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

by Michelle Sagara West

  To Benataan, Lord Torvallen,

  A matter of import to us both has come to my attention, and I believe you will find it to your benefit to examine the information contained herein before you dispose of this document.

  I am well aware of the disagreement between yourself and Lord Vellen, and while I regret it, I find that I too have a matter that must be resolved with him, be it humble compared to your own.

  Dramathan, Lord Valens, will be unable to attend the convening of the Greater Cabal in two days hence. This matter is not known publicly, although I fear it cannot be concealed for long.

  He has given no proxy and no vote, if vote is to be taken.

  Please use this to your advantage.

  No reply is necessary.

  —Lady Amalayna of Valens

  Were there time, Amalayna would have started a form of written dialog and barter with Lord Torvallen. Indeed, she knew that she ran a risk in revealing as much as she did. But Benataan was likely to be a very busy man soon; he would not, she hoped, have the time to take advantage of a house that, for the moment, had no head.

  She sealed the scroll and rose with it. Once again she pulled on a cord and made her way to the sitting room. When the slave came at her summons, she asked for a courier to be sent.

  Richard came quickly.

  “Lady.” He bowed and held out one hand.

  “Have this taken by route of Kelso. Tell him to pass it on twice. Use the courier that is often used by the merchant House Kallaxas. The letter is for the eyes of the addressee only. If he is not available immediately, the courier is to wait. If he is, no reply is necessary.”

  “Lady.” He bowed again and was gone.

  All that was left was to wait.

  “I don’t understand this.” Corfaire hit the bell at the desk with his fist and glanced around at the almost-deserted lobby. The sitting room, with its ample fireplace, was completely empty, and beyond it, the dining tables were clean. No settings had been placed on them, and the chairs rested upon the table-tops.

  “The edict,” Erin said quietly. But even she felt uneasy. At midafternoon, Malakar looked like a city deserted by all life. Curtains were drawn along the various windows in the merchant quarter, and no wagons moved in the streets. Not even a single carriage had passed them by.

  A door slammed open, and a man in a rumpled jacket came stumbling out. He squinted slightly at the light.

  “Aye, what is it?”

  Corfaire’s hand stopped a hair’s breadth from the bell. “We’ve come from Rennath, and we seek lodging and a meal.”

  “From Rennath?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well then.” The man got behind the desk and pulled out a heavy ledger. This he threw open and flattened under a heavy palm. “Haven’t they had word?”

  “Of the edict? No, obviously.”

  The innkeeper, or a substitute, as Corfaire was beginning to suspect, yawned loudly. “Right. How many rooms?”

  “Three. Preferably in the same wing.”

  “Three. Right.” The man’s eyes narrowed, though whether it was from suspicion or sleepiness was hard to tell. “We don’t have a dorm here; we’ve only got real rooms.”

  “I’m aware of that.” Erin’s fingers curled suddenly around his arm, and he forced a fixed smile onto his face.

  “Good. How long will you be staying?”

  “Probably a week. We have goods brought to Rennath from the north, and our stay will depend on the speed at which we sell them.”

  “Week? That’ll be, what, twenty-eight silver crowns. We want payment in advance.”

  “Half.”

  “All of it.”

  “Half.”

  The innkeeper yawned again.

  “Or we can go to another inn. There are enough in Malakar.” Erin’s fingers reminded him to level his voice. He had been a slave here, yes—but he had always served as personal guard of House Sentamos, and he was used to respect from the merely free.

  “Half then,” the innkeeper said grudgingly. He held out a palm, and Corfaire dropped the money into it. He made a point of counting each coin. The innkeeper returned the favor by counting each key, but somehow managed to take longer even though he only had to go to three.

  “Won’t be a meal until dusk,” he muttered as he turned to leave the desk. “And it’s extra.”

  “Of course. We’re sorry to have troubled your sleep.”

  “I suppose it doesn’t matter.” The large man said, not even bothering to look over his shoulder as he headed out the door.

  The problem with sarcasm, Corfaire reflected as he lifted the packs, was that it required an aware wit to appreciate it.

  “Uh, Corfaire?”

  “What?”

  Darin shrank back at the force of the word. “You forgot about our horses.”

  Corfaire’s fist hit the desk squarely—but it didn’t touch the bell. “The stables are at the side. I’ll see to the horses myself.” It was a wise decision, although he didn’t particularly have any desire to visit the stable. He was not sure he could face the sullen innkeeper again without losing his temper thoroughly—and even if the Lady weren’t with him, it was something that he wished to avoid in this city.

  The walls to her room seemed faceless and gray. Even the tapestries and the life-size paintings that ranged from floor to ceiling did nothing to dispel this effect.

  She sat by the curtained windows, the surface of a drink trembling in her listless hand. Dawn had already driven back the darkness without. Within, it touched nothing.

  She had not even tried to sleep. The bed, with its sheets unturned, waited in the other room. The wild, proud face of her ancestress stared down in heady contempt, not even bothering to demand an explanation for failure. Looking beyond it, she could see gray stone, unfinished and undecorated. All that was needed were bars, and the illusion would be complete.

