Into the Dark Lands (27 page)

It hurt him, but not enough to stop him from marveling; he was curious for the first time in millennia. Pain, suffering, disintegration—these were familiar, these were expected. But this half mortal gave him more than this. It was almost as if she yearned for the touch that life itself fled from.

He let the thread of her life slip away, choosing instead to coil himself around this other sensation before it vanished. He called to it, drinking it in, and it came. He could not analyze it; could not dissect it; could not sever it from its source. He hurt her, clinically and deliberately, but though the life faltered, this thing did not; like a beacon too high to touch it shone on, disregarding him. He pulled at it—minutes, maybe hours passed. They were of no matter.

Light. But it was surely not a light with which he was familiar.
It was not solid enough to strike, and if he cast a shadow in its glow, it was insignificant, unnoticeable.

After a while, standing on its edge was not enough—if she was the source of it, he would break her to reach its center. He threw himself into the fragments of her mind, tearing them open. Methodically he sifted through her memories, discarding all that seemed irrelevant. He stripped her carefully of experience, peeling away the layers of years and identity until something beneath that stood revealed—a spark in the chaos. Hard and clear, it hung suspended by thin strands, waiting for him.

He went to it, unerring, wrapped it in the velvet of his night, and began to feed on it—or tried to. But the warm light of it washed over him like a wave; he could not hold it long enough to consume it. It pushed outward, beyond his night, his darkness. He struggled with it futilely, unwilling to admit that its very nature defied his hunger.

It began to recede as he fought with it; it pulled farther and farther away from the iron of his grip. He cried out once in frustration—and once in pain.

Sunlight began to make its hold on the world felt; it streaked across the horizon in a pale, red blanket. Stefanos lost his grip on the Sarillorn and she crumpled to the ground. He looked up once at the eye of morning before turning his back on the pain it caused. Grimly he knelt beside Erin. His hands, deprived of their ability to absorb, only touched the surface of her throat. There, insistent and faint, he felt the throb of a pulse. It amazed him.

“Perhaps,” he said, stroking her skin, “it was not lack of subtlety on our part, but rather some subtlety on yours. There is still no Servant who can claim to have fed on Lernari life.”

Life. I'm alive.
She thought it almost bitterly, but the words would not make their way through the parched tunnel of her throat. Self-awareness flooded back to her, dimming the light of her earlier determination. She knew she was cold, hungry, and tired—but she would give in to none of these things. Not yet.

“And still conscious.” The sunlight had not yet deprived him of strength, although he could feel it blistering his back. Sliding his arms around her, he lifted her quickly and glanced around.

“Stefanos.”

He stiffened and turned his head slightly into the sun.

Talon stood a few feet away. Without bothering to reply, Stefanos started toward the encampment; in a few moments day
would be too close and too dangerous. He ignored the footsteps that dogged his retreat.

He stopped at the entrance of the tent. Six men, armored and armed with crossbows, barred his way. The bows were not pointed at him; as weapons they would have little effect. He looked carefully at the men, engraving their faces into his perfect Servant's memory. He moved forward, and one of the six stepped toward him. His words were apologetic and shaky.

“I'm sorry, Lord.” He was very pale—a rare sight among the Swords. “You may not enter with the Sarillorn.”

“Get out of my way.” Each word, measured and calm, had the force of a blade.

Talon's voice came from directly behind. “I'm afraid, Stefanos, that the men here are under
my
orders. Hand the Sarillorn to me and you may enter or leave as you wish. My business is not with you, but with her.”

“Talon, I begin to find you annoying.”

“And that is, I'm sure, quite unfortunate. Nonetheless, you will do as I ask.”

Stefanos placed Erin very carefully on the ground and turned to face the priest. The sun was rising; he could feel its nails across even his unexposed skin. He gritted his teeth against the pain.

“Yes, the sun is out, isn't it?” Talon said casually. “Rather careless of you. It's good to know that we now share similar opinions of each other.”

