Into the Dark Lands (34 page)

But no, the light suddenly surged; it grew stronger, touching even the lines of her face as her eyes grew slowly wide.

“Would it trouble you if I remained?”

She stared up at him, her head moving slowly from side to side, her mouth wide.

“No ceremonies?” she whispered. “No blooding of the altars?”

“None, Sarillorn. None, where you are present.”

As if cut from her supports, she staggered forward, her arms reaching for him.

She felt the darkness that lay beneath velvet within the circle of her arms. To her surprise, there was nothing cold about it. It had been a long time since she had hugged anyone; a long time since arms had circled her shoulders in return.

Thank you. But she could not say it, not yet.

He felt the touch of her light and smiled. That smile remained as she pulled back, looking suddenly at the ground, her feet, the wall—anything but him.

“Dinner?” he asked quietly, as he opened the door to her rooms.

She nodded, still unable to meet his eyes.

This did not bother him. The light shone, this night, for him; it was his. As, in the end, all things must be.

 

That night, he fed for the first time in nearly two months. He waited until the Sarillorn slept and drifted out of her room, each step taken as if in time to the even, shallow intake of her breath.

He chose, from the dungeons of his palace, a young man for his purposes. The smell of the man's fear pulled at him as the Swords delivered his chosen to the east wing. It had been too long.

He stepped quickly into his personal chambers. They were utterly black, without the taint of even the faintest hint of light, natural or no. He preferred this; only here, without the presence of mortals or the meager torches they carried, did he care to relax and take his pleasure.

“Here.” The word came from the darkness that light couldn't travel into.

The Swords nodded in silence. He approved of this; whether they were half blood or no, they felt no pity or sympathy for the human they dragged into death. They forced the struggling human to the brink of the darkness and threw him in. Then they withdrew, the captain's salute crisp and respectful.

The Servant of the Dark Heart crossed the threshold, already stalking his prey. Anticipation curled his lips over the sharp points of his teeth. He could feel the screams shudder through him as the door closed behind his back.

 

Derlac stood in the dimly lit hall. He could only barely hear the screams that came from behind the closed door; they were shorter, though no less intense, than the ones that usually came from the Lord's chambers.

He waited, glancing around from time to time. His blood was strong enough to allow him to see the detailed work of stone statues that stood posted as a warning at the single, stone door to his Lord's chambers. They were human in shape, one female, one male, and each face arid body was contorted in silent agony—simple work; an elegant statement. He turned again and looked down the long stretch of halls that ended with stairs leading upward.

It was absolutely vital that no other eyes saw him here. But rare indeed was the message that would cause any priest to wait outside these doors for long; he looked in vain before turning back to wait.

He wondered how long the First Servant had been thus ensconced. He did not have much time; his coach was already waiting and prepared to carry him to the Valens estate to the south of the city. It was risky, this choice, but seemed to augur best for the future. If he had judged the Servant correctly, his warning would gain him much, not the least of which was permanent relief from Geslik's stupidity and arrogance.

He heard another scream, but again it was quiet; almost subdued. It choked away into silence, as it had done several times. But this time the silence held.

Derlac waited. Often the Servant gave his victim some respite, to play upon a hope and relief he could then use to his advantage. And only once in history had anyone interrupted the Lord before he had finished his feeding. Derlac gave an involuntary shudder at the thought of that fool's fate. Especially now, when he could understand how such a mistake might be made.

He counted time by the heartbeat.

At last, when he was as confident as he could be, he knocked lightly on the Lord's door.

It swung open smoothly and silently into a darkness that even Berlac's Malanthi eyes could not easily penetrate. Outlined by the door, the priest gave a very low, very respectful bow. It was one of the few times that he meant everything that the gesture implied. But he waited at the door; very few willingly crossed into the Servant's territory, and Derlac was not one of them.

“Derlac.” The voice that came out of the darkness was low, almost feral in quality.

Derlac prayed seldom; he prayed now.

“Lord.” He kept his own voice as steady as he could.

The First Servant materialized inches away from his bowed head. Derlac did not look up; he had not yet been granted leave, and here of all places protocol was essential.

“Be at ease, Karnar—if you can.”

No human eyes would have seen the signs that Derlac displayed as he relaxed. But human notice was not his concern here. He looked up and saw the First Servant as few saw him: after the glory of feeding. His entire form, shadowed and dark, glowed with the red of the power he'd gained. Here, in his chambers, he made no pretense of humanity. His face was shadow, his arms dark mist, his body a swirl of silent motion.

“Why have you come?”

Derlac did not look away from the red glow of the Lord's eyes. “To render a service.”

Low laughter answered him. “You think to be of service to me?” The laughter ceased abruptly. “Call the Swords, then. Have them dispose of the body.” He turned and started to dissolve into darkness.

“Lord, a moment, pease.”

The Servant turned again. “Yes?” he asked softly.

“I have—I have delivered the message you left with me.” He almost took a step back then, for the smile that the Servant gave was dangerous.

“I see. ”

“The high priest called council for it.”

“What of it? The council is of little concern to me.”

“To you, Lord, no.” Derlac drew himself up. “But to the Sarillorn . . .” He watched as the Servant froze.

