Erin was left alone with shadows and not a little anger. She mastered it outwardly, but even that with difficulty, and bent her head to stare at the hands she stretched out before her.
“You see?” she said softly to Darin.
“He’s just one man,” Darin answered. “And he doesn’t really believe in you.”
Her smile was crooked. “Maybe he’s right.”
Darin shrugged. “I don’t know. For some, belief is all they can have.” But he remembered how, for five years, he had labored without it on the stones of House Damion.
The sky was darkening again; sunlight had been broken into bands of multicolored clarity that ringed the horizon. There were no clouds, and the moon was at its nadir over the stately manses and the moving streets of Malakar.
Although the Empire was in service to the Dark Heart, most of its citizens still scurried through life to the rhythm of the day, but for many this eve marked a turning point, whether they realized it or no.
For it was not yet end of quarter, and the time to start anew had not arrived, but the streets to the temple were lined with carriages and palanquins, each jostling in its finery for a position in the crowded roadways. An impressive array of house guards was out in force, adding somber color to the cobbled streets; here and there, weapons were drawn and steel flashed under the odd lights of the High City, punctuating the tension, but not quite breaking out of it into violence.
Slaves, also bearing the colors and marks of the houses that claimed them, attended their lords and ladies as if nothing were out of the ordinary. They were no regular slaves, these, but rather the best of their number—were someone to be killed in front of them, they would not so much as blink without leave from their master or mistress. For the most part, they were older men, with the bearing and dignity of the almost free. More important, they had the experience to carry themselves with grace through any situation.
Tonight it would be tested.
Within the well-oiled and well-guarded gates of the temple complex, black robes swirled like frenzied shadows, carrying chairs, benches, books, and wine into the open cathedral. Flashes of red and silver could occasionally be seen on some of those who ran these errands; the signs of authority stooping low indeed. If the acolytes or the lesser priests noticed the presence of their betters, they were too busy or too cautious to make any comment; they had at best half an hour to prepare the cathedral for more than full capacity.
Slaves also worked among those who served the Church, carrying the heavier items and working more quickly, although hardly more diligently. Gray was the color of their “office,” and often that word was shouted by one anxious priest or acolyte across the length of the great hall. It was said that the temple slaves were the best behaved of their kind, and on this night they proved it true, answering immediately, with no sign of question or nervousness.
Indeed, thought Vellen, as he surveyed the crowded floor of the cathedral, they were as perfect as slaves could be; perhaps he could train his house slaves under such circumstance.
His robes were the color of fire as they rippled to the floor; shadow curled around his waist in the form of a black sash. He crossed his arms as he watched, wondering if the priests would have the room in order at the prescribed time.
No. There was no question of it; they would be finished. And then what? The corners of his lips turned down slightly.
“Thinking, Lord Vellen?”
“Some of us do, Benataan.”
The lord of Torvallen, and the Second of the Karnar, was dressed in robes identical to those that Vellen wore—the only thing missing was the tiara, with its small but startling ruby.
“Indeed.” Benataan inclined his head, failing to notice the lack of title with which Vellen addressed him. A taut smile lurked at the corner of his lips, but little else. “What does the evening hold?”
“Watch.” The leader of the Greater Cabal said curtly.
Benataan raised an eyebrow, nodded, and then sauntered over to his place among the thirteen. His chair was empty but in readiness, and he took it, resting either hand against the curled thickness of velvet-covered armrest.
Vellen spared him a glance, no more.
Still, it irritated him. This meeting had been called by the First of the Sundered for reasons that he alone knew. What would unfold by evening’s end was hazy and uncertain, both of which made the high priest uneasy. His own chair, at the center of the half-circle that stood nearest the altar, awaited him—but for how long?
The Karnari slowly filtered in, some wearing openly worried expressions that did nothing to ease Lord Vellen’s temper. He kept his peace and waited until the last of their number, Dramathan, had assumed his seat.
The Lord of Valens was in many ways a staunch ally. No concern touched his features; indeed, the set lines of his forehead seemed to speak of boredom, if anything. He nodded to Vellen. That small, silent gesture was not lost upon the lord of Torvallen.
Vellen stepped down from the dais, moving with a regal confidence that became his office. He took his chair, looking neither to the left or right.
An acolyte scurried across the floor and bowed quite low in front of him, casting a slight shadow.
The leader of the Karnari let him hold his stance for a moment before nodding. “It is time.”
“Lord.”
Behind the arched, high back of the Karnar’s chair, the doors swung open. Three slaves stood on either side, pushing them with care and moving silently enough that the slight creak of well-oiled hinges could be heard echoing throughout the chamber. Those same slaves would lead the incoming nobles to their places for the duration of this unusual audience.
Vellen’s eyes surveyed the altar that glittered smoothly. As of yet, no one stood behind it, but that in no way detracted from its dark glory. He pitied the eyes that could not see the red lines that traced its length and breadth, for those eyes would never know, truly, the power and the beauty of the God all now served.
Almost, he bowed his head in contemplation. But now was not the time, even if no better place existed for it, and he caught himself.
