the separation, and the awareness. Stefanos had then been as like his Lord as existence would permit, a web of power whose boundaries could be felt, but not seen. He had turned to his brethren and first off had destroyed some four of the forming.

  Sargoth alone had wondered why, wondered how. He had known—if that was the word—that this miniature Lord was not to be crossed. Yet power, and the search for it, was a strong pull. Knowledge was his power.

  He knew who Vellen’s forefather must have been. Almost, he smiled. “I have taught,” he whispered quietly, “at the behest of the Lord we both serve.”

  “I see.”

  “And that service is not yet complete.”

  “Am I still required, then?” The voice did not change at all, but Vellen felt the stirring of a hope.

  “Yes. And it will not be easy to keep you from the First.”

  “In return for this?”

  “You will help in the game that the Dark Heart has decreed.”

  “What game is this?” Vellen asked, as if his compliance was in doubt.

  “Do you question?”

  The Karnar ignored the menace in Sargoth’s voice. It was a risk, as was his answer. “Do you not?”

  Sargoth’s slow chuckle was his reward. “I do not have to, Priest. But I will answer.

  “The woman—she is still alive. The First knows naught of it. In little time—at least by my reckoning—he must begin to renew his Empire. She will be his enemy, and he will fight her, unknowing. He will kill her.”

  Vellen was silent, weighing the possibilities.

  “The First of the Sundered will suffer. He has ties to this half blood that we do not understand.”

  The First will suffer. This was what Sargoth truly had to offer; the risk of a life, even his own, was worth it. The First Sundered had cost him much. It was enough. Vellen nodded quietly. “And I?”

  “You will stop any information of her existence from reaching the First through his mortal channels. All of this must pass through the Karnar who heads the Greater Cabal.”

  “And the Greater Cabal itself?”

  “If you are too weak to keep it, the Dark Heart will find a more suitable servitor.”

  Dramathan of Valens looked up at the soft knock on the door. He brushed his cowl aside and it fell heavily onto his shoulders, the red line of it coloring his pale hair. He had chosen one of two chairs that was not obscured by desk front as a gesture of respect.

  “Come.”

  The door swung open, and Lord Vellen stepped quietly across the threshold. Gone now was the red collar, but the robes remained to mark his station: rippling black, with borders of crimson.

  “You received my message.”

  Vellen nodded quietly and secured the door behind him. Dramathan was alone. He looked carefully at the older man’s neutral expression before inclining his head to the second chair that faced the Lord of Valens.

  “Please.”

  He took the seat and faced the Karnar, wondering how great the distance between them was, and what the price would be to close it.

  “The council meeting was interesting, Lord Vellen.”

  “Indeed.”

  “And unusual.” Dramathan’s eyes were dark, shadowed by the line of his brows as they drew together in a faint frown. His jaw, square and narrow, was set firmly, but not in anger.

  Vellen said nothing.

  “Come, Lord Vellen. We are friends here; there must be some opportunity for even the Karnari to relax.”

  Vellen’s shoulders stiffened slightly, and he leaned forward. “It is difficult to relax when the Church is in such turmoil.”

  “The First?”

  Vellen smiled narrowly.

  “You feel he is dangerous, Lord Vellen. I am willing to trust your observations; you alone have worked with him at all.”

  “Not all of the Karnari are so disposed.”

  “Not all, no.” Dramathan returned Vellen’s smile. “Some are ... undecided.”

  “Of course. The advent of the First is a new occurrence.”

  “Not completely new.” Dramathan looked more closely at the wall beyond Vellen’s left shoulder. “Not for all of our houses.”

  He waited, and eventually Vellen complied with the unspoken demand. “What do you ask of me, Dramathan?”

  “Very well. It is well known that Lord Damion is an older man. You will succeed him, and your house, should your position remain firm, will be a strong one.”

  “Yes.”

  “House Valens is not without power, and I believe an association of the two would be to our mutual benefit.”

  “And?”

  “You are not yet bonded, Vellen.”

  “No.” It was a well-known fact.

  “I wish you to remedy this situation.”

  Vellen leaned backward, the ridge of the chair back cutting across his shoulder blades. Dramathan’s only eligible daughter was thirteen, and this was young by imperial standards. Betrothed now, he would have two years in which to maneuver. Although he took several minutes to reply, he knew well what his only answer could be. Lord Valens was a powerful individual, and with his support, Torvallen’s bid was certain to fail.

  “I accept this. Shall we hold the period for two years?”

  “Two?” Dramathan’s smile was a cat’s smile.

  “Maia is thirteen, Lord. Two years would give her her majority.”

  “Ah.” The smile broadened. “It was not Maia that I intended to cement our association. Rather, Amalayna.”

  The only sign of surprise that Vellen showed was a faint raising of eyebrows. Amalayna was bonded to Laranth of Tentaris and had already borne him one child—a son. Tentaris was a merchant family with vast holdings but no power in the Church.

  “Repudiation?” Vellen whispered softly.

