I should have known better than to choose you, child. I should never have tried to find one so like her. And yet, you were different. Smaller, more frightened. More mortal.
But as always, he pushed regret away—the deed was done; the consequences, complex and somehow painful, would be endured as they had been endured before.
“Darin.” His voice was changing, deepening. The boy’s trust hurt him somehow. It was the Bright Heart’s legacy, the Bright Heart’s taint. It was the same pain that Sara always caused.
And the same twisted pleasure.
He knew now why he had summoned the boy, the initiate, the priest. It was as close as he had come in hundreds of years to this feeling—for Sara, newly wakened, had not yet come to trust him so.
And he missed it.
But the boy’s trust was given to a priest of Malthan. He bowed his head, then, and took the final step.
He summoned the darkness. It came, swirling around his human form and robbing it of its semblance of life. The room went chill. He shivered as he raised his head again, knowing that Darin’s eyes could not pierce all of his shadow.
“Can you trust me, Darin?” he whispered.
Darin sat frozen. Death, he thought, as he had thought one night so long ago. Death walks here.
For the Lord’s power was no longer veiled, and Darin’s blood responded to its revealed strength. He knew the Lord now. He knew the Servant who had presided over the death of all Culveme. With a cry of fear, he bolted for the door.
The shadow made no move as he flung it open and scrambled for the staff that was his office.
So. Stefanos stood, withdrawing his hands from the desk. He felt relieved as the white-fire of Bethany flared like a clarion call. But he felt pain, too.
Darin turned, the staff forming a cross with his body.
“This,” Stefanos said, “is all that I am. Do you remember me now, little Priest?”
The staff came up as the First of Malthan began to walk.
Yes. Let us have an end.
Tears began to fall from Darin’s mortal eyes. Tears that the heritage of the Sundered could never allow to fall.
“You,” Darin said. The staff was shaking.
“Yes.”
Yes. I am Stefanos, First of the Sundered. I carry the Darkness that is your line’s death. He raised his arm, his eyes flashing.
The staff faltered. Darin’s eyes closed, and the tears grew stronger. And then he said one word, as if to himself.
“Sara.”
Stefanos stopped. He knew that Darin spoke not to him, but to one long dead. He also knew that he would not kill the boy. His arm fell to his side, and the shadows slipped away. Cloaked beneath the facade of Lord Darclan, master of the house, he stepped back.
Darin watched in the numbness of shock. The staff, though not raised to strike, still surrounded him with a nimbus of green light so pale it was almost white. He was shaking, but stood unshakeable as he watched the transformation.
“So,” Lord Darclan said softly. “You know.” He wanted to order the boy to leave, but refrained, his eyes caught and held by the patterns of a light inimical to his nature. Arrested, he let the red flare of his eyes gutter, and wondered if the boy—if any Lemari—could see in the shadow what he saw in the light.
He smiled, bitter. For he understood, through this meeting, the error he had made. Sara’s light, Sara’s love—it was not separate from the blood that ran through her.
“You aren’t human,” Darin began.
“No.”
“Not even half blood.”
“No.”
“You killed my line.”
“All but you.”
There was silence again. Silence in which Darin’s pain filtered out and danced in confusion around Stefanos’ senses.
“And now?”
Now? Ah, the question. “I do not know.” He stepped forward, reached out to touch Darin’s shoulder. “I might ask the same of you.”
Darin didn’t move away. Instead, he shook his head. “The lady?”
“She is safe.” Stefanos reached out with his other arm. Darin was caught in the circle he had formed, although neither knew why.
It was hard for Stefanos, hard to stand in the presence of something so fragile without breaking it. Centuries had done nothing to alleviate the dichotomies that Sara had formed. But turning away was hard as well. He understood the nature of fragility intimately; it was not the life that was before him, but something more complicated.
“Why?” Darin said, his voice closer and muffled. “Why don’t you blood the stones?”
Lord Darclan smiled, although the boy could not see it. “Why?” he said softly. He shook his head. “Because she always hated the blooding.”
“Why doesn’t she remember?” Darin murmured, his voice already fading.
But this question Lord Darclan would not answer.
“Who is she?” The question was so quiet that none but a Servant would have caught it.
“Elliath,” the lord whispered. “Elliath, as you are Culverne.”
He felt Darin stiffen, heard the intake of the boy’s breath.
And perhaps it is time, Stefanos thought, that she remember this. There was no resignation in the words.
Darin did not ask why Lord Darclan held him; Darclan did not ask why Darin allowed it. The silence gave them the tenuous peace that they needed for the moment.
“It’s very frustrating.”
“I realize that, lady. But you should not tax yourself so; the memories will return in time.” He watched the stiffness of her shoulders give way for a moment as she stared out of the window. Daylight robbed him of the reflection of her face in the glass. He stood near her; the tremor in her voice drew him.
“It’s just that I can almost remember—I can feel everything on the periphery just waiting for me to wake up.”
Lord Darclan nodded, although Sara could not see him. He knew how she felt; knew it, but could not stop it. The cursed blood of the Enemy had revived her and weakened his bindings in the process.