The silence of the temple was muddied by the muted whispers and chatter of the nobility as they pushed and shoved their way into seats. Yet even this annoying background noise died away into the silence of waiting.
Vellen knew that all eyes fell upon the back of his chair, but he was powerless to answer the questions that the nobility barely held in abeyance. He too waited.
Not for long.
The doors swung shut behind the assembly, guided by no living hand. The shadows seemed to lengthen until they touched the very height of the arched ceilings.
And entwined in those shadows, for those who could see them, were lines of red so deep and so pure that Vellen’s heart contracted with a bitter envy. He knew whose signature they were.
Darkness formed a well above and behind the altar of God, darkness that coalesced into physical shape and form. If widening eyes could make a sound, the temple would be full of it and nothing else, for it seemed that all those who watched had forgotten the delicate art of breathing.
The First of the Sundered stepped forth from the shadows, treading on air.
It took no special vision to see his power.
“Welcome,” he said softly, his voice filling the cathedral.
No one dared to answer, as if a word could draw his attention.
He smiled then, looking down upon them all. His eyes swept the arc of the Greater Cabal, and the smile sharpened for an instant, no more. “Welcome to the cathedral of the night.” He gestured with both hands, and the shadows pulled away, to reveal one man and one woman who stood rigidly on either side of him, their cheeks nearly brushing the edge of his cloak. They seemed to strain at some bonds, although none were visible, and the aura of their terror reached out to touch even the weakest of blood in the audience.
“It has been long since I have traveled among you.” His eyes were red, with such a depth of color
and light that the ruby that Lord Vellen wore seemed flat, poorly cut glass—a fitting comparison of their powers.
“But my business elsewhere has come to an end.” His arms he raised high, and from his hands pillars of red fire exploded outward, crackling through the air without quite finding living purchase.
“This is not the quarter, but the Dark Heart knows no mortal time.” Very slowly he began his descent, the shadows slowly flattening and gathering beneath him. “Nor do I, any longer.
“But the daylight does not please me, and you who are among the most ... powerful of my subjects, you live too much within it. This will end.”
Like tendrils of smoke, his hands reached out now, one to either side. Claws, gray and human enough to be disturbing, clutched the shoulder of the man and the woman at precisely the same instant. The grip was not gentle; blood fell in four red lines, staining the white, linen robes that either wore.
“I am the Lord of the Empire. The Church that you have served serves my whim, my will. The laws that you have followed are my laws, and should I choose to change them, you will obey them.”
His gaze, bright and burning, fell upon Lord Vellen.
This, this was why the meeting had been called. Vellen’s question had been answered, and the answer was bitter indeed. Here, in front of too many enemies, he was to be called to divest himself of the power that he had struggled for most of his life to earn. And what other choice was left him?
The leader of the Greater Cabal rose from his chair, his hands leaving the armrests reluctantly. This was almost worse than death—almost. Rigidly, he bowed, the movement low and precise.
“Lord,” he said.
“I cannot hear you, High Priest.”
“Lord.” Vellen’s voice was stronger. “The Greater Cabal stands ready to obey.”
“Tell them.”
Vellen stepped away from his chair and the shelter it provided. He walked toward the altar until the First of the Sundered shook his head. There he stopped—before the altar, rather than in his customary place behind it. His face was pale, his eyes glittering blue ice.
Shadows shrouded the First’s face, but Vellen saw clearly all that was in it. He swallowed, choking down anger, not fear. There was no contest—not here, not now. And it was the Malanthi way to respect the greater power. As long as it was too close to be challenged.
“The Lord of the Empire has returned.”
“Louder.”
“The Lord of the Empire has returned.”
“Tell them, then.”
Vellen swore softly that any who derived amusement from his humiliation would pay for it in the future. He swiveled, his red robes suddenly both hollow and heavy.
The faces that lined the pews disappeared into darkness as they grew distant; he scanned them, searching for even a hint of a smile. Shock he found; dismay and fear. No amusement. He drew his shoulders back, standing the straighter for it.
“The Lord of the Empire has returned.”
“Good enough,” Stefanos said. “You may take your seat.”
That seat stood empty, a forlorn, dark chair that had fallen somewhat from grace. Still, it had power. Vellen walked toward it steadily and resumed his position as the head of the Greater Cabal. His hands were shaking; he couldn’t still them, and that angered him more. He was no acolyte, to be so ordered, and yet in front of all of the nobility of Malakar, he had come and gone at the whim of this darkling ruler.
But he would think on it, over and over again, at a later time, worrying the wounds he had suffered here. The Lord of the Empire was speaking.
“Do you understand?” His voice was velvet, sibilant in the subtlest of fashions. There was a caress in it, the softness of snow with a hint of the ice beneath it.
The congregation nodded, wordless, almost breathless.
The Servant’s smile was red. Nightwalker eyes washed across wan faces.
“Good. Then let the evening truly begin.”
He made no further movement, but the two that stood on either side of him opened their mouths in wide, startling unison, their voices the melody and harmony of agony.
