“How long?”
“Pardon?”
“How long do you think you have left?”
She turned away from him and walked over to the grate until her skirts hovered inches away from the edge of the flame. “How long? Weeks. Weeks at best.”
“And you are certain of it?”
“Certain that I will be caught?” Her smile was grim and fixed, although he could see only the edge of it. “I am certain.”
“House Valens is powerful enough to protect you from much.”
She had thought she could keep everything to herself, and even she was surprised when she turned to face Lord Tentaris. “I have no house.”
Understanding flooded the lord’s face as he met her eyes. They were blank and hard, almost transfixed. It was not much of a leap to guess at who else might be involved, but the horror he felt left little room for anger. That would come later.
Now, now what she had done—or would do—filled all of his thoughts. Once, Amalayna had been a cornerstone of her house, of Valens. Her father had been proud of her.
“He was my bond-mate.” She said it almost mildly. “And I claim the right to vengeance.”
“He was my son, and the house heir,” Lord Tentaris replied. Very quietly he walked to her until they were almost touching, and for the second time that evening he gave over stewardship of his grandchild. “Ah, Lady.” He shook his head. “You have my word.”
“Thank you.” She picked up her son and held him tightly.
“I will make sure he understands, when he is of age.” He walked to the door and opened it. “I shall come back within the hour; have your privacy now.”
“Thank you.” The words were softer.
“And Amalayna?”
“Yes?”
“Laranth would have been proud of you.”
He left quickly, without turning back; to do otherwise would have taken away her dignity. Only her child would witness her tears, and there was no humiliation for her in that. He would not remember them.
The only fear she had was that he would die too soon. Until the last moments of the rites, she needed her father to live; after that it was inconsequential. She had no illusions as to her importance to Lord Vellen; were her father to die early, he would call off the ceremony and be forever out of her reach.
These were her thoughts as she sat, alone, at the long dining table. Her father was elsewhere, on Church business, and her youngest sister—the only other lady of House Valens still to reside in the manor—was on leave with a group of her too-young friends.
Her only brother, and the heir to the house title, was in Sivari, tending to his duties as leader of the Lesser Cabal. He would not return home until the rites, and she was glad of it. They were not close, but he was canny and knew too well her thoughts.
She had no desire to see the house fall from its position and had taken precautions to insure his presence in Malakar at the death of her father; to do otherwise was to risk Valens overmuch. The traveling time from Sivari was measured in weeks, and Dorvannen could scarce afford those if he was not to lose the house titles.
Her fingers curled around her fork, and she cut listlessly at the slice of beef that lay before her.
What if, after all this, her plan failed? What if Vellen, suspicious and careful as he was, was too protected to be killed on the spot? She would almost certainly die, and the most important part of her goal would be left unaccomplished.
She pushed the plate aside with a grimace, and then set her jaw. She would eat; already her father had commented on her lack of appetite.
Perhaps tonight she would hear from her connections and discover what had been offered to Lord Vellen’s allies on the council. She could not, herself, afford an audience with Benataan of Torvallen, but there were other ways in which to reach him.
She bent her mind to that. It always paid to have a contingency in case she failed at this plan.
Darin heartily disliked rain. Especially this cold, wet drizzle that seemed to have no end in sight. There was no sun, and the clouds themselves were an even pall across the sky, with no beginning and no breaks anywhere.
His outer coat, although oiled, was now quite damp, and the hand that held Bethany was shaking. Cold like this always seemed worse than the bite of winter.
He wished that any of the three of his companions would at least have the grace to grumble, but no. Erin, as usual, seemed immune to the effects of the weather; although her hair was matted to her cheeks and forehead, and her own coat was easily as sodden as his, she did not shiver and did not remark at the way her breath hung in clouds before her lips.
Tiras, all in black, was also impervious to the effects of weather—and, it seemed, of age. He walked in the same brisk, upright way, glancing from side to side at the slightest noise or movement, be it only from small forest animals.
Even Corfaire accepted the weather as if it made no difference.
Only the horses seemed to mind, and Darin was not going to sympathize with them, although the prospect of doing so was becoming more tempting as he walked. The only good news he’d heard all day was that they would stay at an inn on the road. And even for that, he’d had to listen to Tiras’ arguments against it.
He began to fuss at the curling sleeves of his coat and scraped the mud off his boots against the undergrowth.
Erin, in quiet midsentence, looked back at the noise.
“It’s Malakar, isn’t it?” Her voice was very quiet; it seemed to fuse with the cold and the gray drizzle.
“No.” His breath came out in a puff. “It’s the rain.” But even as he said it, his covered right arm began to throb. The drizzle grew harsher, colder—as if he were suddenly laid bare to it.
Erin stopped walking, and he caught up to her slowly.
He met her eyes; they were very green. “We’re going to have to face Lord Vellen again.” It wasn’t a question.
She answered it anyway. “I don’t know. I hope not.” Her arm slid round his shoulder, and he felt her warmth through multiple layers of cloth. “But neither of us is what we were.”
“What are we going to do?”
