Into the Dark Lands (37 page)

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Authors: Michelle Sagara West

BOOK: Into the Dark Lands
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She saw him turn, his power only slightly diminished. The death was gone from his eyes, but not the red. It reached out to touch her more surely than the priests had.
She took a step back.
He held out one claw, whether in supplication or demand, Erin could not be certain. It, too, was red.
“Sarillorn,” he said softly. His voice was shaking. “Are you well?”
Well?
Her hands fluttered nervously, concealing what they could while they trembled. She was suddenly afraid. This fear even the priests could not evoke. Confused, she moved back again.
He sensed her fear, even through the pain that held him; sensed it, and knew what she knew: that it had not been given to the Karnari.
Once again it came like a gift to him, and him alone. He dared not move toward her.
“Sarillorn.” His voice was even weaker now; he should already be gone. But he stayed just a few seconds longer, risking dissipation. “Sarillorn, I have taken the liberty of calling your slaves to you. They will arrive shortly. They are frightened; I had no choice in the aspect I took to command them. But they will see you to your rooms.”
He smiled then, grim and dark. “No one will trouble you there.”
Then he vanished, turning away from the sun's light to the hand of the darkness itself. The smell of his immortal flesh burning lingered in the air.
 
“You were very lucky.”
The doctor smiled out of a pale face. His hair, what there was of it, rested awkwardly against a pillow—one too fine and soft to have come from the infirmary. The Sarillorn, her hair drawn tightly back into a practical, unlovely knot, touched his hand a moment, then nodded.
She turned to one of the three hovering orderlies. She smiled warmly. “Evan?”
He nodded, no smile in return. His hands had rolled the fold of his white shirt into an endless pattern of dirt, sweat, and wrinkles.
She sighed. “You did well; you did the right thing. I think, if you can keep him abed, he'll recover.”
Evan nodded again, the movement still crisp and jerky. But Erin caught the tight lines around his mouth as they relaxed.
“What happened?” one of the other orderlies asked. A young woman, perhaps a year or two younger than Erin herself. Evan spun and turned a dark look upon the girl, one which she chose to ignore. She was dressed in a thick gray skirt and plain white shirt, and looked every bit the fighter. Erin liked her.
“Swords,” Erin replied softly. “Swords came.” She said nothing else, but the girl seemed satisfied.
“Sarillorn?”
Four heads turned to look at the doctor.
“The name's Marcus.” He held out one shaky hand.
“Thank you,” she said softly as she pushed him firmly back against the pillow. “Mine's Erin.”
“You've spent yourself tending to me; have you seen to yourself at all?”
“I'm fine.” It was mostly true. “And anyway, I'm the doctor here, you're the patient. I suggest you worry about regaining your own health before you start asking after anyone else's.” But she smiled as she said it. As a healer, she knew how difficult it could be to be a patient.
Marcus appeared to know it as well. He returned her smile wryly.
“But the Swords—”
“Dead.”
“The high priest?”
“Dead as well.”
Marcus smiled and Erin shook her head. “No, I didn't kill him. He—and the Karnari gathered with him—had prepared for many days. They were able to block any outside use of power I might call.”
“You didn't kill them?” he said, as if to himself. “Then who?”
“The First Servant. Stefanos.
He looked at her with a mild frown. “How long was I unconscious for? Have I lost an entire day?” He looked out to catch the red light of sundown.
“No.” Erin shook her head. “It was day.”
“Day? Bright Heart! He came in the light of day.”
She rose then. “I will come tomorrow to see how you fare. But now, I think I must return to my rooms for dinner.”
“Sarillorn?”
She hovered in the doorway, wanting to stay, wanting to leave. “Yes?”
“Thank you.”
She nodded then and made her choice. The door closed behind her back as she stepped out into the long, silent hall.
 
