Almost at a distance, the First of the Sundered watched his only victory against his Dark Lord. The wall was fraying.
Too late!
Sargoth’s hand stopped; it froze in midair.
Erin’s screams died into choked sobs, and her one good eye traveled the length of Sargoth’s shadowed visage. He seemed to be struggling with something that she could not see.
The room became silent; there was not even the sound of breath to interrupt Sargoth’s quiet whisper.
“As you command, Lord.”
He raised one claw, pulled it back, and then tore out half of Erin’s throat.
Red light flared like an inferno in the chamber. Shadow surged forward and back; clouds, dark and heavy, held a crown of red-fire. The hells of legend might be more pleasant than this and infinitely less dangerous to the damned.
The Lord of the Empire had come.
Do you see, Stefanos? You are too late. She is beyond you.
The voice of the Dark Heart had never been so stark and so clear. The whisper of words barely contained what lay beneath them; the darkness was stronger here than it had been since the Awakening.
Sara hovered above the ground in an awkward parody of life. Her arms were stiff at her side, and her feet jerked spasmodically beneath her. He barely recognized her face beneath the network of welts and wounds that had destroyed it. Her naked body was slick with the blood that rained down from an open jugular.
This was not what he had dreamed of. This was not what he had offered the Dark Heart as the key to locked walls.
“Welcome, First of the Sundered. Welcome to the altars of God.” Sargoth bowed awkwardly. “Have you come to claim what is yours?” The laughter was strong and double-edged; sibilance skittered across the surface of a shadowed, ancient power. “Take it, then.”
No one moved in the crowded chamber. All eyes were upon Sargoth and Stefanos, waiting an outcome that they could not hope to influence.
The Lord of the Empire had no words to offer. There was suddenly nothing beneath his feet, and the shadows that surrounded him seemed to go on and on into an infinity of empty hopes and memories.
“Kill the others,” a new voice said. Lord Vellen’s. The high priest. He spoke to his Swords, and for the first time in all their years of service, they hesitated at this high command.
Stefanos roared. His voice, inhuman and immortal, filled the temple and traveled beyond the locked doors. He threw his arms wide in a gesture of denial, and his eyes flashed, not red, but silver.
At a distance, he caught Sara in the arms of his unblooded power. He could not feel her, but he could see how each invisible tendril that came from his opened gate jarred her body.
Thirty seconds had passed.
He turned her to face him and saw the empty socket, the empty eye.
Stefanos, who is your master?
The laughter of the Dark Heart shuddered through him; he could not turn from it and could not deny it: It was that close. Light, even pure Light, would be a welcome alternative, a merely physical death.
Light ...
He leaped forward then, toward the Second of the Sundered. Sargoth did not move, did not even brace for the charge, so sure was he of the Dark Heart’s protection. Radiating outward from him, so strong it was almost clear to the mortal eye, was a solid sphere of blood-magic, the finger of God. Not even Stefanos could breach it—not now.
Yet Stefanos stayed true to his unpredictable nature. Instead of attacking, he caught the half-blood’s dying body in his arms and pulled it close.
“You cannot save her. You cannot even breach the walls that keep her from her God.”
“No,” Stefanos said, fully accepting the import of Sargoth’s words. “I cannot.” And then he leaped again, carrying his dangling, precious burden. He seemed suspended a moment in midair, and he had cast off the last of the red-fire that had been his mantle. Were it not for the height of the jump, and the speed with which he traveled, he might have been mortal.
His feet landed upon the altar, black against black. He spoke a single word. It was quiet, soft, and undeniable. The color of his open eyes was silver, a flash of incandescent lightning that drove away, forever, all memory of redness.
The great altar, the pride of the Church of the Dark Heart, shattered. Marble shards flew everywhere, sharp projectiles that spoke of the wrath and power of he who had once been the chosen of his God.
“I cannot.”
Sargoth wheeled suddenly, bringing the power of the Dark Heart to bear as he realized the intent of the First of the Sundered.
And Stefanos surrendered his Lady to her Lord. He had no time for gentleness or care—no time to see whether any spark of life remained within her. No power of darkness or of magic aided him at all as he plunged her into the waters below. The putrid surface of the Wound of the Enemy gave way before the last of Elliath, closing sluggishly over the top of her head.
Sara, please. Sara ...
He heard Sargoth’s scream. He saw a shadow of red power slowly taking shape. He had lost all sense of time and nearly all sense of place; there was only the poisoned Wound and the body of his Lady. He wondered if she was dead, and if this last defiant gesture only served as a fitting burial. Mortals were so frail ...
Sara!
And then he felt it: a faint, painful tingle that began at his fingertips. His eyes could not pierce the surface of the water, but he felt no movement beneath his hands. He wondered, briefly, if he imagined the sensation. Until it began to grow.
For the first time, he truly understood what the blood of a God of Light could do.
All there were privy to his screams as the water lapped at his hands and arms. He could not contain his agony, but he did not pull away while anything remained of his hands.
His pain fed the darkness.