  “I am not a fool, Vellen,” was Dramathan’s crisp reply. “But Tentaris is already involved in a trade war with Wintare. Many have died. Many more will.” He paused and looked down at his hands. “It is rumored that Torvallen has promised Wintare much for his support. A death of such magnitude will almost certainly cause Wintare some trouble, should that death be attributed to Wintare assassins.”

  “When?”

  They both knew that Vellen spoke not of the assassination, but of the bonding. “Three months.”

  Three months. No time to arrange for difficulties; no time to secure himself enough to be able to slip out of this agreement without grave risk.

  “Very well,” he said softly.

  “My vote on the council then.” Lord Dramathan rose. “I believe it would be expedient to wait four weeks before the announcement is made. I must leave now; there is much to attend to.”

  Lord Vellen watched him go. He was angry, but stilled it with the ease of long practice. Amalayna was not a bad or unsuitable choice, but she was very much her father’s daughter—dangerous, unpredictable, and under House Valens’ dictate. Perhaps children would change that—and perhaps she would not survive the first few years of her marriage.

  Still, he had to admire Dramathan. The Lord Valens knew when he had something to gain, and he was willing to take risks. Of course his hand in his son-in-law’s death could not be made public without implicating Vellen in it.

&n
bsp; Canny, but that was all the better in an ally.

  The Greater Cabal’s balance was now in his favor.

  News of the death of Laranth of Tentaris had rippled through the High City. It was the topic of much discussion at social gatherings, and the gruesome details grew with each telling, although they needed no embellishment.

  Wintare, of course, denied any connection to the assassination, but Lord Tentaris heard little of it; he was busy. In a three-day the death toll of six months of trade war had tripled.

  On this, the fourth day, the rumblings of that war, and the consequences of it, were contained in the streets and on the merchant routes without, where life continued apace.

  Not so within the vast, stone hall of the house temple of Tentaris, where a quiet silence reigned. Few indeed were the nobles that had chosen to attend the ceremony for the deceased heir of the house, and they had left in their wake of quiet, subdued chatter.

  Even Lord and Lady Tentaris were gone.

  One person remained. She wore the pale white of mourning, and her hair, dark and long, was braided with pearls and crystal tears. She was lovely, a stiff, exact statue that lingered a moment longer with the body of the man who had been her bondmate.

  Her fingers, long and thin, traced the line of his still, slack jaw. In isolation and privacy, the tears came. They were rare in the Empire, and almost never shed in such a wise; they would make the dignitaries of allied houses either uncomfortable or contemptuous.

  Lady Amalayna cared little for what they thought. She was numb now, almost empty.

  “Laranth.”

  Her knees folded elegantly, and she rested her cheek against his, waiting for the touch of his hand in her hair. She knew she would wait long.

  Her father had chosen this bond-mate for her, and she had complied, as she most often did, with his wish. Only later did she realize how kind his choice had been, even if that kindness had been unintentional and undreamed of.

  For Laranth of Tentaris had been astute and canny—the pride of his father’s house. He had added to the merchant line’s revenue by half in three short years of running the routes, which was no mean feat. He had fathered a son, when fertility in his line had been a known problem. He frightened many.

  He had almost frightened Amalayna. Six years her elder, with a sardonic smile that could cut a man’s jugular with its cold edge, he had accepted House Valens’ suit—her hand, with a sizeable dowry.

  He had been pleased with what he had personally negotiated and had wasted little time in investing it. She had expected that.

  But he had asked her aid, her advice—and in two cases had taken it, pleased with her judgment. That had surprised her. He had forced her presence to be accepted on the Tentaris House council and had treated her as an equal in matters of state.

  It was not for loss of that power that she wept now.

  He had become more her family than Valens had been. He had prided himself in his bonding to her—but not because of the power of the house that was her birthright. She had been special to him, in and of herself.

  And he—he had become that special to her.

  How had he been caught? How had he allowed himself to be killed so ignominiously? He had been the most careful of men, more so than ever since the trade war had been declared. Someone he trusted, and there were few, must have betrayed him, but it couldn’t have been his guards; they, too, lay dead.

  Only their child remained alive.

  She had never dreamed what it would cost her, to sit crouched against the stone of his face and the floor. She never imagined that the death would invoke such a loss, such an emptiness.

  “Laranth,” she whispered, “I love you.”

  That was their secret.

  She kissed still lips and rose, wiping her eyes. The time for mourning would never pass, of this she was certain. But there was work to do now, with House Tentaris and with her young, young son. Laranth had been lost, but his assassins had not yet been caught.

  They would be. By the Dark Heart, she would see them perish slowly.

  chapter three

  It was chilly in the early morning; winter never forgot the province of Marantine, no matter how many months had passed. The sun rose earlier to herald spring, and there was no frost—but that was all.

  Erin stood beneath it, her breath leaving the faintest hint of cloud. She had breakfasted early, and her power glowed faintly green around the leathers she wore. The cold, at least of the weather, did not trouble her.