Stefanos had never liked Talon, although their paths had crossed only briefly. This time he would be sure that he would not endure another such meeting. The sun was on him; with each passing minute it grew more acerbic. Talon's smile acknowledged the fact that he also knew it.

“Captain, take the Sarillorn.”

Stefanos spun around and the soldiers drew back, their hesitance painting a clear picture of their fear.

“Stefanos, do not force a confrontation here; it would be most unpleasant for me.” Talon's tone belied his words.

“It will be.” With a swift, sudden lunge, Stefanos moved forward, his left hand swinging in a clear, wide arc. Talon's eyes widened in surprise as the fist smashed into his neck. Choking, he bent over. The Servant was not finished. His hands rose again, twice, each movement precise and economical. Talon jerked forward and fell prone in the trampled grass.

Leaning over, Stefanos picked the priest up by the back of
the robe. He ordered the men to one side and this time they did not refuse him—a good thing for all concerned. If the sunlight had taken its toll of flesh a moment longer, Stefanos was determined to exact no less a price from the Swords. They knew it.

The tent flaps slid open and the Karnar was thrown to one side. Stefanos glared balefully up at the sunlight. Baring his teeth he returned for the Sarillorn. She gave a low moan as he lifted her.

“I see you are still awake.” The guards noticed the way his grip altered to become at once more secure and less painful—something he himself was barely aware of. “Come, Sarillorn.” He carried her into the cool darkness of the tent. After looking around for a few minutes, he lifted the flap and barked out an order. Almost immediately two men entered in, carrying a small cot. They set it up in the middle of the room, their hands unsteady. The Servant ignored the smell of their fear; they did not hold his interest at the moment. He waited until they had gone before laying Erin down between rough wool blankets. Smiling, he watched her feeble efforts to throw them off.

“Now, Sarillorn, I have a task to attend to. Sleep; I will be with you shortly.”

The “task” lay in a fetal curl on the canvas floor, dark robes askew as it gasped for breath. With an unseen smile, Stefanos walked over to where it lay.

I'm very tired.
Numbly Erin tried to move her fingers; they trembled in response, but refused more. She could hear, as if from a great distance, the sound of cloth shuffling. Rest would come soon, and sleep. It was cool and dry, and the sounds of the dying were mercifully absent for the first time in hours.

Sleep? Erin, there's a Servant here. What are you thinking?
Hysterical laughter welled up but she hadn't the strength to release it. She could feel the trickle of tears along the side of her face and wondered absently who they were for. Her eyes closed over them, forcing the last few out, and the shadows that flickered at the edge of her mind dimmed.
At least I'm still alive.

The thought brought her no peace.

Sleep curled tentatively around her and she let it pull her further away from awareness. Floating, she felt the lull of its eddies as they carried her away . . .

A scream dragged her back abruptly. It was high, almost mindless in its intensity. Although it was cut short, the shock of it lingered like echoes.

Instinct shored her up. Instinct gave her the strength to stumble out of bed—bed?—in the direction the cry had come from. Almost immediately she collapsed. The rough touch of canvas slapped her skin as she dragged her head up.

I can't see you I can't get out from under these
—

No, Erin. You are in a dark tent.

The scream came again, weaker in volume, stronger in intensity. Taking a deep breath, she crawled; the pain that called her would not let her rest. Her hands reached out toward a patch of something that seemed darker than the rest of the tent. She felt cloth beneath her fingers and weakly pulled at it. It moved; it gave a sharp intake of breath as if it were alive. A whisper of a
sigh came from her mouth; this was not what called her. She moved beyond it and felt a hand at her back, pushing her down.

“Where are you going, Sarillorn?”

The words made no sense to her. She hadn't the energy to shake her head, but her sense of frustration grew. Her knees moved, but she could go no farther, the hand still held her down. Almost inarticulately she mouthed two words: “It hurts.” It was the only explanation she had the strength to offer, but it seemed to appease the darkness; the hand lifted and her knees began to inch her forward.