Erin could not breathe. She tried, and water filled her mouth, traveling a quick path down her throat to mingle with the blood in her lungs. She wanted to struggle, but couldn’t. The nerves of her spine had been badly damaged. There was hardly even room now for thought.
She did not see the water that surrounded her, did not feel the clawed hands that gripped her skull and forehead. Instead, she saw mist. Soft, gray mist that seemed to contain a hidden light of its own.
And she knew where she was. She had been here once before. This was her final path. It led to the Bridge, beyond all pain, all guilt, all loss. Her parents would be there, across the odd and endless river. Her grandfather. Telvar. Katalaan.
She started to walk, if walk was the word, but something would not let her go. This time she did not struggle. She knew what it was. Erin of Elliath had not yet earned her place on this path; there was something left to do. But the doing would be hard. Never in her life had she truly imagined all that a Servant of the Darkness was capable of inflicting. Pride, anger, confidence in God—all of these things had somehow conspired to keep her free from the pain of a slow, bloody death. Here, in the mist, she felt no pain, no fear.
But there, there it would all return to her. And yet dead—she could say that now—dead, she could not accomplish anything of value in the living world.
She drew a sharp breath and held it, although it made no difference here. And when she expelled it, it carried a voice that was almost unearthly.
“Lernan, Great-grandfather, I give you my dying blood freely.”
The mist suddenly thickened and grew cold; it swirled around her, battering her as if she were a mountain and it a rushing current. The gray light grew stronger and stronger still, until it was blinding white, with the palest touch of green life.
Great-grandchild. I bid you return awhile. You have almost reached the end of the road that I set you upon, but not yet, not yet. I cannot expect your forgiveness, and yet I ask it. Return, dearest of all my descendants.
His voice was so sharp and clear that it resonated throughout all of her body with the glory of its song. She had never been so close to the voice of God, had never been touche
d so strongly and so completely by His presence. She felt His blood swirl around her as if it were two strong arms; two beloved arms that could offer a comfort nowhere else to be found. Invisible lips pressed themselves against her forehead, smoothing away all traces of pain, past or present. She felt overpowered by warmth, she could no longer remember a time when she had not known His Love.
The Bright Heart of Elliath had been cleansed.
chapter twenty-two
The waters began to rise.
Even through his pain, Stefanos felt the sudden change in the depths. There was no stillness or taint of death. He closed his eyes, but the green light growing before him—almost around him—could not be shut out by mere lids.
Torn between reluctance and profound relief, he hesitated a moment before he finally released Sara’s face. It was almost too long.
The light began to coruscate as the waters rose in no natural pattern. Like a pillar, they came out of the Wound of the Bright Heart, rising ever upward in the long reach of the Enemy. Only the vaulted ceiling seemed to halt their progress—but even of this, he could not be certain. The Light that burned him was pure enough, strong enough, to splinter the dead shade of gray that was stone.
He could not see his lady. He lifted his arms and opened his mouth before he realized that his response was a gesture of war, of eternal battle. Of the Dark Heart. What other response was there to the Light?
His own choice. But no choice had ever been so difficult to make. He was burning in white-fire and death. He could not see his hands and wondered if any of their flesh yet remained.
But he did not act, not even to stop the pain.
“Sara! ”
The pillar of light suddenly opened. Layers of water, of the blood of the Light, peeled away slowly to reveal the very heart of the column. The Lady of the Lord of the Empire lay nestled within, her legs curled to her chest, her arms folded around them. Her skin was very white, very pale. How long had it been since she had seen the sun?
He shook himself, wondering at the irrelevance of the question. Perhaps the Light had burned more than just his flesh.
“Sara?”
She lifted her chin slowly. Her lashes were pressed against her cheeks, and they came away as if she were afraid of what her eyes would see.
There was hardly any distance between them at all, but he dared not cross it. All he could do was touch her with his own eyes, eyes that were now just blackness in the shadowed gray of his long face. He had not the power left to pretend to be human.
“S-Stefanos?”
His knees would not support his weight, although the weight was almost insubstantial. He sank to the marble floors and felt shards of the shattered altar bite into his legs.
“Lady. ” He bowed his head before her, unable to meet the growing brilliance of her not-quite-mortal eyes. “I was wrong. Can you forgive me?”
She opened her mouth to speak, but it was not her voice that answered.
It was cacophony, heard from within and from without.
I-will-not.
“Kill the woman!”
“Destroy the Enemy!”
Thus did the Dark Heart, his Second Servant, and his high priest declare themselves.
And the First of the Sundered raised his head almost wearily. He was alive, although he did not understand why, but that was all: He had none of the power necessary to face any but the most trivial of foes. Not even Lord Vellen could be called trivial now.
“Sara! Call your Light!”
Her smooth brow was almost a child’s as it wrinkled into wide-eyed confusion.
“Stefanos?”
If he had been mortal, he would have wept.
The leader of the Greater Cabal swept his arms wide. His eyes, normally icy blue, were the heated red of the fires. The wildness of the call of Light was upon him, and he could barely contain its urge.
“Come, Jael, Marek, Telemach, Corvair—we are the Greater Cabal, and this is the last battle we will ever have to fight. Come!” He held out either hand.
