There are those scholars among us who believe this is to be a derivative of an older title that one line, long dead, once used.”
The priest noted that Darclan’s eyes had become strangely black; he could not discern the pupils, or tell where the gaze fell. The fingers on the armrest began to dance nervously.
You are young, Darclan thought with disdain. You have not been on the fields. You have not seen who truly rules this Empire. He smiled, and waited.
“The high priest wishes to meet this woman.”
“For what reason?” The blackness of the Lord’s eyes seemed to spread; no longer did any white mar them at all.
“He finds it unusual that this disturbance coincides with the unheard of presence of a particular young woman in the Darclan castle. It has been rumored that you have indulged her to the point of allowing her to dictate the presence of a slave at your table. He cannot think of any reason why you would allow this, unless she had her own power.”
“And?” Flesh color gave way to shadow and clothing gave way to darkness, a darkness that gave him height.
Now the priest faltered. A thin sheen of perspiration broke across his rather pale face.
Now you understand, but it has been too long in coming. A pity.
“Go on.”
“The high priest believes that a meeting with this woman would confirm her identity as an enemy of God. If this is the case, she is, by his command, to be the sacrifice for the ceremony.”
“I see.” Stefanos stood then, and the room was filled with his power. His eyes, black now, gave way to a silver-gray—Sargoth’s gift. The young priest began to quiver uncontrollably, his mouth flopping sullenly in wet silence.
“A pity indeed.” But the First Servant’s voice held none.
The tremors contorting the man continued, building in strength. The muscles around his neck and shoulders grew taut. His hands, shaking visibly, reached out toward Stefanos.
But Stefanos only watched, a distant expression of vague distaste invisible in the darkness. The priest slumped forward in the chair, motionless.
The shadow withdrew, the countenance of the Lord Darclan returned. He walked to the door, opened it, and spoke a few curt words before returning to his desk.
Gervin soon entered the room and, ignoring the priest, stood before his lord.
“Very good, Gervin, I wish you to take a letter. It is brief.”
Gervin nodded, walked over to the desk, and picked up a stylus.
“To the First Karnar of Malthan.”
“Vellen of Damion, sir?”
“I believe that is what he is called.”
“And the text, sir?”
“He is to refrain from interference in my personal business if he wishes to maintain his Church.”
Gervin scribbled something down without raising an eyebrow. “Anything more?”
“No.”
“And the visitor?”
“Ah. You may send his body with the letter. One other thing: Send the Priest Calven to me if he is still within my walls.”
Blackness without end. Sara clung to the periphery of the light, trying futilely to drape it around her body. She felt skeletal but could not see herself clearly enough to know if this was just fear.
And beyond her stood the man of red. He had not moved since she had first seen him. She was afraid of him, but found an odd comfort while she could see him; the darkness that clung to her skin and the inside of her mouth did not seem to trouble him at all.
No, little one. He smiled. The darkness does not affect me. If you would have this protection, merely step forward and I shall grant it to you.
She started forward, as she had any number of times, only to be caught once again by the light.
Where am I?
He gave no answer, no matter how often she asked. But his lips curled over preternaturally sharp teeth.
Someone, she thought, as she had thought time beyond number, someone will come for me. But every time she told herself this, she believed it less.
What care have they for one such as you? All of your kind are long past.
Why? Why should they come? Why should anyone dare this—this blackness, this web?
They’ll come. But her memory gave her no such assurance.
She was alone; she felt that she had been alone for centuries. Looking up again, she met the eyes of the man, and they were red.
She waited. And the darkness grew closer, and the light rimming her grew dim. She grew tired; too tired even to hate the darkness that surrounded her.
Come. Have an end to your fear. And he smiled again. They have left you to me. Come. I shall not leave.
She started to refuse, but her mouth was too frozen. Looking at him, tracing the outline of his face as she had done often, she thought his words true. For he had stood thus, it seemed, forever. He had not left her side, and she felt he would not, not without her. She shivered. She was afraid of him, but the darkness leeched her strength as she waited.
And slowly, she uncurled, and wordlessly she nodded.
She began to step across the threshold of the light and it flared up, grabbing her ankles. Another trap. She fought to wrench her foot loose.
Come.
I am coming. She tried to struggle free of the light and he stepped back—only a step—and opened his arms.
I’m coming.
“Ahem.”
Darin started, nearly dropping the goblet he’d just filled. He knew the voice well, but had managed to avoid its owner over the last few days. Oh, well, it couldn’t have lasted much longer.
He turned to see that Cullen was leaning over the cutting counter, drumming his ample fingers.
“I’ve been hoping to see you, Darin lad.”
“Hi, Cullen.” Darin gave what he hoped was a genuine smile. He liked Cullen, but he knew that the cook would press him for answers about the activities of the last few days, and wouldn’t believe him when he said he didn’t have most of them.
“Heard rumors this way that you spent yesterday morning in the dining hall.”
Darin nodded.
“At the dining table.”
“Well, yes, but ...” Darin’s voice trailed off.
“Heard that the lady was calling you by name.”
Darin looked down at his hands, feeling guilty. “Yes,” he said at length. “She did. All morning.”