Her arms were already stretched out to their full length along the floor. She lifted them and stretched her fingers out.

Contact. This was it.

Something shuddered at the touch, writhing as if to avoid it. Surprised, she pulled her fingers away, but they were called back, to rest against warmth and pain. The struggle against her grew feeble; Erin felt an unfamiliar barrier touch her hand—an unpleasant sensation that reminded her of the color red. She withdrew her hand once more, and again it returned, called to the pain. So she kept it there and pushed outward against the barrier to the thing that called to her so strongly. Like a poorly made tapestry, it began to fray under the tips of her fingers. It throbbed as if unwilling to grant her entry, but she could sense it grow weaker as the call grew stronger. Then the barrier broke; attacked from within and without, it fell away in shards.

It took most of what she had left to open the channel between herself and this other. She couldn't have broken the contact even if she'd wanted to, but the thought didn't occur to her; she had gone too far. All that was left of her went out through it, out to the one who was hurting so very badly.

Like a blanket, she wrapped herself around it, absorbed what she could of it, and comforted what she could not. She sensed a terrible, lost confusion and, as if it were a child, she eased it, rocked it, and cradled it—all without a single motion. She was the Sarillorn of Elliath; what else could she do?

And through it all, the darkness was laughing.

“Ah, Sarillorn—I do not believe you even know who it is you are trying to help.”

Words. More words. She ignored them; the other was almost asleep, its pain dormant. She could rest soon.

“Mercy, little one? Mercy to the Karnar? No one of your people would grant it.”

Again the laugh, like the buzzing of an insect, sounded
through the tent. Then hands tugged on her shoulders. Hurriedly she pulled herself out before the contact was broken. She allowed herself a weak smile.

“Sarillorn, do you realize what you've done?” He shook her, and her head snapped back to loll against the air. She didn't answer and was shaken again.

Stop it!
She wanted to scream. She had done her best—why could she not rest? But the hands and the voice troubled her too much, and she forced herself to acknowledge them.

“Sarillorn, this man is Karnari. You have just granted him a peaceful, painless death. Why?”

Slowly the words twisted into her, piercing the gray that clouded her conscious thought.

The Karnar? I saved the Karnar?

Images of his interrupted ceremony filled her mind's eye in the darkness. The feel of the ruined flesh of his victim came back to trouble her shaking hands.

Why? He's everything we fight against, everything we die to prevent. No death at his hands was ever painless—he deserved a hideous, endless torment. Why? Why did I do it?

The answer returned to her as quickly as the question left. The bitterness of the truth of the Lady's warning, offered years ago in the quiet and peace of the Woodhall, struck her sharply.

She opened her mouth. Her voice, when it came, was dry and rasping. “It's what I am. He called me; I had to come.” And she wept, although she had little energy for it

“Yes, Sarillorn. Yes, you did.” His voice was almost hushed. “He is half blood no longer.”

 

What do you want from me?
Erin glanced from side to side at the escort she had been given: six soldiers, all without the taint of blood that marked the Malanthi. Their black surcoats were torn and dirty, but no hint of red embroidery scarred their surface. They would not meet her eyes. The day the march began, one had leered at her, fondling her right breast between callused fingers. He was no longer with her, nor with the army at all. She shuddered, remembering the haze of shadow that had torn through him before she could even react. At least there had been no pain-call.

No one bothered her now.

During the day the troops slept, and during the night they marched. These were the orders of the nightwalker and none
sought to disobey them. It lengthened the march, but their lives were worth the extra time.

What do you want?

Two days had passed, but she was still not used to walking like this, a refugee in the shadows of tree, stone, and night.

She thought of her failure, and it hurt.
Is that what this is about? Am I not even enough of a threat to merit death?

But she walked free.

Every so often she would look at the pale thinness of her wrists and wonder. No other prisoners had been taken by this army.