She shook her head, and water ran from her hair, splashing his cheeks. It too was warm.
“What are we going to do?”
Erin looked up from the dressing table and laid the brush down. She met Tiras’ eyes across the breadth of the mirror, and saw Corfaire putting out the last of the dinner dishes. They had arrived late, but the innkeeper had seen fit to provide food for them in their rooms.
He should, she thought. They’d certainly paid for the privilege. She sighed and rose, turning to face the three companions that would see her through the last leg of a journey that had started too long ago.
“I don’t know.”
Corfaire frowned, but both Darin and Tiras looked resigned.
“Much of your plan,” Tiras began, “and I use the word advisedly, has been your private concern until now. But we are less than a week from Malakar, and I believe it is time to make things more ... exact.”
“And if any one of us is caught?”
“So shall the rest be.” The lines in his forehead deepened. “What is our goal?”
She closed her eyes and nodded slightly. “The Gifting of God.”
Two sets of eyes looked askance at hers; Darin’s eyebrows rose, but not in question. Bethany was glowing softly in his hand. Erin met his gaze, nodding, and both of their lips turned up in the barest hint of smile.
“This Gifting, as you call it, is in Malakar?”
“According to my maps and my understanding, yes. Where, I don’t know.” She frowned again, but this time more deeply. “Corfaire?”
“Lady?”
“Do you know of ... a well? Large, but not ostentatious; old—possibly guarded. No, certainly guarded.”
“No, Lady. And I do know Malakar.”
“The Church would perform the blood ceremonies there.”
“Ceremonies are performed in t
wo places: either at the temple in the High City, or in the noble houses. Nowhere else in Malakar.”
Erin seemed to sag as that hope died.
“But Lady, I was not among the slaves privileged to enter the High City temple; I have not seen all.”
“You can find it, can’t you?” Tiras said to Erin, his eyes so narrow they were almost closed.
“Yes. But not—not unless I use my power.”
Tiras looked almost dangerous; his eyes glinted as if made of steel. “You fear detection?”
She nodded.
“The Church.”
She nodded again, with just a trace of hesitation.
Tiras, no fool, caught it. “Erin, we must know what we face.” He stopped and looked narrowly at Corfaire. “At least,” he added, in a more moderate voice, “I must.”
She held her breath a moment, weighing her words.
But it was Corfaire who answered the question. “She fears the Lord of the Empire.”
“Nightwalker,” Darin added softly, although it wasn’t necessary. He remembered his Lord Darclan; tall, slim, and bearing an aura of malice that even the daylight could not fully disperse. He tried to push the image aside, choosing instead a younger one: the fall of Culverne. The shadow of death that walked among the survivors, searching for him. But the shadow had eyes now, and a bitter, haunted expression that Darin still could not fathom all of.
Is that where they were going, in the end? To face Lord Darclan in the heart of the Empire?
Yes, Initiate, Bethany said. She had spoken seldom on their journey, and her voice felt odd and hollow in his mind.
But ... he’d never hurt her. If he found her, he’d never hurt her.
No. The reply reminded him of the Lord, but he couldn’t say quite why.
The priests would. The Church.
Yes. But while I think she now fears death, I do not think it her strongest fear.
I don’t understand.
Don’t you? Darin, the Sarillorn of Elliath must carry the battle to its logical end. What she brings is war and death. Could you face him easily, with only that to offer? Could you face him so, knowing that he would not lift hand against you?
His grip on Bethany tightened. “No,” he said, and three pairs of eyes turned to look at him. He blushed. “Uh, just talking, umm, to myself.”
Thanks, Bethany.
He expected no answer, and received none.
But why doesn’t she just ask him to stop? Don’t you think that would work?
Do you think that she has not tried? She is of Elliath; she is old in years, if not in experience. And even the latter, I think, goes beyond either of us. But do not ask.
Darin wouldn’t have. He knew that any question about Lord Darclan only shadowed her and dimmed the light behind her eyes.
Corfaire did not know any better. Or perhaps he did; it was hard to know with him. “Lady, why should you fear the Lord? Can you not ask for what you desire? Would he not grant it?”
The breath that she drew was sharp and clean. She faced him squarely, although it seemed that she looked beyond his shoulder. “Corfaire, why do you think the Lady of Mercy left her Dark Lord centuries ago?”
“It was said that she would return.”
“To the slaves. Not to the Lord.” She lifted a hand, warding off further questions, and he subsided. The oath he had given her granted much.
She turned to gaze out of the window, seeing the blur of her own reflection. “Very well. Tiras, Darin, Corfaire—I go to Malakar to find the Gifting of God. The Bright Heart’s power is weak, but it is not guttered; the Light bums yet.
“I must find it. And when I do, I will call on the Gifting. No more and no less. But I think it will have the effect of crippling the Church and the noble houses.
“It’s imperative that you,” she said, turning suddenly to face Tiras and Darin, “return to Marantine with word. Quickly. What Renar then chooses as a course of action will be up to the council.
“But it would be best if I was not detected at all until the Gifting is purged. The Church is a danger, and the Lord of the Empire more so. The power of God I can call cannot match the power that he can.”