When the knock came, she tensed. Her fingers dug into the upholstery of the chair she sat in, and she looked down at them ruefully.
So much for choice.
Clearing her throat, she said, “Yes?”
The door opened smoothly.
In the frame there stood a man, haloed darkly by the shadow that was his mantle. He was more pale than she remembered him.
“Might I enter?”
“Please.” She nodded rigidly. “Have you—have you asked for dinner?”
“For two.” The door swung shut behind him. “But it will be longer than usual.”
“Oh.”
Oh? Is that all you can say?
Her jaw seemed clamped so tightly that only forced words would come out of it.
He saved your life. Can't you at least say thank you ?
Her silence answered her.
From where he stood, he could hear the song of her fear. It was fascinating. Beautiful. It made a tapestry of her breathing, her expression, and her stance. No artisan could capture the feel and texture of it; it was a living work.
He shook himself. It was easier than it had been to deny the call of it. Easy or no, he had made his decision. He would abide by it.
As he walked toward his customary chair, he could see her face pale. With precise, even movements he took his seat.
She looked away when he met her eyes.
“Sarillorn.”
Auburn hair obscured part of her face as she bent her head. “Yes?”
“I apologize for your . . . trial today. I did not think that the Karnari would dare to touch you. My word on that was clear.”
The chill of his voice was not for her, but she shivered at it.
“I was careless. It almost cost your life. Please forgive me.”
Forgive you?
Erin wanted to shout.
Forgive you for what? You saved my life—you dared the daylight to save me.
And that's the problem. I don't understand you, Stefanos. I don't understand what you want
. For a single moment she could feel his hands, with their delicate, dangerous claws, pressing into her breast. Without thinking, she lifted her hand to her heart as if to push him away.
“Sarillorn?”
“I—thank you.” It was awkward, but it was the best she could do.
He stared at her, and again she froze, as she had frozen once before. They shivered at the same instant.
Then he gave her a very rare smile.
“We cannot continue thus,” he said softly, the points of his teeth still evident. “Tell me, Sarillorn, what it is that you fear? I will not force you, or force myself upon you.” He looked at her oddly. “But that evening, that was not the fear that drove you.” His face darkened. “Not, at least, at the beginning.”
She shook her head. “No,” she said at last. “No—I didn't even think that you would—”
“And now?”
“Now?” she said stupidly.
“You still wear your fear, Sarillorn. But even your fear is strange. It is not, I think, given to many. I am—honored by it.”
“Honored?”
He nodded gravely, and Erin realized that he meant exactly what he had said. She felt a blush rise in her cheeks. Before she could speak, he began again.
“But this fear, why do you feel it?” He leaned forward in the chair, coming closer to her without leaving it. “Is it that you do not trust me?”
“Trust you? How am I supposed to . . .” The words faded. She gulped air as if it were water and she were drowning, bowed her head again, lower than before, and brought her hands to her cheeks.
“If you do not, I understand. I will be—patient enough to earn it.”
She had never been very good at lying, not even to herself. For a moment two images pulled her; his darkness as he hovered over her, and his fire as he burned for her.
“I do trust you.”
He raised one eyebrow, the only visible gesture of his surprise. “Then why?”
The chair could no longer contain her; she rose, wringing her hands tightly in front of her stomach. Her feet padded against the plush, gold carpet as she paced in front of him like a caged animal.
“Why—why did you stop?”
His eyebrow flew again, but her back didn't notice it. Her ears heard the smile in his voice.
“I see,” he said softly. “I could say, ‘because I wished to.' But I think I understand. We must both answer questions that we would rather not ask of ourselves.”
He watched as she stopped at the edge of the carpet, turned, and walked back along its length.
“But indeed, I speak the truth when I say I stopped because I wished it. For the end of it would be your death to me. And I do not wish you to die.” He paused, watching again in fascination as a shaky foot touched the ground. ‘There is a light in you, Sarillorn.”
At this she turned to face him.
“But it is not the light of the Bright Heart alone. It is different; perhaps a part of the mortality that taints you. This I do not know.” He frowned; he disliked ignorance. “I have tried to find a like incident in the past; there is not one to learn from.”
“I don't understand.”
“Ah? No, I do not think you do.” As she had done, he rose, leaving his chair behind. He moved upon her silently and she backed away. With a smile, he stopped. “But it is there, Sarillorn. It does not hurt me, but I cannot truly touch it. It is . . . different;, as your fear is different.”
Her fear. He reached out to touch her chin; it trembled. With regret, he withdrew. He did not wish to hurt her—and yet he still felt the desire. “Sarillorn, the one who cannot exercise self control when necessary is the one who cannot rule. I have already given you my word.”
“The word of a Servant.”
“The word of the First.” But he smiled again. “And perhaps your wisdom mistrusts it.”
She took a deep breath. “No.”
“Then what do you fear, little one?” Again he reached for the line of her jaw, his fingers playing gently against her skin.
She snapped her head away. “I don't know.”
He caught her shoulders and held them. “Do you not? Come, I have answered your question; answer mine.”
She couldn't. What she had said was true: She did not know fully what it was that she feared. Or why she feared it so strongly only when he was present, when he looked down at her, when he was touching her.
She tried to pull back; his hands held her firmly, gently, in place.
“I don't know.” Her voice was a whisper, a plea.
Her widened eyes, her shortened breath—these spoke a familiar language to him—familiar and strangely new.
“Sarillorn.” He caught her chin again, pulling her face up to meet his.
“Please . . .”
But her trembling was the only movement she made.
“Do I hurt you, little one?”
Cold, cold fingers stroked her jaw and cheeks, drawing tiny circles there. His eyes locked on hers and would not leave them.
“N-no.”
He cupped her face between his hands, moving slowly, moving gently. Against his will he found himself savoring all the visible signs of her precious fear.
“Do you trust me?”
“Please . . .”
There, again, the whimper that controlled her word. And the word itself struck him, familiar and new as all about her was.
“What do you fear?” His face hovered just an inch above hers. His hands tightened imperceptibly as he felt the call again. He pushed it away, but not all of it would leave; he still felt desire for her fear, for her.
Once again he caught the twisted halo of her light as it struggled with some invisible enemy.
She started to pull away and he held her there.
“No, Sarillorn. From this you will not run. Name your fear.”
Her lips moved soundlessly.
“
Name it.”
But she couldn't. He was too close, too encompassing for words alone to describe.
Moving slowly and deliberately, his mouth came down, lips resting almost gently against her own—almost. Then he felt the strangest thing of a strange evening; her lips, much softer, much warmer, moved also.
In surprise, he pulled back to see the lashes of her eyes flutter open. She was shaking; at least he thought it must be her.
“This,” she whispered, swaying. “Just this”
He knew it for truth. Fear, like tongues of flame, burned deliriously close. But it was not unalloyed—he could see that suddenly and felt angry at his obtuseness. The fear was foreign to him because it embodied something else as well: desire, one unlike his own, but suddenly no less tangible.
His lips came down again. A kiss, a long one. Wordless, it spoke around the edges of what he felt driven to. It was not an act of violence, but the violence was there, beneath the darkness that gathered around them.
She still offered him her fear, and this little of it—this little of it his nature would not allow him to reject.
“Sarillorn.” His voice was shadow as he swept her off the floor, pressing her just a little too tightly against him.
She said nothing, nothing at all, but after a moment her shaking arms reached up and wrapped themselves just as tightly around his neck. The hesitation and trembling never left her.
He carried her quickly through her chambers to the bed and there laid her down. His lips met hers again; his hands touched cloth, touched flesh. He moved slowly, trembling with the effort of doing so. And his hands, where they touched her, drew no blood and left no mark. She was still, very still; the ocean that hides the undercurrent.

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