Vellen heard it, felt it, as he had no other death. His agony was of envy, for the Servant, the Lord, wielded no blade, and no obvious hint of God’s power. Yet with two hands, two immortal claws, in a grip firm but hardly cruel, he elicited the full range of human fear, human pain.
Lord Vellen had long prided himself on his control; with such self-discipline he had carved for himself an Empire at the head of the Church. There was no alcohol for him, save on celebratory occasion, no drugs, no excesses of indulgence that marked the weak who accidently stood in power.
Yet he had his weaknesses, and to his shame, they were exposed fully here. He knew beauty when he saw it. And as the twin sacrifices writhed, yet stood, as they screamed and twisted in the face of the inevitable, as they danced between the edge of insane hope and mere insanity, Vellen walked the rope between sweet, sharp joy and utter despair.
He wondered, as he watched, wondered as the hours drifted past, unnoticed and unremarked upon, if this was what God felt.
Tears trailed down the sides of his face, signature to the awe he felt. Never, never would he forget this ceremony, for the darkness had suddenly come alive in his blood; the night was, indeed, a complete cathedral—everything was holy. And he knew that try as he might, he would never have the gift to create so perfect a sculpture with the chaff of human life.
Lord Vellen of Damion knew true grief for the first time in his life.
And the Lord of the Empire knew it well and was pleased.
chapter nine
Erin had slept poorly. Some nightmare fogged her mind and dogged her step, and it was more potent for the fact that she could remember naught but shadow. The day was too new and too young to pull her away from it.
On the road, she remembered the darkness.
Belf. She shivered. What are you doing now?
She knew the answer already; it hid in the shadows, awaiting her. Each step she took beneath the awkward bower of towering treetops brought her closer to it.
Mornings were often like this—gray, even though the sky was brilliant, and small shoots of wildflowers dusted the tops of her boots. The green of leaves also cast shadows, both the obvious dappling of ground, and the darker, personal ones. She felt the fading fingers of the Lady’s wood in every oak she passed, and although she saw none of the Lady’s trees here and none of the smooth, bright birches, she felt her grandmother’s presence more for their absence.
Birds twittered above, their little high voices carrying a hint of alarm at those who passed safely beneath. Erin heard the life as it moved and looked up to catch the blue flashes beneath briefly spread wings.
“Come, dear, I think you’ll find Coranth quite an interesting village.”
Erin looked up to meet Hildy’s eyes—eyes that were crinkled, but warm and brown. The lines in her brow softened and slowly vanished. “Coranth?”
“It’s quite small.”
“Was it on the map?”
“Well, no dear, but it is on the route.” Hildy raised an eyebrow. “You did read the route itinerary, didn’t you?” She shook her head as Erin’s cheeks turned pink, happy to see a little color in them, even if the source wasn’t completely laudable. “Never mind, dear.”
“Coranth is an odd name for a village.”
Hildy nodded. “It’s a newer name.”
Breeze blew around Erin’s face; shadows cast by leaves played against her dusty clothing. Grass and wildflowers played at her ankles as she took what care she could not to crush them. She smiled as she watched Darin’s odd step, knowing that he too sought to mar as little as possible.
The shadows were gone; their grip suddenly faltered and vanished as she looked anew at the surrounding land. The sun was out, and the sky was an impossibly deep, clear blue. Empire or no, these lands were beautiful.
Something skittered through the undergrowth, leaving a green w
hisper in its wake. For only a moment, Erin wished that all of the body of the Twinned Hearts could be so peaceful. No Light, No Dark, no war—just the little wonders of undisturbed life.
“Halt!”
What a futile wish. A child’s dream.
No—as a child she had dreamed of war and glory. And what a dark war, what shadowed glory.
Her hand already rested upon her sword, although she did not draw it. The rasping of metal against metal that sounded above the creak of wagons coming to a halt told her that not all of the guards were so circumspect.
Very slowly she turned her head in the direction of that sound.
Light gleamed off the naked blade in Corfaire’s hand. It seemed as natural there as his fingers, and it took her a moment to realize that she had never seen him wield his weapon before. He met her eyes with a nonchalance that belied the supple expertise of the stance he had taken. And yes, even now, a sardonic smile folded the comers of his lips up.
She had no doubt that he would wear just such an expression should the men ahead on the road force a combat. And those men, she told herself sternly, merited more attention now than Corfaire did. For the moment.
There were four altogether, at least in plain sight. Each wore an uncrested chain, and three carried swords, holding them with considerably less skill and ease than Corfaire did.
The fourth person carried a crossbow, which was not in itself remarkable. What was, in these lands, was the fact that this fourth, grim-faced young fighter was female.
She was younger than Erin, her skin made dark by the sight of the sun. Her hair, where it could be seen under a leather and iron helm, was fair—almost white. Her eyes were large and brown as they met Erin’s—but seemed larger due to the way they widened.
The crossbow wavered and fell a fraction, even as Erin’s hand fell away from her sword. Their smiles, which started at the same instant, were those of equals acknowledging that they might, one day, be friends, should they meet in less unfortunate circumstances.