  How long had it been? Five hours, six?

  Her temples pulsed with a beat not unlike the grand clock in the great hall.

  And then the knock came at the door. She was almost across the room before it sounded again, quietly.

  No lady of House Valens would throw the doors open so quickly their crash would echo in the halls, but she had much on her mind. Amber liquid sloshed around the rim of her crystal glass, finding refuge on the dark carpet below.

  Richard stood on the other side of the door. His face was quite pale.

  “Lady.” He bowed formally and lifted his hands.

  There, seal unbroken, was the letter that she had penned.

  “The messenger was to wait for Benataan to receive the letter,” she said quietly, taking the scroll in an unsteady hand.

  He could not have known all his words would mean, but he hesitated for a moment and looked away from her pale, strained face. “Lady, he would have had long to wait. Andrellus is Lord Torvallen now.” He took a deep breath and waited for her to speak. When she did not, he continued. If he could not deliver this message in time of crisis, he could at least provide her with information.

  “Benataan, former Lord Torvallen, passed away last evening, a scant few hours before the dawn.”

  “How—how did you gain this information?”

  “The entire house cannot speak of anything else, with the exception of its lords and lady. Benataan was taken by a Demon of the Dark Heart. There is enough of a body left for ceremonies.”

  She did not have the strength to dismiss him, but he left anyway, his tread on the carpet light and even.

  The door swung shut as she walked to her sitting room and the curtained windows.

  Benataan of Torvallen was dead.

  And with him, her last hope of peace.

  The trap of her room closed around her like a coffin, and she stared, sightless, into the quiet shadows in front of her glimmering eyes.

  chapter seventeen

  “Have you tried yet, Lady?”

  “Hello, Corfaire.” Erin’s voice was a whisper against the clo
udy glass of her window. The curtains, such as they were, were drawn wide. Dying rays of sunlight hit the floor behind her feet. Her face looked whole and healthy, but Corfaire knew it was due to the pink the sun cast off in its last spin for the evening. Her fingers, small and slim, curled around the pocked wooden sill.

  It was disturbing to see her look so vulnerable. The power that she sometimes wore was invisible and untouchable now. He cleared his throat.

  “Lady?”

  “Yes.” She turned from the window and the empty streets below. “Yes, I have.”

  “You found nothing, then.”

  “Not what I was searching for, no.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  She was, but there wasn’t any food that she felt like eating. The day had gone past as she stood at this window, unfurling the smallest strand of her power and sending it out. It should have worked. She should have been able to sense the Gifting from much farther away.

  Was I mistaken?

  The map lay on the bed, a pale ivory sheet against the dark blankets. She had looked at it time and time again, comparing it to the newer one she had taken from Dagothrin’s vast library. The Gifting had to be here, locked from sight in the maze of silent buildings.

  But she couldn’t sense it at all.

  Her power had only seen red, the color of the Church and its working. Most of it was clustered in one central area of the city itself, and she had taken care not to disturb it or examine it too closely.

  She bowed her head. “Do you know Malakar well?”

  Corfaire had answered this question many times, and each time the answer had been the same. But he did not grow frustrated or impatient at the repetition she forced from his lips.

  “Well enough, Lady. I grew up here.”

  She walked over to her map and placed her finger firmly down in the center of the city. “What is here?”

  “Did you not see it as we walked up the Westway?”

  “One tall building, or perhaps two, behind shorter ones. Nobility?”

  “In a manner of speaking. The Heart of the Church rests there. It is a full fifth the size of the city proper. Just east of the Upper City—we’re in it now—on the far side of the temple complex, is the High City. The estates of the houses are found there, provided the house is politically powerful enough to claim land in Malakar.”

  “We’re in the Upper City?” There was a faint hint of disbelief in her voice, and she turned to glance out of the windows once more. The street below was narrow, and garbage rested against most of the tall, old buildings.

  “Yes. It’s more commonly referred to as the merchant quarter. If you find it distasteful, be glad that you aren’t in the Northern City. The docks on the Torvallen are there.” He picked up a chair and brought it to her, but she sat as if the action were an afterthought.

  “We will have to go nearer to the temple, then.”

  “Are you afraid of it?”

  “I don’t have a choice. They can find me, Corfaire, if they’re looking. The priests, I mean.”

  He knew who she meant. “How close?”

  “Pardon?”

  “How close do we have to be?”

  “I don’t know yet.” She seemed to shrink further, and as the sky darkened, so did the circles under her eyes.

  “We have to go to the High City market to dispose of our wares. It’s just off the Eastway, and it passes quite close to the temple walls.” He walked over to the door. “But you need sleep, Lady. Let me talk with the others and arrange our evening. I will return in a few hours.”

  She nodded, but her eyes were drawn to the window, not the closing door.

  There was so much power in the temple. Thousands of priests might account for it. Thousands—or one Servant of the Dark Heart.