They needed no further urging, for they too were of the blood. One by one, each of the four came to stand beside their leader. The differences of their heights, their ages, their complexions, and weight paled into insignificance as their eyes burned brighter; they could have been one man, with one purpose.
“Captain—prepare. You are the Swords of the Dark Heart—His weapons. Concentrate all that you have upon the Enemy!”
Again, no further words were needed. For the Swords, however weak in blood, were still Malanthi. Their weapons were already drawn, and they glittered in the light like long, dangerous teeth.
“What of the others?”
“Others?”
The Sword gestured, and Vellen turned his head slightly to see the prisoners who had been the Sarillorn’s companions. They had almost been forgotten. He sighed almost regretfully. He had so wanted to offer the boy to God at his own leisure. His eyes silvered slowly, for the red was reluctant to let go.
“Kill them.”
Darin, Gerald, Corfaire, and Cospatric were suddenly dropped the fifteen feet that separated them from solid ground. They had no time to brace for the impact, but in only one case did that make any difference. The three guards, still in Valens uniforms, had already started their rolls into recovery.
Darin was stunned.
Bethany, held up until this moment in white, taut fingers, suddenly rolled away, clattering as if she were only another stick of wood. She disappeared beneath the tread of fast-moving boots.
Darin raised his eyes from the floor to see the Swords, with weapons that he could not hope to counter, running toward him. He had screamed so much this evening that he hadn’t the voice to utter even a quiet curse.
But he had seen Erin rise, whole, from the Gifting of God. She looked like no priestess and no Sarillorn of legend, curled as she had been in the blood of the Bright Heart. No; she had seemed almost helpless, like the youngest of children waking from nightmare. He shook his head and began to struggle to his feet.
Bethany was not his only weapon, but the Swords were close and moving closer with every breath he took.
If he could have seen his own face, he might have stopped in shock—but he was the patriarch of Culverne, and though weak of blood, Lernari by birth. He too felt the call to battle take him, and his eyes were the deepest, clearest, brightest of greens.
There were three in the room who heard the call as clearly and more strongly than Darin did. But they had the advantage of age and experience to stay their hands momentarily.
Amalayna, once Lady of both Valens and Tentaris, had encountered this Light brief hours ago, wrapped like a cloak around Erin. Then, she had thought it powerful and pervasive; now, she could barely stand against its imperative. Light was the enemy. Light was the reason that war had been invented. She clenched her hands tightly and felt an alien coldness in their grasp. Looking down, she realized that she had already pulled her daggers. They gleamed, reflecting death incarnate in sharp, painful green.
Her mouth was open, and the words that left her lips were a declaration of war and purpose. She was burning; she felt the warmth of life struggle against this glare of death. What chance had she, after all? No desire, no purpose, no determination had ever been as strong as this. She began to move forward, twisting the daggers in her hands until they appeared to be miniature swords.
Corfaire had his sword out; he had gained his feet more gracefully than either Gerald or Cospatric. He had no shield, but he did not miss it—it would only slow him down. His lips were bloody; he tasted the trickle of warmth and salt that made its way through clenched teeth.
Light burned at him like fire. His skin, both exposed and armored, tingled with the pain of it. He, too, shouted until his throat was raw, and the words were a declaration of death to any who might hear.
He had come this far for a purpose that now eluded him. All of his skill and training had been honed to this fight. He had been a slave for most of
his life; he was used to following orders and imperatives without thought of death. He laughed wildly and swung his sword through the air without fear. What was there to be afraid of, after all? He had never lost a fight.
In front of him, rising to a pathetic height, was the boy whose very blood was anathema. Of their own accord, his feet carried him to that boy’s back. This was an Enemy. He had never truly understood what that word could mean.
His blade rose in an arc; he could almost hear it whistling in the air.
Stefanos rose as quickly as he could. The Light of the Bright Heart, which he would never acknowledge as Enemy again, was almost blinding, but he did not need mere sight to see the gathering force of Darkness that entered the room to answer the summons of the Light.
But the First of the Sundered had spent four centuries denying the call of the blood—four centuries and an eternity of hunger and desire. This call to battle was stronger than any other moment he had faced since the Awakening.
And it was not strong enough.
Other hungers and other desires had taken root with deceptive softness. He was tainted by them, pulled by them, and in the end, commanded by them. His Lady’s face was changing; confusion was being replaced by some other emotion. But it happened slowly, and he had no time to watch the transformation.
Sargoth was upon him.
Darin started to concentrate. It was hard; opening a gate required an intensity of thought that would not come. The Swords grew larger; he could see the expressions on their faces, for they were mostly unhelmed now.
He dared not close his eyes, but the sight of the enemy did not give him the moment of peace that he needed. He stood almost rooted to the ground, and then his arms shot up, cutting the air with a speed that was dizzying.
In front of him, the sigil of the Greater Ward took shape in the air.
The Sword at the forefront of the unit of eight screamed in pain and anger as his headlong rush carried him through it. But he did not stop, did not even slow. His sword came up, and Darin’s arms rose again—a poor shield to the blow that was certain to follow.