“By the Lady!” Cullen whispered. “It’s true.”
“But I’m sure that she’d name us all,” Darin said quickly.
“I’m sure that she’d have us know hers.”
Cullen looked at Darin and shook his balding head. “It’s not a game?” he asked.
“No.” The answer was quick, but there was no defensivness in it. “I haven’t met anybody like her since I was in the city.”
“The city?” Cullen raised an eyebrow. “Are you from out-Empire, boy?” At Darin’s solemn nod, Cullen’s expression changed. This fact explained much. “Ah.” Too much. “We’d heard that Dagothrin had fallen. Even here, we heard that.” He shook his head, and then stopped. “Is she from outside, too?”
“No.” Darin shook his head. “She’s from the Empire. She was in a boating accident here a few weeks ago. She hit her head and almost drowned, and it’s done something to her so that she doesn’t remember anything.”
“Darin, boy, use your thick little brains.” Cullen rapped the counter. “If she’d been here a few weeks ago, wouldn’t someone have noticed?” The cook shook his head.
“But I know she isn’t lying. She—the lord told her about the accident. She told me.”
“The lord,” Cullen said softly. “Maybe there is a game being played. Be careful, Darin.”
Darin didn’t tell the cook that Lord Darclan had also called him by name. Instead, he thought over what Cullen had said as he made his way out of the kitchen.
He didn’t see the way that Cullen stared at his curled shoulders. Didn’t hear the whisper of a prayer that formed on Cull
en’s lips.
Lady.
For the next two days, Lord Darclan began and ended his daily routine on the same note: He would knock on the door of Sara’s chamber, and Darin, greeting him, would shake his head from side to side. He did not believe that he could endure a third such start to a day, and so began the morning in the breakfast hall.
He sat at the head of his table, engaged in a vague conversation with Lord Daldrem, which interested him solely because he did not desire silence. The elderly man in the green and silver did not seem to notice this and continued his monologue unchecked, until the door to the inner hall flew open and crashed into the stone wall.
Darin stood, gripping the edge of the door and trying to catch his breath. Behind Darin, two male slaves also stood, their expressions worried as they looked up to meet the eyes of their lord.
“You have done well,” Lord Darclan said, his crisp voice carrying the length of the hall. “Both this boy and master Gervin are to be given access to me even if I have indicated that I do not wish to be disturbed. At his request, he is to be given immediate access to my presence, regardless of time or circumstance.”
They relaxed slightly and nodded at his command.
“Now, Darin.” He saw the way that the two slaves looked at each other and then fixed their gaze on Darin’s back. “What is the reason for this disturbance?”
“It’s Sara!” His chest rose and fell as he tried to fit words between breaths. “I was sitting by her this morning and she went all tense. She started to kick and hit out at nothing.”
“Did she wake?”
“No.” He gasped. “I thought she was having a nightmare. I tried to wake her. It seemed to help.” He bit his lip before continuing. “Then she screamed. Just screamed and fell back.”
“She’s sleeping, then?” He rose and walked over to Darin. His hands reached out to steady the boy’s shoulders, and perhaps to steady himself.
“I don’t think so. She’s—it’s like she’s been broken. She’s all pale and she doesn’t move anything. It doesn’t even look like she’s breathing. But she keeps saying something, over and over. I thought it was nonsense at first, because I don’t understand it. But it’s the same thing.”
Lord Darclan took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “Do you think you can repeat it?” He waited, listening intently.
“It’s something like ‘mayvanna.’ ”
“Mayvanna?” Lord Darclan’s eyes snapped open. “Me venna. ” He cut the air with sudden intake of breath. He turned and ran, leaping deftly through the open doors of the breakfast hall. Darin followed at his heel.
Sara lay in bed. She was white and still; limbs and forehead were cool to the touch. Even her lips were colorless in the alabaster cast of her face. Lord Darclan’s hands clenched in tight, large fists as he stood looking down upon her. Darin moved quietly to stand at the other side of the bed. The motion caught his lord’s eyes. They met Darin’s brieny—cold, smoldering blackness, no hint of white to allay their chill. Darin shivered and looked away, doubting what he had seen.
They stood for fifteen minutes, watching, caught in the red light of the curtained room. Sara did not move at all.
Something’s wrong, Darin thought. It was several minutes before he realized what it was: The curtains of the room that filtered the sunlight were blue.
Blood-magic. He paled, clasping his hands tightly together to stop himself from drawing the two Wards he knew. Lord Darclan had named him, but he could not trust him further.
Sara’s lips opened a crack, and the whisper of words came rasping out. The tone of her voice matched her eerie pallor; free from life or expression, it hovered between the two who stood watch.
“Me venna. Me venna.”
“No!” Darclan grabbed Sara’s hands, crushing them in his own. “You are not going anywhere!”
“Do you understand what she’s saying? Is it a name?”
“Not a name, no,” he answered. His eyes began to change, from black to steel gray, edged and hard. “It is an old tongue, Darin. Some of your scholars may have remembered it.” He smiled bitterly. “It is a dead tongue, now.” Closing his eyes, he bent his head over Sara and began to murmur. It was a strange, rhythmic litany of words, matched in meter by the swaying of his black-robed body. His voice grew quieter. Time faltered, warping itself to the timbre of his words and the cadence of their rise and fall.