  If he were here ... She could not use her power so close to his. It would be just as wise to walk up to the gates along the Westway and demand an audience. She would be found for certain.

  “Second of the Sundered.” Vellen bowed low, the red of his robes whispering against the stone floor. He held the bow for a long time.

  Both knew why.

  “High Priest.” Sargoth turned quietly from the altar of the temple proper, drawing his shadow with him.

  “I have news, Lord.”

  The use of the title did not amuse Sargoth, but the words that Vellen presented made him stand more tall.

  “What news?”

  “She has arrived.”

  “What have you done?” The sibilance was lost to the sharpness of the words.

  “Nothing,” was Vellen’s neutral reply. He stood, gaining his full height, the torches glimmering off the back of his red collar. “I did not wish to alarm her, or otherwise notify her of our presence.”

  “She is well aware of it. The spell that would hide my presence from her blood would build ten of your little cities.”

  There was only so much arrogance that Lord Vellen could take, and he bridled, although his expression did not change at all. “She has made no move to flee.”

  “No, it is not I that she has come for.”

  “Is she aware that it is your presence she feels?”

  “Probably not. She might think me the First of the Sundered.”

  There was no hiding the fleeting frown that transformed Vellen’s lips. But it did not dally long on his face. Indeed, it was difficult to refrain from smiling broadly. Benataan of Torvallen was a corpse, fodder now for the worms and the carrion insects that dwelt below ground. None of the Greater Cabal could now question his right to the seat. The manner of the former Lord Torvallen’s death had made certain of it. Of course, the killing had been attributed to the wrong Servant. What of it?

  “Have her watched, High Priest. Have her followed should she choose to leave her current dwelling. But it is your responsibility to ensure that she is not detained or harmed by the patrols of the city, without making this known to her. She is not alone?”

  “No. She is with an old man, a soldier of some sort, and a young boy.” His eyes widened and then narrowed as he looked into the darkness beyond Sargoth’s shoulder. “A young boy ...”

  “None of them are to be detained without my leave.”

  “But it is only the woman who interests you.”

  “After my business with her is finished, you may do as you please. Do not think otherwise.” He did not utter any threat, as he did not feel the need.

  “What would you have me do, then?”

  “Wait.” Sargoth raised his arms in a high arch over his head. Blood-power trailed down them in a bright, liquid stream, and he began to fade even as it grew. “I will be a day, perhaps two; I have my own matters that must be attended to.”

  There was no one to pray to. The Dark Heart granted no favors to one who was not a priest, and Amalayna had foresworn that option many, many years ago. She was cold but sent for no slaves; the ashes that rested in the fireplace were not yet to be disturbed.

  She was not drunk; she had not touched a drop since receiving her courier’s word. But she had not eaten, either, and both sleep and rest had eluded her.

  The door to her closet was half-open, and the shadows revealed a glimmer of color, red and gold. Burgundy and gray were too drab to stand apart from the darkness.

  She rose and walked quietly to the door, swinging it full open. It creaked while she supported her weight against its hinges. Happiness had never had such distinct colors before. Her fingers curled around red silk and gold thread, and she drew the full skirt of this one old dress to her face.

  She wanted to go home.

  Her hands shook as she realized that she had nothing to offer her young son now, and nothing to offer his grandfather.

  Maybe Dorvannen will let me go home.

  She could not be certain of it. Of all of the children of House Valens, she knew best the political workings of Malakar—and her brother would need the knowledge she had for many months to come.

  And after?

  It was stra
nge to think of it: She would live, and so would her enemy.

  I want to go home.

  The dress fell back into the closet like a secret.

  Shaking, she walked to the door of her bedchamber and pulled the heavy cord. She could almost imagine she heard the distant ringing of a bell as it pealed into stillness while she waited.

  Lord Tentaris was working quietly in the study. His desk was a neat mess of papers that had to be signed and sealed before he could attend to the diversion of funds. The trade war with House Wintare had slowed in the past month, which was good. The mercenaries that he had been forced to hire to guard his route against bandit predations had eaten heavily into the profits those routes generated.

  But even so occupied, he heard the quiet knock at his door. Perhaps he rose too quickly to answer it, although he expected no callers. He was tired of working in this dim light and closed space.

  She stood in the door like a ghost, and for a moment she was one—her feet hardly seemed to touch the floor, and her eyes looked beyond him at a distant tragedy that had been sealed within them, as if at a moment of death.

  “Amalayna?”

  The word seemed to cut strings that held her, and she sagged against the door frame, pressing her cheek against cold brass. Beyond her, Lord Tentaris saw two slaves at their early cleaning duties. He frowned, but instead of ordering them away, stepped back himself.

  “Come.”

  “I’ll not be long, Lord Tentaris. I just—”

  “Amalayna.” He was disturbed. Words had seldom had much power over her, but just the sound of her name seemed to ease her now. “I gave you leave to come here as you pleased.” Not, perhaps, the wisest of decisions, but it had been granted, and he would not stay that grant.

  “Would you like something to drink?”