“Very good,” Tiras said softly. “But how?”
“When we arrive in Malakar, I’ll take the risk of searching. We don’t have any other choice.” She spread her empty hands out, palm up. “I’ve not been trained in this, Tiras. If I could give you a better answer, don’t you think I would?” Her teeth caught her lip, and she stood there looking suddenly young and vulnerable.
Tiras stepped forward. “Perhaps you are right.” He nodded to both Darin and Corfaire. “We will adjourn for this eve, Erin. Sleep; you look as if you could use it.”
Nobody understood why her smile turned so bitter.
A thin sheaf of paper floated in front of Darin’s eyes as he opened them. His hands were shaking slightly as they lay on either knee; his back and neck were stiff. Only a single lamp burned in the room, and the flame was already low.
“Good.”
He nodded; he could not see Tiras, and even the shadow he cast was lost in the darkness.
“If I were a young man, I would learn this magic. If you could teach it.” There was a creak as Tiras sat down. “Do you understand what I want you to do?”
“Yes.”
“Good. The door is locked; the lock is simple. Nothing heavy need be lifted; the work is delicate.”
Sweat began to bead on Darin’s brow and palms as he concentrated. The paper flitted to the ground, forgotten.
“Open the door, Darin.”
Dawn filtered in through the windows of the room that Erin occupied alone. She rose, stretched, and looked at the blackened fireplace. Hunger gnawed at her a little, and she got up quickly.
The sun was still low on the horizon; she hadn’t overslept.
With a little sigh she sat in the room’s sole chair and began to braid her hair, pulling it into three uneven strands. Frowning, she let her hair fall and began again, thinking about drill and the days when Telvar would have noticed even a hair out of place.
The day was already bright. She finished her braid and walked over to the curtains. They were a little threadbare, and she wasn’t certain they had always been this dull, patchy shade of gray. She pulled them aside and looked up. There wasn’t a cloud in sight.
That should help Darin a bit. Her lips turned up a little ruefully at the corners, and she traced a small circle in the air. Just a hint of green light flared before her eyes, fading into the grays and browns of the room.
She would have to do something to help him.
And for the first time in weeks, she felt up to it. She got dressed and packed her things, carefully tying the straps of her pack into neat, precise knots. She was halfway over the threshold when she froze; her backpack hit the door with a dull thud.
Oh yes, she felt rested.
She had slept the night through for the first time in too long.
A door swung open in the long hall, and a familiar face peered around its edge.
“Erin!” She barely heard the word. Stefanos had not called her into the darkness. He no longer rested in the hand of the Enemy.
Although walls were in the way, her eyes turned to Malakar. Any prayer that she was capable of fell from her lips.
Not in Malakar, Stefanos. Bright Heart, let him walk anywhere else.
chapter fifteen
He was very hungry when the plane fell away.
Stone congealed around him in uneven, craggy blocks. Wood lay in splintered beams as the sky, pocked with starlight, looked down. He could see where the rubble had been cleared away, for marble, cracked in places, peered through the dust.
They had not done much to rebuild. Perhaps he had not been away for long.
Time.
He frowned, and his lips drew back over triangular teeth. None were there who could see it. How had his personal quarters fared? Not so badly as this, he was certain. He glanced around agai
n, seeing no movement. But everywhere around him the evidence of his power was starkly visible.
Once it might have satisfied him in some small way. Now he felt nothing, save for the hunger. It reminded him of the amount of personal power he had used so recklessly.
Before the Twin Hearts chose their grave, the power to destroy so small a structure had been used merely to move the great distances the war had demanded of him. His Lord’s power had been freely available then; there was no impediment in calling upon it. And he, who had been First, had never lost the voice of God.
He was tired of war now, and the hunger gnawed insistently at him. But he would not feed.
The ease with which he decided this did not surprise him. How many centuries had he gone without feeding for her sake? But the irony was not lost on him, not even now.
Feeding, he saw her. And fasting, he was reminded as well. He reached out almost casually and crumbled a bit of carved stone between his fingers.
Ah Sara, Sarillorn. I cannot reclaim what I was.
You have ungently revenged the death of your Lady of Elliath. Even as he thought it, he called the last image of his oldest foe from memory. It spread before him in a quiet, weary defeat. He thought that now, centuries of mortal time later, he finally had a small understanding of how she could stand so, and fall so.
But he was still First of the Sundered; he would not dwell on this. Slowly he spread his arms wide, and red shadow claimed him. When it passed, he stood in the long, black hall that led to his rooms. He hesitated there a moment as if unfamiliar with the surroundings.
And then he gestured again, a red sweep of hand and lip. This too passed, and he stood in front of the well-kept gates of a castle.
They rolled open before him, with no hand but his to guide them. The grass was cut and clean; the flowers, not so plentiful at this time of year, were nonetheless neat and precise.
The master gardener’s hand was still in evidence everywhere.
He inhaled to catch fragrance and hold it a moment. Malakar did not smell like this; it was not so green or so oddly wild.