And they should have held. They were strong; much blood and magic had formed their base. But all of his dealings with Sara were tainted by his weakness for her; why should this be different?
“And I don’t understand what I’m doing here. None of this feels right to me, no matter what you’ve said, what Darin’s said.”
He shook his head; realized that he had not been listening. “Pardon?”
“I feel as if I should be somewhere else.” She turned to face him then. Her face was pale and strained, her eyelashes matted with tears that she had not cared to share with him. “Something’s happened; I know it—I feel it here. I’m needed.”
Lord Darclan cursed silently. “Yes, lady. I need you.”
“You don’t have to humor me, lord. I’m in better shape than that.” She bit her lip. “I just feel . . .”
“Trapped, Sara?” He reached out to touch her face, and felt the wetness of her colorless cheeks beneath his fingers. Tears he remembered—shaking his head, he smiled, willing her to smile in return.
She did, but it was an echo, repetition without substance.
“Lady, this mood is due to your exhaustion. If you rest now, on the morrow you will be better.”
“I’m tired,” she whispered, “of not knowing.”
“This is natural. Rest. It will help.”
He started to turn, but she grabbed both of his hands. “Why am I here? What was I doing?” There was a wild quality to the words; her hands trembled as they pressed into his.
He said nothing.
She was different with Darin, relaxed. He found that he did not resent this as he once might have; each man reaps what he sows.
If she had not held his hands so tightly, he would have withdrawn. But she did, and instead he found himself following a path familiar and painful—one that he had hoped could wait until she was somehow stronger. He drew her toward him, his pull firm but gentle. Her hands slid
away from his and, after a moment, settled around his stiff back.
Beginning is always awkward. There was tension in both of them; undefined, unnamed. He stroked her hair and face precisely, rhythmically. They were caught in a halo of uncomfortable silence; it settled round them, a suffocating, invisible mist.
Sara raised her head; her chin was tilted at an angle both defiant and vulnerable. Light glimmered in her eyes—light and a distorted reflection of the man she gazed at. He saw himself then, visible and unknown.
He caught her chin between his fingers. It trembled as her lips parted.
“Say nothing, Sara.” With just the slightest hesitation, he bent down. He stopped for long enough to realize that he stood upon a precipice. He could taste a trace of the breath that met his mouth before he made a choice that was no choice. His lips met hers, briefly and fiercely.
Pulling back was the most difficult thing he had done in years. He pushed her away more roughly than he had intended, and found, to his surprise, that the trembling he felt was not Sara’s alone. He turned sharply, his eyes on the carpet.
“Don’t go.” Sara’s words put up a wall in front of the closed door. “Please. I have to know . . .”
Without turning, he said, “I cannot stay, lady. Please forgive me for any liberties I have taken.”
“No, please.”
He shook his head. “You do not know what you ask, lady. Sleep. I will return in the morning.”
He heard the rustle of clothing. Behind, her voice drew closer. “Please turn around.” From the comer of his eye he could see the small hand that touched his shoulder, fluttering there. He shrugged it off brusquely and reached for the handle of the door.
Her hand stopped him; her fingers curled around his.
“Sara—”
He found himself turning. Something in her eyes caused him to flinch; they were both bright and dark, the light and the depth of them compelling.
“Why did you-do that?”
“Sara . . .” All explanation was lost, as absent as the will that had carried him to the door.
She stood perfectly still, his hand in hers, an inch away from his body. Her hair fell about her shoulders and around the line of her neck; a few strands obscured the question in her eyes.
“We’ve been here before, haven’t we?” The words were soft, dim echoes. Her lips hardly moved at all. He could just catch the whisper of her voice. He pulled her hand away from his, and leaning forward, cupped her face in his palms. His thumbs hovered in the air before her moving lips.
“Yes.”
She began to speak more quickly. “And you were here, at least once. You wore black, I don’t remember what, just that it was black. And cool.”
“Yes.” He caught her eyes as they began to dart around the room—caught and held them.
She swallowed. “And I was with you here, and I was wearing . . .”
“Yes.” His thumbs pressed firmly against her open lips, stilling her words. “And you were afraid.” His grip on her face tightened perceptibly. The green glaze of her eyes burned.
“I—”
“Are you afraid of me now, Sara?”
“No—”
“No?” His lips brushed against hers. He smiled thinly.
“Yes, then!” She tried to wrench herself free; he stopped her with a slow, soft kiss. Her breath was quick and short and sweet.
“Shall I leave, Sara?”
“I don’t know! I don’t know who you are. I don’t remember you at all except for this one—”
He kissed her again, like the first kiss, briefly and fiercely, drawing her to him.
“Do you want me to leave?” His voice was harsh.
“I—”
He knew that she was confused. He was an unknown benefactor; he was dark and somehow forbidding; he was alone with her, and she wanted him without knowing why or how she could feel so about someone she hardly knew. He could see all of these thoughts as they circled about the chaos of her mind.