Darin watched. He wanted to offer his help, but the words wouldn’t come. His lord’s knees gave, but he continued his chant until the words creaked out of a parched throat. Only then did he raise his bowed head. He gave a low, furious snarl and dropped Sara’s hands. They fell limp to the covers. He stood, gripped her shoulders, and started to shake her. She didn’t respond. He touched her face, called her name. No answer. At last he pulled her into the circle of his arms and rocked her body gently.
“Lord?”
Darclan shook his head. “She is—still alive.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“Do not ask.” He tucked her head under his chin. “Go to master Gervin. Tell him to send me a knife. ”
Darin’s hands were on the door before Darclan could continue; he froze to catch the last few words.
“Tell him that I need you. Do not forget this. You are to wait until he gives you leave to return. Bear what he gives you to me.”
Darin stood warily inside of the small vestibule outside Gervin’s living quarters. He knocked tentatively on the door and waited. A brief rustle sounded, followed by quick, light steps, and the door opened a crack. Gervin peered through it. He wore a blue woolen robe; the belt had been clumsily tied and was already slipping. Gervin looked decidedly less friendly when newly awake than on his regular duties, something that Darin would have sworn to be impossible.
“What’s urgent enough to wake me at this time of night, boy?”
“Night? But it’s late morn, master.”
Gervin slid his curious eyes over Darin’s upturned face. “Morn, is it?”
Darin gazed around the vestibule searching futilely for windows. He thought back briefly. How long had he been with Lady Sara and Lord Darclan? Not that long. Certainly not that long.
“It—it must be morning. It was when we entered the Lady’s room.”
“Oh, it’s morning all right, Darin, but I don’t suppose you’re here to debate which end of the morning it is.” He opened the door and stood aside, allowing Darin to enter.
Darin glanced around the sparse, stone walls of the third tower. There was a grate for the fire in the far right corner and a small, neatly closed desk. At one end was a bed with a few blankets and no pillow. That was all. Gervin grinned at the boy’s swift appraisal of his worldly possessions.
“Well, boy? Did the lord send you?”
Drawn back to the task at hand, Darin nodded. “He’s with the Lady Sara.”
“And what does the lady request? Shall I have the linen maids redress her bed? The women draw a bath? The boys start another fire in her grate? Or, worse still, shall I screw up all my courage and rouse Cullen, as she has missed meals this three-day?”
“None of those, master,” Darin replied, serious in the face of the older man’s teasing. “Lord Darclan says that you are to send him a knife.”
The wrinkles around the corner of Gervin’s mouth froze in a grizzled mask. Even his eyes seemed momentarily dead. He turned and walked rigidly over to the small desk, his right hand fumbling for a key.
“Did he say anything else, child?” he asked in a light, cold voice.
Darin nodded, although Gervin couldn’t see it. “He said that he needs me. I’m to wait here until you give me something to take back to him.”
“I see.” Old hands removed a plain wooden box from the top drawer. Old eyes gazed bitterly at the symbol burned carefully into the sheen of its lid. “Then wait. Do not touch anything.”
“Where are you going?”
“To do as we all do.” The box shook gently in Gervin’s g
rip.
“Stay; here you are safe.”
Darin watched, as the old man left the room. Something coiled tightly in his chest, waiting to spring.
He remembered suddenly the home and freedom of his childhood and the strong voice of the matriarch of the line as she delivered, again, the old warnings. He wanted to shut the memory out, as he’d done many times before, but it was stronger in the isolation of Gervin’s tower than it had been in many years.
The shutters to the single window in the third tower swung awkwardly in the breeze. There were no curtains—Gervin disdained them—and starlight, clinical and distant, glittered like frost in the night sky—little vicious eyes, pockmarks of light. Words, buried deep, were unearthed.
They stalk at night. Darin, pay attention when I speak. The Darkness draws nearer and what you learn may save your life. All power needs life, mind. All the costs of power are measured in the blood. Lernan will only accept what is given willingly, but the Darkness trades in any life. And they come in the—
Moonlight, streaked and oddly painful, touched his upturned face, mingled with breeze and a soft, acrid smell. The sound of hoarse voices filled the inner courtyard and dwindled into a silence suddenly unbearable beneath the naked sky. Darin slammed the shutters into their stone frame, grappling with the cold wire latch. He walked over to the bed and sat down, clapping hands over his ears to ward off the voice of the past and the choice of the choiceless present. He thought he knew why this particular memory came.
The box should have been ebony, the blade, toothed and curved.
Lord Darclan was a priest. Malanthi, born with the blood of the Dark Heart. It chilled him.
He sat there until Gervin returned. Although there were lamps, Gervin carried a heavy torch held high in his left hand. Darin could see a large purple bruise around the old man’s right eye. Washed in torchlight, clutching the small wooden box in scratched hands, Gervin seemed ghostly. He stopped in front of Darin, roughly shoving the box toward him.
“Here. Take it. Tell the lord it’s done.”