  Darin was late. She wondered, idly, if he had picked that habit up from her. Bare fingers ran along the hilt of her short sword; it was a comfort to have it at her side. There was so much she would have to leave behind.

  “Hello, shadow.” Her voice was quiet as she stared at the thin, sparse length the sun made of her height. Faceless and dark, it stared back at her until she turned once again to look at the double doors that came out from the main hall. They were closed and flanked on either side by two of Renar’s royal guard. The king’s guard.

  She marveled at them; they stood stiff and at attention, and she wondered if it was for her benefit, or if even in isolation they kept that pose, flesh statues to adorn the castle.

  Her chin tilted upward, and her eyes sought the leaded glass—there was so much glass here—of the main hall. Renar’s rooms were beyond it, swathed in dark fabrics, rich colors, thick carpets. Did he sleep?

  She felt just a twinge of guilt. She was not due to meet Hildy for another hour yet; there was no reason to leave so early—no reason at all except that Renar habitually slept as late as possible, although these days that was a mere two hours after sunrise.

  The two large doors swung open; they were well oiled but even so they creaked loudly—more so than Erin remembered. She gave a little start, then walked quietly up the stairs to meet the one companion that she was to keep with her on the road.

  Darin, his eyes lined and puffy with lack of sleep, his coat skewed and buttoned improperly, dragged a heavy pack behind him as he made his way through the doors. His boots were laced properly, but she suspected from the look of the left that he’d have some difficulty removing it at the end of the day; it was knotted.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he murmured. The last word stretched out into an endless yawn. “It’s cold out here.”

  “It’ll warm; it’s spring. Let me help you with that.”

  “No, it’s all right—”

  “Bright Heart, what’s in it?”

  “Books. Just a couple.”

  “A couple of shelves’ worth? Darin”—she smiled gently—“where on earth will you find time to read them?” She opened the pack, reached in, and pulled out a leather tome. It was thick and yellowed with age, and the words, scuffed but burned in, were Old Tongue.

  “Culverne history.”

  He nodded, his hat dipping over his eyes. “I didn’t have time to read them; I’ve been studying other stuff.”

  If Renar was king—and undeniably he was—Darin was just as much patriarch. The titles, like poorly made clothing, fitted both ill. Erin remembered her grandfather and wondered if Darin would cut such a figure of authority and affection when he reached that age. It was hard to imagine.

  “You can’t take these with you.”

  “Only as far as Hildy travels. She said she’d bring them back when she came.”

  Erin shook her head. “If she’s searched at the border—and she will be—they can’t find these in the caravan.”

  Darin’s shoulders sagged, although it was a little hard to see them beneath the thick clothing he wore. “Hildy said she thought it’d be worth the risk if I thought it was important.” But his voice was low and resigned. “I’ll take them in. I guess I’ll have time to study them when we get back.”

  Erin didn’t bother to answer. Instead she turned her back on the closing doors and watched the sun creep further over the wall. Outside, the market flags would be unfurling, their bright and distinctive colors ringing the three conc
entric circles that had grown up out of the ground. The outlines of imposed squares were already fading into the winter that had passed.

  Elliath had had such a small circle. Winter had been much, much shorter, and spring less chilly. But for all that, this overgrown, crowded city, with buildings passing the treetops, had become home.

  She already missed it.

  And to sneak out, like a thief or an unfaithful rite-mate, made the loss harder. Few people knew that she was leaving, but those few had already made their thoughts on that clear: silence, gray-ringed eyes, failure to meet the eyes that she averted herself. She was sure that Lord Stenton Cosgrove could not have looked more surprised and more betrayed than if Lady Verena had inserted a dagger between his ribs.

  Renar had stopped all argument. She remembered what he was wearing, could see it when she closed her eyes. She left them open. No kingly raiment then; no lace, no velvet, no frills. Just simple brown work clothing, and that in sweaty disarray. He had spent the afternoon in the drill room alone; she had not had the time, when making arrangements with Hildy, to join him for a last bout.

  She would miss that—although she would find the lack of bruises a welcome relief.

  No time? No. Not to join him for dinner, or afterward. Not to speak and have him ask questions that she would not or could not answer.

  Not to dance.

  She looked at her feet; they were heavily booted. A smile tugged at the comers of her mouth as she remembered the quartermaster’s reaction when they’d been requisitioned—as if small feet were created solely to be an annoyance to his routine.

  Think, Erin. Think. Kaarel and Ruth would be here, in safety, no doubt commencing their criticisms of royal rule. Gerald would be at Lorrence’s side, or at Renar’s; Morgan would be running his cabs in rings around the city and charging a fortune for the privilege of the uncomfortable and harrowing rides to “build up his business to a respectable level.” Stenton would no doubt be plotting in a similar vein, but with different clientele.

  She wondered what Lord Beaton would do; the overthrow had left him tired and at an odd sort of peace. Tiras might train, or not; most likely he would stay as one of the king’s most trusted counselors.