And it no longer mattered. Yes, he wanted her answer, yes, he wanted her trust, and yes, he wanted her acknowledgment of the desire that lay between them. But more than that, more than any other thing, he wanted her.
She started to speak, but he no longer wanted words from her. He slid one arm around her waist, the other around her neck, and gave himself over to the feel of her mouth, the pulse of her throat, the delicate, insistent touch of her hands upon his back, caught between pulling and pushing.
There.
A flicker of light, hesitant and faint; no eyes but his could catch it. Hers, already closing, did not.
He watched, tense, in the silence. He watched it curl around the slight tilt of her lips as if it were a child’s hands, watched it move gently outward, seeking. Light. Her light.
It touched him, an echo of the past, a whisper of tomorrow. For this, four centuries had passed. He felt its oddness, its warmth, and knew again that memory alone was not the truth, but a reflection of it.
Only when it was gone did he move, encircling her shoulders gently in his arms.
And then, in darkness, peace.
Perhaps he had been wrong; perhaps her memories were not needed at all. Not when presence alone could begin to evoke the light that lay dormant.
He rested his chin against the top of her head and let his mind wander as he held her. Even now it was hard to believe that they were together. She had fallen asleep so quickly; any questions that she might have asked would have to wait until morning.
Or longer. He shifted.
The past was the past. Let it lie dead; let it remain buried. Yet even that . . .
He knew that this night was not a new thing—it was a shadow, a trace of all that had been before. His eyes grew hard and gray; the reflection of Sara dimmed into clouds as he concentrated. Let something new be born, he thought, something strong enough to defy our history. He caught the strands of her dreams and memories as they rolled together, binding them fast.
He smiled as he worked; the smell and the feel of her lingered in the air around him. His eyes slowly darkened; blackness returned to them, and his lids fell shut as a deep satisfaction began to build. His fingers traced the edges of Sara’s eyes, her nose, her mouth. She smiled into his hand, and one word shattered his peace as she drifted deeper into the realm of sleep.
“Darkling ...”
And he accepted, then, what he had been unwilling to accept during their long separation: There was nothing he could do to change her mind or alter her memory—the mark of the past was a scar beyond his healing. It was only a matter of time—time was always his enemy—until she broke his binding; the seed of all that had happened grew in her, eluding his control.
He held her tightly.
There was so little time, and he wanted all of it.
Afterward, in the silence of his study, he recommenced the weaving of a different spell, the one that would give him the sight he wanted. Gesturing and murmuring, he threw off the shackles of the now that he inhabited and began to push himself forward. He could see the veil of years just ahead of him, a shifting gray wall. It rolled back like mist as he advanced.
Just a little longer. Images coalesced from the shadows, flitting by too quickly to be identified. He paused to catch one, and saw Sara’s dirt-stained face as she reached out to touch—
The veil fell forward again before he could completely grasp the image. He cursed softly.
Time. Time. Time. Could he take it, he would have his answers, but the spell would hold him while the mortal years passed. This, this he could not afford.
The dawn had come.
chapter fourteen
Sara woke to a knock at her door. She was alone; the bed showed no trace of Lord Darclan’s passing. She frowned and then shook her head; she wasn’t really surprised.
The knock came again, and she turned to face the door as it opened. She smiled and relaxed as Darin’s head peered around the door.
“It is breakfast already?”
>
“Uh—not exactly.”
“‘Not exactly’?”
“It’s midday, lady. The lord said you were to sleep.”
“Oh.” She looked mildly sheepish.
Darin walked over to the window and drew the curtains back. She hadn’t recalled closing them, but shrugged and stood as sunlight poured into the room.
The warmth and light of the day caught her by surprise. Sleep and hunger forgotten, she rose and walked over to the large window. “It’s beautiful outside.” Her tone was wistful and far away.
“It is, isn’t it?” Darin smiled as she came to stand beside him. More carefully, he said, “Lord Darclan gave orders for lunch to be packed, if you want to eat out.”
“Packed?” she said, confused. “Do you mean a picnic lunch?”
He nodded.
“Yes!”
“I’ll wait outside—unless you need help dressing.”
She shook her head and almost danced over to the closet. “I won’t wear anything too elaborate. With my luck I’ll just tear it or stain it.” Her feet kept jumping. “I’ll be out in just a moment.”
As Sara stepped into the closet, Darin stepped out of the room. The hall was empty, and aside from the occasional shout that carried up the main stairs, quite quiet. He leaned against the wall, folding his arms around the staff of Culveme.
Sara looked better for the night’s sleep. He wished, as he jerked his nodding head up, that he could say the same. Too many questions, unasked and unanswered, had plagued him during the previous evening, and try as he might to put them aside, he had gotten little sleep.
If Sara was of Elliath, why didn’t she remember anything?
Because the lord did not wish her to. He knew it and sighed.
If he loves the lady, Darin—and I will grant you the possibility—he is the first of all the Servants of the Enemy to be so blessed. What strange circumstance would allow this? And if those circumstances have existed, what strange emotion have they birthed? He is not mortal; he is of the Dark Heart’s blood. Do not expect his actions to coincide with your understanding of love.