“The Sarillorn?” Darkness limned in red stepped forward; an arm reached out of the mist as if that were all that remained
of a dissolving body. Derlac did nothing to avoid the claw that grabbed his robes and held them in a vise.

“Yes, Lord,” he answered, playing as close to the edge as he dared. “I would have informed you at a time more convenient to you, but I find it expedient to visit the estates of House Valens, and I leave at dawn.”

The grip tightened. “Priest.” The word was a sibilant whisper; there was a death in it.

Derlac spoke quickly then, striving to deliver that death to anyone else.

 

“Lady?”

Erin looked up in confusion and shook her head, struggling out of the grip of feathered quilts. Then the room coalesced, its high ceiling and quiet tapestries telling her clearly where she was. Sunlight shone openly through the large bay of the window in the northern wall, lighting off the small blue flowers that had been set there.

“Lady?”

“Yes” She shook the sleep out of her voice and tried again. “Yes?”

“I've brought your breakfast.”

Erin's eyes fell upon a young girl in a scoop-necked cream-colored dress. She carried a small tray across long, thin arms and stood just inside the large, mahogany doors.

“Come in,” Erin said, smiling.

The girl did not meet her eyes. Rather, she scurried as quickly as the tray would allow. Reaching the bedside table, she laid it down, hiding her eyes beneath a short spray of delicate brown hair.

Laid in white relief against the bare pink flesh of her right arm was a long scar.

“Thank you,” Erin whispered.

The girl didn't respond. She pulled back and away, fleeing the room with what dignity her fear would allow her.

Erin watched the slave go. She wanted to call her back. If she had been anywhere else she would have; the fear at least she could have comforted. Even knowing where she was, it was hard to still that urge. But she did, turning without appetite to the breakfast that had been laid out for her.

I have to
ask
Stefanos if these slaves are mine
. She shuddered a little, thinking on it: She would be asking to own slaves.

Yes.
She raised the top of the tray.
But if I own them, I can
decide their fate. I can protect them. And maybe, if they understand that, they might come to trust me.

It would certainly make this morning ritual more bearable. Restless, she rose, leaving blue-patterned covers askew, to look out the window. Morning? She sighed. Afternoon, then.

She walked over to her closet; Stefanos had shown it to her on her first night there, but she had not yet dared to open it.

What do you expect to find there
, she chided herself, as her hand touched the doorknob.
Bodies?

No, it held finery, dresses such as she had never imagined, let alone seen. She wanted to laugh then, and surprised herself by doing so. Only twice in her life had she ever worn a dress. How on Earth could he imagine that she would ever wear any of them? They weren't in the slightest bit practical—she couldn't fight in them—

The laughter died abruptly.

Of course she couldn't fight in them. She wasn't expected to, here. None of her fighting would be done in the drill circle or on the field; no sword blow, no physical maneuver, could accomplish the goal that she had set for herself.

But sunlight refused to let all of the darkness in.

No ceremonies. She reached out, her hand brushing against deep blue velvet and smooth, clean silk.
No blooding of the altars.

For that she was willing, even able, to wear what he had chosen for her.

At least she was willing. But as she pulled a blue velvet dress out of the closet, she wondered if she was able. The back of it was a maze of tiny, glittering buttons. She looked at them closely and thanked the Bright Heart that she'd not had enough experience with jewels to be able to tell if they were all real.

But real or not, there must be at least fifty of them, and most of them were placed in such a way that she alone would not be able to close them all.

She put it back, feeling its weight.
They can't all be like this.

Much to her horror, she found that they were.

How on Earth
, she thought, half an hour later,
can anyone be expected to wear these? You'd need a small army of servants to—

Or slaves.

Erin.
She shook herself.
He promised there would be no blooding of the altars. Remember that.

It helped.

The chairs, even the single ones, that populated her sitting room made her feel even smaller than she was as she sat very stiffly in them. When the knock on the door came, she leaped to answer it.

“Sarillorn.”

Erin looked up to see that the First Servant's face was inches away—as it had been just the evening before. All the words that she had wanted to say for the entirety of the day fled her suddenly trembling lips. She nodded unsurely.

“Are you troubled?” His voice felt like the velvet of the first dress she'd touched.

“No,” she managed to get out.

“Do you mind if enter?”

“N-no, of course not.”

He looked at her, the barest hint of red in the depths of his eyes. She was frightened. Almost against his will, he felt a flicker of anticipation at the touch of it. But it was no ordinary fear that she felt; it was tangled with everything that she was. He smiled.

“Sarillorn, I can hardly enter if you continue to stand in the doorway.”

“The—” She blushed and took a quick step back. “Oh.” She took another step back involuntarily.

He followed. She was afraid, yes. But not in the way that she had been at any other time. The lamplight glinted off the sudden display of his pointed, pale teeth.

You are afraid. He stepped forward again and closed the door very firmly behind him.
Of me
. He felt the force of her fear; heard the sudden clamoring of her heart as clearly as he had heard the few words that she had spoken.
Of me
.

He spoke no words as he took another step toward her; she spoke none as she retreated into a room that was suddenly too small and too crowded.

And this, this was normal. This paralysis, this sudden tension, was something he was accustomed to viewing in the eyes of the mortals who could actually see him—and who knew what his presence meant.